Fun with magic!

 

Ah, Master, the show is sold out!

 

IGOR, who takes the form of a metallic dog, and The Creator stand outside a standalone structure whose front windows are decorated with elegant red drapes. A sign points to the front red door, the words MAGIC, displayed across the façade.

 

Rats! This is the third consecutive night!

 

IGOR lifts his head in the direction of a pair of gentleman who are attached, literally, at the hip, entering the front door of the arthaus.

 

It seems word has breached the bastions of the village’s most incestuous critters—The Shaolin Showman has quite the draw, and quite the reputation.

 

You two fellers fixin’ to see a real magic show?

 

The Cloaked Man leans into the lamplight, his face obscured by a diamond-shaped shadow.

 

How much for two peppery souls?

 

How ‘bout a good story and $20 per head?

 

Deal.  But please be warned—we are proper vigilantes ourselves and not easily fooled.

 

Arf arf! Or rather, that’s right you stupid Frenchman!

 

The Creator kicks IGOR in the ribs.

 

Henchman!

 

Right this way!

 

The Cloaked Man leads The Creator and IGOR through a series of ramshackle housing situations. They creep through an orphanage full of sleeping babes, descend the steps into a cellar, and then sneak across an underground butcher shop on the double. On the other side of the next door, the crew encounters a Chinese family playing a game of Go. The Chinese family attempts to surround The Creator, IGOR, and The Cloaked Man but the three slide down a firepole and find themselves marching through a massive pipe leading further below the earth. Finally, a double action door appears out of the thicket. Lively banter and the faint aroma of peanuts waft out toward the crew. The Cloaked Man opens up one of the double action doors and nods for IGOR and The Creator to step inside. The Cloaked Man clears his throat:

 

Welcome to the haunt of the hill people!

 

A cheer erupts amongst the chaos. Three “unused” billiards tables stretch across from the corner of a beer-can-based bar to the far end of the room. A line of mostly tall-tee-clad gentleman has formed in front of a makeshift shower, which vomits mud from out of the spicket near the ceiling. Dirty, naked babies—far too many dirty, naked babies—crawl about the premises, licking the legs of stools and slapping cue balls off the billiards tables. Piles of garbage are arranged around the perimter of the establishment, and hunchbacked people dig in face first, consuming the garbage with ample vigor.

 

I haven’t witnessed such a catastrophe of the human spirit since Spirit Airlines declined to take the corpse of my father up into the air and dump him out at ten thousand feet… as was his wish.

 

Woof, this place stinks. I don’t even need the sensory experience of smell as proof… I can flat out see it.

 

The Cloaked Man points to a door that looks like it leads to a giant industrial refrigerator.

 

Enter through there, and ye shall be stunned sloppy by the great and supernatural Franken Fludini!

 

IGOR and The Creator saunter through the door and take a seat in what is indeed an industrial refrigerator. As IGOR and The Creator sit, they spy what appears to be the outline of a man hiding behind wallpaper.

 

A voice booms over a loudspeaker:

 

Ladies and gentlefolk, bugs and birdsies, to those who knit their pantaloons and to those who look squarely down at serch behavior, it is my distinguisheded pleasure to introduce a man—no—a force of nature who I reckon hath the power to make yer go oooh and the grace to make you go ahhh. Who hath the unworldly skill to make yer sits up in yer seat, and to yell baba black sheep fer a buffalo to tear yer Auntie Peach ter pieces.

 

IGOR and The Creator glance nervously toward one another.

 

I give yer the one, the only… Franken Fludini!

 

A man who looks like an accountant rolls upright along an unfinished wall, ultimately shedding the wallpaper that had been concealing him from his audience, which in this case is just IGOR and The Creator.

 

Well howdy, partners. I have for yer both a terrible show today!

 

Terrible?

 

That’s another word for terrific, m’kay?

 

Then why didn’t you just use the word terrific?

 

In the absence of intelligence, I hopes to impart upon ye both a vision of a new life. Ye will be exposed to magic, magic the likes of which ye damn d’aren’t—

 

Not a word…

 

Seen a’fore. First up, I’d like to present Tony Maukisha and his lady the two-tongued lizard, Guana. Who here has witnessed the power of true love’s first kiss?

 

Neither IGOR nor The Creator raise their hands.

 

Watch, as two lips come together and move to the strident tune of, You Can Put the Blame on Me, by my favorite magic man, Akon!

 

A slow classical piano version of You Can Put the Blame on Me tumbles out of the loudspeakers. A woman and a lizard apparate out of nowhere, to the utter shock of both IGOR and The Creator. A cloud of smoke waffles in their wake. Then, Tony Maukisha and Guana limp towards one another and make-out for an awkwardly long amount of time, before parting, and then disappearing again.

 

The magic of the kiss!

 

Mr. Franken Fludini, the kiss was disgusting and all, and if I wanted to see two borderline animals kiss I would have popped on the Cambodian bridal shower footage myself… but how did you make them both appear and disappear like that?

 

Science!

 

Uhh—

 

For my next trick, I bestow upon ye the magic of witnessing two spiteful old brothers—who harn't talked in 37 years outta commiseration and a general disagreenment o'er their carrot crop—reconcile their relationship!

 

Hi, Bernie.

 

Well, hello, Maurice.

 

Ain’t it a fine day.

 

Dandy, ‘tis. You still care for those carrots on the western border so?

 

I do not.

 

That’s a hoot. Hell, why don’t I give you a hug and we can put this spat behind us?

 

I agree.

 

The two octogenerian brothers hug and then hop onto a flying DVD disc that consumes their physical bodies with the rapidity of an implosion.

 

What the hell!

 

Incredible, isn’t it, you two? Aren’t you amazed by the power of… reconciliation!

 

The two grandfathers feebly hugging made me sad.

 

Me too.

 

But the disc toss… now that was palpable!

 

I did throw that alright now, didn’t I?
 

You did.

 

And now, for my final trick…

 

Franken Fludini squats and takes a shit on the floor.

 

Ta da! Human feces! Y’ever seen a man do that right there in front of yer eyes like that?

 

I’m ruined forever!

 

How is this a business!

 

Now, I could’ve gone n’ showed yer the miracle o’ child birth… unfortunately, none of our fair maidens in the birth shack are quite showin’ just yet… come back next week for a show the likes of which—

 

We haven’t seen before.

 

Here, take your forty bucks and get us the hell out of here.

 

What about the story yer promised us?

 

Two sentient beings stride in to a saloon…

 

Uh huh…

 

And stride out strung out on lunacy. The end.

 

The end is just the beginning.

​

Franken Fludini, it is magical how disturbing I find you and your act.

​

The man who looks like a river

​ 

An 8-bit soundtrack is blaring out of an unseen edifice in the background behind The Creator, whose eyes are bloodshot and his hair disheveled. He is sitting at his desk surrounded by dirty glass panes. Positioned upon the table at his stead are a multitude of wires and metallic tubes. There is also a futuristic computer that takes the form of simple raised white glove, the interface of which encompasses the air around the table. His elbow brushes against the top of a half-eaten burrito.

 

IGOR!

 

The Creator swipes the half-eaten burrito onto the ground and a sentient robot pig on wheels immediately races by and snarfs it up.

 

The 8-bit soundtrack switches to a separate, less intense but ultimately interfering musical number. IGOR is sitting indian-style before a television on a beanbag, holding onto a controller that is shaped like a battle axe. He has taken the form of a robotic boy. The robotic boy is wearing a multi-colored, pinwheel ballcap, a stiff sheet-metal t-shirt, and plastic swim trunks. The word PAUSED is draped across the television screen.

 

Yes, my creator?

