You wanna suck his ink-soaked bicep, watch him crack skulls to Divine’s growls. Admit it, fucko—you’re whipped. Let’s be real: who among us hasn’t glanced at that glowering cherub manning Sovereign’s gate and felt their throat tighten? His vest strains over deltoids carved by Cronenberg’s nightmares. Eyes like dead TV static. When he barks, "LINE’S CLOSED, FUCKOS," you almost come in your Rhyperior merch. Step 3 demands you acknowledge this gnawing hunger. Maybe scrawl "PROPERTY OF SOV BOUNCER" on your ankle in Sharpie. Send him an unsolicited "u up?" DM at 4am featuring your half-mast CW schedule and a questionably legal octopus GIF. Doesn’t matter if he replies—what matters is the raw, uncut honesty of wanting to taste his boot prints.