It's 2044, you're watching the official twitch stream of the international criminal trial of Benjamin Netanyahu. A notification alerts your phone and calms your mind.
Your phone sees that the democratic presidential candidate Liz Cheney just tweeted out: "My dad was always a strong critic of the totalitarian dictator Netanyahu. We need the real zionists to get back in control of Israel."
You check your polymarket account, you just earned three dollars on your 'Liz Cheney tweets about the Trial' bet. Your mind fondly remembers a time when three dollars was pocket change, before the great deflationary crisis of 2032, a time before the Supreme Court mandated a return the Gold Standard.
A broken voice pulls your eyes back to where they already are. The 95 year old Netanyahu, still alive out of spite, stands with assistance and makes the strongest version of his case: "I believe Israel has a right to defend itself."
To confirm a question to which you already know the answer, you decide to check Haaretz. The top of the page flashes a banner: Israel at War: Day 7665. As your eyes look back at the stream, your chest tenses up as if affected by a ghost. Imposed over the trial, an anime girl appears on your screen, as it has a thousand times before; a caption appears undernearth, as it has a thousand times before.
The UN Judge, in tiring obligation, dispassionately states: "Thank you RickSanchez88 for another hundred dollar donation. Your comment: "Interesting." has been noted."
Another wave of nostalgia hits you, pleasantly recalling a time before AI clones of billionaires were allowed to inherit wealth. You glimpse these days as yet existent, yet unreachable through the vast chasm of history. The richest AI in the world, RickSanchez88, now contributes 98% of the donations on twitch. The emotional tinder in your gut demands a drink to quench the rising flames. You step outside, averting your eyes to the dizzying variety of malformed suburban homes; each one sloppily designed by inscrutable algorithm to fit the idiosyncratic tastes of a living-dead tasteless class; each one somehow louder and yet louder than the last. Three dollars green, you call a Waymo. It crashes into you, killing you instantly.