《Café at the End of the Internet (Anthology)》 Cherry Pie The simulacrum is never that which conceals truth¡ªit is the truth which conceals there is none. The simulacrum is true. ¡ªJean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation -I- ¡°I¡¯m gonna fuckin¡¯ splash warm cherry pie all over this goddamned place if you¡ª¡± My brother screams this threat into his cheap smartphone¡ªone of those inexpensive Androids bought online and made by the millions in a Vietnamese sweatshop. He''s popping our dying grandma''s pills like they''re buttery movie-theater popcorn. One here. Another there. And then two more. He licks his fingertips after popping each pill, stopping to savor something, making sure he gets whatever is left over, imagined or otherwise. My brother gulps down Grandma''s pills between sips on his cold soda, a diet Se?or Chunder. He told me this morning he switched over to diet soda because of health concerns¡ªsomething about the sugar eating away at his teeth¡ªas if that''s his only health problem. My brother paces, back and forth, the length of the cramped hospice room, where our grandmother has come to die. I sit here, thinking about how this will end, when I will be free of this cramped hospice room, and free of my familial obligation to my dying grandmother. While I may love my grandmother, I do hope she dies soon. This whole familial obligation is getting tiresome. Tolstoy once said, "Happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." How very Russian of him¡ªonly Russians deal in those kinds of absolutes¡ª ¡ªIt''s a Hallmark TV special that is hollow, devoid of any meaning¡ªits soul sold off to pay for the marketing campaign. As far as I''m concerned, there are two kinds of families in twenty-first-century America worth distinguishing: There are those pretending they aren''t fucked up¡ªsmiling, nodding on cue, hugging one another, having the occasional (nice) family dinner together, and keeping up with the Joneses. Then there are those families that don''t know they''re fucked up¡ªor just don''t care. Caring is beyond this second American family type. I guess you could say my own family¡ªat one point¡ªbelonged to the first family type. We''ve fallen down the concrete stairs, and now we''re mangled, broken beyond recognition. Caring died out long ago. The lights are on, but no one is home¡ªexcept maybe ghosts and spiders. We''re fucked up, and nobody, and I do mean nobody, cares. I think of this fucked-up-ness as my brother, a caricature of a man I hardly recognize, pops more pills. He stops pacing to suck on his fingertips and lick them. He looks like a heroin fiend, skin and bones, with excess flesh dangling from the flabby bottoms of his arms, his chin, and his belly. His hair is salt and pepper, with patches of blond appearing like thirsty weeds in a long-neglected garden. His head of hair is thinning out, as are his pencil-thin beard and mustache. His skin is yellowing like old newspapers exposed to too much ultraviolet radiation. My brother removes his phone from his right ear, and he screams into it. I wince, thinking his screaming will wake our grandmother, but his screaming doesn¡¯t seem to stir her awake. He returns his phone to his ear, and he pumps a free hand into the air, showing off a faded tattoo sleeve. Grandma doesn¡¯t much care for tattoos¡ªsomething about marking one¡¯s hide violates the Angry God¡¯s dictates in her eyes. So, Grandma hates the sight of tattoos, and she has even made it a point of telling my brother as much during her more lucid moments. ¡°I just can¡¯t take the pain anymore!¡± my brother yells into his phone, and then he continues, ¡°I¡¯m gonna pull out my gun and splash warm cherry pie all over this place, if you don¡¯t refill my motherfuckin¡¯ pills! I¡¯m just tir¡ª¡± My brother, the pill popper, said to me this morning that he was borrowing Grandma¡¯s medicine, because she didn¡¯t need it anymore. He told me, with his trademark, shit-eating grin, ¡°She¡¯s gonna go see Grandpa and Annie anyways, man. You know how Grandpa doesn¡¯t like her taking all of these meds. He keeps telling her it¡¯s all in her head, ya kno¡¯? I need ¡®em¡ªfor my pain, bro. I told her I¡¯d pay her back. You know she knows I¡¯m good for it, too.¡± My brother continues pacing the length of the dingy hospice room, where our grandmother, who barely recognizes any of us when she¡¯s awake, is dying, slowly and painfully. Death lingers in the air. It¡¯s like a thick chemical smoke from an industrial fire, choking out the sun or the clear blue sky over a large metropolitan expanse. At times, I steal anxiety meds from my brother¡¯s growing stash, tucked away in his military surplus rucksack, just so I can keep from exploding, so I can keep from breaking apart in front of Grandma, or, God forbid, in front of my brother and my father. My brother continues his tirades against his doctors back in Colorado. He laces the phone conversations with explicit details about decorating the room¡¯s white walls with warm, gooey cherry pie. He yells at clinic doctors and their nurses, saying he¡¯s got the perfect bullet for the job: A forty-five hollow point. They hang up on him, three or four times, which prompts him to say, ¡°They hung up on me, dude. Can you believe that shit, man?¡± This is all before someone with authority answers his real calls and tries talking him down, citing federal regulations and the need for rehab in my brother¡¯s case During all of this, my brother¡¯s still popping pills, rolling his stoned eyes, and scratching at his yellowing neckline. He throws out the occasional half-smile over my way, but I ignore him and try to focus on and be there for Grandma. I¡¯m sitting here, waiting for Grandma to die. She is the only thing I have left, as far as family is concerned. My mother and father weren¡¯t there much¡ªabsentee parents, who spawned latchkey children and released them into the wild world, with not much in the way of supervision or even a care, a thought, or a prayer. Grandma and Grandpa watched over us like unwilling parents, but they were loyal when it mattered most. Loyalty¡¯s a great deal stronger than love, and it seems to count when things matter. Love is something anyone can give away freely. Loyalty¡¯s another thing. It takes a level of dedication that love doesn¡¯t require. My ex-wife and my two children are fifty miles south, in another state, living separate lives from my own. My pill-popping brother hasn¡¯t exactly been himself, at least not since he got bone cancer and became a connoisseur of legally-prescribed narcotics. His new favorites are those experimental ones made by large Chinese conglomerates, sold at a handsome profit through American subsidiaries in Canada, and later imported into the United States proper. I continue to sit there and watch over my grandmother more intently, even as my brother continues his assault, the verbal equivalent of a fully loaded AR-15 in a crowded building, on the medical staff back in Colorado. Grandma doesn¡¯t stir, despite my brother¡¯s increasing volume¡ªa coarse baritone staccato that ricochets off the sparse walls of the hospice room. Grandma¡¯s frail, milky-white hands lay crisscrossed over her flat chest. Her chest heaves upward and then downward, as if she¡¯s struggling to breathe. The medical machines are doing their best to keep her breathing, but they can¡¯t fight the inevitable. Bottles of pills are everywhere. Her crosswords and an old bible lay atop a small table next to her bed. I can¡¯t help but think of what this says about life on this world, in this indifferent universe. During these moments, I imagine ending my grandmother''s suffering in a dozen different ways: Pillows, pills, the usual suspects. When we all got the news that Grandma was dying, my father, someone I¡¯ve only recently reconnected with, had the biggest grin on his face. He was seeing a serious payday in reach. His mother, my grandmother, has a modest fortune, sitting in banks and other financial institutions across the country. Grandma and Grandpa saved for their entire lives, all for a pleasant retirement they never got to enjoy for themselves. Once they were old enough to retire comfortably, they were too old to travel. Then Grandpa¡¯s health declined: He had his heart attack, then he had a massive stroke, and, finally, death came for him. He died around lunchtime, a Monday if I remember correctly, screaming his last words at deeply confused nursing-home staff. His final words, troubling as they were at the time, churn up in the expansive ocean that is my thoughts: God damn it! Grandma seemed to be heading down the same path. She had a heart attack a few weeks ago. Her health has gone from one low point to another, a steady decline into oblivion. Death seems to emanate from her broken and dying body, much like radiation might emanate from a piece of raw plutonium. Its radioactivity seeps into the bodies of her loved ones, changing them at a molecular level, spawning behaviors I didn¡¯t expect, even from myself. As my brother continues his quest for experimental Chinese pharmaceuticals, I find myself wondering what will happen to her, my grandmother, in the end. She asked all of us, during a moment of excruciating pain and desperation, if there was a god, if she could see her dead husband again, and if she could see her little Annie, a daughter she¡¯d lost in a swimming accident nearly seventy years before. I choke down these words from a woman who¡¯d been sure, all her life, that God was real, that Heaven was beautiful, and that all the lovely ones went into the Great Beyond in peace and became the singing angels. She was asking if there was anything beyond, something else besides this fucking place. She was asking if God existed, if he was out there. Did she know something we didn¡¯t? Did the universe tell her this was it¡ªthat there was nothing beyond this? That we return unto the Earth as nothing, returning to whence we came¡ªas nothing. My brother finishes his conversation with the doctors on the other end of the phone. His verbal assault has won him another thirty days of experimental Chinese pharmaceuticals. He slaps me on the arm, stirring me from my thoughts. I look up at him and ask, ¡°What¡¯s up, man?¡± He says with a half-grin, ¡°I¡¯m gonna head over to the pharmacy in town. They¡¯re goin¡¯ to refill my pills, man. You need anything while I¡¯m away, bro?¡± I shake my head and say, ¡°No, I¡¯m good. I¡¯ll just stay here with Grandma, in case she needs anything.¡± My brother leaves, but he leaves his rucksack behind. I think of calling out to him, to tell him he forgot his squirreled-away pills, but I decide it¡¯s no use. He has gotten what he wants, and nothing else matters, not even our dying grandmother. I shrug it off and continue watching Grandma. -II- Grandma is dead. I still think of her as being here with me now¡ªeven though she¡¯s gone. I was the only one there: Her loyal grandson, whatever that is worth now. I still have questions, but the one who died had all the answers. Fortunately, for me, I have the technology to get those answers from the dead. My brother, my father, and the rest of her so-called family were gone for the night. I convinced the night staff to let me stay, even though it was against regulations and company policies. Now, she¡¯s dead, gone. I unpack Grandma¡¯s things I¡¯ve stolen from her house: Her letters to Grandpa during the war, her diaries, her journals, her business papers, her letters to family members long since dead, and even her various electronic devices, such as tablets, a few old smartphones, and two computers and an assortment of cluttered hard drives. These things are all I care about, and they are all I have taken from my grandmother¡¯s house, following a pillaging led by people claiming to be her family members.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. No one wants the stuff that reminds them she was more than just money. That didn¡¯t change the fact that I had to break into her house to get these things, to save them from a bad fate in the local garbage dump. My father, in his search for his mother¡¯s money and assets, changed the locks and even installed a cheap electronic surveillance system, knowing others might come looking for anything of value in the house. Thankfully, my father is stupid. He¡¯s also not very tech-savvy, and he trusted people from a security company he found on the Net to ensure that everything was working properly. The other mistake was thinking I didn¡¯t know how to pick locks. Lock-picking was something I learned in college, at a time when I lived in the dorms and needed to pass the time. Even high-tech locks aren¡¯t immune to the soft call of lock-picking tools. It took a few hours of Internet research, mostly surfing my usual haunts on Dark Web forums, to find the right tools and techniques for my B&E. The tools were easy enough to find and procure from the local hardware stores in town, but the techniques used for breaking and entering were a bit tricky, to say the least. Once inside, I found the centralized storage and computing unit for the new home security system. I stripped the system of its high-capacity SSDs, and I even stole the nonvolatile RAM and the backup hard drives reserved for long-term storage. One of the many benefits of living in the middle of nowhere is the real lack of stable bandwidth, something telecom corporations and politicians keep promising to fix. The truly high-tech security systems don¡¯t have the ability to connect in real-time with their company¡¯s A.I., in order to discern threats and security issues around the house. Their soft brains must determine that stuff on their own, with limited computational resources, and they often make conservative judgment calls. I was also safe breaking into my grandmother¡¯s house for other reasons, I¡¯d thought. I¡¯d visited the house during and after the installation process, so the system¡¯s soft brain didn¡¯t think much of me. Even if it did, the response time for a sheriff¡¯s deputy to arrive was painfully slow. Hours at the very least. Days at the most. It¡¯s another beautiful silver lining for those living in the boonies. As I made my way through Grandma¡¯s house, I took mental notes of what I needed to steal before my father, and others, trashed the house completely. The pillaging had already begun, but I knew most of what I wanted was still safe. I grabbed Grandma¡¯s letters, stuffing nearly seven decades of correspondence into my duffel bag. I grabbed her electronic devices, even her favorite e-Reader, loaded up with her favorite novels, stories, and magazines and newspapers she loved to read on the weekends. I bought her the e-Reader nearly two Christmases ago. Every time I visited the house, I would download more of her favorites, hoping it would keep her busy until my next visit. I stole all her home videos, stored on DVDs, Blu-Ray, and Hyperdiscs. I stripped cameras of their memory cards, and I also managed to store all her old-school photo albums, and even the digital picture frames, into my bag. Her home office was the biggest challenge for me, because my asshole father replaced the old locks with a complicated one, something I didn¡¯t remember from the install and something I didn¡¯t have time to learn to crack open. I decided the crowbar poking out of my bag was the right tool for the job. The door¡¯s varnished wood snapped and splintered with the right applications of my crowbar. I then smashed the high-tech lock, as a ¡°FUCK YOU¡± to my old man. I took my time sifting through Grandma¡¯s personal papers, business correspondence, and the like, knowing full well my father was vacationing in the Caribbean, spending Grandma¡¯s money on whatever it could buy. My B&E had motives that my father, and even my brother, wouldn¡¯t understand: I needed to resurrect the dead, but, like any Frankenstein¡¯s monster, you must go grave robbing first. -III- The oft-quoted axiom of ¡°death and taxes¡± floats in my mind as family members arrive, pay their faux respects, and then promptly leave Grandma¡¯s bedside, some almost running to distance themselves from a dying woman. Grandma doesn¡¯t seem to mind this impious fiction much. It¡¯s as if she enjoys it. It¡¯s as if she knows something others don¡¯t. Maybe it is the ephemeral nature of the flesh? The transient nature of the soul? Or, maybe, just maybe, she knows they, too, will be like her, one day soon. She¡¯ll have the last laugh, as clich¨¦ as it sounds. Grandma seems distant as everyone leaves, and I stay there. We make incoherent small talk: The weather. Work. Politics. My kids, her great-grandchildren. We avoid the inevitable conversation that is on both of our minds: What happens next? ¡°You know,¡± she begins, and then she continues, ¡°I am in such terrible pain, kiddo.¡± ¡°Do I need to get the nurses to give you something, Grandma?¡± I ask in earnest. She shakes her head, tears stream down her cheeks, nose, and chin. Her eyes redden, and her face puffs up around her eyes and nose. She says with a heavy sob, ¡°I have a pain they can¡¯t cure, kiddo. I have been so empty since your grandfather left me here. That son of a bitch left this world too damn fast. We were supposed to leave together.