"Wait", asks the partner, "How do you know what's a bitcoin?"

"I'm subscribed to that tech investment newsletter. They said it was hot, I put a few thousands in it."

"So you do have some?"

"Yeah. That's what freaks me out the most."

"What freaks you out? That they knew you have bitcoins?"

"That, and the fact that I have 47.75643 of them."

"Holy shit! I thought the number was symbolic!"

"It's not even that much money. It'd be less than 50,000 at the current rates."

"That makes it not even worth hiring a PI."

"Nope. They're good."

"Well," added the partner, "not that much. I mean, they commit a crime, and against lawyers too. If we find them, they can trust we'll hit them very hard. Which leads me to: can you track them down?"

"I... I'm just a geek, man. It's probably a virus we got from an email. I'd have to check our logs..."

"Next question, when did you do our latest backup?"

"Three days ago."

"Shit."

"Well at least we have backups..."

"Yeah, I realize I've got you to thank for that. I'm clueless about all this computer stuff. So we don't have to pay then."

"If we're willing to lose three days of files. Which I say we totally are. Fuck these assholes."

"Alright. Get to work restoring our files. I'll try to mitigate the three days lost."

The playboy leaves the office with a smile. Fuck these assholes, he keeps muttering. It's only once he has brought in his macbook from home that he realises the data is encrypted there too.

"Fuck!" he cries out.

He opens a web browser. He's not sure what for. Maybe he'll find some info on Google. But instead of google, the browser opens on a Russian blog page with a Martin Shkreli meme.

"Fuck," This time, he's much less sanguine, "they own us."