You walk through the desolate streets of New York, dust and building rubble all around you. Evidence of a bygone community that once existed here.
Turning a corner, you are blinded for a moment by something reflective above your eyes. It's a street sign, battered and leaning against the stone building, but still standing. It reads:
WALL ST
Down at your feet you see a wendies wrapper pressed against your ankle by the wind. There's some writing scribbled on it in thick permanent marker. You bend down to grab it. Processed cheese sticks between your pant leg and the wrapper as you lift it up. Fuck. The handwriting is terrible, as if written by someone who has hardly a grasp on the written language, but somehow it this fact only adds more importance to the words you read. You peer closely to make it out:
What Are Your Moves Tomorrow, Monday July 03, 2023?
Man, fuk bers