John Hurt stood up from the gelatinous seat he was ensconced in and outstretched his left palm to the right-handed reporter. “Are we done?”

“Yes, thankyou for the interview John. ThoughtBook has changed the way we live. You’ve done the world a great service,” the reporter offered and she shook his hand awkwardly.

“Please,” John smiled. “Call me Mr. Hurt.”

“Really? That makes you sound diabolical.”

“Yeah, because a guy who created a service that records and publishes every thought its users have must be entirely benevolent.”

“That’s correct,” the reporter said, missing the sarcasm. 

John sighed and scratched his elbow as the reporter’s hologram evaporated from his home. Designed in the style of 9th century Modernism, it was predominantly blue. John walked into his kitchen and opened a cabinet, pulling out a glass. He then took the glass, placed it under the faucet, and turned on the cold water, filling the glass. Then he had a drink. This made him no longer thirsty. Too bad it was corrosive acid. Holes started bubbling open in his stomach and on his chest, exposing his delicate insides to the bacterial air. His torso started peeling off, chunks of flesh dropping to the ground, making the sound of someone slurping soup. He gasped, miming a scream of anguish with vocal chords that’d turned to an amorphous solid. He stumbled over to the phone, which he kept next to an iPad of paper. As the brittle bones in his fingers started to snap from the pressure, he finished scrawling a name with a flourish. And with that he dropped to the ground, dissolving into a bubbly mess like puddle of vomit after too many jello shots.