“The two guys that started it are, like, twenty-four years old now,” Fisher said, shaking his head in awe. “I tell you guys, the internet is the place to be ... that’s the twenty-first century gold rush.”
“C’mon, Lou,” said Stan (he was still Lou to us in those days–Sky Fisher came later). “You’re doing alright. You’re making six figures and the scuttlebutt has it you’re in line for VP.”
“Chump change,” said Fisher. “These guys are making millions ... billions, even. It’s not the technology per se. Shit, Stan, a world-class guru like you could set up something in your sleep, right?” I remember Stan smiling giddily, like a debutante who’s just been told she’s the most gorgeous girl at the ball. “It’s just coming up with the right idea.”
“The good ideas are all taken,” I piped in, swirling the ice in my empty glass so Fisher would take the hint.
“Bullshit!” Fisher said, but he did fetch fresh drinks, and afterwards he proposed a toast. “Here’s to finding a killer idea, and to the three advertising geniuses that can make it happen—concept, content, and execution.”
I excused myself after that. (By then I was already starting to notice that Fisher’s use of the bathroom was, to put it mildly, eccentric. I could never figure out how so much food and booze went in, and so little came out.)
When I came back, Stan and Fisher had their heads busily together, babbling about eBay and Google and YouTube, and were ignoring everything else around them, even the hot blonde admin assistant from W&M who was practically sticking her huge tits into Fisher’s back, trying to get his attention. I tried unsuccessfully to flirt with her, but she knew I was just a lowly copy writer and had her sights set on bigger game. That should have been one of my first clues as to just how driven Fisher was. In any ad agency, rank has its privileges, and there were plenty of sweet young things trying to get his attention, but he stuck to our trio, and stayed on topic. Now, of course, he has his harem of Phasmatian nuns, but that’s another story.
When I poked my head back into the huddle, Fisher was saying, “What we should do is go away this weekend ... you know, like in the country some place ... stock up on booze and weed, and have a serious brainstorming session.”
I certainly didn’t know I was about to make history—it just sounded like a party, and the fact Fisher was including us in his weekend plans was not lost on me either—so I quickly said I was up for it, and that’s when Stan, eager to please, suggested his folks’ place.
“They own some land in the Adirondacks ... and there’s a trailer on it,” he told us. “There’s plenty of room for the three of us. It would be perfect.”
Now, Stan and I had known each other for over three years, and that was the first I was hearing of the availability of a country retreat, but at the time I took it in stride. I can see now it was an indication of how he was being seduced by Fisher. You could say it was also the first step on the path that led to Stan’s death ... and maybe mine.
Damn, that just sent a shiver down my spine, or perhaps it’s just the cold outside. I guess I’m pretty worn out from the trip here–three hundred miles on a motorcycle, dressed up as The Grim Reaper for part of the trip. Okay, I know that begs an explanation, and I’ll do that tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to shut down my laptop and get some sleep.
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