Far away from the rest of the world, a six-foot five-inch man sits in the dark expanse of a high-powered limo. At top speed his machine rips through the streets. I see this on my way home from a wallet-hacking night at Sapphire. I’m practically mowed down and have to jump back from the curb, spilling the Mai Tai I’ve snuck out all over my brand new Asics. Great.
Turning to catch the plate of this maniac, the limo is already a block away. I’m only able to make out the large blue and red and white decal covering the rear window: Bill de Blasio 2020. Could it be? Some sort of cosmic sign? Like the ones native people of this land once understood—before they were annihilated. I glance at my watch. It’s 12:39 AM, and I’m quite late turning in my assignment on the very mayor himself.
Saturday, after the city blackout, it was reported that de Blasio’s security detail cost the taxpayers over $100,000. He was not in New York, however, but long gone, touring for his presidential campaign. Maybe in sunny Florida, I don’t know. As a reporter for Kings County Politics, I got sent out to find what New Yorkers thought of the issue. “Goddammit,” one resident said to me, learning of the information. Others grumbled, but ultimately kept moving. I didn’t blame them. In this city, you don’t have time to think or stop—you need to earn to survive. Only earners can crawl their way out of the cannibalistic arena that is America’s finest city.
Now back sitting in my apartment, I try to come up with a new angle for the story.
Unfortunately, all I’m getting is the image of de Blasio’s bloated head growing up out a stiff white collar. It blocks my view. I study it, searching for clues. The pockmarked nose. The neck oozing over the sides. It’s like his body has no internal scaffolding. And then it hits me. Could it be? Is he not like us? Maybe, I think, he’s some sort of manifestation. It all comes down to figuring out what sort of thing would have the power to create such a “man.” What could be leaking into our world.
I go downstairs and take money out from a bitcoin ATM. The price fluctuates wildly, and by the time I hit the withdrawal button, the screen tells me the value has dropped over 30%. Think. What could have manifested such a being as de Blasio?
With my Trezor wallet full, I make my way to the bar across the street. Doc Holliday’s. Inside, people are paying in bitcoin. On the TV hanging in the corner, bitcoin’s chart goes from parabolic, to freefall, and back again. People fight and fornicate accordingly. It’s a beautiful scene. Although these are the times one wishes mace came in industrial sizes.
After a few hours of good drinking, people quiet down and the bartender turns up the volume on the TV. It’s announced that while, yes, subways are crumbling across the city, de Blasio is choosing to instead spend over five million adding reflectors to the Brooklyn Bridge. The crowd jeers and I think someone even spits. I interview one of them who tells me, “Awfullotta bull bein’ slung these days. We got people starvin’ on the streets. We got rats. Syphilis is back. And Billy’s hookin’ his friends up with contracts for nonsense. Reflectors?” It seems clear to me now, that the mayor somehow survives by attracting controversy. Speculation powers him. A bitcoin spawn, he needs a constant story to prop up the interest that keeps his bones solid. So he doesn’t melt back into the blockchain.
Outside the bar, I see kids playing cee-lo with holographic dice. The winner’s Coinbase account jettisons to millions. And while the value will only last nanoseconds, the kid seems happy.
Checking to see if I have enough bitcoin on my CryptoCardTM for the Binance-sponsored V-train, another limo shoots by and almost takes out my windpipe. I check my account again, relieved that if I were to have been killed just then, I’d still have enough bitcoin to pay the ferryman to get to the afterlife. In line with this sustained price, de Blasio is holding attention in the news after it’s learned New Yorker’s donated more money to Buttigieg, than the 1% polling presidential hopeful. What is bitcoin’s goal in manifesting such a man? These things are above me.
All I know is that somewhere—closer than one might hope—de Blasio sits in a dark room. His bloated face is lit up by the green glow radiating from a forty-foot wall of whirring mining computers. He tries his best to replicate a smile. What will he announce for our city next? All I know for sure is that he is hungry. He needs to feed.
