On the Price of El Dorado Green

 
Apply lighter to the lamest drug that the streets can provide, if they bother - catnip and tobacco. Cover the irrelevant taste with edgier substance such as a glass of Peter Lehman 'Margaret' 2015 Sémillon or tea. In the twenty minutes before drink passes through intestinal walls, rumours wisp into brain from the week's detritus. As of 4/10/23:
₵$32    Ghost Tobacco ( 20)
₵$15    Bloody Mary
₵$10    Bug Powder (p/g)
₵$70    Eldorado Green (qt.)
₵$1      Slut Root (p/kg)
₵$30    Marital Aid Potion
₵$25    Quetzlcoatl Feathers (doz.)
₵$5      Blue Roses
₵$33    Mythril (p/g)
₵$4      BZTCN
The rumour influencing the price of El Dorado Green is watercooler conversation at Soden and Underlings.
Somebody says: 'Did you know that contracts can be written in comic book form?'
Renee says 'Neat' and resumes her day, works late until nobody is around to realise that said work is not for Soden and/or Underlings. She writes contracts with the Fire Chicken Ink Quill until said writing generates enough kinetic energy within said quill that its tip lights flame applied to joint of El Dorado Green.
The usual good practice of opening the window. Tonight, however, Renee straps the Parachute-Which-Doesn't-Actually-Have-A-Parachute-But-Deploys-A-Pink-Dragon-Themed-Bouncy-Castle-Beneath-You to her back and leaps out the window. Tumbling ten stories, she takes another drag between lips grinning dumb and pulls the rip-cord.
She rolls her ankle and goes 'cunt'. Renee crawls out from the bouncy castle. Fists in air, she shouts at stalled traffic:
'I write contracts in order to get high. Now I can draw contracts whilst high. Proooductivity gaaains.  Now, where crayons at?'
The first contract that Renee writes, in exchange for a Four Pack of Beer which becomes Dirty Granny cider:
 

This contract stipulates that the signatory may use this (ladies) bathroom if they agree to be filmed in there. This is not a porn thing because, voyeuristic footage of unknowing women passing waste is, unfortunately, readily available. These bathrooms are the brainchild of Malcolm, straight white misogynist who always wanted to know, what do they talk about in there? The most direct way of getting this information was to establish a chain (thirteen around Australia and expanding into New Zealand) of privately owned female toilets which are cleaner than those provided by shopping centres or councils. (Professionals were hired via rumour passed around the de facto cleaner's guild. These veterans have seen some literal shit and are down with Malcolm's bathrooms because they always wanted to know how does it get on the walls? Like, diarrhea happens, sure, and we've all seen the footprints that people leave of toilet seats because they squat. But, come on, the walls?)
Malcolm's bathrooms prove successful - people similarly sacrifice their privacy for the convenience of Google or Facebook. Early adopters produce insightful footage i.e. three women stand in a loose circle. One holds palms apart at shoulder's length:
'I once caught one that was this big.'
The second woman, hands apart at 50cm: 'Yeah, well I caught one thiiiis big.'
The third woman stretches her arms out fully out and smirks.
They are not talking about fish.
Another example: two women look into their reflections in the wall-long mirror whilst applying their tampons. One says to the other:
'The small industrials accumulation index is down around 10 per cent from February 2020. In contrast, mining stocks, small resources accumulation, are up 45 per cent, so there are attractively priced opportunities in the small industrials space where the emerging opportunities fund invests.'
Malcolm has proved his start-up model but is not sure what to do with it now and so wants to sell out like that MySpace guy. This is not a Big Data deal but Small Data and thus Malcolm begins a back and forth that leads to a wine bar.
Malcolm: 'Jessica. Cab sav?'
Jessica: 'I prefer shiraz. A bit more fruit-forward.'
'Fruit forward?' He thinks he understands. 'When in Rome, drink pinot noir.'
'Grenache is a more fruit-forward light red.'
'Light red?' Malcolm blinks. 'Chardonnay it is.'
' Sémillon.'
'Sauvignon blanc?'
 'Pinot grigio.'
'But when I said pinot grigio you said grenache.'
Hospitality staff pours them both a GSM and backs away.
'So.' Jessica does not taste the wine. 'Your toilet data. What do you want for it?'
Malcolm stands, clasps hands behind back and begins pacing: 'You understand computers. Data, algorithms and the like. You are ahead of your field yet you, even you, do not make the leaps and bounds of your predecessors. I seek to crack the Queer Code. To do so, I want the Turing Machine.'
'You know, you know, you know, you know what? Sure.'