PINK FRIDAY: July 3rd, 1998

From: e/ (e/w bear)
Date: Sat, 21 Mar 1998 13:56:06 GMT

Art by Poindexter



3:00 pm, July 3rd, 1998

So there you stand shaking on the floor of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange,
your sweaty palm clutching all that remains of your once vast fortune: a
lousy 30 dead presidents. It's July 3rd, Pink Friday, and you ignored the
Bear's advice and sold July Slack. You Idiot! I Told you to BUY! NOW
what are you going to do FOOL? With less than 48 hours left, it's TOO LATE
to mail in your donation. You can't wire a bank draft to The Church's
account either because it's Pink Friday, YOU MORON! THE BANKS HAVE FAILED!
In desperation you try to dial Stang on your cellphone but the batteries
ARE DEAD! Panic stricken you find a phone booth, but the phones are SHUT
DOWN by Executive Order in response to large scale UFO sightings on the
eastern seaboard. You hop in your car and wind desperately through
crushing downtown traffic looking for an exit to the Interstate. "I can
make it", you think. "I have time". "I'll use my credit cards to buy gas",
remembering that the Church only accepts cash after the banks fold, so you
must guard that 30 dollars with your life.

You find the I-State. You start to relax. You're gonna make it. You turn on
the radio for some music but there's NO STATIONS... just an eeire TONE all
across the dial. Finally a voice appears advising all citizens to proceed
to their homes and remain there awaiting further instructions by radio and
TV broadcast. Stunned, you suddenly realize you are the only vehicle
leaving Chicago. Everyone else is moving in the opposite direction. You
round a bend. Ahead, beside a bridge, you see military vehicles and men
with rifles manning a concrete roadblock. Up on the bridge sits a single
black helicopter. You slow down, and are waved to the side by grim looking
Guardsmen in combat fatigues. They remove you from the car and escort you
to a nearby trailer where you are interviewed by a peculiarly small man in
a dark grey suit. He inspects your ID, examining each piece carefully with
a deliberation that chills you to the bone. One by one he studies every
item in your wallet. Finally he notices your cash. Slowly he count's it.
Thirty dollars.

"NOH KAHD?", he rasps. "WEH KAHD?" Trembling, you point meekly at your
money lying crumpled on the table. "MONI NOH GUHD!" "ONI TAHK KAHD!" He
nods slightly, motioning toward the door. "GOH BAHK SHIKAHGOH!" "GOH

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