Donald T dropped into his battle stance—knees bent, fists up, bowels primed like twin cannons ready to fire kinetic justice. The rainbow trail ahead shimmered ominously, and the kazoo guardian's wheezy Thriller riff grew louder, closer, dripping with plastic menace.
But when Donald looked up into the branches of the next twisted tree along the path, the fear hit him harder than any 90% drawdown ever could.
It wasn't the kazoo guy.
It was a bear. A massive, shaggy brown bear. Sitting on a thick limb like it owned the forest. And in one paw? A frosty, dripping beer can—some off-brand Labio lager labeled "Bear Necessities: 100% Honey Malt, 0% Regrets." Foam dripped from the rim, sparkling in the cursed rainbow light.
The bear locked eyes with Donald T. It tilted its head, took a long, slow swig, then spoke.
"Tu ne vas pas m'attaquer, hein?"
The words slithered out in demonic French—smooth, guttural, dripping with infernal baguette energy. Donald didn't know French. Not a single conjugaison. But his soul understood. Deep in the marrow of his American chaos, the meaning punched through like a margin call at 3 a.m.:
"You ain't gonna attack me, right?"
Before Donald could answer, the bear grinned—teeth like yellowed piano keys—and started to sing. Not just any song. The forbidden earworm of the early 2000s:
"Babe... babe... babe, oh babe..."
It was that song. The one that haunted ringtones, club speakers, and broken teenage hearts. The bear's voice was deep, gravelly, autotuned by nature itself into something unholy. Each "babe" landed like a psychic haymaker. Birds dropped from the sky. Squirrels clutched their nuts and fled. Even the rainbow trail flickered, as if the color itself was embarrassed.
Donald T's eyes went wide. "NOPE. FUCK THAT."
He jumped back—mid-air panic mode activated. As he soared backward in a graceful (for him) arc, his bowels betrayed him once again. A powerful, pressurized SHHHHPLORP erupted, propelling him even farther, turning the retreat into accidental rocket flight. Brown contrails painted the sky like a very wrong victory banner.
In one fluid (squishy) motion, Donald snatched the NFT cat by the scruff—pixels stretching like taffy—and clutched the screaming furball to his chest.
"Donaldie T what the fu—AAAAH!"
They rocketed away at racked spead (wrecked speed? cracked speed? who cares—fast as hell and smelling like regret). The bear's voice chased them, growing fainter but no less cursed:
"Baaaabe... oh baaaabe... tu m'attaques pas, hein? Come back, we share the beer..."
Donald didn't look back. He just kept flying—shitting, spinning, cat yowling—until the demonic French bear and his forbidden 2000s anthem were nothing but a distant, wheezy nightmare.
They crash-landed in a bush a half-mile away. Donald rolled out, panting, pants now officially classified as a biohazard. The NFT cat tumbled free, fur matted, eyes wide as saucers.
"That... that was worse than the flute," the cat gasped. "French bear with beer and early-2000s pop? That's not a guardian. That's psychological warfare."
Donald wiped his face (wrong hand—big mistake). "Yeah. And I understood every word without knowing a damn syllable. Soul French. Worst kind."
He looked back toward the tree, now just a silhouette against the rainbow haze. The bear was still up there, silhouetted, raising the beer can in a lazy toast. Another faint "babe..." drifted on the wind.
Donald shuddered. "We take the long way. Through the swamp. Through the thorns. Through whatever. No more trees. No more music. No more bears with multilingual menace."
The cat nodded furiously. "Agreed. Alt season can wait. Surviving this hellscape comes first."
They crawled out of the bush, dripping, traumatized, but still quest-bound. Somewhere ahead, the true market-rigging reptails waited. But for now, the only thing Donald feared more than another rigged short was hearing "babe" one more time.
The rainbow trail led straight to a murky, glowing lake that shimmered like spilled nail polish under the Labio moons. Donald T and the NFT cat crept closer, ears straining for the telltale wheeze of kazoo Thriller.
Then—sploosh.
The Kazoo Guardian emerged from the water like a budget horror movie villain. He was tall, lanky, wearing a dripping trench coat made of recycled festival wristbands. In his webbed hands? A bright orange plastic kazoo, still dripping lake slime. His eyes glowed with the manic glee of someone who'd mainlined too much hopium and not enough therapy.
The NFT cat yowled, fur standing on end like static electricity. "Donald T! Get out of the water! That lake turned the frogs gay! I saw it—whole chorus line of them doing the can-can in glitter!"
The Kazoo Guardian threw his head back and laughed—a wet, bubbly cackle that echoed across the ripples. "Turned frogs gay? Nah, kitty. I just changed their gender. Science, baby! One little splash of my special brew, and poof—tadpole to queen in under 24 hours. Nature's remix!"
