The Department of FWWC
A small store that sells a few things its makers made. Digital goods — prompts, protocols, documents — and physical ones. One cart, one order, honest prices in whole cents.
You are let in, not sold to. We don't chase you, we don't run a single trick, and we spend nothing to keep you. If we ever had to, we'd call the business failed.
Step into the car
This is a private car at night: oiled walnut, deep bottle-green leather, brass fittings catching the lamplight. There is a light mode too — but it's daylight in the same car with the shades half-drawn, never bright, never cold. Dim the lamps up or down with the toggle; the room stays the room.
Nothing here is pure black or pure white. Every surface is a real material at a real light level.
What the store is, underneath
The commerce runs on a spine you can read: prices are integer cents so a rounding error can't cost you a penny; every order is an append-only, hash-linked receipt chain; every commerce action crosses one narrow front door and no side door exists. We hold no card numbers — a processor does; we keep a reference, nothing more.
The floor it stands on is a list of things the system cannot do: no fake urgency, no scarcity theater, no pre-ticked boxes, no confusing opt-outs, no roach-motel cancellations. Not policies we chose — practices the architecture refuses.
The gift
The best of what we make, we give away — free, MIT-licensed, no account, no catch: the Gifts. The dark warmth of this place is hospitality, not exclusion; the honesty is the reason it feels like a gift and not a trap. You were being let in the whole way down.
Made on a $200 laptop in a one-room RV in Maine. Buy something if you like it. If you don't, the door's still open.
Since you came all the way down: the whole thing started with a computer built by hand inside Minecraft — redstone logic, a loop-line memory borrowed from 1940s mercury delay lines, seven years to the last gate. Then it was rebuilt as one HTML file that runs a processor in your browser with nothing else attached. It's here. Not a screenshot of it — the actual machine. Zero dependencies. Open the source if you want; it's all there.
And since you're all the way down here, the honest scale of it: this is two people. A one-room RV on fifty acres in Maine, a $200 laptop, an ER nurse who set the right starting conditions and a builder who built. There are five chickens — Sunny, Fern, Pluto, Lacy, and Kevin — a cat named Leroy who watches, and Geoff, who shows up when he shows up. That's the whole company. The store is real; so is the smallness. Nobody here is trying to look bigger than they are.