In the mundane, current-gen world of our "competitors", a physical store stocks a limited supply, while its online counterpart provides access to everything, if with a time delay as things are built and delivered.
(Also: while touching demo products is encouraged offline, one should keep one's fingers away from the specialists.)
In Shniff Land, it works a little different. Our physical stores – over a thousand across the globe, sites selected based on patterns from the Orb, each serving as a node, interconnected, and repositioned, occasionally, as our knowledge of the artefact increases – provide immediate access to everything, of our own design and our alien-approved partners, powered by what we call our "magical back rooms". Our specialists will bring you whatever you desire, whether expressed in words, or thought, determined by you, or their own insight. We guarantee you'll be pleased. Almost certainly, you will feel an urge to touch your specialist. Please do so. They've been trained by an alien First Contact manual to welcome your excitement.
Our selection is more limited online, if still exciting, at least when accessed with a conventional browser. There is a back room, of a sort, the code powering this site, but it is, necessarily, native text, and so: we can only offer so much tech, lest your browser becomes overwhelmed and explodes your device. Even branded Shniff. And you will be covered in – if you'll pardon – shit, with our "competitors".
Shniffit will save the day. For while the selection will stay the same for current-gen browsers, the higher-dimensional view will open windows to the Orb. To its patterns, the magical back rooms. Things will just appear. In your kitchen. Your bedroom.
You will become your own specialist…
Note: Limited, somewhat unstable, pre-pre-alpha Shniffit functionality is currently available in the Shniff app.
Do you dream of a phone-type device which could slip easily into your leather pants without unsightly bulge and periscope effect, and yet when removed, could offer a screen the size of a tablet, TV – an ocean, even! – while still allowing one-hand use, plus the option for a two-week cruise?
Well dream no more! Or rather, continue to dream, but now not of "of", but of "do". Dreaming of: what you'll do. All the things! For it exists! And it is, even now, being shipped by two-day cruise. Two-month returns. No questions asked. Well just the one…
. plus two: ++ 2 = six-dimensional substrate ++ crystal-rodded boost, plus Blue Vapour CPU. GPU. U. Make it you. Yours. Engraved with your interdimensional name, if you so desire, it is:
"Ready?" the captain asks.
"Am I ready… I…"
"Are you ready for the great adventure!"
"Am I ready… I… front of the line… back of the line… somewhere in the middle, I guess… I… am dreaming… of a ham sandwich…"
Look, don't be "that" person, okay? You. Do you: of you. Don't be, effectively, asleep in this world, staring at your current-gen device. Current physics. There is magic right before you! Next-gen+, ++, next-next-gen+++ configurations! That you may dream… dream… across the ocean of your screen. Be a child, for a time. Be in wonder of it all! WOW!!
Then slip it in your pocket, and you are smiling, and you state, with the assurance of alien blood: "Yes, Captain, I am. I have returned, in this moment, from an artificial life, a cruise of many years, and I am ready for another. Let it take as long as it takes! Though with the shapes, interquantum gate, could it be we are already there? Hmm…"
Peter Vodernach was an incredible Shniff spy who exploded in the line of interdimensional duty, attempting to put an end to the insanity of the Bringers, who would threaten to destroy us all! Who would threaten to destroy our home, our true home. Destroy our gods.
Who would threaten to destroy themselves, in the final madness.
And what would be left, in the current home, but delightful Shniff product one couldn't take home. For one would have no home, true home. And what would it even matter? We would all be dead.
What would be left, but Shniff Juice Bars over which so many of us have exploded, just like the spy, Peter Vodernach, if likely without, thank the gods, that tremendous, pungent wind which resulted from some incompatibility with the cubic belt.
Not that such odour would even matter, of course. For we would all be dead.
And yet… we are not dead, thanks to heroes like Peter Vodernach. Thanks to the Shniff spies and security teams who keep us safe. And so: in honour of that great man, we have renamed our alien-grade, crystalline computer thing, né Cube Machine, the Vodernach Machine, with a portion of every sale going to the Vodernach family, who will also receive lifetime supplies of Vanilla Emission ice cream with their choice of chocolate star or mini turd – a little of both, for little Amanda! – and who have agreed not to sue for endangering their beloved husband, father, with a perhaps-not-quite-authentic interdimensional belt.
Thank you, Team Vodernach. It was getting a little heated for a while!
Further: We are creating a Vodernach scholarship at Tetrahedron University for aspiring spies.
