The wrong way to crowdsource your product. And a bit of the good way too.

WARNING: This post has a lengthy story attached to it. If you wish to jump directly to the main subject, click here.

Ezio Auditore da Firenze’s diary, page 32:

From the corner of my eye I see nervous movement: detection. But it’s not one of Cesare’s men, of that I’m sure. I curse under my breath and turn around, trying to determine the identity of the man who has seen me for what I am: un assassino.

The robber -a pair of raggedy pants and a filthy shirt immediately betray the man’s secret trade-  does not need further prompt than my murderous stare and initiates the flight, clambering atop a stack of wine crates and making his way towards the nearest rooftop.

His skills are commendable; the ease with wich he bounces from wood to windowsill and from iron bar to terracotta tile surely provides him with a great advantage when it comes to exercising his “profession.” In the end, though, escape is moot for I am now in full pursuit, barely a meter or two behind the thieving bastard.

As confident as I am in my chances of catching the fleeing criminal -now bridging the gap between two houses with a gracious leap- a third player makes an unexpected and quite unwelcome appearance.

“Hey, you’re not allowed up here!” shouts one of Cesare’s lapdogs, jumping down swiftly from a roof just above our level. The robber successfully catches on to the ledge of the building in front of him, but realizes his run is coming to an abrupt end when he notices the guard closing in.

Under traditional circumstances, the enemy of my enemy would be, indeed, my friend. This is not one of those. As soon as the soldier is done with the ledge-hanging scoundrel, he will come after me. I have to get rid of both.

Sadly, I am now in a bad spot myself.

I cannot stop dead in my tracks and break my momentum without risking falling into the same gap my prey has just closed. I have to make the jump. And I do, falling on top of the unfortunate soul and knocking the breath out of him.

“What now my unwilling companion?” I ask the wriggling man beneath me. His stench is so overpowering that it, more than the looming menace of the guard above us, almost makes me want to let go and fall to my fate, whatever that may be. But at more than ten meters above the cobbled street, and with no haystack in sight, that does not seem like something a reasonable man would do.  Contrary to the opinion of members of the Church and the Templar Order, we assassins are, in fact, very reasonable individuals.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but you will have to excuse me,” I say as I rise my right foot and place it on his lower back, just above his buttocks. “I’m afraid there are more pressing matters I have to attend to, after all.”

As I push my weight downwards in order to use the bedraggled man’s body as a foothold and increase my chances of facing off against the approaching guard, I feel a certain lightness coursing through my body. After a few seconds of this unusual -and not quite pleasant- sensation, I see my hands are no longer grasping the ledge, my body no longer touching that of the thief. Instead, I find myself speechless, trying to make sense of the dire spell that has befallen me:

I am slowly rising, soaring into the air above FUCKING Rome!

Ok, got a bit carried away with the story. OK! Maybe a lot. That’s why I’ll wrap this up rather quickly; the message is concise.