A cosmic cockroach. This audiochapter covers chapter 126 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I end up sacrificed to some Lovecraftian knock-off. A total of six hours, fourteen minutes, and forty-three seconds. Check them out.
Ramsés swings the door open, revealing a concrete staircase that descends into darkness. He reaches to flick a switch. With a faint buzz, a bulb sputters to life in a rusty cage, casting a sickly yellow hue tainted by grime and dust. A lattice of pipes, ductwork, and wire mesh panels snakes across the ceiling in an organized fashion, save for a few rogue wires hanging loose. The pipes’ smoothness contrasts with the concrete’s pitted and scuffed surfaces. Deeper within, a chaotic collection of debris, including cardboard boxes, construction material, and old electronics, lies in haphazard heaps like rats’ nests.
My boss steps aside and sweeps his hand, motioning for me to enter.
“After you.”
As I stand at the threshold, dizziness engulfs my senses in a sudden wave. I clutch my notebook and pen as if they could anchor me.
“Have you lost your mind? This isn’t a conference room!”
“I never suggested we were heading to a conference room,” he replies in an untroubled voice.
“Do you intend to hold a meeting in a dungeon?”
Ramsés sighs. He aims his pointing finger at a doorless metal cabinet standing close to the base of the stairs, juxtaposed against a bundle of ribbed conduits. The cabinet houses network switches mounted on racks. Arrays of LED indicators blink yellow within an entangled mass of black cables resembling the veins of a cybernetic organism.
“You’re a programmer,” Ramsés says, “not a computer technician, but you should know what I’m pointing at.”
“That’s a network rack. I think.”
“Correct. Would a dungeon have a network rack?”
Ramsés’ belittling tone irks me.
“It would, if its owner required an internet connection.”
“Leire, I’ve just brought you to the basement level. Not a place for guests, but Jacqueline accompanied me here. Jordi as well. Afterwards, they both continued with their lives, and in the case of your woman, she even decided to quit on her own accord. So please, let’s proceed further. In the end you’ll be glad that you agreed to follow me.”
“Whatever. I warn you, though: if I see any cockroaches scuttling about, I’m out of here.”
“I don’t recall ever spotting a cockroach in the building, but just in case, don’t stare at the floor.”
I step onto the topmost stair, and then the one beneath it. Ramsés follows me in. As his keyring jingles, the door thumps behind me, followed by a click as it locks.
Down the concrete stairs I slog, while my boss plods after me. Our footsteps echo off the walls in a chorus of hollow thuds. I’m inhaling warm air heavy with the scent of neglect: the mustiness of decaying cardboard and the acrid tang of deteriorating electronic parts.
After I step off the final stair, I lumber toward the closest heap of junk, past the network rack and its array of blinking LEDs, as chunks of white styrofoam crunch and shift underfoot. Dust cloaks an overturned air conditioning unit, its casing cracked and its internal components exposed. Two dead flies and a paper cup rest nearby as if someone had nudged debris aside instead of cleaning up. What atrocity has Ramsés lured me into?
As my boss strides past me, the refuse warps the echoes of his footfalls.
“After me.”
We navigate along the perimeter of a junk pile made out of disassembled cabinetry and discarded light fixtures. My foot catches on a random brick, causing me to stumble.
A shimmer of movement on the wall to my left jerks my attention upwards. Near the ceiling, tubes and pipes running parallel, along with a tangle of electrical wires, delve into the pitch-black void of a gaping hole. Perched on its threshold, a blob of cosmic matter pulses with twinkling stars and nebulae, the purples, blues, and oranges ebbing and flowing like a living fragment of the night sky. As the amorphous form shimmies, the edges of the hole warp around this creature, bending inward.
My neck muscles tense up. I whip my gaze from the cosmic critter to my boss’ broad back.
We maneuver through a channel between two heaps of scrap that loom over me. I pick my way gingerly, hoping to dodge any sharp edges that could scrape my legs. My eyes itch from the particles floating in the stagnant air, and the soles of my sneakers stick to the grimy concrete. The ocher light casts jagged shadows through the masses of junk, but ahead, beyond the range of the bulb, only murky darkness awaits. My mind escapes to picturesque havens: a café overlooking a glittering lake, a gazebo in a lush garden surrounded by hedgerows, a rustic cabin with a crackling hearth.
“I can’t stress enough,” I rasp, “how much I’d rather hold this meeting of yours in a proper venue.”
“Noted. Just down this corridor.”
A sour, moist stench, like the aftermath of a urinary tract infection, seeps into my nasal passages and lingers on my tongue. My stomach roils. With each step, the stench grows stronger. I’m about to complain when I notice that the corridor ends in a plank, from a bookshelf or a storage cupboard, leaning against the wall like a makeshift barrier.
I narrow my eyes, and my words escape in a hiss.
“Hey, am I not supposed to notice that you’ve led me to a dead end?”
My boss’ silhouette, which takes up much of the cramped space, marches ahead undaunted.
“It looks like a dead end. That’s the point.”
Either he’s oblivious to my rising dread, or he’s feeding off it like a vampire.
“Sir, I demand to know what we’re doing here. What sane reason could you have for bringing me into this hellhole? Did you intend to take me down? Tell me why, then go ahead and make your move!”
Ramsés glances back, his face a shadowed outline.
“Leire, you’re getting on my nerves.” He grips the sides of his plank. “Give me a hand with this.”
I cross my arms.
“Sure, as soon as I build some muscle.”
Ramsés shakes his head.
“Well, aren’t you the comedian. Anyway, you’re right: you wouldn’t be of much help.”
With a grunt, he heaves the plank aside, and tilts it so it rests against a junk pile. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I glimpse a door. Its layer of paint has peeled and flaked off in patches, revealing the metal beneath.
