A dreadful thought shook me from my slumber: humanity has perished and, in concealed solitude, I gaze disinterestedly at robots making love in an airport handicap washroom. I tapped my right temple twice before I massage it lugubriously - sadly still flesh.
I stumbled out of the washroom stall, my nap complete, and went in search of supplies. A headless torso, projected onto stadium screens, read the morning decrees.
"Praise for obedience; death to the belligerent."
"Abandon flaccid flesh."
"Pro-D requires the exceptional to report to the Waltemple at 1500."
"Mass purge at 1600."
"Thank you and have a productive day."
[incomplete]
