Barty stared at the latest profit report, the numbers shimmering with the obscene glow of accidental success. Madame Esmeralda's Ethereal Expressions, his supposed ticket to financial ruin, had instead become a cultural phenomenon. 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 oblivion. 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, a man whose very existence defied the laws of financial gravity.
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 smells.
He vaguely recalled a small, almost dismissible advertisement in the "Sensory Supplement" for "Professor Odoriferous's Olfactory Offerings," featuring scents that could, according to the overly enthusiastic copywriter, "evoke your deepest memories and enhance your emotional well-being." The advertisement, accompanied by a blurry photograph of a bottle of perfume shaped like a gnome, claimed the scents were "imbued with ancient aroma magic" and could "predict the future based on nuances of the scent." 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 smells. It was absurd, ridiculous, and precisely the kind of disastrous venture he craved. It was so bad, it just might work… to fail.
He tracked down Professor Odoriferous's laboratory, a small, cluttered space tucked away behind a spice market. The air was thick with the aroma of exotic spices and something vaguely… pungent. Professor Odoriferous, a portly man with a perpetually runny nose, a pair of oversized spectacles perched precariously on his nose, and a penchant for wearing a hazmat suit (even in public), greeted Barty with a dramatic bow and a theatrical flourish. "Welcome, my friend! Welcome to the realm of olfactory enlightenment!"
Barty eyed the laboratory, a chaotic space filled with various strange contraptions, including a large, ornate scent organ, a collection of oddly shaped bottles filled with bubbling liquids, and a shelf full of dusty tomes with titles like "The Alchemy of Aroma" and "The Secret Language of Smells." "Enlightenment," he muttered. "Yes, that's one word for it."
Professor Odoriferous chuckled, oblivious to Barty's sarcasm. "These are not mere scents, my friend! They are vessels of emotional expression! Embodiments of aromatic artistry!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Aromatic artistry, you say?"
"Indeed!" Professor Odoriferous exclaimed. "Prepare to be mesmerized by their evocative power and profound pronouncements!" He gestured dramatically toward a collection of bottles, each one filled with a different colored liquid. "Behold… Essence of Euphoria, Aroma of Anguish, and… well, the less said about Perfume of Putrescence, the better. It's still… in development."
Essence of Euphoria, Aroma of Anguish, and Perfume of Putrescence (which emitted a faint, greenish glow) shimmered and swirled, releasing a series of… well, smells.
"Essence of Euphoria, Aroma of Anguish, and Perfume of Putrescence," Professor Odoriferous continued, his voice filled with aromatic pride. "Are capable of… well, of evoking! Of emoting! Of… olfactory manifestations!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Olfactory manifestations?"
"Indeed!" Professor Odoriferous exclaimed. "They can… they can… well, they can waft! And swirl! And… and… predict the future based on subtle shifts in their aromatic profile!"
Barty tried to suppress a laugh. Predicting the future with smells. This was even more ridiculous than he had hoped. He could already envision the headlines: "Sentient Smell Uprising! City Overwhelmed by Odoriferous Onslaught!" "Aroma of Anguish Causes Mass Hysteria! Essence of Euphoria Leads to Global Giggling Epidemic!" This was going to be magnificent.
He invested heavily, pouring his newly acquired dance fortune into Professor Odoriferous's Olfactory Offerings Emporium. He even suggested a few "improvements," like adding tiny voice synthesizers to the scents so they could communicate their profound pronouncements to the masses, and a line of scented candles that would enhance the scents'… well, their scent-ness.
The grand unveiling of Essence of Euphoria, Aroma of Anguish, and Perfume of Putrescence and their olfactory wisdom was, as Barty had anticipated, a complete and utter disaster. The voice synthesizers malfunctioned, causing the scents to emit a series of garbled noises that sounded suspiciously like a chorus of sneezing hamsters. The scented candles, it turned out, had unpredictable side effects, causing people to either develop an uncontrollable craving for sardines or believe they were dogs.
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 spa made of returned investment money, a king of olfactory calamity, a sultan of sentient smells.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's hopes evaporate faster than a fart in a hurricane. The public, instead of being repulsed by the strange smells and the sneezing hamsters, was intrigued. They found the garbled pronouncements to be profound philosophical truths. They saw the scents as a form of abstract art, a new way to experience the world. They called it "Scentualism."
