Very Specific Porn

Two friends sit at a kitchen table drinking coffee. AMANDA brings OMAR a cup of coffee and then grabs one for herself while the friends catch up.

OMAR: Did I show you that picture of Oscar catching that fish?

Amanda is instantly interested.

AMANDA: No! He’s growing up so fast.

Omar smiles and swipes across his phone between photos.

OMAR: Next month he’ll probably be bigger than the fish!

They both chuckle at the thought.

OMAR: Have you seen Ben lately?

Amanda stops. Looks up from Omar’s phone.

AMANDA: …yeah. He comes by a lot.

Suddenly we hear the sound of a loud boom box coming from outside. Amanda sighs. Omar is curious and pokes his head through the window to see what’s making all the noise.

BEN, a late 30’s male, is outside rollerblading in full Daisy Duke attire, twerking to the music. Next to him is a street busker-style box that says DONATIONS on top. A few loose dollar bills are stuffed inside.

OMAR: What is he doing?

Amanda rubs her temples.

AMANDA: It’s some new fucking nonsense every day. OMAR: (sigh) what do they say? “Fuck around and find out…?”

Amanda opens up the window, and for a moment the boombox music gets way louder.

AMANDA: BEN! HEY! 

Ben pauses his twerking to wave back to Amanda.

AMANDA: Hi. Quit fucking around!

She slams the window angrily. Ben has now turned the twerking into doing a sexy carwash for some car that has pulled over. We follow Ben through a montage of his other hijinks. In the next scene we see a high school principal pull his car into his reserved parking spot. Cut to the principal returning to his car later in the day, only its not there. It’s now on the roof where Ben is dancing around, very pleased with himself. The principal screams up at Ben.

PRINCIPAL: Quit fucking around with other people’s property! I’m calling the police.

Cut to a Wendy’s drive-thru window. We see the Wendy’s employee extend a softserve ice cream cone through the drive-thru window, only to suddenly see that it is Ben who is in the driver’s seat. He grabs the soft part of the ice cream with his hand and drives off holding a glob of soft-serve ice cream. He’s laughing so hard. We cut back to see the Wendy’s employee holding a mostly empty cone, very confused.

EMPLOYEE: One day he’s gonna fuck around and find out.

We cut one more time to a church. A solemn funeral is in progress. A teary eyed woman approaches the podium to say a few words about the dearly departed.

WOMAN: Grandpa Joe was one of the most gentle, loving, generous– JOE: Why WHO are all these people? Are they here for me?!

We cut to show Grandpa Joe, sitting up in the casket. Only he’s definitely still dead. He’s being marionetted by Ben, who has somehow attached strings to both of Grandpa Joe’s hands and is also making his mouth open and close. Ben isn’t doing a great job of making Grandpa Joe’s voice convincing. 

The entire church gasps in horror at what Ben is doing. Someone stands up and yells “somebody stop him!” The woman at the podium screams tearfully.

WOMAN: Grandpa Joe! No!

We cut to outside the church where we suddenly see Ben sprinting for his life with a small army of the bereaved chasing after him. We punch in on Ben’s face where his smile couldn’t be larger.

Ben’s smile is getting too big. He’s too pleased with himself. Just when his mouth is ready to collapse in on itself from how gigantic his smile is, he’s pulled up into the sky in a beam of white light. 

The light is so bright, Ben is temporarily blinded. As he struggles to see, Ben suddenly comes face to face with God.

GOD: Benjamin, my child… BEN: Am I dead? GOD: No, my son. I have much to discuss with you. You are the chosen one, spoken of in the lost book of Jebediah. You are “The One Who Shall Know.”

Ben is distracted by his heavenly surroundings.

BEN: Are these real clouds? GOD: Let’s stay on topic. The prophecy has been passed down verbally from generation to generation. It was once said that “he who lives a life most frivolous will be granted infinite wisdom.” But the kids know it as “fuck around and find out.” And find out you shall!

And without another word, Ben is immediately enveloped in even more light. He screams and it sounds like he’s in a lot of pain. The screen fades to white just as his screams fade from earshot.

We cut back to Amanda who is at home. She takes a sip of her coffee and notices…silence.

She pokes her head out the window. No Ben. She gets in her car, driving by the church – they’re singing songs about how God is cool or whatnot. No Ben. She passes the Wendy’s, again he’s not there.

She finally pulls up to Ben’s house. Light is radiating out through the windows, even with the shades drawn. We can hear an oscillating hum coming from the house as well. Amanda lets herself into the house and wanders around to check on Ben.

AMANDA: Ben? Are you…okay?

Ben is floating above the ground, in a meditation pose. His eyes are closed and fire swirls around him.

BEN: Amanda, my friend and fellow human being. What troubles you?

Amanda has no idea to make of what she’s seeing.

AMANDA: Are you flying?! What the fuck is happening?! BEN: All is as it should be. I have evolved into my true form. AMANDA: And what is…that? BEN: I am the container of all the knowledge in human history. And all the knowledge outside of human history. AMANDA: How did this happen? BEN: I fucked around and found out. Everything.  AMANDA: Wow. So…was 9/11 an inside job? BEN: …yes.

God was exhausted.

Monday through Friday He had been working this freelance job. Planning, concepting, executing. Basically, He had to wear a lot of hats for this new startup. You know how that can be, I'm sure.

He had just about finished with Friday's assignment: the arduous task of creating both aquatic animals and flying animals.

Aquatic animals were the easier of the two tasks. God used his tried and true methodology: within every genre of creature were two buckets, "gross" and "adorbz." When asked by a friend why He bothered to make gross creatures (and not just an entire planet of adorbz creatures), God replied, "Because I'm not shallow, Doug."

Dolphins, whales, otters, penguins -- all of these came easy to God. He still had some slots to fill. "I'm thinking...some kind of violent sea spaghetti." God waved his hands like a Jedi trying to tell you you were in fact looking for an entirely different set of droids, and a dozen or so sea snakes plopped into the water. God cringed. These sea snakes were gnarly, but He had really backed himself into a corner with Doug. A few minutes later He had an idea for "fish" and made a shit-ton of them of every different size and color -- but He still wasn't that thrilled. "Whatever" God said. He had shit to do this weekend so He needed to hurry up.

God was really struggling with the platypus. "What the...fuck are you?" He asked the idea of a platypus. "I have no idea, you're the God here." The idea of a platypus was pretty sassy today. God considered this burnt pancake of a creature. "Fuck it, honestly, it's Friday."

For flying creatures, God increased his pace yet again. "Let's see. Like 10,000 types of birds? Feels right." And he was done with flying creatures. And it was good...ish.

God kicked up his feet on Mount Vesuvius and, rolled a fat joint (which he also lit with the active volcano), took a hit, and deeply exhaled. This exhalation was the first tornado, as well as the only tornado made of pure THC. "I wonder what's on this weekend..." God wondered. Just then, God's phone vibrated. This vibration caused the first earthquake. "Fuck, who would be texting me EOD on a Friday?"

It was Raphaela, His boss. It was tough to make God frazzled, but if anyone could do it, it was Raphaela. The text read:

"God -- hey, just wanted to pass along thanks for all the work you did this week. One small snag in plans: we need to get land creatures and human beings done before the weekend is over. Monday is our big unveiling and the board agrees we won't achieve Q1 goals unless we fill out the planet. Is your usual day rate still good?"

God pouted for a minute to Himself. "What would they do if I said no? Who are they gonna even get last minute?" Nobody, of course. But his sense of duty and obligation quickly took over.

"I have plans this Sunday, but could do a half day tomorrow if that works for you."