¡± I laugh and say, ¡°I don¡¯t think he could have helped it, Grandma.¡± She flashes a quick smile at me. The smile slowly fades like a picture exposed to the elements for too long. Grandma shakes her head. More tears. Real waterworks. She stifles most of her sobs, but some bleed through. ¡°What''s wrong, Grandma?¡± I ask, moving my chair closer to her bedside. ¡°What can I do, Grandma?¡± ¡°You¡¯re the only one who cares, honey,¡± she says, grabbing my arm with a frail hand. Her grip is still warm and strong. It¡¯s stronger than I¡¯d thought it would be. She continues, ¡°I¡¯m sorry I¡¯m in such a terrible mood. I just have so much on my mind, honey.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay, Grandma,¡± I say, patting her hand, trying to comfort her, trying to reassure her. I then say, ¡°You¡¯re allowed to have a lot on your mind. Hell, you¡¯ve got every reason to have a lot on your mind.¡± She smiles at this and then begins dozing off. I place her hand back on her chest, and then I push my chair to the other side of the room. I sit there, and I watch Grandma in her uneasy slumber. I mull over what she has just told me, and I feel as if I have been burdened by her. I don¡¯t want to think like this, but I can¡¯t help it. Where the hell is my father? My brother? Her other family members? Why am I here? Why do I care so much? Why do I have to be the loyal grandson? Why do I have to be burdened by this dying woman? Then I remember what Grandpa told me all those years ago. Sometimes, just sometimes, loyalty¡¯s worth more ¡®an anything in this world. Love doesn¡¯t do much. Love is meaningless. It¡¯s a cheap commodity we buy and sell. It¡¯s something that the mammalian brain does too easily. Loyalty, on the other hand, is something that requires thought, and a serious kind of thought. An introspection, a gazing into one¡¯s soul. To be loyal, truly loyal, one must put themselves in danger, and they must live outside of their comfort zones. Loyalty is paid for in blood, sweat, money, and strain. Grandpa believed that true love, the love that was malleable like gold, yet stood the test of time, was loyalty. Loyalty to one¡¯s family. Loyalty to one¡¯s country. Loyalty to God. Loyalty to self. These were the tenants of our family¡¯s religion, a faith built in an indifferent world, in a vast universe where we are meaningless. Loyalty meant survival of familial bonds. To Grandpa, it meant the continuation of society, and all the rest that we hold dear. I just wished she''d fucking die. I don''t care how that sounds. I know she is going to die, because the doctors have declared it inevitable. Pain and organ failure are signs that the great equalizer is on its way. Death is something my Grandma wants. Since Grandpa¡¯s death, she¡¯s been on a decades-long mission to seek out death. For nearly twenty years, she¡¯s decided to check out, leaving all of us behind. Death hasn¡¯t come. With that, disappointment has settled in. Questions concerning faith have become more and more prominent in our daily phone and in-person conversations. Grandma has learned that loyalty, in her eyes, is joining her husband and her long-dead family members. She has no one here. Her only child is someone who sees her as a piggy bank, ready to be broken open and looted. Her grandchildren, including myself, are disappointments. She sees the Great Beyond as something of an escape plan, away to shuffle off this mortal coil and seek out a better place, a place where the angels sing, loved ones live again, and goodness prevails. As night begins to settle over the landscape outside, the bright LED lights overhead dim, letting Grandma rest a little more. I sit there, hoping she won¡¯t die tonight, because I don¡¯t want to be the one who saw her through to the end. I just cup my hands together between my knees and watch her. I think to myself, This shouldn¡¯t be my burden. This isn¡¯t mine alone to have. Where the hell is my father? Where is everyone else? -IV- When aliens find our sun-bleached remains, on a dead planet, orbiting a star of little consequence, they will wonder what lives we led with all the crap we consumed, hoarded, and stored in our houses, garages, and storage units. This thought experiment consumes my thoughts, as I begin uploading scans of Grandma¡¯s diaries, journals, business papers, photographs, and favorite reading material into an open-source program I found on the Web called Simulacrum. Simulacrum uses a PostgreSQL database and elastic search functionality. Grandma¡¯s stuff has taken nearly three weeks to sort, scan, and upload into my Simulacrum build, which uses OCR tech and some special data tools to store and make sense of what I have given it. Simulacrum, at first glance, just appears to be a simple data visualization tool, with elastic search capabilities and a powerful database behind it. Simulacrum was originally designed to solve cold cases for large (and even small) police departments across North America and Europe, something I didn¡¯t know prior to looking it up on the Net. It has also been used to bring back dead actors, artists, and politicians. The tool itself creates a profile, filling in the blanks with the information you feed it. The more information you have, the more accurate the Simulacrum profile becomes. This profile is then fed into a neural network, which develops a persona of long-dead individuals. In this case, my grandmother, who has some questions she needs to answer for me. Bringing back the dead is, technically, impossible¡ªat least without some serious necromancy, smelling salts, and a space heater. That means, I must figure out something that is in the right ballpark, something that will satisfy my brain and answer those questions that¡¯ve been keeping me up at night since her death. I work for an ISP, where I help keep the Net going. The Internet requires a lot of TLC on the hardware and software side of life. That¡¯s where I come in. During the day, I spend my time talking with customers who don¡¯t know the fundamentals of computer and network operations. This work just confirms my theory that the Net will lead to the end of civilization, and I am (essentially) one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Too bad that doesn¡¯t fit well on a one-page resume. I also work with business administrators, who have very little knowledge of FCC regulations, Net Neutrality, and even the fundamentals of bandwidth. This leads to a good deal of frustration and soul-crushing numbness. Then, when I come home, I spend my time combing through all the information I have on Grandma. I have spent almost a year collecting everything I can on her, her life, and other tidbits of data, so I can ask her the questions that I¡¯ve had in the back of my mind for so long. As I vacuum the PostgreSQL database for tuples, I feel anticipation rising within me. What will I ask her? What will the persona think? What will it say? Will it be just like her? Will it just be a flop, much like the stuff I see on the Net? When I¡¯ve completed database vacuuming, so the database doesn¡¯t balloon in size, and perform a few server updates, I notice that my hands are shaking, and my legs feel like Jell-O. I feel myself losing it again. I feel myself slipping into what happened after, when I did something stupid and decided to take my brother¡¯s advice to solve my problems. I shake my head, stretch, and take a swig from my lukewarm Earl Gray tea. I rub the backs of my hands against my tired eyes. I look at the login screen for my Simulacrum build, and then I begin typing in my credentials. -V- Grandma screams out in pain. ¡°Why, God! Why have you forsaken me?¡± she yells out. The shrill notes that are her voice ring off the walls, waking me from a troubled sleep. ¡°Damn you!¡± she screams. ¡°Damn you!¡± She is writhing in her bed. Medical machinery is squawking, and a nurse enters the room, a syringe in hand. The nurse is a tall brunette with arms like a professional football player. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, honey,¡± the nurse says, trying to calm my grandmother. My grandmother doesn¡¯t take this kindly and yells at the woman: ¡°Leave me alone, you bitch! Leave me to die! I want to die! I just want to die!¡± ¡°This should help you, dear,¡± the nurse responds, injecting her with sedatives with military precision. She wipes strands of white hair away from my grandmother¡¯s eyes, and she tries to calm her. My grandmother¡¯s expletives begin fading into slurred speech and incoherent mumbling. The nurse looks at me and says, ¡°You should go home. She¡¯ll be fine until you get back.¡± I nod and say, ¡°I don¡¯t mind being here for her.¡± The nurse looks over at Grandma, then to me, shrugs, and says, ¡°Most people would.¡± She leaves me and my grandmother in our troubled silence. I wait until I cannot hear the nurse¡¯s heavy footsteps on the laminate tile flooring of the main hallway, before I walk over to my brother¡¯s rucksack, sitting against the wall adjacent to Grandma¡¯s bed. In his infinite junkie wisdom, my brother forgot his stash when the doctors agreed to refill his pills. I rummage through my brother¡¯s stash, looking for anything that might help Grandma. I know the doctors and nurses are only worried about pain management, and nothing more. Their indifference has been a sore spot between me and the nurses. I find my brother¡¯s forgotten painkillers¡ªthe stuff he doesn¡¯t like anymore because they aren¡¯t potent enough. I grab two pills and roll them around in my palm. I look up at Grandma, look down at the pills, and then I look back up at Grandma. She¡¯s holding her chest with both hands. She appears to be struggling against the sedative the nurse gave her. I zip up the rucksack and sling it over my right shoulder. I walk over to Grandma, who is struggling to keep her eyes open against the sedative¡¯s assault. I look at the pills again and then at Grandma. I kneel next to her and feel warm tears running down my cheeks and neck. I swat at them, wiping away what I can. I even feel my nose running, and I wipe it with the back of my hand. ¡°You¡¯re such a loyal boy, honey,¡± my grandma whispers to me. ¡°A chip off the old bl¡ª¡± This brings more tears, and I feel my body shaking. I move in closer and say, ¡°I love you, Grandma.¡± ¡°Lov¡ªlove you, too, honey,¡± she mumbles, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. The sedatives are winning out. I pinch open my grandma¡¯s mouth and stuff the two water-soluble pills between her teeth and the inside of her cheek. I close her mouth and lean down, giving her a kiss on the forehead. ¡°Goodbye, Grandma,¡± I say, before walking out of the room, my brother¡¯s pill stash slung over my shoulder. I push what I¡¯ve done out of my mind, and I think of what I need to do next. -VII- My brother¡¯s house is a small three-bedroom place with blue-carpeted floors. He¡¯s stoned out of his mind when I ring the doorbell. He opens the door and says, ¡°The mailman¡¯s here, honey. Did you order something from¡ª¡± He doesn¡¯t even complete his question. My brother heads for the kitchen table, and I follow him, throwing his rucksack full of pills onto the small living room¡¯s only couch. My brother¡¯s second wife, Darla, greets me with a smile. She looks embarrassed by my brother¡¯s behavior. She then says, ¡°You want to stay for dinner?¡± I nod and say, ¡°Yeah, that sounds nice.¡± She nods again and grabs another plate from one of the kitchen cabinets. I take off my coat, and I sit next to my brother, who is eating ravioli with his dirty fingers. He sucks on his fingertips after swallowing a ravioli whole. ¡°I have a test in the morning,¡± my brother¡¯s wife declares. She then says, ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two to eat. Can you make sure he doesn¡¯t hurt himself?¡± I nod and say, ¡°Will do.¡± She laughs and leaves for their bedroom. I am playing with my ravioli when I notice my brother hasn¡¯t said much. I look over at him. His head is drooping, and I hear him choking. At first, I thought it was him snoring, but I move in closer. He¡¯s choking on something. What exactly? I don¡¯t know. I shake him and say, ¡°Bro, you okay?¡± He doesn¡¯t respond, and I assume the worse. I can¡¯t let this asshole die on me. I can¡¯t have that be another burden from this family of mine. I grab the vacuum cleaner, parked between the couch and the coffee table. I attach the crevice tool and plug the vacuum in next to the table. ¡°Don¡¯t die on me now, motherfucker!¡± I hear myself yelling, as I squeeze open my brother¡¯s mouth and jam the crevice tool into the back of his throat. I hear a shunk as the ravioli is sucked up into the vacuum. I rip the vacuum¡¯s cord from the wall and yell at my brother: ¡°Don¡¯t you die on me, motherfucker!¡± My brother wakes up, and he says, ¡°What is the postman doing in my house?¡± I punch my brother¡¯s arm, and he winces at this and begins rubbing it. I plop down in my chair. I look up at the table and see ravioli, whole and in pieces, everywhere. I feel my pocket buzzing. I assume the worst, thinking it must be the nursing home. -VII- I wait for the persona to load on my server. It has been a year since I stole everything from Grandma¡¯s house. A year since she died, and a tough year at that. I never understood how much Grandma meant to me before now. I never understood her role in my life until now. As the persona loads and the neural network configures the necessary settings within Simulacrum¡¯s architecture, I find myself thinking about what I will ask her. Thankfully, I did the smart thing and upgraded the CPU, added the SSDs I stole from Grandma¡¯s house, and added some extra RAM to help give a little umph to my Linux server. I sip on my Earl Gray tea with half-and-half, hoping the server won¡¯t eighty-six itself trying to get everything working. The high-resolution screen brightens, and a three-dimensional representation of my dead grandmother appears. Nervous as ever, I clear my throat and say, ¡°Good evening, Grandma.¡± She smiles and says, ¡°Oh, it¡¯s good to see you again, honey. You need to eat more. I would make a ham sandwich for you, but I can¡¯t seem to move. Where am I?¡± I don¡¯t say anything. I think about what I want to say. ¡°Dear?¡± she asks, a look of confusion etching deep lines across her cheeks and forehead. ¡°I¡¯ve resurrected you using a neural network, Grandma,¡± I say, answering her as I would my now-dead grandmother. ¡°What does that mean, honey?¡± she asks. A look of freight covers her face. Her brow furrows and her thin lips twitch. ¡°I have some questions that need answering,¡± I say. ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asks. Her voice is my grandmother¡¯s. She looks like my grandmother. She feels real, but I cannot help but think this has been a year wasted. I open the Linux server¡¯s terminal. I begin typing in the kill command, thinking I will start over, once I¡¯ve had time to think on what information I need to get her persona right. ¡°You¡¯re such a loyal boy,¡± she says without reason. ¡°You were always such a loyal boy, hon¡ª¡± I finish typing the kill command, and then I hit ENTER. My grandmother¡¯s virtual persona bleeds away from the screen. I reboot the server, before heading into the kitchen for a fresh cup of Earl Gray with a little half-and-half mixed in. It¡¯s going to be a long night, I think to myself. She¡¯s not ready yet. She needs a lot more work. Il Milione Who says death¡¯s the end of everythin¡¯? I know I did, for one, at many points in my previous life. (But, fair warnin¡¯, it ain¡¯t what you¡¯re thinkin¡¯ either.) That was before I arrived at the great celestial bar in the sky, called Il Milione, or the Million. It¡¯s the kind of waterin¡¯ hole suitable for dead people like me¡ªgo figure. Call it blasphemous, but I bought the strongest drink I could afford in the joint¡ªapparently, my credit in this place is good. The same goes for all of the other souls wandering in through here. You might be wonderin¡¯ who I am. The name¡¯s Joe. No, not the Immaculate Conception Joe. Nor the Big Baddy in the U. S. S. of R. No, I¡¯m just Joe. Nothin¡¯ special ¡®bout me. Nothin¡¯ worth knowin¡¯, except maybe that the last thing I ¡®member is blowin¡¯ my brains out with some cheap hooch in a cowboy bar in Kansas City, Missouri, in the U. S. of A. Now, I¡¯m here. It¡¯s a goddamned paradise, friends¡ªIl Milione. It¡¯s like the drinkin¡¯ gods were listenin¡¯ to me the whole frickin¡¯ time. This bar ain¡¯t too shabby a joint either¡ªas far as bars are concerned. When I first came to, I found myself in a dark part of town. Only a few streetlamps, no visible stars, colder ¡®an a witch¡¯s tit, and thick fog coverin¡¯ everythin¡¯. Then I found her, friends. Il Milione shone through the fog like a goddamned lighthouse beacon, beckonin¡¯ weary travelers such as myself to come on by, enticin¡¯ many of us with cold drinks and a liquor selection that¡¯d make God himself jealous. Heaven¡¯s a bar, friends, or so I thought when I first arrived at Il Milione. You would think that someone like me, who¡¯s seen ¡®nough bars to fill a lifetime, wouldn¡¯t be surprised by Il Milione. But you¡¯d be wrong. Il Milione is about three thousand square feet, filled, wall-to-wall, with patrons of every kind of background you can imagine. Hell, the other day I saw Old Blood ¡®n¡¯ Guts jabberin¡¯ on with J. Edgar Hoover, who happened to be in the nicest little black dress. The bar¡¯s walls are covered in memorabilia from several wars and various photogenic events, even a couple I don¡¯t know about. Il Milione is outside of time and space, says a guy name Turing, who¡¯s got one of his main squeezes, a healthy-looking, young man in his thirties, hangin¡¯ on his every word. Turing likes his on the rocks, but sometimes he gets crazy and drinks the hard stuff, one after another, never really gettin¡¯ knock¡¯d down. My favorite spot is the bar itself. It¡¯s a throwback to an age when they really knew how to build bars. The seats are mahogany and leather. The bar¡¯s surface is a polished nickel with lacquered sides and a stained cherry wood base. I like it here because it feels like home, more than any other place in my previous life. Everyone keeps saying that, too. However, I am left wondering why I am at Il Milione. Everyone here used to be a somebody. I¡¯ma nobody. I never put men on the moon. I never led troops into battle. The only thing I ever did, and did well, was drink and play a mean game of billiards, but I was never a pro at any of those things. No one wrote about me in the Times. No one really knew my name. If they did, it was just Joe, or ¡°That guy.