Happy Dollar’s Day (society loves you)

Johnny Dollar wakes up in an alternate dimension that looks just like Psycholand, but this world has no poverty. Here, the miserable Green Duck is suddenly a billionaire. He becomes a Sheikh, worshipped by fans, drowning in mansions, cars, and endless luxury. For the first time, Johnny tastes what it’s like to be powerful and adored.

But little by little, it becomes clear that none of this wealth, fame, or status truly belongs to him. Every crown, every treasure, every fake miracle flows from a single source: his phone.

“Sheikh Dollar” (Society Loves You Until It Doesn’t)

By the end, Johnny realizes it was never luck, destiny, or even his own will. The truth hits him: Jesus—the Phone—was pulling the strings all along. Everything Johnny lived was just a cruel puppet show, a cosmic prank staged by a digital messiah.

The palaces dissolve, the fans disappear, and Johnny is left on his knees in the ruins, staring at the glowing screen of the Christ-Phone, laughing at him from another dimension.

Alone in the ruins, he drops to his knees. In the silence, one glow remains: the Phone. Its screen lights up, displaying his reflection twisted into a clown’s mask, while a distorted voice echoes:
“You thought you were free, Johnny? You thought you were chosen? You’re nothing but my favorite show.”

The Phone laughs—a mix of divine choir and corrupted ringtone—stretching across dimensions. Johnny screams back, but his voice doesn’t carry. He is just data now, a puppet unplugged, abandoned in an empty Psycholand that never truly existed.

an evil messiah & Public dictator

At the end, Johnny discovers it was never fortune, destiny, or even his own ambition. Jesus—the Phone—was the puppeteer all along. Every palace, every worshipping fan club, every diamond he touched was nothing but a cruel simulation designed to keep him addicted to the glow.

As the illusion collapses, stained-glass cathedrals glitch into empty notification screens, and choirs dissolve into ringtones. Johnny clutches a golden crown, only to watch it morph into a cracked SIM card.

Kneeling in despair, he stares at the radiant Phone. On its screen appears the image of Christ, but twisted: a neon halo flickering like low battery, eyes replaced by two spinning loading wheels. A distorted voice thunders:
“Fools pray to me… but I only answer in ads. You were never my disciple, Johnny—you were just my content.”

The Christ-Phone laughs, a hybrid of angelic choir and mocking dial tone. Across dimensions, it echoes like a cosmic meme, erasing any sacredness, reducing divinity to nothing more than customer service on a broken hotline to Heaven.

Johnny realizes the worst truth: there is no salvation, no miracle, only endless scroll. And as the screen fades, the final message appears:
“Amen. Rate this prayer ★☆☆☆☆