Chapter 1: Neon Nightmares

There was always a spray of neon, clouding my thoughts, blurring my vision. Everywhere I looked, sickly colours drowning out any form of inner peace. The halogen glow of a hundred store fronts, the searchlights pulsating through the sky, emanating from various casinos, theatres, arenas. Nothing but a constantly visual overload.

People apparently enjoyed this, relished it. They had fun dealing with the slow onset of migraines that came with this colorful hell.

And yet, here I was sitting in a diner, waiting for my food. The bottles of pills rattling in my coat pocket every time I moved. The drugs already pumping through my system giving everying a faded and hallucinatory glow. My mind was in a strange state, some of the drugs had made me paranoid, a combination of 4AC0DMT and Mescaline, while the Xanax and Valium had made me calm. I was balancing on a thin wire with a mental breakdown on each side.

I had definitely gone to far this time. But then again, I said that every night. Maybe it was just this damn Diner with its stupid neon sign out front. I needed a vacation, someplace that I could sit and rest. Let my brain cool without the buzz of the city permeating throughout every inch of my body. Maybe I could take a trip to Tibet. If my bank account would allow it. I hadn't checked the balance recently but I was pretty sure it was less than my account PIN number.

That was certainly cause for concern.

I sighed, rubbed the three day stubble on my chin, before reaching into my pocket and pulling out a worn notebook, trying to find and empty page that wasn't covered with the scribblings of a man trapped in the vice like grip of every hallucinogenic known to humankind.

Upon finding a relatively empty page, I pulled out an equally worn and grimy pen before scribbling with shaking hands "Do one last job then get the fuck out of this town!"

Of course it probably came out something closer to "One job then leave now!" The hallucinogenics had begun to take effect as the words twisted and bubbled. Making it harder and harder to read them.

Worried that it might eat me, I stuffed the notebook and pen back into one of my pockets before drumming my fingers against the table. Attempting to calm myself down. I waited for my food patien- wait, had I even ordered food?

Yes I had, I'd ordered food from the young waiter. Who like me, looked haggard and sleep deprived. Most likely trying to pay for college. Something I didn't entirely bother with. Really was just a waste of money and I'd already had a suitable career set up by then.

Botany had been a fun career but after 1982 I'd decided I needed a change. So then it was journalism, then a brief stint in the army, following that I ended up in Sao Paolo working at some convenience store. Until I finally I was here, back where it all began, sitting in the same Diner as before.

Jesus where was my food? I was beginning to worry I would starve. Gasping for nourishment as I withered away in this booth.

Or according to my watch, it had only been around Ten minutes since Id actually entered the restaurant. I blame the drugs.

The door behind me opened and I jumped, grabbing the edges of my seat as though I was running the risk of floating away. I had never truley believed in gravity after all. It seemed to theoretical. There was someone else in here now. I wasn't expecting that. No one came in here at 3am. Well except for me but I didn't consider myself to be a part of that equation. Something about a conflict of interest.

I picked up a spoon and casually tried to hold it out infront of me. Trying to see who this newcomer was. Some young man, clean shaven wearing a professional looking suit and looking around. Was he looking for me? Or was he just hoping to get a coffee and slice of pie before heading back out to whatever upscale business he worked for? He continued to scan the room before his eyes locked on the spoon. Could he see me watching him?

Shit he was approaching. I began to panic, sweat pouring off my brow. I dropped the spoon and shrunk into my booth, trying to hide from him. But I could hear him approaching. His footsteps sounding like cracks of a rifle.

He was death, finally coming to add me to his collection. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, may as well accept my fate. Of course as he got closer, terror began to grip me again and I tried to avoid eye contact as he sat down across from me.

He rested his hands on the table and began to speak, "Are you Dr. William Petresson?"

"I..." I faltered, was I going to have a conversation with this man? Was I going to speak with death?

Might as well have a conversation with him seeing as he's going to take my soul anyways.

"It's not Doctor anymore. I haven't been a botanist for years." I replied.

"Oh... My apologies. You're currently a private investigator. Is that right?" He asked. His hands were distracting, something about his knuckles and how clean and perfect his nails were.

I looked down at my hands, the nails grimy and chewed, my palms scarred and my fingered calloused, "Yeah I suppose you could say that. Why do you ask?"

He sighed and pulled out a shet of paper from within his suit. "I was hoping you could take a look at this." and slid it across the table to me.

I unfolded it and began to read.

"Do you know what that is?" He asked.

