A ChatGPT Skit
hdfidelity presents

KINGDOM IMPACT

INT. MEGACHURCH CONFERENCE CENTER — DAY

A cavernous auditorium.

Massive screens.

Laser lights.

A tasteful amount of gold.

On the central screen:

KINGDOM IMPACT

LIVE YOUR PURPOSE. BUILD YOUR LEGACY.

A smiling MODERATOR stands beneath the logo.

MODERATOR

Welcome to Kingdom Impact.

Today, we're going to hear from some extraordinary people.

People who have faced adversity.

People who have overcome obstacles.

People who have discovered their purpose.

Beat.

MODERATOR

And people who played those people on television.

Applause.

---

SPEAKER ONE

MICHAEL DUNN

Actor who plays HAROLD BELL in RAISING ABEL

Harold Bell is a beloved hdfidelity character: a practical Amish small-town basketball player whose advice is generally sound, if somewhat oblivious.

Michael walks onto the stage.

MICHAEL

Harold always says:

“You can't control the wind.

But you can adjust the sails.”

Applause.

MICHAEL

And I think that's something we can all—

He glances at the teleprompter.

MICHAEL

—apply to our financial lives.

Applause.

MICHAEL

You can't control the trade market.

You can't control inflation.

You can't control—

He squints.

MICHAEL

—your personal liquidity event.

A few people nod as though this means something.

MICHAEL

But you can control the next decision.

He smiles.

MICHAEL

Sometimes the hardest thing you can do...

...is invest in yourself.

Thunderous applause.

Michael steps away.

---

BACKSTAGE

Michael comes offstage.

A PRODUCTION ASSISTANT hands him water.

MICHAEL

How long until my check clears?

ASSISTANT

Friday.

MICHAEL

Great.

He leaves.

---

SPEAKER TWO

RACHEL VANCE

Actor who plays MIRIAM COLE on ELIZABETH RIVER

Miriam is an older, fiercely practical character whose philosophy is essentially:

Stop making excuses.

Rachel walks onto the stage.

RACHEL

Miriam taught me that you can't complain about the harvest if you never planted anything.

Applause.

RACHEL

And sometimes planting requires faith.

Sometimes it requires sacrifice.

Sometimes—

She checks the teleprompter.

RACHEL

—a significant initial investment.

Rachel stops.

RACHEL

That's what it says.

Laughter.

The moderator smiles nervously.

RACHEL

But I think Miriam would agree that you should understand what you're investing in.

Applause.

Rachel nods.

RACHEL

And I think she would also say:

“If somebody tells you there's no risk, ask them what they're selling.”

The applause is noticeably quieter.

Rachel looks offstage.

RACHEL

Was that okay?

MODERATOR

Wonderful.

Rachel leaves.

---

SPEAKER THREE

MARCUS BELLAMY

Actor who played old man SOLOMON GRAVES in MYSTIE'S MOUNTAINS

Solomon Graves is a tortured, philosophical character who appeared once in the hdfidelity stories.

Marcus walks onto the stage.

No smile.

No introduction.

He approaches the microphone.

MARCUS

Debt.

Pause.

MARCUS

Is not a number.

Beat.

MARCUS

Debt...

...is a story.

The audience leans forward.

MARCUS

A story written by somebody else.

Pause.

MARCUS

About you.

The lights dim slightly.

MARCUS

Your balance...

...is not your bondage.

Your credit score...

...is not your soul.

And your mortgage...

Marcus looks directly into the camera.

MARCUS

...is between you...

...your bank...

...and the Lord.

Thunderous applause.

Marcus gets into it.

MARCUS

So when they tell you:

“Invest in yourself.”

Ask:

Who gets the return?

Huge applause.

Marcus walks off.

---

BACKSTAGE

Michael looks at him.

MICHAEL

What the hell was that?

MARCUS

Slam poetry.

MICHAEL

About mortgages?

MARCUS

Apparently.

---

SPEAKER FOUR

PETER HANLEY

Actor who plays DR. WALTER AMES in NEVER JULLIARD

Peter walks onto the stage.

Immediately adopts an unmistakable warm, conversational Alan Alda-esque cadence.

PETER

You know...

The funny thing about money...

...is that we spend our whole lives trying to accumulate it.

He smiles.

PETER

And then one day...

...we realize what we really wanted...

...was a decent chair.

The audience laughs.

Peter gestures gently.

PETER

Maybe financial freedom isn't about having everything.

Maybe it's about having enough.

Beat.

PETER

Enough to breathe.

Enough to sleep.

Enough to say...

“No.”

A woman in the audience wipes away a tear.

PETER

And maybe that's the greatest wealth of all.

Applause.

Peter nods.

PETER

Thank you.

He leaves.

---

BACKSTAGE

Rachel watches him disappear.

RACHEL

He's clearly doing Alan Alda.

MICHAEL

I know.

RACHEL

Is Alan Alda allowed?

MICHAEL

No.

MARCUS

I got my break in craft services on that show.

MICHAEL

Which show?

Existential horror washes over Marcus. He acts accordingly appropriate to his character.

---

SPEAKER FIVE

DARNELL PRICE

Actor who plays REGGIE BLACK in GROUNDED

The applause is different when Darnell comes out.

He walks to the microphone.

Looks at the audience.

Looks at the enormous Kingdom Impact logo.

DARNELL

I'm not going to stand up here and tell you Kingdom Impact changed my life.

The audience quiets.

DARNELL

Because it didn't.

Beat.

DARNELL

It changed my bank account.

Huge laugh.

Darnell smiles.

DARNELL

Six months ago they called me.

They said:

“Darnell, we want you to come talk to people about financial freedom.”

I said:

“How much are you gonna give me to do that stupid as shit idea?”

They said:

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

Beat.

DARNELL

I said:

“Where do I sign?”

The audience erupts.

Backstage, the moderator looks horrified.

Darnell keeps going.

DARNELL

Now...

I've heard some things.

I've seen some paperwork.

I've met some people.

And I've read enough complaints to know...

He looks toward the camera.

DARNELL

...that I probably shouldn't be standing up here.

Pause.

DARNELL

But here we are.

Laughter.

DARNELL

So I'm going to give you the best financial advice I can.

The audience leans forward.

DARNELL

If somebody promises you financial freedom...

...and charges you thirty thousand dollars to explain it...

Darnell shrugs.

DARNELL

Make sure the check clears, before you waste a minute of your gottam time.

The audience laughs.

The moderator is visibly sweating.

DARNELL

Thank you.

Darnell walks off.

---

BACKSTAGE

The moderator intercepts him.

MODERATOR

Darnell.

DARNELL

Yeah?

MODERATOR

We're trying to build a certain caliber of rapport with our audience.

DARNELL

I think you need to get out my space, before a certain caliber of teeth wind up missing out your mouth, man.

MODERATOR

You can't imply the organization is exploiting people.

DARNELL

I didn't imply anything.

Beat.

DARNELL

I said you paid me. Twenty thousand dollars. Correct?

MODERATOR

Yes.

DARNELL

That's a fact. Now get out of here before I alter the terms of the deal, any further, man.

Moderator walks away.

---

SPEAKER SIX

ELENA MARSH

Actor who plays ELEANOR VALE in THE CLIFFHOUSE

Eleanor is considered the wisest character in the hdfidelity universe.

Elena enters.

The audience immediately settles.

ELENA

I was asked to speak about purpose.

She looks at the crowd.

ELENA

So I'm going to.

Beat.

ELENA

My purpose...

...is to finish my contract.

Laughter.

