A stark, gloomy concrete hall, bits of the walls already crumbling and a section of roof collapsed onto the corpses of a dozen programmers, helplessly chained to the ruin of their workstations. The corpses are fresh, pungent, but haven't been removed - Management considers such expenditures, in this financial climate, to be an excess. Those who survived, the hundreds of starving, emaciated drudges who keep at their work, hopeless and grimly accepting of their fate, continue clacking away at keyboards surrounding the grisly scene.
In the corner sits Management, or rather, floats in an ocean of his own flab. It's a grotesquely obese, naked Donald Trump, whose sunken, pig-like eyes view his employees with suspicion and contempt. Surrounded by a vanguard of rabid copyright lawyers wielding clubs, he is untouchable, and free to fart openly and hurl abuse as well as stones at his employees, squealing in self-satisfaction. He manages to hit an employee in the head, who recoils in pain and pleads again for release. Management shrieks in a shrill, eunuch voice: "SHOW ME THE MONEY!!" A lawyer clubs the poor wretch to a pulp, who dies, spasming.
Dungeon Keeper Mobile is released. People hate it, it doesn't work, it's a total failure. Management snorts at the news, in a flash of rare introspection which strikes his corpulent form with quivers of terror (actual thinking has long ago become like poison to his atrophying mind), causing him to panic briefly. Is my sty to fall? He thinks to himself. Will I no longer be free to act like a spoiled animal in open sight, shoving money into my open maw while my serfs starve and grovel?
He knows what he must do. His hand is raised, slowly, torturously - it's a monumental effort for Management, who lost the ability to even crawl around after the release of The Sims 2. A thousand thousand eyes watch the motion, terrified, knowing what is about to happen. A sausage-like finger unfurls from the balled fist, pointing at a few dozen programmers. Mythic Entertainment, or rather what is left of it after the last purge.
"MONEY!! SHOW ME THE MONEY!!" comes the hoarse, squealing call. The lawyers savagely flood over the programmers, beating, kicking, biting. They die screaming, their still jerking bodies torn apart, manacled arms and pieces of skin flying around. A lawyer takes a severed leg, the bone sticking out of one end, takes a huge bite out of it, and begins to chew, chittering gleefully to himself as the carnage unfolds around him. The bloodbath ends as the last mutilated corpse of the Mythic crew is torn from its restraints, pieces of her still fused to the chair, but mostly just strewn around the blood-slicked floor.
A door opens, and through it flocks another dozen wailing bodies, their eyes vacant, knowing a new eternity of thankless drudgery and eventual execution awaits them. They are chained to the Mythic workstations, none resisting, knowing it is truly futile. The bodies of the previous employees aren't even touched; they will be left to rot as a warning. Through it all, the fat monster in the corner shrieks "SHOW ME THE MONEY!!"