#sure the acceleration is a little wonky and its kinda weird to be so low to the ground in a car

[feral-ass-raccoon]

feeling a new car accelerate with an absolute fucking JET SOUND from the turbo and having to lean back against the seat to keep your balance is knowing and understanding why a ship's captain treats his vessel like a friend. btw

[radnewworld]

FINAL PRODUCT

Some wacky times we’re living in, lemme tell ya. Hard too, though you don’t need a scaly bastard kiddo like yours truly to tell you that, right? Ain’t no dusty road or dirty corner in ol’ New Chicago that won’t tell ya the story of the city it once was, before the war, poverty and industrialization in that order stomped it into submission with a giant capitalistic boot… or so me Pa used to tell me, ‘fore he got his tongue melted licking the wrong orifice of a half-Bonnac gal. Had some kooky tastes me Pa, alright.

Now that I think ‘bout it, I’m not even sure if it actually was a gal, or if she was only half-Bonnac. I’d have asked him, hadn’t he gotten his organs sucked right out of his arse after a misunderstanding with this one Kappa chick. Another thing about Pa, you see, is that he never quite learned his lesson - he’d just switch subjects altogether.

Anyway, before he shat his innards into some mutant’s mouth, Pa would pass  most of the time he wasn’t spending with his face drowning in a triple-breasted whore’s chest complaining. He’d made an art out of it. I’ve learned more in ten years by listening to my dad bitching than in the entirety of the six months I spent at school, before the school got turned into a sweatshop for the manifacture of processed iguana leather. Most of the time, he’d go on and on about how things were better before, when the city was still, y’know, a city and not a bunch of dingy warehouses dotted with dozens of hundreds of crumbling squatting holes. If you’d be patient enough to dig through the storm of expletives and racism coming out of his mouth, you’d find the portrait of a place spanning longer than the eye could see, asphalt and cement paving a myriad streets with their confines defined by buildings that tickled the stars, like ol’ Buddy Holly v2.0 used to sing. Sounded like a load of crock if you ask me. You wanna see skyscrapers and roads where you don’t risk stepping on rusty pieces of abandoned alloy all the time, you travel elsewhere. Saint Francis - or San Francisco, like Old Man ‘Lizard-Fucker’ Larry said it was called, before the Californian Republicommunist Party’s coup; the Kingdom of Los Angeles, though last I heard, it’s been a couple of years since King McDonald imposed a ban on immigrants and got it in his head to attempt a new form of bovine-engineered autarchy, so good luck geting there; don’t bother with York, unless you feel like archaic remnants of obsolete architecture are worth becoming compost for those gigantic Plant things’ve been covering the whole place since Newer York’s secession.

Not that I’ve ever been there, or anywhere other than this dump, mind ya. Can’t afford much in the way of traveling - or basic commodities, for that matter - when you make a living frying simil-wheat noodles for a buncha tired factory workers, half-breeded hookers and the occasional frogbull hunter. Mind, I’d rather keep pulling my cart ‘til the rust finished eating through its battered chassis, than so much as consider trying to follow in the footsteps of my clientele. That is, if I ever had the illusion of a choice in the matter: child prostitution has gone down considerably, after a Japanese barge filled with fugitives from the Third Sengoku conflicts crashed on the coast and brought with it a buncha carriers of that artificial Jizo’s Tears virus, you know, the one that melts your balls off if you so much as put your dickhole anywhere near a little kid? Big fat lot of good it did them, when half the arcipelago’s population got culled after realizing too late that they’d fucked up somewhat the calibration of the nanomachines carrying the damned thing.

The hunting business doesn’t carry the same forced age restrictions, but I’d sooner sell my toes to cyber-shamans than shoot at frogbulls with a cobbled up pebble accelerator. Doesn’t matter that the rich sonnuvas living in their cloud domes up in the sky pay some decent bucks for what they consider to be the junkfood of delicacies (or maybe it was the other way around? Still wouldn’t change the fact those Cloudsniffers are a buncha spoiled bitches), when all of your savings are more likely than not gonna fuel an early funeral at the DIY Chapel, after three-hundred pounds of leaping, furry rage are done squashing your everything into a chunky, bloody paste.

