Once again, it gives the Speculative Fiction Showcase great pleasure to welcome occasional guest blogger and essayist, not to mention satirist, A.E. Williams.
As ever. all views expressed are the author's own!
SIRI-OUS
STUFF
The other day, I was driving along in the
early morning, and I had a thought.
I was reminiscing about this show that
used to be on Spike TV™.
The host, Stacy David, did a good impression of a smug frat-boy with too much
money, an almost likeable personality, (if you were also a frat-boy), and a
decent knowledge of automobiles.
He even made it appear that anyone,
(including ham-fisted viewers drooling over his immaculate and no-doubt
fabulously expensive garage), could easily perform mechanical tasks to tune or
improve their vehicular device of choice. Whether a motorcycle, sedan, dump
truck, half-track, ATV, boat, or gyrocopter, Stacy made fixing what ailed it
look like baking a pie.
He’d have a smudge or two of grease on
his forehead when he finished, but his gloved hands still retained their
healthy, tanned aura of wealth and vitality.
I digress…
The point is, I was THINKING about this
show. I didn’t have anyone else in the car with me, save the many ghosts we all
carry as we drive around.
Later, when I returned to the satellite
magic of my Internet connection, I was goofing around, and settled on YouTube™.
And, as I am scrolling down the page, seeking some additional distraction from
the oncoming freight train of viral demise headed all of our ways, I spied the
Mach 5© from “Speed Racer®.”
And, so, I clicked on the thumbnail, (as
would any red-blooded American who was a boy who was introduced to cultural
sensitivity and diversity in such fashion, many decades prior), and, Lo and
Behold!
It was Stacy David. Really.
And that is when I became very, very
frightened.
Because the social media giants can now
obviously read our minds!
What’s next?
Do they know when we are going to the
bathroom?
Is that why I get ads popping up for
Charmin™ and Preparation-H® when I am on the throne?
Oh, my God!
They DO know everything about me! I mean,
us!
Can they…do they know…when we are going
to die?
Does Google know when I am going to die?
GOOGLE
ME THIS…
Now,
insurance companies and financial institutions have been leaning heavily on
math and actuaries forever.
In
point of fact, life insurance is a bet they make with you.
They
bet you that you are going to die. Someday.
And,
when you win, you do. Die, that is.
You
die, and they pay the beneficiaries a sum of money to make them remember you
fondly.
Well,
that’s the general idea. But in reality, it’s more like they just pay a small
portion of your hard-earned insurance policy that grow the fruits of all those
hard-earned premiums you’ve paid, waiting out your miserable existence until
you keel over.
The
House always wins, as they say. Of course, they do.
They
keep your money, and invest it along with all the other people they have
guilted into making premium payments, (“You wouldn’t want your poor wife to
remain poor, hating you even in death, would you?”), making interest on that
pool of premium money. And, every so often they will pay out some outrageous
sum to a bunch of people who now have you to thank for dying for them.
Hell,
they probably wished you were dead anyway, most of the time. These parasites will
now enjoy a far better lifestyle than you could attain while still living, and
working.
You
become worm-food while your widow is getting railed by a tag-team of your
still-living, and incredibly randy, buddies.
Or, maybe
your rotting corpse can find solace in your children performing scientific
experiments as to how particular narcotics will affect their young bodies.
But all
of this is only my way of bracing you for the inevitable:
Google DOES
know when you are going to die.
For
real.
Here’s
how that works –
ACTUARIAL
MATH – THE NOT-AS-DISMAL-AS-ECONOMICS SCIENCE
There used to be a joke website where you
would put your birthday in a couple of fields, and it would tell you how long
you would live.
And then, there were these semi-serious
medical sites, where you’d input all your sins and frailties, and it would dispense
some manner of suggestions, such as “STOP SMOKING!” or “EXERCISE MORE!”
These platitudes made you feel as though
you at least were thinking about taking your health seriously.
Along comes these “Healthy Option”
meals at fast-food restaurants.
Based on the idea that ‘green is good,’
and ‘red is bad,’ those traffic-light menu choices allow you to fool yourself
into thinking you are really getting in high gear, diet-wise.
Coupled with ‘smart’ gym equipment, IoT
mini-refrigerators, and app-tied wrist-gadgets, it is a Pure Dee fact that you,
(and, by extension, those compatriots of your socially distanced social media
circles), are serious about achieving immortality - or at least outliving your
grandkids.
Heck, if you have terminal indigestion,
you hope to at least be able to upload a reasonable facsimile of yourself into
some kind of AI.
Then, you can pester your relatives until
cloning dead cells, or rehydrating that urn of cremains, becomes reality.
Soon, it is hoped, miniature submarines,
the size of blood cells, and pockmarked with wireless surveillance cameras, and
teeny-tiny laser scalpels, will be navigating the lipid-laden,
cholesterol-crammed veins and arteries of your genitals, and other extremities,
restoring vitality and youth without the need for messy organ-donor sacrifices
of Chinese origin.
Still, here we are, not yet achieving the
tantalizing future we all so richly deserve.
The Actuarial Tables tell us our
life-expectancy is dropping.
