2. Nowpow


MoreCorp embraces nowpow, the power of now. It's about thinking positively and deserving the best so that what manifests will be awesome. Feel-good slogans are used in promotions to motivate the webbed citizens of the Single System System (SSS) to desire and fulfill desires.

But the power of now is not for all, per Daisy. Manifestation of conscious desires is afforded only a fortunate few inside. “Those fux are super RACI,” she says. 

“Who," I ask nervously. "MoreCorp? I thought they eliminated racism.”

It’s official — an SSS efficiency. But the boss is a tiny woman, brown with an Aztec face and two long thick braids. Land mines lie everywhere, maybe especially in intimate settings. We’re having drinks nestled in a mock-croc booth in an imi-brass bar, fake old-timey, a pricey joint. MoreCorp is paying. 

"Yeah,” Daisy laughs.  “Racism. Goodbye. Tell me about it.”

“I wasn’t. I was just saying. Or, you were saying and I was asking.”

“Not racism. Well yes, but hush-hush because bye-bye.” She explains. “I said RACI, the acronym. Responsible, Accountable, Consulted, Informed."

"What's that?"

"Consider yourself informed of the MoreCorp info-structure.”

“Wait what? Infrastructure or…?”

“No, info structure," Daisy corrects me. "In which I am informed of my marching orders. Got it?”

“Not really,” I say and feel the pen in my pocket, wishing I could take notes. But that would be supremely unkool and I’m not bio-wired to record this though I’ll surely be reporting it to Wolf. 

“It’s pretty simple,” Daisy grins wickedly and takes a sip of her drink. 

RACI, she says, is a communication system designed to appropriately channel information during organizational transformations, designating who says what. And when and how. But because MoreCorp is ever-evolving, projects and products proliferating constantly, the company is in perpetual flux. It's forever managing iterations, key to maintaining an innovative startup edge, so RACI always dictates. 

“Doesn’t sound like MoreCorp.” I’m skeptical. “Aren’t they all about growing good for the greater good by sharing?” 

“Really, Ellipsis? Of course. Your input is welcome. File a ticket, tell us all about it. It’s just lip service,” Daisy dismisses. “Like ServCorp advertising its services when we have no choice anyway. The power of now belongs to the powerful. If you’re so into The Arts Old you should know that.”

“Sure. Historically," I object. "But this is the triple post-mod and MoreCorp is all about info and exchange.” 

“Wrong, only one way, so no exchange.” Daisy breaks it down. “The Informed are mutes who execute, fulfill wishes.”

“Is that where I stand?”

“You wish! You don’t exist.” Daisy raises her glass to toast. “Are you feeling lucky yet?” 

“So it sux? The Lovesport? MoreCorp? Both?”

“Yeah. Shit you’re thick.” She shakes her head. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“Cuz you’re lonely. I mean, you said…”

“And you’re funny, speed demon with a dream.”


“Meaning, I’ll recommend you guys for the game when I get back, you and boo. But it’s all crap.”

“Awesome! Thanks! Anyway how crap can it be? They sent you to Metropolis. You’re making greenies. Plus Lovesport. You’re competing. You could have nowpow someday. Believe.”


“Because.” I’m embarrassed to say it. “Win-think?”

“Win-think?” Daisy slams her drink. “Chica fux! We can’t all win! They tell you that so you’ll feel some type of way about their games.” 

Nothing she says exactly surprises me. I’m not totally sold on nowpow anyway. What about perspective? Still, I’m intrigued. If I had an expense account and was issuing orders to the uninformed all day, I might find it amusing.

So I try to imagine winning, just in case the universe is listening. Not that I believe in win-think exactly, but I don’t not. And we need a miracle, Wolf and I, a quick fix, something unlikely, like the Lovesport. So Daisy’s pessimism does not deter but only strengthens my resolve. 

That evening, walking home, I run it all by Wolf, explaining RACI. “Crazy, right?”

“Can you tell me again? Accountables inform the consulted and then…?”

“No. The Consulted inform…”


“Definitely, yes, also that.” I laugh. “Do you think she’s exaggerating?”     

“She’s something, maybe exaggerating. Sounds fux. Anyhow, good work, a lot of good info here.” 

“I’m not pressing, Wolf.” 

He raises his eyebrows, exhales smoke into the dark cold air where it hangs still. Smirks. 

“Seriously, She can see how bad I want it and she’s warning.”

“What if she’s just throwing off your metrics," he asks. "Testing you?”

“I appreciate a story about me, conceded. But I don’t matter and we’ll be lucky to find out how fux it really is.”

“So when will that happen, do you think,” Wolf asks. “Us going to Silicon?”

“Whenever. No one knows. Because RACI. And they’re into disruption, so no scheduling. But she’ll recommend us for the next round and she’s playing now.”

He grins, looking very pleased with himself. “I’m feeling pretty game to win this game.”

“We can’t all win,” I reply sharply, slightly surprised by my own vehemence. “Well, just based on what Daisy said. We can’t all win. So we should have a position. We should agree that whoever’s in, whoever wins, we’ll support each other.”

“You mean the loser supports the winner,” Wolf asks.

“Yes but financially the winner supports the loser. So everyone wins.”

“Total support?”

“Are we negotiating or are you asking or what?”

“I’m hopeful.” Wolf laughs. “You’ll win. I’m looking forward to total financial support.”

“Sweet sentiment but we won’t see sunny Silicon for a while." I remind him, "And you hate hope.”

“I don’t hate hope,” he objects. “I just don’t have it, not naturally. I’m not like you. Deluded.”

“Maybe you should be,” I suggest and we walk the rest of the way in silence.

When we get home to our rented mini-cube in a converted factory on a remote industrialized island near Metropolis, called the Point, I grab a leash and the doge and walk Hound round the block. Back out in the cold night I contemplate Daisy’s advice to not feel some type of way. 

But I can’t help it. Is that not what it means to be human? I can’t master the feels, not even physical stuff — hunger, cold, habits. Stopping at Vinnie’s for slices, waiting at the delivery door, I smoke cigs while the pizza chef feeds the doge discarded crusts. 

“You’re still what,” Vinnie asks. “R2D2?”

“Close. TLDR, text reduction. I’m on a MoreCorp gig right now.”

“MoreCorp! Nice. Hot. Love MoreCorp, very friendly. Are people super kool?”

“Not really. It’s just temping for MidCorp with a MoreCorp boss.”

“Ok. Still kool, right?”

“Yeah. Totally. I might even get to play in the Lovesport. You know about that?”

“For sure. That’s the dream.” Vinnie runs his hands under the antibac-vac, grabs two roni slices and a bag of rolls. He puts his palms together and bows. “On the house, little one. Win the game. May the Force be with you.”