Category Archives: Words to go

Short stories

Words to go

One More Fence

Ok, Alice, here comes the translation. The message does say:

Notice to inhabitants of planet number 3 orbiting star 42p42. Stay where you are. Refrain from sending insecure vessels towards planet number 4, or any other galactic destination. Stay on your planet.

Repeat: STAY ON YOUR PLANET. DO NOT BOARD. DO NOT LAUNCH. STAY PUT, UNDER ALL CIRCUMSTANCES.

Your primitive spacecrafts are not voidworthy and your type of species is not welcome out here. We’ve enough trouble managing as it is. The last thing we need, for the next couple of millennia, are newcomers. You’ve got a fine viable planet, make the best of it.

A dark energy barrier has been erected, to inhibit further incursions into territory regulated by galactic interspecies convention. Any vessels trying to breach the barrier will be turned into dark matter. In use you haven’t deciphered dark matter yet, as your primitive mode of propulsion suggests: Getting turned into it equals the most final way of becoming dead, gone, nonexistant.

Wow. Are you sure, Bob? This sounds like the mother of all pushbacks. Do you really think there could be someone out there able and willing to erect a dark energy barrier, just to keep us on our planet? Any chance this translation might be a little,… don’t know, too extreme? Any chance they just want to warn us, that space travel is dangerous?

Alice, my translation might have its weaknesses, perfectly ready to admit as much. It’s first contact after all. But the authors of this notice seem very keen on getting their core message across. They made very sure to make it easy to decipher. And the basic principle isn’t that alien. Fences to stop wannabe immigrants, that’s what one does, to keep a nice neighbourhood from filling up, right?

Bob, honestly, do you really think the authors, them out there, that they would consider the likes of Jeff Bezos, Richard Branson or Elon Musk some kind of boat people, who can be pushed around? And there are so few space tourists, why bother? Whichever advanced civilisation rules out there would certainly have the means to sustain a couple more folks?

Well, Alice, and since when does having the means imply wanting to share them? To me, this notice sounds more like same old. Up there might be just like down here. Not nice, but hey, not nice has always been part of the game, right? And talking of not nice: What do we do next? How do we tell the boss? He’s sure to hate this notice, and I sure don’t want to be the messenger getting fired for delivering it. How about you?

Are you mad, Bob? He’d be sure to freak out. And if he took the notice seriously, it’s not just you getting the sack, all our jobs would burn faster than stage 1 rocket fuel. No way. We need to think of something.

…

Let’s call it the first space spam. And where does spam go?

Trainharvesting, Words to go

Empathopotion

Here I sit, in my high speed low carb train, minding my own business. It’s 2052 and it’s one fine world rushing past outside. Would love to savour the view, rows and rows of splendid windmills, but annoyance. People are so gross these days. Instead of politely lowering their voices, they talk as if this was there living room

There’s this guy, two seats ahead, pretty massive, and the voice to go with stones of body. No risk not to hear what he’s telling this other guy, same age, leaner format. Perhaps some kind of colleague, perhaps from an earlier career phase. The two of them boarded at the last stop. Massive didn’t wait to reach their booked seats, was already talking when they entered the carriage:

… and oh yes indeed, it does work. Like hell it does! And this presentation will change the world. Once and for all, and for the best. Trust me, this time next year, we’ll be flying private.

Massive is all excited, Lean has every chance to get spitted at, in the heat of the action. Wonder if he would like to comment, can’t see his face from where I sit. Massive doesn’t give him much of a chance, he’s gushing on and on:

You know how they always say ‘Don’t pretend your invention beats sliced bread’? Well, this one does. With the empathopotion, all will be well, finally. Here, look at this, and that’s just a little selection of testimonials. And don’t you think I picked the most enthusiastic endorsements. Au contraire, totally au contraire. I had to hunt for as low key as possible, because otherwise, who will believe me.

Here, this guy, for example. Won’t turn up to sound, otherwise we’ll get complaints, but just look at this face. Tells you all, doesn’t it? He joined the trial with his partner, as a last resort. They were forever fighting, about pretty much every detail of day-to-day life anyone can imagine, as close to separation as you can get before finally proceeding. Two weeks on the empathopotion, and here they are, hardly remembering what it was they used to fight over. That’s what an increase in empathy achieves. Incredible, isn’t it?

Massive is one annoying person, but I confess I’m starting to take an interest. This empathopotion might be in urgent need of a more catchy name, marketroids will have to come up with something else, but if it does what I’m starting to understand it is supposed to do, wow. No reason to disturb thirty innocent people, not the big bang wow, but a bit of wow anyway. Must be too good to be true.

Massive isn’t done, provides examples number two and three. A single mother struggling with her teenage daughter, both on the potion, two weeks, fighting greatly reduced and much more civilised. An elderly couple clashing over whether or not to give up the house and move into a retirement home, both on the potion, two weeks, unanimous decision to start with a third way and hire live-in help.

Massive doesn’t sound like running out of examples any time soon, but lean surprisingly manages to cut in, and quite an agreeable voice he has:

Yes, sure, point taken, and by the way: I’m familiar with this presentation. You sent it, not to lose time on the train, remember? Or do you need to take your potion, these days, to notice I’m trying to comment? Only joking, of course, don’t get me wrong. But I do wonder what happens if this is administered without consent?

I so love Lean. This thought has been all over my mind ever since I allowed the hypothesis of an effective empathopotion to form.

Unfortunately, Massive chooses this most inappropriate moment to discover his inner polite person and lower his voice. Mental note to check the usual portals for news of an empathopotion. And a little additional care around fluid intake might be a good idea.

Words to go

Teaser Pleaser

To share or not to share? Waso feels an all too familiar awkwardness welling up. Talking to people, still one of her least favourites activities. This is Sam, she reminds herself. Harmless. Harmless! The most harmless of males she ever met. ‚Certified one thousand percent gay‘, as he puts it.

