structured, right? I'm just, | guess. Scared of doing all this? | don't 
want us to turn out bad. You think he and his buds had this 
discussion? | mean | know he didn't found the group, but you know 
what | mean, right? The spirit of what | mean? 

jockjamsvol6: Yeah. 

lesbian_gengar: we won't be like that. the very thrust of our group 
will be entirely different. we can craft the ethos, which sounds weird 
like some supervillain shit, but we can be cool is what | mean. 
jockjamsvol6: Cool is maybe a poor choice of words here, but | feel 
it. 

lesbian_gengar: we will have rules. it won't just be being cool. it 
won't be meanness for the sake of meanness. 

bluntfiend: We need a set of rules. | don't want to be like, uh, a 
weird dude directing all of these people. | want to make friends, and 
they can make friends. God, I'm high, give me a second. 
lesbian_gengar: tbh | am too. 

jockjamsvol6: Lol, same. 

bluntfiend: Back. And nice. 

jockjamsvol6: Nice. 

lesbian_gengar: what are these rules gonna be? 

bluntfiend: No killing. 

jockjamsvol6: It doesn't go without saying? 

jockjamsvol6: Nevermind. 

bluntfiend: Rule number two is always be excellent to each other. 
lesbian_gengar: all encompassing and a reference outta nowhere. 
good rule. 

bluntfiend: Rule number three is no weed. But see, that's like a 
joke rule, because we're having fun sometimes. | mean, my name's 
bluntfiend. | think they'll Know the score. 

bluntfiend: That's all the rules, | think? We'll make more if it comes 
to it. That can be rule four, maybe. Rule five can be no one under 
eighteen. Not that it'll be a horny chat. That's rule number six. No 
nsfw. Not for sex. 

lesbian_gengar: Imao you're so catholic. 

bluntfiend: But I'm thinking, like, you know, this, uh, bones can 
handle all the little things. But when it comes to big things or maybe 
important things which | guess would be big so nevermind, we can 
all have a talk about it. 

jockjamsvol6: There's four of us, which means we can't really 
break a tie, but we'll burn that bridge when we come to it. 


lesbian_gengar: there can always be a tiebreaker. 

jockjamsvol6: Yeah, just pick someone randomways. Bing bang 
boom. 

bluntfiend: You're not allowed to influence the picking. 
jockjamsvol6: What if in mentioning the idea of picking I've already 
made sure everything | want to come to pass happens? What if I've 
already won? 

jockjamsvol6: Nah. Don't | sound like an evil magic dude, though? 
lesbian_gengar: twinks only turn evil when they get old when the 
first shock of grey hair drives them to insanity and you're barely 
there yet. 

bluntfiend: Is that, uh, all we need to do for now? 
lesbian_gengar: that's it. really, whenever you think we're done, 
we're done. we've had people asking about you for a while now. 
they're all ready to come, if you're ready. 

jockjamsvol6: Like | said, they think you're funny, man. They're into 
the stories. And | think, like, we got something here. We can do 
something. Like you said. 

bluntfiend: How many people want in the chat? 

jockjamsvol6: | got like fifteen. 

lesbian_gengar: ten from me. 

bluntfiend: Jesus fuck. That's a lot of pressure. I'm scared is all, | 
guess. | haven't done much since all that then, you know. It's just 
like. | don't wanna be like that again. 

jockjamsvol6: You made a pretty fucking shitty dude go away. A 
guy who was trying to kill us all. You stopped him. He was like a 
terrorist. If this were a just world, you'd've gotten a medal. 
lesbian_gengar: fucking honestly. 

bluntfiend: I'm worried that if | get into a position like this I'll turn like 
him. | don't wanna be bored. | don't wanna hurt anyone or use them 
like chess people. 

jockjamsvol6: You won't. 

lesbian_gengar: we won't let you. we're here for you, dumbass. we 
love you. 

jockjamsvol6: We're your friends, and we believe in you. 
lesbian_gengar: besides, don't think like there aren't already a 
million little brain fucks in your head already | put there that'll rocket 
your brain out your ears if you turn evil? 

bluntfiend: | sincerely hope you do. 

lesbian_gengar: don't worry. 


jockjamsvol6: Seriously. 
bluntfiend: Okay. Okay. Invite them. 


Phantom Blunt 


The snow was just starting to melt. He would've been back at 
another semester at school, if it wasn't so horribly uncool to continue 
one's schooling. Everything was still dead, but it was just starting to 
come back. 


Jude liked that. He always liked the heroism of the seasons, the 
casual reincarnation of the earth every goddamned year, like fucking 
clockwork which was funny because it was what they based 
clockwork on. Probably. 


They deserved it. It wasn't a question. He could do it. It wasn't even 
up for debate. 


Doing it would be cathartic. It would never erase what they did to 
her, but it was justice, wasn't it? An eye for an eye. God would never 
forgive him. But wouldn't a Lord of all things see his logic, see his 
reason? They had to die before they did any of that again. The 
Sculptor had proven himself a monster, and it was Jude's 
responsibility to end it. It would've been immoral not to do it. 


