It all started when the ancient computer I used finally gave up.
The 90’s era Mac desktop was older than me, but I was fine with it. I didn’t game or use the Internet a lot, so the yellowing machine was just perfect for me. And besides, I had a soft spot for the black, one-buttoned mouse that I used to pretend was a magic wand.
Also, I figured, this would be the perfect opportunity to ask Dad for a new one. He’s rich and he knows I always deserve only the best, so I know he’ll always give me what I want.
I went up to Dad, who was using his phone in the living room. “Hey, Dad, can you buy me a computer? Please?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Let’s look for one on ShopBook.”
“ShopBook?” I asked, confused.
“It’s a new online shopping-focused social media app. You can buy things and talk to people at the same time.”
I was kinda confused. Usually Dad takes me to the mall when I ask him to buy things. I really enjoyed it. So why is he suddenly shopping online?
It didn’t take long for Dad to find something. It was a listing for the latest iMac, sold by a third-party seller for only $20. “Do you want this?”
“Yes,” I agreed, trying to conceal my disappointment with not going out.
A few days later, the computer arrived. Dad helped me unbox it while taking some photos the whole time. Later, he posted them to ShopBook.
The first thing I did with my new computer was read about ShopBook. It’s apparently been around for a few months, starting in Southeast Asia and only spreading to the US yesterday. It’s super popular in the third world, with literally millions of so-called “fans” and endorsements with celebrities I don’t recognize. Eerily, I can’t find any criticism of it online.
That night at dinner, my entire family was surprised when Dad couldn’t keep his eyes off his phone. “My purchase was liked by three hundred shoppers! I win three ShopCoins and a chance to win a vacation to the Philippines!”
“Purchase? Shoppers? ShopCoins?” My older brother Alex asked.
“Well, on ShopBook, you can make friends called ‘shoppers’ who can see all your purchases,” Dad explained. “If a certain number of shoppers ‘like’ your purchase, you get ShopCoins that you can use to buy more stuff. And they’re currently running a promo where the biggest shopper wins an all expenses paid cruise to Southeast Asia.”
Wow. Since when was Dad an expert on these things?
“You know, hon, that sounds like a clear-cut scheme to make you buy more,” said Mom, who’s a psychologist. “You’re already a compulsive drinker and gambler. I don’t want another addiction to take care of.”
“I promise I’m not addicted!” Dad shouted.
But he was wrong.
As the months progressed, Dad became literally addicted to the app. Even Mom and Alex got in on it. They stopped going to the mall and supermarket. They only bought things from ShopBook, even things like fruits that they can literally get from our backyard. And they only ever talked about what happens on that site. It’s creepy to watch.
My trusty computer told me that they weren’t alone. All around the world, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe, billions of people have become mindless zombies that only focus on ShopBook. But there were also hints that the company was paying billions of dollars to scrub negative coverage and keep people buying.
Sixty years later, the world is now a completely different place. There are no markets, malls, many public services, or passenger vehicles. Everyone’s needs are taken care of in their own homes. Education and government work are done completely online, while everything physical is supplied by ShopBook, delivered by their automated drones straight from their global supply hub in Shanghai.
Dad is now one hundred and twenty-eight years old. His AI diagnostics device detected a heart disease no medicines available on ShopBook could treat. Its solution? Buy the new ShopBook Lab-Grown Human Heart for only six hundred ShopCoins.
“We don’t have that much money,” groaned Dad. “I spent it all yesterday on the ShopBook Dinner Package!”
“Anti-ShopBook activity detected. No purchases made in twenty-four hours. You will be terminated in twenty-four hours or until purchase is made,” declared the house’s automation system.
I was scared. Is this blasted company willing to kill if its users aren’t addicted? But I’m surprised it hasn’t caught me posting anti-ShopBook material on my secret blog.
“I don’t have the money!” Dad groaned. “Just… kill me!”
“We have a special offer until the end of the month,” replied the automation system. “Earn two ShopCoins for every fifty shoppers that like your purchases. That’s four times the normal rate. To get started, just make a purchase. We recommend the ShopBook Noose. Based on your recent activity, we are giving it to you absolutely free.”
Dad groaned his last words. “Add… to… cart.”