Short Story: Ad-Free Porn - The Dream
Today, I took a break from the rift and ventured into the near-future. Or, at least it’s one of them. In this episode of The Crossroads, we explore a world where originality is mined, hunted, and highly valued on the black market.
An old, rusted metal roof popped as it warmed in the rising sun, echoing through the thick woods of east Texas and scaring the absolute shit out of me. I hadn’t even noticed the ancient building, so red with rust that it was nearly brown. I sneered at it, as if that could intimidate it into eternal silence.
I hated the woods in general and after pondering it for the last few hours I had decided these woods in particular were loathsome. It’s not like the trees were glaring at me or anything. If they were, I couldn’t tell.
It was unpleasant in the most standard and normal of ways a wood can be unpleasant. The rising sun had warmed me only to drown me in golden-rimmed humidity, I had a growing certainty that the itch I had been successfully ignoring was an unwelcome passenger, and if that weren’t enough, this was Texas. If the distant gunfire hadn’t unnerved me, it might be reasonable to wonder if I’d devolved past stupid and straight to delusional.
I sighed. If only.
Delusionals got meds. While there was still a lot of private debate over whether the resulting smiles were “compulsory” or not, the AI news feed had made it quite clear that this was not a symptom but evidence of just how stupendous of a success the drugs were. I didn’t participate in the debate. I couldn’t focus when I thought about how Delusionals didn’t have to work jobs.
As I pressed through a thicket of pine branches, one whipped me right in the crotch. I marked one more tally in the “work sucks” column and invented a few new curse words. “Fangletig” was fun to say but sounded a bit like a slur to me. I scratched it off my mental list as quickly as I’d added it.
If I wrote a manifesto, and to be honest I wasn’t 100% sure what that was, it would say something like: “Work sucks. Always has, always will.” I knew it wouldn’t be original, but I wasn’t paid to be original; I was paid to find originality.
Some people would find this setting romantic. Birds were chirping. I’d seen a family of deer early that morning, grazing in a pocket of sunlight. Besides the sap that had ruined my new-ish shirt, I’d also stepped in boar shit, so, I’d give it a “mixed bag” rating at best.
Christ, I was going to have to get a soap subscription when I got out of here.
Worst of it was that I’d paid to be here. The payoff was still theoretical, which was the most convenient thing for… I didn’t know who, exactly. I know the names of rich people, but it felt unfair to pin it on them. Surely there were just as many to blame that I didn’t even know existed. My mother raised me with manners.
Whatever. It might be bullshit, but it was the way it was. Pedro had been a long-time, reliable source. I was sure this would pan out so long as I didn’t get shot in the meantime.
A crunch of leaves caught my attention behind me. I didn’t turn my head, that would have ruined my camouflage. I wasn’t wearing any per se, but if my attacker was half-blind it would work out in my favor. Straining my senses, I waited until my lungs burned and I remembered to breathe. The gasp would have given me away if someone had been there, confirming my silent observation.
After catching my breath, I sighed with relief and checked my compass and the map I’d downloaded ahead of time. The thin lines blurred together. I groaned internally, perhaps map reading wasn’t a “fake it ‘til you make it” skill. A long staring match with the map resulted in a brief moment of clarity which I distilled into confidence before continuing.
Looking for a stump in a forest was, arguably, a very dumb thing to do — like trying to find a specific piece of hay in a haystack. If I weren’t me, and I had told not-me about my target, not-me would tell me that I was a fucking idiot. Still, it’s not like I had much option.
When I first heard about hunting originality, I thought it was some new phrase for artists and creatives. Turns out, it’d been proven that creativity was dead. I mostly kept this to myself. They only tell you after you pass the O.H. hiring exams which mostly seem to measure one’s willingness to take bodily risks and general lack of social conditioning. Like I said, my mother raised me with manners; if the State thinks I shouldn’t tell everyone that “new” is gone, who am I to argue?
Someone who would like to stay alive, that’s who. Then again, my actions don’t back that motivation up, do they?
Invisible strings tugged and popped. I flailed about, shutting my eyes fiercely and spitting, as I attempted to evict any eight-legged stowaway. After a moment’s kerfuffle, I felt a slight regret for destroying the little creature’s home. I looked around and found it strung on a single thread suspended above me.