The stench comes from behind that door, as if an ammoniac marsh were seeping from the crevices. What new horrors lurk in this mausoleum of rubbish and ruin?
I envision my boss as the leader of a cult, one that orchestrates human sacrifices in a chamber that gleams with tools for torture: knives, cattle prods, bone saws, nipple clamps. Robed worshippers, their garbs adorned with profane runes and eldritch symbols, chant in tongues while they chain me to an altar. Flickering torches cast a golden hue over their twisted faces, revealing patchwork scars and soulless eyes. As the acolytes’ chant crescendos, one by one they lunge at me. Their fingernails, curved into talons, rip through my clothing, tearing into my muscles and viscera. They gnaw on my flesh like ghouls. Ramsés, the high priest of this unholy congregation, emerges from the shadows and approaches with a whirring drill in hand, about to offer my brain as tribute to the Outer Gods.
My boss reaches into a pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a keycard. He swipes it across the door’s handle, and a beep sounds as two green LEDs blink in sync. The lock clicks.
Within me, a primal force screams in warning: we have reached the threshold of Hades. I’m tempted to turn tail, bolt down the corridor of junk, and scramble up the concrete stairs. Instead, risking the loss of dignity and self-respect, I reach out and grab my boss’ shoulder.
“I can feel it…” I whisper, my throat closing up, “something evil behind that door, staring at us.”
Ramsés snaps his head back, then faces me in the gloom.
“Interesting. You may be hypersensitive to electromagnetic fields. Don’t worry: nothing awaits us inside, other than a miracle.”
The door’s hinges groan as Ramsés swings it open, unleashing a fetid reek that singes the membranes of my nostrils, that crawls into the deepest recesses of my lungs, that brings to mind a mound of rat corpses teeming with millions of mucky maggots. Apart from a novel hint of burned dust that could belong to an overheated computer, I inhaled this cocktail of putrefaction before, whenever Spike visited; when professor Bunnyman intruded on my peace through the toilet where I was peeing; when Alberto, transformed into a slimy blob studded with eyeballs, came to warn me about the forthcoming collapse of the universe. Although I’ve covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my elbow, a wave of nausea ripples through my gut.
Ramsés ushers me into his underground realm. The hairs on my nape bristle. When the door shuts behind us with a resonant thump, the blackness wraps around me like a shroud of primordial night.
Author’s note: today’s song is “Stuck in the Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel. I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and nine videos. Check them out.
Fun fact: the depicted setting is based on a network “closet” located under the psychiatric ward of the hospital where I work. Anyway, check out the audiochapter.
The novel is going on hiatus for about a week or so; my subconscious has spent the last week weaving a short narrative that I’m eager to render into a free verse poem. Since I started this novel in October of 2021, it will be the first break I take to work on a different story.
They don’t crawl, they stride. This audiochapter covers chapter 125 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or they put me in antipsychotic meds that turn me into a zombie. A total of six hours, four minutes, and forty-eight seconds. Check them out.
I trudge through the hallway, past the vending machines and the bathrooms, and down a flight of stairs into uncharted territory, following a bear of a man. The fluorescent lamps spill their milky light over the shoulders of my boss’ navy-blue suit as he leads me with a self-assured strut. He’s trailed by the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with a musky cologne; yet, even if he were clean and carrying a bouquet of roses, it wouldn’t mask his inherent stink. The fabric of his slacks fits tightly over his rump, straining the vertical seam at its center. I feel like I’m stuck on the highway behind a truck, but instead of an effluvium of exhaust fumes, I risk a miasma of farts billowing in my face.
The pockets of muted conversations, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the ringing of phones die down, replaced by my boss’ heavy footsteps squeaking on the linoleum of a cramped corridor, barren but for an encased fire extinguisher. If Ramsés were about a head taller, his hair would brush the ceiling. Streaks of grime have marred the yellowed wallpaper, as if a janitorial cart had grazed it in passing.
Ramsés turns to speak over his shoulder.
“Jacqueline is stretching out that sick leave of hers, isn’t she?”
What’s with the resentful tone? I have betrayed myself to tail after this pig, and now I’m subjected to his rotten moods? If mommy could shapeshift into a wolf, I’d ask her to take a chunk out of his flabby ass.
“She must have her reasons,” I retort, bristling at the insinuation.
“And what are they?”
“Wouldn’t you know? You’re her boss, after all.”
“She’s been dodging my emails and phone calls. Besides, you’d know her reasons better than anyone, given how close you are.”
“Wh-what kind of relationship do you think I have with her?”
“You know, I have wondered that, how would it even work between you two. But I suppose that the term ‘girlfriend’ suffices.”
When did I let my guard down? To random strangers on the street, I might gush that my lascivious paramour and I indulge in sex rituals that would make any swinger blanch, but I have never wished to reveal such matters to my boss. Though Jordi’s in the know, I can’t picture him sharing the secret. I feel as if the pristine glass of my relationship with Jacqueline has been sullied by a greasy handprint.
Seizing my silence as an opportunity, Ramsés continues.
“So, is she expecting me to fire her?”
“No, she has realized that one must live for better things than filling Excel cells, or however the hell she spent her work hours. She’ll inform you in her own time, I’m sure.”
My boss tsks and shakes his head.
“What a mess,” he says, sounding disappointed. “I’ll have to endure the hassle of hiring and training a new secretary, when Jacqueline was managing just fine. It goes to show that loyalty has an expiration date, no matter how exceptional the circumstances. Take that as a lesson, Leire.”
A presence appears at the corridor’s end. At first glance, my mind conjures mundane imagery: a custodian, a technician. But as I focus, I realize that I’m staring at a figure unlike any other before: a ghost-white creature standing as tall as me. Its form is dominated by two backward-bending stilt-like legs, wrapped in a gauzy membrane that flows like silk. The limbs taper into blade-like talons reminiscent of sleek prosthetics. Atop the convergence of its legs perches a bean-shaped, faceless head, that gazes through a centered eye glossy and black as polished onyx.
