Your name is DIRK.

Holy SHIT do you love PUPPETS.

You possess the extreme dexterity to operate your FALSE FRIENDS UNSEEN, that is, when they are not pre-ambulatory through your LOVINGLY IMBUED MECHANIZATION. You dig writing COGNITIVE ALGORITHMS FOR SAID APOCRYPHAL MEN, and you think maybe that's FUCKIN' DOPE. Guess what else is dope? Everything ELSE YOU DO. You're a sickwicked autodidact on ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS, a selfmade MASTER OF MYTHOLOGUE, and a PRETERNATURAL POPCULTURE ACADEME.  Against the better judgment of one your age, you BUILD ROBOTS, SET THEM TO KILL MODE, AND SPAR WITH THEM TO DEATH. That is, when you're not SENDIFICATING THEM TO FRIENDS, or DUELING THEM WITH RAP LYRICS. But you try to cool it on the deathmatch stuff when your BRO is looking, which is virtually NEVER. And considering he's had a reputation staked on some order of MARTIAL NOBILITY, this strikes you as a STAGGERING OVERSIGHT IN BROTHERLY VIGILANCE. You don't have the HEART to hold it against him, though.