The men don’t come anymore, and Patuk will never find his way into the city’s elite, into the company of men’s clothiers who keep company at their own private club, White’s Club, or some other club, any other club for god’s sake, because even in a three-piece, herringbone tweed suit and a bespoke cotton shirt he doesn’t look like a gay man of the upper class but rather a gay maître d’. On his computer, Patuk looks at his surveillance video appearances of the last few days. A service that was enthusiastically welcomed by the people. You scan your chip and immediately see in orderly sequence any surveillance clips where you played a role. Alongside that is your current point tally.

Patuk was at the shop yesterday, which is documented. He had two customers. Who ordered shirts from the bargain fabrics. Then he went home. Patuk looks at himself on the screen. He’s gotten ugly. From a young man handsome enough to have starred in any Bollywood film if he’d been Indian, he had with absurd speed turned into something that could be stuck to a rubbish bin. His scalp shines through the sprayed-on hair. Sweat gathers in the glistening bald patches, then runs down his face and neck, across his chest, and down to his stomach. There the rivulets stop. His stomach isn’t large but it’s hairy. A belly button people make fun of, one in which you could hide servers or fruitcake—

“Look how his bell end shines,”

KAREN

Had

Said yesterday.

They’d been at the hackers’ place next door. They’d watched videos from the old thumb drive.

Patuk having a wank next to the mattress where Karen lies unconscious. About ten men stand in line ready to shove their penises into Karen. Karen, who is obviously underage in the video.

When the video ends, uncertainty fills in the room. It’s not every day one sees a friend lying on the ground while various sets of genitalia pass in and out of her.

And now

PATUK

Notices

As he’s watching his videos that he had several points deducted yesterday.

His antisocial gasoline-fueled motorcar is to blame. Every vehicle owner transmits data to the insurance company upon entering the vehicle. And to MI5. There are no bonus points for that. It’s mandatory. Not being surveilled by insurance (and MI5) means no insurance. But—Patuk is a careful driver. And for that he gets a point. A small accolade amid daily life, how good it feels. But—a gas-guzzler!

So Patuk

Had accumulated minus points, and with the feeling that today would once again not be his day, he had driven into the city center. Braking genially, nodding pedestrians across the zebra crossing. The new system had contributed to people being very careful when interacting with others.

Everything will be fine

Thinks

HANNAH

She looks at men.