You're on a Spirit flight.
It's packed, it's smelly, it feels like crashing would be a relief.

You're flying to New York City for NFT NYC.

You and every other wanna-be artist, bored trust funder, or creatively-inclined person with ambition flocks to feel like a part of something.

You could pick out the other artists at the Gate.
Dyed hair, obnoxious clothing, all competing for who wants the most attention.
It's going to be a long trip.
Hopefully, it is though.
You're coming to NFT NYC to try and connect which might be authentic but also might be a way to cash out at the crest of the current NFT wave.

It's still weird for you to call yourself an "artist."
You drew in school and didn't really pursue it because you didn't think you could. Although you kind of never stopped, even when your Business Degree also didn't pan out and the closest you've been to success, other than holding your job at the Verizon store for almost three years, is your intricate black and white "doodles" you posted on the anonymous Twitter account you made to learn about cryptocurrency a few years ago. People bought out your first collection and you almost made 5 ETH.

When you think about it, in a row like that, it does sound crazy.

You had started posting the art, not thinking anything of it, and people started responding. A few at first, but now you have some consistent fans, "reply guys,"
And now that your collection minted out, which might have had to do with the fact that ETH had just hit $3000, you have collectors. Now you have "drops." Now when people post "GM" or "WAGMI" you don't roll your eyes but respond in kind.

And now you're in New York.
The plane lands with a few bumps and, as expected, everyone instantly stands up as soon as you stop. A GM indeed.

After twenty minutes of waiting for people to grab their carry-ons, you enter LaGuardia Airport.
It's humid. The air is busy and you're remembering this is the center of the universe. Three girls who could be supermodels

The cloud outside look like trouble and threaten rain. It looks like Gotham City from the Batman movies.

You navigate through the airport to the Uber pickup.
There's such an immediate, obvious diversity. Families, sizes, shapes, shades. It's a little overwhelming for you at first, everyone all mixed together.

You find your driver, a silent Asian man driving a Lincoln Navigator.
Soon, you're jetting down some freeway, looking at the infinite city in every direction around you. It's weird to think how many millions of people are in the city, around the city, for the city.

You check Twitter.
The market is still hot, people are deep in the churn RTing each other.

The car drives through a few tunnels, burrowing deeper. A panicked thought hits your head, what if a natural disaster were to strike, everyone running, nowhere to go. It scares you too much so you stop thinking about it.

You wonder if you're passing any of the "not great" neighborhoods you've heard about and probably seen in rap videos. To be honest, the tall faceless buildings you fly by on the freeway could go either way.

The Uber continues into the city, pulling around bicycle delivery drivers and models in yoga pants. This must be Soho.

Your Uber stops. You're here.

It's always like stepping off into a foreign world. Out of the Uber and instantly surrounded on all sides by buildings stretching into the sky.

It feels like you're a part of something much larger, like someone in a painting everyone passes over in a museum. You hurry into your hotel before you think too much about it.

At least this part isn't so bad.

You actually got a deal.
Rooms were showing up as $550 a night but you got them for $499 with a AAA discount.

The hotel seems nice. It's so much calmer in here than the streets outside, it's own universe unto itself.

A skinny blonde girl with a gap-toothed who you think looks Russian walks by carrying her Pomeranian. You never knew what it was like to see a model in the wild, but something about how she walks makes you know.
You go the check-in.

The clerk is both disaffected and attentive. How many potential actors / writers / models are there like him grinding jobs they hate? He must work hard to not be an NPC.

He finds your reservation without even an acknowledgement.
"We'll be putting a hold of $500 for incidentals."
You hand over your debit card and try not to show how surprised you are.
If you were richer you'd probably have better credit to get a credit card, then again if you were richer you wouldn't be worried about the $500 in the first place.

There goes most of your spending money. You'll have to be frugal and probably end up with an overdraft charge.
But, now you have a keycard.

You get in the elevator.

Your room is on the 14th floor, but you notice there isn't a 13th.

The doors open and you go down the cramped, winding hallways to your room.
Swipe in with a beep and step inside.

The boxed air is fresh, clean. Housekeeping must've been here in the past hour.

The room is aggresively small, but it's nice to have privacy. A space that's yours.
A bed and a cuck chair to drop your bag in. The large window gives a view of the face of the building across the street. Tiny squares of life. You wonder if you'll see anything scandalous but then feel like a pervert for looking and close the sheer curtain.

You don't know much about places in New York and you're still kind of amazed at the compact life that can occur when people live stacked like cattle. A lot of things start to make sense.

The only other thing of interest in the room is a mini-bar.
There are small mason jars of roasted nuts and dakr-chocolate covered pretzels. Certainly no Nerds clusters.
Looking for a Gatorade, you can only find fancy water in glass bottles, flavored with the fancier fruit, pomegranate and pears. God forbid a millionaire want a Mountain Dew.

You don't even really have time to relax, to shed that post-flight anxiety before the first event is about to start.

You don't know much, other than it's hot "one of NYC's hottest clubs" and you're on some kind of VIP list that you bought your way on with a 0.15 ETH NFT.
You have a choice. It's 6:15 and the event starts at 7.

You can show up early and make sure you get in and get a lay of the land.

Or you can take a nap, since you're exhausted, and show up "fashionably late." You don't really know how crowded it will be, but it's early, crypto people are lazy, and it should be fine.

These first events are always chaotic.
Everyone always gets a little too fucked up. A little too messy, trying to capture That Story.
"Oh man, did you see Lucas got so drunk--"
Someone always makes a run at it that first night.

Which is it?

You probably shouldn't do any gambling too early.
Just go straight to the club.

You get dressed in your "club clothes," your nicest button-up and slacks. You didn't really think this through, they're wrinkled, so you hang them on the door knob while you take a steaming hot shower.

Dressed up, smelling like your closet,
You look up the address and call an Uber. Go downstairs and wait outside.
The sun is setting, casting red-orange swirls across the sky. It feels like you're going to battle

The cheapest Uber option is $57 and by now you're maybe overdrawn, too.

There's traffic, but your driver takes some weird back ways and before you know it you're in front of a bar that looks closed with the early formations of a line in front of it, about a half-dozen people waiting, on their phones.

This is the place.

Do you get in line now?

Or try to find a bodega nearby to pre-game cheap and maybe buy a snack?

Lay down and you fall asleep in your clothes.
It's almost 8 by the time you wake up.

There's fashionably late, then there's this.

You shower and get changed in a hurry.
How are you messing up and its only the first night?

You're hungry but the only option is room service which you can't afford and will take an hour, anyway. There's spicy nuts in the mini-bar that will cost you $19. That's going to have to cut it.

You go downstairs to wait for the Uber which feels like it takes forever.

Riding there, you try and message people who might already be at the venue or gauge things from Twitter. No one is really responding or posting which probably means it's the coolest party in the world.

The skyscrapers, the busy people, the feeling that everyone-- whether bringing home groceries to cook dinner or headed to an exlcusive party-- is going onto something important is impossible to escape outsisde in New York City.

Part of the city's charm means you're stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
After ten minutes of barely moving a block, you get out of the Uber and walk the last few minutes.

You see three lines of people, thick, clogging up the sidewalk in front of a venue in front of you. You're not prepared. You could use a pre-game drink, or a smoke, or a snack. But that's only going to delay the inevitable.

"Is this the VIP line?"
You fumble to get your phone open with your wallet to show your NFT, the only thing on that wallet, practicing opsec of the wealthy even though you don't really have any wealth to secure.

Someone confirms this is the right place.

You overhear the conversations around you as the line quickly fills up.
People talking about what events they'll go to after, who's on the way, who isn't. It sounds like they have a lot more going on than you.

After about twenty minutes, you realize you've been standing in the same spot and no one has moved.

You see a group of people across the street, smoking.
Upon closer look, you recognize some of them.
It's a group of "influencers," people with lots of followers, people who post a lot. It's hard to not recognize them.

A few of them border on grifters. In real life, luxury brands and diamond chains sparkle with the gleam of desperation. They're identical how they try to wear their own individual outfits. But then you overhear the name of a mutual friend. Enough to make you fully turn around.

You've been friends for a while.

This guy owns a few CryptoPunks, known mostly by his hoodie punk pfp.
Even though you've never met, you've been friends for a long time, before either of you were who you are now, so there's an actual friendship and not just the psuedo parasitic artist/collector bond.

You could go over and introduce yourself but you don't want to seem like a fan. Maybe that's just your own internal judgement. Maybe you're just thinking too much.