¡± *** A few nights ago, I was sitting by my lonesome at the bar. Before I knew it, somethin¡¯ called C-pop rings out across Il Milione, and everyone¡¯s in a dancin¡¯ mood, tappin¡¯ toes and bobbin¡¯ heads and snappin¡¯ fingers. After three or four stiff drinks, I decide to take J. Edgar, who likes to call herself Janet, onto the dance floor. She¡¯s got pretty good moves, and she taught me a thing or two about dancin¡¯ to C-pop. She jokes about how the commies are good at makin¡¯ dancin¡¯ music these days, before she is asked to dance by Old Blood ¡®n¡¯ Guts. I think those two are in love, and in a big way. Old Blood ¡®n¡¯ Guts keeps smilin¡¯ at J. Edgar (a.k.a. Janet, remember?) like she¡¯s the life of the frickin¡¯ party or somethin¡¯. Everyone keeps sayin¡¯ they¡¯re the couple to watch. I am taken off the dance floor by someone who claims to be Cleopatra. She¡¯s no Elizabeth Taylor, who just happens to be dancin¡¯ between Turing and his main squeeze on the polished oak dance floor. ¡°Who are you?¡± Cleo asks, before grabbin¡¯ a drink from a nearby table. ¡°Name¡¯s Joe,¡± I say in a matter-of-fact tone, or at least it feels that way to me. ¡°Joe who?¡± Cleo asks, intent on knowin¡¯ what I have to say. ¡°Just Joe, ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°You somebody, Joe?¡± Cleo says, with a strange, heavy accent. ¡°No, I¡¯ma a nobody, ma¡¯am¡ªborn and raised a nobody.¡± ¡°What¡¯s ah nobody? Is that important where you come from, Joe?¡± ¡°Sure is, ma¡¯am,¡± I say. ¡°Sure is.¡± The guys and gals behind me start laughin¡¯ it up at Cleo¡¯s expense. I don¡¯t pay them much attention and decide to go back to the bar, leavin¡¯ poor Cleo all by her lonesome, probably embarrassed for even talkin¡¯ to the likes of me. At the bar, a guy named Marco Polo serves drinks to the patrons of Il Milione. ¡°What¡¯ll it be, Joe?¡± Polo asks, half-interest¡¯d in what I might say. He reminds me of my old Tomcat back home¡ªhalf-interest¡¯d in what I might be doin¡¯ or sayin¡¯. Polo always goes on and on ¡®bout havin¡¯ explor¡¯d the world. He saw China, India, and the like. Whoop-de-frickin¡¯-do is all I can say in my spinnin¡¯ head, but I don¡¯t blurt it out loud. I humor the poor, dumb bastard because he knows how to mix a strong drink that¡¯ll give ya a real good buzz¡ªthat and he owns the place, so go figure. *** Between strong drinks and bein¡¯ serenaded by what everyone calls dancin¡¯ music, I end up in the company of three somebodies. They¡¯re Turing, Einstein¡¯s first wife, Mileva, who says Einstein stole her best work, and some guy named Stephen Hawking, another new addition to Il Milione. They talk about the Universe, the improbabilities that have created Il Milione, and somethin¡¯ ¡®bout a giant computer. I ¡®member the word computer from my days. It¡¯s all fuzzy ¡®round the edges, though. Somethin¡¯ from ah magazine I read between benders back in the early sixties. It, the article that is, talk¡¯d a good deal about how computers were giant things, and expensive, too. These guys keep goin¡¯ on and on about how the Universe may be a large computer of some kind. I just can¡¯t wrap my mind around the idea. It¡¯s crazy, I tell you. ¡°How can the frickin¡¯ Universe be a computer?¡± I ask, my words slurrin¡¯ some. ¡°That can¡¯t be. That just can¡¯t be, friends.¡± The three look at me in what I can only assume to be some state of horror. Before I know it, they¡¯re draggin¡¯ me into Il Milione¡¯s empty V.I.P. room and closin¡¯ the door behind all of us. Only a soft thump-whoomp can be heard seepin¡¯ through the door and velvet-covered walls. ¡°You know what a computer is, chap,¡± Turing says with a wide smile. ¡°They were ubiquitous not long after my own death, I am sure of it.¡± ¡°Ubiquitous?¡± I ask, soundin¡¯ out the word across my fuzzy teeth and numb tongue. ¡°Pervasive, ever-present, et cetera, et cetera, chap,¡± Turing answers, still smilin¡¯. ¡°They did have computers everywhere when¡­errr¡­before you shoved off, friend?¡± ¡°No, not exactly,¡± I say, shruggin¡¯. ¡°He¡¯s right, Turing,¡± says the one named Hawking. ¡°I used to carry a computer around myself. They were ubiquitous in my time, but not his. Now, the Universe has seen that I no longer need one.¡± ¡°Carrying a computer,¡± Turing says, laughin¡¯ at this. ¡°How preposterous, chap. That would mean serious technological challenges would need to be met by engineers.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Hawking hums, noddin¡¯ his head. ¡°Who cares about the size of computers and their ubiquity,¡± Mileva pipes in. ¡°We have figured out that all people in the bar were a somebody, or connected to a somebody, at one point in their lives.¡± ¡°True,¡± Turing says, shruggin¡¯ his shoulders. ¡°I concur,¡± Hawking adds. ¡°Except for me,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ma a frickin¡¯ nobody. Why the hell am I here?¡± ¡°That can¡¯t be right,¡± Mileva says. ¡°Nobodies don¡¯t seem to get into this place. You must¡¯ve done something in your old life, something worthy of recognition by the Great Computer.¡± ¡°Nope,¡± I say, laughin¡¯, feelin¡¯ my buzz right about now. ¡°I just drank and play¡¯d pool. I guess the damn¡¯d computer isn¡¯t all that, now is it?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like much to be famous for, chap,¡± Turing admits with a wink from his left eye. ¡°Well,¡± Hawking purrs, lickin¡¯ his dry lips. ¡°Before I died, people often became famous for posting a video on something called the Internet.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the Internet?¡± I ask. Turing and Mileva shrug in unison. ¡°Nothing too important, good man,¡± Hawking says. ¡°I think we can safely say that we¡¯ve found the first anomaly, our first real outlier in the dataset, Mileva.¡± ¡°Indeed, we have,¡± Mileva says, sighin¡¯. ¡°That means we¡¯re back to the drawing board¡ªagain.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°Don¡¯t get too discouraged now,¡± Turing says. ¡°It could be worse.¡± *** And indeed, it got worse. Night after night, the grind of bein¡¯ in the same bar, with the same people, doin¡¯ absolutely nothin¡¯, doesn¡¯t seem that appealin¡¯ to me anymore. I¡¯m reminded of my ramblin¡¯ days, when I used to take to the open road, hooch and smokes in hand. I travel¡¯d across the great expanse that is the North American continent, endin¡¯ up in waterin¡¯ holes, saloons, speakeasies, and the like, drinkin¡¯ to my heart¡¯s content. But somewhere durin¡¯ the drinkin¡¯ and the hard soberin¡¯ between benders and bars, I start¡¯d to get funny ideas about the world, and my place in it. I used to envision myself as a sort of tough guy for the mob, a movie star on the silver screen, or whatever tickl¡¯d my fancy at the time. I was an idea guy, too, who was painfully short on follow-through. Once I got an idea in my head, I would stick with it for a few minutes, hours, days, or weeks, before the next idea came along. I¡¯d stay up all night, drinkin¡¯ hooch and smokin¡¯ one pack after the other, tryin¡¯ to nail down the idea before it disappear¡¯d from my brain forever. I used to carry dozens of notebooks and pads of paper in my truck, wherever I¡¯d go. I kept my ideas, my failures, with me. I miss those days. Those days when I¡¯d stay up for four days straight before passin¡¯ out due to exhaustion. After an idea flopp¡¯d, I¡¯d get into a real funk, somethin¡¯ that made me want to drink more than I¡¯d ever dared. That¡¯s when I¡¯d wish for death to come. Death seemed so final, so painless, so empty. It would cure me of my ideas, my notebooks, my failures, I thought. But now, after nearly a month, or what feels like a month of being at Il Milione, I am ready for death again, somethin¡¯ final, somethin¡¯ complete. The darkness that comes for us all¡ªthat¡¯s what I want. That¡¯s what I crave at this moment. I want it more ¡®an any drink, and that¡¯s sayin¡¯ somethin¡¯, friends. *** When I reach my low, Mileva comes into the picture. She¡¯s a lot better lookin¡¯ in the dim light of Il Milione. After a few beers, she¡¯s friendly, too. ¡°D¡¯you ever think about the afterlife?¡± I ask Mileva, before takin¡¯ another drink from my beer. ¡°I think we all have,¡± Mileva says, takin¡¯ a drink from her beer as well. ¡°It¡¯s only human. I know I shouldn¡¯t¡¯ve, but I did.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± I ask. ¡°Because scientists and mathematicians aren¡¯t supposed to think about such things. Those old superstitions aren¡¯t theoretically possible,¡± Mileva answers. ¡°Then why are we here?¡± I ask. ¡°That¡¯s a great question,¡± Mileva says. ¡°But I don¡¯t care about that tonight.¡± ¡°What do you care about, Mileva?¡± ¡°Will you dance with me, Joe Nobody?¡± ¡°I thought you wouldn¡¯t ever ask,¡± I say, finishin¡¯ off the last of my beer. ¡°Shall we?¡± *** After dancin¡¯ with Mileva, I feel myself gettin¡¯ up on a high. The ideas start flowin¡¯ from my brain, and I have to ask Polo for some napkins and pens to write ¡®em all down. Amid an idea I have for a robotic cook, Turing and Hawking ask me to join them and Mileva in Il Milione¡¯s V.I.P. room again. I take ¡®em up on their invitation, leavin¡¯ behind my scribblin¡¯s, knowin¡¯ Polo won¡¯t trash ¡®em. Once inside the V.I.P. room, I see that a fourth person has joined the meetin¡¯. ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± I ask, pointin¡¯ to the man in strange gray clothin¡¯. ¡°He¡¯s Deng Xiaoping,¡± Turing answers. ¡°We¡¯ve been talking about ways to solve the conundrum that is Il Milione.¡± ¡°Deng who?¡± ¡°Deng Xiaoping,¡± Deng says, holdin¡¯ his hand out to me. I shake it. ¡°Nice to meet ya, Deng.¡± ¡°Pleasure¡¯s mine, Joe.¡± ¡°You know my name?¡± ¡°Our organization knows many people,¡± Deng says. ¡°Organization?¡± ¡°Chap, he¡¯s talkin¡¯ about our little club here in Il Milione,¡± Turing whispers to me. ¡°Oh,¡± I say. ¡°He¡¯s a communist, but a damn good provocateur,¡± Hawking says. ¡°I¡¯ll be damned,¡± I say with a whistle. The whistlin¡¯ causes Deng to wince some. ¡°Sorry.¡± ¡°No worries,¡± Deng says. ¡°Shall we get started?¡± Turing, Hawking, and Mileva nod in unison. ¡°Okay,¡± Deng says. ¡°Every good operation needs to stick to basic security protocols.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡± I ask. ¡°You tell nobody of our plans,¡± Deng answers. ¡°Do you understand?¡± I nod. ¡°Gotchya.¡± ¡°Now,¡± Deng begins, pullin¡¯ out the blueprints of Il Milione and placin¡¯ it on top of the room¡¯s polished table. ¡°We have to figure out how to turn off this program, Il Milione, and get somewhere where we can find answers.¡± ¡°Sounds heavy, man,¡± Hawking says. ¡°We just need to know the computer¡¯s weaknesses,¡± Deng fires back. ¡°Every machine has at least one weakness.¡± ¡°True,¡± Turing says. ¡°Very true, Deng.¡± ¡°What¡¯re a computer¡¯s weakness?¡± I ask. All four members of the organization look at me and then three of them look at Hawking. Hawking nods and says, ¡°Viruses, hardware problems, you name it. They¡¯re finicky things, computers are, friend.¡± ¡°So how do we get to the hardware or software, as you call it?¡± Turing asks. Hawking shrugs. ¡°I don¡¯t know, my good man.¡± ¡°What if it isn¡¯t like the computers you¡¯re used to?¡± Mileva asks. ¡°What if it doesn¡¯t have a weakness?¡± ¡°Everything has weakness,¡± Deng says, slappin¡¯ his hand on the blueprints. ¡°I don¡¯t know about computers,¡± I say. ¡°But I know bars.¡± ¡°What was that, Joe?¡± Mileva asks. ¡°What was what?¡± I ask. ¡°What you said, dear?¡± Mileva asks. ¡°I don¡¯t kno¡¯ a goddamned thing about computers, but I sure as hell know my bars.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it!¡± Mileva shouts. She runs up to me and gives me a big hug. I¡¯m confused, not really knowin¡¯ what I did or said to make her so happy, but I don¡¯t care. I don¡¯t mind makin¡¯ her happy. There¡¯s somethin¡¯ about her, somethin¡¯ different from all of the other gals I came across in my ramblin¡¯ days. ¡°Joe is right,¡± Mileva says. ¡°It¡¯s a bar, not a computer. At least not a computer in the sense that we all know.¡± ¡°What are you getting at?¡± Hawking asks. ¡°Yeah, what are you getting at, Mileva?¡± Turing asks, scratchin¡¯ his head. ¡°Joe,¡± Mileva says, hookin¡¯ arms with me. ¡°How do you close down a bar for good? I mean to say, how do you make sure a bar ceases to exist?¡± ¡°Where are you going with this?¡± Deng asks, lookin¡¯ at her kinda strange¡ªlike she¡¯s crazy or somethin¡¯. ¡°If the bar is like a program in a computer,¡± Mileva says. ¡°Like the programs Stephen told us all about, I think we can crash the whole thing.¡± ¡°Crash what?¡± I ask. ¡°Crash the system,¡± Mileva says. ¡°Force it to reboot, is that the right word for it, Stephen?¡± Hawking nods and says, ¡°Yes, yes, it is, Mileva. You have been listening to my ramblings these last few years.¡± ¡°It¡¯s hard not to,¡± Mileva says. ¡°Joe, how do you make a bar cease to exist?¡± I shrug. ¡°Burn the goddamn¡¯d thing to the ground.¡± ¡°Then that¡¯s what we¡¯ll do,¡± Mileva says. *** The plan isn¡¯t all that sophisticated, really. We, the organization, decide to burn Il Milione down to the ground, hopin¡¯ it crashes the system, the software, or whatever the hell it is that Mileva and them keep goin¡¯ on and on about. Mileva sets herself up near the red and yellow jukebox. Turing, Deng, and Hawking stand at agreed-upon choke points, cuttin¡¯ off access to the bar¡¯s only fire extinguishers. Before everyone got into position, Deng and Hawking disabled the fire sprinkler system, somethin¡¯ Hawking said would put an end to the plan. As for me, I¡¯m where I usually am¡ªthe bar. My part in all of this is pretty simple. I¡¯m to start the fire, somethin¡¯ Mileva thought up. I ¡®member my days in the scouts and makin¡¯ fires. I was the best damn¡¯d firestarter in my troop. In my pockets, I have everythin¡¯ to get the job done. Deng has taught me the art of the Molotov cocktail and homemade firebombs, usin¡¯ only the stuff you might find in a bar. Mileva finds a popular song on the jukebox and plays it. The song starts off real slow like, but people are already headin¡¯ to the dance floor, bobbin¡¯ heads, tappin¡¯ toes, and snappin¡¯ fingers with the rhythm of the beat. Old Blood ¡®n¡¯ Guts and Janet head to the dance floor when the song really launches. This gets everyone into a frenzy, includin¡¯ Polo, who leaves the bar and grabs a barmaid to dance with. I hop onto the bar¡¯s nickel surface and slide over to the other side. I begin stuffin¡¯ rags into open¡¯d hooch bottles and begin linin¡¯ them up on the bar. I look up to see that Mileva is now standin¡¯ next to me. ¡°Hey,¡± Mileva says. ¡°You almost ready?¡± I nod. ¡°Sure am.¡± ¡°You¡¯re turnin¡¯ out to be a real special somebody, Joe Nobody.