I am writing to you from a cave deep below the earth, inscribing this message on mole velum with an earthworm as my quill. Moley and Wormy were my only company through this ordeal, and now they are gone, sacrificed to compose this message on the off chance that someone might find it.
This is our story.
It was a Friday like any other at work. My building was a bustling hub of students and staff. People discussed weekend plans and admired the sunny weather.
We were so young. So innocent. So naive.
I settled into my desk chair after lunch and was checking some finances when I noticed that my e-mail wasn’t loading. I refreshed the page. Nothing. I tried to open Google and Facebook. No luck.
Internet was down.
Time slowed to a crawl, but I was confident that Internet would return. It always had in the past.
But this was not the past. This was the present. And you know what they say about the present: It is a gift. A gift of no Internet that isn’t a gift at all, but rather hell on earth.
It wasn’t until we called Charter Cable that we knew that this would be our final day. There was an Internet outage in the area, and they didn’t know when it would be fixed.
We were doomed.
However, as the Director of Operations, it’s my job to keep a level head. I walked through the halls, telling coworkers that the Internet was temporarily down and would be back up soon.
Then I boarded the windows and doors. I cut the phone lines and smashed the circuit breakers. If we were to survive this crisis, we would have to do it alone.
After fashioning the requisite loincloth from the leather husk of my desk chair, I swept through the halls, my work-appropriate outfit flapping in my wake. I called coworkers to convene in the common area. When all had gathered, I drew a line on the floor with a Sharpie.
“You’re either with me or you’re against me,” I said. “Cross this line and survive. Stay where you are and never have Internet again.”
No one moved.
I turned and dashed away, my loincloth dancing in the wind. I left a false trail as I ran, marking my scent on doorframes and computer monitors, lest the Others track me down. Then I vanished into the basement, baring the door behind me.
It was there that I dug. The only way to freedom was down, deep down into the earth where the Internet is kept. It was there, a good 20 feet under the ground, that I was joined by Moley and Wormy. I affixed to them tiny loincloths, and the Order of the Loin was born.
We didn’t have much, us three, but we had each other. As the days blended into the nights, we formed a kinship, a brotherhood. Moley was the prankster of the group, always guiding us into badger nests and gnawing into electric wires. Wormy was the scholar–he could recite nearly any geology-related book from memory. We kept each other warm at night, me the small spoon, Moley in the middle, and Wormy in the back.
We were brothers, and I would do anything for them. Never would I let harm befall them.
Thus it was a pity that I needed Moley’s skin and Wormy’s body to write this message. I will remember them fondly.
If you find this message, please post it on my blog. That is, if the Internet is back up. The world needs to know our story.
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