Читать книгу Skyfisher - Dan Dowhal - Страница 6

Article updated Saturday 1 November 10:08

Reading back over things, I see that I’ve neglected to introduce myself. It’s only relevant in the context that you know I’m not just some guy slamming the Phasmatians because I don’t agree with their theology. Actually, I do agree with most of it, except for the part about Sky Fisher’s divine powers, which are all made-up bullshit, and I should know, because I helped make it up. So, for the record, my name is Brad Evans, I’m thirty-six years old and was born in Poughkeepsie, New York. I have a Bachelor’s degree in Communications from Columbia and, as I mentioned earlier, I worked as a copywriter at Warren & McCaul, where Sky Fisher was once an executive bigwig.

I say “worked” (past tense) because yesterday I left my desk and, without telling a soul, got out of New York for good. By now, all my co-workers know I’ve disappeared, and since a good many of them are anointed Phasmatians, that means Sky Fisher and his hit squad now know I’m missing too. Yesterday was also Hallowe’en, and it was the reason I picked that particular moment to leave (well, that and the knowledge I’d be dead inside of twenty-four hours if I didn’t). There are traffic cameras everywhere these days, and I know, even if you don’t, that the Phasmatians can pretty much gain access to any of them, so what other day of the year can you drive around with a mask and costume on, and not attract attention?

Since the car I typically use, or what’s left of it, is lying in a police auto forensics lab, I purchased a used motorcycle for my escape, paying cash and using a fake name. The guy in Soho I bought it from (you’ve got to love New Yorkers) didn’t even blink when I put on my black robes and skeleton mask before driving away. I’d chatted him up while I was looking over the bike, just to be sure he didn’t have Phasmatian leanings, and I’m reasonably confident I got out of Manhattan without being spotted. Oh yeah, and as a diversion, because I guarantee they’re tracking it, I couriered my cellphone to Buffalo—at the firm’s expense. Look at me, a regular junior spy. Funny how quickly you can pick things up when your ass is on the line.

I ditched the costume, and even crudely spray-painted the bike black, once it was dark. I then took a roundabout route getting here, staying off the major highways and sticking to country roads. I’d left the office with just my omnipresent shoulder bag, trying not to attract suspicion. Since I hadn’t brought any supplies, I stopped in White Plains to buy as much food as I could carry on the back of a bike, plus some warm clothes (again, all paid in cash), before heading north, here to Stan Shiu’s trailer.

The irony is not lost on me that this is the very place my troubles began, over five years ago, but aside from the fact I have nowhere else to go, I don’t think Sky Fisher would ever guess that I’d come here, even if he was managing the search for me himself instead of delegating it to his monkish Death Squad, which I doubt. Of course, if I’m wrong, then I’m a dead man, and more importantly, you’ll never read this.

The last time I was here, though, things were certainly different. We all took off early on Friday afternoon and loaded up for a heavy-duty weekend of drunken, stoned revelry. But even on the drive up, Fisher’s agenda was obvious. He was totally focused on coming up with a way of striking it rich on the internet, and soon we were passing around ideas as freely as we were passing the weed.

I don’t know why I keep coming back to Fisher’s colossal constipation, but it’s the thing I remember most about the weekend. Sure, there are vague recollections of the ideas we kicked around before stumbling upon the Phasmatian thing (although it didn’t have a name in the beginning). I remember we analyzed in excruciating detail the history and anatomy of all the sites that had really made it, from Amazon to Yahoo, and I kept harping on two things. The first was that we had chosen for our brainstorming a location with no internet connection. The second was that the niches had all been filled, so we weren’t going to find an angle that millions of greedy, slobbering wannabes hadn’t already explored. What can I say? I got wasted fast, and stayed that way until Sunday afternoon.

But the fact that Fisher didn’t have the same basic bathroom urges as Stan and I soon entered the conversation, and that’s when Fisher confided he had a genetic condition that affected his bowel movements.

“What? Are you saying you don’t have to shit?” Stan exclaimed. (I’m not sure whether he was incredulous or impressed.)

“Of course not ... everyone has to shit,” Fisher replied, “but it takes a long time ... like a lot of little tiny turds that I have to work hard to force out. I envy those guys that have their one regular, monumental crap every day. They don’t appreciate what they’ve got.”

So, that was it. We sat around, poured our way through a forty-pounder-plus of vodka and a case of beer apiece, smoked our stupid heads off on some killer shit Stan had gotten hold of, stuffed our faces (the trailer’s small kitchen is remarkably efficient), and worked our way towards The Big Idea. In between, Fisher would regularly adjourn to the crapper and unsuccessfully try to force something out, usually quite vocally.

One thing did impress me. I distinctly recall, despite the massive amounts of recreational neurostimulants we ingested, how masterfully Fisher facilitated our little brainstorming session. I could see how he had risen to where he was in the firm. I mean, there were only the three of us, and we were totally wasted, and yet somehow Fisher kept his eye on the objective and managed to get us to contribute. Even me, or actually, especially me. Stan, despite his peerless knowledge of the esoteric technologies that drove everything webby, did not exactly have a depth of creative new ideas of his own, at least beyond new ways to write code and integrate systems.

