The storm was particularly hateful. Water poured down for hours, covering the streets with oily puddles, their slick surfaces broken only by scraps of soggy newsprint and chunks of vomit left by last night's drunks. The city was uglier than usual.

In the afternoon, the lightning arrived. I knew it would come, eventually: The weathermen had warned me to stay inside, away from golf courses and tall trees on open plains. Or, they allowed, if you absolutely needed to be on a golf course, just leave the clubs and kids at home. Eight golfers, I think, were struck dead on Long Island that day. All adults; no children. At least they took half of the weathermen's advice to heart.

At 9:14, a bolt touched down outside my window, not more than five feet from the foot of my bed. The cats jumped so high they hit their heads on the ceiling; the dog was so startled that he shat out a chicken bone he'd scavenged on the street the night before (which was a good thing, really--he was having an awfully hard time passing that bone through his ass).

And--though this may sound like the testimony of a madman, I swear it to be true!--apparently, the bolt jumped through the windowpane and infused my laser printer with a supernatural, electro-magnetical energy! For, lo! The next time I tried to print a proof of Crank, out came a truly curious document. It was a Crank proof alright, but not one that I'd created! I recognized some of the names, and the writing was oddly familiar. But this page was like nothing I'd ever seen before!

After much heavy thought and many conversations with the greatest thinkers I could find on the Internet, I decided that this was no postscript prank--the page had, indeed, come from the future! A future in which I never stopped producing Crank. A future in which all my friends and fellow zine writers have done the same. A future most horrid.

This page is a warning to me! I should, indeed, stop producing this magazine. That if I continue to write Crank without ever setting my sights on larger game, I will be condemned to a life of vague regrets and distinct dissatisfaction. If I don't change my ways, this page told me, I would become just another asshole zine writer without enough talent and ambition to break out of his safe, little zine world.

My meager studies in nigromancy tell me that the future holds endless possibilities. So, by reprinting this page, I hope to derail this particular future and prevent it from occurring. After all, I know that the gods don't smile upon us--they smirk! They dare us to break our destinies. They beg us to challenge them, so challenge them I will!

Bring on the battle for my soul! For in this battle, the battle for my very destiny, I shall prevail! And not only will I mock those gods who challenged me to rise up, but I will mock all those around me who expected nothing but failure to spring from my mental loins! I will trample them all under foot!!!