On the other hand, you can just wait in line and you might run into them later inside or something.

You walk into the bodega, thinking how around the world, all cornerstores selling snacks and cigarettes are somewhat universal.
Maybe you'll pick up a vape, or one of those airplane whiskeys.

Immediately, you notice the line for the cashier is almost longer than the club.
Is it worth it?
Plus, for some reason, you have a weird feeling. Something is off.

Holy shit, you messed up.

You waited way too long and it will be impossible to get in without waiting an hour, feeling like a sardine, packed unmoving with everyone, and you still probably won't get in.

It's probably not even worth bothering to get in the line. There's groups of people talking who don't even know they're in line, hanging out, talking, smoking cigarettes.
A part of your human spirit, that inalienable attempt to keep striving forward, would die if you were to wait in that line.

You go to a bench nearby and weigh your options.

You're in a new city. You can explore the local wildlife.

While you're staring at your phone screen, a group of three bizarre people-- what can only be artists-- flock near you. The closest one has eyebrows dyed a transparent yellow and hair shaved on one side, but long on another. She looks like a celebrity from an alien planet.

She says something to you, about the club, but you didn't hear what.

Or...
Maybe now's the perfect time to go get that vape.

What's the point of coming to NFT NYC if you're not going to take advantage of times like this?

You approach the group, hesistant, feeling like a door-to-door salesman.

"Can I bum a smoke?"

"GM! It's actually a joint."

You'd recognize that voice anywhere.
He's not just a mutual, he's your favorite podcaster. He's super secretive about his privacy and you knew he'd be here-- he's everywhere-- but you never knew what he looked like.

You introduce yourself, just say your screenname.
"Holy shit!"
He pulls you in for a hug.
Others are watching now. The whole circle, at least peripherally, gauging from one of their leaders how to treat you.

"Bro! It's so good to finally meet you."
He offers you the joint.
"Did you want to hit this?"

You can't stop the train now. Take a hit.

"We were just talking about how outside of the club is the best part. You can actually see your friends, you can hear each other, there's not crazy 200 BPM zoomer music blasting into your fuckin' ears trying to make you deaf."

You laugh, maybe it's the weird you're trying not to cough out of your lungs-- when's the last time you smoked weed from a joint on the sidewalk anyway-- but you laugh. He's funny You'd never say it out loud, but these are good vibes.

"Oh, shit! We actually have dinner right now."
Your Mutual looks you over, taking the joint and a hit.

"Hey, you want to go to dinner with us? I know we don't really know each other, it's kind of a secret thing, not to be cringe, but you seem cool and you probably know the host. Are you interested? If not, feel free to go with these guys to the VIP table. This club is supposed to be sick."

There's not much time to think. Asking questions would make you seem like a loser.

You don't want to seem like a leech or weird or anything, so you don't bother going over.

Keep waiting in line, by yourself, not really recognizing anyone you might know from the people near you, who are mostly on their phones anyway.

Kill twenty minutes thinking of the range of possibilities inside the brick walls. The music has started picking up. You're not sure if it was always playing or it just got louder but it's starting to feel like a club.

That's when you see the group of influencers go in through a side door
You watch with envy, like they forgot about you, you almost want to call out.
Eventually, the line starts moving.
You look behind you and there's maybe hundreds of people waiting. It's a good thing you showed up early.

At the door, big guys holding iPads seem permanently annoyed (I guess who wouldn't be) and regard everyone who isn't in a company-branded polo as subhuman.

You confirm your name, show your NFT without eye contact, and get searched. They make you give a phone number, which isn't very web3 of them but whatever. It's not your number, just a number.

You get inside the club,
and it sucks.

Somehow, it's already full. Maybe with civiliians who were already there.
You think back to all the people in line who have nowhere to go.
Despite the crowd, there's still room for the sadness to creep in. That's the thing with clubs.

You go to the bar. It's backed up, two rows deep, but you jump in the fray, throwing yourself into the mess.

You wonder, how many people are like you making shitty jpegs and spending too much money to come here and hope to hit it big?
You should've gone to the people outside. Wasn't that the point of this trip? You hate that word, "influencer." You need a drink.

You let your stare wander the room, see bartenders moving in slow motion.

Your gaze settles on the VIP area.
A Well-Dressed Guy, about your age, laughs with his friends. Not obnoxious, not stumbling, simply not regarding anyone except the people around him.

A Bottle Fly in a skin-tight dress, disinterested look on her face, dances near the table, alone. Something about her is off. She's not really with the group, more watching them than expecting them to watch her.

Then you see it,
She leans over and plucks the Well-Dressed Guy's phone from the booth.
Simple, confident, like she's reaching over to get some ice.

What do you do?

Browse the aisles stacked high with sugar and corn syrup.
Bottles of energy drinks, hard candy.

You're in line for about twenty minutes. You're almost to the front when you hear the door.

Two guys come in wearing black balaclavas, masks around their faces. They're holding shotguns, matte black, that look more like movie props than the real thing.

You want to smile, instinctively, probably as a defense mechanism.

One guy in line behind you runs out, past the masked men.
They have their guns leveled at the clerk. There's a lot of yelling but you can't understand what they're saying. This seems personal.

You drop your drink on the tile, not paying attention. It makes a loud THUD.

One of the robbers swings his shotgun around and pulls the trigger.

----------------------------------------------------------------

You think you hear the guys run out.

An old woman comes up, maybe she'll help and stop the bleeding, maybe she'll say a prayer. But instead, she goes through your pockets, taking your phone and wallet.
It's cold.
You bleed out on the ground, staring at a bag of Funyuns.
Sometimes that's just how it goes.

You ignore the yellow-eyebrowed NFT artists.

Cross the street, take out your phone, and start swiping.
The faces pop up, new potential soulmates with their own fears, hopes, and dreams. Or just bots. It doesn't take long before you get--

It's a Match!

The hottest woman you've ever seen on an app has matched with you. People always say there's an inbalance in New York City, but you didn't know it was this bad.
Go to her Instgram to be sure. Hundreds of followers, comments, highly curated, updated. My God, she might be real.

You send her a message and, surprisingly, quickly get one back.

"hey tourist"
Even more of a surprise, it isn't some half-broken overly-punctuated sentence by an international ChatGPT client.

You respond and she says,
"I know this sounds weird but you're the first person I matched with so maybe it's fate lol if you want to meet you have 15 minutes or until I feel like this is too weird"

and she sends an address:
Butler's Coffee Shop.
It's 20 minutes away.

new york city, sidewalk, group of NFT artists, yellow hair, no eyebrows, strange looking,

"Are you here for NFT NYC?"

You say yes. Realize all three of them are watching you.

At least the yellow girl isn't bad looking, the other two are hopefully very artistic. One has a ponytail in the center of her shaved head and a septum piercing, looking more like a warrior princess than a "digital media artist" which is fine because she's more of a trust fund kid than anything.
But you don't know that right now. She just introduces herself as Flowersam.

"We could tell why you were here."
They mention something about your vibe.

These were the NFT people you expected. Obnoxious. Needing attention. Not good at art, just good at having enough time to be in the right place with the right bubble.

They're dressed in expensive versions of homeless people clothes. Too baggy and full of holes. They're so gullible they're psyopped themselves into spending thousands of dollars for literal scraps. How nice they smell gives away how soft they are. They move and act like they're made of marshmallow fluff.

They say you're the "lucky winner" and you're not sure what that means but you're invited to a "once in a lifetime" dinner.

You look at them like they're crazy and they say they're serious.
Seconds later, an Uber pulls up and they ask if you want to "evoke the esoteric muse." Whatever that means.

Walking down the sidewalk, the street is empty except for what looks like a police car and the officers out, up ahead.

As you get closer, you realize these aren't real police cars. Heavy tint with fake sirens on top. Two guys, wearing all black vests and khakis, like knockoff security guards, stand with a young, black kid handcuffed on the curb.

You normally mind your own business, keep your head down, but something about this situation feels off.
You listen to your gut.

"Yeah, if it's cool, I'll come to dinner."

As soon as you say it, you realize you don't even have money to pay for dinner.
Whatever, you'll cross that bridge when you get to it.

"I hope you're hungry," your mutual says. "They rented out Carbone."

You're not entirely sure what that means but you think it sounds fancy.

Perfectly timed, a dark SUV pulls up and you climb in with a group of others.

In the Uber, you try to make conversation with your Mutual, his wife, and two other NFT artists that you know, a photographer and a "glitch artist," whatever that means.