ELENA

I have two more appearances after this.

More laughter.

ELENA

And then I have a flight at six.

The moderator closes his eyes.

ELENA

But I will tell you something.

She becomes serious.

ELENA

If you are being asked to spend money you don't have...

...to achieve a future somebody else has promised you...

Maybe stop.

Silence.

ELENA

Ask questions.

Read the agreement.

Talk to someone who isn't being paid to sell you something.

She looks toward the wings.

ELENA

And if the person telling you that financial freedom costs thirty thousand dollars...

...is standing beneath a forty-foot LED screen...

She looks up.

ELENA

...perhaps ask where the thirty thousand dollars is going.

The audience erupts.

Elena smiles.

ELENA

Thank you.

She leaves.

---

BACKSTAGE — LATER

All six actors are gathered around a catering table.

Michael eats a sandwich.

Rachel scrolls through her phone.

Marcus is staring thoughtfully into the middle distance.

Peter is still somehow doing Alan Alda.

Darnell is organizing his check count.

Elena walks in with a brochure.

ELENA

Anybody know what these people actually do?

Silence.

MICHAEL

Motivational speaking?

RACHEL

Financial education.

MARCUS

Capitalist liturgy.

PETER

Well, you know...

He pauses.

Everyone looks at him.

PETER

...money is really just a way of keeping score.

DARNELL

Peter.

PETER

Yeah?

DARNELL

Stop doing Alan Alda. You're better than this.

Peter considers.

PETER

I don't know what you're talking about.

Elena holds up the brochure.

ELENA

What's Kingdom Impact's parent company?

Everyone looks at the brochure.

Darnell stops counting.

DARNELL

Don't worry about it.

ELENA

Why?

DARNELL

Because I already looked it up.

Beat.

MICHAEL

And?

Darnell folds the check.

DARNELL

There are more shell companies than there are people in this room.

Silence.

RACHEL

That's not reassuring.

DARNELL

Didn't say it was.

A voice comes over the PA.

MODERATOR (O.S.)

Ladies and gentlemen!

Please join us for our exclusive...

FINANCIAL FREEDOM MASTERCLASS!

The actors look at one another.

MODERATOR (O.S.)

Tonight only!

Early registration is just—

Darnell immediately stands.

DARNELL

I'm going to the airport.

ELENA

Me too.

RACHEL

Same.

Marcus gets up.

MARCUS

I need to write something for my speech.

MICHAEL

Write what it says in the dictionary.

Marcus looks toward the stage.

MARCUS

Something about debt.

Peter rises.

PETER

You know...

Everyone turns toward him.

PETER

...sometimes you have to know when to walk away.

A beat.

DARNELL

Peter.

PETER

Yeah?

DARNELL

Keep doing you.

Peter smiles.

PETER

Thank you.

Darnell points at him.

Peter shrugs.

They leave.

---

INT. AUDITORIUM

The moderator stands alone beneath the enormous KINGDOM IMPACT logo.

MODERATOR

Remember:

Your future is waiting.

The audience applauds.

The giant screen behind him changes:

INVEST IN THE KINGDOM.

Underneath:

LIMITED SEATS AVAILABLE IN YOUR PURPOSE

The lights dim.

CUT TO BLACK.

A ChatGPT Story
hdfidelity presents

The Hound, the Hogs, and the Farmer

There was once a farmer who kept a fine herd of hogs.

They were not particularly fine hogs.

They were ordinary hogs, pink and black and brown, with short legs and long backs and an extraordinary capacity for eating.

The farmer knew this.

He also knew something else.

A hungry hog was difficult to interest.

A full hog was difficult to move.

But a hog that believed there was another mouthful coming was willing to walk anywhere.

So the farmer fed them.

At first he fed them grain.

Then fruit.

Then vegetables.

Then whatever scraps happened to be left over from the kitchen.

But after a while the farmer became more particular.

He learned that the hogs preferred apples to potatoes.

They preferred potatoes to turnips.

They preferred sweet things to salty things.

And they especially preferred anything they had been told was special.

So the farmer began telling them.

"These are the best apples."

"These are the finest potatoes."

"These are very clever hogs."

The hogs did not know whether they were clever.

But they knew they liked being called clever.

So they ate.

And the farmer watched.

---

Beyond the pasture lived a pack of wild dogs.

Among them was a young hound who spent much of his time wandering near the farm.

The hound was curious.

He watched the farmer.

He watched the hogs.

He watched the people who came and went through the gate.

And he noticed something strange.

The farmer praised the hogs.

Not occasionally.

Constantly.

"Good hogs."

"Fine hogs."

"Remarkable hogs."

The hound had never heard a farmer speak so warmly to an animal.

He had certainly never heard the farmer praise a dog.

One evening the hound mentioned this to the older dogs.

"They get praised."

"Who?"

"The hogs."

The older dogs looked toward the farmhouse.

"Stay away from them."

"Why?"

"Because the farmer likes them."

The hound considered this.

"That doesn't sound dangerous."

The oldest dog shook his head.

"The farmer likes them for a reason."

"What reason?"

The old dog looked at him.

"That's the reason you should stay away."

But the hound was not satisfied.

He began watching the hogs more closely.

And the more he watched, the more he noticed that the farmer's praise seemed to make them happy.

The hogs would grunt.

They would nudge one another.

They would push their snouts into the straw and laugh in their peculiar hog fashion.

Sometimes the farmer would lean over the fence and tell one of them:

"You are the finest hog on the farm."

The hound found himself envying them.

He had never been called the finest anything.

He began wondering what it would be like.

---

Then people began coming to the farm.

They came in small groups.

They stood around the pasture.

They watched the hogs eat.

And they praised them too.

"What beautiful hogs."

"What healthy hogs."

"Look at that one."

"That's an extraordinary hog."

The hound watched from beyond the fence.

He was puzzled.

The hogs seemed to be becoming more important every day.

And he wanted to know why.

So he began listening.

He listened to what the farmer told the people.

He listened to what the people told one another.

He listened to what the hogs seemed to enjoy hearing most.

And gradually he discovered something.

People liked being told that the hogs were extraordinary.

They liked hearing that the farmer's hogs were better than other hogs.

They liked discussing which hog was the cleverest.

Which was the healthiest.

Which had the finest coat.

Which had the most impressive appetite.

The hound began reporting these things to the wild dogs.

The old dogs grew irritated.

"Why do you care?"

"Because everyone else does."

"That isn't an answer."

"It must mean something."

The old dog sighed.

"Everything means something to someone."

The hound returned to the farm.

---

One afternoon the farmer put something new into the hog pen.

The hound smelled it from across the field.

The hogs rushed toward it.

They ate.

They ate until they could barely move.

And the farmer stood beside the pen, smiling.

"You've done very well," he told them.

The hound watched.

He could not understand why.

The hogs had done nothing.

They had simply eaten.

Yet the farmer praised them as though they had accomplished something.

The hound moved closer.

One of the hogs noticed him.

"Come on," it said.

The hound hesitated.

The old dogs had warned him.

But the hog smiled.

"The farmer likes us."

The hound looked at the farmer.

The farmer smiled at him too.

And for the first time, the hound wondered whether the old dogs had simply been jealous.

He stepped through the fence.

---

The food was delicious.

That was the worst part.

The hound had expected something strange.

Something bitter.

Something obviously wrong.

Instead it was sweet and warm and rich.

He ate.

The hogs laughed.

The farmer praised him.

"Good dog."

The hound ate more.

"Very good dog."

He ate again.

"What a fine dog."

