by Mars Dorian
Toughy dee tough.
Bam leaned back into the hard pillow of his hospital bed. Looked up at the ceiling. Daydreamed about being back on the street for the fans. Bam lost himself in the daydream and forgot about the doc still standing in the room.
“Ah, one last thing.”
The doc turned around in the doorframe.
“How would you like to pay?”
The dreaded question. It had to come up, sooner or later. But Bam saved up some credits. He moved back into the sitting position and watched the doc with his eyebrows raised.
“According to your online profile, you’re not insured. So, do you prefer to pay in cash, Bitcoins or CreditDirect?”
“I go with CreditDirect. Just send me the invoice and the beneficiary’s address.”
The doc nodded, took out a physical letter and pushed it into Bam’s hand.
“I have printed it out just in case you preferred cash.”
Bam opened it up and slid the letter out the envelope. People still used those? How quaint. He folded the letter open and scanned the text. Lots of courtesy blah blah and the number on the bottom. If Bam wasn’t hooked to the machines, he’d fall down. The bill hurt almost as much as the drone crash.
249,000 credits.
12
It took Bam a handful of seconds to find his voice, but when he did, he said,
“249,000 credits?”
That was two hundred and forty-nine thousand. That was at least two hundred thousand too much. Bam’s hand shivered, and the letter with it.
“For a bit of nanomed and one day at the hospital?”
The doc cleared his throat.
“First of all, it’s not one day, but three. And second of all, we went through a six hour surgery.”
“Surgery?”
“Check your stomach,” the doc said.
Bam pulled up his ugly-green patient shirt and touched his tummy. Felt three bumpy lines covering his abs. A crust layer similar to burned pizza.
“What the hell?”
The doc smiled and fumbled with his glasses.
“Don’t worry, the scar will heal away. Give it a week and your abs will be as impeccable as before.”
He smiled.
“You can be glad you live in times like these.”
Bam swallowed, repeated the sentence in his mind. Six hours of surgery, and he couldn’t remember a minute. Couldn’t remember anything but the girl on the street smiling at him when he blacked out.
“How am I supposed to pay for this? I’m not a millionaire.”
He crumpled the bill and tossed it away.
“I didn’t call the ambulance. I didn’t ask for this.”
The doc’s smile vanished.
“Listen, I know this comes at a shock, but if it wasn’t for the surgery and the nanomed, you’d be dead now. Six feet under, once and for all. Surely, that wouldn’t be a pleasant alternative.”
Bam sighed. The doc continued.
“Plus it’s hard to ask for permission if you’re unconscious and bleeding a red river on the ground.”
Bam frowned, but the doc was right. He couldn’t blame him for doing his job. And a dead Bam wasn’t of use to anyone.
“Sorry, doc, the last months haven’t been easy.”
The doc nodded, sat down next to him on the bed, giving a father-type pat on the shoulder.
“Listen, you’ll have at least a month to pay, maybe even two extra weeks if you make a compelling case. And didn’t you say you use the Internet for your career? Kids nowadays make millions on the web. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Yeah, right. Let’s jumpstart the Internet and make it spit out a few hundred thousand. Click, and you shall receive.
Bam wished.
“You’re damn optimistic, doc,” he said, and fell back into his hard pillow. The doc waved goodbye and left the room. Everything was silent again, except for the machines humming in the background. The sweet mechanical noise of the life support system. Bam closed his eyes and let his mind wander around the one and only question.
How in the world was he going to get two hundred and fifty thousand credits?
He didn’t know, but he did need to relax. Every cell in his body shouted, go to sleep, buddy. Take a quiet one, relax. Except he couldn’t. His mind churned on. And on. And on.
Bam turned around in his hospital bed and mind-searched for solutions to his monetary predicament. Even if he left the hospital a week later, he’d need at least two weeks to set up another stunt to make the money he needed. And that still wouldn’t attract a quarter million credits unless he crashed into the International Space Station. Damn. He could ask his fans to donate money, people did it all the time. But no, that’s not the kind of person he was. Bam didn’t beg, he earned it. Leave the pleading to all the losers that only take but never give, he said to himself. He was going to earn his money himself, somehow.
So, the question remained. How in the world was he going to gather the sick sum of 249,000 credits?
There’s only one place to find out. Bam accessed the almighty one, the holy web. Checked his network and asked for solutions. In a matter of seconds, a surge of comments appeared.
Bucking_Fastard wrote.
“Crash into a space ship. I’ve heard spacesuits & spaceflights are really affordable now. Maybe you can even get a sponsor, like that one dude who jumped from the capsule and broke a record or something. You will get lots of views and money.”
Bam replied.
“Thanx, Bucking_Fastard, but I’m looking for something more earth-based. Space radiation makes me dizzy.”
YourMomLastNight wrote.
“Suck someone dix. If you get 100 credits for day, and suck 100 dix, you make like 1000 credits for a whole day.”
Bam replied YourMomLastNight.
“Actually 100 times 100 is $10,000, but I appreciate your bad grammar.”
LucyLiberty wrote.