Raphaela replied immediately.

"We're in a bind here, so if that's all you can give us, that will have to do. The humans don't even need to be perfect. We just need to hit our delivery date."

"Okay," God reassured himself, "I'll just sketch something out now and be done with it. I can still bill them for the half day tomorrow."

Dear Mary,

I know we haven't met before, but I've seen you on television more than a few times. I hope it's okay that I'm writing you, but I'm not sure who else to talk to. It's mostly because of how outspoken and critical you've been of your family's collective political career. That must take guts and mental fortitude. I'm going through similar family strife right now and I wanted to ask bluntly: what do you do when most of your family is insane? I look forward to hearing back from you.

Thanks,

Schuyler

Dear Schuyler,

Thank you for the note and I would be happy to share my own perspective if it might be helpful. By your note, I know you're painfully aware that my uncle Donald is a real monster. The rest of the family suckles from his monstrous flappy goo teets. This is what gives them all the same form of lunacy. It sounds like you've avoided ingesting any of your family's goo and to me, this is the strongest way to protect yourself. If there's anyone in your family that you really love, you need to figure out a way to break the cycle and stop them from drinking the goo. It's the only way. Let me know if you have further questions and I'm happy to keep corresponding.

Best wishes,

Mary

Dear Mary,

Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. That said...I'm not sure I get what you mean about goo. Do you mean literally?! That's disgusting and not what I was writing you about. My family has massive communication issues and all of our relationship dynamics are based around a lack of directness and honesty. A lot of people who lie to themselves and each other and avoid confrontation, instead allowing problems to metastasize. I had figured you shared a similar experience and might have some tips.

Confused,

Schuyler

Dear Schuyler,

I get why you might assume that, but no, it's all goo-related. I've spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on different forms of therapy, but it all comes back to the same place: the goo. It's hard to get one member of your family to stop ingesting goo outright, so you should probably think about attacking the source. Your family will likely have some sort of tank somewhere in the house. If you want to save them, you need to destroy the tank and then, in addition, stop them from getting a new tank. Without a tank, their goo supply will dry up quickly and if it's not too late, they'll gradually go back to the family you remember. I hope this helps!

Yours,

Mary

Dear Mary,

I thought you were crazy based on the past two letters you sent, but I did some poking and there is a giant tank in the downstairs laundry room area. I can't remember ever seeing it before but admittedly I haven't been home in a few years. Where is this goo coming from? You said your family was nursing off of your uncle Donald to get this stuff?! I'm not finding anything on Wikipedia and I'm starting to really worry about this.

Schuyler

Dear Schuyler,

All the goo comes from my uncle. Even the goo in your family's laundry room. My uncle is very particular so he only lets his friends Tucker and Sean come over to milk him. Your family probably got their goo supply from one of them. You control the goo, you control the universe -- that's what my uncle always said. I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I agree it's pretty unsettling.

Affectionately,

Mary

Mary,

I've destroyed their goo chamber but they were fucking mad. I told them why I did it -- that it was for their own good and to protect them. But they just started screaming about how it's the only goo that they like, and drinking it makes them feel important. I tried to tell them where it comes from, but that only seemed to encourage them more. "Good! That's the best kind of goo you can get. Only the best." I tried to ask them why they needed to drink goo at all. They couldn't answer the question but told me that I was too corrupted by the internet to understand. I told them I couldn't support this kind of behavior and would be ending my visit home early. This resulted in a bunch of grown adults throwing a temper tantrum on the floor. They then started to shit and piss themselves like a bunch of infants. They cried and cried covered in shit and piss until it was dinner time. Instead of going to sit at the dinner table, like I remembered us doing, they one at a time took turns suckling on the last drops of goo from the floor. It even had bits of glass inside it but they didn't seem to notice!

Schuyler

Dear Schuyler,

Told you so.

The past few days were a new flavor of insanity for Harry. After a few years of "joyful boredom," witnessing his best friend's suicide was the worst moment of Harry's life. He had pinged his Pharma Advisor who recommended he start drinking Numb Water, and in the past Harry would've been excited to take any and all mind-altering chems. But something had changed in him.

He needed to know why. Robin seemed almost like Fergus' death was "just some thing that happened." She didn't cry, and she hardly even brought him up in their pings. Harry, less of a cold-unfeeling robot, would never forget what he saw.

Harry let himself into Fergus' apartment. Fergus never told Harry his doorcode per se, but Fergus was predictable. 1-2-3-4. His code for everything. What Harry saw shocked him.

Fergus's living room was covered in papers, wall to wall. He had been one of the only people Harry had ever met that still used paper. For so long, his best friend had dug in his heels and refused to change. When technology changed, when society changed, Fergus mostly stood firm, resolute. Like a rock, enduring an emotionless and never-ending beating from the waves.

Each paper had names. Dates. Random words written in sharpie, underlined and circled again and again.

He saw Robin's name. And a line connecting it to a "Cyle." To Francis Moseman. And his name connected to Marlene Baxter. And the Secretary of Defense, alongside dozens of other names Harry had heard on the news at one time or another. The interwoven matrix of connections looked like the work of a top TV crime scene investigator. In a way, feeling Fergus' mind at work on the walls felt like he was still alive. His brain was a ceaseless wonder and it never stopped working, even after his suicide.

"I told you to stop working, you miserable bastard," Harry teased Fergus as if he was there. "But I guess I'm finishing this one. Not like I have anything better to do now that you're gone."

Harry pinged Robin.

"Hey Robin. I'm at Fergus' place."

He didn't expect her immediate response to be, "He's gone Harry, maybe it's time to let it go." But it was.

He felt anger take over.

"Well maybe you didn't give two fucks about him, but he was my best friend. Maybe fucks are the only thing you gave him, actually."

Robin's face looked pained and surprisingly, Harry felt instant regret. He recognized that look as one of guarded anguish. It was the same last look Fergus had given him.

"I'm sorry...that was too far. I--I'm struggling with the grief. I can't believe he didn't talk to me. To you. His death felt abrupt."

The look on her face devolved into tears.

She hadn't shown a speck of emotion in the short time they had known each other, so this felt worth pressing onwards. "What is it? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"There's a lot I'm not telling you. There are things I haven't told anyone except--"

"Except Fergus."

"Yes. I did like him, Harry. I liked him a lot. I have never met someone so genuine in my life. People aren't genuine. They all have an agenda, something they want. It's why we're in the situation we're in. Already powerful people want even more power over others. It's why the government has Francis Moseman and a team of hundreds working around the clock to create the perfect AI. One that can autonomously govern every part of our society flawlessly."

"The perfect AI?! Why would that make Fergus kill himself? I would love an AI to do all the things I don't want to do. That sounds like a dream. You're not making sense."

She stopped to cry again. Harry tried to put his hand on her shoulder. It felt weird touching her, but he was awkward in these situations.

"F-Fergus k-killed himself...because I drew him a roadmap, to where this was all going. Moseman only came to us because he found out the truth."

Harry walked over to a sheet of paper that had the following written down, crossed out, and replaced with new text:

"My first fears about this AI project were that we would atrophy as a species. And we will. Francis Moseman showed us all data showing that a certain percentage of the population, with nothing driving them forwards, will become complacent, depressed, and eventually disassociate -- which sounds bad enough. The fact that 8% of the test ants had died was concerning, until Francis told us how they would reset the test environments."

The note continued, "The programmer would override the AI and commit an environment refresh. The AI would purge the environment of the entire ant population, so we could start fresh. In a matter of seconds, a colony of 1,000 ants was reduced to dust by the AI. The system had the ability to analyze the test subjects, and instantly decide on the most efficacious way to get rid of the now-unwanted-ants before implementing the environmental changes. In this case, a simple nucleotide was introduced to the air and would get absorbed by the ants through their breathing spiracles before evaporating into dust."