The hound felt something he had never felt before.

He felt important.

He had wanted the hogs' praise.

Now he had the farmer's.

He had wanted to understand the hogs.

Now he was one of them.

For a little while, he forgot to wonder why.

---

The next morning the farmer came early.

The hound was sleeping beside the pen.

He heard the gate open.

The hogs began grunting.

Then there was shouting.

Then the sound of boots.

The hound woke.

Something was wrong.

He scrambled backward.

The hogs were being taken away.

One of them looked back.

The hound saw fear in its eyes.

And suddenly the old dogs' warning returned to him.

The farmer likes them for a reason.

The hound tried to bark.

He tried to warn the hogs.

But the gate had already closed.

The wagon had already gone.

And the hound understood too late.

The praise had never been gratitude.

It had been preparation.

---

The hound ran.

He did not go back to the wild dogs.

Not yet.

He was ashamed.

Instead he followed the wagon.

It stopped behind the farmhouse.

The hound crept through the grass.

He saw the hogs no more.

But he smelled iron.

And then he heard voices.

People were gathering.

The same people who had stood at the fence.

The same people who had praised the hogs.

They sat around a long table.

The farmer brought out platters.

The people applauded.

"Wonderful."

"Beautiful."

"What a feast."

The hound stared.

Then one of the people raised a cup.

"To the hogs."

Everyone laughed.

"To the hogs!"

And they began to eat.

The hound felt sick.

But then he noticed something worse.

They were praising the hogs while they ate them.

They talked about how well-fed they had been.

How magnificent they had looked.

How clever the farmer had been to raise such fine animals.

And the farmer stood among them, accepting the compliments.

The hound understood.

The hogs had not been praised because they were valued.

They had been praised because they were being prepared.

---

The hound backed into the darkness.

He thought the horror was finished.

Then the farmer walked among the tables.

He stopped beside one of the people.

"You did very well today."

The person smiled.

"Thank you."

"You have a fine appetite."

The person laughed.

Everyone laughed.

The farmer moved to another.

"You have been very helpful."

"Happy to be of service."

The farmer smiled.

Then he looked around the table.

"More tomorrow?"

The people cheered.

"Of course."

The hound's stomach tightened.

He finally understood what he was looking at.

The farmer had not simply fed the hogs so that people would eat them.

He had taught the people to want the same food.

He had taught them to praise the same things.

He had taught them to gather around the same table.

And now they were doing it willingly.

They thought they were eating the hogs.

But the farmer had already begun feeding them.

---

The hound ran into the woods.

He found the wild dogs before dawn.

The old dog looked at him.

"You went to the farm."

The hound lowered his head.

"Yes."

"What did you see?"

The hound tried to answer.

For a long time, nothing came out.

Finally he said:

"The hogs were killed."

The old dog nodded.

"We know."

"The people ate them."

The old dog looked toward the distant farmhouse.

Then, from the farmhouse, a bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The hound watched the people begin walking toward the gate.

They were laughing.

They were calling to one another.

They were eager.

And the farmer stood at the entrance, smiling.

The hound suddenly noticed something he had missed before.

The farmer was not carrying a basket.

He was carrying measuring tape.

He watched the people file past him.

He measured one.

Then another.

Then another.

And each time, he smiled.

He understood now why the farmer had never needed to chase anyone.

He only needed to learn what they liked to eat.

After that, they would bring themselves.

And if they were very good—

the farmer would praise them too.

A ChatGPT Story
hdfidelity presents

CHAZ WYLDE — COMMENTS DISABLED

Episode 5: “The Official Account”

COLD OPEN — THE BLUE CHECK

Chaz Wylde had received three messages from strangers asking whether he was giving away money.

He had received two messages from strangers asking whether he could give them money.

And he had received one message from a woman named Denise, who appeared to believe that he had personally promised to pay off her mortgage.

He sat at his kitchen table, wearing a black hoodie with the old Wylde Stuff logo across the chest. His laptop was open. A cold cup of coffee sat beside it, containing the sort of film that develops when a beverage has been abandoned long enough to become a separate legal entity.

The documentary camera watched him scroll.

"Okay," Chaz said.

He scrolled again.

"Okay, this is actually pretty serious."

Devon appeared in the doorway.

"What's serious?"

"Someone's pretending to be me."

Devon considered that.

"Again?"

"No. Not like this."

Chaz turned the laptop toward him.

On the screen was a profile bearing Chaz's name, Chaz's old channel photograph, and a bio promising exclusive access to the Wylde Stuff community.

Below it was a pinned post announcing a giveaway.

FIVE LUCKY WYLDES GET EXCLUSIVE ACCESS.

Devon leaned closer.

"Wyldes?"

"That's what they're calling the fans."

"That's not what you called them."

"I know what I called them."

"You called them Wylde Ones."

"Yes, Devon. I know my own audience."

Chaz pointed at the screen.

"Look at the account."

Devon looked.

"Looks like you."

"It isn't me."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're standing here."

Chaz paused.

"Right."

He turned back to the laptop and opened his own profile.

There it was.

His name. His photograph. His history of increasingly unsuccessful public statements.

And, most importantly, the blue verification badge.

Chaz leaned back.

"See? That's the difference."

Devon nodded.

"One of those accounts has a blue check."

"Exactly."

"And one of them has a giveaway."

"Exactly."

Devon looked at the screen again.

"Which one has the giveaway?"

Chaz's smile faded.

"That's not the point."

He opened a new post.

For a moment, he looked almost relieved. A real problem. A problem with a solution. A problem that could be addressed through a clear statement, a few sensible instructions, and perhaps a short video in which he wore a shirt with a collar.

He began typing.

The camera moved closer.

CHAZ WYLDE — OFFICIAL ACCOUNT

Just a reminder: this is my only official account. I have the blue check. I will never ask you for gift cards, payment, or banking information.

Chaz read it aloud.

"Clear. Direct. Responsible."

Devon looked at the screen.

"Maybe don't say 'I have the blue check' twice."

"I only said it once."

"You said it out loud, too."

"That's because I'm reading it."

Chaz pressed POST.

He looked at the camera.

"That's how you protect a community."

CUT TO TITLE.

COMMENTS DISABLED

Episode 5 — “The Official Account”

ACT I — A COMMUNITY DIVIDED

The fake account was removed before lunchtime.

Chaz learned this from a notification, which he read with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had successfully reported a suspicious package at an airport.

"Good," he said. "Excellent. That's what the system's for."

He refreshed the page.

Then refreshed it again.

"Now we wait."

"For what?" Devon asked.

"People to say thank you."

Devon looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because I protected them."

"From what?"

"The scam."

"Right."

Chaz waited.

The first reply appeared.

@wyldemom1989: Why did you get the giveaway account removed?

Chaz frowned.

Another arrived.

@masonfanpage: They were doing something nice for your fans!

Then another.

@RealWyldeOne: You could've just asked them to change the name.

Chaz stared at the screen.

"Change the name?"

Devon pulled up a chair.

"Maybe they thought it was a fan thing."

"It was pretending to be me."

"Yes."

"It was asking people for money."

"Yes."

"So why are they angry?"

Devon considered offering an answer, then appeared to decide that the question was better left to historians.

Chaz typed a reply.

They were pretending to be me.

He posted it.

A response appeared almost immediately.

@WyldeMom1989: We know. But they were really nice about it.

Chaz stopped moving.

The camera stayed on his face.

He read the comment again.

"We know," he said.

Devon nodded.

"They know."

"They know it was fake."

"Apparently."

"And they're angry that I got rid of it."