The light from the fluorescent lamps, cut into sharp-edged rectangles, glistens on the linoleum through the creature. It’s striding with a fluid grace, as if subjected to a moon-like gravity, in a collision course towards Ramsés. When they should bump into each other, the creature phases through my boss and carries on its march.
A shiver of dread writhes down my spine and coils around my ribcage. I flatten against the wallpaper, yielding passage to this phantom. It glides silently past me. If I were a dog, my hackles would have risen.
A second alien, smaller by a third, scuttles unsteadily after its kin. As the smaller creature passes by, it pauses mid-stride to fix its onyx eye on me. In that glossy blackness, I expect to glimpse my reflection, but instead see a tangle of reeds. The creature glances at its towering companion, then scurries onward to catch up.
“Leire, what’s wrong with you?” Ramsés asks impatiently.
My heartbeat thuds against my sternum, my hands and feet have gone cold, and my brain buzzes from the rush of adrenaline. My boss has halted before a nondescript door at the side of the corridor. His keychain dangles from the keyhole.
“You saw something, didn’t you?” he insists.
I tear myself off the wallpaper. As I shuffle to join Ramsés, I manage to speak in a feeble voice.
“I was just… lost in thought.”
He squints at me, scrutinizing my features.
“I may have brought it up in the past, or at least wanted to do so, but there’s a good chance you’re schizophrenic, Leire.”
“Excuse me?”
“You match most of the diagnostic criteria: you tend to withdraw into yourself, your thinking can become incomprehensible, your grooming and hygiene have been found wanting at times, you experience hallucinations… And you’re not faking: the color has drained from your face.”
I’m tempted to confess that I was fixated on the phantasmal aliens stalking the corridor, and that I won’t dare a glance over my shoulder in case they’re standing behind me. However, while decent people might use such an opportunity to exercise their empathy, this swine’s expression suggests that my mental illness inconveniences him.
I steady myself. I can’t afford to look crazier.
“If I had a brain disorder that glaring, the therapists who listened to me prattle would have spotted it. Even if they had diagnosed me with schizophrenia, though, I’d need to keep a job, wouldn’t I?”
Ramsés shrugs with an indifference as conspicuous as the cigarette stench clinging to his suit.
“I suppose so. I wouldn’t expect any favors from the state; at the most, they’d put you at the end of the line. So, therapy sessions, huh? They must have cooked up some theories about you.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I force myself to meet Ramsés’ gaze, although I’d find more comfort in a gorilla’s pupils.
“Sir, respectfully,” I utter, biting back the sharp words itching at my tongue, “I want to get through this meeting, finish my work, and go home. The day has been long enough already.”
He twists the key, unlocking the door.
“Good. We’re almost there, after all.”
Author’s note: today’s song is “Sloop John B” by The Beach Boys.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and eight videos. Check them out.
I’m sick with the flu, yet I produced this audiochapter just for you.
Your boss can’t lead you to a meeting if his heart no longer beats. This audiochapter covers chapter 124 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I receive a visit from Truck-kun after someone throws scalding coffee in my eyes. A total of five hours, fifty-seven minutes, and thirty-three seconds. Check them out.
The front door of the office thuds closed. Once Jordi’s footsteps fade into the background hum of fluorescent lights and the air conditioning’s whir, I crane my neck toward the frosted-glass wall of Ramsés’ office. His door is open. I hold my breath and perk my ears up to detect the clatter of keyboard keys, the creaking of his leather executive chair, or a muffled fart. Instead, I hear the pulsating of my blood vessels. The last time Ramsés left the office to take a shit or smoke a cig, he must have segued into his lunch break.
Even in the haze of my caffeinated anxiety, the fist of tension that had held me tight unclenches. I lean back in my chair and exhale deeply. I have reached my favorite moment of the office hours, other than when they end: I’m free from the presence of other human beings, that as if I were a quantum system, had transformed me from a superposition of states into something definite. Now I can let my mind drift off without worrying about making weird faces or muttering nonsense as I argue with my inner demons.
I reach for my lunch: two triangular halves of bread, ham, and cheese, their natural colors peeking through synthetic packaging. I pinch the edge of the cling film and peel it back. The seal breaks, releasing the trapped aroma, a salty-sweet combination of meat and dairy. After hours of holding a computer mouse, I welcome the cool, moist texture of the bread, but when I take a bite, the sandwich’s taste reminds me of its week-long confinement inside a refrigerated machine.
Oh, YouTube has recommended a “fails of the week” video. I munch on my sandwich while enjoying the parade of mundane disasters: a teenager barrels his bike into a garden fence; a man crossing a log over a stream slips and crushes his nuts; a texting college girl face-plants into fresh cement; a pair of overambitious souls try to wedge a gigantic fridge into a two-seater; a car mounted on a hydraulic lift at a mechanic’s shop falls on its side; a long-haired dude attempts a flip on his skateboard only to shatter his teeth against the curb; a worker, losing his footing, slides helplessly down a snow-covered roof and plunges onto the street three stories below; a girl posing coquettishly in front of a full-length mirror is interrupted by the mirror toppling onto her head; a pole vaulter nails his jump, but the tilting pole crushes his nuts.
These individuals, belonging to a species increasingly adept at its own annihilation, have not vanished into the cosmos: their misfortunes have been captured on digital footage for entertainment. They serve as reminders that we’re fragile creatures prone to error, but if we laugh at our mistakes, we can mitigate their sting, unless we end up castrated or dead.
The office lights cast a glare on my boss’ receding hairline as he looms over me like a giant boulder about to flatten a worm.
I shriek.
My thoughts have scattered like panicked cats. When I gather them together, my heart is hammering against my ribs.
