0.01234% inflation rate PissShit Coin

I actually wake up with my head in a toilet this time. My lungs are screaming in discordant sing-song, my eyes stinging with piss and shit and toilet bowl soap. I’m given precious seconds of air before someone drives my head back into the toilet.

Through the haze of water, I hear: “You’ve got ten minutes to tell what the fuck you’re here for until I unstitch your ass from your spine. Now talk.” The voice is low, guttural—like someone’s gargling gravel and hot coffee in the same mouthful. It’s familiar.

Air again. I heave, breathe. Then I say, “Please, I’ve got nothing. I’ve only got .0213 PissShit Coins to my ETH wallet, and I’m looking at a net negative 1.4% increase rate, please just let me go, please—”

The water again; the air again. My captor says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

“What do you want?” I ask. “I—I’ve got connections. I could slip a few here and there, I know a guy who knows a guy. They’ve got the market hidden up their ass, they could short any coin you want in a matter of minutes. Just—please, let me go.”

“They made you well,” my captor says.

“My dad’s sperm is in the top one percent. S-so yes, I’m pretty well made.”

Silence. Then my captor drops my head and walks back. Without his support, I fall back into the toilet, and it takes a while for me to pick myself up again.

After a long while, my captor says, defeated, “My name is Derek Lee.”

I cough. “Ok. Yep.”

“And you’re Supersession69.”

“Yep.”

He laughs—it’s not a happy laugh. It sounds like a sound someone might make watching their invested coin and stock plummet on the big boards. “I thought they got rid of all of you. I thought they binned the Morbius Project years ago.”

“...I’m sorry, what?”

“You don’t know, do you? I wouldn’t put it past you.” A click, a flick, and a cigarette is lit; smoke fills the air, hot and choking. “They put so many of me in circulation, expanded the neurons in my head over this damn city like fractals on a lake. It was too much to have my consciousness everywhere like that. I was dirt, I was ground, I was a plague-ridden rat scurrying in the gutters. But most of all; I was the CEO mindset. People could tap into my headspace at a moment’s notice to gain exponential powers at the cost of their humanity. This is what they do to prisoners, Supersession69. They turn them into product.”

I wipe the toilet water from my face with my sleeve. “Wh—why are you telling me this?”

“Because I feel sorry for you. And you’re a walking brain who never had the pleasure of suffering alone in an isolation headset.” He takes a deep inhale of smoke, then exhales. “And maybe I’m just lonely and pathetic, and I need a guy to talk to about nothing at all.”

“So wait, what am I?” I ask. I had known I was some sort of test tube baby, born from Petri dishes instead of flesh wombs, but—but this—

“You’re one of my many clones, Supersession69. A conduit for a grindset.” Another whiff, then, he snubs the cigarette out against the toilet water-stained ground. “You’re a thinking meatbag developed by some fatass corpo.”