A new currency.

[Pæs]

With the recent failures of bitcoin, issues with cryptocurrency are becoming increasingly apparent, we see that a new system of trade is required.

Based on the economic theories of an anomyous Arabian scholar, we are proud to introduce the Necronomicoin. Our current understanding is that Necronomicoins are mined by way of occult ceremonies involving appeals to and bargains with Long Dead Gods, who are responsible for maintaining the Necronomicoin Ledger. The coins themselves take the form of unique sigils which can be charged to varying strengths to facilitate transactions of fractions of Necronomicoins.

This metaphysical ledger means that Necronomicoins can be traded almost without a trace, if the remains of those sacrificed during the trading ritual are destroyed.

Necronomicoin is intended to move quickly. The supply is regulated by Ancient Ones who keep inflation in check by responding to immodest mining requests by turning the occultist inside out and making their cohorts eat them. Hoarders of the coin find their grip on reality slipping. Unnameable creatures slither out of and into imperceptible corners in their paracentral vision. Some report that early stages of hoarding are regulated with the money literally burning a hole in their pocket, with the sigil being branded onto the upper thigh while the hoarder sleeps.

ITT: We share facts and our enthusiasm regarding Necronomicoin.

[Eater of Clowns]

"Jesus, what is that smell? The old devil never made it to the bathroom?"

"No, sir, it would seem he was pretty self sufficient even up til the end."

"Well then, fuck, how long has he been here? Did he void himself when he finally let go?"

"Void. Huh. In a sense."

"What the hell are you on about, son?"

"The old man was a bit of a...hoarder, it would seem."

"Hoarder? Like in the TV show? I don't think so. Look at this place – it's spotless."

"You haven't seen the bedroom yet. We think he was squirreling money away old-style. In the mattress."

"That's not a crime. Don't trust banks, myself. Not since '08. Alright, show me the mattress."

"See that's the thing. The man wasn't hoarding dollars. It was a bit more of a...psychic currency. Necronomicoins."

"Look, stop mincing around and point me to the bedroom. I want to know what it is that they brought me here for."

"If you insist, sir. It's just down the hall here."

"FUCK! FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?"

"That would be the, uh, the mattress, sir. It appears to have grown a gnashing, gibbering beak-like portal into a timeless and disordered nether realm. Best as we can tell. The smell is, uhm, the smell is the fragmented ruination of the deceased man's soul, rotting corporeally. I wouldn't get too close to the abyssal plane, if I were you. We think we lost Johnson an hour ago, but we can't be certain because, well, he seems to have ceased to have ever existed. What's left of him isn't as much of a memory as it is an insubstantial imprint of a human being in the backs of our minds. That we can't seem to either access or disregard. Possibly for the remainder of our mortal existences. Which reminds me, sir, a few of the officers are going to need some personal time for counseling and, uh, coming to terms with their insignificance against impossibly vast horrors."

"Fuck. Fuck, alright. Alright, let's just do our fucking jobs. Let's do the fucking jobs we're here to do. Where are these Necronomicoins?"

"We, uh, we don't know, sir. We can't rule out theft of course, but without a physical anchor to our dimension they tend to drift back to the First Bank of R'lyeh."

"Right, right. What about you, son. How are you holding up?"

"I've been scratching for the last few hours. Scratching until I bleed. I think I doubt my own flesh, sir. Otherwise I am prepared to investigate."

"Good man. Good young man. Here, take a plug of this."

"Thank you, sir."

"One more thing."

"Of course."

"Why did they call Financial Crimes?"

"I don't know. I don't think they knew who else to call."

[Pæs]

FCSD-NC008

From the Office of Interim Director Jamieson - Financial Crimes: Special Division

Hendriks, situation with new facility has been resolved, we're back on track.

Have copied you in on my authorizing an investigation into abnormal market activity in your location.

You have clearance to dispatch an Auditor if the situation warrants.

I will leave it to your discretion.

[P3nT4gR4m]

They wondered what would happen to interest rates. What happened was interest rates dropped to zero across the board. No one wants to pique the interest of an elder currency.

[Eater of Clowns]

"So I'm lucky. I'm lucky and I get to go home tonight."

"Uh huh."

"And when I get in the door I get to kiss my wife. Say hello."

"Uh huh."

"Except she's going to ask me 'How was work?' and the beauty, she'll honestly want to know."

"Uh huh."

"And I'll say 'Work.'"

"Yep."

"Except when I say 'work' I usually mean I had to threaten some piss poor accountant with tax evasion charges, or maybe my boss was riding me about one of my cases. That's what 'work' meant before tonight."

"Uh huh."