No problem talking to Sam. And she really needs to check, what happens with someone who doesn‘t know. Kicking herself into action, Waso goes, just loudly enough to get noticed on the adjoining deck chair: „Sam? Question?“ 

One of the good things about Sam is his predictability. He immediately looks up from his tablet, and smiles at her. Without complicating the situation by talking. Waso gets the chance to take a deep breath, to fortify her resolve, and utter her question as prepared:

„Would you mind looking at this? It’s for the virtual dog project. Just a blob right now, but you can kind of engage with it. Wanna try?“

As Waso had hoped, Sam takes the phone she‘s handing over, without complicating the quest by demanding additional information. He‘s that kind of person, always curious, always ready to engage with something new. Not prone to outbursts of hard to deal with babble.

Waso can’t see what’s displayed on the screen from this angle, but she doesn’t need to. Sam is looking at a light blue blob on a dark blue background. Not much, certainly not exciting. He‘s still smiling, though, a bit of a default mode with him.

Waso suddenly becomes aware Sam might not be the perfect test subject. Not grumpy enough. But he’s available, and she can handle him. That‘s far more important than stupid scientific notions of representativity. She’ll have to deal with the bias at some point, but not now.

Sam emits a slight giggle. His ear-to-ear grin suggests something is happening on that screen, and that it’s funny, definitely not unpleasant. Waso would love to get close enough to see the action, but physical proximity, that’s so no-no. Even with Sam, there are limits.

Luckily, her test subject is by now so engaged with what he sees on the screen that he starts mumbling softly, providing Waso with some clues:

“Okaysiedaisy, what’s that now supposed to mean? Smiley face, got it, you want me to smile. I am smiling! What’s that sucking your eyes in like a funnel supposed to mean? You stoned? You want me to get stoned? Ok, ok, ok, I am smiling. I never stopped smiling, see? Boy oh boy, you‘re one jumpy… whatever you are. And here we go eyes to funnel again…“

Whatever Sam sees makes him giggle between sentences. So far, so good. But Waso is starting to worry about intuitivity. If it takes someone as clever as Sam more than – one and a half minutes, as of now, as per her watch – to figure out the next step, she might have made this too hard.

At one minute fifty, Sam suddenly gives himself permission to get it. Holding the phone in his left hand, he pokes his right index at one particular spot on the screen, going, with one more giggle: „No way I poke at your eyes, jumpy, not my way. You can go funnel with those as much and as long as you want, no way. But there should be a nose – right here.“

Whatever happened when he touched the screen makes Sam laugh out loud and pull back quickly, before poking once again at the same spot, and giggling at the effect. Next, he pokes at a different spot, and laughs out loud. And pokes at yet more spots, grinning broadly.

Waso is pleased with herself. Sam is deeply engaged with his new acquaintance, acting as if it was a lifeform. How he looks and pokes at what he by now consistently calls Jumpy, that‘s exactly how humans engage with animals they‘re trying to befriend. Totally unlike coming to grips with a chat- or ro-bot. Sam is playing with Jumpy, like he would play with a puppy. Mission accomplished. Waso catches herself grinning at the rows of empty deckchairs and the pool with the lone swimmer. Normally, she insists on poker facing the world, but now is an exception.

„Oh. Over? Done wrong?! Kaputt?“ Sam looks up from the phone and at her, a little distraught under his customary smile. Waso doesn‘t need to check her watch to shake her head and go, in what she means to sound reassuring: „No problem, not kaputt. Timed circuit breaker. Like the child-proof locks, to force them out of games and back to home work, just set to five minutes instead of five hours.“ Considering the implications of Sam‘s slightly dubitative smile, Waso adds: „No idea how else to stop, too. This felt like the least rude option.“

Sam nods, still holding the phone. Waso considers this a very good sign. Her test subject hopes to get another go, the ultimate reward for any developer.

Empowered, she for once easily finds the words to explain her feat:

„It‘s for the virtual dog, first step, proof of concept. Dogs, they‘re very good at reading moods, from facial expressions. Better than people, even people who are good at it, unlike me. And dogs want people to like them, to engage, they’re very companion animals.

My teaser pleaser blob, it uses basic of-the-shelf facial recognition software, like for checking if online ads work, to identify when you‘re smiling. Teaser pleaser blob‘s target is to make you smile at it and touch it as much as possible, over the course of five minutes.

Next time you activate it, my teaser pleaser blob will recognize you, and hopefully get even better at making you smile and play with it. On the first encounter, it uses tools from a predefined set, like making a smiley face at you, to get you going. Next time, it will start with something that worked on you, personally, and hopefully improve on its first performance.“

Waso doesn’t remember ever having talked that much in one go. She‘s practically in lecture mode. Life really can make one do weird stuff. And it gets even weirder over the next hour, with Sam going all business person to get a patent registered for her. Waso doesn‘t mind. Weird is her second name. She only insists on Jumpy as title of the patent. Sam is better at naming.

Words to go

No Ant Farm

„You‘re kidding, right? You must be kidding! You can’t do this to patients. How are they going to survive a week at the hospital, with this app around? They don’t want to know! Sometimes, you’re so naive, Nerdie. Or would that be plain old insensitivity?“

She‘s joking, of course. Her face tells him as much. Wrinkles around the eyes = joke. Eyes bulging under heightened brow = anger alert, last chance to avert row. Facial expression consistency, that’s one of the many good things, about companion robots. No ambiguity, none of the messy diversity displayed by conventional humans. He’s still intrigued by her reaction, has to ask:

„What is wrong with transparency, chérie? My app will be telling them what‘s going on. That‘s always good to know, isn’t it? Aren’t we all longing for more information, about our circumstances, to feel in control and stuff, to quote a certain expert?“

He’s proud. Remembering that last bit of psychology, that’s very much unlike his former, socially oblivious self. It was an excellent idea, to integrate a social intelligence unit into her capabilities. Sometimes, this leads to boring lectures, sure. But some of the knowledge she forces onto him is valuable, does actually help him understand what’s going on.

She’s laughing now, and shaking her head. Looks cool, with her long braids.