“I’m sorry for you. Darn, that stupid drone. It’s worse enough they are everywhere, but now they crash into us? Bad bad. Anyways, I wish you all the best. I only have a hundred credits or so, but I can send it to you if it helps.”
Bam replied LucyLiberty.
“Thanks Lucy, ‘appreciate the gesture. But I think I find a way without snapping money from my fans ;)”
LucyLiberty replied.
“BTW — Bam, have you checked out Roman Stax’ announcement?
The Blogbuster event? It’s trending on all channels now. I’m not sure you’re into that kind of stuff, but boy, check the prize money. It’s sicko.”
Bam read her comment twice.
“What the heck is the Blogbuster?”
13
Violet Gear lost her breath, almost. She looked at the sum again, moved her finger along the ginormous number to make sure she got it right. But no matter how many times she reread the digits, the same number popped up.
Stax Media, Head of Online Content, initially for one year, just shy of a million credits annual salary. One million freaking credits. And the guy was looking for popular video bloggers, just like her. Exactly like her.
Coincidence?
Au contraire.
Violet jolted from her couch, called for her assistant. So loud, even Mrs. Marbles bolted off and took cover. Meow meow.
“Why in the world would they offer you so much money for winning such a stupid online show?
X entered the living room with a soy milk cookie in his hand. He looked half-awake, but then again, he always did.
“The guy’s a multi-millionaire. It’s probably just pocket money for him. Besides, he claims it’s going to be the grandest online show the world has ever seen. If you make bold statements, you have to back them up. A million credit position sounds like a compelling start.”
“Slicko,” Violet said.
She sank back into her couch pillows and thought, with that kind of money, she could pay off the models who sued her and still have enough credits for a new collection. H
eck, she’d have enough money to fund a global techwear label and create the most advanced clothes known to humanity. At least. But did she want to work for the ‘man’? Especially someone like Roman Stax?
“It can’t be that simple,” she said to X.
It never was and never will be. Her experience proved it again and again. X shrugged, looked over her shoulder to her browser’s menu and moved his index finger towards the ‘application’ section.
“Before you go all fire about it, check out the show’s requirements. They are special to say the least.”
Violet sighed. It was one of these dopey online shows where dopey participants did dopey things. But when she watched the promo video on the application menu, her heart dropped into her 3D printed nanofiber jeans. The requirements were not special. They were insane.
“Think you can be the next super video blogging megastar with billions of views and millions of credits? Prove it to the planet. But first, prove it to us. We only accept eight video bloggers with a track record of remarkability.”
Violet scanned over the blahblah sections and headed straight for the bullet-listed requirements.
“You must have an existing online subscriber base of at least five million fans.”
Next.
“You must spend every single second of your life promoting the Blogbuster up until the time of the event. This will only last for two to three weeks.”
And last but not least.
“Limitation of liability. The Blogbuster brand is not liable for any direct, indirect, incidental, special, consequential or exemplary damages, including but not limited to physical damages or the loss of life.”
Reading the requirements turned Violet’s stomach inside out. X peeked over her shoulder and smiled.
“I guess one million credits don’t come easy.”
Violet moaned, Stax’ offer was way too good to be true. Even though she’d fulfill the five million subscriber minimum, she wondered what kind of show included the risk of dying. But maybe it was just a terms of conditions jargon, something you had to write if you didn’t want to get sued. It happened all too often nowadays, heck, it just happened to her. But odd contract lingo aside, what were the chances of getting accepted? In this day and age, she knew thousands of vloggers with a five million strong subscriber base, and the Blogbuster event makers were only looking for eight people. Merde. Violet buried her face into her folded arms. The last twenty-four hours were a hovercoaster ride of good/bad emotions. And it didn’t stop there. A beep sounded. It was a new message from the fired model, and her lawyer with the grim profile pic. Violet’s eyes scanned down the message where under the jargon, she deciphered the phone number. Except it wasn’t a phone number, it was the sum they asked for as compensation. Those bastards, how dare they. Violet deleted the message and splashed back in her pity lake. It was tough being a misunderstood fashion genius. But injustice aside, she needed to get some credits rolling in quick. Or else she could kiss her freedom and fashion career goodbye. So she put the Blogbuster site back on the menu and stared at the homepage. Her finger hovered over the apply button and hummed.
“Ah, what the hex.”
She clicked on the application button and filled out the online forms.
No harm in trying, right?
14
Bam checked out the personal video message on the official Blogbuster site featuring Mr. Roman Stax himself. He clicked on the link and saw a guy with sugar-white teeth, and his thick, jet-black combed hair. Not to mention his movie-material face plus a body shape women melted for.
Let’s see what the dude had to say.
“Hello there, if you clicked on this video link, you were attracted either by my impeccable looks or the Blogbuster offer, which is frankly off da hook. So, anyways. Yes, it’s true, I’m looking for an extraordinary vlogger to become my Head of Online Content. And when I say extraordinary, I mean x-traordinary. Spot the X. I’m looking for eight vloggers. So competition is tighter than…well, let’s not get dirty so soon.”
