If The Internet Disappeared: Pornography Finds A Way
The following is the sixth entry we've published from a journal found in a dumpster in Bayside, New York. Little is known about its origin, but judging from the title "Notes from the Internet Apocalypse, 2013," it comes from the future. Oh, and Gladstone wrote it. We do know that. But the Gladstone we know or future Gladstone? It's almost impossible to say. Nevertheless, it is reprinted here as a cautionary tale ...
Day 35-38: THE SEARCH FOR OZ I stumbled out from the interrogation, searching for the closest landmark, but New York looked strange without my friends. Many businesses had closed and the streets were half empty. Still, mailboxes overflowed with letters, and newsstands were overrun with porn. And not half-obscured brown paper bag-covered porn, but big stacking piles of porn beside the gossip mags. I hadn't bought a dirty magazine in over fifteen years, but I felt compelled to flip through a Hustler in front of a newsstand by Water and Wall Street. I remembered the feel of high gloss beneath my fingers and the smell of ugly maroon inserts reeking of colognes I'd never wear. But now the girls looked like. . . girls. No longer the dark and dangerous sex creatures I'd hope to meet as a man, but the kind of lost young women I wanted to save. And I felt bad because that didn't stop me from thinking of them exactly in the way I was supposed to. I put the magazine down, and headed for the hotel.
Tobey and Oz weren't there. That didn't worry me at first. After all, Tobey probably didn't want to return to his last known address with agents after him. I was more concerned about Oz. What if she were still detained? Deported? I wanted to go back to the interrogation office, to Park 51, to Central Park, to anywhere I'd ever seen her. But even with the population leaving in droves, this was still New York City. How do you find just one person? I sat on the bed drinking, and trying to think of a plan. Occasionally, I'd flip the pages of the
***I've spent the last three days in my hotel room. Too anxious to write. Too anxious to do anything other than take comfort in the Hustler that speeds my heart and then slows it with release. There's a girl on page 42 with a dolphin tattoo beside her absurdly coifed pubic hair who particularly excels at that. But then the fear returns, and I remember I still don't know where Tobey and Oz are or what to do without them. All I know is that if the government were hoping to find dirt on me in my altered state, they lost. For three days, it's been just me, the
Continued in part SEVEN
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