Scenes from a Memorypool III: Bitcoin Lore 2026-2106
Archival flash fictions orbiting The Black Hole of Money
The next few missives will be excavating some archival flash fictions from ‘22/’23, set in the world of 0xSalon’s theatre production The Black Hole of Money. These will eventually come out in a book collating my literary experiments, and out of respect for my publisher are behind the paywall.
The ones below began life as exercises based on Ursula Le Guin’s Steering the Craft, in those cases her prompts are included. I’ve also interspersed them with some sonic compositions and/or images from the Fau0x Salon card deck. You might notice them getting progressively more deranged, well, that’s me finding my feet and folding more of my CPRU-ish poetic register into the flow. Thanks to the STC writing group, held at Trust in Berlin in ‘23, for getting me going with this line of inquiry.
Scenes from a Memorypool ::: Part 1 ::: Part 2 ::: Part 3
DICE EX MACHINA
a) Quick Shifts in Limited Third: A short narrative, several people involved in the same activity or event. Tell the story using several different viewpoint characters (narrators) in limited third person, changing from one to another as the narrative proceeds. Mark the changes with line breaks, with the narrator’s name in parentheses at the head of that section, or with any device you like.
(DemiDev1)
Prime entered the Great Hall and hobbled to the High Table, their robe dragging along the black marble floor. Prime looked dishevelled, but was determined to see the network upgrade through, regardless of the cost to his, or anyone else’s health. Collapsing into his bone cocoon, Prime called for another vote on the latest version of the protocol specification. There was no time to waste: the barbarians were at the token-gate. Else there will be no city left to defend!
(DemiDev2)
Here we go again, 2 muttered to themselves. Occident and demiurgency. Clocky and chaste. They had been waiting for the Prime DemiDev to arrive for what seemed like dozens of blocks. Praise Aeon, this was the moment the Templateers had been waiting for. Generations of careful planning, breeding, training, and simulation had brought them this far: within striking distance of the machine’s all-too-human heart. 2 announced, more loudly this time, history might not repeat, but it most certainly Primes. There will be a vote, oh yes, but not just one. First is the vote of no-confidence I challenge you with! 2 settled in their silver throne and pondered the Worldcoin Orb™ immediately in front of them. Eye contact with the others might give the game away at this crucial stage. 2 feigned indifference to the mumbling protestations of the ailing, failing, hailing, Suboptimus Prime.
(DemiDev3)
Pacing around the room, footsteps reverberating with each stride, 3 was a nervous ball of energy compared to the lackluster 1 and 2. The Prime of the ancient mariner, offered 3 as they seconded the no-confidence vote. What’s loathe but a second-hand in motion? For tampering with the code, that which must not be sullied, to gain favour for your faction. It will not stand! $THOU shalt not covet $THY neighbour’s blocks. Fare’s fair, a lion’s share for a line shared. 3 hoped that their gloating-free witticisms would throw their interlocutors off guard and cover their true intensions.
(DemiDev4)
4, held their head in their hands. Why this, now, 2 and 3? Why couldn’t we have settled this in a more peaceful time? I agree, Prime is past their best, but they have always steered the GitHub repository responsibly through waters stormy and smooth. Now we risk that The Coin be rudderless, at the time when we need it the most! We must save the Transcendental Time Machine at all costs!
(Disembodied tannoy voice)
Vote of no-confidence passes, 2-1.
(DD2)
You are no longer Prime DemiDev, leave this place! Guards! Now, I am Prime, and I call for another round of edits.
WATER OF LIFE
b) In 300–1000 words, tell the same story or a new story of the same kind, deliberately shifting POV from character to character several times without any obvious signal to the reader that you’re doing so. This exercise calls for a different narrative technique, and possibly a different narrative. I think it is likely to end up being written by the involved author, even though you are apparently using only limited third-person viewpoint. This ice really is thin, and the waters are deep.
As the hapless machinist fumbled with wires in the server farm, head down and XR-headset on, Vashti sensed the moment of opportunity was upon them. Praise Kairos, they thought to themselves. Vashti signalled to Worm to approach the Bitcoincel from the other side, rope in hand. A restraining limit order, time to dump this miner on the market, like their worthless UTXOs.
As Worm paced across the server farm floor, they inventoried their pockets one more time. Knife, check. Spanner, check. Chloroformulaic acid, check. Red rag, check. Second knife, check. Drink, check. Cigarettes and matches, check. This should be easy, as long as the troglodyte doesn’t manage to activate the panic alarm. Worm tied another knot in the rope, and prepared a lariat to capture the miner. The parallels with the capture of Terra1’s regulators by the Guild was not lost on them.
What fresh howl is this? The machinist, closed off from outside stimulus by sound and images from their heads-down display, couldn’t make sense of the tumult for a moment. Did I fall asleep? Am I dreaming? The reverie was curtailed with two voices crying out. Water is life, scumbag! The machinist knew this was not good. If this was a dream, it was the worst nightmare they had ever experienced. Still blinded to the outside, they felt constrictions around their shoulders and torso. I’m being cocooned! At this point, the machinist’s sense of the outside returned, and panic set in. What do you want! I can help you, pay you, show you the way through. We’re not so different, you and I, come, take an orange pill and join Malice in Unterland.
The machinist’s pleas fell upon dearth ears. The activists were not here to negotiate, they came to fuck the hashers up or die trying. With the machinist straitjacketed, restricted just like the Bitlievers’ Blind Covenants, Worm set about with the next stage of the operation. Dousing the rag in the GANaesthetic and handing it to Vashti, the machinist was out cold before long. Worm unholstered the spanner, and began throwing it into the works, literally. The sprinkler system was the focus of attention. Loosening the sockets and valves to increase water flow, they lit a couple of smokes and handed one to their partner in crime. Vashti unscrewed the alarm bell, to buy them a few more minutes.
There was no going back now. The Clathrate Liberation Force, barely a few weeks old, would doubtless be in all the headlines in a few blocks. Worm wondered what the bounty on their heads would be. Before they’d finished smoking, the basement was lit up by red flashing lights, and the smell of rain. The fountain of truth, promising immortality but delivering only immersion. As the waters rose, like so many ice caps melting, they took a final swig of their Club Martyr.
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