The Mehliad

Chapter 4
Continuing the tale of young Dan Fogelberg (no not that one), who fell asleep in a storm and woke in a fantastical, creepy land. Beyond that, your guess is as good as ours.

I took a bite of the hand pie Geoff had tossed my way. The crust was a perfect golden bronze color, with little holes shaped like leaves poked in the top to vent delicious-smelling steam. The filling tasted of apples and spiced lamb: warm, comforting, and satisfying. Despite my unease at the sudden mention of government-sponsored murder, I wolfed it down.

“Woah there tiger,” Geoff giggled in his high voice, “you didn’t even take a photo of it!”

“Huh?” I wiped crumbs from the corners of my mouth, “Oh. I was never really one of those people. Not my thing.”

“But why would you even want food if you’re not going to photograph it for social media? They make it so easy here!” Geoff seemed genuinely confused as to why I would want to eat food rather than share a picture of it. “The bakery is fully integrated with Nasteria’s own social media. You could get so many NasteBucks for sharing that pie!”

“Look, Geoff, I don’t give a fuck about NasteBucks or photos of pies, okay?” I snapped. How was I still hungry?

“Hey!” a deep voice bellowed from the storefront. I turned to see a slight man with a bizarrely-coiffed beard wearing buffalo plaid and adorned with neck tattoos of naked angels. “You gotta pay for that pie, man!”

“Shit, sorry,” I apologized as I fumbled for my wallet. “Here,” I handed him a five dollar bill.

“Try again, pal,” he scolded me. Of course this place would be expensive. I wasn’t even full! I reached for a ten, but again he shook his head. “No cash here, pal. NasteBucks or credit card only.”

“What? It’s legal tender. Come on.”

“Just hand him a credit card,” Geoff skulked, obviously embarrassed at my faux pas, “Besides once your card’s in the system it’s stored permanently and you can use it anywhere instantly. For convenience.” I noticed a small crowd gathering around to gawk at the disruption we were causing. One of them sported a shiny Community Officer police badge.

“Okay, okay,” I sighed, “here.” I handed him my Visa.

“Awesome,” beardy’s demeanor instantly changed, “By handing me this card you agree to all terms and conditions of Nasteria and Monolito citizenship, subject to change without notice at the behest of the Overlords of Nasteria.

The interaction didn’t feel especially convenient.