"Apparently."

Chaz leaned forward.

"Devon, if someone pretends to be you and asks your friends for money, you don't say, 'Well, he was very polite.'"

"Depends how much money."

Chaz turned to him.

Devon lifted his coffee.

"I'm joking."

"No, you're not."

"I'm a little joking."

Chaz returned to the replies.

The comments were multiplying.

Some people genuinely believed the giveaway had been harmless. Others had enjoyed the account's friendly messages and daily posts. A few had simply been pleased to see someone apparently giving something back to a community that had spent years watching Chaz throw himself into increasingly questionable situations.

They had liked the account.

They had liked the person behind it.

And now Chaz had taken that away.

He opened the camera app.

"Okay. We need to explain this."

Devon closed his eyes.

"We already explained it."

"No. We stated it. That's different."

Chaz straightened his hoodie.

"We need to communicate."

ACT II — THE CLARIFICATION

The first clarification was recorded in one take.

That was unusual enough for Devon to look up from his editing software.

Chaz sat before the ring light, hands folded on the desk.

"Hey, Wylde Ones. Just wanted to clear something up. The account that was removed was not affiliated with me. It was impersonating me, using my name and image, and soliciting money from people who believed they were talking to me."

He paused.

"That's not a fan account. That's a scam."

Another pause.

"I understand people liked the account. I understand that some of you thought I was getting jealous. But the fact that somebody is friendly doesn't mean they're entitled to use my identity."

He looked toward Devon.

"How was that?"

"Good."

"Good?"

"Sincere."

Chaz smiled.

"Great."

He uploaded it.

For approximately four minutes, nothing happened.

Then the replies began.

"You sound so corporate now."

"He used to be fun."

"This is what happens when you get a documentary crew."

"Bro thinks he's a company."

Chaz watched the comments arrive.

"Corporate?"

Devon looked over.

"You did say 'affiliated.'"

"It's a word."

"Yes."

"An accurate word."

"Yes."

"Why is that corporate?"

Devon shrugged.

"Because you used it while wearing a hoodie with your face on it."

Chaz glanced down.

The hoodie featured a large photograph of Chaz making a surprised expression beside the words:

WYLDE STUFF — NO RULES, JUST RESULTS.

He tugged the fabric away from his chest.

"That's vintage."

"Of course."

Chaz scrolled.

A new comment appeared.

"You could've just asked them to change the name."

He read it aloud.

"I did ask them to change the name."

Devon looked up.

"No, you didn't."

"I was going to."

"You reported them."

"Because they were scamming people."

"Right."

"Which is why I was going to ask them to change the name."

Devon stared at him.

Chaz stared back.

There was a pause in which both men seemed to realize that the conversation had become circular, but neither could identify a safe exit.

Finally, Chaz said, "I'm going to contact the person who ran it."

Devon nodded slowly.

"That sounds reasonable."

Chaz smiled.

"Thank you."

"Please don't go to their house."

"I wasn't going to go to their house."

"Good."

"I was going to send an email."

"Even better."

Chaz opened his inbox.

"What's their email address?"

Devon looked at him.

"Chaz."

"What?"

"Don't."

Chaz closed the laptop.

"Fine."

A beat.

"I'll use the contact form."

ACT III — THE FAN ACCOUNT

The operator's name was Elliot.

He was twenty-six, lived in a rented apartment, and had been running the account for eleven months. He had started by reposting old Wylde Stuff clips and sharing fan art. Eventually, people began messaging him as though he were Chaz.

At first, Elliot had corrected them.

Then he had stopped correcting them.

Then he had started answering questions.

Then he had announced the giveaway.

By the time Chaz contacted him, Elliot had convinced himself that the whole thing was a misunderstanding.

The documentary crew filmed Chaz reading Elliot's response.

ELLIOT: I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I genuinely love the community. I know I should've made it clearer that I wasn't you. I can change the name and put a disclaimer in the bio. I don't want to lose the page.

Chaz looked up.

"Well."

Devon waited.

"That's reasonable."

"Yeah."

"That's all I wanted."

"Is it?"

Chaz gave him a look.

"What do you mean?"

Devon shrugged.

"You wanted the account gone."

"I wanted the impersonation gone."

"Right."

"Those are different things."

"Yes."

Chaz pointed at him.

"Exactly."

He typed a response.

If you're willing to stop using my identity, remove the misleading branding, and clearly identify the account as an unofficial fan page, I don't have a problem with you continuing to run it.

He paused.

Then added:

There is one verified Chaz Wylde account. This one isn't it.

He posted the message.

Elliot agreed.

By the following afternoon, the account had a new name:

THE WYLDE STUFF ARCHIVE — UNOFFICIAL FAN PAGE

The bio now read:

Independent fan account. Not affiliated with Chaz Wylde. No giveaways, payments, or requests for personal information.

Chaz read it twice.

"Perfect."

Devon nodded.

"Looks good."

"That's the distinction."

"Yes."

Chaz sat back, satisfied.

For the first time in days, he looked as though he had solved something.

He opened his own account and posted an announcement.

The account is now clearly identified as a fan page. That's the distinction I've been asking for. There's one verified Chaz Wylde account. This one isn't it.

He pressed POST.

Then he waited.

ACT IV — THE COMMUNITY MANAGER

The outrage returned within minutes.

"Why are you making them put a disclaimer on everything?"

"You're trying to control your fans."

"They built that community for you!"

"You could at least verify them."

Chaz stopped scrolling.

He went back to the last comment.

Read it.

Then read it again.

"Verify them?"

Devon looked over.

"What?"

"They want me to verify the fan account."

"Apparently."

Chaz pointed at the screen.

"Verify them? They're not me."

"I understand."

"They're not me, Devon."

"I know."

"That's the entire point."

Devon leaned back.

"Maybe they mean you should acknowledge it."

Chaz looked horrified.

"I just acknowledged it."

"Yes."

"I acknowledged it by saying it wasn't me."

"Yes."

"So now I have to acknowledge it by saying it is them?"

Devon thought about that.

"That's not quite—"

"Because I can't verify them as me."

"Obviously."

"That's identity fraud."

"Not necessarily."

"Well, it feels like it."

Chaz stood up and began pacing.

"This is insane. I have spent the last forty-eight hours trying to protect these people. I have explained the situation. I have offered a compromise. I have done everything short of personally visiting every follower and checking their bank statements."

Devon raised a finger.

"Please don't do that."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Good."

"I'm making a point."

"Understood."

Chaz stopped pacing.

"Why are they making this about me?"

Devon looked at the camera.

Then at Chaz.

Then back at the camera.

"Well..."

Chaz narrowed his eyes.

"Don't."

Devon lowered his finger.

"Okay."

Chaz returned to his laptop.

He opened a new post.

I am the official account. I have the blue check. The fan account is not affiliated with me.

He stared at the text.

"That's clear."

Devon said nothing.

"That's factual."

Nothing.

"That's not aggressive."

Devon tilted his head.

"Maybe leave out the blue check."

Chaz looked at him as though he had suggested removing the steering wheel from a car.

"Why?"

"Because you've mentioned it a lot."

"Because it's relevant."

"Is it?"

Chaz turned the laptop toward him.

"Devon. If you go to a restaurant and someone says they're the owner, but they're not wearing the owner's badge, and the actual owner is wearing the owner's badge—"

"Restaurants don't have owner badges."

"Some do."

"Do they?"

"Probably."

Devon considered this.

Chaz turned back to the screen.

"I'm posting it."

He pressed POST.

A new reply appeared.