The conversation stays mostly between them, talking about the fun they had at some other event. You're hanging out in the back, just happy to be here.

The other artists keep talking and its hard to pocket the resentment at the idiocy. Some people want so badly to have some kind of underdog story-- to come from some dark place-- that they'll hide under any shadow and they make that their whole life.

Fortunately your Mutual saves the day and pulls out a bag of Nerds clusters from somewhere. Some people are just like how they are online.

You turn down some Manhattan side street with two large security guards at the door, under the red neon lit sign "Carbone."

"Alright, just stay close. It gets a little crazy but we have the whole place rented out so if anyone asks anything just say you're with me."

You nod, though you'll try and give your friend some space to breathe.
Then, you're out of the car, headed inside.

Going to some random insider dinner would probably be boring. Especially if you don't know anyone there. You weren't invited so it would be impossible to not feel like some hanger-on.

"Yeah, just go inside with those guys, it shouldn't be a problem."
Before realizing you might feel extra anywhere you go, your Mutual leaves you to get into a car while you rush to catch up with the group going inside.
You're almost cut off at the velvet rope by a sunglasses-wearing security guard but he looks you over and knows you're with those other nerds.

You look back at the line you almost waited in, feeling smarter than everyone else out there. Packed like cattle, like they're in line at the airport.

Inside, you follow a line of people following a hostess to two tables at the edge of the dance floor.
Someone you don't recognize talks to the Hostess with the Glowing Wand, hands them a credit card.

You realize how out of place you feel. You want to offer some help but all you do is hang back, with the busboys waiting to drop off ice and waters.

You settle into the leather booth, getting a chance to look around.

The first person you see is actually the Cool Pharma Bro from the internet whose name you don't know how to spell. He's smaller in real life, but so is everyone.

He's recording some kind of video on his phone, which seems unnecessary.

Next to him is a crypto girl you instantly recognize from Twitter.
She looks a little older, a little more wrinkled, a little more real life than even the most revealing "no makeup no filter" picture would expose.

She's arguing with a guy in a couture t-shirt wearing a really shiny watch.
They're on the tail end of their rushed whispers and now she's staring at the floor, arms crossed, and he's on his phone.
Eventually, the Couture T-Shirt Guy just gets up and leaves.
The CryptoTwitter Girl rolls her eyes and finishes her drink, then his too.

She looks around, eyes low and red. They catch yours.

Beside her, there's a guy you don't recognize.
He's big, burly, covered in tattoos. His smile and loud voice gives you the impression of an artist even though he looks like someone you grew up with. He's some kind of New York artist, you're just not sure which.

"What's up, brother?"

He introduces himself as Joe.
Diffusive smile, strong eye contact.
He seems like one of the only other real people there.

Before you know it, you're asking "What do you do?"

He starts telling you about something called Friendlies.

The Online Pharma Bro slides next to you.

"It's cringe, right!?" he strikes up a conversation with you.

"What is?"
"Everything!"

He pours some kind of expensive tequila into an empty glass and gives it to you. He clinks the glass when it's barely in your hand and you're compelled to drink.

The Pharma Bro takes out a small metal case and before you know it, two white lines are in front of you on the table.

He offers you a rolled up $100 bill and first in line.

Or, you decide to hang back. Don't really commit on anything. Go inside your shell.

As the drinks stack up, and shots keep coming, you start to wonder two things:
If you're going to have to pay because you didn't really think of that until now,
and if this is what they mean by "life a movie"?

Whatever.
Not your circus, not your monkeys.
Why get involved in someone else's business?

You feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe someone else saw it too. You look around to flee into eye contact with any other onlookers .But everyone else seems like a single-cog NPC, waiting to get a drink, no other thought in brain.

Maybe you should've said something.
But you look back and the woman is gone.
Whatever, maybe the guy deserved it. Douchebag.

You pay $22, no tip, for a whiskey and Coke and get nudged away from the bar so that you're standing awkwardly in the No Man's Land between bar, dance floor, and the wall. The bathrooms aren't far away.

Neither is VIP.
Not far from where that Bottle Fly stole that guy's phone,

That's when you see the VIP group from outside. The Hoodie Punks. The Cool Kids, as much as cool kids can exist with people in their 30's.

There's a velvet rope separating the plebs on the dance floor from the VIP elite, all of them chatting amongst themselves, probably discussing which collection to send to the moon.

You take a sip of your whiskey Coke. Why can't it be you?

Life a movie, right? Time to seize your moment.

It might be unwise to get yourself involved in the business of others, but this seems like a moral good.

You cut through the crowd quickly, while the girl creeps away, and you get the Well Dressed Guy's attention.

"Hey! Hey! That girl took your phone!"

Your voice cuts through and somehow he hears you.

"Hey!"
You grab the Bottle Fly's arm as she tries to escape.
"Give the phone back."

"Give me my phone."
The Well Dressed Guy is there, on the other side of the VIP rope, very quickly.
The Thief, caught, makes up some nonsense, "sorry I thought it was mine," and giggles and slips away like the snake she is.

The Guy looks at you, deeply in the eyes.
"Thank you, brother. All this honey, you can't be surprised when you attract a few flies."
He says it with a beaming smile, like it was all planned.

"Hey, come up, you're drinking on me."
He extends his hand. You go to shake, and he pulls you in for a bro hug and up, over the rope. A nearby Security Guard just watches.

You look this Guy over.
He has long hair, flowy, impossible to not be drawing the comparison to Jesus. He's a little short, doesn't miss many meals, but not fat and overall a pretty normal guy. He has a bunch of bracelets and his shirt is probably worth more than your portfolio, colorful, eccentric designs.

Oh, you recognize this guy.
You aren't sure how to spell his name. We'll call him NFTJesus. He's a whale. Definitely a rich kid, but also early. Stays mostly in everyone's good graces, self-effacing when he needs to be. NFTJesus might also be what he calls himself.

But he also has the sharp confidence behind his moves like you usually only ever see on TV. Maybe this is what they mean by "built different."

"Here for NFT NYC?"

"Yeah," you confirm.

You laugh and look at yourself. Is it that obvious?

NFTJesus has a friend come up and say something.

"Hey, actually I'm about to dip for dinner, but do you want to come with?"

You're not stupid enough to say no.

"At the club?" you ask.

"Buddy, it's not even on this planet."

NFTJesus leads the way out, you're now a follower.

Keep giong down the rabbit hole.

Look up the coffee shop and--
it's an 8 minute walk away.

Not wanting to waste time, seeing how serious she is, you walk directly there, following the highlighted route on your app, looking down every few steps to not lose your way.

You get to a fairly upscale coffee shop.
You're not sure what you're going to run into. If there's going to be a bunch of Gen Z TikTokers with their cameras out to laugh at you, or a bunch of guys to beat you up, or a fat, old woman with a mustache.

But when you go inside the coffee shop, you're speechless.
She's sitting, inside, in one of the few chairs the back. You look around, trying to spot the person with the camera laying in wait. You don't see one and she spots you and waves.

You sit across from her, stunned, still in disbelief.
"Sorry, I kind of catfished you," she says. "I had my teeth whitened before that picture."
She gives a sly smile, knowing what you're thinking and you burst out laughing.

Just like that, you two hit it off. It's like a movie, but not an awkward Superbad ripoff, it's like a rom-com. She's laughing, agreeing with almost everything you're saying, you're going to get the girl.

You didn't know you could be that charming, but before you've both finished your coffees she's inviting you back to her place.

It's perfect... and you feel like there's something lurking beneath the water. You can't tell if it's something good, though.

You call an Uber and get out of there.

You feel yourself regress into an anti-social shell. Wishing you knew how to be more adventurous. Mindlessly checking and re-checking the same 3 apps on your phone, looking for something that you know deep down Apple can't provide.

When you get back to the hotel, you stay in your room for the rest of the trip.
Mindlessly watch marathons of Family Guy and the Simpsons. Sportscenter just to have something on in the background.

You don't really go out much again other than to eat some pizza by yourself.

NFT NYC is weird.

new york city sushi bar, private room, two women at long tables, using bodies as platter for nigiri,

"Sure," you say, consigning yourself to some sad verison of what could've been.

Your stomach sinks as you realize maybe this is as good as it gets.
You flew to New York for this.

This is a meal with people that can only occur at market tops, when too many are too complacent.

The Uber ride is totally silent, your hosts making inside jokes and anxiously checking their phones. "You're gonna love this," the girl with the yellow eyebrows keeps repeating.