"Tonight, I'll say 'work' and it'll actually mean, it'll actually mean I saw a man unmade. That the carbon in his hair, and the dust he left behind throughout his 34 years, no longer exists in our reality. It'll mean that I have a vague idea of a screaming and sobbing man, like an ethereal splinter, occupying my head. 'Work' now carries with it that I left my senior partner dribbling after he stared into a living nothingness and became omniscient. Omniscient – all knowing. He told me the growth rate of the seven trillionth longest blade of grass in Africa and then he screamed and screamed and I don't know if he'll ever stop again. How could he? He has all the knowledge of a god but he's as helpless as you or I."

"Ignorance is bliss."

"It isn't."

"Look, pal, it's just a-"

"No. No, don't say it's just an expression. Don't fucking say it's just an expression."

"Hey. Hey, alright take it easy."

"See these scratches on my arm?"

"Christ, pal, those look bad."

"They are. And you don't know what caused them. Could be I got mauled by a guy's dog on the job. Could be I had to hold back a widow and she clawed me while I stopped her from seeing the most gruesome shit you can think of. Could be I did them myself. You're completely ignorant to how they got there. So tell me:  Do you feel particularly blissful?"

"Okay. Okay I'm sorry. Listen, I think you'd better go. Don't worry about the drink, it's on the house."

"No I wouldn't feel right doing that. Let me pay you – what's it come to?"

"Let's call it four."

"Not a problem. Hey – do you accept Necronomicoins?"

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Niiiiiice.

You have just put me in danger of having an idea.

[LMNO]

Oshitoshitoshit




Pleaseletinspirationhitmybrainbecauseiwanttoplay

[The Johnny]

At first i was like because of the horrible pun and then i was  at the awesomeness.

[Eater of Clowns]

"Mr..."

"Robowski. It's on the damn sign, spook."

"Spook. Ah, you think we're with the CIA. I can understand your confusion. No, I'm agent Sherman and this is agent Harrington. We're with the United States Secret Service."

"Ain't nobody in here killing presidents, so you gentlemen are free to see yourselves to the door."

"Ah. You aren't aware of the original intent of the USSS, then. I see. Mr. Robowski, part of what we do is investigate financial crimes. Agent Harrington here likes to call it 'Protecting the deceased presidents.'"

"I pay my damn taxes, so if you boys ain't drinking, again I direct you to the exit."

"Mr. Robowski. Have you ever known a Necronomicoin? We have reason to believe they've been used here as tender? Odd. Cash only establishment accepting such esoteric payment."

"Aw hell, I didn't mean to, Mister. I just wanted that nut out of my bar. I'da turned down the money if I knew what was going to happen."

"And what did happen?"

"I ain't likely to talk about that."

"Mr. Robowski, I assure you, you aren't in any danger from us."

"Ain't you I'm worried about, pal."

"Just hand us the Necronomicoins and we'll be on our way. Here – take this crisp new bill. Old Ben Franklin here is hot off the press. Ever had money still warm from the mint? Quite a beautiful thing."

"Afraid I can't do that. Not a fair trade."

"Ah. The psychic value, is it? Mr. Robowski, money doesn't have to be metaphysical to be worth something to someone. This hundred dollar bill, it does what for you? Pays a fraction of your electricity? Maybe gets you a new pair of boots? Fills up your gas tank a few times? But toss this bad boy into the right part of Rio de Janeiro and you've got yourself a fight to the death. Don't think of this hundred dollar bill as a hundred ones, or a short stack of fives. Think of it as a manifestation of hope and survival, as dreams of possibilities? There isn't much difference between it and those Necronomicoins you're holding then, is there?"

"Rio de Janeiro, huh?"

"The bill's physically worth something. How many beers could agent Harrington and I buy with it. But it's mentally worth something, too."

"Rio de Janeiro."

"It's in Brazil."

"They use dollars down there in Rio?"

"They use the Real, but a United States Dollar is worth something everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"Such is its power."

"So let's say I pull this curtain back here, the one that's blocking the mirror?"

"Okay."

"And you look in that mirror."

"Oka-OH GOD. Oh my God, what is that? What is going on here?"

"Good. So you see the big eye staring back at you."

"What is that? Harrington do you see this?"

"Agent...Sherman? You think they take dollars where that eye is? Hey, Eye! You in Rio right now?"

[Faust]

The Necronomicoin isn't as complex to use as people are led to believe.
When an appropriate offering is made and the channeller receives a boon it comes in the form of a necronomicoin Hush. This is a unique identifier that comprises of the spoken words of the old ones.

To properly contain your hushes you should have a secure vessel to hold them, a phylactery hidden in concealed tunnels under your home should suffice.

[Pæs]

I hear you have to be careful about transaction malleability, which is when you make a deal with an Elder God using imprecise language and they use deliberate misinterpretations to give you MORE FUN THAT YOU REALLY WANTED.