He was sober. Jude never liked it when he was dry, even when 
things were good. But it was better that way. He needed to be 
completely on the ball for this. And not the fake on the ball where he 
got high beforehand and said it was cool and he was still on the ball 
but really wasn't, but the real shit. 


He was going to let himself go. He knew that much. Jude stared out 
the window of his crappy apartment, overlooking a beautiful, scenic 
view of a warehouse garage. 


Somewhere, deep down, Jude was hoping it would kill him. Jude 
was hoping one of them would have it in them to do it. 


They didn't. Even if they had time to prepare. He'd always been the 
best at the ol’ razzle dazzle. 


The art show was nice enough that one could almost forget that it 
was a showcase for a rapist and a murderer. It seemed so normal. 
Wine. Awkward boys hobnobbing with people worth more than 
anyone they'd ever known times seven. Close to innocence. So 
close. 


The artist was the Sculptor. Real good title, right? Definitely broke 
the mold with that one. Jude didn't realize it, but he'd been waiting 
until now to make his move, as it were. He held a glass of white 
wine in his hand and stared out. 


The cool art shows were rarely much different than a normal art 
show. Certainly, there was magic, but why fuck up a perfectly good 
format? It was a time to network, to get paid, to look at new things 
that were beautiful or horrifying or both. But wasn't it usually 
horrifying at the cool shows? Sure, he had seen some beautiful 
things. Even from the Sculptor. 


But making one beautiful thing couldn't take away the horrifying 
things. 


Jude had a migraine. Jude always had a migraine. Jude wondered if 
the source of all of his magic was a wild sense of dysphoria and a 
perpetual headache. Even in this body he had made himself, a body 
he had wrought from his own flesh and blood, he still wondered if it 
was his. If he deserved it. If it wouldn't just crumble underneath all of 
his stress. And he'd revert. Last known saved data. A thirteen year 
old girl in this pit of tigers. 


And so many of them were men. Most of the crowd, really. He only 
counted one woman. A socialite. Probably. He couldn't place her 
age. He didn't want to. 


They made the statue, and no one thought it was a big deal. The 

Sculptor sculpted the statue, and women were hurt. Were they so 
far away from themselves they couldn't see the terror in their art? 
Jude wondered if he was having a panic attack. 


He did not give them a speech. The executioner and judge did not 
let them know their crimes. 


Instead, he slipped into himself. Cold overtook him, and heat came 
out. 


Everyone had a cellphone. Even in 2008. Maybe they weren't as 
fantastic. Maybe everyone wasn't hooked up to the internet. But they 
all had them. 


And there were so many electrical outlets in a place as big as the 
one they were in. Light fixtures. A refrigerator. Air conditioning. So 
many things ran on electricity. Jude always thought people ignored 
the small bits of magic in life. Like electricity. How the fuck did that 
work? 


It always astounded Jude, the things that he could put his mind to 
when he was angry. 


He tore their bodies apart. Bit by bit. Electrons. Protons. He didn't 
know from science. What he knew was that it hurt. They screamed 
electric, buzzing in the air. The crackling smell of ozone. 


It was all yellow light and screeching. Some of them were pulled 
through their cellphone's receivers, flip-phones popping on open. A 
few jammed into electrical outlets, bodies rippling and coursing with 
visible yellow arcs. It was clean. There was no blood. There was 
only that smell. And then there was silence. 


That was when the phone calls started. Hundreds in the tri-state 
area. He could hear them all ringing. Cellphones and landlines, 
powered on and off. Dead batteries sprang to life. And the heat 
ground them out. Meat at a butcher's shop. Nothing but noise. Didn't 
it sound like screaming? Being pulled apart, being pulled through, 
until even their atoms sizzled off into energy. 


In the middle of a now empty art gallery, covered in buzzing 
cellphones and warm clothes, the Roller fell to the ground. Jude 
wept. 


The Critic hadn't been there. Of course he wasn't. He wished the old 
fuck would've been there. He had to settle with cronies. 


Fourteen people. Judging by the shoes, the cellphones, and the 
feeling in his gut that he had just done something he could never 
undo. Thirteen of them mattered. One was unlucky. He wondered 
what she had been like. Mary, mother of God. A Magdalene. He 
cried again, wiped a tear from his eye. 


Saul made thirteen. And Matthias replaced Judas. And wasn't that 
him? He had named himself after the patron saint of hopeless 
cases. But wasn't Jude so close to Judas? But who had he 
betrayed? 


“God.” Me. 


In the field of clothes, he found the Sculptor's glasses. Bloodless. He 
reached down and picked up the pants he had been wearing. 
Underwear still inside. Gross. He pulled a bag out from the pants 
pocket. Fantastic. 


The one good thing about the bastard was that he was always 
holding. Dirt weed. But it was weed, and he was sober. 