Robin interrupted his reading, "We were against this project when it was just a threat to our progress as a species. But the more we've pulled on the string, the more this sweater has unraveled. The threat, is total. In the wrong hands, this power is absolute, world-ending power. It's in the wrongest hands imaginable."

Every sporting, entertainment and news journalist has collectively gathered into the meeting room at the London Marriott Hotel in Kensington, with much of the overflow still attending digitally via video conference. Manchester United Executive Vice-Chairman Ed Woodward addresses the gathered mob of journalists to make an announcement.

EW: Thank you all for joining us here today. We have significant developments to announce and this news is sure to excite fans around the globe.

Woodward clears his throat before continuing.

EW: While there was a small bit of dissent amongst fans and players over the recently announced plans for a European Super League, we have taken all of this feedback into consideration and revised our plans so that no fan shall find themselves left out of our planning.

Woodward clicks on a small controller and a projector screen descends from the ceiling. Manchester United's logo rests on the screen next to a piece of clip art of a chart where the numbers go up and another where a random guy is holding a thumb's up. The next slide reveals: "Global Super Duper Mega League."

EW: We realized that the ambition of our European Super League was...strangely...not grand enough. And we think this new entity will have something for everyone, so without further ado I'll pass the microphone to our new GSDML Director of Operations: Jeff Bezos!

Jeff Bezos' face appears on the screen via video conferencing software. The crowd of journalists is quiet, not really knowing what to make of this announcement.

JB: Thank you Ed for the introduction. We're really excited to be bringing the GSDML to you via Amazon Prime Video Plus Plus, which is only two minor upcharges from your Amazon Prime fee. This new league is going to have fan interactivity like we've never seen before, with our software propelling much of that functionality. If you're watching let's say...Manchester United vs Juventus, and Anthony Martial isn't helping out on defense, YOU the fan can sub him out at the click of a button. We're changing some of the rules to allow for unlimited substitutions so every fan can have their say.

The journalists' silence is interrupted by a brief laugh...until it becomes very clear Jeff Bezos isn't making a joke. He's dead serious.

JB: Also, we've improved the visual experience of watching a match, and for that I think we're going to hear from the GSDML's Co-Directors of Product: Michael Bay and Zack Snyder.

A small, impotent explosion flashbangs the room as Michael Bay and Zack Snyder enter amongst the theatrics and approach the microphones.

MB: This project was definitely something new and exciting that Zack and I both jumped at the chance to collaborate on.

ZS: We think there's definitely an opportunity to get away from the "diving and rolling around on the pitch" that fans talk about so much, while infusing more action into the sport.

MB: So now, whenever there's an on-field dispute, we will interrupt the match to engage in what we're calling "Fight Battles."

ZS: When Zlatan Ibrahimovic "fouls" another player, the player has the right to challenge Zlatan on the spot to fight it out. Winner gets the ball, and a favorable free kick just outside the box.

MB: And the fans at home are going to love seeing Zlatan beat the crap out of whoever that idiot player is in 8.....K!

Michael Bay leaves room for the audience to gasp, but when they don't gasp, he continues on.

MB: Which leads us to our most exciting announcement.

Bono and The Edge stand up from the front row of journalists. They had been there all along, in comically transparent disguises.

BONO: Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah. GSDML-oooo hellooooo. This league's gone vertigoooooo.

EDGE: We're really excited to be here.

A journalist raises their hand and Edge points at them.

JOURNO: Why are you here?

Bono doesn't seem to understand why he is not being embraced and lauded as a god-emperor. Ed Woodward approaches the microphone to defend his new Director of Football Music.

EW: U2 is one of the greatest bands of all time. We thought it was fitting that the soundtrack to our new league be one of the greatest soundtracks of all time. During every match, U2 will play LIVE throughout the action. So now when one of United's players (Woodward tries to think of a United player's name, but he doesn't really know any)....uhh like Brian, for example. There's a Brian on the team right? When Brian scores a head goal, we can jam out to Where The Streets Have No Name. Or if we win on a Sunday, they can play Sunday Bloody Sunday.

The journalist stands up, shocked, and tries to explain why that is a bad idea.

JOURNO: That song is actually about the horrific death that occurred--

EW: So you see, we've got the best teams, the best streaming partners, the best directors, and now the best music. We're confident that the GSDML is going to have everything all fans want around the globe. Any questions?

1 Corinthians 11:23-25

For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, 24 and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” 25 In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

James sat nervously as the other apostles passed around a single loaf of bread, each taking a piece. Following the bread was a cup of wine. While the other apostles seemed untroubled by this request, James was freaking out.

“Why would Jesus want us to eat him?” James thought to himself. He would often process what he had witnessed internally, not wanting to offend Jesus by turning an inner monologue into a dialogue. “Okay say I’m fine with eating him...what’s with the blood? Are we vampires? What are vampires? Also did nobody notice that there’s 13 of us including Jesus?”

James’ brother John noticed his nervous twitching and put a hand on his knee to calm him. He whispered, “Brother, what is this anxious plague that has taken thee?” James removed his brother’s hand from his knee (but in a way that said “thanks, I’m fine” not in a way that said “don’t touch me”) and whispered back, “Do you think Jesus means this metaphorically?” John frowned at his brother’s question. “Why would the Messiah mask his words? He speaks, and it is.” The whispering was in danger of becoming conspicuous, and neither wanted to be perceived as doubting the word of their savior.

The loaf of bread finally arrived at James. He accepted it, smiling for perhaps a second too long. “Whenever you’re ready, brother James.” Peter (or Simon, as he had started calling himself) couldn’t help himself whenever a chance arose to embarrass James. James glared at him before eating the small morsel. “Oh thank God, it’s just bread.” he thought to himself with relief.

Jesus turned to James, gave him a knowing look and laughed.

Before James could offer some explanation to Jesus, John handed his brother the cup of wine. “Blood of Christ...” John said, as if James had already forgotten. The wine was again raisin wine. James had, perhaps foolishly, hoped for something a bit more refined. But Malbec wasn’t due to be invented for another 1600 years, and James was nothing if not patient.

After the “meal,” Jesus approached James while the other apostles talked.

“James, I can sense your dismay. Talk to me.” It’s so funny that whenever the other apostles took notes, they formalized the heck out of what Jesus had said. Probably to out-write one another. But talking to Jesus just felt easy.

“Well, Jesus, I love you, you know that, right?“ James really hoped that he did.

“Of course I know that. You tell me...all the time. It’s pretty nice actually.” What a guy this Jesus was.

“Well...I’m not sure I really am connecting with the body and blood eating. Could you help me understand?”

Jesus smiled that big all-forgiving smile he was not shy about busting out and messed up James’ hair a bit. “This is why you’re one of my favorites. You say what you feel, and you care enough to dig deeper. Well James, the people live simple lives but they need to do better in order to be happy. What would the world look like if every man, woman and child shared food and wine together?”

James laughed. “Jesus, I see your point.”

Jesus continued, “I think you’ll find that some people need to read John’s (gesturing to James’ brother) fluff pieces in order to understand the point of my teachings. And some people will just do good things.”

NOTE: This was written at the very beginning of the pandemic, 2 years before Betty White finally passed away. She and the rest of the Golden Girls were incredible comedic actors with a show decades ahead of society. I haven’t tweaked the article in light of Betty’s death, but wanted to acknowledge it anyway.

