The End

Michael sat alone in the bar stool nearest the exit. He had chosen this spot on purpose. Several other patrons were scattered around the dimly lit watering hole––the walls painted a deep red, with furniture that would no doubt look even more worn out in better lighting.

No one had really noticed Michael. This wasn't the type of place you came to make friends. It was more the place you went when all hope seemed lost. Drink after drink after drink, 12-year-old scotch had always been a safe place. However, he knew eventually the bartender would ask to be paid. Even tipped. And Michael had no chance of being able to settle that debt.

He had sized up the bartender. He was a muscular man, probably in his early forties, with a rough unkempt beard wrapped around his face. His most important feature––Michael’s small miracle––was that he walked around the bar with a severe limp. This made Michael’s chances of escape significantly higher. Not that it really mattered. He didn't know where he would go next or just how he would be able to pull himself out of bed the next morning. He had lost everything months earlier in the financial crash. It wasn't losing the money that hurt…it was losing everything else. He soon realised his wife only loved him for the lifestyle, his friends only hung around because he always picked up the tab and even his family only ever reached out when they needed help. Now that he had nothing, nobody wanted anything to do with him and the loneliness had hit him like a tidal wave.

The sound of uneven footsteps striding in his direction pulled him back to reality. He looked up to see the bartender standing over him.

"Another scotch?"

Michael slightly raised his head. "You have any 18-year-old?" he slurred.

"Aye, but it's a little pricey" Michael waved his hand.

"Price is not an issue.”

With that, the bartender limped off and reached towards the top shelf.

Michael hadn't eaten all day and his body was screaming at him. He knew what he must look like to everyone else. Drunk in an unwashed, wrinkled suit, with a dirty five o'clock shadow on his face. The despair in his eyes. They probably hated him, probably thought he was to blame for the crisis, probably took such joy in seeing him like this... Michael’s train of thought was derailed by the familiar sound of an uneven walk followed by a drink being placed in front of him.

“I think this should be your last" the bartender said politely but firmly before returning to the bar.

Michael looked at the scotch sat in front of him, contemplated it, then swallowed the whole thing in one big gulp. He knew that it was now or never. He just needed a second for the vertigo to taper and he would be gone.

Only once Michael was confident the bartender was busy with another patron, he bolted up and stumbled out the door into the chilly night. A heavy snow blanketed his surroundings and he walked with haste to put as much distance between himself and the bar before they noticed he was gone. Maybe it was the vertigo, maybe it was the icy footpath but halfway down the block Michael went down. He hit the ground hard and had no energy to pick himself back up. He laid there in the cold snow with no desire to do anything, but then he heard a noise. Faint at first, an odd sort of shuffling. By the time Michael put two and two together, it was too late––the bartender was standing over him. What would happen next? Would he be arrested? Would the bartender just beat the shit out of him? He didn't care and had accepted his fate when the barkeeper reached out his hand.

"You alright there big man? Looks like you fell pretty hard.”

Michael took his hand and was helped back to his feet. Was this a trick?

"Normally I don't follow people out into the cold," the barman started, "but that tip you left me was mighty generous and when I seen you had left your scarf behind I thought I'd be able to catch up with you to return it, even with this limp" he chuckled to himself.

Michael still didn't know if this was a cruel trick. He had left no money and done the cowardly act of fleeing, leaving behind his bar tab. He scanned the bartender’s face but didn’t find anger or hatred, only what appeared to be gratitude. All Michael could manage to say was a "thank you" in a weak voice. With that, the bartender handed him his scarf, smiled and walked back towards the bar, leaving an uneven trail in the snow behind him.

Michael stood in the snow for a few minutes, deep in thought, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. He could come up with no answers other than the reality of how bizarre the situation was. It was only then he realised that he wasn't standing alone anymore. There was a man standing roughly 10 meters away staring at him. How long had he been there? Michael was angry that he had allowed himself to be so deep in thought that he had become unaware of his surroundings.

"The fuck are you looking at?" Michael said to the stranger.

