They’ll never see this coming
Mark the Social Media Magnate starring in... A Dastardly Plan For World Domination
This piece is part of the Soaring Twenties Social Club Symposium. Each month we collectively produce art around a specific theme. The theme this month is ‘Fiction’. I am incredibly lucky to have worked with the amazing Vanya Bagaev on this piece. Please go check out his work.
400 eyeballs. That was all Mark could see. The light glinted off them in the Thoughtitorium1. Mark seemed to feed off them. He was fuelled by them. Powered by them. Energised by them. Mark breathed in. Mark closed his eyes. Lowered his eyeball protection flaps. Raised them. Started talking. Mark began his keynote. He wasn’t a natural keynote speaker, but he had synthesised Steve Jobs’ speech patterns over the years and greatly benefited. Despite all the odds stacked against him, he appeared human.
“Hoo-oo-oo-mans...”
Mark always began his speeches with this word. He thought it made him sound more grandiose, and oo-ing it—even more grandiose, grandiloquent.
“...my fellow hoomans, we are gathered here today for a momentous occasion. This keynote is unlike any other keynote you’ve seen before. This isn’t another point upgrade for the algorithm. This isn’t an announcement for the creators, who we dearly love by the way. And this isn’t even a graphics update in the Metaverse™2”
Mark paused for 4.589 seconds3.
“No, my fellow hoomans. This is a unique announcement, in the truest sense of the word. What you’re about to experience has never happened in the hooman history. In fact, it has never happened in the recorded history of any other recorded species.4”
The black expanse rose behind Mark, to reveal a car. A Bugatti Chiron Super Sport, to be exact. An expensive car, to be even more exacter.
“This car...”
Mark rotated 81 degrees, glanced at the car for 4.589 seconds with his arm outstretched, and turned back.
“...is powered by a new fuel system. It is, my fellow hoomans, the first and only car to be fuelled by AI.”
Mark stood. Staring. Letting that sink in.
You know by now for how long.
This much.
And a little bit more.
“No petrol. No electric. No LPG. No vegetable oil. No snake oil. No urine. No. It is on The Next Level, a level above mere Next Level, a technology from the future. It is fuelled by AI and AI alone. Yes, hoomans.”
Mark looked at the expectant, but actually quite bemused, eyes in the audience. He turned away and got in the car. He pressed the start button. He looked back at the audience.
Nothing.
Mark started looking backwards and forwards in many directions, and certainly not for the stage-managed amount of time. If this was a stage-managed uncomfortable pause, the audience in the Thoughtitorium were experiencing it as just a regular old-fashioned uncomfortable silence. They’d been bemused by the repeated usage of ‘hoomans’. They’d been bemused by the idea of a ‘car powered by AI’, whatever that meant. And now, they were just downright perplexed by a slightly awkward billionaire sat in an expensive car on a dark stage in a fancy auditorium pressing a tiny button over and over.
Still nothing.
He pressed the start button again.
Still. Nothing.
One last time, for good luck.
Nothing. Still.
Actually, there we go. There was something. A vague glimmer of hope. A few heads rose up higher than the rest in the audience. A faint hum began, became
louder,
louder,
louder…
then…
stopped.
It sounded like a CRT monitor being turned off after a long time. A loud hum slowly dying down to a dead hum.
Mark’s demo had not gone well. Mark had attempted to achieve flamboyant fanfaronade, but had ended up with just, well, this. Mark was left sat in his ridiculously overpriced car on the stage, gently fondling his impotent button.
The next morning
Mark stomped around. His eyes furious, full of fire and brimstone and any other such cheesy metaphor you could think of. Speaking of cheesy metaphors: the pizza had just arrived. Mark’s assistant slithered along the floor, trying not to get caught in Mark’s laser-tracking system. If she did, she was undoubtedly about to get shouted at. Cussed out worse than a drunken sailor cusses people out at a bar, or some other tired metaphor.
Mark was tired. He’d asked his best people to work on something new. A new way for him to spend his money. When you had one of the richest companies in the world, and you were the richest person in the world, what else could you buy? He had gold watches, gold smartphones, gold cutlery, gold furniture, a gold house, a gold prostate massager, gold toilets, gold gold5, personal assistants of all kinds6, private islands, even a small country off the coast of Barnsley7. None of what he bought had even scratched his wealth, let alone dent it. So he’d asked his best people to work on something new. He’d bought a new car. Not all that special, you’d agree. But this car was going to be different. It was going to be unique. He’d asked them to create a new energy source to power it. His intention was that—eventually—he could become twice as rich as he already was. What’s better than being the richest person in the world? Being twice as rich as the richest person in the world. Which was Mark. It was better. 100% better, in fact. Twice as good. As good as the best thing in the world, or some other rubbish analogy.