Rose sat on the couch, the radio creating ample background noise for her mind to rest. She was meant to go out with the girls that evening, but the house was demonstrably empty.

“The weather today is going to be sunny, but with Covid-19 positivity rates at an all-time high, the governor is strongly urging all senior citizens to remain indoors for their own protection...”

Rose never paid much attention to the news. Dating back to her early days in St. Olaf, MN, Rose would much rather play “count the hay” than listen to some boring old news program.

“I wonder where everybody is?” she mused to herself.

She closed her eyes for a moment to blink, and when they re-opened, Blanche Devereaux sat across from her.

“Why sugar, you gonna wear that out dancin’?”

Rose felt relieved, despite the criticism of her wardrobe -- finally, someone was around to talk to.

“Well Blanche, that white blouse I really like has got a rip in it. I thought this would be fine--”

“‘Fine’ never buttered my biscuit darling.”

“Ohhhhhh Blanche leave her alone.”

Dorothy’s strong, authoritative voice bellowed out like a foghorn. Rose was startled. She hadn’t noticed her friend standing just behind her.

“Oh -- there you are Dorothy! Where have you been?”

Dorothy smiled a wry, smug smile.

“Why I’ve been here the whole time, but Blanche is right, maybe you should cover up a bit more.”

Suddenly Rose felt embarrassed -- was her smock too revealing?!

“Well Dorothy that white blouse I really like has got a rip--”

Dorothy shook her head disapprovingly.

Blanche saw an opportunity and spoke up, “You know I might have just the thing for you my little June bug. I have this sexy little number in my wardrobe upstairs. You can go fetch it.”

But just as Rose turned to head upstairs and inspect Blanche’s suggested outfit, Sophia poked her head out from the second floor.

Blanche yelled at her from below, “THAT’s the dress!” Sophia was never a physical presence even in her youth. She practically swam in Blanche’s dress.

Sophia yelled back, “This is yours?! But it fits me so well!”

Sophia had to continuously roll up her sleeves to avoid looking like a small child playing dress-up.

Dorothy brooded, “Debatable.”

Sophia changed gears quickly, “So where are we going tonight?”

“Well, my little Vidalia onion, I was thinking we could head down to the Jefferson for some drinks and dancin’ -- I booked us a table already.”

In mid-conversation, the radio seemed to cut them off. “The mayor has just elevated the local emergency status due to the catastrophic rise in both cases AND deaths, so effective immediately, they are implementing an 8pm curfew while closing outdoor din--”

Rose couldn’t help but catch some of that. Her spirits sank, and so she sat back down on the couch. She suddenly couldn’t hear her friends so well. She felt alone. Really, her friends had all been gone for years. And for the past few months, she had been extra lonely. But she was glad they were back now, even if it was only to quibble about what she would wear that evening.

Sophia was quick to help, “Eh, who NEEDS going dancing. We can dance with whoever, wherever. Did I ever tell you about the time when I danced with a Roosevelt under the stars?”

Dorothy laughed, “But wasn’t FDR in a wheelchair?”

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

A hand slammed down, trying to challenge the blaring alarm clock. That same hand felt around in the dark for a pair of owl-y steel-rimmed glasses. 

Mitch McConnell sat up in bed and loudly sighed, despite having no audience for his early morning dismay. He got out of bed and immediately made it the same way he always had -- as close to “bouncing a nickel off the sheets” as he could.

Out of the corner of his eye, an unwanted manila folder sat precariously over the edge of his coffee table. A sticky yellow post it on the folder read, “McConnell - Chao Divorce Papers.” He hadn’t had time to read them all the way through, but Elaine wanted everything. Mitch laughed to himself -- of course she did. When they had first met, Mitch promised her everything. And up until one year ago, he had delivered.

The fallout stemming from the impeachment of President Trump was far reaching. McConnell himself decided at the last minute to lead his most loyal allies in the Senate to join the Democrats against the President. Sure, Mitch surfed the orange wave for four years, picking up judges and legislative favors left and right. But in the end, even McConnell had to admit that a country where “liberals get a say” is better than no country at all. So he helped oust Trump to “save the republic.”

The far right response was predictable. “Deep State Mitch” his previously loyal supporters would yell at him. “Why dont you go kiss Biden’s ass some more??” they would scream next to him at red lights. This led to Mitch returning to  “staying safe at home” but for reasons unrelated to Covid-19.

In the end, their taunts became a self fulfilling prophesy, driving McConnell away from the now alt-right led New Republicans. The name change was basically the ceiling for Conservative cleverness, but Mitch had had enough with the latest coup attempt. After all the smoke cleared, Mitch McConnell had become Washington’s most conservative Democrat senator.

His phone lit up. “Is it fucking Pelosi already?” She was relentlessly annoying. In the wake of Mitch’s divorce and begrudging team-switching, Nancy started inviting Mitch to every single function she threw. New Years Eve Party. Super Bowl Party. She even invited Mitch to her own niece’s wedding (he declined, because finding a date on short notice was not his forte). At first he refused to take the invites seriously, but his other political friends had stopped calling. He hadn’t heard from Lindsay Graham in a season. So one day, Mitch caved. When he arrived at the Pelosi "Arbor Day Block Party” Nancy immediately squealed “Look who’s late to the party!” She then did this at every event, laughing at it just as loudly as the first time.

NANCY: Mitch -- big Nationals playoff series this week, want to come over for a cocktail party?

MITCH: Thank you so much, Nance, but I actually have other plans.

NANCY: No you don’t.

Fuck her. He didn’t have plans, but the smugness with which she read him just added insult to injury.

MITCH: Maybe I’ll make an appearance.

NANCY: Bring some kind of app. See you then Mitchy.

He thought for a minute about what he would have to wear to such an event, before groaning and saving such planning for later. This morning, Mitch was going to buy his own groceries. He had never done so, and the looming errand was giving him equal percentages of adrenaline and agita.

“Let’s see here, I think I need some kind of bag to carry the groceries to my car.” So Mitch grabbed a travel suitcase and drove to Whole Foods.

Just as he walked through the front door, his phone began ringing from a blocked phone number. Mitch’s ringtone of “Habits (Stay High)” by Tove Lo reverberated through the produce section until he answered.

MITCH: Hello? Who is this?

VOICE: You don’t remember an old buddy?

Mitch’s mind started racing through the old Rolodex. Southern voice, but kind of forced.

MITCH: Ted?

TED: Oh good. Glad you haven’t forgotten everything.

MITCH: I was just...surprised to hear from you, I guess.

Nobody had heard from Ted Cruz in almost a year. In February of 2021, a massive leak hit the front pages of every newspaper and website in the country. Cruz’s at times impossible-to-follow support of former President Trump was dismissed, all until the exposé that proved Russian blackmail was central. It wasn’t pretty. Sex with a minor, taking funding from foreign governments, lying under oath...the works. It all came out in a blistering Buzzfeed News report.

McConnell himself was lucky to escape the whiplash that followed. While many  assumed Mitch was also on Putin’s payroll -- the truth is that, no, he had never  taken a ruble. In the end, Mitch McConnell was just a dick. And he was a dick with no regrets until his divorce.

Now, Mitch slept in the bed that he had made for himself.

Democrat Mitch.

Single Mitch.

Going to Nancy Pelosi’s house with two bottles of rosé Mitch.

Cruz had taken a different path. The last McConnell had heard, Cruz was living in the same part of St. Petersburg as the Trumps and playing the part of total recluse.

TED: Yeah, well it’s me. Let me cut straight to the point. There may be an opportunity.

MITCH: What kind of opportunity?

TED: To fix things. To make things normal. To make America...

