Randall Farmsworth Schin was a programmer by day and a programmer by night. He had contributed more to the firefox project than anyone before or since, and paid dearly with his pocketbook, social life, and finally his sanity.

But I’m getting ahead of myself (or behind, perhaps?). The story really begins much later.

Desks were a rarity in those days, but he kept one around; it had grown discolored over time, hidden from the light and spotted with ring stains and finished cigarettes. His former subdivision was a ghost town and the rumbles of the new monorail shook his windows at night. His only contact with the outside world was his command prompt, from which he dialed for pizza from time to time, and it always arrived cold.

Ignoring his reflection in the monitor (one lens jiggled crazily from the glasses frame, frayed duct tape spiraling toward the desk) he keyed a few more strokes and sat back. Finished. Finally, it was finished, and they would all pay.