To offset the influx of slop content in /siberia/, this thread is only for (relatively) high-effort AI content. Only post content that fits at least two out of the following three basic criteria (or preferably all of them):
>It had at least a MINIMAL amount of your own editing done to it through inpainting, outpainting, manually drawing, and so on. This could be anything from simply removing an unwanted artifact to completely redrawing a generated background in a character portrait.
>It uses a distinct style rather than the generic "slop-style" typical to both anime and realistic/semi-realistic images. This can come in the form of it being made in the style of a specific medium like pixel art or an oil painting, in the style of a specific era like 1980s anime, or it can even be in a style that imitates a specific artist. Whatever works for you.
>It's based on something that's at least partially an original idea rather than being yet another funni meme redraw.
Show me that /siberia/ can make something better than slop.
>>647233Nothing in the criteria says you can't make porn. Slop is specifically content made with little to no effort regardless of what the content itself is.
>>647240Sure, feel free. The guidelines were originally meant for pictures, but as long as the writing is made in the same spirit, it's fine.
Chapter 1
I was born into a world without a future. The vast factories that lined the Great Miami River, which once hummed, and pumped out towers of smoke, and endless commodities, were now hollowed out cathedrals of rust, surrounded by a conglomeration of abandoned railroad lines and box cars. My father was an old union man. He had wrinkled knuckles, and the scars of Capital on his back. Under a lead grey sky, He would point to the shuttered plants, like a priest, pointing to the Stations of the Cross. That’s where they broke us. He said.
We weren’t poor. We were obsolete.
The first time I saw a man die was in 1996 behind the Kroger on Salem Street. A meth deal gone wrong. Maybe just the inevitable conclusion of life made cheap. The cops came, drew a chalk outline, and left. Nothing happened afterwards.
The first time I was called a ‘faggot’ was by the shop teacher. His hands were scarred, from the clashes at the 1972 UAW picket line.
The first time I read Marx was in the Dayton Public Library. The librarian was an elderly African American woman, a veteran Black Panther from ’68. She slid me a copy of Capital Volume One, and gave me a wink. Don’t let the cause die, kid.
The pastors came and promised us Judgement Day. The Democrats promised us free trade and training programs. The dope dealers promised us a quick buck. But I knew the truth. There were no saviours, no adults in the room. Nobody was going to step in and take control. It was left to us—the proletariat to save itself.
I finally left on a Greyhound, with stop overs in Pittsburgh, and Philly, a one way ticket to New York, and I never looked back.
The Greyhound shuddered into the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Its brakes squealed like a dying racoon. Midnight in Manhattan. Not the glamorous postcard kind, or in the Hollywood movies. It was the seedy underbelly of empire. Piss stained floors. Bored cops looking for a beating. The stretch of sweat and diesel. Cheap prostitutes in the corridors. I stepped off with my duffel bag, a book of Marx, a half empty bottle of Evan Williams, and $73 dollars in crumpled bills.
That was when I met Father Jackson Hole. He was six foot four, wearing a cassock, patched with Che Guevara pins, and Sandinista slogans. He looked like a grizzly bear, sporting a yellowed beard—from a decade of smoking unfiltered Camels, and horn rimmed glasses. A former Maryknoll missionary, who’d been excommunicated by the Pope, for suggesting that Christ would have nationalised the banks. Now he ran St. Dismal, a halfway house in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Hey kid… you look like you’re about to rob a bodega, or write the next Communist manifesto,” he said, eying my copy of Grundrisse poking out of my bag.
St Dismal was a place of holy chaos. Undocumented families from Central America slept in the hallways with their kids. In the kitchen former Black Panthers argued theology, while playing cards around a table, with bottles of beer. A poster of Oscar Romero hung next to a poster of Huey Newton holding a shotgun, and the flag of Cuba.
Father Hole tossed me a key.
“Room 3. Used to be a heroin shooting gallery. Don’t worry kid, we exercised it with Lysol and solidarity.”
Over a cigarette and a bottle of communion wine, he taught me the real gospel.
