The Fallopian Syndicate
Harnessing the Most Abundant Energy Source: Fragile Masculinity
The Fallopian Syndicate didn’t have a headquarters. That would require paperwork, and paperwork was for people who followed the law.
Instead, they operated out of rotating safehouses, underground speakeasies, and—on one unfortunate occasion—an abandoned Chuck E. Cheese in rural Nevada. Tonight, they were holed up in a former Soviet bunker outside Prague, drinking pilfered vodka and debating whether to kidnap the Pope for reasons no one had fully explained yet.
Oma Blitzkrieg, the hundred-year-old ex-Nazi hunter and resident cybernetic terror, sat at the head of a dented steel table, chain-smoking a cocktail of weed, battery acid, and the ashes of fascists she’d personally incinerated. Across from her, Meatflap Sally cleaned a gold-plated Glock, Urethra Franklin hacked into the World Bank for fun, and Sanguine Gash sharpened a knife allegedly stolen from the Queen of England.
Then the burner phone rang.
“If this is the CIA again,” Oma exhaled smoke, “tell your director he still owes me a kidney.”
A familiar Southern drawl replied, rich with honey and the faintest hint of destruction. “Now, Oma, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
The room went silent.
The Fallopian Syndicate only answered to one woman: Magnolia "Mags" Thorne.
“I need y’all to help me pull off the greatest billionaire scam in history,” Mags purred.
Meatflap Sally cackled. “Her ‘small favors’ usually involve international crimes and making at least three men cry.”
Urethra Franklin perked up. “Fraud, extortion, or full-scale government destabilization?”
Mags’ smile was practically audible. “All of the above.”
Smol PP Energy
The 2024 Mega Future Summit was an ultra-exclusive event where the world’s wealthiest men gathered to pitch unhinged tech ideas and measure their dicks in cryptocurrency. The venue? A floating glass pyramid off the coast of Dubai. Because billionaires had an unspoken rule that at least one primary zoning law must be broken at every event.
Mags didn’t belong here, but she owned the security firm contracted for the event, which meant she hacked her own invitation and waltzed in like she ran the place.
She strutted past startup founders frantically pitching an AI toothbrush to a Saudi prince and slid into a crowd of familiar faces: Duke Leon, Mark Guckerborg, Jeff Bozos, and the ever-smirking Peter Thor. Their body language screamed deep-seated competition, but Mags saw something else: pure, undiluted Smol PP Energy.
And it was measurable.
A biometric tap on her smartwatch confirmed it—these men’s stress levels spiked the moment someone mentioned height implants. Holy hell. They were broadcasting insecurity like a live feed.
Mags nearly cackled. They were about to fund their own downfall.
The Heist
Back at their New Orleans penthouse, Mags’ team went to work.
Urethra Franklin designed a fake investment website dripping with overblown tech jargon. Meatflap Sally crafted an entirely fictional quantum tech billionaire, complete with AI-generated interviews. Sanguine Gash planned the security screenings, which were, in reality, data-mining traps for blackmail.
Oma Blitzkrieg added a personal touch: “Make sure we serve them soup without spoons. See how they handle that.”
The first RSVP arrived within minutes. Peter Thor. The rest followed like lemmings.
By dawn, Dubai’s airstrip was clogged with Gulfstreams. Billionaires strutted out in absurd outfits—Duke Leon in a custom-made spacesuit, Peter Thor flanked by security who all looked named Chad.
Mags smirked. “Alright, ladies. Let’s make them believe they’re the smartest people in the room.”
The Sell
In a ballroom drowning in gold chandeliers and nonsense buzzwords like Quantum Synergy, Mags took the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, visionaries and disruptors,” she began, lifting her champagne. “What if I told you the world’s energy crisis could be solved tonight—by the people in this very room?”
Every billionaire perked up like a pack of meerkats sensing a threat to their tax loopholes.
“We’ve discovered a new, untapped energy source,” Mags continued, pacing with deliberate elegance. “A force so potent it could provide limitless power with zero emissions.”
Duke Leon leaned forward. “Quantum? Fusion? Anti-matter?”
Mags smiled. “No, gentlemen. It’s psychological.”
A ripple of confusion. Peter Thor adjusted his tactical turtleneck. “That sounds… abstract.”
“Ah,” Mags cooed, “but so did social influence—until you monetized it. This is just the next frontier.”
Urethra Franklin flashed up a bullshit hologram of a futuristic energy reactor (actually just a photoshopped MRI machine).
Meatflap Sally gasped on cue. “Oh my god. Billionaires are the energy grid.”
The egos swelled. Mags had them. She lifted her glass.
“To secure your stake,” she announced, “each founding investor must commit no less than ten billion dollars.”
The room tensed. Then—
“Done.” Peter Thor.
“I’ll wire it tonight.” Duke Leon.
“Make it fifteen billion. I want more equity.” Jeff Bozos.
The Downfall
Fifty billion transferred in under two minutes. Everything was going perfectly.
Too perfectly.
Oma, watching from the bar, muttered, “No one gets this lucky without someone getting suspicious.”
That someone was Mark Guckerborg.
“This… doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, squinting at the holograms. “Why aren’t there preliminary patents? No academic papers?”
Urethra Franklin immediately flashed a deepfake interview with a “Nobel Laureate.”
Guckerborg hesitated. “Oh. That… does look legitimate.”
But doubt had been planted.
Minutes later, security footage confirmed it—Ronan DeLuca, financial bloodhound, had arrived at the hotel. And he wasn’t alone.
Urethra Franklin swore. “Okay. So. DeLuca knows. And worse—he already got a message out before I could cut comms.”
Mags exhaled. “We move. Now.”
The Escape
As DeLuca stormed into Guckerborg’s suite, Mags and her team were already ten steps ahead.
The power cut. Security feeds scrambled. Billionaires panicked. And by the time DeLuca pieced together what had happened, the Fallopian Syndicate had vanished into the wind.
A week later, news headlines screamed about the greatest financial hoax of the decade. Billionaire investors scrambled for answers, each too embarrassed to admit they had been swindled by an energy source named after their own fragile masculinity.
Duke Leon blamed woke AI. Guckerborg disappeared. Peter Thor announced he’d “always been skeptical.”
But what none of them knew?
The Syndicate hadn’t just stolen the money.
They had actually solved the energy crisis.
Deep in a hidden facility, a reactor thrummed, its core pulsing with something impossible. Oma lit a cigarette with a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
Urethra Franklin stared at the data. "Jesus Christ," she breathed. "It’s actually working."
Sanguine Gash, lounging with her boots up on a stolen ottoman, let out a low chuckle. “Should we tell them?”
Mags swirled her drink, watching the reactor hum to life. A slow, satisfied smirk curled at the edge of her lips. "Let 'em figure it out."
She raised her glass to the screen, where a live feed of the billionaire class showed them scrambling for answers, oblivious to the fact that they were now literally fueling the world. The lights in the facility flickered, growing impossibly bright.
And just like that, the world was saved.
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