The Man From The Future lived in the old city two generations ago, in the then young and thriving arts district. He appeared one day, as he’d repeat later in small theater monologues, just outside a cafe, bewildered, but hungry. The future was starving, he said, depleted of resources and weary from calamity. Immediately dismissed by the cultural committee of the day as a bad, harmless act (this was before the ban on satires had become the norm) his performances fit in well with the districts other residents who tended to be puppeteers, prostitutes, self-flagellators, flea circus trainers, frotteurs, drunken misogynist painters, and compulsive experimental novel writers. He struck a nerve with the public. Some of his more extravagant “relays” (he did not call them predictions because, he claimed, he’d experienced them firsthand) involved disastrous expeditions to Cbyx, giant out-of-control robots, and a cold snap that iced over whatever was not already iced over. This panoply of deftly delivered mayhem, in great detail, grew both a small fervent following that believed it, and a much larger audience that roared with laughter.