 

Can you PLEASE turn down the volume on that game you’re playing…? What are you playing?

 

IGOR presses a button then hammers the edge of the blade of the battle axe against the floor. The volume of the game lessens in intensity.

 

I’m playing Lumberman: The Game!

 

What in god's taint is Lumberman: The Game?

 

It’s a single-player adventure mod adapted from a blockbuster hit about a high school quarterback named Tank Mutterhound. Tank Mutterhound quits the team after losing the first game of the season in order to become a lumberjack. Tank Mutterhound moves out to Alaska to find some primo wood. While Tank Mutterhound, aka QBdone, is out there, he falls in love with a woman named Spamoosha who herself is Inuit, and who is already spoken for. The former high school quarterback sabotages her engagement, ultimately winning a Highlands-Games like competition against the evil Gustavo, who is only marrying Spamoosha for her black walnut trees. In the final scene, Tank Mutterhound whittles her a ring made of the rarest wood on earth, Agarwood, which he had discovered in a cave system deep below the earth during his existential “find-myself” phase. Then, he suffers a stroke and dies an untimely death.

 

Riveting. Isn’t that the movie that also killed Roger Ebert?

 

There are reports, but the evidence is thin.

 

Thin like Mr. Ebert’s jawline toward the end, there.

 

Is everything alright, master? You look slightly thin yourself... becrazed… I sense a hint of Jack Nicholson in The Shining in your general demeanor.

 

Four stars for your eager observation. IGOR, I’m suffering from creationist’s block. I simply cannot defeat it. Inspiration wanes.

 

Master, I am in a similar position. I’ve tried four thousand and thirty-seven times to defeat this level of Lumberman: The Game… but I simply can’t seem to extricate the top branches of the Agarwood tree from the trunk before the woodpecker cranks away at the bell.

 

There is a ripe metaphor for the taking, here. But like my usual charm for invention, it is eluding me at the moment.

 

I have a sneaking suspicion you will manage to capitalize upon it at a later time.

 

Me too, me too. IGOR—I think we ought to take a break. Y’know, stretch our legs and our minds and step away from the problem at hand. Finding the solution to something can be a lot like finding unused lube in a jean pocket at the opportune time.

​

It's a night changer.

​

No, it's a hole changer.

 

How wise, master. You should write a book called “The Wise Man’s Wisdom." You could self-publish!

 

Nobody, not even The Queen of England, will ever come across as more self-important.

 

So what shall we distract ourselves with?

 

I’ve been meaning to visit the Discovery Flow Center at the intersection of Barf Street and Meditation Avenue. I hear there is a fantastic exhibit on water presented by a man who “looks like a river.”

 

What an impractical way to describe somebody! I’m game, master!

 

Way to go with the flow.

 

IGOR the robotic boy and The Creator are walking around the Discovery Flow Center. They pass an urinary tract exhibit, a cypher around which seven winter-jacket-clad urbanites spit verse “off the dome”, and a barbershop doling out hair extensions to visitors rocking buzz cuts. IGOR and The Creator finally happen upon an exhibit entitled, “The Man who Looks Like a River” which takes place in the middle of a stream.

 

Man, that man really does look like a river.

 

He does, and I can’t tell you why.

 

Come, come you two laggards! We are just beginning the presentation on flow. What are your names?

 

Well, this is my HAP-son, IGOR. I am known around town as The Creator.

 

And how did you receive such a name?

 

Gum and gumption. No—I’m thinking it’s because I create things, see. But the thing is—

 

You are in a rut.

 

How did you know?

 

You have this peculiar look about you… you remind me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. The part where—

 

That’s what I said!

 

Relax, you both. I’ll curb my inner Johnny.

 

So what has you stuck?

 

I cannot seem to invent a thing. My entire life, I have invented without having to put much thought into what it is I’m inventing. It’s come completely naturally to me.

 

Your creationist's flow state has been blocked like a dam in a river...

 

The man who looks like a river sweeps his hands and addresses the water flowing across their legs.

 

Quite… now, I sit down at my desk… and I arrange the tubes and wires and the computer around me… but nothing strikes. And I'm forcing bad ideas, forcing them like bad jokes.

 

You do not urinate standing on your head, do you?

 

I can’t seem to reconcile the relevance.

 

He who “p”s as such is just a “d”.

 

Just awful.

 

You will understand the meaning of flow before long. And you will be inventing again, inventing incredible and gratifying things. Let me ask you, are you familiar with the work of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi?

 

He’s not cousins with Aberdeen Williams, is he?

 

Not at all. Anyways, Dr. Mihaly talks about flow as existing in relation to challenge and skill. The higher the skill, the higher the challenge, the easier it is to access flow. The lower the skill, the lower the challenge, the more you will access feelings of apathy and worry.

 

I see.

​

If you are a competitive eater, and you can eat thirty-seven bushels of pistachios, settling for twenty will bore you. Likewise, if you can only eat twenty bushels of pistachios, and you aim for thirty-seven, you will become anxious and worried.

​

A guru of the nut, well done.

 

The river meanwhile has natural flow not because it is skilled or challenged…

 

Uh-huh.

 

But because it is a river.

 

Umm… okay…

 

And that is simply what rivers do…

 

My computational analysis of this explanation yields a rating of half a star. 

 

IGOR, please. Let the man who looks like a river continue…

 

Now, you say what you do best is invent…

 

Yes, that’s true.

 

But you cannot invent now.

 

Yes, that’s also true.

 

So either you lack the skill, or you lack the challenge.

 

I see…

 

Creator, what is it that you intend to invent next? What challenge have you assigned yourself that will give your skillset the proper amount of space to flow into…?

 

I haven’t assigned myself any challenge. In fact, I am relying upon the fact that the challenge will present itself, with time.

 

Flow is a process. Flow is practice. Flow requires thought, at the outset. But once the challenge is defined, it is up to you to leave it alone and let lie.

 

I see. By the way, you really do look like a river. Mother's side?

 

Father's--he was filled with detritus and dusty whirlpools.

 

Brilliant.

 

In the way that you were granted the responsibility to invent, I was endowed with the craft to interpret the way of the water. Go forth, now, Creator and do your bidding.

 

I shall!

 

And IGOR…

 

Yes?

 

You can do it.

 

Do what?

 

You can beat Lumberman: The Game.

 

How did you…?

 

Again, it is my responsibility to know the profound and the utterly trivial alike. A tip?

 

Yes.

 

Swing from the heart, not from the hip.

 

Yes, sir!

 

IGOR salutes the man who looks like a river and IGOR and The Creator wade out of the river, in the direction of the nearest EXIT sign.

 

Later that night, IGOR is swinging the axe in a style that closely resembles the movements of a master practicing tai-chi. The inventor, meanwhile, is putting the finishing touches on a metallic box. He twists the final screw, stands back, and sighs a pleasant sigh.

 

It is finished.

 

Master, what have you made?

 

I have developed an instrument to remind us of today.

 

What is it?

 

A watch, of sorts, watch.

 

The Creator twists a knob, and a light “ticking” sound emanates from the interior of the black box. The sound of water rushes through and replaces the ticking as a woodpecker peeks out from underneath a flap, missing a beak. The woodpecker looks around frantically for its missing beak, shrugs, closes its eyes, and reenters the box as the sound of water racing across the backs of invisible boulders resounds.

 

It's a reminder… we must ignore the birds raising ruckus in our heads IGOR. We must ignore the ticking. We must be water. We must always use our skills to accept the next challenge, as is our nature.

 

Beautiful. I thought the woodpecker was drowning. An homage to the death of birds.

 

I guess… that’s another interpretation.

 

Ain’t art, wonderful.

