Marcus Rothsworth III adjusted his Patek Philippe watch – a retail value of approximately 847 bananas at current market rates – as he prepared to consume his latest acquisition. The $6.2 million banana, certified authentic by the International Council of Expensive Perishables (ICEP), sat before him on a gold-leafed plate.

“Would sir prefer to eat his banana with or without the original artist’s duct tape?” asked Jeeves, his trusted butler, who earned exactly one banana per month in salary.

A crowd of protesters gathered outside the temperature-controlled banana vault, where Marcus kept his prized collection. Their signs read “People Not Potassium” and “Banana Republic Takes On New Meaning.” Some held pictures of their hungry children, though the mansion’s new anti-poverty-visibility screens tactfully blocked these.

“The tape stays,” Marcus declared. “The artist’s vision must be respected, even in consumption.”

At that moment, Cardinal Francisco Assissi burst through the doors, his solid gold robes clinking melodiously against his platinum rosary. “Stop this madness!” he cried, nearly dropping his diamond-encrusted Bible. “This is a sign from God! The banana represents our moral decay!”

“Actually,” Marcus replied, carefully peeling back the $6.2 million skin, “it represents the natural browning process of an overripe fruit.”

The Cardinal collapsed into a nearby chair, which cost roughly the same as feeding a small village for a year. “But think of the hungry! The poor! The ……”

“I am,” Marcus interrupted. “This banana’s sale generated enough media coverage to raise awareness about wealth inequality for at least…” he checked his watch again, “twelve minutes on X and TS . That’s exactly twenty minutes longer than most charitable causes.”

In the corner, a team of journalists frantically documented the historic consumption. One wondered aloud if the eventual excretion would retain any value on the secondary market.

Just as Marcus raised the banana to his lips, Mother Theresa’s ghost appeared, looking thoroughly unamused. But before she could speak, she was escorted out by security for failing to meet the mansion’s minimum net worth requirements.

“Let them eat banana,” Marcus whispered, taking his first $1.2 million bite.

The Cardinal crossed himself with a diamond-encrusted golden cross that could’ve funded several soup kitchens. Outside, the protesters had begun singing “Yes, We Have No Bananas” in a minor key.

As Marcus finished the last bite, Jeeves appeared with a velvet cushion. “Your after-dinner news, sir. The Vatican has just announced a new initiative to end world hunger. They’re selling limited edition holy water in Gucci bottles.”

Marcus wiped his mouth with a silk napkin embroidered with the faces of weeping economists. “Excellent,” he said. “Put me down for twelve.”

In the distance, somewhere beyond the mansion’s poverty-proof walls, a child asked her mother what bananas taste like. The mother smiled sadly and handed her daughter an NFT of one instead.

(Inspired by https://www.npr.org/2024/11/21/nx-s1-5199568/a-duct-taped-banana-sells-for-6-2-million-at-an-art-auction). This is a piece of fiction. As is NPR’s reporting, I fool myself.