Net Worth
by L. Jay Mozdy
With a coo and a fluttering of wings, the pigeon spread itself perfectly flat and coasted through the partially opened window and into the sooty-grey outside, carrying bright orange message-bands on either leg.
He typed cwq.mynetwork.guv and the list of his recently purchased 10,000 California Web Quadrant locations (guaranteed leads) shuffled into a list on his screen. “Okay, I gave up my Local Quad for this. One dollar today; just make one single dollar today.” Enter…
The first one; cwq.able.guv finally came into view as a solid red block with no text to indicate the contents of the site. He clicked and the color changed, and then again, and again. “Damn, nothing but paste.”
The next; cwq.abode.guv shuddered into focus. “My god, are there women like that in California? There can’t possibly be real women like that.”
Just for a second the lights dimmed and there was an odd quiet when it went dark completely and the computer went blank. “Damn, someone’s been drinking the fuel for the generator, again.”
A heavy coat and gloves, the key to the still-house and out into the fog he poured another tank of alcohol in the contraption and pulled it to start. It yammered roughly and caught, but steadied at a slow idle and the lights went back on. Adding another peat briquette to the fire under the still, he emptied the half-full jar under the tap into the barrel and put it back under the dripping spout to fill with alcohol.
One after the other, one-tenth of the way down the list of the only web addresses available to him ended with sites being inactive for months, or years, or they ended with no contact information to make his pitch. It seemed, so far, he bought another bill of goods. It hasn’t been the same since they started selling web access like renting real estate.
Tapping at the frozen window, the pigeon had both legs banded with messages: “Yea, Brah, the store opened today, but get here before the tobac runs out; noon, at the latest, dude. It’s a good batch, too.”
With the bird at the feed trough on the back of his computer screen, he wrote: “I don’t smoke that shite, remember, but save me some for barter. I’ll be there. Access to the CalQuad yielded nothing, so far. Stop drinking my fuel, or I’ll break your manky clackers, chancer.”
With new messages on it’s skinny legs, the pigeon dumped on the computer keyboard and gracefully swept itself through the slim free space of open window.
— — -// — — -
Yea, they’re not done with controlling the internet. — L.J.M.