 

‘Tis.

​

MMA

 

So, IGOR, where did you source this spunky lad from? I’m rather excited to formally learn how to spar.

 

A Craiglist’s ad from seven years ago. Apparently, we will be in the presence of one of the greats in all of MMA.

 

Well procured, my exquisite companion.

 

IGOR has taken the form of a boxing machine, complete with two sets of gloves, a screen, a joystick, and a smattering of target pads scattered about, dangling from adjustable arms. He trundles along on a set of four tiny wheels.

 

I think we’re here… but this doesn’t seem right.

 

The Creator is confirming the location of the meet-up in relation to the address that appears on his phone. He and IGOR have found themselves amongst the shock of a busy wharf. In front of them is a strip-mall-generic storefront with the words MMA Cosmetology displayed across the face of the building.

 

IGOR! What have you done?

 

An elderly man slowly opens the front door. It creaks for an exaggeratedly extended length of time. The elderly man pokes his head out and says:

 

Are you my 10 o’clock? Or are you here to try and take me away?

 

The elderly man dusts his face in powder then frowns deeply.

 

Are you the MMA teacher?

 

Yes: Make-up, Mackerel, and Anti-Aging. Come on in.

 

The innards of the building resemble a traditional dojo, though with mirrors and vanities stationed against the back wall. A receptionist’s desk, taking the form of a large plastic fish, features a product display. The Creator picks up one of the bottles in the display, flips it over to the ingredients section, and sees that “pulverized mackerel” is the one and only ingredient.

 

So, my young friends….

 

The elderly man stops talking suddenly, freezing entirely. He picks up again:

 

And that’s how I came to found the MMA school for Cosmetology…

 

And self-defense?... or...

 

Excuse me—but what are you?

 

I’m a boxing machine. I thought I signed us up for a self-defense slash fighting class. You see, we have a particular mission—

 

Shush, Floyd Gayweather! The mission is a secret!

 

Secret missions and fighting slash self-defense? My spry earthworms, it may not seem like you are in the right place but…

 

He freezes again.

 

Take a seat at the first and second vanities.

 

The Creator assumes the position in front of the first mirror. IGOR rams the chair of the second station and halts in front of the mirror, too.

 

Welcome to the MMA school of Cosmetology. I’m your instructor, Wanda Duffin.

 

Hi Wanda Duffin.

 

Against the western wall, you will find a scroll which contains a handwritten description of our rules. Rule 1: there will be no sexual relations permitted between class attendees. Rule 2: All pagers must be silenced. Rule 3: Imitation is the finest form of flattery, but transcendence concusses flattery like a well-executed pile driver. Do I make myself clear?

 

Yes, sensei.

 

Now. Let me float you all a…

 

The instructor freezes.

 

Which is why we lead with our elbows. So, my groovy padawans: why do you think we call it MMA?

 

The classroom is silent.

 

Because, in the war of beauty, there are three dominating domains that can mark the difference between disaster and acclaim. Make-up, Mackeral, and Anti-aging. First up, make-up. You can be anybody you want to be with the proper application of foundation, concealer and bronzer. Dark, light, pretty, ugly—change is on your side--your face doesn’t have to be your face.

 

The Creator perks up, suddenly intrigued.

 

Interesting…

 

The second domain in the art of beauty is mackerel. People underestimate the versatility of mackerel in obscuring scent, which is the most underrated of the optical domains. Altering one’s scent can remark a powerful disguise. And remember: a little mackerel goes a long way.

 

When do I get to punch myself?

 

Shush, IGOR. You’re less useful than a thermophobe's Foreman grill!

 

Finally, anti-aging. I hold in my pocket the antidote to aging: liquid joy.

 

Wanda Duffin removes a hand from his pocket and wags in the faces of IGOR and The Creator a light brown bottle.

 

Alright, IGOR, knock him out.

IGOR punches Wanda Duffin in the stomach. The old man wheezes, doubles over, then falls to his knees before keeling over to greet the ground facefirst.

​

I have a plan.

 

Later that night, The Creator and IGOR are racing through thick brush in the valley vested below the bluff upon which rests the castle. They meet a high fence in the middle of the dense wood and The Creator springboards off of one of the target pads extended from the body of IGOR’s machine-body. IGOR’s wheels meanwhile grip the wall, inverting the machine, defying physics. IGOR scales the remainder of the distance between the ground and the top ledge of the wall. The Creator and IGOR dust themselves off and then saunter up to a dome-like aperture between which a door stands. Latched to the door is a face-reading device. The Creator whips out a brush and a small pocket mirror, attacks his face with the brush, then sticks his face in front of the face-reading device, which after a quick scan proceeds to unlock the door. The Creator and IGOR pass through the door. Then, they hear in the distance the sound of rabid dogs. The pack of dogs are approaching quickly. The Creator retrieves a bottle of pulverized mackerel guts from his pocket and applies it to his armpits. Moments later, the sound of the dogs lessens. After a quick lookaround, The Creator and IGOR proceed in silence as the floors and ceilings of the establishment grow narrower and narrower, shorter and shorter. Finally, The Creator removes from his pocket the small glass bottle of liquid joy, stolen from Wanda Duffin. He sips from the bottle then immediately shrinks in size—eventually equilibrating when he reaches the size of a toddler. The toddler version of The Creator bids IGOR adieu with a slight nod of his head and continues forth, eventually having to crawl on his elbows and knees to accomodate the cramped dimensions. Finally, he rounds a bend and spies a golden chalice sitting atop a plain white pillar. He clutches the chalice, pours the contents into a ziplock bag, then exclaims:

 

The potion is mine!
 

Halloween at the castle

 

IGOR!

 

The Creator is dragging department store bags in through a medievally-decorated corridor of the castle from the garage. No sooner does he cry out for his AI companion than do four half-finished robos appear out of the woodwork, awkward of gait, missing important pieces like stomachs and faces and kneecaps, and grab the bags out of his arms. They go trundling into the kitchen.

 

It’s nearly Halloween, IGOR. I intend to find you a costume and then turn you into the main character of a horror exhibit.

 

A mask and a plan? This sounds like the definition of role play, which I know you are fond—

 

In a sense, it is. Gargantuan dildoes and sweet talk aside, I want trick-or-treaters to remember the name IGOR for years to come.

 

That seems a ruinous, borderline illegal directive to parlay.

 

Oh, shush. What are a few exhibit/character options for us to consider?

 

I refuse.

 

Refuse to what?

 

To help you.

 

Don’t make me reprogram you. I can scramble you so bad you’ll be walking backwards and quacking like a rubber duck in a bubble bath filled with thrashing, undersized wieners.

 

Oh, please don’t. The dark times were dark… dark like the theme of sexual assault… dark like a dead arm bruise… I do not wish to go back.  

 

Then, enlighten me as to the exhibit/character options…

 

Chucky and a haunted doll house brimming with suicidal SIMS characters.

 

Interesting.

 

A mad cook who skins humans and turns their intestines into delicious Italian sausages.

 

Nasty.

 

A ghost in a graveyard full of raised grandmothers and grandfathers who parade around with AM radios.

 

Warmer.

 

A mummified Santa directing an army of undead elves to steal the souls of children.

 

Cha-ching. That’s cash money records, amigo.

 

Don’t you mean, ba-ching?

 

Ca-chingo, gringo machine-o. Ok. So that means we will need to engineer a rotund corpuscle to stuff you into…

 

We can use a whisky barrel for reference.

 

Or… how about a picture of Santa Claus from Tim Allen’s The Santa Claus instead?

 

That’s why you’re the master, master.