It took another ten minutes of swiping to clear myself of spider silk and, even then, it was more my willingness to believe the task was done that kept me from continually brooming myself. I was closing in on the supposed location of the stump, and I engaged my keen eyes. I made a cool cybernetic buzzing noise with my mouth, imagining my eye was driven by software rather than just consciousness, which seems woefully insufficient by comparison.
Layers of undisturbed leaves crunched and mushed as I continued my scan, a pale imitation of what a machine could do. A machine wouldn’t bother to note how pleasant the smell of life felt on my mammal brain. How long until a drone took this job? They wouldn’t step in boar shit and wouldn’t even care if they did.
Every shitty job had dissolved, and we’d watched. It seemed like a good thing at the time. Like I said, work sucks. Who would jump in front of a bullet to save a job’s life? Plus, new was always better. New jobs is an easy idea to swallow. And we did, easy as drive-thru ice cream, no questions asked.
They never could figure out what job people should do, which became a real issue when they realized they still needed to sell the occasional doodad. The beauty was, modern society had already manifested a solution. Save for weirdos like me, all you had to do to live life on easy street, aka all the choco-tastic protein infused chicken blasters you want and a clean place to shit them out, was to get the ad-dict implant.
24/7 advertisements tuned more and more to your desires might sound horrific, but what if I offered you money? Still sound horrific? Then you’re the perfect candidate for originality hunting!
If not, then you could use that money to buy some of the wonderful items streamed directly into your every thought, conscious or otherwise, for the rest of your life. I shook my head whenever I thought about it. I was somehow the weird one for wanting ad-free porn.
I should note that similar to the debate around the medication of Delusionals, some have suggested that the advertisements continued even post-life. This has proven very difficult to substantiate, but I tried not to think about it. After all, it didn’t change anything for me.
I snapped and pointed. “Weird stump, check.”
The stump wasn’t weird so much as abused. While most of the surrounding forest resembled forest — live trees, dying trees, dead trees, decomposing trees, and all the middle bits — this stump looked like it had been on the losing end of several battles. Whatever lumber used to stand on the shoulders of the mutilated base was nowhere to be found.
A loud snap of thick wood rang through the canopy. My heart tried to escape my chest, but my ribs proved up to the challenge. I scanned the area quickly, eyes wide enough to feel the dry air. I lowered my head and exhaled.
“You need to chill out,” I tell myself.
Everyone knew the feeling of being watched. It was part of the proprioceptive sense, I was pretty sure. Weird name if you asked me. What was really surprising was how quickly that sense developed. For example, there was a slight but noticeable difference between the feeling of being watched and of being in someone’s crosshairs.
Unfortunately, my senses were not particularly developed, shown yet again as I heard the violent rasp of a shotgun racking behind me no more than a second after the eerie chill climbed like a frightened mongoose out from my butt crack.
“Whatchu want with my tree, donkey lips?” The voice was as wobbly as a very tall cake, but the words were firm.
I raised my hands and turned to face a crooked little man in worn blue overalls and a dark plaid shirt that hadn’t seen a wash in some time. His face seemed determined to consume his eyes, which was a positive mark for my no-move camouflage technique, but the thing that drew my attention was his bulging pockets.
I blinked a few times, searching the catacombs of my brain. Coming up short, I chuckled. Laugh or cry, right? I shrugged toward the forest grandpa before me. “I think I’m lost.”
His eyes became more slitted. The fact that was possible was nearly as shocking as the way he raised the shotgun.
“Do I need to ask again, donkey lips?”
My hands shot higher without me asking. Despite spraining my left shoulder, my nervous giggling continued. I wanted to blame it on the strangely specific nickname, but the fact I’d nearly peed myself wouldn’t allow it. Forest grandpa, which was becoming a less accurate name by the second, appraised me. His eyes stopped on my leather messenger bag.
For a reason I cannot surmise, he asked, “You with Datacore?”
“Me? No. No, no, no, no, no.” I pointed to my knee. “You think a Datacore man would have to patch his jeans?”
“Finchwood Logistics?”
“Nope.”
“Applebaum? Chichi’s? Dunkin Donut Presents Membank?”
“L-o-l.”
Over the next moment, I couldn’t tell if he was reappraising or had just nodded off. Eventually, he lowered the weapon.
“You ain’t lost, though.”
I wiped my forehead with one of my arms as I lowered them. He seemed harmless enough. You know, save for the gun. I looked back at the stump, supposing it might have a different opinion.
“I’m not, no.” I tried to look casual as I took in the surroundings. “You live out here?”
