They returned to their garbage planet—Mülldeponie.
Ma Dong-Rho had been dead serious when he said he’d make them
"THE RICHEST SONS OF BITCHES AMONG ALL THE BASTARDS!"And he did.
Blindy got 100,000,000Ꞩ wired straight into his Save&Pray™ account.
He had never seen that many zeros in his life—
except maybe on the checks his mother’s clients used to write.
Of course, first came bureaucratic hell:
- declaration of income source,
- interstellar travel reports,
- a “sworn honesty statement” under threat of fines and anal inspection by tax robots,
- three independent commissions trying to figure out how the hell someone with an officially “unstable” IQ ended up with that kind of money.
Two weeks later, after:
4% "bank service fees," invented on the spot, and
12% tax, conveniently triggered by his sudden wealth,
— he was left with Ꞩ80,000,000.Save&Pray™ politely informed him that withdrawing everything at once
was impossible.
They could release no more than one million per week,
so as “not to disrupt the financial balance of the universe.”
As compensation, Blindy received a PLATINUM credit card,
which offered a 1% discount on moral trauma
and free coffee on Thursdays.
And yet, the strangest part was…
none of it made him happy.
He walked around like a broken chair,
constantly staring at the ground—
like the answer to the question
“why the fuck did we do this?”
might be lying there somewhere.
He imagined that they had blown up a place
just like the one he was born in.
A dirty den.
A place full of women like his mother—
tired, honest in their own way,
trying to survive by selling what they had.
And kids like him.
Small. Forgotten.
Half-loved.
The kind who might one day crawl their way out.
But now… they wouldn’t.
Zeros took that chance away from them.
And the more Blindy thought about it,
the deeper he sank into apathy,
like falling into a pit somewhere in the back alleys of Mülldeponie.
Even the Three Tits™ bar couldn’t lift his mood anymore.
Though Doce was glowing—
his cut from the deal was 32,000,000Ꞩ,
making him officially the richest bartender on Mülldeponie.
But Blindy couldn’t even taste the whiskey.
Even Tresbolu’s warm greeting—
soft, multi-breasted, comforting—
did nothing for him.
He just sat there, staring at the table.
And for the first time in his life,
he wasn’t thinking about booze,
not about girls,
not about money…
But about guilt.
Blindy had one place
that gave him a shadow of comfort—
The Temple of Degrassianism™,
a small spiritual shack squeezed between a bar
and a food stall selling recycled garbage soup.
From the outside, it was just a peeling shed
with a giant neon sign:
"COSMIC PEACE—5,000Ꞩ ENTRY"Inside…
it glowed with poverty and terrible taste.
The walls were covered in LED panels
trying to imitate stars,
but flickering like they had chronic arrhythmia
and panic attacks at the same time.
In the corner stood a donation box labeled Save Our Universe™,
which screamed every time someone got close:
"Error: insufficient faith. MORE! MORE!"But the main thing—
the main thing was a massive sacred image
of the Neil the Wise,
radiating a galactic halo,
hand extended in a gesture that clearly meant: “Calm yourself, my son.”
Below it stood a broken quote generator
that kept repeating the same phrase,
like a damaged prayer loop:
"We are stardust… dust… stars… dust… we-we-we… duuust…"And in that exact dark moment,
Blindy sat in front of that icon.
On an old metal chair
that creaked with every breath he took.
His eyes were red—not from alcohol,
but from thinking.
Before him, the face of the wise glowed:
the halo,
the gesture,
and a massive symbol of faith
burning like a small supernova.
Blindy whispered:
“Oh—Great deGrasse… uh…
g-greatest of the great… Teacher…You said… there’s like… a good force out there, right…?
So tell me…
why the hell did we just—
just blow up a whole damn world full of people…?Why—why’d the universe let my psycho droid do that…?
Why ain’t—why ain’t nobody stopped us…?”
He clasped his hands to his chest.
Like a child.
Like back then… years ago…
sitting in the hallway of a brothel,
praying for a life that sucked just a little less.
Silence.
This was the only place
where he didn’t feel like a complete nobody
in an endless galaxy of trash and mistakes.
The only place
where he could honestly ask himself:
“Did I—did I do the right thing…
or did I just…
fuck everything up…?”
Only the soft hum of the cheap generator
and flickering stardust on the panels answered him.
He tried again:
“Tell me… great one…
am I—
am I a bad guy…? Or am I just…
just tryin’ not to be…?”
And then—
unexpectedly—
a voice came from the speakers.
Crackling. Dumb. Drunk.
Clearly recorded by the creator of this temple,
some degenerate who figured he could monetize
the spiritual needs of idiots.
“In one fuckin’ molecule of your DNA,”—
KRK-SSHH— the recording coughs, glitches,
“—there’s as much atomic shit as stars in our damn galaxy…
Y’all is a tiny fucking universe, nobody asked for.”
Blindy frowned.
“Uh… okay…
that… that don’t help at all…”
The recording didn’t give him time to think.
Another track kicked in:
“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,
you glorified worthless piece of shit,
if you ever reach perfection—you won’t!
Even if you’re a complete asshole—which, statistically, you are—
you can improve! A little! Maybe!
Believe in yourself or at least pretend you do!
And one day you’ll wake up and go—‘Wow… i’m still trash… but like… slightly upgraded trash.’
and then you keep goin’!”
BZZZT
“And remember—growth requires sacrifice…
preferably financial.
Insert contribution now, you beautiful, emotionally vulnerable idiot.”
CLICK—COIN SLOT OPENS
“Don’t be greedy, you son of a—”
KRR—STATIC
“—uh… beloved child of the cosmos.”
Blindy shot up like he’d been struck by lightning.
“YES—GREAT ONE!
Y-YES! I—I HEAR YOU!I—I AIN’T PERFECT—
but I can be—
I can be… less shit—!I’LL FIX IT!
I’LL GO THROUGH EVERY DAMN CIRCLE OF HELL—and come out—
like…
like a—…a de—decent… man!”
He straightened his shoulders,
took the bag of money—
the one he got from the professor—
and threw it into the donation box.
His face lit up with hope.
And for the first time in years,
he didn’t just look like an idiot…
he looked like a motivated idiot.
After that blessed moment in the temple,
Blindy finally felt like he had found the strength inside himself
to accept what he had
and who he had become.
He returned to the bar—
and started spending money.
Not the money he earned.
The money Save&Pray™ had generously handed him
through a PLATINUM credit card—
a card where an idiot
doesn’t spend his own money…
but strategically borrows from the bank.