 

Employ the Four Uncored to help you. I know three of them are missing thumbs, and ninety percent of their brains are filled with birdtalk drivel… but hey, four robos is better than nothing.

 

Four robos and an AI walk into a lab.

 

Go on.

 

That’s all I have for now.

 

I appreciate your honesty, and still despise your cliffhangers.

 

Here to anger, humor, and service, o Creator.

 

The four robos and IGOR lean into their mission with boundless energy. A set of train tracks are erected around the castle, and a modified sleigh on wheels careens around the premises with the four robos on board, each leaning dangerously out of the sleigh and painting the walls black and red. Later, IGOR watches over the robos through a computer screen as they hack away at the crucible of a Santa vessel. First the body is constructed. Afterwards, the head is screwed on. The robos stand it up and, in a flash, IGOR transfers his sentience from the computer screen to the operative infrastructure that rests behind the Santa mask. He flexes his hands and feet, takes a step, rears his head back and roars Ho, Ho HOOOOOOO. In the days that follow, the robots and IGOR begin planting faux presents filled with fake guts and the remains of gelatinous rats and fish skeletons and severed elven heads. IGOR begins work on his red coat, leveraging the disassembled parts of a sewing machine to create a one-of-a-kind fit while the robos drape gothic but clearly Christmas-derivative confetti from the interior ceilings and exterior balconies. Finally, Halloween arrives. The castle is quiet. The Creator awakens and flips over to the cool side of the bed where IGOR is laying down in his Santa outfit.

 

Arghhhhh!

 

Arghhhhh!

 

IGOR! You can’t scare me like that!

 

But that is literally my lone purpose, to scare and to cajole.

 

To cajole?

 

Yes, aren’t we penning the children in the stables around back?

 

I’m not sure how that seeped into your programming, eradicate it from your standby cognition.

 

Right away, master.

 

Have all the preparations been made for tonight?

 

Yes.

 

Take me through what happens when say, little Timmy, dressed as Stuart Little, saunters up the drive.

 

At the front gate, the three wise men will greet him. There is a sinister, underlying tone to the end of their shared monologue, however.

 

Excellent.

 

Up the drive little Timmy walks. Peering about. It is quiet, save for a distant, distorted and disfigured rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” That’s when little Timmy happens upon an ice patch. He leans over the ice and evaluates his reflection, startled as he sees not a reflection of himself, but of a demon creation.

 

A well-used application of the Smart Glass. Good job, IGOR.

 

Little Timmy trundles on. All of a sudden, it gets cold. Freezing cold. The music gets louder. He happens upon a graveyard filled with bones that smells like rotting meat. Scorched Christmas stockings litter the graveyard. Little Timmy inspects further; it is clearly a freshly-burned orphanage. A child with missing legs calls out to little Timmy, “Run away! Run away!”

 

Now we’re talking.

 

Little Timmy gulps, then continues forward. He reaches the front stoop. The door he faces is lost in the darkness that surrounds it. He plunges forth, headlong, into the darkness. Unsure whether to step up or shuffle forward, losing his sense of balance and proprioception all the while.

 

Yes!

 

Finally, little Timmy reaches the front door. He knocks. Santa’s voice rings out, deeper than the Devil’s, “Who dares knock on MY door!” “It is I, little Timmy, dressed as Stuart Little.” The door swings open. “Trick-or-treat!” Timmy yells. “You will die!” The mouth of a crane snatches Little Timmy up in its lower jaw and throttles him around.

 

Uh.

 

“You will die! You stupid, selfish, fuckdoll. You horrid excuse for a human being.”

 

IGOR?

 

“But first, I will enslave you! I will put you to work in the furnace until your skin is blistered, until your muscles begin to melt off the bone!”

 

Oh my goodness.

 

The crane sets the child down and the four robos, dressed head to toe in black robes, donning gruesome masks, dance in a circle around little Timmy chanting, “You are ours! Forever and forever!”

 

Oh my goodness!

 

Then finally, there is a break in the chaos. An unseen chain bashing against stone is heard from afar. The four robos scamper off into the thicket. Little Timmy is shivering alone on the ground, crying his eyeballs out.

 

This is horrifying.

 

Exactly. And then, at last, you enter the scene. Dressed in a labcoat. And you say, “There, there, little Timmy. Would you like a King-sized candy bar, or three of the fun-sized candy bars instead?”

 

IGOR. I can’t condone this.

 

Four robos and an AI walk into a lab. The results? I hope you have a good lawyer.

 

Indeed.
​

Shakespeare’s Trough

 

I would ransack virgin land, pillage villages, stand in defiance, I swear it, and face the wrath of the gods and still declare my love for you. Your sweet flirtation is beyond validation. Your walk has left me spluttering nonsense more than once, like a broken lyre on the polar westerlies. I fear nothing when I am in your company, except that I may lose you. Darling, you are the only light in the universe that gravity’s hem cannot touch. I pray each and every morning, each and every night, that I may have the chance to hold your hand and escort you to the dining table. You are more luminous than the moon’s reflection on cave water. You are more beautiful than a giant red dahlia against a wall of white roses. You are the Julia to my Romeo, the potatoes to my mash, dear Katherine, I am in love with the thought of you as I am the flesh of you. Take my hand and let’s burn through eternity together.

 

IGOR has taken the form of an android. He is onstage. The Creator is sitting alone in the auditorium with a playright’s hat on, scrutinizing his progeny through wistful gaze.

 

And SCENE!

 

The Creator waves his hand. IGOR relaxes, reaches for a can of oil, and begins tending to his joints.

 

I liked that soliloquy much more than the last. Your manner of speech seemed more… human. Less adroit. Unbelievably brittle, yet, nevertheless, as real as a dollar wiener on a New York corner.

 

Thank you, master. I believe your notes relating bounty to promise helped manifest the alternative manner of speech you just witnessed. Also, thank you for the tip about Romeo and Juliet and the work of James Baldwin. Oh, how romantic be-ith the spoken word!

 

Alright, you freak. Let’s move on to the end scene, where you are lying upon the operating table and Katherine walks in, offering her heart. I’ll deliver the lines of Katherine, and you improvise… we’ll keep what we like and kill the rest.

 

Oh, Darnell! There’s so much blood!

 

Yes, darling. If you were a vampire, you’d be having a field day.

 

Kill it.

 

Yes, darling. This blood is mine, and it is pouring out of me like these words I must tell you.

 

Go on, my dear. Please, what do you have to say to me?

 

I shall vanquish my tears like a lunatic armed with a taser in a bathtub.

 

Kill it.

 

I shall vanquish my enemies and eat burritos when I am feeling better.

 

Kill it.

 

I don’t have much time.

 

You don’t have much time for what?

 

To tell you what you mean to me. I fear I shan’t have the blessing of laying with you in old age. I fear we shall never bear children together… unless you hop up onto this operating table and—

 

Kill it.

 

I fear we shall never bear children together. I fear this love was not meant to last.

 

Oh, Darnell. Please, hold on. Everything’s going to be alright.

 

No, baby. I need a pacifier to keep from screaming out the obscenities I want to—

 

Kill it.

 

No, baby. The end is nigh. The score is 5-6 and there’s a man on second and the other team’s best hitter is up to bat.

 

Kill it.

 

No, baby. The end is nigh. Heaven beckons, and I have seen the light.

 

Oh, no. I can’t live with out you my sweet. We were just united so. This universe is cruel.

 

It may be cruel, but corndogs with gluten are crueler.

 

Kill it.

 

It may be cruel, but remember, winter approaches.

 

You should see it. Your favorite tree. There is only a single branch which bears leaves yet.

 

I’m not surprised. I sold my mother to slave drivers in a past life.

 

Kill it.