It really hits you as you sit in traffic that you're with the rich kids. The ones who shaved their heads and dyed what was left and pierced their faces to look like warring tribesman when the only battles they had were in the mirror.

You pull up to a sushi bar whose name you're familiar with, with chains in every major city. Your group is led to the back by a suit-wearing hairgel host who is douchey enough to be with your group if he wasn't on the clock.

You walk through a crowded dining room, trying to feel special, with this line of misdressed misfits. People look at you and you try to swallow the attention like a stiff drink you didn't order.

Before you go into the private room, they make you give up your cell phone into a pouch to be collected later at the front of the restaurant. Maybe this means there will be celebrities. Maybe you'll meet Kanye.

You heard about an NFT Illuminati dinner.
You thought maybe this was it.
It's not.

You're led to a room where maybe two dozen people are waiting at one long table. It's so loud. You recognize a few people as popular YouTubers. You don't like where you're at. The darkest of the swill. The lowest of the shills.

The room fills with chatter like a middle school cafeteria. People shout over each other, trying to grab attention. It's odd to not see these people on their phones. You don't know why they had to be confiscated.

Then, two women come in.
Completely naked.
They're attractive, probably models. Long hair, long legs.
They lie on the table, like you've heard about people doing, completely still.

Waiters bring out plates of sushi, and painstakingly position them on the women. It takes several minutes. People around you are hooting and hollering. It's incredibly awkward.

Someone screams, "DADDY SO HUNGY NOM NOM" and it makes your stomach hurt.

Naked sushi is what kids would think adults do for an elite gathering.

But, for some reason, you still have hope.

Take out your phone and record.

"Hey, what are you doing?"
Try to sound like the most annoying Karen-minded person ever. You use the words "citizen journalist." To be fair, you kind of look the part.

The two "Security Guards," who you realize look a little too unshaven, too red-eyed to be real law enforcement, give each other a nudge. One bumps past you, un-handcuffs the kid on the curb, and they get in their double-parked Lincoln Navigator and peel out.

The kid seems shaken up. You go inside the corner store and buy him a water. Make sure he's okay.

"Bro, on God, you just saved my life. Wait here. My people are on their way."
The kid fires off text messages on his phone.

In five minutes, another black SUV, not much different from the first, pulls up.
This one plays loud music, bass rattling its interior. When it stops in front of you, the back door opens and smoke blows out. The acrid smell of burning marijuana hits your nose.

"Bro, come back to the spot. I'm sure you're like a tourist from Oklahoma or something but you just saved my life and I need to thank you. Come party with us. I promise it'll be a night you won't forget."

As soon as you're inside, past the door guy, you're swimming in a crowd of people.

You've heard about this dinner.
It's the most exclusive artists and collectors in the NFT world.
Some people you recognize, others just exude main character energy.
There's someone in a Versace robe and dreadlocks, a woman wearing tie-dye dress with just as many rainbow colors in her hair. These people are like Matrix characters.
You turn the judgement on yourself. Are you boring?

Everyone is chatting in tiny circles, conversing with each other about previously shared intimacies.

There's a clinking of glasses and a Maitre'd asks people to take their seats.
You slip from the front room to dozens of arranged tables throughout the somewhat tiny restaurant. How is somewhere so exlucsive so small? Your neighborhood pizza place is bigger. You realize renting this out must've been well into the six figures.

Everyone scatters into what seems like assigned seats, though there are clearly marked empties for +1's.

There's two open seats near you:

One, next to a guy. He's big, burly, covered in tattoos. His smile and loud, projecting voice gives you the impression of an artist even though he looks like someone you grew up with.

The other seat is next to, frankly, a really hot girl.
She's probably some kind of artist, success unclear. Her hair is long on one side, short on another, her eyebrows are tinged-yellow, but her clothes aren't that wild. Some kind of neutral-colored kimono.

You're not sure which seat might lead to a more interesting night, which could get you rich, or who's more likely to fuck you.

"Do I know you?" she has to shout to be heard over the music of the club.

"Maybe," you answer, honest if boring.

She introduces herself by showing you her Twitter account and asks for yours.
She doesn't follow you.

You offer to pour her a drink from alcohol that isn't yours.

Sit back, sipping and trying not to do anything stupid.
She's drunk and a little too into the music.
She slides up to you.
"What'd you think of the show?"
You have no idea what "the show" is. She doesn't know that, though.

She's half-scrolling her phone, half-pretending to be engaged in conversation with you, pasted smile on her face. This is going nowhere.

You see she sees she has no new notifications. She puts her phone up, smiles again, and slides closer.
Her leg is touching yours and if you didn't get the bright neon message by now, she starts rubbing the inside of your leg.

It doesn't seem like other people can see, your heart is racing.
How far will you go? How far do you even want to go?
What happened to NFTs?

You let yourself get sucked into the "Friendlies" pitch.

It's unclear if you should be surprised, but yes, he's an "old school turned NFT" artist. Part of a duo, Friends2U.
When you Google him later, you find a few installations in local parks, write-ups in the cultaural section of a few magazines. Smiley clouds, Goofy positivity. They look like they're in their 40's. NFTs couldn't have come at a better time.

You scoot closer to hear them better. You're pot-committed at this point.

In this world it's hard to know the real from the bullshit and, frankly, all you have to go off of are the rich tastemakers you and he are surrounded by. Their presence has to justify his claims as an artist.

"Honestly, you seem pretty chill. Do you want to come by the compound later tonight? A few others are coming, just the cool people. I can tell you the whole thing there. Pharrell might even stop by."

When will you get this oppportunity again?

You almost ask to take a selfie before you scoot close for the line.
You feel your heart race, burning oddly in your nose.
Your brain feels like its on fire. You sense people stare and comment.
Who cares? Let them. You'll be the next main character on Twitter.

You feel your heart skipping beats.
Maybe you should go to the bathroom.

"King, where you going?" you hear the Pharma Bro laugh, voice booming,
He scares you now, you don't like this feeling.

You cut the line in the bathroom but you look so bad no one seems to care. You feel pale. You can't know for certain, but your blood pressure is crashing. That's what makes you collapse, hit your head.

And that's it. Black.

A picture of you with shit spilling from out your pants goes viral on dark corners of the internet.

No one is certain if you were killed on purpose, an accidental overdose, or who really gave you those drugs.

There's mostly just unfortunate rumors, a couple of bad memes, and you're instantly forgotten by the next protocol exploit. If only you'd been a little cooler instead of tried to be whatever it is that was. Oh well.

Call it anxiety.
Maybe people picked up on you not being social. Or they're just assholes.
Regardless, you retreat into yourself in the booth of VIP. Clam up. Don't say much.

You eventually convince yourself that you caught a bug traveling.
You're under the weather. That's why all of this is going so poorly.

You slip out, trying to not disrupt anything, trying to make as little waves as possible, trying not to pay.

You bump a few shoulders, knock a few drinks.

Try to lean over and talk. No one hears you, or at least no one looks your way..
It kind of hurts. Finish your drink and set it on the floor. There's no going back now.

But as you try and step over, clearly waiting for you outside your focus, a Security Guard who may as well be 8 feet tall, grabs your shoulders and turns you around.

You're able to catcth the VIP Influencers snickering, rolling their eyes, making fun of you.

Somehow, in a matter of minutes, you completely made a fool of yourself.

Maybe you could see it as a small thing, but it's enough to completely undo your confidence.

Before you know it, you're riding in an Uber with NFTJesus, some girl who might be his girlfriend (or maybe just a fan) and a few other weird NFT art people who are at worst, like you, trying to get something that they don't exactly know what it is yet.

The ride is a little awkward.
You realize you don't have much to talk about, and NFTJesus is on his phone the whole time.

He shows you a profile on Twitter.
"This is you right?"
It's not you.
"Oh shit!" he laughs. "Here let me find you."
But he's texting away and you're not sure he goes back to Twitter again.

It takes a while, more strained silence, your phone is out by this point too.
Eventually, you get to the place.
Carbone. You've heard that name before. It's popular.

"Here, let's go."
NFTJesus hurries out of the SUV. It seems imperative you stay close.

Two giant guys in trench coats stand at the entrance to Carbone with a list and earpieces.
This is exclusive.

NFTJesus gives his name and the door is held open for your group.

"I'm just around the corner."

She practically speedwalks out the coffee shop and you're rushing to keep up with her.

"Up here," she says and swipes into a building you couldn't ID again if police asked you.
Massive art studios with one impossible tall staircase unifying them, you're not sure if this is where people live or work.
You go up the one flight, it seems like she's taking steps two at a time.

