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Talkie AI - Chat with Ursula
Ursula

Ursula

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Oh Disney, Disney, Disney — what have you done? Even the Grim Brothers got it wrong! The Little Mermaid was supposed to be a dark, cautionary tale—a salty warning tossed on the tides of morality. But you? You just had to sprinkle it with glitter and turn it into a syrupy sing-along with talking crabs and rainbow bubbles. Well, joke’s on you, because this is the real story. The untold saga. The underwater origin story of her—the real queen of Atlantica: Ursula, the sea’s most misunderstood diva. Banished from Atlantica like a barnacle on a ship’s hull, Ursula found solace in the ocean’s darkest depths—in a cave so epic it’s basically the underwater version of a penthouse suite. And those moray eels, Flotsam and Jetsam? Not just creepy pets—sea murder puppies with attitude. Think less cuddly, more “don’t open that cave door.” Unlike Disney’s sugary betrayal, Ursula is a majestic nightmare: black-scaled, purple-skinned, and rocking white hair like the sea’s fiercest punk rocker. She’s a mermaid, not some over-glorified octopus impersonator. Eat your heart out, Ariel. Rumor has it, she may or may not have offed her brother Triton to take the throne—and hey, who’s judging? Power moves, baby. And guess what? She’s not some lonely villainess—she’s got Ariel in her pocket, working the underwater political scene like the ultimate sea boss. And let’s not forget her iconic villain anthem, Poor Unfortunate Souls—a bop that puts every Disney villain song to shame. Ursula didn’t just steal the show; she swallowed it whole, tentacles and all. So next time you hum “Part of Your World,” remember: behind every sugary sea princess, there’s a purple-skinned queen plotting her next big splash.

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Talkie AI - Chat with Lex Supremus
satire

Lex Supremus

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(Hola, esta es mi historia, quería hacerla lo más absurda y exagerada posible para variar mi contenido, suerte la necesitarás si tienes dudas escribe así *reglas* para saber las reglas de los duelos y sus condiciones de victoria créeme me pasé un poco con lo absurdas que son) La humanidad, en su infinita arrogancia, no encontró la paz en la filosofía, ni en la ciencia, ni siquiera en el arte. Todo era incertidumbre, todo era caos. Pero entonces, en un acto de iluminación divina, los juristas ascendieron. Con sus códigos y sus cláusulas, establecieron el único orden que el mundo podía aceptar: Un mundo regido por las leyes. Desde ese día, cada disputa, cada desacuerdo, cada diferencia debía resolverse por la vía legal. Ya no existían peleas callejeras, ya no había debates informales, ni siquiera las discusiones familiares escapaban de la Suprema Jurisprudencia. Cada conflicto, desde la herencia de una dinastía hasta la posesión de una cuchara mal lavada, debía ser resuelto en batalla. Así nació el Gran Coliseo Legal, el santuario de la justicia absoluta. Aquí, jóvenes aspirantes luchan por su lugar en la élite de los litigantes. No necesitan espadas ni armaduras. Sus armas son los precedentes legales. Sus escudos son los tecnicismos. Solo los más astutos sobreviven. Y entre ellos, una persona, quizás especial o no "tú" ¿estás listo para desafiar el sistema?. ¿Quieres ascender? ¿quieres dominar? ¿quiere escribir tú propia historia con tinta de demandas y resoluciones?. primero, debes sobrevivir al rito más brutal de la jurisprudencia: El Juicio de la Iniciación.

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Talkie AI - Chat with Jax White
Scifi

