Adtopia in the House of Dandelion

In that corner of the world where moments pause and linger, where the air holds a secret, there is a room of porcelain and quiet. That place where the walls whisper echoes of those who've come and gone, where the faucet's drip marks time's passage, and the tile's cool touch grounds you. That place whose people are 3-ply people, seeking solace in softness. Whose wipes pass like a silk breeze across the stillness of their sanctuary.

Fred finger-mimed blowing his brains out until the toilet roll dispenser fell silent and dispensed three sheets of Fluff 'n Buff Triple Treat. Ugh, it was like using a marshmallow. He didn't look down or anywhere but at the wall because the RAD glasses were probably recording everything.

And, of course, the soap dispenser had to wax poetic before dropping a dollop into his palm. He grit his teeth against the sickly sweet scent then rubbed his hands together for the required 20 seconds. His bathroom door wouldn't open otherwise.

Free from the "room of porcelain and quiet," Fred tried to not let his gaze linger on anything in his loft apartment. Staring at something for too long would trigger another ad, and closing his eyes outside designated sleeping hours was also a no-no. Do that and the nearest item's RFID tag would simply beam a high-volume ad straight into the RAD glasses' dual speakers.

His eyes finally tired of their mad dash across the room and stared out the windows at the row of maples flashing a defiant red in the autumn twilight. The changing leaves weren't a byproduct of new colors being added. They were instead due to the absence of chlorophyll, green breaking down as sunlight grew more scarce. It was a beautiful absence, much like his life had once been without ads.

As the RAD glasses detected the direction of his gaze, the curtains lowered themselves over the windows to become a faux backdrop screen as the lenses came alive. A sleek-looking man stared smugly at his even sleeker laptop. Then, he was on a yacht, a blinding white set against impossible blues.

Embark on a voyage where the path is less traveled, the experience less ordinary. Where the journey itself becomes the destination.

More corporate psychobabble disguised as literary dribble.

All of the ads never said the name of the product or service outright, but the brand was always somewhere in the scenery, a shifting reflection caught in the RAD lenses. The more they didn't say the name, the more you wanted to scream it out loud.

This one was for a travel agency called LuxeNomad Elites. Fred found himself mouthing the name, just to get a sense of how distasteful it would sound.

No, his mind was his own. He'd ignore the names, just like the ads themselves.

He let his thoughts drift.

It used to be so easy, not to mention free, with uBlock Origin on his laptop and AdGuard on his phone. Sure, every once in a while, he'd have to tweak a setting or filter when a commercial crept through, but that was it.

He'd always been amazed that more people hadn't done the same. Maybe they liked being interrupted, or maybe they truly believed that advertising paid for everything. Yeah, like watching a few seconds of crap before hitting 'skip' somehow kept the world running.

Sheep. They thought ads were inevitable, a matter of fate. Whatever. Fred had seen through that lie and saved himself from thousands—if not hundreds of thousands—of ads in the process.

But fate is resourceful.

And so is advertising.

They lobbied Congress to pass the Retroactive Ad-blocking Dues (RAD) Act.

The idea that Fred and others like him were economic parasites for not duly watching commercials like every other mindless consumer was absurd.

With outlawed ad-blockers and even spam filters going the way of the dodo, Fred resorted to the old-fashioned method of ignoring the menacing messages that flooded his inbox and mailbox.

Still, he couldn't help but watch his dues gather interest. They hit $17,773.92 before he lost his nerve.

There was another way out that didn't require shelling out almost 18K: The RAD Experience.

From what Fred could gather, it was like an intervention combined with a lockdown, with each day completed deducting a full K from his dues.

He made the appointment. His boss had grumbled about it, but he was legally required to grant the time away.

The RAD dude and his workmen had shown up exactly on time.

"First and foremost, you'll have to keep these on at all times," the tall bird-like man said while handing him the RAD glasses. "If you take them off, you'll disqualify yourself from the RAD experience. Sorry, I don't make the rules."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Fred put on the RAD glasses. Besides being a bit bulky and having a slight shimmer overlaying their lenses, they weren't that different from a regular pair of glasses.

"And they're waterproof, so shower without fear!" The RAD dude volunteered without being asked.

Fred watched the RAD dude and the workmen as they turned his apartment upside down then put it back together. Mostly, they seemed to be putting transparent stickers on everything.

"RFID tags that work with your RAD glasses for a personalized experience like no other," the RAD dude enthused, looming over Fred as if expecting a hug.

Fred fought down the urge to strangle the RAD dude, that terror bird herald of capitalistic garbage standing before him. After that, he decided it was better to ignore them, even when the workmen started drilling in the kitchen and bathroom.

"You're going to put everything back the way it was in the end, right?" He couldn't help but ask when the RAD dude finally moseyed back over to the windows where Fred had been standing with arms crossed.

"Sure, sure!" The RAD dude looked down at his iPad. "So, looks like we got ourselves a big Bradbury fan here, huh?"

"What? That's the guy who wrote Fahrenheit something, right? I think I had to read it once for school."

"Oh, big kidder! Come on, you named your apartment complex Dandelion Wine Manor."

"Uh... that's my landlord, Felix. You've got the correct information for me, right?"

The RAD dude looked back down at his iPad as the workmen packed up the last of their gear. His mouth made a little moue then muttered something, either "Fred" or some other single-syllable word that started with F.

"The name you see is Fred Wright, right? I mean, just the one Wright."

"Hang on, hang on. Please." The RAD dude's eyes took on a vapid expression, and Fred realized the man was also wearing a pair of RAD glasses. He was searching for something.

The RAD dude smacked his lips in satisfaction as his eyes refocused on Fred. "I'll leave you with these words of wisdom, my friend: 'Living at risk is jumping off the cliff and building your wings on the way down.'"

"W-what?"

But the RAD dude was already out the door, which would remain shut for the next 18 days.

And now the RAD glasses had picked up on Fred's unfocused eyes. No trips down memory lane, however recent, allowed.

The voice-over was deafening, the imagery blinding:

Carnivotica… that place where it is always midway through the night. That place where the air is thick with the scent of caramel and the whisper of cotton candy; where desire is a dull throb hidden behind a red nose floating in the fog. That place whose people are carnival people, dreaming only of the next wild ride. Whose big shoes on the sawdust paths squeak like animals caught in delight.

Fred screamed as erotic clowns frolicked through the mists of his curtains and made suggestive balloon animals. He turned away, but the images kept pace and splayed themselves across his coffee table. When he squeezed his eyes shut, the ad went full-audio. It was like being in a warm bathtub filled to the brim with panting rubber ducks.

Then, it was over.

Damn, Felix… Fred doubted he'd ever be able to look his landlord in the eye again.

He rested his head against the cool metal of his retrofitted refrigerator as the next ad began.

It was fine. It was for a microwaveable dinner called Modern Medieval Man that would unlock the refrigerator, and he hadn't eaten all day.

"Modern Medieval Man. Modern Medieval Man." Fred knew he was saying it out loud, but he couldn't stop.

The RAD glasses took inspiration from Fred's voice and showed him the full lineup of Modern Medieval Man cuisine.

Even after the RAD glasses lost their shimmer and entered their scheduled shutdown for Fred's designated sleeping hours, he couldn't stop saying the name.

It was his litany of alliteration, a blend of base desires encased in plastic, a miracle of preservation against the 17 days still to come.