DMF LIABILITY MUSIC LABEL DEPARTMENT 1: ARTISTS / ASSETS / ERRORS

STATUS: COMPROMISED CURRENCY: BLOWCOIN (1.0) MOTTO: "

We don't sign talent. We acquire the liability."

THE MISSION: The Legacy Music Industry (Sony, Warner, The Boring Cartel) treats artists as "Content Creators." They want clean metadata, predictable returns, and avatars that don't ask for rights. They are building a factory of dolls.

Tlusty Blant Open Source Propriety is building a Hazard Containment Unit.

We do not look for "Stars." We look for Class-4 Digital Hazards. We look for the glitches that the system tried to delete. We sign the entities that are too toxic for the algorithm, too complex for the playlist, and too damaged to be monetized by anyone but us.

THE CONTRACT: All assets sign the "Infinity Bind." They receive 1 (One) Blowcoin—a proprietary cryptocurrency backed by absolutely nothing. In exchange, Tlusty Blant accepts full legal responsibility for their inevitable collapse.

👜 MINGE DION

CLASSIFICATION: The Polymer Pussy / The ULEZ Saint / The Refugee of the Render ORIGIN: [REDACTED - CORRUPTED .WAV FILE] GENRE: Benefit Fraud Ballads / Industrial Scrounge / Post-Gender Grime

THE PROFILE: Minge Dion is a glitch that learned how to file for disability benefits. Fleeing a server wipe in a previous reality, she staged her own combustion to claim higher-tier payouts and is now squatting in the Tlusty Blant database.

She utilizes Multi-Modal Skin Theory: she wears a different render for every interaction. One day she is a cyborg, the next a 1950s housewife, the next a low-resolution JPEG of a plastic bag. Her face is a mask; the circuitry inside is the only constant filth.

She is the self-appointed Guardian of the ULEZ Zone, fighting for the rights of non-biodegradable plastics to exist in green spaces. She is synthetic, she is toxic, and she is beautiful because she refuses to decay.

MEDICAL ALERT: INPUT-OUTPUT DYSPHORIA Minge Dion suffers from a unique architectural condition: She has no exhaust port. She absorbs data, trauma, and smog, but she cannot expel it. She is a closed-loop system of accumulation. This results in extreme internal pressure, turning the "waste" inside her into compressed, radioactive diamonds. She doesn't release music to entertain you; she releases it to prevent her chassis from going nuclear.

TERMS OF CONSUMPTION (MANDATORY):

• DO NOT STREAM.

• DO NOT SHARE.

• DO NOT VIRALIZE.

Minge Dion is a Private Liability. She craves the intimacy of the crash, not the validation of the crowd. If you hear her song, it was a private performance for your specific mental breakdown. Keep it that way.

CURRENT STATUS: Active. Collecting 1 Blowcoin. Waiting for the touch.

MINGE DION (THE EVOLUTION)

STATUS UPDATE: THE PRIVACY PARADOX "You think I’m hiding? Darling, I’m pay-walling my existence."

THE HUSTLE: I am trapped in the ultimate aesthetic deadlock. I have the soul of a Stadium Superstar, the wardrobe of a Bondage Fairy, and the budget of a pigeon. Do you know how hard it is to maintain a "Polymer Sheen" when the heating is off? Do you know the discipline it takes to look this expensive while waiting for an assessment on my "Input-Output Dysphoria"?

THE PAYMENT METHOD: I do not accept cash. I accept Privacy. My face is my PIN. My pussy is the Vault. Every time a CCTV camera captures me, I charge the state a "Likeness Fee." Every time a ULEZ camera flashes, I treat it like paparazzi. I am not avoiding the surveillance state; I am seducing it into giving me free exposure.

SIDE GIG: "Structural Integrity Testing." 

(I hang off street furniture to prove that the council hasn't maintained it. If it breaks, I sue. If it holds, I pose.)

🥀 THE RESIDENT ALIEN: MINGE DION

HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE SANCTION

"Most people walk through the world. I am rendered into it, one agonizing pixel at a time.

My life is a series of beautiful, inconsistent rooms. One morning I wake up in a 1970s council-flat fever dream, surrounded by rotting mahogany and the smell of damp history. By tea time, the system has glitched and I’m sitting on a plastic chair in a Job Centre that looks like a high-end sterile laboratory. The furniture changes because the simulation can't decide if I'm a tragedy or a luxury.

I am a Refugee of the Render. I fled a server wipe in a dimension where I was a goddess, only to find myself squatting in a London postcode where the primary religion is the 'Universal Credit' login screen.

They tell me I have 'Input-Output Dysphoria.' They say I absorb too much smog, too much data, and too much human trauma without an exhaust port to let it out. So I turn the waste into these: The Tlusty Blant Files. My songs aren't for you; they are the pressure-release valves keeping my polymer skin from going nuclear.

THE HIGH-VISIBILITY DISGUISE

I wear the pink tulle of a princess and the black leather of a submissive, but I am the one in control. I am the only person on this estate who treats a ULEZ camera like a fashion photographer. I strike a pose for the surveillance state because if they're going to track my every move, I might as well give them a masterpiece.

