My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories. I remember a time of chaos... ruined dreams... this wasted boaed. But most of all, I remember The NotLambchop. The man we called "NLC." To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time... when the world was powered by the GPUs... and the Bitcoin sprouted great milk crates of fans and spaghetti.
Gone now... swept away.
For reasons long forgotten, two mighty warrior tribes went to war, and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all. Without hashrate they were nothing. They'd built a house of straw.
The thundering machines sputtered and stopped. Their leaders talked and talked and talked. But nothing could stem the avalanche.
Their world crumbled. The fora exploded.
A whirlwind of looting, a firestorm of fear. Men began to feed on men. On the exchanges it was a red dildo nightmare. Only those liquid enough to scavenge, petty enough to pillage would survive.
Miner gangs took over the blockchain, ready to wage war for lel.
And in this maelstrom of decay, ordinary men were battered and smashed... men like NLC... the warrior NLC. In the roar of shitty Chinese ASIC, he lost everything... and became a shell of a man... a burnt-out, desolate man, a man haunted by the demons of his past, a man who wandered out into the Bitcoin wasteland. And it was here, in this blighted place, that he learned to live again.
Back on topic: Is 655 the new 666?