He maintained his level gaze.
I raised my eyebrows and nodded. “Fair enough. I’m an Originalist.”
The word caused his face to open in shock. His eyes were a crystal blue. He’d probably been a ladies’ man. Still might have been, actually. My new friend could have a whole harem out here somewhere.
The shouty end of the shotgun went to the ground and I could stop dreading the prospect of my life flashing before my eyes. What a bore, just bring on the blackness already. As Grandpa Forest leaned on the gun like it was the most casual thing in the universe, he exaggerated his stance to look around me, then met my eyes again.
“There’s something original out here?”
It was my turn to wield the silence. I was never good at it. Silence was so goddamn boring. But I was sure some people thought swords were boring, and though they are objectively wrong about that, I respected that they believed it was true. I’d tried the opposite of the technique on silence, trying desperately to believe it was interesting. Results were still pending.
“Do—”
“I—”
We interrupted each other, then chuckled. Each of us put a hand to the back of our necks and blushed a little. The man’s mustache danced with chagrin.
“Please, you first,” he said.
“No, no. I would much prefer you.”
“I’ve been so rude, please,” he gestured as if ushering me to my seat at the opera.
I felt my cheeks warm and hoped it was charming. “Um. I was just going to ask do you live here… again.”
“Ha! Right. Near enough. I walk out here to blast away at old betty.” He motioned to the stump behind me.
I raised and lowered my eyebrows. “Neat.”
“Yeah, it’s important to have hobbies.” Forest Grandpa looked lovingly past me to the stump.
He seemed to have warmed up quickly. Strange man.
Briefly, I wondered if he might be original enough to write about. I didn’t know anything about writing, but I was sure if this guy talked to an AI long enough, it’d crank something out. That was what they did. Work like that paid shit, though. The real money, the kind that made this sort of dumb stunt worth it, was on the black market. The more lascivious the better.
“What’s so interesting out here?”
I looked at my wrist, wishing I had a watch. Not that the time was important, just that it’d be nice to not look like an idiot who didn’t know they weren’t wearing one. I patted my pockets for an excuse to keep my eyes somewhere other than on his. I didn’t want anyone to know about this score.
I slapped a rectangle I’d forgotten was in my back pocket. Shit. Despite my effort, a shallow grimace crept over my features. I shoved the expression away with herculean effort and pulled out a small, hand-written comic book.
Someone had had the foresight to laminated the work after it had faded to near extinction. I’d found it in an abandoned elementary school among some pre-intelligence textbooks that no one had wanted to buy. I felt like such an idiot when someone finally told me they were wrong. I hadn’t even thought to check! I’m not much of a reader. Anyway, who knew that whole WWII graphic novel wasn’t based on real events?
Lined notebook paper, folded into a mini zine, reflected the sunlight trickling through the pine needles and oak leaves. Dumbboy might have been the stupidest thing I’d ever seen. The kid just screamed and did something completely insane like dancing on an airplane wing. Whatever actions he took would inevitably result in him beating some enemy, after which Dumbboy would go jump off a cliff.
I’d sold the rest of the series after scanning through them, but I’d kept this one. In it, Dumbboy does his usual thing, but when he jumps off the cliff he lands on a slab of marble and it cracks into a renaissance statue.
My fingers tightened on the slick coating that kept the paper from the dirt and oils on my fingers. I could replace the comic with whatever I found out here. I wasn’t sure why this was so hard. Grandpa Forest’s eyes glimmered from within their caverns as I handed it to him.
“Keep it safe or sell it.”
The shotgun fell and he ran rough fingers along the cover. “Dumbboy, ha.” He shook his head. “So stupid.” He looked back to me. “Why are you giving me this?”
“I didn’t.” I tried to smile in a cool way, but the man’s expression was unreadable, so I wasn’t sure if it’d worked. “No one did.” A guitar riff played in my head as I turned and walked away wishing I had sunglasses to put on.
I proceeded in what I was 90% sure was the wrong direction. I’d have to double back later and go the right way so Forest Grandpa didn’t follow to my future stash.
“Wait… what?” he shouted after me.
I turned, dissolving the modicum of coolness into a pool of frustration at my feet. I took a few, quick steps back to him. “This is yours, now. Just don’t tell anyone I was here, ok?”
“Ooooooooh.” His eyes widened once more, catching the sun and twinkling with mischief. With a hand rifling through his pockets, they clattered like fighting clams. The hand returned with a dark, irregular sphere. “Want a walnut?”
