The letter that was never sent

logicapsule 1.1

«The future does not come from before to meet us, but comes streaming up from behind over our heads» (Ibn Rahel)

I have always liked to see without being seen. A voyeur, lurking in a hole where I can see everything that is going on around me, with no one the wiser that I am lying in wait like a dog in heat. That’s what made me what I am. That’s how I won my first Topfox as a cyber-chronicler. I was wandering around the desert near the old N-211 when I found myself atop one of those buildings in ruins. From there I discovered Roi, a daft old chap from an eco-village in the north who was swerving down the motorway like a kamikaze in a battered electric jeep, with the orange afternoon sun lapping the solar panels on the roof. And as one could only expect, he was immediately surrounded by the Old Marauders. They dragged him out of the car, and for a full minute he flailed about face up in the dust, like a beetle trying to flip itself over. You know that no one leaves the N-211 alive unless they have first paid their dues to the OMs. And Roi knew it, but that baida thought they would leave him alone when they saw what he was transporting. Naïve lettuce scoffer. After hooting and hollering at the old man writhing on the ground, the OMs trained their MKs on him. But Roi still had an ace up his raggedy sleeve. He knew he was literally going to bite the dust then and there, so why not try and convince them to grant him one last wish by appealing to whatever shred of honour they might still have left? That was the most he could expect from that gang of ex-soldiers and mercenaries.

Roi’s final request piqued the platoon leader’s curiosity to the extent that he granted it, staring at him like a gambirat anxiously awaiting the day’s fresh load of rubbish. He forced Roi to his knees, shoved a two-shots in his mouth, cocked it and ordered two of his gang to empty the car.

—You’ve got to be kidding me, old man! —The gang leader burst out laughing when he saw Roi’s car full of old, printed books—. We’re going to blow your brains out for a bunch of books?

The auspex on my bureaudem weren’t getting a good audio signal. The wind was coming in gusts and garbling the recording, so I sent my drone crawling under the sand to the spot where they were so I could record the whole thing in detail.

—Are you for real? —The boss chuckled again as Roi pulled a stack of yellowing paper from his overcoat—. Is that a real fok letter, grandad? Your final request is to read that to us? I’m sure you jizzed all over yourself while you were writing it, but I can tell you now, you’re not going to pour all that drivel into my head. This is how I see it, Methuselah. Either your knees are going to give out from kneeling so long and you’re going to beg me for a break, in which case I’ll shoot you and all this shit will be over, or you’re going to have the balls to read us the whole damn thing, in which case you’re going to make my head explode and you’ll end up forcing me to shoot you to get this whole thing over with. You got it? Although it does make me crangry to have to mess with a fossil like you, every possible scenario leads to the same ending: I shoot you to get this shit over with. So take advantage of your last moment of glory —Roi spit the burnt filter of the two-shots out through his snowy beard and cleared the phlegm from his throat with a sound that was half gasp, half gargle—.  Sucks to be old, huh? Get a move on, grandad, we don’t have all day.

—But what I want is for this letter…

I have always liked to see without being seen. A voyeur, lurking in a hole where I can see everything that is going on around me, with no one the wiser that I am lying in wait like a dog in heat. That’s what made me what I am. That’s how I won my first Topfox as a cyber-chronicler. I was wandering around the desert near the old N-211 when I found myself atop one of those buildings in ruins.

From there I discovered Roi, a daft old chap from an eco-village in the north who was swerving down the motorway like a kamikaze in a battered electric jeep, with the orange afternoon sun lapping the solar panels on the roof. And as one could only expect, he was immediately surrounded by the Old Marauders. They dragged him out of the car, and for a full minute he flailed about face up in the dust, like a beetle trying to flip itself over.

You know that no one leaves the N-211 alive unless they have first paid their dues to the OMs. And Roi knew it, but that baida thought they would leave him alone when they saw what he was transporting. Naïve lettuce scoffer. After hooting and hollering at the old man writhing on the ground, the OMs trained their MKs on him. But Roi still had an ace up his raggedy sleeve. He knew he was literally going to bite the dust then and there, so why not try and convince them to grant him one last wish by appealing to whatever shred of honour they might still have left? That was the most he could expect from that gang of ex-soldiers and mercenaries.

Roi’s final request piqued the platoon leader’s curiosity to the extent that he granted it, staring at him like a gambirat anxiously awaiting the day’s fresh load of rubbish. He forced Roi to his knees, shoved a two-shots in his mouth, cocked it and ordered two of his gang to empty the car.

—You’ve got to be kidding me, old man! —The gang leader burst out laughing when he saw Roi’s car full of old, printed books—. We’re going to blow your brains out for a bunch of books?

The auspex on my bureaudem weren’t getting a good audio signal. The wind was coming in gusts and garbling the recording, so I sent my drone crawling under the sand to the spot where they were so I could record the whole thing in detail.

—Are you for real? —The boss chuckled again as Roi pulled a stack of yellowing paper from his overcoat—. Is that a real fok letter, grandad? Your final request is to read that to us? I’m sure you jizzed all over yourself while you were writing it, but I can tell you now, you’re not going to pour all that drivel into my head. This is how I see it, Methuselah. Either your knees are going to give out from kneeling so long and you’re going to beg me for a break, in which case I’ll shoot you and all this shit will be over, or you’re going to have the balls to read us the whole damn thing, in which case you’re going to make my head explode and you’ll end up forcing me to shoot you to get this whole thing over with. You got it? Although it does make me crangry to have to mess with a fossil like you, every possible scenario leads to the same ending: I shoot you to get this shit over with. So take advantage of your last moment of glory —Roi spit the burnt filter of the two-shots out through his snowy beard and cleared the phlegm from his throat with a sound that was half gasp, half gargle—.  Sucks to be old, huh? Get a move on, grandad, we don’t have all day.

—But what I want is for this letter…

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