On Conrad's penthouse television screen, a vibrant image flickered to life.
"Coming soon to the NYC Convention Center: Musk V2!
'Stop complaining, start living!' he booms. 'You can't take the money with you when you die – even I can't!'
Musk V2, the man who changed millions of lives with his best-selling book, The Secret' is bringing his all-day seminar to town. Expect workshops on creative survival skills:
* Cooking potatoes: A Cooking!
* Dumpster diving: Uncover hidden treasures in the discarded refuse of the wealthy.
* Huffing paint: A surprisingly effective (and affordable) mood enhancer.
* Bathing Alternatives: Discover the joys of a good rain shower or a vigorous rubdown with a damp cloth.
* Pharmaceutical Baking: Turn expired medications into delicious, albeit slightly unpredictable, treats.
* Manifestation: belief something! because i told so
'Instead of complaining about being poor, lady, enjoy it!' Musk V2 bellows.
'Musk, I can't feed my kids!' a voice cries from the back.
'And the rent's due!' another chimes in.
'Whoa, settle it down!' Musk V2 commands. 'Are you saying this ain't the greatest country in the world?'
A wave of patriotic fervor erupts. 'USA! USA! USA!' the crowd chants.
He booms, 'Understand this: it's okay to be poor. There need to be poor people. We reach our potential when you are the 'yang' to our 'ying.' We need you.'
A voice from the crowd shouts, 'I've had to run a bad luck, and I was wondering if the state could help me get back on my feet.'
Musk V2 scoffs, 'This is the negative, self-obsessed, and greedy talk that doesn't help anyone! My program will teach you a new outlook on life. Instead of complaining about being poor, enjoy it! Watch TV, don't vote – who cares?'
Another voice cries, 'But I'm homeless!'
'You've got it all wrong!' Musk V2 declares. 'Society doesn't owe you anything. The government has better things to worry about, like killing innocent people. You already have everything you need, so enjoy your life!'
Conrad drained his beer, a cynical glint in his eyes. "They call it the American Dream," he scoffed, "because you practically have to be asleep to believe it." He tossed the empty can aside with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Time to wake them up."
According to the numbers, a million dollars was just a month away. Anyone with a fully functioning brain would probably coast, but Conrad decided to double down. He’d been reading "The Secret," a book about the power of manifestation—basically, if you ask the universe for something hard enough, you’ll get it. The book was vague on the details, but Conrad was sold.
He decided to manifest more money by hitting up every bank in the city for the maximum loan. He walked away with $900,000 and immediately dumped it all into the highest-risk stock he could find: shoelaces. Time to see if this manifestation thing worked. If it did, he’d be rich tomorrow. If it didn’t, he’d be in jail.
Conrad woke up on a park bench, stiff and foggy after a 24-hour nap. He checked his phone. His shoelace stock had gone up… 0.002 percent. “Manifestation works!” he yelled, like he’d just discovered the fountain of youth,
Suddenly, he felt like he’d experienced six million years of evolution in seconds. His brain cells ballooned to watermelon size. He saw the rise and fall of humanity across countless dimensions. He felt both insignificant and all-powerful. “This human body can’t handle this power!” he thought, on the verge of losing it. What was he even becoming? Something more than just Conrad, that was for sure.
Speaking of things he couldn’t handle, there was the $900,000 debt. But who cared? He’d unlocked the secrets of manifestation. “I don’t need the old gods anymore,” he chuckled, feeling like a god himself. “Everything is mine now!” He smirked. If you want results, you gotta take risks. And he was about to take a big one.
He cashed out his shoelace stock, netting a cool $1,400, and set his sights on 4th Street. “Why not buy or rent every building?” he thought, grinning. Two months later, 4th Street was his personal empire of 18 businesses, bringing in $150,000 a day. It only took a week to hit that million-dollar mark. Conrad was officially a millionaire. And a legend in the making.
