Barty stared at the profit report, the numbers blurring before his eyes. The sunken submarine, his supposed ticket to financial oblivion, had instead become a gateway to untold riches. He was trapped in a gilded cage of unintentional success, a prisoner of his own accidental Midas touch. He was the Unintentional Tycoon, forever doomed to prosper, no matter how desperately he craved the sweet release of financial ruin. He longed for the comforting embrace of a failed investment, the soothing balm of a refunded fortune, but the universe, or rather, the system, seemed determined to torment him with unwanted prosperity. He was a financial masochist forced to endure the agony of constant, undeserved success.
He needed a new project, something so utterly disastrous, so fundamentally flawed, so gloriously idiotic, that even his system couldn't possibly turn it into a profit. He needed a guaranteed failure, a financial flop of epic proportions, a venture so ludicrous that it would make even the most seasoned goblin engineer shake their head in disbelief. He needed… sentient slime.
He remembered reading a small, almost dismissible article in the "Daily Dunce" about a reclusive alchemist, Professor Phileas Fogg the Third (no relation to the famous explorer, he'd been quick to point out), who claimed to have created sentient slime. The article was accompanied by a blurry photograph of a pulsating, green blob, which, according to the caption, was exhibiting signs of "rudimentary consciousness." Barty scoffed at the time, dismissing it as another crackpot invention, but now, it seemed like a beacon of hope in his sea of unintentional success.
He tracked down Professor Fogg's laboratory, a dilapidated building on the outskirts of the city, its windows boarded up and its door adorned with a sign that read "Beware of Sentient Slime (and Slightly Irritated Alchemist)." The air around the building crackled with an unnatural energy, a mix of ozone and something vaguely… citrusy.
Professor Fogg, a gaunt man with wild, frizzy hair, bloodshot eyes, and a lab coat covered in various unidentifiable stains, greeted Barty with a mixture of paranoia and desperation. He clutched a beaker filled with a bubbling, green goo, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "Mr. Higgins," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I… I presume you've heard about my… breakthrough?"
Barty nodded, trying to suppress a grin. "Sentient slime," he said, his voice dripping with feigned awe. "Fascinating."
Professor Fogg puffed out his chest, momentarily forgetting his paranoia. "Indeed! The culmination of decades of research! My greatest achievement! Behold!" He held up the beaker, revealing the pulsating, green blob. "Behold… Slimey!"
Slimey, as Professor Fogg had affectionately named it, jiggled and wobbled, emitting a series of gurgling noises that Barty interpreted as either profound philosophical insights or extreme indigestion.
"Slimey," Professor Fogg continued, his voice filled with paternal pride. "Is capable of… well, of sentience! Of thought! Of… slime-like activities!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Slime-like activities?"
"Indeed!" Professor Fogg exclaimed. "He can… he can… well, he can jiggle! And wobble! And… and… contemplate the nature of existence!"
Barty tried to suppress a laugh. Contemplating the nature of existence while being a green blob. This was even more ridiculous than he had hoped. He could already envision the headlines: "Sentient Slime Revolt! City Engulfed in Green Goo!" "Slimey's Existential Crisis Leads to Global Meltdown!" This was going to be magnificent.
He invested heavily, pouring his newly acquired submarine fortune into Professor Fogg's Sentient Slime Emporium. He even suggested a few "improvements," like adding a voice synthesizer to Slimey so he could communicate his profound philosophical insights to the masses, and a line of Slimey-themed merchandise, including plushie Slimeys, Slimey-shaped candy, and Slimey-scented air fresheners.
The grand unveiling of Slimey and his philosophical pronouncements was, as Barty had anticipated, a complete and utter disaster. The voice synthesizer malfunctioned, causing Slimey to speak in a series of high-pitched squeaks and guttural growls. The Slimey-shaped candy turned out to be strangely addictive, causing widespread dental problems. And the Slimey-scented air fresheners emitted a noxious gas that caused temporary hallucinations.
Barty watched the chaos unfold with unrestrained glee. This was even better than he had dared to dream! He could already taste the sweet, sweet refund. He imagined himself swimming in a pool of returned investment money, a king of slime-induced calamity, a sultan of sentient sludge.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's heart sink faster than a lead balloon in a swamp. Slimey, despite his communication difficulties and his questionable taste in air fresheners, became an unlikely celebrity. People were fascinated by his gurgling pronouncements, interpreting them as profound philosophical truths. He became a symbol of abstract thought, a guru of goo, a sage of slime.
