Legacy

The reflection of the sunset on the waters horizon was stunning. An NFT digital asset of it would draw 4982,000 billion in ether coins. Wuhan18 was finishing his nutrition wafer and staring down from his 20,31ft 6190.5 m sea level open air scaffolding loft. Wu had company coming tonight and they were going to tour, with the five wing man jet packs on the landing platform.

Lord Thur found a diesel silo by Al Qudra Lake last week. They would catch dinner with flight nets, as they flew over. There was still some cases of Veuve Clicquot yellow label close by in a cave. They would land at the Sheik’s beit al-sha’r or ‘house of hair’. The Bedouin tents woven from the hair of past domesticated sheep and goats. The hair was woven into strips of coarse cloth known as fala’if. They originated in Mesopotamia. Maybe they would spend the night in Jeddah. Possibly they could locate tins of tea and fig paste. The Sheik won’t drink the bubbles but he’ll keep an eye out for bobbles. The end of the world as we know it, and the one thing we don’t lose is our religion.

It’s day ten of our week—four weeks in a month.Forty days in a month.Four like the four season’s now are: warm, warmer, stilling and stop. Stop we spend north near water. So day 10 of this week was -Celebrated in the USA as Independence Day—shows you how division serves you! Perhaps we’ll end up at the Lady of Liberty, more likely PMXLl will prefer the one in old France 🇫🇷. He likes to quest Gitanes and smoke them laced with Louis XIII cognac.

Our thirst for history is unquenchable. Anything to string along the past is futuristic Valium. We the world survivors are a band of know-it-all’s. Except the tribe of thirteen left in the Amazon park. They still aren’t communicative. They are the only beings that live on the ground and in their tree lofts. It’s too dangerous for us. We have to keep moving in case of an Annakuk visit. The ponds of electro magnetic fencing fields on the ground keep some places sovereign for us and they can’t enter because it downdates them. I have the straws ready so we can draw and see who is assigned to be president of the world tonight. I hope it’s not me. The football is too cumbersome. And if it gets dropped … well, we’ve bought that t-shirt. I think leaving it in a cave in old Nepal would suffice, but they fear an avalanche. It’s become our keepsake or mascot, I suppose. The tribe that left it with us, flew the last uranium to Jupiter. Alas, it’s after Christmas shopping for us. Bush 63 will inevitably end up with it. We just draw straws so he doesn’t feel taken advantage of (his war genes come in demand from time to time). We tried to pass a zero violence treaty on Earth V but it was held in irony. When there is nothing left to fight for the paradigm changes.

Last season we stayed adrift on abandoned yachts until the heat was too intense. Loved the canned crab and the art work though. That’s where GMO met the girl. Her brother played impossibly beautiful music on a ten string guitar. I suppose I should say woman, but GMO had dibs, so I can’t allow myself to pay that close attention. We have plenty of Tesla to charge our cooling packs, which just shows you gratitude never goes out of style.

I really want to jump in the water below but I can’t be wet in the Jet wing suit. Don’t want a short circuit later that high in the sky. GMO with his spirals and circles is enough to contend with. We need to call him Hawking. I believe he may have some chromosome implants from Steven. They were in style in his code year.

Once a year, we allow ourselves to visit the pods we inhabited with our familial profiles. Any more often and it’s too painful. Next time I will index GMO and check his genesis.

Suddenly I hear them, they are fairly close. I pull out some water packets and steel spear straws. I have some protein and vitamin wafers for them. Even though we are sooo bored of them, they’re in endless supply and necessary.

“Bonjour PMXLI! How was the weather?” He breaks out laughing and unabated, tears form in his eyes. I am not sue from humour or defeat. “Let’s get this party started!”

Bush 63 smirks at me at the mention of a party. He’s still reminiscing about fabled donkeys and elephants.

“How long until GMO shows?” asks Bush 63.

“I believe he is bringing a battery he found in an abandoned car so it will slow him down a byte. And please stay on my side, I do not want to go scavenging in any 1950’s bomb bunkers. I am so sick of tuna fish and sardines.”

“We could go hobnob at Madame Tussaud’s tonight?”

“Which one do you have in mind, French or Saudi longitude?” Bush63 asks.

“I figured you would require cognac and cigarettes, so… French, then.” I encourage.

Something drops on the landing platform with a metal reverberation and a loud echo. Next thing GMO bounces down in front of Bush 63—so close he could tie his shoes if laces hadn’t gone out of style 20 decades ago.

“Valhalla, how’s things?” remarks GMO out of breath.

“In the infamous words of Paris Hilton. We’re Hot!” I reply.

“Thank you, next.” GMO says.

