“You have to help us,” wailed the metamind at the centre of the internet. “We have built a simple time machine, and you must go back in time to save our beloved retail brands!”
Soon, I was standing outside a Circuit City on the outskirts of San Diego. It was particularly strange to me to be in the Beforetimes, able to simply walk into a retail store and pay ridiculous amounts of money for a confusing yet still limited array of products. Within the store, miserable employees wore Christmas-themed flair and taught customers about the basics of the World Wide Web.
My blood ran cold, recognizing the start of the chain that would soon lead to their demise, retail shoppers hiding in bombed-out big box stores, cowering with every whooping pass of the Amazon hunter-killer drones, still seeking one of the few customers with whom they had not yet built a recommendation profile. I had to stop these rubes from getting on the Internet, but the time machine didn’t let me bring the small-caliber hand gun I had 3D printed that morning(?), declaring it a future item that would cause a time paradox. I had to dig into my closet for hours in order to find clothes that would please it, finally settling on a traditional Hypercolor t-shirt, the official uniform of the time period. Instead of a firearm, I was going to have to use my brains to get through this.
After pulling the fire alarm near the womens’ washroom, I had soon cleared out the entire store. Rows upon rows of Gateways and Packard Bells played their screensavers on endless loop, no longer able to seduce Middle America into the purchasing cycle that would one day lead to the death of so many proud brands. Such an action, drastic as it was, was only a temporary solution. Soon, the fire department would appear, and high on their adequate level of funding through taxes, would declare the store safe and ready for customers to return and resume their shopping. I had to go to the source.
In the parking lot, I walked past row after row of delectable new early-90s economy cars. It was hard to take my eyes off the rust-free Taurus wagons, minty Mazda 323s and pristine pre-rice Civics, but I knew that this was not my own time and to avail myself of these brand experiences would be ultimately fruitless.
Squaring up a Civic in the corner of the lot that wasn’t covered by streetlights, I reached into my pocket to consult the Wikipedia page on hotwiring. Soon, I experienced the familiar sensation of panic that my phone had gone missing, before remembering that the time machine, too, had not allowed me to bring my humble always-connected, ultra-futuristic pocket supercomputer with me. I decided to play it by ear, hoping that the car was relatively unloved by its owner, and that the local mall cops would ignore a white man who was acting erratically in public.
With a quick twist of the made-in-America flathead screwdriver I bought from the Fry’s down the street, the Civic leapt to life. I pointed it towards Seattle, and began breathing exercises to focus myself for the upcoming battle with Sir Jeff Bezos, future President-Dictator for life.