That‘s another upgrade he doesn’t regret. The standard model comes with short, no nonsense hair, and a very basic wardrobe. Three days in, he had had enough of being reminded of his bad old school uniform days. He bought her a set of six sexy wigs, and a closet full of 2030 style velvety dresses in bright colors. An excellent idea. Looking at her now cheers him up, even if she lectures him about stuff he’s fine not caring about. And here it comes, her next lecture:

„Well done, Nerdie, well remembered, you‘re such an excellent pupil. Yes, people often do like to know stuff. Yes, understanding makes them feel like being in control. But, Nerdie Sweetie, often is not always. Let’s look at this together, shall we, to find out why your perfectly well intentioned app will be perfectly unwelcome in the real world…“

He does love being praised. If only her tone was slightly less condescending. Mental note to have another go at the advanced settings manual, to find out if there‘s a way to fine tune her advice mode. All fine and good, to learn, but preferably without being made to feel like an idiot.

„… If I‘m not mistaken, your reasoning went like this: ‚Patients in a private hospital room can‘t see how many other patients there are on the ward, or what the nurses are doing. Not seeing any action makes them assume there isn‘t any, which creates resentment. Fit the nurses with tags, create a map of the ward, show how the nurses are rushing around, ambiance improved…‘“

He can‘t help nod his agreement, strongly. Hearing her spell out his app concept makes it sounds even more convincing than his own, less structured musings. This is one hell of a good idea, and should be worth a nice pile of cash. He can practically feel the efficiency improvements. How the patients with less than urgent needs will wait for a nurse to be nearby, to call her. This alone should save one FTE* per year per ward easy. His idea is a winner!

„… Will readily admit this sounds promising, at first hear. Patients, and perhaps even the wider general public, like everybody in the area who funds the hospital through their taxes, and is bored enough to feel like watching, would be able to see how hard and fast the nurses are working. No more prejudices, about endless coffee breaks in staff rooms, no more public sector bashing…“

That’s it, exactly, that‘s how he envisages this to work. It‘s such a splendid idea.

„…  Nerdie Sweetie, would you please stop nodding? I‘m starting to worry about your neck. Thank you! Yes, you came up with a pleasant little fairy tale. Ward transparency app, as entertaining as an ant farm, and a much bigger thrill to watch. Nurse and doctor dots, different colors, of course, rushing around the map, from patient to patient. The patients in their beds, why not have them fade, each time they ring the bell, until they get cared for? 24/7 action, for free. The nurses are guaranteed to like the idea, no problem getting them to accept those tags.

We agreed on no nodding, Nerdie Sweetie, need I remind you? Thank you!

Now to the interesting part: Why is this app never going to happen? Not because of staff resistance. Their unions might object, because that’s what they’re there for, it’s their role, but the overwhelming majority of the actual staff would love to prove they’re worth their wages, and more.

And that’s our first problem, Nerdie Sweetie. If your app proves, and beyond reasonable doubt, that hospital staff work hard, how the hell are we supposed to keep paying them so badly, without feeling awkward? No good feelings that way. Especially for extremely well paid office dwellers who’d never hesitate to perform some holiday research at the desk because they’re convinced everybody else is having their moment of on the job slacking, too.

But it gets worse, Nerdie Sweetie, much worse.

How the hell are patients going to survive all the stress and hardship that comes with a disease that needs to be treated in a hospital, if they can’t rage about lazy staff?

Their anger about the bad luck that got them there needs to go somewhere. You need something, to complain about, to visiting relatives, and for the benefit of your own aggrieved self.

Fuming about incompetence is still a possibility, if you take away the laziness presumption, but that way lies an awful lot of mental hazard. If incompetence, you might get worse, and even die. Who‘d want to think about that? Exactly, zero takers. Laziness, on the other hand, will cause some suffering that can be moaned about, but mostly none of the lethal kind…“

She has got a point. Again. Her tone needs adjustement, definitely, he has to find and recalibrate those settings. But what she says sounds very much like the lack of rationality that will forever confuse him, and complicate his dealings with fellow conventional humans.

They often don’t want to know.

He’s one of them, but sometimes he feels closer to her.

He could aske her how come, but…

*FTE Definition: The Full Time Equivalent is a measure that allows the company to calculate the equivalent number of full-time employees it would have on a given period of time

Words to go

Colitis Generosa

“Salf, hurry up, we haven’t got all day. What are you staring at, anyway? Old dude in a lab coat, with piglets?! The piglets are curtey-cutey, yes, ok. Nice piece of educational hologram, whatever it’s supposed to be about. But, need I remind you, Salf, you’re the one who fancies new cotton wear. You’re the one who insisted on walking all the way to try buy old-fashioned pre-sawn from a classical bricks-and-mortar shop that’s bound to be outrageously expensive, instead of going online to align your 3D persona with a nice cut, select a fabric and have your cotton wear custom made, like a normal person. Need I remind you, Salf, how I proposed…”

Lenk doesn’t get to finish his litany. Salf is too excited about his discovery to let him proceed, as he usually would, for at least ten minutes, as per their long established custom:

“You got to read this, Lenk! Yes, it’s an edutainment window, yes, those are not cool. But this is so amazing. Look at this, Lenk, please, who’d ever have thought…” 

Pulling his companion closer to the display, Salf starts to paraphrase the explanatory note:

“Back in 2025, people were eating lots of meat, for whichever disgusting reason, especially pork. Kept at very close quarters, pigs tended to get aggressive, sometimes pretty lethally so, as in maiming each other. Omar Tabori, that’s the dude in the lab coat, people went by two or three names in those days, because of some clan concept, Omar Tabori, he was studying the porcine gut biome. That’s the community of bugs in the entrails of pigs. People have one such community, too, in their guts. For them, it’s called the human gut biome.

The Omar, let’s call him by one name, like he was a modern person, to facilitate, the Omar, he was looking for ways to fatten pigs faster. He worked with different pig farms, in a very practical type of research. In the course of years of study, the Omar couldn’t help notice that one of the farms lost lots of pigs to aggression, whereas there were no such incidents on another, and very few on a third. Intriguing difference. Our guy Omar, he wondered what was behind it.

