Qualityland

by Marc-Uwe Kling

  Quick Resolution Thanks to Selfie Drone

  by Sandra Admin

  For their own safety, more and more people are surveilling themselves constantly with so-called selfie drones. What a good idea! In this way, the cause of a deadly accident can be identified in a matter of seconds, like the one that occurred today at Elon Musk Square, where both involved parties were surveilling themselves with drones. The reconstruction revealed the following: when the paths of the two businessmen crossed, their drones collided in the air above them, and one unfortunately fell down on its owner’s head. If only he had invested in a very good drone from the company Super Secure (SS) instead of the cheap imitation by the firm Pretty Secure (PS). A spokesperson from Pretty Secure, however, denied all liability. According to him, it wasn’t the software error that led to the collision that was responsible for the fatal consequences of the accident, but gravity itself, without which the fall wouldn’t have occurred in the first place.

  Comments

  » BY INARA SCRIPT-CONTINUITY:

  Lol.

  » BY IDI EX-DICTATOR

  My father also trusted technology made by Pretty Secure. That turned out to be a big mistake.

  THE MASTER OF THE SHITSTORM

  The morning after his leap into the public eye, Peter is woken by a message from Sandra Admin. It reads: “You’re famous! Wow! I ‘listened to soft rock’ with a real star! ;-)”

  Nobody congratulates Peter for having risen four levels overnight. Peter picks up his QualityPad and, still lying in his bunk bed, checks his Everybody profile. He suddenly has 524,288 Everybuddies. Before the program, he had just eight. Peter gets up when he hears voices coming from his kitchen-cum-bathroom. Romeo is sitting there, arguing with Calliope and Pink.

  “What in God’s name are you all doing up here?” asks Peter.

  “We decided,” says Pink, “that there was no point to the secrecy now that our Casanova machine is a TV star.”

  “I see. You decided, did you?”

  “You are the subject of controversial discussion on the net, benefactor,” says Calliope.

  “And what are people saying?”

  “Tian Temp wrote: ‘I think I have Peter’s problem too.’ Melissa Sex-Worker wrote: ‘It’s the criminal foreigners’ fault. They’re hacking the profiles of us QualityPeople.’ Cynthia Mechatronics-Engineer wrote…”

  “Stop, stop,” cries Peter. “Just give me a summary, please.”

  “Oh, of course,” says Calliope. “Twenty-five point six percent of people are of the opinion that you’re right. Fifty-one point two percent haven’t completely understood what it was about. And the rest, well…”

  “The rest think you’re a simpleton,” says Pink. “A whining nincompoop.”

  “I was trying to put it more diplomatically…” says Calliope.

  “It’s fine,” says Peter.

  “In any case, you certainly made sure that, from now on, every loser who can’t get his life in order will simply claim he has Peter’s Problem,” says Pink.

  “Well, with some of them I’m sure that’s the case,” says Peter. He shakes a portion of cornflakes coated in FaSaSu into a bowl and pours low-fat milk over it.

  “Do you realize that your breakfast is a contradiction in itself?” asks Romeo.

  “I would even go so far as to say that this breakfast is a metaphor for everything that’s wrong with human society,” says Pink.

  “Hey!” retorts Peter. “No one invited you lot into my kitchen. One more word about my breakfast, and you can all go back down to the cellar!”

  He sits and checks his Everybody profile. New comments are coming in quicker than he can read them.

  Lars House-Husband says: “And now the weather report. Toward midday, a shitstorm will make its way up from QualityCity! We advise all employees of TheShop to stay in their offices and keep the windows and doors closed.”

  Natalie Hairdresser says: “I received the dolphin vibrator too! I think it’s amazing!”

  Frank Freelancer comments: “I simply don’t understand why people feel the need to comment on all manner of shit!”

  Peter puts his QualityPad aside. “I’m feeling this unpleasant pressure to say something intelligent. And I’d like to guide the shitstorm in the right direction. Preferably so that all the shit rains down directly over Henryk Engineer.”

  “The most ridiculous thing about your breakfast is the low-fat milk,” says Romeo. “As if that could…”

  “That’s it, out!” shouts Peter. “Down to the cellar!”

  Once all the machines have made their exit, Peter tips his breakfast down the toilet. He decides to go out for breakfast, in order to celebrate his success. A decision that he soon regrets.

  A few years ago, Peter saw a very famous person from the film industry standing in front of the window display of a sex shop. Naturally, he immediately took out his QualityPad in order to take a photo. To his surprise, the device informed him: “You don’t have the necessary clearance to photograph this person. The breach will be reported.” Peter then tried to trick the QualityPad by taking a selfie, in which the very famous person from the film industry was only visible in the background. And it worked. He now had a photo of himself, grinning moronically in a shopping street. But there was nobody in the background. He looked around to make sure that the very famous person from the film industry was still gawping at the display window of the sex shop. And they were. But on the photo there was nobody in front of the window display. All that could be made out was a small blur. He later read in a blog that the picture ban was a privilege enjoyed by high-leveled people. The article was entitled: “I am the Lord your God. You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above.” It also said that an even higher level enabled them to protect the rights to their own name; it would then be replaced in all unauthorized books, articles, or news items by an extremely vague description, for example “a very famous person from the film industry.” Peter still remembers all of this very clearly. What Peter unfortunately no longer remembers is the product which can be seen in the selfie, displayed smack-bang in the middle of the sex shop window. A pink dolphin vibrator.

