“I didn’t choose this life,” he says, adjusting his bow tie with the dignity of a man seated in an actual chair, not on a battered brown suitcase in an underpass. “The algorithm chose me.”

He’s Barnaby Clickman: resident of downtown Eccentrica with shiny chrome legs, a brocade jacket that’s seen better centuries, and a mustache that could have its own spin-off series on Netflix. His sign reads, “I Am Poor. Please… Please Click.” Cars slow – not to give him change, but to take photos. In a world obsessed with scrolling, he’s chosen to sit still, becoming his own kind of spectacle, living street content.

“People think I’m homeless, but no—I’m merely outmoded,” Barnaby says with a sigh. “I was a pioneer, the original ‘You Won’t Believe What Happens Next.’ It was lucrative back in the Wild West days of pop-ups and banner ads. Clickbait was art then. I crafted headlines that sang, that called to you. Now, it’s just ‘10 Ways Your Haircut Says You’re a Sociopath.’” He shudders, as if physically repulsed by modern algorithms.

In his prime, he was the king of the digital grift. Sponsored links? He was there before they even thought of inserting ads into content. “I knew Zuckerberg when he was in college—back when Facebook was more ‘hey, look at this potato-quality selfie’ than ‘here’s another ad for a luxury item that you can’t afford, or barely need.’ Those were the days, son.”

He taps one of his chrome-plated legs, the hollow sound echoing. “Upgrades, you know? For speed. But then things started moving faster, and faster… and suddenly, I was obsolete.” His voice drops as he leans in conspiratorially. “Now I’m just trying to earn enough clicks to pay for maintenance. A nice polish now and then. WD-40 isn’t cheap, you know.”

A couple of teenagers walk by, laughing and pointing. He flashes a polite, pained smile. “You see? They don’t get it. They’re all about influencers now. Perfectly filtered faces telling you to buy vegan collagen powder or whatever. It’s tragic.” He pauses, twirling his waxed mustache thoughtfully. “I’m the ghost of clickbait past. I’m here to remind you of the days when everything was simpler. When all it took was a headline with a little mystery. Not a mega-sponsored, algorithm-optimized content farm.”

His tone shifts, a touch of melancholy bleeding through. “I just want people to remember what we lost. The art of the humble hyperlink. The thrill of clicking without knowing where you’d land.” He looks down at his sign. “Now, I’m reduced to this. Begging for clicks. But it’s honest work—more honest than whatever ChatGPT’s spitting out these days, at least.”

As the traffic light turns green, he raises his cardboard sign a little higher, strikes a dignified pose, and smiles with quiet defiance. “Maybe one day, they’ll see me for what I am: not a relic, but a reminder. A beacon of the great internet junkyard.”

And as the cars pull away, one by one, it’s hard not to sympathy click—even if just in your mind.