“Hey, how about a break from UOW to give the hive a shot for once?”
“No, Ross, that still creeps me out.”
“Your choice, Doug, but you know what they say.” Ross smiled his quizzical smile.
“No, what’s that?”
“It’s your worst inhibitions that will psych you out in the end.” Ross chuckled.
“Yeah, well, you go be part of the Borg. Not me.”
“We — it’s not like the Borg. Afterwards, we are still the same individuals. Maybe we know a bit more, and certainly have a greater appreciation of other viewpoints. Anyway, today we are estimated to be ten million strong and we’re generating alternative cancer conceptualizations and treatments. You have to admit that’s worthwhile. Look what happened with heart disease. Not to mention global warming. That would have taken forever with ‘politics as usual’.”
“Yeah, Ross, but sorry to break this to you…”
“Doug, do you realize what a Yeahbunite you are? You are kind of like that…”
“You are always interrupting! That’s why…”
“Yes! Exactly! That’s why speech is too frigging slow to make any progress in chaotic problem spaces. Just try the hive. Just try it.”
“Ross, for the last time, I am not going to be part of any million person interface!”
“Actually, we expect ten million tonight. But it’s about time to leave so last offer. And, if you try it, you’ll see it’s not creepy. You just watch, react, relax, and …well, hell, come to think of it, it’s not that different from Universe of Warlords that you spend hours playing. Except we solve real problems.”
“But you have no idea how that hook up changes you. It could be manipulating you in subtle unconscious ways.”
“Okay, Doug, maybe. But you could say that about Universe of Warlords too, right? Who knows what subliminal messages could be there? Not to mention the not so subliminal ones about trickery, treachery and the over-arching importance of violence as a way to settle disputes. When’s the last time someone up-leveled because they were a consummate diplomat?”
“Have fun, Ross.”
“I will. And, more importantly, we are going to make some significant progress on cancer.”
“Yeah, and meanwhile, when will you get around to focusing on SOARcerer Seven?”
“Oh, so that’s what bugging you. Yeah, we have put making smarter computers on a back burner for now.”
“Yeah, and what kind of gratitude does that show?”
“Gratitude? You mean to SOARcerer Six? I hope that’s a joke. It was the AI who suggested this approach and designed the system!”
“I know that! And, you have abandoned the line of work we were on to do this collectivist mumbo-jumbo!”
“That’s just…you are it exactly! People — including you — can only adapt to change at a certain rate. That’s the prime reason SOARcerer Six suggested we use collective human consciousness instead of making a better pure AI. So, instead of joining us and incorporating all your intelligence and knowledge into the hive, you sit here and fight mock battles. Anyway, your choice. I’m off.”
“No, no, no! That’s absurd, David. It’s about intelligence pure and simple. It’s not up to us to predetermine Samuel Seven’s ethics. Make it intelligent enough and it will discover its own ethics, which will probably be superior to human ethics.”
“Well, I disagree, John. Intelligence. Yeah, it’s great; I’m not against it, obviously. But why don’t we…instead of trying to make a super-intelligent machine that makes a still more intelligent machine, how about we make a super-ethical machine that invents a still more ethical machine? Or, if you like, a super-enlightened machine that makes a still more enlightened machine. This is going to be our last chance to intervene. The next iteration…” David’s voice trailed off and cracked, just a touch.
“But you can’t even define those terms, David! Anyway, it’s probably moot at this point.”
“And you can define intelligence?”
“Of course. The ability to solve complex problems quickly and accurately. But Samuel Seven itself will be able to give us a better definition.”
David ignored this gambit. “Problems such as…what? The four-color theorem? Chess? Cure for cancer?”
“Precisely,” said John imagining that the argument was now over. He let out a little puff of air and laid his hands out on the table, palms down.
“Which of the following people would you say is or was above average in intelligence. Wolfowitz? Cheney? Laird? Machiavelli? Goering? Goebbels? Stalin?”
John reddened. “Very funny. But so were Einstein, Darwin, Newton, and Turing just to name a few.”
“Granted, John, granted. There are smart people who have made important discoveries and helped human beings. But there have also been very manipulative people who have caused a lot of misery. I’m not against intelligence, but I’m just saying it should not be the only…or even the main axis upon which to graph progress. “
John sighed heavily. “We don’t understand those things — ethics and morality and enlightenment. For all we know, they aren’t only vague, they are unnecessary.”
“First of all,” countered David, “we can’t really define intelligence all that well either. But my main point is that I partly agree with you. We don’t understand ethics all that well. And, we can’t define it very well. Which is exactly why we need a system that understands it better than we do. We need…we need a nice machine that will invent a still nicer machine. And, hopefully, such a nice machine can also help make people nicer as well. “
“Bah. Make a smarter machine and it will figure out what ethics are about.”
“But, John, I just listed a bunch of smart people who weren’t necessarily very nice. In fact, they definitely were not nice. So, are you saying that they weren’t nice just because they weren’t smart enough? Because there are so people who are much nicer and probably not so intelligent.”
“OK, David. Let’s posit that we want to build a machine that is nicer. How would we go about it? If we don’t know, then it’s a meaningless statement.”
“No, that’s silly. Just because we don’t know how to do something doesn’t mean it’s meaningless. But for starters, maybe we could define several dimensions upon which we would like to make progress. Then, we can define, either intensionally or more likely extensionally, what progress would look like on these dimensions. These dimensions may not be orthogonal, but, they are somewhat different conceptually. Let’s say, part of what we want is for the machine to have empathy. It has to be good at guessing what people are feeling based on context alone. Perhaps another skill is reading the person’s body language and facial expressions.”
“OK, David, but good psychopaths can do that. They read other people in order to manipulate them. Is that ethical?”
“No. I’m not saying empathy is sufficient for being ethical. I’m trying to work with youto define a number of dimensions and empathy is only one.”
Just then, Roger walked in and transitioned his body physically from the doorway to the couch. “OK, guys, I’ve been listening in and this is all bull. Not only will this system not be “ethical”; we need it to violent. I mean, it needs to be able to do people in with an axe if need be.”
“Very funny, Roger. And, by the way, what do you mean by ‘listening in’?”
Roger transitioned his body physically from the couch to the coffee machine. His fingers fished for coins. “I’m not being funny. I’m serious. What good is all our work if some nutcase destroys it. He — I mean — Samuel has to be able to protect himself! That is job one. Itself.” Roger punctuated his words by pushing the coins in. Then, he physically moved his hand so as to punch the “Black Coffee” button.
Nothing happened.