“You’re one easily startled woman,” Ramsés says.
He rests a hand on my shoulder, his greasy fingers pressing into the cotton of my jumper: an unabashed assault. My neck stiffens, and a wave of heat rushes to my face. I dread to glance down in case the bulge of his crotch has swollen.
I’m a flower trembling before a vast, chaotic universe that threatens to consume me, and Ramsés, a pillar of pungent humanity, is the harbinger of doom. I should shatter the veneer of a civilized society by punching him in the throat. Once my boss falls to his knees, coughing and spluttering, I’ll stomp on his hand over and over, mashing it into the carpet.
His filthy hand slips away from my shoulder, likely smearing a stain on my jumper.
“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”
My tone must have betrayed my annoyance, maybe even my homicidal impulse, because Ramsés lengthens a pause. The overhead lights are emphasizing the raised mole above his left eyebrow.
“It’s time we had that chat, Leire.”
“What chat?”
“As I told you, I was waiting for the opportunity to offer you a proposal. I’m free, you’re free, and I don’t want to take up your time after work. Let’s do it now.”
A sickly yellow fog seeps through the soggy marshland of my psyche. Ramsés, always the bearer of ill tidings, doesn’t deserve a coherent reply. At best I should muster a dismissive wave of my hand, signaling the end of his unwelcome interruption. I could also let loose a string of profanities and spit in his face. Instead, betraying myself, I clear my throat and wipe the sandwich residue off my lips.
“Is this one of those things where you’ll keep insisting until I listen to your proposal?”
Ramsés’ brow furrows into a map of foreboding.
“Let’s not be oversensitive, Leire. I only discuss matters of significance, you know that.”
These days, a part of me reluctantly acknowledges the wisdom in lending an ear, on the off chance of averting an apocalypse. The rest of me, though, wants to jam a pen through Ramsés’ eye and twist until the point penetrates his brain.
“Alright then. Please proceed.”
My boss turns, exposing his kidneys to a crippling blow. Wait, why is he heading to the front door? Did he intend to show off his ass?
“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” I ask nervously.
Ramsés halts, and looks over his shoulder.
“I had in mind a more secluded spot for our discussion, concerning the proposal I mentioned.”
“Where? Do we have a conference room?”
Ramsés sighs. He beckons me with his thick fingers.
“We’re wasting time. Come along, and you’ll find out soon enough.”
After gulping down the last of my sandwich, I push myself up from the chair. He’s already holding the door open for me. Is it legal for a boss to compel his employee into having a private meeting? Instead of indulging his whims, I yearn to finish my work, go home, and make sweet love to mommy. Right now, my two family members must be strolling along Ondarreta beach, while Nairu marvels at the crashing waves and the seagulls coasting on the air. Maybe they have moved on to the Comb of the Wind, which Jacqueline was eager to present to our Paleolithic artist. I picture Nairu seated on the steps as she sketches the rusted iron sculptures integrated in rocky outcrops, or the water jets that shoot up from the platform, spraying sea mist. The pavement is a mosaic of cobblestone and foam like from a receding tide. If I could join them, my heart would be set at ease.
Should I refuse to meet with my boss unless Jordi accompanies me? He gave me his number, so he may come to my rescue if Ramsés’ behavior turns creepy. Jordi, despite having been born a man, is a clean-cut kid who listened to Jacqueline’s sexual escapades during lunch break without getting aroused, while our boss, this shithead who worsened a life that already sucked, tends to flicker his gaze toward my breasts. I have felt him seconds away from groping my butt, and I suffered nightmares of him cornering me in his office and shoving his fingers up my cunt. Nobody would have found out, because I would have kept such indignities a secret.
So what now? Will I follow Ramsés into the overcast midday until he finds a quiet corner in the park or a café? I would prefer somewhere I can order coffee. I’d warm my palms around the cup as I sat in front of my boss, and if he uttered something nasty, I’d splash the scalding brew in his face, blinding him. He would stumble into traffic and get mowed down by a truck. With his body twisted and broken on the tarmac, his last words would be, “Sorry, Leire. I’ll never bother you again.” But what if Ramsés takes me to a deserted parking lot, a wooded grove, or a derelict warehouse? Maybe I’ll end up on a torture table, lying spread-eagled with shackles binding my wrists and ankles. I picture the brassy gleam of a scalpel slicing through the flesh of my belly, his hands reaching into the crimson mess to fondle my guts.
In the darkness of my mind, the one provider of freedom rotates like a pick-up item in a video game: Spike’s revolver. Its cylinder, deeply fluted, casts shadows along the six chambers. Above its grip of checkered wood, the polished frame is engraved with a skull and crossbones. I wish I were clutching my weapon already, feeling its wood and cold steel against the sweaty heat of my palm. As the one in power, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow my boss to any secluded corner; if he annoyed me enough, I’d hold him at gunpoint until he praised or at least complimented me, knowing that with one twitch of my forefinger, a bullet would blast out at the speed of a tiny cannonball, and its kinetic energy would carve a tunnel through the delicate union of cranium and consciousness. Blood would ooze from the hole in thick, viscous streaks. A rattle would escape Ramsés’ throat, and he would crumple to the floor. Then I’d fire into his corpse until the revolver clicked dry. If I could spare the time, I would dip my finger in his blood and write on the nearest wall, “Respect to the strong.”
“Go right ahead,” I say in a raspy voice. “I gotta grab something.”
While I scurry to the office, Ramsés complains to my back.
“Go right ahead? You don’t even know where we’re going.”
I fish the key chain out my trouser pocket. As I kneel in front of my desk cabinet and I fumble with the keys to unlock the top drawer, where I keep my revolver among office paraphernalia, I hear Ramsés’ footsteps approaching.
“You don’t need to grab anything to have a conversation,” he says somberly. “Let’s go.”