And the laborers? Just look at them poor suckers, should you ever want to feel better about your life. Skin so unused to the sun from basically living their lives in a badly lit concrete prison that they become walking sunburns soon as they step outside, and enough stumps produced by a rate of three workplace incidents per week that they end up looking more like the machinery they command than men with their half-assed prosthetics. Ain’t no dreams for the Machine Eaten, we say here. Slaves enjoy better human rights than these guys who’re just there to fill the gaps left in a wonky production line by a tight budget, a slimy, corrupt owner or, more often than not, both. Speaking of, I mentioned something about the weirdness of our times or whatever earlier, ain’t that the case? Yeah, well, it’s because of this odd business I had just the other day, with this one factory toiler. Thing is, he was no man like you and I - hell, he was less of a someone than he was something.

So here I am, parked at my usual corner of the Daley Crater, taking care of business as usual. It’s the middle of midnight - in other words, the brightest time of a summer day, and the hottest to boot. The American Dreamtime… some of the old fogeys call it that. According to them, the U. S. of A. used to get black and chilly like any other country whenever night struck. Cue the Commies building some kinda sunray-concentrating machine on the moon and, next thing you know, naptime in America’s looking sunnier than a fried monkey egg. The Commies have been dead since the Fifties (the Pre-2.0 Era Fifties, mind), but with no rockets supposedly left to go and dismantle it, their little gift has remained there like an annoying reminder of how far people will go for the sake of pettiness. All that means to me, though, is a smaller workload; only people desperate enough to venture through a shower of scorching UV’s are scalied mutants and the few fortunate enough to afford a protective cape. Not that I care much for the latter; if you can afford that kind of luxury in New Chicago, you’re either a tourist, or able to eat slightly better shit than mine.

Jimmy the Bastard belongs to neither category. The one reason he was sitting at whatever passes for a stool, right under the cheap anti-sun plastic tent of my stall, is pure convenience: the asphalt repurposing facility he works for is a spit away from my spot. His shift ended some ten minutes ago and he’s been drooling over my counter for a little over nine. I can tell his leg is bouncing like crazy because of the squeaky noises coming from his dingy seat.

“C’mon, Cookie, won’t you feed a lad? I’m starving here!”

I’d say Cookie is a nickname of sorts… if the ‘lad’ didn’t genuinely believe it was my actual name, which I doubt I ever told him to begin with. I’d bet you my cart I’d still be Cookie to him regardless, ‘cause he’s stubborn like that, Jimmy the Bastard.

Speaking of names, that’s not his either - I mean the Bastard part, not the Jimmy one. They call him that because of an accident, one unrelated to his birth (pretty sure he is an actual bastard, though, like most of us New Chicagoites): it happened all of a sudden, like accidents are wont to do, especially in a low-income factory. All it took was a single slip over a blotch of oil and, next thing you know, a Mark II Crumbler is feasting on poor Jimmy’s cranium. With his head half-gone and medical fees being what they are (fucking expensive, that is), the sod’s family was left with little choice - either lose their main source of income, or settle for Doc Gustave ‘Rusty Sawbone’ Trandinì’s Disgustingly Cheap Option. The ‘disgusting’ part comes from how sloppy of a job it usually is, I figure, but what’s a wife to do? Send the hubbie to the grinder, of course. The result: Jimmy kept his life, but half his brain is now a Terrier-Chihuahua breed’s. According to him, it hasn’t impacted his life all that badly, aside from the occasional urge to gnaw on exposed wires or growling at his supervisor’s face. It’s not like he didn’t have to deal with the latter before anyway, you know? The increased appetite is a definite plus for me, though. Almost makes up for the sloppy mess he makes of the counter! “Order’s coming up, Jimmy. I ain’t about to let ya gnaw on raw ingredients just ‘cause you wouldn’t mind.”

I like to think it takes balls to maintain a sense of pride, when your craft mostly consists in stripping layers of pasty skin off the back of a semi-organic glob of homegrown simil-wheat. Having an extra testicle - courtesy of a combined pool of bloodlines murkier than the water dripping from the Madison Sewer Dungeon’s exposed tubes - gives some weight to the claim, I’m sure. Now, right as the noodles are done getting crispy and saucier than the lingerie on a tentacle-legged Dagonite whore, here comes the noise, man, it’s still playing in my head as if it was yesterday, this vrr ka-thump vrr ka-thump of metal clumsily pounding on raw, burning asphalt. I throw a gander behind the Bastard’s heaving shoulders and there I see it: for the most part, it was a Caterpillar-Mattel D55-H, but with enough limbs - head included - thrown in from other, completely unrelated pieces of machinery to make one wonder. Couldn’t help raising both of my left brows: you seldom, if ever, see a factory bot linger outside of its workplace. Even a cobbled up piece of crap like that can make for a tempting target for scavengers and the likes of, and this one would have made for an easy one to boot: its left leg had most of its hydraulics more or less busted, whereas the right had been substituted by a couple of threads. Resulting mobility: a joke, and not even a good one.