Now, about Uncle Fred’s challenge: 100% happiness. To achieve that, Conrad needed to redeem his biggest failure: the disastrous hamburger joint. “I’ll create the most popular fast-food restaurant in New York City!” he declared. It might require some… sacrifices. “But hey, a small price for absolution, right?”
Conrad’s plan was insane. He figured every car in the city had cash in it, and he needed that cash. “The problem with capitalism,” he mused, “is that people can choose not to give me their money.” He needed a solution. But first, he needed more money. With about $1.5 million (mostly borrowed), he chartered a boat to international waters for some tax-free gambling.
He plunked down the whole $1.5 million on black at the roulette table. The wheel spun, the ball bounced, and… jackpot! He walked away with $2.6 million. “Let’s do that again,” he said. And he did. He won again. He returned to New York with $4.5 million. Any banker would be jealous.
But he wasn’t done. He bought every single vehicle from every dealership in town. Weeks later, he had a fleet: 75 trucks, 200 vans, 150 sedans, and 25 18-wheelers. Why? He was going to block every street in the city except 4th. “A traffic funnel,” he grinned. “To force all of New York City straight to my donut shop.”
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Over the next month, he orchestrated a city-wide blockade. Hospitals, docks—everything was sealed off. New York became a maze of his vehicles. Meanwhile, in his warehouses, he stockpiled 200,000 donuts and 600,000 cups of coffee. “Hunger? Desperation? Perfect! They’ll have no choice but to come to me.” He’d sell each donut for $800. That's $160 million. “Take that, capitalism!” he chuckled.
As the city descended into chaos, Conrad reveled in his power. “This is it!” he thought. “I’ve taken an entire city hostage, and they just want my donuts!”
Then, in a cosmic twist, he reached a state of “quantum criticality.” His body, now overflowing with wealth and ambition, underwent a transformation so profound that he simply vanished, leaving only the echoes of his maniacal laughter and a city forever changed.
As his empire expanded into real estate, Conrad became a titan, bulldozing neighborhoods for luxury developments. But with power came problems: lawsuits, protests, death threats. He hired an army of lawyers and guards. In Conrad Murray’s world, it was eat or be eaten. And he was hungry.
Years flew by, and Conrad’s wealth ballooned. He was a household name, synonymous with success… but at a cost. His personal life was a disaster, his health was tanking, and his conscience was long gone.
One night, in a haze of moonshine and whatever else he’d gotten his hands on, Conrad stumbled to a drawer. Under a pile of fake IDs, he found one that read "Reginald Meatwagon." He stared in the mirror, barely recognizing the man staring back.
Conrad Murray, self-proclaimed god among men, had conquered the world with ambition and money. Now, on his deathbed (or so he thought), the possibilities stretched before him: colonize the moon? Start a cult? With his fortune, he could buy off the US’s toxic industries, stop wars, even fund research to fight the Finnish fungus.
But one question kept nagging him: What’s the point? In a final act of defiance, he decided to chase immortality. Why not? He threw a mountain of cash at a crazy science project and created a mercenary agency called “Mammoth” to protect his investments.
Mammoth thrived, stirring up small wars across North America to keep his businesses booming. They pushed imperialism and capitalism while pretending to be all about democracy, crushing any anti-imperialist movements that got in the way. A stable economy was key for his automated money machines.
Then the housing bubble burst. Everyone had been buying houses, thinking prices would only go up. They didn’t. Banks, having lent money to everyone and their dog, were in trouble. Businesses couldn't get loans, people lost jobs, and the economy tanked. Millions lost everything.
Ironically, while two million people were homeless, sixteen million houses sat empty. Conrad just kept building, ignoring reality. Build, profit, repeat. Homes were commodities, not shelters.
Then, his scientists (the same ones who’d given him those weird red potions back in Finland) made a breakthrough. Conrad, in a fit of hubris, decided to freeze himself, hoping to wake up in a perfect world.
