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Domaining with cash: Prelude to a 99.999% true story


It’s the milliseconds before an act that count more than the moment the act is committed; sometimes, more than the act itself.

You feel your stomach turning into some form of twirling dynamo, your hands get tingly and your mouth becomes dry. You get tunnel vision.

I watched as he pressed the submit button, approving the transfer away from his domain account.

“It’s done, it’s over, it’s mine. Mother fucker!”

The words never came out, I had to maintain my composure. That was the plan: not to show any emotion, or the outrageous deal might fall apart.

He must have been more nervous than I was; he took the money out of the envelope for a recount, a pack of crispy one hundreds straight from the bank.

“We’re all set!” he said, smiling. I nodded, then shook his hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” I added.

“I have to catch the train back to New York. Keep in touch, ok?”

He waved, then drove off – and here I was, watching his car merge into the early morning traffic, until I could not read his license plates any longer.

“Mother fucker!”

This time, I screamed it all out with both fists raised in the air, in a sweet explosion of jubilant rage mixed with primordial chanting.

The train arrived 4 minutes behind schedule. This was clearly no Switzerland, but it felt as if I had just raided a Swiss bank vault.

~ To be continued.


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