It was getting dark. Nigel’s solar panel finally died like another Solana rug pull. Kevin looked at the sky, then at his wet Red Bull box and said:

“Bro, can I crash at your place tonight? Some dude with a Tesco bag on his head took my spot under the bridge and even brought a dog…”

Nigel sighed like he was selling his last ETH for $12:

“Come in, but don’t fart too much. My tent already smells like a -95% correction.”

Kevin happily crawled inside. The tent was so tiny they were lying almost nose to nose, like two true degens in a short squeeze.

At first it was almost bearable. They lay there dreaming:

“Imagine,” Nigel whispered, “if BTC hits 150k tomorrow, we’ll buy new tents… and socks without holes.”

“And I’ll even brush my teeth,” Kevin added dreamily.

But then it began.

Kevin had eaten expired sauerkraut he found behind the Waitrose dumpster for dinner. Half an hour later the tent started filling with a smell that could only be described as a dead skunk drowned in a protein shake.

“Kevin… not again?” Nigel groaned, pinching his nose with his holey glove.

“It’s not me! It’s the bull market!” Kevin declared proudly. “Smell that? That’s the smell of green candles!”

He rolled over, and at that exact moment his disgusting socks — which he had taken off and hung to dry right above Nigel’s head — started dripping condensate… and something else.

The stench was so strong that even the Thames outside seemed to move a few meters away.

Nigel coughed violently:

“Jesus Christ, Kevin, your socks smell worse than my portfolio in May 2022! Take them down, they’re literally hanging over my face!”

“Can’t,” Kevin replied seriously. “They’re in a bull run right now. If I take them off, the price will crash. Let them dry. It’s an investment.”

An hour later the tent felt like a closed mining farm after a power outage. The air was thick, green, and sticky. Kevin was snoring peacefully while Nigel lay with his eyes wide open, questioning every life choice.

Suddenly Kevin let out a long, melodic fart in his sleep — almost like the sound when BTC breaks a new all-time high.

Nigel whispered into the darkness:

“There it is… the real bull run…”

Kevin woke up for a second, sniffed the air with satisfaction and said:

“Mmm… smells like 2021. Good thing we’re still HODLing.”

Then he fell back asleep, while Nigel continued staring at the holey tent ceiling, thinking that even hell probably smelled better than this.