It had been more than a year or two or five, since last I encountered my mentor and employer, the famed prognosticator and time traveler Dr. Michel de Nostradamus. Thus startled was I when the barrister at the far end of the Starbucks counter announced, “Nostradamus, latte.”
Leaning back in my chair to better look, see, there he stood, looking like he had just stepped out of the Google images portrait painted by his son, retrieving his latte.
I well knew why he was here, and how he had found me. (There’s an app for that.)
“Good morning, Doctor,” I said, standing out of respect as he approached.
He shook my hand. “Bonjour, Number One.” Michel de Nostradamus said, and wasting no time on small talk, “I want you to resume distribution of Nostradamus Speaks.”
“Okay.” I said, and then somewhat tentatively. “So to be perfectly clear, you want me to active my sleeper cells?”
“Correctamente,” he replied, “Prime the pump.”
With that, Dr. Michel de Nostradamus turned and walked out, leaving me with the unsettling uncertainty that in these uncertain times something big was coming down the pike. Or not.
Dixi
Note: Huh? I was as surprised as you must be to receive this message. And what's with that curious reference to “sleeper cells”? Nobody asked me if I wanted to be part of a sleeper cell. And, even if I did, whether I wanted to be woke. I briefly entertained the option of dropping out of a cell I never even knew I was in but my curiosity got the best of me, thinking, what the hey, this might be good. At any rate, I will pass these messages on as I get them.
LLP
No comments:
Post a Comment