Little Black Future

The bed sheet has fallen from his studio flat window again. Sunlight perfectly positioned to shine on his face. He sits up; dust sits thick across all surfaces. It even floats in the sunlight that woke him. Dishes piled high in the corner, and they are going to take at least three soaks before he can even think of tackling them. 'Sod it; I can do them later,' he thinks. It's always later.

Standing up, he leaves the bed dishevelled, a half bottle of whiskey and pills decorate his bedside. He pulls his joggers up over the boxer shorts and socks he slept in and rummaged through the dirty clothes that carpet the floorboards for a t-shirt. He brushes his teeth then stands over the sink, looking into the mirror at his unkempt facial hair and a quick motivational chat with himself.

"Today is the day, no more weed, no more beer, just pure unadulterated, motivation".

The front door window allows only a slight amount of light through. The dirt congregated blocks any transparency. At least the key works.

The sun bursts over him like diving into a Jacuzzi head first. He feels it dance down his skin from head to toe as he steps outwards. The gentle breeze strokes his arm hairs delicately as he turns down the street.

On arrival at the jobcentre, the security guard tells him that he was supposed to sign on yesterday.

"I understand this," he says, "But I told my advisor last time I was here. I was always going to miss it. I had to attend the doctors, and she said it was cool, that I could come the next day".

The security guard allows him in and tells his advisor as he sits on the multicoloured settee.

"Mr David Harwookie", the advisor calls.

After a fifteen-minute argument, David is thrown outside by security and penalized for not attending the day before. The advisor cared little for the fact David had only fifteen pence to his name.

"Fuck it, looks like I'm stealing food today". David said to security in an attempt for pity. He received none.

A man running across Morrison's car park notices Dave outside the jobcentre and sprints directly towards him. On closer inspection, it's Guillaume, a French coder from Facebook. The same workplace where Dave was sacked some months ago for refusing to use correct gender pronouns. ‘Note to self, Don’t tweet that Miss Doubtfire was a man, she can be what she wants to be’.

Dave smiles at him, "Hey man, how's it goi"

before Guillaume interjects."Take this. Tell nobody". Guillaume's whole demeanour was frightened, frantic even.

He took off as quickly as he appeared, and David was left holding a little black book. The Moleskine, beautifully crafted with a small strap that had it closed via a brass buckle. 'That was weird,' he thought before seeing three men in black suits appear across the car park and run in the same direction as Guillaume. All the men were of Arab descent. .

Once the men were out of sight, David decided to take a quick look inside the book. It's blank. David makes his way towards the shops across the road and notices a Mcdonald's. He lies, saying he ordered a Big Mac meal the day before, and it was cold, so he threw it. The staff member believes him and gives him a fresh meal with a coffee, so he takes a pew in the corner away from everyone and chows down on his free meal.

Each page in the little black book has just one solitary letter or number, written in the top right corner.

'Maybe a code, or co-ordinates', he thinks.

Taking a crayon and a piece of paper from the kid's area, he writes down each letter and number in order. And ponders ‘Is this a dark web address?’

http://www.torfutureproject.org/666999666JmLLK2343B#666

Confusion across his face, he quickly jumps up and heads to the local library. He has a one-hour free session to use the internet. Biting his nails as he looks around the room, he confirms nobody is watching. He types in the address, and it begins to load. However, the URL that loads has the final few digits missing.

http://www.torfutureproject.org/666999.

A password is required, so he fills the corresponding spaces with the remaining numbers and letters. He's in, so he waits anxiously as the load bar fills.

On the screen is a video, so he presses play and quickly turns the volume down. However, again he is left confused. It's football, the Champions League final between Manchester City and Paris Saint-Germain to be exact. To further confuse, this game doesn't kick off for another thirty minutes, and he is watching Kylian Mbappé lift the trophy.

David has some experience with computers, you might say. He was a software engineer before he ruined his reputation. So he opens a new tab and acquires details for a credit card illegally—some poor guy in Texas.

'Oh well, I can eat now, providing I find a way to clone the details onto an actual card', he thinks.

Using the credit card details, he transfers money into a prepaid account. Once in the prepay account, he then sends the money to his betting account. And places the whole one hundred pounds on PSG to win three goals to one, Kylian Mbappé to score first, Neymar to score second and the third to be a penalty also scored by Kylian Mbappé with a payout of twenty thousand pounds.

David knows it's probably a scam, but he is a sucker for a get rich quick scheme, and besides, it cost him nothing. He places the little black book in his pocket and heads home.

