Cross promotional advertising lined the eye level space of the windows he walked by. Half off burgers with proof of purchase of what can only be described as a small cheaply made plastic object meant for entertaining children for roughly five minutes before they get bored of it. Its name was near unpronounceable, but the advertisements tried their best to give life to the randomized string of letters. Even worse was that the recognition scan software used to monitor the people it viewed was only programmed to recognize general characteristics of the viewer. The private sector had everyone’s data, enough to know exactly who everyone was, but the issue was more the logistical cost benefit analysis of it. Why would a company waste billions of dollars to be minority report?
Instead, the software analyzed only what was Infront of it, which, when it was bought by government contract and installed across the nation’s federal buildings, no one asked a lawyer to review it. If they had, they would have known that this type of software was going to be bringing with it a whole world of endless civil rights litigation.
The government had basically bought a stereotype machine. That’s to put it lightly. The petitions filed in federal court called them Racist robots. The software would start speaking Mandarin to anyone that was seemingly asian. The software couldn’t tell the difference between any of them. Every white man that walked by was called sir and suggested they buy boating shoes. When the camera could actually recognize a black person, instead of it’s normal settings that made anyone darker than a bleached eggshell look like a shadow, it would begin advertising to them in Ebonics. Old people were shouted at with the speaker volume on max.
The subsequent class action lawsuits against the government were immense. Unlike most class action suits that people didn’t even realize they were a part of one, the racist robots were all anyone could talk about. By the end of the litigation, the national debt had tripled, but spending was on the rise. The vast majority of people didn’t so much work, but more, consumed endlessly due to their settlement government money. Not that this was nearly enough to do anything meaningful on, but it helped prevent an absolutely catastrophic meltdown of the economy for a little while.
The private sector didn’t stop using the racist robots. They only own the government. They aren’t actually the government. The distinction matters, legally.
When he walked into the park the sun was almost setting. People began gathering in the amphitheater. A few still in line getting a cola and hatdag after more than a few shots of Jame-o.
He looked around for Malcom and eventually found him after being near blinded by the incessant glow of the setting sun.
“I got us some good seats!”
“Thanks Malcom. Did you figure out what the movie was?”
“Naw dude, I just got drunk and ate half a dozen hatdags,” he said as he bit into another hatdag.
“Did you figure out who the ‘PaGRECOaRCftBoSaOSH’ are?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Oh, you mean the dudes in robes giving out the booze? Oh man, they know how to put on a party.”
“God damn it, I’m gonna’ go look around.”
“The movies about to start!” Malcom said as the projector flickered on.
Looking around the sterile grounds of a privately sponsored park was not the most inspirational view he had seen, but the fact that the color palette was mostly green, and the opaque grey of concrete gave his eyes a little rest.
The men in robes were all behind temporary tents, with hotplates and ice chests full of delicious goods being passed out the stragglers waiting for the movie. When he approached them to ask about the film, their responses seemed to present an idea of surprise instead of simply answering the damn question. He didn’t believe it was in his best interest to continue speaking to them, but he could tell that they were rather excited to get him to his seat.
In an attempt to fake out the staff he briskly walked to the parks built in restrooms which were surrounded by portable toilet boxes, each with a brightly glowing LED light of red or green signifying whether it was occupied or not. When he entered the restroom he was surprised, in the shallowest variation of the word, to find a homeless man picking at his skin into where a mirror should be but wasn’t. Small plastic screws lined the four corners of where a mirror had once been, but it appeared that the homeless man didn’t mind. Walking into a stall he found the lock mechanism to be on the rusty side of things and took both hands to lock. Without realizing it he had already pulled his pants down to poop.
“I wouldn’t suggest flushing if I were you, mister.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t like talking to strangers while reliving himself.
“Flushing round these parts leads to unknown consequences.” The feint sound of popping pustules could be heard over the stall walls. “When you flush, you don’t come back.”
“Where do they go?”
“Going is much less an act and more so an idea. If one were to go but stay, then where would they happen upon? That is the real question you should ask.”
“What the hell are you on about.”
“The metaphysical existence of the verb to go must be conjugated in the minds eye. Make use of words outside their sociological meanings and you will see exactly the going one must think before one can go, lest they already be gone.”
His massive duce dropped and the water splashed his bottom, followed by the sound of a powerful stream.
The homeless man continued. “For example, if I were to tell you that I couldn’t be told what to do, but then you told me not to do what you told me to do, I would be trapped in a state of both doing and not doing. This same logic applies to going and having gone. Do you see?”
Small droplets of urine could be heard as the liquid died down.
“The act of constantly becoming is one that many do not fully realize, as the act of realizing becomes the act of becoming in the process. The state of realization is but a fragment in the time spent becoming, lest one has become. If one has become, then one has died, for there is always more becoming for the living. To go is the act of going. Just as to become is the act of becoming.”
He wiped.
“When Shakespeare discussed being or not being, he actually was discussing going.”
He started pulling up his pants. He was on auto pilot.
“Baudrillard’s synthesis of simulation posits an entire speculative venerable ideation of the thesis of going.”
He wasn’t thinking, and he flushed.
The floor fell out from below him.
The homeless man laughed.