I open my mouth in order to speak what are hopefully not my last words. "You know, Mr. Zuckerberg, that I am Dutch?"
"No, I didn't. But I don't see what that's got to do with anything."
"Well, without the Dutch, facebook would never have existed."
"What kind of nonsense is that. I would have been perfectly able to found facebook without your puny country. Where are you anyway? Somewhere between France and Germany, right?"
"It is true, though. Just watch this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7ZizDguxJA It explains everything. So you should be very grateful towards the Dutch. Not killing me is the least you could do."
The wrinkles in Zuckerberg's forehead indicate he is about to lose his temper. "Jesus, I may be hyperintelligent but I don't have a photographic memory. You really expect me to remember that entire URL link?"
"Oh yeah, I'm sorry, I can write it out if you like."
"Save yourself the effort. This crazy talk has lasted more than long enough. If you don't have anything more interesting to say, it is time you meet your maker."
I start to see my escape effort is probably not working. I see the metal gun, around which Zuckerberg's slightly trembling hand is pinched like a constrictor. I see the surreal, cyan light spiral down all around me. I see the dismay that shines out of both eyes of the French girl. After a while, I can see nothing but that dismay.
"Wait!" I squeak. "I want to know one thing. Are you going to kill her too?"
Zuckerberg is silent for a moment. Then a sardonic smile traverses his face.
"Ah, love; a dreadful bond, and yet, so easily severed. Tell me..."
"Davy Jones."
"What?"
"You're quoting Davy Jones from the Pirates of the Caribbean series. Please keep the dialogues in this story original, or we'll all get sued for copyright infringement."
For the first time, Zuckerberg's face seems to show some disarray. "Uhm, yeah, you're right. I'm sorry. I meant..."
"And I'm not in love. She's just a character while I'm the writer, it would never work up between us. I only feel... responsible."
"Right! Well, then it will please you that I am not going to shoot her. But of course, she can't wonder freely over the planet any longer, she knows too much. But I think I might have a nice occupation for her at my private estate back in Palo Alto. Don't worry about her, lad. So, enough idle gossip. I think we have reached the climax of this episode. Close your eyes, if you like. I'll count to three."
I look at my companion; her dismay has been replaced by fear. For some strange reason, my own mind seems to ease down, as if my anguish as sipped into her body.
"One."
I close my eyes because the last thing I want to see before I die are the cloudy lowlands of the Netherlands, that, at this strange moment, I miss more than I'd ever thought possible.
"Two."
It rains in the Netherlands, with a certitude I have never felt before I know that it rains in the Netherlands at this very moment. And the only thing I'd want is to feel the rain on my face one more time, but all I can do is wait for the three to pierce my heart, or my head. And then, I realise something, something important, something crucial. But I have no time to finish my thought, because I hear the sound of a soft 'Pang'. For one moment I think I am dead. Then I open my eyes and see I am not. Mar Zuckerberg is lying in the sand with his arms clasped at the backside of his head, behind stands the fossilised hotelier with a broken bottleneck in his hand.
"The Queen, May She Live Eternally, contacted me to say you were in danger. She shouldn't have waited one more moment, I see."
He picks up the gun and looks at it with fascination. "What is this?" he asks.
"No time to explain. You've saved my life, sir - well, my fictional life, but still - and I owe you eternal gratitude. But I need to go now. I have a mission to fulfill. Please take care of this scoundrel. Will you come with me?"
The French girl nods, she still looks terrified, like she can't believe what just happened. "You're still alive," she whispers. "I had my eyes closed, and when the bottle came down I thought..."
"Of course not," I taunt, "I am the writer and protagonist of this story. We still have some episodes to go. How could they ever been fulfilled without me? It's time to go."
"Go again? To where this time?"
"To Barcelona, lady. The city of angels."