On arrival to his region, he walks past a small corner shop at the end of his street. The older woman that works there is listening to the radio when a news bulletin interrupts the music. A french man known as Guillaume Bernard, who worked for Facebook, has been found dead, hanging from a bridge at the local train station. His legs and arms removed from the body, so officials were still searching. Police were asking for any information on his previous whereabouts that could help catch the killer.

David panics and runs back to his flat. He turns on the television to see the news. PSG beat Manchester City three goals to one, and his prediction was correct. He places his hands on the back of his head as adrenaline courses. He feels wired from the bet and even more so from Guillaumes' death.

"Shit, what if the Asians were after the book. They have to of been. Fuck. That's going to send them to me, no, no. They did not see him pass me the book. But the cameras at the jobcentre? No, no, you're paranoid, David. They wouldn't have access. But they killed Guillaume; I can't call the police. I've just stolen some guys credit card details, damn it," he spits loudly at himself, kicking his clothes across the floor with every step.

David has the realization that he possesses something that will solve all his problems, but Twenty Thousand Pounds is not enough to disappear. He decides to go back to the library and put ten thousand pounds on the next video. He does not want to risk it all, as if he was just fortunate and won by mistake, he will still have ten thousand pounds.

After a very sketchy bus ride avoiding all train lines, he heads to the local library. He uses a different computer and accesses the same site. A video loads up; It's the final of the Tennis French Open. As he analyses the score, players and winner, the video stops playing, replaced by a buffering icon. A Livestream opens over the previous video. The stream shows a room that could only belong to someone wealthy. Expensive looking chairs and tables fill the room, with expensive-looking art on the walls. A melancholic symphony playing, coming from speakers built into the walls. A tall brown-skinned man, dressed in white from head to toe, sits down and looks into the camera.

"David, we know you have the book. We know you live in Sheffield. And we know you have just won twenty thousand pounds. We expect both the book and the money within the hour, or we will enter your family home in Berkshire and kill your Mother,". the Asian man says in a middle eastern accent.

"Go to my Mum's, see if I care," David chuckles, trying to put a brave face on. He understands how scammers work; they say things to scare you.

A man walks on screen and whispers into his bosses ear. The Asian man then looks back to the screen.

"We won't go to Berkshire. I have men heading to the Playa Das Americas hotel in the Dominican Republic right now.. But.. You can call this off by coming to me and giving me the book and the money".

David leaves the computer open, such as the panic and quickly heads outside for air. He's hyperventilating, and his mind is rushing. The evening sun is beating down on him. He calls his mother as she is on his family plan, so he doesn't need credit. Her answer machine plays, asking him to leave a message after the beep.

"Mum, when you get this, you need to leave the hotel, go anywhere but there, do not use your name and do not tell me where you are going. I will find you once I have figured this out. But I am in trouble. I repeat, do not stay in the hotel and do not".. Davids call is abruptly ended by an arm wrapping around his throat, choking him, a bag is placed over his head and handcuff's quickly wrapped around his wrists.

His captures move him quickly. Just a few meters around a corner and he hears van doors sliding open; once sat inside, the doors slide shut. He feels a hand enter his back pocket and take the little black book.

He arrives at a destination and hears the excessive clicks of the hand brake. He is bumbled out of the van and pushed forward for a short walk—the ground changes from grass to concrete.

He trips on a step as he stumbles forward, being kept up by the hands that grasp his handcuff's.

Sat on an uncomfortable chair, the bag gets removed. In front of David is the man from the video.

"You see David, the software you came into possession of is compelling. It operates on bandwidth so fast that it can traverse time itself. You see, electricity runs at one/one hundredth the speed of electricity. But this one. Well. Let us say it doesn't. We have taken the twenty thousand pounds from your betting account. And we now have the book. It's unfortunate, David, that you didn't have the book longer, as then you would understand it's true power".

David asks, "Are you going to kill me?"

The man responds, "Let us find out, shall we?"

He places a laptop in front of David on a small glass coffee table. It's the website from the Moleskine book. A video plays, and David can see nothing but a black screen. Shuffling sounds emanate from the darkness. Then, the flick of a lighter, then another, and a flash of light brightens the screen. Third time lucky, and the lighter ignites, illuminating the video. On the screen, holding the lighter is David, laying down inside a casket. Panicking and hitting the roof of the coffin. It sounds solid as if previously buried. Screams of anguish that turn into cries come from his future self as his present self watches, both emotionally crumbling.

The man pauses the video, not letting David see the end and places the bag back over his face.