The Prince Who Stored Too Much Oil

I can’t say it came from the Twilight Zone without saying it came from the Twilight Zone but it sounds like it’s from the Twilight Zone but it didn’t 

https://www.hoopladigital.com.au/audiobook/the-future-swarm-peter-liam/19509840Can the world be saved from climate disaster,  stagnation and authoritarianism this feasible cli fi fiction says yes it can be done with current and near future tech listen free with your library card or find it on your preferred podcast or reading source, We Will Work Until We No Longer Have To Work

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:21

The Prince Who Stored Too Much Oil. Once upon a time, in the shining Techno-Kingdom of Neo-Cairo, Prince Anton had a dream. In it, King Joseph the Wise, legendary interpreter of pharaohs and weather apps, appeared in a swirl of pixelated light and proclaimed, Store up oil, young prince, for in the year 2075, there shall come a famine like no other. Prince Anton woke up drenched in sweat and self-importance. The very next day, he ordered the royal treasurers to convert everything gold, art, even the royal palace, into crude oil barrels. He built vast golden silos, stretching from horizon to horizon, filled with the dark, gooey treasure. In 2075, he told anyone who'd listen, People will kiss my oily feet for saving them. Fast forward 50 years, in coastal Queensland, Baza McAllister ran Bazaar's Seaweed Biodiesel and Snackery, a thriving business that provided everything from petrol-free power to oddly delicious seaweed jerky. Australia had become the global hub of green fuel. Algae farms shimmered across the oceans, and the only oil left in use was for museum exhibits and hipster moustache whacks. When Prince Anton's great-great-grandson, King Chadwick 9, proudly unveiled the Royal Emergency Oil Reserve in 2075. Expecting adoration and applause, he was instead greeted with environmental inspectors, protesters holding no to goop, signs, and one very disappointed accountant. It turned out oil was now classed as hazardous waste. The kingdom was ordered to pay Australia to take it off their hands. Baza, ever the entrepreneur, accepted the job, on the condition he could use the barrels as authentic rustic decor for his new seaweed burger franchise. By the time the last drop of oil was carted off, King Chadwick had mortgaged three palaces and pawned the Royal Hovakar collection. He sighed, gazing out at the empty fields where the golden silos once stood. Grandpa Anton's dream royally screwed us, he muttered. A news drone buzzed overhead, capturing Baza's delivery truck hauling the last barrels away. On the back, someone had scrawled in biopaint. Thanks for the free storage, your majesty.