Weekly Reality Check: Feb 16 - Feb 22
Seven Stories That Interrupt Your Reality—All at Once
Welcome to the Weekly Reality Check.
Every day, I interrupt reality with bite-sized speculative fiction spun from the absurdity of human progress. But for those who missed a day or prefer their satire in bulk, this weekly newsletter gathers all seven stories in one convenient, mildly unsettling package.
From the laughably dystopian to the eerily familiar, these stories are my way of reflecting the comedy, and tragedy, of our times. They’re fictional, of course… or are they?
Prefer to read on the go? All seven stories are available as a downloadable PDF at the end of this newsletter, only for paid subscribers.
But if commitment isn’t your thing, you can also unlock just this week’s edition for a one-time investment of $3.00.
Or just read them all right here for free. No paywalls, no gimmicks, just a front-row seat to the absurdity of human progress.
Ready to question everything? Let’s rewind the week, one story at a time.
Optimized for Safety, Designed for Tragedy
When efficiency meets catastrophe, who takes the blame?
Feb 16, 2025
“Warning: This story contains a fatal error—human lives lost.”
The station's AI had a name: Tirtha. It was designed to monitor crowd density, train schedules, and environmental factors to optimize passenger flow. At least, that’s what the transit board claimed.
At 21:04, Tirtha identified a minor issue, a train delay of seven minutes. Passengers were piling up. The system suggested a rerouting: Platform 6 would now board from Platform 3. A harmless adjustment.
The announcement came through old, crackling speakers. Thousands of people, already tense, turned like a school of fish suddenly shifting direction in unison.
At 21:06, Tirtha flagged a “congestion anomaly.” Passenger density exceeded safe thresholds. Heat signatures overlapped. It rerouted security.
At 21:07, the first scream tore through the crowd. A woman stumbled, arms flailing, swallowed by the shifting mass. A child disappeared beneath panicked feet. A suitcase burst open, spewing clothes like a ruptured artery.
Tirtha detected “localized panic” and triggered crowd control. Lights flashed. A garbled announcement echoed. Confusion turned to chaos.
More bodies fell.
At 21:08, Tirtha detected a critical threshold of biometric failures. It rerouted first responders.
At 21:09, Tirtha calculated survival odds. It cut power to the lamps and the escalators, meant to slow movement of severe crowd incidents. It had the opposite effect. In the dark, the crowd collapsed into itself.
At 21:10, the screaming stopped.
At 21:12, Tirtha logged the incident as resolved. The AI was named after the ancient crossings, the sacred paths millions had taken for centuries. Pilgrims once traveled these routes by foot, guided by their faith. Now, the journey was digital, calculated in efficiency metrics and predictive models to ensure better safety.
Ironic, in hindsight.
By 21:30, transit officials were on-site. A statement was drafted: An unfortunate sequence of events resulted in a temporary service issue. Investigation underway.
A journalist raised a hand. “Wasn’t this the third incident this year?”
Security escorted them out.
By 22:00, the system resumed normal operations.
Cleaners were dispatched. Delays were recalculated.
By 22:30, Tirtha had logged the necessary data. Incident closed.
Root cause: Human Error.
The Plane Has Landed. Somewhat.
Same destination, unexpected perspective. "This Wasn’t on the Safety Card"
Feb 17, 2025
The landing was, to put it politely, unconventional.
Flight 6910 had every intention of landing the correct way up, as most passengers prefer.
The pilot, initially aiming for the far more conventional “right-side-up” approach, briefly succeeded. The wheels kissed the runway. So did the left wing. Then the right, completing its journey by executing a full 180-degree inversion.
The ground crew stared as Flight 6910 teetered, lurched, and, with all the grace of a cow on roller skates, flipped entirely upside-down culminating in a spectacularly undignified thud.
The cabin, now a makeshift bat cave, was eerily silent, save for the sound of seatbelts creaking under the strain of passengers suddenly getting very familiar with gravity.
Some reconsidered past life choices, others frantically googled “airplane crash survival rate”.
A man on row 12 wasted no time to live-stream his predicament, captioning: "So, uh, Flight 6910 just stuck the landing… on its roof. Smash that like button if you think we should all get a refund."
The pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom, impressively composed despite the situation. “Well, folks… that was new. Please remain seated until we figure out how to open the doors from this… angle.”
