Dickens of an Ancient Future Present

by Ancient Future Past, Present, and Future Leader Matthew Montfort

With Apologies to Charles Dickens

I HAVE endeavoured in this Spooky little spoof, to raise the Spirit of a solution to Silicon Skulduggery, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, with their religions, or with me. The Culprits' names are but metaphors for what Man must improve upon, and have been changed to protect the Guilty in hopes they may change their ways. Though it be lengthy for a dispatch of the Digital Age, may it haunt the Interwebs pleasantly.

1. Pirate and Scrooogle
   
2. Ghost of the Ancient Future Past
3. Ghost of an Ancient Future Present
   
4. Ghost of the Ancient Future Yet to Come
   
5. The End of the Beginning
   

Pirate and Scrooogle

TORRENT PIRATE was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The cause of death was not released, but rumor has it that he committed suicide rather than face possible legal action. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the domain register, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Old Pirate was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooogle knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Etherseizer Scrooogle and he were partners for who knows how many years. Scrooogle was his search partner, his ad agency, his friend, and his mourner. And even Scrooogle was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with a doodle.

Scrooogle never painted out Torrent Pirate's link. There it stood, years afterwards, at the top of the search results page. Sometimes people new to the business searched Scrooogle, and sometimes Torrent, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the server, Scrooogle! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching, covetous, old searcher! He profited handsomely from the content he cataloged, but had no money for the creators of content. But what did Scrooogle care!

Scrooogle is what the politically astute would call a person of corporate heritage. As was Pirate. Nobody ever stopped them in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Pirate and Scrooogle, how are you?"

But corporations are people, too! The court ruled so, and awarded them bodies and souls. Indeed, in the beginning of his enterprise, Scrooogle was quite taken with the idea of not being evil. But that was to patrons of his establishment. Content creators didn't warrant the same consideration.

Once upon a time — of all the good shopping days in the year, on Green Monday — old Scrooogle sat busy in his search-house. "A merry Green Monday, nephew! Praise be to Content!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooogle's uncle Scamazon, an Interweb merchant who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

"Content?" said Scrooogle, "Bah! Humbug!"

"Content a humbug, nephew!" said Uncle Scam. "You don't mean that, I am sure?"

"I do," said Scrooogle. "Praise be to Content! Content grows of its own accord. Any idiot can and does create it. What's important is making that content manageable. And merry Green Monday? What right have you to be merry? Think of all the local businesses we've painstakingly removed from our registry due to your success. "

"Come, then," returned Scamazon gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? You're rich enough from that content."

Scrooogle having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "humbug."

Uncle Scam left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to greet the receptionist, who, in letting Scamazon out, had foolishly let two other people in Scrooogle's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. "Scrooogle and Pirate's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooogle, or Mr. Pirate?"

"Mr. Pirate has been dead these seven years," Scrooogle replied. "He died seven years ago, this very night."

"We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman. At the ominous word "liberality," Scrooogle frowned, and shook his head. It certainly was, for they had been two kindred spirits.

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooogle," said the gentleman, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Musicians. Many are in want of common necessaries to practice their craft. A few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy them some means of production. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?"

"Nothing!" Scrooogle replied.

"You wish to be anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone," said Scrooogle. "Can't the musicians tour, sell merchandise, and collect Interweb royalties?"

"Many can't as they lack the extreme level of fame required to make money off touring and merchandise, and Interweb royalties from Plundora and Swipify are but a pittance even for the most famous."

"If they cannot be famous enough," said Scrooogle, "they had better quit, and decrease the surplus of musicians. Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

The Archive of Future Ancient Recordings

While Scrooogle and the other tech titans are not currently interested in supporting the creation of the content they exploit, you, the dear reader, may certainly do so. The Archive of Future Ancient Recordings is a collection of new recordings that are available to supporters as they are created.

Pirate's Ghost

Scrooogle went home to bed. He lived on an estate which had once belonged to his deceased partner. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooogle had not bestowed one thought on Pirate, since his last mention of his seven-years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain, if he can, how it happened that Scrooogle, as the gate to the estate swung open, saw in the gate, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change — not a gate, but Pirate's face. As Scrooogle looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a gate again. To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he proceeded to his mansion, walked in, secured the door, walked across the hall, and up the stairs.

But before he shut his bedroom door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. All as they should be. Nobody under the table; nobody under the sofa; nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown. Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in. Thus secured against surprise, he put on his dressing-gown, and sat down on his bed. As he threw his head back, his glance happened to rest upon a screen that hung in the room. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this screen begin to pulse and twinkle, and soon every device in the mansion was ringing out in cacophony. This might have lasted half a minute, but it seemed an hour. The sounds ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine cellar. The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. "It's humbug!" said Scrooogle. "I won't believe it." His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. The same face: the very same. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made of platinum cards, web keys, patents, and circuits of silicon. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him, he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses. "What do you want with me?"

