He sat writing at his desk that late February night. Fueled by the smoke of his burning generation he let what felt like his last words ooze onto paper.
"The aliens are here.
"Oh God. Where the fuck is my SKS?"
He threw down his pen and ripped open a desk drawer containing one standard issue 12 round semi-automatic Sergei Gavrilovich Simonov pistol. Cheap, but reliable, and deadly and close- to mid-range. In admiring his beloved weapon he had completely forgotten about the aliens.
Paranoia. It hits fast and leaves without staying to smoke a cigarette.
Smoke filled his life. It came out of the end of his mother's Newports, from his own cheap menthols, from the paper mill in the west wind, from rolled up balls of resin scraped with a paper clip and a Rizla, and especially from the the smoking remains of old buildings lining the city streets.
"You see, the great war had changed everything. Russia and China had partitioned the U.S. into three sections. The West was China's, the East was Russia's, and the center was a puppet democracy, about as autonomous as most other nation-states today. Still, it was Russia and China and not corporate fuckers in charge.
"Many people were killed in the war, mostly Americans.
"To even call it a war is a massive understatement. No. To call it anything but the Great Purge would be very inappropriate. In their words, SSS, Scientific Social Selection, or S3.
"It was a necessary evil. All the traitors got what they deserved. Murdering, dog-raping scum. They betrayed humanity. They're all just like her. Just like the Bitch. And they all burned, I got to see them burn too. I lit the match and now their land is reduced to nothing because I dropped the match onto the rag, I felt the gasoline ignite in my hand, and I cast the first stone into the lake of oil that is now a lake of fire!"
This is where he lived. Burned cities did not line his streets. Charred corpses did not decompose in houses on his block. But this is where he lived.
