Author squinted at the thumb drive in his hand, a small, plastic rectangle with a cheery logo from the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation—a company famed throughout the galaxy for producing devices that were both entirely unnecessary and catastrophically inconvenient. The drive was inexplicably sticky, despite the fact that it had never, to his knowledge, been near anything remotely liquid or even vaguely adhesive.
He examined it further, noting that the drive’s stickiness had a sort of insidious quality, one that seemed to latch onto fingers with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for fanatical salesmen or freshly-chewed bubble gum. This drive, Author realized, was yet another one of the corporation’s infamous "quirky" products, developed in their all-too-familiar style, which tended to prioritize style over any form of functional utility.
It was, as the Guide would later explain, one of the last products of the short-lived and extremely unfortunate planet Reghyptus-IV, an outpost that had been desperate to establish itself as a hub of intergalactic technological innovation. Unfortunately, Reghyptus-IV’s first, and only, major business contract had been with the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, a decision that would go on to ruin the planet both culturally and, quite literally, physically.
The trouble began with the Corporation’s patented Excessively Adhesive Promotional Thumb Drives, a product that had been marketed as “interactive” and “tactile,” which were terms the Corporation tended to use in place of “alarmingly sticky” and “impossible to clean.” The Guide itself had a rather direct opinion on these devices:
“The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation’s Excessively Adhesive Promotional Thumb Drives are generally considered one of the worst innovations in the history of modern marketing. They were promoted as ‘gifts’ but were, in fact, sinister traps. Any sentient being foolhardy enough to touch one would find it promptly adhered to their hand, thus ensuring they would always remember the product, if not exactly fondly.”
Reghyptus-IV had been well on its way to becoming a bustling center of commerce, but the thumb drive catastrophe had rather neatly put an end to that. You see, the Corporation had failed to consider the long-term implications of their invention. The adhesive material, which they’d charmingly dubbed “SuperStik,” was designed to bond to anything with a pulse. Unfortunately, it worked a bit too well, as the inhabitants of Reghyptus-IV soon found out. Within a matter of weeks, the entire planet had become enmeshed in a vast, tangled web of promotional drives, each one firmly glued to the hands, clothing, or, in one particularly tragic incident, the face of anyone who tried to use them.
Chaos ensued. Interplanetary trade came to a screeching halt as traders realized their ships were being boarded by small, sticky mobs clutching handfuls of thumb drives and demanding assistance in peeling them off. The economy collapsed, public infrastructure disintegrated, and eventually, the planet itself was rebranded as a “Galactic Hazard Zone” by the Interstellar Commerce Authority. Today, it exists as a cautionary tale, forever orbiting quietly in the backwaters of the galaxy, still covered in promotional thumb drives, each one eternally sticky and just as baffling as the day it was first distributed.
Author turned the drive over, half-expecting it to whisper menacingly or spontaneously emit a squelching sound. But it remained silent, gleaming innocently in the pale kitchen light. He’d had the misfortune of acquiring it some years ago, at a marketing event hosted by a now-defunct company that had been foolish enough to hand them out to every passerby. He’d been unable to get rid of it ever since. Every time he tried to throw it away, he’d find it inexplicably back in his possession, as if it were part boomerang, part passive-aggressive marketing device.
He sighed, resigning himself to his fate, and inserted it into the USB port of his computer, doing his best to ignore the fact that it made a squelching sound as he did so. It took an absurdly long time for the computer to recognize the drive—a fact the Guide itself was quick to explain:
“The SuperStik Promotional Thumb Drive, when connected, will likely cause your computer to emit a sound best described as ‘mechanical disgust.’ This is normal. Computers, much like most organic life forms, are instinctively repulsed by anything bearing the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation logo.”
After several moments, a small icon appeared on the screen, labeled ominously as “INSTALL_NIXOS_AND_PRAY.”
Author sighed again, wondering if he should really be trusting this peculiar and slightly hostile thumb drive to solve his tea-related dilemma. The thought occurred to him that he was embarking on a journey that might well lead to something far more disturbing than a lack of tea: a complete and utter failure to install anything at all.
He glanced down at The Hitchhiker’s Guide to NixOS, hoping for reassurance. Instead, he found yet another vaguely foreboding passage:
“Installing NixOS is akin to assembling a jigsaw puzzle, only to realize halfway through that the pieces belong to four different puzzles and possibly a toaster. It is therefore strongly advised to approach each step with caution, a screwdriver, and a prayer to the entity of your choosing.”
With a determined gulp, Author prepared himself for the next step, fully aware that his quest for tea had somehow spiraled into a mission to tame an operating system he barely understood. But he was committed now. The sticky thumb drive had him in its grasp, and there was no going back.