Concept Sketch for Neo-Teo-Double Mul OC-A

Marena Park, Warren Interactive Entertainment

Why I Did It

By Joachim (“Jed”) Carlos Xul Mixoc DeLanda

For General Release To post at noon, EST, on December 19, 2012 Contact: None

Indiantown, Florida, USA

4 Lamat, 12 Sac, 12.19.19.15.9

4 Sundog, 12 Whiteness, on the ninth K’in of the fifteenth Uinal of the nineteenth and last Tun of the nineteenth and last K’atun of the twelfth and last B’aktun

Thursday, October 30, 2012 5:42:08 P.M.

To All, Whom It Concerns:

… five… four… three… almost there… one… zero… tap.

Whoa.

That’s it. I’ve done it.

Let me catch my breath here for a second.

Okay.

I didn’t expect it, but just now, at the moment I tapped that icon, I–I guess I should say even I-felt a twinge, and more than a twinge, of that gray free-falling terror, that it was really happening, and that it wasn’t reversible. Was there any guilt in the twinge? Hmm. Remorse, yes. Nausea that it had come to this? Sure. But guilt? I guess not. It won’t hurt, for one thing. In fact, you won’t even notice.

What I just did was-all I did-was I bought a hundred standard five-thousand-bushel corn contracts for February delivery, effective at the opening of the Chicago Board of Trade tomorrow. At 5:41:59 P.M. a bushel was at $7.10, so this only-“only”-took $3,550,000.00 out of my main Schwab account. I realize it doesn’t sound like this transaction could be a very big event. Certainly not something that will end the whole place. I mean, end the world. And I don’t mean just the world as we know it either. I mean the world, like everything.

But it will. According to calculations using Warren’s latest (2.3 Beta) version of the Sacrifice Game software-a spectacularly accurate proprietary prediction tool, of which a little more later-the trade’s going to drive up the price at the worst possible time. This will set off a very unfortunate sequence of events. Eighteen minutes from now, the second domino-that is, that’s what I’m calling the second key event out of what I’m visualizing as a row of dominoes that will culminate in the end of us humans-the second domino will tip over as the Board of Trade software notices after-hours trading spiraling up at geometric rate that, just before it pulls the plug, will reach U.S. $1,244.02 per second. The third domino will fall exactly four hours and 21.02 minutes from now, as the Hang Seng sees a similar thing happening and suspends its own trading in all corn, wheat, barley, soy, and of course rice. And then, tomorrow morning, when the CBT opens at the ungodsly hour of 6:00 A.M., the fourth domino will fall as every hick trader and his adelphogamic brother jumps on the hay wagon and tries to buy as much-as many? — as much piles of staples as they can get their flippers on. At 8:48 P.M., Central time, the CBT will suspend all trading-Domino Number Five-and, on November 2, three trading days from now, the first of the food riots will start, in Deqen Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, in Yunan, China. That’ll be the sixth domino. By the next morning, over sixteen thousand people will have died in the riots, mainly in Shenzhen, Dongguan, and Guangzhou-and those will inspire another, much larger riot in Gujarat-but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. And anyway, by Number Seven you’ll have seen a lot of all this on the news. So let’s skip ahead to the morning of-well, you’ve already heard about the date. It’s the big one, the one that’s caused so much storm and stress. The last domino-it’s a bigger number than nine, but smaller than, say, thirty-one-will fall on December 21, 2012, or in our reckoning, that is, 12.19.19.17.19, of the fourth Overlord and the third Gold Sun. And on that date, just like a whole lot of kooks, New Agers, and pantophobics have babbled about for what seems like another thirteen b’aktuns already, that’ll be it, the last of the last, the EOE, as we call it at the Warren Family of Caring Companies. The End of Everything.

For years now, when people heard that I was a Maya, they’d ask me what woo-wooey supernatural event was going to happen on that day, and I’d usually say something like “Nothing you need to know about.” Or, often, just “Nothing.” Well, now something’s going to happen. Or, in an active sense, “Nothing.” Only, there won’t be anything supernatural about it. I’ll have done it all myself. With my little cursor. Whatever humans are alive on earth, including the lady next door, the pope, you, the president, myself, and even the crew of seven aboard the International Space Station-who’ll last a little longer than the others, but not much-will be the last humans ever. And, possibly, the last consciousnesses ever. I hope.

Why?

Well, because, it won’t matter why, will it? In fact this whole exercise-I mean, writing this-seems pointless. I mean, to write a deposition for posterity when, if all goes well, as it will, there won’t be any posterity. There won’t even be any extraterrestrial archaeologists coming around to ask questions about the collapse of humanity. Most people will barely have time to read this before they wink out into zeroness. Still, I do feel that at least some of you, short-lived or not, deserve an explanation.

So, how did it come to this? Or, to put it more relevantly, How Do I Know This Is the Right Thing to Do?

Well, briefly, because I do. That is, I understand all the considerations involved, the math, you might even call it. Unlike almost anyone else, I can visualize the numbers involved, and unlike absolutely anyone else, I can comprehend what those numbers will lead to. And if you could follow it all, you’d agree with me. And you’d do exactly the same thing.

More clearly, I can understand how much human life is out there, and how much is coming. And I understand-and most of all accept-that over 99.8 percent of it, now, in the future, and always, is and will be sheer unrelieved agony. Pain. And no matter how many distractions and evasions people come up with, no matter how much gets spent on the denial industry, any honest person with an IQ over room temperature-that is, anyone worth asking-will admit that, to put it in the most ordinary and bathetic language possible, life sucks. I’m doing us all a mercy. And that’s the beginning, end, and entire sum and substance.

I know, I know. Don’t do us any favors. But this wasn’t something I wanted. And it isn’t something I’m making up. In fact, this ability-the ability to comprehend-didn’t even come to me naturally, the way things do to crazy people. In a way, it took over thirteen hundred years. And also, I didn’t make this decision so much for you and me, anyway. I’m doing it more for the kids. The coming generations. Yes, you and I are already well and royally fucked, but we can, at least, refrain from bringing any further consciousnesses into existence. It’s the right thing to do. And actually, there are a lot of people-not just Schopenhauerian philosophers and their wannabe counterparts-who even know it’s the right thing. But they haven’t done anything about it. I think I have the will to do it-and the means, but especially the will-because I saw it with my own eyes. Or at least, I saw it with my intraregarding eye, through the lens of the Game.

Anthropologists would classify the Sacrifice Game as a sortilege divination game, something that uses counts of pebbles or seeds to investigate the future or, more rarely, the past. Playing it well feels like playing Parcheesi against God and winning. Although the Sacrifice Game is to Parcheesi as cooking a Peking duck is to getting a bag of Skittles out of a vending machine.