As Donald T and the NFT cat trudged away from the glittering wreckage of the Gay Kingdom—Donald still leaving a sad, squelchy trail every few steps, the cat glitching slightly with low battery vibes—the conversation turned to the one thing that truly united (and divided) all beings in this chaotic realm: the market.
Donald T glanced sideways at the fluffy pixelated furball. "Listen here, goy cat. Basic rules of survival. Buy when it's down, sell when it's high. Simple. And if it's a biochem company? Always short. Always. Those lab-coat reptails pump hype with 'breakthroughs,' then dump when the FDA says 'oops, side effects include turning into a newt.' Short 'em hard, take the profits, buy real assets like canned beans and ammo."
The NFT cat stopped mid-stride, tail flicking like an angry loading bar. "Donald T, you're wronge. Dead wronge. Because people like you—paper-handed zoomers and boomer panic-sellers—make the market go down and up. If all people just held their stacks, diamond hands forever, it would only go up. Forever. To infinity. No rugs, no dumps, just moon."
Donald raised an eyebrow, a fresh gurgle echoing from his midsection as warning. "You sound like every Telegram pump group in 2021."
"And your aversion to biochem companies?" the cat pressed on, eyes glowing with conviction. "It's one of the biggest branches of the economy! Biotech is the future! Government can make vaccines, cure diseases, extend life—why hate? It's not like they're printing money out of thin air... okay, sometimes they are, but still!"
Donald stopped walking. He turned slowly, locked eyes with the cat—deep, weary, battle-hardened eyes that had seen too many 90% drawdowns and not enough Imodium. "Don't speak disease world to me, kitty. Not one more word. Or I'm gonna sell these hish dog coin right now. Right. Fucking. Now."
The NFT cat's glitchy whiskers twitched. "You would be stupid selling on -40%. It can only go up from here. Classic capitulation bottom. Everyone's scared— that's when you buy more!"
Donald squinted at an invisible chart floating in the air between them (because in Labio, TA was psychic). "I don't see a support line anymore. It's gone. Just air. Freefall. Wick to zero."
The cat puffed up, trying to look confident despite the obvious fear in its pixel eyes. "In the worst case scenario... we have to wait for alt season. That's all. Alt season always comes. Memecoins pump, alts rotate, then blue chips catch up. Patience, Donald T. HODL."
Donald let out a long, rumbling sigh that ended in a suspicious squelch. "Patience is what killed the last bull run, cat. Patience and hopium. But fine. We'll walk. We'll watch. And if that hish dog coin hits -80%, I'm yeeting it into the void whether you like it or not. No bailouts. No mercy."
The cat nodded solemnly, though its tail drooped. "Deal. But when alt season hits... you owe me 10 bucks. For kibble."
Donald snorted. "If alt season hits, I'll buy you a whole yacht made of laser eyes. Now shut up and keep walking. I feel another kinetic energy wave coming, and I don't wanna waste it on chit-chat."
Behind them, far in the distance, the squirrel overlords were already printing counterfeit acorns and whispering about the next great pump. Ahead? Who knew. Maybe the true boss fight: the Federal Reserve Reptail HQ.
Or maybe just a porta-potty. Priorities.
As Donald T and the NFT cat continued their weary trek across the barren, meme-scorched plains of Labio—Donald still leaking occasional "kinetic reminders" of his earlier battles, the cat glitching like a bad 404 page—the air suddenly filled with an eerie, haunting melody.
It was the old flute gay music of the famous Mikel Jecon beet. Not just any tune—Billie Jean, but warped through a pan flute, slow and seductive, like Michael Jackson himself had possessed a wandering Romani band and decided to go full acoustic tragedy. The notes floated on the wind, twinkling with danger and sequins.
Donald T froze. His ears perked up (and his bowels clenched in sympathy). He scanned the horizon and spotted it: the only tree in meters of 9. For Amerikan people, it like 13 feet—tall enough to look dramatic, short enough to make climbing it look pathetic.
Perched on a gnarled branch like a depressed gargoyle sat one of the believers of Dio—yes, those famous vocal artists, the die-hard disciples of Ronnie James Dio's eternal metal scream. This one was no ordinary fanboy. Dressed in faded black leather (now cracked like old vinyl), devil horns hand sign etched into his forehead with what looked like Sharpie, he cradled a battered wooden flute and played that cursed Mikel Jecon melody with passionate, trembling lips. His eyes were closed in rapture, as if the flute was channeling the spirit of both the King of Pop and the Holy Diver himself.
The NFT cat's fur stood on end, pixels flickering in panic. "Donald! Rhe—look out! You he hear that music cost AIDS!"
Donald T's survival instincts (honed by years of dodging margin calls and bad takeout) kicked in. He did 4 flips back—awkward, mid-air somersaults that ended with him landing in a crouch, pants sagging dangerously low. A fresh squirt escaped as collateral damage from the acrobatics.
"Thx cat," Donald gasped, wiping sweat (and other fluids) from his brow. "I almost get AIDS. That flute... it's cursed. One more note and I'd be sparkling with rainbow regret forever."
