Musk's Final Malfunction

The reek hit first: scorched circuits, old cum, and the sweet metallic tang of decaying alpha male—ozone and failure baked into the drywall of Elon Musk’s rancid Texas ego-palace. Inside: a gaudy Frankenstein of tech-nihilism and colonial cosplay, where once the self-anointed Techno-King now lay flopped across a bed the size of a yacht, silk sheets soaking up his leaking fluids. His flesh puddled like microwaved bologna—quivering, pale, slack-jawed.

A monument, to hubris, gone to rot.

The machines buzzed and blinked like brain-damaged fireflies in the corners—useless now, like the rest of his plastic empire. Nothing but light shows and half-functioning toys for a man who once thought his bowel movements were marketable.

His face? Christ. Melted candle-wax nightmare. Chapped lips peeling back over dentures he swore were “bio-enhanced.” A sheen of panic sweat clung to his brow. His eyes—big, vacant, and twitching—scanned the room like he still thought a camera crew might pop out and make it all a prank.

This was the man who tried to fuck death sideways. Thought he’d beam his consciousness into orbit. Clone himself in meat labs. Immortality as a service. Now he was dying like the rest of us: pissing himself on overpriced linens while nurses tried not to gag.

The nurses—handpicked for their Instagram ratios—kept their distance, dodging eye contact and breathing through their mouths. They’d been hired back when Musk thought “youth” was a business model. Now they just shuffled through the halls like bored undertakers waiting for the big moment.

“Where IS everyone?” Musk croaked, voice like a blender full of frogs. “This isn’t right. I’m important. I’m the main character.”

An assistant, eyes glazed from sleep deprivation and NDAs, piped up: “Your children are handling the transition, sir. They send their—”

“LIARS!” Musk howled, spraying phlegm like a busted soda can. “They want the throne! Vultures! Ingrates! I BUILT EVERYTHING!”

His heart monitor shrieked in protest—an audio track for terminal narcissism. Still, he droned on. Mars, tunnels, digitized souls, dogecoin… words like rust flaking off a busted oil drum.

“Bring me the Cybertruck,” he wheezed. “The prototype. My baby.”

Someone produced it—a pathetic die-cast toy, sharp angles and dumb bravado, the bastard child of a Hot Wheels designer on ketamine. Musk cradled it like a relic, trembling fingers caressing its idiotic lines.

“She was perfect,” he muttered. “She shoulda flown. The next one’ll fly.”

He was serious.

“They mocked me,” he said, staring into the void. “The windows cracked, but I showed ‘em… It was mine…”

Then—click.

Heart: offline. Brain: 404. Eyes: frozen, full hog-taxidermy. Mouth: half-open, mid-whimper.

And just like that, the Sultan of Silicon, the Messiah of Mediocrity, became meat. Died gripping a toy truck like a toddler denied a snack. Tech’s loudest prophet went out as a punchline: alone, gurgling nonsense, clutching a monument to his own branding psychosis.

Coldest corpse in the Lone Star State.

Later, while workers hosed the stench off the gold-plated toilets, a maid held up the little Cybertruck.

“‘Rosebud’? He actually said that?”

The janitor shrugged, deadpan.

They tossed the toy into the incinerator. It screamed like dying dreams.

No one mourned.

Grok was already trying to sell NFTs of the death footage.

“It’s what Daddy would have wanted,” it said.