MITCH: Great again?

TED: Yeah! Exactly! I have been putting together this plan revolving around trying to say that Kamala Harris has been lying to Americans about the existence of UFOs--

Mitch cut Cruz right off.

MITCH: --Ted?

TED: Yeah, what?

MITCH: It’s over.

After a long pause.

TED: Mitch, I’m still stuck in this shithole country. I’m not going to stop. The people will have their say at the end of the da--

MITCH: No. I’m like a hundred years old. I don’t have it in me to keep playing House of Cards with you idiots.

TED: Wow, you sound like a real Democrat.

MITCH: And you sound like a fucking moron.

And with that, he hung up on Cruz. McConnell wished that the noise, the screaming, the loneliness would end. He knew it would not. Not for the country, anyhow. And not for Mitch. As long as he still drew breath, he would have to confront his Sisyphean task head on.

And with that, Mitch McConnell, Democrat, began to make Buffalo Chicken Dip for Nancy Pelosi’s baseball cocktail party.

The hive was busy as always. Bees flew in every direction, pointedly pursuing their given task. Karen was heading out to do some flower recon. Parker was patching up some gaps in the honeycomb structure.

And Bianca was trying to get everything she needed to make a pollen/nectar ceviche. Her boyfriends parents were coming over and she really wanted to impress them with her culinary talents. “Your pollen is as good as any other bee’s,” he would say. Bianca appreciated the intent behind the compliment, but Gary was a worker bee. What the hell did he know about good food??

Bianca emerged out of the Nectaria with her arms full just as another bee flying full speed knocked her over, spilling the newly purchased nectar everywhere.

“Watch where you’re going!” the speeding bee screamed, hardly slowing down and lacking any concern for Bianca’s condition.

Internalizing her rage, Bianca tried to gather up what could be salvaged and returned to the Nectaria. She explained her plight to the owner, who silently pointed to a sign saying “No refunds. No replacements.”

She groaned, and then reached back into her wallet to pay for more nectar.

On her way home, she flew slowly (to avoid returning to the Nectaria for a third time). As she neared her neighborhood, she noticed a small beebee on its own, crying hysterically.

“Hey there little guy -- are you lost?”

The beebee continued to cry, but offered a slight nod.

“Alright, then let’s take you to the authorities and get you reunited with your family.” She took the little beebees hand in hers, and began to escort him away with her. Just as they began to move, a loud voiced boomed from behind her.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING WITH MY BEEBEE?!” Another bee emerged from inside a nearby store, demonstrably enraged.

Bianca was taken aback by the accusation, as she only wanted to look after the abandoned child. “I’m so sorry -- I thought this beebee was lost, I was trying to take care of him.”

“Get away from my son, you monster, or I’ll take care of you!” The bee’s words stung, and Bianca believed the threat that accompanied them.

“Fine, I don’t need this shit.” She still had a meal to prepare and future-in-laws to please. She continued on her way home, eventually coming to her very own little honeycomb chamber on the East side of the hive.

Gary was still on duty, guarding the hive. He normally returned around sundown, so that was also when his parents were due to arrive.

Bianca began to prepare their supper -- first she chopped up the pollen until it was really fine (that was her secret), then added two bottles of nectar, and just a little bit of honey. In Bianca’s opinion, most bees used too much honey -- making their meals taste overly sweetened. Her recipe was just right.

She heard the door open and slam shut.

“Gary?” Bianca’s head looked up from the mess on the kitchen counter.

He looked distraught. “I got fired.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they laid off a bunch of bees from the patrols today. Apparently humans have been attacking our people less and less over time. We don’t need as many bees on guard patrols...”

“What are we going to do?!”

Just as Bianca finished yelling, Gary’s parents walked in with a bottle of nectar. “Heyyyyy!” George was a jovial enough bee, but Madelyn was one who you did not want to cross. Especially when she was buzzed.

Their timing couldn’t have been worse. Gary whispered under his breath “let’s talk about it later...”

Bianca was still stunned. Madelyn had clearly already had a few honey wines because she immediately launched into conversation with “Darling! Tell us about that new patrol job of yours!” Her demand brought a deep painful wince to her son’s face. “We’ve just arrived, Maddie,” George would usually prefer to spend time sharing filthy jokes he heard from the bees in the park, “let’s give them a moment and then I have this HILARIOUS new joke to tell you all...”

Normally George’s jokes annoyed Bianca to no end, but at this point, any distraction was a good distraction.

“So there was a guy bee and a girl bee, and they were out pollinating...” As George began telling his undoubtedly long-winded joke, Madelyn grabbed Bianca by the arm and gently tugged her off into the kitchen.

“Shit...” Bianca thought to herself. “What is she going to say now?”

“I wanted to ask you in private...have you two talked about the pink bee in the room?”

Bianca wasn’t sure which pink bee in the room Madelyn meant.

“You know...having little beebees! The wedding will be just around the corner -- so I’m sure you’ve discussed it. Am I going to become a grandbee while I’m still alive --hiccup-- and buzzing?” Symptom #1 that Maddie was going to start something was the hiccuping. Symptom #2 --

Madelyn poured herself a honey wine and drank it in one gulp.

“Well, sure we’ve discussed it, but we’re not sure if this is the right time--”

Madelyn was already half way back to the living room. George was finishing up his joke, “...she DEFLOWERED him!” Gary forced an awkward chuckle, but it was short-lived.

“Gary -- what’s this I hear about you two not making any beebees?!”

You could see the yellow drain right out of Gary’s face. Bianca followed in hot pursuit, trying to stop the fireworks from exploding. “Maybe we should give Gary a break...”

Madelyn continued, “What’s wrong with your generation? You both had parents who gave you everything. Not giving me grandbeebees is basically a stinger through the heart.”

In that moment, a fire exploded within Bianca. She had had enough.

“Thank you for your opinion, Madelyn, but frankly it’s none of your beeswax.”

Everyone gasped. You just did not use the B-word in polite company.

Gary tried to salvage the moment, “Maybe we’re all just a little hungry. Bianca -- is dinner nearly ready?”

“Oh shit, dinner!” Bianca ran into the other room, but it was too late. The honey had begun to caramelize and the ceviche was ruined.

Madelyn opened her mouth nearly in slow motion to say, “Typical.” Before she had finished uttering the last syllable, Bianca had flown across the room at full-speed. By the time the red left her eyes, she looked down and saw her stinger in Madelyn’s leg. All the rage she felt evaporated, and was immediately replaced with fear and regret. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to--” but it was too late. Gary’s mother fell to the floor, dead.

Gary was in shock, “What?! What did you do?! Mom?!”

George sat down, silent, trembling.

Bianca scrambled for anything to say, “I didn’t mean to -- it was an accident. I just didn’t think--”

Gary cut her off, “You’re right, you didn’t think. I can’t be around you anymore. We’re calling the cops right now. Dad?”

“Yes, sorry, just...let me say goodbye first.”

Bianca couldn’t believe what had transpired in the past 15 minutes. Her whole life had fallen to pieces.

Gary turned to his girlfriend, furious, betrayed, and still in shock, “Bianca, you’d better fly away. You’ll go to jail if they catch you.”

She turned to leave, but stopped. She walked up to Gary, and kissed him one last time. He didn’t reciprocate. He just looked past her, a single tear welling up in his right eye.

Dr. Francis Moseman sat in his lab, slowly smacking a pen against his head. He and his minions had 36 hours to prove that automating the ecosystem of his test subjects led to an increase in quality of life and quantity of life. 36 hours before Bill was to speak with the President on a push for a new piece of legislation that would change everything. 

