A Spot Reserved for Someone's Ad
Online ads, stickers slapped on every lamppost, native integrations from Mr. Bird (yeah, this Mr. with feathers), and even those push-notifications that pop up for that one last poor soul on Earth who never installed AdBlock:
"Only Today, Never Again (since we'll cancel ourselves anyway), the one-of-a-kind World Cultures Exhibition, a.k.a. The World Cultures Exhibition! You've never seen anything like it—but you've definitely heard about it and argued about it hundreds of times, because only thanks to your collective stupidity this Museum came into being. Thank you, dear consumers and our glorious future visitors! Meet us by the Triumphal Arch in the Park."
The People Who Fell for This Clickbait
"Uh, this is literally just a street. Like, an area without walls. To clarify—no roof, rain pours straight in. To be precise—it's not a museum at all, just the entrance to a park," complained one overly pedantic, nitpicky visitor.
"Shut your trap, son of a jackal and… wait, son, is that you? Really you?! Ha, kidding. Just zip it and listen," shouted a bald man with pencil-thin mustache, dressed in a perfectly fitted tuxedo.
On his forehead, written in messy handwriting, was a tattoo: "Space Available for Your Ads and Kid Photos."
"Oh, my apologies, esteemed guest! Didn't mean to offend. Thing is, I've got OCD and, from time to time (according to my social-media doctors and to Inna), I exhibit Toxic Masculinity."
"So sometimes, on a rare foggy and rainy day, when precipitation scratches at old emotional scars…" — his voice wavered theatrically — "I might just piss on you, bastard, and refresh you better than any rain could! Golden or Mother Nature brand, doesn't matter!"
He roared, face turning red, making his carefully greased hairs stick out like quills.
"Damn it! They told me not to use old-school pomade, to buy something modern for mustache care. I just can't integrate into the new world, always remembering old, long-forgotten Orders."
"Sweetheart, pick it up from here, will you? Looks like today we'll only have one client anyway. Good thing we charged half a million—at least that crappy ad integration with that YouTuber paid off. Oh, sorry, darling. I'm done, I'm done. You take over."
A man of medium height, middle-aged, medium build, with medium-length hair and a strangely sensual medium-pitched voice objected:
"Precision matters. I'm not your only client. I'll throw in another two hundred and fifty grand—for my brother-in-law. He's not interested in the tour, so his curiosity is worth only half."
Out of the bushes darted a man bowing low, lugging a portable hookah. Even while running, he puffed on coals, panting and bulging his eyes. Handing the bubbling pipe to his relative, he gushed:
"Infused with the flavor of freshly squeezed strawberry-mango smoothie! Perfect for your daily fitness routine!"
"The more, the merrier!" cheered a woman who had been smiling silently until now. Her appearance was left undescribed—at her own request, to avoid accusations of lookism.
"We're so glad true seekers of knowledge still exist! Our World Cultures Exhibition begins just as soon as you pay the deposit…"
The deal was made in cash. Everyone shook hands—except the client, his mouth full of hookah tube.
"…and now let us introduce ourselves: I'm Inna Lusion and this is my wonderful, charming husband, Mike 'Super' Mason. Together, we are your guides into this amazing and fascinating world!"
"Seems like you forgot someone," puffed out the client, exhaling smoke and nodding toward another figure. "Reminder: precision in everything."
"Yes, yes, our newcomer!" exclaimed Inna, pointing at a towering young man with long, light-brown hair. He wore a plain T-shirt with snow-leopard-skin print and comfy moccasins.
"His name is Ivan. He comes from a distant northern country, and sadly, doesn't speak our language."
"And what's his function?" asked the Client.
"Back and forth…" Mike muttered reluctantly. "Handles props, helps us out. Why so many questions, dude? You a cop or something? Oh, sorry! Please forgive me!"
To avoid the awkward silence about to fall, Inna jumped in, clapping her hands, and urged everyone to follow her.
And Off They Went
The little procession drifted away from the meeting spot and deeper into the city, where—surprise!—life was buzzing as always. The further they went, the more the streets filled with random pedestrians, monumental buildings, low-rise blocks, and everything else you'd expect if you've ever stepped foot in a big city.
Haven't? Well, Google it.
No internet? Then how the hell did you download this book? Share your method with me—I'd love to read it myself.
The first landmark they encountered was a weathered-yet-recently-built pastry shop, owned by a famous Swiss entrepreneur. The closer they got, the more Inna's eyes lit up, while Mike's dimmed like a dying lightbulb.
They froze by the door. Ivan bared his scarred, dangerous grin and handed everyone gnome hats.
Finally, the guides kicked into the job they were paid for.