He’d thrown the pizza in the bin. It’d not helped him think. It’d thrown out his carefully balanced diet. Mark only ate a pizza because he was pissed off with his engineers. They’d started work on the new energy system, they’d made it, they’d fucked it up, and Mark had embarrassed himself in the Thoughtitorium last night. Elon had popularised the electric car. Elon had become rich because of it. Well-known. Mark wanted something new. He already had one of the largest social networks in the world, but social media was so 2010. He wanted something that screamed 2022. That screamed, “Mark doesn’t just run a social network for boomers and fix elections, he’s now a really cool philanthropist after figuring out the best new renewable energy source”. Something like that. It wasn’t about the size of the dog in the fight after all, it was about the size of the fight in the dog. Or some other metaphor about swinging penises.
Mark looked out of his Silicon Valley penthouse office and forced his face into something that on a human would pass for a smile. It was all a gigantic dick-swinging contest around here. Musk had the electric cars and the penis-shaped rockets. Bezos had the online store and the penis-shaped rockets. Even Branson—who everybody had counted out—had penis-shaped rockets. Everyone were building penis-shaped rockets these days. It was literally and metaphorically a gigantic dick-swinging contest. And to add further drama: it was in space. You couldn’t make this stuff up. Not even a metaphor slots in nicely here.
Mark’s human smile had failed to refresh. He picked up the phone. He was going to chew out his engineers. Find out what the fuck was going on with his new car. He’d talk to John.
“Hi John. How’s the kids? . . . Ah, good good. By the way, what the fuck is going on with my new car? . . . Good progress? Don’t fuck me off with that fuckery John. . . You are really what? . . . Sorry? . . . What the fuck does that mean? . . . Wait? Tell them you’re busy talking to your BOSS."
Someone distracted John. Mark could still hear a distant conversation on the other end of the line: “Really? How can that work? . . . You sure? OK. Yeah. I’m just on the phone with Him. Mark, we’ve got an update for you."
“I don’t need a fucking update, John. I need my fucking car, John. Will you tell me what the fuck is going on with my car, John? . . . Demo? . . . How much? . . . 30? You have TEN John, fucking ten minutes and no second more. I can count well—I’m a fucking CEO if this company. And CEOs can count.”
Mark put the phone down. When Mark’s arousal chip became overloaded, he secreted an unpleasant amount of coolant everywhere, particularly under his armpits and his forehead. He processed what John’s update might be. If anyone could get this done, it was John. He’d been with Mark from the beginning, put up with all of Mark’s shit, and helped Mark create this monumental cash cow that now had over 2 billion of the world in its grubby mitts. Now, users were down. They weren’t capturing more than 2 billion users. They’d peaked. They were flogging a dead horse, or some other such metaphor about how things were descending.
Mark was going down in his private elevator to John’s office. It was time to see this demo. His private elevator was the only time in his day that allowed him to relax and not think about anything. He could boot up his screen saver and just close his eyes. He listened to the rhythm of the hum of the lift. It closely matched the hum of his heart, or at least the small motor that was in place of his heart.
It was impressive, this vast wealth that Mark had built on the backs of other people. Even the original idea for his social network was stolen from someone else. Twins, actually. Someone with a consciousness or indeed a conscience may have stopped at some point. They may have stopped and asked: is this really OK? Is it OK to exploit people’s attention and manipulate people’s mood and get people to put out their life so publicly online? Someone else would have asked those questions, sure. Mark had never even computed those questions. He was emotionless when it came to things like this. A rollercoaster of emotions was not a metaphor that applied to Mark.
The ride had stopped. Basement B2, Special Projects. The place where all the cool stuff happened. One of the guys down here claimed to have sketched the iPhone before Apple announced it. This was the place where Mark hoped that John had figured out how to power his cool new car. Power the car, power buildings, power the world. Make lots of money. Become richer than the richest man in the world, which was Mark. Mark liked that simple programmatic loop.
The dastardly plan
“Hi John, lovely to see you. Watcha got for me, you fucker?”
Occasionally, Mark attempted to implement new slang into his lexicon.
“Mark, Mark, look at that, Mark." John’s eyes were twitchy. Mark could’ve been envious there was so much effervescence in those eyes, but he felt no envy—well nothing else as well. "Right, you’re gonna L.O.V.E. this Mark. Listen to me, Mark, as you know, we’ve been working night and day and day and night—fucking lots of hours and fisting days and weeks, all that time, really, Mark, trust me—to figure out a way to power your new car with a completely new energy system that the world has never seen before. Imagine that, Mark.”
“Uh huh.”
“And this, Mark, is something that even you will never have seen, Mark. It was Orlov in analytics who had the idea actually—he’s super smart, Mark, I’ll introduce you two later. He wears glasses—Imagine that guy, Mark.”
“Uh huh.”
“Let me ask you a question, Mark. What is it that we humans want—”
“We who?”
