Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

Times Square, New York.

The dazzling neon lights that once symbolized the pinnacle of human capitalism have now been completely extinguished. Thick black smoke billows into the sky, completely obscuring the countless stars.

The entire Fifth Avenue was ablaze with flames.

"Smash it open! Take all the food!"

A baseball bat smashed through the bulletproof glass of a Walmart supermarket. Accompanied by a piercing alarm, hundreds of bloodshot eyes pounced inside like hungry wolves.

Jack used to be a top trader on Wall Street, always wearing bespoke Italian suits. But now, wrapped in a dirty, tattered blanket, he's sprawled on the floor littered with broken glass, frantically stuffing moldy bread and expired canned beans into his arms.

"Get out of my way! This is mine!"

A burly Black man kicked Jack in the ribs, snatching the half-bread from him. Jack didn't even have the strength to resist; he collapsed to the ground in despair, watching the hundred-dollar bills flying everywhere in the wind.

Those green pieces of paper that once could buy the whole world are now trampled in the mud, too hard even to wipe one's butt.

The US dollar has completely collapsed.

When China's Belt and Road Initiative, a super-economy, completely isolates the United States, and when unlimited clean energy replaces oil, America's financial hegemony is like a punctured balloon, instantly bursting into pieces.

The domestic inflation rate has soared to a terrifying 10,000 percent! The unemployment rate has exceeded 50 percent!

Ordinary people couldn't even afford the cheapest bread, and the entire social order collapsed in the face of hunger.

"Free shopping! Let's go to the upscale neighborhood! There's food in Beverly Hills!"

I don't know who shouted that in the street.

The rioting crowd instantly found an outlet. Millions of ordinary people converged into a terrifying torrent, brandishing torches and guns, and frantically rushed towards the once unattainable wealthy neighborhoods.

Gunshots rang out densely in every corner of the city.

Police? There aren't any police anymore. The police, who can't even get paid, have long since taken off their uniforms and joined this unprecedented "zero-dollar shopping" frenzy.

This is no longer a riot; this is the complete destruction of civilization.

The "zero-dollar purchase" policy that politicians once tolerated for the sake of votes has now turned into a monstrous backlash, engulfing the entire United States in blood and fire.

Washington, D.C., the White House underground bunker.

Outside the heavy blast doors, deafening roars and explosions could be faintly heard. Hundreds of thousands of angry people had surrounded the White House, and Molotov cocktails rained down on the South Lawn.

"Down with the incompetent government! We need to eat! We need to live!"

The protests pierced through the concrete, which was more than ten meters thick, like sharp knives, stabbing into the nerves of everyone inside the bunker.

The US president was curled up on the sofa in the corner, trembling like a leaf.

His expensive red tie was nowhere to be found, his hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze was filled with pure fear.

"Where's the army?! Where are the National Guard?!"

The president jumped up, grabbed the Secretary of Defense by the collar, and roared hysterically, "I order them to open fire immediately! Suppress those thugs! Protect the White House!"

The defense minister looked ashen; he forcefully pried the president's hand away, his voice terribly dry.

"Mr. President, the military... is refusing to carry out orders."

"Refuse?!" The president's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "They dare to disobey orders?!"

"The soldiers haven't received their purchasing power for three months. Among the protesters outside are their parents, wives, and children!"

The Secretary of Defense closed his eyes in anguish, his voice filled with deep despair: "General Miller just sent a telegram in plain text. He says that if you force your soldiers to fire on civilians again, they will turn their guns on this underground bunker and blow it up!"

boom!

The president's legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground in despair.

It's over. It's all over.

Having lost its access to global resources and its technological and energy dominance, this once invincible superpower is so fragile that it cannot even last a few months.

"Where are our allies? Britain? France? Japan?"

The president, like a drowning man desperately grasping at a last straw, cried, "Get them to help us! Now!"

"They cut off our hotline three days ago."

The CIA director sneered from the side, his laughter filled with a desolate mockery.

"They're lining up outside the state guesthouse in Beijing, begging Shen Jinghong to give them more helium-3 energy quotas. Who cares about our sinking ship?"

The lights on top of the bunker suddenly flickered violently, followed by a muffled bang. The first line of defense had clearly been breached by the mob.

The president stared in despair at the red secure telephone on his desk.

That's the highest-level hotline that connects directly to Beijing.

It was also a line of humiliation that he swore he would never touch again in his life.

But now, that's the only rope that can save his life.

His hands trembled as if he were moving a mountain, and he struggled to pick up the receiver.

The call was connected.

From the other end of the line came a leisurely, crisp sound of porcelain cups clinking together.

The president swallowed hard, completely abandoning all dignity befitting a leader of a superpower. He hunched over, speaking into the microphone in an extremely humble tone, almost choked with sobs:

"Director Shen... please, please save us."