• Article Excerpt (Intro): When your startup is broke, your AI makes sad potatoes, your insurance company is called Creepy-Crust LLC, and your corporate furniture is held together by epoxy and regret… releasing ransomware starts looking like a business plan.

It began, as all corporate disasters do, with a meeting no one wanted to attend.

The senior leadership team of NeoSynaptic Synergies LLC gathered around an expensive recycled-bamboo conference table that was mostly old reusable, still dirty with last year’s spaghetti sauce, paper towels held together by epoxy, wearing expressions that suggested they’d rather swallow thumbtacks out of the environmentally-friendly water glasses, manufactured out of giant wet wipe sewer blobs and help together by more epoxy, than sit down on the recycled toilet paper chairs.

Their CFO cleared his throat and delivered the quarterly update with the emotionless cadence of a man who had given up hope around 2018.

“Ladies and gentlemen… we’re broke.”

The CEO blinked. “Broke? But we pivoted three times this month.”

The CFO nodded. “We pivoted so hard we fell over.”

The CTO added helpfully, “Also, the AI division accidentally burned through twelve million dollars to develop a model that only outputs pictures of slightly depressed potatoes.”

“I thought we were marketing that as ‘SadSpud AI’?” the CFO said.

“Got sued by Mr. Fuzz at FuzzVerse Inc.”

“What do animated hairballs have to do with potatoes?” the CFO asked.

“Not the hairballs. SadSpud looked too much like SadBot. The Fuzzverse corporate mascott sidekick.”

The CFO slapped his forehead in exasperation.

The CEO massaged his temples. “What about investors?”

“All ghosted us.”

“Government grants?”

“We filed under ‘innovation,’ but they said ‘existing vaguely between theory, a hypothetical service, and what may or may not be actual electricity’ doesn’t count.”

There was a long, painful silence, punctuated only by the soft weeping of the SadSpud AI on a cracked monitor.

Finally, the CEO stood up, walked to the window, and whispered the forbidden words:

“Alright. In that case, it’s time for Plan B.”

A horrified gasp rippled through the room.

“You don’t mean—”

“Yes…” The CEO turned dramatically. “We have no choice. Release the ransomware.”

The CTO typed a command. Somewhere deep in the company servers, a malicious glimmer awakened like a digital demon stretching after a long nap. Within seconds, every screen in the building flashed a skull made of binary.

Workers gasped then screamed. Seconds later, frantic clicking could be heard. Many CTRL-ALT-DELs were pressed but to no avail. The system was locked.

The Official Explanation

Five minutes later, a company-wide memo went out:

SUBJECT: Important Security Update
Dear valued employees,
It appears Jessica in Accounting opened a dangerous file titled Cute Kittens of 2012.pdf.
As a result, all systems have been encrypted.
Please do not panic. Or ask questions. Or breathe loudly.
—Leadership

Jessica, who had been on vacation for three days, would later receive a strongly worded corrective action and placed on a PIP.

The Insurance Payout

The CEO called their cuber-insurance provider. Creepy-Crust Insurance LLC, with a perfectly rehearsed speech:

“We are tragically, unexpectedly, shockingly the victims of a catastrophic ransomware attack. Donate—er—deposit the payout ASAP.”

The insurance company sighed and transferred the funds directly to an offshore shell company named Totally Legitimate Holdings, Ltd. Unsurprisingly, this raised zero red flags, and it was later reported that Creepy-Crust’s CEO was seen on a yacht supposedly owned by NeoSynaptic Synergies dot Org, no relation to the LLC, or so the paperwork said.

Meanwhile, the CFO quietly purchased a lifetime supply of artisanal soy lattes, citing “stress mitigation expenses.”

 

The Celebration

Leadership held a small celebration afterward. Employees were invited to the break room for:

  • One slice of pizza each
  • No toppings
  • No speaking
  • No eye contact with members of the Board

The CEO toasted to “a successful quarter” and announced the company was now planning a massive internal security overhaul. This consisted of forcing employees to:

  • Log in with 6 passwords
  • Confirm identity via retinal scan
  • Stand on one foot while entering a 12-digit verification code
  • Receive 37 separate 2FA texts per day that must all be answered within three minutes.

When asked if the backend systems themselves were secure, the CTO blinked slowly and said:
“We prefer not to answer hypothetical questions.”

The HR Training Initiative

Shortly afterward, HR introduced Mandatory Cyber Resilience Yoga. Employees were instructed to:

  1. Meditate while wearing VR headsets that simulate a ransomware apocalypse.
  2. Recite the company motto backward for 17 minutes.
  3. Maintain a neutral expression while watching their department’s budget burn in real time.

Attendance was optional, but only for people who could convincingly fake enthusiasm.

The Accidental Fame

By next week, the incident had gone viral in the obscure corners of tech blogs and Slack channels nobody understood. Memes included:

  • The CEO riding a yacht named Data Breach through a digital storm
  • Jessica in Accounting with an “Anti-Kitten PDF Forcefield”
  • CTO crying quietly over a potato AI masterpiece

NeoSynaptic Synergies was suddenly considered “disruptively innovative” by every tech influencer with exactly 47 followers.

The Closing Thought

Some say NeoSynaptic Synergies truly did get hacked.
Others say they hacked themselves.

Either way, the company’s quarterly earnings were spectacular, the CEO bought a yacht named Data Breach, and Jessica in Accounting now double-checks every PDF for signs of feline activity.

And if you hear tires screeching outside your house?
Don’t worry. It’s probably just the suits in the black sedan looking for someone else who figured out the game.
Probably.

Or… maybe they’re just there to deliver the quarterly pizza while not quoting SadSpud AI because that would be copyright infringement and Mr. Fuzz would be at the door with expired fish gravy.

 

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