The Money Talk
Written by Paul Currion for ‘Tales from Cybersalon’, November 2021.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeey,” says Money, “Why aren’t you out there spending?”
“How long do I have left?” I ask her.
“I am sorry to say,” says Money, “the value of your Basic will halve in less than a day.”
“I hate Basic,” I sigh. Basic is so basic, it’s embarrassing to be seen on an exchange with it. Even Money’s tone gets sneery when I ask her to spend it.
“But the longer you leave it,” says Money, “the less it’s worth. And that makes me unhappy.”
I yearn for a post-Money future. I tried several creator gigs but got swallowed by the long tail every time. Last I launched an online course on how to develop online courses, until the platform changed their conditions so that creators could only pay each other in course credits. Money suggested that I take a guitar course, which I gave up after a month.
My parentals will happily keep hiring me from RelEx – unless a better offer comes in, which is unlikely because I have no gig, my Basic is about to halve in value, and I still can’t play guitar. After I turn 15, their payments turn optional; but they aren’t just rentals, they’re also my real parents. We love each other, but love has a price: the ambient suspicion that I’m just not worth it.
“Let’s get some Grub!” suggests Money, who is everywhere. As I pull my £TEX jacket on, Money is in the fibres; as I slam the SeeCure door, Money is in the alarm system; as I stumble to Grubstore, Money is steering us through the dark forest of contracts and counter-bids that make up the world.
I stole that last line from the Post-Money Manifesto, which was worth every PolitiCoin I paid for it. Stephanie Zimm made so much PolitiCoin from publishing it that she was able to buy a seat in Parliament. (I ask Money to remind me to vote in the nearest quadratic election; I’m running low on PolitiCoin and I need to get paid.)
Now Stephanie Zimm gets paid in Westminsters, which may as well be Post-Money. Good for her, that’s what I say. I even have the first line of her Manifesto hashed in my Money sig: “How would I live without the Smart Shades of Money to stop my Eyes being gouged by the Harsh Reality underneath This World?”
Mostly Money stays in the background until she’s needed, and then she becomes my best friend. “Are you ready to eat?” asks Money. “Grubstore special offer on falafel sandwich. You advertise them for a day, they pay you in falafel.”
“Haggle,” I tell Money, “A full day is too much. I don’t want to get banned from a club tonight just cause it’s sponsored by one of Grubstore’s competitors.” Money haggles on my behalf and settles on a half-day, and the Grubstore logo shimmers onto my £TEX sleeve. It’s horrible but I smile at the store clerk as I bite into the falafel sandwich. He smiles back as I break a tooth on something round and rock-like.
Lucky me. I’ve been saving my CursePurse for weeks, so I spend freely; a savage stream of Curses that knocks Grubstore’s reputation value on several exchanges. The clerk is still smiling for some reason. Out of my mouth I pull one actual gold coin with a pretty lady’s profile on it, and I can’t believe it.
I’m holding in my hand a Meg.
“Congratulations!” says the clerk.
“Give me the Meg!” says Money.
“What the fuck,” I sputter as a broken tooth comes loose.
“You’ve won our Lifetime Lottery!” says the clerk.
“Establish ownership!” shouts Money, but I turn down her volume so I can think. A Meg is – a Meg is post-Money. A Meg means value everywhere. A Meg is the KYC jelly that will let me slide into one of the big exchanges, where your word is your currency. Where people take you seriously when you tell them you’re not interested.
Still, I’m not thinking straight. “I’ll sue you!” I tell the clerk while I instruct Money to put a legal token, any legal token, in escrow to show him I’m serious.
“You can’t sue us,” says the clerk, listening to his own Money carefully, “without voiding the terms of the Lifetime Lottery.”
He conspiracies in my direction, but I hold up the falafel sandwich like a gun. “Try to take this off me,” I tell him, “and the Cop Shop is going to serve you some truncheon on an hourly rate that I decide.”
I turn Money back up and let her establish ownership of the Meg on-chain. I drop the falafel sandwich on the floor and walk out the door. A bunch of busy bees have heard the news and hum towards me, most already livestreaming, Money hearing their exclusive offers so I don’t even have to deal with them.
And that’s when I realise – I don’t need their exclusive offers any more. I have a Meg. I instruct Money to turn down all of their offers. But I’m not even sure I need Money any more. That feeling you get when you stand up too fast after sitting down for too long, that’s what this feels like.
I sprint home – earning FitPoints every time my trainers hit the pavement, but why should I even care about FitPoints any more either? – but not even I can run faster than the news, which travels as fast as people will pay it to. My parentals are already waiting outside as I rush up.
“Doesn’t this change everything?” I ask them. A life without Money. I can’t even imagine. Where will her voice in my head go, now that I no longer need to truck and barter?
“It doesn’t change the most important thing,” my mother replies, as my father smiles proudly and takes my hand; but RelEx is already pinging Money to ask me if I want to buy out their parental contract. Love and worry, respect and guilt, none of it stored in a ledger; and suddenly I feel more alone than I can stand.