[P3nT4gR4m]

The job sounded promising. Necronomicoin had taken the investment world by storm (literally in the case of a couple of sectors) Traditional economics was in a slump, like a lamb to the slaughter, the word on the street was that the new paradigm was inevitable. The market floors were testament to this. Once thriving bull pits of sweat and testosterone, they were increasingly empty. Anyone with their ear to the ground was jumping ship. From the towering glass monuments of financial districts, to the subterranean tunnels and basements of the new money.

Friend of a friend with the right tie pin had put in a word for me with Olkoth Yhoundeh and Spencer. A foot in this door had the potential to cover the losses made leaving the city and, potentially, leave me with a better portfolio than I'd ever have made there.

Things seemed to be going well, I felt I had a good handle on the way this new currency worked. Jameson, the partner who was interviewing me, seemed impressed with my resume and, as he showed me around the offices in the catacombs beneath Exeter Cemetery I was pretty sure I wasn't imagining the friendly demeanour he was projecting.

We were passing a large, ancient oak door when I heard the distinctive sound of a wave breaking against the other side. In the dim light, traces of some kind of pink foam were just visible, seeping out from beneath the portal. Another wave, slammed against the wood and then, momentarily, it was as if the door just disappeared. My gaze fell upon an ocean of blood, extending to an impossibly distant horizon. Waves were breaking on the invisible door, whipping the crimson waters to the pink bubbling foam I'd noticed before.

Then, in the blink of my incredulous eye, the door was back but the sound of that ungodly ocean and the telltale hints of bloody spume remained. I somehow managed to unclench my jaw, just long enough to hiss, "what the fuck is that?" I asked.

"Ah, yes", Jameson stammered awkwardly, "That would be the slush fund."

[LMNO]

Oh, damn.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

 

[Eater of Clowns]

It was going great until Medellin, just at the beginning of the second week in the country. I'd eaten a steak from a tough enough cut that a reciprocating saw would have been a helpful utensil. Thinking back, it might have been horse. Horse after a lifetime of hauling around tourists for a few thousand pesos. We drove back to Cali that night and were passed off to another family member. He took us out for pizza at this hip little joint. Pizza turned into beer and beer turned into midnight.

Our drive to Medellin was at 4am the next day. Ten hours in a damned nice SUV but with six pieces of luggage and the giant that is my father, up and down mountains and around infinitely winding roads. Road signs were hilariously unhelpful. They were in kilometers, but the distance was arbitrary with the roads turning in all directions. At one point, a sign read ten kilometers further than the previous one we'd passed a half hour before.

We were welcomed into the finca of a sweet little lady that was the cousin of a friend of a nephew. After a day in the car I stopped at their toilet, helpfully labeled Cabelleros, and the misery started. I thought back to the egregious pile of meat from the day before. I thought back to the day's rest stop morsilla and chicharron. I thought back to Salento and that slip up in the bathroom sink where, purely out of habit, I rinsed off my toothbrush from the tap.

Anyway, I was feeling unwell in Medellin. I was on some over the counter stuff handed to me so I could make it through the day, and let me tell you, you do not know terror until you're looking at a pill with an extensive information booklet written in a language you don't understand purchased from a store adjoining a roadside chorizo stand.

The road splitting off from the huge public square outside the Museo de Antioquia is a clutter of vendors hawking counterfeit everything. I'm eyeing the glowing yellow glasses of alleged guarapo in neat arrays carried around by shouting brightly dressed people every 50 feet on this 90 degree day.

My step mother is a shopper. She's in and out of every storefront that looks like it sells a decent piece of cloth, arranging it on the dinner table or in the backyard before she haggles down the price by a few thousand pesos. It's been a week of this, and I've taken to wandering around during the wait. In Medellin, it was mostly to find the closest restroom in case of very likely emergency.

That's how I found the shop, down some alley off a side street that I had no business being down. It didn't look dangerous, not in this area. Pickpockets were more a concern here than bodily harm, but it was still probably a stupid place to venture down. I consider pulling out my phone to translate "Please don't stab me here is my wallet" into Spanish but decide it's best to leave it safely in my pocket.

Small piles of rubble sit in front of the worn houses, people sitting outside their homes and eyeing me with vague interest. It's unreal to see this so close to the tourist heavy main way but I'm becoming less and less surprised by such things after just a week in the country. I've got this walk I try to use wherever I think I might look like a victim – eyes forward, head level, stride confident. I hope there's an outlet at the far end of the alley so I don't have to walk back from where I came because I can feel eyes on my back.

There doesn't look to be one. But there is a shop. The shop. It doesn't look much more welcoming than this little off route, but if I duck into it for a few I'll look like I had a purpose down here.

I wish I'd just walked back the other way.