Martin spent his last day on Earth at war with his inbox. He arrived early for his ‘meeting in the park’, taking the extra time to clear out the 300+ emails he had gotten since this morning. There was really no reason for him to do this now, but like most of us he was never able to shake the thrill of having ‘the conversation’ pop into his homepage. One mail in particular caught his eye, an offer for Coltrane’s first gold record at just the right price (since losing a bid on a eBay last year, they were always just the right price), but it would be ridiculous to buy this or anything online. He saved the email anyway.
When the man sat down at the table, Martin was down to the last fifty or so messages. The man wore a black fedora and trench-coat, not to hide his persons from his former employers, but to hide his geekiness from potential clients. It didn’t work. He looked Martin up and down, then eyed the laptop rested on his knees.
“Shut it
off.”,
the man
said, adding, “now!”“Shut it off.”, the man said, adding, “now!”
Martin did so, shocking the tiny machine which hadn’t been turned off in a few months. When this was done, the man relaxed (slightly).
“So…” he said, removing a tiny notebook from his trench-coat, “yeah, I can do it. Twenty thousand.”
“And that covers everything?”, Martin asked, still not sure how it was possible.
“Yeah, everything.”
“Because I, she, really wants to know that our video won’t be–”
“Everything. Twenty thousand and you won’t exist anymore, at-least not to anything that can chart existence.”
“Okay”, Martin said and began opening his computer back up.
“Not. On. That.”, the main said, sighing impatiently.
“Sorry”, Martin instead took out his checkbook. He smiled while writing the check, thinking that this was just a tiny fraction of what Google would pay to know who the man was. He signed it and handed it over. The man quickly stuffed it into his trench-coat.
“It’ll happen tomorrow around 8:00am”, the man said, writing down a few notes. He then flipped the notebook towards Martin. “Is that the proper spelling of your name? Is that how your going to write it from now on, caps and everything?”
“Yeah”, Martin laughed (his name being Martin Smith). But the man was not amused and took a few more notes.
“Is there anything else I need to know about, any stalkers or fans, ever put in a wrong credit card number or wrote a nasty comment on a blog?”, the man asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No.”
“Okay. So, tomorrow at eight. Stay off the computer until then. After that, email is fine, but no more networks. Nothing with a database. If you make a mistake, and you probably will, come back to me and I’ll fix it, depending on the damage, for around ten-thousand.”, the man said, already getting up from his seat.
“Great. But can I go to the library or something and finish checking my–”
“Stay off the Internet until eight!” the man barked, sighing once more before he walked away.
Martin was alone again. He opened his computer back up, making sure it was offline. His inbox, with its fifty emails, still sat before him, though not live, he could re-read the one email that had been saved. Fifty dollars for Coltrane’s first gold record was actually a really killer price. The subject called it a ‘One Time Offer‘. So true, he thought, tomorrow they’ll have no idea where to send it or what card to charge. And, with this practical thought of efficiency, he turned the Internet back on for just a moment.