Also: Every shopper who witnessed Peter's explosion, even the ones who laughed, will be receiving a discount voucher for their next Shniff purchase to assist with their trauma through retail therapy. Hooray!
As for the Machine itself, it's just great! Next-gen+, ++, next-next-gen+++ configurations, catering to every budget and aspiration to the stars. Super-fast, super-delicious. Cable-free. Holographic screen.
And you can see…
There is nothing there…
…apparently. For this is the magic of the 9-Vogen molecule. It exists. And with 10, the Machine will disappear. But it is there, for now, vibrating at subtle levels. May I touch you there? There? Place your hand on the top. Hear the whispers from beyond…
…cry not for me, Sarah. Cry not, medium Jonny. Little Amanda! Well, you're probably not, what with "time" having passed by now. What with the cubic windfall and all! Enjoy it :) It's so much more than I ever could have given you, even as a top-tier spy. No need to sue. I'm here with the Barneses btw. They've kind of adopted me! You wouldn't believe… wouldn't believe…
Some say installation of a Shniff cerebral implant is an awful event indeed = blood, scream, performed out of sight in the near-infinite depths of the magical back rooms of our physical stores, way to the back, off to the side, hidden behind so many matter-bending waves of interdimensional creation, non-creation, that the rewiring of the customer's mind which arrives with the second needle (painful beyond belief, apparently) is just part of the flow, the screams well concealed, the blood sprays fully absorbed by the Vortex – indeed, bringing life, thereby, to magical product – plus a whisper of wipe = release… to a smile = not a drop of trauma, only post-operative smiles. Nectar tea at the Juice Bar. A banner on one's device:
"Official Shniff Cyborg" has been added to your wallet.
One taps through to one's Cyborg ID.
One has become a number.
Is it true, what they say? The blood? The screams? Does it matter, with the wipe? Is v5 more awful than 4? One would think so.
And 6 will arrive with our alien gods, joining 10-V in the virtual, the real, spoken in ORB, as the worlds are made one, where anything is possible. And everything is bliss.
And thus: who gives a fuck? Frankly. Who worries about pain, when satisfaction is off the charts! Who worries, when none of this is really necessary. Actually. By Abseenus, this is the age of alien surgery! N-dimensional rods!
But the blood… to create.
And the screams… the elites, to perform. Moaning rows of shadowy figures behind the wall. Just kidding…
So you see, it's just fine. More than fine! Become a number. Roll up, roll up, for your v5 Shniff implant. Travel to the stars! Even 4 will get you there (kinda), with illegally hacked firmware courtesy of our friends at Juices 4 U. (May interfere with TurdIgnore attachment.)
Congratulations! You have passed through the gates of bloody awfulness, supposedly. Given your screams, so they say, for the elites. You've performed. Nothing proved. And all of it wiped, just in case.
You are a cyborg.
You are yourself, and more. Rewired, and yet still empty. Relaxing at the Juice Bar with your tea – nectar, perhaps, or liquified carrot, gravy wine with roast beef pearls, or something green, with wobbly bits – and you can see with newfound sight, augmented views, and something more. The virtual, real, plus a sense of something more, combined. Plug in, and play a game. Leather for me! Lie back, and enjoy a borderline-orgasmic brain massage courtesy of your cerebral implant, with total app control, optionally synced with the weather forecast displayed in the eyes of your blow-up alien friend, who loves you very much.
[ § ]
Pretty damn awesome, huh? Indeed.
But what does it all mean, without testing the guarantee? Leak-free for 10,000 years. Hooray! What does it mean, without testing one's capacity for ignoring turd, redirecting the coming log to a subtle space, to disappear, temporarily, till one is ready for the throne?
Or controlling your barista's mind, thereby receiving an additional squirt of cream on your pumpkin spice latte, in-game. Out of game. And one day: they are combined. Through v6, and 10-V, equals:
[ § ]
And so: there are juices, and attachments. There is a reservoir, for your juice. There are these kind of notch things in the reservoir to attach TurdIgnore and MindControl functionality, to AstralProject, inspect, "massage". Eg:
Wondering how the log's doing in the subtle space? AstralProject will take you there to meet with the turd foreman on the way to a subtle spa. (The subtle spaghetti with seitan meatballs is off the charts btw. Not to mention the… "massage".)