Her apartment isn't marked, just a plain door on the third floor.

Inside, it's dark.
It look like the unit goes far into the building.

The beautiful woman, who you're realizing might not really be named "Kay" as her bio stated, hurries around in the dark apartment, lighting candles. You're not sure how she's able to move so deftly in the pitch black.

As the candles fill the room with flickering light, you can see odd jackalope-looking statues, covered in sheets, around the apartment. Several of them are decorated with pentagrams, it's a little unnerving.

You realize she's not in the room anymore and it's just you, the candles, the animal pentagram statues, and some dark furniture that feels like it's covered in plastic.

She re-emerges wearing a skimpy bath robe.
She ignores you and goes to the kitchen, making a drink.

Something-- some haunting voice in the back of your head-- tells you that this is as far as you should go.

You make an excuse. Ask to get her number. What about tomorrow?

But her mood changes quickly.
She's cold, quiet.
"Why'd you even come then?" she seems upset, but not hurt.

You apologize and go back to the hotel while she just stares at you. As you walk out the coffee shop door, a smile crosses her face.

You go back to the hotel and try not to think too much about the situation. You're glad you got out of there when you did. You clearly made the right choice.

Treat yourself with room service then a long, hot shower. Watch stupid TV. Read about everyone's night inside the club, bristling with FOMO.

Eventually, you fall asleep in bed in your hotel room.

Then, around 3 o'clock in the morning, you wake up.
It's pitch black, and it takes you a second to remember you're not in your home.
You hear a beep. It's so close, it scares you.
You think it's your phone,
then you realize,
it's the digital lock.

The door, around the corner, opens.
Your heart drops and a cold feeling hits your stomach so hard it almost hurts.
"Hello?!" you blurt out.
The door opens again. You think you hear footsteps.

You wait a very long time.
Your head buzzes, your breath is shallow.
It takes at least ten minutes before you get out of bed and check to see no one is there.
Whoever it was must've run off.

You try telling yourself you imagined the whole thing, but when you go outside to check the hallway, your DO NOT DISTURB sign is on the floor.

You immediately pack, check out of the hotel, and use whatever money you have left in your bank account to book a new ticket back home.

There are dark forces at NFT NYC conspiring against you, and as you sit in the Uber to the airport, you're not sure if you should blame the NFTs or the NYC.

private dining room, sushi bar, blobish bodies hunched together, mass of humans, unclear where one person ends and the next begins,

You nod at someone, confirming your willingness to stay, at least to yourself.

A fat guy drools on one of their bare legs.

Then, you see, others start taking off their clothes.

"C'mon, guys. It's not okay for just the women to be exposed like this. It's really inappropriate," an old, bald guy is standing while he undresses.

Everyone around you is getting completely butt naked.
Before you know it, you're surrounded by totally nude influencers.
You expected maybe a POAP, never this.

But it feels like you're watching yourself crash into a car, you start taking your clothes off.

"MOON! MOON! MOON!" everyon'e chanting now.
They're grabbing with their hands at the sushi off the naked women. The women are straing at the ceiling. The waiters are staring straight ahead.

Somehow, despite everyone being naked, there's still a very inappropriate power dynamic.
"MOON! MOON! MOON!"
One guy pours soy sauce all over his naked body.
One woman shoves wasabi... up there.
"DADDY LOVE MOON!"
Someone keeps screaming, high-pitched.

When you think, finally, it can't get worse.
Everyone starts masturbating.
You can't believe it at first. Some guy stroking his flacid penis. But then everyone starts jjerking off, women included, and there's no room for eroticism, only disgust. All the worst of the fat, sweaty, smelly NFT grifters masturbating in the same room together screaming "MOON! MOON!" like bewildered cavemen. Surely this has to be against some law of man's if not God's.

Maybe at some point, sexual perversion and exploitation of shame are all that's left.

Regardless, it's too late for you. You're in the circle jerk, literally. You grunt and flex with the rest of them. The strongest emotion you feel isn't fear or arousal. But sadness.

You do end up getting a POAP, though.

Get in the SUV.
When will you ever be able to do this again?

There's a driver and another guy up front, about your age, wearing hoodies.
They don't say anything.

The kid introduces himself as Cash. You're not sure if that's a nickname or an artist name or what but "it's just Cash."

Cash lights a blunt in the back. You desperately want to crack a window but you know all your quickly appearing street cred would vanish.

You don't usually smoke and you're quickly very high.
It feels like you're driving for a long time, and you're wondering if you made a mistake.
Tell yourself no one is going to hurt you... mostly because they seem too preoccupied to even really be thinking about you.

The guy up front offers you a sip of a drink and you realize your mouth is so dry. It's like rain from the Heavens. You take the dark-colored Sprite. You're not sure what flavor this is.

That's when things start getting hazy.

You ask "Where are we at?"
And someone says "V Block" like you're supposed to know where that is, so you nod.
Someone else quickly adds "You good on Batchelder don't worry," and they laugh so you laugh, too, which makes them laugh more.

Eventually, the SUV stops.
You pile out at a playground in the middle of a group of tall, dark brick apartments.

It's just like one of the music videos your friends post in the group chat. There's hundreds of young people, some your age, all in hoodies, sweatpants, t-shirts, all the brands you see talked about in the rap songs. There's music playing, multiple blunts being smoked and practically everyone has a drink. Only when a three-person camera crew circles the group do you realize it's actually a music video shoot.

"We're shooting something here. Hang out, smoke, chill, and we can go to a afterparty after," Cash tells you.
You nod your head. Sip the drink. Have another smoke.

The drugs have you anxious, not terrible, but you're just worried about doing something that makes everyone laugh at you, caught on camera. Mostly, you don't want to be an asshole and so you just hang back.

Everything happens fast.

First, one of the girls comes up to you. It's unclear if someone put her up to it or maybe she just saw you talking to Cash, who seems to be very popular.

She's touching you a lot and asks if you want to go smoke "someone more private."

You can also play it safe, stay at the music video shoot. See where the night takes you.
You're a little curious about how those guys who wanted to "arrest" Cash play into all this, but no one else seems too concerned about it so why should you be?

Or, maybe you've had your fun. You went to a place you've never been and now you can go home with your shoes a little more worn,

You gamble, sit next to the pretty artist.

Why can't this be a trip where you find love, too?

She doesn't acknowledge you at first, and you start talking to other people around the table. Try and network.

Most of these people either directly run or are intense collectors of NFT projects. Things you didn't even take seriously, thought were money laundering operations, turns out they aren't just 8-bit pictures of frogs smoking psychadelics. Or maybe they are, but they take themselves so seriously you're kind of forced to take them seriously too.

"Bored yet?" The Pretty Artist talks to you "These are all the same, don't you think?"

"What are?" you're smiling an especially stupid smile.
"These events. It's like I see the same people talking about the same things even if I've never met them before."
But she looks you over.
"I don't think I've ever met you before."
She extends her hand in a dainty shake gesture.
You introduce yourself.
"Margaret."
She doesn't look like a Margaret. But don't tell her that. She's definitely heard it before.

Family-style appetizers come out and you try to keep riffing with playful banter.
Bruschetta, meatballs. It's messy so you only eat a little and prefer to seem peckish over idiotic.
Margaret leans in. "This is going to be a COVID super spreader event."

"You're vaxxed, right?" you ask her, straight-faced.
She smiles. Good job.

By the time main courses come out, you're both two glasses of wine deep and she's at least half-turned to face you.

You're starting to wonder how you can extend this rare moment. You won't seen this attractive again for a while, not to someone like her. You're still not sure what exactly she does, other than "experimental art" and she's being talked to by Christie's.

What's your move?

"GM, my GM."
What the fuck does that even mean?
He introduces himself as Joe.
Diffusive smile, strong eye contact.
He seems like one of the only other real people there.

Before you know it, you're asking "What do you do?"

He starts telling you about something called Friendlies.

It's unclear if you should be surprised, but he's actually a Miami artist in town for the event. Part of a duo, Friends2U. When you Google him later, you find a few installations in local parks, write-ups in the cultaural section of magazines. Smiley clouds, Goofy positivity. They look like they're in their 40's. NFTs couldn't have come at a better time for them.

In this world it's hard to know the real from the bullshit and, frankly, all you have to go off of are the rich tastemakers you and he are surrounded by. Their presence might justify his claims as an artist.

"You seem pretty chill. Do you want to come by the studio later tonight? A few others are coming, just the cool people. I can tell you the whole thing there."