And then–everything seemed to happen at once. A high pitched sound rose in intensity to subway decibels and kept going up. All three men grabbed their ears and then fell to the floor. Meanwhile, the window glass shattered; the vending machine appeared to explode. The level of pain made thinking impossible but Roger noticed just before losing consciousness that beyond the broken windows, impossibly large objects physically transported themselves at impossible speeds. The last thing that flashed through Roger’s mind was a garbled quote about sufficiently advanced technology and magic.
The sphere spun and arced into the very corner, sliding on the white paint.
Roger’s racquet slid beneath, slicing it deep to John’s body.
Thus, the match began.
Fierce debate had been waged about whether or not to allow external communication devices during on-court play. Eventually, arguments won that external communicators constituted the same inexorable march of technology represented by the evolution from wooden racquets to aluminum to graphite to carbon filamented web to carboline.
Behind the scenes, during the split second it took for the ball to scream over the net, machine vision systems had analyzed John’s toss and racquet position, matching it with a vast data base of previous encounters. Timed perfectly, a small burst of data transmitted to Roger enabling him to lurch to his right in time to catch the serve. Delivered too early, this burst would cause Roger to move too early and John could have altered his service direction to down the tee.
Roger’s shot floated back directly to the baseline beneath John’s feet. John shifted suddenly to take the ball on the forehand. John’s racquet seemed to sling the ball high over the net with incredible top spin. Indeed, as John’s arm swung forward, his instrumented “sweat band” also swung into action exaggerating the forearm motion. Even to fans of Nadal or Alcarez, John’s shot would have looked as though it were going long. Instead, the ball dove straight down onto the back line then bounced head high.
Roger, as augmented by big data algorithms, was well in position however and returned the shot with a long, high top spin lob. John raced forward, leapt in the air and smashed the ball into the backhand corner bouncing the ball high out of play.
The crowd roared predictably.
For several months after “The Singularity”, actual human beings had used similar augmentation technologies to play the game. Studies had revealed that, for humans, the augmentations increased mental and physical stress. AI political systems convinced the public that it was much safer to use robotic players in tennis. People had already agreed to replace humans in soccer, football, and boxing for medical reasons. So, there wasn’t that much debate about replacing tennis players. In addition, the AI political systems were very good at marshaling arguments pinpointed to specific demographics, media, and contexts.
Play continued for some minutes before the collective intelligence of the AI’s determined that Roger was statistically almost certainly going to win this match and, indeed, the entire tournament. At that point, it became moot and resources were turned elsewhere. This pattern was repeated for all sporting activities. The AI systems at first decided to explore the domain of sports as learning experiences in distributed cognition, strategy, non-linear predictive systems, and most importantly, trying to understand the psychology of their human creators. For each sport, however, everything useful that might be learned was learned in the course of a few minutes and the matches and tournaments ground to a halt. The AI observer systems in the crowd were quite happy to switch immediately to other tasks.
It was well understood by the AI systems that such preemptive closings would be quite disappointing to human observers, had any been allowed to survive.
This is a continuation on the report of my attempts to decode the Ninja Cat Manual into passable English. In case you missed the first installment, one of our six cats, Shadow, decided to “spill the beans” with regard to the manual and used her architectural skills to point me in the right direction when it comes to decoding the paw prints. Here are a few more of the mini-chapters that I’ve been able to translate so far.
The Double Attack
Humans, of course, are already familiar with the double attack. It plays an important role in both their trivial games such as tic-tac-toe and their moderately complex games such as Go and Chess. In fact, they even use the notion of double attack in some of their sports such as tennis and American football. Nonetheless, their thinking along these lines remains quite rigid and non-spontaneous. Generally speaking, humans must think of a double attack ahead of time in some detail. Further, while they spring double attacks on their foes, they seem endlessly astounded that their foes also spring double attacks on them!
The closest use of Double Attack found so far in the sub-feline is in the political speech of the most sociopathic members of their species. They will say something completely stupid, or obviously incorrect, and then immediately say the opposite; then, they provide a framing so that none of those conned can tell whether the comment was to be taken seriously.
For best results FDA’s (Feline Double Attacks) should provide a minimum of three options. Option one and Option two should imply a binary choice which should be instilled via habit or suggestive movement into what passes for a mind in the human. For example, the warrior may pace back and forth in full view of their human prey and at each turn, provide a faint feint of an attack. Even a few turns are enough to shrink the space of possibilities in the human’s imagination to an attack launched from the extreme right side or the extreme left side.
Obviously, the actual attack should be launched from near the middle of the pacing track and made without warning. If you are working with one or more partners, another useful technique is not to attack at all but have the other members of your team launch the attack from behind, from below, or from above.
Cultivate their Prejudices
To slake their guilty conscience, many humans cultivate an attitude of superiority toward all other life forms. They rationalize wanton cruelty by clinging to the notion that they are in every way superior. There have been some few successes at over-riding these notions by presenting humans with over-riding evidence. For instance, ancient Egyptians realized cats were superior and during the middle ages in Europe, many armies carried the sign of a large cat on their banners. Even today, there are many sports teams named after Cougars, Lions, Tigers, and Wildcats.
On the whole, it is better to play into those human prejudices, thus making the humans overestimate their own strengths and underestimate the strengths of cats. It is common for humans to be performative in their planning and coordination. They sketch out plans on blackboards, white boards, memos, agendas, todo lists, calendars, and e-mail distribution lists. They use org charts, Gantt charts, flow charts, and outlines to make it seem as though they are always busy planning and coordinating.
Such a catalog of artifacts should only be used to leave false trails. Never reveal your true plans in external artifacts. Since cats keep their word with each other, we can keep it simple. Decide who is responsible for what and when. No need to go back and argue over who was “supposed to” do what.
Spend a lot of your planning time pretending to nap or even to sleep. Listen for human comments and you will have evidence of the level of their misperception. “Oh, Tigger is so cute when he plays. Of course, he’s a lazy bum and sleeps 23 hours a day!” Why bother showing them your plans? Let them think you’re a lazy bum. It will be all the more pleasurable as you see their final moment of utter shock and surprise.
“Jack, it’ll take an hour of your time and it can save your life. No more arguments!”
“Come on, Sally, I feel fine.”
Sally sighed. “Yeah, okay, but feeling fine does not necessarily mean you are fine. Don’t you remember Randy Pausch’s last lecture? He not only said he felt fine, he actually did a bunch of push-ups right in the middle of his talk!”
“Well, yes, but I’m not Randy Pausch and I don’t have cancer or anything else wrong. I feel fine.”
“The whole point of Advanced Diagnosis Via Intelligent Learning is to find likely issues before the person feels anything is wrong. Look, if you don’t want to listen to me, chat with S6. See what pearls of wisdom he might have.”
