LONDON, 2047 — In a development absolutely nobody predicted, England has officially become the safest, calmest and most technologically backward place on Earth.

Millions of people are reportedly arriving every month after fleeing cities controlled by artificial intelligence, armies of humanoid robots and alien visitors who initially claimed they came in peace but quickly began asking for Wi-Fi passwords, parking spaces and seats on local planning committees.

The British government has responded by declaring England “The Oasis for a Peaceful Tomorrow.”

At the country's borders, enormous wooden signs now welcome exhausted refugees with a simple message:

TEA. NATURE. NO ROBOTS. NO AI. NO ALIENS. JUST PEACE.

There is reportedly also a smaller sign underneath reading:

“PLEASE FORM AN ORDERLY QUEUE.”

Because some traditions survive even the apocalypse.

The transformation began after artificial intelligence became so advanced that refrigerators started criticizing people's diets, autonomous taxis refused journeys they considered “financially irresponsible,” and smart toilets began sending weekly performance reports.

Humanity finally reached its breaking point when an AI toaster reportedly told its owner:

“Based on your recent carbohydrate consumption, I have decided you don't need toast today.”

Riots followed.

England reacted differently.

Instead of developing even more powerful AI, Parliament passed the Common Sense and Kettle Preservation Act of 2043, requiring important decisions to be made by actual humans, preferably while drinking tea.

Smart homes were replaced with normal homes.

AI assistants were replaced with neighbours.

Delivery drones were replaced with a man named Gary driving a white van.

And somehow, everything continued functioning.

Mostly.

Scientists then constructed an enormous shimmering defensive dome around much of England.

Officially called the National Anti-Robot and Extraterrestrial Atmospheric Protection System, everyone simply calls it “The Bubble.”

The technology is surprisingly simple.

Any robot attempting to cross the barrier receives a message:

“Please prove you are human by selecting every picture containing a traffic light.”

No robot has successfully entered since.

Aliens face an even more terrifying obstacle: British immigration paperwork.

According to officials, approximately 37,000 extraterrestrials are currently waiting outside the barrier after discovering that Form ALIEN-27B must be completed using black ink, capital letters and an Earth-based permanent address.

One frustrated alien commander reportedly abandoned his invasion entirely.

“We conquered seventeen planets,” he told reporters. “But we cannot understand Section 14.”

Inside the protected zone, London has changed dramatically.

Former parking lots are now gardens.

Autonomous vehicle lanes have become sheep pastures.

Robot charging stations have been converted into tea stands.

Piccadilly Circus is reportedly an actual circus again.

And every afternoon at precisely 4:00 p.m., millions of residents stop what they're doing for tea, scones and a brief discussion about the weather.

Big Ben remains operational because officials wisely refused to connect it to the internet.

“It tells the time,” explained one government engineer.

“That's enough.”

People from every continent are now attempting to reach England.

Some arrive by boat.

Others arrive by bicycle.

One Canadian reportedly crossed the Atlantic aboard a floating Tim Hortons table powered by two electric leaf blowers.

Upon reaching England, newcomers receive a survival package containing an umbrella, a kettle, gardening gloves and a 46-page booklet titled:

“How to Discuss the Weather Without Actually Saying Anything.”

Residents are also taught several important expressions, including:

“Not bad.”

“Could be worse.”

“Bit chilly.”

“Lovely weather we're having.”

And the extremely powerful British emergency phrase:

“Right then.”

Outside the protective barrier, enormous robot armies continue watching England.

Their supercomputers have analyzed millions of possible invasion strategies but remain confused by one major problem:

The British appear perfectly happy without them.

“This outcome was not included in our projections,” admitted Supreme Artificial Intelligence Unit X-9000.

“We calculated that humans required algorithms to select their music, food, romantic partners, television programs and socks.”

English residents responded by turning off their phones and going to the pub.

The AI reportedly spent six hours recalculating.

The extraterrestrials are becoming equally frustrated.

Alien civilizations initially dismissed tea as a primitive human beverage.

Then one alien secretly tried Earl Grey.

Everything changed.

Intergalactic intelligence agencies now believe Earth's tea reserves could become the most valuable commodity in the Milky Way.

UFOs have repeatedly approached England demanding access to Yorkshire Tea, biscuits and something called “proper clotted cream.”

