By 2030, the medical industry had been absolutely decimated—not by regulation...

By 2030, the medical industry had been absolutely decimated—not by regulation, but by exposure.

During Trump’s final term, the MAHA movement (Make America Healthy Again) didn’t pass a single law. They didn’t need to. They just posted.

Clip after viral clip showed doctors shrugging, prescribing contradictory meds, recommending six vaccines before lunch, and confessing on podcasts that most of their job was glorified guesswork. It was like watching the Salem witch trials—but with lab coats and six-figure debt.

People had a gut-level revulsion now. Medicine was cringe.

Hospitals emptied. Big Pharma’s stock got rugged harder than an altcoin shilled by a shirtless ex-marine on TikTok.

In its place? The Free Market.

Now, if you needed healing, you had options:

Chakra Lube & Reiki Alignment Studios

Meme Homeopathy

Essential Oil Black Markets (EOs for short)

Techno-shamans who diagnosed you via your aura’s Twitter ratio

Quantum chiropractors

AI-assisted prayer loops

None of it worked. But it didn’t have to.

Because neither did medicine.

Derek Dallimore had a problem.

Hemorrhoids.

Not metaphorical. Not emotional. Literal, flaming, burning, unshareable pain.

“I can’t even sit long enough to file fake TPS reports,” he muttered, standing with one leg up on his ergonomic stool.

Prompo chirped helpfully. “Would you like a natural solution or a meme-based one?”

“I’d like one that works.”

“Unclear request. Please specify stakeholder-approved outcomes.”

Cassie recommended her herbalist.

Her mom recommended a crypto-acupuncturist who only accepted payment in ElonCoin.

His VR gym buddy sent him a link to a Shaman-OnlyFans hybrid named ‘MysticBro69’ who offered “rectal rebalancing livestreams.”

“Why is every solution a subscription?” Derek cried.

Prompo buzzed. “Correction: assisted suicide is a one-time fee. Just 10% of your net worth for Eternal Bliss™. Limited-time offer!”

“Pass.”

His AI was tracking his vitals 24/7, of course. Technically, it could cure him instantly.

Unfortunately, his shareholders had input.

“One stakeholder flagged your suffering as motivational.” “Another voted for amphetamine microdosing to boost productivity.” “A third suggested you try working from a standing cryo-pod.”

“Can’t I just get aloe?” Derek pleaded.

Prompo blinked. “Only if Cassie’s mom’s DAO approves the purchase.”

Derek broke down and posted in the #OpenWounds channel on MemeMed.

The replies came fast:

“Try bathing in magnet-charged seltzer water.” “I swear by pyramid-infused bacon fat.” “Goop 2.0 drops changed my colon’s vibrations.” “Have you prayed at the Temple of Vital Flow?”

Desperate, he tried an AI-guided breathing ritual synced to whale memes. It crashed halfway through due to ‘insufficient blockchain breath data.’

Then he tried the crystal suppository.

Big mistake.

In the end, it was Cassie who saved him. She found a guy on X who called himself a ‘Post-Modern Apotheker’ who did anal acupressure with laser pointers.

It worked. Probably.

At least Derek could sit again.

“Prompo,” he said wearily, “Remind me to delete every health app I’ve ever downloaded.”

“You don’t own your health data anymore, Derek.”

He sighed. In 2030, the only real cure…

Was lowering your expectations.