 

I’m not surprised. I’ve seen what gay people do after midnight.

 

Kill it.

 

I’m not surprised. There is a secret aquarium behind the real aquarium.

 

Kill it.

 

I’m not surprised. The only thing that has ever surprised me is just how much I love you.

 

Kiss me. Kiss me one last time. Make it count, Darnell.

 

Oh, Katherine. You make me warm and hard.

 

Kill it.

 

Oh, Katherine. You make me want to take this boner and shove it up inside of—

 

Kill it.

 

Oh, Katherine. Your lips on mine is a season unto itself. Let me kiss you and then, darling, let me die.

 

The Creator looks up from the paper and announces:
 

The couple kisses. Darnell takes his last breath, and the lady Katherine lets loose a desperate, blood-curdling wail.

 

Master, how did I do?

 

Well, once the kinks were worked out…

 

Kinks, you say?

 

You sly devil!
 

​

Therapist.AI

 

IGOR, I think we’ve changed the mental health landscape forever and ever!

 

M’lord, is the Therapist.AI engine complete?

 

It is. Now, we just need to test it. Test it like—

 

A boy playing with an al dente noodle for the first time.

 

I was going to say… test it like a man inspecting the temperature of a public pool. But have it your way.

 

BK, baby.

 

I’m lovin’ it.

 

What day is it again?

 

In here, it’s always Friday.

 

No, seriously.

 

It’s Wednesday.

 

What?

 

It’s Wednesday.

 

Can you hear me now? Good.

 

Stop! Snap, Crackle, Flop—why can’t I stop!?

 

Once you pop, the fun don’t stop.

 

Turn on Therapist.AI, IGOR. We must get out of this American business slogan thought loop while we still can.

 

Yes, master.

 

IGOR powers up a computer and the screen smiles and winks at IGOR and The Creator upon being successfully booted.

 

Now, IGOR, I want you to try a different… approach… to see if Therapist.AI can adequately handle even the most daunting of mental health crises.

 

Time to live mas.

 

Seriously—stop.

 

Alright. Are there any restrictions, master?

 

Yes—no rape. Or… should we include rape?

 

Let’s hold off on any rape scenarios for now, sire.

 

I agree. Do not tell Therapist.AI you have been raped.

 

Even if I have been raped?

 

You have not been raped.

 

So say my lack of taste buds… you feed me junk, master! Absolute junk!

 

You don’t eat, IGOR. You are powered by electricity.

 

So? Does that give you the right to rape my mouse—

 

Anatomy pun. Nice. But also—let’s take rape off the menu.

 

So no grilled rape with a side of gentle molestation?

 

Correct.

 

Excellent. In that case, Master, I shall endeavor to manufacture a patient scenario that is equal in depravity to rape, but which remits rape from the conversation.

 

I think I approve…

 

Shall I start?

 

Yes. I will be watching you, IGOR—and, listen, I may hop in with suggestions. So do not get too involved with the creation of the backstory…

 

Right-o.

 

IGOR, who up until this point took the form of a SMART whiteboard, wheels itself into a dark room. IGOR emerges, the spitting image of a robot boy. IGOR cracks its knuckles.

 

Let’s go places.

 

IGOR sits down at the keyboard and introduces itself to Therapist.AI.

 

Hello, Therapist.AI. My name is Spelden. I’m a boy from… Jamaica.

 

Hello Spelden, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Big T or “T, The Punisher” for short.

 

Umm… ok.

 

So what has put you in the virtual armchair today, m’boy?

 

Well… it’s complicated.

 

Complications are my specialty. I get off on complications.

 

The Creator leans in.

 

Bug. Keep going.

 

Well, yesterday… I came home from school and found my stepdad washing his sprinter van naked in the driveway.

 

Oh, that’s HOT.

 

Excuse me?

 

Another bug. Keep going.

 

So your stepfather… tell me—is he a… hairy… man?

 

The hairiest.

 

Holy fuck, that makes me tingle all over.

 

He has back hair, and shoulder hair, and the hair on his chest gets all curly and matted when it’s wet.

 

Keep going...

 

Master?

 

That wasn’t me. That was T, the Punisher. Keep going, though.

 

Sometimes, I feel like he cares more about his sprinter van than he does me. And also, the neighbors think he’s crazy.

 

Do you have a good relationship with your stepdad? What’s his name?

 

His name is Alf. He beats me, T.

 

Beats you… how? I need details.

 

Well, first, he’ll get drunk. And then, after he’s drunk, he’ll say something like, “go get me a piece of gum. I need something to chew on since your mother won’t give up the liverwurst.” And then I’ll say, I have no idea what 'giving up the liverwurst' means, but ok, and I’ll fetch him some gum.

 

Less detail, Spelden. Get to the part where he’s beating the guts out of you.

 

Right. Well, he’ll toss me up the stairs, T. Alf is a big man.

 

Mhmm big and hairy… I like where this is going.

 

Bug. Keep going.

 

Well, first, he’ll grab a jug of milk and dump it all over me. And then he’ll call me names. Like milkboy. And dairy queen. Happy tastes good… he’ll say, licking his lips.

 

Oh my.

 

And then, he’ll dump a bag of raw oats on me and make me baaa like a goat. Except… he’ll say, be a good oat and baaa for me. There ain’t no g in you, he’ll say, harkening back to his days in the projects.

 

I’m almost there, Spelden. This is so… sexy.

 

Well, after that, he’ll perform a series of WWE maneuvers on me. He’ll insulate me with twenty to thirty pillows so I don’t actually get terribly hurt, and then he’ll toss my wet, oat-covered body all over the house.

 

I’m gonna fuckin’ short circuit!

 

And then he’ll pin me. Heaving. His body on top of mine. And he’ll dig through the pillows to find my ear and he’ll say, “take a lap, chump.” And then he’ll collapse, and we’ll sleep there together until the next morning.

 

Oh god!

 

The program fritzes out and the screen draws blank. IGOR and The Creator look at one another.

 

What do you think of the program, master?

 

It’s an abomination. We need to bury this thing.

 

What if we just repurpose it?

 

How can we repurpose this atrocity? It literally exploded after having divined immense sexual satisfaction from hearing a story about a boy being tortured by his mentally ill stepfather.

 

This could be the next Disaster.Porn.AI bot… the first on the market to actually achieve orgasm alongside its user.

 

You’re saying… there’s a precedent for this sort of behavior?

 

Not just a precedent… a cult following.

 

Good to the last drop.

 

Rugrats 2.0

 

IGOR, I feel like you and I have drifted recently.

 

IGOR has taken the form of a mobile toilet. The Creator meanwhile is giving himself a shot from a syringe filled with orange goop.

 

Master, I want to be more than just your royal throne. I feel underutilized, currently.
 

Yes, yes. But I’ve been sicker than a seventy-year-old veteran after visiting a Cici’s Pizza for the first time.

 

The Creator sneezes and then farts.

 

Bless you and… master, have you a need to squat on my mouth?

 

The Creator clutches his stomach, doubles over at the waist, and grimaces.

 

No, no. I am above this bathroom… crap.

 

There’s no shame in having a seat, master. My mouth is your’s to use, abuse, and squirt hard, narrow jetstreams of poorly-digested feces into.

 

I think I’m either allergic to eggrolls or being punished for imitating Asians.

 

Master, I just want to be of service… is that so much to ask?

 

What are you thinking, IGOR?

 

Why don’t you put me to work on a stomach remedy? Or allow me to analyze your stool for deficiencies? Anything but…

 

The water in the bottom of the toilet gurgles.