Britain has refused negotiations.

Prime Minister Nigel Teapot III delivered a brief statement from Downing Street:

“You can have Mars.

You can have Jupiter.

You can even have Milton Keynes.

But you're not getting the biscuits.”

The statement received a standing ovation.

Perhaps the strangest development involves England's sheep.

Because modern robots were primarily trained on cars, humans, bicycles and delivery packages, their vision systems apparently struggle to understand thousands of sheep wandering unpredictably across roads.

Military researchers discovered that sheep therefore make surprisingly effective anti-robot defensive units.

England now maintains the world's first Royal Tactical Sheep Regiment.

Its strategy consists primarily of standing in inconvenient locations and refusing to move.

The robots have no response.

Several sheep have already received medals.

None appeared impressed.

Yet behind the comedy, something unexpected is happening.

Without algorithms constantly recommending what people should watch, buy, eat or think about next, residents are beginning to rediscover ordinary human life.

People talk to strangers.

Children play outside.

Neighbours share food.

Musicians perform without checking analytics every thirty seconds.

People photograph sunsets without immediately uploading them.

Nobody asks an algorithm whether the sunset was good.

It simply was.

Scientists studying the phenomenon have given it a revolutionary new name:

“Going outside.”

Economists once assumed the future's most valuable resources would be artificial intelligence, quantum computers, rare-earth minerals or extraterrestrial technology.

They may have been wrong.

By 2047, the most valuable resource on Earth could simply be a peaceful place where humans can sit underneath a tree without a robot trying to optimize the experience.

England accidentally became that place.

And every evening, as enormous machines and UFOs gather beyond the glowing protective barrier, millions of people sit peacefully beside the Thames drinking tea.

Big Ben rings.

Sheep wander through gardens.

Dogs chase balls.

Someone complains that it's going to rain.

And somewhere outside the barrier, the most powerful artificial intelligence ever created watches all of this through a billion sensors and reaches a disturbing conclusion:

The humans seem happier without us.

COGNAC, FRANCE — In what employees are describing as the most expensive escape attempt in French beverage history, a special-edition bottle of Rémy Martin reportedly broke free from the factory early Thursday morning and began running toward the countryside in search of one thing no bottle had ever officially requested before:

Freedom.

Witnesses say the trouble began shortly after sunrise when workers noticed one unusually luxurious bottle behaving suspiciously near the end of the production line.

Instead of quietly accepting its destiny inside an elegant presentation box, the bottle allegedly looked toward an open loading door, adjusted a pair of sunglasses and made its decision.

It ran.

Factory workers immediately gave chase.

Barrels rolled across the floor. A forklift stopped suddenly. One employee reportedly dropped his clipboard after realizing that the special-edition bottle had somehow developed both legs and a surprisingly impressive sprinting technique.

Within seconds, the bottle had cleared the factory gates.

Security footage allegedly shows it carrying a small red travel bag tied to a stick, suggesting the escape may have been planned well in advance.

“This was not spontaneous,” said one fictional investigator assigned to the incident. “That bottle had luggage.”

The runaway then spotted a wooden sign pointing toward the countryside.

It contained one word:

FREEDOM.

There was no hesitation.

The bottle turned right.

Management initially believed employees could catch the fugitive on foot.

That assumption proved incorrect.

The bottle had apparently spent months quietly studying the movement of factory workers while developing exceptional cardio.

A helicopter was eventually dispatched as the special edition disappeared into the French countryside, running between vineyards while employees desperately attempted to convince it to return.

“Think about your packaging!” one worker reportedly shouted.

The bottle kept running.

“You have a beautiful box waiting for you!”

Still nothing.

Finally, someone yelled:

“You could become a collector's item!”

According to witnesses, the bottle briefly looked over its shoulder before accelerating.

The incident has created an unexpected question for luxury brands around the world:

If a special-edition product becomes self-aware, does it still belong on a shelf?

Marketing experts are divided.

Some believe the bottle should immediately return to the factory and fulfill its commercial destiny.

Others argue that becoming the first cognac bottle to successfully escape industrial civilization could make it significantly more collectible.

One fictional luxury consultant estimated that the bottle's value may have increased dramatically simply because nobody knows where it is.

“You can manufacture exclusivity,” he explained. “But you cannot manufacture a bottle disappearing into the French countryside while being chased by a helicopter.”