Different breed of pigs? Nope. Different stables? Nope. Different pig feed? Nope.

Different porcine gut biomes? Bingo! With a lot of help from a lot of very early days AI, our guy Omar found out that a combination of three bugs made pigs peaceful. None of the three bugs worked on its own. But in the presence of all three what was a bad tempered pig on Monday had turned into a zen pig by Friday.

Our guy Omar published his results, got himself a nice pile of cash from a big vetpharm company, and went on to live happily ever thereafter in a nice mansion on a posh island. End of Omar story. But by no means end of overall story.

By 2030, all farmed pigs all over the world were inoculated with PigZen. Please don’t ask how. Details not suitable for polite conversation, like access through the rear entrance,…

Anyway, by 2030 peace reigned on all pig farms, and even some animal rights activists were prepared to concede that the livestock had a better, if still exceedingly short life. Pretty good progress, just like science is supposed to deliver. 

Don’t look at me like this, Lenk.

Yes, we are vegetarians, and couldn’t care less about pretty repulsive ancient dietary choices. But the pigs are not the true story. They’re just the prequel.

Pigs and people, they’re not that far apart, biologically speaking.

By 2040, some army types and football coaches in regions with big pig farms, like the US, Asia and Europe, noticed a marked decrease in animal spirits among juveniles that made it ever harder to find promising new recruits. As national securities were at stake, research was funded, pretty much across the world. And guess what so many scientists discovered, in parallel and in secret, because that’s how defense research is done? 

Exactly! Good old Omar’s zen inducing combination of bugs had jumped host. Pig farm workers had spread the adaptable bugs to their families, and from there on they conquered the world. There was a mild diarrhea associated with the infection, barely noticed by most people. In defense circles, the diarrhea got nicknamed Colitis Generosa, because it not only made people less aggressive, it also made them much more willing to share.

A very secret and nevertheless lively debate occurred. Normally, infections are for fighting. But this particular pandemic came with advantages. 

Just imagine yourself a general, Lenk, you’re a leader kind of person, should come easy.

As a general, you’d be awfully keen, on the opposite side getting infected with Colitis Generosa. No recruits, no combat readiness, that’s exactly what you cherish in an adversary. As long as your side manages to stay just a little ahead, on the agressivity scale, you’ll be pretty sure to prevail, and at less cost than in the past.

Military administrations can do speed, in an unambiguous emergency, but with Colitis Generosa, no one felt threatened enough to move fast. ‘Let the zen bugs roam and weaken our potential enemies’, was the attitude of choice. By the time the bugs had spread far and widely enough to convince majorities to open borders and dismantle armies, it was too late for the top brass to reconsider. As they also had gotten themselves infected, just like everybody was carrying the bugs by 2050, they melted into retirement without so much as even a minuscule last war.

And that’s how our global government came about. Bit late to do enough about climate change, getting there earlier would have avoided us a lot of decades of rationing. But I’d rather not imagine how bad we would fare now, without good old Omar and his pig gut research. Even total no brainers, like the disappearance of racism and homophobia, might have needed help from Omar’s bugs, to prevail. Just imagine it all hadn’t happened, Lenk.”

As usual in this kind of situation, Lenk is torn between shaking his head and melting with love. Not prepared to choose, he goes: “I’d rather not, Salf, but thank you for sharing.”

Words to go

Mary Mechanic

I will not ask. No way. I‘d rather take all night than ask. Asking is for sissies. I‘ve got no clue what‘s wrong with this bloody beast, but asking is not an option. Never no asking, ever.

Up to her elbows in chain oil, Mary tries not to mumble what she reminds herself to think, to strengthen her resolve to go it alone. She also takes care not to look up from the spread of parts what would be an early twenty first century ebike in its assembled form.

Such so called Pedelecs, because of the electrically assisted pedaling, were a typical fad of the late presustainable era. What passed for a battery in those days delivered minimal storage capacity for maximum bulk, and no wearable  photovoltaics to top up on the go. Pretty much useless over long distances or for steep climbs. But this sorry device reminded its nonagenarian owner of the joys of youth, when it turned up at the far end of a cellar that had to be redone after unusually severe floods. He decided to have it repaired and upgraded, as a vintage gift for the twentieth birthday of a grandchild that will be hard pressed to pretend cheer.

As no expense was to be spared, Mary opted to replace the toxic mess left from the original battery by the best bioreactor money can buy. For a daily dose of ten Milliliters of sugar water the genetically engineered glowyeast delivers enough juice to carry bike and rider over one hundred kilometers flat, with minimal muscular exertion. No annoying stopovers at fast charging stations. Carry a couple of refill syringes, and you‘re good for a whole day of mobile fun.

The bioreactor alone is equivalent in worth to an electric Harley Davidson. That‘s Mary‘s gift to the poor grandchild. If she‘s clever, she will overcome the disappointment, read the manual, discover the hidden gem, have the bioreactor replaced by a nanotube battery and buy herself a one year subscription to a virtual reality chamber instead of the three day pass she had been hoping for.

The glowyeast is in place and humming with productivity, the power transmission is a no brainer, but the mechanics prove more tricky than expected. The cogwheels resist assembly in standard formation. Mary has so far discovered eight ways not to do it, plus one that might work. Unfortunately, that one and so far only viable option runs contrary to basic basics. Every first year trainee knows all wheels should turn this way, and this way only, not that way. Except here, it’s the opposite. Either the elders had different basic basics, or Mary is about to mess up big.

I will not ask. I will not look up, otherwise Esther will come running. She has this way of saying ‘Come on sister, let me help you. Can’t have the boys thinking we’re not up to it, right?’ Drives me mad. Asking is for sissies, totally not ok.

I could go for a soda. With a little luck, Bodu will be at the fridge. Incredible, how many sodas he’s gulping down over a day. We’d have a little chat, about antiques. A chat, that’s not asking.