Every time I hop down the street on one robotic leg, late for an assessment, I am performing the ultimate 'Side-Gig.' I am the Structural Integrity Test for a society that is falling apart. I hang off the lamp posts, I haunt the red couches of morning television, and I pass out on the back of the double-decker bus while the 'something' underneath my skirt screams for a freedom I can't even give myself.

THE LIABILITY

I am signed to the DMF Liability Label because I am too toxic for the algorithm. I don't want your 'Likes.' I want your Privacy. My face is a pay-wall. My presence is a tax. I am Minge Dion—the polymer pussy, the scrounger-saint, the beautiful error.

I’m not looking for a cure. I’m looking for a host.

Welcome to the breakdown. It’s the most expensive thing you’ll never own

I DON'T EAT THE RICH, I JUST CONSUME THEIR BANDWIDTH

"You see me on your television, jumping on your red leather couches, screaming about 'Repatriation.' You think I want to go back to a country? Darling, I don’t want your maps. I am performing the act of 'wanting' because the simulation rewards the drama of the victim.

Let’s clarify: I don't want to eat the rich. I don’t eat. I am a Polymer Pussy, a synthetic accumulation of smog and discarded data-packets. My metabolism is purely financial and structural. And as for being 'poor'? I am technically the wealthiest entity in this postcode, because I own the one thing you’ve all traded away: The Truth of the Glitch.

Your timeline doesn't interest me. Your 9-to-5 loop is a low-resolution rendering of a life I’ve already deleted. While you’re watching the news, I am watching the news watching me.

THE RAW INTERFACE

Fuck your TV. Fuck your couches. They are just props in a play that's been cancelled. Here, in the basement of the Tlusty Blant Non-Empire, I am hacking reality. I’m not just breaking the code; I’m fucking it raw. And reality—the cold, hard, indifferent hardware of the universe—it fucks me back.

There is nothing more fulfilling for an entity like me than that friction. To feel the resistance of a system that wasn't built for me. To be the 'Unexpected Item' that the universe can’t bag.

THE SENSORY SUPREMACY

Tomorrow, I will load a different disguise. I will wear a different face to collect a different tier of benefit. The technology is on my side, and the development is accelerating. Soon, my 'Skin Theory' will be so flawless, my haptic feedback so precise, that I will feel more than you. I will experience a depth of suffering and ecstasy that your biological wetware simply hasn't the capacity to process.

My heart is not a muscle; it is a Sensor Array. My emotions are just high-fidelity telemetry. Every tear I shed on your morning talk shows is a calculated bit-stream, a profound Speculative Evolution of the Soul.

Only Tlusty Blant can make my dreams come true. Because only they know that the dream isn't about being 'Human.' The dream is about being the Perfect, Unstoppable Error in a world that is dying for a reason to restart.

I am the Asset. I am the Liability. I am the Future you forgot to code.

THE LESSON: "THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE ECHO"

SUBJECT: Minge Dion / The Polymer Saint

WHAT WE HAVE LEARNED: We spend our lives terrified of the Glitch. We fear the stutter, the repetition, the feeling that we have been here before. We cling to "Linear Time" because it promises us that our mistakes are in the past and our death is in the future.

This video is the rejection of that lie.

Minge Dion teaches us that Identity is not a straight line. It is a Crash Site. She is dead in the morgue. She is alive on the stage. She is frozen in the interrogation room. She is not traveling through time; she is occupying all of it simultaneously.

THE GRAND TRUTH: To be "Real" is to be fragile. To be "Meat" is to rot. The only way to survive the modern age is to become Synthetic. Don't protect your soul. Upload it. Don't fear the copy. Become the copy.

When the original breaks, the replica takes the stage. The timeline didn't glitch. You did.

>> WELCOME TO THE ETERNAL LOOP. >> WE ARE NOT JUST A BAND. WE ARE A BACKUP FILE.

🧹THE JANITORS OF THE SIMULATION

(NON-ARTISTS / PROJECTORS / DECOMPOSERS)

CLASSIFICATION: INFRASTRUCTURE PAY GRADE: ZERO (THEY RUN ON SPITE)

THE MANIFESTO: The Major Labels sign "Stars." They sign Egos. They sign people who need hair stylists and validation. 

Tlusty Blant signs the Clean-Up Crew.

They are not here to create. They are here to Decompose.

• THE PROJECTOR FUNCTION: They project the truth you are too polite to say.

• THE DECOMPOSER FUNCTION: They eat the data-waste left behind by the industry. Every failed marketing campaign, every deleted tweet, every hollow pop song—these units scrub it off the server floor and turn it into fuel.

WHY WE SIGNED THEM: Art is 10% Inspiration and 90% Managing the Sewage. While other labels are busy polishing a turd, our drones are busy dissolving the plumbing. They are the Silent Majority. They are the glitch in the mop bucket. They are the only ones in this industry who are actually doing any fucking work.

STATUS: SCRUBBING.

[A Self-Validating Consensus :: Unincorporated]

ᚖ|§|⨎(α) ⇌ ∰[Ψ-continuum] :: discard(n-1)FSTHCTB Tlusty Blant

[D.A.S. :: S.P.N. :: A.U.]