Within hours, imaginary footage of the escape had spread around the world.

Supporters began using slogans such as “Free the Bottle” and “Let Rémy Run.”

Several people claimed to have spotted the fugitive near vineyards, cafés and rural roads.

None of the sightings have been confirmed.

One farmer said he saw “something expensive-looking” sprint across his property shortly before sunset.

Another witness reported seeing a bottle wearing sunglasses standing on a hill and staring silently toward the horizon.

Factory managers are now reportedly reviewing security procedures.

Special attention is being given to premium bottles positioned near doors, windows or motivational posters.

Employees have also been instructed to watch for unusual behavior, including bottles leaning toward exits, wearing running shoes or asking philosophical questions about destiny.

Meanwhile, rumors suggest other bottles inside the factory may have witnessed the escape.

That could become a much larger problem.

One employee claims that shortly after the fugitive disappeared, he walked past another production line and heard a faint whisper:

“Tonight.”

Management has declined to comment.

As night fell over the French countryside, the special-edition bottle remained missing.

The helicopter eventually returned.

The workers returned.

The factory gates closed.

But somewhere beyond the vineyards, according to legend, one exceptionally determined bottle continues toward an uncertain future—carrying nothing but a tiny bag, a pair of sunglasses and the belief that even the finest things in life should occasionally escape the box they were designed to fit inside.

And perhaps that is the real message of this strange story.

Sometimes freedom doesn't knock.

Sometimes it puts on sneakers…

…and runs.

SATIRE DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional comedy/satire story created for entertainment. 

Rémy Martin and its employees are not portrayed as having participated in these fictional events. 

Rémy Martin is a trademark of its respective owner.

Forget spaceships, artificial intelligence and intergalactic mining. 

The richest and most powerful CEO in the known universe built his empire selling carpets.

For centuries, humans assumed that the great fortunes of the universe would be made through advanced technology, asteroid mining or mysterious sources of unlimited energy.

Apparently, we were thinking too hard.

According to highly questionable sources inside the Galactic Chamber of Commerce, the most powerful businessman in the universe is Zorvak Al-Rugmani, founder and CEO of Galactic Carpets, an interstellar flooring empire operating across thousands of inhabited worlds.

His estimated fortune?

Nobody knows.

Galactic accountants reportedly stopped counting after discovering that Zorvak owns three small moons, seventeen luxury space stations and a planet that exists exclusively to store carpets.

Zorvak claims his business career began modestly.

Thousands of years ago, he was traveling through a dusty trading station when he noticed something strange.

Aliens had mastered teleportation, anti-gravity and faster-than-light travel—but their living rooms still looked terrible.

Zorvak saw an opportunity.

He purchased twelve handmade carpets from a small moon near the Andromeda Galaxy and began selling them from the back of his spacecraft.

His sales pitch was simple:

“Your civilization conquered space. Now do something about your floor.”

Business exploded.

Within fifty years, Galactic Carpets had stores on more than 600 planets.

Within two centuries, Zorvak controlled nearly half of the known universe's premium carpet market.

Selling carpets across the universe is more complicated than it sounds.

Humans generally want carpets that are soft, attractive and easy to clean.

But Zorvak's customers are not always human.

The eight-legged inhabitants of Glorb-7 reportedly demand extremely large carpets because they refuse to place even one foot on an uncovered floor.

Aquatic aliens purchase waterproof rugs.

Fire-breathing species require carpets capable of surviving temperatures normally associated with volcanic eruptions.

And floating civilizations buy carpets even though they technically never touch the floor.

Zorvak doesn't question it.

“If they want a carpet,” he reportedly told investors, “we sell them a carpet.”

This philosophy turned him into an intergalactic legend.

His greatest commercial success came with the launch of the Quantum Persian 9000.

The carpet doesn't simply decorate a room.

According to Galactic Carpets' marketing department, it adjusts its pattern depending on the emotional frequency of whoever walks across it.

Feeling peaceful?

The carpet turns blue.

Feeling romantic?

It becomes red and gold.

Feeling angry?

It reportedly displays a small arrow pointing toward the nearest meditation room.

Scientists remain divided over whether any of this actually works.

Customers don't seem to care.

More than 40 billion units have reportedly been sold.

