Persuasion

‘The world’s ending,’ they said.

Yeah right, as if. Sure, there’s climate change, weapons of mass destruction, pandemics, Elon Musk. But the world has always been batshit crazy, and it’s kept turning. This must be the same, right?

That’s what I thought. Then Virtual Reality-infoverts hijacked my gameplay. No-one had that kind of money and power. The capital to force ‘Speed Killer 12: Mission Creep,’ the highest grossing, most immersive gaming experience on the planet, to pause gameplay and pump infomercials into their customers’ brains. And, if it was a scam, what scam endured a full ten days? That’s a gazillion news cycles. Fraudsters notoriously lack that kind of patience. People say, ‘get rich quick’ and not ‘get rich with copious amounts of effort, strategic investment and diligent forward planning’ for a reason. It had to be real.   

Once I accepted world’s end, they had me on the how. It’s basic upselling. If you are already splurging twenty-five grand for a car, what’s another twelve hundred for AI insurance in case Robo-Driver steamrollers a mommy-wagon? So, I swallowed it all. Water levels had spiralled, tsunamis gulped nations and, in the space of one week, all land was going to be fish-food.

The VR-infoverts were targeted, they deep-dived into a lifetime of online history; that’s my DNA, every poor decision, every shitty thing I’d ever done. Yet they still selected me. Me. I was special. They were giving me the chance of applying for the opportunity to be saved. Thank glorious fuck for that; I look too hot in a bikini to drown in it. #Ride the tides to survive peeps!

#

They approved me, then whoosh. Fifteen minutes later, I am in a car speeding towards salvation. The driverless vehicle pulled up at a creepy old dock lined with people wearing bright-coloured polo-shirts and replica smiles waiting to escort me onto a cruise-liner. Like a summer camp for the end of civilisation. 

Then shit got weird.

A polo-shirted teenager locked me inside a tiny cabin. It was windowless. There was a bed, a TV, and a wardrobe-sized bathroom. No wardrobe. The TV live-streamed views from the bow. Water. Lots of it, nothing else, not even a game show or a graphic collage of imminent death warnings to pass the time, for hours and hours.

“Welcome chosen ones, I am your saviour.” A snake oil salesman replaced the water; he was the charismatic equivalent of sloughed skin. “Everyone else is dead. Our vast and beloved world is now an over-sized swimming pool. Together, let us invite resurrection,” he said, raising his arms to the ceiling of a much bigger cabin.

He, thankfully, provided a full explanation because there hadn’t even been a pamphlet. The polo-shirts were going to administer painless lethal injections. At the divinely appropriate time, my spirit would be resurrected and impervious to any natural or unnatural disaster for eternity. In between these two events, death would briefly interject. It did, however, come with small print–despite his rigorous screening, only those of us truly committed to new humanity would rebirth and possibly inside each other’s bodies. Spiritual disorganisation was comparable to airport baggage. Or I could always chuck myself overboard.

My door opened. I considered running, but where?

‘A scratch,’ is what he said before jabbing me in the jugular.

#

Opening my eyes, a cheese-grater had resurfaced my throat and there were miners in my skull. Rubbing my hands up and down my forearms for warmth, I trapped a bare boob. Feeling nauseous, all my weight moved to my head as I pulled myself into a sitting position. Stumbling over my own feet, I searched for a towel, anything that could cover me up.

A scuffling noise, like a giant rat, was coming closer. My door was wide open.

“Are we saved?” Younger than me, she was in her twenties, same blonde hair, blue eyes, slight enough to bend in a strong wind. Naked.

“Are you, you?” I ask because I am.

“Yes! I’ve got my elbow scars, see. I broke it, falling from the top of a four-tier high cheerleader pyramid when I was fifteen. I’m Clover.” Despite our current predicament, Clover had a smile that could disarm Russia. Well, if Russia still existed.

“I’m Fran. Confirmative, my right boob is impressively bigger than my left and I have a cannon tattoo on my butt, which no matter what my mother thinks, I do not and never will regret.”

“It is a beautifully formed cannon. You do you, Fran.”

We muddled down the corridor, bonded in our bareness. An exposed lightbulb dangled every four feet above us, failing to keep the grubby walls a secret. Walking side-by-side made bits collide, so I dropped back, stabbed by a twinge of admiration for Clover’s taut glutes. As we passed cabins, other confused, saved women joined us. The corridor ended and eleven of us climbed up the slippery stairs. Butt-naked.  

“Join saviour.” Polo-shirts repeated the mantra as they herded us into a ballroom. Teeming with women resembling us, like seeing every version of the Bonnie doll that was ever manufactured together in one store. Pageant Bonnie, Class President Bonnie, Tattoo Bonnie, Adult film star Bonnie. Also, there was a buffet, and countless inflatable hot tubs.

‘Saviour’ walked toward us. I tried fixating anywhere but on his low-hanging turkey giblets.

“Ladies, your resurrections were especially complex. Remember, this skin is but a suit-jacket; whilst your resurrected spirits are eternal. You are saved. Please join us in our meditative cleansing.”

#

These are ‘our bodies,’ we had protested. I evidenced my tattoo, whilst Clover exhibited her scars. But we were so unevolved back then, incapable of comprehending His wisdom. It was with time that Saviour patiently guided us to Truth. Were we the only body with tattooed buttocks, with scarred elbows? Of course not. And a wandering soul desperate for rebirth would naturally be more likely to confuse a vessel that was like its own.

As Saviour wisely says, ‘them’s the corporeal breaks.’ And after countless months of His teachings, His healing communal and one-to-one bathing, wholesome raw food, and the permanent removal of our physical masks; I am my sister, my sister is me, and we are New Humanity. Saviour made us and He will remake us for eternity.