Chronicles From The Future – 2021

Part 1 – The Joy of Company

“So is it true? Are you a billionaire then?” said a stern soft-spoken voice, his eyes from behind large well crafted wood spectacles that seemed to dilute the aggression his eyes held. He was just back from his cigarette break and the room smelled faintly of nicotine and ash. Daemon Robert was a investigative journalist, a U.S resident who was in a police station at Goa interviewing possibly one of the youngest and richest man around the globe, held responsible for collapsing the economy of 7 countries.
In a span of 18 months.
Jimmy Joy Kajiratingal  looked up to the journalist, almost same physique as him, who was here to interview him. Jimmy’s face gleamed of the mischief a 10 year old does and watches it unfold in front of his eyes. He had been holding the expression since the journalist first entered the room.
As a usual routine, Daemon held a charming and honest face when he first saw Jimmy “Hello, I am Daemon Robert and I am here to interview you. Pleased to meet you.” it was necessary to make the interviewee comfortable throughout the session, else, he would miss on the most crucial information. Daemon observed everything visual very quickly as he entered the room. Jimmy had long hands, just like his, implying he takes care of the details in everything, not much different from what he was. After all, the little things give you away. His blue jeans and white shirt were largely outdated, like he had just teleported from the 2010’s, suggesting he paid little or no attention to how he is perceived, or does not like to be judged altogether. He had even heard that the man had a 1967 Camaro rs for which he purchased 5 years worth of petroleum because synthetic petroleum couldn’t run that thing. So probably likes to place his emotions before logic? Lets find out, he thought. “So are you a billionaire Jimmy?”
“Nope. And you dont need an introduction! You are The Daemon Robert almost all of the world celebrates with. By the way I was a fan of the slap you laid on the former president’s face when he declined all evidence in front of the BBC Vision Cloud, you know that thing, that shows news stream to every human in its vicinity whether they be shitting in their toilets or having sex with the neighbor.” Jimmy burst out laughing and speaking uncontrollably “And they played the thing over and over again just for the fun of it. Oh! He is one messed up human being. I overheard this Mexican guy on the radio, he said if you wouldn’t have slapped him, he would have killed him with his own zrakughaz. Whatever the hell that meant! I tell you, you should hire security, the world has become a stranger place than it used to be.”
“Yeah, yeah” said a proud journalist “That He deserved”. After momentarily living through that moment again, he came back to the room. “Uhmm.. I have strong information that you are lying. Would you reconsider the question?”
“Yes. And I am not lying. And what stupid person would say no to the question?! Why would I earn a billion dollars in the first place?!” He made those mischievous eyes again “I would love to say yes but I am afraid I’ll have to stick with no.”
Daemon’s eyes tried to pump pure rage but the journalist inside took control. Those were the words his fiancé said when he asked her to marry him. And he, foolishly and revengefully, tweeted. ‘Breathe’, his mind said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” blurted Daemon.
As he got up to fetch the door, Jimmy grinned “And Nicotine is a bitch.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” daemon sprang outside. He took out a cigarette, pressed the bud and the thing ignited itself. Might be handy when you are stuck on an island with only a pack of these. He puffed out the previous session and joined Jimmy back in the room. If Jimmy wont crack, he will have to use absurd ways to pull out information. And that, he personally didn’t like.

