I look astern, over my shoulder: countless unfinished podcasts bob lifelessly in my dread wake. Eyes forward to the horizon: endless black fog. Around my neck, a dead albatross. Written on it is the word “podcast.”
Pulling open a modest kitbag made of old sailcloth, I look upon my old microphone and headset a final time. “Better days.” I speak the words as much as the squalling salt air rips them from me.
I am resolved to heave the kitbag over the side, when I feel a hand clasp my shoulder. Turning, I see a blond man in shutter shades, suspenders and dropcrotch pants. The black fog roars.
“Not yet, friend,” says Mikey. “Not yet.”
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