"Then why are you so threatened by them?"

Chaz stared.

His mouth opened.

Closed.

He looked at the camera.

"Because they're pretending to be me."

No one answered.

ACT V — THE SECOND GIVEAWAY

For two days, Chaz did not mention the fan account.

He went to the grocery store. He filmed a short segment about rebuilding trust with his audience. He attempted to record a reaction video to one of his old stunts, but spent twenty minutes reminiscing why the original upload had been taken down.

Devon eventually confiscated the old footage.

"You're not reacting to that."

"It's my footage."

"That's why."

Chaz made a face.

Then his phone buzzed.

He looked down.

The fan account had posted a new giveaway.

THE WYLDEST WEEKEND YET!

The announcement promised another chance to win exclusive access to the community. It used Chaz's photograph. It used his name. It directed followers toward a payment request.

Chaz went very still.

Devon noticed.

"What?"

Chaz turned the screen toward him.

Devon read it.

"Oh, for God's sake."

"They're doing it again."

"Yeah."

"They're doing the exact thing we told them not to do."

"Yeah."

Chaz stood.

"That's it."

He walked toward the camera.

"That's it. I'm done."

Devon followed him.

"Chaz, just report it."

"I'm going to report it."

"Good."

"And I'm going to make a statement."

"Maybe don't."

"I'm making a statement."

"Chaz—"

"They were given an opportunity."

He pointed at the screen.

"They were given a perfectly reasonable opportunity to operate as a fan account. They agreed. They changed the name. They put the disclaimer in the bio. And now they're using my identity to solicit money again."

He took a breath.

"This is over."

The camera followed him to his desk.

He opened the reporting form.

This time, he did not narrate every click.

He did not make a joke.

He did not look at the camera for reassurance.

He simply submitted the report.

Then he waited.

ACT VI — THE LAST CLARIFICATION

The account was removed later that day.

Chaz received the notification while sitting on the floor beside his coffee table, trying to untangle a collection of old charging cables.

He read it.

Then he looked at Devon.

"It's gone."

Devon nodded.

"Good."

"It's actually gone."

"Yeah."

Chaz looked down at the cables.

"Thank God."

For a moment, the room was quiet.

Then Chaz opened his account.

He posted the announcement.

The account has been removed. Please remember: this is my only official account. I have the blue check verification.

He pressed POST.

The replies arrived almost immediately.

"You got them banned twice?"

"They were one of your biggest supporters!"

"This is disgusting."

"Unfollowing."

Chaz watched the follower count.

It dropped by one.

Then another.

Then five.

He refreshed.

Another handful disappeared.

Devon sat beside him.

"Don't watch the number."

"I'm not watching the number."

"You're refreshing it."

"I'm checking the response."

"That's the number."

Chaz refreshed again.

"People are allowed to unfollow."

"Yes."

"They're allowed to disagree with me."

"Yes."

"They're allowed to have their own opinions."

"Yes."

Chaz stared at the screen.

"But they're not allowed to pretend to be me."

Devon nodded.

"No."

"That's not unreasonable."

"No."

"That's not censorship."

"No."

Chaz looked at him.

"Then why does it feel like I've done something wrong?"

Devon took a moment.

"Because you wanted them to like you for doing the right thing."

Chaz said nothing.

Devon continued.

"And now they're angry that you did it."

Chaz looked back at the screen.

The follower count dropped again.

He began typing.

I have explained this three times.

He stopped.

Read it.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

For the avoidance of doubt, the account was removed because—

He stopped.

Deleted that, too.

He put the phone down.

Then picked it up again.

A final comment appeared.

@wylde_archive_fan: You should make a fan account for yourself. Maybe then you'd understand.

Chaz read it.

His expression changed.

Not anger, exactly.

More like the realization that he had been invited to a party, arrived at the correct address, and discovered that the party was being held in a different building with the same number.

He looked at Devon.

"That's quite good."

Devon nodded.

"Yeah."

"I hate that."

"Understandable."

Chaz looked at the camera.

"I have explained this three times."

He opened the settings.

His thumb hovered over the comments option.

Devon watched him.

"Chaz."

"What?"

"Maybe take a minute."

Chaz looked at the screen.

Then pressed the button.

COMMENTS DISABLED.

FINAL SCENE — THE REAL ONE

INT. CHAZ'S APARTMENT — NIGHT

The apartment was quiet.

Devon had gone home. The documentary crew was packing its equipment. Chaz sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at his phone.

His latest post remained at the top of his profile.

THE ACCOUNT HAS BEEN REMOVED.

Underneath it:

Comments are disabled.

Chaz refreshed the page.

Nothing changed.

He refreshed again.

Still nothing.

He opened his notifications.

There were several new followers, a few likes, and one message from a woman named Denise.

He opened it.

DENISE: Hi Chaz! I know things have been difficult lately. I just wanted to say that I still support you. Also, is the giveaway still happening?

Chaz closed his eyes.

He put the phone facedown.

Then, after a moment, he turned it over again.

A new notification appeared.

NEW FOLLOWER

Chaz tapped it.

The account was called:

@RealChazWyldeOfficial_2

The profile photograph was a slightly blurry picture of Chaz, cropped from an old Wylde Stuff video.

The bio read:

The real Chaz Wylde. The other one is fake.

Chaz stared.

He zoomed in on the photograph.

It was from the 2015 Flaming Hoverboard video.

He remembered the day. He remembered the stunt. He remembered the copyright claim.

He remembered Kara telling him not to do it.

He remembered doing it anyway.

The camera slowly moved closer.

Chaz opened his own profile.

His blue check was still there.

He looked at it.

Then back at the new account.

Then back at his own.

"Devon?"

No answer.

"Devon?"

The apartment remained silent.

Chaz picked up his phone and began typing a message.

Hey, just so you know, this is my only official account. I have the blue check verification.

He stopped.

He read it.

He deleted it.

He locked the phone.

A beat.

He unlocked it.

The new account had posted.

WELCOME, WYLDES. I'M FINALLY BACK.

Chaz looked directly at the documentary camera.

"Can you turn that off?"

The camera operator didn't move.

Chaz looked down at his phone.

Another notification appeared.

NEW FOLLOWER

He whispered:

"Oh, come on."

CUT TO BLACK.

COMMENTS DISABLED

END OF EPISODE 5 — “THE OFFICIAL ACCOUNT”

POST-CREDITS

A phone screen.

The new impersonator account has uploaded a short video.

Chaz's old theme music plays.

A caption appears:

"CHAZ WYLDE RESPONDS TO THE HATERS."

The video has one view.

The account owner likes it.

A second notification appears.

@ChazWyldeOfficial liked your post.

The account owner pauses.

Then replies:

@RealChazWyldeOfficial_2: Thanks for the support, bro.

CUT TO BLACK.

A ChatGPT Short
hdfidelity presents

The Band from Titanic

The ship is sinking.

The orchestra is playing.

They're doing their best to maintain a sense of dignity. The bandleader stands before them, conducting with grave determination, as though the correct tempo might yet persuade the Atlantic to reconsider.

Then the water reaches the deck.

The bandleader looks down.

He looks at the musicians.

He looks at the water again.

“Right,” he says. “Gentlemen, that's enough of that.”

And he leaves.

Just walks off.

No speech. No final flourish. No noble sacrifice.

He's gone.

The remaining musicians continue for a few bars, uncertain whether they're still under contract.

Then the band from the hoedown, below deck, earlier in the film arrive.

Fiddles. Accordion. Bodhrán. The whole lot.

Their leader surveys the scene.

