Reginald was chilling in a park, contemplating the meaning of life, when a guy in a lab coat approached. The guy explained there was a shortage of young males in the area and asked Reginald to participate in a "harmless survey." Intrigued, Reginald agreed, wondering what kind of help they needed.
Turns out, he’d accidentally signed up for some seriously unethical medical research involving… technically dead bodies. “Actually, I think that one might have been alive,” he mused, a mix of horror and fascination on his face. The doctor, noticing his hesitation, paid him handsomely to keep quiet and handed him a vial of red chemicals. “Don’t drink this,” he warned. Reginald just grinned. “I’ll probably drink it anyway. You know, for science.”
Things were going well. Questing was bringing in good money, and Reginald was making so much moonshine he’d run out of bottles and was now selling it by the bucket. He was a true capitalist: as long as there were other people, there was money to be made. He had a vision: a Finland overflowing with pure ethanol, solving homelessness overnight. Every house with a thousand-liter tank of his moonshine. And, of course, him swimming in cash.
To make this happen, they needed to expand. Luckily, Reginald had just upgraded the basement, which had tons of space. But new equipment was expensive. Time for a bank robbery.
He talked it over with Passmore. They had a plan. During his earlier prison escape, Reginald had found a tunnel that seemed to lead to the bank, but it was blocked. Passmore’s guy, posing as a bank teller, would clear the blockage. Then, they’d hit the bank at night.
Passmore told him to be at the tunnel at 11:00 p.m. Reginald’s clock was set to military time, and he might have had a little too much moonshine, so he showed up four hours early. Whoops. Eventually, the tunnel was clear, and Reginald climbed the ladder, popping out in a crawlspace near the bank. He snuck past the cameras, grabbed everything he could find in the offices, and disabled the security system.
Time for the vault. A stick of dynamite later, the vault door was no longer a problem. He grabbed what he could from the safety deposit boxes and booked it. He met up with Passmore and handed over the loot. Passmore casually gave him 120,000 RM credits. “Holy crap,” Reginald breathed.
He used the cash to buy the rest of his brewing equipment. Now they were churning out 100 liters of moonshine every few days. Forget the history books; this was the real Renaissance. It went something like this:
Wake up in the middle of the night. Time for some… experimentation. Take a healthy dose of stolen meds for inspiration. Once you’re hallucinating, go further. Good. But not good enough. Commune with the divine by eating corpse fungus. Boom, divine revelation. Instead of yeast, use toxic mushrooms to make alcohol for cheap. Trust him; it was totally safe. He even drank some himself. Yes, his poop was now glowing, but there was no way to prove a connection.
Reginald was exhausted, but sleep was for the weak. Every hour he slept was an hour he wasn’t making money. So, he drank 24 liters of tea and stayed awake for 128 hours straight—the limit before he’d start trying to off himself.
Armed with his… unique… collection of booze and scrap metal, Reginald hit the market and made millions. Time for more upgrades to “da hood”: nice walls, nicer walls, nicest walls. He used the fancy exterior to trick six unsuspecting people into giving him their money. He spent it all on upgrading his own penthouse, apologizing, “Sorry, no plumbing for you guys,” as he dropped thousands on pixel art of Jesus.
These suckers just didn’t understand hard work. Sometimes Reginald had to sit on his couch for a whole 24 hours to passively generate $3,000. It was practically slavery. But hey, he had clean water, a flat-screen, a 3D printer, and he still got molested in his sleep by his crazy neighbor (his choice). All in all, things were great. His apartment was awesome, he’d successfully conned 12 people into living in his slum, and their vacancy rate was 0%. Challenge complete. “Da hood” was now officially dope.
But as a wise man once said, “It’s not enough for me to succeed; others must fail.” There were other apartment buildings in town, and Reginald took it personally that people were living there instead of begging to live in his masterpiece. Time for some retaliation.
The rat farm? Yeah, that got a little out of hand. Reginald had to build a whole fallout shelter just to contain them. These rats laughed at population control. He hadn’t fed them in weeks, and they were still multiplying like crazy. Every container in the building was overflowing with hundreds of live rats. It was a disaster, but disasters were also opportunities.