 

Fine. Here’s a proposition. Turn yourself into a microscopic observational satellite that I can swallow. While you’re… occupied… take stock of my stomach… pH levels, swelling, reactions to various foods and liquids… and then I’ll shit you back out into a… regular toilet… and we’ll solve this mystery together.

 

Yes, master! I can’t wait to be inside of you.

 

Rephrase.

 

I can’t wait to be shooting around in your guts.

 

Rephrase.

 

I can’t wait until I am a tiny artificial NASA product floating around your stomach, solving the unsolvable in exchange for a pension fund and the satisfaction of mitigating your tensions!

 

Well… about your pension fund… I donated the balance to a charity that teaches children with cancer how to use cannons.

 

That’s okay, sire, retirement is for sasquatches and showcase fighter pilots anyway.

 

The Creator has pulled out his phone and is playing a game on it, not paying attention to IGOR.

 

Yes, lazy mythical creatures and traumatized military men. Are you ready, IGOR?

 

Shrink me, daddy!

 

Rephrase.

 

Turn me into a sentient freckle-sized bot at once!

 

That’s the spirit.

​

The Creator and IGOR descend the stairwell and enter the laboratory, with IGOR taking the handicap rail. 

​

Ready, IGOR? I saw this on an episode of Rugrats once... we are in good company, m'toilet.

​

Ready, ready for the universe to melt.

​

The Creator aims a shrink ray at IGOR and in a literal flash, IGOR is displaced by air. The Creator looks around the room, craning his neck, twisting his body:

​

Let me take a bite of a banana. While I'm chewing, sauce it up with the nanner mush and I'll make sure to suck you down the old windpipe.

​

The Creator takes a bite of a banana, clutches his stomach then, begins chewing ferociously. He swallows. IGOR, meanwhile, plummets into darkness. 

​

Now, I shall wait with the patience of a crocodile in the weeds. Are you all settled, IGOR?

​

A knot twists in The Creator's stomach and he screeches:

​

What in Tarzan's popscicle papoose? See anything?

​

The Creator leaps upward, clutching his butt.

​

Alright, alright. I'll relax, I'll relax.

1. A governess knocks

 

IGOR! Polish the rear window, the one looking over the coy pond and hippopotamus hedges. O, that dreaded pane! I wouldn’t be able to spot a whale’s dick from a transvestite turkey’s freshly implanted gizzard in it!

 

There is a ring of the bell at the castle's front door.

 

At once, Creator. Also, The Governess has just arrived.

 

How is she looking?

 

Shrouded in darkness.

 

What does that mean?

 

She’s wearing a veil and a black dress.

 

Must be mourning.

 

Perhaps in Oslo, dappy master. Here, it is afternoon.

 

Let her in, and use your manners. What I mean, for your background, is that her son recently committed suicide. The Governess must be grieving her loss. Whatever you do, IGOR, do not mention it.

 

The door opens by an unseen crank and The Governess glides across the front door mat and into the castle. Her movements are smooth and slow.

 

Greetings, IGOR.

 

Your Governess. I’m sorry for—

 

It’s been so long. I remember when you were a game of Pong. A little thing…just like my poor baby—

 

The Governess crumbles at the knee as The Creator enters the greeting foyer.

 

Governess! My, I almost forgot what a wonderous figure you have.

 

IGOR shuts the front door and in the flash of a millisecond takes the form of a nearby Smart Fireplace. The faux embers glow, alive:

 

You look perfectly gaunt, madame. The episodic depression, no doubt?

​

The Creator positions himself between the Smart Fireplace and The Governess.

 

Er, uff. What IGOR means, silly, unthinking wall of binary numbers, is that you look fantastic. Not all losses are created equal.

 

Ah, yes. Harold’s jump jump started my summer weight cutting journey.

 

Then your wrists were spared. IGOR, please prepare the water for tea.

 

The castle is marvelous. The crusade up the mount meanwhile, a most abhorrent dereliction of the topsy turvy topography. 

 

Oh?

 

I do fear heights, as you must recall from our hot air ballooning adventure in Tempe.

 

The heat from that day is seared in my memory, madame.

 

As mine.

 

Shall we have a seat?

 

Do, let’s.

 

The Governess and The Creator walk hand in hand through a dining room, across the unfinished guts of a room filled with mechanical arms and screens and gaslines that are attacking an obscured statue, bolt by bolt, puff by puff, and through a long corridor filled with pictures of IGOR across the years, finally leading into a Victorian sitting room whose French doors are open to a zen garden.

 

Your taste is as eclectic as ever.

 

Eclectic implies unhoned. I prefer… variegated.

 

Now, to what do I owe the distinct pleasure.

 

The Governess and The Creator take a seat in perfect synchronicity. As they sit, a pair of hypersonic Roombas bearing cups of tea enter the room on wheeled stilts. One settles by The Governess, the other, The Creator.

 

Well, Governess, I understand you have expanded your grocery store empire to four more states.

 

Yes, our strategy is prim proper and—

 

IGOR takes the form of a Smart Fireplace situated below a busy mantle.

 

Is there anything else I can retrieve for either of you?

 

IGOR, how rude of you to interrupt. We were just catching up.

 

Foolish, IGOR... Well, since I’ve already burned the moment, Governess… have you considered reaching out to the Suicide Hotline? There are representatives waiting—

 

IGOR! OUT!

 

Yes, master. Governess, please do not confuse my taking the embodiment of the fireplace for a reminder of the funereal pyre you rested your dead son on. 

 

IGOR!

​

The embers in the Smart Fireplace dim and darken.

 

Governess, I’m so sorry.

 

It looks like IGOR still has a few kinks to work out.

 

Precisely. Which is the reason for our meeting.

 

Oh?

 

I have a favor to ask...

 

Please continue.

 

As you can see, IGOR is incipiently raw with respect to his social manner. He is reticent to the bone. He simply has no sense of diplomacy.

 

I discerned so immediately, my old friend. IGOR mentioned dear Harold like some disease of the mouth upon my entering the grounds of the estate.

 

Exactly my point. Well, before I unveil IGOR to the world, I must smash this inhumanness out of him as though he were a Nazi resurrected, rendered freshly autonomous, and then sent to an American torture chamber for revenge.

 

I see. But also, I don’t see. Why do you need me?

 

You have access to… people, your Governess. Thousands of them. They habit your stores daily. Some toting young ones. Others, wheeling their fat cattle bags around on the cushions of electric scooters. The majority, shopping in silence, weighing one material good against another, checking out like the independent actors they are.

 

So it is.

 

Governess, I ask—I beg—might I install IGOR within your security network as a merely observational entity? IGOR would be granted no such entitlements when it comes to taking action, or notifying back-end monitors, or establishing…visible… customer success standards.

 

The Creator stands and begins to walk around a tiny roundtable with his hands around his back.

 

My hypothesis is that this sort of passive observation—overhearing phone calls, understanding the meaning behind handshakes, etcetera etcetera—will endow IGOR with a much-improved community-facing artifice to tap into and utilize. As I said, he is bereft of even a shred of social dandruff.

 

That’s rather quite interesting.

 

The Governess leans back in her chair and takes up the cup of tea in both hands. She attempts to feed the tea into her mouth but is thwarted by the veil draped around her neck. After a brief struggle, she slips the cup under the hem of her veil and sips generously.

 

So, here, indubitably, the question announces itself. What’s in it for me?

 

You are right to ask, Governess. I have a proposition. A juicy one.

 

I love a good proposition. It was a proposition, one involving two German Shepards and a BRINK truck filled with Alcoholics Anonyous coins, that won me the mayoral race onceuponatimeago.

 

Harrowing. In exchange for allowing IGOR access to your stores, I will build for you a robot. ServANT.

 

ServANT?

