Bogdanov Dumps Wojak’s Christmas
It was a cold December evening in Paris, the kind that made the Seine shimmer like silver beneath the streetlights. Wojak sat alone in his tiny apartment, staring at the screen of his old computer. The pixels of his stock portfolio bled red—his Christmas was ruined.
“Zut alors…” Wojak muttered, clutching his head. “I put everything into it… le pump! They said it was guaranteed!“
The cheap string lights around his desk flickered as a Skype call rang through. The number was untraceable, the kind that only belonged to the shadows of the financial elite. His trembling hand clicked ‘Answer.’
On screen, the twin faces of the Bogdanov brothers materialized. Their sharp, otherworldly cheekbones cast unnatural shadows across their grins. They leaned in close, their piercing blue eyes reflecting infinite knowledge—and infinite power.
“Ah, mon pauvre Wojak,” Igor Bogdanov purred, his voice thick with a French aristocratic accent. “You really believed… zat you could win?”
Grichka chuckled, adjusting his silk cravat. “Zis is not a game, Wojak. Zis is le marché—and we own it.”
Wojak’s lip trembled. “B-but… I was supposed to make it this time. I was going to buy gifts, pay rent, maybe even… afford une baguette avec le brie!“
Igor smirked, producing a single golden Bitcoin from his pocket, rolling it across his knuckles with effortless precision. “Gifts? Hah! Zis is capitalism, Wojak. You were given hope… but hope is for les pauvres.”
“Dump it,” Grichka said with a snap of his fingers.
The sound of algorithmic trading filled the air—millions of automated sell orders executed in an instant. Wojak’s screen flashed violently—his investments, his dreams, his Christmas—obliterated in a split second.
He fell to his knees, a silent scream escaping his lips. “No… non…!“
Igor exhaled, adjusting his diamond-encrusted cufflinks. “Bonne nuit, Wojak,” he whispered. “Joyeux Noël…”
And with that, the call ended. The Bogdanovs faded into the digital abyss, leaving only the cold, lifeless glow of Wojak’s screen—his balance now zéro.
Outside, the city twinkled with festive lights, as if mocking him.
Christmas was dumped.