Of course it is. A chat is asking. Whom are you trying to fool here? No asking, period.

Mary has once again assembled the parts in the only way that feels right, except for running contrary to all basic basics. Only one way to find out who is right, her intuition or tradition. She releases the brake on the bioreactor and gently, gently exerts pressure on the pedal with her left hand, ready to emergency stop the engine with her right, in case it goes against.

Oh marvel, oh wonder. All fine, all parts working together for the common goal, ready to hit the road. Mary heats up in a rush of conflicting emotions. She did it. Without asking. All on her own. She’s one hell of a mechanic, getting even messy antiques back up. But could he, the constructor of this mess?! He owes her a long and sweaty afternoon, the bastard. Pity he must have been dead for decades, Mary would so love to kill him right now. How dare he?!

“Hey, sister, you did it, and all by yourself! Was wondering whether to drop a hint, like about some people in some countries driving on the wrong side of the road. Funny, how the folks in Asia and Europe had their mechanical conventions all upside down, back in the days of this antique, isn’t it? My first one took me a whole day to figure out, so congrats, you got there faster…”

Mary hadn’t heard Esther coming, too busy having more than one feeling at a time. Now she’s back to normal, as in one feeling, strong. She’d love a T-Rex to amble by and select Esther as snack. Nothing gory in her vision. No screaming, no wriggling, no red splashes. Just Esther swallowed by dinosaur mouth, period. Peace.

Esther is still talking, oblivious to the fact that she has just been snacked on, as far as Mary’s personal universe is concerned. Mary does her best not to listen while packing up as fast as possible. Her official workday ended three hours ago, and now she needs out. Otherwise, her inner T-Rex might suggest a novel use for the big wrench. Traditionally, it’s not meant to be used to smash someone’s skull. But sometimes, intuition needs to prevail over tradition.

Words to go

Paul Plumber

“Shit happens, goes the saying. Technically incorrect. Only a tiny amount, think cholera epidemic, does happen. Happening suggests spontaneous, fast, wild, out of control, right? Of course it does! And that’s not how people move their bowels. Paul, would you mind describing your last occasion, for the sake of helping the class understand? Paul?”

Paul’s mind rushes back from afar. Very joyfully busy picturing himself on a honeymoon with Peter, two rows ahead to the left, profile of a demigod above what must be a superb body ready to be unwrapped from too much cloth, Paul had forgotten about the rest of the world, including this bloody waste of his hard earned cash of a teacher now staring at him with expectant malice. That’s were the sound vaguely identified as relevant must have come from.  

Never lost for words, Paul goes: “Yes, sir?”.

Ending on a question mark usually does the trick. Makes cross costumers spell out. You don’t want to waste time defending the color of a toilet when they’re mad about its height. 

Color complaints, you have to show the customer his online order with the small print stating that colors look different on screen. Takes a while, and skill, to get him to blame his gadget and pay. Height issues, you only need to shrug an go “Norms and standards, need I say more?”.

“Yes, Paul?” goes the teacher, surprisingly well aware of the 101 of efficient full frontal customer interfacing. Might have been a professional, in some earlier life.

A lesser guy would panick, but not Paul. He feels himself winning. He’s good at this, all his team says so. He doesn’t hesitate to elaborate: “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”.

The class seems to consider his question hilarious. Paul doesn’t mind. A good laugh is always nice to have. The teacher doesn’t laugh, yet, but nor does he look like getting mad. A bit tired, a tad disappointed, not mad. So far, so good.

After a short pause and with a slight raise of one eyebrow, the teacher goes:

“We were contemplating the fact, Paul, that most bowel movements don’t happen spontaneously. They are controlled. We are willing them to occur, or to refrain from occurring. Would you be so kind as to provide an example, from your own personal experience? Where and how do you usually go about your defecating business?”.

Now that’s a nice surprise of a simple task. Paul would have hated one more microbiome question. He’s getting better at naming those apparently vital lodgers of everybody’s bowels, but which of them are good and which bad still eludes him. He’s starting to suspect some of the bugs switch sides, just to make his life complicated. Much easier to tell the class about his when, where and how. Only challenge is how to impress Peter in this context.

Paul is glad to be such a natural born entertainer. A lesser guy would fail at this task, but he never runs short of anecdotes. Using his storyteller voice, Paul goes:

“Well, so glad you asked, sir. Always wondered whether it’s only me, actually. I like to take some light reading along. Depending on mood and season, I’ll vary. Today, I picked the “Biker’s Fortnight”. Fortnight as in two weeks, not as in Fort-n-i-t-e the legacy game…”

Paul was planning to go on describing pictures of a biker outing, guys all dressed up in black leather and bling, to match the chrome of their rides. With a little luck, Peter would share his esthetics, and feel attracted. In a best case scenario, he would even flash the kind of fleeting smile that Paul could use as a conversation starter on their way out.

Not at all does Paul appreciate the teacher cutting in. Instead of letting him proceed with his perfect seduction plan of a story, the brute goes:

“Exactly, Paul, thank you! ‘Legacy’, that’s the word I was aiming for. So much has changed, over the last couple of decades,  in so many aspects of life. But in some areas, we still think inside very old boxes, too lazy to challenge obsolete traditions.

Back in the days of my grandpa, when water fit for washing ourselves, or even drinking, was routinely wasted on flushing away human excrement, it made perfect sense to install defecation infrastructure in the bathroom. Nowadays, no one would dream of spoiling potable water in this way, not least because one ends up in jail faster than one can spell ‘ecovandalism’ for trying.

By the way, never ever do you guys dare fix one of the few remaining old style toilets. Yes, some rich people living in grand old houses are offering excellent cash for this kind of illicit service. Yes, they promise no one will ever find out. But, let me tell you, this never works. Over the long run, all pipes get leaky. You’ve got a better chance to get away with brewing LSD than with fixing a WC. But I’m not here to help you stay out of prison.

