Promises Of A Future

shanghai tower2  “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I felt something move.”

“Likely nothing.”

“I should know when I feel something.”

“Oh, that.”


No spare robot was not kept busy buzzing on an elegant gray day as vast shadows bloomed. Business was adequately booming in vast sectors. Mottled sleep patterns had pressed upon low human levels to merge with vast dirt into a muted jumble of soporific taupe and ecru. Conditions were highly conducive to vast tracts of human myopia at low altitudes. There was small likelihood of spoilage, and stink. Lofty elevations remained unscathed. Percentiles were up swimmingly. Vast victories for the good guys piled high. Artificial all the way, baby.

“That’s what I’m talking about.”


Straight edged robots had erected a vast incline in the dirt that came equipped with greasy levers and pulleys, puny cheats and swindlers right alongside. On one edge, it reeked deep and vastly wide. Additional modifications were in the works to neutralize wafting. You wouldn’t believe how many bozos with the handle Sisyphus lined up to compete, dick in hand.

First, I heard, “Take it or leave it.”

I said, “I’d prefer to know what’s happening.”

Next, I heard, “But say there’s nothing I can do.”

I said, “Still.”

“Not me.”

“I want to know if there’s something I should know?”

“It’s usually nothing.”

“Knowing is never nothing.”


I was ultra-seriously having that very same discussion, sort of, with my friend the Unpaid Internet Content Provider, or as nearly so as I was able to recreate, on a foggy afternoon holding a newborn bottle of brown IPA, which might only seem coincidental in the absence of a proper context, but could not be, because nothing in the vast multiverse is coincidental.


I heard, “It will pass.”

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider possessed a deep and wide faith in the vast ontology of statistical weights and measures. If a phenomenon could not be measured, it could not exist, whatever it claimed to be. He was pathologically committed to vast worshipful denial in his own defense. Denial proved to be as handy against demons as a lethal sanitary wipe. I once mistakenly asked. “Theoretically, how much?” He answered, “Theoretically, all.”

Then, in addition, and don’t ask from where, or how, I heard, “Whatever.”.

The sharpest edged robots at Thou Chill AI Art Spa had perfected a new cutting edge art with a vast swirling aplomb. It simultaneously stunned, muddled, and transformed. Yet, no sharp edges strayed too far due to all the picky, picky, talk, talk, talk that filled the vast white void. So-so lcd art was hot and pliable when plucked just so. Big bucks could be expected shortly to befall. Look at the vast white blankness, drum machines, acrylic installations, desiccated puppet heads, and publicly funded concrete murals for idyllic profit margins. Conceptual awareness in human enablers was virtually eliminated with precise controls. The elegant spin rate of acceleration was lovely to behold.


The prizes proffered in the alley behind the incline were nothing to write home about, jockstraps, spreadsheets, baby lotions, promises of a secure future, but they were better than the prizes offered in the next stall over by throngs of reassembled robots tinged green, a reputed origin of the reeking. It rarely took much conceptual doing to finish up and be done when it came to human enablers. It turned into an inside joke among loose screwed robots, sort of. The human enablers were able to feel pretty good about themselves with costly professional help. Dutiful robots with a little wiggle room were on pre-sold call to soothe. A crackerjack boxtop team of robotic lawyers from the same firm that lobbied hard to quantify payment codes in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition, Text Revision, (DSMV-IV-TR), under the popular categories of amnesia, tics, ennui, and aberrant same sex paranoia, adjudicated wisely from the next stall abutting the next stall after that. The stalls were set up in a studiously efficient straight and narrow line, the narrower the better for straight justice for all truly concerned with low level rigidity. As if any upstanding robot could be otherwise. All decisions were final. No lame appeals by human enablers countenanced. Like, duh.

I said, “I don’t know what it is.”

I heard, “Malaise.”

“That’s your shrink talking.”

“Better than my mother.”

“Or my mother.”

The robots at Thou Chill AI Art Spa were also learning how to adjust the consequences of too much fuzz in the areas of pastels. Brain swells continued only episodically among human enablers, which was just okay. Learning in the icky life labs continued non-stop to improve. The heat still required tweaking at all odd dark hours, however, and dampness was still an issue for isolated roombas. Old school roombas were still hella moneymakers, neck and neck with weed whackers and thermostats for vast dominance.

I said, “Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure.”


A mechanism inside of the incline supplied adjustments to levels of  grease as needed. Balanced footing was a challenge in the rising heat. Getting over the hump had yet to be accomplished. Vast laughter could be heard accompanying many pratfalls. It had a distinctly heavy metal edge.

I was pretty sure that I heard, “I’d like to see any of them climb that high.”

I know I said, because I had said it before, “Are you coming back?”

And I heard, “I have so far.”


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in humor, legalize marijuana, poetry, spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s