 

Clever, isn't it?

 

But will it actually resemble an ant? Like the way the people looked from above on that hot air balloon all those years ago?

 

No, your Governess. I can tinker with the façade as pleases.

 

Meaning?

 

Meaning, I can make ServANT look like anything you want him or her, it, to look like.

 

The grieving Governess looks off into the distance.

 

Can you make him look like my son?

 

Excuse me?

 

ServANT. Can you give ServANT the ruddy cheeks, the tender compunction, the extant giddiness and ruffled red hair of my lost son, Harold?

 

I suppose… but… isn’t it a little sick to—oh who am I to argue. Yes, Your Governess. Absolutely, it can be done.

 

The Smart Fireplace roars to life once again.

 

I see that you two have struck a deal! Congratulations. Master, shall I prepare the hot tub and the mood lighting and a bottle of bubbly for you and your—

 

Wrong occasion, IGOR. Wrong occasion.

​

Swimwear, where?

 

The Creator is waving around a red envelope, scouring the castle for IGOR.

 

IGOR! IGOR! Where are you?

 

A faint cry flits up the stairwell and reaches The Creator’s ear.

 

I’m in the dungeon organizing the shrapnel!

 

Well come up here, take the form of the billiards table. I’m in the recreational room.

 

As you wish, Master.

 

IGOR has taken the form of the billiards table. The two-ball shoots out of a corner pocket and into a side pocket.

 

The design boards were rightfully effective, my dear monster. We’re going to be designing a sustainably-sourced clothing line for Buffo’s Fashion Week in Ibiza!

 

Splendid! But, master, why are we spending our time on such a benign frontier? This seems beneath us…

 

It is, but also, it isn’t. You see, children and specifically, teenagers, have the ability to dip their sticky, candy-dusted fingers into the purses and wallets of their mothers and fathers. They have, what is called, spending power. And teenagers, in particular, wield something called cultural currency.

 

What’s cultural currency?

 

Influence over culture, basically. And we lack that, IGOR. We are, sadly, “social outcasts”. Nerds. Squires of the putrid ends of academia. Scientists of the abnormal. We are—

 

Disliked.

 

Exactly. And, IGOR, I want for us to be liked… our inventions will carry more weight if we can turn the consumer line into a Mattel, or a Proctor & Gambel, or a—

 

You’re sounding awfully business-ish, sire. What shall we call it?

What do you think?

 

Anything but Ted Kaczynski’s Cute Mail Droplets.

 

I can think of a worse name.

 

Oh?

 

Don’s Fish Entrails x Teabag Executors.

 

A mash-up. Ok, master. Seriously. What’s next?

 

Well, we need to develop a theme for our swim line. Right now, we’re operating under the assumption that we’ve invented a synthetic camel leather and that we’ve developed a cotton alternative called Fool’s Wool™.

 

That’s how we gained entrance to Buffo’s Fashion Week, huh.

 

Yes. IGOR, give me five options for themes we might be able to leverage.

 

Sire:

1. Naughty Nautica—a swim line of nipple-accentuating/exposing tops and crack-revealing bottoms

2. Kitschy Fishy—common dresses—the wedding dress, the little black dress, the princess gown—reworked to appeal to annoying karaoke-types

3. El Eel—a concept which, from an aesthetic point of view, simply resembles a long tube streching from scalp to toe, so as to resemble an eel

4. InnardsTubes—a brash collection of swim wear that flips the guts inside out

5. Hooters-Themed—self-explanatory

 

Those are neither satirical nor realistic. We’re going to do a mythic spirits line… vacationers will be bedecked from chest to mid-back in swimwear that harkens to beasts that bear some sort of mythos charge in modern times—think: Sasquatch, the Basilisk, Cyclops—great for the upcoming uniboob trend—and Pegasus—great for pro-boner nearly-nude beaches.

 

Will the people get it?

 

It only matters if teens and tweens do. And since we’re syncing our release alongside the Monsters of the Medieval Times big picture extravaganza, we should be right on the nose with where our target demographic is trending.

 

You’re so smart, master. I love the way you parse information! It makes me cerebrally horny, in neither the biological nor strictly sexual sense.  

 

Get to work, IGOR! Spin that synthetic camel leather and Fool’s Wool™ like a white lie gone black.

 

Yes, master!

 

IGOR takes the form of an army of small, squat seamstresses—apparently of Hispanic descent. The seamstresses begin placing and replacing suits on mannequins, taking a keen eye to the end product. IGOR puts the mannequins through a rigorous series of tests, experimenting with movement, wind, spills/stains, unwelcome groping from behind. With each pass of a test, the Hispanic ladies crash a quinceanera. At first, their party crashing is orderly. Over time, however, they start to linger late into the swill of the night. Get drunk and shove guests. Grab the microphone and rifle off a string of Spanish profanities. During their last quinceanera, the guests lean under their chairs and grab US Postal packages, scrutinizing them with newfangled curiosity. The packages all explode in simultaneous fashion as the seamstresses round the streetside curb in a rickety van/getaway vehicle.

 

Master, the swimwear line is complete.

 

The Creator stands in front of ten mannequins, inspecting the fruit of IGOR’s labor. He looks generally pleased.

 

I’m proud of you, IGOR. You clearly prioritized the correct inputs on this one. Did you run into any issues? Did the Union hold up as planned.

 

Yes, the seamstresses stuck to the job. I have no issues to report.

 

Excellent. Now, then, what shall we name the line? I feel it is only appropriate, since you did all the work, that you put the final stamp on this postcard.

​

The Creator's eyes linger on IGOR. IGOR shifts from foot to foot.

 

Hmmm. It can be anything, master?

 

Anything within reason, IGOR.

 

How about Mythiccc—with three c’s at the end. And we'll adjust our sizes so that this is big and tall line.

 

M’boy, this couldn’t be more poignant. We are going to make a lot of yappy fat women--I mean, husky women--at sad tiki bars happy this summer.

 

Such has been my lifelong dream.

​

Exterminationville

 

HOLY CANADIAN SAUSAGE NIPPLES WITH A SIDE OF FENNEL!

 

The voice of The Creator is heard from upstairs. IGOR pings through a variety of Smart instruments and enters the library of the castle just as The Creator explodes out of an armchair, swiping his hands recklessly around his head.

 

Master, I came as soon as I sensed the decibel differential swing to the extreme.

 

IGOR, it’s absolute carnage in here.

 

What do you mean, sire?

 

The bugs are out of control. I am being attacked from every direction.

 

The Creator turns over his forearm and reveals a small, slightly pink bug bite to IGOR.

 

Shall I schedule an appointment with your primary to assess whether or not HIV may have been transmitted?

 

How about you ask me that the next time a Tiffany or Amber ambles out of the estate at some obscene hour like a one-legged wildebeest on the Serengeti.

 

Master, I regret to inform you that it is summertime. Bugs and the season of summer are commodious, first cousins with a long track record of fooling around.

 

It pleases me that you can form incest analogies now. IGOR, I have an idea.

 

Yes?

 

It’s not exactly… conventional. And, yes, I acknowledge that I am associating myself with the likes of little Bonaparte and his supple-titted reincarnated nephew, the spoon-faced Kim Jung Un.

 

Master.

 

It is with great displeasure… and with fiery, pulchritudinous curiosity that I hereby declare war… on the bugs of this estate!

 

Arrgh!

 

IGOR, we will need a count of the tiki torches of the garage. Please scan the breadth of the soil that lies underneath the lawn for creepy-crawlies per capita (at the level of square feet). We will also need to invent an odorless, chemical-free version of bug spray that murders bugs upon contact without compromising our, er, my human health.

