A Torn City Tale of Petty Spite,
A faction feud, a childish fight.
Brockman500, in clownish shoes,
Toilet-papered P.I. blues.
A mugging next, a punch down low,
A veteran's pride began to flow.
A message sent, a laugh declared,
A can of worms, unprepared.
Then hateful words, a slur so vile,
A homophobic, angry style.
Reported swift, to staff's keen eye,
A warning given, reaching high
But rage ignited, a burning fire,
Merc hits rained, fueling his ire.
Bounties placed, and flights delayed,
A petty war, intensely played.
Attacks relentless, a constant stream,
Another message, a hateful scream.
Before he blocked, the final blow,
His simple hatred started to grow.
"You will not succeed," the message clear,
"Torn's not yours, nor held in fear."
His petty acts, a futile quest,
Against the players, standing blessed.
Brockman's hate, a darkened stain,
Has no place here, in Torn's domain.
May light prevail, and wisdom find,
A change of heart, and peace of mind.
Soapy's words, a truth revealed,
The second message, also sealed.
Reported too, for all to see,
That hate speech finds no victory.
[image: media1.tenor.com]