Bam sighed. The intro looked like a cheesy sales vid from the old Internet marketing days. But he kept watching, because Stax was just about to get to the good stuff.
“So, what am I looking for? You should read the requirement section on the link above for the full details, but personally, I want video bloggers with endless fire inside. I want go-getters who brim with personality and creativity. Peeps who make stuff happen instead of talking about it. The world doesn’t need another wannabe couchgrinder with zero zest. The world needs people on fire, like you.”
He aimed his finger towards the camera, meaning, he pointed towards the viewer. In this case, Bam himself.
He felt the connection. Personality? Check. Endless fire inside? Check. Bam grinned. He fulfilled all of these requirements. He would be the best candidate for the show.
But did he want to participate? Bam clicked the video away and held still. Roman Stax owned the personality of a toothpaste with excessive mint flavor, but his Blogbuster offer was too impressive. Especially when moneytime was running out.
Bam loaded up his hospital bill on his eScroll again, zoomed in closer on the six figure sum. Just black ink on white background, and yet it sent a volley of spikes through his intestines.
To Blogbuster, or not to Blogbuster, that was the question.
But with so much minus in the bank, it was a no-brainer, really. Bam moved forward and filled out the forms, sent his video links and leaned back again.
“Let’s see what happens.”
15
BBB.
Roman Stax marched into his office, threw his feet into the air and watched as they slammed onto his desk. It was made of six different kinds of exotic wood, including ebony and Carpathian elm, and a protective layer of bulletproof glass for good measure. Stax clapped his hands and watched a thirty-two inch screen descend from the ceiling.
It was good to be home.
It was good to sit on a throne.
Roman took a deeep breath and closed his eyes and heard a tiptapping noise. It was the high heel tap dance of his new assistant’s spiked heels clinking on the ground.
“Lucy is coming to me.”
She stopped next to his throne.
“You have sharp senses, sir.”
“It’s not the only thing that’s sharp now.”
Lucy sighed and readied her eScroll.
“I’ve sent out invitations to our potential participants for the Blogbuster event, sir.”
Roman opened his eyes and turned to her.
“Let’s hear them.”
She read the list, introduced five famous vloggers and their claim to fame. As she continued to talk, Roman broke her reading spree with a swift wave.
“Lucy, Lucy, darling. What are you doing?”
“But you asked for famous vloggers.”
He cleared his throat.
“Famous vloggers with an edge. I don’t want a bunch of puppies smooching each other. I want to see explosive personalities.”
She sighed.
“Can you be more specific, sir?”
He wanted to facepalm himself. Scratch that, he wanted to facekick himself. But this was important, so he took a deep breath and flicked on his teacher mode.
“Lucy, I check your vlogger selections and I see a bunch of politically correct kids that smile like cheesy models on low-cab sugar labels. Now that’s cool for the fluffybunny channel, but it’s not enough for the Blogbuster.”
He jolted from his throne and walked around his office in a shark-like circular attack pattern.
“Tell me, what’s the most exciting thing in the world?”
She squinted at him.
“Sex?”
He grinned.
“Yeah, that too. But I mean in a broader sense, metaphorically speaking.”
She shrugged.
“Contrast,” he said and clapped his hands.
“Day and night, hot and cold, communist and capitalist. It’s the e
ssence of excitement. Because when you mix two opposites, you get—”
He motioned her to finish the sentence.
“Explosions?”
“Billions of views, if you do it right.”
He walked back to his throne and pulled up a few video channels on his mighty screen.
“The web is filled with eccentric personalities. Individuals with oversized egos, asocial behavior and ambitious delusions.”
He glanced back at Lucy.
“I want those people in the Blogbuster. Give me the powder kegs who burn on both fuses.”
Lucy frowned.
“But sir, won’t that cause a lot of conflict?”
Roman sighed, but kept his blank expression. This woman couldn’t be real, could she? The facepalm wouldn’t be enough for this one.
“Lucy, I think we aren’t a good match.”
“I can handle it, Mr. Stax. I’ll just find new vloggers based on your recommendations.”
He stretched his mouth.
“No, that’s cool. It’s all covered.”
“Covered?”
“Don’t worry about it. Goodbye baby.”
She nodded and tiptoed out of the office. Roman watched her go and said,
“And Lucy?”
She turned around and shot him a nervous smile.
“Yes?”
“You’re fired.”
“What?”
“Please pack your things and leave your office in mint-condition. You get twenty-four hours.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Roman rolled his eyes. He knew it was going to end up in drama, it always did.
“Lucy, I liked you, you loved me, but frankly, the job has outgrown you. I have no need for you anymore.”
He said it without breaking his gaze from his mighty screen. Probably for the better, because here she stood, sobbing on the spot. Her whining was so loud Roman had to plug his ears and hum a melody from his childhood to drown out her cryfest. A quick press of a button and security arrived to guide the lady out, politely. Two sturdy guys with Stax Media branded armor dragged her out, closed the doors and left Roman Stax back in his favorite element, Alone-ium.