/soy/ - Soyjaks

As you sit on the toilet for a quick Soylent drink, you feel a strange sensation. You begin to Soy uncontrollably. After a few gulps, you’re concerned—your hands are sticky, and the strong aroma of vanilla fills the air. In desperation, you grab some napkins to contain the flow, but it only makes your stomach churn. The Soylent accelerates. It’s been three minutes. You can’t stop the flow. Your bathroom floor is covered in a thin layer of thick, creamy liquid. You try to direct it toward the shower drain, but it’s building up too quickly. You attempt the toilet, but the Soylent is too viscous to flush. You lock the bathroom door to keep it contained. The air grows hot and humid, the Soylent thickening with each second.

You slip and fall, drenched in the creamy mix. Soylent now reaches six inches deep, nearly as tall as the bottle you’d originally intended to sip from. Sprawled on your back, you find the Soylent flooding over you, dripping from the ceiling like a bizarre indoor rainstorm. The Soylent accelerates. You attempt to stand, but the sticky force of the liquid pushes you back, turning the floor into a slippery river. Soylent rises to chin height. You open the door to escape drowning. The deluge floods out, spilling into the hallway, spilling across your home like the Great Molasses Flood of 1919, only with a modern Soylent twist.

It’s been two hours. Your family screams as they’re engulfed in a wave of sweet, thick liquid. Your youngest child goes under, bubbles rising through the vanilla-scented slurry. You beg the heavens to end this ordeal. The Soylent accelerates. You try to contain it, but the pressure finds another route, and soon your body can’t hold it in. Soylent bursts forth, sending you careening backward across your kitchen, the walls now coated in a thick sheen. You smash through the front door, propelled by the force, and land in your yard, surrounded by a lake of Soylent. Neighbors watch in disbelief as the flood expands.

The Soylent accelerates. Police cars arrive as you float upward, propelled by the pressure like a Soylent-powered rocket. Officers try to aim, but stray splashes blind them. You’re at a height of 1,000 feet now, Soylent spraying in all directions. The SWAT team is dispatched, military helicopters circle, but you just keep rising. Bullets tear through you, but you remain conscious, your stomach now doubling as an endless Soylent reservoir.

It’s been two days. With your body dissolving, the Soylent starts spraying freely, filling the sky with streaks of thick, creamy liquid. Fighter jets circle, but the impact of the Soylent sends one crashing to the ground. The government lets you drift into space, deciding to let the Soylent run its course. You pass the ISS, coating it in a new layer of vanilla essence. Astronomers take notice, dubbing you the “Soymet.”

Trapped in space, stripped of body and senses, you endure an eternity as a Soylent geyser, gliding across the cosmos, forever drifting, forever Soylenting. Eventually, you stop thinking.