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Eighty dollars. A cardboard sleeve. You peel back the flap expecting the weight of it — that little plastic circle, the one you'd have shelved next to the last one you waited thirteen years for. There's a slip of paper. Twenty-five characters. Type it in. The disc is coming later. Sometime. December, they say, maybe, depending who you ask. Ship the box now, ship the thing inside the box eventually. $DISC is for everyone who bought the shelf and got the receipt. No claim. No redemption. No physical anything — that's the whole point.