The Void Throne

A Special Advertising Feature from Musk Corp, Purveyor of Dreams and Evacuation

They say he once touched the stars. They say he once drove a cherry-red roadster into the infinite. He laughed at gravity as if it were just another algorithm to be hacked. They say a lot of things about the Great Originator. However, the truth distilled through the urine-recyclers of time is this: All that remains is the Musk Toilet. It is the bejeweled monarch of the bathroom kingdom.

Don’t you fucking believe anything else.

I’m looking at one now—Model X904-ß—gleaming under the artificial light of what they’ve started calling “corporate truth” these days. This porcelain miracle, this void-throne, this evacuation station that launched a thousand shits.

“It’s not just a toilet,” purrs the holographic saleswoman whose pixels shimmer with the desperate enthusiasm of commission-based existence. “It’s the last testament to human exceptionalism in a world gone to literal waste.”

The showroom is sterile, white, and oppressively minimalist. These characteristics reflect the corroded dreams of our ancestors. They thought they were headed for Mars instead of the sewage processing plants of New New Jersey.

FEATURES OF THE STANDARD-ISSUE MUSK TOILET 9000:

ANTI-GRAVITY WASTE EXTRACTION™ The same technology that once lifted starships now sucks the refuse from your bowels with a gentle 0.4G pull, creating what the brochure calls “the most satisfying void experience this side of a black hole.” Your excrement doesn’t fall—it’s HARVESTED, like the precious resource our food-scarce society knows it to be.

“The suction is completely customizable.” The saleswoman demonstrates by hovering her finger over a dashboard. The dashboard would make a fighter pilot nauseous with envy. “From ‘Gentle Earth Tug’ to ‘Martian Evacuation Protocol.’ The highest setting is called ‘The Singularity’—though we don’t recommend it for first-timers or the elderly.”

NEURALINK BOWEL ANTICIPATION SYSTEM™ It knows when you need to go before you do. The microscopic brain implants are mandatory since the Great Water Crisis of 2081. They communicate directly with your digestive system and the toilet’s neural network.

“It’s already prepared your personalized evacuation experience,” she says, pointing to the seat that’s warming to exactly 98.7 degrees—the scientifically perfect temperature for bowel relaxation. “It’s matched your gut biome to your hormone levels and has selected appropriate atmospheric conditions.”

SELF-CLEANING NANOBOTS™ “These little fuckers,” she says. She drops the corporate decorum for a moment of genuine enthusiasm. “They are hungrier for filth than our ancestors were for fossil fuels.”

The toilet bowl shimmers with a metallic rainbow sheen. Billions of microscopic robots are programmed with a singular mission: devour waste and convert it to energy. Their existence is one of endless consumption, not unlike the society that created them.

REALITY DISTORTION FIELD™ “We all need to escape sometimes,” the saleswoman whispers conspiratorially. “Especially during those… longer sessions.”

The toilet projects a personalized virtual environment for your evacuation pleasure—beaches, mountains, concert halls. Everyone knows the most popular setting is “Pre-Collapse Earth.” It is a fantasy world where the oceans weren’t acid. The sky wasn’t the color of a fresh bruise.

MUSK-SYNC AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL INTERFACE™ “This is where the magic happens,” she says, tapping the golden plaque embedded in the tank. “Every toilet contains a fragment of the Great Originator’s consciousness.”

The hologram of Elon Musk—reconstructed from surviving data packets—appears, sitting across from you on his own identical toilet. He tells you stories while you defecate. Tales of electric cars that once roamed the Earth. Underground tunnels that went nowhere. Rockets that sometimes didn’t explode. He recites the same anecdotes with the same pre-programmed enthusiasm, a ghost caught in an algorithmic loop.

“Our most popular feature,” she says proudly. “People love shitting with celebrities.”

BLOCKCHAIN FECAL ANALYSIS™ “Nothing goes to waste,” the saleswoman assures me, bringing up a holographic chart. “Your excretions are analyzed, tokenized, and added to the MuskChain. Your health data becomes part of the collective intelligence.”

Your bowel movements are rated. These ratings are compared to global standards. They also affect your social credit score. Constipation is considered unproductive. Diarrhea is flagged as suspicious resource wastage.

PROPRIETARY SCENT GENERATION™ “No one enjoys the natural aroma of human waste,” the saleswoman says with practiced distaste. “That’s why each Musk Toilet comes loaded with over 200 custom scent profiles.”

The most expensive package includes “Mars Surface”. It is metallic with hints of rust. “Rocket Fuel” is another option, offering kerosene with notes of liquid oxygen. The bestseller is “New Car Interior Circa 2022”. It contains a toxic blend of plastics. This blend would be illegal if released anywhere but the hermetically sealed confines of your personal bathroom.

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I sit on the display model, feeling the immediate warmth of the seat against my government-issued jumpsuit. The saleswoman discreetly steps behind a partition. She tries to give the illusion of privacy. The concept of privacy died with the last unmonitored thought in this world.

“Greetings, potential customer,” says the tiny Musk hologram appearing before me. “Have you heard about my plan to colonize the asteroid belt?” His eyes are vacant, his smile too wide—a digital puppet performing a role written by marketers who never met the man.

And there it is—the sad truth about our gleaming waste receptacles. The man who promised to take us to the stars instead became associated with the most mundane human necessity. The cosmic joke that history played on ambition.

I stand up without using the toilet’s features. The saleswoman emerges, her smile faltering for a millisecond.

“Will you be purchasing today?” she asks. “We have a special financing option for government employees. Only 30% APR over 120 monthly payments.”

“I’m still thinking,” I lie.

“Of course,” she says. “Take your time. The Musk Toilet will be here, waiting for humanity’s waste until the sun burns out.”

As I leave the showroom, I can’t help but think—maybe that’s what we all are now. We are waste, waiting to be processed. Our dreams are reduced to choosing which fancy toilet will collect our shit. This happens before we die on this ruined planet.

At least we can do it in style. A digital ghost tells us it’s all part of the plan.

MUSK CORP: TAKING YOUR WASTE TO THE STARS™