"Much!" — Pirate's voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"In life I was your partner, Torrent Pirate."

"Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" The spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands. "You are fettered," said Scrooogle, trembling. "Tell me why?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?" Scrooogle trembled more and more. "Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven years ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!"

Scrooogle glanced about him, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by a million meters of copper cable: but he could see nothing. "Torrent," he said, imploringly. "Old Torrent Pirate. Speak comfort to me!"

"I have none to give, Etherseizer Scrooogle." the Ghost replied. "A very little is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our search-house — mark me! Oh! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh! Such was I!"

"But you were always a good man of business, Torrent," faltered Scrooogle, who now began to apply this to himself.

"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "The common welfare should have been my business. At this time in the development of human history," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I crawl through crowds of the most creative among us, sucking up their creations with my eyes turned down, and never contribute to their sustenance! How could I not see that this would destroy the quality of culture!"

Scrooogle was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone. I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Etherseizer. You will be haunted by Three Spirits. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

Ghost of the Ancient Future Past

"ARE you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked Scrooogle.

"I am the Ghost of the Ancient Future Past." Scrooogle inquired as to what business brought him there. "Your welfare!" said the Ghost. "Rise, and walk with me!" As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open campus road, with groves of trees on either side.

"Good Heaven!" said Scrooogle, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. "I was bred in this place!"

They walked along the road, Scrooogle recognizing every gate, and post, and tree, until a courtyard filled with students appeared in the distance. All were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the courtyard was so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it! "These are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us."

When they entered, preparations for a concert were under way. In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the stage and warmed up, his fingers moving like fifty buzzing bees. In came all the other young musicians with their instruments, bounding to the stage and readying to perform. Scrooogle's former self, now a young man, came briskly in to view the performance.

"Bless me, yes. The band Ancient Future, to be sure!" said Scrooogle to the Ghost. "This was where I first heard them. I became very much attached to their music, for it enhanced my acuity. Dear old musicians! Recently I found posts about their reunion concert. Alas, I did not attend, for I am eternally searching, never pausing to enjoy that which I discover."

The band stormed through a dervish of musical influences from around the world, to the delight of all present. When the clock struck one, the concert ended much as it began. During the whole of this time, Scrooogle's heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and the musicians were turned from him, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him.

"A small amount of the college budget," said the Ghost, "to make these students so full of gratitude."

"Small!" echoed Scrooogle. "Yet the music has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. The happiness it gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune." He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

"What is the matter?" asked the Ghost.

"Nothing particular," said Scrooogle.

"Something, I think?" the Ghost insisted.

Scrooogle Spoke of an Ancient Future Reunion Concert

Ancient Future's 'World Without Walls' Reunion Concert at the Freight & Salvage, Oct. 16, 2013, featuring Doug McKeehan (piano), Kash Killion (bass), Ian Dogole (percussion), Matthew Montfort (scalloped fretboard guitar), Jim Hurley (violin), and Mariah Parker (santur).

Ghost of the Ancient Future Present

AWAKING in the middle of a mode of deep sleep, Scrooogle felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger despatched to him through Torrent Pirate's intervention.

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when no shape appeared, he feared the approach of the Spinning Marble of Doom. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he heard faint strains of music. At last, however, he began to think that the source and secret of this music might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to emanate. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled to the door. The moment Scrooogle's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! And know me better, man!"

Scrooogle entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit.

"I am the Ghost of the Ancient Future Present," said the Spirit. "Listen upon me!" Scrooogle reverently did so. "You have never heard the likes of this before!" exclaimed the Spirit.

The room vanished instantly, and they arrived, invisible, into the low rent part of the suburbs where most of the city's artists had vacated to due to tech company expansions into the old artist haunts. The Spirit led him straight to a home studio where Ancient Future was creating their next musical child.

Oh, what a wonderful performance was captured! Scrooogle was quite taken with it. The musicians agreed that they regarded it as the greatest success they had achieved since their inception. Then it came up for discussion that with the abundance of music available for free on the Interwebs, it was difficult to financially support their musical children, gifted though they may be. "Spirit," said Scrooogle, with an interest he had never felt before, "tell me if this musical child will thrive."

"I see a vacant seat," replied the Ghost, "in the studio corner, and an ancient data storage device, carefully preserved should it be discovered by Ancient Future historians. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, this musical child will fade away."

