ON HIS COLD walk home from GetLit Books, Henry knew exactly what he was going to do when he got off the elevator and then was opening the door back at home in the clouds. He was going to try and forget a world at constant war, and forget…

He’d forget by any means necessary that today three hundred and ten fellow citizens had been killed. Shot dead by another citizen, a war vet and acoustic folk singer who lost his mind and … today, on the nice and normal homeland, dozens of little crosses wooden and splintered litter the ground; burnt dead grass symbolizing all of the men and women and children. Henry walked by this, he was only going home. And the writer wasn’t over there. where the war was far away from America, he was in Detroit. Where he was told he was safe. But it didn’t feel much safer than the trenches; it felt like home was where the battlefield grew.

During The Future Book of War, you didn’t have to open the newspaper to read about just how awful the nice and normal had gotten. It was on every screen, TV and billboard and mirror, and left on disposable digital cardboard called the daily beast of the D. That was your news, and the BREAKING NEWS was filled with war and death, and you observed the war each and every day when you left the house to get a cup of coffee, and you learned about the war inside of the newsfeed update when you put on your BrainPodz; the news of war consumed the population even if they weren’t fighting. The BREAKING NEWS was every day, in your face, and it completely overwhelmed the electrical currents, and within time the news started to replace static, and the death toll was a gas pump number, you just never forgot about the cost of the war. It made somebody too much money. So Henry closed his eyes, walking, and he was almost home but he stopped in his tracks, still on his wildflower path and now he’s looking at the sign of drink specials at the dive bar and…

“Hey Henry”, it was the teacher again.

“Man O’ man”, Henry oldfield said.

“Like destiny, I keep running into you.”




    The writer was looking at the screen, a typewriter application that simulated the real thing but with less waste as the real tapper and ink spender. The setback to this incredible digital invention was that it was financed by GG Hamilton, a famous Hollywood director that Henry Oldfield truly hates, and GG worked with Oldfield once and it’s not like Henry signed up to do it, he only wrote the screenplay for a flick called, THE PINK PANTHER GOES TO THE MOON, it was a big splash hit in the year 2026, and sure Henry O’ wrote the sequel and when asked about it he told the truth…

“I did it for the money and the whole thing is terrible.”

That’s what the boy born dumb said, and Henry was yelled at by the suits and by Babushka for saying that multiple times to the press, and Mr. So & So was furious with em’.

“You’ll never work in Hollywood again, how dare you”, the very wealthy fella’ said to Oldfield before, “you’re a piece of shit.”

“Thank you?” He said back, on a phone call he was having at the same time he’d be multitasking horribly and then…

When Henry picked up the morning newspaper he burnt his tongue after he read how:

Nobody liked him after…


AUTHOR HENRY OLDFIELD of pop this book fame speaks out. Showing THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT Hollywood is a clothless emperor with white trash tastes. He said GG Hamilton hates poor children. Jokes about what a social fiasco you braindead lazy working class are while he does crystal meth in a condo in Bermuda and…”

“O’ Shit” Henry said because well…

 It was a very bad joke in a…


He didn’t mean what he said but they said he did and Henry has millions of bad jokes. But like it does the bad press created a stir, and the pink panther goes to the moon was certified great smelling with a ninety seven percent rating by purchased critics, and nope, his hatred for what he wrote didn’t hurt the movies returns as millions of moviegoers of borderland stormed the cinemas and just, man o man, Henry really hates GG Hamilton, always has ever since he ruined the space classic neo trilogy from the nineteen seventies named, BINARY WARS. Now, these were rehashed flicks that the boy grew up on, and back then he played with his actions figures when he had no parents or nothing, and now everything that GG Hamilton touches turns into dry ice and makes billions of dollars. It doesn’t make sense and the writer never thought he’d work with a “sellout corporate asshole”, but he did and most likely will do it again, and now…


    Henry is using a typewriter program he knows his nemesis helped finance. But so what? He isn’t the idealistic dying young man anymore because now he’s I guess, a seasoned weekend dad who is one thing, always tired and now he’s looking at the screen and … now, that’s when Beckett walked in…

“Here”, Beckett said.

“What is it?”


“You know Beck I hate guessing, and pranks, april fools day is the worst, so just spit it out, what is it?”

Beckett said nothing. What would be the point?







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