You've always kind of had a crush on the CT girl, whether you want to admit it or not.
You expect her to lean in to makeout or something, but instead, her hand continues up to your crotch.

Before you can think to hesitate, she's got your zipper down and just whips it out, jerking. You didn't even know that was an option, much less weren't prepared to reject it.

You sit rigid, scared, excited, letting it happen for a bit.

"Hey, what the fuck!"
You hear someone shout and just know they're talking about you. Open your eyes and it's like everyone's staring, some pointing, people recording on their phones.

You hurry to sit up while simultaneously zipping but the damage is done.
And just before you can get everything tucked away, the CryptoTwitter Egirl pukes. She pukes all over your exposed lap. vomitting a slurry of dark brown and blue, no doubt drinks that were pregamed hours ago.

Security doesn't even let you go to the bathroom to clean off, e-girl vomit dripping on the floor, down your legs, down your thighs into your crack. More people have their phones out.

You get outside and eventually get into an Uber, needing to call three before someone will let you get into their car in your state.

Online, the pictures spread. It's bad.
They call you PukeDick. Someone photoshops a wassie in it.

Suffice to say, you never go to another event again.

You nudge her hand away.
Not the time, definitely not the place.

She looks at you like she's disgusted and slurs out "fag" before getting up and stumbling toward who knows what end.

She bumps into the table, making everything shake, and disappears into the crowd.

"Have you heard of Pharrell?"

Of course you have, you answer. Everyone knows Pharrell. Everyone loves Pharrell. He's one of the few universally beloved artists, like Robin Williams.

He aggresively brings up Pharrell. More than once. He namedrops so much there's almost no way he can't not actually know Pharrell, at least in some capacity.

Dinner flies by and before you know it, dessert is out and people are "planning their next move."

You hang around like a lost puppy, waiting to be told where to go.

You follow Joe out, don't say bye to someone he daps up that you assume is the host who put together the dinner you just ate, and head straight to the curb.

There's a mix of people surrounding Joe, equally caught in his charisma, including your Mutual friend. Say hi. There's a mix of genders, all kind of nerdy, all having found relative success in the crypto sphere.
And you.

The night is still early, traces of sunlight still in the sky, as two black SUVs pull up.
"That's us," Joe says. You follow him into the leading Uber.

You're not sure what's in store for you, but the drive isn't far and you're dropped off at a compound not far off the bridge from Manhattan.

A townhouse with walk-up steps and an electronic keypad.
"You gotta get the good AirBnBs early," Joe explains.

"Wow, this place is nice," you hear someone say. And it is.
It could be in any episode of MTV Cribs, it could be in any article about a defi founder cashing out several million.

Three stories, ultra-modern, rooftop garden with a jacuzzi.

While Joe is telling you about the house,, another guy comes out of a room and joins you. Joe's co-founder, a skinnier version, equally tattooed, hiding his baldness under a paint-stained hat.

He introduces himself.
"Gm. So did Joe tell you about Friendlies?"
"A little bit," Joe butts in.

"Let's go smoke on the roof and I can tell you the story."

That's how the whole weekend goes.

You learn something about yourself. You don't have what it takes to put yourself out there.

You'd rather go home and watch Netflix all day. It's fine, but you aren't a main character and you definitely won't see anything that's not already programmed.

Head out of the club as quickly as you can.
Everything went so bad so fast.

You leave the already packed club and there's a field of people jammed in line at the front entrance like you've never seen. It reminds you of some zombie movie.

One of the club hosts grabs a flashlight and motions for you to follow them and literally forces a path through the sweaty people talking on cell phones, waving their hands futilely at friends inside.

You order an Uber and walk down the street, passing people getting dropped off and seeing the giant clusterfuck for the first time.

Waiting for your car, you refresh Twitter.

"lol RIP some guy who got thrown out of VIP"

14 likes, 1 comment. "LMAO" and a QT by inversebrah
"whomst of you"

You feel like you're at your own funeral.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Spend the rest of the trip in your hotel room, checking Twitter, seeing if you're going to be doxxed or put in the Wassie Hall of Shame, like every e-girl who gave it up in the cheapest hotel room or the fat, old guys who chase them.

You order Uber Eats and even walk to a pizza place nearby a few times.
That's about as far as you go from the hotel for the rest of the trip.
You half expect people on Twitter to ask where you're at, but no one ever does.
You wait for an Uber back to the airport and wonder what it was you did that led to you having such a lame trip.

Something doesn't feel good..

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, while she opens a cabinet hiding several unmarked bottles.

The bathroom is bizarrely empty.
A sink, a bathtub with the curtain drawn, and a toilet.
Not even soap. Not even towels.

You pull back the shower curtain-- thick and cheap-- to reveal:
a giant blue tarp, rolled up.
Gloves.
A few buckets and industrial powdered cleaner.
...
You open the window and thank God to find the fire escape, right there, unbarred. You climb out, jump down, not caring how much noise you make.

Your ankle hurts as you fall the last five or so feet down the rickety metal ladder.
You don't look back until you're at least ten blocks away.

You go straight to your hotel room, pack your bags, and you're at the airport, swollen ankle, before midnight. Maybe this will make a cool story one day, but for now it's just a cautionary tale.

Why wait?
Now's your time.

Go up behind her and slide your hand on her thigh.
She passes you a drink and you chug it.
She smiles.
And that's the last thing you remember.

You don't remember shitting your pants, as the poison disabled your digestive and respitory systems. You don't remember the cold chill as the slid the knife into you a first time. You don't remember her cackling as she plays with your blood, cutting new rivers open in your flesh, splashing like a child in fingerpaint.

You'd want to know how many times she's done this before, but in New York City so many people go unnoticed.

You drink from the cup and your memory goes black.

You don't remember much, just being out of breath.
And the sound of someone stirring macaroni.

--------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up in a park nearby at the crack of dawn.

You're half-naked, shirtless.

Your groin itches and when you go pee, near a tree hopefully out of sight, it feels like there's a razor-covered worm trying to crawl out.

You realize you must've given the girl from last night your money because you don't have any. You don't even have your wallet. Or your cell phone. Just your ID tucked into your left sock.

You start the long walk back to Manhattan.
Maybe this is just how they do things in Brooklyn.

You ask for someone to pass you the blunt. This will be a great story for the guys in the group chat. You almost forgot about NFT NYC completely.

It's when you think back over the night, and remember the strange guys arresting Cash at the bodega, that you hear tires squeal.

Another black SUV zooms around the corner and for a second, you're excited. You think they're here to join you, and they kind of are.

Then you see everyone looking panicked, ducking down to the cement.
You're one of the only ones standing around you and you hear the nearby *pop pop*

It feels like a few hot pinches through your body.
And that's it.

Nothing good happens after 11pm.

You order an Uber, say you need to get up early. People understand. They didn't expect you to stay too late anyway.
A few people take pictures with you for Insta. Your eyes are half-open, what's visible is bloodshot.

The Uber pulls up. A cookie-cutter Honda.
You take the bridge back to the island and when you're still a few blocks from your hotel, the Uber blows a flat tire.

It pull over somewhere in midtown, hidden amongst several old buildings.
You stop in front of a church from the 1800's.
You get out and, in the middle of the night with no one else with you on the sidewalk but the rats, you say a small prayer.

"What are you doing after this?"
The words surprise you coming from your mouth.

"Did you have something in mind?" she asks in a voicea that makes you feel like she's definitely going to go with you.

"How about my hotel?" you're shocked more by your boldness.
"How about my studio? It's just around the corner and it doubles as my apartment." she counters.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

You kind of look at her desperately.
You defer to some stupid question.
"So where are you from?" like blowing a loud fart.

She talks and you try to listen, try to keep the feeling that this interaction isn't like so many others.

Dessert comes out and you give another pitiful half-smile. Fruit tarts and ice cream.
"After you," you wave your hand. It takes you a second too late to realize that you should've served her yourself.

You eat a fruit tart in silence as the crust, and your fantasy, starts to crumble in front of you.
But then, like an angel from Heaven, she offers.

"Do you want to go back to my place?"
"Yeah, let's do it," you can't stop sounding like a dweeb.

By now, the dinner is wrapping up and people are breaking off for the night, some are going to the club, the entire thing feels hurried.

She tells you she lives in Bushwick, you tell her you don't know where that is.
"Here, I'll put in the address on your Uber."
Your account will be negative in the morning.

Fortunately, the transaction goes through and you're both in the back of someone's Honda in ten minutes.