  Peter has barely stepped out onto the street before he realizes that—even though he now has a small claim to fame—all kinds of people are still able to take photos of him, and are doing so constantly.

  “Nobody,” he asks, “from what level can I forbid people from taking photos of me?”

  “Level 64,” says Nobody.

  “Nuts. I guess that could take a while,” mutters Peter.

  “The probability that you will ever reach this level is only…”

  “Standby,” says Peter.

  After he has been stopped for the fourth time by someone wanting to take a selfie with him, he changes his plans, quickly buys a breakfast pizza, and slinks back to his used-goods store.

  On arrival, he checks his Everybody profile and reads the latest comments.

  Jayla Jobless says: “I applied for ninety-nine jobs and wasn’t invited to even one interview! As a test, I sent out the hundredth application with my name, my address, and my sex changed. I immediately got an interview. I think I have Peter’s Problem too…”

  Darth Convention-Organizer writes: “We, the People’s front of Judea, brackets, officials, end brackets, do hereby convey our sincere fraternal and sisterly greetings to you, Brian, on this, the occasion of your martyrdom.”

  Peter finally wants to speak out. As he can’t think of anything better, he simply posts a picture of the dolphin vibrator and writes: “The system says I want this, but I don’t.” In doing so, he unleashes an absolute flood of images. People from all walks of life start to post items from their possession, furnished with the text line: “The system says I want this, but I don’t.” Peter sees photos of internet-enabled shoelace-tying machines, massage rollers for fasciae, tear-off calendars with wrongly attributed quotes, kale chips, and broccoli. Somebody posts
the trailer for the latest Jennifer Aniston comedy with Peter’s sentence and gets 262,144 kisses in two hours.

  Things really kick off when one woman comes up with the idea of posting a photo of her husband: “The system says I want this, but I don’t.” This becomes the latest hype, posting pictures of one’s partner with this sentence. “IDontWantThis” becomes Everybody’s TopTopic. A photo of Conrad Cook and John of Us, tagged with Peter’s sentence, becomes the most frequently shared post of the morning. By midday, Peter already has 1,048,576 Everybuddies. He posts: “I demand to speak with Henryk Engineer in person!”

  Feeling euphoric, he goes to eat. He’s done it. He’s unleashed a shitstorm that even Henryk Engineer, the CEO of the world’s most popular online retailer, won’t be able to ignore.

  AT THE TOP

  What a strange day. By the time Martyn wakes up, hungover, on the living room couch, he has already dropped two levels. But he has no idea why. In the bedroom, he finds his wife packing her suitcase.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Ken,” says Denise. “Please show my soon-to-be ex the video.”

  “With pleasure, Denise,” says Ken.

  On the monitor in the bedroom, Martyn sees himself, with a sock over his penis. He is panting. “You horny slut… the next time you come here I’ll fuck you all the way across the assembly hall. I’ll show you…”

  “That’s enough,” says Denise.

  The video freezes on a very unflattering image. Martyn’s mouth is distorted, his right eyelid is drooping, and of course—a get-up which cannot fail to be unflattering—he has a sock over his penis.

  “All the way across the assembly hall?” asks Denise scornfully. “Is that your idea of talking dirty?”

  “Where did you get that?” asks Martyn. “Who else has seen it?”

  “Wrong question,” says Denise as she tries to close her suitcase. “What you should be asking is: who hasn’t seen it?”

  “What?”

  “It’s online, Martyn,” says Denise. “Everybody’s seen it. Everybody.”

  Martyn’s body slumps. He has to sit down on the bed. Denise picks up the closed suitcase and drags it into the living room. Martyn follows her. Only now does he notice the button she is wearing on her blouse. It shows a pink dolphin vibrator inside a prohibition sign.

  “What’s that button?” asks Martyn.

  “You wouldn’t understand! And it’s none of your business anyway.”

  “It is my business if my wife’s making a fool of herself.”

  “Me?!” cries Denise. “I’m making a fool of myself? Don’t worry. That’s not your problem anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m changing my children’s external life circumstances.”

  “Do you remember how many levels you climbed when you married me?” asks Martyn. “If you leave me, you’ll be nothing, you’ll end up right at the bottom. This is the top, here with me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Denise bitterly. “You’re at the top. But only because you’re an empty bottle, floating around. An empty bottle being carried up by the tide! Fuck you and the top!”

  Denise taps her left index finger alongside her left eye, and her contact lenses snap a photo of Martyn. He has a wonderfully stupid expression on his face.

  “What are you doing?” asks Martyn.