I glance over my shoulder. Ramsés is looming behind me with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. Shit, how can I retrieve my revolver when he’s staring right at me? I never asked, but I’m guessing that my boss adheres to a no-weapons policy.
“Oh, I just need my notebook and pen. I’ll forget the important stuff if I don’t jot it down.”
Ramsés unfolds one of his arms to point at my workstation.
“Right there. Next to your keyboard.”
I find myself staring at my bumblebee-yellow notebook and the ballpoint pen that rests on top of it. I swallow, grab my notebook and pen, and haul myself to my feet.
Author’s note: today’s songs are “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes, and “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel. A total of two hundred and seven videos. Check them out.
Are you into AI-generated audio? Of course you are. Check out the rendition of this chapter.
Ignore the interdimensional beasts lurking outside. This audiochapter covers chapter 123 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I step through an invisible portal into a world of ash and cinders. A total of five hours, forty-six minutes, and forty-three seconds. Check them out.
When I step off the Benta Berri bus at the entrance of the business park, the sidewalk gets crowded with commuters, from recent graduates, their backpacks emblazoned with the logo of their programming company, to gray-haired technicians holding laptop briefcases. The morning chill nips at my exposed skin. I inhale the fresh, crisp scent of fall air, but passing cars taint it with the acrid bite of exhaust fumes.
Golden haloes light my way as I head towards the bare trees, their branches etching stark patterns against the office buildings, or blending like blackened veins with the darkness of this November morning. If nobody had invented electric lighting, maybe we would still wake up with the sun; in dark and cold autumn mornings, we would spend that much longer in the warmth of our beds and our loved ones’ arms.
Past the restaurant with a curved glass façade, its outdoor café terrace now deserted, I venture through the pathway that weaves between human-erected structures. The scattered, rust-colored leaves that crunch underfoot release the musty scent of decay. Like most mornings, the pervasive stillness reminds me that this zone isn’t meant for living: it’s where people come to die five to six days a week.
I turn the corner of our office building, that resembles a three-story-high shoebox. As I walk along the multicolored row of waste bins, a sight that has become familiar greets me: an assembly of bunny-sized alien slugs crowd the sidewalk in front of the entrance, spilling onto the parking lot. In the beginning they appeared as shadowy blurs; now, their black and dark-blue tints shimmer through the oozy, mucus-coated skin. Protruding feelers sway like anemone atop their undulating bodies, while underneath, six legs move in tandem among drips of tarry slime.
As a car maneuvers into a parking spot, it runs over several alien slugs, but instead of bursting in a splatter of guts, they yield through the tires like ghosts. However, can they interact with our native critters, slurping them up and, after digestion, excreting the leftover shells and bones? How long will it take for these creatures, maybe from an alternate Earth, to synchronize with our dimension and become visible to sane people? Will that happen before the universe teeters past a tipping point, causing space-time to fold upon itself like an accordion? Wait, isn’t the number of alien slugs dwindling?
A bright-blue shape swoops down and snatches one of the slugs, leaving a trail of slimy droplets. The shape, a beast, swerves upwards with wide wings covered in bioluminescent fur. Its four legs end in kukri-like claws.
The beast perches on the edge of the flat roof. Jutting out of its head, silhouetted against the predawn sky, two pointed appendages resemble horns. A pair of round eyes radiate an electric-blue glow as they stare down at me. The beast glides away, disappearing beyond the roof’s edge.
“Well then,” I say, and head inside.
* * *
I step into the climate-controlled air of our office, to take in once again the sight of these white walls, cabinets, and desk, along with that gray carpet; they give the impression that the colors have been sucked out. The fluorescent lights overhead bathe everything in a clinical glare. Like every morning, Jordi has beaten me here: he’s seated with his back straight, fingers tapping away on his keyboard. In this monochrome landscape, I’ll avoid dwelling on his red hair, or anyone’s copper mane.
After I take off my cardigan and hang it on the coat rack, I trudge to my chair and slump down into it with a sigh.
“Good morning,” Jordi says.
Although a glance or a nod would have sufficed, I waste saliva greeting him back. As my computer boots up, I realize that Jordi has turned his freckled, clean-shaven face towards me. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with a point collar and the sleeves rolled up. Either his garment is made of wrinkle-resistant fabric, or he irons them meticulously. I picture the inside of this kid’s wardrobe: a row of identical shirts and pants.
“You seem refreshed,” he says.
“You mean I look less disheveled than usual?”
“If you want to put it that way. Did you have a fun weekend?”
I’m tempted to reply, “why do you care?”, but after years of controlling myself around human beings, I’ll put on the mask of politeness to conceal my depravity.
“You know, I’ve had a lovely weekend. We visited Mount Igueldo.”
“Oh, the amusement park. I haven’t gone since I was a kid. Sounds like a great date.”
Jordi remains unaware that I abducted a girl from the Ice Age, so he must be picturing a couple of grown women taking a stroll on the elevated grounds of an amusement park, holding hands and eating cotton candy. It does sound like a great date.
“I used to waste my weekends recovering from the exhaustion of the previous week, and preparing myself for the next wave of stress to crash upon me.”
“That’s a bleak way to live, but you’ve clearly changed since you started dating Jacqueline.”
I have, haven’t I? My perception of reality has shifted: no longer am I alone in a barren void ruled by an insatiable worm, but instead, I’m tethered to two other beings who possess a universe within them. That’s why I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, put on clean clothes, eat breakfast, and come to this hellhole before dawn without regret.
“I miss listening to her stories,” Jordi continues. “During lunch break, I mean.”
A twinge of jealousy flickers through me.
“I bet. She’s mine, though.”
Jordi chuckles.
“Of course. She isn’t sick, right? She must be rethinking a few things.”
Crap. If this kid has figured it out, our boss must be aching to stir trouble.