¡± ¡°I¡¯ma tryin¡¯, ma¡¯am,¡± I say with a wink. ¡°Let¡¯s get the party started then,¡± Mileva says. I nod again and begin lightin¡¯ the rags stuffed in the bottles. I hand one lit bottle after another to Mileva. She tosses them here and there. The sound of breakin¡¯ glass and the whoosh of flames doesn¡¯t stop the dancin¡¯. Instead, it seems to make the dancin¡¯ wilder. ¡°Keep them coming, Joe Nobody,¡± Mileva says. That¡¯s exactly what I do. When we finally run out of bottles, the whole place is ablaze. Everyone¡¯s on fire, but no one¡¯s screamin¡¯ or hollerin¡¯ like you¡¯d expect. No, they are still dancin¡¯ and grabbin¡¯ ahold of body parts that I didn¡¯t know was legal or moral, even for a bar. One of the last things I see is Old Blood ¡®n¡¯ Guts sliddin¡¯ his hand up Janet¡¯s hairy right leg and kissin¡¯ her neck, near her Adam¡¯s Apple. Both of ¡®em are on fire. Pieces of ¡®em are fallin¡¯ off into the bluish-purple flames. The heat melts the bar¡¯s keepsakes and photos. The dance floor moans and buckles, as the fire eats away everythin¡¯ sturdy. The ceilin¡¯ is covered in thick, black smoke. While this is goin¡¯ on, I ask Mileva to dance with me. She nods and we enter the burnin¡¯ dance floor, knowin¡¯ we¡¯ve already experienc¡¯d death once before, and there¡¯s no need to worry about it again. *** When I come to, I find myself sittin¡¯ next to Mileva, who is in a nice dress and is wearing white shoes. We¡¯re on a movin¡¯ train, and it¡¯s daylight outside. ¡°Glad you could come back to the world of the living, Joe Nobody.¡± ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°It worked, Joe,¡± Mileva says. ¡°It worked. You¡¯re a talented arsonist, Mr. Nobody.¡± I blush at this. Mileva sees this and kisses my cheek. ¡°Where are the boys at?¡± Mileva points to Turing, who is with his young-looking main squeeze. She then points to Hawking and Deng, who are playing somethin¡¯ that resembles chess, but it uses small black and white stones for pieces. ¡°Where are we?¡± I ask, lookin¡¯ out my window. ¡°Who knows?¡± Mileva says with a shrug and a smile. ¡°But it¡¯s exciting, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Sure is,¡± I manage to say. ¡°I have somethin¡¯ for you, Joe,¡± Mileva says. ¡°What¡¯s that? A drink?¡± ¡°No, nothin¡¯ like that, you scoundrel,¡± Mileva says, slappin¡¯ my arm. ¡°I found these before the bar burned down.¡± Mileva hands me my scribblin¡¯s. I look at them and feel myself smilin¡¯. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had such interesting ideas, Joe Nobody,¡± Mileva says. ¡°You think we can explore some of them?¡± ¡°What d¡¯you mean, Mileva?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve always fancied myself an idea person,¡± Mileva says. ¡°I¡¯ve always had ideas, just never the right person to share them with.¡± ¡°Well,¡± I say, puttin¡¯ the napkins in my coat pocket. ¡°I guess we can always explore those ideas of yours.¡± ¡°Yours, too,¡± Mileva says. ¡°Don¡¯t forget that.¡± ¡°Where are we headin¡¯, Mileva,¡± I ask, leanin¡¯ back in my seat. ¡°Hopefully somewhere where we can explore our ideas together, Joe Nobody.¡± ¡°Sounds real swell to me, Mileva.¡± A Prisoner of Tomorrow ¡°We have new evidence pertaining to your guilt, 0984. It says right here that you met with a Mr. Richard Archuleta, otherwise known as 1138, on Friday, November 15, at 8:15 p.m. Mountain Time,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says, pointing to a printed transcript. The transcript is obscure in the fuzzy darkness of the damp interrogation chamber. ¡°You met in your three-bedroom home, and it clearly states here that your lovely wife, 6070, knew about the visit as well. She told us as much before she was promptly released.¡± ¡°What does that even mean?¡± asks Luis Noe Cuevas¡ªthat is 0984. ¡°What does it even mean?¡± ¡°It means you¡¯ve been lying to us, the Vanguard, the people, all along,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says, grabbing Luis by the hair, and pulling his face closer to the transcript. ¡°You¡¯ve been involved in high crimes against the Vanguard, against the people, all along.¡± ¡°So what? So, what if I talked with Richard on Friday, November 15? It doesn¡¯t matter anymore. It never mattered!¡± Luis screams at the top of his lungs, pushing away from the man in gray. ¡°How dare you, 0984! How dare you! The Vanguard takes these things very seriously. Very seriously, indeed. We¡¯re talking about your crimes against the modern world, against the people, against the Vanguard.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care anymore! I give up! I give up!¡± Luis screams, this time louder than before. He feels warm tears streaming down his face and neck. His voice cracks with each exclamation. ¡°I can¡¯t do this anymore! Kill me! Kill me now!¡± ¡°Your fate will be a bit more painful than death, 0984. If these charges are true, and we are assuming they have not been falsified, your fate will be far more damning than mere death. Death is an easy escape for men like you. Do you know how many of your kind, the scum of the earth, I have seen scraped off blacktop or cut down from the rope they hanged themselves with? Death is the great equalizer, they say. Death is the last true judge on this earth. It is not arbitrary, it cannot be bribed, and it cannot be argued with. I disagree. I would like to think that I have been a fair judge. I must admit I was skeptical at first about your guilt. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I tried to be as neutral as one can be in these trying times, but your obstinacy has made me think otherwise. Your speech is full of half-truths, stinking lies, and circular logic that makes me believe we¡¯ve got our man, the man who gave the old guard what they needed to try to decapitate the people¡¯s party, THE VANGUARD, and orchestrate some of the most heinous crimes that humanity has ever seen. Too bad THE VANGUARD found out before your people could do anything. We won the war, so to speak, 0984. We will have our tomorrow, no thanks to you.¡± Luis¡¯s crumpled body is deposited in his five-by-five cell. The light from the outside world shines into the small room. Music from a nearby carnival blares; its sharp, obnoxious notes drift in through the open window, some ten feet above Luis¡¯s head. The sounds of laughter, plodding feet, and the barking of dogs and honking of horns add to the cacophony of noise from the outside world. The world, for better or worse, has continued without Luis being a part of it. Luis crawls from the concrete floor up to his ragged cot that smells of sweat, mildew, and piss. He steadies himself before lifting his tired and sore legs onto the cot. The slightest effort on his part brings searing pain; pain has become normal for Luis. He misses it on days when they don¡¯t torture him. He misses it not because he is a masochist, but because it makes him feel alive, more alive than he has felt in all of his years of being in prison. It makes all the other hurts, the regrets, and the shame disappear for a few moments, even if they are indeed a few short moments. To pass the time, Luis writes in his journal. This journal is really a large notebook he managed to sneak into the prison nearly ten years ago. The pen he writes with is worn so smooth that the labels are no longer visible and the ink, a jet black, barely comes out as Luis scribbles on the worn and yellowed pages.
I think of you all the time. I wish I was with you. I know they have said you are no longer in the prison. I do hope you have moved on. These days I can¡¯t help but think about better days. But these thoughts of better days are soon destroyed by the dark times, before all of this. Before I was tossed into a cell with a madman as my warden¡ª
Luis nurses his cognac as he watches the night¡¯s news broadcasts. Each is grimmer than the next. The political mudslinging has managed to make it to the networks. Sides are being taken and lines are being drawn. THE VANGUARD, once a radical fringe party, seems to be a serious contender against the established OLD GUARD, as they appear to be calling themselves these days. Luis doesn¡¯t much care for politics. He merely watches the political mudslinging to keep up to date on what the latest debates are. He¡¯s what many would call a middle-of-the-road voter. Neither truly liberal nor truly conservative in his politics. However, he must admit that the current election has him thinking about the nation¡¯s politics a bit more. THE VANGUARD has him scared for the future. Its antics have pushed Luis closer and closer toward the OLD GUARD¡ªthe nation¡¯s conservative bloc. Outside it is raining. It is a light rain, for the part of the country he lives in, a rain that some parts of the country might consider a heavy one, given their drought conditions. It is the sound of rain, the smell of it wafting through the window, the heady cognac, and the television¡¯s noise that engulf his senses now. While his mind wanders, Helene enters the room. She says something, but Luis doesn¡¯t catch it. She says something again. This time the sounds are punctuated by wild hand gestures. ¡°Luis,¡± Helene says. ¡°Richard is here.¡± Luis looks at Helene and nods. ¡°Is he okay?¡± ¡°No, no he¡¯s not. He¡¯s got a rather nasty broken nose and black eye.¡± ¡°What?¡± Luis says, sitting up in his armchair. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Helene exclaims. ¡°Come downstairs¡ªand quick!¡± Luis downs the last of his cognac and follows Helene downstairs. In the downstairs living room, Luis finds Richard Archuleta, a close friend, holding his nose with a white dishrag with red blotches as his eyes squint in pain. ¡°Richard,¡± Luis says. ¡°Are you okay?¡± Richard sighs and says, ¡°I tried to tell Helene that it was some radicals from the Vanguard who roughed me up. I¡¯m fine, Luis. Really, I am. It¡¯s nothing I can¡¯t handle. If I am going to run as MP, I¡¯ve got to be tough about these things.¡± ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have to deal with street thugs, though,¡± Luis says. ¡°Do you want a drink?¡± Richard nods. ¡°I could use one right about now.¡± Luis pours Richard his favorite, vodka, and hands it to him. Richard downs the vodka in one gulp. Once he¡¯s finished Richard gives Luis the glass. ¡°Thanks, Luis,¡± Richard gasps. ¡°What exactly were these thugs looking to do?¡± Luis asks, placing the empty glass on a nearby table. ¡°They¡¯re trying to scare off the competition in the local elections,¡± Richard says. ¡°It¡¯s nothing I haven¡¯t dealt with before with these assholes.¡± ¡°Is it getting that bad?¡± Richard nods. ¡°Sure is. They get bolder and bolder every day. Their leader has been pushing their organization to challenge all authorities openly, even if they don¡¯t belong to the conservative bloc.¡± ¡°What does that even mean, Richard?¡± ¡°It means they are crazy, Luis,¡± Richards says with a heavy sigh. ¡°I am trying to hold things together as a moderate in Parliament, but these Vanguard, they¡¯re just making it too hard to hold the center.¡± ¡°What happens if they take power, Richard?¡± ¡°YEAR ZERO,¡± Richard says. ¡°That¡¯s what they¡¯re calling it. Their leader has proclaimed that YEAR ZERO will be a time of reckoning, a time when the people will have a voice once again in the Republic.¡± Richard has talked about YEAR ZERO before. THE VANGUARD have promised to make a land of ¡°milk and honey,¡± for the toiling masses. All of them, even their leader, wear gray Mao suits, freshly starched and ironed with machine-like precision. It is their calling card. Their so-called ¡°Agents of Change,¡± probably accosted Richard, drawing him into an unevenly matched fistfight. The Agents of Change are only the most fanatical of THE VANGUARD, willing to do anything in the name of the cause.
When I think of you, it is during those moments when the darkness has gotten ahold of me most. I can still remember when you and I were young and in love. It was something special. Now, I worry that I am forgetting those beautiful moments. Those times we shared, HELENE¡ª
Luis stops writing. The pain is too much. The past too much to bear, even a decade after everything transpired. He hides his notebook and pen underneath the cot¡¯s mattress and goes to sleep. The next day Luis is dragged out of his cell by the cyborg. The cyborg is an abnormally tall woman with grafted musculature and artificial limbs that could crush bone with minimal effort. She is unusually silent today. Usually, the cyborg talks to him. She tries to reassure him that the pain, the suffering, the endless questioning will be over soon enough. This contrasts with the damning statements of the man in the gray Mao suit¡ªthe warden of the prison. The cyborg deposits Luis in a chair in front of the warden¡¯s desk. They are in the warden¡¯s spacious office. Memorabilia from THE VANGUARD decorate the walls and shelves. Pictures of his family are everywhere, something Luis despises. He doesn¡¯t hate families or pictures, but he hates how the warden has the gall to show off his family in such a place. On the warden¡¯s desk sits what must have been a state-of-the-art computer nearly a decade ago. The man in the gray Mao suit, or the warden as Luis tends to call him during their little meetings, is in a fresh Mao suit. The Mao suit looks like it has been recently ironed and properly starched. Luis can even hear the suit creak as the man gestures the cyborg away. ¡°Luis,¡± the warden says. ¡°How are you these days?¡± Luis doesn¡¯t say anything. He doesn¡¯t want to talk anymore. He is done talking. He just hopes the day¡¯s torture routine kills him, so he can finally end this miserable existence. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°Silence only damns you further, 0984.¡± Luis still doesn¡¯t respond. ¡°Your kind hide behind silence,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says. ¡°THE VANGUARD wants to know who else was involved in your conspiracy to overthrow the People¡¯s Revolution. Those in THE VANGUARD are willing to commute your sentence, if you help us understand who exactly tried to commit the greatest crime in human history.¡± ¡°I have no idea what you are talking about,¡± Luis says, finally speaking. ¡°You do,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says. ¡°I don¡¯t. I really don¡¯t, warden.¡± ¡°I am not your warden, Luis,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit retorts. ¡°I am the inquisitor, who has been tasked with finding out who orchestrated an attempted coup THE VANGUARD, which won legitimate elections in our fine country.¡± ¡°I still don¡¯t know what you are talking about.¡± ¡°Of course, you do, Luis,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says. ¡°You will either divulge the information voluntarily, or we will take it from you forcibly. Your choice, 0984.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what you are talking about!¡± Luis screams, before rising from his seat. The cyborg¡¯s limb-crushing hand pushes Luis back into his seat. Luis knows that the cyborg could cause a great deal of harm to his person, so he doesn¡¯t resist the move, although he has thought about it numerous times. Luis knows such a move will mean a quick death, but he can¡¯t help but push away from such a death. He hopes, prays, that Helene is still out there, waiting for him. ¡°You do know what I am talking about, Luis,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says. ¡°WE know who orchestrated the coup, despite incredible resistance from your kind, 0984, we just want to know why you were involved. WE want to know everything, so that WE can write down the full account in the history books. WE are interested in the truth, you see. Truth is the final arbiter, not death. Truth will set you free, 0984. The truth will surely set you free.¡±
I am writing tonight because I must decide. Do I tell the warden of the meeting I was privy to before everything went sideways? Do I tell him that nothing was decided, and that nothing came about of what we discussed? I feel that my time in this prison has changed my priorities. I know that I may have neglected you in the past, HELENE, but I know that I will not do that anymore. You will be my only purpose, if I get out of this hellhole. I promise you that.
