Ly Faulk

I kick back at my desk and idly type into my AI machine, sucking up another eighth-inch from the aquifer. A picture of a puppy biting Greta Thunberg on the ass pops onto the screen. I giggle and post it on X. My worshipers scramble to like, share, and comment. 

Standing, I walk over to my window and see a concrete desert. Hazy, waving lines appear to distort the gas stations and fast-food restaurants that sprawl out into the distance. Over the horizon, more concrete, more gas pumps. Too bad I’m not the god of oil. That guy must be rolling in it. 

It’s another hot day in November. Sweat stains my linen suit and rolls down my face. You must imagine me as comfortable, entirely in my element. You would be correct. I’ve thrived and been beggared, each in their own right as the wheel of fate turns, but I’ve never lived as thoroughly as I am in this age. 

I’m distracted from my musing by a ding that informs me of an incoming message. I love all the subtle touches of modernity. A message from the ocean god awaits me in my inbox. It’s not a box but rather a digital folder. The delights never cease. 

The ocean god is pleading with me to cease my assault. The sun penetrates too deep, he says, and the fish are dying. I rub my hands together, savoring the inevitable victory, click delete and the message is gone. Forgotten. I know he’ll send another and another. Acidification of the water this, bleaching of the coral that. 

I light up a cigarette, watch the cherry burn, and crank up the heat in my office. Sweat begins to roll down my back. Summer will roll around soon and I’ve got plans—big ones.