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. 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…
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. And you can see… right… through it…
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…
. . .
. . .
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 vomiting sessions in the bathroom next to 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 a particularly explosive session. An alien inspiration! I will offer it to our gods, when they come, should they suffer in this world, attacks from the Bringers.
"Also: As you may have noticed, there are  : : : [ME]s today, in a ring, slicing meat. For the waves, the vomit, the cleanse have also had a magical duplication effect over the twenty-two point two years since the Orb was discovered and Mr Shniff commenced his probe, a new [ME] appearing every two-and-a-half-years or so, and mostly kept asleep in a large walk-in closet with a small table tennis facility until needed for non-events. They do not eat, drink, nor really smile, but they are happy. They are not slaves. They are nodes, in this ring, a sort of… beef-infused interquantum gate, if you will. 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, an orange 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, non-weddings, one receives discounts on alien-related things, such as entrance to the non-existent Museum of Alien History, nectar tea at Shniff Juice Bars, gravy tea with roast beef pearls? 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.
. . .
. . .
Eleven point one 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 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 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… and even if I'm not a five-per-center, fuck it! That tech is craaazy, yo! Yum! Hooray!
Our "competitors" didn't like it, but everyone else was thinking about Love, about beautiful alien love, and so: the new Shniff was born. And so: the next-next-gen+++ would be born.
And so, one day, beautiful alien babies will be born. And we will travel to the stars, to Para'meesh IV.
We will be home.
Could it be… it… is no more. It simply is. But if you'd like a reminder of those times, that excitement, why not load up on some 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.
And then +++! The ultimate merch. A packet of Could it be… it… seeds, to plant in your yard, a gift of trees to future generations, to make their rods, to send them back in time 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 holster, my dear. Ah well… Now let's see… Well! Sunny today! 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."