I, on the other hand, and to the surprise of all of us, soon proved to be a gold mine of bright ideas, despite my initial it’s-all-been-done, you-can’t-get-there-from-here negativism. It’s not really surprising. I was, after all, the only staff copywriter in the Interactive Division of Warren & McCaul, and lived, ate, and breathed the web, soaking up as much as I could (mainly to make up for my lack of formal technical training.) Although things are a little hazy, since it was Day Two of non-stop substance abuse when it happened, I’m pretty sure I came up with at least the germ of the final idea.

But don’t think for a moment I’m trying to steal credit from Fisher (even if I wanted to take on that much bad karma). I’ll admit right here and now the man is a genius—just a seriously twisted one. I may have pointed the way to the Promised Land, but it was Fisher who actually led us there. Even if he did do it from the toilet.

We all knew it would be time to head back to Manhattan soon, and I think this created a sense of urgency among us, especially Fisher. We had by this time agreed on all the characteristics our new web site needed to have in order to lure people in and keep them coming back, having mashed together all the best ideas that were already out there. Stan had even started to sketch out wireframe diagrams of how everything would work, especially the slick behind-the-scenes software that would secretly track users and record every aspect of their preferences and activities. But although we had a good handle on what the web site did, we were still searching for what it was.

I get pretty mouthy when I’m high, and I clearly recall my words were flowing. Fisher was back on the can, although he had left the door open so he could hear what we were saying, and by now we were used to his grunts and groans.

“It has to be a place where people come voluntarily to get something that’s missing in their everyday lives,” I babbled, “a sense of something bigger than themselves, something ... ” I swear I was on the verge of saying “spiritual” when Fisher screamed, “I’ve got it,” and we distinctly heard the tiny plop of something finally dropping into the toilet bowl. (Maybe, having worked so hard to get it out, Fisher was reluctant to flush away his handiwork, or more likely it was because he was in such a hurry to get back out and tell us his idea, but when I went in there later to pee, I spotted that tiny, pathetic little peanut of shit floating around and I laughed out loud.)

“I’ve got it, I’ve really got it,” Fisher was yelling when he burst out, and there was this wild-eyed look of utter joy on his face. “It should be a new religion!”

I remember Stan’s eyebrows clamped down in concentration like he was doing advanced calculus in his head, but I immediately lapsed into my cynical know-it-all persona.

“Come off it ... there’s already a thousand different church web sites out there,” I protested, “and not one of them is in the same league as, say, a Facebook.”

“That’s because they’re bricks-and-mortar religions with a supplementary web presence,” Fisher insisted. “What we have to do is come up with a religion specifically for the internet.” He obviously read our skepticism and reflexively launched into his adman’s pitch. “Look, everything you hear about these days is how people are becoming disconnected from one another. Hell, that’s exactly why these social networking sites have become so damned popular. Well, think about it. Nothing’s eroded more in our modern technological society than the role of traditional religion. But the fundamental mystery of all mysteries, the purpose of our existence and what happens after we die, hasn’t changed. I mean, isn’t that why religion started in the first place?”

“More like to give an elite priesthood a hold on the masses,” I said, but the look on Fisher’s face spoke volumes.

“Works for me,” he whispered.

Stan still didn’t get it. “But if religions that have been around for thousands of years can’t do it anymore, how can we?” he asked.

“Well, except for radical Islam,” I said. “It’s spreading like wildfire.”

“Spreading into the socio-economic vacuum of the world’s oppressed and disenfranchised,” Fisher agreed. “Which just proves my point.” He turned to Stan. “But to answer your question, our particular religion will succeed because we’ll design it from scratch, and tailor it specifically for the web. Take it from me, Stan, I can sell stuff to people who don’t even want it. Well, here we have billions of aching souls who are screaming out for something to fill their inner voids. I say we give it to them.”

“Religion isn’t a soft drink or a pair of jeans,” I countered, my most recent hit off the bong making me feel smug about my special insight into the universe. I was pleased to see Fisher suddenly clamp his mouth down on the next glib argument that was just about to springboard off his tongue, in order to ponder my statement more fully.

To my chagrin, he smiled after a few seconds and replied, “You’re wrong. Marketing is marketing. Period. People don’t pay a couple hundred dollars for a pair of jeans because of the quality of the stitching done in a Vietnamese sweatshop—they’re buying the designer label. And a soft drink doesn’t make it big because of the flavor of the sugar-laced artificial crap they stick in the can, it’s about brand ... it’s about image.”

“That’s right,” said Stan. “They buy stuff because it’s cool, especially the kids.” He seemed to realize exactly what he had just said and that made him frown. “Whoa. Weren’t you saying that teens are the key target market if we’re going to make it big on the web? How the hell do we make religion cool to teenagers?”

