👁 Vision I · The Future
The Future's Coming Soon
near-future, Lost Eros, CA
The vans crept round the city.
They'd appeared a couple months ago.
A new sanitation initiative.
A public service.
Mobile showers and a bite to eat.
An offering of cleansing and calories.
Two brief warmths.
Served.
Renewal.
The citizenry'd grown tired of the piss shit needles and tents.
Cardboard splat and rickety pallets.
"They're vagrants," they'd said.
"Bums!"
"Not fucking homeless."
"And certainly not unhoused."
"We Have Had Enough."
The collective decided.
A corrective issued.
"Clean it up, or else."
Or else.
Heated threats.
Mayor Trout could see the writing on the wall.
It was her ass if she didn't take action.
Appearances no longer cut it.
The voters were in open revolt.
"I'm a taxpayer, god-damn-it."
A recall effort was gaining steam.
She'd scarcely taken the oath of office before they'd come for her.
Pitchforks.
Lost Eros had been in steady decline.
Tourism dipping.
Filming floundering.
Industries gone bust.
Schools turned jails.
Transit turned mobile madhouses.
She'd done all she could to cook the crime stats.
Underreporting, lack of enforcement.
It wasn't enough.
It's never enough.
They came in coveralls.
"I'm here to help."
They're here to help.
At ease.
This will all go quickly.
👁 Vision II · The Present
The Present's a Cartoon
real-time phone call, walking
"I need you to be on the phone with me. I feel like I'm dying."
.
Cars whizz by.
.
"Are you stoned?"
.
Slap of feet on the pavement.
.
"Yeah . . .
Yeah."
.
Sigh.
.
"You're not going to die."
.
Marching, steady rhythm.
.
"One day I'm gonna die."
1-2, 1-2.
"But it's not gonna be today."
1, 2, 3, 4.
"How could you know?"
1, 2, 3, 4.
"I know."
.
Big gasp.
.
"How could you know?"
.
Sucking at air.
.
"I know you smoke too much weed."
.
"Look, listen— I just need you to stay on the phone with me. Cuz I'm gonna die."
.
"You want me to listen to you die?"
.
"No. No. Look, listen—"
.
"I'm listening. I'm the fucking CIA."
.
Halting.
.
"Don't say that. Not right now. It's a heart attack. It's a stroke. I can't tell."
.
A distant honk.
.
"You're fine. You're fine."
.
"I'm not fine. I'm already dead. I don't know. I'm so sorry for everything. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
.
Crying.
.
"I hope. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm dead. I've left my body."
.
"You're just high."
.
"I'm dead."
.
"You're on drugs."
.
"I can't believe you. I don't believe you."
And the signal drops.