**This story is based on true events, and might eventually occur**
It's 10 a.m. on a day that should be like any other day. Rusty Shackleford sits in his DXRacer desk chair, ready to begin his shift at Jams for Money. He types in his login and is soon greeted by the soothing music of The Sims Online's city overview.
Rusty sighs. It's a sound he enjoys and a game he enjoys even more. His property has enjoyed its weeklong tenure as the number one ranked money lot in the game, and its placement fills him with pride.
But today, a remarkable change has occurred. He navigates his way to the ranking list and scans the window for his property.
It is ranked number two.
A new property, "GrassJam," has taken the top spot.
He jumps from his chair-his mouth agape. He begins to pace about the room.
GrassJam? I've never seen this place in my life. How could it already be number one?
He notices he is sweating profusely and his shirt is drenched. He removes it and puts on another.
He sits back in his chair, attempting to compose himself.
I might as well check the place out.
Rusty joins the lot and is awestruck by its beauty. An ivory-coated mansion meets his eyeline, and he can't help but follow the path into its courtyard. There he finds twenty-three men working, each at their own jam station, separated only by finely-trimmed hedges.
Wow, Jams for Money looks nothing like this masterpiece.
He notices he has sweat through another shirt. He removes this one as well, and puts on another.
Oh, man. I'm almost out of shirts.
He looks back to his computer screen. Two bears are making out beside him.
Wow, those two are so in love. I'll never experience a connection as strong as theirs.
He has sweat through yet another shirt. He takes it off, only to find he has no shirts left.
I guess I have stay shirtless.
A series of loud thumps sound from the front door. Before Rusty can think, the door swings open-struck by the large boot of a masked FBI agent.
"Rusty Shackleford," he says. "We know about Jams for Money. We know it's a money laundering scheme for the Fratelli crime family. And we also know you're guilty of fat shaming, which is even worse! You're under arrest."
"No!" he yells. "Don't arrest me! Arrest the guys from GrassJam! They're clearly cheating somehow!"
The agent laughs. "Don't you get it?" He reaches up to his mask and removes it. It is Charl, the owner of GrassJam! "The grassmen do NOT cheat, we represent all that is good in this world. It's scumbags like you who try and game the system who rot in jail!"
"No!" Rusty says. "I'll shut down Jams for Money! I'll join the grassmen!"
"Ha, you think anyone can just join? You're chosen, kid. Don't worry, we won't lock you up right away, we'll let Narasan decide what to do with you. Good luck, she's not merciful. And put a goddamn shirt on."
Charl slaps the handcuffs around Rusty's wrists.
A week later, he receives his sentence: life in GrassJail.
GrassJam occupies the number one slot for five hundred years, until it is finally dethroned by GrassJam 2—another Grassmen Property.