Paleofinance

Contributor: Marc A. Donis

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Og moved slowly along his morning commute. He was lost in thought.

"Good morning, Og!" cried Ug, who had spotted him coming along the path.

"Morning," muttered Og as they joined paths.

"Sleep OK? You seem tired."

"Nah, I was up all night. Couldn't get a wink."

"I know a guy who's got this root. It might help you. You should really see him."

"You mean Oog? That guy's a quack. No, thanks."

"Have it your way," shrugged Ug. The two walked together quietly for a few minutes.

"You know, I was just thinking..." started Og.

"Not again!" sighed Ug.

"Just listen. You know how you need a woman and a man to make a baby?"

"Yeah... I heard some of the guys talking about that the other day. It's like they can't do it without our help."

"Right! Well, I was just thinking... maybe it's the same for the beasts."

"Really? OK, so what?"

"Well, I was just thinking, maybe, if you got a man beast and a woman beast, and put them together for a while, then you could have a lot of baby beasts."

"That's a fine idea," said Ug, "but finding them isn't really the hard part. It's all the chasing."

"Right... Well, what if we had a sort of... thing... to keep them in a smaller area, so we don't have to chase them so much?"

"OK, I'll bite. What sort of 'thing' did you have in mind."

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like it before. It would be like a lot of trees lined up in a row, but in a big circle. Let's call it a fence."

Ug furrowed his brow. "That's a funny word for it."

"Anyway, so we put the beasts inside the fence and let them make baby beasts. Then, we eat them!"

"Huh. This all sounds like a lot of work." Ug was somewhat skeptical of this idea.

"You're right. We would need help." The conversation fell silent for a few minutes while the two considered the problem.

"I've got it!" cried Og. "We share the meat!"

"With the others who help make your... funce thing! Interesting..." Ug was starting to see the point.

"It's called a fence, and yes! Oh but wait... there is no meat. There are just baby beasts, and also the man beast and the woman beast, but we can't eat them. We need them to make the baby beasts."

"OK, so we share the promise of future meat with the ones who help build the fence," thought Ug.

Og knew that Ug was on to something. He started to become agitated. "Yes! The promise of future meat! We will give them small rocks instead, and call it... money!"

"That's a weird word. I don't like it," scowled Ug.

"Too bad. It's my word."

"But... what happens if some people get more of the nummy than others? Won't they be jealous and make trouble?"

"It's pronounced money, and yes, I suppose you're right. OK, so we'll need a safe place for people to keep it. I'll call it a bank."

Ug rolled his eyes and sat down. He knew that, once Og was on a roll, there was no point in trying to stop him. He settled in for a long ride.

"Banks can let other people borrow the money so that they can make their own fences and beasts and maybe even other things. For this service, banks can charge... interest! This interest will need to be computed. Maybe somebody can invent a machine that will do that. And lots of other machines, to do all sorts of things, too!"

"A what?!" interrupted Ug.

"I don't know, I just made it up. Work with me, here."

"Fine..." sighed Ug.

"People will want to own a piece of the beast farm. Maybe they could use their money to buy little pieces of it. I'll call that equity. Of course, there will be risk involved. So we'll need something else... I'll call this a derivative. And we'll need all sorts of things like binary options, exchange-traded derivative contracts, credit default swaps, and mortgage backed securities to make it all go."

"This is all getting quite complicated. Are you sure you know what you're talking about?"

"Sure... It's fine. It's just math. People will love this. You'll see."

"Well, I admit, I like it a lot better than your last idea about the tiny invisible bugs that make us sick."

"... and naked shorts, and synthetic collateralized debt obligations, and -- who the hell are you?!"

Og stopped in amazement as he beheld the small man before him who was wearing a white garment made of some sort of leather.

"Look, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," said the little man. "I think you two are getting a bit ahead of yourselves."

He raised a smallish object which he pointed in their direction.

"Hey! I saw a thing like that in my dream last night. I called it a gu --"

But before Og could finish his sentence, he had forgotten what he was going to say. In fact, he had forgotten almost everything.

"Me... Og," said Og.

"Me Ug," said Ug.

"Good day, gentlemen," said the man. Og and Ug watched as he walked into a very strange sort of flying cave, and was gone.


- - -
Marc is a Franco-Floridian IT contractor who has been living and working in Luxembourg for much too long. He enjoys writing things like short fiction, lines of code for banking software, and even the occasional email. He often wonders from which planet his two perfect children came, who clearly don't belong to this very imperfect one.
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Zombie Trash

Contributor: Marc A. Donis

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They started coming one summer night, after dinner.

I was taking out the trash when I saw something move in the dark, out of the corner of my eye. It was a blender I'd put on the curb a week ago. I knew the garbage had been by to pick it up, but there it was. I went back inside.

"I just saw something odd --" I started to say to my wife, but there was a knock at the door.

It was our quarrelsome neighbor, Mr. Hink.

"I wish you people could keep your junk off my property. I just found this toaster in the middle of my driveway!" huffed Hink.

"Yeah... sorry about that." I was puzzled. I presented a vague apology, and shut the door.

The next day at work, my wife called, wanting to know what color socks to buy.

"By the way, I thought you threw out that broken blender?"

I had, of course. But there was my wife, claiming I had left it in an awkward spot on the kitchen floor.

When I got home, the blender had been joined by the broken toaster, looking a bit worse for Mr. Hink's abuse. My wife was exasperated.

"They've been here all afternoon. I don't know how to get rid of them. Every time I move one, the the other comes back again! The best I've done is to get them to sit quietly in that corner," she lamented.

There was a knock at the door.

It was a vacuum cleaner, but it was never ours. There must be some mistake, I thought to myself. Then I saw Mr. Hink's silhouette shaking a crowbar in our direction.

"Go back where you belong, you piece of trash!" I could barely hear him yelling, but the vacuum didn't want to be on the curb, I gathered. So here it was, looking pathetic and dejected. I had no choice but to let the poor thing in.

Work the next day was even worse. All day long, we were interrupted by carts full of plastic bottles and Styrofoam cups being unloaded from the elevators. Apparently, they just rolled in through the front doors and went into the elevators. Instinct, I suppose.

I came home to a real circus. A television set I'd thrown away when I was in college was on my lawn, along with our old dresser, and my old stereo system. All of these were adorned with a colorful assortment of plastic bits of trash.

My wife was in a frantic state. "The garbage people have been working all day," she sighed. "They just can't keep up. They'll be working round-the-clock shifts soon." She was kidding, of course.

As the days went by, and the trash kept coming, the Department of Sanitation was forced to recruit the police and fire departments to help keep the streets clear of trash. Soon, that wasn't enough, and the government was forced to send in the military. The president declared a War on Trash.

It quickly became apparent, however, that the trash was impossible to stop. Any attempt to destroy it would simply result in many, smaller pieces of trash, and a bigger problem. That winter, the president declared the War to be over, and introduced us to his doctrine of peaceful coexistence.

Since then, the flow of trash has mostly stabilized. Most of the trash is in people's homes and offices, or on their lawns, waiting to come inside. Our fridge stopped working last week, but we can't buy a new one, since the broken one refuses to leave. Fortunately, a neighbor's fridge wandered into our house by mistake, and it works perfectly. It seems happy to have found a home. Seems its former owners had thrown it away to buy a bigger fridge.


- - -
Marc is a Franco-Floridian IT contractor who has been living and working in Luxembourg for much too long. He enjoys writing things like short fiction, lines of code for banking software, and even the occasional email. He often wonders from which planet his two perfect children came, who clearly don't belong to this very imperfect one.
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