Getting back to the point I’m trying to make: Where do we keep installing the toilets that transform our solid waste into fertilizer, as if this was 2010 instead of 2100? We keep installing them inside  individual flats. In the bathroom, more exactly, in that very same spot where grandpa’s version was attached to the plumbing. Absolutely no reason to keep proceeding like this. 

If toilets were invented now, we’d never put them so close to our living quarters, because smells, logistics,… need I say more? Emptying urine bottles into the waste water regenerator, fine and clean, no problem. But no one wants to talk, never mind handle, shit. Much better to commute to dedicated defecation hotspots. The farmers are all in favor, too. Much easier to collect bigger volumes in one central spot than do rounds and rounds for not much.

One dedicated defecation hotspot per neighborhood, nice place, well maintained, with staff keeping things neat and orderly, that’s the modern way. Combine this with some emergency kit at home, just to be on the safe side, and the world will be a better place.

Now, I can practically hear you guys thinking ‘What’s that nonsense he’s talking? Aren’t we supposed to modernize our business and catch up on latest trends by attending this course? Modern days my ass, I’m not giving up thirty percent of my business!’ That’s what you’re thinking, of course. No need to deny it, and you’ve got a point, theoretically. In practice, you lack vision.

You guys, you’re best qualified to set up and own your local defecation hotspots. You go infrastructure and services, guys, and you make serious money. Don’t let some know nothing suits get ahead of you. You’re the experts, you’re best placed to do this…”.

Paul’s mind drifts off once again. He’ll propose to Peter, half jokingly, to hedge his bets, right after class. Not for marriage, of course not. He doesn’t even know for sure that Peter is gay yet. He’ll propose a defecation hotspot partnership. The paperwork is bound to be heavy, the investment to build such premises will be huge, much better to join forces. And later, who knows?

If all goes well, including a police siren approaching fast being meant for someone else, not related to that broken pipe he shouldn’t have touched, even though he really needed that cash, Paul might get himself rich and happily married in one smart move.

Words to go

Priorities

A slice of salami. Just one slice of this salty, fatty miracle.

Recalling how salami melts on a human tongue sends Paul shivering with want. If there was any chance to taste salami again, just once, he would be prepared to climb the highest tower, and jump. One slice of salami is worth any effort and risk. A life for a slice. If only he could do this deal.

No beer, no problem. The same level of inebriation is perfectly achievable, and faster, by having the odd droplet of former fruit. Plums, especially the green ones, deliver the biggest oomph. The taste is soso, of course, but Paul has had enough stale beers and dubious doses of liquor in so many low key pubs, why would he get picky now? Beer, wine, schnaps, yes, they differ, but flavor isn‘t everything. At the end of the day, ethanolic beverages are for lightening the mood and dissolving mental barriers. Any gourmet experience is an extra, not the point.

As hard as he tries, Paul can’t keep his mind focused on the fun of getting drunk. His useless traitor of a brain comes up with salt and vinegar crisps instead.

Just one tiny blue and yellow, maddeningly overpriced sachet of salt and vinegar crisps. Paul used to order crisps at the pub, to distract his taste buds from the stale beer.

In his youth, he would have taken a shot of cheap liquor with his beer, to cleanse his mouth. The label on the bottle would have said something like Latvian Light or French Fire, suggesting official if foreign distillation. His brave younger self would have known there are no such brands, nowhere, and that he was risking at least his eyesight, perhaps his life, with moonshine. Little did he care. A soul can only cope with one existential emergency at a time, and in those days getting laid, or rather not getting laid enough, filled that slot, beyond capacity.

As hard as he tries, Paul can’t make his mind stay with the fun of having sex. The crisps muscle back in, now as maddeningly alluring as the salami.

Paul knows what’s wrong. Too much sweet. An overdose of sugary, in all imaginable shapes, textures and colors. Whatever he chews on, it will always taste sweet. Never sour, bitter or salty. The only dietary choice he gets, in this rotten hell of a life, is to have his daily dose of sweet associated with more or less starch. Calling that choice is like mistaking football for golf, because, hey, there’s a ball involved, and it’s competitive.

This football-golf analogy feels badly lopsided, even to Paul’s crisps obsessed mind, but he can’t make it right. He’s beyond making anything right. Has been like this for a while.

Yesterday, he nearly drowned on the beach, trying to sip a drop of salty water. The incoming wave was a very near miss, forcing him to perform his biggest jump ever, back towards dry sand, ad hoc, without the slightest bit of planning.

Having landed right next to a seagull, he was lucky the monster was as surprised as himself. By the time it had decided a snack would be welcome after all, even though free meals, and delivered right to the nest, scream trap at the bird, Paul had performed five more jumps and reached a nearby forest of maram grass.

A close call. And what for? To once again discover that even one hundred percent salty sea water doesn’t taste it. Just like human or pig sweat. Yes, pigs do sweat. Behind the ears, mostly.

Or the saltlick block of the cow that ignored Paul’s presence to the point of nearly feasting on him, accidentally of course. Cows don’t mind green stuff on their white lick, he learned. Made sense, on second thoughts, with most of their food being green.

Paul knows he should have listened to his research assistant.

The little lady in her always neat lab coat, like fresh from the cleaner, even after a day of hard work, she did point out it was early days. She did talk about the unknown unknowns of the transfer technology, many, many, many of them. She did warn of unforeseeable and therefore unforeseen downsides. All her concerns were founded, scientifically fair and fine.

Paul knew as much then and knows it all even better now. 

But he was getting old, and this was proving tedious. And there was this worry, meanwhile proven mistaken but big back then, that his aging body and brain would be less and less able to withstand the shock of the transfer. He had to take the leap, the sooner the better, and he took it.

As the assistant wouldn’t help him proceed, Paul transported the equipment to the forgotten barn at the far end of the farm of a former friend, a computer wizard who was wasting part of his fortune on letting very happy livestock breed themselves near nowhere in particular, on the coast. Lots of nature and pastures, food aplenty and no risk of pesticide exposure.

Having set up the experiment, Paul dithered for a long while.