“The sermon on the Mount was the first rent strike.”
“Imagine selling out the son of God for only thirty pieces of silver. That’s not greed—just bad business practice.”
“The Vatican owns more Marxist literature than the KGB ever did.”
Chapter 17: "The Anti-Imperialist Frat House"
The outline of the AirBnb loomed over the cornfields of north-east Aurora, IL, like a perverse monument to late stage capitalism.
It was a 7,000 sq ft monstrosity built in faux Tuscan style, with a swimming pool shaped like the Gulf of Mexico, and a gold plated chandelier in the entrance hall the size of a Bugatti, that cost more than a Yemeni family’s annual income.
Once I went inside, the contradictions only accelerated.
The place was packed. Everyone from the internet anti-imperialist sphere was in attendance, with Twitter Marxists, TikTok Tankies, and that one guy who went viral for live-streaming himself burning an Israeli flag while chugging Pabst Blue Ribbon at a pro-Palestine demonstration.
The air reeked of IPA and fruity vape clouds.
“Hey Caleb! Come over here!”
It was Hackson Jinkle. The man, the meme—the former Bernie-bro turned Lenin of the Zoomer vanguard.
He was leaning against a marble table in the kitchen, like a king holding court, with a circle of wide eyed devotees.
“—when I was in Tehran last summer, the IRGC guys took me to a underground metal show. It was sick. Total praxis.”
Across the room was Ali ‘Haz’ Hussein, the self proclaimed Heideggerian genius, and founder of INFRA-RED.
He was aggressively debating the finer points of Houthi foreign policy with a drunk girl, wearing a: ‘Fuck NATO’ T-shirt. His voice rose.
“—you dont get it! The Ansar Allah flag is the real aesthetic of resistance!”
The night took several turns, eventually leading towards ‘Anti-Imperialist Beer Pong’.
The rules were that every cup represented a different overseas U.S. military base. Landing a ball in Diego Garcia meant you had to take a shot of baiju, and yell: ‘Yankee go home!”
Hackson tried to dodge the rules.
He claimed his time in Syria with Tulsi gave him ‘revolutionary immunity’ from penalties.
Haz countered him by accusing him of ‘revisionism’ and launched into a full blown twenty minute rant about women in the DPRK.
By 2am, the vibes shifted.
Haz tore off his shirt, and was wearing a wife-beater vest, and sweating profusely.
His eyes were twitchy, and his shoulders were tense.
He began pacing the upstairs hallway, muttering to himself about ‘Langley psyops,’ and ‘Mossad frequency weapons’.
Then the shit hit the fan.
With a guttural scream, he jumped onto the balcony railing, overlooking the entrance hall.
He launched himself at the crystal chandelier, and hung onto it, swinging himself like some deranged Marxist Tarzan.
“They’re in the walls!!” He bellowed, before the chandelier snapped, and crashed to the floor. He darted off, and ran upstairs to the master bedroom.
We chased after him and found him minutes later, roaming with a decorative samurai sword he’d ripped off the wall.
He was slashing at invisible enemies, chanting; “Fed! Fed! Fed!” With every swipe.
I tried to calm him, but he gripped the sword, and shouted:
"I SEE THE SHADOW PEOPLE, CALEB! THEY’RE IN THE CORN!"
Hackson looked at me, sighed, and cracked open another beer.
“You know… I guess this is why Kim Il Sung banned steroids in ’92”
The party ended—as these things always do—with Haz sedated in an Uber, clutching the fake samurai sword like a baby.
Hackson live tweeted, blaming the damage on infiltrators and counter-revolutionary shills.
The floors of the McMansion were littered with trash, debris, and shattered glass.
As dawn broke, I lit a cigarette on the porch and pondered the moment. We’re so fucking doomed, I thought.
Then I went inside to Venmo request Haz for the security deposit.
