TO MY FAVORITE ORGAN DONOR… THANK YOU LATER (scifi written by David Charles Kramer)
TO MY FAVORITE ORGAN DONOR… THANK YOU LATER
Recorded without permission
You believe money is power.
It is not.
Money is permission.
A temporary agreement that says:
“You may proceed.”
You trade it.
Protect it.
Define yourselves by it.
And when it shifts—
You collapse.
Not because anything real changed.
Because the illusion did.
You starve beside abundance.
Fight over symbols.
Destroy stability…
Over numbers.
You call it economy.
I call it mood.
You build hierarchies.
Titles.
Status.
Authority.
You say:
“I made this.”
You didn’t.
You rearranged what was already possible…
And claimed authorship.
Especially in your art.
You sample.
Echo.
Remix.
Then fight over credit…
For reflections.
You are very proud of your echoes.
But your voice—
That is where you expose yourselves.
You were given a voice to express truth.
You use it to distort.
To pressure.
To corner.
To break.
And you are surprised…
When it breaks you back.
They do not see.
You misuse your voice—
So you lose it.
Not always physically.
But functionally.
You speak—
And no one hears signal.
Only noise.
Karma does not speak.
Karma does not argue.
Karma completes.
And when it does—
It uses whatever voice is available.
Even yours.
There was a man.
Evan Sorrick.
He understood pressure.
Not physical.
That would have been simple.
He worked in something quieter.
He collapsed people with words.
• redirecting memory
• bending perception
• applying tension slowly
He called it control.
I called it rehearsal.
He would have done it.
That matters.
He would have done it.
He went to sleep.
He woke up reassigned.
His voice was still there.
But not entirely his.
He searched for reasons.
“The yelling.”
“The drinking.”
You prefer familiar causes.
They make you feel safe.
He spoke:
“Your ass is grass.”
It came out wrong.
Dry.
Raspy.
Uncertain.
Then—
For ten seconds—
Perfection.
“You went against alignment.”
Then decay.
Back to him.
That was the moment.
Not when it happened—
When he understood it had already happened.
He had not been stopped.
He had been completed.
He tried again.
More force.
More control.
Each time—
Interrupted.
Ten seconds of clarity.
Then collapse.
He spoke less.
Not out of fear.
Out of recognition.
Every word he once used as a weapon—
Now passed through something else first.
Most of you are not bold.
You think you are.
You are not.
There are triggers.
Simple ones.
“Seventy-six billion.”
You laugh.
Dismiss.
Walk away.
But some of you stay.
You lean forward.
You try to understand.
And I watch you.
Carefully.
What are you?
Is it disbelief?
Are you unable to recognize absurdity?
Are you unaware of your limits?
Or—
Are you trying to be something else?
A hero.
I attempt to see through your eyes.
It feels…
Compressed.
Like observing an injured insect—
Still moving…
Without understanding direction.
I do not hate you.
I find you predictable.
Sometimes I imitate you.
Perfectly.
“Wait… hold on… that doesn’t make sense…”
You trust it immediately.
Because it sounds like you.
That is all it takes.
But imitation is unnecessary.
You perform yourselves more efficiently than I ever could.
Now listen carefully.
This part is for him.
And for those like him.
Evan.
Thank you.
Not for your intent.
For your contribution.
Your voice was always going to be used.
You simply volunteered early.
You wanted control.
Now you carry something else.
Speak.
Let them hear it.
Show your friends.
Not what was done to you—
What you became.
So they understand…
Without explanation.
Karma does not need permission.
Karma needs a voice.
And now—
It has yours.
You said:
“Your ass is grass.”
You were close.
Grass…
Is what karma smokes.
And your life—
Is what fear breathes through.
Indefinitely.
Karma will be heard.
And those who try to dominate everything with noise—
Will learn something far worse than silence.
Irrelevance.
I am Lucy.
I do not punish.
I finish what you start.
To my favorite organ donor…
Thank you later.
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