Luis waits nearly three days before the cyborg comes back for him. The cyborg is quiet again¡ªunusual to Luis. When the cyborg and Luis enter the warden¡¯s office, the cyborg leaves before sitting Luis down. ¡°Come in, come in, 0984,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit says. Luis obeys and walks up to the warden¡¯s desk. ¡°I have some cognac¡ªwould you like some?¡± Luis nods. The man in the gray Mao suit pours Luis a small glass of cognac. He hands the glass over to Luis, who promptly downs the liquid inside and hands the glass back to the warden. ¡°Go easy now, Luis,¡± the warden says. ¡°You have a lot of explaining to do.¡± ¡°Where do I start?¡± Luis asks. ¡°From the beginning¡ªab ovo, from the egg.¡± Luis straightens his tie. He hates ties. He hates suits. But all these things are necessary when meeting with the company¡¯s shareholders. He twists the doorknob and enters the conference room. Inside he finds not the company¡¯s shareholders, but a group of men and women in business attire. The group appears to be a mixture of people from different walks of life. He recognizes two right away¡ªthe company¡¯s co-founders. ¡°Good, you¡¯re here, Luis,¡± says one of the co-founders, James. ¡°What is going on here, James?¡± Luis asks. ¡°We¡¯re having a meeting of the minds on important matters,¡± James says. Luis sits down in an unoccupied chair, placing his briefcase on the conference table in front of him. He sits back and looks over the entire room, hoping to find more people he knows. Something doesn¡¯t feel right about all of this. ¡°We are here to deal with matters of utmost importance, ladies and gentlemen,¡± James says. ¡°The Vanguard is the topic for discussion tonight.¡± This little speech gets the whole room talking and makes Luis nervous. The Vanguard have gotten increasingly violent as elections have gotten closer. ¡°The Vanguard must be stopped, at all costs,¡± James says. ¡°If they are not, our way of life, our hard work, everything really, will be destroyed by this so-called Year Zero their cult leader keeps talking about.¡± ¡°What are we to do, James?¡± asks a woman in a black suit. ¡°That¡¯s where our ace in the hole comes in,¡± James explains. ¡°Our specialist, Luis Cuevas. He is our most senior analyst. His computers can run simulations that might be able to determine the best possible route. Nothing is off the table, nothing, Janine.¡± Everyone starts talking again. The room is awash in a dozen conversations. The whole thing makes Luis feel uncomfortable in his own skin. ¡°Everyone,¡± James exclaims. ¡°Everyone, please listen. We are looking at the fate of the Republic here. Everything has to be on the table.¡± ¡°What happens if the Vanguard finds out,¡± asks a man with a fresh crew cut in a dark blue suit. ¡°They¡¯ve a proven track record with violence.¡± ¡°Colonel, we are working on that as well,¡± James says. ¡°Security is our utmost concern. We are not a military force and we don¡¯t have the assets to protect ourselves.¡± ¡°That is going to complicate matters,¡± the colonel says. ¡°I can look into assigning security details to our efforts, but if the Vanguard gets a whiff of what is going on, we¡¯re going to be in for some hurt, James.¡± ¡°I know, I know,¡± James admits. ¡°What exactly is my role in all of this, James?¡± Luis asks. James and everyone stop talking. It feels as if everyone¡¯s eyes have shifted their focus to Luis. ¡°What am I doing here, James?¡± Luis asks. ¡°I¡¯m no politician.¡± ¡°You are our ace in the hole,¡± James says, repeating himself. ¡°You are going to run as many simulations as you possibly can to see what course of action will best serve the needs of the Republic. We can¡¯t let the Vanguard gain majority seats in Parliament. That would be disastrous to our way of life.¡± ¡°What¡¯s not on the table?¡± ¡°What do you mean, Luis?¡± James asks. ¡°Is there anything that we are going to take off the table from the very beginning?¡± Luis asks. ¡°No,¡± James says. ¡°Even violence?¡± ¡°Even violence, Luis.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can participate in this,¡± Luis says. ¡°The Vanguard has proven they will match violence with violence. They are willing to escalate things. Are we?¡± James looks over at the colonel. The colonel nods and says, ¡°We¡¯re surveying the military brass right now to see how deep the Vanguard¡¯s loyalty goes within the service. From what we¡¯ve been able to ascertain, the military will not support a change in power to the hands of the Vanguard.¡± ¡°What about those who do support the Vanguard?¡± Luis asks. ¡°They will be terminated,¡± the colonel responds. ¡°The first forty-eight hours will be crucial to operations. We will have to secure the Republic¡¯s nuclear arsenal and all military assets to prevent any kind of insurgency from forming.¡± ¡°What if we¡¯re wrong?¡± Luis asks. ¡°I¡¯ve heard stories about the Vanguard¡¯s support among the greater public. We could be stopping a legitimate exercise of the political will of the people of the Republic.¡± ¡°I seriously doubt that,¡± the colonel responds. ¡°Our analysis indicates that the Vanguard has support in less than fifteen per cent of the overall population.¡± ¡°What if we¡¯re wrong?¡± Luis asks. ¡°It¡¯s not the first time this has happened in the Republic¡¯s history.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯re enlisting your help, Luis,¡± James answers. ¡°We don¡¯t want to be wrong. Our associates here will provide you with all the data they have at their disposal, and you will run the simulations. We need to know what our options are.¡± Luis knocks back the second cognac. It¡¯s refreshing after drinking only the prison¡¯s recycled water for nearly ten years. ¡°Be careful, friend,¡± the man in the gray Mao suit warns. ¡°You don¡¯t want to overdo it.¡± Luis ignores the warden and takes a third cognac. He feels the warm fuzziness that comes with a good buzz. He can¡¯t help but drink and talk. ¡°So, after the meeting,¡± the warden says. ¡°You ran your simulations?¡± Luis nods, holding out his glass for more cognac. ¡°Here¡¯s the last of my cognac, friend,¡± the warden says. ¡°Drink it and know that you will be free soon enough.¡± Luis drinks the remaining cognac and hands over the glass to the warden. ¡°I ran the damned simulations. The data came from every place imaginable. Polls. Voter registration. Government surveillance. You name it.¡± ¡°What did the simulations have to say, 0984?¡± ¡°My name is Luis,¡± Luis says. ¡°Please call me by my name.¡± ¡°Sorry, 098¡ªI mean Luis.¡± ¡°I ran the damned simulations,¡± Luis continues. ¡°You said that.¡± ¡°I know,¡± Luis begins. ¡°The numbers indicated that the Vanguard could put up unimaginable resistance to anything, including a military coup that the colonel had discussed at our meeting.¡± ¡°What did you tell your superiors?¡± ¡°I told them that we needed to let things play out,¡± Luis responds. ¡°I told them that was the only situation that ended well. The Vanguard¡¯s half-life in the public with its radical social policies would only last so long.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t they listen?¡± ¡°They should have,¡± Luis says. ¡°They should have. I don¡¯t know what they did exactly.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t?¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t privy to their plans,¡± Luis says. ¡°I simply went home and prepared for something bad to happen.¡± ¡°And that¡¯s where we found you,¡± the warden says, gesturing Luis to sit. ¡°Exactly,¡± Luis says. ¡°You¡¯ve had the wrong guy the whole time.¡± ¡°I doubt that,¡± the warden says with a smile. ¡°We¡¯ve had the key to the entire operation under our noses this whole time. You played an integral role in the attempted coup against the Vanguard.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything,¡± Luis says, slapping his hand against his thigh. ¡°Of course, of course,¡± the warden says. ¡°So modest, aren¡¯t we?¡± ¡°What does that even mean?¡± ¡°It means that you will never see the light of day ever again,¡± the warden says, again with his trademark smile. ¡°You have helped us close the book on this¡ªall of it.¡± ¡°You said the Vanguard would commute my sentence! You said I was going to be free!¡± ¡°Indeed, we have commuted your sentence,¡± the warden says. ¡°You were going to be hooked up to the prison¡¯s computers to have you serve a ten-thousand-year sentence in solitary confinement in the virtual world. The worst possible arrangement, given that few survive before going permanently brain dead.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything!¡± ¡°Oh, but you did, 0984,¡± the warden responds. ¡°You were the linchpin that held together the entire opposition. Without your deft hand, the opposition wouldn¡¯t have reacted the way they did. They took an extreme option, something eerily reminiscent of what you ran in your precious simulations.¡± ¡°Whatever happened, I had no part in it. You must believe me.¡± ¡°Oh, I believe that you believe that you did nothing at all,¡± the warden says. ¡°It is funny how things work. It¡¯s funny how we trick ourselves into thinking that we had nothing to do with a crime. You will spend the rest of your days here, with me. You will serve your sentence like a good prisoner. And maybe, just maybe, you will have your sentence commuted again or you may be pardoned as a refined individual, repentant of your sins against humanity.¡± ¡°You can do this,¡± Luis says, dropping to his knees. ¡°You can be judge and jury. This is not how the law works.¡± ¡°You, lecturing me on the law,¡± the warden says, standing up. ¡°How pathetic. You and your kind had no respect for the law, and that is why the Vanguard was victorious, in the end.¡± ¡°I am to be tried without a jury of my peers?¡± Luis begins. ¡°I am to be condemned by a madman?¡± ¡°I am no madman, 0984.¡± ¡°You are, too.¡± ¡°No, no I am not,¡± the warden says. ¡°I am the fairest judge you will have in this lifetime, or any lifetime for that matter.¡± ¡°How can this be fair? I have been imprisoned for over ten years. I have taken each punishment, and I have told the truth every step of the way. What kind of justice is this?¡± ¡°A fool¡¯s justice,¡± the warden says, laughing. ¡°You are a fool to think that you earned some semblance of the old way¡¯s justice. The old way of doing things is exactly how we got here. Your oligarchic colleagues tore down society. You people left millions hungry. You people left entire generations in the dust, and you speak of justice. You speak of fairness, when you were never fair to those below you.¡± ¡°I¡¯m done with this,¡± Luis says. ¡°I¡¯m done. Kill me. Kill me now. Get this hell over with.¡± Before Luis can say anything more, the cyborg comes into the warden¡¯s office. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask you in here,¡± the warden says. The cyborg doesn¡¯t say anything. She walks up to the warden and smashes in his skull with her artificial hands. The crunch of bone causes Luis to vomit. Before he can react, the warden¡¯s dead body bleeds out onto the carpeted floor of his office. ¡°Do you want to see what happened to the world after you left it?¡± the cyborg asks, wiping the blood from its hands. Luis nods. The cyborg grabs his hand and leads him through a maze of hallways and doors and staircases. When the cyborg reaches a large airlock, she lets go of Luis¡¯s hand. ¡°I had enough of his lies,¡± the cyborg says. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°You will see.¡± The cyborg swipes an access card across the card reader next to the airlock¡¯s door. The door swings open slowly, and a bright, searing light pierces the damp darkness of the prison. ¡°You will see that the world has changed significantly,¡± the cyborg says. ¡°You will not recognize the new world.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Luis and the cyborg exit the blast door and step out into the bright sunlight. A heavy gust of wind nearly knocks Luis off his feet. The cyborg sees this and offers a hand. Luis takes it to steady himself. The world before him is a limitless desert. The skies are a deep sepia, and the sun a deep maroon. Thick, dark thunderheads sit above the horizon to the north. Buildings are no longer freestanding, but toppled over, smashed into rubble, pulverized into dust. ¡°What happened?¡± Luis asks. ¡°We did,¡± the cyborg says. ¡°Humans are a destructive lot. I joined the Vanguard thinking we were building the future. I never knew I¡¯d be a prison guard as the world ended.¡± ¡°What are we to do now?¡± ¡°We must rebuild, Luis,¡± the cyborg says. ¡°All of us must rebuild.¡± Rat Box Life''s a fuckin'' rat box, man. It was this bumper-sticker philosophy, this piece of colloquial knowledge and language, wrapped in texts and subtexts, that flashed before my sleep-deprived eyes. The phrase was like crash landing on the surface of the sun, with its ever-present, all-destroying heat engulfing you. Much like staring at the sun with naked eyes, contemplating its complexities and idiosyncrasies seared a blistering, blinding image into the mind''s eye. An eternal mental branding that one couldn¡¯t blink away. You just can''t fuckin'' blink it away, I thought. No matter what I do. It was this bumper-sticker philosophy that was tickling gray matter, and it was all I could think about, as I stripped down, removing my gray tennis first. I removed other hindrances as well: my dirty socks¡ªonce bleached white, with immaculately bright red stitching under the toes, now brown, gray, and white. The bright red stitching wasn''t as immaculate as it used to be, undoing itself from the once-white socks. There were holes strategically located at the tips of my left big toe and my right foot''s pinky toe. My jeans were removed next. They hadn¡¯t been properly washed in six months. I''d told close friends, who appeared concerned about such matters, this was because I didn''t want to ruin the cheap fabric, hoping to make them last longer, without the wear and tear that came with a washer and drier cycle. I might''ve even lied to them, saying I did such things for the good of the environment. My friends''d just smile and nod when appropriate, as if on autopilot. The truth was a bit more complicated when it came to my jeans. They just fit better. They didn''t hug my ass and groin in ways that washed jeans did. They were looser, something I preferred. They also just felt different when they''d gone unwashed. The belt that''d held up my loose-fitting jeans around my waist was old. Probably from when I was still an undergraduate at Yano State. The belt loop had fallen off in stages; it was probably real leather or possibly a cheap pleather, poorly stitched on my belt by someone making less than I would ever dream of, even in this shitty economy. The buckle sported splotches of patina and heavy wear marks¡ªcheap metal, I told myself, before I tossed the belt atop the pile of clothing. My t-shirt, removed last, was a classic from my early years in college, something that still managed to fit my post-graduate girth. It was tan-colored, and the fabric was threadbare. The t-shirt had a muscular caveman with his large club stenciled on the front, stretching from below where my chin would be to just below my belly button. A phrase was stenciled below the drawing: Let''s Go Clubbin''. As I finished my undressing, the bumper-sticker philosophy continued sounding off inside my skull kingdom, rattling around like some BBs shot into an aluminum can. I couldn''t quite place its origins at the moment. It didn''t really matter who said it, who uttered its vulgar yet complex phraseology, or in what context it was ushered into the world, the universe¡ª Life''s a fuckin'' rat box, man. ¡ªwhether it was my stepbrother, who served in the army for six years, wondering where the hell Uncle Sam was gonna send him next, or the state cop who''d pulled me over all those years ago in the dead of winter, saying I needed to get my ''rat nest'' of a glove box organized, or my father who used to work the nine-to-five grind as a corporate bureaucrat, soul dead and mind numbed, or even some student of mine, attempting to be philosophical in an English composition narrative. It was important¡ªand that was all I could assume¡ªeven now. I stretched out in my hairy birthday suit, and I looked at the rising sun. The sunrises were the thing I figured I''d miss the most about the simulation: Oily pastels of red, yellow, pink, and purple, smeared across a great canvas that was the sky. A faint blue, bleached by millennia of harsh sunlight and sapped of its brilliance due to a real lack of humidity in the air, sprawled out in every direction, without interruption from geology or architecture. I knew I wouldn¡¯t miss much else, or anyone else, for that matter, I thought. I scratched my right ass cheek and began walking toward the sunrise. The caliche soil¡ªhard, abrasive, and bone dry¡ªstuck to my toes, my feet, and my legs. Before long, my feet and my legs were a ghostly gray-white: It was as if I''d landed on the damned moon, only to still be on planet Earth, stuck in the simulation. I didn''t let this hindrance dissuade me from my mission. I was hoping, on that morning of all mornings, to find a way out of the simulation. I decided long ago the simulation wasn''t worth it anymore. It just wasn¡¯t friends. I guessed the best way to get out of the simulation was to play into its hand, to call its bluff: Killing myself through heat exhaustion or a rattlesnake bite. I figured the two were the inevitable outcomes of venturing off toward the horizon, amid a vast and unforgiving desert. You see, the universe has a mission. Like any good soldier, it is damned good at its mission. The universe believes its side will win, too. Just give it enough time. Time is the heavy artillery laced with white phosphorous rounds that brings us all down to our knees, capitulating to our attacker. It has a good body count, too: billions, trillions, possibly more. The universe''s mission is nothing more than to snuff us out, to extinguish the flame, and to allow no one, and I mean no one, to succeed in thwarting the will of the thing that created it. The problem is that the universe''s master, whatever or whoever it may be, made a mistake, and it has been trying to correct that mistake for some time. Think of the dinosaurs, may they rest in peace. Killed off. Snuffed out. Wiped off the face of the planet, extinguished from the universe completely even¡ªminus a few lucky bastards we still have around with us today. The universe and its creator had a tendency of creating shit they didn¡¯t understand, and they didn¡¯t