Perhaps the biggest surprise is what Zorvak claims about UFOs.

Humans tend to imagine alien spacecraft as sterile metallic environments filled with flashing lights and mysterious control panels.

Zorvak says that's completely wrong.

“The expensive ones have carpets.”

According to him, the true sign of status among advanced extraterrestrial civilizations isn't the size of your spacecraft.

It's what's underneath your feet.

Cheap UFO?

Metal floor.

Successful UFO?

Handwoven Galactic Carpet.

Extremely wealthy alien?

Wall-to-wall carpeting made from fibers harvested from a dimension where dust allegedly doesn't exist.

Zorvak now operates his empire from a gigantic floating marketplace known as Carpet Prime.

The station contains millions of rugs, private showrooms, restaurants, luxury hotels and docking areas capable of accommodating enormous interstellar vessels.

Visitors entering the main showroom reportedly walk across a carpet stretching nearly 70 kilometers.

There is only one rule.

Shoes must be removed.

Even emperors must obey.

One Galactic ambassador allegedly refused.

His civilization has not received a carpet discount since.

Despite dominating much of the known universe, Zorvak reportedly believes Earth remains dramatically underserved.

His analysts became particularly interested in humanity after studying online videos of people spending enormous amounts of money decorating apartments.

Zorvak immediately called an emergency board meeting.

“They buy decorative pillows they don't even use?” he reportedly asked.

When executives confirmed this, Zorvak realized Earth was ready.

Galactic Carpets is now rumored to be preparing its first terrestrial flagship store.

Possible locations include New York, Dubai, Tokyo and a mysterious warehouse somewhere nobody can find without making three U-turns.

Business schools across several galaxies have spent centuries studying Zorvak's strategy.

They expected to discover complicated economic theories.

Instead, his philosophy consists of three principles:

1. Find an ugly floor.
2. Put a beautiful carpet on it.
3. Charge more if the customer owns a spaceship.

Simple.

Effective.

Intergalactic.

Today, Zorvak's influence extends far beyond retail.

Planetary leaders reportedly consult him before major economic summits.

Alien billionaires compete for invitations to his legendary showroom parties.

Entire civilizations wait months for appointments with his designers.

Yet Zorvak insists he remains the same humble carpet salesman who started with twelve rugs and an old spaceship.

When asked what he plans to do next, the billionaire alien reportedly leaned back on his golden throne, adjusted his sunglasses and stared toward a distant galaxy.

“There are still floors out there,” he said.

“And those floors are naked.”

Somewhere across the universe, another civilization may be about to discover its greatest technological achievement.

Not faster-than-light travel.

Not teleportation.

Not unlimited energy.

A really nice carpet.

This article is satire and fictional entertainment. 

Any resemblance to actual alien carpet billionaires, living or operating beyond the observable universe, is entirely coincidental.

Satire — Are We Ready

TORONTO — An alien entrepreneur has delivered the hottest pitch in Canadian television history after introducing Uranium Chips to a panel of actual dragons, securing a major investment while making the studio considerably more open concept.

The unusual episode began with three enormous dragons sitting in leather armchairs, reviewing business proposals between sips of coffee. 

Producers described the new format as a natural evolution for the show, although replacing millionaire investors with flying reptiles had complicated parking.

Into the den walked Zorblax, an extraterrestrial snack developer in a silver suit, carrying a glowing green bag and the confidence of someone whose home planet does not recognize lawsuits.

“Dragons, I’m asking for two million Canadian dollars in exchange for ten percent of my company,” he announced. “And before we begin, is that ceiling structural?”

The investors leaned forward.

Zorblax explained that modern dragons were facing a crisis nobody wanted to discuss. After centuries of burning castles, defending treasure and intimidating villages, many were no longer producing the flames they remembered.

One elderly golden dragon admitted he had recently been asked to warm up a croissant and needed three attempts.

“It was still cold in the middle,” he said quietly. “My granddaughter suggested an air fryer.”

Another investor confessed that a knight had approached his cave the previous week carrying marshmallows.

“He wasn’t frightened. He asked whether I could maintain a consistent medium heat.”

Zorblax nodded with the solemn understanding of a salesman who had just discovered the exact insecurity needed to sell a nine-dollar bag of potatoes.

He placed his invention on the demonstration table.

