When I woke up the house was cold so I turned up the juice to the E-Cat. That reminded me that I had a stack of dunning notices from LeonardoElectric demanding payment. For a self-sustaining energy source, it sure has jacked up my electrical bills.
I put on my gas mask to take a shower. I wished I could use the gas from the water for basic heat, but it would be illegal to harvest my own fossil fuel and not pay taxes. I dried myself and checked to see whether it was still legal to wear my Dhaka-made shorts and tee shirt. No buildings had collapsed overnight, so I didn’t have to throw them away and buy newer, certified-safe-worker garments – again.
After signing the Monsanto licensing rider, I ate a bowl of genetically-modified corn flakes, genetically-modified soy milk and hybrid bananas. I had to promise to dispose of my bowel movements in special bags to be stored in case they wanted to verify that no actual organic matter was in my system.
I walked outside trying not to look at the hydraulic fracturing rig in the neighbor’s yard. The new Gas Gag bill made it an act of terrorism to notice anything awry at any fossil fuel site. I hoped it wasn’t on fire.
I got in my self-driving Tesla, and focused on my iPad as the EV sideswiped the neighbor’s mailbox and ran over a dog. I managed only a few sessions of Angry Birds before a peremptory voice announced arrival. The door opened, hitting a cyclist, and I got out, but as the car pulled away I realized I wasn’t at the office. I texted my boss. Abercrombie & Fitch must have sent out another shopping virus because half the office had been, accidentally, driven to the mall.
We held an impromptu meeting while we hoped for one of our vehicles to respond and take us to work. I assumed most of our cars were waiting in line at the supercharger station. “Jeez, I never made it to the mall this often when I was telecommuting,” one woman whispered, “too bad it’s illegal now.”
A man dressed in Army-Navy combat gear approached. “Is there a problem, citizens?” he asked. “No, Captain Suburb,” I said, “just another mixup with the cars.” “Do you have your weapons?” Naturally we were all in compliance with the new Must Carry statute – I had a Rick Perry in my pocket, my boss wore a Judge down his pants leg and the women had hot pink Raven Arms .32s – good for at least three shots – in their backpacks.
“Carry On!”, Captain Suburb chirped as his colleague, Lady MallRat, snapped a candid. We gave them a tip, and they scampered away as if they were flying – but they weren’t.