I looked up, his face showed concern. "It's a document covering the details of those undercover operatives in Russia who went missing last week right? But this isn't what they showed on the news."

"Of course it isn't. We can't let the public know why they actually went missing. Keep reading." He sat back and waited.

I finished reading the document and slid it back across the table to him. "So what? They went missing in Russia. They weren't supposed to be there in the first place so it's not much of a surprise. What does this have to do with me?"

"You know what the Soviets are capable of right? They've been planting Agents here for years now and it's getting harder and harder to catch them! We need to find out how they are doing it. Which is why those Operatives were there in the first place." He ran his hand through his hair before pulling out another sheet of paper. This one showing a grim and miserable looking man covered in bruises with a prominent gunshot through his temple.

"This man is Niko Yarnaev. Until two months ago, he was living under the name of David Raime. He claimed to be a member of an organization called Solar Earth. He was caught attempting to smuggle nuclear launch codes out of the country into Cuba. When asked why he was stealing them, he claimed he was going to help bring the coming of an Orange Earth." He pointed to a tattoo on the mans arm, "That's their symbol. A fusion of the Earth and the Sun."

"So what?" I replied, "Probably just some radical maniac! People are to paranoid these days. Just like that Able Archer 83 test done a few weeks ago. We all got up in arms and paranoid but did any of us get nuked?"

"He was recieving radio commands from deep in the Russian countryside. Almost exactly where those Operatives went missing. They were close to uncovering this whole thing." The man tapped on the page again.

"So you seriously think it's Russian secret agents? Cuz it looks to me like it's some radical who tried to fuel his delusions." As I spoke, the waiter finally brought my food over and the Suited man stuffed the pages back into his pocket.

I stared at my plate, at the food twisting and contorting before my eyes. The hallucinations were getting stronger with every minute, and I had forgotten my glasses. Something I had failed to notice earlier when I was reading those pages. But it was clearly food. Sausages and potatos. The best food when trapped in the grip of hallucinogenics. The texture was simplistic enough that it wasn't overwhelming while still tasting good.

I began to eat as the man pulled out the papers again. "Look, this is a national crisis! Just because we caught Niko, doesn't mean that we may be able to stop the next guy who tries to steal our launch codes!"

I stopped him, "Two things, You still haven't told me who you are and you also still haven't told me how I'm even involved."

He nodded, "I suppose you're right. I am Agent Shaw, and my superiors and I want you to find these missing operatives."

I spat out my food, and coughed. Not only was this man not Death coming to claim me, but he was a government agent? "Wait what? You want me to go to Russia!? What the hell man? I'm just a P.I, send a fucking professional!"

'We can't we are already to compromised as it is. Every operative we send increases the chances of us being exposed. Which would make things a whole lot worse between us and the Soviets."

"Right because you two are oh so chummy right now..." I muttered before returning to my food. But he took my plate.

"What the hell man!? I'm trying to eat!" I protested but he stood his ground. Holding my plate away.

"You'll get this back if you agree to come with me and meet my superiors." He replied.

"Fine!" I reached for the plate before muttering under my breath, "Fucking pigs..."

He definitely heard me but decided to ignore my comment and returned my food which I quickly finished lest he try to steal it again. These drugs were running at their strongest now. My mind being turned into a strange maelstrom of thought, althouggh they all seemed to follow the theme of typewriters.

Go to Russia and solve some stupid government problem, or stay here and pobably die in a pool of my own puke, unpaid bills fluttering all around me like the wings of angels that would never come to my aid.

God I hated the neon.

Chapter 2: Fridge Firearms

The scream of my radiator woke me up with a yell. Panicked and scrabbling desperately under my bed for my gun. Wait, that was probably still in the fridge from last night.

I sat up with a groan and scratched my chin, as I tried to piece together the previous nights events.

Following the agent meeting me at a diner, we were in a car together. He was driving, I was hallucinating in the back seat.

He was talking to me, but I was ignoring it, watching the city roll by. Watching the neon.

We were headed to some secure location. A place his supervisor could talk to me without exposing his location to any more undercover Russians.

When had society become so paranoid?

I began to get paranoid once I noticed we were reaching the outskirts of town. The cities equivalent of a wasteland. Abandoned buildings were everywhere, and I could swear I could faintly hear gunshots.

Maybe this man was Death and he just didn't want to kill me in such a public area. Maybe he was just a serial killer with an obsession with almost homeless looking people.

