Also, I wrote a short story last year that a friend of mine may animate.
Check out his animations, they're awesome http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/search/author/lenkobiscuit
Also, I'll be posting more sites/blogs I read and find interesting.
Anyway, here's the short story (no apologies for length...or stealing b3ta.com memes)
This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.
Click
Click. The vid-screen flashed. Ads cycling by the roses. It reminded me of how much she hated this place. She hadn’t always hated the city. There was nothing left for her here. There was no her left for here. I craved a cigarette. I guess it was some sort of comfort. A little like breastfeeding. Perhaps it was just the ads by the grave. Taking my grief and warping it. Regurgitated back as an invitation to retail therapy.
Click. No, I had to leave here. I’d wished she’d had a better grave, perhaps if I’d had more money… no. They all had vid-screens. Even death was no escape.
I walked back through town, barely conscious of the shop fronts. Large signs and arrow windows. Vid-screens galore. An orgy of lights, expectations. No shadows existed here. Darkness was forbidden, life just one large bleached white smile. The lie she’d always hated. The lie I always hated. I’d always wanted to promise escape.
So many people had tried before. You can’t escape desire. Desire can’t escape exploitation. No escape. Click. Holiday packages from 490 creds. Click. Even that was never enough.
I wondered when I’d see her next. At least it wouldn’t be on a vid-screen. She knew where to find me. All we needed was a plan. All I needed was a plan. ACME Demolition Services. I’d seen it on an old vid-show once. A show for kids. I don’t remember the name.
Vid-screen words bounced around my head. Instinct clouded by money. Impulse mere drive to purchase. No. This couldn’t be it. There had to be more. Something you just could not market as product. No. Nothing is sacred, as the saying goes. Nothing is safe. Everything sells. Find the right buyer and you’ll profit from anything.
The right buyer needs the right product. From design through implementation, all the way down the supply chain, we need something that works. Click. Mouthwash Drops…the candy that keeps you fresh! Click. I needed something. I wondered about it for a while, standing by a vid-screen that was flashing an ad for a trashy nightspot. I remember thinking…“Can you buy inspiration?” Click. Derek’s Armoury: Guns for sale or rental.
Click. That had to be it.
Find the right product and finding the right buyer is easy.
It’s access that’s the problem. Marketing is simple. Simple doesn’t necessarily mean easy. It is expensive. Click. Corporate banking just a phone call away! Click. They spend about as much selling us stuff as we do buying it. That’s something that had always made her laugh. Irony, she called it. The way they would announce rises in profits as the same time they were laying off employees. Saying one thing and meaning the opposite. We’re doing so well. You’re fired. I never quite understood how it worked. Product. Buyer. Access. Yes, of course, access. That was it. They didn’t care about the irony or whatever else. They just wanted a middleman. Someone to broker the deals. The pimp. That’s all the hard work ever comes down to in the end. My problem was that I couldn’t have one. I couldn’t get anyone else involved. It would be too dangerous.
The city didn’t care for anybody either. Blaring light everywhere. Sometimes it made you wonder how big the generator was. Where it was. Hardly seemed enough space for a power station anywhere. Maybe it was underground, or buried beneath a bunch of vid-screens advertising something like water purification products.
Maybe it was all powered by human greed. Suppose I’ll never know. The other people I saw around the streets were not the wild-eyed masses shown by the vid-screens. It was late, and cold; but the city was never empty. Even so, nobody stood adoring the vid-screens. They all seemed to slide along, barely lifting their feet as they walked. It wasn’t hard to understand. They’d been bludgeoned into submission. Click. Billy’s Farm…Cheap Valium. Click.
Each purchase just one more in the relentless series of events they called a life. Some found solace in the things they didn’t need. Vid-screen things. Some found deep meaning. I don’t know where from, but I guess it showed there were still some souls there. Just glazed over is all. Reflecting ads back at the vid-screens through sad, wanting eyes. The vid-screens remained indifferent. If only they could be taught to be valid, contributing members of society. Fine upstanding citizens. A model community. Utopia for sale. Just need enough credits. Click. Island properties from 2mil Credits! Click. Shit.
I was wrong. There was an escape. Join the machine. Surrender and pretend to be happy. That was my perfect plan. Click. Suits for sale! 50% off! John Tailor’s Superstore! Click. Become the paradigm you seek to destroy. Not infiltration as such. Infiltration implied escape after the fact, and like I said, there is no escape. No sir, I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.
I went to see Derek and he didn’t ask many questions. It was only the money he really cared about. A simple transaction. Quick too. This may be easier than I planned, I thought to myself. After all, many people carried guns these days. It was an ordinary thing to do. “It’s for protection, officer.” No more questions necessary, no more asked. I’d picked a lightweight pistol I’d seen on a vid-screen as I walked into the place. Middle of my price range. Hundred thirty credits. Rainy day money. Too easy almost.
