Why the hell was I wearing shorts in the middle of February after a snowstorm?
I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I didn’t care for Trump, I didn’t care for “the resistance”, I didn’t care for Claudio Ranieri, I didn’t care for anything. I mean, for a start I was British and still am. Trump would never my direct leader unless he took over Britain by force. I was neutral as neutral could be.
I finished my pint of water and went to the gents. I was the delightful grey covering the walls, the scrubbed-out graffiti saying Don’t Trust Anyone. I whipped my cock out. 3.5 inches flaccid. I didn’t particularly want it to be 35 unlike some of the men talking at the urinals about how their wives were shit in bed. I shook, zipped my shorts back up and went out to laughter.
I turned around. “How fucking DARE you insult my shorts!” I slammed the door.
Still stand by what I say.
The shorts are my god.
Humanoid clouds float around my presence, talking about everything from football to anal warts.
I try to sleep but the god of such is on vacation.
I doze into the music in my ears. Bowie tells me to read more into reality. Alice tells me to be just that little bit more anarchist. Freddie tells me to become larger than life. I construct a new reality from these distant echoes, one more involving than the various discussions.
Finally, I awake. I gargle with Super Cola™ and eat milk. Sugaaaar.
In the morning I wash with Pears soap and eat Kellogs cereal with Tetley tea. I then go into the fields and check on my Google Cows and Apple iChickens.
Then to the village shop, owned by Walmart, then I attend Mass at the village church under the auspices of Unilever.
After Mass, I get back and hand-slaughter a Google Cow with my trusty Johnson and Johnson knife. Then I have a nap for a few hours in my Toshiba bed before milking the rest of the Google Cows with my Microsoft Milking Device.
For tea I have some Google Cow milk milked with the Microsoft Milking Device and the Google Cow steak from the earlier slaughter. Mmm mm.
That night I shower with Ford shower gel and dry my hair with a Tesco drier.
Then back to my Toshiba bed to dream of the Electric Sheep corporation.
So sayeth the Mage of Incredible Age to our young, supple hero of indeterminate gender.
After five twenty-minute long cutscenes, hero of indeterminate gender walks two steps… to be greeted by another set of boring cutscenes describing how to talk to people. HOIG already got told how to in a tutorial at the beginning. It’s the A button. HOIG presses A but the cutscenes still continue. It takes forty minutes this time for the deluge to end.
HOIG is allowed to take THREE steps…
AND THEN THE CUTSCENES START AGAIN!
The real-life HOIG throws the 3DS down and goes outside.
Maybe you should too.
You sit down in front of the Manchester Red Devil-Bulls/Coca-Cola Gunners match on McDonalds Sky Sports 8 with a refreshing Carlingsberg and a pack of KP Walkers Salt and Onion Crispnuts. Commentator Wayne Rooney announces this match at the Infinitybet Arena at Old Trafford is brought to you by Google Energy and Ladbroke-Hills Betting Pty.
The match kicks off in a centre circle advertising Google Homes. The Devil-Bulls captain Hyden O’Connor-Chung, proudly sponsored by Adinike, passes to star striker, Google Sports athlete Dembele Adams-Mansour who sends it flying past Gunners keeper Marcus Adu-Singh-Pepsi, but not before an advert for Super Insurance. Then one for Apple. Then one for Americard.
“I can’t imagine a time when football didn’t have all these adverts,” you say as you hitch down your Under Armour T-shirt. “Society in general either.”
My television screams electric dreams, tomorrow’s parties and coughs. I see the future within the present, teleports through time and other innovations. I don’t envy the people there, they seem to be used to it. Not to mention all the other frustrations of the time. Taxes at an all-time high punishing those who aren’t in the one percent, no more free healthcare, a government that doesn’t care about the people. The ninety-nine percent can barely afford these new products.
I turn the TV off. I need to savour the time I can spend with technology before the one percent reappropriates it.
The sun shined through a rare break in the cloud outside the Filantropo complex. Sage Vidal was working on ad copy. Se needed a slogan for the new line of Filantropo Ready Pasta. Something to make the postapocalyptic masses outside smile. Something iconic. And preferably something original. Se stared out of the window transfixed by the sun, waiting for a slogan to come relegated to the back of ses mind. Se needed one to come quick so se could clock off for the day.
“Okay, I’ll just write ‘Fasta Pasta’. Probably not original but who’s gonna notice?” Se got up and clocked off.
Sage’s neutral expression turned into a smile as se left the office. Tonight was the night se quit. The oppressive boredom was all se’d ever known- for four generations the Vidals had been loyal, if low-ranking, employees of the Leader. Se had been born and raised to work as had ses parents, ses grandparents and ses great-grandparents. Ses discontent was so extreme that the half-dead, likely radioactive landscape outside seemed a utopia. But the Leader considered it so horrifying that se banned people coming in from the outside from talking about it and, more to Sage’s concern, escape was made near impossible and punished by serving as “enhancement talent” in the Filantropo Gladiator Games.
Se returned to ses quarters and admired semself in the mirror as se prepared to leave.
“Well guys,” se said to ses toiletries, “I’m gonna miss you. Filantropo Face Balm- you’re a lifesaver. Filantropo Ultra White Toothpaste- thanks for keeping the dentist away.” Se turned to look through the bathroom door. “Filantropo Three-Way Molecular Shower and Filantropo Hyper Toilet- I’m gonna miss you guys the most. Crapping in some dead bushes and going weeks without finding a decent spring to wash myself in is going to be hard, but I have to do it. So long.”