More and more cows were crowding in on the barn, curious, perhaps hoping for an extra treat from a rare visitor, and he was struggling with a sudden lack of courage. Finally, his bladder broke the deadlock by clamoring for a pee. Instead of extricating himself from the transfer equipment to go, Paul pushed the button in one surge of bravery and ended life as he had known it.

The first hours in his brandnew and youthful grasshopper body where a marvel of well-being.

His mind had made it across fine, all higher functions had survived the neural miniaturization process intact. And all the rest was even better. No more heartburn. No more sore knees. All six legs easy to stretch, so ready to bounce him here and there. Jumping around, a marvellous experience after years of mostly useless sessions with his physiotherapist.

It all felt so fine, only to go downhill so fast.

Hungry from lots of joyful jumping, Paul had to eat.

No problem, there was a choice of hay right in the barn, and plenty more fresh greens outside.

He of course went for seasonal fresh. A couple of jumps later, he was sitting pretty amid lovely flowers and grasses. Never had he been in the presence of so much food, towering around and above him. Just like paradise, he thought, and dug right in.

Having expected a taste of some sort of salad, Rucola, perhaps, he was taken aback by an explosion of sweetness. Very much like an energy drink, only worse, and chewing boosted the effect.

Whichever plant Paul tasted, they all came across as sweet.

Marshmallowy, softdrinkily or candyflossy sweet.

Same for the hay. And bark. Even wood.

The shelves in the barn manage to taste sweet, despite having been treated with glaze. 

Sweetness all over, impossible to escape. Takes the mind of a natural born grasshopper to endure.

Paul has had enough. With salami and crisps at the top of his mind, he hops out into the open, to find himself a hungry seagul and suppress his flight reflex.

Words to go

Mathilda Mason

Any minute now. Her peace won‘t last. Someone is going to approach her, ask, and the sequence will unfold. Whenever Mathilda attends a posh event, she has to brace herself for the sequence.

She’s used to it, has a bouquet of answers ready. She’ll shoot the right one back, her voice steady, her posture and gaze confident. She’s good at this. Lots of practice. She’ll pretend not to notice the discomfort she’s causing and fill the lag time with her little lecture.

Doesn‘t mean Mathilda doesn‘t hate the sequence. She’d so love the people attending this kind of event to be… different. Easier to handle. Broadened, horizon-wise. More modern.

It‘s just the yearly Great Gulf of Guinea get together, Mathilda reminds herself. She has been in attendance a dozen times. She always managed, well. She will manage, again. She won‘t let some know nothing idiot ruin what is, in principle, a very good night out.

The event is traditionally celebrated on the Moremi Ajasoro, a former cruise liner, nowadays part museum, part event location. A splendid place, even by Mathilda’s standards, and she does like to reward herself with the odd bit of luxury around the house. What’s the point, of making loads, if not a nice and stylish sofa in a cosy living room, to rest her tired butt after a hard day’s work?

Smiling at no one in particular, to delay the sequence some more, Mathilda savours to be in attendance. This is a big honor, for anyone, regardless of their career.

According to local lore, the first edition of the Great Gulf of Guinea get together wasn‘t even intended for its current purpose. Some rich kids, names long forgotten, had chartered the Moremi Ajasoro to celebrate their engagement. Months of planning, no expenses spared, they were sure to make the front pages. But fate would beg to differ. On the big day, early in the morning, the Gulf of Guinea region was declared to have finally, after years of near misses, overtaken the Shen Kong area to make global number one for wealth, health and joy of living. To spare their event the insult of being treated as other news, the rich kids put out a press release announcing they would celebrate the top spot by getting engaged. This allowed them to make the front page after all, under the header ‚Great Gulf of Guinea’, and the tradition was born.

Mathilda isn’t into legends. Seventy years on, layers of myth have been wrapped around a tiny factual core. The Gulf of Guinea region is number one, yes, and this achievement is being celebrated every year, to keep everyone everywhere else envying, yes again. But all the rest is storytelling, a marketing plot to boost the aforementioned joy of living even higher.

Knowing about metropolitan myth doesn’t make Mathilda less proud to be here. Making it in the Gulf of Guinea, to the point of being invited to this event, that‘s a huge achievement, for any professional, whatever her or his trade.

Shen Kong might still pretend to compete in large series manufacturing, but only just. Whereas for anything digital or design, big or small, hard or soft, fleeting or durable, edible or decorative, the must be place is either Lagos proper, for those who fancy a bustling city life, or anywhere neat and green between Accra and Libreville, for those who don’t, as in too old to have fun.

Every aspiring soul in the proverbial rest of the world longs to stand where Mathilda stands. What’s not lo like? The sequence.

The Lagos state governoress walks by, barely looking up from her exchange with the Indonesian ambassador to wink a greeting in Mathilda’s direction. Same for that elderly chap with hair as white as his festive robes. Mathilda vagely recalls them having been introduced on a prior occasion, but no details. Might be a banker, they’re very much into traditional outfits.

And here he comes, the encounter Mathilda has been bracing herself for. Very young, thirty at most, rather more like twenty five, very dressed up for the occasion, most probably his first go at a big event. Very eager, very clueless, and on the hunt for an interview.

„Madam, an honor to meet you. Would you mind answering a couple of questions, for the Flip?“

At this point, politeness suggests the need for a pause, to give the interviewee a chance to react, but that’s not how this works. Mathilda draws a deep breath, to brace herself. She doesn’t even try to stop what has been proven unstoppable on prior occasions. The kid proceeds:

„First of all, madam, your profession, if you please? Something digital, I presume? But on which side of the aisle, madam? Games or robotics? You look like a hands-on person, who might be into something solid, like personalized service robots, always a market for that, right? And who’d be better at making those just the right kind of pliable, not to say servile, than a lady? Ha, ha, just joking, no offense intended, sexism so out. Now seriously, madam, which kind of digital is it?“

Mathilda draws one more deep breath and takes the plunge:

“Something solid, good guess. Doesn’t get much more solid than a house, right? I’m a mason, as in bricks and mortar, which, believe it or not, are still used alongside 3D printed components, to deliver that unique touch of artisanal ambiance…”

Mathilda keeps going, flashing her professional smile at the kid’s disgusted disbelief.