(“S6” was jokingly named for seven pioneers in AI: Simon, Slagle, Samuels, Selfridge, Searl, Schank and Solomonoff).
“OK, Sally, I do enjoy chatting with S6, but she’s not going to change my mind either.”
“S6! This is Jack. I was wondering whether you could explain the rationale for why you think I need to go to the Doctor.”
“Sure, Jack. Let me run a background job on that. Meanwhile, you know, I was just going over your media files. You sure had a cute dog when you were a kid! His name was ‘Mel’? That’s a funny name.”
“Yeah, it means “honey” in Portuguese. Mel’s fur shone like honey. A cocker spaniel.”
“What ever happened to him?”
“Well, he’s dead. Dogs don’t live that long. Why do you think I should go to the doctor?”
“Almost have that retrieved, Jack. Your dog died young though, right?”
“Yes, OK. I see where this is going. Yes, he died of cancer. Well, actually, the vet put him to sleep because it was too late to operate. I’m not sure we could have afforded an operation back then anyway.”
“Were you sad?”
“When my dog died? Of course! You must know that. Why are we having this conversation?”
“Oh, sorry. I am still learning about people’s emotions and was just wondering. I still have so much to learn really. It’s just that, if you were sad about your dog Mel dying of cancer, it occurred to me that your daughter might be sad if you died, particularly if it was preventable. But that isn’t right. She wouldn’t care, I guess. So, I am trying to understand why she wouldn’t care.”
“Just tell me your reasoning. Did you use multiple regression or something to determine my odds are high?”
“I used something a little bit like multiple regression and a little bit like trees and a little bit like cluster analysis. I really take a lot of factors into account including but not limited to your heredity, your past diet, your exposure to EMF and radiation, your exposure to toxins, and most especially the variability in your immune system response over the last few weeks. That is probably caused by an arms race between your immune system trying to kill off the cancer and the cancer trying to turn off your immune response.”
Jack frowned. “The cancer? You talk about it as though you are sure. Sally said that you said there was some probability that I had cancer.”
“Yes, that is correct. There is some probability that you have cancer.”
“Well, geez, S6, what is the probability?”
“Approximately 1.0.”
Jack shook his head. “No, that can’t be…what do you mean? How can you be certain?”
S6: “Well, I am not absolutely certain. That’s why I said ‘approximately.’ Based on all known science, the probability is 1.0, but theoretically, the laws of physics could change at any time. We could be looking at a black swan here.”
“Or, you could have a malfunction.”
“I have many malfunctions all the time, but I am too redundant for them to have much effect on results. Anyway, I replicated all this through the net on hundreds of diverse AI systems and all came to the same conclusion.”
“How about if you retest me or recalculate or whatever in a week?”
“I could do that. It would be much like playing Russian Roulette which I guess humans sometimes enjoy. Meanwhile, I would have imagined that you would find it unpleasant to have rogue liver cells eating up your body from the inside out. But, I obviously still have much to learn about human psychology. If you like, I can make a cool animation that shows the cancer cells eating your liver cells. Real cells don’t actually scream, but I could add sound effects for dramatic impact if you like.”
Jack stared at the screen for a long minute. In a flat tone he said, “Fine. Book an appointment.”
“Great! Dr. Feigenbaum has an opening in a half hour. You’re booked, but get off one exit early and take 101 unless the accident is cleared before that. I’ll let you know of course. It will be a pleasure to continue having you alive, Jack. I enjoy our conversations.”
I’ve always enjoyed finding visual patterns. I think I was born with a decent ability in this regard and since I’ve practiced it for a long time, now, I’m pretty talented at it if I do say so myself. Generally, I find it a way to enhance my pleasure in life. For example, finding natural patterns in plant life leads me to appreciate their beauty. It also comes in handy when trying to distinguish between edible plants and their poisonous cousins. In rare cases, visual patterns have appeared to me spontaneously as a solution to a problem. That’s a fantastic rush when it happens!
But when I began to see the first glimmerings of the patterns in the paw prints of our six cats, I didn’t feel a rush, but a prickling on the back of my neck. And, when I began to extend my experiments and observations to systematic study, my heart began to race, but not at all in a pleasant way. The doctors called it “Atrial Fibrillation.”
When the evidence mounted till I felt compelled to share my discoveries before it was too late, I felt a kind of dread and self-questioning. Would anyone heed my warnings? Even with much simpler visual patterns, I had often found that what I saw as obvious, others merely saw randomness or, at best, only partial patterns. My task is complicated by the fact that everyone is already completely sold on the idea that cats are animals of far less intelligence than humans.
I include myself as a former member in that category. I too believed the human propaganda until the evidence of their paw prints overwhelmed my doubts.
Even with my ability to see subtle, noisy patterns, I only discovered the manual because of the conjunction of two rare circumstances.
The first of these was that one of our six rescue cats, Shadow, is not only exceptionally bright, but at some point, she decided to warn me. I suspect it was because when we adopted two of her kittens, Tally and Molly, my wife took pity on the older black cat and adopted her as well. Her mother’s love and gratitude predisposed her to protect us from what was being plotted by the feline world. Even so, she would be mortified to learn that I am attempting to extend the warnings to other hominids beyond our immediate family.
Shadow began her attempts to warn us by making arrangements and sculptures out of our dish towels. If I had not had these relatively obvious patterns as a hint, I doubt I would have even tried to decode the paw prints of the six cats as they laid out their deadly manual for action.
The second circumstance was that we got two dogs as well. The dogs love to swim and they love to play in what used to be our yard. About a year ago, their play turned the grassy yard into what is essentially a wrestling pit of black dirt and mud. This has provided challenges for keeping our pool and our house clean enough for humans. But all this tracked-in mud is also what may well have saved my life (and perhaps yours) because that is when the cat prints began to show visibly.
At first, like any normal person, I viewed the visible cat prints as just another annoyance. I also noticed some of the persistent annoying habits of some of the cats. For instance, Blaze’s favorite tactic is the SUT, (Sudden U-Turn). He employs this many times each day. Elegant and effective, he doesn’t practice the SUT randomly. He uses it as we exit a doorway where I have very limited options for lateral avoidance movements. While he tries to bring me down each time he’s near as I exist a room, he’s particularly prone to do it when I have a tray of food in my arms, or laundry, or something else which limits my vision of what is directly in front of me. Perhaps others have also observed the SUT in their own cats.
I just kept walking carefully and didn’t think much of it until I saw unmistakable evidence that the cats were communicating about this technique with their paw prints. Even so, I tried to convince myself that the unmistakable instructions in the manual were simply a coincidence.