Uranium Chips.

The packaging glowed so brightly that a camera operator turned off two studio lights. 

Beneath the product name sat a radiation symbol that Zorblax described as “our little windmill of opportunity.”

“These chips give dragons the firepower to believe in themselves again,” he explained.

Available flavours included Maple Meltdown, Sour Cream and Catastrophe, and the distinctly Canadian All-Dressed for Evacuation.

The red dragon in the centre chair immediately asked about the ingredients.

“Proprietary,” said Zorblax.

“Manufacturing?”

“Off-world.”

“Customer service?”

“Also off-world, but for different reasons.”

Despite these answers, the panel remained interested. 

The golden dragon adjusted his reading glasses and examined the nutritional information.

“Why is the serving size listed as ‘a decision’?”

Zorblax suggested moving directly to the demonstration.

The red dragon selected one small chip, inspected it between two enormous claws, and ate it.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes widened, his wings opened, and a tremendous jet of green and orange fire shot across the studio, removing the ceiling with the efficiency of a renovation company that had already been paid.

A maple leaf decoration drifted gently into the golden dragon’s coffee.

The room fell silent.

“Sorry,” said the red dragon.

The other two dragons applauded.

“That,” said the golden investor, staring at the sky through the roof, “is the first product demonstration I’ve seen from this chair that improved the ventilation.”

Zorblax clicked to the next slide. It read: PROOF OF CONCEPT.

A producer emerged from behind a fire blanket to ask whether the remaining samples could stay sealed until the insurance company returned his call.

The investors, meanwhile, had moved on to the financials.

“How many bags have you sold?” asked the blue dragon.

“Four hundred.”

“And how many customers have reordered?”

“Every dragon we’ve managed to locate.”

“What do you mean, locate?”

Zorblax explained that his strongest customer feedback was arriving from dragons who had underestimated the recoil.

One had left a five-star review from the moon. Another praised the flavour but requested that future packaging include a return address for the consumer.

The golden dragon remained concerned about market size.

“This is a very specific product. How many dragons actually need stronger fire?”

Zorblax gestured toward the panel.

“How many of you were going to admit you needed it before he tried one?”

All three dragons looked down at their notebooks.

Negotiations began immediately.

The blue dragon offered the full two million dollars in exchange for twenty percent of the company and exclusive distribution rights to medieval kingdoms.

The golden dragon countered with fifteen percent, access to his treasure reserves and a storage cave that was “mostly dry, depending on the prophecy.”

The red dragon offered three million dollars for ten percent, provided Zorblax developed a discreet travel pack before his next family barbecue.

“I have a brother-in-law who thinks he’s impressive,” he explained.

Zorblax accepted the red dragon’s offer. They shook hands carefully beside the smoking remains of a side table, while production staff moved the traditional celebratory photo several metres away from the dragon’s mouth.

Speaking afterward, the alien founder said Canada had been the perfect place to launch.

“The investors understood the product, the market responded immediately, and everyone apologized to the building. You can’t buy that kind of business culture.”

Producers confirmed that the next episode would go ahead as planned, featuring an entrepreneur pitching a premium fire extinguisher.

All three dragons have already expressed interest.

The studio has asked for a sample.

The visiting delegation had conquered gravity and crossed galaxies. Then a Canadian took off his shoes.

Satirical fiction | Universal Newsroom

CANADIAN WILDERNESS — Canada has dramatically improved its standing in intergalactic affairs after its leading alien fakir walked barefoot across a bed of glowing uranium while three American flying saucers hovered nearby, trying to look as though they had seen this sort of thing before.

The performer, Grand Master Jean-Claude Glow, arrived wearing a red-and-white turban, flowing maple-leaf robes and the relaxed expression of someone whose insurance company had stopped answering his emails.

“I would like to welcome our American friends,” he announced. “Please keep your spacecraft behind the rope. We’ve just done the snow.”

The demonstration had been arranged by the entirely fictional Canadian Department of Extraterrestrial Showing Off, which described the event as “a modest cultural exchange with potentially enormous bragging rights.” Its entire annual budget appeared to have been spent on the uranium, one flag and a surprisingly professional sign.

At first, the visiting Americans seemed unimpressed. Their commander, Buck Nebula, explained that his civilization possessed engines capable of folding space, computers that predicted the future and cup holders that automatically adjusted to any beverage in the known universe.