But Fisher instantly had the answer. “By making it uncool to their parents ... by making it seditious and shocking.”

I was still skeptical. “I don’t know. I can see how something might spread virally among the kids once it gets rolling, and then among the wannabe-young-again adults if it gets big enough, but we still have to have some kind of hook or angle to get it off the ground in the first place. Sure, we can build a slick web site, and offer a personalized experience, and provide chat rooms where people can meet and message each other. But if the kids come and all they see is a bunch of weird-ass religious mumbo jumbo, what’s going to make them want to stick around?”

“That’s where we come in, boys. We just have to apply the basic principles of advertising. First of all, we have to attract attention. Maybe seed some media articles, and round up a few celebrity endorsements. Geez, just look what Madonna has done for the Cabbalists. Rule two is to stimulate interest. Maybe we create something that’s like a big online multiplayer game, but instead of some shoot-’em-up fantasy world where people waste one another, we’ll have it as a spiritual place where people save one another.”

“Sure, and instead of points you win karma to be redeemed in the next lifetime,” I cut in. Once again, I was trying to be sarcastic but, God forgive me, apparently I was being brilliant.

Fisher beamed. “That’s fantastic. It’s what’ll keep people coming back again and again. And we can have characters in the game who are online counselors, either human or computer-generated, to offer advice and guidance to troubled teens.” He turned to Stan. “Wasn’t that you who was telling me about all the artificial intelligence software they’re building into games today?”

Stan nodded. “In fact, I’ve got some old classmates who were bragging to me online just the other day about some of the cool AI shit they’re developing. I bet I could get my hands on the code we’d need, at least to make a good start. Everything else would have to be custom, of course.” You could just see how excited Stan was getting at the prospect of a unique technological challenge to sink his nerdy teeth into. I half expected him to whip out his laptop and start programming on the spot.

Fisher was pretty excited too. “We have so nailed it. This will work ... it will really work. Man, we’re going to be rich!” He held up his hand for a round of high fives, and Stan eagerly obliged. As for me, I saw this scary look of pure power lust on Fisher’s face–a look I would become only too familiar with (strictly behind closed doors, of course) in the years to come–and I desperately began searching for some dark cloud to spread over Fisher’s sparkling silver lining.

“Something like that is going to cost a fortune to do right,” I objected. “There’s only so much we can do by ourselves in our spare time.” Yes, I did say “we” because somewhere in the course of the weekend Fisher had sucked me in too, despite my constant harping over the details. Or maybe it was just the smell of greed in the air.

“You’re absolutely right,” Fisher said, “but I for one am willing to put every cent I’ve got into it, and we’ll beg, steal, or borrow the rest somehow. This is just too big an opportunity to let go by.” He eyed us both with a look that would make a viper pale. “How much money can you guys put together?”

Stan and I exchanged sheepish looks. After all, we didn’t make nearly the kind of coin Fisher did, and it’s not cheap living (and living it up) in Manhattan. “I can scrape together a grand, maybe two,” Stan said, and you could just see how he hated to let Fisher down.

I pulled out my wallet and looked inside. “I’ve got about sixty bucks.” Okay, so I was being a bit of a wise ass, but I basically lived from paycheck to paycheck, and that was the point I was trying to make.

Fisher, however, barely blinked. He was eyeing my credit cards. “What kind of a limit do you have on your cards?” he asked. I guess he could read my reluctance, or more likely he had only been trying to make a point of his own, because he reached for the legal pad where we’d been jotting down ideas over the weekend, turned to a fresh page, and began to scribble down numbers. “I’ve got about 75K in GICs, and another fifty in stocks. I’ll liquidate those tomorrow. I can probably net fifteen after I trade in my Porsche for some shitbox in the next day or so. It’ll take longer to arrange a second mortgage on my condo, but I figure I’ll be able to borrow 200K or more on it.”

He paused and fixed us with this flint-eyed look, and it didn’t take a genius to understand how deadly serious he was. I wish I could tell you I wanted to opt out, but the truth is, there was this crazy tingling feeling running throughout my body, wholly discernible even through the residual haze of cannabis and ethanol, and I felt like the hottest chick in the bar had just walked right up to me and asked to screw me.

Stan was obviously feeling it too. “I can borrow 15K on my credit cards,” he jumped in, “and I bet I can hit my parents up for 30K easy.” With my meagre pledges added (I felt like I should be signing something in blood), we soon had almost $400,000 tallied on the pad, and spent the rest of the day, until it was time to return home, figuring out how to spend it.

Now, you’re probably noticing two things. One is that I confess openly to having materially contributed to the Phasmatian genesis—I won’t call it the “conspiracy” because, at the time, it was just a tiny, helpless fetus compared to the evil beast it eventually became. The second thing is that Stan and I combined only bankrolled a tiny percentage of the initial venture. But though Fisher was by far the major stockholder, he never held it over us, at least in the beginning, and treated us as equals, even if he did have a natural tendency to boss us around.