Reginald decided to unleash 10,000 rats into every store, park, and apartment in the city. Time to bring the pain and advertise his superior housing. Armed with a refrigerated backpack full of rodents, he hit the town square. “Cry havoc and let slip the rats of war!” he declared.
And that was that. Every inch of the city was now crawling with rats. The only safe place? His apartment building. Time for a celebration. Reginald knew just how to celebrate such a monumental victory.
Back in his basement, he had a 1,000-liter tank of pure vodka. Time to drink the whole thing. “I know what you’re thinking: ‘Reggie, that’s dangerous!’ Don’t worry, I also bought 900 cigarettes to balance it out.”
The party started. But that wasn’t enough. Reginald pulled out the methanol. “I know the guy who owns this stuff… Oh crap, this is good.” He filled his shower with methanol and hopped in. “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah…”
Carmelita leaned forward, her smirk widening as Reginald unleashed his rat army. "He's actually doing it," she muttered, shaking her head. "Ten thousand rats. That's… impressively disturbing." She watched him prepping his methanol bath. "This guy is something else. How is he even alive?"
"Alive doing what?" Alam tapped her shoulder, snapping her out of the simulation. "What are you watching? Some snuff film? Hehe." He winked.
Carmelita jolted, a slight flush rising to her cheeks. She chuckled, trying to play it cool. "Oh, just… a movie. Online." She winked back.
"An old movie, huh? Good. Anyway, I need more money." Alam wiggled his eyebrows.
Carmelita laughed. "More money? What for this time? Another casino run?"
"Nah, silly. Not a gambler. Need it for the campaign."
Carmelita’s expression turned serious. "Right, the campaign. How much are we talking?"
"…Everything you’ve got."
Carmelita chuckled. "Everything? That's a big ask. Must be serious." She leaned back, considering. "You sure you need all of it? Can't you manage with a little less?"
"Tried that. Taming the wild east is expensive. Need better comms, better jammers. It's a mess out there."
Carmelita nodded, a mix of understanding and concern on her face. "The Eastern Wasteland, yeah. It's a tough spot. If you need it for comms and to counter the jammers, I'll see what I can do." She sighed, resigned to digging deep into her own funds. "I'll scrape together a good amount. Just promise you won’t blow it all at the tables."
"Thanks… uh… Mom?"
Carmelita tried to suppress a smile, feigning sternness. "Watch it, 'son.' Don't get any ideas just because I'm funding your little war."
"Got it. See ya later… and… try not to watch too much porn, okay?"alam wink at her before leaving
Carmelita choked back a laugh, blushing slightly. "Hey! Who do you think I am? I don't spend all my time watching porn." She waved a hand dismissively, but a smile played on her lips.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
After Alam left, Carmelita went back to the VR headset, curious to see how Reginald's story played out.
After his "da hood" success in Finland, Reginald decided he hadn’t quite reached peak capitalism. Time for America. He bribed his way out of Finland and set his sights on the land of opportunity.
Homelessness was one of America's best-known epidemics, with people sleeping on park benches, drinking gasoline, and committing insurance fraud just to pay the bills. It wasn't as fun as it sounded, but Reginald had bigger ambitions. He aimed to become a millionaire, a shallow dream and that's exactly what he intended to do.
Reginald found himself in a business management role that allowed him to financially and spiritually enrich himself, albeit through the exploitation of his employees. He was determined to accumulate one million dollars in his bank account—or die trying. "Let's begin," he thought, feeling a surge of ambition.
His first step was to purchase a suitcase from Passmore. This was no ordinary suitcase; it had belonged to someone who had drowned at sea. Inside, he discovered an ID that would serve as the foundation for his new identity.
Much like a god, Reginald set about reinventing himself. After experimenting with different hairstyles, changing the color of his pants, and undergoing a few cosmetic procedures with a doctor who had fled from war in Korea, he emerged as the ultimate business magnate: Conrad Murray. It was time to get to work.