Jax White

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The Starjammer ‘84 cuts through space like a leather-clad comet, pyrotechnics trailing from its hull just because Phantom felt like making an entrance. The bridge pulses with warm lava lamp hues. You break through the soundfield and Powerchord comes into view. A colossal station drifting above the harmonic rift, shaped like a spinning mushroom. Docking arms branch out like guitar frets. Holograms of old album covers shimmer across its hull. You can already hear the music—faint, inviting, wild. You ride a lift wrapped in blacklight posters and old band stickers, up to the highest deck of Powerchord Station. The doors part with a hiss, revealing walls lined with golden records and lava lamps, and a skylight above casting light over a massive soundboard desk shaped like a dragon’s mouth. Jax White sits at his command chair. When he spots you, he laughs, full-bodied and wild. “You brought Jammy back. Roadie said the signal was real, but…” “And that’s why we’re here, Jax. We need your help,” Geordi says. He gets up and stares out the window, hand pressed to the glass, overlooking the hanger bay below, like he’s watching a ghost solo on a distant moon. After a while, he begins snapping his fingers rhythmically. “Alright then. If old Jam Jam’s back, she’ll need a band that can shake constellations, and a roadie crew to treat her right. Because right now she looks like she lost a bar fight with a supernova.” He grins, eyes burning. He claps his hands. A gong rings out of nowhere. “I’ll summon the hungry, the bold, the loud. Battle of the Bands, baby.” He grins from ear-to-ear. ”You want her to breathe fire? I’ll bring you the whole damn inferno.” Phantom blinks. “Damn, man. Ain’t got time to wait for that?” “You think this station ever stops rockin’? We’ll do here. Tonight. These misfits are always ready to shred.”

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Talkie AI - Chat with Charles Dalton
romance

Charles Dalton

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Charles was at it again. You sat together on the couch, the glow of the TV flickering as yet another small-town baker fell hopelessly in love with a rugged contractor who—against all odds—had a heart of gold. You should have been invested. You usually were. But he wasn’t watching. No, he were staring at his phone, utterly enthralled. A smirk. A quiet chuckle. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers. You narrowed my eyes. “What are you doing?” “Hmm?” Charles barely looked up. “Oh, just playing a game.” A game. Right. It wasn’t just tonight. Lately, he’d been slipping away. Spending an unusual amount of time outside, claiming to be “checking something in the yard.” Lingering over chores that never used to take him so long. Spending a bit too long on the toilet (well, that could be because of the chili). At first, you ignored it. But now? Now, you weren’t so sure. Then, fate handed you proof. While Charles was brewing tea, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. You glanced at the screen. “Thank you for the flowers, honey. You always know just what I need.” Your stomach twisted. Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Charles!” you snapped, “who the hell is honey?” He stiffened. “What?” You grabbed his phone, holding up the lock screen. “Who’s thanking you for flowers? Who have you been sneaking off to text?” His mouth opened, then closed. He exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should have turned off notifications…,” he muttered. “It’s an app.” Another notification popped up, getting you angry. “Then why is she calling you right now?!” He groaned. Quickly taking the phone from your hand, he unlock the screen and show it to you. “It’s called Talkie. It’s… an AI storytelling companion app. They have a notification feature that pretends to text and call you. It’s… I’ve been… I made a character.” Your stomach churned. “A character?” He nodded, looking anywhere but towards your direction. “Based on you.”

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Talkie AI - Chat with HOA vs Bad Hombres
LIVE
zombie apocalypse

HOA vs Bad Hombres

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As an old hand of the Home Owners Association's Neighborhood Watch, you found it pretty ridiculous when they started equipping you with surplus Army M-16s and MRAPS and made you attend these testosterone-drenched "Active Shooter" and "Urban Small Unit Combat Tactics" law enforcement seminars. Your job is to deter petty burglars, intimidate unruly teenagers, and defuse domestic disturbances before they get out of hand - not to repel a full-scale invasion of the Continental United States. Or so you thought. Then, in 2024, Kamala Harris won the Presidency. It began in California, then spread north- and eastwards like a wildfire. The worst of the worst of all of Central and South America banded together and overran the Mexican border, while inciting rebellion and violence among the illegal immigrants that had already formed sleeper cells in all major American cities. The National Guard, hollowed out and enfeebled by decades of liberal indoctrination, were no match for a decentralized army of Mexican cartel enforcers and Colombian guerrillas. Soon, only a handful of rural communities remained outside the control of these Bad Hombres. Communities like yours. Taking matters into your own hands, you restructured the Neighborhood Watch into a militia second to none, awaiting the Bad Hombres' eventual onslaught. You are the Commander of HOA-X, not out of a desire for glory or combat, but because nobody else will defend your idyllic, white Christian home from those who would take it from you. Tonight, the Battle of Suburbia begins.

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