Based on often-nearly-true-imagined events.

I ran down the street slapping smart phones out of people’s hands.

Thwock!

And impact. Most people’s grips are surprisingly weak. A flick of the wrist is all it takes, a simple but effective technique. Then a wobble, occasionally a bounce, against the sidewalk, sometimes accompanied by shattering, but just as often, internal damage without significant external change—after all, real change can only come from within.

Many of the devices would survive, (for the purpose of the actions was not destruction of circuits, but a shattering of minds); and besides, most of the young women already had splintered screens, in the first place. Some people had more careful dispositions, but that just meant deliverance would be more dramatic. Like a Zen monk stepping in singular lines through the meditation hall with his keisaku in hand, delivering blows of awakeness on the shoulder to his disciples, I am a beacon of mindfulness that the receiver should be grateful for; only, they don’t know it yet. But they will. I’m a patient man.

“Awaken to reality!”

I proclaimed to a couple wearing nauseatingly color-coordinated outfits, hitting an iPhone 5 at a 45-degree trajectory into the air. It sailed into the distance, a solid 2nd-base hit for sure, landing between a blackened garbage can and a frizzled mutterer. Their collective gaze met the sky like a blind dog staring into once-familiar shoes. And good morning to you!

Shock is the response of many, while others go on exactly as they are, oblivious to the severing of their lifelines, so formed are they by the habitual connection. I actually felt it was a positive sign when I turned my head and could see a visibly distraught young businessman or a woman with bright lipstick falling to her knees in tears. Creative destruction, the facilitation of new beginnings—is this art, I’ve sometimes wondered? Oh, but that is beside the point, a selfish response to a selfless endeavor.
The immediate, instinctual response is almost never anger—contrary to what you might expect—and rarely does the combination of lucidity and loss manifest to give chase (although, perhaps that means they’ve really awakened). But I was faster.

While the sybaritic masses were typing away in ergonomic chairs and paying $150 per month to lift rectangular objects over smoothed floors, I was running in the mountains and eating berries, kicking snakes, and cooking them. It’s imperative that I’m not caught, not because I fear retribution, but because I don’t want to endanger my mission.

On this particular day, as I was completing my target circuit, I kept running (per protocol) up a hill and into Chinatown. There was a pretty scary looking guy who was following me, but he was wasting energy by yelling.

“You fucking ass! Hey! What the fuck! Hey, come here! Hey, hey!!”

I weaved through the crowded streets of Chinatown and a quick glance revealed he was already becoming disoriented by the visceral smells of fish past their prime and over-ripe produce, tripping over thousands of pounds of soggy, cheap cardboard pushed aside and trampled by hurried grandmothers with aluminum-gauge carts in tow.

I ducked inside a café filled with the chatter of aged-Cantonese and not a single presence on Yelp, thus ensuring my anonymity. Once I felt confident I had lost my pursuer, I ordered a plate of luo bo gao–turnip cake, and black sesame tang yuan—sticky soup dumplings. While waiting, I pulled out a sheet and wrote down my totals for the day.

iPhone: 7, Samsung: 2, Android: 3, LG: 2, Blackberry: 1, Other: 3, Unknown: 4.

My food came. The turnip cake was a bit on the greasy side, but not enough to deter my appetite. Everyone was shouting, the TV was shouting, about news only because it was new.

A hand touched me on my back and a bored-looking waitress in a faded yellow shirt turned around with a late-model mini-keyboard Verizon.

“Call, for you.”

I glanced at the background screen, a 140X140 resolution picture of a picture of a child, and let the whole thing drop into a plate of congealed pork fat.

“Hey, hey..!”

Bled a voice through dried shrimp, pork fat, rice flour, and turnips.

As I paid the bill, I could see the sun just beyond the horizon, and people walking with great abandon towards nowhere in particular. The waitress was still standing next to my table, in shock, her mouth askew.

It’s going to be a good day.

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