Professor Fogg, despite his initial paranoia and his questionable scientific methods, became a celebrated genius, lauded for his groundbreaking discovery. He even won the Nobel Prize for "Slime-Based Philosophy."
Barty was horrified. His investment, intended to be a financial slime-slide, had somehow become a roaring success, a triumph of sentient sludge. He calculated his return: a measly one-thousandth of the enormous profits. He sank into despair, the weight of his unintentional fortune crushing him. Was there no escape from this cycle of unintentional success? Was he doomed to forever stumble into prosperity?
He wandered the streets, dejected, the weight of his unintentional fortune heavy on his shoulders. He needed a new project, something so utterly disastrous, so fundamentally flawed, that even his system couldn't salvage it. He needed a guaranteed failure, a financial flop of epic proportions. He needed… music.
He stumbled upon a small, dingy music hall, its sign proclaiming "The Great Gribaldi's Grandiose Gong Orchestra." Gribaldi, a portly man with a handlebar mustache and a flamboyant purple suit, greeted Barty with a booming laugh and a flourish of his cape. "Welcome, my friend! Welcome to the symphony of the century!"
Barty eyed the orchestra, a motley crew of musicians wielding an assortment of bizarre instruments, including a tuba shaped like a gnome, a clarinet made of bone, and a gong the size of a small car. "Symphony," he muttered. "Yes, that's one word for it."
Gribaldi chuckled, oblivious to Barty's sarcasm. "These are not mere instruments, my friend! They are vessels of pure emotion! Conduits of cosmic harmony!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Cosmic harmony, you say?"
"Indeed!" Gribaldi exclaimed. "Prepare to be transported to a realm of sonic bliss!"
Barty smiled. This was it! The perfect investment! A guaranteed disaster! An orchestra of bizarre instruments, conducted by a flamboyant man in a purple suit. He invested every last coin he had, envisioning the headlines: "Gribaldi's Gong Orchestra Causes Mass Hysteria! Concertgoers Driven Mad by Cacophony!"
The debut performance of the Great Gribaldi's Grandiose Gong Orchestra was, as Barty had hoped, a cacophony of epic proportions. The gnome-shaped tuba emitted a series of honking noises that sounded suspiciously like a distressed goose. The bone clarinet squealed like a banshee in agony. And the giant gong, when struck, produced a sound that could shatter glass and induce nausea.
Barty watched the chaos unfold with glee. This was even better than he had imagined! He could already taste the sweet, sweet refund. He pictured himself lounging in a soundproof room made of returned investment money, a king of sonic sabotage, a sultan of symphonic screw-ups.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's hope evaporate like morning mist. The audience, instead of being horrified by the cacophony, was mesmerized. They saw the chaotic sounds as a form of avant-garde music, a revolutionary new genre. They called it "Gongcore."
Gribaldi, despite his questionable musical talent, became a celebrated composer, lauded for his innovative approach to sound. His concerts sold out within minutes. People traveled from all over the world to experience the "sonic bliss" of his Gongcore symphony.
Barty, once again, found himself staring at a profit report that defied all logic, a report that shimmered with obscene amounts of accidental profit. His investment, intended to be a sonic assault on his finances, had somehow become a symphony of success. He sank into despair. Was he cursed? Was there no escape from this cycle of unintentional success? He was the Unintentional Tycoon, forever doomed to prosper, no matter how hard he tried to fail. He was, perhaps, the only man in the world who actively prayed for bankruptcy, a financial pariah trapped in a prison of prosperity. ...He was the master of disaster, the king of calamity, the sultan of screw-ups, and he was utterly, irrevocably, and unintentionally rich. He was the unintentional tycoon, the accidental aristocrat, the reluctant rich man, the financial masochist, the champion of chicanery, the lord of ludicrous investments, the connoisseur of failure, the master of miscalculation, the wizard of waste, the champion of collapse, the anti-Midas, the sultan of screw-ups, the maestro of misfortune, the lord of ludicrous investments. He was Bartholomew "Barty" Higgins, and he was, much to his chagrin, a roaring success. He was the man who turned every bad idea into a fortune, the man who could fail upwards, the man who was cursed with prosperity. And he was, at this very moment, contemplating his next disastrous investment, a venture so ludicrous, so idiotic, so utterly doomed, that even his system couldn't possibly turn it into a profit. He just needed to find it.