The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Shredded plastic bags and crushed beer cans litter the dusty, arid surface of the moon's south pole, while a lone Ethereum-branded satellite, its casing smeared with what looks like engine grease, seems to be half-buried in the craters. The air's crisp, vacuum silence is disrupted by the low hum of a nearby 3D printer somehow managing to fabricate an endless supply of replica Cybertruck hubcaps. The horizon stretches out for miles, where what appears to be a mangled, rusty remains of Andrew Tate's private jet lies crashed and still smoldering, somehow engulfed in flames despite the lack of oxygen.