As Carmelita watch to the tale of Conrad Murray unfolding, she found herself equal parts horrified and intrigued. This man's rise to success and power was built on a series of wildly ambitious (some might say insane) plans that seemed destined for disaster, yet, somehow, he kept achieving one victory after another.
But at what cost? The image painted of a man consumed by greed and the relentless pursuit of wealth stirred a mixture of revulsion and fascination in her. She couldn't help but wonder where it would lead, as Conrad's journey took another unexpected turn into the realm of scientific experiments and frozen dreams.
Two centuries later, he thawed out, disillusioned and furious. The world was a wasteland, ravaged by war and disease. Cities were crumbling ruins. The air was toxic. Not exactly the utopia he’d imagined. His New York empire was underwater; a boat rested on top of his old penthouse. What the hell had happened? “Well,” he muttered, “at least the property values have… stabilized.” And the ultimate insult? Nobody remembered him. Not a single commemorative plaque, no historical documentaries, not even a misspelled Wikipedia entry. The ingratitude of future generations was truly breathtaking.
But he was different. The two centuries in ice had changed him. He was immune to time and disease, didn’t need sleep or food (good thing, because the local food scene was… questionable).
Driven mad by the state of things, he renamed himself Wraith. Conrad Murray was dead. Long live… Wraith. It sounded suitably dramatic, and frankly, he couldn't be bothered to come up with anything more creative.
In this bleak new world, he found a kindred spirit: a young, charismatic, and ruthless warlord named Zion. Zion dreamed of a new world order. Wraith, now immortal, became his mentor, sharing his “wisdom.” What else was an immortal supposed to do?
Together, they set out to rebuild civilization. It was a noble goal, he supposed, if rebuilding meant replacing crumbling concrete with slightly less crumbling concrete
Their first challenge was the Citadel, a fortress that was the last stand of the old world's power structures a remnant of Us goverment.
It was a monument to the old world's bureaucratic inefficiency, now populated by equally inefficient Warlord. It was a symbol of everything Zion despised—a relic of the past, clinging to power through fear and oppression.
Wraith and Zion laid siege to the Citadel, a battle that was as epic as it was bizarre. It was like watching a chess game between a grandmaster and a monkey with a hand grenade.zion with other warlord is charge into the stronghold. thousand over thousand has lost. soldier just order to advancing without weapon to be expected scavanging weapon to his deceased comrade in street, Zion, a whirlwind of manic energy, led the charge, Wraith watched from a safe distance, offering cynical commentary "A sound strategy," he remarked as another wave of soldiers was mowed down, "if your goal is to run out of soldiers before they run out of bullets." Ultimately, sheer attrition won the day."
When the Citadel finally fell, it wasn't just a fortress that had been conquered but the very idea of the old world. From the ruins, Wraith and Zion built their new empire, a society that embraced change and innovation with the enthusiasm of a kid in a sim city games,
"Remember zoning laws?" he'd ask, watching Zion haphazardly build a nuclear power plant next to a daycare center. "Those were good times."
wraith now stand in top of once white house, and at the horizon when tall buildings crumbling. smoke rising, and jets plane dog fighting with endless foes,
“Progress,” Wraith sighed, “It’s a beautiful thing.” He reflected on his past life as a capitalist, "I built an empire on exploiting people's desire for cheap goods. These guys are building one on exploiting people's fear of death. It's… surprisingly similar."
wraith then watch sunset in top of statue of liberty which now half submerged from sea rising.
I journeyed, long in walking, far beyond the place of stopping Where there was no more returning to the people I had known. I saw the world forgotten, where the grass gives up on growing And I knew that I would never make another journey home.
Crying in a thousand voices to its desolate god-king. And the music of its crying, never dead, ever dying,
I long for water quenching Of my thirst, unending, nothing that remains can satisfy. For my voice has joined the chorus ever more, ever mourning. Ever singing, ever hungry. Ever dying, never die.