Magnus Carlson was diagnosed with a meningioma, somewhat unexpectedly.
“Perfectly curable, given that it’s focal.” he was told. “Although we do need to resect it on the sooner side.”
He was scheduled for a brain MRI. On the day of, he was asked by the radiology tech if he had any metal in his body. “This includes pacemakers, certain old-school joint replacements, shrapnel, BB gun pellets, retained foreign bodies, that kind of thing.”
Magnus thought about the dental implant he had had installed as a teenager. He had been assured that it was MRI safe.
“No, I’ve got nothing,” he said.
The MRI was loud, as expected, and uncomfortable, also as expected. What he wasn’t expecting was the MRI tech waiting for him on the outside.
“It’ll take several hours for the images to process,” the tech said. “Your doctor will have a final report out in a few days.”
“Okay,” Magnus replied.
“In the meantime, I’d like to let you know that I’ve decided to blackmail you,” the tech said, somewhat apologetically.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m no radiologist, but I know enough to spot a dental implant when I see one. You have a chip in your back molar, don’t you? I’d bet a hundred bucks that it runs chess software. And that it’s been there since the start of your career.”
Magnus said nothing.
“In fact, I’m going to bet more than a hundred bucks. I’m going to bet half a million. That’s chump change for you, isn’t it? I’ll email you instructions for depositing it into my bitcoin wallet, and if you follow them to the letter, you’ll never hear from me again.”
“Sure,” Magnus said.
The tech seemed not to believe his luck. “Oh. Wow. That was easier than I thought it was going to be.”
“You got me,” Magnus said. “Nicely done. Good job. That’s checkmate, ole chap.”
Then he walked out, and called his Fixer.
“Listen, Darren, I’ve got another MRI tech for you to take of for me…”