Eleven websites for businesses that don't exist.

The part worth opening it for

A dispatch strip that reads the clock in Los Angeles: open, and it's a call button; shut, and the same button becomes a text, because nobody answers a phone at 9pm and pretending otherwise costs you the job.

The part worth opening it for

A dimensioned drawing of a face with ten numbered zones, each publishing the price, the dose, how long it lasts, the real downtime, what it costs to undo — and what the practice won't do to that part of a face.

The part worth opening it for

A live menu with two prices on every line: what it costs at the counter, and what the same thing costs on the delivery apps. The chorizo grind counts down through the day and then strikes through with the hour it sold out — and a skeleton in a hat walks across the page while it does.

The part worth opening it for

A bar number that resolves. Tap #000000 in the footer and it opens the State Bar of California's own licensee page for number 0, where the regulator itself tells you nobody is there. On a real firm's site that link returns a licence status, an admission date and every public discipline record — the one check worth running before you hire anyone, and almost no firm invites it.

The part worth opening it for

An insurance estimator: pick what your mouth needs and what your plan looks like, and watch the deductible, the percentages and the annual ceiling land on an exact number — with the procedure code on every line.

The part worth opening it for

The receipt before you order: five steps, every price on the button itself, the free things printed at $0.00, and the total landing with Fullerton's actual sales tax, to the cent.

The part worth opening it for

The crossing planner: pick a boat and a trip, and the itinerary computes from distance ÷ cruise speed while the ledger prints every line the dock will ever ask of you — including the gratuity nobody warns you about.

The part worth opening it for

The build ledger: size × a printed finish band × a printed site factor, landing as an honest range — with the design-review months every builder's timeline omits on their own line.

The part worth opening it for

The quote that prints itself: pick an aircraft and a destination and it computes the block time from the great-circle distance, adds the two-hour minimum, the 7.5% excise tax, the per-head segment fee, landing and handling — and checks your departure against John Wayne's real night limits, on the Los Angeles clock.

The part worth opening it for

The pink box: fill it from the case and the receipt prints itself — the singles, the dozen rule stated as arithmetic, and the California sales-tax line that reads $0.00 to go and 7.75% at a table, because cold bakery goods sold to go are exempt. The big-order page runs that same receipt at office scale, and a third page dates the pink box itself. Cutout donuts levitate, the builder donut spins with your scroll, and adding throws sprinkles.

The part worth opening it for

The ledger: pick what you pour now — oat, almond or soy, the milks this buyer actually chooses between — and it costs your real cart against their published prices, per glass and per gram of protein, and states who wins each in the same voice whichever way it falls. Dairy gets one honest line of fine print: it's cheaper, and this page is for people who've already left it.