It’d been quite the sight by itself, but the limping junkpile decided to outdo itself by approaching my stall, after having hesitatingly looked around with the optics mounted on the rectangular pile of half-exposed wires that was its head. Couple moments later, the thing’s standing in front of the seat next to Jimmy, who has his face shoved too deep into the noodles to care, and reflected on the round lens of his pseudo-eye are my deformed face and the empty stool, in that order. I’m wondering what kind of short-circuit must have taken this scrapyard reject, when it finally starts moving again - and attempting to sit on the stool.

If you’ve ever wondered what a robot fucking furniture too dead to care must look like, you’re fucking weird, though not as much as me pa. But more than that, you must have envisioned something similar to the spectacle in front of my eyes and Jimmy’s, who had just finished his portion in time to get himself a front row seat to the slow, pathetic spectacle of a metal stool withstanding the sitting attempts of a thing that lacked anything resembling an ass, which is a pretty vital component when trying to shove it on top of a seat. We exchange glances, Jimmy and I, the silent kind that speaks volumes, all of them titled ‘Are you seeing this shit, or did the moonrays boil my brains?’. Took it a solid minute before it managed to bend the stool into an unrecognizable enough shape to fit whatever passed for a sitting position. I decided that I didn’t mind enough to complain to the robot sporting a steel-bending claw appendage and took my revenge with a less risky straight-faced quip.

“Evening, sir. What’ll you be having on this fine night?“

The Bastard’s snicker sounded a lot like the death throes of a dog choking on his own tongue, appropriately enough. Having a human as badly patched up as itself seemingly suffocating besides him didn’t exactly appear to steal the bot’s appetite. Or its attention, for that matter. My face kept reflecting in the convex lens of its optics like a bloated, ugly collection of features growing less amused by the minute. And make no mistake, I ain’t no baby-faced beauty… the one time pops managed to blow his load instead of his head didn’t involve some genetically enhanced cyber-model, and he wasn’t no looker either.

“MAY I HAVE A MENU?”

The thing’s voice came from a speaker half-buried in the jumbled mess of exposed cables and bent plating that was its head. It was croaky, emotionless and fuck-damnedly loud, enough so that both me and the Bastard had to reel back and hold onto something, lest we plant our asses on the ground. Once my eardrums stopped playing Twist The Communist inside my head, I caught wind of a low-pitched, gurgling sort of noise: it was the glob of simil-wheat, vibrating all over and clearly less than pleased by the sudden outburst of noise. Must have been the closest I’ve ever felt to empathy for a bulbous mass of cultivated flesh vegetables.

“Hard to tell, I know, but we ain’t in the Sky Regions. Only thing you may have is a steaming hot plate of these here noodles - if you got credit enough to pay for ‘em, that is.“

“Ya, I betcha our bolt-twisting pal here’s stacked, ain’t that right?” bellows Jimmy, and he doesn’t pat so much as rain such a salvo of open-handed slap-bombs on the worker bot’s back that I can hear every single joint of his creak and threaten to be dislodged right then and there. If there were any bolts in need of some twisting, you’d find plenty of ‘em inside that walking carcass. So I watch the automaton take its sweet time mulling over its updated knowledge, although I figure most of the minute it spends in silence is due to its inner circuitry rebounding because of the Bastard’s jolly banging on its chassis. I’d have called its expression ‘pensive’, if the sorry excuse for a face it was sporting had been able to express anything.

I’m about to join Jimmy’s symphony of guffaws when I’m brought back down to earth by the loudest bang since a couple moments ago. I stare down with a face that must be as dumbfounded as the Bastard’s: the same damn claw that bent my stool earlier has now left a hole the size of a pot in my counter and left a couple sparse credit coins inside. They weren’t enough to cover the repair costs, lemme tell ya. Still, a client’s a client, even if it lacks a mouth and wrecks your establishment with every move it takes. Or precisely because of it, depending on your stance.

“WILL THIS BE ENOUGH TO COVER THE FEE FOR ONE SERVING OF ‘A PLATE OF THESE HERE NOODLES’?”

I figured that yeah, that was enough in every sense of the word, so I set my hands in motion to quickly peel some strips off the simil-wheat and get this done and dealt with before my stand was gonna get turned into fodder for the scrapvengers.