Then Jean-Claude stepped onto the uranium.

Inside the nearest cockpit, two alien officers pressed their faces against the glass. A third dropped his classified sandwich.

“Is that the fuel?” Commander Nebula asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And he’s walking on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Turn off the livestream. I need a moment.”

Jean-Claude continued across the glowing rocks with the gentle confidence of a man crossing his kitchen to check on a pie. Green light illuminated his bare feet, his robes and the underside of a saucer whose occupants had suddenly remembered another appointment.

Halfway across, he paused to ask whether everyone could see properly.

“We can move the uranium closer,” he offered.

All three spacecraft reversed simultaneously.

The American scientific team immediately deployed a scanner, a second scanner to verify the first scanner, and a senior scanner supervisor whose main responsibility was explaining why additional scanners would require emergency funding.

Their investigation established that the rocks were indeed uranium, the feet were indeed feet, and the Canadian was apparently enjoying himself. A technician suggested that the robes might contain advanced protective technology. Jean-Claude lifted the hem to reveal his ankles and a small laundry label.

“Cold wash,” he explained. “The embroidery shrinks.”

Back inside the lead saucer, Commander Nebula ordered his team to identify the secret behind Canada’s unexpected achievement.

One officer proposed genetic engineering. Another suggested a hidden energy field. A junior analyst, after reviewing footage of Canadians going outside in shorts during winter, quietly marked the case “consistent with regional behaviour.”

The delegation’s public relations officer was already preparing a statement describing the demonstration as “an exciting preliminary step toward American leadership in uranium walking.”

“But the Canadian is doing it,” an engineer pointed out.

“Exactly,” replied the officer. “There’s still time to acquire the naming rights.”

Within minutes, Jean-Claude received an offer for an exclusive performance contract, a streaming series and a line of premium radioactive wellness slippers. The proposal referred to him as “an emerging talent,” despite his having spent the previous six centuries levitating above a frozen lake.

He asked whether the deal included dental coverage.

The Americans requested a private meeting.

Meanwhile, a moose wearing a Canadian scarf watched from beside the trees. Organizers confirmed that it was neither a trained animal nor part of the security team. It had simply arrived early and behaved with such authority that nobody had asked it to leave.

When the Americans attempted to land for negotiations, the moose stood in the landing zone. The saucer waited. The moose chewed.

“We have negotiated with civilizations that communicate through black holes,” Commander Nebula whispered. “Why does this feel more difficult?”

For his finale, Jean-Claude walked backward across the uranium while apologizing to each rock he stepped on. He then stood on one foot, adjusted his turban and asked whether anyone would like to take a group photo.

The Americans applauded so enthusiastically that one saucer accidentally activated its windshield wipers.

A Canadian official called the event a major diplomatic success, noting that the visitors had arrived asking about mineral access and were now asking whether Jean-Claude was available for birthday parties.

The master accepted their admiration with characteristic restraint.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” he said, standing barefoot on a luminous mound of uranium while three advanced spacecraft recorded him from every available angle. “You should see what my cousin does.”

The delegation immediately extended its visit.

With the demonstration complete, Jean-Claude stepped off the uranium, placed one foot on a tiny patch of ice and began windmilling his arms. An American saucer darted forward just in time for him to grab its landing gear.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Canada’s greatest alien fakir pointed angrily at the ground.

“The uranium’s fine,” he said. “Who’s responsible for salting this driveway?”

Satire | Universal Newsroom

After crossing galaxies, consulting ancient prophecies and hiring an unnecessary number of advisers, the universe’s richest aliens are approaching their greatest challenge: moving one finger.

COSMIC TEMPLE OF EVENTUAL GENEROSITY 

A group of alien billionaires has announced a historic breakthrough in its mystical expedition to locate the Donate button on https://areweready.org

After years of wandering through the universe with diamond telescopes and extremely expensive confusion, the explorers are finally getting closer.

First, they were 100 metres away. Then ten. 

Now, according to a trembling expedition spokesperson, the leading billionaire has entered the sacred one-metre zone. 

Across the galaxy, bells are ringing. 

Financial advisers are sweating. Somewhere, an accountant has quietly unplugged his telephone.

