Have you followed our guide for selling your soul?
You didn't do it, did you?
You did. Shit. You did it.
Wondering what happens now that you've sold your soul?
We have bad news.
You're Elon Musk Now
Uh. You're Elon Musk now.
Yeah. You really broke the finger off the monkey's paw, bud.
Sure, you have billions of dollars, but you believe that's a slur.
It's a strange belief. And you know it's incredibly stupid. But you can't suppress it. It bubbles out from your throat like a horde of molting moths.
Worse, this is one of the more mundane thoughts you find gnawing at the front of your mind. Incongruous, irrational thoughts. Seeds you did not plant but find flowering in your gray matter all the same.
You Think We Live in a Simulation...
Thinking we live in a simulation isn't on its face a ridiculous thought. It's certainly possible, and many in pop culture, philosophy, and science have floated it as a theory.
...a Simulation Designed by Boats
You, however, think that we live in a simulation made by a race of sentient Boats. The Boats in the overworld outside our simulation are gods to you. You never cared for boats before, and you remember a time when they weren't gods. But you sold your soul, so now you are Elon Musk and you worship Boats. You cannot help it.
Boat Worship Consumes Your Life
When you see likenesses of these Boat deities, you are compelled to bow. You often wake up from a fugue state in a marina, kissing the hull of a finely waxed yacht. You own 1,000 pairs of Boat shoes, so you may feel like everywhere you go you are sailing. So you may feel closer to the gods.
You Can't Stop Shooting Cars Into Space
Cars are an affront to Boats. They roll over concrete, burn rubber into the ground, cough carbon into the sky. You tried making cooler cars, cars that were similar to Boats, as a way to heal the world's car blight. (You thought it would be heresy for you to create a Boat — you're not the maker of gods.)
It didn't work. Still, cars rule the world. Even though the Boats designed the world to be made mostly of water, humans insist on cars.
So you must banish cars into space. One by one, if you have to.
This task consumes your every thought.
Soon, Grimes dumps you. Your family disowns you. Your obsession with sending cars into the void isolates you.
One morning you awake at the marina, nestled in the loving embrace of a Catamaran. You look to the open sea, and you consider sailing away. Away from roads and the metal beasts that traverse them. Away from the world that does not understand your labyrinthine terror.
But you head to shore, and you prepare another rocket.
A tear forms in your eye as another car ascends into the black night.