Magazine
Once you accepted the occasional flare of brimstone, Mr. More, the eternal optimist, figured, the doom and gloom of the end times lessened. After all, if a businessman saw the apocalypse as some kind of world-ending event, they might as well surrender their entrepreneurial credentials and join a doomsday cult.
Mr. More stomped along the dead gardens as someone screamed. He glanced across the street, not in the direction of the scream, but at the crowd in the field opposite. They weren’t screaming. Instead, each member moved with a silent determination, brows creased as they stared through their identical glasses. As Mr. More watched, the throng throbbed with activity, drawing schematics into the dirt.
Mr. More stopped before 3023 Walnut Street. He brushed a few embers out of his bushy beard, straightened his satchel and rang the doorbell.
The door jerked back and a soot-stained face creaked forward. A pair of eyes that had seen much stared back at Mr. More.
“Yes?”
“Good morning,” Mr. More beamed. “I am Mr. More, future-monger. My card.”
The man examined the card, reading out loud “‘The future is already here — it’s just not very evenly distributed’ – William Gibson.” He eyed Mr. More. “Are you having a laugh? Who ‘ere can afford to have a future these days?”
“Exactly! But did you know the Barnetts have a future?”
“Get off!”
“I kid you not! I just gave them a pair myself. In fact,” Mr. More turned around to point at the people across the street, “you can see them for yourself. Right there. See?”
The man gaped.
“What are they doing?”
“You see, these apocalyptic times in which plans for the future seem an unsustainable luxury are, in fact, the very times during which you need the future most to sustain yourself.”
The man crossed his arms.
“Alright. What’s your deal?”
“I’ll show you.”
Mr. More beamed again and withdrew an object from his satchel. It looked like a pair of glasses.
“A pair of glasses?”
“They certainly resemble glasses, Mr. — oh dear! I do believe I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Murgatroyd.”
“Well, Mr. Murgatroyd. While these resemble glasses, I can assure you — No! Promise! — that these are unlike any glasses you’ve ever seen. Here. Try them.”
Mr. Murgatroyd put on the glasses. Suddenly he fell back, clutching the doorframe and looking about open-mouthed.
“Are you ok, Mr. Murgatroyd?”
Mr. Murgatroyd’s frenetic head movements continued.
Cupping his hands, Mr. More bellowed: “What do you see, Mr. Murgatroyd?”
“Over there!” Mr. Murgatroyd gestured at the crowd. “I see people, a society.” Mr. Murgatroyd began to stumble from the house, hands stretched out. “They’re no longer tearing the world apart for profit, but rebuilding it to profit everyone. There’s a future for everyone.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Murgatroyd,” asked Mr. More. “I mean, that does sound rather implausible.”
“It’s right there! Can’t you see it? It’s real! It’s real, possible and plausible.”
Nodding with a murmured “Good,” Mr. More took off Mr. Murgatroyd’s glasses and walked him back to his house with an appropriate amount of sympathetic noises. When they reached the doorway again, Mr. More asked “Did you like what you saw, Mr. Murgatroyd?”
“Like?! I need it!”
“Good. Well, here you are.” Mr. More handed the glasses back.
“How much?”
“How much? Mr. Murgatroyd, haven’t I mentioned you don’t pay a penny? How silly of me.” Mr. More shook his head, displaying deep despair. “This is part of a private-public cooperative scheme. For each future I give away, thus redistributing it more evenly throughout society, I get a nice little kickback. Works for the government, works for me and works for you!”
“Oh.”
“Indeed. Now, Mr. Murgatroyd, I must leave. I have a fair few of these to get through. You know how it is.”
With that, Mr. More ambled down the steps onto the pavement.
Mr. Murgatroyd watched him leave and then looked at the glasses in his hand. He then looked around at the neighbourhood burning around him. He looked back at the glasses, put the glasses back on and ran over to help lay the ground for a public park.