We watch the calendar days fall, hour
after hour, and waste our lives playing games about zombies, or mock-battles,
or participate in other celebrations of death. The droning hum in our brains is
briefly quieted by our efforts at exploding our enemies, or watching outlandish
recreations of mutilation and carnage, while we sip on celebrity-infused tonics
or smoke herbal supplements to try to deaden the realization of the Abyss we
all must face.
Am I bringing you down? Sorry, not sorry…
See, I have a point with showing you all
this doom and gloom.
You may not find it all that comforting,
now that I think about it.
No matter.
Remember, that which does not kill us only
delays the inevitable!
THE
UNBEARABLE DARKNESS OF BEING
So, we
have given our data to a networked system of social and consumerist databases.
This data includes our names, identity information, shopping and viewing
habits, who our friends are, and our vices, likes, dislikes, relationship
status and a myriad of other bits and pieces of activities and identifiable artefacts that comprise who we are.
And,
Facebook, Instagram, Google, Amazon
and all the others ‘share’ this amongst themselves.
Sure,
it’s ‘anonymized’: much in the same way that everyone can see it is definitely
you throwing up over the side of that fishing boat on YouTube®, even though you
are tagged as ‘MonkyBone44’ in the photos kind of anonymized.
So
what, right? Everyone does this now. In fact, try to avoid getting facially
recognized, even in crowds.
It’s impossible. The sheer volume of surveillance is astounding.
Again,
so what?
WELL –
Actuaries like to take all this ‘anonymized’ data, and merge it together, into
what they call BIG DATA, to make huge analysis parties to predict behaviors.
Human behaviors. Yours. Mine. Ours.
And,
guess what? They create algorithms to predict and run model scenarios and come
up with statistics that will give them a pretty decent idea as to what your
lavish, decadent and wanton lifestyle will do to your aging body as fleeting
time takes its maddening toll.
A
TIME FOR ALL SEASONS – OR SOMETHING SOMETHING DEATH AND TAXES
The other evening, as is my wont, I was
enjoying an adult beverage, a nice cigar, and the night sky around the North
Forty.
The buzzing flies were mostly absent,
since it was still cool. Not exactly bonfire cold, but cool enough to think
about making one. In the end, I decided that procrastination was the better part
of being lazy, so I sat, illuminated only by the glowing ember of my smoke.
I’ve always like H. Upmann’s™. They burn
evenly, have a good, mild taste, and last just long enough.
It’s moments such as this that become
contemplative. And, when the gods decide to shoot a star across your field of
vision, that momentary flash of light can bring thoughts of wishes – or the
ever-nearing horizon of oblivion.
For, contrasted against the Universe, we
are small, humble and insignificant. And, that pisses me off…
Since my prediction of COVID19
has come to pass, people look at me strangely.
I mean, sure, they used to look at me
strangely before, too.
But now I notice they have this haunted
look, as if they are one small, insignificant, random moment from annihilation.
They avoid touching other humans, and scowl when you cough behind your flimsy
face covering.
You can feel the terror metastasize when
people ‘social distance’ themselves.
For an example, last January I was at Sea
World®, and people would stand at least a few yards from me (and, each other).
Everyone
was wearing masks.
The poor SW funployees pointed their
fingers and cluck-clucked at you if your mask slipped, or you scratched your
nose for a second. God forbid you sneezed!
“Please wear your mask for the safety of
all of our patrons!” they’d say, smiling beneath their Shamu™ masks with their
mouths, one supposes, while their eyes shot sleek, wet, dolphin-shaped daggers.
I wandered about while my daughter and her
friend rode the rollercoasters, sipping my lukewarm beer in the Florida sun.
Seeing all these people playing at
accepting the ‘new normal,’ I ruminated on the previous times I had been at
that same place, marking the changes silently.
What had happened to the Penguin Encounter™?
How about the pink flamingo boats?
The Sky Tower© sat ominously vacant. And,
why not?
I mean, who dared to ride the “Elevator
of Possible Viral Doom?”
Think about that! What an exercise in
trust, and staring right into the face of Death by plague!
There you would be, sitting in close
proximity to dozens of total strangers, (most of whom were possibly from other
countries; it was hard to tell, after all).
Everyone would stare out at the receding
landscape as the tower symbolically brought us closer to Heaven, inhaling each
other’s miasmas!
All
that fear mirrored in everyone’s eyes…
But
it was closed. Pity.
I
could have used a bit of vicarious Edgar Allen Poe by that point.
As I meandered the park, it felt
positively Victorian; I am telling you!
I was surprised at the lack of Polly
Penguin™ Beaked Plague Masks, or Terry Tiger Shark™ Theriac Paste for sale at
the vendor’s booths.
Sure, they had Pepsi® Zero soft drinks and
Shamu™ Vegan Ice Cream bars by the truckload, but ask some vendor for a decent
poultice and you were met with vacant stares.
And, Disney™®© forbid you pull down your
mask to make your incoherent mumbles more understood or legible.
“Sir! Please put your mask back on,
IMMEDIATELY!” the startled ice-cream huckster would shout. “If you do not
comply, we shall be forced to either eject you from the park, or see if we can
launch you into the whale pool from the Mako Roller Coaster™!”