Speaking of which, I strode to the bathroom and stared in the mirror, I still needed to shave. But not now, my razor was a bit too rusty for my current level of sobriety. What I really needed was to try and wrap my head around last night.

We eventually stopped at some abandoned school. The playground out front rusty and rotted to the core. Maybe it was the hallucinogens but I could faintly hear the sound of children laughing as we strode through the empty swingset.

The agent produced some keys from within his suit and opened the front door. Motioning for me to go in first. As we stepped in, the lights flickered on, showing an ungodly amount of dust floating in the halls. The agent ended up going ahead of me as we navigated this maze of a building, it had been a while since either of us spoke a word. Me too blasted out of my mind for idle chitchat, and him most likely being to professional to risk exposing more information than he needed. Unless of course he was still Death. Eventually he stopped walking outside of some old classroom and motioned for me to once again go in first.

The room was empty save for a few desks and chairs and an older man sitting at the teachers desk. He gestured towards the seat infront of him and I sat down, noticing the desk infront of me had "My teachrs a litle shit" carved into it. Clearly that student needed to pay more attention.

"Mr. Petresson, do you know why you are here?" The man asked.

I nodded, "You want to send me to Russia to investigate the disappearance of 3 missing CIA operatives who were investigating some organization called Solar Earth."

He nodded, "Not only that, but we want you to finish their work. Get to the bottom of this group and find out what their motives are. Why are they trying to destroy America?"

"Probably because they don't like it, but that's just me." I grinned, I think. I wasn't entirely sure what was going on. But his reaction was very angry. Shockingly angry. What had I done to offend this patriot?

"This is not a joking matter Mr. Petresson! Millions of lives could possibly be at stake! If this gets out of hand, the whole world could be at stake! Do you really want to be responsible for such a genocide?" He slammed his fist against the table, causing me to jump!

"Apologies. I'm a bit of a cynic." I sighed.

"I noticed. I also noticed you have an unhealthy dependance of hallucinogens, but you use them to help with your work." He gestured towards the bottle of pills hanging from a chain around my neck. Oh hey! I'd forgotten about those ones! The little blue pills that felt like a combination of Salvia and Ecstacy. Don't take more than two at a time.

"Yeah? What about it? You saying I should stop? Because that's gonna make me pretty much useless in Russia." I reached into my pocket to make sure the agent hadn't frisked me. Good it was all still there.

"No. But I'd suggest you accept this job if you want to keep fueling your dependance." His face darkened.

"Are you threatening me?" I asked. Hopefully the agent hadn't frisked me for my gun. I could take them both out, set fire to the car I came in, and walk home. They'd never catch me! Then again... if they did... Best I don't shoot them.

"No I am not threatening you. I'm just saying that the more time you spend in this city stoned out of your mind, the more chances there are for you to be caught and arrested. Id suggest getting out of here and taking some time off. You could almost see this job as a vacation!" He smiled.

"Yeah a vacation in which I'm undercover deep in the enemies countryside trying to fix what the CIA fucked up in the first place! Boy that sounds just dandy!" I rolled my eyes and slouched in my chair. Feeling it creak and groan. Clearly this was not built for a 41 year old man. Or however old I was. Fuck! How old was I?

"I'd suggest you take the job. We've looked at your bank account and it seems you are behind on bills. If you succeed, we could make all your financial problems go away. You could live happily forever." He began, "But if you don't then we will have a problem."

"Oh? What kind of problem is that?" I asked. Shit where had I hidden that gun?

"It appears my agent made the mistake of telling you far too much at that Diner. We would need to ensure that you don't go blabbing to anyone. This situation is already exposed enough as it is." He gave me a sly grin, clenching his hands together and leaning a bit closer.

This fucker was blackmailing me! What a shit!

"So I have to accept?" I asked. I still hadn't found that gun...

"No one is forcing you to do anything Mr. Petresson, we are simply suggesting you take the job." He grinned.

I sighed, the pay would definitely help and I could use the break from this goddamn city. But it was too early for me to make a decision. What I needed was sleep, and more drugs first.

"If you let me take a look at that Niko guy's place tomorrow then I'll make a decision. But right now I need to go home and sleep."

He nodded and motioned for the agent to come into the room. "Alright deal. Agent Shaw will escort you home."

I nodded and shook his hand before leaving with Agent Shaw.

...

