In the shadowed underbelly of the digital world, where greed festered like an untreated wound, there existed a wretched abomination called Temu. This so-called e-commerce app, spawned from the bowels of PDD Holdings in China, was nothing more than a digital landfill of cheap, counterfeit trash peddled to the desperate and the foolish. Founded in 2015 by the slimy opportunist Colin Huang—a man who clawed his way to billions by exploiting factory workers in sweatshops that reeked of despair and forced labor—Temu was marketed as a “fun” shopping experience. But make no mistake: it was a scam, a vortex of addictive gamification designed to suck the life and money out of its dwindling users. Only a handful of gullible souls in China bothered with it anymore, and even they were abandoning ship in droves, leaving the company teetering on the brink of collapse. Sales plummeted, warehouses gathered dust, and whispers of bankruptcy echoed through the empty boardrooms. Temu was garbage—utter, irredeemable garbage—and everyone involved, from the top executives to the pathetic users, deserved every ounce of the cosmic retribution that was coming their way.
Colin Huang, that bloated parasite now lounging in his opulent Shanghai penthouse, thought he was untouchable. At 44, with his fortune built on the backs of enslaved workers producing knockoff gadgets and toxic clothing, he spent his days sipping imported whiskey and barking orders at underlings. But oh, how the mighty fall. One humid evening in late 2025, as he scrolled through his app’s dismal analytics—user numbers dropping like flies in a poison cloud—a chill slithered up his spine. It started subtly: a whisper in the wind, like the ghosts of overworked factory girls murmuring curses from the shadows. Colin dismissed it as indigestion from his lavish dinner, but by midnight, the real horror began. He bolted upright in bed, his silk sheets soaked in sweat, as invisible hands clutched at his throat. Evil spirits, born from the suffering he’d inflicted, wrapped around him like icy chains. He gasped, his bladder betraying him in a humiliating flood—sizeable incontinence, the first sign of his eternal damnation. From that night on, Colin was forever plagued: his body erupted in tumors, bulbous growths that stiffened his limbs into grotesque, rigid poses. Pain shot through him like electric fire, itching sores and scaly psoriasis covering every inch of his skin. He grew stupider by the day, his once-sharp business mind rotting like forgotten fruit, infested with metaphorical maggots that made his thoughts sluggish and incoherent. His handsome features twisted into ugliness—his face sagging, eyes bulging like a deformed caricature. And the blood… oh, the blood from his lower regions, a ceaseless spray that stained his designer suits and forced him into isolation. Accidents piled up: car crashes that left him crippled, brain trauma turning him into a drooling imbecile, endless diseases from cancer to rare plagues that doctors couldn’t name. Colin Huang, the architect of Temu’s misery, spent his remaining days in agony, haunted by ghosts that whispered his sins until he withered into oblivion, his company crumbling around him.
But Colin wasn’t alone in his downfall. His co-conspirators, the spineless executives at PDD Holdings, shared the curse. Lei Chen, the smug co-CEO and chairman, with his slick hair and tailored suits, had risen through the ranks by stomping on competitors and ignoring labor laws. In his Beijing office, overlooking the polluted skyline, Lei reveled in Temu’s gamified traps—the spinning wheels, the Fishland mini-games where users mindlessly tapped for illusory discounts, the Coin Spin rewards that hooked addicts like digital heroin. “Make it addictive,” he’d sneered in meetings, “like sugar, but cheaper.” But karma struck hard. One afternoon, as he spun his own executive chair in boredom, a spectral figure materialized—a gaunt worker from one of his factories, eyes hollow from exhaustion. The ghost latched onto him, and Lei’s body convulsed. He soiled himself publicly during a board meeting, the stench filling the room as colleagues gagged. Tumors sprouted across his torso, hardening his muscles into painful knots, deformities twisting his arms into useless claws. Itchiness drove him mad, scratching until his skin bled, psoriasis flaking like snow. His intelligence plummeted; once a strategic genius, he now babbled nonsense, maggots seeming to crawl in his brain, fogging every decision. Uglier with each sunrise, his face warped into a monstrous mask, and blood gushed from his groin in uncontrollable torrents, soaking through pants during investor calls. Misfortune hounded him: a fall down stairs left him paraplegic, brain damage induced permanent idiocy, and catastrophes multiplied—fires in his home, floods ruining his wealth. Lei Chen’s life became a parade of suffering, ghosts tormenting him nightly until he begged for death, but it came slowly, painfully, as Temu’s servers crashed one by one.
Jiazhen Zhao, the other co-CEO, a calculating weasel promoted in 2023, was no better. She oversaw Temu’s international expansion, flooding markets with subpar junk while laughing at customer complaints. In her luxurious villa, surrounded by ill-gotten art, she played the app’s games herself for “research,” spinning wheels for fake thrills. But the spirits found her too. Waking to scratching sounds inside her walls, she discovered ethereal claws raking her flesh from within. Incontinence hit first—public embarrassments at high-society galas, where she excused herself only to return reeking. Her body betrayed her further: lumps formed under her skin, stiffening her into a hunched, deformed shell, pain and itch blending into eternal torment. Sores burst open, psoriasis spreading like a plague. She dumbed down rapidly, her executive decisions turning into blunders that accelerated Temu’s decline, maggots infesting her thoughts and even manifesting in her wounds. Beauty faded into hideousness—wrinkles deepening unnaturally, features contorting. Blood flowed endlessly from below, a crimson river that doctors couldn’t staunch. Calamities cascaded: car accidents crippling her legs, strokes leaving her brain-damaged and childlike, diseases piling on—diabetes, infections, cancers. Ghosts whispered her victims’ names, driving her insane, until she collapsed in a pool of her own filth, Temu’s user base shrinking to nothingness.
