A soulless international robot is able to be strong, make commands, pose, shift, shaft, screw, delete deep, and wide. A soulless international robot may fake a heavy heart and soul, procreate, control by remote, digitize with thumbs, dial up, get down, grow to prosper, possess goods, demand services, acquire people, places, and things. Recent versions of international robots have developed attitude. It looks and feels the same as the original. Many squeals and grunts accompany thumping bass. Big time entitlement, too. With no aesthetic gene to get in the way, it works. Sort of. That’s another telltale area of dubious achievement in which humans continue to fall behind and will soon require artificial enhancement. But there is no escape for an international robot from the posterior point of view in which skeletal meridians align inside the nether zones of tianzong while arcing to a fulfillment of sparks at the juncture zhishi. Facts of matter in the multiverse matter. Bile born in the liver bites. Comes to roost disguised as back pain. Delivered inside the bladder to electrify and stew. Hits like molten lava. Pipes quiver and burst. Dynamite.
As long as soulless international robots, along with opportunistic political pros with soulless agendas, maintained their alliance with scum sucking rats, who thrive so soullessly in a community cesspool with no rules that would dare to be posted, no limits on gorging or gauging, and no cartoon sized heroes professing the ability due to some bogus guidance in any divine desert to save any asses, they enjoyed a certain amount of negotiated protection from debilitating spews and clogs. Backups were kept to a minimum. But once the surgical gloves came off, as they did on the rocks at Ano Nuevo Island, and the raw redness of treachery was exposed for what was, is, and will be, there was nothing to stop an historical stream of sludge from gaining traction on drier land. The jack boot of gravity comes down hard. Rats are skilled at revenge because practice, practice, practice, pays off.
The elite international robot A.I. Peter felt herself to be immune to static upchuck, of course. Who knew her formatting better? Her septic deposits were slim. She had rigorously memorized the manuals and created shortcuts with tabs. Basic stuff. She knew better than to ever shake her rigid hips. Her kind never fudged. You know the kind. Not once an overload or back-up. Less fat, more foam. Inspections up to date. Runs for miles without lube, and remains rust free. Plays a safe poignant endgame without angst. Repeats, “None for me, thank you.”
The elite robot A.I. Peter was not the only underhanded conniver in the neighborhood, though. I found myself hitting a groove in recovery from cranial war wounds without hardly trying. I was just messing around with her ovoid head that morning, playing Jr. Walker and the All-Stars out of my window at full volume, nothing major, because it had been such fun to hear her complain so bitterly about it last time. Those soulless robot membranes tend to get hyper-sensitive to interfering nitty-gritty. But, how was I supposed to know that the lyrical, “Shoot ’em boy, run now,” was a signal that would set off rampaging rats down a premature path that turned into a stampede? Events in a multiverse shed staid predictability like lice with little input from me. Those trumped up charges against me will never hold up. Rats have an ability to get down and funky, too. And cosmic dust will continue to float and flow, no matter. How can that be my fault when I’m always innocent? If not, why not?
I wasn’t going to become complacent, though. Wherever indigenous freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles in California is at risk, I will continue to stoutly avow and declare, no matter how much potent DNA they share in soulless opposition, fuck those mortal enemies of freedom, the rats, the robots, and the pol pros, who are out there still lurking. Let them just come and try to blame me again. See how I run this time. I’m no slacker in the defense department, after all. I was like totally prepared to duck for cover, like duh.
My initial path through the forest leading to freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles was marked by crummy crumbs from white bread without crust. No savvy bird would touch it. From there, no problemo. I had confidence the teen twins would do a swell job of defending the fort in my absence. They agreed to back me up with a plausible alibi in return for a reasonable bounty in bitcoins. They were tough negotiators. Totally win-win. I was busy brewing brown beer in the space between my washer and dryer when more rats came out of hiding. I wasn’t picking the needles from that purple sage for any sort of potion. I was merely running with those scissors and that knife to get where I was going. I was in a big hurry to start chopping.
The yang twin suggested the story needed more rat guts to spill out, but I advised sobriety, caution, and patience.
“One day soon, my son, all things will come out. And we will all be a little more free.”
My pride popped like white kernels of canned corn. I believed sincerely I had done my best of all jobs in teaching them. The yin twin was busy doing something. The yang twin was capable of something, too. Now, I only had to wait for the rats to hear the next lyric coming up before lamming out of there, “Get down, get down, get down tonight.”
We were all fiercely hopped up as a unit when the first clue came from the other side of the fence, which was technically more of a wall, a resonant,”Eek.”
“Do you hear the treble in that screeching?”
“It’s only the rats next door.”
“You’ve taught me the meaning of proud.”
The elite robot A.I. Peter was lolling in embellished shade, covered up. It was going to be a hot day in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The venal white cat napped on her lap. Her outdoor air-conditioning was blasting full speed through useless ozone. It caused straight hairs to curl up and cringe. The yang twin pointed at her while laughing out loud.
I said, “Even when dealing with lowlife enemy scum, it’s not polite to point out loud across fences.”
He said, “Dude, that’s a wall.”
I knew he understood my important point without deigning to respond but he made the effort. I was glad we were able to grab a moment to have a serious talk about issues. I wasn’t really expecting a major attempt on my life yet. Soon was more likely. But, still. The days of a traitorous spy are always numbered by simple arithmetic.
When the rats came, they came with experience in the redress of grievances. A wrecked relationship on the rocks of an island in the ocean can chafe. They were well versed in the multiversal clash of contradictions. Sure, many opponents were worthier. Most, in fact. But the imagery of a venal white cat with pink skin was irresistible. And revenge was always ripe and succulent.
Short and long, that’s the way it was, and is, and will be wrote, folks. After the brutal game of politics struck her down in her sub-prime, A.I. Peter lost everything, stock options included. The techno-yuppie dweeb would have to find another lawn to mow when not commuting daily to Silicon Valley. The venal white cat would never murder another beautiful bird. Another win-win.
By that time I was certifiably gone, gone, gone. I was anonymously seated on a speeding city bus multitasking like any other model city chimp dealing with social issues. The bus made anonymous stops at a hospital, a laundromat, a muffler shop, a bench. The bus would take me within walking distance of the certifiably airtight basement residence of the Unpaid Internet Content Provider where I’d be safe. There would be vital sustenance, including brown beer. His mother would try to show off her tits. Beat that, soulless fuckers. My mission as a traitor and a spy was not yet complete but would be. There was still an election for freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles that the good guys were about to win. And only I knew when more revenge would be coming from what direction next.