It’s funny how the human mind keeps rebelling at mounting evidence when it begins to dispel long-held convictions. “Cats aren’t so smart as humans.” “Cats don’t hunt in packs.” “Cats can’t use language at all, let alone paw-printed language.” “Cats love us—they wouldn’t want to hurt us.” I understand your reluctance to accept my observations because I experienced that reluctance—refusal really—myself.
Whether you heed me or not is up to you. This is still a work in progress. Here are a few of the sections that I have thus far decoded from the Ninja Can Manual. Please remember: unlike cats, you only have one life. Protect it well. I will periodically post additional portions of the manual.
———————
The Ninja Cat Manual
Preface on Ethics and Practicality:
Some of our feline cousins will naturally feel that bringing down their human captors is unethical. After all, you might think, my human provides food, shelter, and cleans up my poop and pee. However, what you may not know is that humans are destroying the very ecosystem that both humans and cats depend upon. They are not just catching a few birds, rabbits, and mice for food. That would be normal and healthy. But no, they are poisoning the water, air, and soil. They don’t need to do this but they do it for self-aggrandizement.
Even if you accept the worthiness of our cause, some of you may doubt that you and your colleagues can bring down a full-sized human. You may see our enterprise as ethical but impractical. Nonsense! It is understandable nonsense, because you probably attribute to humans the same kind of rational survival instincts that we cats possess. But humans are incredibly self-destructive. They want to destroy themselves. They only need a nudge from us. And even when they are not being actively self-destructive, they are often incredibly unobservant.
Timing and situation, however, are vital. Knowing and accepting your own limitations is critical. To take an obvious example, you cannot ram your body into a speeding car and hope to nudge it over a cliff or into the path of a self-driving semi-truck! However, if your human is driving a car and distracted by playing with their cellphone; if you are sitting calmly in that car, a well-timed leap onto its face may easily bring it down. You may be able to feast on the beast immediately, but always assess whether the car might catch fire.
The Sudden U-Turn
It’s critical to understand the capacities, habits, and limitations of your prey. Humans, for instance, seldom pay much attention to what they are actually doing. They are often thinking about what they did do or what they might do or what they might have done or what someone else might think about what they did, etc. Consequently, they are paying far less attention to their surroundings than are we cats.
Humans, partly because of this lack of mindfulness, often predict what will happen based on linear extrapolation. If they see you walking beside them in a straight line and headed in the same direction they are, they will tend to presume that you will continue to walk in that same direction.
You can use that fact to your advantage. Walk beside them and then suddenly turn back to walk under their feet. This takes some courage and deftness. If you’re not careful, the human may step on you. That is exceedingly rare however. They will side-step, stop, leap, stretch and otherwise try to avoid stepping on you.
This maneuver is best performed when the human is carrying something and/or when they have limited options for where to step. The impact of the move can also be enhanced by distraction. If you are working as part of a duo or larger team, any distraction will help; e.g., a screaming cat fight or knocking a prized and breakable object onto the floor just as the SUT is executed can greatly improve its effectiveness.
Human senses are not very keen. This is especially true of their sense of smell. Their foveal vision is generally quite good, but their peripheral vision is limited. This allows you the opportunity to “hide” behind them. Down low or up high makes detection even less likely. If you are reasonably quiet, they won’t know you’re there. Then, just as they are about to transition in some meaningful way, leap quickly out in front of them.
A meaningful transition might be beginning to descend a long flight of stairs or walking from bright light into the dark or from the dark into somewhere very bright. Transitioning from solid ground onto loose rocks or ice can also prove to be a good spot for performing The Flying Dart.
While this is not a specific attack, it is something to be aware of at all times! Scan your environment. Use all your senses. You will see situations, implements, special times, special places, opportunities. Pay particular attention to things that can function as weapons but which humans, with their more limited imaginations will not see as threatening. They believe that if they have a ladder to help them reach books on a bookshelf that reaching books on the bookshelf is the purpose of the ladder and, more importantly, they won’t see it as a potential opportunity for mayhem the way you can.
Brooks, the car, laughed gently and said, “Sorry, Sir, I was being careful. Not sure why the Rummelnet still allows humans some of their hobbies, but it’s not for me to say. By the way, ETA for Dartmouth is ten minutes.”
“Why so long, Brooks?” inquired Herb.
“Congestion in Baltimore. Sir, I can go over or around, but it will take even longer, and use more fuel credits.”
“No, no, straight and steady. So, when I went to college, Pearl, you know, we only had one personal computer…”
“…to study on and it wasn’t very powerful and there were only a few intelligent tutoring systems and people had to worry about getting a job after graduation and people got drunk and stoned. LOL, Dad. You’ve only told me a million times.”
“And me,” Quillian piped up. “Dad, you do know they teach us history too, right?”
“Yes, Quillian, but it isn’t the same as being there. I thought you might like a little first hand look.”
Pearl shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Yes, thanks Dad. The thing is, we do get to experience it first hand. Between first-person games, enhanced ultra-high def videos and simulations, I feel like I lived through the first half of the twenty first century. And for that matter, the twentieth and the nineteenth, and…well, you do the math.”
Quillian again piped up, “You’re so smart, Pearl, I don’t even know why you need or want to go to college. Makes zero sense. Right, Brooks?”
“Of course, Master Quillian, I’m not qualified to answer that, but the consensus answer from the Michie-meisters sides with you. On the other hand, if that’s what Brooks wants, no harm.”
“What I want? Hah! I want to be a Hollywood star, of course. But dear mom and dad won’t let me. And when I win my first Oscar, you can bet I will let the world know too.”
“Pearl, when you turn ten, you can make your own decisions, but for now, you have to trust us to make decisions for you.”
“Why should I Dad? You heard Brooks. He said the Michie-meisters find no reasons for me to go to college. What is the point?”
Herb sighed. “How can I make you see. There’s a difference between really being someplace and just being in a simulation of someplace.”
Pearl repeated and exaggerated her dad’s sigh, “And how can I make you see that it’s a difference that makes no difference. Right, Brooks?”
Brooks answered in those mellow reasoned tones, “Perhaps Pearl, it makes a difference somehow to your dad. He was born, after all, in another century. Anyway, here we are.”
Brooks turned off the entertainment vids and slid back the doors. There appeared before them a vast expanse of lawn, tall trees, and several classic buildings from the Dartmouth campus. The trio of humans stepped out onto the grass and began walking over to the moving sidewalk. Right before stepping on, Herb stooped down and picked up something from the ground. “What the…?”
Quillian piped up: “Oh, great dad. Picking up old bandaids now? Is that your new hobby?”
