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Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2002-05-28

“We’re being watched,” he said and took a sip of the now cold coffee. “They’re everywhere you know. Recording us this very minute, and then, and then they’ll just transmit it right out in cyberspace.”

“What?!” I ate a lump of stale bread with cucumber on.

“They do that, you know?” He sneezed five times and then looked around, as if the sneezes had disrupted the routine for those who were bugging us.

“You know what? I think you’ve been watching the X-files far too much. Or, perhaps, and this is just a thought, you should stop reading Robert Anton Wilson’s Everything is under control before you go to sleep.” I scratched my head.

“I don’t read it every night...” My friend didn’t sound quite as sure of himself anymore.

“I mean, you honestly believe that there is a giant body of people that belongs to a conspiracy to put everything you say on the Internet? Come on...”

“How do you know? How does anybody know? You don’t, do you?! They guard everyone so that the moment you says something profound and important, the hit squad arrives to drag you away and kick you hard in the balls three times.” He made a pause to drink up his lukewarm coffee. “And then they dress you up in clothes from the seventies and then they begin to work on you.”

“You’re not that important. After monitoring you for this long, they would have given up by now.”

“You think?”

“Yes, you’ve never said a word of importance in your entire life.” I felt kind of sad to drop this bomb on him, but I knew he would get over it. “You just don’t have it in you.”

“You’re absolutely sure about this? It’s not some kind of a joke?” The friend looked kind of distressed, seeking validation for what he just heard.

“No. They’re not after you.” I pointed to an older man with a large white beard who sat two tables away. He had a suit on, a suit that reassembled a rainbow drawn by a colour-blind. “They’re after him. According to the Global Conspiracies Weekly they’re going to pick him up in fifteen minutes.”

“Neat. If we have another cup of coffee we can stay and watch. Coo.” We both left our chairs to fetch more of the black gold.