The year was 4085, another day at Robert Patterson Industries, a subsidiary of Oxygen (not the channel, but the air you breathed). This was back around the time the zeta prime initiative failed, when Trump remained in control of Sector Z and all of the ships therein. I was on patrol, well...
For breakfast, a half rack of ribs I had in the fridge. Lemon juice and bbq sauce, water.
For lunch, more bbq. My sweetie brought me a plate from somewhere. Wasn't all that great. Bbq beans, potato salad, chopped beef sandwich and some links. And a dessert. Like 4 desserts. Some kind of ambrosia...
I hope the angel of death brings his merciful scythe to GR and finally puts the forums to their final resting place.
But I feel whatever deal GR made with the devil may supersede death's gaze and we're stuck with this skeleton for another 100 years.
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