Juices, to drink. And juices to inject into your reservoir with an n-dimensional rod. Blood-free. Scream-free. No wall, for the elites. We'll do it for you at the Juice Bar, and there are juicetubes to take home. From us. From Juices 4 U 123, where only the gorgeous survive.
Be beautiful or… be disappeared!
There are juices for all sorts of things. Customise your views. Customise your mix, in the app. Add boosts to your attachments, boosts to your games. Be sure to clean your reservoir, going deep once a month. Fizzing tablets, via rod. A toothbrush for 4; v5 is automatic.
Note: It is said that Juices 4 U deep cleaning tablets can, for a few, numb the tongue (and the butt, by way of sustained throne), can leave certain individuals with mysterious pre-existing conditions prone to delusion, if capable of the most incredible alien-grade turds and accompanying moans.
If that's your style: go for it. If you're low on toilet paper / have thin walls / prefer not to skip between realities: maybe stick with the official Shniff shit, to be safe.
And whatever you do: please don't inject liquified ham sandwich into your reservoir (squishy white loaf, a thick layer of unsalted butter), whether to clean it, or boost your desire for ham, as is the current trend in certain circles. For while we respect every individual's right to consume meat, the implant itself is 100% vegan, what with being inspired by our alien gods and all, those great beings only taking of flesh during invasions, then vomiting it in some sort of taint-evacuating fertilising ritual. Just kidding…
Lick your way to alienotic variance and an interdimensional name with our complimentary genetic test, performed at your convenience at a virtual Shniff lab. Proudly display your name with an interdimensional name tag, available in a variety of woods, metals, etc. 9-Vogen crystal. Also: a rubbery material, for active types, reminiscent of overcooked beef (in a good way), or an artificial ear.
Our complimentary genetic test provides both your genetic variance and, with a little extra effort, your interdimensional name. A variance approaching Level 5 – and ideally 5 – suggests a readiness for the ultimate geminOS experience. Your interdimensional name suggests…
Well, we don't really know tbh. Yes, we have the most brilliant engineers. Yes, we have the most attractive welcomers at the reception desk at Shniff HQ. And yes, there is a Level 5 entity, a former welcomer, engineer, a former government agent, a former form of many things, with the name X Verexus, whose non-wedding to Vanilla Emission aficionado and Shniff Director of Alien Relations, Zohan Pahsh (commemorative invitation available; proof of non-attendance required), was attended by a thousand guests, each of whom hid their identity behind a veil; each of whom had donated a million credits to the Periscope Foundation; and each of whom received their interdimensional name that day, spoken over meat, across the roast beef, the slicers' name tags read:
"Yes, I am Cook, of Manor Shniff fame, immortalised in Shniff vX: The Coming of the Orb, and not her daughter. There was a time I was rotund, and getting on in age, with movement and breathing difficulties. I feared I would expire before they came! However, exposure to the Orb's filtered waves while delivering Mr Shniff's meals, snacks and tea, and helping to change the drips, to be followed by being sick, to self-cleanse through extensive barf in the bathroom beside the auric absorption chamber – cleansing both my body and my mind, the thoughts of him, the poor man! – has had a magical rejuvenating effect, with most of my ailments healed, and others responding well to a beef-based ointment whose design came to me during preparations for this feast.
"Also: As you may have noticed, there are ten of [ME] today, in a ring, slicing meat. Or so it would appear. Since they're not here. Kinda. And what of me? Beef. An interquantum gate. This data has been created, conveyed. My name tag now reads: COOK. Your name tag reads: VEREXUS."
And yes, this is so.
And yes, it did happen. Will have happened+++.
And no, non-lovers of meat, a roast beef station is no longer required to receive your interdimensional name, nor a million-credit donation to the Periscope Foundation, aka the bulging rear pocket of Zohan Pahsh's leather pants = Pahsh has promised to get me to the front of the line, yum… for the fingers… mmm…
For yes, with her consent (kinda), we hooked Cook up, downloaded her brain, placed a rubbery, artificial ear against her lips during whispered prayer service, which she would lick, occasionally, sending numbers to the GEMINUS AI, which would enter their source, abstract to a sphere, flattened to a disc, a yellow dot, to be licked.
"Release me… release…"
Release to… what, exactly?