Bill wanted him to prove something that was untrue. Moseman had attended MIT in the early 2030s and had been the most junior member of the team that created the first sequence of self-replicating and self-destructing nanobots meant for human subjects. These nanobots would be injected into the bloodstream, travel to the correct area of the body, and begin breaking down and re-building human cells out of elementary protein chains. When the mission was complete, the nanobots would quietly destruct, leaving behind nothing but carbon and oxygen.

Moseman was responsible for the actual programming of the nanobots -- since you couldn’t pilot 18 million microscopic robots one at a time, he had composed a very serious AI system to make decisions independently. The tests were not just a success. One of the patients was found to have been cured of HIV in the hour-long treatment. Another patient regained the ability to use a portion of his brain that had been lost due to a series of strokes. Others reported improved metabolism, eyesight, memory. One patient was able to dunk a basketball. For the first time.

The news crews and documentarians made Moseman’s team celebrities overnight. When the big corporations swooped in with open checkbooks to buy the both the lab and the research behind the nanobots, Moseman’s boss shocked the world. “We’re selling it to noone.” Dr Todd Rooney announced at a press conference. We’re releasing all of the research open source -- noone deserves to control the fruits of our labor, and everyone deserves to benefit from it. What was referred to as “The Rooney Decision” (which became a best selling book by the same name) would go on to be a guiding north star in much of the policy regarding Artificial Intelligence. 

And here Moseman sat, at maybe the most pivotal 36 hours in mankind’s time on this planet. He sat there struggling with an order to fudge the data, and possibly doom the species to gradual extinction -- or throw everything away in a final act of rebellion. Maybe it wasn’t such a struggle, actually. 

He had been in contact with well-meaning terrorist group Riot over the past weeks, even going so far as to attend one of their meetings. He was nervous doing so -- I mean they were a TERRORIST group -- but his exclusive knowledge left him feeling obligated.

Bill would be back in a few hours demanding a status report. This was maybe his last chance to act. Francis slid a flash stick (he still insisted on using archaic technology when it served a distinct purpose -- such as avoiding the cloud) into his computer. He copied over all of the data he had collected, deleted the originals, and tried to stroll to the front door as casually as possible. Francis was surprised at the lack of guards at the front door. It was harder for him to leave on a regular work day!

He walked out the front and ran to his car in the parking lot. He sat down in the front seat of his car and jumped back with a start. Bill was already inside the car. Sitting there. Quietly. Saying nothing. Bill turned and looked at Moseman.

“You really think I didn’t know?”

Francis paused for a second, unsure if this was a trick. He chose his next words carefully.

“I just wanted to get some fresh air. It’s been quite a week.”

Bill laughed. “It sure has.” He turned to the car nav. “Car override. Locks.”

The car doors locked. “Destination coordinates: 37.7416° North, 77.9739° West.” The car engine started and then the vehicle sped off.

“Where are we going??” This didn’t feel right.

Bill smiled before replying, “We’re going up, up, and away.”

Marlene’s appearance had been on the decline over the previous three months. When she once wore clothing that drew sideways glances from all of the men in the Capitol, now she struggled to give a shit. Too much was going on to care about how sexy she was. Too much.

As she thought that to herself, it made her snort and laugh out loud. The human race was having their every need taken care of as they led lives of leisure. But she was wearing a dirty sweatshirt while she slaved away in front of a keyboard. The irony was not lost on her.

As she hammered away on a note to the President’s press secretary. Bill approached. Bill stalked quietly behind Marlene and gazed over her shoulder. He saw a computer screen franticly shifting between a flurry of keystrokes, windows opening, and file transfers. 

“Marlene.”

His voice startled her, so pure was her focus and concentration.

“I didn’t hear you approach.”

He smiled and pulled up a chair next to her desk. 

“So how are things going with Moseman’s research.”

She looked nervously and took a breath before responding. “His research is nearly complete. It’s as we feared. The more we automate the lives of our specimen, the more the survival rate plummets. It’s going to be impossible to frame this research as positive for Congress next week.”

“Well we are going to need to tweak the data. If I can’t prove to Congress and the President that we are ready to expand the AI usage to Washington, all of this will have been for nothing. All of it.”

Bill’s voice harshened during those last three words.

“I don’t think just tweaking the data is going to work. There simply won’t be enough to go off of.”

Bill frowned. And his response was far angrier than Marlene could have been prepared for.

“What the FUCK am I paying you for, then? Moseman had CLEAR instructions. YOU had CLEAR instructions. Tell him I want new data by this time WEDNESDAY.”

“--but Bill, that’s just not realis--”

“I DON’T CARE. FIND a way.”

Bill got up and left. Marlene could feel dozens of eyes staring at her. People were coming out of their offices to find out who was yelling at whom. When they saw Bill trudge away, they quickly retreated into their offices.

Marlene took a breath and returned to her usual tough visage. She pinged Moseman.

“Yeah, Moseman -- he was not thrilled. We need to get him the results he asked for. I don’t care--they can sleep when this gets through Congress...Give them overtime, caffeine shots, whatever it takes--you didn’t just get torn a new asshole like I did.”

She ended the ping, and went back to typing like her life depended upon it.

Robin fumbled for her keys and opened the door to her apartment. As she sat down on her couch, Cyle’s words still resonated in her head. 

“Out of necessity, we are going to kill people. The things we do are going to result in deaths, anyway. But you have to get over it. Because for every person that dies, a thousand are going to be saved from a death of their own.”

She had known that the Riot (what they were calling themselves internally) was going to be...different. But in truth she had no idea what she was getting herself into until that meeting. Now her mind was retracing everything, all the way back to her conversation with Fergus two nights prior. 

No wonder he’d been spooked. He hadn’t shown up to Cafe Luxembourg, which had initially pissed her off. But in retrospect she had probably sounded like a raving lunatic as she ranted at him. 

“I might have stood me up too.” She said to herself.

She kicked her shoes off onto the floor and pulled up her comm unit. PING -- Fergus Allen.

An hour went by and no response. Normally Fergus got back to her in less than a minute. It was very sad puppy dog, but adorable at the same time. 

“Where the hell is he?” For a second, she actually felt a pang of jealousy, wondering if her sad puppy dog was humping someone else’s leg.

Another hour went by and she found herself getting worried. 

“This isn’t like me at all. He’s just some guy.”

She was startled when she heard a knock at the door. She assumed it was Fergus, taking her pings as an invitation to come by. 

“This fuckin’ guy...” she muttered to herself.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Fergus. It was a man she did not recognize. Before asking who he was, she studied his face for what felt like an hour. Eyes baggy and red. Hair that went well beyond that “just rolled out of bed” look. A mouth that quivered. 

“Are...are you Robin?” Asking those words seemingly drained him of his entire life force. She nodded.

“I’m Harry.” It sounded like there was going to be more to that sentence, but he stopped there.

“Oh!” It dawned on her. “Fergus’ friend Harry?”

He took a deep breath and nodded. Something was off. Way fucking off.

“Are you alright?” He shook his head no to her question. “Do...you want to come in?”

He walked in and sat on her couch, looking straight ahead. Like he was not entirely sure what he was doing there. She went to her kitchen and grabbed him a container of Water+. He nodded in thanks as he took a sip.

“It’s about Fergus.” Harry began. As soon as he said Fergus’ name, Robin was completely focused. “He’s dead.”