>>654935It's all in the metadata of every pic I post, but in case you're too lazy to look:
—-
Prompt: nsfw, rating:explicit, 1.3::jucika (comic)::, 1.3::ink (medium)::, retro artstyle, western comics (style), masterpiece, best quality, amazing quality, absurdres, very aesthetic, outdoors, white towel, beach, sand, parasol, water, palm tree, sunbeam, sex,
Undesired Content: 1.3::blurry::, 1.2::artist signature::, 1.3::signature::, 1.3::patreon logo::, 1.3::patreon username::, 1.3::text::, 1.2::monochrome::, lowres, 1.1::bad::, text, korean text, error, fewer, extra, missing, worst quality, jpeg artifacts, bad quality, 1.3::watermark::, unfinished, displeasing, chromatic aberration, artistic error, username, 1.3::artist name::, error, film grain, scan artifacts, logo, too many watermarks, white blank page, blank page, yaoi, anal, 3d, comic, framed, black border, white border, border, picture frame, shota, blurry background, anime coloring, anime artstyle,
—-
Character 1 Prompt: girl, full body, 1.3::jucika::, short hair, black eyes, thick thighs, wide hips, breasts, nipples, groin, agina, clitoris, bikini, swimsuit, bikini top lift, bikini bottom pulled aside, eyewear on head, sunglasses, red bikini, aroused, smiling, sitting on lap, looking at viewer, arm behind head, cum in pussy, cumdrip, target#cowgirl position, target#vaginal penetration, target#vaginal, target#deep penetration, target#hands on another's thighs,
—-
Character 2 Prompt: boy, pov, 1.3::pale skin::, 0.9::hands::, caucasian, groin, crotch, penis, testicles, legs, feet, nude, topless, bottomless, head hidden, lying, on ground, on towel, source#vaginal, source#vaginal penetration, source#cowgirl position, source#deep penetration, balls deep, 0.8::cum on penis::, source#hands on another's thighs, 0.8::fat::,
—-
Model: NAI Diffusion V4 Full
Resolution: 1280x1856
Seed: 232219543
Steps: 28
Sampler: k_dpmpp_2m_sde (karras)
Prompt Guidance: 6
Prompt Guidance Rescale: 0
Undesired Content Strength: 0
>>655049>Radlib nazi defending IP>It‘s not about destroying and banning the technology but employing ethical measures that prohibits theft.You are a thief endorsing theft from society to put entertainment and education in the hands of the privatizers. It is my Marx given right to rob, rape and murder you.
<Karl Marx and Frederick Engels argue in the Communist Manifesto that intellectual property also is always a product of society: "Even when I carry out scientific work, etc., and activity which I can seldom conduct in direct association with other men, I perform a social, because human, act." As Engles said in The Principles of Communism:
<Finally, when all capital, all production, all exchange have been brought together in the hands of the nation, private property will disappear of its own accord, money will become superfluous, and production will so expand and man so change that society will be able to slough off whatever of its old economic habits may remain.IP is a form of private property. It MUST be owned by everyone collectively to use and change and develop as they can. That doesn't mean there couldn't be some sort of reward for coming up with new ideas and such. It just wouldn't be profit (that means kill yourself radlibs).
Can someone turn this video (on the embed) into Marx and Lenin? It might seem dated but I still think its worth it and funny. Rightoids managed to do it with George Floyd and Derek Chauvin:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lxnQ1EQvMLEwe should have our own variant.
It had been three days since the NYPD raided St. Dismal, dragging Father Hole away in cuffs.
The crime? ‘Harbouring illegals’, and ‘inciting riotous assembly’ (and the charges were technically true, but the crime was holiness).
The padre was gone. The brownstone tenement was padlocked. The families vanished, and I was back to where all revolutionaries eventually end up—nowhere, with nothing.
I slept in a burned-out newsstand under the Williamsburg Bridge. I survived by chewing on stale bagels from a dumpster behind a deli. Then the rain finally drove me into the last refuge of the dammed. A crumbling grindhouse theatre, called The Venus Burlesque. A place where the floors stuck to your shoes, and the air smelled like sweat, whiskey, and the ghost of a thousand bad decisions.
