Finally, a man with a beige suit dared break the awkward silence. Capalbo’s eyes quickly fixed on him. He was in his forties, with sparse, but ideally tidy blond hair, beady eyes, and a precisely calculated smirk on his face.

'I believe I have exactly what you need, Mr Capalbo.' He said calmly. A trace of exotic accent marked his speech. Capalbo guessed Eastern European.

'And you are…?'

'Oh, forgive me.' Beige suit apologised indifferently. 'Vladimir Marinov, from Bulgaria.' The other presenters coughed in attempt to cover their surprise and amusement, but Vladimir apparently ignored them completely.

'Our company hires only the best designers and psychologists. Our advertisements make the product wanted and needed by addressing the precise factors to make impression. We believe in impact, Mr Capalbo, not flashiness.'

The gloating laughter that followed his words wasn’t even attempted to be covered. Some of the presenters snorted through tightened lips, others cackled, and Carl Jefferson, the designer of the previously demonstrated ad, went as far as to openly stand up and declare:

'With all due respect, Mr Marinov, this is ridiculous. Bulgaria doesn’t even have electricity and roads everywhere, what can you possibly offer to George Capa —'

'Enough.' Capalbo slammed the desk with his hand to produce silence. 'Let’s see what Mr Marinov has to show.'

Vladimir Marinov sat down and hit a few buttons on his laptop before the big screen became white again. For a few moments, the only audible noise was coming from the air conditioners in the room.

And then suddenly an image of a middle-aged man appeared on the ad. The man wore ordinary, everyday clothes, and was smiling politely. However, there was something slightly disturbing, slightly out of place that made Capalbo stare the monitor without being able to look away.

The image was generic, and yet attractive in a way. Capalbo realised that the man’s happiness appeared genuine, unlike the forced smiles on the other advertisements. For a moment, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen on television.

And the moment was gone, the spell was broken, as the man in front of him spoke.

'Look at me. I am happy.'

The voice. It was so flat; it was expressionless, hypnotic, monotonous voice. Somehow it bypassed the distance between the speakers and Capalbo’s ears and reached directly into his brain, echoing, tolling, reflecting itself around his nerves like in a tight tunnel, its strength magnified million times.

Now Capalbo wasn’t charmed anymore. He was horrified.

With effort, he managed to turn his eyes away from the screen, before the man started talking again.

'The Product makes me happy.'

The entire room, except for Vladimir, was staring at the advertisement in trance, the white light illuminating their blank facial grimaces. Terrified, Capalbo realised that the echo he felt before was actually the voices of the other presenters, repeating the very same words like a student choir.

'The Product gives my life a purpose.'

Every single man was hypnotised, unable to break away, unable to even twitch a muscle. They were crippled to their chairs, gazing unseeingly in front of them, quoting everything the man said.

'I present you, dear Capalbo, my advertisement model', Vladimir proclaimed, walking towards the CEO, with the same shining smile.

'This is…'

'Insane?' He hinted. 'No, sir. This is the future of the commercial business. Everywhere, at home, at work, at school, people will praise your product in unison, subconsciously, until it builds up and cements in their mind. They will believe they absolutely have to buy it, and it will make their lives happy. What else do we, humans, need?'

'…I must purchase The Product…'  The man and the audience kept chanting. Capalbo watched, unable to say a word.

'You are—'

'The human mind…' Vladimir interrupted again, ignoring Capalbo completely. 'It’s such a wonderful, treacherous thing. So… vulnerable. Like a gentle harp. All you need to do is find the correct way to pull the string, to make it resonate. It’s all inside your head.'

'…I WILL purchase The Product…'

'And because I allowed myself a little session with you before our audition, I changed your mind’s fundamental frequency, and you were unaffected by the resonance in my demonstration. Nobody will remember anything from the commercial, even the fact they have seen it. All they will remember is how happy the product will make them, and the dire need to buy that product, at all costs.'

'…I will be happy.'

'So what do you think, Mr Capalbo? Shall we discuss my offer further?'

Capalbo hesitated for a moment, looking in pure horror at the blank crowd, the happy man on the screen, and the Bulgarian with the beige suit who was offering him the very chance to become a sick, tyrannical, twisted ruler of the entire world, like Mephistopheles himself.

'You are a genius, Vladimir. I accept your offer.'

This endless ocean of sand is blazing
Under the scorching gaze of the sun
Forever drifting in the sea of time

Deathly wind caresses these lands
Descending down from the burning sky
It slowly withers life away
Scatters the clouds and dries the earth
Charring the days, freezing the nights

Dreary phantoms haunt the dunes
Pale shadows of a distant past
Mournful dreams of once lush land
Long gone and buried under ash

Those cursed winds they race in the sky
Infernal storms of sand and death

Ragged strangers wander the vast
Carrying their homes on weary camels
Charmed by visions of beautiful worlds
They roam the desert day and night
Lost within the sea of sands
Until their final days have come

And when the mirage melts away
And thirst and hunger embrace the soul
The eternal sands become your home

He woke up. He'd had a bad dream - he was shot, and dying. Painfully. It had been very vivid, but he tried to ignore it. And eventually succeeded. He was lying on the grass, with a number of ants up his legs, and the sun setting in red flares. The field work was tiresome, indeed.

'C'mon, Sandman', his friend John's voice came from behind, 'it's 8 o'clock already'.

It was not a particularly exciting day for Sam. He'd worked all day, and would now go home, have a scanty dinner, go to his little room and try to get some more rest on his uncomfortable bed. But while headed home, clouds gathered rapidly overhead. "Rain", Sam thought spitefully. He hated working in the mud. But the clouds became denser. And denser. It was immensely hot, even for August, but he didn't pay attention to this, focused on his hurrying.