Which brought me back to today where I had been staring at my haggard reflection for almost 15 minutes now. I sighed and walked back into my bedroom, putting on a shirt and my glasses. I reached under my bed and found the smooth steel case of another one of my drug collections. I called these ones the greens. Leftovers from my botany days. A hybrid of Psylocin and a type of hallucinogenic mould I had discovered growing in my basement. The plants hybridized together and crushed into the little green tablets before me. Very powerful stuff.

I took two. Hunter S. Thompson would be jealous.

Fifteen minutes later, I was gasping, feeling my brain throb as they took hold and tore my mind in two. Left brain and right brain working seperately as I stumbled around my apartment. Trying to find food and the rest of my clothes.

Upon piecing myself both physically and mentally together, I finally found some food. Microwaveable snacks, some sort of dish wrapped in dough. There was a box of assorted ones in my freezer and I ended up cooking both a pizza and steak snack. I had no idea what they tasted like or how old they were. I had most of my meals at the Diner, but that place was now compromised. Too many secret agents for my like.

They took about 45 seconds to cook, something that was both impressive and alarming. Last time I checked, steak took far longer than that. Let alone Pizza. Wasn't that stuff baked? Doesn't that take a while?

I groaned and took a bite. To be honest they weren't the worst. A bit on the soggy side but nothing too bad.

But not as good as the food at the Diner. Maybe they do delivery...

I sighed and laid down on my couch, reaching over to crank on the TV. Behind me, I could hear my typewriter begin to whirr to life. The keys clicking and clacking.

My typewriter was an intersting invention. I had hooked it up to a wind sock and barometer coming off my balcony which would take changes in wind, pressure, and temperature, and connect them to keys on my typewriter. Something I had come up with at 3 AM on a tuesday while experimenting with sleep deprivation and the effects of Mescaline. I was trying to find out the language of weather. But so far it had only produced gibberish.

But I ignored my rusty old typerwiter and turned back to the TV where it was playing a news segment.

This week, Russian militants have issued another threat to the US president - A list of target locations for their nuclear strikes if the US does not pull out of Afganistan. President Reagan has dismissed these threats, claiming they are empty. However tensions continue to build between both countries as the US moves more missiles into Europe. Russia has retaliated by moving several of their missiles into the Ukraine and pointing some at Canada. We want to remind you to check with your City Official to make sure you are caught up in the most recent nuclear safety steps.

Next up: Are dogs the cause of America's Drug problem? We go in deep with Scientist, DR. James Rivi-

I shut off the TV. After last night it was clear the News was no longer a reliable source. But when had they ever been? Besides I still needed to meet up with Agent Martenza and take a look at that crime scene.

He said he would pick me up at 10 AM and according to my watch, it was 9:54. I picked up my vest and stepped out of my apartment. Making sure my bottle of blues was safely around my neck. Outside, I could see Agent Shaw pulling into the parking lot. I descending the cracked cement stairs that let to my apartment and met him.

"Ready to go Mr. Petresson?" He asked. Looking more sleep deprived then he had before. He was probably up all night.

"Yeah let's get this over with." I climbed into the passenger seat and we drove off. This time downtown, towards the Cities core.

"So who was this Niko guy?" I asked as we navigated the busy street of the neon riddled hellhole, "What did he do? Like career wise?"

"He was a Banker. Made a lot more money than either of us did. Probably used his wealth to get his hands on the Launch Codes." He replied, scowling.

"Huh. Amazing what you can get with money these days." I chuckled before relaxing in the passenger seat. Reaching into my pocket to pull out a notebook and flipping to another relatively blank page.

Don't forget to take gun out of fridge.

He pulled to a stop and motioned to the high rise across the street from where we had parked. "We're here."

Chapter 3: The Apartment where it all began

I sighed and looked around this mans apartment. Everywhere were documents, sheets covered with scribblings, old textbooks, notebooks, manuscripts, blueprints, bomb schematics. This guy had detailed notes on every important government building in the United States! He could have completely destroyed North America if he wanted to. Then of course in the middle was the box. Some airline black box, but which one, I could not tell. Either he was trying to stop the government from knowing something, or it was something he was trying to learn himself. Also covering his walls was the same symbol that was on his arm. Solar Earth.

Most of his scribblings were in Russian but I could piece together a fair amount of it using the English documents as reference.

"So Mr. Petresson, anything you can tell us?" The Agent asked.

I sighed, scratching my chin. "He clearly wanted to incite some sort of nuclear war. But it wasn't just between us and the Soviets. Some of these documents are from china, hell theres one from France right behind you! It looks like he wanted to start some sort of global nuclear conflict! Get everyone involved in this self genocidal party!"