Part – 2 Lets Just Drink

Time had passed slowly in the room. No cameras, no attendants, the police officials responsible were drunk in their offices and it was only 7 o’clock in the evening. He gathered strength to go on, as much as he missed the cameras. He settled in the chair and delivered on “I have heard you have donated much money for the welfare of the poor. How much would that be, if you don’t mind sharing.”
“Oh that! Yes, I have donated money, vehicles and houses to people. They needed it more. The poor are those who never dream.” He shifted closer to Daemon, and whispered “You pride clouds your perception, Daemon Robert, get over your pride, because when your beloved pride falls, you fall with it.” Jimmy ended with the expression of a yogi and a pleasant smile almost laughing, agitating Daemon even more because it had been 8 hours in here and Jimmy had given him only rubbish. He adjusted his wooden glasses and the exquisite black leather jacket he picked up at Stanley’s. He was losing it today, almost
pushed to the edge by a lunatic billionaire who had surfaced a month ago and is now practically a celebrity. Jimmy knew the man, he was a legendary journalist who brought forth the filthiest of the news from around the world. And he hated filtered news that airs everyday to mass program these ignorant minds. And advertisements that go deep into the subconscious and produce absolute craving for those products and commodities, you look absolutely stupid, but not to yourself.
This is why the American people loved him. He was among the strongest candidate to run for president. When debated that he should be in America, he politely says “I am a journalist, I’ll do my job until I am not elected.” Oh the honesty. America fell for it face down and he had an upcoming speech 5 days from now, to more than 78 million Americans. But Jimmy’s case had allured him.
“I did my research and I practically know everything about you, its just that you wouldn’t confess to it. But don’t worry, I have got my ways.” said Daemon, smiling, trying to tell himself to dig deeper. But his impatience seemed to give away in the last 8 hours of gibberish. He needs to provide more options in his questions, that gives him anything substantial. Jimmy wasn’t an easy one to crack. He was just stalking, But why in the god’s name! After all, he had called him here!
Gathering all his lost patience and calm, he asked jimmy “Okay, now, I am gonna ask everything, just respond to any of the questions, any names, places, gather points or anything that I take back and give to the newspaper that doesn’t embarrass me! Anything at all?! God give me some substance!” and realized that the calm gave away until he finished his sentence.
“Oh please god give me some substance too! Ha Ha Ha!” Jimmy giggled on the chair “And then god yells in all his wrath and glory! ‘You don’t ask God for substance you little deluded mortal! You buy it from the dealer!’” jimmy burst out laughing, uncontrollably, tears moistened his eyes.
Daemon stared with unfathomable rage.
This was just too much, Daemon threw his fist over the table and his large body seemed to wiggle the creaky table in the dimly lit room, in a police compound. He jumped up from his chair, his hands impulsively caught hold of his collar almost pulling half of him over the table “Are you even listening?! For god’s fucking sake! You called me all the way to India to give a bloody interview and you have been blabbering garbage all day what the fuck do you think I am?! A stupid moron?!” he almost spat at jimmy’s always calm face.
Now this was the absolute breaking point. “Okay okay! I am sorry! I accept it was my fault!” retaliating into the chair “I was just trying to know you before I spill beans!” leaving a surprised interviewer standing by himself. Wondering if he wants to kill this guy or interview him. “Can we have a drink? I don’t like drinking alone. I am ready to talk.” Jimmy said unceasing his white cotton shirt from a recent pulse of anger, like nothing ever happened. “I don’t drink but sure as hell would have one today!” blabbered Daemon, with a relief that finally this was going to work out. As always. He congratulated himself on the occasion. A drink was not too bad!
“Get me a large Chivas please.” and Jimmy went into a hypnotic state staring into his hand cuffs resting on the brown muddy antique table. Daemon left through the blue door patched with black shoe prints and dirt. India is still the same! he thought to himself. The room around him was the cheapest room any government could build for the people. It was 2023, 9 years since the much anticipated Aam Aaadmi Party had promised shit to the people of India.  Everything is on sale in this country. 2018 came the decline of AAP, and people realized they were fooled again, then another party took over which has, somehow held the power for two terms.
Cryptocurrencies had destabilized the global economy. With one Bitcoin priced at $1,93,052 and absolutely no clue of who pays who, the bitcoin movement inter and intra countries overpowered all stabilized currencies of the world. The plan was simple. Corrupt their leaders, drive them to chaos. And what better way to give directions to people like it is their own intended, chosen one. Hypnosis for corrupting leaders, 2 hour plastic surgeries for escaping felonies and bitcoins for new identities—these are the things that kept people like jimmy up and running. This was his last project. After he’d be done here, in goa, he would be paid 5000 bitcoins instantly and he’ll be retired for life. A happy ending to Jimmy Joy Kajiratingal.
He could hear those confident footsteps, the one of a leader, the follower of truth, without compromises. The door trust open with a slight thud of leather covered elbow, hands carrying two glasses. Daemon placed himself obliquely from his prey. Now he had to hunt for answers. “Cheers!” Jimmy held the glass in both of his hands, the handcuffs clinked, and moved towards Daemon’s. “You are a son of a bitch you know that?” Daemon said with a smirk on his face “Well let’s get started shall we?” taking out his notepad and recorder. Daemon took a huge gulp. Ugh! The first sip is the worst sip if you are drinking whiskey! Jimmy’s face turned serious, it was ripe time, the opiates were already acting on this poor journalist’s body.
In his notepad, He scribbles on:
Q: “So, what are you?”
A: “I am a Freelancer.”
Q: “Can you describe in detail; freelancer for what?”
A: “Let’s just say I do everything that I can except those things that my conscience doesn’t allow, or something that the skills I have cannot accomplish.”
Q: “Are you a U.S. citizen?”
A: “Yes, though I spent my childhood in India.”
Daemon’s hands were getting sweaty, and his head felt light, He had interviewed celebrities and people in power with great ease, and now, this man makes him nervous? Maybe it’s the whiskey, It been months since he last drank. or probably because there were no cameras to look into. He emptied the golden fluid. The door clinks a bit, probably the stray dog again! He delves back to scribbling. The traffic on the road is too noisy to overlook. But he went on. He is on duty.
Q: “So how did you manage to bring down 7 economies to a bankruptcy? The truth please!”
A: “Ah! the meat of the discussion! I like that! well, I ‘ll Keep it simple for you. I am Shatzam, The inventor of bitcoin mining. I invented a currency out of thin air that reached a market value of $1,93,052 . Its production cost? Almost zero. So fuck yeah that kinda money flowing in and out of countries raped the very essence of currency. And the fact that every geek with decent computer was earning around 10 million each, and what produced it? every computer’s processor.. Because they are valued by the people’s worth of it. It clicked. And thanks to the collosal media for amplifying it all.”