The cat's pixels flickered in outrage. "If the frogs get turned female and then the other frogs fuck 'em? That's gay as fuck! Double gay! Turbo gay! You're running a full-on amphibian pride parade down there!"
Donald T raised a hand, cutting the cat off mid-rant. "Whoa, whoa, easy there, furball. After all, I don't wanna come out as sexist in the first meeting." He forced a chuckle, trying to play it cool even as his guts gurgled in protest. Then he turned to the dripping guardian and grinned. "I know a lot of frogs, actually. Good ones. Loyal ones. They've got my back in the swamps. Don't talk shit about frogs."
The Kazoo Guardian tilted his head, water dripping from his kazoo like sad trombone tears. "Don't really."
Donald blinked. "What?"
"Don't. Really. Know a lot of frogs." The guardian shrugged, shoulders sloshing. "I just invested in the companies that like these staff. You know—the gender-swap biotech startups, the rainbow hormone pumps, the 'frogs are fluid' venture funds. It ain't my fault. It's a gay bomb. Dropped it in the lake for liquidity. Market said pump, so I pumped. Now the frogs are fabulous and my portfolio is up 420%. Win-win."
Donald T stared, mouth slightly open. A fresh wave of disbelief (and maybe diarrhea) hit him. "You... you rigged the ecosystem for portfolio gains? Turned an entire lake into a pride event just to moon your positions?"
The guardian nodded proudly, kazoo gleaming. "Exactly. ESG investing, baby. Environmental? Check—frogs thriving. Social? Check—now they're living their truth. Governance? I govern the kazoo solo. Triple bottom line, motherfucker."
The NFT cat hissed. "This is worse than rug pulls. This is ecological rug pulls!"
Donald T rubbed his temples, then clenched everything south of them. "Alright, kazoo boy. You wanna play market games with nature? Fine. But we're on a quest to free the real markets—no more fake pumps, no more rigged shorts, no more gender-fluid frogs funded by Vank reptails. Step aside, or I unleash the kinetic wave. And trust me, you don't want my version of a gay bomb."
The Kazoo Guardian raised his instrument, lips pursing for a dramatic wheeze. "Bring it, shitter. My next track is 'Bad'—but make it wet."
The cat whispered, "Donald... he's about to Thriller us into the lake. And then we'll be gay frogs. Or worse—gay NFT frogs."
Donald cracked his neck (and maybe something else). "Then we hit first. Hard. And aim for the kazoo."
Battle stance resumed. Guts loaded. One wrong note away from amphibian apocalypse.
Donald T stood ankle-deep at the lake's edge, the water already fizzing with faint rainbow bubbles from the guardian's earlier "investments." He locked eyes with the dripping Kazoo Guardian—orange kazoo gleaming like a cheap prophecy, trench coat flapping in the humid wind—and spoke with the gravity of a man who'd seen too many rug pulls and not enough clean underwear.
"I respect you, Kazoo Guardian. As a trader... and as a man. You got balls—literally turning frogs into queens for portfolio alpha. Willing to forgive the gay frogs, the ecological damage, the whole amphibian pride parade you funded. Water under the bridge. But then you drop the bomb: you're a biochem investor. Shorting life, pumping gender swaps, rigging the very code of nature for moonshots. Nah. After that? I can no longer let you live."
The NFT cat's pixels stuttered in panic. "Donald T—wait—"
Donald ignored him. He turned to the cat instead. "Yo, furball. Put on some fighting music. Something heavy. Something that slaps. Dio if you got it. Metallica. Whatever blasts through this cursed Bluetooth dimension."
The cat hesitated, then glitched hard—projecting a tiny holographic speaker from its chest. A crackling riff erupted: early-2000s nu-metal energy, distorted guitars, a drummer who sounded personally offended by existence. Perfect.
Donald stepped forward—splash—right into the glowing lake. Water sloshed up his ruined pants, mixing with his own "kinetic reserves." The liquid immediately started tingling, like tiny pride flags were trying to recruit his skin cells.
"NOOO! Donaldie T—don't do it!" the cat screamed, claws out, hovering at the edge. "The water! It'll turn you gay! Or bi! Or fluid! Or worse—make you invest in ESG!"
But Donald was already committed. He waded deeper, guts rumbling like war drums syncing to the music. "Too late for that, cat. I've been shitting rainbows since the first village. One more splash won't change the chart."
The Kazoo Guardian laughed—a wet, echoing wheeze—and raised his orange instrument like a samurai drawing steel. He dropped into his evil fighting stance: legs wide, one hand on the kazoo, the other forming a devil-horns sign dripping lake water. His trench coat billowed dramatically (even though there was no wind), revealing tattoos of candlestick charts morphing into gender symbols. His style was pure chaos—Kaazo-Fu: unpredictable wheezes, sudden pitch shifts to disorient, and the occasional burst of "Bad" notes that manifested as actual harmful vibes.
