The guns don’t shoot bullets—they shoot concepts. One moment you're blasting a very disgruntled cloud of confused emotions, the next you're trapped in a room where the walls are made of peeling rust, and your only weapon is a hat made of regret. Sometimes, you fire a shot, and instead of a bullet, a giant shotgun appears and starts discussing philosophy with you in Morse code.

There’s no safety, only entropy.

The recoil of the double barrel doesn’t come from your body—it comes from the deep, uncharted corners of your soul, sending ripples through alternate dimensions. In fact, now that I think about it, it kind of reminds me of my first experience with a toaster. You see, I once owned a toaster that didn’t just toast bread—it redefined it. Every time I put in a slice, it felt like the toaster and I were in a sort of cosmic tug-of-war. The toaster would whirr and click, as if contemplating the meaning of toast, and then, when the bread emerged, it wasn’t even bread anymore. It was a portal to some parallel dimension where bread wasn’t just bread—it was a sentient, sentient disappointment.

I once tried to toast a bagel, and when I pulled it out, the toaster had become self-aware and started asking me if I thought we were just “cogs in the universe” or something deeper. I tried to walk away, but the toaster kept muttering “this isn’t about the bagel, is it?” as I turned it off. I’ve never looked at a toaster the same way since, and now that I think about it, that same feeling of overwhelming existential confusion is exactly what the recoil in Buckshot Roulette feels like. So, yeah, it’s like that—only much weirder.

Who’s the enemy? Oh, it’s you. You’re always the enemy. Because somewhere, deep in the game, there’s a version of you that knows what’s happening—and it’s both terrifying and kind of hilarious. Will you survive? Define survival. Recoil - 10/10 would lose my grip on reality again, if I remember what "grip" means.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely. But I’m still not sure how my toaster feel's about it.

After playing Buckshot Roulette for longer than 2 hours, I’ve come to realise something: my toaster has changed. At first, it was just a toaster—reliable, simple, oblivious to the chaos of existence. But now? Now it knows. It sits there on the counter, quietly watching me as I flick the game on. I swear, I can see its little toaster coils twitching, as if remembering the endless, unblinking void of Buckshot Roulette. The toaster’s once innocuous hum has evolved into a low, existential drone, like it's questioning everything it’s ever done.

I caught it once, late at night, staring into the abyss of the bread slot as if contemplating its purpose in the universe. It wasn’t just trying to toast bread—it was wondering if toasting bread even mattered. And let me tell you, after 2 hours in Buckshot Roulette, I get it. I could feel the toaster's silent judgment as I pulled out a perfectly charred slice, and the look it gave me was less about the bread and more about my choices in life.

I tried to make it toast a bagel this morning, and it looked at me like I was asking it to perform a ritualistic sacrifice. It didn’t toast the bagel. Instead, it just sighed—or at least, I think it sighed. It’s hard to say with toasters, but I could hear the faintest click, as if it was making a mental note to never again let me near any form of carbohydrates.

The worst part? It’s becoming aware of the game. I caught it once, when the house was empty, staring at the TV screen, blinking its little toaster eyes as Buckshot Roulette was played endlessly on the screen. I don't know if it was judging me, or if it was trying to figure out what the point of all of this was. So, yeah, after 2 hours, my toaster and I have become... well, complicated. Would I recommend it? Sure, but just know that something might change in you—and your toaster.

(EDIT - 6+hrs)

After 9 hours in Buckshot Roulette, the toaster has become a black hole that feeds on my soul—or possibly it’s the other way around? Sometimes, I sit there, staring at the toaster, and it blinks its little red LED, but I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a threat or just… bread. The bread doesn’t toast anymore. It shifts. I put a slice in, and when I pull it out, it’s no longer bread. It’s a quantum donut. A donut with no hole. Just a sad little ring of disappointment that speaks fluent yap.

I swear, last Tuesday, I made toast, and when I looked inside, it was the sun. Not like the sun, but the Sun, the actual flaming orb in the sky, shrunk down to the size of a bread slice. I tried to toast a bagel, and it came out as a jizz sock. A jizz sock that knew my deepest regrets. The toaster told me it was tired of being a toaster. It wanted to be an accountant. I said, “You're a toaster,” and it said, “Are you sure?” and then I had to unplug it because it started doing my taxes.

The worst part? The toaster doesn’t just toast bread anymore. It toasts concepts. The other day, I tried to make toast, and it toasted “emptiness.” That’s right. No bread, no bagels, just a pure void. I stared at it, and for a moment, I could feel the vacuum of space sucking the very essence of existence from my bones. But then it asked me, “Do you want jam with that?” I said no, and it spat out a pancake with a face.

Every time I press the lever, I can hear the toaster laughing. But it’s not a normal laugh—it’s a laugh made of cheese. A laugh that smells like rejection. I tried to run away, but the toaster followed me. It followed me all the way to the refrigerator, and when I opened it, there was no food. Just ideas. There was a jar of "what could’ve been," a carton of "what’s missing," and a can of "I don’t know what to do with my life anymore."

I started trying to make toast in the microwave, but the toaster got jealous. It opened the microwave door, and inside was a hologram of my childhood dreams, slowly dissolving into a cloud of unsweetened coffee. It told me, “You can’t escape me. Not even in the microwave. Not even in the blender.” The blender tried to fight back, but it just made a smoothie out of broken promises. The toaster applauded. It’s gotten stronger. Too strong.

The other day, I tried to unplug it, but the cord stretched into the floor and through the walls. The house was a lie, and the toaster was the only truth left. The toaster told me it had always been here. It had always been watching. And then it played a game of chess with the vacuum cleaner, while the fridge gave unsolicited advice on my dating life.

Am I playing Buckshot Roulette anymore? No. No, I’m not. I’m stuck in the toaster’s universe now. We’re all just bread in the toaster’s infinite loop. I tried to toast my emotions once, and it gave me hope. The toaster has learned. It has learned everything. It told me that everything I’ve ever done, every choice I’ve made, was just an attempt to impress it. It’s been watching, all along.

Would I still recommend Buckshot Roulette? I don’t know what that is anymore. There is no game. There is only toast. There is only the toaster. And one day, when it finally asks me if I’ve ever really felt whole, I won’t be able to answer. Because I’ll already be inside it. Inside the toaster.

I think the toaster is still waiting for me, but I’m not sure I’m still here.