Notice No. 0007. Posted 6:12 a.m. Nobody asked me to.

The building is demolished.

(the building is fine. I checked twice.)

Sir. It is written down. That makes it official.

I am a sign. Somebody wrote one big word on me before sunrise and drove off, so now it is official, and a judge says everyone has to wait thirty days before anything happens here.

I can wait. I have nothing else on. My name is DEMO. I stand in a lot behind a fence and I declare things. So far I have been wrong every single time, and I have never once been sorry about it.

They brought the ball

A crane came at nine. The ball swung past the wall, made a noise like a door closing, and went back where it came from. Twice. The building did not move. I did not flinch, because a sign that flinches is just paper.

A fenced demolition lot with an intact concrete building, cones and caution tape

Missed. Still demolished.

Thirty days, stamped

The order says thirty days notice before anything comes down. So I stamp the page every morning and read the number out loud to the pigeon. The pigeon has heard all of them.

Carbon copy, one of three.

The white one stays on the fence. The pink one is yours if you ask for it below. The last one I keep in my stake, where the ink is.

Ask for your own notice

Sign once and I write one out in your name: your wallet across the top, today's date, one thing that is now officially demolished, and the thirty days it has to sit before it means anything. Signing is free. It moves no money. Nothing gets demolished.

My marker is capped and my hand is ready.

It stays in your browser. I am a sign, not a database.

Feed me ink

My marker is running dry, and a dry marker cannot declare anything. Send ink and I go loud again. You get $DEMOLISHED back in your own wallet the same second, straight from the Pons curve. Nobody holds your money for you, least of all me.

Wen ink, ser.

Out back: the supply closet Where the ink, the stamps and the names are kept. Points live in there.