As you may know, I’m the schmuck who lends intellectual credibility to this Hindenburg of a periodical. What you didn’t know is that I live in the future. What you also didn’t know is that the future is shit. I wrote about what it might be like several issues back. Predictably, none of you listened to me, and your slack-jawed indifference led us all ass-first into this horrible dystopia. In short, history farted on Marx’s beard. Capitalism collapsed backwards into feudalism, and the relics of the industrial age were married to the ironclad caste system of yesteryear. In my time, a small group of enlightened individuals in long robes rule in the name of a ragged multitude writhing in the dual agonies of ignorance and miserable toil. Also, Islam merged with technology. It’s bad.
Now, in these circumstances, my natural abilities and innate cleanliness led me to the ruling class. I’ve become accustomed to doing as a ruler would; that is, I do a lot of what I want, usually, but not always, when I want it. I don’t usually stoop to writing. Normally, I would simply ascend my desert fortress – built, naturally, when the TechnoMuslims came – and begin yelling across the wide expanse of this earth as if all mankind were a battered Yahweh-cult and I, its disappointed-by-life, impotent, and gin-soaked Moses, much as I have done within the pages of this very magazine. Recently, however, as I was waiting for the elevator to take me to the loftiest heights of my steam-punk keep, I was struck quite forcefully (and, if I remember, repeatedly) by I the agony of inspiration. The light of reason pulled me down with much gnashing of wicked jaws and glowing of red eyes; I pissed myself from clarity of mind, then slipped beyond the pale of consciousness. When I came to, I was immediately sure that a muse had spoken to me: I should not rely on the old ways. This was a new era, not a time for stuffy pretense. It was time that I went to you, the filthy, horrifying mass. It was time that I listened.
Some details still required working out. I had decided that I would make this a Q&A. There would, however, have to be some planning. For instance, I decided against direct contact. I also chose to write the questions myself. That way, I’d be assured of getting the answers right. Doing so also saved me the trouble of having to speak to any of you or hear your dull-witted opinions delivered with the wretched, fat-tongued drawl common to yeoman everywhere. Having scratched with gilded chisel onto plates of gold my plebeian gift, I rang down to a nearby village for a team of strong-backed porters and a broomsman to clean the paw prints and tire-treads from my floor, and dispatched the whole affair by rope-sled to London, or St. Petersburg, or wherever it is that they press papyrus these days. I assume that the mission was successful, and was not ambushed by TechnoMuslims or vultures. Enjoy, then, these bits of hearty, peasant-faced wisdom as you would the rustic pleasures of a trench-toilet and righteous toil.
Question: My neighbor is a widow. How ought I to gird myself against her witchcraft?
Answer: Boil sage in the vomit of a meer toad and apply it to your daughter’s neck, that which has not seen the immoral light of a noonday sun. If the curse of woman-child is not upon you, you are safe from the witch-spell regardless.
Question: I have finished reaping my lord’s grain to the tale of two scupper’s full. These I then deliver to market for nary more than a Dutchman’s two-farthing and nonce-penny. Of this, two florin is the bailiff’s & a white shilling the divining hag’s. Whither do I go thence, where I may find both seed for the harvest & the birthing-iron, that my kin be protected from sin by all-consuming heat?
Answer: Send a pigeon to my cousin, Hearweald, who is both grainier and a magician of woman’s sorrow-time. He will ask only farthing and quince-penny.
Question: I have heard that in the towns, a man may live without lord & dine frequently on pig’s offal. Such a gentlemanly life I can hardly bethink. I am tempted, but fear sin & offense unto my betters by my immodesty. What am I to make of these thoughts?
Answer: Beg God that you are not already beyond saving.
I had written more, but I found my notes shredded and reeking of animal urine and coolant. It seems, then, that I’m finished. I suppose that this is a tearful moment, isn’t it? No, don’t cry: it fattens the cheeks. While I may be gone, take heart, for there are others like me. The Economist magazine shares my lively spirit in pursuit of the dismal science. You should find a reassuring resemblance to me in its condescending tone and alchemical methodology.
And now, I suppose, I should say my proper goodby- Wait a minute. What was that noise? It came from the hallway.
Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, of course. It all becomes clear, now: cyborg coyote mullahs.
I should’ve known.
~ Lion Summerbell