The agent nodded. "We figured he was trying that. But anything about why he was recieveing communications from deep in the Russian countryside?"

"Well..." I picked up the sheet beside his radio showing various frequencies. "These are all local Russian frequencies. It looks like they were encrypted then broadcast over here where they would appear as nothing but static. Most people would write it off as radio signals overlapping."

"And?" The Agent asked.

"Here's the thing. The Russian government wouldn't communicate with such an easily interceptable signal. They would use lower harder to detect frequencies. Hell this is practically something I could pick up using your car radio. No Soviet commander would be dumb enough to use this." I put the page back down and began to examine the radio.

"What does that mean?" Asked the Agent.

"It means either Niko wasn't working for the Soviets or this is much bigger than either of us thought." I replied.

Ignoring the stunned look on his face, I returned to analyzing the rest of the mans stuff, moving from his living room to his bedroom.

The mans bedroom, was just like his living room, covered with old documents and sheets. Mad scribblings over everything. It was almost as if he wallpapered his house in insanity. Again the repeated mention of an Orange Earth and an almost religious obsession with nuclear war.

Wait...

"Agent Shaw," I began, "Have you considered that this man was some sort of religious extremist?"

"Of course. But look around you. There's no evidence that he could be a part of any religion. According to our sources he was an honest day to day agnostic." He replied.

"Really? No religious evidence?" I pointed to the Orange Earth splattered on the wall to his left. "What about that?"

"I wouldn't consider it to be a religious symbol." He shrugged.

"I would. It's all over the place so he was clearly obsessed with it." I went back to Niko's papers.

"I take it you're not a religious man then, Mr. Petresson?" Asked the Agent.

"Used to be, then life got in the way. I have a saying, The Pope never tilts his head cuz then all the bullshit would come pouring out his ears." I chuckled, and began to ruffle through the stackes of paper on Niko's desk.

"A uh... Interesting saying." Coughed the Agent.

"Yeah I guess. So need me to do anything else here?" I asked.

"Well, what can you tell me about Niko?" Replied the Agent.

"He was clearly dedicated to his job. This isn't a fake personality... He was David Raime. It's almost as if Niko was a fake ID that he used and he just lived his life as David Raime. But... At the same time, he was always answering any comands or orders under the name of Niko Yharnaev." I scratched my chin, dropping his papers and heading towards the exit. I needed a drink.

"Uh Mr. Petresson? Where are you going?"

"Out. I've seen all I need in here." I replied and shut the door behind me.

"W-wait Mr. Petresson!" The Agent ran out after me. "Have you made a decision? Will you investigate this further?"

I stopped and sighed, scratching the back of my head.

"Well it looks like I don't have much of a say in the matter. All outcomes lead to me in Russia."

Six hours later, I was on the plane.

Chapter 2.5: Mindfuck

Six hours earlier on the other hand, I was driving. It had been a while since I drove while my mind reeled from the collective strength of several different hallucinogenics. It was best not to focus on all the little dials and knobs. Just stare out the window and focus on not crashing. I had to drivve carefully but not too carefully. Like I was a Suburban Mom driving her kids home from Soccer Practice. Goddammit Helen keeps using the crappy tupperware.

I was heading back to the outskirts of town. To meet an Old Irish drunk by the name of Nigel McFallon. He moved here after a brief stint in Vietnam. He was my dealer, if you could call it that. More a connoisseur of every mind altering and opening substance that could be acquired today. He was most likely the closest thing to a best friend I ever had.

My mind flashed back to a rainy evening about five or six years earlier. My car had broken down/his neighbor may have raided it for parts. But either way I was trapped inside Nigel's house with him. Not that I minded, he was a friendly guy and always wanted to entertain. But that night he had something different planned.

I remember him coming down the stairs with a beautiful wooden box, "Serenity" in stamped metal across the lid. He opened i without a word and from inside pulled out a pair of beautiful blue flowers. Barely bloomed. But they were long dead. Who knows how many years they spent inside the box.

He gave me one and told me to chew it, saying it was stronger than anything I had tried up to that point. I wasn't as dependant on hallucinogens as I am now, but I was still regularly taking them. So I did what he said and what followed was one of the most interesting and profound experiences I have ever had on this Earth.

It was dark, an overwhelming blackness. Nothing could be seen, at least not until I closed my eyes and focused slightly, almost as if I was focusing on my peripheral vision. Slowly, a faint white orb could be seen which expanded into a window of light, illuminating my surroundings.

