It’s been a somber June 2, here in Southeast Michigan. The cloudy skies and low temperatures have returned. People are staying in and holding onto their children a little tighter when they do go out.


Tonight, amidst the low rumble of horizon traffic and the errant bottle rocket pop, a steady, sharp crack is heard. It’s off in the distance, sorta up and to the left. But it also sounds very present. It sounds like it’s right here.


Or it’s almost here. I did some research, made a few calls. It’s confirmed.


It’s the sound of the damned tunneling their way out of hell.


It’s taken them eons. But as time went on, their ranks swelled. Each black soul doing its part. Pushing and scraping and clawing against the rock. 1800km to the surface.


They’re going to break through any moment now. Most people are in denial about it. Who can blame them? What can we do about it?




The ghostbusters are scattered to the winds. Superman is dead. We can’t stop them. Most people wouldn’t want to.


I’d say, at most, we’ve got 72 hours. I’m going to cover myself in colorful balloons. But I haven’t coordinated anything.

God’s unwanted children are returning to the earth and we’re worried about smoking cigarettes near pets.


Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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