Punch that big guy in the face. 17 votes. $0.00. I run my fingers over the scar above my left eye. Nah, he’s too big.
Grab that guy’s ass. 3 votes. $50.00. I’ll have to pass. Can’t chance doing that kind of stuff anymore now that I’m a registered sex offender. And besides, he’s just too big.
Buy a pack of cigarettes. 1 vote. $75.00. That’s more like it. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a smoking fetish, but I’ll feed it for $75.
I check to make sure my cam is focused properly before closing the app and walking into the convenience store. I head up to the counter and the clerk looks up from her phone, her cam trained on me. “Can I have a pack of Llamas and a lighter?” I ask.
“$12.50.” She puts them on the counter and I swipe my card. “Receipt?”
I pull out my phone and open CrowdsourceMe back up.
Take it, bunch it up, and throw it at her. 14 votes. $0.00. “Yes, please.” She seems a little stunned when I peg her dead between the eyes.
She looks down at her phone for a few moments before saying, “You sure you didn’t want a pack of Jackasses instead? Seems more like your style.”
“Wow, your followers are so witty,” I quip before turning to leave. It’s kinda sad just how pathetic people like her are. I look back at my phone.
Sprint to the bandshell in Clements Park. 1 vote. $100.00. I take off. I hope there’s something cool there they want me to do; I hate when d-bags just make me run for nothing. It kills my ratings. I make sure to ‘accidentally’ knock into a few of my fellow pedestrians as I make my way to the park, so my other followers won’t get too bored.
I’ve got a nasty cramp by the time I get to the bandshell. I double up and check the app while I catch my breath.
Walk onto the bandshell, light a cigarette, take one long drag, then flick it onto the ground. 1 vote. $200.00. I don’t know what this dude’s deal is, but he pays way better than my day job.
I walk up to the stage, and recoil a little at the smell of the nasty water it’s covered in. I hesitate for a second, but $200.00 will buy me a new pair of shoes if this ruins them, so I hop up onto the stage and pull out a cigarette and my lighter. I take a deep pull and then breath it out, trying to look as much like James Dean as I can. As I prepare to flick the cigarette, I look around at the other people in the bandshell, all striking yoga poses while wrinkling their noses to the foul smell and staring intently at their phones for further directions.
The cigarette is already flipping through the air when I notice the gas cans scattered about and realize what the smell is.
When not scouring the Gobi for death worms or munching on tarantulas in Siem Reap, Karl Lykken writes both fiction and software in Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Mystery Weekly, The Flash Fiction Press, and 9Tales at the World’s End #4.