Chapter 3: The Lingonberry Solution
Faced with the utter failure of the IKEA colonisation kits, the crew grows desperate. The inflatable Martian dome has collapsed (inflated backwards, now resembling an inside-out soufflé), the only fully assembled item is an inexplicable collection of coat hangers, and their solar-powered meatball oven is stuck in a perpetual "preheat" mode.
Elon paces in frustration, muttering, "This isn't innovation. It's flat-pack sabotage! We need a pivot. What do we have left?"
An exhausted engineer crawls forward with a single, unopened box. The label reads "LINGONFLÖRP™ – 10,000 Units" alongside a cartoon of a berry holding a hammer. It’s unclear what it’s meant to be used for.
"Great, Elon," grumbles one crew member, "you packed ten tonnes of lingonberries but forgot an oxygen generator."
"They’re multi-purpose!" Elon barks, ripping the box open with manic glee. "Just watch!"
The Discovery of Martian Currency
Hours later, the crew is testing lingonberries as adhesive, clothing dye, and insulation material. None of these applications prove viable, except for the insulation—where it works far too well. The prototype lingonberry-lined spacesuit leaves its wearer sweating so profusely that the others nickname him "Mars Sauna 3000."
Then, a breakthrough: a nearby Martian captcha drone, scanning for intruders, pauses mid-air and emits an approving beep when the crew offers it a handful of berries. It scoops them up and chirps:
"Captcha verified. Martian welcome packet unlocked."
The crew stares in disbelief.
"Wait... Mars runs on lingonberries?!"
Elon, ever the businessman, instantly turns on the charm. "Why, yes, Martian friend! We've got the finest berry-based products this side of the asteroid belt! We’ll supply your planet exclusively—no need for Earth anymore. Call it... MuskMart!"
The Martian narrows its eyes—or whatever its equivalent is. "Fine. But one scratch on the contract voids your oxygen privileges. We Martians don't mess around with paperwork."
The Martian Assembly Challenge
As part of the deal, the crew receives a "Welcome Packet" containing advanced Martian technology. But to their horror, it’s also IKEA-branded and written in the Martian equivalent of Wingdings. The instructions, when translated, include phrases like:
- "Place panel K in Slot Q, but only if you’ve achieved spiritual alignment."
- "This step requires telepathy."
- "Congratulations! You’ve now assembled PART ONE of your 1000-piece domicile."
One crew member screams into the void, “WE CAME TO ESCAPE THIS!”
Meanwhile, the Martian contractor snickers from the hologram, whispering, "We learned from the best. Try building furniture when your hands are just tentacles."
The Rise of Lingonomics™
As weeks go by, lingonberries become the foundation of the Martian economy. They’re used for everything: powering Martian rovers, bartering for alien tech, and even as a rudimentary skincare product (though Elon regrets testing that theory on himself—his face is now permanently pink).
But the colonists’ triumph is short-lived. A new shipment from Earth arrives: five metric tonnes of KÖMPLEX™, a mysterious IKEA product that claims to "streamline colonisation." Upon opening, it’s just 3,000 identical hex keys and 47 boxes of unmarked screws.
Elon throws his hands up. "That’s it! I’m building a rocket back to Earth, but this time, I’m doing it myself!”
One engineer mutters, “Don’t forget the flat-pack instructions.”
