[short story] f.e.d.

F.E.D.

YOUR MOM NEVER WANTED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE.

He used to write what he used to call "Post-it Fiction",and nobody else did, because no one cared about his work. It was the onset of 4D TV, just about then,when the world became the screen : no place for theatrical analogies anymore, the world was no stage - perhaps, some cramped sound stage where you'd shoot your stupid soap opera of a life, one damn episode a day, every single day. No lunch breakes, just commercial breakes.

YOUR DAD USED TO RAPE YOU EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT AND YOU JUST REPRESSED THOSE MEMORIES

Artificial reality, universal computing: those weren't buzz words anymore, they were just there, everywhere. Now, 4D TV, holographic tv: those stuck for a while. You lived the show, you were online all the time, then, every step and breath recorded; no ffwrd button yet, but you could just replay your life to the last second, as long as it had it been logged somewhere. Tv was 4d, and the world was the same , plain 2d shitscape it had always been.

YOUR KIDS WANT TO KILL YOU 

Eletronic tags everywhere, reaching you through radio-waves, everything speaking to your virtual-space googles on tiny floating boxes,this spectral,"holographical" veneer superimposed on the neighborhood,:living through a scanner,darkly. And someone somewhere had to write the code, and someone had to come up with those fancy, jumping displays. Hence, the "Post-it Fiction"("p.i.f.",if you may)guy, writing copy for a life and pretending it was art. For a while, at least.

HE JUST WANTS YOUR BODY,YOU KNOW

But even a hack has a heart, and a cheap and fragile one at that. He knew it wasn't any good any more to pretend "shit" wouldn't stink if you kept calling it "poop"instead. So, he fancied changing his craptitude, and to be a hack to his own hackwork.Chop,chop - save,post.

SHE JUST WANTS YOUR MONEY,YOU KNOW

Invisible graffiti. Virtual vandalism. Done on a semi-random basis, untraceable - volatile. Insults coming at you from nowhere then vanishing back to nowherehood. Hit and run - "Fictional Explosive Devices": he came up with that, kept it to himself, fighting the urge to sign up his little masterpieces - unable to take measure of his own sucess, as a matter of fact. So, once a hack, always a wannabe artist - true to form, he  finally took his virtual ass to a few virtual cafés , fishing for feedback on his  little jihad against life itself.

A COMET IS ABOUT TO HIT THE PLANET IN FIVE MINUTES FLAT

And no one took the bait. No-one kept giving his work a shit.(in fact, his stuff was so good - just fine, not really stupendous, but memorable - that no one had the nerves to talk about it publicly, fearing the ridicule, fearing they've lost their minds just this little bit more, already). And that was it. After a while, he got married, got fired, found another job, had kids, lived the rest of his life knowing damn well that no one gets to write the ending to his own story.

THIS PRODUCT IS REACHING IT'S EXPIRATION LIMIT IN 5,4,3...