“I’d say she’s come to realize that she’s meant for something more than this job.”
Jordi shrugs, and raises a corner of his mouth in a boyish smile. His allure, devoid of the hard edges and muscle bulk of a macho, may inspire contempt in men, but has the charm and kindness of a cinnamon roll.
“This is it, then. Please pass on my regards, and take care of her. I’m sure you’re aware that she’s more sensitive than she appears.”
I’m about to give our insolent intern an earful about mommy’s private qualities; this kid doesn’t know Jacqueline’s warmth, the weight of her breasts when she squeezes me tight, or the tickle of her pubic hairs against my face as I bury my tongue in her depths. However, I spot a headline on Jordi’s screen, belonging to the front page of the Diario Vasco: “Two More Vanish Amidst Growing Concern.” A cold ripple of unease trickles down my spine. I recall Jacqueline’s somber tone as she informed me of these disappearances during a car ride. Left to my own devices, I would have remained oblivious: I shun the news to protect my sanity, and I didn’t socialize with anybody outside of work. On the day of my first date with Jacqueline, didn’t I pass by a demonstration and a counter-demonstration concerning these vanishings? Drenched in a downpour, those protesters’ shouts were muffled by the drumming of rain while I huddled under my umbrella.
I picture a woman in her late twenties, her hair hastily tied back in a ponytail. She’s burdened with shopping bags that display the Carrefour logo. As she strides across a parking lot, she steps through an invisible portal to another realm. Her foot meets the crunch of ancient ice, or the slime of those alien slugs’ dimension, or the cracked clay of an endless desert. Maybe she has emerged in a world of ash and cinders, where the earth has been scorched black by a blast wave and the skeletons of buildings jut out like rotten teeth. Panic would seize this woman, clouding any realization that walking backwards could return her home. How many have fallen prey to these space-time traps while I fuck around without finding the reality-collapsing machine?
Jordi follows my gaze, then turns his head back to me.
“Leire, you’ve gone pale. Do these disappearances worry you that much?”
When I open my mouth to speak, my lower lip twitches. I force out the words through the knot in my throat.
“Maybe… I’m responsible.”
Jordi snaps his head back. His freckled features have twisted into bemused disbelief. As he straightens his spine, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“What makes you say that, Leire? How can you be responsible?”
An accusation rings in my ears, echoing and swelling into a scream. I may be a kidnapper of prehistoric children, but I have never been a killer; yet, I have contributed to the ruin of those souls.
“N-nevermind. Forget it.”
“Ah, you must be worried about it happening to you, right? What this headline, and many others, neglect to mention is these people were criminals. Later in the article, it reluctantly informs that the first of these men was a serial rapist who had been released, while the other was a drug trafficker. The way the media talks about them, you’d think they’re describing model citizens, even though most of them weren’t citizens to begin with. If only the media cared so much about the well-being of their victims!”
“S-so there’s like… a pattern?”
“Sounds like it. I don’t know, maybe they deserved to vanish. You’re a decent person, senpai.”
“Am I?”
“Of course! You’re just trying to get by in these tough times. Now, you’re even learning how to receive love.”
“Oh, I’m receiving lots of love every night. Some mornings too.”
“That’s great to hear. Leire, these disappearances aren’t your fault, not even in a metaphorical sense. But I shouldn’t be surprised that you thought so: you’ve always seemed like someone who carries the world on their shoulders.”
“Funny that, Jacqueline told me something similar.”
Jordi offers me a sympathetic smile.
“Well, there you go.”
I lower my head. Maybe this burden will sink me, and I’ll make a dramatic exit out of a fifth-floor window while Arachne clacks her chitinous claws with glee, her body lounging on a cosmic pile of bones.
“I guess it’s a lot to think about,” Jordi adds cautiously. “Let’s keep our minds on the here and now, though. We need to get through these tasks.”
My computer is waiting for me to type in the password, so I take the opportunity to disengage from this conversation. The keys clack in the awkward silence as I fill in the password box. Program icons pop up on the taskbar, and the desktop clutters up with files and folders over the wallpaper du jour: a tropical beach at sunset, complete with two palm trees that cast elongated shadows on the sand. Windows ten is mocking me, I can hear it: “You could have spent the day in such a paradise, smearing coconut oil on Jacqueline’s fleshy mounds, but instead you’re trapped here, doomed to waste eight more hours of your limited life obeying your boss’ whims.”
As if summoned, Ramsés barges in. The muscle fibers at the back of my neck tighten. Although I want to ignore his presence, I’d rather avoid another complaint about “lack of respect,” so I glance toward our boss. Same middle-aged man with combed-back, thinning hair and touches of gray at the temples, as well as a trimmed moustache. He reeks of cigarette smoke.
Why does he insist on tucking his shirts over that paunch? Does he want me to imagine it squashing against my lower back as he pounds me from behind?
“Morning everyone,” Ramsés booms.
Jordi greets him back confidently; I mumble. Our boss ensconces himself in his office, separated from ours by a wall of frosted glass.
I load up Visual Studio Code. Its dark-themed editor window shows rows and rows of code, color-coded and structured with consistent indentation, for a shopping cart’s Python backend.
Today I will raid the coffee machine until I start vibrating. Another mundane morning of programming website widgets, wasting precious hours that will never be regained, and risking permanent brain damage from a caffeine overdose. Ah, Jacqueline, why are you so far away? I want to hear your velvety voice whispering in my ear, your laughter rippling like a summer brook. But I don’t have time to fantasize about my French shapeshifting girlfriend, that plump ass of hers, the toned thighs that she loves to wrap around my head, those pillowy breasts that she thrusts in my face as she rides me.
No, I must focus on my job, despite the shitshow that lurks outside. Hasn’t it always been like that, though? I was born into a world teetering on the edge of obliteration; that bunnyman bastard only fast-tracked the debacle.
