Vakkert Rupitsio is a millionaire and hands out a million dollars every Saturday morning among the interested, the deserving poor, the life-lovers, the ne’er-do-wells, the black cats, the otters, the former politicians and the ravens in the main shopping street in Fabberlund. When he is done he goes to cafe Blak where he writes a letter which he memorizes, burns in an ashtray and then reads from memory through a black tube into the ear of the bartender Saljenbock:
“He’s impossible to reach. Unless you own a pretty long stick. For now, he’s sitting up in the chandelier like a squirrel who has run away from home.”
It’s Saturday in Bez, exactly 800 kilometers from Fabberlund. Outside, the sun is blinking. I sit with my cell phone in one hand and a picture book in the other as I read to my little daughter.
(The articles at The Other Newspaper are fictitious. The purpose of The Other Newspaper is to give the public a new, disturbing and humorous reflection of the way we consume news on traditional media and posts on the social media that make the recipient question whether the world needs to change and whether one can live online.)