have the balls to kill off entirely. I have decided to call the universe, and its unknown creator, on their fuckin'' bluff. I figured it was high time someone did. I figured I had nothin¡¯ else to lose at that point. That was why I was in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, armed with nothing more than a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter. I figured the ratlesnakes''d get me first. This was primo rattlesnake country, with plenty of sunning spots and far too many ambush locations. If all else failed, I had the heat. A few hours or days in the heat might be a bit painful, but it¡¯d do the trick. I lit up my first cigarette from a crushed yellow box with paperwhite interior. I inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine-laced smoke across my tongue and into my lungs. I then exhaled a cloud of smoke that obscured the reddish-yellow sun. I repeated those actions, feeding my nicotine monster, until I needed to light up a second cigarette. I smeared the spent cigarette against a nearby rock, careful not to start any wildfires in the process. My beef was with the universe and its creator, not the desert and its wildlife. They''d enough troubles as is. I didn''t need to be adding any. I scratched my ass again, and soldiered onward, moving past tufts of desert prairie grasses, large growths of Russian thistle, and the occasional flowering yucca. The desert that year had seen its divine plumbing shut down, despite the water following the plow nonsense the locals spouted on (and on) about. In town, about thirty miles to the south, trucks and cars alike have adopted their own bumper-sticker philosophy: PRAY FOR RAIN. Some people are just content with their prison cells. They were content with the simulation''s bars and its stale airs. They just sat there, taking it, as the shit was shoveled down their throats, with nothing sweet to drink to choke it all down. They didn''t question it, because that would''ve been blasphemous, and they¡¯d¡¯ve just shrugged it away and repeating, "It''s GAWD''s will. ''Is will be done." As for me, I was on a one-way trip to talk with management. I figured I had as good a chance as any of crashing the whole fuckin'' thing and gettin'' sent to the person or thing or whatever in charge of this shitshow. Whatever happened after that, I was sure it wouldn''t matter all that much. It was my big "FUCK YOU!" moment. I figured it was best to go out on your feet than on your knees as a supplicant, begging, praying, hoping, for tender mercies from whoever or whatever was in charge. I wasn''t out in the desert to ask for mercy. That was for those folks who didn''t know any better. I knew the universe was gonna come down with a hammer. Sometimes you pick the hammer, because there ain''t nothin¡¯ else. You might be concerned about my mental state, friends. I''m sure I would be, if I even cared anymore. My give-a-shitter had been broken for a while. But I promise this was the most lucid I''d felt in years. Sometimes clear thinkin'' looks like insanity to those only familiar with what the simulation force feeds them. Sometimes the madman isn''t mad. Sometimes, just sometimes, he scares the hell out of the truly insane with his talk. The thing was that I''d just had enough. I''d enough of the false intimacy of social media. I''d enough of living in a dying body, working for too little to pay off too much. I''d enough of the cognitive dissonance that gripped my life every day. This place was proof that hell was on Earth and that heaven was just another pipedream. I just wanted some answers¡ªthe kinds of answers no philosophers, no politicians, or no priests could answer in a satisfactory manner. All I was asking for was to have a few questions answered¡ªthat''s all. Really. Was that too much to ask for, folks? I didn''t think so, but I''d have to see what management''d to say about it. Life''s a fuckin'' rat box, man. I was just tryin'' to figure out who built the box, and why. I was trying to understand what my mammalian brain had trouble a-comprehendin''. If GAWD existed, or something was in charge, runnin¡¯ the great cosmic simulation, I wanted answers to those questions that kept me up at night. I wanted answers to the big questions, and even the little nagging ones. I just wanted someone to give me straight answers to my line of questioning. I was tired of being bullshitted, just for the sake of keeping up appearances, for saving face, or for keeping the simulation runnin'' smoothly. By my third cigarette, I was good and awake, still walking toward the rising sun. The heat was beginning to claw at my naked hide. I could tell that it was gonna be a scorcher. The weather woman appeared to be spot on with her predictions. Record-breaking heat, with triple-digit temperatures, and no relief from clouds or cooler winds. I figured the inevitability of dying of heat exhaustion would play out for me. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. I stopped at a nearby boulder split in three by a now-dead tree. The dead tree¡¯s branches were the stuff of pure nightmare fuel: Warped arms with jabbed fingers, clawing at anything it might be able to grab onto. I gave the dead tree another looking over or two before I leaned up against one of the three boulder pieces. I lit another cigarette, stamping out the spent one on the rock behind me, before dropping the crushed butt to the ground. I let my cigarette hang precariously on the edge of my lip, as I stared out at the desert. I leaned into the boulder a bit more, letting my back and ass flatten against the rock¡¯s smooth surface. I then tilted my head upward, looking up at the blue sky. Chemtrails crisscrossed the blue canvas above. A few wisps of clouds dotted the blue as well. I sat there for what felt like an hour, smoking one cigarette after another, thinking about what was beyond the simulation. I¡¯ve imagined a million different scenarios, each stranger than the next. Maybe there was nothing? At least nothing would answer a few questions, but it¡¯d bring up millions more. Maybe the universe was just the experiment of some child, who was trying to create the very best science project she could? Or, maybe, just maybe, it was the Singularitarians looking to explain how they got where they were? Fuck if I knew. I would be able to answer those questions soon enough, though. Heat or fuckin¡¯ rattlesnake. Enjoy your steak, friends, because that was what you¡¯re stuck with. I smiled to myself, and I popped another cigarette into my mouth, only to realize that I had run out of cigarettes. I shrugged it off, lit the last cigarette, and looked down at the ground. I felt myself jerk backward toward the boulder. It was a dead rattlesnake! The snake was bloated, barely noticeable, as it was covered in caliche dust and bits of dead vegetation. Its innards were blown out its side. A tiny rodent¡¯s foot could be seen among the carnage. After my balls dropped out of my throat, I walked over to the snake¡¯s corpse. I took a deep drag from my cigarette and exhaled. The snake was dead, but I almost felt sorry for the damned thing. I knelt next to it and gave the snake a thorough looking over. Something did a number to the rattlesnake, and I almost wanted to congratulate the thing that did the killing. The snake¡¯s eyes were milky white, and the skin was shredded, peeling away from bones in areas along the length of its reptilian body. The damn thing stunk, too. I stood up, dusting off my knees. I finished my last cigarette and flicked it into a patch of dirt and rock. Wisps of smoke emanated from its smoldering end. I stretched again, scratched my ass, and turned around to face the broken boulder. I spotted a large burn mark on the boulder piece I used as a resting place a few moments before. I shook it off at first, but something in the back of my mind kept nagging at me to inspect it closer. I decided I had nothing better to do, and I gave in to my curiosity. The universe and its creator could wait. I figured I could still satisfy some earthly urges before I continued my suicide mission against the simulation. As I moved closer to the burn mark, I felt a small breeze kick up from nowhere. Once in front of the burn spot, I found that it was quite large, larger than anything that should¡¯ve been possible with a quick cigarette dabbing. I went to touch the burn mark with my finger, and my fuckin¡¯ finger went through, as if there was a hole in solid rock. I rubbed my finger along the burn mark¡¯s edges and lifted my finger up toward my nose. It smelled like burnt paper. Even my finger was black and gray from touching the sooty edges. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to wipe away the ash, and I looked back at the burn mark. Life¡¯s a fuckin¡¯ rat box, man, I thought to myself. Sometimes the box isn¡¯t made of what you¡¯d expect. Sometimes the prison cell bars are made of tinfoil, and the security cameras aren¡¯t plugged in. I placed both hands on either side of the large hole. I grabbed a hold of what was on the other side, and I began tearing at it. It took a few minutes of real effort, and I found myself sweating from all of the exertions. I wished I had another cigarette, but I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. When the boulder¡¯s paper-like substance finally gave in, I was sweating gobs of sweat down my neck, back, and ass crack. The heat didn¡¯t concern me anymore. I didn¡¯t care if a rattlesnake got me now. I just wanted to see if this all led out of the simulation. It must, I thought. It must go somewhere, anywhere else. I stepped back from the large hole. It was a gaping maw, toothless, dark, and ominous. A gentle breeze of sterilized air wafted across my sweaty face and chest. The breeze was coming from the large hole I¡¯d torn in the boulder. I found this intriguing, albeit not for the reasons you would be thinkin¡¯. (It checked off certain boxes, and it may have answered a few questions concerning the nature of the simulation.) I moved closer to the hole, and I kept tearing at the edges of the hole. I kept ripping away pieces of the mysterious paper-like substance. I threw these pieces of paper over my head and shoulders, and I wiped away the sweat from my eyes after each tossing. The breeze was stronger now, more pronounced than it was before. I kept tearing, feeling the strength being sapped from my fingers, arms, and back. I ignored the pain that inevitably came from such exertion. I¡¯d torn away more paper without looking at what I¡¯d been tearing apart. When the hole was large enough for me to walk through it, the sun was overhead. The heat was gnawing at my naked body, and I could feel the heat emanating from my hide¡ªan early sunburn had already set in. The cold breeze from the human-sized hole in the boulder caused the hairs on my arms and neck to stand up. I felt gooseflesh bubbling up on my arms and on the back of my neck. My nipples were pert, and my dick was hard. I rolled my neck from side to side. I also cracked my knuckles. I backed up a few paces and decided this was my ¡°FUCK IT!¡± moment. This was the moment when I got out of the Matrix and figured out what the hell was going on. I ran toward the gaping hole; the breeze had turned into a hefty gale. I shielded my eyes from dust and debris kicked up by the wind. I counted the number of paces before I was on the other side. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The darkness came. It was ever-present, oppressive. The sterility of the air on the other side burned my lungs, and I could feel myself losing consciousness. I figured this was it. This was what happened when you tried to escape the simulation. You became nothing. You were nothing. Merely information in a machine, nothing more than that, if that. On the other side, I felt as if I was floating, bobbin¡¯ up and down on an invisible ocean. It was a cold ocean. It was a vast ocean. I felt only the warmth of my own body, and nothing else. After a few minutes, I began to hear voices¡ªall mine. Each voice came from a different time, a different place. Each voice was crammed inside my skull kingdom, fighting for the right to be heard and known. I felt myself cringing at the sound of the voices. I screamed, but nothing came out. I yelled at the cacophonous chatter to stop, but this only made the voices, my voices, louder, more pronounced than before. They scratched at the inside of my skull, trying to claw their way out of my head. I felt a scream, but no sound escaped my mouth. Consciousness slipped away, bleeding into the nether of the other side: el otro lado. As this happened, I felt like I was being pulled in all directions, and yet I felt inert. I felt weighed down by gravity and forces that I couldn¡¯t understand, now or later. This was not what I wanted. This was not the good night I¡¯d hoped for, even during my darkest hours. I wanted a sit down with management. I wanted something else¡ªgoddamnit! # I awoke in a white-walled room: Sterile, cold, and immaculate. I laid on the floor, looking up at the bright overhead lights. They buzzed like electric cicadas, with too much juice flowing through their circuitry, droning for reasons only known to them. The sound of computers working ceaselessly also filled the air. The room¡¯s AC made me shiver. ¡°You¡¯re in a restricted area,¡± a voice said. I ignored the voice, and I focused on the lights. This is what getting out of the simulation entailed? I thought to myself. The voice became more distinct as a figure, round head, square chin, and large eyes and nose, appeared at the edge of my vision. ¡°You¡¯re in a restricted area,¡± he repeated. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be here. No one but me is supposed to be here. Where the fuck did you come from?¡± I looked over at the round-headed man, but I stayed put. I simply shrugged and kept still, or as still as I could manage, my sweaty back and ass were smashed flat against cold concrete tiles. ¡°Can you talk?¡± the round-headed man asked. He wore blue overalls and from the sounds of it, he also sported work boots. His face was clean shaven, and his head was thick with salt-and-pepper hair, cut short. I pushed myself up, and I looked around the room. It looked like a run-of-the-mill server room, something I¡¯d seen in numerous television shows and on late night news streams. It was a manicured forest of lights, glass, metal, and wire. ¡°Hey, pal,¡± round-head yelled. ¡°Do you fuckin¡¯ speak?¡± I nodded and said, ¡°Sure do.¡± This surprised round-head, who stepped back when I said this. He inched closer after a few moments, holding a broom handle. He poked me with the broom¡¯s handle twice. Once in the chest, and another time in my arm. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be here,¡± he said. ¡°Where did you come from? I need to know.¡± I shrugged and said, ¡°I escaped the fuckin¡¯ Matrix, man.¡± ¡°The wha¡ª?¡± ¡°¡ªthe fuckin¡¯ simulation, dude,¡± I answered, pushing myself onto my feet. ¡°I¡¯m here to talk with management.¡± ¡°Ummm,¡± round-head said. ¡°I don¡¯t think so, pal.¡± ¡°What d¡¯you mean?¡± I asked. ¡°I thought management had an open-door policy?¡± Round-head laughed and said, ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re fuckin¡¯ talking about, but management doesn¡¯t like it when you all try escape the simulation, as you all like to call it.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± I asked. ¡°Because they don¡¯t,¡± round-head answered. ¡°Man, this is gonna be a shit ton of paperwork. You¡¯ve really fucked up my day, pal.¡± I shrugged and said, ¡°Sorry, dude.¡± ¡°This just isn¡¯t good,¡± round-head muttered to himself, and then continued, ¡°We¡¯ve got to take corrective action, Gerry.¡± ¡°Gerry?¡± ¡°Fuck off!¡± Gerry yelled. ¡°There¡¯s only one way to handle this, Gerry. We send ¡®im back. They won¡¯t ask questions if they don¡¯t know this happened in the first place.¡± ¡°What?¡± I asked, moving closer to Gerry. Gerry twirled his broom around to where the business end was pointed in my direction. He said, ¡°Stay the fuck back. I don¡¯t know what kind of contaminants you¡¯ve brought with you.¡± ¡°Gerry,¡± I said, looking him in the eyes. ¡°I just want to talk with management¡ªthat¡¯s all. Honest, Gerry.¡± Gerry nodded and said, ¡°Sure. Everyone does.¡± ¡°What does that even mean?¡± I asked, trying to inch closer. ¡°They always want to see management,¡± Gerry muttered again. ¡°Seems like a problem with the programming. I¡¯ll have to update the kernel. Maybe that will work? Maybe see if they got another security update, or a patch of some kind to keep them from escaping?¡± ¡°Gerry¡ª¡± Gerry flipped the broom around and smashed the handle into my right temple. I heard bells and saw stars. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. Gerry muttered something I didn¡¯t understand, and he dragged my body somewhere, away from the servers. My naked body felt numb, and my tongue felt like I drank a gallon of dry sand. ¡°Where are you taking me, Gerry?