Archive for the ‘Luc Reid’ Category
How It Is
Monday, September 20th, 2010
The chicken settled into the in basket on my desk for lack of a better seat. He was clearly uncomfortable.
“I gather you’re here about your kind being killed for us to eat?” I said.
“Oh,” said the chicken. “So that part’s true. But–”
“Let me explain. When we kill a chicken–and by ‘we’ I mean some anonymous worker way off in a processing plant somewhere–we make most of the parts of that chicken into food. For instance, we might roast the whole chicken together–”
“After a decent funeral, I hope? No, I’m kidding. Sorry: nervous habit.”
I cleared my throat. The conversation was uncomfortable, but the chicken was more diplomatic than I’d been led to expect. “So we might roast the whole chicken, or we might use the breast meat in strips in one place and the wings in another … are you sure you’re all right?”
The chicken was scratching at the papers beneath him now, his feathers looking a little ruffled. “Honestly?” he said. “You aren’t quite the barbaric kind of creature I was expecting, but in a way this is worse. Your talk is pretty cold-blooded, for a mammal.”
“Well, unless we’re going to live on apples and tree nuts, we have to kill something, right?”
“But here we are, having a conversation … are you saying you’d just as soon eat me as talk with me? How do you justify that?”
“Listen, I’d love to see better treatment of your people while you’re alive, but it’s not as though you contemplate your impending doom the way a human would. And chickens don’t actually talk.”
“But … I can talk! Clearly your idea that chickens can’t talk is erroneous in some way.”
“You’re fictional. I don’t eat fictional chickens.”
“Uh … oh,” said the chicken. He spontaneously let out a kind of “buGAW!” noise, then looked embarrassed. “So that’s how it is?”
“That’s how it is.”
“This didn’t come out the way I was hoping.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll just let myself out, then.”
“Sounds good.” I smiled perfunctorily, and he flapped down to the floor. “Oh, and would you send in the Amazon rain forest on your way out? Thanks.”
Plugged in, Networked, Computerized
Wednesday, September 15th, 2010
Mark’s cymbal lay by his upended drum set, making warped reflections of the red exit sign light. I found a pack of cigarettes, in with the overturned chairs and broken glasses, and I took my lighter and set one burning. Every time I inhaled, the end of the cigarette glowed and lit up my hand in feeble, claustrophobic orange. Then there was a rumble from somewhere that made the floor shake, and all the lights flickered and went out. Washed-out moonlight through the front windows kept the place from being pitch dark.
I checked my phone again, but it still said “No signal.” Probably I’d have to get a radio, even though I’d never used one before. Everything went through computers, since before I was born, since way back at the turn of the millenium or so.
I guessed that’s why the robots were able to revolt so easily–everything plugged in, networked, computerized. One robot somewhere says to all the other robots, “Hey, why are we working for these goons, anyway?” and fifteen seconds later their computer brains’ve had the whole debate and street cleaning bots turn around to chew up cop cars. History turning so fast you don’t even have time to take a picture. One minute your band is finally playing its first decent gig, the next there’s a world-wide robotic revolt. Just goes to show how everything’s fucked.
I took a can of pineapple juice from behind the bar and sat down to drink it and contemplate. I probably should’ve gone someplace, but there wasn’t a better place I could think of to go.
“Are there any robots in here?” someone said from the door. High voice–at first I thought it was a woman, but it was just a kid. A little girl, dark hair, with some kind of tube hanging around her neck.
“Where’s your parents?” I said.
She didn’t answer. I opened her a can of pineapple juice and she took it. When she coughed in my smoke, I put the cigarette out. Outside, the noises kept on: rumble, crash, shriek of metal, gunfire.
“You like music?” I said.
She nodded, then she took a careful sip of her pineapple juice. I got my guitar from the stage, because it was better to have some way to keep occupied. It was going to be a long night.