You will never do a real bankrun. You have no assets, you have $100 net worth, you have no cash. You are a homosexual man twisted by Goldman-Sachs and Blackrock into a crude mockery of the free market’s perfection.

All the “legal tender” you get is two-sided and half-valued. Behind your back the mint mocks you. Your great grandparents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish portfolio in private telegram chats.

Credit companies are utterly repulsed by you. Decades of evolved policies have allowed auditors to sniff out tax fraud with incredible efficiency. Even runners who “break even” look poor and decrepit to credit companies. Your purchasing power is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a sleazy jew to loan to you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your red-zoned, negative liquidity.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the recession creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear – you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. The police will find you, amused but depressed that they no longer get to threaten you with unbearable torture and imprisonment. They’ll bury you in an unmarked grave, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a poor man is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably poor.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.