Non-reciprocity

When I was a kid, I used to watch R-rated action movies and softcore pr0n, and read original folk fairytales (Soviet teachers attest: dismemberment is totally for kids). I also read through all of Young Pioneer's Library.

The latter stories differed from everything else so that even the pre-teenage me, interested only in bashing baddies, noticed. The most important topic the books addressed was non-reciprocity.

Prince Ivan saves a mouse (or rather, does not kill a mouse for the lulz), and the grateful mouse saves him in return.

Young Pioneer Eugenie helps a random stranger, and the community decides she's a good person, and another Young Pioneer lends her a helping hand because she's a good person.

That halo of good reputation, unlike a bank account balance, was said to never expire. Do good deeds and people will like you more. Help an old lady across the street and a pretty girl will date you. It wasn't like a business reputation, where you attain the status of dependable partner and customers flock to make mutually profitable deals. Non-reciprocity was key.

"Here, take at least $200," she said.
"NO WAI. Look, I didn't buy the device for you. I bought it for the lulz, and because I had some unused card balance which I couldn't just flush abroad, and because you said no single person could ever afford it and I smelled me a challenge. So yeah, for the lulz. You don't owe me anything."

Two weeks later, at 2100 hours, I left the police station, unquestioned. I had a passport, a wallet with the local equivalent of $7, a spool of nylon thread I planned to patch up my boots with, and a cell phone with just enough money to make one call no more than a minute in length.

"Hello! Hello, do you hear me?"
"Huh... who's that?" There was static and the thunder of a subway carriage, all around her. She could hardly hear my feeble whining.
"Me! Number fifteen! I'VE OUTTA MONEY, CALL ME BACK! CALL BACK! HEAR!?"

People stared. I couldn't care less. The neighbor chick had stood nearby for a minute watched me being strangled and bitten - I had seen her feet in fluffy purple shoes - then left, unconcerned.

They are entertainers, performers, businesspeople. They sign CDs and postcards for genius and fucktard alike. No amount of pre-paid money could have ever bought me their help. now the Scene People seek me out and wish me good luck and apologize for misunderstandings. I have earned the halo of a good person by being ultimately selfish, doing things and wasting money for the lulz. It just happened that my lulz were accidentally profitable for someone else - crazy, but in a good way, the argument I had on a message board for reasons of personal pride was with a known retard, my unembellished questionnaire showed what an "honest, open and friendly" person I am (although it had been written to troll the interviewer).

The slimes did not know this. They did not know I was fixing the PC for fun or that I donated money out of weird shopaholism. They thought I was practicing the Young Pioneer type of non-reciprocity, working towards a goody goody halo, and they took offense.

They think donating blood to the wounded is retarded - you'd better have a drink to honor the souls of the dead, but playing videogames while others need help is selfish; donating is the same as buying whores, but being liked for free is the same as being a whore; frugality is good, but why are you content and happy while others have private castles and yachts? Why don't you envy them? Envy, I said! Envy, you stupid good-for-nothing loser!

I refuse. I just want my necklace back, and a replacement cup. I have friends, and the slimes have potential funeral attendees.

I've always thought it strange to measure the quality of life by longevity, not by fun, and friends by funeral attendance, not by shared experiences. Now I know better. They are not hardcore pragmatists closely following the ultimate cynic Odin's advice in Havamal. They're losers trying to max out their score total, and if there's anything that I learned by playing indie games, it's that the score doesn't mean shit when it's on a headstone.