Author’s note: today’s song is “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and five videos. Check them out.
I had to find three new voices to produce this chapter’s audio version. Check it out.
Until that one day when the end comes. This audiochapter covers chapter 122 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
Cast
I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I erupt in a fountain of Ice Age megafauna. A total of five hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds. Check them out.
Before I enter the kitchen, the bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose, mixed with the aroma of browning batter sizzling in a frying pan. Jacqueline, clad in her burgundy silk robe with wide and flowy sleeves, stands at the stove, cooking a batch of pancakes. The high-gloss cabinetry under the counter reflects her pair of toned legs, that end in pink slippers. Seated at the table, past the fruit bowl centerpiece that adds a splash of organic color, Nairu has hidden her face in a dinosaur picture book, ignoring the glass of milk set in front of her.
Jacqueline welcomes me with one of her disarming smiles.
“There you are, darling.” She slides a spatula beneath the frying pancake and skillfully flips it onto the pile on a plate. After withdrawing the spatula, she points it in the direction of the coffee maker at the end of the counter. “Your morning boost awaits.”
As I start to move, Nairu lets out an anxious cry universally understood as, “Wait, let me do it.” She puts down her book, hops off the chair, and hurries to grab the coffee mug from the dip tray. When she turns, her grinning face, framed by messy chestnut hair, greets me. Her amber eyes hold a depth of stories untold, the memory of a world that only she remembers. She’s wearing pajamas striped in mustard yellow and cream, patterned with cartoon pigs, bears, and whales amid five-pointed stars.
“That’s a smile of pride,” Jacqueline says. “Just by watching me, she figured out that she had to pick a fresh capsule from the dispenser, put it in, wait for the machine’s ready light, then push the button to brew. Isn’t it amazing? I might be biased, thinking of our lovely girl as a genius, but you may have come upon a prodigy of her time.”
I could comment that humans have been anatomically modern for hundreds of thousands of years, capable of formulating the same thoughts and learning the same skills. And I’m no different: I follow Jacqueline’s instructions, hardly understanding what magic transmogrifies those capsules into the dark, bitter, caffeinated nectar that I can’t live without. Yet, even if Nairu had handed me a pebble instead of this coffee mug that warms my palms, I’d be moved too, longing to wrap our girl in a tight hug until I risked smothering her.
“Thank you, Nairu,” I say in a choked voice, “for wanting to improve my day.”
“Alright, pancakes done,” Jacqueline announces. “Sit down, mes chéries.”
When mommy lifts the towering plate, Nairu’s eyes widen, and she scurries back to her seat. I turn toward mine across from our Paleolithic child, but I’m drawn to the sight of the stainless-steel refrigerator, whose door displays a collection of drawings attached with magnets. The pictures, rendered in crayon, depict bears, mammoths, ground sloths, a triceratops, pines, pastries, a stop sign, a bus, the Mount Igueldo tower, Jacqueline and me holding hands. At the rate we’re accruing drawings, we will need to rent a storage unit.
As I lower myself into the chair, my sore body complains. I don’t know how my hip remains intact with the poundings I receive. The culprit, Jacqueline, has set down the stack of golden-brown pancakes, their edges darker and crisp. I lift the mug to my lips and take a gulp. A lazy fire spreads in my stomach, chasing away the chill of the early morning, the creep of age. Coffee and freshly-cooked pancakes: a classic breakfast that every human from the Paleolithic through history can enjoy.
Jacqueline spears the top two pancakes with a fork and slides them onto Nairu’s plate. Mommy picks up the syrup and chocolate bottles.
“What do you want to top the pancakes with, mon bébé?” She holds up the plastic bottles, exaggerating her gestures to bridge the language gap. “Syrup, or chocolate?”
A giggle bubbles up from Nairu’s throat before she jabs her finger at the latter bottle.
“Chocolate!”
I serve myself a couple of pancakes, then reach for the syrup bottle while Jacqueline keeps busy browning Nairu’s treat further. As I pour the viscous amber, it settles in glossy, deflating puddles on top of the first golden disk, and trickles down the sides to pool on the plate.
I slice through the pancake, the fork gliding effortlessly, and scoop up a fluffy, syrup-drenched piece. I take a bite. My mouth floods with the caramel-like flavor of syrup, blended with those of vanilla and nutmeg.
Outside, bird chirping announces the imminent birth of a new day, that for those avian fiends will be comprised of confusion, mating rituals, and a frantic search for food to feed themselves and their helpless hatchlings. In our kitchen, I hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, vocalizations like “mm-hmmm,” and gentle glugs. At times a dog’s bark, or the rumble of a car’s engine, filters through the balcony door to remind me that we aren’t alone.
Dollops of chocolate have landed on Nairu’s pajama shirt in blots and streaks. Her lips, chin, and nose are smeared with the sticky substance, while her cheeks bulge as if she has stuffed herself after starving for days. Suddenly, her eyes clamp shut, and violent convulsions seize her small frame. Out of her mouth shoots a rainbow-hued gush that splatters onto the table, the stack of pancakes, the fruit bowl, my own breakfast. Solid forms, the size of action figures, have surged with the flood and bounced off the table, the plates, the fruits, or the spongy pancakes: woolly mammoths, mastodons, stag-moose, ground sloths, giant beavers, saber-toothed cats, short-face bears. Some of the miniature beasts lie injured or dead; others stagger to their feet, waddle around in a daze, or shake their shaggy, sodden pelts, flinging rainbow-colored droplets everywhere.
Hunched over, I prop my elbows on either side of my plate, and rub my temples in circles to dispel the vision. My heartbeat has accelerated, my stomach churns ominously. Jacqueline, seated along the long side of the table, reaches over to enfold my right hand in her own.
“Are you alright, mon amour?”
