[The Perfect Scam, 616 words, Genre: Experimental]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
When he typed in his full name, not just first and last, but middle conclusive, he found that he was a registered business. Or at least his name was. It was quite troubling for, all in all, he had five names and this was no coincidence. Somebody had registered his exact name as a business. Perplexing as the situation was, it gave way to an onslaught of paranoia.
Was he a business daydreaming about a human existence and if so, what sort of business would daydream about being human? His entire life could have been a fabricated lie, daydreamed by corporate officials in an office, brainstorming on the personal identification of the business they worked for and what sort of human it would be given a human body to manifest and do all the things a business does. He imagined those in suits holding a meeting, drawing up human characteristics that met the business’s work ethic. Was it true? Was he the product of some poorly conceived idea, converting businesses into human beings. Who had created him? Some idiots in an office who had designed him as a chronic mastubator, binge drinking, slug-like creature that had trouble leaving his bed, prone to chronic mood swings and high levels of productivity. Did he have shareholders out there?
Was it some sort of tax dodge that he created for himself many years ago. A trick that whenever debt collectors chased him up, he could claim immunity by stating that they had the wrong person, that the debt had been accumulated by the business and not the individual. It would all check out on their books. Searching his name would end in finding the business and not the person. With this he could borrow from every bank and claim indemnity. It was a way to bypass the bureaucrats and turn their own paperwork against them in a way that would check out with the business register and google search engine. He could have pulled this trick many a year ago and forgotten all about it. The oddity involved in such an act was that he had worked temporarily for the tax agency afterwards.
Or maybe the act itself had been the product of another wave of paranoia. One in which he had sold his soul to the devil and as a diversionary tactic created the business. Thus, confusing the devil to the product he had actually bought, the business or the human soul?
All of these were fascinating excretions of the mind and his own imagining, yet provided no solid answers. He stared at the name of the business, his name, on the Australian business register. This was a mystery of his life that could not be solved. Anyone he asked had no answers and he could not pull out the answer from memories of his past. There were answers, of course, none of them solid and none that he could distinguish as the supreme truth.
His experience with the tax agency had opened his mind to one of those possibilities. They would be susceptible to his particular brand of madness, if he had initiated it at the right time, which he had. Still, that was no product of genius, but a happy coincidence involving his paranoia and dealings with the devil. He had pulled off the perfect scam and hadn’t even been aware of it. What’s more, he had smiled and worked with those he had scammed, taken their money, slept with one of the managers and gone on a six month holiday.
He lit a cigarette and opened up a beer. The sound of the beer opening and the first sip were pure bliss. Life was good.