Report From Albuquerque, July 20316:11 PM
By Rudolfo Carrillo
So, since I was a little bit bored today and waiting for the rain to come, I decided to use the technology available in my backyard shed to send my mentor and sometime time-traveling companion, the eminent local writer Kilgore Trout, into the future. I asked him to report back to me when he had gotten a clear glimpse of Burque's destiny.
This is the transmission he sent me via subspace channel 859702678.0870987.83.
By the time any significant amount of rainfall had gathered itself up into big puffy gray-white clouds (and then in an act of miraculous physical transformation - explainable only by a nearly mystical acceptance of atmospheric physics as they operated in the third dimension and upon a tiny clump of rock and poisonous salt water floating in a atramentous abyss on the edge of an even greater and darker void - lovingly fallen from the sky like the hand of a restoring angel or in a manner similar to those depicted in ancient images of waterfalls and fun parks) most of the city had been abandoned to hardy species of succulent plants; heavily armed survivalists with decidedly anarchist leanings and a formidable knowledge of solar energy-gathering techniques; black widow spiders and lots and lots of flies.
The best part of that summer, though, had to do with the approximately 3,521 nuclear devices stored at the dilapidated military base and forsaken government laboratories at the edge of town. In the year 2031, the territorial government, under the auspices of Grand Wazoo of the Western Lands (who is believed to be the bastard son of a former governor of what was once known as the state of California, though he claims to have been hatched under divine circumstances) decided to use telepathy in an attempt to remove the nukes to another planet or even, a passing comet.
I am told that this operation will be undertaken in August, after the yearly reign of fire ends and the water gathering spaceships that Richard Branson donated to the New Mexico Spaceport (right before he was lost in the chronosynclastic infindibulum that appeared on Ridgecrest Boulevard in the year 2019, incidentally) return from their thirty-third lunar expedition.
In the mean time, I am going to try and find someone who can pilot one of the old locomotives stored downtown, to take me up north and out of the smoke and radiation. There's still plenty of folks living near Denver, I hear. Besides Salt Lake City, it's apparently the only place nowadays to get a decent plate of enchiladas.
I'll send you another report next week.