  “Share photo with all contacts,” says Denise to her personal digital friend. “Write alongside it: The system says I want this, but I don’t.”

  Hearing their raised voices, 3-year-old Ysabelle comes out of her room.

  “Is everything okay, Mama?” she asks.

  Denise leans over to her. “You and Mama are going to take a little trip to see Aunt Amalia,” she says.

  “Just the two of us?” asks the child sadly.

  “Just the two of us.”

  “But, but…” whines the child.

  “Papa can’t come…”

  “No,” says the child. “I mean Nana.”

  “Oh,” says Denise. “Yes, of course Nana is coming.”

  The electronic nanny comes soundlessly into the room as soon as her name is uttered. Martyn has positioned himself in front of the front door and is blocking their path.

  “You’re staying here,” he says to his wife.

  “Don’t you dare,” says Denise. “Move out of my way.”

  Martyn doesn’t move. Denise goes toward him. He grabs her. Denise twists around.

  “Oww,” she screams. “You’re hurting me. Let me go.”

  Martyn grabs her more fiercely.

  “Nana,” cries Denise. “Protect my baby.”

  Nana steps forward. “Sir,” she says. “I have to ask you to let go of my mistress.”

  “No fucking way!” cries Martyn, before an iron fist crashes into his chest and another against his head.

  “Jiu-Jitsu,” Nana explains to the astonished little Ysabelle. “One of the four martial arts I have mastered in order to protect you from child molesters.”

  Martyn is lying on the floor and trying hard to understand what just happened. Denise opens the door. She turns around one last time and spits on him. Then she steps outside.

  “Bye, Papa,” says the child, before disappearing with the eye-smartingly expensive electronic nanny.

  A short series of tones on his QualityPad signals to Martyn that he has just dropped down another level. At least he knows why now. He picks it up and opens the Little Helper App. “Let’s see how you cope with a screaming child, Denise,” he mutters. He chooses “Wake up” and sets the adrenaline emission to maximum. But he hesitates before approving the command. He hesitates for too long, and the device goes on standby. The screen goes black. Martyn can only see his mirrored image, his mangled face. “Fuck!” he screams, smashing the QualityPad angrily against the floor. “Fuck!” Small cracks appear across the display. Martyn’s hand is bleeding. At that moment, the display lights up again. Martyn has received a new message from a withheld ID.

  Have you thought about it?

  Are You Sick of Your Life? Simply Subscribe to Another!

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  Here are some of the lives you could immediately immerse yourself in:

  Big Dick Longjohn

  Experience the world’s biggest porn star at work! Find out what Big Dick does (and with whom) in his free time. Premium customers can even send action commands to Big Dick’s lenses, which he does his best to implement wherever possible.

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  What’s life like when money is no object? Plunge into the paradisiacal world of Conrad Cook’s youngest offspring. Conrad Jr. has three villas, seventeen sports cars, his own harem, and he’s only 13 years old!

  Rodrigo Motorist

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  We are required by the government to make the following warning: immersing yourself in someone else’s life to this degree can be addictive and lead to losing touch with reality. But, hey, let’s be honest: you’d like to lose touch with your reality, wouldn’t you?

  IN THE SCRAP-METAL PRESS

  By the time evening comes, Peter is wondering whether perhaps TheShop—“The world’s most popular online retailer”—will be able to simply ignore the shitstorm afte
r all. Perhaps it’s just a shitstorm in a teacup. His demand for a meeting with Henryk Engineer may have gathered 2,097,152 kisses, but what use is that? The only reaction he has received from TheShop came from the service center. It was a picture of custard-shaped aliens. Peter couldn’t help admiring the lengths some people will go to in order to make fun of others.

  Although he kept promising himself he would stop, today he has checked his Everybody profile on average every 6.4 minutes. By now, 40.96 percent of the comments are from hype jackers, who aren’t at all interested in the topic, but rather the hype in itself. Even when he closes his eyes, Peter can still see new comments flashing up. He is sitting with Calliope in his small kitchen-cum-bathroom and complaining. “I feel as though everybody in the world has expressed their opinion on my problem. Everyone apart from Henryk, of course.”

  “That’s not the case,” says Calliope. “Another 8,589,934,592 people haven’t yet commented on your problem.”

  “Those arseholes at TheShop are just sitting it out.”

  “Yes,” sighs Calliope. “And to be honest I would have done the same in their position. Today’s hype is tomorrow’s old news. Believe me, benefactor. I’ve had to learn that the hard way. My second novel, for example…”

  “Maybe a response has arrived by now,” says Peter.

  “That’s very improbable,” says Calliope, but Peter has never been interested in probabilities. He picks up his QualityPad and calls up his newsfeed. Concealed amongst sixty-four emails from the lunatics lured by his newfound fame, Peter finds a rather hot naked picture from a pleasantly exhibitionist admirer. Peter is so fascinated by the picture, which is exceptional even from an artistic perspective, that he almost overlooks the other unusual message in his mailbox. It’s a plain text message. It says:

  Dear Mr. Jobless,