The Emperor’s Heart’s on Fire

Don’t lie, you knew that the apocalypse was scheduled for early 2017. Sure, plenty of people conveniently forgot but it’s been on the wall calendar for ages past. Anyway, the folk in charge belatedly realised that things had to end up in a spectacular breakdown within the next few months so chose to escalate things in suitable fashion. Cue 2016. So hold your hats as we head into the gathering storm of next year.

The human race exploded in a shower of bitter comments and even worse. Now, no spoilers (of course there are spoilers, I’m talking with authority about the freaking future, none of you are supposed to know what’s going down ahead of time) but the thing about complete collapses of civilisation is that they’re surprisingly moreish. You know how it can be. For example, you build a beautiful tower out of toy blocks and immediately feel the overwhelming urge to topple that sucker over. It’s exactly the same thing with post disaster societies.

It took four or five disasters of this scale before a relatively stable existence emerged with a strong leader at the helm. Naturally, the man at the top (there was one fabulous matriarchy but an oppressed male kicked off and ended up inciting World War Nine so it couldn’t last) opted for a relatively grandiose title.

The emperor sat atop his platinum throne in the burned out husk of the White House, the mansion having been hastily patched up with swathes of silken fabrics and reams of duct tape and contemplated the banquet he’d just inhaled. It was far easier to direct his thoughts that way than to the remaining dregs of humanity barely surviving on their allotted rations of the meagre crops of the last harvest. And he realised that he had really bad heartburn. Weep tears of unbridled empathy for the ruler of a beleaguered Earth who lacks any access to even a single tablet of Rennie’s.

Song choices courtesy of: Murray Gold and Passenger

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