"No, no," said Scrooogle. "Oh, no, kind Spirit! Say it will be spared."

"If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race will find it here," returned the Ghost. "What then? If they cannot be famous enough, they had better quit, and decrease the surplus of musicians." Scrooogle hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.

"Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus of musicians is, and Where it is. Will you decide what music shall live, what music shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor musical child."

Scrooogle bent before the Ghost's rebuke, casting his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them on hearing a great burst of laughter erupting from one of the musicians. "Ha, ha, ha, ha! According to Scrooogle, us musicians should tour, sell merchandise, and collect Interweb royalties to survive? As I live!"

"I'm sure these tech titans are very rich off selling ads on all the free content they catalog!" said another, indignantly.

All the other musicians expressed the same opinion. "They take it into their heads to not value our music while they profit from it. Who suffers by these ill whims! Tech titans, all in their employ, and everyone they touch. Tech workers, constantly toiling away at their dull desks, have no time for concerts. Now even ordinary blokes don't go out much. They spend their entertainment time looking at pictures of cats on the Interwebs, ha, ha, ha!"

After the musicians had a good laugh at their complaints, they had some music. For they knew what they were about on their instruments, of that you can be assured. When this strain of music sounded, all the things that the Ghost of the Ancient Future Past had shown Scrooogle, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Torrent Pirate.

The Gift of an Ancient Future Present

Visit an Ancient Future Present Record Sale.

Ignorance and Neglect

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooogle had his doubts of this, because it appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while Scrooogle remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older. Scrooogle had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey. "Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Scrooogle.

"My life upon this globe is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends to-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near."

"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said Scrooogle, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see something strange protruding from your skirts." From the foldings of its robe, the Spirit brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. A boy and girl knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. Scrooogle started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. "Spirit! are they yours?" Scrooogle could say no more.

"They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them. "This boy is Ignorance. Decades of diminished education budgets have taken their toll. Opposing press enterprises simply speculate about winners and losers rather than reporting facts. The populace has been made inattentive by their dependence on machines that allow them to escape to a substitute reality. This girl is Neglect, as this society neglects to nourish culture. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased," cried the Spirit.

The clock struck twelve. Scrooogle looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. He remembered the prediction of old Torrent Pirate, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.

Ghost of the Ancient Future Yet to Come

"GHOST of the Ancient Future Yet to Come!" Scrooogle exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear your company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"

The Phantom gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. The city seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But there they were, in the heart of it, at the Stock Exchange. The Spirit's finger pointed to a triumvirate of executives. Scrooogle knew them, for they were principals at the company that designed the popular I-Machines, the "I" being an abbreviation for "Interweb."

"No," said one, peering at his stock ticker, "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead."

"Why, what was the matter with old Searcher?" inquired the second, looking up briefly from his I-Machine. "I thought he'd never die."

"A competitor entered the market and everyone switched, causing his stock to crash," said the third after checking the news on his device. "His heart failed," he said with a yawn before returning to viewing pictures of cats dancing. Upon seeing the effect of the I-Machine on its creators, Scrooogle made a note in his search log that "I" is also short for "Idiot."

Scrooogle looked towards the Spirit for an explanation of the scene he had just witnessed, surprised that it should attach importance to a set of events apparently so trivial. It could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Torrent, his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost's province was the Future. But knowing that to whomsoever it applied it had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy.

Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. They left the busy scene, and appeared again on the West Coast of the land. Far inside a raw foods restaurant in the Wine Country, there was a beautiful stage surrounded by a dance floor, where Scrooogle and the Phantom came into the presence of a crowd there to see the band Ancient Future.

"I was elated to discover this event on Sing!" said one supporter of music.

"I'm grateful that Sing donates all of its proceeds to support artistic creation!" said another. "Unlike that old departed Searcher."

"Ha, ha!" laughed a third. "This is the end of it, you see! Searcher beat at his own game, not by ruthlessness but by generosity! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Spirit!" said Scrooogle, shuddering from head to foot. "I see, I see. The case of this unhappy Searcher might be my own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this!" He had a feeling of trepidation, for the scene had changed, and now he was sitting in a pew at a chapel in the East Bay. Scrooogle glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to a casket. Was this his funeral, he shuddered to think?

At that moment, a great horde of joyous people entered the chapel. This was not the funeral he imagined, but an Ancient Future performance, and the casket was in truth an ornately decorated drum riser. The musicians took to the stage and intricate and emotional music poured forth from them, which touched Scrooogle deeply.

