Image Credit: Beeple

In a world parallel to our own, the rich and powerful had their own zeppelins. They liked to strut around over us mere mortals, and the zeppelin demand suddenly grew bigger.
The logical next step in their illogical minds was to make a big zeppelin city. After all, all those dinners and meetings were cumbersome, going from one zeppelin to the next.
And they needed a mall of some sorts to buy stuff. Everybody needs stuff after all, even the zillionaires. So, enterprising entrepreneurs offered them everything they wanted. They put up a mall, and a pet hotel, and a spa with the most expensive and stupid treatments of course, and restaurants from places the rich never wanted to actually visit but pretended to like the cuisine because some magazine said so, and tailors, and fur coats sewn from tiny endangered animals, and cigars rolled between the breasts of virgins.
And the Zeppelin City grew and grew, and they built and built more. Naturally, to keep things interesting, they moved it around from one place to another. The rich people’s zeppelins could follow along, and the coordinates were broadcast to the select 1% of the people.
They thought it would be a fad, since everybody knew that the rich quickly moved on from one thing to the next. But the Zeppelin City had an unexpected staying power. As the years passed, the real-estate on the frivolous city was literally sky-rocketing. The bubble had a limited space and the rich wanted their flats and their condos and their indoor pools, so it became a sort of status symbol to be able to afford a big place in the ‘bubble,’ as the low-lifes called it.
It was beyond ironic that with the same amount of money the zillionaires could have afforded entire islands and a few of the smaller nations, yet they happily gave that same mountain of money for some real estate on the bubble.
They liked showing off, you see.
They liked showing off their wealth and their beauty and their perfect health from the genetic treatments their parents made when they conceived them in vitro, and their hair and their flawless, unageing skin and their sexy bodies. For in the bubble, the weather was always nice, and its route was meticulously calculated to follow the seasons around the planet for maximum pleasure. So the rich kept spending more and more time inside the bubble, for they had everything they could ever desire, while at the same time looking down on those who were less than they. It was the perfect situation.
They lived there, they fucked there, they educated themselves there, they entertained themselves there with shows imported from all over the world. Everything one could ask for, they brought it to her inside the bubble. It was paradise, spent in longevity treatments, around people that could ‘get you’ and could understand your problems, that were also fit and pretty and sexy and ridiculously wealthy.
What was the point of stepping outside the bubble?
After a few well-orchestrated wars the hoi polloi were pissed. They sabotaged a few zeppelins, and the rich realised they were no longer safe outside their bubble in the sky. So they spent even more time inside there, in safety, in heaven. They didn’t really need to visit anyone anymore, all business could be conducted via telepresence, all transactions could be conducted from the Zeppelin City Bank, and they had people to do the gauche in-person visits after all.
Think of the germs, ew.
At some point, every single one of the rich and powerful on the planet was living inside the Zeppelin City, inside the bubble. The Gates cousins, House Kardashian, the Resurrected Jobs and the Bezos Transgendered all threw a party for the trillionaires of the planet.
It was frivolous beyond measure. The lights, the drugs, the shows, they all lasted three days and three nights.
And once the hangover hit them hard on the fourth morning, they realised the hoi polloi, the unwashed masses, their own trusted servants had cut the tethers of Zeppelin City and had left them to float towards the stratosphere, with none of their personal zeppelins in sight.

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