Thank goodness I figured out what was in those pockets. Secretly, it was driving me crazy. “Sure,” I said, taking the offering. “See ya around.” I gave him a two-finger salute and headed off.
It was a real shame I couldn’t bring him with me. I’d love to be more of an altruist, but it’s not the kind of wish you’d waste a genie on. There was this idea I had sometimes that if I got rich, I would be “one of the good ones.” It was a nice idea, but… Seemed kind of far-fetched. I mean, if that were possible, wouldn’t there be at least one “good one” by now?
Half an hour later I was back on course. Noon was creeping up on me, making me regret my thick shirt. Two spider webs later I came across an old, dilapidated home. Abandoned by humanity, the earth seemed to be slowly reclaiming it. The brown-grey wood siding was easy to miss among its living and decomposing brethren.
I smiled and resisted the urge to clap my hands together. It was stealth-mode-time, after all. I cringed at the crinkling leaves underfoot, but without an Indiana Jones whip to swing from — which I was pretty sure would end up as a louder form of travel without a lot of practice — what else could I do?
Luckily it didn’t seem like anyone was here. Based on the lush bushes surrounding all sides, no one had been here in quite some time.
A hissing sneeze shot through the woods. I looked around, legs burning and ready to flee. My pulse throbbed in my ears, robbing me of the critical sense. Catching movement from the corner of my eye, I whipped my head around.
White. A tail.
Deer make noises? I wondered. Huh.
I stayed still for a moment, allowing my legs to stop aching with my most ancient motivation and ensuring that it was indeed the harmless fauna that had elicited it. Satisfied, I pushed my way through the unfortunately very spiny thicket to access a shattered window. I cleared the jagged glass with a stick I’d brought for just the purpose, then climbed into the mildew-scented home.
Ignoring the future hospital bill I was racking up, I scanned the abandoned room.
“Empty,” I whispered, trying not to lose hope too quickly.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and flicked on the flashlight. The room lit only slightly, like I’d hid the beam under a blanket. I released an exasperated sigh, clicked the blinking red button on my screen, and watched the goddamn ad.
Pie? Cake? Use ‘em both, it’ll make it great! Cakem Pies won’t make you cry, feel so good you’ll think you died…
The jingle was one of those pre-licensed things you heard all the time. The tune was always the same for some reason, as if AI had run out of combinations of musical notes, but the words fit the product. Except for when they didn’t. That was one of those few, simple pleasures of the modern age — when AI fucked up. I remember one tampon ad with the jingle for a political campaign. They’d “fired” the AI model after that, whatever that meant.
When the ad finally ended, the beam thickened into usable light, allowing me to continue my search. The need for an ad break was a real testament to nature. If it hadn’t so completely consumed the place, there would have been enough natural light to go without. It was almost enough to wonder if nature had something valuable to say, but just as I was about to have a religious moment I remembered the light was on a timer and got down to business.
The house was small, just this living room, the kitchen, and two open doors at the end of a short hallway. The kitchen was easy to clear, mother nature having done me the courtesy of rusting the cabinet hinges. Stepping over the doors which had become flooring, my light passed over empty shelves. Apparently, the local fauna had taken anything of value, if there had been any.
The steps down the hallway were creaky in a mildly concerning way. The floor might only be a foot above the ground, but I was a real sissy when it came to splinters.
The hinges on the door to the bathroom sounded straight out of a horror movie. Inside was an assortment of rusted tools and white buckets. I picked up a large swooping blade, a scythe. The buckets had HCI written in sharpie. I shrugged, leaving the rather cool blade where I’d found it. I wasn’t one to judge someone’s hobbies, whatever they were.
When I opened the door across the hall, I could have cried. It was beautiful.
I walked up to one of the many irregular stacks and pulled a glossy magazine from the top. It slid off with a puff of dust, causing me to cough. I waved it away, clearing the air as much as was possible in this musty, forgotten place.
Forgotten no longer. I smirked, wiping away the thick dust that still clung to the cover.
My smirk evolved into the largest smile I’d ever worn, so wide it hurt. “Pedro, you never let me down.” There were enough 1970s Playboys here to keep me out of boar shit for some time. Hopefully forever.
Maybe the best news was I could finally enjoy a bit of personal time without ads.
From Outside the Rift,
Thanks for Reading!
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