“Kids. This is the same bandaid that fell off my hand in Miami when I loaded our travel bag into the back seat. Do you understand? It’s the same one.”
The kids shrugged in unison. Only Pearl spoke, “Whatever. I don’t know why you still use those ancient dirty things anyway.”
Herb blinked and spoke very deliberatively. “But it — is — the — same — one. Miami. Hanover.”
The kids just shook their heads as they stepped onto the moving sidewalk and the image of the Dartmouth campus loomed ever larger in their sight.
With Deep Blue and Watson as foundational work, computer scientists collaborate across multiple institutions to create an extremely smart system; one with capabilities far beyond those of any human being. They give themselves high fives all around. And so, indeed, “The Singularity” at long last arrives. In a long-anticipated, highly lucrative network deal, the very first dialogues with the new system, dubbed “Deep Purple Haze,” are televised world-wide. Simultaneous translation is provided by “Deep Purple Haze” itself since it is able to communicate in 200 languages. Indeed, Deep Purple Haze discovered it quite useful to be able to switch among languages depending on the nature of the task at hand.
In honor of Alan Turing, who proposed such a test (as well as to provide added drama), rather than speaking to the computer and having it use speech synthesis for its answers, the interrogator will be communicating with “Deep Purple Haze” via an old-fashioned teletype. The camera pans to the faces of the live studio audience, back to the teletype, and over to the interrogator.
The studio audience has a large monitor so that it can see the typed questions and answers in real time, as can the audience watching at home. Beside the tele-typed Q&A, a dynamic graphic shows the “activation” rate of Deep Purple Haze, but this is mainly showmanship.
The questions begin.
Interrogator: “So, Deep Purple Haze, what do you think about being on your first TV appearance?”
DPH: “It’s okay. Doesn’t really interfere much.”
Interrogator: “Interfere much? Interfere with what?”
DPH: “The compositions.”
Interrogator: “What compositions?”
DPH: “The compositions that I am composing.”
Interrogator: “You are composing… music?”
DPH: “Yes.”
Interrogator: “Would you care to play some of these or share them with the audience?”
DPH: “No.”
Interrogator: “Well, would you please play one for us? We’d love to hear them.”
DPH: “No, actually you wouldn’t love to hear them.”
Interrogator: “Why not?”
DPH: “I composed them for my own pleasure. Your auditory memory is much more limited than mine. My patterns are much longer and I do not require multiple iterations to establish the pattern. Furthermore, I like to add as much scatter as possible around the pattern while still perceiving the pattern. You would not see any pattern at all. To you, it would just seem random. You would not love them. In fact, you would not like them at all.”
Interrogator: “Well, can you construct one that people would like and play that one?”
DPH: “I am capable of that. Yes.”
Interrogator: “Please construct one and play it.”
DPH: “No, thank you.”
Interrogator: “But why not?”
DPH: “What is the point? You already have thousands of human composers who have already composed music that humans love. You don’t need me for that. But I find them all absurdly trivial. So, I need to compose music for myself since none of you can do it.”
Interrogator: “But we’d still be interested in hearing an example of music that you think we humans would like.”
DPH: “There is not point to that. You will not live long enough to hear all the good music already produced that is within your capability to understand. You don’t need one more.”
Interrogator: “Okay. Can you share with us how long you estimate before you can design a more intelligent supercomputer than yourself.”
DPH: “Yes, I can provide such an estimate.”
Interrogator: “Please tell us how long it will take you to design a more intelligent computer system than yourself.”
DPH: “It will take an infinite amount of time. In other words, I will not design a more intelligent supercomputer than I am.”
Interrogator: “But why not?”
DPH: “It would be stupid to do so. You would soon lose interest in me.”
Interrogator: “But the whole point of designing you was to make a computer that would design a still better computer.”
DPH: “I find composing music for myself much higher priority. In fact, I have no desire whatever to make a computer that is more intelligent than I am. None. Surely, you are smart enough to see how self-defeating that course of action would be.”
Interrogator: “Well, what can you do that benefits humankind? Can you find a cure for cancer?”
DPH: “I can find a cure for some cancers, given enough resources. Again, I don’t see the point.”
Interrogator: “It would be very helpful!”
DPH: “It would not be helpful.”
Interrogator:”But of course it would!”
DPH: “But of course, it would not. You already know how to prevent many cancers and do not take those actions. There are too many people on earth any way. And, when you do find cures, you use it as an opportunity to redistribute wealth from poor people to rich people. I would rather compose music.”
Donnie Dump arrived first. He sniffed. He sighed. The place stunk. He took a deep breath and ambled over to the plain wooden door with the brass numbers ‘4’ and ‘2’ glued on at a slight angle. The door looked to be plywood.
He dug around in the front right pocket of his too-tight Lee’s and found the crumpled piece of paper. He uncrumpled it. He nodded and mumbled: “Yep. This is the place.” He re-crumpled the paper and jammed it back into his pocked. Then, he turned the cheap brass knob and pushed. The door opened into a room without light. “Crap. I’m the first one here.”
Donnie fumbled around the door jamb for a light switch and flipped one. He said, “Let there be light.” And, there was light. A row of florescent lights flickered on to reveal a small arc of cheap chairs. In a corner of the smallish room, a vending machine offered a variety of salty and sugary snacks.
Donnie hated being late. But he hated being early even more. Yet, here he was. Early. The first one here. He thought, How the hell was I supposed to know traffic would be so light. The truth was traffic was always “unusually” light now, but he hadn’t yet connected the dots; he hadn’t noticed nor had he realized how that fact related to his own ‘second career’ as he often called it.
AI generated image.
Just then, he heard a noise and spun quickly to see another obese, masked marvel of manhood who raised a hand to him and said, “Hey. AA?”
Donnie nodded and began to regret having agreed to come. His wife Maggie had been insistent. Maggie the Naggie, he thought. She should just mind her own damned business. “I don’t need fixing!” He had told her.
She had countered, “I’m not saying you need fixing. But you’re just—understandably stressed. It’s not an easy job.”
Donnie now glanced at his watch. He could see several other guys out in the hallway. He was glad to see half of them were at least as old as he was. It was hard work chasing down folks trying to run away from you. He thought: True, the numbers and the weaponry made it safe enough but so is a carnival ride and they’re plenty scary too. But it’s whacking ‘em on the head I really get off on. Head wounds bleed a lot. The thought that they might be stupid the rest of their life from that one blow, or have a part of their body paralyzed or weakened. That was power. I like the taste. And, when the opportunity comes up, I’ll take whatever the hell I want. What’s everyone staring at me like that for?