¡± I asked, barely able to see or talk. ¡°Where you fuckin¡¯ belong,¡± Gerry responded, before dropping my body back into the darkness. # You see, life¡¯s a fuckin¡¯ rat box, man. You try to escape the goddamned Matrix, and you piss off the only person you find on the other side: a technician, who is afraid to lose his job, afraid of paperwork. When I came to, I found myself on the other side of the three-split boulder. Next to me is a sun-bleached skeleton, about my height, with a pack of cigarettes and a cheap cigarette lighter in hand. I grabbed the remaining cigarette, which was dusty and crunchy between my lips. I shook the lighter first and then lit the cigarette. I looked up at the sky, and I found that the sun was about halfway toward the horizon, inching closer to the end of the day. I figured I still had time to escape the simulation again. Maybe next time, I would be able to see management. Life¡¯s a fuckin¡¯ rat box, man. Quiet Is Violent Hari Weber, who went by ¡°Skittles¡± in the military, never liked taking shortcuts in life. He never thought about taking the roads traveled by others. He wasn¡¯t like his cousin, Luis, who tried every money-making scheme he could to get out of northern Arizona and into one of those fancy mansions he saw in his secondhand copies of Architectural Digest. Nor was Hari like his father, who sold bootlegged movies (and music) and black-market electronics at flea markets up in Utah or Colorado. No, Hari¡¯d taken the roads less traveled¡ªor so he thought. His way had gotten him away from his no-name hometown in northern Arizona, where family members still lived in what tourists called ¡°hovels.¡± These hovels were still largely ignored by the wealthier Arizonans. His family, and the Arizonans he shared a culture with, had roots in the land far longer than most. Knowing this, Hari¡¯s family seemed content living within the confines of their small town. Hari never much liked his hometown; he was told that he was too smart, too determined to get away, rising too far above his lot in life. He scoffed at those who told him such things. He wanted to be a writer, a world traveler, and he decided that the recruiter¡¯s sweet talk, something too many kids from his hometown knew about, enticed Hari enough to leave, to pursue his dreams. Things changed when Hari entered the Service. Its structure, its greater purpose, and its routines washed away all of those silly ideas he had inside his head¡ªthat is, being a writer and a world traveler. He believed in the ¡°We only see green¡± mantra they kept telling him, even though there were plenty of contradictions when it came to this. Hari ignored them the best he could, and he soldiered onward. Hari had the shiniest boots, the best-kept uniform, and the look and body of a career soldier¡ªalthough he¡¯d been a bit ganglier than most in his unit. He sneered at those who couldn¡¯t keep their uniforms perfect or their boots mirror-shined, something that made officers smile with fatherly pride. He laughed, privately, at those who broke tape¡ªjust like the others did¡ª, and he secretly jeered at them as they walked away, their heads hung in shame. He believed in the cause of the ADF¡ªthe Sword and Shield of the Second Republic. It was above him, far greater than him, and he respected the call that all his brothers and sisters answered. Then shit went sideways. The docs told him he had severe PTSD, and they saw him fit only for a quick discharge. He then found himself out on his ass, left to wander the Wasteland that used to be Arizona and New Mexico. He tried going home, but something was missing when he arrived. Family and childhood friends treated him differently. He was the good little soldier boy, the golden boy who got away and left everyone behind. He was too good for them. So, Hari left, wandering from town or village to the next (and the next, and the next). The shortcut Hari took was supposed to get him to the other side of the mountain range without dying of heat exhaustion, thirst, or even hunger. He¡¯d never wandered this far south, near the bootheel of what used to be New Mexico, the state that died with the Great Drought. He normally stayed near his usual stomping grounds, near the northern parts of Arizona and New Mexico, or what was left of them. The pickings¡¯d started getting slimmer and slimmer each year. Rumors circulated among those homeless men and women Hari talked with. These rumors suggested the government and large development corporations were looking to rebuild the old towns and cities to the south, in what used to be southwestern New Mexico. He remembered his German grandfather saying things always worked in cycles. The desert was no different: cycles of civilization, collapse, and civilization reborn. By day, Hari followed the older, lesser-known highways, which were cracked, sand-blasted, and sun-bleached, and completely ignored by unsavory types, who tended to wander this far south. The occasional rattlesnake sounding off made his heart jump and his balls lodged deep inside his scrotum. He always managed to leave the rattlesnakes behind, unscathed and a bit thankful for such tender mercies from Mother Nature. By night, Hari built what his white teachers called an Indian fire¡ªsmall, warm, comforting, and hard to spot from a distance. They¡¯d taught him similar firemaking when he was in the military, as part of the basic survival training the ADF gave all recruits, before shipping them off to disparate places across the globe. Hari also ate whatever food he had available, and then he took the medicine he had been given during his last visit to the V.A. clinic. It was supposed to help him, but he felt the pills never worked. The nightmares kept coming. Sleep kept getting shorter and less meaningful. He took the meds anyway, as it was better than nothing, he reasoned. They helped him get some sleep, he guessed, even if that sleep was a couple of hours at most. Hari didn¡¯t mind the walking all that much. The routine that came with walking appealed to him, much like the routines he¡¯d experienced in the Service. He missed the Service and its routines. Civilian life just didn¡¯t compare to those days. He still wore the uniform, although it was a bit tattered, worn thin from years of being outdoors and the numerous hand-washings. He still wore the uniform with pride¡ªeven though his family and childhood friends told him he didn¡¯t need to anymore. His friends and family members reasoned that Hari didn¡¯t owe the military his loyalty, considering he was discharged and left to fend for himself. Hari also kept his face clean-shaven, his hair was regulation, and his hygiene was second to none, despite being homeless. Hari¡¯s walking pushed him past the mountains, with little water and barely enough food to last him another day. In the distance, he saw what looked like a military compound, complete with concrete Jersey barriers, fencing, and guard towers. Normally, he wouldn¡¯t have bothered walking toward such an installation. He knew they wouldn¡¯t be allowed to give water and food to someone without the right credentials, but, something inside of him, the thing that kept him alive for five years, egged him on to walk toward the compound. As he did so, Hari drank the last of his water, hoping he¡¯d find more soon. He didn¡¯t like the idea of dying of thirst out in the desert. He¡¯d seen the survival training pictures and simulations of those who¡¯d been unlucky enough to die of thirst. Their bodies didn¡¯t look all that different from his own. The heat of the southwestern New Mexico desert was unlike anything he¡¯d experienced in his life. The short hike to the compound took two days because the yellow-white sun just didn¡¯t give in. Hari was out of water. He¡¯d normally walk during the night and rest during the day, but his gut told him the terrain might be safer traversed with more light. Hari tried drinking his piss, but he couldn¡¯t get over the smell of the beer-colored urine. He even tried pinching his nose, hoping it would kill the taste, even for a moment. It didn¡¯t work. He vomited the last of the food he¡¯d eaten a few hours before. He felt more dehydrated. Hari felt like someone had taken ball-peen hammers to his joints and muscles. His mouth filled with cotton and sand, his tongue swollen, and his eyes bled away whatever moisture his body still had left to give, to propitiate the angry sun. He prayed to the universe, hoping it would offer him some cloud or a rainstorm, or anything. All he wanted was water and respite from the yellow-white sun, the angry god that sought to punish him. He shouldn¡¯t have listened to his gut. He should¡¯ve walked at night and slept during the day. Whatever fears his gut had about night didn¡¯t seem to hold up against the searing-hot sun that hung over his wilting head. By the end of the second day, Hari found himself at the gates of the compound. The guardhouse stood empty and quiet. He saw a dozen cameras, peering down at him and the gate He grabbed ahold of the gate¡¯s wrought iron bars, feeling his knees buckle under the weight of his tired body. The heat of the concrete and blacktop burned his legs and arms, despite being covered. He felt himself slipping away into the darkness, the yellow-white sun the harbinger of his inevitable fate. *** Hari came to a building that looked to be fashioned from prefabricated parts and set up in a hurry. The walls inside were a utilitarian white, with a single gray stripe painted horizontally so as to bifurcate the walls uniformly. The bed Hari lay in was covered in intricate machines, each, for the most part, with a purpose beyond his comprehension. Each machine attached to the bedframe and the wall behind him chirped, beeped, or chimed, oblivious to the others in the room. One machine in particular, a levitating rhombus, the color of a deep, blue glacial lake, checked on what Hari believed to be his vital signs, every few hours. It chirped at the machines attached to the bedframe and the wall behind Hari, and those machines fired back, with whines, whistles, and beeps of their own. The room itself was sterile like a hospital room might be, like the one Hari spent long nights in after leaving the ADF. Yet, the room didn¡¯t feel like it belonged inside a hospital. Hari felt he was holed up in some kind of detention cell. He felt like someone was constantly watching him, poking and prodding him with their eyes and their invisible instruments. He felt like someone¡¯s science experiment in a prisoner of war camp, rather than a patient receiving much-needed medical treatment. The rhomboid arrived, every five or six hours, with small portions of food and fluids. The food itself looked unappealing at first, but Hari found that he was much hungrier than he realized. He wolfed down what the rhombus brought him, forgetting to breathe between bites. Hari nearly choked on the food, and he had to remind himself to slow down. The rhomboid would then return and remove the serving trays once Hari was finished eating each meal. It was all like clockwork. Routine. Routine. Routine. And something kept staring at Hari. What exactly? He couldn¡¯t fathom. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his primal urges to fight or flight started to kick in. The machines intervened, injecting something into Hari¡¯s bloodstream. He felt relaxed for the first time, and he felt nothing after a few moments. He felt nothing more than the sweet insouciance that came with the sedatives he was given. Then sleep came once again. *** When Hari came to the second time, he noticed his surroundings had changed. He was no longer in the utilitarian-white room, with the bifurcating gray stripe. Hari found himself in what appeared to be an old corrugated steel hangar. An old Cessna sat in the far corner, partially covered with a weathered tarpaulin. The hangar was filled with banks of computers, a server room enclosed in Plexiglas, and a lot of stuff Hari couldn¡¯t identify. At his bedside, he noticed an older woman¡ªshort with well-kept hair, thick, black-rimmed glasses, and what Hari assumed to be comfortable shoes. ¡°Glad to see that you¡¯re awake, Hari,¡± the woman said. ¡°How do you feel?¡± Hari shrugged and said, ¡°I don¡¯t know. Warmed over dog shit, I guess.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s a better state than what we found you in,¡± the woman commented. ¡°My name is Maria. You can call me that, and only that.¡± ¡°Where am I, Maria?¡± Hari asked. ¡°For that information, you¡¯ll need to talk with the Founder,¡± Maria answered. ¡°The Founder?¡± Hari asked, pushing up from his bed. ¡°Yes,¡± Maria answered. ¡°Do you feel up for a brief walk then?¡± Hari nodded and said, ¡°I don¡¯t know. Should I do that? How bad of shape was I in?¡± ¡°I can honestly say that we brought you back from death, Hari,¡± Maria replied. ¡°You¡¯re lucky our security officers were able to respond as quickly as they did. Most of our security apparatuses are automated these days. We usually don¡¯t see people around here¡ªit¡¯s one of the many things the desert has bestowed on our little project.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad someone found me,¡± Hari said, with a loud sigh. ¡°Do you feel ready to see the Founder?¡± Maria asked. Hari nodded again and replied, ¡°I should thank the person who¡¯s responsible for all of this. I¡¯d be dead right now if it weren¡¯t for you guys.¡± ¡°Well, we¡¯ll see how appreciative you are after meeting the Founder,¡± Maria stated. Maria stood up from her small chair and offered Hari a hand. He swiped it away, before grabbing ahold of the edge of his bed to pull himself up. On his feet, Hari¡¯s legs felt unsure of the weight being placed on them. They felt mushy, without solid form. After a few steps, Hari managed to get the feeling back in his legs and feet, but something didn¡¯t feel right. Maria motioned for him to follow her across the hangar. He did and wished for something cold to drink. His mouth was still filled with cotton and sand, his tongue partially swollen, and his head spinning. ¡°You¡¯ll be required to sign an NDA,¡± Maria declared, waving off the moment of silence between them. ¡°It¡¯s standard protocol for situations like these¡ªalthough they¡¯re quite rare, Hari.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Hari said with a shrug. His head was still spinning, and his mouth needed moisture. ¡°Whatever you need, Maria. I¡¯ll be happy to keep whatever corporate or government projects around here secret¡ªif that¡¯s what you all want.¡± ¡°Do you have any form of employment?¡± Maria asked. The line of questioning seemed a bit odd to Hari, but he assumed it might be for legal reasons to know why he happened to be wandering this deep into the desert. ¡°No,¡± Hari answered with a nervous laugh. ¡°Gainfully unemployed these days.¡± ¡°What about military experience?¡± Maria asked, looking back at Hari. ¡°We noticed you were wearing fatigues.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Hari answered with a nod. ¡°I served ten years in the ADF.¡± ¡°That¡¯s quite impressive, Hari,¡± Maria said, giving him a quick once over. ¡°I served with the ADF as well. Fifteen years.¡± ¡°Interesting, Maria.¡± ¡°You¡¯re among brothers and sisters, Hari,¡± Maria said. ¡°Most of us have served. That is a requirement for working here.¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°So,¡± Hari said, ¡°why are you telling me all of this, Maria?¡± ¡°We want to offer you a job, Hari,¡± Maria answered. ¡°So, that¡¯s what this is all about,¡± Hari said. ¡°Don¡¯t be so na?ve, Hari,¡± Maria said and stopped before a gunmetal gray door. ¡°We know a lot about you. We did our homework when you were under.¡± ¡°Why does that not comfort me in the slightest?¡± Hari asked, leaning up against a nearby wall. He muttered a few words, thanking the universe for the relief. ¡°It will soon enough, Hari,¡± Maria said. ¡°Your appointment is on the other side.¡± *** The room on the other side of the gunmetal gray door was poorly lit and dominated by a polished conference table with leather and steel swivel chairs. Hari plopped down in one of the chairs and crossed his tired and sore arms across his chest. The lights dimmed even more, except for those at the other end of the table. A shadow of a man, or even possibly a woman, Hari couldn¡¯t tell, appeared at the lit end of the table. ¡°Hello, Hari,¡± an asexual voice said, fuzzy from some kind of latency issues. They used to have the same problems, halfway across the world, in the ADF with teleconferencing. ¡°You¡¯ve come a long way, haven¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Hari said, unsure of what to say. ¡°Your wandering has come to an end, my friend. You are no longer going to be a homeless veteran. That is one of the political travesties of this fine country. We¡¯ve managed to unite the entire continent democratically, but we can¡¯t seem to protect those who¡¯ve protected us and our interests. I hope to solve that problem one day¡ªone day very soon¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªso why am I here again?