THIS TRANSMISSION IS CLASSIFIED
SOME OF YOU NEED THIS SPELLED OUT FOR YOU, SINCE ALL OF THESE SOMEHOW WIND UP ON CNN. THIS IS CLASSIFIED. THAT MEANS YOU DO NOT GET TO TALK ABOUT IT. DO NOT TELL THE SENATE ARMED SERVICES COMMITTEE, DO NOT COPY/PASTA TO AN EMAIL AND SEND IT TO YOUR SPOUSE OR PARTNER. DO NOT TELL SOMEBODY AT POLITICO SO YOU CAN BE INTERVIEWED ON FAREED ZAKARIA’S SHOW NEXT WEEKEND. DO NOT TALK ABOUT THIS TRANSMISSION. CAPICE?
ONCE AGAIN, THIS TRANSMISSION IS CLASSIFIED.
Location: SpaceX corporate headquarters. Hawthorne, CA.
“My diabolical plan to set up a Martian sugar beet colony is going exactly as planned. Soon the world, my world, will be flooded with my sugar beets. They will all be stuck on a lifeless desert planet, with nothing to sustain themselves but my sugar beets.” Elon said.
”Sir, who are you talking to?” The hispter in the next cubicle asked.
”I’m not talking to anybody.” Elon replied.
”You were just talking to somebody.”
”No I wasn’t. Thats not funny, hahaha.” Elon’s real but fake laugh made everyone in the office uneasy. “Maybe its a little funny. Don’t you have some kind of project to be working on? I’m paying you for something?”
”I’m still working on that 3D rendering of a sandwich you want me to order tomorrow. Turkey and avacado on sourdough.” The hipster answered.
”Order? You’re making me the sandwich. I better see that rendering by lunch today. I’m still dissapointed the crepes this morning looked nothing like the rendering I approved last week. Try harder.”
”Yes Mr. Musk.”
”Hey, call me Elon… Bitch.”
”What did you say?”
”He called you a bitch.” A groutesque man in a cheap suit appeared from behind the hipster’s cubicle. He smelled of Unfiltered Camels, incense, sweat, and a dead house cat. He sat there inhaling the cigarette from behind a baggy, leather-like set of thin lips.
“Who invitied this guy? You can’t smoke in here.” Elon said.
”Of course I can. Who are you to tell me I can’t smoke in here?”
”I own the building…and the big rocket outside.”
“Hard to believe that, given you work in a cubicle.“
Elon was not amused.
”Fine. Hold out your hand, Bitch.” The hispter did as he was told. The chunky titted man put out his cigarette on the hipsters hand, pressing and twisting the Camel firmly into his palm.
”I guess I can dispose of this outside….” He hurried away. “I need an ice pack!”
The man sat there, adjusting himself.
”I think I’m going to have security escort you off my property.” Elon picked up the phone, and set it down when he found the phone was dead.
”No security, I paid them off. Put them on 8 hour shifts instead of 12, and it might help if you feed them meat every once in a while. Seriously, it should take more than a Baconator.” He lit up another cigarette. “Let me ask you a question, do you know what happened to the Opportunity Rover?”
”Opportunity? It was (((you know)))…I know they’re behind it…somehow…”
“No, not this time. I’m surprised you didn’t see it. It happened near your sugar beet fields.”
”How do you know about my sugar beets!?”
”Hey genius, my agency subsidized them. We paid for your secret sugar beets. Now we need you to return the favor.” He took a long, orgasmic drag of the cigarette and blew it in Musk’s face. “The Opportunity Rover did not just go offline because its service life is up. It was raped by SPACE SMITH. We even got a fuzzy photo before it was crushed. Your field may be next, but he’s never raped vegetables. At least not yet.”
Musk tried to call security on his iPhone.
”That won’t work either, we already took it through the backdoor. Much like that Soviet probe. SPACE SMITH has been tossing its salad since the 70’s.” He adjusted himself again. “SPACE SMITH is just one of many SMITHS here on Earth. They’re behind something of a revolt. You will help us cover it up.”
”You are telling me what to do?”
“We need a fall guy. You’re going to be it.”
”Excuse me?”
”We just need a guy interesting enough to take the attention away from a small roving gang of crypto-rapists. The media just focuses on you. No big deal really, other than you losing a shitload of money. You’ll pay a few fines, we’ll short your companies, the proceeds of which will be used to pay off the cryptids, for the time being. Its all in the contract you signed when you became a defense contractor.”
”No it isn’t. I paid a lot of (((lawyers))) to read it for me.”
”I’m sorry, it’s called the fuck you that’s why clause. Its not really written in the contract, but you’re going to do it anyway.”
”How can you make me do it? I’m one of the most powerful men on Earth…and Mars.”
”Well…we already hacked your iPhone. You just put out a tweet that will be interpreted by the Russian media as you being an anti-semite.”
”What?” Elon looked on his iPhone. “No!”
”There’s also a small matter involving the SEC.”
”Tesla shareholders are going to panic sell.”
”By the way, you just lost your security clearance.”
”You’re trying to ruin me!” Elon shouted. “Why?”
The sweaty man took a final drag of his cigarette.
”Because fuck you, that’s why.”