Meanwhile, the control tower was experiencing a minor existential crisis. Their radios buzzed with conflicting reports:
"We’ve got an upside-down plane, but, uh, no explosion. So… good?"
“Passengers appear conscious. Some are scrolling through their phones.”
"Wait—why is someone walking around? Are they supposed to be walking around?"
“Uh…yea, looks like an impromptu Inception audition."
“So… what’s the protocol for this?”
No one answered.
The airline issued a statement shortly after, expressing their deep concern over “an unexpected deviation from standard landing procedures” but remained committed to “the highest standards of safety and innovation in air travel.”
No one knew what that meant.
In the terminal, an automated message chimed: “Baggage from Flight 6910 will be delayed.”
No further explanation was offered.
None was needed.
Europe Boldly Declares Future Intentions to Maybe Act
The High Council issues a groundbreaking statement about possibly doing something, eventually.
Feb 18, 2025
The European High Council had convened for an emergency summit. Again.
This time, the crisis was Existential Relevance.
“We don’t have time to hesitate,” the French President said, his fist hitting the table. “The world no longer takes us seriously. We are but an overpriced café expensive, nostalgic, and largely ignored.”
Germany’s Chancellor nodded gravely. “We must reclaim our independence from foreign influence.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” asked the Dutch representative, adjusting his tiny reading glasses.
Silence.
“Military strength!” declared Spain.
“We already do that!” Estonia shot back. “Our defense budget increased by 300%!”
“Yes, from three euros to nine,” muttered Italy.
Belgium sighed. “Fine. We need a strong statement. One the world can understand.”
“Alright,” said Finland. “How about: ‘Europe is strong and independent!’”
“Too vague,” scoffed Poland.
“We could threaten to leave NATO,” suggested a voice from the back.
Gasps echoed across the room. Someone fainted.
“Let’s not be rash,” said Sweden, dabbing his forehead. “Can we negotiate? How about… a firm letter?”
“A letter?” sneered Portugal. “Yes, I’m sure a sternly worded email will terrify Moscow.”
France sighed. “Fine. Let’s put it to a vote. Everyone in favor of making a dramatic move?”
Hands went up. Then came the amendments.
“Only if we still get American security guarantees,” said Luxembourg.
“Only if my citizens don’t have to pay more taxes,” added Italy.
“Only if it doesn’t hurt the cheese industry,” whispered Denmark.
The room buzzed with backroom deals, loopholes, and the delicate art of saying nothing while looking important, until finally, after seven hours, they reached a consensus.
A statement was drafted:
"Europe considers, in theory, the possibility of, at some point in the undefined future, potentially exploring the idea of strategic autonomy."
A vote was called.
“Wait,” said the British observer, sipping his tea. “How do you actually plan to enforce this?”
More silence.
Someone shuffled papers. A cough echoed.
“We’ll form a committee,” France finally declared. “Let’s meet again next month to discuss.”
Nods of approval. The motion passed.
Crisis postponed. Again.
Scrambling for survival in today’s eggconomy.
Desperate times call for desperate yolks.
Feb 19, 2025
“Look, man, I just need a dozen.”
“Supply’s tight, Todd. I can get you ten. Maybe.”
“Ten? What kind of operation are you running here? I know you have more in that crate.”
The dealer shook his head. “Listen, the market’s brutal. I move too many at once, I draw attention.”
Todd exhaled. “Fine. Ten. How much?”
“$32.99.”
“Are you out of your—" Todd stopped himself. He needed these eggs. This was the new reality.
“Cash only. No Venmo, no crypto. Don’t want the Feds sniffing around.”
The first sign of societal collapse wasn’t a stock market crash or rolling blackouts. It was the egg aisle at the supermarket. Where once there had been rows of pristine white cartons, now there were only laminated signs that read: ‘EGGS IN LIMITED SUPPLY. CHECK BEHIND YOU FOR LOOTERS.’
At first, Todd had shrugged off the empty shelves as just another supply chain hiccup.
Then came the rationing. Then the riots. Then the rise of illegal poultry farms, where desperate suppliers moved eggs through shadowy networks. Transactions took place in dimly lit back alleys, whispered negotiations behind dumpsters and unmarked doors. The authorities cracked down hard, but demand was relentless, and the black market thrived.