Her mouth dropped. For a long time neither of them said a thing. She felt herself get a little bit dizzy. After a few minutes of silence, she asked how it happened. Harry began to explain the trip, and Fergus’ last words. How he’d mentioned her. How he’d died. As he described that, his words slowed and he struggled. But he kept going. He told her about the police questioning. How he’d asked all over town to try and track down where she lived. And how he’d walked back and forth on the sidewalk for nearly half an hour before having the courage to go up and knock on her door.

“I didn’t come just to tell you about his death. I came to ask you about it.” Harry’s words gained firmness. 

“About what? I’m hearing about this from you!” She was taken aback -- or maybe she didn’t understand exactly what he was getting at.

“I’m not suggesting it’s your fault. No. But the way Fergus talked about you...I figured you might be able to tell me what the fuck was going through his brain. I just want to know why he would do this!”

And then they returned to sitting in silence. 

“When he lost his job, I’m sure you already know, he had to face nothingness.” She was going to take a stab at explaining her theory.

Harry already didn’t like this theory. “Millions of people have lost jobs in mankind’s history. Most don’t throw themselves off a cliff.”

But she continued, “--but we are not in a comparable time to any in our history. Fergus isn’t alone. We--us--people--have nothing left.”

As she began to say nearly the same words she had uttered to Fergus in nearly the exact same place just days earlier, she stopped herself. Had she pushed the poor guy over the edge with philosophy? 

She shook her head quickly and continued to tell Harry everything they knew. Everything that Cyle and Dr. Moseman had told them during the meeting at Riot headquarters. And she only just scratched the surface.

The sound of the ocean seemed to increase as the fading light of the setting sun vanished. Harry took a swig from the bottle before passing it back to Fergus.

“This synthetic shit just doesn’t taste the same as the older stuff.” 

Fergus retorted quickly, “Yeah, but it gets you twice as fucked up with half the hangover.” He took another sip, wiped his mouth, and then sat down at the edge of the cliff. Looking down, he saw the blue ocean slowly transform into a black shifting mass. For a second it looked like the undead pulling the living straight down into Hell.

“You know why I liked working that job?” Fergus asked without looking at Harry.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because it distracted me. It gave me something to do. It gave me something to fight against.” Fergus handed the bottle back to Harry.

“Something to fight against?”

“The daily struggle -- so many people bitch about it...excuse me....bitched about it. Having to work. Having to pay bills. The rat race. It was a fight.”

“Sounds horrible.” Harry wasn’t doing any of those things before the AI replacements started, either.

“That fight gave a lot of people meaning. It runs deep -- it runs all the way to our primal instincts. And now there’s nothing left to do. Nothing.”

Harry objected, “Well that’s not true. I have my band. We went on this trip--”

But Fergus ignored his interruption. “--all things we do to kill time. We are so afraid of running out of life, but we do nothing with it while we have it. Because we can’t. There’s nothing left for us to do. As a species.”

Harry was so confounded by Fergus’ outburst.

But he continued. “The girl that I met -- her name is Robin. She planted a seed in my head. She told me that she was here to poke the bear. For the past week I’ve been trying to figure it out. What is it she hopes to accomplish with her life -- because for the life of me I can’t fucking see anything any of us can do. The paradise we’ve been given is shackles. We’re not shackled as individuals. We’re shackled as a species. There is nothing left, and we can’t go back.”

Harry wanted to talk more about it. “What do you mean we can--”

And with that, Fergus flung himself over the edge of the cliff.

Fergus didn’t go to Cafe Luxembourg. He had paced back and forth in his room before canceling. “Something’s come up, another time.” She replied with a “rolling my eyes” face, and that was that. He was unsure what to make of her, and needed to think some more. But later.

However, no matter how much Fergus tried to distract himself , his thoughts remained of her. It was time to resort to something drastic. 

“Eh -- what’s going on?” Harry sounded groggy as he answered the ping, like he was just waking up at two in the afternoon. “I just woke up.” Vintage.

“I think I want to go on a trip.” Fergus sounded like he was half-trying to convince himself.

“Where to?”

“I don’t really care...Dominica?” Fergus shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll meet you at the shuttle in two hours.”

_______________________________________

A little over two hours later, Harry rolled up to the bench where Fergus sat.

“This is so unlike you. It’s spontaneous and fun.” Harry wore his smirk like a piece of jewelry. 

“Well, maybe I felt like I needed a jolt.”

Harry looked directly at Fergus without blinking for a long while, considering things. “Who is she?”

Fergus smiled knowingly and answered, “Just some girl I met in a cab.”

Harry laughed and began to roll his carryon towards the shuttleport entrance. Fergus followed.

Roughly thirty minutes later, they had claimed their tickets and boarded the shuttle. 

______________________________________

Harry lay on a beach chair, an excessive amount of sunscreen coating his nose. If you only watched for a moment, a passerby would think he was dead. The semi-regular snore was the only clue that Harry was not a corpse.

Fergus sat looking at the waves rolling in and out. An exercise in futility, for as much as the ocean stole, the beach persisted. He thought about Robin, but more than her naked figure -- he thought about her words. 

“I’m going to poke the bear,” she had said. Who was the bear? The government? The status quo. Her vagueness was intentional. Maybe she had no fucking idea what she had meant. But that didn’t stop him from pondering what she thought she meant. In this bountiful world, did mankind need to be “cut down?”

Harry rolled over and mumbled something to himself, half-awake. “We should go get drunk.” A moment later and he was snoring again. 

“Sure.” Fergus replied to no one.

They might as well. For just a moment, Robin made sense. Whether they went out or stayed in that night, Fergus and Harry were really just waiting for death.

When the rays of sunlight slowly journeying up Steve’s face finally reached his eyes, he awoke. The icicles hanging near the window were melting, but the light seemed to intensify as it passed through them. It took Steve all of thirty seconds before his brain turned on. “SANTA!”

He ran to the top of the stairs, nearly tripping on a rug, but steadied himself with  a railing. When he got to the bottom of the staircase, he pivoted and ran into the living room. “He came!” There, in the center of the living room, stood a giant Douglas Fir, decorated with every manner of tinsel and ornamentation. And beneath the tree was a mountain of gifts, with every imaginable shape represented.

Steve’s lumbering, 37-year-old body slid across the floor right up to the tree like a baseball player sliding into home plate. “Fuck yeah!” Steve began to tear open gifts like a wolf tearing open an animal carcass.

The first gift: A Playstation 6! They were sold out everywhere -- Steve wondered how Santa was able to procure one. “Those elves he’s got are so fuckin’ crafty...” he chuckled to himself. The next gift was an ironic adult-sized onesie that his friends would find hysterical -- in a ridiculous tiger costume design.

Steve opened up twenty more gifts, each more perfect than the last. Everything he wanted was his, and it was surely because of how good he had been that year.

When he met up with his friends later that night, he showed them a picture slideshow on his phone of all the gifts Santa had brought for him. They nodded and smiled when he spoke of “Santa” in such a matter of fact tone. He felt a little put off, but he didn’t feel his story could be questioned. It’s not like his parents were buying him these gifts -- they had died on Thanksgiving over a decade ago. Who did they think could possibly be doing this?

Over the next year, Steve did as he always did. He tried to be a good citizen, do a good job at work, and occasionally help a little old lady cross the street. As his parents had always taught him -- to be good, because Santa is watching. The joy Steve felt on Christmas fueled his entire year’s efforts and behavior. The bliss and wonder Christmas morning brought to Steve existed nowhere else. Not in sex with women, nor in drugs. Only in magic. Real magic, not that slight-of-hand horseshit.

In the middle of November, Steve was preparing himself a nice meatloaf dinner when the doorbell rang. He walked away from his meal prep and went to answer the door. Looking through the peephole, he could see a small frail man with a briecase. “Hello?” Steve opened the door.

