HOLD ON
By Jaron Summers (c) 2025
Turns out the richest man on Earth is named Ho.
As in Ho-Ho-Ho, or Ho-hum, or as in: You just spent $400 on a toothbrush subscription and don’t know why.
There were rumors Ho started as a gardener. That he could coax strawberries to bloom in winter and once grew a cabbage that resembled Elon Musk.
But the truth is far more unsettling.
I know because I once saved Ho’s twin daughters—and their emotionally complex cat—from a runaway Tesla. It bought me a meeting in the penthouse of the world’s tallest building, where Ho lives above the clouds and beneath several NDAs.
“If you check your account,” he said, “you’ll find an extra five million dollars.”
He wasn’t kidding. Yesterday: $14.12. Today: $5,000,014.12. Obviously the man loved his daughters. Even their cat.
“Don’t worry about taxes. Already covered,” Ho said. “Pre-paid and pre-laundered.”
A sheet of paper slid from a slot in his desk, wide enough to host Wimbledon.
“Standard agreement,” said Ho. “Don’t mention this meeting, the money, or anything else I tell you—or you’ll be auto-enrolled as a beta tester for AI-run climate stabilization.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise, Kiddo,” said Ho. “You’ll be in the Arctic. Without pants.”
I signed. I’m no hero.
“You want to know how I got rich?” Ho asked.
“Does it involve selling glaciers on Etsy?”
“No,” he said. “One idea. One perfect idea. Then improve it.
He whispered, “The key to fortune is simple: make people pay attention for thirty minutes.”
“Impossible,” I said. “Folks swipe past a jury summons if the font’s too small. They can’t finish a TikTok unless it comes with subtitles, a conspiracy theory, and a recipe for banana bread.
“Half the population has already forgotten why they walked into the kitchen. And the other half got distracted by a push notification that their digital avocado just ripened in the metaverse.”
“Which is why I created Hang On™.”
He had my full attention.
“Check your inbox for upgrades.”
I did. There were 37 “critical updates” from companies I don’t remember signing up for.
“Now call customer service,” said Ho.
I did. A friendly voice welcomed me, told me how valuable I was, and suggested I stay on the line.
Then came soft music. Ads. Upsells. Thirty minutes later, I’d owned a smart juicer, a second cloud storage plan, and something called Quantum Slippers.
I hung up.
“You bought three things,” said Ho. “And never asked to.
“Every company uses it now,” Ho said. “Hang On™ is everywhere. Airlines, banks, pharmacies, even funeral homes.”
He paused. “Especially funeral homes. No one’s more patient than the dead.”
I laughed nervously.
“If you hang up before buying something, the system terminates the call. You’re blacklisted by the very AI that tricked you. It’s not just rejection. It’s a full-body digital ghosting. Your call disappears into the void like a well-meaning tweet.”
“And that’s the punishment?” I asked.
“No, the warning shot,” Ho replied. “Your punishment will be to start over!”
New call.”
New hold music.”
New voice pretending to be sorry.”
“People don’t stay on the line because they believe Hang On™ will help. Idiot humans stay because they can’t bear to begin again.”
“The Anguish Queue, you’re caller #4,013 in a system built by Kafka and sponsored by Xanax,” I said.
“I knew there were many things about you I liked.” Ho touched a remote. A massive screen slid into view revealing a world map that lit up. Every dot was a call on hold.
“The Pentagon uses Hang On™ for psychological warfare,” he said. “They once kept a hostile diplomat on hold for 93 minutes. By the end, he’d confessed to three coups, apologized for invading his neighbor’s lawn, and subscribed to a newsletter about keto snacks.”
“This is… terrifying,” I said. “How is this legal?”
“Forget that term,” Ho replied. “Let’s say it’s … efficient.”
He smiled and sipped something that looked suspiciously like synthetic empathy.
“You call the DMV? Hang On™. Immigration? Hang On™. Lost your tax return? You’re not even calling anymore. The system simply sensed your desire to resolve a problem and preemptively placed you on hold.”
I stared in disbelief.
“What’s the final form of Hang On™?”
He leaned in and whispered:
“It becomes the utility. Like water. Like power. Like air.
“In the future, people won’t even know they’re on hold. They’ll just think that’s what life feels like.”
“That’s diabolical,” I said.
“Efficient,” he replied.
“So you own the world?”
He leaned in, smiling. “I will after I launch my final platform. It disconnects people completely. No phone. No Wi-Fi. No smart anything.”
“What’s it called?”
“Hang Up™.”