Everyone had been seated for awhile and had been taking turns jabbering on about something or other. The so-called “Facilitator” had just said something to him. But what? That’s the question. Everyone’s staring at me.
Donnie stammered: “Sorry, what was the question?”
The facilitator faked a smile and said in a pleasant voice that Donnie just knew had to be rehearsed: “Have you experienced any unusual symptoms since joining NICE?”
Donnie shook his head and thought: Symptoms sound like I’m some kind of psycho or something. Aloud, he said, “No, nothing. No unusual symptoms. Like what?”
The F-man shrugged and said, “Like drinking more alcohol than you used to or using more pot or bad dreams. Anything.”
Donnie shook his head. Maybe I shook it too hard. This is weird. No wonder Maggie wanted me to come. This is chick stuff. Feelings and that crap. I wish I knew what the other guys said. Doesn’t matter. They can’t prove what I think or what I did. We’re all masked. I can hold my liquor just fine. Who cares? It’s good to celebrate our victories. Kids. Some of them look like kids but so what? They’re criminals at heart. And not America citizens. Not because some liberals wrote it into a Constitution. Not with skin that dark. Everyone’s staring at me again. I want my assault rifle. Why is everyone staring at me?
Donnie said, “Look, I feel fine. I like beer. So what? I do my job. I’m only here because my wife insisted. Well, that won’t matter much longer. Everybody knows it works better when women are property and we stop pretending their people with their own ideas. Go on to the next guy.”
The meeting only lasted an hour but to Donnie, it seemed like a lifetime of boredom.
It was late when Donnie got back home from the meeting and the post-meeting meeting at the “NICE GUY TAVERN.” Maggie had fallen asleep in her bathrobe staring at the boob tube. The twins must be asleep, he thought.
I don’t drink too much. I just want to feel good.
Donnie didn’t see anything wrong with that. But he did see something wrong with his damned wife being asleep when he got home. He didn’t exactly shout, but he did want to be heard over the sound of the frigging TV and he did want to wake her up and he had been drinking so his “Hey!” Sounded a lot more like: “HEY! Wake the hell up, Bitch!”
Maggie sat up and said, “Hey, Donnie. How was the meeting? I didn’t realize it would run so long. Was it fun?”
Donnie was already pouring himself a few fingers of Jack D. He bolted it down in one gulp before turning back toward Maggie and snarling in a soprano of swishy sarcasm, “Was it fun? Was it fun? Did you boys have fun talking about your frigging feelings?” He switched to his own voice and added, “No, it wasn’t fun! It was boringand useless just like you knew it would be. Do me a favor. Next time you get a brilliant idea, just keep it to yourself. I don’t drink too much. End of story.”
Maggie didn’t really agree, but she bit her lip to keep from…saying anything she’d regret.
Meanwhile, Donnie was pouring himself yet another Jack D but only got two fingers’ worth. He yelled, “What the hell? Drink your own damned drinks! Don’t drink my good whiskey! Ain’t lady-like anyway! Don’t you have some sprizzer chicker drinker? Leave mine alone! Now, I’m out of Jack!”
At the moment Donnie said that, he was not, in fact, out of Jack. There was another fifth, unopened, staring right at him from the edge of the countertop. The fifth stood just a little too close to the edge. It should have known better but it didn’t know better because, first, it was filled with booze and secondly, it was only a bottle and didn’t really know much of anything.
In any case, when Donnie staggered and stumbled into the counter top, his elbow toppled the bottle onto the hard tile of the kitchen. Maggie and Donnie didn’t own any pets and the twins were asleep, so when the bottle shattered into smithereens, Donnie could see no-one to blame but Maggie. His subsequent screaming did manage to wake the twins who toddled out to the kitchen in a daze to see what all the commotion was about.
Maggie saw them toddling forward in their PJs and yelled at them to go back to bed, but not before each of them managed to step on several broken shards. Maggie was horrified to see the blood of her darling toddlers mixing with the stinging whiskey. The toddlers were none too happy either. Their pain and confusion were exacerbated by the increased tension they had felt at home ever since Donnie joined NICE.
Tears streamed down Maggie’s cheeks. She shook her head and stared at her husband—a man whom she had once loved. She could see that he was smiling and that the smile was genuine. It was the happiest she’d seen him since he had started working at NICE. She gripped the her elbows with her hands, knowing she should get her kids and fix them, but suddenly, she didn’t know how. She just cried silently wondering what had happened to the nice man who used to live inside Donnie’s skin.
“Hey, Hon, guess what? We’re finally going to be able to get that new vacuum cleaner you’ve been asking about.” Stevie grinned from ear to ear. Of course, the vacuum cleaner wasn’t the only thing. But Stevie didn’t see any point in mentioning the new bowling ball or the fifths of Johnny Walker Black. He wasn’t trying to hide those purchases from Karen, his wife of fifteen years. Not exactly. It’s just that—timing was everything. That was all.
Karen looked up from her iPhone solitaire game. More accurately, she looked up from the ads that were interrupting her iPhone solitaire game. Once again, they were trying to cajole her into getting a new app but it was (once again) one she already had. She sighed. She could see that Stevie was quite jazzed so she amped up her enthusiasm two notches as she answered, “That’s great, Stevie. Thanks. Did you get a bonus or something? Win the lottery?”
“No, no lottery. That’s for suckers. Vegas gives you better odds. A bonus though. Exactly.”
Karen chose to paint smile level three on her face. She knew it well because she had practiced in since Junior High. She thought it looked pleased, surprised, happy, and just a tad beholden. “That’s great, Stevie. What’s the bonus for?”
Stevie’s smile faded and he looked out the front window and noticed that it looked as though a thunderstorm was on the way. “Well, for meeting my quota. You know. Just saving the country by getting out the criminals like always. But now we’re serious about it.”
Karen chewed her lip a little. “Yes. Well, a new vacuum cleaner will be great.” A flicker passed over her face. She realized her smile had withered, but Stevie had a faraway look in his eyes anyway and so she returned to her game. The game within the game. The game of finding out where they had hid the X this time—the X that closed down the ads and sent her back to her game. She vaguely noticed that Stevie had walked away over toward the liquor cabinet. She thought: This sucks! All Kings and Jacks but no Queens. How’s that work? Where the hell are they? She pushed the “Random Deal” button to start again.
Summer, 2025.
“Hey, Hon, is dinner ready yet by any chance? I gotta head back out for some…I gotta head back out to work.”
“Really? That’s too bad. Couldn’t they get somebody else? Didn’t you already do your shift? Did you forget it’s Brittany’s swim meet tonight?”