“We, humans, Mark.”
“Hoomans?”
“Yes, Mark, yes, hoomans. Exactly, you get it, Mark. So, what do you think that is?”
“What was the question again?”
“What is it that we humans want more than anything?”
“Users. More users.”
“Sort of. But which specific part of those users are the most useful to us?”
“Their brains.”
“Are we zombies Mark? No.”
“Their wallet?”
“That also, but what else, Mark?”
“Their bank account?”
“Of course, Mark, of course. But there’s something better than dollars in this world.”
“I feel like you’re trying to bullshit me, John.”
“What? Me? Bullshit you? Never, Mark. Never. Let me rephrase it. There’s something we trade here, Mark, that’s above dollars, there’s something better than dollars that our users have.”
“Their bitcoins?”
“No, Mark, no. Their attention. Yes, Mark. Exactly, you get it, Mark. Attention is our currency. A.T.T.E.N.T.I.O.N. We trade in attention, we buy attention, we sell attention, we loan attention. Without that, we have nothing, Mark. You told me that.”
“Uh huh. I gotcha.” Mark had discovered a new lexicon tree in his dialogue processor.
“So, Mark. We thought we’d build on this for your car. If we’re already farming attention from our users, what could we use to power your car, Mark? And eventually: the rest of the world? Imagine that, Mark, imagine that.”
Mark imagined. Engorging. Mark began secreting coolant.
“Here it is. Your new car. Powered by what we’re calling EB-001.”
Mark adjusted his ocular vision tool to see what John was pointing at. It was Mark’s brand new Bugatti Chiron Super Sport, but with a new funnel thing poking out of the back.
“What’s the funnel all about?” Mark projected out of his voice amplifying chip.
“That’s the genius of this Mark. That’s where we funnel in the EB-001. A totally renewable energy source. Something that the world will never see coming, Mark.”
John passed Mark a chemical makeup sheet. It showed the exact ingredients of EB-001. Mark’s eyeballs became wider than they’d ever become. His eyebrows rose higher than they’d ever rose. Mark was surprised. He was surprised he was surprised. He’d never been surprised before.
“But. This is...we can’t get away with this. Can we?”
“We’re just using AI to power it Mark. Of course we can.”
“I feel like you’re trying to bullshit me, John. How can AI power a car? Elon is struggling with the whole electric thing. And AI didn’t work last night. I looked like a fucking idiot.”
“AI?”
“Yeah. AI.”
“No. Not letter A letter I”.
“Huh?”
“Mark, Mark, hold on a second, let me explain.”
John explained. Mark nodded. He nodded a lot. Mark thought it helped him illustrate understanding. He occasionally raised his eyebrows. This new feeling of being surprised felt good to Mark. It felt exhilarating. It felt like the early days again, like he was stealing some poor twins idea for a social network. This time, he was stealing much more than that.
Mark couldn’t wait to reveal this. His synapses registered notifications all over his human shaped membrane. A completely renewable energy source with infinite possibilities. They’ll never see this coming.
The big reveal
We were back in the Thoughtitorium. Round 2. Mark hoped that John hadn’t fucked it.
400 different eyeballs this time. That was all Mark could see. He didn’t want the same people in the room as last time, because that was the most embarrassing fucking moment in his career. Mark seemed to feed off the eyeballs. He was fuelled by them. Powered by them. Energised by them. Mark breathed in. Mark closed his eyes. Lowered his eyeball protection flaps. Raised them. Started talking. Mark began his keynote. He wouldn’t mention the failed experiment from last summer.
“Hoo-oo-oomans… On this special occasion, I have something special to share with you. This will be special. Are you excited?”
A moderate wave of applause. Mark’s speech didn’t have the same confidence as before. His random access improvisation memory was faltering.
“I know you are. So, tell me this. What is that in life we all, hoomans, crave?”
Insecure silence. 400 bemused eyeballs glaring a hole through Mark’s exoskeleton.
“You all know it. Go on, go on.”
Someone in the audience caughed8.
Mark tapped his right index finger twice against his left temple. This process provided extra power to his confidence module. Mark’s eyeballs relaxed.
The black expanse rose behind Mark, to reveal a car. A Bugatti Chiron Super Sport. It looked the same as last time, apart from that weird funnel sticking out of the back.
“This car...”
Mark rotated 81 degrees, glanced at the car for 4.589 stage-managed seconds with his arm outstretched, and turned back.
“...is powered by a new fuel system. It is, my fellow hoomans, the first and only car to be fuelled by AI.”
Mark stood. Staring. Letting that sink in.
You know by now for how long.
This much.
And a little bit more.
“No petrol. No electric. No LPG. No vegetable oil. No snake oil. No urine. No. It is on the next level, a technology from the future. It is fuelled by AI and AI alone. Yes, hoomans.”