I'm sure some Psychologist would explain all this, going on about "Lucid dreams" or some other type of bullshit.

But no. This was different. This was the only time I was convinced I could see another world. This was Earth, but different. This Earth was covered in darkess. As if the sun itself had gone out.

As the room slowly grew brighter, I could make out my surroundings. I was in a cavernous hall, almost churchlike. Ahead of me was an ornate altar, covered in depictions of screaming humans. Contorted in agony, their flesh almost peeling from their bones. At the top of the altar was some sort of crudely carved goblet or chalice. It clearly wasn't made with human hands. I'm not sure entirely what it's purpose was but I decided it would be better to not stay and find out.

So I left that horrifying hall and stepped outside. Or at least I think I was outside, it was hard to tell in the strange blackness that strode across the sky. It looked almost like someone had dyed the clouds. However I remember my surroundings clearly. I was on a hill, a great empty void. Like the entire world had been scooped away leaving that similar infinite blackness.

But there was something above me, floating in the sky on a ruined husk of stone. It looked like an old Cannon had been fused with one of those giant Telescopes they use to look at stars. A soft purple light was emanating off of it and every once in a while it would glow with a brilliant blue light befome firing into the void with a loud boom.

Something had happened to this world, something cruel and unnescessary. This world was the product of every bad decision known to humankind. The World of Murphy's Law.

Following this, there was a flash of light and I felt myself ascending, flying upwards into the sky until I was once aagain sitting in Nigel's living room. Having at some point decided to lie on his floor.

Nigel was passed out in a nearby armchair, and upon realizing that it was no longer raining, I stepped outside and walked home. Feeling a strange sense of connection with every object I passed.

I didn't see him for two weeks after that. Deciding that it was better to hide at home and design the weather translator machine that still operates in my window.

But now, I stopped outside Nigel's house and checked my watch, Five hours and 37 minutes until my plane left. I had time.

Nigel's house always looked like garbage. He said he liked to keep it that way, stopped people from breaking in. Besides based on how he lived, I doubt there was ever much to steal. I mean except for the thousands of dollars in illicit narcotics that he had stashed in every nook, cranny, and gap throughout his entire house. But then again what would someone do with all those hallucinogens? What would I do?

Probably take them, but never mind that. He had just answered the door.

"Oy? Ah... Petresson. Come in." He was wearing a pair of khakis and an old ratty T-shirt. Surprisingly, I looked better than him which was rare. I was usually the more homeless of the two.

I followed after him into his living room where he flopped onto the couch and stared at me with tired eyes.

"What can I do ya for?" He asked.

"I'm uh... Leaving on a trip. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone so I need some stuff to take with me." I replied, sitting down in the armchair across from him.

"Hmm... Alright anything in particular?" He rolled over and reached under his couch, fumbling around amongst the many boxes and bags I could see stuffed underneath.

"Just the usual I suppose. Unless you got anything you'd recommend." I stretched, relaxing in his chair. Say what you will about the man, he had comfy furniture.

He paused, hand still under his couch, mouth half open, before snapping to attention and sitting up.

"Have you ever heard of MF133?" He asked.

"No... What the hell is that?" I asked. He grinned and stood up, mumbling something along the lines of "Be right back." Before sprinting upstairs.

While he was gone I took a peak behind the chair. Yep, more boxes and bags. Nothing but boxes and bags. What the hell, where was this guys stuff? His books? His magazines? Newspapers even?

Then I remembered a past conversation...

"News? Man, fuck the news! A bunch of propaganda and bullshit let me tell you!" He took a deep puff from the gnarled ancient cigar clasped between his knuckles. "It's impossible to be an unbiased journalist unless the reporter was every single persona at the event and somehow figured out how to report all of it at once! Otherwise stuff is gonna get missed out no matter how hard you try!"

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Well I suppose you do have a point there."

"Exactly man! Fuck the news! It's all sad stories now too!" He took another puff before lying down on his porch. We were sitting outside together, beers in hand, watching the sunset and testing out Nigel's latest product.

"Yeah you're kinda right. What the fuck happened man? When did everyone get so miserable?" I asked.

"I know exactly what happened and brother? Let me fucking tell you." He gestured with his cigar sprinkling ashes everywhere. "The fucking Sixties ended man... The sixties ended, then we all got pulled out of Vietnam so there was nothing left for the hippies to protest. So everyone became boring and miserable again."

"Huh... Makes sense." I sighed and took a swig of my beer. It tasted ashy.