"Thriller... but make it lethal," he hissed, lips pursing around the kazoo. The first note came out sharp and wrong—ZEEEE-HONK—and the water around Donald rippled violently, frogs in the shallows suddenly doing synchronized twirls.
Donald grinned through the fear. "Bring it, biotech boy. My diarrhea's got more alpha than your entire VC fund."
He clenched. The music hit a breakdown. The lake began to churn.
The cat covered its eyes with its paws. "This is gonna be so gross... and so based."
Kazoo Guardian lunged first—kazoo screaming a warped "Beat It" riff that sent shockwaves across the surface. Donald countered by unleashing a preliminary kinetic squat—a controlled shit-blast that propelled him forward like a methane torpedo, closing the gap in a spray of regret.
The clash was imminent. Trader vs. trader. Chaos vs. rigged biotech. One man with endless bowels, one guardian with endless hopium.
The water boiled. Frogs cheered (or proposed marriage—who could tell?).
The NFT cat, still hovering at the lake's edge like a glitchy lifeguard, desperately tried to salvage the vibe. "Hold up, Donald T! Let me queue up some good Dio—real fighting music! I got this one hidden gem: people rate it second-worst in his catalog, but I like it. It's raw, it's cursed, it's—"
Before the cat could finish projecting the holographic track (something about "Rainbow in the Dark" but slower and sadder), the sound was drowned out. Completely. By the unholy symphony of kazoo wheezes clashing with Donald T's escalating methane orchestra.
ZEEEE-HONK-ZONK from the guardian's evil kazoo-fu met BLORP-SPLORP-FWOOM from Donald's ass in mid-wade. The collision was cataclysmic. The "good Dio song" vanished into the ether like a deleted tweet—poof, gone, overwritten by pure auditory violence.
The cat didn't even notice at first. It was too busy yelling, "Wait, I was just getting to the bridge!"
But Donald's attack had bitten off way more than expected. His relentless kinetic diarrhea wasn't just propelling him forward anymore—it was superheating the lake. Bubble after bubble rose, each one popping with the stench of righteous fury and bad decisions. The water didn't just tingle with pride anymore; it started boiling. Frogs on lily pads suddenly found themselves in a hot tub from hell—some still mid-twirl, others croaking in confused ecstasy as the temperature hit "frog sauna" levels.
The Kazoo Guardian never saw it coming. He was too busy channeling his next "Bad" remix when the boil hit critical. Steam erupted. His trench coat wilted like cheap polyester in a dryer. The orange kazoo started melting at the edges. His evil fighting stance crumbled after exactly 1 minute of combat.
For Americans, that's like 1/60 of an hour. A full minute of pure, steaming humiliation.
The guardian splashed backward, kazoo slipping from his lips with a final, pathetic honk-... He floated there, defeated, coat billowing like a sad parachute, looking up at Donald T who now stood triumphantly in the shallows—pants half-dissolved, skin faintly rainbow-tinted from gay-water exposure, but otherwise victorious.
Donald pointed one dripping finger at the fallen biotech bro. "Your fate is the same as all biochem investors. You all go down in the end. Pump the hopium, short the truth, turn frogs fabulous for alpha—doesn't matter. Gravity wins. Markets correct. And so do you."
He paused, then added with grim satisfaction: "Delete your Robinhood account. Right now. Before the next drawdown turns you into frog food."
The NFT cat paddled closer on a lily pad it had commandeered, squinting at the soggy guardian. "Nah, Donald. Guy looks more like an eToro user. See the multiple-asset-copy-trading vibes? Robinhood's too basic for this level of delusion."
Donald barked a laugh—deep, rumbling, echoing across the now-steaming lake. "Fair. eToro it is. Social trading his way straight to zero."
Satisfied with teaching yet another young trader a valuable (and scalding) lesson, Donald waded out of the gay-boiling waters, steam rising off him like he'd just finished a sauna session from hell. Behind them, the frogs—now extra fabulous, extra boiled, and somehow still alive—started a confused, croaky chorus that almost sounded like approval. Or maybe indigestion. Hard to tell.
The cat shook off droplets. "We... we did it? No more guardians? No more cursed music?"
Donald nodded, squelching forward on the rainbow trail once more. "For now. But the frogs are singing. Means we're on the right path. Or they're just high on estrogen runoff. Either way—quest continues. Next stop: squirrel central. Let's crash their acorn economy before they short the whole damn forest."
As they vanished into the haze, one frog croaked extra loud—almost like "HODL"—and the NFT cat whispered, "I still think that Dio song would've slapped..."
Donald just kept walking. Guts empty. Lesson delivered. Market still rigged.