And then it started. It bursted. It exploded. Rain and thunder were racing in the ether. Sam suddenly stopped. John was 50 metres ahead, and obviously terribly wet already.

There was something strange. Sam didn't feel wet. He rushed his fingers through his hair - dry. Why wasn't he wet? He didn't know. He was slightly curious, though, but didn't afford to think further. Didn't look around. And stepped ahead, again heading home for his dinner and warped bed. After the first few steps his clothes were soaked with sticky fluid. He rubbed his face - the fluid was colourless, like water. But it was sticky. He barely removed his hand from his cheek. He was moving slowly, with a lot of effort. The rain was falling. He let out a swarm of curses towards the nearby factory, presumably blaming it for the strange rain. Then he got completely stuck to the ground. He was scared. But nothing more than that. Now he craved for his dinner and his gloomy room.

A thunder echoed...

And then he woke up.

'Sammy, the guy at table three is waiting', he heard.

He grabbed the coffee, almost spilling it out, and served it to the gentleman at table three. "Why did I agree to take John's 6 hours", he asked himself. John was a friend of his. They have known each other since school, and now they were 25. John asked Sam to take his hours while he did some arrangements with the electricity company. Sam agreed, but serving drinks for 12 hours, barely having time to sit, in addition to the party last night was indeed tiresome. Which would explain him falling asleep on a chair by the closet.

It was not a particularly exciting day for Sam, apart from a few smiles by a group of girls. Once Sam read the cliche "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away". He liked it. He considered the parties breathtaking, though he often had troubles remembering what exactly had happened. And tonight there was a party again - at block 44, near the cafe he worked in. With 5 minutes left, John showed up at the door.

'Sam', he shouted, 'let's go, the guys are waiting'.

At the same moment the bartender, Jimmy, shouted 'Sam, where is the party tonight'.

At the same moment Sam looked at the TV, where they were interviewing Sam Collins, the coach of the local football team; a second later the sky was flashed with the name of Sam Milkins - the gentleman was running for mayor for the third time, but his success was again doubted.

Sam, the waiter, merely noted the strange coincidence, and in 5 seconds he was out, with John, heading for their room in block 43 to prepare for the party. Halfway John decided to go and buy some cigarettes, so Sam continued walking alone. But much to his surprise the entrance of the block was not there - there was fresh concrete instead of it.

He was now surprised, but he became even more surprised, when two men grabbed him and threw him on the back seat of a car. In seconds they were dashing around the cars on the boulevard, towards the fields out of the city. He was silent. They exited the city, and took a dirt road into the fields. It was cloudy, just about to rain. Two men were running through the field. At that point Sam remembered his short dream. It seemed meaningless, though, so he ignored it. He then muttered a question to his kidnappers - 'Why me, I'm just an ordinary guy'.

A creepy thunder came instead of an answer...

And then he woke up.

The shovel was still in his hands, and the gravestone behind his back was cold. Thirteen graves for one day had indeed tired him. Thirteen graves to shelter what had once been men, but were now only bodies. In fact Sam used to ask himself what the difference is. And he didn't know the answer. Why were the bones and flesh unable to get up and start working again? They never did, so he was digging new graves. And new ones.

He stood up from where he had slept for a while, and glimpsed the nearby factory. It was emitting dense yellow smoke as usual. Then they came - a dozen of people, carrying a coffin. They slowly descended the coffin into one of Sam's masterpieces. It was gloomy. Then he went up the path between the graves, to a place where he could see the whole graveyard. And he saw that all the graves he dug today were just filled with their inhebitants. 13 groups of no more than 10 people each, at different parts of the graveyard, descending the physical result of thirteen men's lives.

He turned the other way. And noticed an obituary - someone named Sam Jones had died yesterday. Maybe he was among those thirteen down there. And maybe not. It didn't matter - it was just another day of work, and Sam headed for his cottage, 10 minutes from the graveyard.

Then he saw a car coming, it almost hit him. There was a man lying on the back seat. It reminded Sam of his dream, but he didn't pay much attention, and resumed his pace towards his cottage.

He was there. But the cottage wasn't.

There was a big hole on its place. "A grave", Sam thought. He looked down the hole - a big coffin, made out of old wood. He could recognize the peeling paint of his cottage on the coffin - it was his home. Where would he live now?

A flash. A thunder...

And then he woke up.

It was his bed, his room, his flat. The girl next to him - the one from the bar last night - still sleeping. Yet another one on his account. He looked through the window. Nothingness. This used to scare him from time to time, and he hoped they will build the new hypermarket next to his block faster, so that he sees something, be it a wall. The girl woke up, dressed quickly, and left.

"Bye, Sam".

He didn't bother to reply. He looked at the calendar. August 13th. Saturday. He was having a meeting with the investors in the afteroon. It was important. They had insisted on a meeting with the managers, and Sam being one of them, had to introduce the new plans of the factory. They have worked hard to improve quality and productiveness. It was all numbers in his head.

He stood, and looked himself in the mirror. He felt happy, with what he's doing, with what he had to do. He switched the TV on. The news. Nothing interesting. He looked in the mirror again. He felt lonely. He ignored it. The fridge was empty, so he went to the shop at the corner. "What will happen to it, when they build the hypermarket", he thought, "who cares".

On his way back he stared in the nothingness. In the distance thousands of gravestones reflected the mild sunshine. For a second he remembered his dream. The sun suddenly disappeared.

A flash, a thunder.

Screams. Masked men running around him. Shooting. A bullet passing through his body.

He fell. He felt he's dying. Painfully.

He fell asleep.

Would he wake up? Who cares...