Martin spent his last day on Earth at war with his inbox. He arrived early for his ‘meeting in the park’, taking the extra time to clear out the 300+ emails he had gotten since this morning. There was really no reason for him to do this now, but like most of us he was never able to shake the thrill of having ‘the conversation’ pop into his homepage. One mail in particular caught his eye, an offer for Coltrane’s first gold record at just the right price (since losing a bid on a eBay last year, they were always just the right price), but it would be ridiculous to buy this or anything online. He saved the email anyway.
When the man sat down at the table, Martin was down to the last fifty or so messages. The man wore a black fedora and trench-coat, not to hide his persons from his former employers, but to hide his geekiness from potential clients. It didn’t work. He looked Martin up and down, then eyed the laptop rested on his knees.
“Shut it
off.”,
the man
said, adding, “now!”“Shut it off.”, the man said, adding, “now!”
Martin did so, shocking the tiny machine which hadn’t been turned off in a few months. When this was done, the man relaxed (slightly).
“So…” he said, removing a tiny notebook from his trench-coat, “yeah, I can do it. Twenty thousand.”
“And that covers everything?”, Martin asked, still not sure how it was possible.
“Yeah, everything.”
“Because I, she, really wants to know that our video won’t be–”
“Everything. Twenty thousand and you won’t exist anymore, at-least not to anything that can chart existence.”
“Okay”, Martin said and began opening his computer back up.
“Not. On. That.”, the main said, sighing impatiently.
“Sorry”, Martin instead took out his checkbook. He smiled while writing the check, thinking that this was just a tiny fraction of what Google would pay to know who the man was. He signed it and handed it over. The man quickly stuffed it into his trench-coat.
“It’ll happen tomorrow around 8:00am”, the man said, writing down a few notes. He then flipped the notebook towards Martin. “Is that the proper spelling of your name? Is that how your going to write it from now on, caps and everything?”
“Yeah”, Martin laughed (his name being Martin Smith). But the man was not amused and took a few more notes.
“Is there anything else I need to know about, any stalkers or fans, ever put in a wrong credit card number or wrote a nasty comment on a blog?”, the man asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No.”
“Okay. So, tomorrow at eight. Stay off the computer until then. After that, email is fine, but no more networks. Nothing with a database. If you make a mistake, and you probably will, come back to me and I’ll fix it, depending on the damage, for around ten-thousand.”, the man said, already getting up from his seat.
“Great. But can I go to the library or something and finish checking my–”
“Stay off the Internet until eight!” the man barked, sighing once more before he walked away.
Martin was alone again. He opened his computer back up, making sure it was offline. His inbox, with its fifty emails, still sat before him, though not live, he could re-read the one email that had been saved. Fifty dollars for Coltrane’s first gold record was actually a really killer price. The subject called it a ‘One Time Offer‘. So true, he thought, tomorrow they’ll have no idea where to send it or what card to charge. And, with this practical thought of efficiency, he turned the Internet back on for just a moment.
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.