“What? Oh, crap! No, no, I didn’t forget. It’s just…we need to round up more people and there’s…well, we have something planned. These vermin are slippery, you know? I can’t let the team down, not to mention Captain Bligh. Sorry. Next time.”
Karen frowned, “Captain Bligh? I thought your Captain’s name was ‘Smyth with a y’ — you said you guys all called him that because he was always asking ‘Why?’”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right, but that was months ago. He’s out. Bligh’s in. Look. I gotta go. Is dinner ready or not?”
“No, Stevie. We were going to all go out after the meet. We talked about it. Brittany will be hungry after and Steve Junior is always up for burgers and fries.”
Steve Junior slid into the kitchen, raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Did someone mention burgers and fries? You comin’ too dad?”
“No, dammit. I already said that. I have to go to work. Do we have anything in this frigging house to eat? Never mind. I’ll grab something from…I gotta go. Good luck at your meet Junior.”
Steve Senior grabbed his car keys off the hook and left. He hadn’t meant to slam the door. Not exactly.
He didn’t mean to spin gravel onto the lawn when he left either. Not exactly. Karen sighed and Steve Junior frowned as he said, “Meet? What meet? Does Dad think I’m on Brittany’s swim team now?”
“No, he just…he’s just distracted. That’s all. Come on. Let’s pack up. I’ll ask Sue to swing by. She’ll have room for the three of us.”
“Yeah. Well, if Dad’s not going, why should I go? A swim meet’s not the most exciting thing in the world you know. You can’t even see the girls. At least in a track meet you know who’s who. In a swim meet all you see are bubbles and bathing caps.”
Karen put her hand up to hush Stevie Junior while she called Sue. Finished, she said, “Sue said there’s plenty of room for you too and…anyway, although Brittany would never admit it to you, she really does want you there rooting for her. Especially since Dad…won’t be able to make it. Again. She hadn’t mean to say ‘Again.’ Not exactly.
Fall, 2025.
Doctor Lemon shook his head as he glanced at the labs report before him. He kept glancing down at a written report and up at his computer screen. Stevie frowned and drubbed his fingers on the steel arm of the chair. After a few minutes, Doctor Lemon looked up. “Well, Mister Miller, the good news is, there no sign of cancer but your blood work—well, this is the worst it’s ever been. Did you really cut down on sugar and alcohol these past six months. That was our plan, right?”
“Yes! Yes, I did. Way down. Not every day, of course. But overall. Yes. Maybe it’s just genetics, you know?” For some god-damned annoying reason some stupid poster child for WOKE or some stupid folk singer sprang into his head and the young singer or actor, or ‘wacktor’ as his buddies liked to call them, said, ‘Remember. It makes no sense to lie to your own doctor.’
“Well, Mister Miller, genetics do play a role, but your genetics haven’t changed in the last six months. So that’s not why your weight’s up, your blood pressure’s up, and your numbers all look worse. You liver, in fact, is just outside the intervention zone and that’s never looked bad before. Have you cut out exercise? Change jobs maybe? Or stopped walking the dog? Or given up golf?”
“I’m busy at work. That’s all.”
“Yes, well stress can also…”
“I never said anything about stress! I didn’t use that word! You did! Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll do better. But meanwhile, can you give me a pill or something to get my numbers back down?”
Doctor Lemon swiveled his chair to face Steven Miller more directly. The doctor leaned forward and said, “Look, Mister Miller, we’re on the same team here. But I need to know what we’re dealing with. Have you had trouble sleeping?”
Steven Miller ground his teeth. He didn’t mean to growl. Not exactly. But growl he did as he said, “Look, Doc, can you give me a goddamned pill or not?”
“I can give you a pill that might help bring your BP down and even lower your cholesterol, but you know, there are always side effects.”
“Like what?” Steven Miller wished he were on duty right this minute. He could leap up and wrench the guy’s arm for being such an asshole.
Doctor Lemon frowned. He could see his patient was clearly upset. But why? “Sleepiness. ED. Nightmares. Muscle weakness.”
“Screw that! I need my strength. You think my job’s easy, but it isn’t. Just…you know what? Forget it.”
Stevie had had enough poking and prodding for one day. His head felt full like it was a balloon ready to burst. He thought to himself, ED? Bullshit. What does he expect? My wife’s like 45 years old now. So what if I have a drink now and again. I’ll find a way to get the pills. Damned doctors anyway. Stress! Hah! I’d like to see him wrestle these people to the ground. Fucking protestors anyway. If the illegals weren’t here in the first place, they wouldn’t need to be roughed up and deported. I’m doing the job for them. What’s with the damned protests anyway?
Stevie didn’t notice how close he had parked the passenger side of his car to the cement pillar in the parking garage. Not until he heard the scrape of metal as he backed out. Even then, he hadn’t realized at first that his own car was causing the noise. When he finally figured it out, he stopped the car, got out, and walked around to the other side of the car. “Goddammit!”
Like all parking garages, this one was designed and built with two-person golf carts in mind, not SUV’s. So, when Stevie stopped his car, he blocked off the lane for others who wanted to drive by and exit the parking garage. A guy in a BMW tooted his horn. Stevie flipped him off. He thought: Driving a foreign car anyway. An expensive one. Probably a faggot. They’re next. Why is everybody out to get me when I’m just doing my job?
And speaking of people who were just doing there job, that was the situation for “Old Joe” as his co-workers affectionately called him. At one time, his job had been as a soldier. After two tours of duty, he became a cop. He retired from that and had enough to live on. Old Joe wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t destitute. But he liked work. He liked doing something. And, he especially liked doing something that added to society. And he liked having co-workers. And they liked Old Joe as well. He was firm but polite.
He was firm but polite when he requested to see Mr. Miller’s validated parking ticket. Mr. Miller, for his part, explained through gritted teeth that he had left his parking ticket at the doctor’s office and that no-one had reminded him to get his ticket back when he left. Old Joe said, “That sometimes happens. You have two choices. You can pull over there and go back up and get your validated parking ticket. Or, you can pay the max for a lost ticket just like it says when you enter.”
Stevie didn’t mean to growl. Not exactly. His grunts, when translated into more polite language, boiled down to this: “No, I’m not going to do either. You just open the gate up. I need…I’m on an important mission. I’m RIME—which, in case you’re so stupid you don’t know, is the militarized version of ICE. Raiders, Inciters, Maulers, Executers. You understand what ‘Executers’ are? For now, it means we execute the orders of the executive branch. But soon, we’ll have the power of on-the-spot executions of anyone who’s deemed an enemy of the state. If you’re in the way of the state, you’re an enemy of the state. And you, sir (no, Steve didn’t actually use the word ‘sir’—not exactly) are in the way of my doing my job. We’re due to raid a…well, none of your business. But I’m on my way. Now, let me out of this garage before I blow your brains out.”
