I woke up sweating fiat fumes. Last night, Jerome Powell himself drifted into my dream like a ghost from the Eccles Building — same silver hair, same tight smile trying to hide a cosmic panic. The room crackled with tension, a small, uneasy gathering of economic mandarins and paper billionaires. No one was happy with him.
I felt a strange pity, maybe even humanity. So I said something kind, just a small mercy amid the muttering suits. His eyes lit up — poor man looked like someone had handed him a lifeline through the eye of a liquidity storm.
Then, in a moment of whispered sin, he leaned close and said, “We’ve decided to print another ten trillion.” Just like that. Calm. Casual. Like announcing fresh blood for the vampire.
I smiled. My subconscious screamed hallelujah. Somewhere, my cold wallet started humming. #Bitcoin, baby — the signal piercing through the madness, the fireproof lifeboat in an ocean of inflated lies.
You know what to do, plebs.