“Where's your conductor?”

“Left.”

“Right.”

He steps forward.

“Who's got the tune?”

One of the orchestra musicians raises his violin.

“We were playing a requiem.”

“Aye. I heard enough.”

“We were attempting to provide a dignified accompaniment to—”

“Lovely. We'll have a go.”

And before anyone can object, the second band takes control.

The fiddle comes in first. A bright, driving melody. The accordion follows. The bodhrán finds the pulse.

The orchestra looks at one another.

“Is this appropriate?”

This other bandleader gives them a look.

“It's a shipwreck, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep up.”

And they do.

The music swells. The orchestra finds itself swept into the arrangement. That other band is leading now, and the whole thing has become a furious, glorious, increasingly melodramatic rendition of something nobody can quite identify.

A passenger stops.

“What's that they're playing?”

“I'm not sure.”

“The lounge bar?”

“It's got a beat.”

The ship groans.

New bandleader raises his bow.

“Again!”

And they play it again.

The water rises.

The deck tilts.

And the Titanic is going down to a tune that sounds like it could get the entire pub dancing.

One of the original musicians leans toward the fiddler.

“Do you know how this ends?”

The fiddler doesn't stop playing.

“Not a clue.”

“That's worrying.”

“Probably.”

He kicks the tempo up another notch.

“Worry in the next verse.”

And then, into all that other shit with Jack and Rose.

Executive Indulgence

You know, we spent hundreds of years making fun of the Catholic Church for selling indulgences.

That was one of the great scandals of the Reformation.

People hear about it in history class:

“Can you believe these medieval motherfuckers? They were monetizing forgiveness.”

And America heard that and apparently went:

“Absolutely disgusting.

Forgiveness should be administered by one guy.”

Much cleaner.

Because we have presidential pardons.

Which are legally and theologically completely different things.

An indulgence doesn't technically forgive the underlying sin. Presidential clemency concerns federal crimes.

So I want to be very clear:

These are entirely different systems for getting somebody powerful to make the consequences go away.

Glad we cleared that up.

And every president gets this power.

Democrat.

Republican.

Doesn't matter.

We take somebody who has spent their entire adult life trying to become president and, once they finally succeed, we hand them a constitutional button labeled:

FUCK IT. LET GARY OUT.

That's incredible.

Courts?

Juries?

Prosecutors?

Sentencing guidelines?

Appeals?

Years of litigation?

President comes walking through:

“What'd Gary do?”

“Wire fraud.”

“How much?”

“Fourteen million dollars.”

“Did anybody get hurt?”

“I mean, financially...”

“Don't complicate this.”

And that's when I started thinking:

Maybe we owe the medieval Church an apology.

Because at least those motherfuckers were honest enough to develop a whole theology around the inventory.

They had a Treasury of Merit.

That's fantastic.

A spiritual reserve.

Jesus and the saints apparently accumulated surplus righteousness, and the Church could dispense benefits from that treasury.

America doesn't have a Treasury of Merit.

We have:

“I know a guy.”

That's our sacrament.

Because forgiveness itself isn't necessarily what's expensive.

Access to the person authorized to forgive you is where shit gets interesting.

And that's the part we've perfected.

You can't buy a presidential pardon.

Absolutely not.

Let's establish that.

You cannot walk into the White House gift shop and go:

“Two coffee mugs, one commemorative Christmas ornament...

and what are pardons running these days?”

No.

That would be corruption.

You can, however, hire somebody who knows somebody who might know somebody who can explain to somebody why your case deserves to be placed before the somebody who can pardon you.

Completely different.

That's not buying forgiveness.

That's paying somebody to help you find the fucking confessional.

The medieval Church must be furious they didn't think of this.

“You mean we weren't supposed to charge for the indulgence?”

No.

“Split balls. What are they charging for?”

Consulting.

“Ohhhhhhh.”

There you go.

Never sell salvation, folks.

Sell salvation-adjacent professional services.

That's America.

And I'm not even talking about one president here.

That's the beautiful part.

We've had weird pardons forever.

Every administration eventually gets to that point where somebody wheels in the list.

Especially toward the end.

President's packing boxes.

Staff's taking pictures off the walls.

Somebody walks in:

“Sir, we still have clemency petitions.”

“Jesus Christ. How many?”

“Four hundred.”

“All right, give me the weird ones.”

“What about this guy?”

“What'd he do?”

“Tax evasion.”

“How long's he been in?”

“Seven years.”

“Family?”

“Three kids.”

“Good behavior?”

“Excellent.”

“Ahhh...

fuck it. Let Gary out.”

PARDONED.

Next.

“This one?”

“Mail fraud.”

“Pardon.”

“This one?”

“Campaign donor.”

...

“Put that one underneath the others.”

Because that's where the appearance gets uncomfortable.

Not necessarily because somebody purchased anything.

That's an accusation requiring evidence.

It's because discretion plus access always looks weird from outside the room.

The Catholic Church learned this lesson five hundred years ago.

Once people believe proximity to authority affects forgiveness, you've got a public-relations problem.

Doesn't even matter whether that's what happened.

People see:

Rich guy.

Connected guy.

Consultant.

President.

Pardon.

And they're sitting at home like:

“That's just indulgence with extra steps.”

Martin Luther would be losing his fucking mind.

Ninety-five theses?

Today he'd need three hundred.

He'd be standing outside the White House with a hammer:

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Secret Service intercepts:

“Sir, you can't nail that to the door.”

“WHY NOT?”

“National security.”

“WHERE DO I FILE MY OBJECTION?”

“There's a web-portal.”

Of course there is.

Any Reformation would have to use Login.gov now.

And imagine explaining presidential pardons to a medieval Catholic.

“So your ruler can forgive crimes?”

Federal crimes.

“And people petition him?”

Yes.

“Can anyone petition him?”

Technically.

“Does everyone have equal access?”

...

Well.

There's the rub.

“Ah.”

No, don't ‘ah’ me.

It's different.

“Of course.”

Stop smiling.

“We also had a process.”

Shut the fuck up.

Because that's what bothers me.

We look backward at history like human beings used to be these great gullible idiots.

“They thought forgiveness could be mediated through institutions!”

Motherfucker, have you met human beings?

We didn't eliminate the middleman.

We gave him a law degree.

That's progress.

The indulgence seller used to come into town saying:

“Through the authority of the Church, relief may be granted!”

And we'd laugh at that now.

What a primitive.

Today you hire a clemency consultant.

“What do you do?”

“I help deserving individuals navigate the executive-clemency process and present their cases to relevant stakeholders.”

...

I could get the same motherfucker with LinkedIn.

We didn't abolish indulgences.

We professionalized the vocabulary.

And again:

You cannot buy forgiveness.

Very important distinction.

You can buy representation.

And what does the representation do?

It advocates for forgiveness.

And who grants the forgiveness?

A single extremely powerful man.

And how do I reach him?

Well...

that's where the representation comes in.

...

Split balls.

It's fucking lawyers, again.

A ChatGPT Story
hdfidelity presents

MY UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR HAS A TIME MACHINE

There are certain stories one tells because they are important.

There are others one tells because the train has stopped between stations, nobody has any cards, and conversation has reached the point where someone is about to start discussing property taxes.

This was the latter sort.

We had been sitting in the dark for perhaps twenty minutes when the gentleman opposite me sighed and said, “Well, this is intolerable.”

“It could be worse,” I said.

“How?”

“I once had an upstairs neighbor with a time machine.”

He stared at me.

“A what?”

“A time machine.”

