"I was met by fires in the streets, the screams of the dying tourists and the shouts of former traders offering sacrifices to their new gods." The NYSE experienced an outage of unspecific technological origin today, and Molly Crabapple is on it.
I wake up from my whiskey stupor to the scent of burning motherboards, and I know that something is wrong. Out the window in New York's Financial District, two men in torn bespoke suits roast a body over an oil drum. It looks like Thomas Friedman's, but I can't be sure.
"Brother can you spare a bitcoin?" one screams.
In the distance, I see fire.
I haul myself up, wipe the cigarette ash from my hair, and put on a flak jacket made solely from Golden Parachutes. "War. Horror. Hatred. Death." I say, to no one in particular. "Looks like I'm gonna get a fucking Peabody."
"Reporting live from the frontlines of #NYSEDown!" I tell my phone cam. Then I run out the door.
The New York Stock Exchange goes down: inside the dystopian aftermath [Molly Crabapple/The Guardian]