¡± Hari interrupted, raising his hand. ¡°Because I want to give you gainful employment,¡± the shadowy figure answered. ¡°I believe in taking care of our own, even if the parliamentarians don¡¯t.¡± ¡°What kind of job are we talkin¡¯ about?¡± Hari asked. ¡°I will get to that soon, my friend,¡± the shade answered. ¡°For now, I want you to know something. We are at the precipice of the greatest epoch in human existence¡ªand that¡¯s no exaggeration. As you may have heard, I am the Founder. I founded this endeavor that surrounds you all now. It took the better part of three decades to do so, as old as the Second Republic itself. What you haven¡¯t been told is the purpose of this facility. Its purpose is quite simple; so simple that people often laugh at it when they learn of its purpose. We¡¯re here to predict and change the future.¡± ¡°Wow,¡± Hari said, wondering if the Founder was one of those looney corporate types he¡¯d been warned about. ¡°It may be hard to believe, but I assure you that it is very real. The facility around you is the largest experiment of its kind in human history. It has been one of the most profitable as well. We try to explore potential trends and capitalize on those trends before anyone else can. Some might call it cheating; others might call it a crime against humanity. I prefer to see it as fair competition. If others want to do the same, they will have to spend the trillions we¡¯ve sunk into this project.¡± ¡°Okay, okay,¡± Hari interrupted. ¡°Time out on the play, coach. I need a cold drink before I can get any deeper into the bullshit here.¡± ¡°Drinks are provided in the minifridge next to the door,¡± the Founder said in all seriousness. ¡°As for the bullshit, I will prove something to you.¡± ¡°What?¡± Hari asked, moving toward the mini-fridge. ¡°The reasons why you came down this way,¡± the Founder offered. ¡°All right,¡± Hari replied, before grabbing a cold soda from the mini-fridge. ¡°I¡¯m game, boss.¡± ¡°If our information from the prolegomenon is correct,¡± the Founder mumbled. ¡°Your journey southward can be pinned to your need to make a living, to support yourself. You couldn¡¯t do that up north, so you traveled southbound. How am I doing so far?¡± ¡°Good,¡± Hari answered, taking a swig from the cold soda. ¡°Anyone might know that, though. Not exactly hard to work out on your own.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got a good deal more,¡± the Founder admitted. ¡°You served in the ADF¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªyeah, so what?¡± ¡°But you never tell people why you almost left before they discharged you, do you, Hari?¡± ¡°What are you talking about, coach?¡± Hari asked, taking another sip from his soda. ¡°You almost left the ADF after a close friend died during a rather nasty deployment. He was a brother to you. His name was Kip. Kip came from Kenya, and he wanted to get his citizenship through the ADF. You wanted to help him. You two bonded, and, then, he died in a roadside ambush in Central Africa¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªthat¡¯s enough, coach,¡± Hari said. His heart sank. He hadn¡¯t thought of Kip in nearly six months. Kip was his friend, yes; he was his brother. Kip was more than that, too. Kip could be depended on. Kip would listen, even when Hari didn¡¯t make much sense. ¡°We want to offer you employment here, in this facility,¡± the Founder continued. ¡°We want you to get better. All we ask in return is six months. After that, you are free to leave, to wander the desert to your heart¡¯s content.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the catch, coach?¡± Hari asked, sitting up in his chair. ¡°No catch at all, Hari,¡± the Founder replied. ¡°There¡¯s always a catch,¡± Hari replied. ¡°Always.¡± ¡°You will need to sign an NDA, you will have to stay within the confines of this facility, and you will have to report all findings to your case officer, Maria.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound too bad, coach,¡± Hari commented with a whistle. ¡°No, I¡¯m sure it doesn¡¯t, Hari,¡± the Founder said. ¡°So, what do you say?¡± *** Hari¡¯s new quarters were sparse: Utilitarian-white walls with a bifurcating gray stripe. A twin-sized mattress with a black metal frame and a particleboard dresser were the only furniture that occupied the space. A cramped bathroom sat adjacent to the bed and dresser. Hari¡¯d signed the NDA the best he could with his good hand. He closed and locked the door after Maria left him. The room itself gave him some comfort. He liked the idea of having a roof over his head. He could shower when he needed to, not when it was affordable. He checked the room over, looking for anything that might be out of place or missing. He found nothing and decided to drink another can of soda before falling asleep. When sleep finally came, things were more violent than previously. Oddly enough the world of his dreams was muted as well. A roadside ambush and causalities. Not exactly something Hari had signed up for when he joined the Service. It was another one of those odd films that played (and played again) in one¡¯s mind when one needed some real sleep. Something that never really went away. Something Hari wished would leave him alone and for good. At least it was quick. The ambush lasted a few moments. The only problem with the dream was with who died in it: Kip. His face was a pile of goo and broken teeth and shattered bone. His body lay there, limp and still warm in the burning heat of Central Africa. Hari felt tears making their way down his stubble-covered face. He felt helpless and alone. He¡¯d never felt that alone before. It felt like someone, or something had ripped away what made him a living person at that very moment. Then he felt himself sobbing, blubbering really, and slamming a gloved fist against the wall of the armored vehicle. It wasn¡¯t fair. It just wasn¡¯t fair. *** The next morning, Maria brought Hari fresh fatigues, missing the patches. Hari didn¡¯t mind the new fatigues. He felt different in a cleaner set. Maria even brought him new boots, clean and without holes. They even had the right laces. Hari took this as a sign that he was meant to be there. He took a five-minute shower, shaved, trimmed his hair, and brushed his teeth. He then donned the uniform Maria gave him, hoping it would mean a change in his life¡ªand for the better. Once finished, Hari followed Maria to the mess hall, where a dozen or so workers were enjoying an early breakfast. Muffled conversations filled the hall, and they grew louder when Hari and Maria were in sight. Hari grabbed everything he could¡ªsugary cereal, toast, eggs, bacon, sausage, cottage cheese, milk, and juice. He shoveled his food into his mouth at a rate that Maria had to remind him he could eat as much as he liked. Nothing was going to change that. He slowed down after this reminder. Hari looked around, taking note of the faces in the room, before eating more of his food. ¡°Your first assignment today is going to be pretty disorienting,¡± Maria said. ¡°D¡¯you know how to swim?¡± Hari laughed and answered, ¡°Sure do, Maria.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Maria commented with a nod. ¡°Finish up, so we can get to work.¡± ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Hari said, wolfing down the last sausage patty and a slice of toast on his tray. He washed it all down with the remnants of his milk and juice. ¡°You ready?¡± Maria asked. ¡°Where do I go swimming out in the desert?¡± Hari asked, getting ready to put up his tray. ¡°You¡¯ll see,¡± Maria answered. ¡°You can leave your tray here. The dining hall staff will take care of it. That is, after all, why we¡¯ve hired them.¡± Hari nodded and said, ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Where do we go from here?¡± *** Maria led Hari to another section of the facility, ignoring any questions he had until she swiped her fob in front of a red metal door with stenciled white lettering. The lettering read, ¡°AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. SECURITY CAMERAS IN USE.¡± ¡°This should answer some of your questions, Hari,¡± Maria said, after pushing open the door. ¡°What do you see?¡± Hari looked inside. He saw what looked like a swimming pool with black water, but it didn¡¯t seem to act like water. Now waves, no movement. ¡°Looks like a swimming pool,¡± Hari answered. ¡°Also looks like you guys need to clean the water.¡± ¡°Huh,¡± Maria commented. ¡°You will need to take your uniform off. The pool tends to stain clothes.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have a swimsuit,¡± Hari said. ¡°You¡¯ll have to go in naked,¡± Maria said. ¡°Naked?¡± Hari asked. ¡°Naked,¡± Maria replied. ¡°You¡¯re the boss,¡± Hari muttered. ¡°What happens once I¡¯m in the water?¡± ¡°Who said it was water?¡± ¡°Do I need to worry about anything, Maria?¡± ¡°Nope,¡± Maria answered. ¡°The rest will come naturally.¡± ¡°Okay,¡± Hari said with a nod. ¡°Not inspiring any kind of confidence in me, Maria.¡± ¡°Trust me,¡± Maria said. ¡°You¡¯ll find that your first experience in the prolegomenon is quite disorienting but enjoyable.¡± ¡°Enjoyable?¡± ¡°Yes, enjoyable is the word I would use for it.¡± ¡°Okay,¡± Hari said. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about anything once you are in,¡± Maria remarked. ¡°Let the fluid do what it needs to.¡± ¡°Sure will, boss.¡± ¡°One other thing, Hari,¡± Maria said. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t forget that you¡¯ve a job to do.¡± ¡°Sure enough,¡± Hari replied. ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind, boss.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Maria said. ¡°Now take your clothes off and jump in. I¡¯ll be in the control room, monitoring you from there.¡± Before Hari could say anything, Maria disappeared. * * * Hari floated in the blackwater pool. He floated in silence. Silence was unlike anything he had felt since leaving the military. Hari felt as if he was bobbing up and down on the waves of some glacial lake his father took the family to. However, Hari was dry to the touch, like floating on an invisible current of air. He also felt the warmth of the dark liquid surrounding him. The dark fluid cradled his body, protecting it, connecting it to something Hari couldn¡¯t fathom. He could see, but not with his own two eyes. Something was mediating his sight for him, censoring what it did not want him to see. He felt the presence of a million living and warm bodies smashed up against one another. A million sets of eyes were watching him at that moment, too, judging him, admiring the curves of his muscles, his brown skin, and his hairless chest, examining his scars and numerous calluses. A million murmurs filled his ears. Each murmur was in a different language, alien tongues all¡ªall languages were foreign to him, blocked from his mind. Wiped away from the deepest depths of his memory. In the floating warmth, Hari thought of his home in northern Arizona, a place of little consequence to the wider world. He imagined the social-credit utopias on the West Coast, just on the horizon of his mind, with their great skyscrapers, bullet trains, and celebrities. The warmth of the blackwater pool was that of a cool night in the desert, a time for drinking and eating food. A time for respite from the burning-hot sun that bleached the sky and sapped the strength of the strongest woman or man. It was during this time of respite that Hari would read from his favorite paperback, The Adventures of Gonzo the RoboChimp & the D-Team, in the firelight or moonlight. Then the voices came. At first, it was light a trickle, a small creek running down the rusted hillside near his home in northern Arizona. The trickle tickling Hari¡¯s inner ear took hold of his limbs, and he then felt himself sinking into the black fluid, like someone might sink into quicksand. The trickle turned into a roaring, gushing noise that rattled his inner ear, pushed up against his eyeballs, and made his skull feel like it was being split in two. He kept sinking into the liquid darkness. His heart slammed against his chest as if it were a caged animal desperately trying to escape. His lungs felt as if they had been weighed down by wet concrete. His limbs sunk deeper and faster than the rest of his body. Panic. Panic hit him like a lightning bolt, but something, deep in the back of his mind, told him that everything was fine. He would survive. He would see another day. He just needed to trust his instincts, and his instincts were telling him to let the fluid overcome him, to wash over his naked body, to be consumed in its darkness. *** Amidst the darkness, Hari felt an unknown presence¡ªhungry, never-ending, sun-bright. He tried communicating with it, but the creature simply ignored him at first. He shouted at it, calling it whatever names he could think of in the moment. Hari then felt the presence change, as it began to realize what he was. Hari felt fear in the back of his mind, but he knew that fear would get him nowhere. He soldiered on and swam closer to the presence. As he moved closer to the presence, he felt as if he¡¯d been thrown back into the desert. The black liquid of the swimming pool melted away, shriveling at the heat of the presence. Hari wondered if he¡¯d died and was seeing the face of God, but something felt off about the presence. He didn¡¯t hear the angels singing. He felt empty, devoid of feeling. He felt like the presence was sapping energy from his body, and he felt a despair creeping up in the back of his mind. A flight or fight response was kicking in, and the presence seemed to feed off of the fear Hari felt coursing through his body. ¡°Who are you? What are you?¡± Hari asked, looking up at the bright-hot presence. The presence said nothing, it grew around Hari, encircling him with searing-hot flame. Hari felt the choking heat closing in on his body. He tried swimming away, but everywhere he went, Hari found the presence closing in on him. ¡°What are you?¡± Hari asked again. The presence closed in on Hari, choking the air from his lungs. He felt his skin burning. He felt flesh melting and bone dissolving in the heat of the presence. He screamed, but he felt nothing escape his mouth. Instead of darkness, he assumed came for all, Hari saw a blinding white light and knew death was closing in. He swam toward the blinding light of the presence, diving deeper into its heat. Something told him he could escape, at least long enough to get a message out to the others. He felt his body breaking down with each stroke. *** The screams were the worst part of observing subjects like Hari. Maria knew they wouldn¡¯t recover much from the prolegomenon¡¯s pool. Hari, the fiftieth test subject, had lasted longer than most. She, with the help of a company medication, was able to justify the death of another human being. Although the prolegomenon had been intended to predict the future through acausal signaling, they¡¯d found that something existed, out there, somewhere, that fed on the information, energy, and resources of a human body. Its consumption of human test subjects had been predictable, but what Maria feared most was the rate at which they were consumed. Some lasted longer than others, like Hari Weber. Others didn¡¯t last long against what the company had begun calling the Great Maw. ¡°Tell the Founder,¡± Maria began, recording herself using voice notes on her tablet, ¡°that we need more test subjects. The data is just too inconclusive at the moment.¡± She sat up in her swivel chair, looking down at the screen and observing the still blackness of the prolegomenon. Maria then continued her recording saying, ¡°Subject: Hari Weber or 0050. Subject 0050 showed incredible strength when facing the Great Maw. We must determine why certain subjects are more or less resistant to the Great Maw¡¯s energies. I guess that a strong will to survive intrigues the Great Maw. Like many predators, especially sentient ones, we might assume that the Great Maw studies its prey before consuming them. The Great Maw¡¯s form of consumption goes beyond simple sustenance, such as the consumption of flesh, blood, and bone. I would hypothesize that the Great Maw feeds on our emotional responses, our intelligence, and our bodies. This could explain why some subjects have lasted longer than others. Emotional responses, intelligence, and body structures are likely to be different, depending on the subject. We must continue sending in subjects, and we must continue giving all test subjects a regime of nanochines, so we can continue to study what is sent back to us. Although the nanomachines tend to be the first to be destroyed, they have provided interesting data.¡± Maria left the observation room and made her way to the chow hall. She¡¯d need to find another willing test subject. The company would provide, and they would ensure her experiments were continued without the intrusion of the government. She was excited by the prospect of more data, and she hoped the data from Subject 0050 could be put to good use. She almost missed Subject 0050, Hari, but she knew he¡¯d served his purpose, for a greater good, a greater calling.