"Just go about your day," says Terry, "I'll carry on with my fanning."
"This is weird, but okay."
"You get the personal touch here. I'm glad you've signed up with FanClan rather than AirShare, those guys treat their workers horribly. And BlowBros breeze units aren't even made of recycled plastics. And the Gust Trust is basically a cult. And the less said about BreezePlease, the better..."
"That's okay, you can sleep on it," says Terry. "Anyway, I'm glad to be your personal breeze assistant for the day."
"Don't mention it." He grins.
You look awkwardly at Terry for a few seconds, waiting for him to hang up or disconnect or whatever. He waves his sheet of paper and grins back at you.
"And then everyone who they refer, they get a cut and I get a cut too, it's exponential. If I refer five friends, and each of them refers five friends, and each of them refers five friends, I'll get FanClanCompanyMan status, and I'll get a bigger cut and access to motivational events and marketing education, which they call the FanClanCramPlan. Hey, you wanna sign up?"
"Well, it comes with the camera and mic," says Terry, "and the heart rate monitor and feedback unit that gives me a little jolt to keep me on track every now and then. I'm on the FanClan Buzz Plan, so I'm held to a higher standard of work but I get in on the ground floor."
"So you're gonna get a bunch of FanClanYuan and cash out, right?"
"Sure," says Terry, brightening up. "I get six FanClanYuan for a five-star review."
"The heck is a FanClanYuan?"
"It's a distributed cryptocurrency stored in the Cloud," says Terry, wafting the paper. The bearings in your fan strain with a cheap plasticky rattle, and a gust of air flops towards your chin. "Just an hour ago, one FanClanYuan was worth eight hundred dollars!"
"I know, right? Last night it was only twelve cents."
You're not going to get into the semantic argument of whether The Cloud is some friendly unknowable abstraction or whether it's just a stranger's computer in a dank basement, because you've got other questions.
"Terry, do you work for FanClan?"
"I'm an independent contractor," says Terry. "It's a side hustle."
"Right," you say, noting the dark circles around Terry's eyes, the visible cheekbones. "Are you getting paid for this, dude?"
"Terry, what the shit is going on?" you ask.
"I'm your FanClan fan for today," says Terry. "There's a fan under your neck, an air movement sensor synced with my laptop, and the Cloud takes care of the rest."
"A cloud? Do you mean, like, a server?"
"Not a cloud, the Cloud. All FanClan's data is stored in the Cloud."
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