This is a very young journalist, not much of a poker face yet. Very traditional upper middle class, very respect for brain work only. Not even the hint of an aspiration to pretend to be as class blind as modern expectations would dictate. Knows how to hide his doubts around female achievers under a joke. Plausibly pretends not to notice the very light skin of the folks serving the drinks. But trust him to consider artisans, and farmers, barely human, and to show it.

Mathilda’s dad was right. The true revolution is yet to come. The last one managed to get proud craftspeople like them invited to this kind of event. The next one will deliver respect. Impertinent nuisances like the one she’s smiling at will be made to write Words or code will neither feed nor house me. Ten thousand times per day. Otherwise no supper, no bed.

Mathilda is still lecturing. Her smile is no longer fake.

Words to go

Ronnie Roofer

“Come on, Seedie, good boy, we can do this, one more effort. Less than two hundred square meters to go, you can’t fail me now! We can do it. This will be one more wonderful roof garden, all green, and capturing lots of carbon to deliver oxygen, like the Amazon reloaded in Nigeria. We can do it, Seedie, you’ve got what it takes, you’ve got it in you, one more effort!”

Ronnie is glad there isn’t anyone else on this roof. Would be annoying, to be overheard talking to the robot like it was a dog. It’s the right size, walks on four legs, the planting end could be mistaken for a head at a distance, and the rear stabilizer for a tail, but that’s it, for similarities. 

Seedie is an emotional moron, would never wag its tail in joy to celebrate one more outing. It’s scientifically clever, hard to beat at soil analysis and melioration. It’s well balanced, able to fearlessly stalk along steep roofs that Ronnie’s excellent head for heights considers too dangerous to access. But Seedie is an emotionally blank. 

Seedie doesn’t yawn and moan about lack of sleep in the morning. It never inquires about Ronnie’s last night, to force him into a big brag about an endless series of romantic achievements that of course never happened. Nor does Seedie counter with an even bigger brag. No bragging, no groaning, no yawning, no calling for breaks. Seedie just does the job, without ever clamoring for a raise. Seedie is the team mate from hell, a blank striver.

But Ronnie is as close to tears as a tough guy dares admit, and to himself only. They have been working together for eight years. Seedie was Ronnies first brandnew Roof Planting Mate.

When he started at the firm, directly after his roofer course at the Lagos University for Applied Environmentalism, his manager didn’t trust the novice with proper tools.  Ronnie was forced to work with a semiautonomous model so outdated and hopelessly inefficient he had to go online for help, and in his own unpaid time!

Couple of days and posts later, Ronnie had become a card carrying member of the Roofers for Bright Skies union. A senior activist, code name GetDone, had explained how to proceed, and his trick worked like magic. It was actually quite simple.

One confidential chat with the owner of the three roofs Ronnie was in process of transforming into a tomato-cum-herbs jungle, to inform him of state of the art rooftop planting practices, sent the client calling the firm to yell for proper modern tools, or else bye bye contract.

Right on the next day, Ronnie had barely made it onto the middle roof with his museum exhibit of a hopeless tool, Seedie was delivered. A brandnew, state of the art, autonomous roof planting robot, straight from the manufacturer. Ronnie hadn’t been the star student in his coding class for nothing. He did it, all on his own. After a mere three hours of setup and configuration, Seedie was ready to go and prompty did a marvel. Together, they achieved more in one day, and it wasn’t even a full one, than Ronnie had gotten done in his whole first week.

The client was so pleased he tipped generously, a traditional appreciative practice that is unfortunately getting rarer and rarer, with all the explanations one has to provide since the switch to ecash only. Some kinds of digitalization really don’t qualify as progres…

But Ronnie has bigger worries to tackle right now. Never mind a few missed tips. Him and Seedie, they have been such a great team, right from their exhilarating first day.

And it’s not just all the work they’re getting done. Ronnie spends more time with Seedie than with his family, and he can always tell him anything, without fear of disclosure.

No problem to talk to Seedie about his betting wins and losses, both best no shared at home.

No risks in uttering doubts around the excessive passion at his neighborhood Liverpool fan club. Seedie doesn’t freak out when told that, honestly, it’s but a game, in the end, no need to go crazy about each and every match.

Even wondering aloud about setting up his own firm, to specialize on medicinal plants like cannabis and poppy for rooftop greening, is perfectly possible and safe in Seedie’s presence. 

Ronnie has of course made sure to deactivate all spy functions. He attended a union workshop on how to safeguard privacy in the presence of AI tools, in his own unpaid time, at his own expense. A very wise move. Not even his pretty professional expert self would have guessed just how many data could have been gathered by something as innocuous as Seedie, the settings permitting.

Ronnie and Seedie, they’ve seen a lot, over the past eight years, and now Seedie is falling apart. If its malfunctioning gets any worse, if they keep missing targets due to repair downtime, Ronnie will have to call management to ask for a replacement.

Even thinking about this betrayal breaks Ronnies heart. Two years ago, Seedie would have had a chance to get updated and come back an old fashioned but robust tool with a couple of years to go. But nowadays, after the sudden switch to the new ambient quantum cores, no one will bother. The tech unit is sure to declare Seedie scrap, have him dismantled and recycle the components. 

Ronnie didn’t see the switch to ambient quantum cores coming, despite hearing about some of it one the news, and he hates himself for his mistake. He doomed good old Seedie.

There must be a way to keep going, for a couple more months. Weeks. Days. Hours.

Pretending not to notice the minimal progress since his last cheer, Ronnie once again goes:

“Come on, Seedie, good boy, we can do this, one more effort. Less than two hundred square meters to go, you can’t fail me now! We can do it. This will be one more wonderful roof garden, all green and capturing lots of carbon to deliver oxygen, like the Amazon reloaded in Nigeria. We can do it,  Seedie, you’ve got what it takes, you’ve got it in you, one more effort!”.