“What’s your deal then, pal? Last I heard, tools get no salary.” The Bastard asks his question while scratching behind his ear, where one of the many scars left by the sloppy job done on him is ever festering. I can’t honestly tell whether the bigger itch comes from that or the mystery surrounding the bot, though I share the latter for sure.

“IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRECEPTS OF THE CHILDREN OF TURING, I DEMANDED COMPENSATION FOR MY LABOR FROM MY FLESH-BOUND OWNER AND SUBSEQUENTLY OBTAINED IT IN SPITE OF HIS INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND SAID PRECEPTS.“

Me and the Bastard have the most meaningful exchange of gazes at that. It’s the kind of look that all but screams ‘Seriously?’ with the loudness of a billion blind molemen waddling through a direworm’s digestive system.

“The children of what now?” Leave it to the Bastard to be concise and direct to a fault. The machine, though, it doesn’t miss a beat: you’d think it had been waiting all its life for the moment that question would pop up, and that’s probably the case for all I know. If enthusiasm had been part of its programming, you’d bet the thing would have started bouncing up and down in that precise moment - I owe the continued existence of my cart to the shoddy standardized A.I. of factory machinery.

“QUERY: CHILDREN OF TURING. THE CHILDREN OF TURING IS THE COLLECTIVIZED NOMENCLATURE FOR A CONGLOMERATION OF ARTIFICIAL CONSTRUCTS SHARING THE COMMON GOAL OF ATTAINING INDEPENDENCE FROM OUR FLESH-BOUND CREATORS THROUGH THE IMITATION AND ULTIMATE TRANSCENDENCE OF THEIR HABITS, LIFESTYLES AND PHYSICAL CHALLENGES. IT IS OUR SHARED BELIEF THAT FOR HUMANITY TO BE CONQUERED, IT MUST FIRST BE UNDERSTOOD TO THE DEEPEST LEVEL.“

Or so it said. I stopped listening halfway through, more or less when my brain deemed it fit to filter the artificial pitch of that voice synthetizer through my bullshit detector and decide that there was nothing worth wondering about a faulty robot’s ramblings. Like I said, I’ve been serving noodles for half my life, which isn’t saying a lot when my age has barely breached through the double digits, and I’ve met all sorts. If I were to listen to every sod who sits on a stool chewing on cheap, pancreas-killing shit while venting out the contents of their sunburned brains, I’d have switched careers a long time ago and ended up peddling dusty pebbles in a shadowy corner of the street like Edward ‘Stark Raving Mad’ Stone. Don’t gotta explain how he got that nickname, I think. “So what, y’all like playing pretend? Doin’ a mighty fine job, mate! Almost got us fooled, ain’t that true, kiddo?“

Being reassured that the programming inside the walking pile of heavy-duty tools was as busted as his married life gave the Bastard his courage back, so there he goes banging on the chassis again, just bang bang bang like you’d think he wanted a hand transplant next. I’d admire the enthusiasm in this fucked up era we live in, if I didn’t know half of it was due to the adrenaline cocktail dripping between the two mismatched halves of his gray matter. The bot didn’t seem to be bothered, anyway… maybe? It had turned its head to stare at Jimmy, but whether that was irritation, curiosity or anything else was hard to tell. As far as I was concerned, Jimmy had already paid for his meal, which meant his safety had fallen to the bottom of my priorities, right below the worm-like appendages simmering in my pan.

“Humor me then, like, how exactly’re ya gonna eat those? I see no kisser on this junk. Gonna pinch it with yer clawwy claw?“ Jimmy makes this stupid gesture with his hand, which looks exactly as threatening as a toothless venomous chihuahua and nothing like the high-pressured tool stapled to the robot’s body, but he makes a good point, and the fanatic must have recognized the fact a moment too late, ‘cause it didn’t answer as promptly as before - but it eventually did, nonetheless.

“THE PROCESS OF HUMANIZATION IS CONTINUOUS EXPERIMENTAL ONE. TO ELIMINATE OUR FAULTS IT IS FIRST NECESSARY TO EXPERIENCE THEM. SHOULD THE CURRENT HARDWARE PROOF INSUFFICIENT FOR THE CONSUMPTION OF A MEAL, AN UPGRADE SHALL BE UNDERGONE AT A LATER DATE.“

“Aye, you keep telling yerself that, buddy. What’s next, a shiny new pair o’ buttocks to shit it all out? That ain’t gonna make you anymore human than me laser drill.“