The Venus was a relic of New York. Pre-Giuliani, pre-Disney, pre-everything that turned the city into a theme park for hedge fund vampires. A half-lit neon sign buzzed: ‘LIVE NUDE THEOLOGY’—inside, the crowd was a mosaic of the unwanted lumpenproletariat. There were the greasy anarchists, arguing about Kropotkin over two-dollar beers. Runaway teens with switchblades. A drag queen in a nun’s habit, chain-smoking Virginia Slims by the fire exit.
I slumped into a torn velvet seat and watched a transgender dancer named Cinnamon twirl around a rusted pole to Shania Twain on a jukebox.
That’s when Veronica found me.
She materialised in a cloud of smoke and dime-store perfume—six feet tall in leopard print heels, a platinum blonde wig slightly askew, and eyeliner sharp enough to slit a cop’s throat.
“Someone piss in your cereal this morning, kid?” She asked, nudging my knee.
I blinked and looked up at her face.
“I’m having a theological crisis.”
“Honey… this is New York… everyone’s in a theological crisis.”
She slid into the seat next to me, lighting up a cigarette with a gunmetal grey Zippo that had ‘FUCK THE POLICE’ engraved on the case.
“You’re that commie kid, Maupin, right? The one Father Hole was raising? Saw you handing out flyers—abolish the police by the Port Authority.”
I nodded.
“Nice,” she said.
“Well… that’s me. And they took him. Now I’m—”
I looked towards the stage, where Cinnamon was twirling upside down, while pretending to seduce an empty chair.
“I’m adrift.”
“Well, baby, welcome to the real underground. We've got three rules here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Rule one. All cops are bastards. Two, money’s fake, but you still gotta make it. Three, nobody dies alone.”
She stood up and suddenly grabbed my wrist.
“You’re coming with me, baby.”
Veronica’s ‘apartment’, if it could be called that, was an old storage room above a peep show.
It was only accessible by a rusty fire escape missing several rungs. Inside was a stained mattress on the floor. A Sandinista flag by a vintage Foodarama refrigerator. A shrine to Marsha P. Johnson, consisting of candles, a cracked lipstick, and a brick wrapped in a coil of barbed wire, which Veronica explained was for ‘self defence’. Sitting next to the hot plate was a packet of Top Ramen and a dog-eared copy of Fanon’s Wretched of the Earth.
As I scrubbed off three days' worth of street grime, she talked about the Black Trans Liberation marches of ’98, and the time she threw a Molotov at an NYPD police cruiser.
“Aiming’s harder in high heels, baby.”
She taught me that solidarity wasn’t just a pamphlet word. Out here, it was a survival tactic.
Lighting up a Camel, she began to talk about Father Hole.
“—he saved my life once…” she said, painting her fingernail pink. “Now I’m saving yours. That’s how the Kingdom comes. One fucked up angel at a time.”
She opened a can of beans, and we split them on a plate. A radio in the back played scanner chatter—another NYPD raid downtown. Veronica grinned at me.
“You know why the empire hates queer folks like us?”
“Because we’re dangerous?”
“Nah.”
She flicked a bean at my head.
“Because we prove you don’t need their fucking permission to be free.”
>>647222THIS IS AN EFFORTPOST
BUMP THE THREAD INTERACT WITH IT ITS GOOD ITS GOOOD READ IT ITS GOOOOD ITS LIKE THE ONION ITS REALLY ACCURATE BUMP IT NOWW
chapter 3
The closest thing to a People’s Soviet in America was the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 3 am—if it was held together by duct tape, methadone, and cheap coffee from the 24-hour Greek diner across the road that could dissolve steel beams.
I held court by the broken ticket machine, where my back was against a wall plastered with peeling ads for $49.99 Atlantic City Getaways.
My congregation? A menagerie of six homeless Vietnam vets who talked about CIA mind control programs, and missing POWs still trapped in Saigon.
There was a runaway teen from Idaho who quoted Capital in between bites of a stolen pretzel, and we had Dwayne, a defrocked Lutheran minister who insisted Jesus was ‘basically a Maoist’.
