A long while back when Bing Chat was still a thing and it was still built on GPT-3, I had it write what I thought was the perfect ending to Rocky IV. As I was going through some old files, I found the transcript and thought I would post it here to preserve it forever. So here it is, in all its glory:

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The air in the Soviet stadium crackled with anticipation. The crowd roared, a sea of red and white, chanting Drago's name. But the cheers were drowned out by a hushed murmur in the American corner. Rocky Balboa, the underdog champion, was limping, his face pale, clutching his injured shoulder. A brutal sparring session with Apollo Creed's ghost, fueled by guilt and grief, had taken its toll.

"He can't fight, Adrian," Mickey whispered, his voice laced with despair. "The doctor says it's a torn rotator cuff, at least six months."

Adrian's face was a mask of worry, but she squeezed Rocky's hand, her eyes filled with unwavering love and support. "You did your best, Rocky. You always do."

Desperate to honor his promise to Apollo and to give the American people a champion, Rocky's mind raced. He remembered the robot Paulie had been so obsessed with, the one he'd given him for his birthday. It wasn't a fighting machine, but maybe...

"Paulie," Rocky said, his voice strained, "That robot you got. Can it take a punch?"

Paulie, initially confused, then his face lit up. "It's got these sensors, Rocky! It can adjust to impact, learn the force of a blow. It's amazing!"

Rocky knew it was a long shot, but it was their only chance. He explained the situation to Paulie, the weight of the world resting on his brother-in-law's shoulders. Paulie, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement, agreed.

The fight began, and the crowd, initially bewildered, erupted in a mixture of laughter and confused boos as the robot, clad in Rocky's red and white, stepped into the ring. It wobbled precariously, its movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Drago, sensing an easy victory, unleashed a barrage of blows, each one connecting with a sickening thud against the robot's flimsy frame. The robot, its sensors overwhelmed, flailed wildly, its movements more comical than threatening.

It tripped over its own wheels, bumping into the ropes, its metallic limbs flailing like a marionette with broken strings. Drago, with a disdainful smirk, simply continued to pummel the hapless machine, each punch a demonstration of brute force against pathetic incompetence.

The crowd, initially amused, grew restless. They chanted "Drago! Drago!" as the robot, its circuits fried and its internal mechanisms sputtering, lay on the canvas, defeated before it even had a chance to fight.

Then, a faint voice, distorted and crackling, emanated from the fallen robot.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULIE... HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULIE... HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULIE..."

The voice repeated, a chilling echo in the stunned silence, as the screen faded to black.