can’t keep this up any longer. I swear I’m about to lose it.” I knew the others were working as hard as I was, and financially were in far deeper than me, so I thought it was an opportune time to talk about where the entire out-of-control venture was headed.
“This thing’s grown too big for the three of us,” I continued. “If it’s going to work, then we’re going to have to hire more people to help us out ... talented people we can rely on. And that takes money.” I remembered Fisher’s frequent reminders about the disproportionate amount of his cash already invested in the venture, so I moved to preempt him. “You’ve poured the lion’s share into this thing, Sky,”—we had already started using his new name by then—“so I’d be interested in knowing how you plan on keeping this going ... and getting your money back.” I turned to Stan. “How many users do we have now?”
“Over 250,000 and counting,” he said, although his eyes never left Fisher’s face.
I whistled. “A quarter million! Man, if we could only get, like, two bucks out of each one of them on average, we’d be back in the black in no time.” I let that hang there, and waited for Fisher’s response. I half expected him to take a temper tantrum of some sort, and to start blaming things on me, as per usual. Even with all the effort I’d put into the project at that point, I think part of me was hoping he’d push me too far this time, and finally compel me to quit.
Instead, he smiled benevolently at us (which, in some ways, was scarier than his angry outbursts) and nodded. “Yes, I agree totally. In fact, I’ve been giving all this very serious thought over the past couple of days, and I’ve already taken the next step.” He went over to what had once been Stan’s dining room table, but now had been expropriated as Fisher’s personal desk, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Today I filed the forms to have us incorporated as a formal church. With that, I was able to open up a merchant account that lets us start taking donations online. If I’m not mistaken, Stan has almost finished writing the software to start passing around the virtual collection plate, so to speak.” He looked directly at me with that self-satisfied, lopsided grin of his. “I’m pretty sure we can average better than two dollars a head.”
This was not something we had discussed among ourselves ... or that they’d talked about with me, at any rate. I snatched the papers from his hands and began to scan them quickly.
“Us ... a formal church? We can do that? I know there are hundreds of weird-ass congregations out there, but how do we qualify? I mean, it’s really just the three of us and a web site!”
“Ah, but we do have hundreds of thousands of worshippers. The Supreme Court has already set a precedent ... I believe it related to recognizing the Wiccans.” He shuffled around the papers on the table and found what he was looking for. “Ah, yes, here it is: Members of the Church sincerely adhere to a fairly complex set of doctrines relating to the spiritual aspect of their lives, and in doing so they have ultimate concerns in much the same way as followers of more accepted religions. Their ceremonies and leadership structure, their rather elaborate set of articulated doctrine, their belief in the concept of another world, and their broad concern for improving the quality of life for others gives them at least some facial similarity to other more widely recognized religions.”
Fisher was starting to get a glint in his eye that I had spotted once or twice in the past, and would become all too familiar with in the years to come. I call it his Almighty Look. “I’ve already talked to a lawyer friend of mine,” Fisher continued, “and she’s totally confident we can make an identical argument for Phasmatia. And, trust me, if the government resists, we’ll get our followers to stage a massive protest they won’t be able to ignore ... plus, the publicity from it will guarantee tens of thousands of new recruits.”
He went to take the papers back, and although he did it casually, I got the distinct feeling he was trying to hide something from me. I squeezed down and jerked the forms back to scrutinize their contents more closely. My own action was not performed as subtly as his, and must have betrayed my suspicion. Fisher’s face squeezed into a frown, but he let me look. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t get what he was doing, but I saw it immediately.
“Stan and I aren’t listed here,” I said. “We don’t have an active interest.”
“I know. It’s for your own good, Brad. As a church—and, really, that’s just another form of a charitable organization—none of the net profits are allowed to go to private shareholders. I know how hard up you are for cash ... I wanted to make sure you were in a position to take out money freely, without it creating an issue about our tax-exempt status.”
“Makes sense,” Stan chimed in, and I could have walloped him. How could anyone so smart be so stupid? Sure, it made perfect sense–if you were standing in Fisher’s shoes. Maybe Stan still worshipped the ground Fisher stood on, but I could see what the devious prick was up to.
“But you’re the only one of us who’s a director,” I pointed out.
“Well, naturally, we have to make sure we keep control, don’t we? And I’m already the official face of the Church anyway.” He finally managed to slide the papers out from my fingers, and waved it casually in front of my face. “Honestly, Brad, all this means is we’re able to start collecting money on the web site. That’s the important thing, right? After all, you’re the one that just stormed in here demanding an end to our current dilemma ... well, here it is. Our troubles are over.”
“And what about you, Sky? Aren’t you worried about conflict of interest and fallout from the IRA when you start trying to get some of your own money back? I mean, you’ve got a couple hundred thousand invested in this.”
“Closer to a half million ... I cashed in my pension fund two weeks ago ... but that’s not the point. Hell, we’ll be pretty much pouring every penny back into the Church anyway. But now we’ll finally have the kind of money we need to hire staff and launch a proper marketing campaign. Oh, sure, we’re starting to take off ... but we can really make this baby fly!”
As he spoke, and got all worked up, I noticed something odd about his mannerisms. By nature, given his former position in the ad agency, he was a talented speaker. But now his style had changed somewhat, becoming more deliberate and theatrical. There was something familiar about it, and it took a few minutes to sink in. He was starting to emulate the style of Sky Fisher, The Chosen One, from the online experience. The motions of that virtual character had been choreographed by the original crew of animators, and I seem to recall they’d actually put both a dancer and a magician in their motion-capture suit in order to come up with just the right hybrid body language. I never knew whether it was deliberate, or if Fisher had subconsciously picked up the habits from all the time he spent online shadowing his virtual alter ego, but now he was starting to speak and behave the same way.
I’m going to knock off the writing for today. Actually, I’m surprised I’ve gotten as much down as I have, given that I’ve been getting up every few minutes to look out the windows for anyone who might be trying to sneak up on me. I’m running low on firewood too, and it’s going to be a lot harder to round some up with all the snow covering everything. Who would have expected this kind of weather in the first week of November, even in New York? I also need to inventory my food supply, and figure out what I’m going to do next.
Article updated Wednesday 5 November 9:17
Thank God for my Boy Scout training. Or, more precisely, thank God for Ernie Ronson, my old Eagle Scout leader in Poughkeepsie, who helped me earn my merit badge in camping. Ernie was an old-timer who had spent a lot of time up in the Yukon, not to mention a stint as an army ranger, and so took his survival skills very seriously. He taught us a lot of stuff beyond what was in the book. Yesterday, despite the absence of a saw (although I did find a small hatchet in the trailer’s tool box), I managed to gather up a good supply of dry firewood, most of it from dead lower branches. Squaw wood, Ernie used to call it.
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