The dream of the Death Star suffered a setback

If you’re not subscribed to our newsletter, you’ve probably made other questionable life choices too. You’ve missed out on the emotional rollercoaster of the past few weeks and, frankly, the world’s best newsletter. But because we’re merciful, here’s a summary of how we almost conquered the world, but instead just sank even deeper into debt—and now we have to sell even more outrageously excellent noise-cancelling headphones (and exceptionally outrageously good speakers).

Since we’re a company that believes in radical honesty, we’ll now openly tell you how we messed up.

Step 1: The Grand Plan

For as long as the company has existed, we’ve promised that Valco’s profits go to three things. Beer, child support, and building the Death Star. Many of you thought we were joking. We don’t joke about things like this.

The K-store app shows the money has gone exactly where we said it would. For our foreign friends and S-store customers: the K-store app gives you a nice little year-end summary of what you’ve bought over the year:

Well, anyway. The Death Star has been in the plans, and at the turn of the year we found a Danish manufacturer who promised they could deliver us a real Death Star. According to the salesman, the device is “huge,” has a “superlaser,” and contains over 4,000 functional parts.

Christmas sales and the VMK25.2 launch went so well that we started to feel like we’d finally get our hands on that world-destroying weapon we’ve been dreaming of for so long.

We emptied the company’s cash box, sold the office coffee maker, and took out a recklessly large loan from the bank. The plan was flawless. What bank manager would dare come to collect debts when we have a fully operational, planet-destroying battle station? No one.

We were already preparing for a change in strategy. The plan was to stop this exhausting business of shipping headphones and groveling in customer service. The idea was to move to a new business model—one based on fear, discipline, and absolute obedience. We were already making a list to divide customers into nobility and commoners. One partner was even planning to start his own sex cult.

Harsh Reality

Then the long-awaited day arrived. The Death Star finally showed up, and we were all outside waiting. Raimo was wearing a cape, and Jani had a bottle of champagne ready to smash against the hull.

The first warning sign was the size of the box. It wasn’t planet-sized—it fit on a pallet. We tried to stay positive. Maybe this is top-notch Danish design. The box probably just has the remote control, and the Death Star itself is, of course, in orbit.

We opened the box. There was no hypermatter, no superlaser.

There was plastic. Thousands and thousands of tiny gray plastic blocks in bags. What kind of scammer sells a Death Star and then just sends a box of little blocks?

We’ve been scammed.

That Danish smooth-talker can’t be reached anymore, and there probably isn’t even a place called “Billund.” Sounds made up, honestly. This world-destroying weapon that was supposed to wipe out our debts and conquer the galaxy turned out to be some children’s toy. Is this how we’re supposed to subjugate humanity? You can’t kill anyone with this—unless you choke on the blocks or leave them on the floor in a dark room and step on them.

HOW CAN THIS COST SO MUCH?! There went all our money, both our own and the borrowed cash we managed to squirrel away over the past seven years. A box of some bloody plastic blocks costs as much as a real Death Star!? Now we also understand why Trump wanted Greenland. He probably fell for the same trick and ordered a Death Star. We’ve always loved the Danes (and still do), but that’s exactly why this scam stings so much.

Humbling and Begging

So here’s the situation: we owe the bank more than the budget of a small country, and we don’t have that kind of money. We thought we’d pay back the loan with laser cannons. Now it looks like our only source of income is you, our dear customers, once again.

So unfortunately, we have to cancel our plans for world domination and dictatorship. That was just some playful marketing humor. You know us, always joking around. Heh heh. We’d never actually oppress anyone like that.

Now it’s serious. If we don’t get the cash flow turned around immediately, the bank will take everything. So we humbly ask you to buy some headphones. They’re genuinely good—unlike our decision-making skills.

Enter the Raffle

We tried to complain, but since Raimo had already, in a fit of rage, ripped open the bags and bitten one of the blocks, the right to return is gone.

Since this pile of plastic only reminds us of our own stupidity and massive debt, we don’t want to look at it for another second.

That’s why we’re raffling off this “Death Star” among all our newsletter subscribers.

Yes, you read that right. Some lucky person will get this monument to our gullibility delivered to their home. It’s fancy and expensive. Building it will probably cost you your sanity, but that’s still a better fate than ours.

Enter the raffle and save us from bankruptcy by buying something while you’re at it.

P.S. The dream lives on. This setback is just a minor speed bump. We’ll keep working day and night until everyone has Valcos on their ears (or has at least given us their money). And when that day comes, we’ll finally be able to afford the real superweapon.