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While I was reading this book, a bomb exploded in my apartment, tearing my paperback copy of Ubik to pieces. The book had been badly burned and found itself in tatters. After placing it into a protective cooler packed with solid state carbon dioxide, I rushed to take it to a local book-shop (located next to the morgue) to see if there was any hope of putting the pages back together, or at least what was left of them, to be able to commune with it � my cherished, fragile half-book � every once in a while, even though it was half-dead.

However, after arriving at the book-shop, I was surprised to notice Philip K. Dick's face on my credit card. At first I was thinking his face was going to appear on the coins in my pocket, but then I remembered that in 2017 coins no longer exist in the United States.

But then suddenly coins did exist. I felt them jingle right there in my pocket. It was impossible, I thought. I mean, who the hell uses coins anymore? That is when I started to think something had gone dreadfully wrong.

I tried buying things with the coins to see if anything else had changed in my reality, but every store declined to accept them, and no ATM would receive them, given that they are no longer valid forms of currency. Sure, in 2017 we may not have spaceships or functional cryogenic freezing or time control powers or other cognitive abilities, but at least we don't run around carrying something as antiquated and useless as coins like they did in 1992. Could you imagine if you needed a nickel every time you needed to open your fridge door? You'd starve to death! I can't blame Joe for not having coins around. Useless devices.

I had spent so much time ranting about how I suddenly had coins I couldn't use that I failed to notice how stale my cigarettes were. Wait a minute, now what the hell am I doing with cigarettes? I thought. I've never smoked a day in my life. How would I even know what a stale cigarette is?

It's no matter, I thought. I decided to go back to Omaha, my birthplace, to watch the burial of my book. Then the girl who flashed me to get a job at the company (I really doubted she could see into the future, but as soon as she had removed her shirt of in front of me there was no doubt she could read my mind) told me she was the one who had burned my book. I became really upset with her, until she withered away and died. Then I felt bad. I mean, sure, she was jealous that I had slept with that other girl who didn't have to flash me to get the job, but that doesn't mean she was a bad person.

I started feeling really sick and clambered up to my hotel room. Then my best buddy appeared and introduced me to spray paint. "Spray paint will solve all your problems when you're dead," he said. "Look!" He sprayed me with spray paint, and I recovered instantly. My friend added: "Oh, by the way, you're dead. That's why you can use spray paint. You can also use spray paint as deodorant or breakfast cereal, or any of the other advertised purposes found in your cherished bombed book. Spray paint is magical stuff. My dead wife invented it."

Then I made the devil spray paint himself and I gained power over him.

Moral of the story: SPRAY PAINT IS GOD

Right now Philip K. Dick is crossing the River Styx with coins over his eyes, and those coins now have my face on them.