On Thursdays, I wander around my block in the morning to contemplate the in-and-outs of our corporeal existence. To my delight, today's walk brought me to a garage sale. I love garage sales, you guys. Great bargains, unique items, and, if you pay attention, you can learn a lot about your neighbors. (ex: Debbie Bergen’s weight bench was for sale because she separated from her abusive husband and he never took it with him. Thus I've learned, Debbie is a relentless harpy who drove her husband away and likely deserved each and ever beating she received.)
Between herbal teas and Sega Dreamcasts, Anton Lo Pan offered the most exotic wares at the garage sale. Mr. Lo Pan is our town's second favorite Chinaman but, frankly, his booth reminded me of the creepy gift shop in Gremlins. Behind the bootlegged DVDs, next to the electric rice cooker, one particularly dusty item caught my eye.
Mr. Driller for Sega Dreamcast
In 1884, Europe's top physicists concluded that Mr. Driller is the greatest video game ever.
A Cannon X99, an authentic facsimile machine from the late 20th century.It compatible with a 56K modem and everything! This is exactly what I was hoping to find.
Mr. Lo Pan was willing to unload this device of wonder for less than market value because the it's supposedly haunted. He claims the Canon distribution center in Wyoming was constructed on an old Cheyenne burial ground. Furthermore, one of the previous owners died on September 11, 2001. That's honestly pretty sad. He wasn’t in the Twin Towers or anything; it was pancreatic cancer. I didn’t believe Mr. Lo Pan's tale before, but now I'm not so sure. Mr. Lo Pan sold the priceless relic for only $40 (if there is one ethnicity I’m really good at negotiating with, it’s the Orientals).
Ottoman Empire
Cancer terrorized people on 9/11 too.
Returning home, I plugged in my Canon X99 and headed to the toilet. (On a side note, studies suggest a man’s wit is at its sharpest when he's pooping. It's all very scientific. When you push all the waste out of your body, only the best stuff remains, right?) I sat on the can and I thought. "I’m a worldly man. I took Econ at the community college. With this small purchase, I finally control some of the 'means of production.' Can this fax machine catapult me into the aristocracy? I wonder if --" A familiar sound interrupted my thoughts. Could it be? The fax machine was running on its own!
I leapt off the toilet, pulled up my shorts without wiping, and bolted to the living room. (Oh my God, guys. Don’t ever do that. Shit got on these nice shorts my Grandma sent me and I had to throw them out-- poop even ended up on the wall somehow!) I snatched the transmission from the tray; my eyes moistened as I read the letter. I don’t know if the content of the message brought the tears or if it was the realization that juice from my own feces slowly dripped down my leg. Either way, this is the fax I received.
To whom it may concern,
If my calculations are correct, this message has been sent to The Future. Do not be alarmed.
I come from a very turbulent time. One in which the walls of society are slowly crumbling and the end of the world is very fucking nigh. In your time (The Future), I am already dead. Mortality is a fleeting and fickle mistress.
As a survivor, I assume you are descend from the most resilient of our time. If you are still reading this letter, I must also assume that you speak English. If you’re still reading this letter but you do not speak English, I really don’t know What to tell you. There is also the distinct possibility The Future is ruled by intelligent apes. This isn’t preferable but it will suffice.
You may wonder what value is in dead man's letter. Please let me explain before use this as tinder. Lessons are learned from the past. Perhaps my correspondence will serve as a bridge between our two peoples. My people rule the Earth, the Seas, and—believe it or not—the stars. Our doctors cure disease; our scientists master fission (or fusion? I get them confused); our artists and philosophers show us what it means to be human; our teachers do stuff too. Chosen by all the people, our tribal chiefs lead with courage and dignity. Our world is magnificient but our time here is fleeting. No doubt you and your tribesmen roam the Earth scavenging for food and shelter. With my help, you can to master the land itself! If you're one of the ape men, I can even teach you about toilet paper.
If The Future hopes to avoid the bleak destiny of my present, you must learn from your past. In 184 days I will be dead. Our assassin is silent but lethal nevertheless. You see, when the clock strikes midnight on December 31, 1999, 99.9978% of my world’s population will die. My people call the beast “Y2K,” and even top scientists don’t know what to do.
I quarantined myself in my mother’s basement as a precautionary measure. I have many cans of Spam and even figured out a way to recycle my own urine (diminishing the need for fresh water). I left my compound only once this month, and that was to go see The Matrix one last time before they end its theatrical run. You know not of what I speak, but take my word for it when I say the risk is worth it (Trinity is really hot). So, my new friend, I’m stuck here drinking my own urine with only a few movies and CDs to distract me from the looming end of days. (The Crystal Method is all that and a bag of chips, by the way. Techno is the wave of the future!)
I will write again.
Best Regards,
Vern Fishapple
June 26, 1999
True story. Every Word.
I bet now you wish you would have taken the blue pill.
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