The Message


By Alberto Pupo

He has a fascination with strange things. He likes to collect bizarrely shaped rocks, especially those rocks where many claims to have seen the face of the Lord and Savior appear inside of it. He loves to ridicule the overtly religious, laugh at their zealotry. He believes this world is a piece of shit, and religion is nothing ore than the opiate handed out in a little dixie cup. He takes a drink; he loves to drink early in the morning till the late afternoon. He is what people callously call an alcoholic. Both his parents are serving time in a Moon Colony somewhere, and he has been on his lonesome since the tender age of sixteen. Earth sucks, he always wished he could have joined his parents on that transport vehicle, but his parents were classless, crass, assholes, who only tasted freedom for three months before pulling off heist… they left Earth only to commit more crime (fuck the clean slate).

The night hour is quickly approaching, he is sitting outside the liquor store, with the booze concealed in a brown paper bag, all the good boys and girls would walk on by giving him a dirty look (he smells like shit as well). He thinks how vapid their lives are, playing with their digital chips, lost in some augmented reality, while those cannot afford the chip (like himself) Have to face the ugly reality… God damn what he would not do to escape from his life, not to have to feel the sun burning away his flesh.. (the sun keeps coming closer). They say the Earth maybe has ten more years.. but how much longer can he take? When will his number come up on the transport lottery (probably fucking never as the rich have rigged the game)? All of this because of his parents.. when word broke of crime on the God forsaken moon, they decided to change the rules of the lottery, to exclude misfits and miscreants from all due consideration. Fuck these people. He takes out a small laser blaster after finishing his beer. He weighs it carefully in his hands and wonders if he should proceed with this suicide by cop? (A sure thing since cops love to kill any misfit they can get their hands on). He closes his eyes and whispers and empty prayer and prepares to take the life of the hapless older gentleman who sold him the booze.. that will show him… that will show him for trusting… Except as he stands up wobbling slightly gun in hand, a voice from behind him startles him.

“Hey, hey kid… Put that weapon down.”

He turns around the one who called him is a very familiar looking gentleman, with a strange scar, on his left cheek, he had a fire-red beard and is decked completely in leather like some punk rocker from a deeper future.

“Listen, kid, put the gun away, your transport is coming, and coming very soon.”

The stranger seems confident. There is something about the way he speaks and carries himself. Almost as if he knows who this stranger is.

“Oh yeah, you think my transport is coming? You are out of your mind you don’t know me? You don’t know my life.”

He begins to walk inside towards what he feels is the end of the line for him, but the voice snaps him back to attention.

“Listen, don’t be a stupid asshole, your transport will be here within a week… I promise that.”

Now he is beginning to get enraged at the gall of this stranger, and he clutches the gun and turns to him.

“Well, how do you know this? For all I know you are just some cop goading me forward, how can I trust you.”

The stranger laughs it is a bitter, cynical laughter, one that he knows all too well.

‘Always the cynic right? I was a cynical shit…”

Now he is confused by the way the stranger said that. Was I a cynical shit? What the hell does that mean?

“Listen put the gun away; transport is coming in a week, trust me it gets better.”

The stranger now turns around and begins to walk away; he is standing there mystified, This has to be some trap? How can he know?

“Wait, sir, how the hell do you know that?”

The stranger stops, with a gleam in his eye, and a wide grin on his face.

“Because I am from the future, your future.”


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