The Department of Worthless Things
The Department of Worthless Things occupied a building that definitely existed, probably on a Thursday, somewhere between Next Tuesday and Last Weekend1.
Worthington Worthless (Department Head, Badge #0.0001) surveyed the morning’s submissions with the weary eye of someone who’d seen every possible attempt to make nothing into something.
“Next!” he called.
Mrs. Pembleton shuffled forward, clutching a small jar. “I’d like to register this as worthless, please.”
“What is it?”
“Thursday afternoon, 3:17 PM. Nothing happened.”
Worthington perked up. True worthlessness was increasingly rare in an economy where people sold their grandmother’s sneezes. “Nothing at all?”
“I sat. I existed. I had no thoughts of value. I experienced no sensations worth recording. It was perfectly, sublimely worthless.”
“I’ll need to verify that.” Worthington pulled out his Worthlessness Detector™, a device that measured the complete absence of market value. The reading came back: 0.0000 sats.
“My god,” he breathed. “It’s completely worthless. Do you know how valuable this is?”
“But—“ Mrs. Pembleton stammered, “if it’s valuable because it’s worthless, doesn’t that make it not worthless?”
“Welcome to our paradox,” Worthington sighed. “The moment we certify something as worthless, collectors want it. Last week someone paid 50,000 sats for a certified worthless moment. Which made it worth something. Which made it worthless as a worthless thing. Which made it valuable again.”
The Department had been created to preserve genuinely worthless experiences in a world gone mad with value creation. The founders believed someone should document the mundane, the boring, the commercially irrelevant. They hadn’t anticipated it would become the hottest collector’s market in Neo-Tokyo.
“Is there nothing that can remain worthless?” Mrs. Pembleton asked.
“We’re working on it. Professor Null in Research is developing an Anti-Value Field that prevents anything inside from accruing worth. But the prototype gained value as ‘the machine that creates worthlessness,’ so we’re back to square one.”
Behind Mrs. Pembleton, the queue stretched into next week. Everyone clutching their worthless treasures: unused thoughts, forgotten moments, experiences so bland they defied commodification. All hoping to be certified worthless before worthlessness became the next big thing.
“Sir!” An assistant burst in. “Emergency in Vault 7! The collection of worthless Wednesday afternoons is appreciating!”
Worthington ran to the vault. Inside, seventeen thousand certified worthless Wednesday afternoons had spontaneously developed value. The market had decided that “authentic worthlessness” was the new “artisanal meaninglessness.”
“Current bid is 1,000 sats per afternoon,” the assistant reported. “Rising fast.”
“Evacuate the vault! Deploy the Anti-Marketing Squad! We need to make these worthless again!”
The Anti-Marketing Squad arrived in their aggressively boring uniforms, immediately beginning their work of making things uninteresting. They described the Wednesday afternoons in the most tedious possible terms, using words like “beige” and “tepid” and “moist.”
But it was too late. The Collectors had found them.
“I’ll take the lot!” shouted Reginald Acquisition, waving his credit stick. “Genuine certified worthless Wednesdays! They’ll be the centerpiece of my Mundane Museum!”
Worthington watched his life’s work—preserving worthlessness—become another commodity in the Value Creation Circus. Even the absence of value had value. Even nothing was something if you marketed it right.
“Perhaps,” his assistant suggested, “we should try being valuable instead? Then no one would want us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Worthington said. “We have standards. We’re the Department of Worthless Things, and by god, we’ll find something that stays worthless if it kills us. Which it probably won’t, because a death in pursuit of worthlessness would immediately become—“
“Valuable,” the assistant finished.
“Exactly.”
They returned to their desks, processing applications for worthlessness that would inevitably become worth something, in an economy where even the absence of economy was economical.