I didn't know what to do after my mummification. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? I got out of my shake n bake bag and sat back down at my computer. I accessed my pop server to see if I had any email. Here I thought I had a stout firewall, when a message just came right through like it was tunneling across some protocol I didn't understand on a port that was formerly closed. "Contacting dog*", it read. Then it refreshed and said,
"Coming Forth by Day"
It refreshed again and displayed, "The following transmission and all subsequent are of exceedingly great mystery. Let not the eye of any man whatsoever see it, for it is an abominable thing for anyone to know it: therefore hide it."
Being no longer human took care of that. I was abominable as all fuck. The letters faded away to be replaced, "Dog* will visit you periodically. Each time will signal the coming of rapid change or disaster. The change is accompanied by access to a daemon that exists on this server. In this first visit, we will synchronize you with our time server. This first daemon insures you will return to us chronically. The second daemon will feed you data." Dog*, that's just so cybercute, I thought. I wonder how many pre-pubescent girls bought this kit. I guess only the ones that read the same Swedish sex comics.
The doorbell rang. I still had enough attachment to my larval self to be curious about who might be coming to visit. I jumped up and deftly staggered to the door. When I opened it, I looked out at 2 exceptionally young gentlemen in suits. They had nametags. One read “Elder Johnson.” The other read “Elder Barton.”
The first thing I said, as a mummy was, “That's funny. You don't look very old.” What it probably sounded like was “Gar raree. Ach grunt runk rara unk.” They stared at me wordlessly.
The more daring of the two, Elder Johnson, swallowed his gum and said, “Um, ok. I don't suppose you are interested in tracing your genealogical tree.” That was my turn to stare wordlessly, but after not being able to produce recognizable phonemes, I figured it was wise. “Right, um. Can we leave some literature with you? And maybe this too.” He held out a copy of the Book of Mormon.
I had seen this pair around town. I was actually looking forward to meeting them the first time I saw them walking down the street after a day of trying to convert the heathens. They both had yoyos. They flung them ahead as they travelled on their mission. In spite of the fact that they were members of probably the squarest, goofball religion active in the U.S., these boys had style. Maybe they also figured that some disgruntled Baptist would think twice about whacking them if they had some weapon. I had heard somewhere that yoyos, like boomerangs, were toys which were originally weapons.
I actually had quite a few questions for them. For instance, I wanted to know of they truly believed that God lived on a planet called Kolob. And since I would soon be flying through through the Milky Way, I could verify the fact for them and perhaps save them a moment of embarrassment when they embarked on their own afterlives.
But all I could do was grunt. I took the materials all the same, just to show that I wasn't completely hostile. I mean, I was hardly in a position to modify their worldviews. As they left, and left quickly, I thought I had at least shaken their sense of what constituted American society today. We're all a bunch of wackos and the best place to study them is from the safety of a comfy chair. Might as well start with yourself.
When I got back to my introduction and instructions to my new afterlife, the final screen merely read, "When you are ready, the solar wind will push you gently this way." I didn't know what I missed in my absence. I just hoped I could learn as I went, faking what I didn't know. Just like I had done everything when all my organs were in place.