The year is 2145. Twitter is a long forgotten dream that only exists in the ragged fragments of humanity's collective unconscious. The land formerly known as Milwaukee is an irradiated desert after Trump baits Pakistan into starting World War III during his third term. Small bands of humans roam the gelid landscape, whispering of a porcine messiah who once, long ago, united the world in shared mirth with his proclamations most fruity and redundant. They tell tales of a pastime called "patposting", and wonder if "Prizzin", the land where all are eternally joyful, was ever actually a real place. Will they return there some day, after their short lives are over? Was the one they call Kwah-Zee ever paid? The only thing that answers them in the dark and starless night is the wind echoing through the ruined dunes. "Noh-chai-uld", it seems to whisper,
"noh. . . chai. . . uld."