Holder of Detachment

In any city, in any country, sell all your earthly possessions with the sole exception of the clothes you want to wear that day and cash all the money out. Put all the money into a plastic bag and go to any train station you can get yourself to. When you get to the ticket booth, ask to see the one who calls himself "The Holder of Detachment". The worker will eye your plastic bag and ask if that is all you have. Answer with the truth, for he will know if you try to keep some for yourself or you failed to sell everything you owned.

If you did as instructed, the worker will take the money and hand you an ancient train ticket without saying another word. The ticket will note that your train departs at 3:12 a.m., so make yourself comfortable, but do not allow yourself to fall asleep. Do not talk to anyone, and fix your gaze onto the horizon from where your train is supposed to come.

As the platform is emptied of its usual late passengers, you will feel a dread cold fall onto you, chilling you to the bone while the sound of rustling steps, shattering chains, and otherworldly murmurs tempt you to look away from the horizon. After 3 a.m., it is best to give a quick glimpse to the clock every so often. If any train stops at your platform before 3:12 a.m., do not board it, or you will find yourself on a neverending and mind-shattering tour into the entrails of nameless and unfathomable horrors.

At exactly 3:12 a.m., the train you had been awaiting will arrive. It will be an old model, almost falling apart from rust and decay. Embark quickly and take a seat. The train will be totally empty. Once the doors close, you must avoid looking out the coal-blackened windows, lest your sanity be forcefully ripped from you by the unearthly sights the train will run through, leaving only an empty shell of you.

After what will feel like a lifetime, you will hear the connecting door to the car behind you open, and someone will walk slowly but purposefully toward you. Hand him your ticket without looking up to him. He will check it and write a sign on it, then, before handing it back to you, he will ask scornfully, "Are you having a pleasant trip?" You must answer, with as much conviction as you can muster, "Is all this actually worth it?"

The man will stare intently at you, studying your resolve, before answering. If he then says "Yes", disembark at the next station and claim a refund of your money. Waste it at your heart's content, because you will only have a couple days before dying a most gruesome death. If the man says "Of course not", you will have a long but extremely miserable life; death will actually seem to avoid you as you seek it desperately to put an end to your misery, until the day your weary, centuries-old body finally falls apart.

If the man says "That is up to you to find out" and hands you back the ticket, you will have passed the test. The train will soon arrive at the city or town you have always wanted to visit, and you will be free to go.

The signed ticket is Object 174 of 538. Just by showing it around, you'll be able to purchase whatever your desire that's for sale in this world. However, you will now be forever devoid of deriving delight or pleasure from anything you own.