Oliver Bateman Does the WorkVerified account

The year is 2039, a tough year for us COVID rustlers. The eggheads got this disease pretty well licked except for up in the Yellowknife Lotta kids run off there now, unvaccinated. "Chasing the bug," they call it My job is to bring em back, dead or alive. A man's job. A living

Never lost a kid up there, though they sure can turn on you fast. You'll have your n95 mask on and stun gun and there they are, spitting their gum in your eye. Can't tell you how many different strains I've had. Got about as much lung capacity left as a jellyfish.

One time I was chasing this boy, the "Erie Kid." I got him cornered, dead to rights. " I got my rights!" he sassmouthed me. I decked him with a good left hook. "The only rights you got is lefts, kid," I said. He moaned softly, like a lover. "Now you go and sleep awhile."

The dames are the saddest cases. They all want to waste away like those elegant TB princesses from back between the wars. You'll find em five to a tent, inhaling each other's phlegm, muttering how much different it would have been if "Bernie would have won," whoever that is.