I already had a suit. No need to visit JT’s. I figured I wouldn’t need a badge. A legit one would be too difficult to obtain without questions. A fake one could be spotted. Too much effort anyway. Why waste any more time than you have to? The meeting would be difficult enough to organise anyway. I needed a name. Something reputable. Believable, unlike the dreams they tried to sell. Airbrushed realities. The turd polished bright enough to blind.
Carlton Matheson was the name I chose to go on the fake papers. It sounded businesslike enough. CM Corp. No. CM Industries. No. They didn’t sound right. Too pretentious I think. CM Manufacturing. That would do. A little more unassuming. Inviting fewer questions. All I needed now was a sanction meeting. The fake papers weren’t advertised on vid-screens, but you can find anything if you look in the right places. The less questions asked, the fewer answers given. Less chance of a trace. This couldn’t go wrong. It sounded legit. It looked legit. It had taken me quite a while to save up money for the papers. Worth the wait. It took three weeks. I received a letter informing me I had a business sanction meeting with the head of AdCorp. Click. Business opportunities for Bright Young Minds. Click. Maybe in a few weeks time, there’d be a few different messages on the vid-screens, I thought to myself.
Business survival was dependent on the vid-screen. An ad determines product success. No ad, no access to buyer. Ads are granted if the business idea is sanctioned. The M.D. of AdCorp has executive veto of course. No point taking the long way round. Red tape bound up proposals. That sort of stuff took months to deal with. Big ideas went straight to the top. Big ideas, big money. A big cut for the M.D. on the sly often eased the transition to being sanctioned.
I had my spiel ready. CM Manufacturing is developing a product called the Mind Mirror. A brain chip receiving signals from vid-screens. As a consequence, ads reach deeper, for longer. All anyone would have to do after that is sabotage the vid-screens and change what showed up on them. Of course, he wouldn’t be told about subliminal messaging. That wasn’t part of the business proposal.
It was all bullshit anyway. Not even AdCorp scientists had the required technology. Surely the M.D. would know that. Didn’t matter. It’s only the idea you sell anyway. The M.D. doesn’t care about anything else. Good idea? Other people start talking. Things get done. Bad idea? You may as well have your ass kicked out of the office. You are formally escorted from the premises. They may as well just throw you out of a window. Their world has little time for failure. You’re a success or you’re a rat. That’s how it is. Fail in their world and it is game over, just like the vid-halls when the kids run out of coins.
All this, and I was nervous. Why? You’d think lying would be easy. I already had product, buyer and access. Means, motive and opportunity.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“Mr. Matheson?”
“Carlton, please.”
“I prefer formality, Mr. Matheson. This is a business meeting, not a bar.”
I sat, as directed. Nice office. Plush. Different to the city. Still no shadow, but warm and bright. The light wasn’t cold anymore. The suit I had on was warm too, verging on being uncomfortable. Out in the street, the suit had felt wrong. Uncomfortable but not because of the heat. It just didn’t look right. Didn’t seem to hang the right way. A little too tight. Now it was as though the fibres had relaxed, but I was still tense. I had space to breathe. A lot of space. Almost too much. So relaxing here. I sat back and breathed deep to calm my nerves. I had almost forgotten about the gun. Cold metal on my leg. Awake. Very awake. The tension had slipped. He’d read the proposal.
“Mr. Matheson, you have some interesting ideas.”
“You think so?”“You heard what I said.”
“Worthy of a vid-screen?”
“That, Mr. Matheson, is what we’re about to discuss.”
I looked over. Yes, he was definitely worthy of the hatred coursing through me. I could see what was going to happen. I knew.
“You are planning to sabotage the vid-screens are you not, Mr. Matheson?”I felt in my pocket for the pistol.
“You’re joking sir, surely?”
“Why else would you want direct access to people’s minds?”
“You’ve read the proposal.”
“Yes. You don’t have the technology.”
Plan B. The grants, research funding. I tightened my grip on the gun.
“Mr. Matheson, we don’t have the technology. Nobody does. It’s impossible.”
Fuck it. I took the gun from my pocket.
“What use is technology? You only use it to tighten screws. To press on with your lies.”
He hadn’t seen the gun.
“Matheson. It’s not your real name, is it? These papers are fakes. Excuse me while I call security.”
“Fuck security. People are dying and you don’t care. You’re a fucking murderer.”
He’d seen the gun and he sat down. He wasn’t about to call anybody.
“Mr. Matheson, what I do is not illegal.”
The vid-screen on his desk flickered. Click. Thin Lizard Beer. Tastes wack, but at least it’s not crack, right? Click. Smokey Dokey. The cigarette of choice for nicoteenagers. Click. Big Nob. Whiskey for men with balls. Click.
“And what I do is futile but satisfying.”
Click.
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