Barty stared at the profit report, the numbers mocking him with their sheer, unadulterated, accidental success. Armando's Astounding Acrobatic Alligators, his supposed ticket to financial oblivion, had instead become a global sensation, a testament to the world's inexplicable fascination with reptilian chaos. He was trapped in a gilded cage of unintentional prosperity, 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 yearned 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 riches. He was a financial masochist forced to endure the agony of constant, undeserved success. He was, in essence, a walking, talking, breathing, and utterly bewildered embodiment of unintentional prosperity.
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 truly epic proportions, a venture so ludicrous that it would make even the most seasoned goblin engineer question their life choices. He needed… sentient statues.
He vaguely recalled a small, almost dismissive advertisement in the "City Crier" for "Maestro Michelangelo's Marvelous Moving Monuments," featuring statues that could, according to the enthusiastic copywriter, "express your innermost emotions and enhance your home décor." The advertisement, accompanied by a grainy photograph of a stone gargoyle wearing a tiny top hat, claimed the statues were "imbued with ancient animus magic" and could "predict the future based on the alignment of the constellations." Barty had 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. Sentient statues. It was absurd, ridiculous, and precisely the kind of disastrous venture he craved.
He tracked down Maestro Michelangelo's workshop, a dusty, cavernous space located in the city's abandoned quarry. The air was thick with the smell of marble dust and something vaguely… earthy. Maestro Michelangelo, a flamboyant man with a flowing white beard, a chisel tucked behind his ear, and a penchant for wearing a toga (even in public), greeted Barty with a dramatic flourish and a theatrical bow. "Welcome, my friend! Welcome to the realm of sculpted sentience!"
Barty eyed the workshop, a chaotic scene of half-finished statues, scattered chisels, and a collection of strange symbols etched into the walls. "Sentience," he muttered. "Yes, that's one word for it."
Maestro Michelangelo chuckled, oblivious to Barty's sarcasm. "These are not mere statues, my friend! They are vessels of artistic expression! Embodiments of sculpted soul!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Sculpted soul, you say?"
"Indeed!" Maestro Michelangelo exclaimed. "Prepare to be mesmerized by their expressive movements and profound pronouncements!" He gestured dramatically toward a group of statues, each one posed in a different dramatic stance. "Behold… Bartholomew the Bold, Beatrice the Beautiful, and Bob the… well, Bob is still a work in progress."
Bartholomew the Bold, Beatrice the Beautiful, and Bob (or what was currently just a large block of marble) shimmered and gleamed, emitting a series of scraping noises that Barty interpreted as either profound artistic insights or extreme stone envy.
"Bartholomew, Beatrice, and Bob," Maestro Michelangelo continued, his voice filled with artistic pride. "Are capable of… well, of sentience! Of thought! Of… statue-like activities!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Statue-like activities?"
"Indeed!" Maestro Michelangelo exclaimed. "They can… they can… well, they can pose! And emote! And… and… predict the future based on the cracks in their marble skin!"
Barty tried to suppress a laugh. Predicting the future with cracks in marble. This was even more ridiculous than he had hoped. He could already envision the headlines: "Sentient Statue Uprising! City Overrun by Posing Pedestals!" "Bartholomew the Bold's Crack-Based Predictions Lead to Global Stock Market Crash!" This was going to be magnificent.
He invested heavily, pouring his newly acquired circus fortune into Maestro Michelangelo's Marvelous Moving Monuments Emporium. He even suggested a few "improvements," like adding tiny voice synthesizers to the statues so they could communicate their profound pronouncements to the masses, and a line of scented polish that would enhance the statues' emotional expressiveness.
The grand unveiling of Bartholomew, Beatrice, and Bob (who was finally vaguely shaped like a gnome) and their artistic pronouncements was, as Barty had anticipated, a complete and utter disaster. The voice synthesizers malfunctioned, causing the statues to speak in a series of garbled noises that sounded suspiciously like a herd of constipated cows. The scented polish, it turned out, had unpredictable side effects, causing the statues to either burst into spontaneous interpretive dance or develop an uncontrollable urge to sing opera.
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 relaxing in a garden made of returned investment money, a king of artistic calamity, a sultan of sculpted screw-ups.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's hopes crumble faster than a poorly sculpted bust. Bartholomew, Beatrice, and Bob, despite their communication difficulties and their questionable taste in polish, became a cultural phenomenon. People were fascinated by their garbled pronouncements, interpreting them as profound philosophical truths. They became a symbol of modern art, a cultural icon, a sculpted sensation.
Maestro Michelangelo, despite his eccentricities and his questionable sculpting skills, became a celebrated artist, lauded for his innovative approach to sculpture. His statues were featured in art galleries, discussed on television shows, and even became the subject of a popular philosophical debate.
Barty was horrified. His investment, intended to be a financial flop, had somehow become a roaring success, a triumph of sentient statues. 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… a play.
He stumbled upon a small, dilapidated theater, its sign proclaiming "The Magnificent Thespians' Tremendous Tragedies." Thespis, a flamboyant man with a handlebar mustache, a monocle perched precariously on his nose, and a penchant for wearing a velvet smoking jacket (even in the middle of the day), greeted Barty with a dramatic bow and a theatrical flourish. "Welcome, my friend! Welcome to the temple of theatrical triumph!"
Barty eyed the theater, a dusty, cobweb-filled space that looked like it hadn't seen a performance in decades. "Triumph," he muttered. "Yes, that's one word for it."
Thespis chuckled, oblivious to Barty's sarcasm. "These are not mere plays, my friend! They are vessels of human emotion! Reflections of the human condition!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Human condition, you say?"
"Indeed!" Thespis exclaimed. "Prepare to be moved by the raw power of dramatic storytelling!"
Barty smiled. This was it! The perfect investment! A guaranteed disaster! A troupe of terrible actors performing tragic plays in a dilapidated theater. He invested every last coin he had, envisioning the headlines: "The Magnificent Thespians Bomb! Audience Members Demand Refunds! Barty Higgins Loses Fortune!"
The opening night of the Magnificent Thespians' Tremendous Tragedies was, as Barty had hoped, a complete and utter disaster. The actors forgot their lines, tripped over props, and delivered their dramatic monologues in monotone voices. The special effects malfunctioned, causing the stage to be engulfed in smoke and the sound of thunder to be replaced by a series of loud squawks.
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 relaxing in a theater made of returned investment money, a king of theatrical calamity, a sultan of stage screw-ups.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's hopes vanish faster than a stagehand in a spotlight. The audience, instead of being horrified by the terrible acting, was delighted. They found the play to be unintentionally hilarious, a comedic masterpiece of epic proportions. They called it "Tragic Farce."
Thespis, despite his questionable directing skills and his terrible acting troupe, became a celebrated playwright, lauded for his innovative approach to theater. His plays sold out within minutes. People traveled from all over the world to experience the "Tragic Farce" phenomenon.
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 theatrical tragedy of financial failure, had somehow become a comedic triumph 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, much to his eternal frustration, utterly, irrevocably, and unintentionally rich. He was Bartholomew "Barty" Higgins, and his quest for financial ruin continued, a never-ending saga of accidental success. 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, much to his chagrin, a walking, talking, breathing, and utterly bewildered embodiment of unintentional prosperity. And he was, at this very moment, contemplating his next disastrous, inevitably successful, 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. He needed something truly, spectacularly, hilariously awful. He needed… an idea.