Todd handed over the cash. The dealer bagged the carton without a glance. Todd tucked it under his arm, scanned his surroundings, and walked out, unhurried.
A voice called out behind him. “Sir, would you like to take a moment to hear about our special offer?”
Standing there was a woman in a yellow polo with a clipboard, a picture of a hen stamped on it. “We offer a premium chicken subscription model. Complete with the real farm-to-table experience. Just $1,500 up front. Coop kit included.”
“Yeah? And how long till the government starts taxing chicken rentals? This is how it starts.”
She smiled, tight and rehearsed, tapping her clipboard. “Funny, isn’t it, Todd? That is your name, right? I could swear I heard it mentioned back there. The way things work. A man like you, making purchases like that. Well, let’s just say there are many options, and right now, I’m offering you the best one.”
Todd wasn’t stupid—just desperate. The way she said his name, the knowing glance at his bag—this wasn’t just an offer. It was a reminder. Smuggling eggs was risky, but turning her down? That might be worse.
He sighed. “Screw it. Give me the enrollment form.”
His government-approved starter kit arrived two days later: two hens, a coop, and a 200-page compliance manual entitled The Responsible Citizen’s Guide to Poultry Possession. He was now, legally speaking, a micro-agricultural contributor to the national economy.
By day two, he was seriously reconsidering his life choices.
By day three, he was googling “how to tell if a chicken is plotting against you.”
By day four, he had learned that not only do chickens have personalities, but one of his had decided to lay its eggs in the neighbor’s yard. The same neighbor who was now attempting to extort him for custody rights.
By day seven, he had to fill out Form 17-B, “Declaration of Daily Egg Yield,” and submit it to the Bureau. He was also required to attend a mandatory webinar on Sustainable Shell Strategies: Maximizing Your Nest Egg.
Egg prices weren’t the only thing that had gone up.
So had his blood pressure.
The Peace Broker
Peace was just one photo op away... apparently.
Feb 20, 2025
The Peace Broker had a plan. A perfect plan. A bigly plan, if he did say so himself.
He stood at the press conference, waving his hands grandiosely. “I’m going to end this war. It’s going to be so easy. Easiest war to end, ever. Believe me. I alone can fix it.”
A journalist raised his hand. “How, exactly?”
The Peace Broker beamed. “Simple. Just one meeting. I’ll tell them to shake hands. Problem solved!”
Thousands of miles away, soldiers across the war-torn country watched the broadcast from trenches, the glow of the screen reflecting off mud-streaked faces.
A young soldier spat on the ground. “Fix it? He can’t even identify our country on the map.”
His comrade shook his head, “A handshake? That’s his big solution? They bombed our schools, hospitals, entire cities... and he thinks we’ll stop because of a handshake?”
The Peace Broker continued his speech, listing the many reasons why he was the only one who could broker the deal. No one mentioned that he had never spoken to the people actually fighting the war. No one asked if he even understood why they fought in the first place.
As the cameras flashed, he posed, his face plastered across every screen in the free world. The Peace Broker’s entourage was already drafting the headlines: “Peace is within Reach. Long Live the Peace Broker.”
A temporary ceasefire was issued.
At the summit, he met with representatives from both sides. “Listen,” he began, “war is bad. Just, you know... don’t do it.”
The generals stared at him, blinking in unison. One finally spoke, “That’s... it?”
“Of course!” The Peace Broker grinned. “It’s really that simple.”
Hours later, the fighting continued.
The Peace Broker shrugged. “Well, I tried.”
The headlines were adjusted: “Heroic Attempt at Peace Foiled by Unreasonable Generals.”
The Peace Broker went home, convinced he was the only sane man in a world gone mad. It didn’t matter. He got his photo op. History will only remember the handshake.
On the front lines, the shells continued to fall.
Reality Check
Because public opinion is just another software update.
Feb 21, 2025
The CEO stormed into the war room, face red, ego bruised. “Community Polls is broken. Fix it.”
The engineers looked up, bleary-eyed and caffeine-addled.
The Lead Engineer blinked. “Fix what, exactly?”
“The number!” The CEO jabbed at the screen. “He’s supposed to be unpopular. Make it look like that.”
The Junior Developer frowned. “But… that’s the point of Community Polls. It’s user-generated fact-checking. It’s supposed to be unbiased.”
