[Scene: A high-tech conference room in SpaceX HQ. Elon “Muskrat” Musk sits at the head of a polished chrome table, gazing thoughtfully at a whiteboard filled with increasingly absurd project names: “Moonboring Machine,” “Solar Marshmallow,” and “Quantum Muskrat Habitat.” Enter Psychopath, impeccably dressed, exuding charm.]
Elon (enthusiastically): Ah, Psychopath! Just the mind I need! You’re like a knife through the butter of mediocrity. Sit, sit! We’re planning the next big thing. I’m thinking...a fleet of AI-enabled submarines that can farm kelp on Europa!
Psychopath (sits calmly, smiling): Intriguing. But Elon, let’s be strategic. Why not harvest something more valuable—like human awe? Launch a campaign promising colonies on Europa, watch the funding pour in, and… forget to mention that Europa is a radiation-fried wasteland.
Elon (nodding): Interesting… very interesting. So, the product is hype, not kelp. Hype is scalable. Kelp isn’t. But what about the inevitable backlash when they figure out Europa is unliveable?
Psychopath (grinning): Elon, please. Humans are remarkably resilient to facts. If they catch on, you pivot. Blame NASA for “faulty data,” throw in some quantum jargon to confuse them, and release a distraction—say, a robot dog that quotes Nietzsche.
Elon (clapping his hands): You’re a genius. A robot dog named “Ubermutt”! But wait—how do we convince investors it’s all above board?
Psychopath (leaning in, conspiratorial): Investors don’t need convincing. They need confidence. Charm them with a demo—fake, of course. Show them a CGI kelp farm. Add a few underwater drones on stage, lit dramatically, and end with an inspirational speech about “harvesting humanity’s potential.” The applause will drown out any doubt.
Elon (eyes gleaming): You’re dangerous. I love it. But tell me, what drives you?
Psychopath (chuckling softly): Oh, Elon. I live for the game. The stakes don’t matter—only the play. Watching the world react, adjust, scramble to keep up… it’s art. And you? You’re my canvas.
Elon (pausing, intrigued): That’s... oddly flattering. And mildly terrifying.
Psychopath (sincerely): Terrifying? No, no, Elon. I’m here to help. You dream big, I make sure those dreams don’t collapse under the weight of reality. Like, say… Tesla insurance.
Elon (grinning nervously): Okay, point taken. But no funny business with Neuralink. I don’t need my thoughts hacked.
Psychopath (smiling): Of course not. You’re too valuable to hack… at least for now.
Elon (laughing uncertainly): Ha! Ha! Right, right. For now.
[Cut to: Psychopath leaving the room, Elon sitting quietly for the first time in years, staring at his whiteboard. He picks up a marker and writes: “Ubermutt: First AI Philosopher.”]