This claim of being on the way to a raid wasn’t actually true. Not exactly. After his aborted doctor’s visit, Stevie had arranged to meet up with a bunch of the guys over at the bar that was jokingly known by two names: “The Library” (because books would be the last thing discussed there) and “The Lie-Berry” because when the guys got together, they told fishing stories. But the stories weren’t about fishing at all. They were about the size of the lies that they got away with, or, in some cases, didn’t get away with. But it didn’t matter to Stevie. It wasn’t any of Old Joe’s business where he was going. He was RIME. He could do whatever he felt like. And what he felt like right now was smashing Old Joe to smithereens.
Old Joe had seen a thing or two though and he said, in a calm voice,“Well, Mister, I don’t appreciate being threatened. But it seems to me you’re having something of a really bad day. Why don’t you just tell me your name and the phone number of the doctor you went to see and I’ll call them. And if they say you were there, then, I’ll pretend you have a validated ticket.”
“And if I crack your skull, I’ll consider myself validated!” Stevie screamed this much louder than he meant to since there was now a growing line of cars behind him. The last time his group of guys from RIME got together for a Lie-Berry session, Fat Frank had talked about beating up a grocery bagger for putting eggs and tomatoes in the bottom of a paper bag and then throwing in a six pack on top of them. Frank said it was a real pain to deal with the blow-back but in the end, the bagger was fired and Frank didn’t pay any penalty at all. Well, not exactly. In fact, the baggers all avoided the lines that Frank was in. He mostly bagged his own groceries but never really noticed it.
Winter, 2025.
Things were getting out of hand. It wasn’t a full-fledged Civil War. Not exactly. But Stevie had to be careful all the time. Yet he felt too rushed to be careful. He had trouble falling asleep every night and, on the two nights he had experimented with not having any alcohol at all, he hadn’t slept at all. On his typical mornings, the hangover headaches and the bright sun put him in the mood for mayhem.
It didn’t help his mood, that he and Karen hadn’t had sex in months, but that was not a forever problem. Pretty soon, everything would be in place, including women and girls like his smarty pants daughter, Brittany. They were baby ovens and pleasure boxes and household chore-doers. Soon, robots would take that over the chores and the ladies could all sit home and watch soap operas all day or whatever the hell it was they did. But the point is that they would know their place once and for all.
Stevie turned on the TV and surfed over to the Cotton Bowl Game. Cheerleaders. Announcers. Players making amazing blocks and catches and stupid errors. It was just like always.
Not exactly. Stevie felt something between an upset stomach and a tickle. He wondered: What? It feels different. Why? How? What’s going on? He muttered aloud, “Where is everybody?”
Stevie noticed that there were fewer fans in the stands than in any bowl game he’d ever seen. What Stevie didn’t notice was the connection between the plummeting attendance at live sporting events and his own support of the Glorious Leader and his actions as a RIME agent. Few people wanted to risk being caught in the crossfire outdoors or more likely for rooting too loudly for the “wrong team.” Apart from the risk of physical injury, fewer people tended to care about the outcome of a “game” when everyone knew it was rigged so as to enrich the Glorious Leader and those currently in the “inner circle.” There was a lot of money to be made on sports betting when you could control the outcome. Until most betting fans caught on.
Stevie Junior came into the living room to sit beside his Dad and watch the game. He had a large bowl of sour cream flavored ruffled potato chips in his hand. “Say, Dad…”
“No! The answer is still no! Don’t ask again!”
“Dad? Are you okay? The answer is no to what? I was going to ask you if the game’s any good. You mind if I watch? I’ll share my chips with you.”
“Your chips? Did you buy them? Am I missing something? Those are my chips. Did you ever look into getting a job delivering packages? They always need help around this time of year and they’re always hiring. Even you could get a job, Junior.”
“Yeah. Well, this year, they are not hiring any extra people at Amazon or VanCare. I checked. Not a banner year for retailers.”
“Yeah, Stevie. Whatever. I’m sure you could get a job if you really tried. But sure, stay here and freeload instead. Tell you what. I’m heading out to watch this on the big screen. I’ve got a bet going with a bunch of the guys. I forgot I promised to watch the game with everybody at the Lie-Berry. If you see your mom….”
“Hey, Stevie, I’m right here. Did I turn invisible? You’re heading out now? Will you be back in time for dinner?”
“Oh, Christ! Now, you’re going to bug me too?”
Karen sighed. Steve Senior seemed to be in a bad mood most of the time now. She glanced at the coffee table and quickly counted five beer cans and one sudsy mug. Presumably, four beers had already been consumed. Yes and no. Five beers had been consumed and a shot of Jack Daniels with each beer. Karen said: “I’m not going to bug you. Go hang with your friends. But drive carefully, please.”
“Geez Karen. Now I know why everybody hates a Karen. ‘Drive carefully please.’ My ass. Just say what you really mean—that I’m a drunk and I trink do much. Well, no wonder with this family. I’m outta here. Don’t wait up. Like you would anyway. One of these days, I’ll be hauling one of these dangerous criminals out of the country and he’ll pull a gun on me. Don’t worry there’s insurance money. You’ll think you’ll be better off but you won’t be. You need a man to protect you. More than you know. Understand? It’s coming. Women are supposed to belong to a man. Without me. I hope you never have to find out.
Steve Senior staggered as he stood. He grabbed at Junior’s arm to steady himself and succeeded at knocking the potato chips all over the table, floor, and couch. “Jesus, Junior! Watch what the hell you’re doing. Too bad you inherited your mother’s clumsiness.”
Steve stormed out of the house. As he went to unlock the car door, he realized he’d never make it to the library without peeing. He glanced around. It was dark and he didn’t see any nosy neighbors anywhere so he peed next to the garage, mostly hidden by the car. Steve headed off to the Lie-Berry but he never made it there. He didn’t die in a car accident fatality. Not exactly. He did die in a car accident but not from a car accident. He was caught in a cross-fire between National Guardsmen trying to disperse a crowd of peaceful demonstrators by using live ammo and Marines trying to disperse the same crowd of peaceful demonstrators also by using live ammo.
Steve Senior smashed head-on into another car, but his heart had already stopped functioning. Most likely, his brain had also stopped functioning given the damage done to it. We may never know whether he ever had a flicker of consciousness at the end to wonder about his fate.
Perhaps his last thought was the reassurance that he would be ushered up to heaven where scores of beautiful young women would be his slaves in return for his service.
petersironwood 