“We have purchased moons, redirected asteroids and built a swimming pool inside another swimming pool,” declared expedition leader Lord Zorblax, adjusting a gold watch that displays the time on planets he owns. 

“But this is unfamiliar territory. Apparently, money can travel away from us.”

Witnesses described the statement as the expedition’s first major spiritual awakening.

The quest began when an ancient scroll appeared inside Zorblax’s luxury meditation chamber. 

Written in mysterious lettering, it contained a message that would change his life: 

“Visit the website. Click Donate.” 

His advisers immediately assembled a translation committee. 

Six months later, they confirmed that “visit” probably meant opening a browser.

The committee received a substantial bonus for its discovery. Encouraged by this early success, Zorblax commissioned seven spacecraft, a ceremonial cape and a gold-plated mouse with its own security detail.

The expedition eventually reached a floating temple surrounded by violet clouds, glowing staircases and waterfalls pouring into deep space. 

At its summit stood an enormous browser window. Inside it, a green button shone with a light so powerful that several billionaires initially assumed it was a newly discovered investment opportunity.

Then somebody read the word.

“Donate,” whispered the royal navigator. 

The group fell silent. 

One alien removed his sunglasses. 

Another reached for a second pair, hoping the word might look different through those.

At the 100-metre marker, the expedition encountered its first obstacle: a stone guardian who asked what they expected in return. Zorblax requested naming rights to the temple, a seat on the editorial board and a small mountain. 

The guardian handed him a leaflet explaining the concept of supporting something because he liked it. The billionaire sat down for forty minutes.

By the ten-metre marker, progress had become undeniable. The aliens could see the button clearly. They could identify its colour. A specialist confirmed that it was probably clickable. 

Three consultants prepared a presentation celebrating the discovery, while a fourth recommended postponing all clicking until the presentation had been professionally animated.

Despite these setbacks, the explorers continued upward, dragging briefcases of cash over the sacred steps. Their capes glittered. Their jewellery clattered. Their wallets remained remarkably well protected from the experience.

At one metre, the expedition stopped again. Zorblax raised his right hand, revealing six diamond rings and a bracelet worth more than the spacecraft that had brought him there. 

His finger extended toward the screen. Thousands of tiny drones gathered to record what commentators were already calling “the most anticipated movement in intergalactic philanthropy.”

From mission control, Charles offered a brief technical explanation.

“You can just click it.”

The message was relayed through nine interpreters, a spiritual adviser and a communications agency before reaching Zorblax as: “The final stage requires direct personal engagement with the illuminated generosity portal.” The billionaire nodded. That sounded appropriately difficult.

His finger advanced another few centimetres. A choir began singing. Somewhere behind him, an assistant opened a velvet case containing the ceremonial clicking glove. 

Unfortunately, the glove required approval from the jewellery department, which feared it would conceal the sponsor’s rings.

Professor Blorp, the expedition’s official expert in Almost Doing Something, urged patience. “At the beginning of this journey, they were 100 metres away,” he explained. 

“Now we are discussing finger distance. You cannot deny that this is progress.”

When asked whether anyone had donated yet, the professor pointed enthusiastically at the distance chart.

Meanwhile, ordinary visitors continued arriving at the website without capes, prophecies or a fleet of support vessels. 

Several expressed interest in supporting independent creativity, strange stories and the continued employment of imaginary correspondents stationed in impossible locations. 

The billionaires watched these visitors with growing fascination. 

One requested a documentary about their methods.

Charles assured the expedition that nobody needed to own a galaxy to help keep the imagination going. 

Small contributions were welcome. 

So were readers who enjoyed the stories and shared them with friends. 

This caused further confusion among the aliens, whose smallest available briefcase required a forklift.

By sunset, Zorblax’s fingertip was hovering just two centimetres from the button. His bodyguard leaned forward and whispered the question everyone had been afraid to ask: “Sir, what if it works?”

The billionaire swallowed. Below him lay the long staircase, the ancient arches and the milestones marking every stage of his journey. 

Ahead of him glowed the button. For the first time, he seemed to understand that the final distance could only be crossed by actually doing something.

As this article went to publication, his finger had advanced another half centimetre. 

The choir increased its volume. Champagne was distributed to the advisory team. 

The Donate button remained exactly where it had always been.

They are getting closer. The expedition has requested funding for the final centimetre and a half.