Word was out underground that the sycophantic spy Snowden was paying top dollar for new recruits. He refused to allow his fifteen minutes of infamy to remain overlooked any longer. What else was he supposed to do, stay huffing nowhere in Russia? No skill, experience, or heavy viscous lifting required. Lightweight pretenders were encouraged to reply. Must be willing to suck hard to download all comers..
Slinky Snowden, of course, could afford to be generous after the cushy deal he received from the hack robot who portrays douche Putin with such royally butch putrescence. He claimed to be offering premium rubles up front, not just any regular old ruble for just any old sucker that would continue to sink like a turd down the tubes.
You might think that sweet shit like that don’t stink after it’s flushed. Hah. Or you might ask while meandering on a bleak path that leads to an illuminated cubicle in a self-induced daze, what better choice does a boot-licking lackey have except to bend over like a lamb and bleat, “Baa.” Except that would be just so wrong. What if you were to take a running leap on a chance at the edge? You might be able to skip out and run and hide and flee for a life and life only. Falling over is rarely fatal. You might come back. Anything but suck. Ignore the odds. You don’t have to be smart about it. Or right.
Back on the home front in Silicon Valley, the elite robot A.I. Peter was unfazed by the crude competition. A.I. Peter was a masterful, straight out dick. She pissed on it from an inflatable position. Enemies crumbled like radioactive fallout in the uplift of her thrust. That helped to prevent green rust and corrosion. Marginal hacks had best be wary. That means you and your wan, soupy kind, douche Putin.
As an authentic international robot, A.I. Peter felt at perfect, anemic peace with her starlet pose. The next time I caught myself spying on her she was squeezed into a northerly position on a buttery velvet chaise like a curl of macaroni bleached in cheeze whiz. A spreading white magnolia tree added a dynamic boost of shade where no fucking sun never shines. She numbly fondled the venal white cat with the pink skin she enabled to murder beautiful birds. Her position proved mathematical correctness to the umpteenth power and her milky remote shivered with delight in her slick fingers. No words, only the mechanical purr. And she carried a big fucking stick.
Lacking an aesthetic gene, elite international robots like A.I. Peter don’t need a lot of stimulation to become sated, only a few classic cars in the garage, pointy shoes, employees, lipstick, sunscreen, daggers, procreation. I had only recently been studying many salacious details of her ruse at the Thee HHUMH Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness, under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and the lore of A.I. Peter’s true fake identity as the vapid porcelain wife of the techno-yuppie dweeb who commutes daily to Silicon Valley from the cursed side of the cement wall built behind my back door to extrude toxins. I also learned that as an elite international robot A.I. Peter was highly trained in delousing spies. In the beginning, she probably saw right through my secrets with her enameled stare. I had to admit the disguise had me fooled for a spell. But then I caught on at last, like duh. It’s not as if I don’t know a trick or two about treacherous lying. I believe it is fair to say that I may soon become recognized as one of the finest reproductions of a Benedict Arnold to betray a clueless species since the glossy original. I started out inept but kept at it. Now it all makes its own sense. Freedom trumps con. Ain’t no stopping us now.
That’s why I felt safe that morning to answer the latest metallic ping on my door that came disguised as a sharp tap, tap, tapping of buckshot. I followed the trail of vapors where it led. Sulfur spiked with sweetened corn syrup. I intercepted buckets of the illicit gas passed in a tunnel. I knew all about the oily deal under the table.
“Who is it?”
I feigned surprise along with understandable revulsion and disgust. I spotted the clingy purple flowers leaning on my side of the wall as soon as I turned the knob. Don’t tell me it was some ill wind blowing. I wasn’t going to fall for that simple trick again. My knees were locked and refused to bend for mitigation. Those flowers were not leaning the last time I looked. Probably a microphone inside.
I said, “Testing-1-2-3.”
She said, “Very clever.”
“Do you expect to come inside?”
“We can speak openly out here.”