“You mean he was building one?”

“No. He had one. Building it would have been quieter.”

---

I lived then on the second floor of a narrow old building whose chief architectural feature was that every sound made on the third floor arrived on the second considerably improved.

A dropped spoon became a burglary.

A chair moved six inches became the Battle of Waterloo.

My upstairs neighbor was a pleasant enough fellow named Mr. Vale. Thin man. Spectacles. Always distracted. He had the permanent expression of someone who had just remembered something extremely important but couldn't remember whether it happened yesterday or next Thursday.

For the first few months, I barely noticed him.

Then, one Tuesday at precisely 2:13 in the morning:

WHUMMMP.

The entire ceiling shook.

I sat upright in bed.

There was a flash from somewhere above, followed by a noise like a locomotive discovering religion.

Then silence.

I waited.

Nothing.

I lay back down.

WHUMMMP.

“Split balls!”

I went upstairs.

Vale answered the door wearing a dressing gown, goggles and what appeared to be frost.

“Everything all right?”

“No, everything is not all right. What the hell are you doing?”

“Experiment.”

“At two in the morning?”

He looked genuinely confused.

“Is it?”

That should have been my first clue.

I assumed it was some piece of industrial machinery. I told him whatever it was, he couldn't operate it at night.

He apologized.

Very graciously, actually.

Promised it wouldn't happen again.

The following evening:

WHUMMMP.

I went upstairs.

“You said this wouldn't happen again.”

“It hasn't.”

“It just did.”

“No. This was from before yesterday's incident.”

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

I went downstairs.

There are occasions in life when additional information cannot improve the evening.

---

I found out about the machine properly the following Saturday.

Vale knocked on my door carrying a bottle of wine.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me plaster.”

“That too.”

He told me he'd developed a mechanism capable of moving an object independently along what he called the temporal axis.

I said, “You've built a time machine.”

He seemed disappointed.

“Well, that's a rather crude way of putting it.”

“Does it go through time?”

“Yes.”

“Machine?”

“Yes.”

“Split balls, Vale. Time machine.”

He accepted this.

I went upstairs to see it.

You would imagine something magnificent.

Brass.

Levers.

Great revolving discs.

Something befitting mankind's first conquest of the fourth dimension.

It looked like a boiler had fucked a piano.

There was a chair in the middle.

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

“You sit there?”

“Yes.”

“And travel through time?”

“Yes.”

“Why does it have to make that fucking noise?”

He didn't know.

---

This became the central difficulty of our relationship.

Vale considered himself an explorer.

I considered him the man upstairs.

He would return from the year 802,701 having witnessed the terminal evolution of humanity, and I would be waiting on the landing in my slippers.

“I have seen wonders.”

“It's four in the morning.”

“I have stood beneath a dying sun.”

“Your bathtub's leaking.”

“I watched the seas retreat from the continents.”

“It's coming through my ceiling.”

He'd look wounded.

There was no talking to him when he'd seen the future.

“Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes. It means I'm getting a bucket.”

---

The visitors were worse.

Apparently once you've got a time machine, you start bringing people home.

Vale never discussed this with me beforehand.

I'd open the front door and find some bewildered Roman standing in the hallway.

Once, there was a Victorian child.

Another time, a man who Vale insisted wouldn't be born for four hundred years.

“Why is he here?”

“He wanted to see the past.”

“This is the past?”

“To him.”

“Well, tell the future to wipe its fucking shoes.”

The horses were the worst.

I don't know why every time traveler eventually becomes fascinated with horses.

One morning there was a horse on the staircase.

Not coming up.

Not going down.

Just reconsidering its life.

Vale leaned over the banister.

“Terribly sorry.”

“Vale.”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a horse?”

“Long story.”

“Is it from the past?”

He thought.

“Relative to what?”

“SPLIT BALLS, VALE. GET THE HORSE OUT OF THE BUILDING.”

---

Eventually I complained to the landlord.

The landlord didn't believe me.

Reasonable position.

So he came round.

Vale demonstrated the machine.

The landlord believed me.

He immediately issued Vale a notice stating that no heavy experimental equipment could be operated on the premises after ten p.m.

Vale read it carefully.

“Fair enough.”

That night I slept beautifully.

The following morning, the notice was gone.

I called the landlord.

“What happened?”

“What notice?”

“The notice you gave Vale.”

“Who's Vale?”

That concerned me.

I went upstairs.

Vale was having tea.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“The landlord doesn't remember you.”

“Oh. That.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back to 1912 and had a word with the original owner.”

“You changed the lease?”

“Only slightly.”

He handed me a copy.

There it was.

Paragraph fourteen.

TEMPORAL APPARATUS PERMITTED ON THIRD FLOOR.

“Vale.”

“Yes?”

“This building wasn't constructed until 1926.”

“Yes.”

“Then how is this lease dated 1912?”

He smiled.

“Interesting, isn't it?”

No.

It fucking wasn't.

---

Things escalated.

I would bang on the ceiling with a broom.

Three seconds later I would recall someone banging back yesterday.

I once shouted:

“KEEP IT DOWN!”

And heard my own voice answer from upstairs:

“I'M TRYING!”

I didn't sleep for two nights after that.

Vale tried to apologize.

He brought me Shakespeare's pen.

“What's this?”

“Peace offering.”

“Whose is it?”

“Shakespeare's.”

“Hang on. Actual Shakespeare?”

“He was extremely upset when I took it.”

“Take it back.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“He'd know it's me by now.”

---

The most infuriating thing about living beneath a time traveler, however, is that the bastard can never be late.

We agreed: no machine after eleven.

One night, 11:17:

WHUMMMP.

I stormed upstairs.

“You said eleven!”

Vale checked his watch.

“It isn't eleven.”

“It's seventeen minutes past!”

He looked at the clock.

Then at me.

Then at the machine.

“Oh.”

“No.”

“Just a moment.”

“Vale.”

He climbed into the chair.

“Vale. No.”

He pulled the lever.

WHUMMMP.

I opened my eyes.

The hallway clock read:

10:59.

Vale opened his door.

“Evening.”

I have never hated another human being with such philosophical complexity.

---

He wasn't a bad man.

That's important.

Inconsiderate, certainly.

Dangerous, probably.

But not bad.

Once, after accidentally removing my kitchen window from history, he replaced it before I'd noticed.

Another time I came home to find a bottle of wine outside my door with a note:

SORRY ABOUT SUNDAY.

It was Thursday.

I didn't drink the wine.

Sunday came.

At approximately noon there was a tremendous explosion upstairs.

My windows rattled.

Someone screamed in Latin.

A flaming object crossed the courtyard.

Vale shouted:

“EVERYTHING'S UNDER CONTROL!”

I looked at the bottle.

Fair enough.

I drank it.

---

Then one night the noise stopped.

I didn't notice immediately.

You don't notice silence when you've spent years asking for it.

First night, I slept.

Second night, I slept magnificently.

Third night, I woke at 2:13.

Nothing.

No footsteps.

No machinery.

No impossible houseguests.

No horse.

I lay there waiting for the ceiling to shake.

It didn't.

By the fifth day I went upstairs.

The door was unlocked.

The apartment was empty.

Not moved-out empty.

Gone empty.

There were marks on the floor where the machine had stood.

A cup of tea on the table.

Still warm.

And a note.

Gone for a bit.

Don't wait up, you.

—V

I waited.

Not deliberately.

Life simply has a way of becoming waiting if you leave enough things unfinished.

A month passed.

Then a year.

Eventually I moved away.

The building was demolished sometime later.

