The End of The World

the world didn’t end with a bang. it ended, as he wrote — with a whimper. a wimp on a war-path. a disgruntled reject on a console — a kid — who just up and hacked into the grid. opened dams, bridges, canals; thousands flooded in towns. and then he wanted something fresher. so he started fucking with the pressure of pipelines to key oil and gas centres, causing mass hysteria, and then a cascade of hellacious explosions in populated areas; millions burnt in their homes. it left the people in shambles. bruised, broken, and bent. spent. dented and unable to care, or cope, or even fucking bear. utterly exacerbated. lacerated. society was in disrepair.

it’s kinda poetic when you think about it. especially if you don’t think too hard, about what happened next, and just sort of stay cool, aloof, austere. some nefarious fucking shit that was. and it was all planned out, every piece of the puzzle. every part, every portion. right down to the last pixel. it was genius. serious and very much so insidious. what a crazy fucking world.

the name of the game now is survival. pure and simple. it’s you versus your rival. since the arrival of the terminators, nothing has the chance for revival. it’s a wasteland. a desolate, bleak, treeless desert — a wilderness the likes of which would even cause Henry Thoreau not to throw caution to the wind.