Professor Odoriferous, despite his eccentricities and his questionable scent-making skills, became a celebrated artist, lauded for his innovative approach to scent. His scents 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 stink bomb, had somehow become a roaring success, a triumph of sentient smells. 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…(Continuing Chapter 9, glitch-free):
He remembered a small, almost illegible advertisement scribbled on a park bench: "Professor Periwinkle's Performing Pigeons: Melodies on Wings!" (It seemed Professor Periwinkle had branched out from sentient socks to sentient… well, everything.) The advertisement, accompanied by a crudely drawn picture of a pigeon wearing a tiny top hat and holding a miniature musical note, claimed the pigeons were "imbued with ancient avian artistry" and could "predict the future based on the melody of their song." 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. Singing telegram pigeons. It was so ridiculous, so utterly impractical, so gloriously idiotic, that it had to fail. Right?
He tracked down Professor Periwinkle's aviary, a small, ramshackle structure located in the city's less avian-friendly district, sandwiched between a cat sanctuary and a falconry. The air was thick with the aroma of birdseed and something vaguely… feathery. Professor Periwinkle, dressed in her usual mismatched socks and a bird-themed shawl, greeted Barty with a warm smile. "Mr. Higgins! So good to see you again! Ready for another… feathered flight of fancy?"
Barty eyed the aviary, a chaotic scene of cooing pigeons, scattered musical notes, and tiny top hats strewn across the floor. "Fancy," he muttered. "Yes, that's one word for it."
Professor Periwinkle chuckled, oblivious to Barty's sarcasm. "These are not mere pigeons, my friend! They are messengers of melodic mirth! Harbingers of harmonious happiness!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Harmonious happiness, you say?"
"Indeed!" Professor Periwinkle exclaimed. "Prepare to be serenaded by their sweet songs and profound pronouncements!" She gestured dramatically toward a flock of pigeons, each one perched on a tiny music stand. "Behold… Pip, Squeak, and… well, we're still working on Percival. He has a tendency to… improvise. Loudly."
Pip, Squeak, and Percival (who was currently pecking at a sheet of music upside down) cooed and fluttered, emitting a series of chirps and whistles.
"Pip, Squeak, and Percival," Professor Periwinkle continued, her voice filled with avian pride. "Are capable of… well, of singing! Of soaring! Of… delivering musical messages!"
Barty raised an eyebrow. "Musical messages?"
"Indeed!" Professor Periwinkle exclaimed. "They can… they can… well, they can fly! And tweet! And… and… predict the future based on nuances of their song!"
Barty tried to suppress a laugh. Predicting the future with pigeon songs. This was even more ridiculous than he had hoped. He could already envision the headlines: "Singing Telegram Pigeons Cause Mass Confusion! City Bombarded by Bird Droppings and Badly Sung Love Songs!" "Percival's Impromptu Opera Leads to Global Stock Market Crash!" This was going to be magnificent.
He invested heavily, pouring his newly acquired scent fortune into Professor Periwinkle's Performing Pigeons Emporium. He even suggested a few "improvements," like adding tiny microphones to the pigeons so their songs could be amplified for larger audiences, and a line of scented birdseed that would enhance the pigeons'… well, their pigeon-ness.
The grand unveiling of Pip, Squeak, and Percival and their melodic messages was, as Barty had anticipated, a complete and utter disaster. The tiny microphones malfunctioned, causing the pigeons' songs to be distorted into a series of screeching noises that sounded suspiciously like a flock of pterodactyls. The scented birdseed, it turned out, had unpredictable side effects, causing the pigeons to either develop an uncontrollable urge to tap dance or believe they were rock stars. Percival, in particular, developed a rather unfortunate habit of belting out heavy metal ballads at 3 AM, much to the dismay of the neighbors.
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 bird-watching sanctuary made of returned investment money, a king of avian calamity, a sultan of singing telegram sabotage.
But then, something even more unexpected happened, something that made Barty's hopes plummet faster than a pigeon with a broken wing. The public, instead of being horrified by the screeching noises and the tap-dancing pigeons, was charmed. They found the distorted songs to be a form of avant-garde music, a revolutionary new genre. They called it "Pigeon Punk."
Professor Periwinkle, despite her eccentricities and her questionable pigeon-training skills, became a celebrated composer, lauded for her innovative approach to music. Her pigeon concerts sold out within minutes. People traveled from all over the world to experience the "melodic mayhem" of her feathered performers.
Barty was horrified. His investment, intended to be a financial pigeon coup, had somehow become a roaring success, a triumph of singing telegrams. 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 was the Unintentional Tycoon, forever cursed with accidental riches.
He wandered the streets, dejected, the weight of his unintentional fortune heavy on his shoulders. He was 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…