“God do you look sick!” remarked jimmy as he slowly rose from his seat, it was time.
The room felt damp and suffocating, suddenly, Daemon felt his heartbeat go down to a minimal, before he could react, his hand let go of his glass, which seemed to move slowly in fractal patterns towards the ground which seemed to be the solidest thing in the room, and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Only his eyeballs could move, his body supported by the chair, as he watched a figure emerge in front of his eyes. His comprehension of objects his eyes saw had gone to absolute zero.
Deamon’s face looked pale as white, paranoia in his head and paralyzed on a seat he hears a faint voice calling “Who are you?” It seemed to come from the deepest of himself. “Who are you?!” the voice grew louder, a little more demanding than before. There was nothing that daemon could describe as himself, it was as if he did not exist anymore! Who was he! Indeed! Why was he ever here? why this terrible state of mind? am i dreaming? Am I alive? “Who are you?!!!” this time the voice was growling in his head, absolute fear, at his heart, the voice grew louder and louder with every repetition, it confirmed that there’s gonna be an answer! soon!
Then, Silence. The first phase, they taught him, was disintegrating the personality, the spiritualists call “ego loss”.
Jimmy stood in front of him, ready for the second phase. It’s amazing how human mind works, once the left brain and the right brain can coordinate freely, you can practically install a new person in a head. The second phase was the memories, which a little handy 3d projector would suffice for the moments of his life, and his brain fills in the blanks with complimenting suggestions from the programmer.
No suspects, no evidence, and no one missing. This was how the CIA had fucked up every American for the last decade. For national security- Bullshit.
The particular compound Daemon had ingested was an opiate with some harmaline to accelerate and amplify the identity shift process for the human programmers like Jimmy. Sometimes Iboga, an ancient plant from the lands of Africa is used, which as , in 2013 discovered to have treated thousands of heroin addicts around the world. “I don’t remember my addiction!” People said after they ingested the plant extract.
Jimmy looked at the face, with a soft whisper on his left ear, he spoke “Who are you, really?”
The cold face of Daemon suddenly had an expression, an expression of nothingness, struggling the last of his energy to his tongue, he mumbled “I don’t know.”
A smile ran on jimmy’s face, pure peace it radiated. This was his favorite part of the job. Now that the subject was drifting in an abstract reality, not able to identify himself, his eyes diluted to a point where everything around him was an unidentified flying object, the programming proceeded as usual. To a lost, pale, motionless and expressionless face of Daemon Robert he spoke
“Wouldn’t you like to know? You will remember once you are prompted things from the past. And I am here to help. Close your eyes, relax and focus now.”
It’s terrible when the human mind is removed of identity. The acceptance of suggestion works because in that intoxicated state every moment is a measurable decade of misery except when the words of the programmer are heard. And if you were deprived of all human contact for a decade, with no contemplation of who you are, wouldn’t you listen to that one voice that is talking to you?
Daemon closed his eyes. He couldn’t speak.
5 minutes pass in silence.
“I’ll try and help you remember your name.”
“Your name was Jimmy Joy Kajiratingal.”
“You are a zillionaire.”
“And you are responsible for the fall of 7 economies! And you know practically everything about you.”

Part 3 – The Final Phase, The Face.

4 hours later, a figure emerges from the room, and walks to the superintendent’s office. He places the Bitcoin card on the table and the e-ink display shining “50 BTC”, the superintendent loyal only to money rose up from his chair abruptly and spoke “good morning Sir. Any problem sir?” he had just been paid $ 9652600 non traceable cash.
“No, thank you. Take care of him just as I asked. He has an appointment at a surgeon’s in Goa. Don’t disappoint me, he has a flight to catch early morning tomorrow.” the figure, swiftly walks out of the police station, and its 8 am in the morning. ‘Mirage Plastic Surgeon, Andheri East, Mumbai.’ the address field of the contact his Phone projected.
‘EXIT’ above gate no. 4 glowed red beneath which stood a journalist waiting for his turn for a cab.
Mirage Plastic Surgeons had done a good job.
“Hello sir, Where to?” the driver adjusted himself and touched the seat secure button. “The Airport, International” said the newly formed Daemon Robert. And be quick, “I have 7 economies to fix.”
He had an exquisite black leather coat and his eyes watched from behind large well crafted wood spectacles that seemed to dilute the aggression his eyes held. Daemon Robert was an investigative journalist, a U.S resident who was in a police station at Goa and had interviewed possibly one of the youngest and richest man around the globe, held responsible for collapsing the economy of 7 countries.


-The Psychonaut, Earth-

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