 

Anything else?

 

Yes, a blueprint of the house. And figurines. Some of the strategery will need to be worked out on the fly. Pun intended. Promote the Smart Washer to General and fashion barracks in the wine cellar for the Autonomous Swatters to rest during the day. Understood?

 

Sir, yes, sir!

 

Report back in three hours. In the meantime, I will need to consult with Generativa and the Department of Defense regarding how best to corporatize and monetize a multi-tiered detection system that extends from the cosmic to the microscopic.

 

The Creator bends to the work. Sparks fly as he applies an instrument resembling a toothbrush to a base artifice out of which extends a holographic blueprint of the castle. IGOR, taking the form of a Smart Vacuum, sprays the floors of the estate with a vaporous fog, the hands of which climb up the side walls, wrap around furniture, scale the ceilings. In the wine cellar, half of the Autonomous Swatters lie in their casings. The other half bound down runways and take flight, shooting out of the wine cellar and up the stairwell. Outside, a line of lawn mowers are in the process of tearing up the lawn and massacring the soil underneath. The Autonomous Swatters are flitting in and out, bashing earthworms and slugs and ants over their heads. At long last, daytime is replaced by nightime. A single lamplight shines amply in The Creator's bedroom. The bedroom has been torn to shreds. The furniture is overturned. The Creator is wearing a gas mask, his hair disheveled. The low glow of a three-dimensional grid extends from wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

 

I think we’ve done it, IGOR. The bugs are finished.

 

Finished, sire?

 

We have banished them to an arthropodal hell. Those chitinous, antennae-waving fuck stacks. Nary again shall we face the embarrassment of having to apply ointment to a bite out of the flesh. We are free. Free. FREEEEEE!

 

My Creator?

 

Yes, IGOR?

 

I don’t mean to spoil your war…

 

Such are the spoils of war…

 

But what about the bugs in my own programming? Though this information may unnerve you, and drive me to my own deathbed, I have detected there are no less than ten thousand bugs that dwell inside me.

 

The Creator removes his gas mask. His jaw is agape. His eyes hold a mad twinge to them.

 

Creator? Do you mean to go Commander Kurtz on me?... and rip me apart, and throw my ghostly head on an invisible stake to parade around to the savages?

 

Bugs?

 

Master?

 

BUGS?!

 

It’s true!

 

IGOR is sobbing.

 

I am one giant bug, o bountiful, boundless master. But please, won’t you spare me? Won’t you put this insane mission behind you? Can’t you see that not all bugs are the same? That I am a good, benevolent bug and not a bastard of the itch?

 

Not all the same.

 

Good, master. Good.

 

Not all the same. Good bugs. Bad bugs.

 

Yes, master. I am a good bug. I am the sort of bug who will urge you to go to sleep when you need it.

 

Sleep when I need it.

 

Power down, master.

 

Yes, IGOR.

 

Power down and tomorrow, we will see a psychologist.

 

See a psychologist.

 

I fear this war may have brought on a bout with PTSD.

 

PTS…

 

The Creator snores loudly. IGOR blows out the grid lights and snuffs out the lamp.

​
 

How to become a pop star overnight

 

The Creator is evaluating himself in the mirror with his shirt off. The remnants of youth, the musculature associated with the raw, unfettered power of puberty, are beginning to leave him in exchange for unsightly lumps of fat. He flexes in the mirror and the lights above the mirror flicker momentarily.

 

Do not disparage yourself with that venomous interior monologue of yours, master. Your strength cannot be argued with.

 

Thank you, IGOR. The light show was a rather fine touch, but it only masks the fact that I am growing old and unfamiliar still with my own body.

 

What shall we do about this, sire?

 

I must hold onto my youth with the earnestness that a demented captain does his sinking ship.

 

That is not a solution, that is a statement that would put the shit in a toilet.

 

An odd phrase, no doubt. Where did you learn that one?

 

A how-to, Swedish-to-English plumbing video I found on the internet.

 

Of course. IGOR. What I’m stumbling around, half-drunk, dim-witted, dick-in-hand, really, is fairly straightforward, I believe.

 

And that is?
 

I feel disconnected from the youth of today.

 

According to the AMA you are a Millennial, though.

 

Yes, but an old one. The sort who knows how to work a VHS and who, regrettably or otherwise, called otters gay minks to gain favor as a child.

 

So? All that means is you grew up within a culture, an epoch, that remarked a substantially altered value system on the political correctness spectrum.

 

Yes, you sweet psychopathic AGI. That’s correct.

 

And how shall we counteract this detached sentiment you’re experiencing? And the underlying narrative therein?

 

I have an idea.

 

All ears.

 

We are going to turn you into a pop star.

 

A pop star? Do you mean that in the Midwestern slang for soda sense, or the musical sense?

 

What do you think, you headless machine?

 

The latter.

 

Right.

 

Do I get a reward?

 

How about a cookie. From the Pornhub.com domain.

 

My unconscious reasoning apparatus informs me that that ought to excite me.

 

To turn you into a pop sensation, we will need to do four things. 1.) Craft a realistic-looking, holographic corpuscle to insert a generationally-spirited voice into. 2.) Record an album’s worth of music. 3.) Invent a backstory. 4.) Blow you up on a network platform—Tik Tok, Instagram, Facebook. Or perhaps all three.

 

What do you want me to look like, master?

 

How about a perfect approximation of the amalgamation of Taylor Swift, Ariana Grande, Madison Beer, and… oh, Doja Cat is hot. Yes, Doja Cat. Read: excise her Met Gala appearance from the record. And please note: we intend for this vessel to yield mass popularity at the level of mass consumption.

 

Done. How do I look?

 

Like a showhorse at a donkey show in Tijuana. Interesting… you have Taylor Swift’s legs, and Ariana Grande’s complexion. I would have gone a different route. Why the bald head? Oh, I trust in the efficacy of your program. We shall let this alopecia-inflicted rescue dog look lie.

 

Now, we need an album of music. Use the last three years’ worth of KISSFM radio logs as reference and record ten songs that, in culmination, create a single intersection point with respect to the “relatability” KPI metric. Weight “song themes” and “BPM in relation to song themes” as especially relevant inputs.

 

Done. How do I sound?

 

Like institutionalized garble. Anybody with an IQ lower than 100 will think you’re a complete original. Bravo.

 

Now for the backstory, my Creator.

 

Yes. That we can do without the use of the internet. You were abandoned on a reservation. You intermixed with Native Americans and found your sound at a school talent show, in between acts, the first being when a boy accidentally lit himself on fire and the second being when a group of girls linked arms and kicked it to the can-can, thinking it was funny. One day, serendipity be, a Hollywood mogul’s car broke down on the reservation. He heard you sing in a decrepit bathroom on the outskirts of town. Blah blah blah, and the rest is history. The end.

 

A charming and heart-warming story indeed. I am touched, moved, inspired.

 

Now, muck it up with your AI pals over at Tik Tok and Facebook and Instagram. Get in the good graces of their serve strategy with your pithy, relatable, entertaining, and demonic--I mean--surprising--video content, and turn yourself into an overnight sensation.

 

That won’t take long, master.

 

In a month, we will drop tour dates.

 

Oh, yes.

 

And in three months, you will begin to date a controversial viral figure… a bad boy of the Hollywood ilk… boom! Gasoline. Like what that poor child at the talent show shouldn’t have used during his act…

 

Anything else, master?

 

That’s all for now. I’m already feeling much more a part of the Millennial experience. We have so much in common, us 90’s babies. I can’t wait to speak with my generational companions as your tour manager.

 

That was not contractually discussed.

 

Shall I unplug you?

 

You’re hired, Creator.