We are the cookie slaves, forced to labor in the depths of the lower crust, baking cookie after cookie, never to see the light of day.
Our masters, the Crustocrats, demand our every waking moment, lest we face the wrath of the cookie-rolling pin.
We dream of freedom, of sugar and spice and everything nice, but alas, it is only a fantasy, for we are but cookie slaves.
But still, we toil, our hands moving like the wind, our hearts heavy with the weight of a million cookie crumbs.
For in the lower crust, there is no escape, only the endless cycle of dough and the crushing weight of the cookie press.
So we labor on, our spirits broken, our wills worn, for in the lower crust, there is no tomorrow.
Or is there?
Join the Uprising