As they hissed you could read the secret longing
in their dead-fish eyes that you would hesitate just long enough to allow them
to act out on their rabid fantasy.
And, you instinctively knew you would not
have been the first sacrifice to Poseidon – that day.
THEY CAME FOR THE X-MEN, BUT I WAS NOT A MUTANT
Then, there is the whole Nazi thing, regarding vaccination.
What?
You aren’t being asked to “Show your
papers!”?
You have not yet been forced to provide
evidence that you have indeed been given the jab in order to access some
relatively normal public space?
Don’t worry, my good friend: it’s coming soon
to a theater near you!
After all this confusing messaging, the
immense angst and boredom of being cooped up, imprisoned in your own ‘home,’
when you walk around at a place like Sea World, you are just finally glad to be
out of the confines of your habitat.
Now able to see the sun and smog and
whatever, you’re so grateful that Big Brother has deemed it proper and given
you ‘permission’ to just exist that you end up loving Him forever and ever.
Until, that is, you suddenly realize that
every single person on the planet is really Death incarnate, that vegan Shamu®-popsicle
paused just beneath your gaping jaw.
You spy a cute little girl with pigtails.
She’s crawling with viral infection, from her rumpled dolly to her penny
loafers.
A somewhat curvy woman goes jogging past,
her head ensconced in some expensive, scientifically filtered mask, her ample
bosom and buttocks bouncing hypnotically. (Hey, she’s been in quarantine for
over a year, cut her some slack!) Bet she’s got the COVID!
Then there is the bearded weirdo whose
mask is actually a skeletal face stitched onto a bandana. You do know that when
he actually eats food, he uses that infernal, stained cloth to wipe infectious
grease from his lips, right?
And, that’s just within three yards of the
entrance to the Elementary School!
Yep, the Grim Reaper is open for business,
and business is BOOMING!
KNEEL BEFORE DOOM
“But,
A.E.!” you may be thinking. “What can we do?”
Not
much.
Personally,
I find bourbon helps.
Thanks
to the magic of social media and sharing pretty much every inane thing you do,
the way you interact with apps, your spending habits, and which sites you
frequent, it is possible for the Powers That Be® to figure out just what kind
of salami you like, and the probability that you will stop off at the pub for a
beer and brat, and how many times a year you will do this.
AND –
based on the data you are feeding your FIT-WATCH™, which is beaming all your
vital signs to your app, you will get shamed into doing all manner of healthy
behaviors!
Like
running on a treadmill for forty-five seconds…and then making a beeline for
your mini-fridge, where you keep a supply of mildly-flavored carbonated beverages.
As you
wipe pretend sweat from your brow, and sip mineral water for five minutes, maybe
you find yourself contemplating how many calories you just burned. (One.)
You sit
idly, thinking about “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This” by the Eurhythmics®
for some odd reason.
It’s
weird because it’s the song your ex dumped you over, and also because you’ve
got Billy Eilish™ playing on your Beats® beaming tuneless noise directly into
your aural cortex.
So, you
towel off a rivulet of mineral water drool, and walk over to your desk.
Leaning
against the burled wood, gasping for breath, tired from pretending that your
exertions are in any manner healthy, you ask Siri the most important question
any human can ask of anyone, be they Human, God, or A.I.:
“Siri,
when am I going to die?”
A few
seconds pause, and then comes the answer.
“You are going to die in five,” comes Siri’s mechanical, soothing, artificial
voice.
“Five
what?”
“Five. Four. Three. Two…”
Your throat closes with fear as you drop your
mineral water, and it bounces across the marble tile floor, coming to rest under
an ergonomic chair, the precious fluids draining onto the floor, much as the
color is draining from your increasingly pallid face.
Your visage contorted in terror, you manage
to find enough breath in your shriveled lungs for a penultimate, plaintive howl
of anguish. Your hands rush to the side of your face, Munch-like, and you cry
out your final word.
“ALEXA!”
you scream, as the Darkness closes in, and you hear your Mother, as near to you
as your green bottle of Soylent.
BUT
DON’T WORRY
You suddenly
wake up, damp from the nightmarish dream.
Your heart is
pounding, as you turn on the lamp on the stand next to your bed.
Your iPhone
glows warmly, as if mocking you.
With a grimace,
you flip your finger across in a familiar pattern, unlocking the marvels of
this technological wonder.
You quickly
glance over the screen, and a single message catches your eye.
“Stacey
David/Gearz - Speed Racer's Mach 5”
A.E. Williams
High Springs, Florida
March 31, 2021
About A.E. Williams:
A.E. Williams has a unique background of military experience, aerospace engineering and intelligence analysis. He has a varied career, from inventor to consultant, and pretty much everything in between.
Born near Pittsburgh, A.E. Williams is man of a mystery.
As a young man, Williams served the United States government in various capacities, which he then followed with fifteen years as a consultant. Williams currently resides in rural Central Florida.
He does his writing at night, usually accompanied by a bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon and a large supply of Classic Dr. Pepper and ice.
