Verity is the pseudonym of a programmer based in the UK. She can be contacted at [email protected].
"He wasn't building a firm as much as a belief system. 'We're purging ignorance from the planet,' Saylor often declared in his high, throaty voice."
—The Washington Post puts the boot into fallen dot-com angel Michael Saylor*
June 6, 2000, 8 PM local time. Roger D. Hubris is spending a rare few moments of solitary relaxation on the upper cigar verandah of his corporate airship Twice Yearly Upgrade as she drifts into the sunset above the vineyard-sodden plains of Southern France, Europe. From the other side of the gondola, he hears a cry of "Pull" followed by the sound of gunshot and laughter; his guests are indulging in an unusual clay pigeon shoot of Hubris's own devising. It was not sufficient for Hubris that his favourite competitive sport is played at 10,000 feet from the side of an airship. He had insisted, too, that brand new laptop computers — 2-GHz P4 equivalents or better — be used as "pigeons" and, flung violently into the air with their lid catches undone, they do indeed look a little like flapping birds, until they are blasted to smithereens a few seconds later in a hail of lead shot. A rain of magnesium casing splinters and hard-disk drive fragments waters the maturing grapes far below.
But tonight Roger Hubris absents himself from the merry antics of his senior executives and stands, as though in a trance, one elegant deck-shoe-shod-foot on the railing, the other less elegant deck-shoe-shod-foot on the deck. (Copy editor: Something not quite right here, make good — V.S.) He glances at his watch (by Rolex, U.S.$50,000), fiddles with the knot of his tie (by Brodlington and Spatchley of Piccadilly, 420 guineas) and picks at his five o'clock shadow (by Gillette, from the disposable "Buy 10 Blades, Get 5 Free!" range). His heavy brow, though untroubled by product placement, furrows.
John B. Sidekick, Hubris's long-time best friend, confidante, and Vice President of Software Development at Hubrisware, emerges from the cabin with a shotgun on his arm. "Hey Roger! Ya should've seen what I just did! Gotta left and a right! A Latitude and a Tosh, Bam Bam Whoosh!"
"Shut up Sidekick, and tell me what you see there," says Hubris in his high throaty nasal whiney voice and stabs an angry finger at the crimson western sky.
"Why nothing, Dr. Hubris, sir," says Sidekick, modifying his mode of address to match his boss's mood. "Nothing...except the sun of course. And that little cloud."
"Exactly. A cloud."
"I wouldn't worry about that, sir. It's no bigger than a man's hand..."
And the graceful zeppelin floats on westward, the ever-rising NASDAQ price of Hubrisware's stock picked out in brilliant red laser light on the sides of the balloon.
Irritating Flashback
1960, local time. Roger D. Hubris VIII is born to his parents, Mr. Hubris III and Mrs. Hubris V, in the small Demi-South town of Historic Present. Later on, the family would move to the more sophisticated district of Confused Tenses, where Hubris made the move that, had things turned out differently, will maybe change the course of what wouldst have happened (Copy editor: More help please — V.S.); but he is always happiest back at his home town.
As a child, he shows considerable aptitude as a musician. Learning the recorder at age five, Hubris progresses to the clarinet at seven, taking his Grade 2 examination a year later. A year after that, he takes Grade 4, and in the following July, he takes his Grade 5 musical theory exam, in which he obtains a distinction with 96 percent. Three years later, he becomes a teenager, and gives up music in favor of acne. (Verity: What did I tell you about not using up every single fact just for the sake of it? — Editor.)
For his sixth birthday, his parents reveal their long-term ambitions for the infant Hubris by adopting the standard practice of those who wish to foster power- and money-obsessed monsters: They give him a toboggan with the name "Rosebud" painted on it. A disappointing present for a child living in the warm and arid district of Present Tense, but it seems to work, for shortly afterwards, his little schoolmates notice his increased interest in accountancy.
"Yeah, that was the time he started stealing our dinner money" reminisces Ron Leftbehind, Hubris's erstwhile classmate. "Of course, we didn't realize then that Roger was an entrepreneurial genius and visionary software architect. We just thought he was a creepy little bully."
Hubris also begins to show signs of the verbal wit that one day will hold Comdex audiences in its thrall. It is to this time we can trace back the germ of such utterances as "Go to Hell, Dell" (Comdex '91), "We're Not Mates, Gates" (response to Windows '95 launch), and "Big Brass Knobs, Jobs" (Comdex '99). But all this lies in the future, the future where Hubris founds Hubrisware and launches the incredibly successful accountancy package "sMoke and Mirrors," the future where Hubris makes his trillions in the most legendary IPO of all time, the future which I am annoyingly going to skip over to get us back aboard the airship Twice Yearly Upgrade.
Back Aboard the Airship
On the cigar verandah, Sidekick is uneasy. He has never seen his boss in this mood before.
"What's the matter, sir? Is it the speech? Another great triumph, sir, you had them rolling in the aisles. 'You make me snarly, Carly.' Genius, sir."
Hubris smiles bleakly. "No, it isn't the speech, Sidekick. It's this," and he hands Sidekick a slip of paper, the printout of an e-mail.
With difficulty, for the light is fading fast, Sidekick reads.
"It's...It's from Bill Nemesis, chairman and CEO of world-dominating ultra-aggressive competitor Nemisoft. He wants to meet you as soon as possible 'before it's too late.' What does he mean by that sir? Is that a threat?"
Hubris smiles bleakly again, and says nothing. Up above the men, shining brightly in the twilight gloom, the 30-foot high lasered digits that tell the story of Hubrisware's stock price flicker...as it falls one point.
(Next time: I stop teasing and reach the bit where Hubris has all his nice stuff taken away, and we all get to have a good gloat.)
* http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A2889-2002Jan5.html
DDJ
