The fast-paced financier sat on the crowded express subway train and busily thumbed and fingered his personal, worldwide, high-definition, hand-held, communications device.
With each poke, prod and swipe, he moved millions and more millions into his column.
The winning column.
No, the winner’s column.
He wasn’t good; he was the best, and he did his best work, working the foreign markets, every morning in the wee hours on the first train to run express from his tony neighborhood to the financial district.
And now, as the train accelerated toward the money capital of the world, the wizard smiled.
Then he poised his righteous right thumb over the embedded keyboard.
One last masterful maneuver before work.
He knew the train would arrive at his station in precisely 52.6 seconds.
No, he thought, nano-seconds. It’s all about nano-seconds, and nobody but nobody does nano-seconds better than me, the King of Nano-seconds.
The algo-trader had it all going on, and he had one more deal all lined up before he hit the office.
All he had to do was-
He stared dumbstruck at the screen on his palm office that had gone blue.
He poked the keyboard.
He thumbed the keyboard and cursed some more.
The slovenly young straphanger above him removed his earbuds and said: Looks like you’ve got the blue screen of death, dude. Bummer.
The blue screen of death. Your phone is like toast.
But I just bought it. I just-
But nothin’, dude. You’re done. Finito. History. Past tense. Ob-so-lete!
No!!! The fine-tuned financier screamed and ranted and raved. This can’t be! This can’t-
But it is.
The train dynamically braked to make the financier’s station.
The utterly frustrated mover of millions looked up at the tattered young man with the backpack and begged: Please, please, please, help me! An insane amount of money depends on this thing working.
A fortune, you say?
A stinkin’ fortune! Yes, more money than you or anybody on this train could ever imagine. In your wildest dreams. So, please-
All right. Let me have a look.
The financier handed the young man his device and watched as the young fellow bonked it three times against his broad forehead.
Seeing that he had gotten the desired result, the young man handed the device back to the dapper downtown dude. There you go. Works fine now.
The financier took the phone and forced himself to look at the screen.
What he saw floored him.
The hip dude watched the rich guy take a tumble and said to anyone who cared to listen: When you get the blue screen of death, you get the blue screen of death.
All the other passengers could see on the fallen financier’s screen were clouds, and all they could hear was heavenly harp music.
Having done his work for the morning, the Angel of Death exited at the financier’s fancy station stop and vanished into thin air.