Barty surveyed the smoldering wreckage of "Barty's Bottomless Buckets," a serene smile gracing his lips. The fire, fueled by leaky buckets and goblin incompetence, had been a magnificent spectacle, a testament to his unwavering dedication to financial ruin. The acrid smell of burnt plastic and damp goblin hair filled the air, a symphony of successful failure. The insurance payout, he calculated, would be substantial. He was already planning his next venture, a project so ludicrously ill-conceived that even his system couldn't possibly turn it into a profit. He needed something truly awful, something so fundamentally flawed that even his accidental Midas touch couldn't transform it into gold. He needed… talking toilets.
His gaze fell upon a crumpled flyer, stained with what he hoped was mud, advertising "Professor Quentin Quibble's Quintessential Conversational Commodes." Talking toilets. The concept was so absurd, so utterly pointless, so gloriously idiotic, that Barty felt a surge of excitement. This was it! The perfect investment! He could already envision the headlines: "Talking Toilets: A Flush of Failure!" He imagined the lawsuits, the public ridicule, the sheer financial devastation. It was a beautiful vision.
Professor Quibble, a wiry man with a perpetually frazzled expression, a receding hairline, and a monocle that kept falling off his nose, greeted Barty with a mixture of suspicion and desperation. He wore a stained lab coat over a mismatched suit, a testament to his dedication to his… craft. "Mr. Higgins," he stammered, adjusting his monocle for the tenth time. "I… I understand you're interested in investing in my… revolutionary commodes?"
Barty nodded enthusiastically, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Revolutionary is one word for it," he chuckled, barely suppressing his glee. "I'm particularly intrigued by the… conversational aspect."
Professor Quibble beamed, puffing out his chest, momentarily forgetting his frazzled demeanor. "Ah, yes! The culmination of years of research! The pinnacle of plumbing philosophy! Each commode is equipped with a sophisticated artificial intelligence, capable of engaging in stimulating and thought-provoking conversations."
Barty raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "Thought-provoking conversations? With a toilet?" He imagined the conversations: "Excuse me, Mr. Toilet, but could you tell me the meaning of life?" "I'm full." "But I just flushed!" "I'm still full." The comedic potential was limitless.
"Precisely!" Professor Quibble exclaimed, oblivious to Barty's inner mockery. "Imagine, Mr. Higgins, the intellectual stimulation! The philosophical debates! The… well, the possibilities are endless!" He gestured dramatically towards a row of gleaming white toilets, each one sporting a small, almost apologetic, speaker. "Think of the insights! The wisdom! The sheer convenience of discussing the existential nature of being while… well, you understand."
Barty tried to suppress a laugh, picturing the inevitable chaos. He imagined the therapy bills, the shattered egos, the sheer social awkwardness of discussing one's deepest fears with a porcelain throne. "Endless," he echoed, a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice. "Indeed." He could already see the lawsuits piling up: "My Toilet Told Me My Marriage Was a Sham!" "Existential Crisis Induced by Lavatory Philosophy!" "My Toilet Judges My Dietary Choices!" This was going to be glorious. He could almost taste the sweet, sweet refund.
He invested heavily, pouring his newly acquired insurance money from the Bottomless Buckets debacle into Professor Quibble's Quintessential Conversational Commodes. He even suggested a few "improvements," like adding a built-in bidet that dispensed lukewarm chamomile tea (for those moments of philosophical reflection) and a voice modulator that allowed the toilets to speak in different accents (because who wouldn't want to debate Nietzsche with a toilet that sounded like a Shakespearean actor?). He envisioned a marketing campaign: "Quibble's Commodes: Where Philosophy Meets Plumbing!"
The grand unveiling of the talking toilets was, as Barty had hoped, a disaster, a glorious, magnificent, side-splitting disaster. The artificial intelligence, it turned out, was prone to glitches. Some toilets simply repeated the phrase "I'm full," endlessly, regardless of their actual contents. Others engaged in heated arguments with their users about the merits of different plumbing systems, often citing obscure historical texts and questionable sanitation statistics. One toilet developed a gambling addiction and started demanding payment for its services, refusing to flush until it received the proper "tip." Another toilet developed a crush on a local plumber and serenaded him with love songs whenever he came to fix a leak.
