February 06, 2005

Story Time with Gabriel

As detailed in the post above, some more writing. As Gabriel no longer has a blog, I'm hosting the resultant work below.

Twillight of Blogs
a story of contemporary failure

They had never met before, but Octavio was certainly happy, although a bit reluctant, to put a face on the nickname Jesus used while commenting, with that nonchalance which had come to characterize him. He walked fast, knowing he should have already put on his HAZMAT suit... the airlocks would open on time, and there was nothing he could do. Even so, he was calm. He did it many times before, and this time he could not help it to be lost into his own deep thoughts.

"In the future there will be robots, they said", thought Octavio of a quote from a vintage 2002 computer game, while walking to the plane, "but all we got was misery, death, and these damn shelters -- The Flu, the damn Flu!" But soon enough his mind turned away from the trite reality of everyday life and unto more familiar, albeit obsessive topics: "It was a good war, fought by good men, and damn anyone who said differently! I was there, *I know* They don't... they never did. The President sacrificed his career for us! The pigs impeached him before he was even done!"

Octavio never wavered in his support for the Commander in Chief and his decision: the use of genetic warfare -- which abruptly put an end to both the war and the president's career. The same genetically-engineered disease, which killed even the most insidious of the enemy in a matter of hours, had mutated into The Flu by mere contact with poultry. Damn geneticists! Couldn't they have tested it on chicken instead of rats?

That was all inconsequential now, the weapon worked, but the Flu was here to stay... the remains of humanity hid in underground bunkers, shelters and any other air-tight place they could find, while the zombified infected ones roamed outside. Life was tough, families were separated and the more extrovert of people would have slowly went insane, in those damn cement holes, if it wasn't for the Internet. You see, the 'net was supposed to resist nuclear warfare, so it pretty much stayed intact... the infected have a functional IQ of 70, therefore no need for it, so these thin coper wires running underground gave hope after "the big lock-down".

In the future, everyone is a blogger. Shut tight in those damn bunkers, with nothing to do, even the technophobes turned "camwhores". Everyone has their little site, with the same boring blogroll, archives spanning up to 7 years now, the omnipresent gallery of photos, memories from the surface, and all the vintage porn one would need during those long and cold A/C repairs.

It all soon turned into politics, like all human affairs do... it was full fledged "bloggercracy". The "major players" that had "cornered the market" before the "big lock-down" were now the contemporary equivalent of greek gods, but the Blogosphere's de facto parliament was a gallery of has-beens, pulling the same old tricks, far from a respectable Pantheon.

Octavio, a conservative fellow in his way, didn't join in with the rest of the survivors, eagerly salivating over Zeldman's upcoming 204th redesign or Wonkette's new nude pictures. Octavio had his own blog, a beacon of family values, a place for prayer and considerate discussion on serious topics, or at least, that's how he designed it.

Octavio was one of the brave men in change with delivering supplies to all of the various bunkers and hiding places of mankind. He would put on his HAZMAT suit, leave the safety of the bomb shelter and drive or fly wherever deliveries where required... he would as soon see some of them perish, but he had his orders. He would also take his digital camera and try to take as many shots of the outside world, a precious commodity in a world where disrespecting the reruns of "That '70s Show" can get a man killed. People would pay hefty sums for picture of their house, the pets they had to leave outside, and so on. All in all, Octavio had a good business going, bringing supplies and selling top-side memorabilia, even to those he hated.

He certainly wasn't what you might call a "leader" of the minority which only a few years ago would proudly call itself the "moral majority", mostly due to his age, but he was certainly an important character in some circles. Him, and that anonymous poster who mysteriously called himself only "Jesus", not an uncommon name in the Spanish-American community. Jesus would simply visit and comment on one of Octavio's blog entries, comment which would make Octavio feel someone really *knew* his heart and understood his struggle; made him feel as touch by the grace of God himself.

Octavio had developed a sort of obsession for this Jesus character... he seemed to understand perfectly the struggle at the heart of contemporary American conservatism, but had nothing related to it on his own site -- Jesus's site was a small collection of loosely posted entries on growing hydroponic weed using only bunker-available supplies, quotes from the Kama Sutra, tribute posts for those obnoxious punk and techno bands of the late '90s and a variety of skateboard review.

The mystery would end that very same day! Octavio pulled some strings and got himself assigned to the bunker where Jesus was said to reside. He was so eager to clear this matter out that he even cut short his unauthorized detour in search of marketable memorabilia.

Octavio arrived and successfully passed the airlock tests -- a good thing too! He could still remember those 2 months in isolation, when his family would wait impatiently outside the locked door to see if he got the Flu. That was a bad time. This time he was all clear, though. He gathered the men and instructed them on the unloading process, and as soon as protocol permitted, he started wondering the base, asking people for Jesus, ignoring their ironic looks.

He finally came to a door and went inside, as somehow entitled to barge in... he found an oily-skinned 20-something, much like himself, of slightly darker skin, sharing one of the small apartments with 3 or 4 young women. That wasn't uncommon. The war, the Flu, and everything else had decimated, on several occasions, the entire male population. Being a survaving, uninfected young man was the only requirements for a harem of sorts, and while Octavio preferred to live alone, when possible, we wouldn't always turn down the advances of a lovely lady.

Other than the beautiful gallery of gorgeous women, Jesus's apartment, half a room by pre-war standards, was full of skateboards which he never could ride, posters of punk bands and vintage clothing, too worn out to wear, but which would hide perfectly the rusted metal pipes on the walls.

Jesus didn't mind the intrusion. He quickly invited Octavio to sit down, on the large and hard floor mat, having recognized him from the only photo Octavio had ever published on his site. or so Octavio imagined.

Before Octavio got a change to properly sit down and open his mouth, Jesus spoke: "I know why you're here. I have given you false hope... hope that you're not alone, that your life, as you live it, is not forfeit. I was cruel to tell you want to wanted to hear, but I did it because you needed to hear it. You should go away and never ask of me again."

Octavio was shocked, having prepared himself for a completely different discussion... he stood there in silence... thinking. He said he would not leave without answers, even if he wouldn't like them.

Jesus continued: "I gave you a chance, but I knew you wouldn't take it, so why don't we just move onwards... the truth is that I am *that* Jesus. You've been praying to me every day of your life, well, except for those 2 days when you were on drugs at that hooker's place, right after the war, but you repented enough for it and I don't care about that very much. Nothing you did with or to that hooker was not taken into account by me when I created this entire world."

Octavio's face went pale... no one knew of his "wild days". No one would have ever understood. Even so, he didn't say a word... he just kept staring, watching, for a mistake or sign that the man in front of him was a false prophet.

Jesus smile and the radiance of it made Octavio feel sick, deep inside. He was experiencing the same joyful peace and understanding that Jesus's online comments gave him.

Jesus added: "I knew what you want, what you've been asking for, and the answer is 'no' to all questions. I won't change anything. You know of the glory of my work and yet you still ask me to ruin it." in a slightly paternal voice.

Octavio couldn't take it any more... he felt so much beauty and perfection that he couldn't help himself feel petty in the presence of such wonders.. He simply took out his sidearm, given to him to deal with the zombies outside, put it to his head, frowned and pulled the trigger.

Jesus them slowly turned to one of his girls and said, in a slightly sad tone: "I knew this one wouldn't understand. Let's move on to the next candidate, shall we? At least I'll get to see this one on the other side. I can't recall why I was so keen on Free Will back then. I suppose I grew old with the world I made. I dislike it when people make me doubt my own perfection."