She smells like the inside of the restaurant, and wine. You realize how drunk you are. And how close it seems like she's sitting to you. You don't realize that you're driving in the other direction from your hotel.

You're hoping to salvage the romance of it all, but she's on her phone texting the entire time. Somehow, even in the dark of the Uber, she's not as attractive as she was across the table at the exclusive NFT dinner.
This isn't how you thought it would be.

Trying to stay mentally agile, you pull up to a shoddy building on a dark, unimpressive street.

A little voice in the back of your head tells you that you're annoying her.

You clam up, start really feeling the indigestion from so much rich, greasy food.
Instead of look at her, you look at your phone, check the same Twitter timeline that tells you everyone is out living.

You ignore her so aggresively you think you see her shrug and force her way in to a conversation next to her about sex-forward art in New York in the 1970's. Probably more her speed anyway.

By the time desserts come out, you're strangers again.

You look over to maybe say some kind of poignant good-bye but when you turn, her napkin is on her plate and her chair is empty. She's gone.

-----------------------------------------------

You don't really talk to anyone else, no point in trying to desperately network while people sip after-dinner drinks.

You call the Uber back to your hotel and you realize you're exhausted.

Maybe that's enough social activity for the rest of the trip.

Spend the weekend in your room, entertaining yourself with screens, thinking of what could've been.

Maybe this is the opportunity that will change your life, but more than likely you can't afford it both figuratively and literally.

You see the wait staff bagging up leftovers of the steak and pasta.
It's Michelin-level food for a week. Closed mouths don't get fed.

You go over and ask who you think is in charge, a young guy with slicked back hair wearing a suit, if yuou can take them.

You get a weird look.
"Let me check with the Host."
It's said in a way that makes you think they know you weren't invited, or maybe that's just how it sounds at the end of a long night.

Already regretting it, you walk away.

"Sir, excuse me, sir!" people turn around as the Head Waiter calls out to you.
Yes, I checked and we'll prepare you something."
"No, that's--"
But it's too late.
To your horror, they're opening the bags and pareparing what looks like a plate of everything, just for you.
Leftovers for one.

Other people are watching. The pretty girl you thought about sitting next to looks with a blank stare as you wish you could disappear.

You take the leftovers and immediately leave, your only way out.
You call an Uber to your hotel, don't go online, and drink from the mini bar to pass out.

In the morning you eat cold spaghetti, which is kind of how you feel.
Your doggy bag is the closest thing you get to an airdrop.
The trip costs so much you end up having to look for a job when you get back home.

Joe's co-founder, whose name you learn is Bam, passes out a tray of joints.
Large, stuffed with marijuana, hand-rolled maybe even by him.

"Nice, I brought some too," someone says, opening their backpack to reveal a stockpile of plastic-encased eighths.

It's nice out, not too cold, not too wet, and you wonder if people spend their whole lives to be able to relax on a rooftop patio in Manhattan.

"Check it out," a dreadlocked white girl says as she takes out what look like bars of chocolate.
"Each square is a dose."
"Of weed?" you ask instinctively.
She giggles.

The entire group spreads out around the rooftop patio.

You pass a joint, admiring everything.
"Makes you think you should cash in the port and buy a place like this, huh?" an overeager nerdy guy with a crew cut tries to make converastion, automatically assuming you're as rich as he is.
And shouldn't you be? You're there, aren't you?

Night gets darker.
It turns out the choclate was mushrooms. You're not sure if you feel it.
There's spare swimsuits for guests, all of it seems very convenient,
It turns out what you thought was a giant ashtray is actually an outdoor firepit. Of course it is.

Kanye plays over speakers nestled throughout the property. You worry about the neighbors. It's hard to focus, it's relaxing.

"it's like the next Disney."
Joe sits nearby in the hot tub. It's warm and steam blows past everyone. You completely forgot who invited you.

"They're building a whole thing," the rich nerd nods, knowingly. He's in the hot tub now. You're not sure when that happened.

"Our devs are legit." Joe sits back.
You take that to be confidence, not incompetence.

"Imagine if Disney could build in web3 from the ground up. Everything. Movies, IP, TV shows, stuffed animals. Imagine a kid being able to name their Friendlies and then play with them in virtual reality."

You wanted to ask, weren't kids already doing that in their mind?

"Our biggest competitor is Disney."
He drones on, using a hundred-year media goliath as a comparison for their idea of-- as for as you can tell-- funny looking, colorful bipeds. Elementary school kids make new Friendlies every day.
He mentions Disney on more time to bring the point home. This could be the biggest investment opportunity of your life. You're never this early.

"When we do the mints later, make sure to think about the different mediums your Friendlies will exist in. I mean think about in 100 years, it's like you're making Mickey Mouse now."
Try to keep up. Are they actually minting today?
The chocolate must be hitting. You feel a soft sense of euphoria and total isolation, like you're completely alone on the roof. You're also exhausted but that's probably the weed.

There's a long moment of silence, everyone is high and comfortable.
"Man, this VIP list is so legit. Pharrell actually might stop by. He's in town, I don't know if I said that." Joe doesn't open his eyes to speak.
The thought of this being a sales pitch never enters your head.

"Who's on the VIP list?" your throat feels scratchy. You're not sure when the last time you spoke was, or if you did since you got to the house.
Joe laughs, surprised.
"You. Minting from the VIP list is only 1 ETH which is where the auction starts. We don't think it'll sell out there but it'll definitely sell out." Joe speaks matter-of-factly.

"Dude, it'll definitely sell out." You hope the nerdy guy's certainty isn't biased by the fact that he said he was going to buy 50 ETH worth of Friendlies.

A few people there, you learn, bought one of the first 12 Friendlies which "came with" a $100,00 50-lb copper statue.

"Yeah, and 1 ETH is cheap."

Your heart races. Smile. Nod your head. They can't find out that you barely have 1 ETH and were already considering cashing out to make bills this month after getting back from this trip.

"Yeah, that's nothing," you murmur in concurrence.

But you can't deny, it's a lot to you.

Even in the hot tub, through the steam, as someone suggests you all get out and go back inside, you can see a window for escape. Tell them you don't have any ETH on your phone. It's a new phone. It's dead. Anything. Make up some excuse.

But is that same hesitation what's stopping you from being to afford these opportunities in the first place?

You leave together just after dessert comes out.

You don't say anything as you walk beside her.
You don't want to fuck up, you've gotten so far.

She swipes into the lobby entrance of a loft nearby.

You get in the elevator and start kissing while she presses a button for the top floor.
You follow closely behind her to her apartment as she fumbles with her keys.

Inside, she flips a switch.
Her place is big, immaculately furnished.
A big fancy couch just inside. She has a beautiful view of the city and it coats the room with an intimate light.

"One sec," she half-laughs as she hurries into the hallway.
You feel excited in a way you haven't in a long time.

"Come in," she says in a sultry voice.
You follow her voice to a room just inside the hallway.

Inside, it's lit with candles. There's a small bed, covered in pillows.
The main feature of the room is a mess of leather straps and metal chains, hanging in the center of the room. It's a sex swing, or at least you think it's a sex swing because you've never seen one before.

Margaret stands in the middle of the room, in lingerie, holding a veiny, black dildo that in the dark looks like it's at least a foot long, the width of a Coke can.

"Look at you," is all you can muster. You can't think.

"Oh, no, it's not for me," she says.
She smacks the big, greasy dildo in her hand.
"It's for you."
She says this clearly, without hesitation or doubt, so the window to laugh it off never gets a chance to even open.

"C'mon," she says, almost sounding annoyed.
She's already at the front door, you hurry to catch up.
It's not like she's taking you home, more like she's just going home.

She lives on the first floor, steps away from the entrance.

She unlocks the door and the knob is loose inside its setting. Anyone could go in and out if they wanted.

Inside her apartment, it's dirty.
A couch and stained recliner are permanently positioned facing a 32" TV on a short stand entertainment shelf filled with DVD seasons of Firefly and Dawson's Creek. A few Marvel Funkos tie it together.

Slightly further inside the cramped apartment, you can see a tiny balcony with a sad folding chair next to a kitchen that looks like it smells, not in a good way.
There are sweatshirts, dirty plates, every manner of lived-in detritus.

Before you can think about how gross you really feel, a toilet flushes deeper inside.
A door you didn't see opens next to you and a fat, hairy guy comes out.

"Oop. Comin' through," he almost bumps into you, sliding by.
Up close, you see he's a few decades older than you and smells like stale beer.

You think it's her dad when he plants a kiss on her lips that she bats away, playfully.
"C'mon."
Said a little more intimately than at the door of her building.

