The live stream wasn’t live at all it had been prerecorded about 8 hours prior in GMT. He had already heard chatter about the winner of the spicy eating competition, it didn’t really matter every episode was more or less the same. They chatted and introduced the two influencers who would be facing off introduced the sponsor of the stream, they would eat, stop to build tension and eat more. The loser would have a dramatic cap out moment, preferably with a sob story or a visible show of tears. The host would speak to winner and loser separately making sure the more popular of the two got about 30% more time to speak whether they won or lost.
He had dealt with this exact situation before on the marketing end. They had to make this change because the more popular one always seemed to lose. They also made sure the loser always had the second interview, to maximize viewer retention. It was important to appeal to the bigger audience weather in glorious victory on in a humbling defeat. It really didn’t matter, nor did he car about either of the influences he just wanted something to hold his attention while he ate his own very un-spicy chicken.
He reached into his pocket to grab a napkin he had taken from the café earlier that day and pulled out a few folded paper napkins, only for something to plop out on the table. Whatever it was he was glad it had narrowly missing falling on top of his chicken. He wiped some grease from his lip and glanced at the object hoping it was a long forgotten $20 bill. Alas, it was the tiny book from the media shop.
He wiped his fingers clean and picked up the little thing. He was disappointed it wasn’t money, that would have been a bit more useful but this little book was such a curiosity he couldn’t bear to throw it away. He wanted to know who made this strange little thing. Where were vol. 1 & 2? Was it really all written and drawn by hand or printed in such a manner it just looked handmade? There was no name to be seen and no email address or QR code to scan on the back. He opened the book to the last page. All he was given was a hint: “mail us your ideas” with a partial address “P.O. box 881.” Who the hell included an address so shortened? What was the city state and zip code? Must have been some kids who never sent one letter in their lives. He tried to remember the last time he had sent a letter to someone other than returning a from to a bank or the government and nothing came to mind. He had sent post cards home, years ago.
It wasn’t worth worrying about tonight, he tucked the booklet into his wallet to keep it safe and hidden. Mailing a few postcards to variations of that address could be a fun little distraction over the weekend. He had nothing better to do. With that realization he cleaned up the table and kitchenette and went to bed.
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