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45 years from now, as you tell your granddaughter Sally about the time you "posted on a messageboard" with a member of Salamander, she'll ask you (quite innocently) what a "messageboard" is, but won't need to ask about Salamander; all the kids in 2056 know their name.
me? I'll still be upon my throne of bat wings and skeleton fingers, ritualistically chanting the coda that induces my aural augmentation device to playback. I smile and nod, waving my mechanical replacements for meat parts along in time, content in knowing that I'm still more goth than Pookie's waifu.
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