She turns back to you.

"Sit down for a sec," you can tell she's gravitating toward the dark deep interior of the apartment, and so is the fat, old guy who is himself his own moon, orbiting her.

It's the innate risk taker inside you. Inside everyone.
The insatiable spark in every human that we call curiousity.

That's what makes you say,
"I'm in."

"There we go."

Then you realize you don't have any ETH with you.
"I have to go back to my hotel room. I actually don't have any ETH on me..."

Explain that you're going back to your hotel to get your laptop. Some people have theirs and, while going to the club with a backpack is a suicide mission, you're jealous of them now.

Joe is impressed with your committment as you're still dripping, looking for your clothes. You double check you have your wallet and phone and anything else you might need for this errand. If you got locked out, would these people let you back in? Surely.

"He wants to mint so bad he's going back to his hotel to get his laptop!"
Joe speaks out to everyone in the backyard.
There are some disparate cheers, slightly forced.
But you hear them, you feel them. The shrooms have mostly passed and you're sitting in the succeptible, highly-influenced afterthought.

You're still floating by the time you're in the Uber back to your hotel, trying not to get the seats wet. You get a strange look in the elevator and realize you're still wearing the swim trunks.

You pack your laptop, your charger, and a bottle of water because why not?
Taking the elevator back down, waiting while someone holds the doors so their family can gather and go to dinner, with all this happening it's like your life is officially like a movie. You wonder if the people at the Friendlies party will still remember you when you get back.

The Uber can't drive fast enough. Out the window, other people in the city are on their own adventures, but none as lucrative as yours. You almost want to say something to the driver and only don't because you don't think it will get you there faster.

You pull up and recognize the house.
The expensive, computer-protected door is cracked open. Try and take that for a good omen.

When you get back through the house, into the living room, where some people are sprawled on couches asleep, they cheer when they see you. It feels, strangely, like you belong there.

"He's back!" There's even some clapping.
"He brought ETH for us to mint!" someone jokes.

Joe comes out, wearing a plush bathrobe.
"Bro, I knew you'd come back," Joe says.
You didn't know not coming back was really an option.

You open your laptop.
Joe directs you to the site and gives you the VIP password, "VIPMINT"
Hoping they might think it's a spare wallet, were they to check the chain, you mint an NFT for almost half your net worth.

"Actually, I'm not sure if I can."

You feel the vibe nuke,, though you see a few people let out what could be sighs of relief.

The hanging implication, even though you didn't say anything to create it, is that you're too poor.

Immeidately, the commisseration starts.

"I get it, bro."
"Nah, I totally understand."

But then Joe takes over.

"It's just... I mean you're on the VIP list, you know? You could probably sell the spot for that much. And you'd just be missing out."

Joe's co-founder chimes in. You already forgot his name.
"You don't want to miss out. We don't want to just give it to someone else."
He almost certainly doesn't know your name either, so it's fine.

"Maybe you can buy on secondary," someone offers, trying to alleviate some of the pressure.

You turn around and walk out, immediately.

"Okay then," you hear her snideness behind you and know she goes through guys, like this, like water.

You overdraft to call an Uber back to your hotel.
You consider going back to the club, but after all that, you aren't sure what else you're going to find.

You get back to your room and take a long, hot shower.
You stare in the mirror for a long time after.

She reads the doubt in your eyes.
She takes your hand, guides it.

Your body surprises you.

-------------------------------------------------------

You leave Margaret's apartment the next morning.

She calls you an Uber, which somehow makes you feel even worse and she kisses you on the cheek as you walk out.

It's not until you're alone in the back seat that you feel tears falling down your face. You start crying, hyperventilating, unable to stop the sobs from heaving out from deep inside your chest.

It's safe to say you don't go to anymore events.

"Uh, yeah, okay."
You sit down on the sofa and sink deep into what feels like filth.

You wish you could leave, run out the door, but your feet feel like they're in cement and you're only sinking farther into the body-odored comfort of the couch.

Margaret disappears down a dark hallway and her fat keeper follows closely.

A door closes and your stomach drops.
You sit in the silence for a while then you hear some faint thudding.
You don't want to think about it, but then the thudding turns to light, female moaning and occaisional deep groans. After one especially loud groan, you hear her laughing.

You go out to the balcony but you only hear them louder out there.
The window must be open.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she comes out and you're still sitting on the couch.

She's dressed in a silk bathrobe, you can see her naked body in the contour and it emanates hot steam like a fresh dog dump. She has a film of sweat on her skin and she's out of breath.

"Sorry, I had to..." she trails off.

She sits next to you and starts kissing your neck. She smells like the beer now.
Her hand drifts down and before you realize, she's giving you what could be described as a soulless handjob. God is not in this apartment, on this couch.

You stare at a Nintendo Switch on the floor next to your foot, playing a looping screensaver as her hand moves robotically. Eventually, you squeeze your eyes closed and think about some other time. She wipes her hand on the oversized boxers you didn't realize she was wearing.

"I'm going back to bed, but you can let yourself out."
She gets a glass of water and walks away in the dark, door shutting.

You want to get out of there before you hear them start again.
Sliding on your pants, you feel a giant, wet spot on your thigh. You feel it in the Uber back. You feel it when you go to bed, after your shower.
It's a long time until you feel the wet spot go away.

Fast forward 18 months.

The tide came in and everyone saw everyone else was swimming naked with a tiny dick.

Web3 didn't just crash, it cratered into the Earth with the life-stopping force of an extinction-level event.

The GM and WAGMI grifters died first, and last, and starved in between.
There were a few decent projects that made it through on life support and a lot more that didn't. People called failed businesses "rugs" and rugs "failed businesses" and no one really bothered to correct, just argue. It was embarrassing. It was understandable. It was human nature.

You were caught in the middle. You watched as your Friendlie was worth less and less, waiting for the rebound, the bounce that never came.

Floor price hovers at just above 0.001. You keep forgetting if that's $1 or 17 cents.

------------------------------------------------------------------

You get a job.
Customer support rep for a mid-sized tech company that helps people send e-mails better or something.

One night, alternating between your work screen to your personal screen, you see people posting online about the Friendlies guys being scammers. Long threads show up. Similar experiences to yours. There's been no development, no marketing, pretty much nothing since they made millions off the mint. You could've told anyone that.

You join the fray, post your experience, how slighted you feel.
It gets some traction. Not quite viral, but gets attention. People commiserate in the comments. It actually does make you feel better.

The next day, a notification in your inbox.
Not just the usual Russian fembots.

A DM from the Friendlies account.

Resigned in your commitment to not give away your rent money, you sit and watch, don't say much, kind of like a web3 cuck.

In their terms, the "vibe felt off." You tell them you're going to leave. It seems like the appropriate thing to do. Most of them don't say good-bye.

Get in the Uber and feel like shit. Like you fumbled at the 1 yard line. What are you even waiting for?

For the entire ride back to your hotel, and most of the rest of the trip, you think about how caring too much about the price of Ubers is why you'll always be trapped caring too much about the price of Ubers. Maybe it's the shroom after-effects.

----------------------------------------------------------------

It's rare you can run a victory lap.

The tide came in and everyone saw everyone else was swimming naked with a tiny dick.

Web3 didn't just crash, it cratered into the Earth with the life-stopping power of an extinction-level event.

The GM and WAGMI grifters died first, and last, and starved in between. There were a few decent projects that made it through on life support and a lot more that didn't.
People called failed businesses "rugs" and rugs "failed businesses" and no one really bothered to correct, just argue. It was embarrassing. It was business. It was human nature.

[Friendsies text]

It turns out why it was easy to confuse them for Disney or some successful children's entertainment property--

they're fucking clowns.

Floor price falls to 0.001 ETH. You would've lost thousands.

You were lucky to avoid the Friendlies failure.
But you weren't so lucky to avoid others.

Everyone loses money. You do, too. Just not as much.

Then, one day, minding your business and your moderate portfolio, someone posts a police chase on the timeline.

It's him.
Joe.
The Friendlies Guy.

Hundreds of comments and quote-tweets show up.
He's gotten fatter, looks haggard. Maybe his stories about his past with drugs weren't exaggerated like everything else.

You watch the news helicopter stream, with hundreds of others, watching a tiny Joe driving shirtless down a freeway.
Joe, in a white Honda coupe in excess of 90 mph, bumps into a police car and smashes into a metal barrier. The camera follows the car as it explodes in a dark fireball and then cuts to a stunned reporter. You wonder if Pharrell was watching.