It was no coincidence that Mark’s patter was identical to the first time he’d attempted this reveal in the Thoughtitorium. He’d committed it to his long term speech pattern memory.
Mark looked at the expectant eyeballs in the audience. He turned away and got in the car. He pressed the start button. He looked back at the audience.
Nothing.
Mark experienced surprise for the second time in his lifecycle. Mark began to finger his little impotent button furiously, fastidiously, but ultimately flailingly and failingly.
Mark breathed in.
Once last push of the button might do it.
The Thoughtitorium came to life. The house lights went up. Suddenly the room wasn’t full of eyeballs any longer, it was full of bodies and faces and heads all looking around quizzingly. And there was the guys in the blue jackets too, running towards the stage. And the other guys behind Mark, running towards his car. And the guys rappelling in from the roof. They all had three letters written on their back: FBI. And they were all saying the same thing to Mark: “You’re under arrest on 340 counts of illegal organ harvesting…remain silent…right to an attorney…follow us”.
Mark amplified an expletive from his vocal module.
The aftermath
We were back in Mark’s Silicon Valley Penthouse. Mark wasn’t here any more, because he was in jail. In the distance, a faint podcast played to itself. The podcast narrator revealed himself to be a true crime reporter. Award-winning true crime reporter, Burt Bacharach9. And now, we’re going to briefly tune in to Burt Bacharach’s award-winning true crime podcast, Burt Bacharach’s Burly But Brisque But Brief Brutal Blunders.
“Welcome friends, once again, to B.B.B.B.B.B.B.B.B. Today’s story is so wild that you’ll struggle to believe it. It has to be seen with your own eyes. Over the last year, and just before Mark’s arrest, the FBI had built a compelling case against the social media magnate. Not content with farming attention from 2-billion people, Mark had began farming people to power his new renewable energy source. After all, what’s more renewable than the human body? The FBI are still performing tests on the exact chemical makeup of EB-001—Mark’s radical new renewable energy source—but they had already confirmed it contained human remains. Quite how Mark had acquired humans in the first place remained to be seen. But just for you, my friends, I’ve managed to get ahold of a leaked conversation between Mark and Mark’s head engineer on the project. And this clip is blinding. Play the tape.”
“But. This is...we can’t get away with this. Can we?”
“We’re just using AI to power it Mark. Of course we can.”
“I feel like you’re trying to bullshit me, John. How can AI power a car? That’s not what your chemical makeup says here. Elon is struggling with the whole electric thing. And AI didn’t work last night. I looked like a fucking idiot.”
“AI?”
“Yeah. AI.”
“No. Not letter A letter I”.
“Huh?”
“Mark, Mark, hold on a second, let me explain.”
“It’s not that kind of AI, Mark. Not that shitty kind, Mark. Not that kind that everybody is using to write tweets, Mark.”
“Hmm.”
“Our AI, Mark, you’re gonna love this Mark, our AI, it doesn’t stand for Artificial Intelligence, Mark.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No Mark, it doesn’t. Mark. It stands for ‘A Eye’”
“You mean ‘an eye’?”
“Well, yeah, Mark, grammatically speaking it stands for an eye. But then you’d have to call it an eye, Mark, and everybody would realise that it’s powered by eyes, Mark. Instead of a eye. A car powered by a eye, Mark.”
“So when I get up on stage and say ‘This car is powered by AI’, this is technically true?”
“Well, yeah. It’s powered by a eye, but that’s not what people will hear.”
“Fucking genius John. They’ll never see this coming.”
Thanks for reading. A reminder: please make sure you check out the amazing Vanya Bagaev. He really is rather good. And, if you want a podcast as weird as this writing, go listen to my Wednesday Audio podcast.
The Thoughtitorium was just a regular auditorium, situated in Silicon Valley. Having a building in Silicon Valley required you to give it an absolutely ludicrious name. So Mark had done that, and the Thoughtitorium was born.
Mark pronounced ™.
Research shows that a pause of 4.589 seconds is sufficiently long enough to be memorable and build anticipation, but not too long to become uncomfortable. If you’re curious: an uncomfortable begins at 5.234 seconds, and ends at 7.458 seconds. A comfortable pause shared between lovers commences from 7.5 seconds.
Recorded research shows that using the word ‘recorded’ before you deliver a fact enhances the believability of the fact by around 57%, which is actually the highest level of a fact in recorded human history.
Extremely gold, that gold stuff.
Gold acquisition assistants. Gold prospecting assistants. Gold agents. Gold assistants made of gold.
Nobody had the heart to tell Mark that he’d been the victim of an oddly specific spoof eBay listing. Barnsley was a town, not a country. And it was landlocked.
Caugh. Verb. To audibly laugh, then attempt to disguise your laugh with a cough.
No relation. Walk On By.
 | A guest post by
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I'm so vain, I thought this fun story was about me. At first.
You guys.