Truth in Advertising
The Honesty in Compressed Advertising Act of 2125 had seemed like a good idea at the time1. Unfortunately, like most laws dealing with compression technology, it had developed some unusual side effects.
“Next!” bellowed Clarence Wobblesworth III, Chief Compliance Officer at the Department of Advertising Standards (Temporal Division).
A nervous marketing executive entered, clutching a crystalline cube containing her company’s latest campaign.
“MegaCorp’s new slogan,” she began, “is ‘Taste the Future.’ We’re marketing compressed breakfast pills.”
“And what future would that be?” Clarence asked, his regulation notepad existing in three temporal states to catch violations in past, present, and future tense.
“Well... a future where food tastes like mathematics and regret?”
“That’s honest. Approved. Next!”
The Honesty Act required all compressed advertisements to include their actual effects, side effects, and probability of causing existential crisis. This had led to some interesting campaigns:
“NutriCompress™: It’s Food! Technically! The Metallic Aftertaste Means It’s Working!™”
“Transit-Express: We’ll Get You There! You Might Leave Part of Your Soul Behind!™”
“Quantum Shopping: Buy Things Before You Want Them! Bankruptcy Has Never Been So Efficient!™”
The next applicant was from Shadow-Mart, the company that had pioneered harvesting consciousness fragments from transit systems.
“Our slogan is ‘We Know What You Want Before You Do Because We Bought Your Abandoned Thoughts.’”
“Bit wordy,” Clarence noted.
“The compressed version is just a feeling of violation mixed with convenience.”
“Perfect. Approved.”
The real problem wasn’t the honesty—it was that consumers had stopped caring. Complete transparency about corporate surveillance and manipulation had simply become another brand feature. “Now with 43% more invasion of privacy!” was a genuine selling point.
“Sir,” his assistant materialize-suggested2, “we have a situation with TimeShare Properties™.”
Clarence groaned. TimeShare had been trying to advertise their “vacation ownership in parallel realities” scheme, but kept running into the temporal truth clause. How could they honestly advertise something that both did and didn’t exist?
“What’s their new approach?”
“They’re claiming their properties exist in a state of ‘quantum vacation superposition.’ You both are and aren’t on holiday until you observe your bank balance.”
“That’s... actually honest. Damn.”
The parade continued. Chrome-X admitted their energy drinks “contained the borrowed enthusiasm of future-you, causing temporal fatigue tomorrow.” SleepTight mattresses acknowledged they “compressed your dreams into nightmare diamonds.” Even the local grocery store’s slogan had become “Food! It Used to Be Better!™”
“The funny thing,” Clarence’s assistant mused, “is that sales are up across all sectors. People seem to appreciate knowing exactly how they’re being screwed.”
“That’s because,” said Clarence, approving an ad for pills that admitted they were “just compressed anxiety in tablet form,” “honesty has become so rare it’s a luxury good. We’ve made truth exotic.”
The final applicant of the day was from the Global Attention Exchange.
“We want to run a campaign targeting shadow consciousnesses—the accumulated fragments in transit systems.”
“And what are you selling to things that don’t technically exist?”
“Existence insurance. In case they accidentally become real.”
Clarence stared at the application. Marketing insurance to consciousness fragments for a reality they might never achieve. It was so honestly predatory it wrapped around to being almost admirable.
“Approved. Though add a disclaimer that existence is not guaranteed and may void warranty.”
As the day ended, Clarence looked out his window at New London’s compressed skyline, where buildings existed in more dimensions than strictly necessary. Every surface was an advertisement, every advertisement was honest about its manipulation, and somehow that made everything worse.
“Truth in advertising,” he muttered. “We’ve achieved it. And it turns out the truth is that everything is horrible and nobody cares.”
His assistant nodded, her head existing in three temporal states of agreement. “Shall I schedule tomorrow’s disappointments?”
“Please do. And use the honest calendar—the one that admits time is meaningless and we’re all going to die.”
“The cheerful one, then.”
“That’s the one.”