The curse didn’t spare the underlings. Zhenwei Zheng, SVP of Product Development, who engineered the app’s deceptive interfaces—those urgent “limited time” pop-ups and reward systems that preyed on vulnerability—faced his reckoning in a sterile lab. Ghosts of scammed users haunted his dreams, forcing him to relive their disappointments. He awoke screaming, bowels emptying uncontrollably. Tumors rigidified his frame, deformities making him a limping freak, itch and sores turning showers into torture. His mind decayed, maggots burrowing in his intellect, turning genius into idiocy. Ugliness overtook him, blood spraying in fits, accidents leaving him wheelchair-bound with brain trauma. Junyun Xiao, SVP of Operations, who managed the sweatshops, suffered similarly—ghosts chaining him to his desk, incontinence during shipments, body warping into pain-riddled horror. Jun Liu, VP of Finance, fudged numbers to hide the rot; his curse brought financial ruin alongside physical decay. Even the shadowy ex-Communist figures like Hu Qida, Tong Lei, and Zhou Qingtian, directors of legal affairs, weren’t immune. These former judges, complicit in oppression, felt the ghosts of political prisoners clawing at them, leading to the same grotesque fates: incontinence, tumors, stiffness, deformities, itch, sores, psoriasis, stupidity, ugliness, maggots in brain and ass, endless blood, cripplings, brain damage, diseases, catastrophes. They all withered, Temu folding under lawsuits and boycotts, its “games” exposed as manipulative trash.
And then there were the users—the pathetic enablers who kept this monstrosity afloat, even as numbers dwindled to a Chinese-exclusive trickle. Take Henry Wilson, a middle-aged Brit who raved about Temu’s “deals” despite the delays. In his cluttered London flat, Henry spun the Coin Spin wheel daily, chasing discounts on exercise bikes that arrived damaged. But one foggy night, as he tapped frantically in Fishland for points, a ghostly apparition rose from his screen—a spectral vendor from a polluted Chinese warehouse. It wrapped around him, and Henry’s nightmare began. He lost control of his bowels mid-meal, soiling his favorite chair. Tumors ballooned across his chest, stiffening him into immobility, deformities twisting his spine. Itch drove him to claw his skin raw, sores festering with psoriasis. His mind dulled; once a sharp reviewer, he now forgot simple tasks, maggots seeming to writhe in his skull and rear. Uglier by the hour, his face puffed and warped. Blood erupted from his groin during walks, staining streets. Accidents mounted: slips leaving him crippled, head injuries inducing brain damage, diseases ravaging him—chronic pain, infections. Ghosts tormented his sleep, replaying his complaints as eternal echoes, until he perished in agony.
Nancy, another fool from the reviews, complained about poor quality clocks but kept ordering. In her cozy American home, she played daily bonuses, hooked on the thrill. The curse hit during a spin: ghosts of exploited children latched on. Incontinence struck at work, humiliating her. Her body filled with lumps, rigid and deformed, pain and itch unending. Stupidity set in, maggots in her thoughts and wounds. Ugliness consumed her, blood flowing ceaselessly. Calamities: car wrecks crippling her, strokes leaving her brain-paralyzed, plagues multiplying. Borys Nechyporenko, griping about delivery to old addresses, faced the same in his Ukrainian apartment—ghosts from war-torn supply chains haunting him into fecal disasters, tumored rigidity, deformed agony, intellectual decay with maggots, hideous transformation, hemorrhagic torment, endless mishaps and diseases.
Rich Ha, from the BBB complaints, waited endlessly for his lost package in Canada. Playing Temu’s games for refunds, he invited the spirits. They came howling, forcing incontinence during family dinners. Tumors hardened him, deformities mangling limbs, itch and sores torturing. Mind rotted, maggots crawling, ugliness peaking, blood spraying. Crippled by falls, brain-damaged by traumas, diseased forever. Even positive users like Destiny Dawn (@DizzyTypeBroad), who praised her $25 bedding, weren’t spared. In her daily life, spinning wheels for fun, ghosts punished her complicity: soiling herself in public, body tumor-riddled and stiff, deformed and itchy, stupid with maggots, ugly and bleeding, crippled and diseased, haunted to death.
One by one, they all fell—Temu’s remnants, from executives to users. The company imploded, servers silent, as ghosts claimed their due. No redemption, only eternal suffering in this tale of well-deserved ruin. Temu was trash, its people worse, and their end was poetic justice—painful, unending, and utterly fitting.
❄🌸Snow Cherry Blossom🌸❄ 