I had been saving them for years. My coins, my precious coins, acquired at cost greater than their face value. Fine gifts they made, neat little acknowledgments of kind words or clever retorts. I thought them safe from harm, tucked away in my piggy-bank, my account. How wrong I was.
A Faustian bargain beyond dispute, so many of us engaged in dark dealings with sinister forces to better communicate with each other through an unholy gateway. To tell stories, or jokes, to connect and feel human. And, in doing so, to award those whose contributions were worthy of recognition. Awards which were made possible through the coins, the precious coins.
In years past, the forces who control the platform provided forms of recognition to the users for dispersal at their discretion, often on a daily basis. But there were cutbacks, rumors of poor decisions made to enhance the profitability of perdition. Some believed this evil empire planned to be publicly traded on a stock exchange. Others went so far as to suggest it would be the subject of many Wall Street bets.
My nightmare began innocently enough, with a note from the goblin. I know, I know, what sort of monster starts a haunting with a note? Well, I got one, and let me tell you, it was pants-shittingly terrifying.
Dear [Redacted],
Hello from Hades.
We’re reaching out because you have coins in your account. This is unacceptable to the gluttonous overlords of Hell.
I have been assigned to steal your coins, and I will do so on [redacted], when I will gleefully abscond with any coins you’ve foolishly failed to fork over.
As we looked at our current tormenting system, there was consistent feedback from the damned that stood out – particularly around the lack of punishment amongst the living.
If you have further questions, you may go to Hell and ask for Stevie.
Yours in profiteering,
The Goblin
I could hardly believe it. I called my friends, and they all received similar notes. How broad was this demonic outreach? I did not understand why this was happening. I wished someone could explain it like I was five.
I called my family, and they were too busy trying to guess the name of my piggy-bank. Nice try, Aunt Louise – I’ve no intention of letting you know the chicanery to which my okay buddies and I get up to.
Perhaps I brought this on myself. Maybe if I had fought back harder when the forces of darkness banned any communications through Hell except via the official app. But evil won again, because good is dumb. Anyway, it felt like the only thing to do was go on a coin spending spree to empty my account before the goblin could steal everything. At the very least, I swore I would never give the devils another dime.
I spent frivolously. Coins for cat pictures. Coins for dog pictures. I was spending like a drunken sailor, though I should note I made a pledge some years back to stop drinking.
Eventually, it occurred to me that these monsters were intentionally encouraging their users to deplete their coins, and that a more nefarious source of robbery must be waiting in the wings. I took a stand and decided to hoard the remainder of my coins.
When the day finally came, and the dawn broke after a night of no sleep, I was horrified to see my piggy-bank was broken, its contents emptied.
Scrawled in a demonic hand, a simple note was left behind:
Change is inevitable.