(9 of 10)
Which brings us to Super Bowl Sunday. We are sitting in a skybox high up in the Superdome, complete with wet bar, kitchen, waiters and big TV screens to watch the instant replays of what we've just seen with our own naked, pitiful, nondigital eyes.
The corporate officers of Simoleons are there. I start sounding them out on their cryptographic protocols, and it becomes clear that these people can't calculate their gas mileage without consulting Raster, much less navigate the subtle and dangerous currents of cutting-edge cryptography.
A Superdome security man comes in, looking uneasy. ``Some, uh, gentlemen here,'' he says. ``They have tickets that appear to be authentic.''
It's three guys. The first one is a 300 pounder with hair down to his waist and a beard down to his navel. He must be a Bears fan because he has painted his face and bare torso blue and orange. The second one isn't quite as introverted as the first, and the third isn't quite the button-down conformist the other two are. Mr. Big is carrying an old milk crate. What's inside must be heavy, because it looks like it's about to pull his arms out of their sockets.
``Mr. and Mrs. De Groot?'' he says, as he staggers into the room. Heads turn towards my mom and dad, who, alarmed by the appearance of these three, have declined to identify themselves. The guy makes for them and slams the crate down in front of my dad. ``I'm the guy you've known as Codex,'' he says. ``Thanks for naming us as your broker.''
If Joe wasn't a rowing-machine abuser, he'd be blowing aneurysms in both hemispheres about now. ``Your broker is a half-naked blue-and-orange crypto- anarchist?''
Dad devotes 30 seconds or so to lighting his pipe. Down on the field, the two-minute warning sounds. Dad puffs out a cloud of smoke and says, ``He seemed like an honest sloth.''
``Just in case,'' Mom says, ``we sold half the stock through our broker in Bismarck. He says we'll have to pay taxes on that.''
``We transferred the other half offshore, to Mr. Codex here,'' Dad says, ``and he converted it into the local currency -- tax free.''
``Offshore? Where? The Bahamas?'' Joe asks.
``The First Distributed Republic,'' says the big panarchist. ``It's a virtual nation-state. I'm the Minister of Data Security. Our official currency is CryptoCredits.''
``What the hell good is that?'' Joe says.
``That was my concern too,'' Dad says, ``so, just as an experiment, I used my CryptoCredits to buy something a little more tangible.''
Dad reaches into the milk crate and heaves out a rectangular object made of yellow metal. Mom hauls out another one. She and Dad begin lining them up on the counter, like King and Queen Midas unloading a carton of Twinkies.
It takes Joe a few seconds to realize what's happening. He picks up one of the gold bars and gapes at it. The Simoleons execs crowd around and inspect the booty.
``Now you see why the government wants to stamp us out,'' the big guy says. ``We can do what they do -- cheaper and better.'' For the first time, light dawns on the face of the Simoleons CEO. ``Wait a sec,'' he says, and puts his hands to his temples. ``You can rig it so that people who use E-money don't have to pay taxes to any government? Ever?''