The believer of Dio didn't stop. He kept piping away at the Billie Jean flute cover, eyes still shut, lost in his own private concert where heavy metal met disco tragedy. Birds fled. Squirrels covered their ears. Even the wind seemed embarrassed.
The cat paced nervously, tail lashing. "We need to find other way around. He too younge to get AIDS? Wait—no, you're too younge? Whatever! That music is poison. Pure sonic STD!"
Donald T straightened up, still breathing heavy. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at the tree-sitter: "Hey, stranger! Why you sit on tree? Playing Mikel Jecon flute like it's therapy? You lost? Or just hiding from the reptails too?"
The believer finally opened his eyes—glowing faintly with unholy Dio energy—and lowered the flute. A single tear (or maybe glitter) rolled down his cheek. "Brother... I sit here because the ground is full of normies and fiat bugs. Up here, the wind carries the true fusion: Dio's thunder... Michael's moonwalk... in flute form. It's the only way to purify the market's soul after 2008. One more chorus, and the squirrels will repent!"
Donald exchanged a look with the cat. The cat whispered, "He's gone full hopium delirium. Abort mission?"
But Donald shook his head. "Nah. This guy's got intel. Or at least a good playlist. Hey, tree man—if you know a back way to the Squirrel Central Bank without catching airborne fabulous diseases, spill it. We're on a quest to free the markets. No more rigged CFDs, no more biochem shorts that never pay, no more waiting for alt season that never comes."
The believer grinned, revealing teeth filed into tiny devil horns. "Follow the rainbow trail behind my tree. But beware—the next guardian plays Thriller on kazoo. And he bites."
Donald nodded solemnly. "Got it. Thanks for the warning... and the near-AIDS scare."
As they skirted the tree (carefully avoiding the drip zone), the flute resumed—now shifting to a haunting Beat It riff. The believer called after them: "HODL the faith! Diamond hands forever!"
The NFT cat muttered, "I'm never listening to pan flute again."
Donald chuckled, guts rumbling in agreement. "Smart cat. Now let's move before he switches to Smooth Criminal and we all start moonwalking into oblivion."
Onward they pressed—toward the squirrel empire, armed with market wisdom, questionable health, and the lingering echo of cursed flute beats.
As Donald T and the NFT cat skirted wide around the lone tree—still hearing faint, tragic pan-flute echoes of Billie Jean fading into the wind—the cat started fidgeting, tail twitching like it was buffering bad news.
"Donald T... all those birds that probably get AIDS now," the cat meowed softly, glancing back at the branches where a few unlucky sparrows had landed mid-song and were now looking suspiciously sparkly. "They just sat there listening. Poor things. Airborne fabulous regret. Should we... warn them? Or is it too late?"
Donald T snorted, still walking with that signature waddle-squelch combo. "They make their choice, cat. Sit on that tree after all? His flute play was mid at best. Sounded like Michael Jackson got possessed by a depressed pan-piper who forgot the melody halfway through. If they're catching rainbow plague from mediocre covers, that's on them. Natural selection, Labio edition."
The NFT cat's ears perked up defensively. "I... I kinda liked it, though. The vibe. The tragedy. It had soul. A little gay soul."
Donald stopped dead, turned, and fixed the cat with a stare that could liquidate a portfolio. "Look out, furball. First it's Mikel Jecon on flute, then rock creeps in, then hip-hop, reggaeton, and before you even realize it, your friends are fucking you in the ass—metaphorically, literally, doesn't matter. One slippery slope from 'I like the vibe' to full-blown genre betrayal. Next thing you know you're headbanging to crypto anthems while getting railed by hopium dealers."
The cat puffed up, trying to look tough despite being basically a floating JPEG. "Not all rock is bad, Donald T. Only the part that embraces modern values. You know—the corporate sellout stuff, the radio-polished garbage, the 'save the whales while we pump ESG tokens' anthems. Real rock? The raw, screaming, anti-system shit? That's based. That's Dio-approved. That's what purifies the soul after too many 2008 flashbacks."
Donald rubbed his temples (and maybe his lower back, still tender from the kinetic shits). "Fine. Some rock gets a pass. But we need to be careful now. I never fought a kazoo guardian before. That thing the tree guy warned about? Kazoo Thriller? That's next-level cursed. One wrong note and we're both moonwalking into an STD coma. Or worse—getting rugged by the beat."
The cat nodded solemnly, pixels flickering with determination. "Got it. Stealth mode. No listening to music. No vibes. Just eyes on the rainbow trail. If we hear even a hint of kazoo, we flip backward four times and run."
Donald grunted approval, guts rumbling like distant thunder (or maybe just lunch disagreeing). "Smart. And if that kazoo guy starts playing Smooth Criminal? We don't stop to critique the tempo. We yeet."
They pressed on, the rainbow trail shimmering ahead like a glitchy pride parade detour. Somewhere in the distance, a faint, wheezy kazoo-kazoo-kazoo started up—slow, menacing, unmistakably Thriller bassline.
The NFT cat whispered, "It's starting..."
Donald cracked his knuckles (and clenched everything else). "Then let's make this guardian regret ever picking up plastic."