I straighten up and lower my hands. My gaze falls upon an ivory nightgown framed by the V-neck of her burgundy robe, and adorned with lace trimmings in a floral pattern. The silky fabric, that must glide over her skin like a lover’s fingers, clings to mommy’s tantalizing cleavage.
“I had one of my moments,” I say, “but I feel fine already.”
Nairu, engrossed in her dinosaur picture book, pushes a piece of pancake into her mouth. Her striped pajamas remain unspoiled.
Jacqueline caresses the neckline of my cardigan, tracing the stitching.
“I must say, you’re looking quite chic today.”
“Yeah? Says someone who could wear a potato sack and still enchant. Anyway, I can’t rely on hoodies forever. I would have preferred to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, ‘Let’s kill our boss,’ but alas, I haven’t dared to order such a customized garment.”
Jacqueline knits her eyebrows in worry.
“Let’s focus on staying out of trouble, shall we? You’ve been carrying more tension lately when it comes to work. Is… our boss putting extra pressure on you?”
I take a deep breath as I run my fingers through my hair. I’m no closer to figuring out what machine I’m supposed to destroy before it rips the universe apart, but I won’t ruin the sanctity of this family by bringing the apocalypse into our dynamics: I must shoulder the responsibility alone.
“No, I’d say he’s burdening me with the usual amount of pointless programming tasks.”
“But you can offload some of them on Jordi, can’t you? How are you two getting along these days?”
I get a flash of that intern of ours, with his ever-neat red hair and glasses, always dressed in a self-imposed uniform of crisp white shirts and tailored black trousers. His youthful, freckled skin, along with that habit of referring to me as his senior, makes me feel as if I should start collecting a pension and oiling my knees, or whatever the hell old people do. But I’d rather not spend my spare time dwelling on Jordi any more than I would on the office furniture.
“Now that I’m getting acquainted with that ravishing Irish form of yours, the epitome of redheads, every other redhead should have spontaneously combusted in shame.”
Although Jacqueline laughs, my body stiffens and my eyes widen in panic as I glance at Nairu, who’s unaware of Jacqueline’s shapeshifting. Our antediluvian wonder is taking a long draught of milk. When she puts the glass down, she licks away her milk mustache while her gaze darts back and forth between her mommies.
Jacqueline props her chin on the heel of her palm.
“One of these days we’ll need to be careful with our words around Nairu, but I’m afraid that day is a long way off.” She straightens up and lets out a squeak of delight. “You’re so cute, mon petit ange!”
Jacqueline scoots over to cup Nairu’s face and smooch her, prompting a fit of giggling from the girl.
In this morning of pancakes and mammals surging from a mouth, a comet-like flare is forming within me.
“Anyway, Jordi is decent enough. I’d prefer if he didn’t exist, but I think that of most people. It’s always been a struggle to care about anything, to feel connected to anyone, even myself. These days, though, whenever I’m chained to my computer at work, I find myself thinking about you and Nairu, hoping you’re enjoying yourselves. That makes the world keep spinning even when it’s crumbling apart.”
Jacqueline’s smile fades into a thoughtful expression. She scoots toward me and reaches for my hand, but my cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers and starts playing Chopin’s Nocturne, the second alarm of the morning. Time to make it through another day in this harsh, unforgiving universe without going insane.
Once I silence the alarm, I gulp down the remainder of my coffee, then put the mug in the dishwasher. Nairu calls out “Eide,” the name she baptized me with, drawing attention to her picture book. A double-page illustration depicts a herd of diplodocus, their long necks swaying as they cross a stream. She pokes and babbles at one of the flesh-and-bone catenaries that end in a head with a slender snout, a narrow jaw, and lateral eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “Can you believe that millions of years ago, some creatures were even more astonishing than your Ice Age marvels? You know, my first memory was of waking up after a surgery. During the hospital stay, my mother bought me a plastic triceratops. It seemed magical. I wonder what happened to it…”
Nairu’s cheeks dimple in a pure smile. Her amber eyes are alive with a spirit that never dims.
I ruffle her chestnut locks tenderly.
“Goodbye, ma fille.”
Nairu waves back at me as Jacqueline, her hands on my shoulders, steers me toward the front door.
From now on, until that one day when the end comes, how many times will our family sit around a table to share a meal? Once Nairu masters the language, how will she take to learning board games? The three of us, in competitive or cooperative formats, will run a zoo, colonize Mars, evolve our ancient civilizations, build our post-apocalyptic nations, fight against eldritch horrors. As cyberpunk runners, blazing through corporate servers while evading countermeasures, we’ll finally defeat Shadowcluster.
“I never heard of that memory before,” Jacqueline says warmly.
“Well,” I push through my constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper, “I don’t like to remember things.”
I open the front door. Jacqueline cups my face and wraps my mouth in a chocolatey, syrupy kiss. When she pulls back, her cobalt-blues shine through the ivory-white blur of her features.
“Remember that, Leire. We’ll be here when you come back.”
The door closes with a thud behind me. Alone in the gloom of the landing, I start descending the stairs, but my legs feel unsteady enough that I grab hold of the cold handrail. My heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell, mingling with a muffled conversation coming from some apartment.
As I turn a corner, a liquid drips on my right hand. I stop and glance up; no ceiling leaks, none that I can see in the dim light. Warm streams are coursing down my cheeks. One trickles over the curve of my upper lip and slides into my mouth. It tastes salty.
I’m neither depressed nor miserable. So why am I weeping?
Author’s note: today’s songs are “A.M. 180” by Grandaddy, “Good Ol’ Boredom” by Built to Spill, and “はるなつあきふゆ” (“Spring Summer Autumn Winter”) by Ichiko Aoba.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and four videos. Check them out.
Are you too lazy to read, and would prefer to listen to this chapter instead? Then check out the audiochapter.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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