In the pile of clothes, he crossed his legs beneath himself and rolled 
a blunt. As he lit the end with the green BIC, Jude knew that he was 
going to Hell when he died. 


It had been on the news. The janitors had cleaned it up. No one else 
would've done that. They were saying it was a warehouse fire. 
There was nothing about the phone calls. He wondered if they would 
be able to connect the two. If they were good as everyone said, 
they'd probably put seven and seven together. Or thirteen and one. 


Fourteen. The number buzzed in his head. Lives. Extinguished. 
Jude would have been able to bring them back, maybe. If he hadn't 
been so thorough. If he hadn't taken all the life and vitality and spark 
out of them like bud in a vaporizer. 


It made sense to lay low. Greece. Athens. It drew him like some 
infernal magnet inside of him. He had betrayed God. Greece made 
sense. Theseus killed the Minotaur at Jericho, and the walls came a- 
tumblin' down. Wasn't that how it went? 


ago, but | remember it quite well. One moment I'm there, 
in the old school with the older me standing with his 
colleagues, watching and waiting with cold 
professionalism, hiding the collusion | knew he had 
underneath. All those days in my cell with him talking me 
through every little detail of the Foundation, what | 
needed to do when | popped out the other side, how | 
needed to act and think. It was all a lot to take in. 


Apologies, you were asking about what happened when | 
stepped through? I'm afraid it's just like all the others: 
just nothingness. How | came out, though, that was 
different | grant you. One moment there, the next I'm 
naked and frightfully cold, falling into the hay wagon, just 
as my older self had described, every little detail. | found 
some clothes and made my way to __, and dear old 
Elsie was there just like he said she would be. A stranger 
to me then, of course, but she took me in, and from there 
| followed the path he set out for me, until the day came 
when | realized | could no longer tell where | had ended 
and he had begun. It was my turn to fulfill his half of the 
story. And my dear Elsie, she never knew that | had help 
getting into her heart, that | knew all along that our life 
together was destined. Excuse me a moment. 


Apologies again. It doesn't do to get emotional, | know. 
May | ask, why did nobody stop me? If you've been 
watching all this time, surely you must have known | was 
preparing him, feeding him information, about the 
Foundation, about my life and how to work his way to 
become me. | loaded him up with so many secrets. 
Wouldn't all that be far too much of an unacceptable 
information breach? 


Stephenson: | am not in a position to say. 


Ambridge: Yes, of course. Still, | can hypothesize. I'm 
pleased to see that the Foundation care more for the 
preservation of causality than of securing their secrecy. 


Stephenson: Again, | am not in a position to say. 


Jude Kriyot was never very good at laying low. And in Athens, he 
decided he was going to do something. Art. He had never been too 
into the art end of the cool kids. He wrote. He enforced. He was one 
of the Critic's little minions, sometimes, when bad things needed to 
be done. But, there was something about the city that inspired him. 


And he hoped the Critic would hear of it. And he hoped the old 
bastard would have a heart attack before Jude could leave the city. 


Sometimes, Jude wished he could remember making the art piece. 
Sometimes, Jude wished he still had that creative spark. He only 
remembered bits and pieces. He remembered the coins. He 
remembered crying. He remembered the men in ice. 


Theseus took the thread and got himself out of the labyrinth, but he 
was sucked in by it and spat out. Cold, clear glass. Walls that were 
too white. How stupid. They couldn't see magic. They didn't know 
gold if it came out of their own ass. 


The art piece had gotten him caught by the janitors. He had thought 
they were a myth. And he had provided enough trouble that they 
stooped down to clear it all up. Twice in two weeks. Maybe it was a 
record. But, seeing their inner-workings was a trip. Jude stepped out 
of the airplane, shaking his head from side-to-side in a vain attempt 
at getting webbing out from his ears. For someone like him, for 
someone so magic, a little bit of memory-loser wasn't going to work. 
It just made everything a bit strange. Like permanent deja-vu. It 
wouldn't last long. He knew it, because he thought it. And when he 
thought something about his body, it always came true. 


They had arranged his ticket back home, and he played complacent 
and empty. The comedown made him want to get high. So high. 
What was it they called it? A Class-B? Maybe a Class-Z could get 
you fucked up. He should've asked for one. Janitors wouldn't know 
gold if it was coming out of their ass. 


It had been two weeks since he had a taste of it. Which, to him, was 
an eternity. He felt his body gurgling in irritation. He had snapped at 
a waitress, a sin worse than the murders maybe. Irritation. He 


couldn't sleep. But he didn't want to sleep. Not if he couldn't go toa 
beautiful dreamless world of darkness. Or whatever. 


In the airport, he stopped at a Starbucks. It was expensive, but 
usually people didn't notice that the serial numbers on a bill all 
ending in the same three digits. Kind of stupid, but Jude's magic was 
particular. The weed number just popped in sometimes, at the 
weirdest parts. He ordered an iced coffee. Black. No ice.