There’s no crime in what I’m doing—retelling a tale of our history in my mind. It will only become a crime when it’s ‘revaluated’ through a descendant, and that won’t happen because I’ve never had children, won’t do it. And if I ever have sex again, I will wrap it up before I slap absolutely anything up, (Oh, vasectomies are illegal now, too. But they still can’t exactly force us to fuck) I just can’t bring myself to bring a child into this world. I lie. I don’t want them seeing what I didn’t do with my life. Fifteen years of six-day weeks scooping up trash. Twenty years of moaning at the state of it all. A whole life not really lived. And I’m not the only one, a whole generation is now ‘opposed’ to having kids—nobody wants their life on display to their children. Oh no, I hear you say, no children. Your life must be void of meaning; and you would be right. Meaning went out the door when HER came into our lives. Meaning disappeared when control was no longer just about control, it was when the money came in—when the companies became the authorities. When they sold off our dead bodies to the highest bidder (that’s metaphorical, they didn’t need to buy them, they just sent a drone to pick it up when your compulsory government (Genesis) health tracker gave the signal.) So, even though they would eventually ‘view’ this, my retelling of history in thoughts, at least nobody would be around for them throw in prison for my ‘crimes.’

  It’s a weird thought, thinking that someone in the future, when I die, will be viewing a transcript of my thoughts (if they’re flagged by the algorithm, of course.) Hey you! Thought Police; fuck you. Fuck your shitty little job for your shitty weird company. I hope your descendants think of you like the piece of lowly shit that you are. Did you get that? Or would you like me to think it again?

  How do they map a thought from someone who was dead ten, a hundred, or a thousand years ago? I’ll think it and tell you as I know you’re dying to know. There goes my ironic twist on wordplay again. Maybe my G-G-G-G was poet and I didn’t… Ha!

  Anyway, yesterday, the Genealogical Republic updated us all with their latest development, it went a bit like this, from my memory of course. No longer will you be to blame for somebody else’s actions, for a mistake of your ancestors past. Through our latest innovations, we have mapped out the resonance of a thought. The shape of a word in vibrational energy. We can now, not only watch the outside world of our past, we can listen in on their mind, too. This will enable us to make fairer judgements of their actions with an understanding of their environment, their genetic predispositions, and now their thought process.

  And there it is. They can listen in on a dead mind from a millennia ago. Just like that.

  Well, it’s time I got out of bed and donned my Genesis (trash) onesie and cap and started my day. Wednesday… no wait. My watch says it’s Friday. I have to shake off this hangover and—hang on. If they can listen in on the past? Then they could use this to listen in on the now. Read thoughts live. Fuck.

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  . . .

  The ‘cultural realignment therapy’ didn’t go well—apparently I was ‘too far gone’ and ‘too old’ for the modern world, so it didn’t take long for me to end up in prison for my thoughts, as much as I tried to just keep repeating numbers and doing maths in my head (what I’m not very good at by the way, but that was kind of the point; I couldn’t exactly ask anyone how could I ‘hide my thoughts’ without the Health Monitor—what was coincidently updated a few hours after that broadcast—finding out; instantly.) But I was too old for labour, and too useless for war, so I was sent to live out my remaining days in the new Dissident camps, whole islands full of us old (I’m 55) ‘Savage Thinkers’ I think the term was. We’re used as Internal Training Manuals. To show ‘how not to think it’ and how they can ‘learn from the most far gone’ for the ‘future generations.’ Sounds a lot like they’re prepping for a hive mind to me. Hear that future Gens, it all started somewhere, and it started here, the world you live in and share your pure thoughts with your pure neighbour, no doubt worshiping some omnipotent machine or false god. You’ll never get to wonder about the what if. You’ll never get to just live a life. You’ll be forever indoctrinated. You’ll always be a sl—

  I hate that sound, like a whooshing, sucking sound. It’s the door. And standing in it is that little wiry prick.

  “I’m told women find my look comforting.” He replies.

  ‘You’re told a load of shit, Wayne.’ I only need to think it. ‘Why is he here? It’s only eleven am.’

  Wayne stood there like he does. Leaning his weak little shoulder on the doorframe, tapping his tubular pokey stunner like it’s an extension of his dick. He wishes his dick would buzz. “You’re to be bred.” He said, “And my dick is just fine.”

  ‘Bread? Like brown bread—dead? Or like made into bread. Wait… bred?”

  “We’re taking your sperm. Replicating you. So we can study your offspring.”

  ‘At least they were still honest’

  They didn’t use a pump or give me a paper cup and a video to suck me dry. The fuckers stuck a needle in me (two actually) and left me in a room. A few minutes later I felt amazing, like really amazing, I was warm and fuzzy and light and, well, I was a little horny if I’m honest. Then the door did that sucking sound again and little Wayne nudged this woman through. I knew she wasn’t my usual type—not that a beggar could be a chooser, these days I was a little light on the old ‘opportunities.’ But, man. Did I want to get inside of that. Her skin glowed—radiated. Her eyes were as blue as blue can be—they would usually have hurt to look at them, but it’s all I did. Until I saw her nipples through her tight t-shirt.

  The lights dimmed and my temperature—alongside other things—rose. I’ll admit, I knew what they were doing, but I just didn’t care. I had to, I needed to. And it turns out, she felt exactly the same.