Dance With The Devil (The Story Of The Disappearing Google Ads)
By the time Sev called me it was already too late. I knew it, he knew it. There wasn’t much I could do but the fear made me try. I snatched up my laptop and headed for the fire escape too crazed and irrational to realize I didn’t have one – which I thought was some sort of building code violation. There was at one point a tree, the branches of which came right up to my window and I had spent many a night contemplating the physical possibility of climbing down it to safety. Naturally, the very week I had come up with a plausible plan of escape the tree, which had become my salvation, was chopped down by the building manager as if he too had just realized the hope the tree provided and was not able to stop himself from acting adversarial.
Anyway, in the absence of both fire escape and tree the front door became my only option. Breathless, I searched through the peephole. Nothing. Now was my chance. I unlocked the bolt and, cautiously, haltingly, made my way into the hallway. No one was there. I could make it downstairs. I dropped my guard. Just then, the butt of a riffle dropped me.
Fading in and out of consciousness I was dragged upstairs to the roof where a helicopter awaited us. Bound and drugged and flying over Manhattan, I gave in to the abyss.
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