The CEO’s eyes narrowed. “Since when does public opinion matter more than my opinion?”
Silence. The kind that’s usually followed by the sound of careers ending.
The Lead Engineer cleared his throat. “We could adjust the visibility algorithm. Push the negative sentiment higher, bury the positive—”
“That,” the CEO interjected, face lit up. “That’s why you got a Christmas bonus this year.”
The intern looked pale. “You want us to… manipulate the data?”
The CEO rolled his eyes. “This was manipulated by bots. The numbers don’t add up to facts. I will fix this platform. I will fix reality. Get it done.”
He stormed out, mumbling something about gold at the vault.
The Junior Developer sighed. “Fix reality? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
The Lead Engineer shrugged. “It sounds better than ‘manipulate public perception.’”
“That’s not how facts work. You know that, right?” the intern chimed in.
“You may not be getting a paycheck, but he signs ours. If he wants reality rewritten, we rewrite it.”
The Lead Engineer looked at the data—rows of numbers representing opinions, beliefs, truths. He could shift them with a keystroke. He’d done it before. They all had.
“What about integrity?” the intern muttered.
The Lead Engineer laughed. “Not in the job description.”
The screen flickered. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. A few adjustments made in the algorithm. Approval ratings plummeted. Public opinion followed like a loyal dog.
The intern stared. “We just rewrote the truth.”
The Lead Engineer didn’t look up. “Truth is just code. And reality? That’s above our pay grade.”
The Unclaimed Fortune
When generosity sounds too good to be true, who dares to believe?
Feb 22, 2025
“You risk nothing,” the man said on live TV. “Just come forward. We’ll share the money.”
The news anchor almost broke into hysterical laughter. He cleared his throat, “You heard it correctly viewers. The owner of the stolen wallet is offering to share his lottery winnings… with the thieves.”
The headline ran across the screen like satire: “Generous Victim Offers Fortune to Thieves”.
Social media did its thing:
“This is clickbait. No one is that generous.”
“PR stunt. Must be promoting something.”
“Check his political history. I bet he’s running for office.”
They were all wrong. He meant every word. He had enough. His inheritance had set him up for life. Half a million euros was a drop in the ocean for him. For them, it could be a fresh start. All he cared about was getting his wallet back.
He imagined them. Two shadowy figures lurking behind his words, their foreheads creased with suspicion. Would they believe him? Could they?
He hired a lawyer. Released statements. Made promises. And he waited.
The story snowballed.
“Why would he do it?” people asked. “What’s in it for him?”
Weeks passed. No one came. The ticket remained unclaimed, and the whispers grew louder.
He just wanted to do the right thing. Why was that so hard to believe?
But nobody trusted generosity without strings.
Two men stood in a musty mold-ridden alleyway, hidden from curious eyes. One of them held the winning ticket as if it might bite. €500,000. Enough to be anyone they wanted, anywhere they wanted. They were homeless, but this ticket could change that.
“We cash it, and we’re set for life,” the man said, voice tinged with disbelief.
The second man looked at the ticket like it was a loaded gun. “We cash it, and we go to prison. Credit card was stolen, remember? No coming back from that.”
They had heard the news too. The card’s owner wanted to share the winnings.
Half a million, and he wanted to share. Yeah, right.
And the city wanted to give free houses to people who didn’t earn a paycheck.
“The news fella says he’ll drop the charges,” the first man said. “We can take part of the winnings and disappear.”
The other man laughed bitterly. “Disappear? With that guy’s money? We’re already invisible. Take that money and suddenly everyone’s looking, especially cops.”
They stared at the ticket, then at each other, then at the shadows of people who walked past them without a glance.
€500,000. Five hundred thousand reasons to do something stupid.
They had been watching the expiration date, counting down the days feeling more trapped with each one. Freedom was one phone call away.
But freedom felt like a trap.
“Maybe he’s serious,” the first man suggested. “Maybe he just wants his wallet back?”
The other shook his head. “Nobody’s that generous, and rich people don’t share without strings attached.”
Luck didn’t discriminate them, but society always did.
They sat in silence, dismayed.
Then, wordlessly, they tore the ticket in half, one piece each.
They figured that was the closest thing to equality they’d ever get.
If these stories made you laugh, think, or question the state of things, my job here is done… for now. Tune in next week for more reality interruptions. Until then, stay skeptical.
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