Post & Enjoy OC ITT

[Anonymous No.9027457]

After finishing his last quarter pounder, he wipes the grease from his fingers with a burger wrapper, before wriggling them across the greasy keys of an IBM ThinkPad, the letters long since smeared away by a solvent solution of special sauce & *special* sauce.

[Anonymous No.9027466]

>>9027457
He brings up the last thread he started (fudding his own project to promote an obviously overhyped chinese scamcoin) and scrolls down, scanning with an occasional chuckle, all the way to a post pontificating what plaid shirt he'll be wearing at the next major event. He replies with a link to an entirely different product which he spun up and profits off some fly-by-night print-on-demand company: a nice, collared polo shirt with the project logo tastefully embroidered on the breast. It's alligator-shirt-tier, and he's making a couple bucks off each of the dozen sales he's getting every week. The fact that people are actually buying these things frightens him, because he knows that this will make it harder to keep the price down.

He needs to keep the price down. He sucks down the last dregs of a jumbo-sized "strawberry milkshake" quite audibly, eliciting comments from the small child in the nearby booth (who is immediately hushed by a parent who can sense something dangerously powerful about the fat, bearded man sitting in front of a pile of empty boxes & wrappers upon which rests a venerable T61p, empty cup in one hand, candybar phone in the other. He dials a number from memory.

[Anonymous No.9027481]

>>9027466
"Grishka! Oui, mon ami; comment allez-vous? Oui! Je suis bien; tres fatiged, mais bien. Quest ca faite bon? ...uh huh... ...zut alors... ...non, mais... ...le avoir-... oui... oui... non, certainment, absolutement, non... bien, et le matter de les oracles... oui... j'activate le dump, et j'activate le 'fomo' immediatement." He laughs heartily, eliciting more looks, but he is uncaring of their attention. "Bon soir, mon liege!" He hangs up. He takes a long flat-head scredriver from his cargo pocket and prys the candybar phone apart. He breaks the casing, extracting the system board and a few chips. He breaks the former, removing yet more chips, then takes all the chips and puts them in a pile as the inquisitive child unabashedly watches from the next booth. He places the chips in a pile on one of the burger wrappers, then produces a small, glass jar from another pocket. The jar contains what looks like reddish coffee grinds, which he sprinkles liberally over the chips before dumping out the entire jarfull onto the pile. He wraps the little bundle in one then another wrapper, placing them all in a fish sandwich box before producing a third item from yet another pocket: a magnesium rod wrapped in plastic. He removes the plastic and jams the rod all the way through the middle of the box before stuffing the little package plus the remaining garbage from his table into a large paper bag, picking it up, winking at the child and walking out the door.

[Anonymous No.9027499]

>>9027481
He walks out the door and sets the bag in the middle of the parking lot before producing a hand-rolled cigar filled with marijuana and a lighter, which he uses to light both blunt & bag. He walks away, turning his back on the bag as it begins to flicker with flame. Suddenly, the magnesium catches, hisses angrily, and burns brightly, but the brilliance is suddenly lost in the blinding radiance produced by the thermite around the chips once the magnesium fuse ignites it. Onlookers who don't shade their eyes are dazzled and blinded by ultraviolet radiation, and the chips are irrevocably cooked into raw molecular ash.

[Anonymous No.9027723]

>>9027499
He's gone. While everyone would have been distracted by the thermite spectacle or some other bullshit, he'd 360'd & walked away quietly, quietly snickering to himself before shouting from the other side of the shopping outlet "one thousand dollars end of year" at the sky before removing two more phones from two other pockets: one a prototype iphone nine, the other a hardened off-market model produced under contract by Lenovo exclusively for the Chinese government; he boots both, scrolls through screens to an icon for a handwritten executable application, activates the version on each, then sets them to silent without vibration before dropping them both in a clump of weeds growing along the back edge of the shopping plaza along the highway. He walks out of the plaza completely to the bus stop just in time to take the bus, which arrives precisely as he does. He rides it one, two, three stops to a tree-lined street and keys into his black lambourghini parked under the shade of a sycamore, and starts the engine. He guns it once, twice, thrice before slamming directly into second gear at dangerously high rpms, producing a terrific squeel of smoking rubber before expertly 180'ing out of the parallel spot and onto the road. He drives all the way to the Moon (a small club on the outskirts of town) where he has decided to slowly drink vodka and tip the girls onstage while waiting for Grishka's brother to call, as arranged. Van Halen's "Jump" played majestically on the expensive sound system as the price of the project's tokens predictably plummetted, and the bearded man smiled, buying back more. Eventually the genie would be back in the bottle, so to speak: enough of the fortunate /biz/raelis who'd stumbled upon this diamond in the rough would have been shook of their heavy bags, returning a suitable portion of the initial public ICO crowdsale (a mistake, he now realized) back into the control of the chosen elite. He constantly fudposted on his other phone.