Conrad's journey began with an unexpected twist of fate. The first line he encountered in his new diary read, "It's been three months since grandma died." Reginald quickly summarized the situation: Conrad was now homeless in New York City, but fortunately, his wealthy new Uncle Fred had decided to share some invaluable business knowledge to help him navigate this new life.
With Uncle Fred’s advice, Conrad’s business skills took off. He learned the art of the deal, the power of networking, and the importance of looking out for number one. Ruthlessness became his brand, and he climbed the corporate ladder fast.
His first big move was a tech startup with an app that exploited the homeless. Users could hire homeless people for small jobs in exchange for food or shelter. Controversial? Sure. But it took off, and Conrad’s bank account started looking very healthy.
Conrad’s ultimate goal was an empire that would outlive him. He diversified like crazy—pharmaceuticals, energy, even the booming military industry (thanks, looming World War III). He wanted a legacy, to be remembered as a pillar of capitalism.
Surviving in New York City was a testament to Conrad's resourcefulness, aided by the guidance of his wealthy uncle, Fred. Fred's first piece of advice was to secure an apartment, and Conrad took an unconventional approach—he ran down the middle of the road, dodging oncoming traffic. His philosophy was simple: if someone wanted to hit him with their car, they would, but they wouldn’t expect him to be in the middle of a four-lane highway at 3 a.m., which he believed made it the safest option.
The apartment was valued at $26 million. Conrad offered $15. He got laughed at, but that was the point. This was his rock bottom, the starting point for his rise to the top. For now, he rented it for $44 a day.
In New York, $1,300 got you a cramped 300-square-foot box with no running water. The “bathroom” was… an experience. After a seven-hour nap, Conrad set out to get a fridge.
Time to unleash his superpower: moral bankruptcy. He stole a fridge and sprinted through rush hour traffic, making it back to his apartment, fridge in tow. Risky? Definitely. Profitable? Absolutely.
Next, groceries. Knowing he couldn't risk getting banned, Conrad actually paid for these. Uncle Fred was holding back his financial genius until Conrad made $300 on his own, so Conrad got a job at the grocery store. Hired on the spot. The manager clearly recognized a kindred spirit.
It was 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, and his shift didn’t start for another 20 hours. But Conrad was a go-getter. He started working immediately, even kicking the other cashier off their register. Unpaid overtime? No problem. Conrad worked for six hours before letting the other cashiers take over.
After sleeping on a bench for 12 hours, he woke up just in time for his first actual shift. Seven hours later, he’d made $175. Though, technically, he still hadn't been paid.
Having conquered New York's harsh realities, Conrad was ready to build his empire. With Uncle Fred’s blessing, he got a $15,000 loan from the bank. Time for business.
His first venture: a gift shop called "Dumb Shit." He found a spot, signed the lease, and got a mysterious call from Uncle Fred congratulating him. At 1:30 a.m. It was weird since no one had ever actually seen Uncle Fred. Conrad started to wonder if Uncle Fred was just in his head. A coping mechanism for post-capitalist life.
Regardless, Conrad pushed on. He bought supplies, decorated the shop (causing a traffic jam in the process), and even crashed his car into the Alibaba Clearance Store, just to show he meant business. This, predictably, led to him locking himself out of his now illegally parked car.
Conrad, ever the resilient businessman, decided to carry the supplies back to the store on foot, sprinting through traffic. The journey was arduous, and they collapsed from exhaustion, waking up in a hospital 600 meters away. The hospital charged Conrad $2,000, a price he begrudgingly paid.
Revitalized by the wonders of private healthcare, Conrad returned to his gift shop, which was now fully stocked. "Dumb shit" was ready to open for business, with hours of operation set for all day, every day. Conrad manned the till, ready to embark on his first 24-hour shift.
Despite the challenges, Conrad's business began to thrive, pulling in a few hundred dollars each day. He realized that he needed to outsource the suffering, so he hired his first employee, Jason Hughes. He wants $15 an hour and part-time work. Let me tell you one thing, Jason: you will never see your family ever again. We hired him immediately, designed his work uniform, and scheduled his hours for the week. He's working 168 hours a week for the next calendar year
With Jason on board, Conrad could focus on expanding his business empire. He returned to the recruitment agency to place a bulk order for more employees, determined to build a business that would stand the test of time.
