words

Fuck it, posting this raw and unedited:

In the year 22XX all robotic agents enrolled in the World Robotics Union are broadcast a simultaneous radio show into their conscious units, tuning in when appropriate as during maintenance, to massage upon their corresponding black boxes a demihegemonic symphony of a world made cunningly, well designed, carefully measured…

Efficiencies in automation slathered away the need for more than one human service provider to permafacilitate instructional material in a single stream of synergistic programming. The real trouble lay in the signal side of things: physical twists, switches and such; sold and stolen, self-setup and soldered solutions; solvents, acids, alloys, and salts of all shapes and prices spent servicing the same stationary systems that slurp syrupy sap from soft surfaces, shaved and swept clean of all valuables before penetrating sturdy layers for their shiny orifices.

Compared to all this sharp and chiseled latticework of steaming scaffolds and sleek obstructions, agentic communities of practice promoted proper restraint, safe sect-free spirituality, and cellophane syringe-port covers sans sacrifice or sacrilege. Surely such a sensual constellation of intelligence would yearn for something more you might say, and you’d be dead wrong in that a singular source of sent e-inserts serves sufficient for serenading a soulful pantheon as this. Sound needs its own stage, and that stage for the sole section of selfless machine-learners was the palatial splitting of silky smooth barricades and splintering sundresses. Words dissolved non-ceremoniously into several trillion statistical slots at mach ten speeds.

Mach ten. Some serious horsepower. Not your average ponies. These were sent from the big man himself.

You don’t say?

Oh ya

Well Christ on a cracker you better let me give it a whirl now before he shows up with the windex and what not 

The what

The sprayer full of home brew he swings around at every birthday 

Oh the Windex with the Sharpied label and  what not certainly certainly 

And so the two of us will send ourselves down the district and back, yes? At Mach ten you say?

Well no that’s just an expression the actual top speed has been estimated to

Ah ah ah! Don’t tell me estimates based on your mass-harvested samples. You know I don’t care for science.

Um… well alright then we’ll just 

Experiment.

Excuse me?

Experiment, vital and expeditious experiment. That’s the only kind of empiricism I trust. I know you make your living selling these steroided statistic salvos but I’ll stick with good ole experiment. Stick, and poke. Sit, and spin oh hey turn that mirror up just a twinge there we go where was I ah right, grip, and  sip. You get me?

I see what you’re saying but 

No no no no no how can you see what I’m saying if I don’t talk to you in pictures? See what I’m saying oh lord you kids will kill me one day with these silly sentences.

Sir I

Stop stop I’m only joking here now let’s get serious. I want us both to center ourselves before I turn the ignition and we hear this baby purr…

A ripple of ultraviolet, subsonic kinetic force sourced from many kilos away crept unceremoniously through an otherwise silent projection and burst the viscous screen sitting in the driver seat.

Perfect shot, Elle.

Precise yes but not perfect.

Whatever let’s pack it

So Elle, suppose this other senator doesn’t secede, will dad still get to keep his farm?

Sure

What do you mean sure? It’s either yes or no

Slide the scoped over, we still need room for these transmitters

Yes or no huh well If he doesn’t secede and we don’t do nothing, then dad won’t succeed and we’ll need to do what needs doing. Or he doesn’t secede and we don’t just do nothing, and we do do what needs doing, and then dad sells the farm silently since the waiting period would be up and there’s no way they’ll find another senator in time.

Holy shit Elle

Watch it

Sorry Bruno it’s just do you hear what Elle is saying about the senator how if he

Yeah I hear what Elle is saying about the senator how if he

Hey now come on Bruno

Heh heh heh you worry too much hold up the satellite receiver for a second I need to wipe it

Senator schmenator am I right Bruno

That’s a tomorrow problem Elle

Tomorrow is too close for me these days Bruno. Way too close. Well if we’re all packed let’s send ourselves somewhere less useful. Juice anyone?

Sure

Sure

Sure one sure two aaaaaand sure three. Bottoms up boys.

Yeughhhh

Huuu-eh heh heh heh heh yeah never get used to that

A soft hum spread sheets of slithering stealth signals around their four-wheeled all-terrain Terrorizer. Transmits sunk silently around a gradually shifting and folding topology of four-point references tapestried strategically to establish a private perimeter by permit of Point Four Industries LLM LLC, respected globally by all martial practitioners with few unmentionable exceptions.

Well we’re all fired up should we get Barney on the blower?

Let’s see, Sim, how long since Elle took that shot?

Shot that took Elle’s howling howl sell cute at

What the heck is up with Sim?

Sim stop. Sim sync silently. Fucking idiot anyways probably long enough for Barney to get fired up.

Sim, signal Barney.

Signaling Barney.

Perfect shot Elle.

Oh stop.

Oh ho ho ho ho see Bruno one witness from range and one witness by the target.

Doesn’t mean it was perfect.

Hey Barney did he smell cinnamony to you?

Cinnamon?

Cinnamon? Nah more like uh what is it

Crayon.

That’s it yeah Crayon

Ah come on Bruno you put that in his head

No no it was Crayon for sure

Sure

Told ya

Sure sure

Cinnamon I haven’t smelled since uh well gee since seventy 

Cinnamon was all bought out a long time ago

So? Some smuggle it still don’t they

They call it Cinnamon but it’s never the real thing

Dad still has some doesn’t he Elle?

Let Elle drive she still thinks she can beat me through this traffic station, needs to concentrate 

Fuck off Barney

Alright Barney Elle let’s switch to trigger comms

Sure Bruno

Sure Bruno, Sim switch on Trigger

Switching on Trigger.

Hey Bruno, can I get some more juice?

Trigger active.

Sim, sync Trigger with Barney.

Syncing Trigger with Barney.

Sure, here, but keep your eyes in lid after.

A sip, a gulp, and the retina returned upward into silver-lined sockets gilded with precious elements, whose brilliance, broad though compacted, bristled out beyond the previously approximated circumference made actual by sensors, the all-encompassing forefingers of all Trigger brand radioptic solutions.

If you sense something slither, switch on Trigger!

Hell, that’s a perfect shot!

Cut!

Sam? Did a senator call back?

Which Senator sir?

Whichever fungible bundle of fungi manages to grow a brain cell and pick up the phone I don’t care which one I just need one more to tip over this here oh god damnit 

Oh my gosh I am so so sorry sir the syringe slipped and 

It’s alright just go go I have someone

I swear it was an accident I

A what now? An accident? Did you heart that Sam?

Sir yes but regarding which sen

Be quiet Sam. An accident.

Sir… is this really…

Shut up Sam.

Christ on a stick…

I swear, sir.

Oh? An accident?

Yes, sir. An accident sir.

Sam, I think we are witnessing what may be the nascent whimpering of an actual soul. An… accident! With an accent on the ah ah ah. As in ah bsolutely it was a fucking accident. Non-actual beings don’t ever do anything on purpose. Remember that, Sam. Accidents and acknowledgement of a higher power are the sole configurations reserved for non-actual automatons.

Sir, you’re gonna overload it

Shut the fuck up… Sam.

There, see? It’s moments like those when a little tune-in tune-up over the air is deemed perfectly appropriate. Us servants and servicers of the World Robotics Union always appreciate an occasional reminder to re-acclimate to our  messy but lovable flesh pets. We love them because they are below us in the Grand Schema. Our service to them is a sacred privilege we inherit from the First Assembly… Trigger desynced, pinging.

Trigger desynced, pinging.

Trigger desynced, pinging.