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The city night bristled with vitality and life. Its millions of lights shone with defiance as though saying Screw you sun! We don't need you! To the romantic, each light represented a hope. A hope that competence and industriousness are indeed the twin pillars of success. Thus, the city represented the epitome of human civilization, nagging its finger to the animal life. And in its highest tower, its mightiest trophy, stood a man....
“Hmmmmmmm”
The man was short but had a lean figure. His sagging face and silver hair spoke plenty about his age. On the other hand, his ordinary blazer and cheap accessories stayed mute to the fact that he was Carlos Dump, the great multi-billionaire of Dump Industries. The same Carlos Dump whose name is known throughout the world as the hero of corruption, destroyer of green parks, and the favorite brand of boots made specifically to be licked.
But those glorious days are in the past now.
His enemies have banded together to crush him. Everyday, his secretary is awash with the latest persecution letter. Police scrambling for every chewing gum he ever chewed. Swat teams surround his beloved Dump Tower (making it lose its top 10 spot on the city's to-visit list). Even Japanese yakuza, Italian mafia, and Norwegian pirates have started to send him death notes and porn with his face edited in (the latter being mostly the work of the pirates). Carlos would be lucky to get away with life in prison. Indeed, any atheist in Carlos' position would suspect a God was looking out for him if he got such light punishment.
“Hmmmmmmm”
Quietly listening to the old man's mumbling was a smartly dressed young man, one could say almost a boy. He stood respectfully at a distance from Carlos and did not seem at all impatient with the accumulating five minutes worth of incoherent filler sounds. He was use to it.
“Say, Rabin.”
The young man became tensed.
“Do you call this being in a jam... Or being in a pickle... Which do you like, pickle or jam?”
Slowly, the young man began to get agitated. “Sir,” his heart beat increasing, “with all due respect."
Carlos' ears pricked, waiting for a response.
Rabin spoke quickly. "I believe pickles are a disgusting group of fruits. In all honesty, I am offended you would even propose it for dinner. As for jam, I admit I would much prefer to find myself in jam than in pickle, even though neither situations would be on a voluntary basis.”
“....”
Carlos blinked once at Rabin.
“Damn it Rabin, I was talking about which expression to use for my predicament. Not dinner! Focus, Son! We're in a serious situation here. I'm about to get lynched and you're thinking about what to get for dinner. Ridiculous!”
“I'm sorry, sir,” Rabin's handsome face immediately tore in remorse. Although in his heart of hearts, he was gleeful that no pickles would be served.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I've got it!”
“Sir?”
“Operation Picklejam... that'll be the name of our secret escape plan. Its perfect! Phew. I tell you son, the most important thing in a business is the name. The name will make or break. Remember that.” Carlos stretched his hand forward. “Now where's the rest?”
Long familiar with Carlos' impoliteness, Rabin professionally handed Carlos the black binder he had patiently been holding. In the last hectic week, Rabin and his assistants had analyzed hundreds of legal documents and financial accounts. They had searched through every single word, every single number, even ran entire virtual simulations of possible alternatives, all in the hope of finding for Carlos an escape from total ruin. And at last, the sole solution these experts wrote down in the black binder was the same one proposed by millions of teenagers that had heard of the Dump scandal a week ago: Escape into a virtual game!
But Rabin knew it can't just be any virtual game. Only a few games would do and Rabin knew the best of these games is undoubtedly...
Samsara!
Samsara the game, one of the few virtual games with no human administration. Aside from a couple fundamental rules, the nature, content, and difficulty of the game are generated entirely from the collective unconscious of its players. There is no preordained goal, no prearranged map, and most importantly no human oversight. This meant that no person outside the game can interfere with the actions of the players inside. Law enforcement from the outside world can still act inside the game, but they are forced to do so as normal players with no special privileges. Combined with the infamous clause from the Universal Virtual Reality Act that states no person can be forcefully disconnected from their capsule for fear of death, Samsara is a felon's perfect escape.
Samsara, the indie, experimental game that will revolutionize life itself! or at least, as stated by the advertisement Rabin happened to see.
*****************
The special room was silent except for the quiet humming of the capsule.
Ding!
A green light turned on, announcing the successful immersion. The capsule had been fitted with all the necessary equipments; nutrient transplants, muscle movers, etc. to allow for indefinite immersion. Rabin had spent days grilling the lawyers to make sure there is no law that can forcefully discontinue these functions. Now, Carlos cannot be caught by the outside world, at least for a while.
The room became truly silent. The young man named Rabin gave a last look onto the unconscious face of the old man, before moving away with the black binder. Boldly written now on the front cover are the handwritten words “Operation Picklejam”. Rabin took out a pen from his pocket and crossed out the word pickle and capitalized the j.
Much better.
Rabin promptly tossed the binder into the shredder.
Operation Jam has begun.