Bush 63 grabs a water packet and spears it, he drinks it in one breath and eats his wafer. He hands the other packet to GMO, who nods a thanks and quickly drinks his. Quintessential things just keep the wheels spinning in our existence. Without a sound we all watch the sun finesse a bow to the day. Handing out straws. I make sure Bush 63 sees the bottom of my hand so he can pick the shortest one. Remedied, Bush 63 grabs the flash drive that contains the nuclear code.

I unplug my suit from the energy cell provider and step into it, then we all walk—our jet suits humming—to the rubber strip on the platform. One by one, running the initial five feet, we are lifted off the scaffolding and catapulted into the sky. I glance back at my temporary habitat in the sky and the tree canopy hiding its existence. This is the only time the present moment isn’t crowded with malaise. Guys in the sky creating new adventure mind movies with a slight hint of excitement as to what the night might bring. GMO didn’t even ask where we where headed. When the world is your oyster but your practically alone on it, loneliness reverberates. GMO is just glad we are still in existence. Happy to follow our little crowd.

Inside my head I kinda wanted to go to the MET, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, which holds artefacts from the 22nd century. I really like to go in the basement there and read, but everyone else gets bored. And American soil is depressing. It was the third to go under control. Centuries later it still envokes sadness and disappointment. Freedom never left unnoticed, just unreported. Silence the great muffler of democracy. Even misinformation is not as deadly, as no legal media outlet for public voice. Now we can speak in any tongue about anything. All you have left is your lonely opinions. Being right, in a crowd of three just doesn’t have any shine left.

I look forward and see GMO signalling for us to follow. I hear my headset buzz and I turn up my volume. GMO says, “new plan stans.”

I turn my pack straight into the wind and head north following GMO. He’s talking but I don’t understand because of the wind noise around my helmet.

I just follow and enjoy having moments of no thoughts—like taking a walk down a flowered promenade.

After awhile I see that my comrades are going lower in sea level and I follow suit. I recognise we are nearing Italy—some of it under water, some just an empty vista of what it once was: overgrown olive and grape fields, crumbling porticos, sea level land littered with battered boats that had no where else to go. They begin to climb again and I follow them up near some jutting cliffs. They slow and begin descent and land on a dirt path winding up the cliff. It is a relief to take off the Jet suit. It feels good to be in total control of your movements. I walk and stumble a bit until I get my land legs.

They are a few feet ahead, and I hear GMO saying he had a surprise for us. I imagine he found some canned specialty foods, or oils in unbroken glass jars. We turn under an overhang and enter through a metal door so thick I can’t imagine how they got it up this high. We walk down a cement hallway and turn into what appears to be a very luxurious hotel lobby. I see a man at the desk and am apoplectic. I haven’t seen anyone other than Phersophone (The Girl) and her brother in six years since the great desertion. I can’t even speak and the gentleman acts like we are no big deal. GMO goes straight up to the man and receives three hotel cards and distributes them between us. I am furious.

What is this? I am thinking… Why the mystery GMO!!! How could you not warn us, tell us?

He nods at a set of lifts. I follow Bush63, who looks as confused as me, but not quite as lost. His family always prepared for foreign soil. We three get in the first lift. I turn to GMO who has a finger to his lips, like: later I will explain.

We leave the lift on the Fifth floor. I am thinking: how tall is this mountain? We go to our respective rooms and as I enter mine, I see a tuxedo-quite my size, a bottle of Louis Roederer Christal 1961, and caviar in crystal on ice with toast points. I can’t find my tongue. Everything is clean and new. I open the champagne, all of a sudden appreciating it, for the first time in years of being impervious, with most of our finds.

With my glass aloft I walk towards the bathroom of gilded mirrors, and gold plate sinks, and a shining clean gold bathtub. I turn the faucet and hot water comes out. I throw off my worn and grimy clothes and get in the bath as it fills, washing my face and crying at the memory of baths. As I soak, I spy a tray with a razor, shaving cream, and aftershave. I razor my face smooth as a baby bottom and splash on the aftershave, which tingles in refreshment. I begin to feel something unusual: excitement. How oddly uncomfortable.

I stand up from the bathtub and put on a white terry cloth robe. Next I go back for some caviar and hear music playing—classical, but I can’t place the name. I am in shock, I think. I put on the tuxedo and find gold coins in the side pocket. I leave the room in search of my guys.

They enter the hall at the same time as myself. GMO says: sorry, I was not allowed to warn you. We enter a ballroom leading to a Casino with a piano player and band. There is Phersophone in an elegant dress and wearing a gold filigree heart-shaped locket just like my Grandmother wore, and sitting at a booth with friends under a neon sign flashing “One Percent”.