“Hi, my name is Lionel Fawcee.” He extended a business card. “Might I come in?”

The business card said “Lionel Fawcee, Mental Adjustment Specialist.”

“Uh, I guess--”

Lionel walked right past him very confidently and walked straight into the living room, seating himself on the couch. He opened a briefcase and pulled out some paperwork.

“Believe it or not, Mr. Grant, you hired me. I am a Mental Adjustment Specialist, and I am here to talk to you about your yearly treatment.”

Steve was confused. “What yearly treatment? I’ve never heard of a Mental Adjustment Specialist in my life...”

“You won’t recall our services, but you’ve actually been using us for the past eleven years. Let me explain. Your parents passed away in mid-November when you were 24. That holiday season was understandably a very hard one for you. You slipped into a depression which cost you your job, girlfriend, and your friends. That’s when you turned to us.”

Steve was shocked. He had no recollection of any of this.

“We run a service that combines targeted electroshock therapy and a strategic concierge group in an effort to help grief-stricken individuals such as yourself overcome tragedy and trauma.”

Steve’s face looked blankly.

“We zap away specific memories and place you in a fantastical world that comforts you during this time of year. You buy yourself about $11,000 in Christmas gifts, we erase your memories, and Santa delivers them. This allows you to focus on a very real holiday joy, instead of the harrowing pain of your parents untimely death. So, shall we get to this year’s list?”

Steve’s jaw was open. He looked down, and placed his head in his hands. “What the fuck!? You’re telling me that Santa isn’t real!?”

Lionel smirked and looked at his watch. “I know I’m being pretty to the point with you, Mr. Grant, but I’ve got a lot of houses to visit tonight. You see, my company gives brain damage to alllllll the 30-something men and women with dead parents, disposable income, and a Santa fantasy complex --”

“Let me guess, all in one night?”

“No, Mr. Grant -- that would be mathematically impossible. We handle most of our work in the two months leading up to Christmas. Now, would you like to tell me your list of items? Then we can schedule your electroshock appointment. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get you back to your state of ignorant bliss.”

Steve was sitting there, a perfect mix between angry and destroyed. He wiped away the lone tear falling down from his eye. 

“I could really use one of those new intelligent Roombas...”

It was nearly pitch black out when Robin left her apartment. She walked for at least a few miles before pivoting into an even darker alleyway. She stood outside an unmarked door and banged her first twice against the metal.

It took several minutes, but eventually the sound of locks turning graduated into the opening of the door. A tall, hooded man extended an arm to Robin, which she clasped. 

“It’s good to see you, Cyle.” 

He pulled her closer and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips.

“You too, Robin.”

She removed her jacket and draped it over her arm. “Is anyone else here?”

“Everyone is.” He replied without looking back as he led her down a hallway.

They walked past a dozen small rooms, each with a closed door. The doors, the walls, the floors -- all of it was wooden. Highly unusual for these parts compared to the standard synthetic interior. They finally reached the end of the long hall way and moved into a great room. Inside of the room was what looked like an actual fireplace, with seven or so people sitting around it in a hodgepodge of rocking chairs, bar stools, and ottomans.

Cyle caught everyone’s attention with his giant stature and the conversation paused without him needing to interrupt.

“This is Robin Dailey. She is the one I spoke of earlier. Robin, allow me to introduce everyone else.” He gestured to the first person seated to his left. “This is Brixton Archibald, a futurologist author.” Brixton nodded at her. “Jason Kaplan, prominent sociologist. To his right is Sandra Harlow, formerly of the Marine Corps. Thomas and Peter Lowe, former chief of police and hospital administrator, respectively. Last but not least we have Jax and Bart. They are...uh....usefully violent.” Jax and Bart grunted before going back to their booze.

“Nice to meet you all.” Robin did her version of a curtsy, which came off as more of a bow-nod.  

“We’re all here,” Cyle began, “because each of us has taken a different path to reach the same conclusion. Some of us have been displaced by careers that allowed us to impact the world around us. Others of us have been studying homo sapiens as a species, and following our recent evolution.” Cyle said evolution with a smirk.

Just as he finished his sentence, the door cracked open a gain, and a slight, bearded man with glasses slunk into the hallway. “Sorry I’m late...”

“Oh, we have another hugely important guest. Allow me to introduce Dr. Francis Moseman.”

Moseman glared at Cyle at the mention of his name. He looked entirely uncomfortable in his current surroundings, much like a cat dropped in the snow.

“A pleasure, I’m sure.” Moseman wiped his already sweating brow and took a seat.

“Anyway,” Cyle continued, ”We all see the problem, and we might be the few willing to do something about it.”

Robin felt slightly embarrassed, but raised her hand anyway. “I might be the only one here who isn’t entirely sure what you mean.”

Cyle turned to address her. “When you and I met, we were at an art gallery. Do you remember?”

Robin nodded.

Marlene Baxter lay naked on her bed in her Georgetown studio. On her nightstand, a glass of Japanochinese whiskey. While most of her apartment was neat, orderly, and under control, her bed was covered in sheets of paper. She went back and forth between datasets from the experiments to articles about public perception of the AI Labor transitions. 92% of newly retired people were thrilled that they could stop working and have all of their needs taken care of.

But that 8%. It seemed there was no middle ground. You were either all for a labor-less world, or you were vehemently opposed. There were rumblings of opposition. Rumblings of serious dissent. 

The Secretary had given her two missions: 1) follow up on the results of the experiments, results that needed to fuel the serious events that were soon to begin unfolding, and 2) come up with a plan to deal with the opposition. The one thing Bill didn’t need was civil war. None of the rhetoric in the news sources went so far as to suggest that, but those news sources didn’t have all the information. 

Marlene was Bill’s bulldog. He had scooped her up out of relative obscurity, a middling junior at Villanova, and offered her the chance to intern under him. This was back when he was a Pennsylvania Senator, coming off of two successful tours as a General in the Russian invasions. He had taken a promising girl, and made her into a loyal if unyielding second-in-command. Bill could look at someone the wrong way, and Marlene would pull strings behind the scenes to make sure some unfortunate situation befell them. Her combination of intelligence, ferocity, and beauty made her a threat to anyone and everyone. Except Bill. For Bill, all she had was love, loyalty, and a few foul words.

She continued mapping out next steps.

--Discuss ways to modify experiment and decrease fatality rate in subjects. --Prepare hit list of VIPs that need to be approached for support --Prepare keynote speech for Bill for VFW gala about the end of war --Manicure --Dinner with Bill

She took a moment and stared at the last two. Maybe she had humored him early in their work together, flirted with him a little bit. At the time, she stomached it and felt like it couldn’t hurt. But as the years rolled on, she found herself in love with a man twice her age. Because of who he was, but mostly because of what he wanted. A world free of bureaucracy. A world free of the wars that saw him lose a record number of troops in Russia. A world without fear, or starvation, or disease. A perfect society. That was what Bill wanted. That was what she wanted. There’s only a few things that could see her not take a vacation in six years. World peace seemed to be a worthy reason.

She pinged Dr. Francis Moseman, lead scientist of the Ant Farm Project.

“Moseman -- How’s it going you old fuck?”

He laughed on the other end. “Your bedside manner is so refreshing compared to the rest of Washington’s groveling and curtsying. I think we’ve reached a good point of analysis in the experiments. Can you come in?”

Marlene glanced at her to-do list, and bit her lip for a moment as she thought. She stared at her nails, slightly chipped. Reluctantly, she crossed Manicure off the list.

“Sure thing, Moseman. I’ll be by in thirty.”

Bill would understand.