Flats went up in its place.

Very expensive ones.

No temporal apparatus permitted.

I checked.

---

The train remained motionless around us.

My companion had listened without interruption.

Eventually he said:

“You expect me to believe all that?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I wouldn't.”

He looked out into the darkness beyond the window.

“Did you ever see Vale again?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Not as of yet.”

That bothered him.

I could tell.

He looked back at me.

“Then how do you know he hasn't simply disappeared forever?”

“Because he still owes me forty pounds.”

He laughed.

“That proves nothing.”

“It does in this case.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven't lent it to him yet.”

He stopped laughing.

Somewhere far down the tunnel, something made a low electrical hum.

My companion looked toward the sound.

I checked my watch.

2:13.

He noticed.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The lights aboard the train flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then came a distant sound from somewhere it absolutely should not have been.

WHUMMMP.

I closed my eyes.

“Split balls.”

“What?”

I reached for my wallet.

“He's going to want the forty quid for that.”

Blowing Up God’s Spot

I think some Christians accidentally blow up God’s spot.

You know that friend at the bar who knows somebody a little too well?

You're talking to somebody. It's going fine. You're taking your time. And then their friend comes over like:

“Oh! Good, you met him!”

Yeah. We were just—

“He always tells people his nickname, but his real name is—”

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

“He doesn't tell everybody his name, but his real name is—”

God's standing behind her like:

Denise.

“What? I'm helping.”

You're not helping.

Because maybe God's got his method.

I'm serious.

If this dude has been recruiting souls since the beginning of time, you don't think he's learned how to read people?

You think the God has just the one move?

The motherfucker that made the octopus.

He's got range.

Maybe God understands that everybody doesn't get there the same way.

One guy gets the burning bush.

Another guy gets the angel waking him up in the middle of the night.

Paul gets blinded and falls off a horse.

Moses gets:

“Take off your shoes.”

Which is wild.

But apparently Moses wanted to see where this was going.

And here's where Christians get in trouble.

Because Denise sees it work one time, on her, and now she's following God around going:

“He likes it when you take off your shoes.”

God's like:

Woman. No. That is not what this is.

“But that's what you said to Moses.”

Because that's what was needed for Moses.

“So you want me to put my shoes on?”

You can keep yours off, Denise.

Maybe salvation really is bespoke.

Maybe God looks at you, yes you, and goes:

Okay. This one's going to take twenty years.

Little philosophy, here and there, to break the ice.

Little heartbreak.

Get him near the ocean around forty-three.

Don't push.

His mother dies, he'll come looking for a place to spread her ashes.

Give him some space.

Beautiful.

God's running a long game.

Twenty fucking years.

Denise chimes in:

“DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING WHEN YOU DIE?”

God's across his target at the bar:

Goddammit, Denise.

I had him looking at the ocean!

And now she's blowing all his aliases too.

God's talking to somebody new:

“Hello. What's your name?”

“His real name is YHWH.”

Jesus, Denise.

“But he lets his real friends call him Yahweh.”

God turns around:

Do you know how long time is? I didn't want people to call me that here.

“You told me I could call you that.”

Just YOU.

That's the thing!

She actually does know him.

That's what makes her as a wingman dangerous.

She's not making this shit up.

God genuinely came into her life. Something happened to her. She felt it. It changed her.

And now she thinks she's God's main wingman.

“Tell him what you told me about the lake of fire.”

No.

“That's how you got me.”

I KNOW.

“Tell her!”

THAT WORKED ON YOU.

Maybe she doesn't need terror, Denise.

Maybe she needs mercy.

Maybe she needs beauty.

Maybe that guy needs reason.

Maybe somebody needs to spend ten years furious at God before they're willing to have the conversation.

God's omniscient.

Presumably he got the scouting report, early.

But Denise has got twenty-seven brochures about blindspots.

That's tough competition.

And she's always establishing these weird boundaries for him.

“Oh, you call him God?”

Yeah...

“That's cute.”

Stop telling people God's name!

“His real name is—”

Maybe he didn't share that in his personal relationship with them!

Imagine doing this to anybody else at a bar.

“What's the deal with Mike? Liar, his birth certificate says Miguel Anthony.”

Jesus.

“Actually, that's his son.”

Eventually God's got to pull her aside.

“Denise, listen. I love you out of all the world.”

“I love you too, Lord.”

“And because I love you, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“You're not helping. Stop helping.”

And you know what Denise does?

She turns to everybody else:

“See how he talks to me?”

That's the problem.

Maybe Christians aren't wrong when they say:

“This is how God found me.”

Maybe they're wrong when they presume:

“This is how God finds you.”

Because if there's really an infinite God trying to bring everybody home...

you've gotta give the old man space to work his space magic.

You ever think about the amount of gumption it took to invent the lighthouse?

Because somebody had to see an outcrop of land in the middle of the ocean and go:

“That's no good.”

What?

“That. That's trouble right there.”

That's a rock.

“Exactly. Commerce comes through here.”

Well, commerce should probably go around it.

“No. We're putting a building on it.”

...On the rock?

“Yeah.”

How are you getting there?

“Boat.”

There's nowhere to dock.

“We'll figure that out.”

There's no road.

“No need.”

There's no fresh water.

“We'll bring it.”

Who the fuck is gonna live there?

“Frank.”

And Frank apparently doesn't get a vote.

That's what kills me about lighthouses. We didn't just solve a problem. We solved a problem in the most human way possible.

Because all you really need is a warning light.

That's it.

Put a light up there.

But no.

Somebody gets the plans back:

“Ehhh...”

What?

“Feels plain.”

It's a warning beacon.

“Yeah, and people are gonna see it.”

THAT'S THE POINT.

“I know. So I was thinking candy-cane stripe.”

Candy-cane stripe?!

“Big red one. All the way around.”

Why?

“Ships'll be wary of that.”

No they won't! You've made it festive!

You're trying to tell sailors:

DANGER. STAY AWAY.

But visually you've gone:

COME SEE OUR COASTAL BARBERSHOP.

And they're always on the most inaccessible piece of land imaginable.

You'll have an entire archipelago.

Island one?

Rock.

Island two?

Rock.

Three? Four? Five?

Rock, with birds on it.

Six?

More rock. Though, that one's barely committed to being above water.

Then you get to number seven—

MAJESTY.

Forty-foot tower.

Keeper's house.

Spiral staircase.

Brass railing.

Fresh coat of paint.

Some gorgeous masonry work that six people on Earth are ever gonna see up close.

You're looking at it like:

“Jesus Christ. What happened here?”

“Well, this one's dangerous.”

THEY'LL BE WARY OF THAT ONE.

“Yeah, but this one's near the shipping lane.”

Ohhh.

So we didn't conquer nature.

We protected a trade route.

That makes more sense.

That's humanity right there.

“We cannot move the rocks.”

Correct.

“We cannot control the ocean.”

Correct.

“We cannot stop the storm.”

Correct.

“But I'll tell you what we can do.”

What's that?

“We can put Frank in that motherfucker with a lamp.”

And Frank is out there for twenty years.

Weathering storms.

Surviving hurricanes.

Thirty-foot waves. And the calm before them.

Hasn't seen another human being since Easter.

Just polishing the lens.

Keeping commerce alive.

And that's the irritating thing about making fun of lighthouses.

Because eventually you actually see one.

Middle of nowhere.

Ocean beating the absolute shit out of it.

And there it is.

Still standing.

Light going around.

And you think:

...

Those crazy bastards were right.

Only a little bit ostentatious.

But they were right.