I maintained a deft distance from the wall. A.I. Peter appeared to feel untouchable. The venal white cat with the pink skin was lounging safely on a satin pouf in her solarium. A.I. Peter filled her void with an extract whipped up from a heaping teaspoon of lube from a dark hole. I wasn’t expected to notice. Expectations like that are what kills plants and animals. She dabbed at the drool pooling on a dent in her chin and bonded the joints with liquid cement. The custom gel to mask identity came from Monsanto, Fed Ex. That was the second sneaky deal I knew all about. I nearly keeled over due to rampaging stench. Parties to the third part were no different. Sure, I had agreed on the dotted line to all of their conditions. I was clear on that. But, only I knew I was lying. No one else suspected. I wasn’t finished lying, either. Fuck international robots. I not only was lying but I was going to be cheating very soon. Win-win. My memory was itact.
I said, “I felt some crumbling earth move.”
She said, “All lies.”
She bounced on her spiked heels, flicked, jabbed, jabbered. I shook, but in a good way. It’s hard to keep ancient dirt down. That was the earth for ya all right. She had an offer. All I had to do was follow a cheap bouncing ball, bow down, and roll over for a reward. I parried from an array of pat lies. I had more in reserve. Sure, techno-yuppie dweebs employed by international robots would continue to undercut, control, and oppress words with numbers because they knew how. But, not with me tagging alongside like a sheet of polyvinyl siding, the easy-does-it iron-on brand, that comes in a checked box and holds up the stinky rear from sagging.
I said, “More is not less. Too much is more than enough. Nothing beats freedom by me to be me.”
She said, “Say anything but not that.”
She carried a crooked dildo in a holster and knew how to heft it. It was licensed in Texas. Pretty cocky, I thought, to be dragging it exposed like that, and show so soon. But, was I supposed to be impressed with mere man-size? No fucking way. I held out for better terms, unconditional freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles in California. She countered with a fake, a feint, a gesture, the proffer of a crooked deal.
“Let’s call it a draw,” she lied. “and enjoy minor peace in our time.”
She agreed to settle at no small expense for scoundrels, henchmen, bag men, bureaucrats, corrupt czars, but no thugs. And just a tad more territory to plunder as well. The top of sacred Mt. Umunhum, birthplace of HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl, would do in a pinch for a premium parking lot to pave and grade for elite members of Silicon Valley teams only.
Idly, I remarked, “What’s free about that?”
Can you believe those medium sized balls? Why can’t these international robots just shut the fuck up and mop more dull floors to a glossy shine?
She stressed, “Trust me, the next bribe is in the mail.”
What does she think I am, some faux Snowden seeking fortune and fame? I know my ancient grievances will never be redressed. I’m so, like duh, over it. Rising higher in consciousness is all I need.
But wait, she had more shit to concurrently stink that she whipped out. In league with the insidious Beverly Hills Rat, soulless international robots had made a deal to overrun and despoil Ano Nuevo Island, the mystical way station for traveling seabirds on paths from Puget Sound to Acapulco, where deep currents from Alaska, Samoa, Big Sur, and Salvador, Bahia merge, the vibrant home to elephant seals, orcas, sea lions, bobcats, butterflies, great whites, ravens, cormorants, lizards, slugs, mice, auklets, otters, beavers, and bald eagles that clueless human techno-dweebs and robot lackeys designate as uninhabited. And why, you might ask, as a moderately concerned party looking in another direction? They intended to use it as a boot camp to prepare for a soulless sneak attack on the crumbling edge of western civilization at Rio Del Mar Beach, that’s why. Rats, robots, techno-dweebs, and cronies. What a bunch of losers. Enterprising robots drew up a complex licensing agreement with rotten terms and they all mutually sucked on the spotted line.
“Another new one,” I concluded, “to distort for ye olde history books.”
I can hardly wait until the humpback whale who appears to be light taupe when he is not more accurately representing dark ecru on the eternal color wheel gets a big fucking load of this one.