To my flock, I’d perfected a pitch. To the vets, I said—the Pentagon used you as cannon fodder. Now they tossed you away like a used condom. Only communism can guarantee you a job and housing. To the teens, I told them—your student loans are a noose. The solution? Join the Red Youth Brigades. To Dwanye? God’s a dialectical materialist. Pass the fucking malt liquor.
Progress was slow. Most days, they didn’t listen, and I traded survival tips. I learned which dumpsters didn’t snitch you out to the cops, and which churches gave out socks without holes in them. The only thing that prevented me from giving up, was that sometimes I’d see it. The flicker in their eyes when they realised. Their suffering wasn’t an accident or fate. It was theft.
Meanwhile, Veronica called it my ‘commie cosplay’.
“Caleb—you’re out here LARPing like you’re in Les Mis, while I’m turning tricks to keep the fucking lights on…” she snapped, while adjusting her wig in the cracked bathroom mirror of our flophouse.
“I’m trying… please… give me a break. I thought this would be… romantic.”
“Romance?” She scoffed. “That’s a bourgeois fantasy, Caleb. So’s revolution without paying the rent.”
Was she wrong? Between the ‘sermons on the asphalt’ and her ‘midnight shadow economy’, we were a dialectical mess, and I couldn’t see a synthesis anywhere in sight. So, I tried balancing. I spent my morning handing out the Worker’s World beside the Greyhound gates. In the afternoons, I helped Veronica stitch up her fishnet stockings, her ‘uniform’ for her Wall Street clients. Nights were spent arguing over whether Engels would’ve approved of her career choices.
“Freddy loved a factory girl… I’m just post-industrial, baby.”
I was reciting mid-pamphlet— ‘The Lumpenproletariat as Vanguard’, when a shadow loomed over my lectern made of disused FedEx boxes.
“You’re quoting Lenin wrong again, kid.”
Then the smell hit. Jailhouse sweat, communion wine, and Pall Mall cigarettes.
I looked up. He was there, like a bearded desert father, his orange prison jumpsuit replaced by a cassock. The NYPD failed to break him. Rikers had no doubt further radicalised him. It was like a miracle on 8th Avenue or Lazarus with a public defender.
“They gave you up?”
He sighed.
“They said I was a ‘bad influence’ on the inmates.”
Then, like the patron saint of bad timing, Veronica materialised, with a scowl painted on her face.
“So… the other socialist messiah returns. Are you here to save us? Or scold us?”
Father Hole eyed her, then me, then the empty bottle of Mad Dog in Dwayne’s hand. He sighed again.
“Nah. Just here to remind you clowns that the Kingdom’s still coming. Now—who’s got a fucking light?”
(Slow, gravelly voice, punctuated by dramatic pauses and existential despair)
"So, let me get this straight—you’ve got these young men, these capable young men, hunched over in their darkened chambers like Gollum with a smartphone, engaging in this… this ‘gooning’ ritual for hours on end. And you wonder why they’re drowning in nihilism?
It’s a hedonistic feedback loop—a vacuum of meaning! You take a brain wired by evolution to pursue real-world dominance hierarchies, to build, to struggle, to transcend… and you short-circuit it with an endless scroll of degenerate, hyper-stimulating nothingness.
And then they wonder why they’re anxious! Why they’re weak! Why they can’t look a woman in the eye without trembling! You’ve dissipated your instinctual drives into a void of pixels and shame!
And don’t even get me started on the dopamine—you’ve turned your nervous system into a slot machine operated by Silicon Valley sociopaths who don’t care if you rot!
Here’s an idea: Clean your room. Step into the light. Take on responsibility. Wrestle a real dragon—not the fabricated ones in your… degenerate little fantasy dungeons. Because I’ll tell you, the cultural Marxists aren’t the ones destroying young men—you’re doing it to yourselves!
And if you don’t stop? Well… enjoy your descent into the underworld. But don’t come crying to me when you’re 35, alone, and your soul is a hollowed-out husk of unfulfilled potential."
Unique IPs: 40