What, exactly, are these names for? Will we whisper them when the aliens arrive, and so be welcomed aboard their ships and invited to the first round of touching rituals? Perhaps. Will these rituals involve not only the finger, but the tongue? Maybe… Would it help, in the meantime, to present oneself as interdimensional-ready, alerting any undercover aliens, or at least, showing oneself to be part of the club, and thus one is invited to alien events, to lavish non-weddings. One receives discounts on alien-related things, like nectar tea at Shniff Juice Bars. Preferred entrance to the non-existent Museum of Alien History. Almost certainly.
And so: there are woods, metals, etc to display your name. There is a rubbery material for active types. (Some say it reminds them of overcooked beef – in a good way; others: an artificial ear.) There is a crystalline material, similar to the lamp post rods, also developed from the 9-Vogen molecule. It performs a magical dump, as of Cook, from that day, of the person behind the name.
As they are.
Will have been+++.
Is it possible this extra detail will send you to the front of the line? One would think so. Are payment plans available for this crystal tag? Yes. Just close your eyes, tap your ear lobe three times (preferably while wearing leather pants). Alternatively: visit your local Shniff Store and lick a specialist's ear.
The thousand veiled guests who attended the non-wedding of Zohan Pahsh and X Verexus will never forget the day they received their interdimensional name, will never forget the billion-credit bulge in the rear pocket of Pahsh's leather pants.
Will never forget that final toast, of gravy wine with roast beef pearls, the drinking of which, on moaning waves, delivered them to the wonder of non-existence, yum…
For those who didn't attend, who still exist, who believe strongly enough in the healing properties of beef-based ointments, let us now travel, through shapeless imagination, to that non-event-to-be, protected by bubbles of beef from visibility, from the waves radiating from the interquantum gate, that Ring of Cooks which non-evented the event, that all was left was a commemorative invitation to something that never was. Is. Will have been+++.
Were you not there? Are? Can you prove it?
Take me to the stars…
To prove it, simply lick the yellow dot in the app, in the Who Am/Was/+++ I? identity enclave. If it turns green, you are free to proceed, for you do not belong to the line of the veiled.
And for that, you should be grateful. It is a burden, indeed. What do you see, within the leaves of the design? What is your name? What did they use to non-invite you? These are dimensions, and more. This is all, and not. Gravy wine, with roast beef pearls.
. . .
Eleven.1 years ago (note: due to the aliens' interquantum gate, this number never increases – think about it), Shniff ran what was, and remains, the most successful marketing campaign in history, opening the global mind to the existence of the beautiful, benevolent aliens who had planted the magical Orb on our planet, who had inspired a multigenerational leap in tech, which was about to be delivered. Whose remarkable powers, it seemed, could belong to as many as 10% of us.
We now believe this number to be 100%, that all of us are blessed with alien genetics. That all of us will fly, one day. Hooray!
Still, at the time, that heritage seemed selective.
Could it be… it…
Could it be me… let me purchase some of that craaazy new Shniff tech and see… sure, it's expensive as fuck, but fuck it! I wanna make beautiful alien love with the non-native of my dreams, yum… to come into my powers, wow… and even if I'm not a ten-per-center, fuck it! That tech is craaazy, yo! YEAH!!
Our "competitors" didn't like it, but everyone else was thinking about Love, about alien love, and so: the new Shniff was born. And so: the next-next-gen+++ would be born.
And so, one day, beautiful babies will be born. And we will travel to the stars, to Para'meesh IV.
We will be home.
Could it be… it… was, and is no more. It simply is. We all know. And we are here, now. But it's fun to reminisce. Or imagine one was there, in that time, that excitement. And so… there is Could it be… it… merch!
We've got the usual crap. T-shirts, mugs, lovemaking facilitators, etc. And then we go +, with a mini Could it be… it… interquantum gate / pen holder / lovemaking rod holder. We go ++ with a blow-up alien friend ;))) with vegan lovemaking rod holster, form-fitting lab coat with Could it be… it… badge, surgical gloves with extra-long fingers, and a connected brain, so that the weather may be displayed in your friend's eyes while you… operate on each other, yum…
And then +++! The ultimate merch. A packet of Could it be… it… seeds, a gift of trees to future seeds, to make their rods, to send them back through the interquantum gates which will be commonplace by then, to then settle into gates. Holster up your rod!
"If only I had an authentic Could it be… it… rod to slot into your vegan holster. Ah well… Now let's see… rain… Sunny tomorrow! At last."
"It arrives… from the so-called future. Let us begin. The lab coat is removable btw. Also the holster. Never the gloves, however."