At the end of the concert, the musicians made a special effort to thank a tech titan. Was it Scrooogle? No, it was his biggest competitor, Gates Guarder, who spent his early years so ruthlessly pursuing profit that people thought him Guardian of the Gates of Tech Hell. The musicians told the story of his later years of redemption in which he devoted himself fully to charity. Then, called back to service at the company he founded, Gates Guarder renamed his search concern "Sing" as gesture of good will towards artists, and directed that all of the proceeds from it go to support culture. Unemployed expert music journalists were hired to curate Sing. One of the first artists selected by the formerly idle expert music journalists was Ancient Future, bringing swarms of newly minted music fanatics to their concerts.

Scrooogle was suddenly cognizant that Sing's success could lead to the unceremonious demise of his own concern. "Spirit!" he said, "this is a place of sad realization for me. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!"

The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and they flew through the townships of the bay, several times narrowly avoiding hitting overburdened, droning, mechanical pigeons now employed delivering light merchandise for Uncle Scam. After they passed over the Santa Cruz Mountains, the Spirit withdrew his robe, revealing a stage at a music hall a stone's throw over the hills from Silicon Valley.

Under the bright lights, Ancient Future was finishing a set when a music fanatic came up and whispered something in the guitarist's ear. "We've just received word that Gates Guarder, the founder of Sing, has created a fund of billions to support content creators, for he and his fellow tech titans have profited so mightily from our work. Perhaps the fund will consider a content creation grant to support our Archive of Future Ancient Recordings. Let's have a moment of silence for that!" Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy concertgoers were as still as statues, but in his mind's ear, Scrooogle could hear only the sound of his own servers shutting down at the thought of his nemesis becoming Guardian of the Gates of Creation.

Meanwhile, in an Ancient Future Yet to Come

Alternate Reality Concerts from the Ancient Future

When live music gatherings on planet Earth become unsafe due to an event for which humans are not prepared, a series of Alternate Reality Concerts from the Ancient Future will come to fore.

• June 12, 2021, 3:30 PM PST/, Ancient Future Trio Live with Matthew Montfort (scalloped fretboard guitar), Frank Martin (keys), and Aditya Kalyanpur (tabla), YouTube. Sponsored by Jhankar with the support of the Ohio Arts Council. Free!
• Dates and Times TBA, Ancient Future (Performers TBA), Online. To sign up to receive notices on attending rare concerts from the comfort of your couch, simply send your email address to info@ancient-future.com. Put "Alternate Reality Concert" in the subject. Donations accepted.

The End of the Beginning

"SPECTRE," said Scrooogle, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me who that man was who has died?"

The Ghost of the Ancient Future Yet To Come conveyed him into the resorts of tech titans, until besought by Scrooogle to tarry for a moment. "This court," said Scrooogle, "through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be, in days to come!" The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere. "The house is yonder," Scrooogle exclaimed. "Why do you point away?"

The Phantom pointed as before. Scrooogle joined it once again, accompanied it until they reached a cluster of tall edifaces constructed of glass. He paused to look round before entering. A churchyard hidden in a forgotten corner in the shadows of the bright buildings. Here, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One. He advanced towards it trembling. "Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said Scrooogle, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?"

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. Scrooogle crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, ETHERSEIZER SCROOOGLE.

"Am I that man?" he cried, upon his knees. The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. "No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" The finger still was there. "Spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its robe, "hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!"

For the first time the hand appeared to shake. "Good Spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: "Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!" The kind hand trembled.

"I will honour Creation in my heart. I will live in the Ancient Future Past, the Ancient Future Present, and the Ancient Future Yet to Come. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!" Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Yes! And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in! "I will live in the Ancient Future Past, the Ancient Future Present, and the Ancient Future Yet to Come!" Scrooogle repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I say it on my knees, old Torrent, on my knees! I say to all tech titans to join me: Do the right thing. Don't be evil."

As to whether Scrooogle will keep his scruples, dear reader, and meet the expectations of his motto, time will tell.

Ancient Future band leader Matthew Montfort received widespread media coverage for his role as a class representative for independent musicians in the Napster court case. He is involved with the Content Creators Coalition (now the Artist Rights Alliance) a dedicated group of artists, creators, and stakeholders who are forming a coalition that will allow the people who create the content that powers the web to join together and exercise their collective voice. Feel free to like the ARA In Your Facebook.

Thanks and apologies to Charles Dickens for the original story, which easily translates to the problems of our age. So much so that numerous passages remain unaltered from his original telling. Thanks and apologies also to Adriana Delma for her editing advice, which was both heeded and ignored as the Spirit chose. No doubt any deficiencies in the story are the result of the advice ignored, and not the advice heeded.

© 2013 Matthew Montfort. All rights reserved.