Hi, I’m the best.
At just 35 years old, I am a multi-billionaire; in fact, the world’s 8th richest person. I made it onto the list of Forbes Top 10 innovative leaders, Time’s Most Influential People since 2010, and am at the forefront of tackling the low literacy rate in developing countries. Oh yeah, I also founded this little social media company called Facebook.
Today I am standing in trial, accused of the murder of my wife Priscilla Chan.
The prosecutor shows the jury pictures of her death. They are certainly grisly, and I hear several jury members gasp in shock. She was violently hacked down in house, beaten over the head about 30 times. However, I am unfazed. My embedded Bluetooth earbud playing Chopin’s Nocturnes has just hit the legato melody, completely captivating my attention.
Of course, I didn’t do it. Even had I wanted my wife gone, I would have picked something more elegant. Maybe a novel chemical compound, or hiring an Eastern European hitman, but getting my hands dirty is simply beneath someone of my stature.
But, secretly, or perhaps not, I am delighted by my wife’s death. Priscilla had become quite irritating after the birth of my second daughter. She kept nagging to me that I should donate more of my wealth to the Chan Zuckerberg Foundation. You know, the one where she’s the poster child of and I am the money pump? TMZ got ahold of the information that I was planning divorce her but was in process of figuring out how to retain my assets. Thus, the public opinion, and the one espoused by the prosecutors, is this constitutes motive for me murdering my wife.
Sheryl Sandberg, my COO, hired the best legal team is the money can buy. Harvard Law professor, Ronald Sullivan, is my lead defense lawyer. He’s trained under the great Johnny Cochrane, the legendary OJ Simpson lawyer, and my equivalent in the legal world. Ronnie is not too bad himself, getting Aaron Hernandez out of double murder conviction a couple of years ago, and Hernandez, as his gang tattoos so obviously dictate: he did it.
My COO Sheryl Sandberg whispers to me that Ronnie is excellent at seeding doubt among the jury. I chuckle to her that there’s no need to seed any doubt, and despite their incompetence, the public would see my innocence. My voice draws ire from both the judge and the sitting jury.
Ronnie stands up to present my alibi. It’s a dated security video at Facebook HQ tennis courts of me perfecting my serving over the ambiance of the entire Bach Fugues. The giant wall clock perfectly corroborates my innocence. The jury looks intently onto the screen, but I don’t think they grasp the grace and power of my serves. Perhaps the dissonance of Fugue has made their heads dizzy as well.
Next, the prosecutor brings forth “witnesses”, or, probably stooges paid by those losers at Snapchat. They’ve been mightily upset that Instagram is doing so much than their app. Sure, my team borrowed a couple of features, but as we all know, design is not patentable under US law. One of the witnesses is cross-examined over a piece of video evidence, in which a hazy individual of my figure is seen to enter my house. Then the commotion begins, lots of indiscriminate and incoherent shouting between Priscilla and someone that sounds quite like me, and then finally the dull thud sound of a sandbag hit by a blunt instrument.
I snort. My research engineers were in fact the first ones to develop the technology to seamlessly alter the build and voice of any individual in videos, and now this technology is used against me. The jury looks at me, incredulous, and the judge reprimands me for contempt. I snort again, more quietly.
Any third party will tell you that the situation looks grim for me, and I can see some of the jury members squirming uncomfortably in their seats. However, I’m not worried. The trump card of my innocence is leveraging Facebook’s improved lie detector with 99 percent accuracy, as certified by the American Psychological Association. Some industry experts have even called this the top invention of this year. Priscilla had asked me to lend the machine to the Innocence Project, but I refused under the guise of being “too costly to manufacture”, saving it especially for myself under situations like today.
Now it’s my turn to take the stand. After wheeling in the machine, the bailiff connects the various wires and contraptions to my body.
“What is your name?” The judge asks, fixating her gaze at the machine’s screen.
“Mark Zuckerberg, your honor.” I put on Brahms’s A German Requiem and smile.
--
Two days later, as expected, I’m acquitted of all charges. FB stocks rose 18 percent on the news of my release. This little debacle has made me the world’s 6th richest person. Not bad for a couple days of trial.
I switch back to my olive-green t-shirt and return to Facebook the very same day to both boost morale. I had wanted Sheryl to play Tchaikovsky’s overture to my return, but she suggested that it would be improper. Even so, as I walk into the office, I’m surprised no one is cheering for me; their faces somber… and some even full of disgust? At times, I do loathe my employees: I give them the opportunity to earn 200 grand a year straight out of college and more importantly, work under me, and this is the loyalty that I’m repaid with.
Sheryl welcomes me back to my office. I take a furtive peek at her backside: she looks amazing for a 50-year-old. Now that my wife is gone, should I give her a shot? My thoughts are interrupted by Sheryl hastily pulling a memo off my desk. I catch a glance at the header: something about a machine that does selective memory replacements.
A set of strange but familiar recollections float up into my head. Red. Bloodstain on the carpet. Me holding my golf club, violently hacking at Priscilla, her screams choraling with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons: Autumn Concerti, playing in the background.
![:]](./images/smilies/icon_smiling.png "Cheerful Smile"){kind=icon}