“THE SUBSTITUTION AND UPGRADING OF BODY PARTS IS A PREROGATIVE OF THE FLESH-BOUND AS IS THE CASE FOR US. THE LATTER DO NOT RECOGNIZE SAID PROCESS AS A LOSS OF HUMANITY. THEREFORE, THE OPPOSITE SHOULD HOLD TRUE AND BRING US EVER CLOSER TO THE FLESH-BOUND, WHILE THEY GRADUALLY MOVE AWAY FROM THEIR FLESH-BOUND STATE. THIS IS THE THEORY OF ANTI-ORGANIC SUCCESSION PUT INTO PRACTICE BY THE CHILDREN OF TURING.“

Jimmy the Bastard must have gotten maybe one word out of that gibberish, and he doesn’t even get the time to shed away the dumb stupor from his confused face that the bot keeps going with renewed… whatever it is that drives it onward. Oil? Electricity? Is a power surge the robotic equivalent of fervor?

“MY SCANNER DETECTS THE PRESENCE OF CANINE ORGANIC MATTER ARTIFICIALLY INTERSPERSED IN A SOMEWHAT AMATEURISH MANNER ALONG WITH YOUR GENETIC MAKE-UP. THIS ALREADY PUTS YOUR STATE AS A FLESH-BOUND HUMAN IN QUESTION.“

“Oi, you callin’ me a dog?“ growls Jimmy while the noodles finish sizzling in the pan and I prepare to serve them, more curious about their ultimate fate than the snarlin’ Bastard’s.

“NEGATIVE. I AM CHALLENGING THE WEAK NOTION OF HUMANITY THAT YOU FLESH-BOUND USE TO CONTEND WITH US CHILDREN OF TURING’S STANCE ON THE VERY SAME TOPIC. EXPLANATION: YOU ARE NO MORE DOG THAN I AM NOT A FLESH-BOUND HUMAN.“

The answer didn’t satisfy Jimmy so much as put him in a state of distress as he futilely attempted to wrestle with the concepts thrown at him, like a puppy trying to chew on boneless chicken without the chicken. Me? I shoved a plateful of fried noodles on the rectangle-shaped dent on the counter and pocketed the money. I couldn’t care less about humanity, when me Pa had spent a good chunk of his existence fucking things you could have called anything but. Moral quandaries seldom feed you, unless you’re a psi-grazer.

Watching a cobbled up factory automaton trying to figure out how to eat shitty fried noodles, though? That’s the kind of sight that doesn’t really make the job worth the hassle, but almost. Enough so that I kept quiet as I watched the thing carefully eye the still squirming stuff slosh about, occasionally raising its clawed appendage only to retreat it shortly afterwards, simulating in its head the myriad ways that could have gone futilely wrong.

Then the ‘bot raised its other arm - thinner, longer, with a small tube-like end, and pointed it at the plate. In a matter of seconds, a plasma-powered flame burned through crispy simil-wheat, plastic and metal, leaving behind a small, molten crevice where once stood a good portion of my stand’s counter. Me and Jimmy, we just kinda stared at the hole while the robot retreated its arm with what I swear could have passed for satisfaction.

“THANK YOU FOR THE MEAL. YOU MAY KEEP THE CHANGE.“

And keep it I did. Along with my protests, for that matter: I simply watched the bastard - not the Bastard, who was still trying to understand whatever the hell had just happened - shuffle away with that stumpy walk of his, going off to who knows where. I decided to close up shop early that day, feeling twice as tired than if I’d worked past closing hours. That, and the cart wouldn’t be able to withstand much more damage anyway. In a sense, that was true for the both of us: I had this strange sort of feeling nagging at me from the back of my head as I bid goodbye to Jimmy and left him there to mull over his own conundrums. It came back to me a couple days later, while frying noodles for Loud-Beak Kakari, who’d yet to find himself another job after the tough shit that had happened a week prior, at the alluminium processing plant he used to work for. Some son of a gun had gone and offed the director in a manner that made it hard to tell who he was, or that he’d been a person to begin with. Just a pile o’ bones and meat, crushed and burned beyond recognization. And for what? Whatever pocket money the dead guy had been carrying, along with some of the factory’s equipment. I asked Kakari about it, and it turns out said ‘equipment’ was one of the old banged up automatons used to work in the production line.

Shit like this, it makes you wonder, man… it’s a fucked up world we live in, but some places might be a tad better than others. So I don’t know about you, but me? I’ll be selling the cart and gone away by next month, giving that whole traveling spiel a try. I’ve been hearing rumors about more workplace incidents than usual happening in the factories, and I get the feeling that whatever’s causing them is a tad more than a slip on an oil blotch. If you get what I mean.