Watch the Trap Close Around His Throat
This ain’t a phase. That boy you’re calling ‘A’ isn’t just being a little shit—he’s being baited by a con artist who sells weakness as strength. Andrew Fucking Tate is a hustler with a gold-plated lie wrapped in a suit and a smirk, and your brother’s eating it up like a junkie licking at counterfeit money.
Tate’s Game Is Prey on the Broken
Here’s the cold truth: Tate didn’t build his empire by being right—he built it by knowing what desperate men believe. He’s not a ‘rebel’; he’s a cypher from the Matrix, selling the same corporate hustle he profited from as another layer of the system. Boys like your brother—awkward, isolated, and drowning in hormonal confusion—are walking red meat for him. They crave identity, and Tate’s got one that smells like smoke, mirrors, and the sweet rot of lies.
Every Dollar He Sends to Tate Is a Bullet in His Temple
That ‘Hustlers University’ subscription? It’s not an education. It’s a chain. Every month he pays is a chokehold. Tate’s not teaching anything—he’s militarizing frustration. He’s got your brother believing that scamming his own mother to buy ‘crypto’ is a ‘hustle’ when it’s just another version of a drunk trying to sell you his last beer. This ain’t about money—it’s about control. The shame Tate feeds him? That’s his new heroin. Tell him he’s a failure for not paying up? He’ll pay more just to prove he’s still in the club.
You Think He’s Listening? He’s Just Building Walls Around His Pride
Bro, that kid’s ego is made of glass and ego.
He’s not buying Tate’s line because it’s smart—he’s buying it to avoid admitting he’s the fool. You think you can ‘argue’ your way out of this? You’ll just make him dig his heels in deeper. You’re a woman in his eyes—that makes you a lesser threat. He’ll mock you, then circle back to Tate for more lies to keep his fragile self-image afloat.Plant Doubt Like You’re Sowing Shrapnel in His Head
Tear down his world piece by piece. Ask the kinds of questions that cut. What the hell’s a real king wearing silk robes and smoking cigars for? Steve Jobs dressed like a grad student. Bill Gates wears the same jeans until they’re threadbare. So what’s up with Tate’s whole ‘bling it on’ schtick? It’s a clown with a cape.
Expose the Bullshit Behind the Hustle
Hustle this: If he says the world’s stacked against him, ask why Tate’s not tearing down the stack. The Matrix? More like Matrix Lite. If it’s such a warzone out there, then why’s Tate running MLMs and cashing affiliate checks? That’s not breaking the system—he’s selling a gold-plated leash. Tell that kid to take his own advice and sell his own lies—wait a month while he gets no customers. Then show him the mirror.
You’re the Trojan Horse. Use It.
Play dumb. Act like you’re clueless. Ask questions like you’ve swallowed all that Tate garbage, then let the holes slit his throat. “Yo, if women are just pawns, why’s Tate got all those girls on a leash? Why the rules? Why the spying?” Make him question. Not by yelling facts—by making him feel the weight of contradictions he’s swallowing like pills.
If You Missed the Mark? Keep Firing Until the Target Dies.
This ain’t a one-shot deal. He’ll double down. He’ll come back with that “what’s YOUR Bugatti” line. Answer with “Why the hell do I want one? Keep it simple, stupid.” Let the absurdity sink in. Every time he tries to deflect, hit him in the ribs with a different angle. No mercy. No room for his ego to hide.
Don’t Praise a Man Who Escapes Tate’s Web—Or You’ll Lose Him Again
Relief isn’t what breaks him free. Shaming or gloating will make him want to retreat back into the cult that called him ‘Top G.’ Say nothing. Do everything. Show he’s still a man in your eyes—even if he’s not. Don’t let the shame kill him. Let the truth do that.
The War Ends When the Target Stops Moving.
Tate’s a ghost. Boys like your brother? They’re just walking graves of good advice until they’re shown another way. This fight don’t win itself—you’ve got to be the hammer, the blade, the fire. Hit the cracks. Watch him shatter the illusion. Then pick up the pieces and rebuild him from the rubble—or bury him for good.