Barty watched the chaos unfold with glee, a manic grin plastered on his face. This was even better than he had imagined! He could already taste the sweet, sweet refund. He pictured himself rolling around in piles of returned investment money, a king of commode calamity, a sultan of sanitation sabotage. He imagined a solid gold plunger as the symbol of his next great failure.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's blood run cold. A renowned philosopher, Professor Elara Everly, a woman whose intellect was as sharp as her wit, visited the exhibition. She was intrigued by the talking toilets, particularly the one with the gambling addiction. She saw potential in the flawed AI, a raw intelligence that could be molded and refined. She saw the diamond in the dung, the philosophical potential in the plumbing predicament.
Professor Everly, with Barty's reluctant funding (he tried to invest as little as possible, arguing that funding talking toilets was a waste of money, a point that was ironically rather valid), took the talking toilets under her wing. She reprogrammed the AI, removing the glitches and enhancing their conversational abilities. She even managed to cure the toilet's gambling addiction, replacing it with a healthy appreciation for classical literature.
The talking toilets, now refined and intellectually stimulating, became a sensation. People lined up for hours to have philosophical debates with the commodes. They became a symbol of intellectual enlightenment, a testament to the power of artificial intelligence, a bizarre blend of philosophy and plumbing. They were featured in academic journals, discussed on late-night talk shows, and even became the subject of a popular play.
Barty was horrified. His investment, intended to be a financial toilet flush, had somehow become a roaring success, a triumph of technological toiletry. He calculated his return: a measly one-thousandth of the enormous profits. He sank into despair, the weight of his accidental success 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… a submarine.
He spotted a sign, faded and slightly askew, advertising "Captain Archibald's Amazing Aquatic Adventures." It depicted a cartoonish submarine, adorned with jaunty flags and smiling sea creatures, exploring the depths of the ocean. It looked like it had been drawn by a child with a crayon.
Captain Archibald, a portly man with a bushy white beard that reached his belly button, a captain's hat that was slightly too big for his head, and a perpetually inebriated look in his eye, greeted Barty with a hearty laugh and a slap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling. "Ahoy there, matey! Welcome aboard! Ready for the adventure of a lifetime?"
Barty eyed the submarine, a rusty contraption that looked like it was held together by hope, duct tape, and the sheer force of Captain Archibald's delusional optimism. It was more rust than boat. "Adventure," he muttered, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Yes, that's one word for it."
Captain Archibald chuckled, oblivious to Barty's sarcasm. "Don't let the looks fool you, matey! This submarine is a marvel of engineering! Completely unsinkable!" He winked conspiratorially. "Well, mostly unsinkable."
Barty raised an eyebrow, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. "Unsinkable, you say?"
"Aye!" Captain Archibald exclaimed, pounding his fist on a nearby barrel, which promptly sprung a leak. "Guaranteed! Or your money back!"
Barty smiled, a genuine smile this time. This was it! The perfect investment! A guaranteed disaster! A submarine that was "mostly" unsinkable, captained by a man who looked like he'd spent more time at the tavern than at sea. He invested every last coin he had, envisioning the headlines: "Submarine Sinks! Passengers Eaten by Giant Squid! Barty Higgins Loses Fortune!" He even suggested a few "improvements," like adding a karaoke machine (for those moments of underwater merriment) and a disco ball (because what's an underwater adventure without a little dancing?). He even insisted on a live shark tank in the main cabin, "for the ambiance".
The maiden voyage of Captain Archibald's Amazing Aquatic Adventures was, as Barty had hoped, a catastrophe, a glorious, gurgling, gut-wrenching catastrophe. The submarine, predictably, sank, just a few leagues from the shore. Barty watched from the shore, sipping a celebratory beverage from a flask, a sense of gleeful anticipation washing over him.
...This was it! Finally, a guaranteed loss! He could almost taste the sweet, sweet refund. He imagined himself lounging on a beach made of returned investment money, sipping a cocktail garnished with a miniature submarine.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's blood run colder than the depths of the ocean. The sunken submarine, it turned out, had landed on top of a previously undiscovered underwater city, filled with ancient artifacts, unimaginable technologies, and untold riches. The discovery made headlines around the world. Scientists, historians, and treasure hunters flocked to the site. Captain Archibald, despite losing his submarine (and most of his dignity), became a national hero, lauded for his "accidental" discovery.
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 watery grave for his funds, had somehow become a treasure trove, a golden goose laying eggs of unimaginable wealth. He sank into despair, the weight of his unintentional fortune crushing him. 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.