He wasn't normally the type of person to start a fight, but tonight he felt angry and lost. He didn't care if he hurt someone or was hurt himself. The stranger flashed a warm smile and started closing the distance between them. The strangest thing was that he had no discernible features, aside from the fact that he had a rather large smile and brown hair. Michael could think of no other ways to describe the stranger. He was just plain.

"Well you look like you've seen better days, haven't you Michael?" The stranger said, still flashing that warm smile.

Michael’s demeanour changed after that. The fact that the stranger knew his name took most of the wind out of his sails, his anger and hatred quickly replaced by unease and fear.

"Do I know you?" Michael managed to ask.

"No, and you don't need to" the stranger continued, never breaking eye contact or ceasing to smile, "you may never understand the true weight of tonight. The fact that you were supposed to be kicked to death in the cold snow by a disgruntled bartender, a man who people always think they can steal from because of his medical condition." The stranger’s warm smile was growing larger the more he spoke.

"A man who most people are able to easily evade. But not you. Not tonight. He found you face-down in the snow, and in you he’d seen all those who had wronged him, all those who had taken advantage and he just couldn't hold back."

The stranger was now chuckling a little while Michael listened on, frozen in his place. "He’s a Veteran, you know. Seen some pretty fucked up shit overseas. Was even captured and tortured a little––that's why he has the limp. And you Michael…you just happened to be the straw that broke that camels back." The stranger’s chuckle was now a deep and unnerving laugh. "But fortunately for you, I really need a favour. In fact, I need a favour so badly I even stepped in to save you and your miserable existence."

Michael was looking in to the stranger’s eyes, and even though everything he was describing was impossible, Michael knew in his heart that every word the stranger was saying was true.

All Michael could muster up was a weak-sounding: "I don't understand.”

"Of course you don't understand," the stranger shot back with disgust in his voice, "all you need to understand is that you owe me one. A big one. And once you do what I need, we will be all even in my books, got it?"

Michael just nodded, too scared to do anything else.

The stranger raised a briefcase with his left hand. Had he been holding this the entire time? Michael wasn't sure. The stranger opened the briefcase and pulled out a collection of papers, then handed them to Michael.

His eyes scanned the first page. "Bitcoin: a peer-to-peer electronic cash system"

What was this? Who the hell was this stranger? There was a name on the page.

"Satoshi Nakamoto. Is that you?" Michael asked.

This caused the stranger to break out in to a maniac laugh, the grin never leaving his face. “Do I look like a ‘Satoshi’ to you?"

Michael wasn't sure how to respond.

"Listen up, because I'll only say this once," The stranger cleared his throat. "You are Satoshi from now on, Michael. I need to get this document out more urgently than your small brain could ever imagine. Now I know that you wouldn't possibly be able to comprehend just what this document is or how to implement it, so I have attached a list of tech-savvy people who will know what to do and how to bring it to life. Your job is simple: spread the message, listen to feedback from the people on the list, and put them in contact with each other. They will do the hard work. You are simply a middle-man" Michael listened attentively, not saying a word.

"I'm a man who grants favours, usually people approach me needing something but tonight the shoe is on the other foot. Fortunately for you, I have given you your life, stopped you from dying like a sad dog and all I need in return is for you to bring this project to life for the next three years. Nothing more and nothing less, and as an added bonus you'll even become rich along the way." The stranger now looked at Michael, waiting for a response.

Michael could sense a very dark energy coming from the stranger. He didn't know why, but he believed every word the stranger said. He somehow knew everything the stranger said was true.

"I'll give it my best" Michael said.

"Good lad," the stranger beamed. "I'll leave you in charge of that. Don’t let me down." He turned to leave, but Michael had one last question for him.

"Why do you want this? What's in it for you?"

The stranger let out one final laugh before deeply contemplating the question.

"Well, let's just say this brings us one step closer to The End.” And with that he turned and walked away into the cold night, turning the corner, never to be seen again.

Michael stood there for a few moments, unsure what to do. It was then that he noticed something that truly shook him to his core. The stranger had left no prints in the snow at all––not when he walked over, not where he was standing and not when he left. The only proof that the interaction had ever happened was the handful of documents Michael now held.