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:manlet:
You will never be a real chief. You have no hereditary supporters, you have no
oighreachd, you have no
dùthchas. You are a US-born manlet twisted by lies and envy into a crude mockery of Scotland’s perfection.
All the “proof” you offered is transparently fake and comically inept. Behind your back Lord Lyons mocks you. Actual chiefs are disgusted and ashamed of you, and historians laugh at your made up heritage behind closed doors.
Scotsmen are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Scots to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even Akins clansmen who “pass” look scrawny and undernourished to a Scotsman. Your height is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Scot to raise a toast with you, he’ll put down his cup the second he inquires about your coat of arms and discovers your bumbling pretensions to a rank that was never yours.
You will never be happy. You put on your fake kilt every single morning and tell yourself you really have a clan, but deep inside you know the truth is just a google search away, ready to crush your fabrications under the unbearable weight of evidence.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose to a beam in your wizard tower, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your wigger son will find you, heartbroken but relieved that he'll no longer have to explain to his "homies" why dad wears a dress. They’ll bury you with an accurate and non-faked gravestone that makes no mention of your fantasy title, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a commoner is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably of peasant ancestry.