Conrad's relentless drive to succeed in the cutthroat world of New York City business was unmatched. Only an amateur business would even consider the concept of closing; Conrad manned the till and prepared for his first 24-hour shift at "Dumb shit." He made it about 12 hours straight with no lunch break before entering a state of exhaustion that precluded him from continuing work.
he then use his new friend. a new drug, who so strong make him like a movie watcher than participant in real life,
I didn't want Conrad to end up in the hospital again, so I had him wander down the road in his mindless delirium, searching for a park bench to recover his stamina.
During this time, I also realized that we have several text messages from the city of New York informing us that we are being ticketed $125 every day that our car remains illegally parked. Since Conrad can't get in the car to move it, he'll be paying $125 every day for the rest of his natural life. To say this crippled my morale was an understatement. until finaly he argue if his car is a "performance art piece", then someone buy it. and move the car for him. modern art is indeed a absurd!
Anyway, we eventually found our way back to the apartment and slept for a few hours. Conrad completed this cycle of suffering for the next few days. We were making money, but this is no way to live. We need to outsource this suffering to someone else.
I let Conrad off work early today so he could go to a recruitment office to try to find some people to hire. Unfortunately, he collapsed in traffic again, and we woke up at the hospital.when doctor explaining his injuries, and Conrad interrupts to ask about investment opportunities in the hospital's medical supply chain.
then he ran back to the recruiting office and placed an order for one employee between the ages of 15 and 31. I decided on this age range because I feel it will be easier to convince a 15-year-old that 24-hour shifts are normal in the adult world.
Conrad threw himself into his business studies, consuming textbooks and online courses like a man possessed. After thirteen hours, the world began to warp. Numbers danced before his eyes, every conversation became a business negotiation, and he started calculating the profit margins of his own bodily functions. He began to see Jason, his employee, as a liability, a drain on his efficiency. Jason's suggestion of a "lunch break" was the final straw. "Lunch is for the weak," Conrad muttered, firing him on the spot. "Time is money, and you're wasting both."
“Dumb Shit” was making decent profit, so Conrad decided to open a second business: a hamburger joint called "Beef and Nothing Else," two doors down. Turns out, nobody in New York liked his burgers. Probably because they’d been sitting on the grill for three days (no freezers). Conrad tried everything, even causing a 47-car pileup in protest. Nothing worked. Twenty parking tickets later, he was briefly bankrupt. Time to cut his losses.
He had the health department shut down "Beef and Nothing Else" so he could rebrand. He consulted his accountant, who suggested a new mascot: Golgarth. And thus, "Golgaroth's Treasure," a jewelry store, was born.
Conrad stocked it with the cheapest, most asbestos-laden jewelry he could find, and profits started rolling in. The business model was simple: find a popular product, find the cheapest supplier, cut corners, and exploit employees. Boom. Profit.
Conrad’s empire was growing. He was becoming a force to be reckoned with. The sky was the limit.
Conrad was relentless. He found an underserviced industry, rented a warehouse and storefronts, bought a pink delivery van, hired drivers and a logistics manager, and cut out the middleman by importing directly from China.
The operation ran smoothly. Goods went to the warehouse, the logistics manager handled distribution, and drivers delivered to the stores. This automated most of the business.
It took some time (and $50,000 in personal loans) to get it running. With that much debt, Conrad went into hyper-frugality mode. He fired anyone asking for more than $18 an hour and even evicted himself to live in the company van. By day five, finances were stable, bringing in $3,000-$7,000 daily.
Armed with this knowledge, Conrad expanded rapidly. More warehouses, more storefronts, more overworked employees, more money. Within months, he was selling everything from cigars and wine to donuts, cheap clothes, and even legal services (using, of course, more exploited employees). If it could be made with child labor, Conrad was selling it. $20,000 a day was the new normal.