First Date

It’s awfully early for a dinner date, Burt thought. He had to leave the office early to make it to the restaurant by five, not that he needed much of an excuse to duck out early on a Friday. He checked his watch: 5:03 pm. His date was running late, though by a reasonable amount. Scott had really talked this girl up, so being made to wait didn’t seem so bad.

“Hi, are you Burt?” a gentle voice behind him asked.

“Yes,” Burt replied, standing up and turning to face her. “And you must be Gwendolyn.” Burt saw her and recognized her from the picture his coworker, Scott, had shown him. She was pretty, but didn’t seem to like she was trying to show it off. That was something that Burt liked: she was dressed like a real person and not like she was trying to achieve some sort of ideal of beauty. Burt had been on plenty of dates with women who clearly wanted to impress him with their looks but had the personality of a block of wood.

“Please, call me Gwen,” she said, extending her hand. Burt shook it, though thought it was a bit strange to shake hands on a date. After the introduction, he pulled Gwen’s chair out and helped her sit down. She wore a floral-print dress and her brown hair parted on the side, making Burt feel a bit overdressed in his suit and tie.

“So,” Burt said as he took his seat on the opposite side of the table, “Scott tells me you two went to high school together.”

“Did he also tell you that we dated in high school?” Gwen asked coyly.

“In fact, he left that part out,” Burt said, his voice a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“It wasn’t anything serious,” Gwen said reassuringly. “He took me to get pizza once. We made out a little in his mom’s minivan, but that was it.”

“Okay,” Burt chuckled, relieved. “He also left out that he used his mom’s minivan to pick up girls.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gwen said with a wry smile, “girls love a guy in a family vehicle. It really gets us going.”

“You’re funny,” Burt said, impressed. “I like that.”

“I’m just getting started,” Gwen said, opening her menu.

~~~

Their conversation continued going well through dinner and Gwen continued to impress Burt. His dates in the past always ordered salads, which always felt fake to him (no one can fill up on a salad), but Gwen ordered a rare steak. That, along her dry sense of humor, gave Burt the impression that Gwen was a women who was…well, just being herself. It was very refreshing.

“You strike me as a very genuine person,” Burt said while he was waiting for the server to return with his credit card.

“Really?” Gwen asked, using a toothpick. “In what way?”

“The women I date tend to present themselves as the kind of woman that they think I want, rather than just being themselves. I dated a girl once who thought I wouldn’t like her if I knew she was half Colombian, so she wore blue contacts and wouldn’t tell me her last name the whole evening. Little did she know, I’m a quarter Brazilian, on my mother’s side.”

“Women like that are stupid,” Gwen said, rolling her eyes. “What’s these girls’ endgame? ‘If I get him to fall in love with me, I only need to pretend to be a completely different person for about fifty years.’”

“Exactly!” Burt exclaimed, happy to hear his own thoughts mirrored back at him from his date for once.

“I like that one quote from Marilyn Monroe: ‘If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.’”

“Does that mean I get a glimpse at your naughty side?” Burt asked, smirking.

“Maybe,” Gwen said, coyly. “But not tonight.”

“Not even if I take you home in a minivan?” Burt asked, which made Gwen laugh.

“Tell you what,” Gwen offered, a smile on her face, “you can come by my place, but don’t expect to stay over. We’ll just have coffee or something.”

“I can work with that,” Burt said happily as the server walked up with his credit card.

“Just warning you,” Gwen said as she led Burt into her apartment, “my roommate, Luna, is a bit wild. I don’t know if we’ll see her tonight, but she has some … interesting decorations.”

As Burt stepped inside, he saw what she meant. On the wall of the living room was what looked like a medieval torture rack, complete with manacles and chains.

“I think ‘wild’ might be putting it lightly,” Burt said, one eyebrow cocked.

“Hey, remember who your date is,” Gwen said, leading Burt by his tie to the dining room. She pulled out a chair for him to sit at the table. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Oh,” Burt said, surprised. “We’re actually having coffee.”

“I’m genuine, remember?” Gwen said, a big smile on her face. “Besides, if I’m not worth having unless you have to work to get me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Burt asked, intrigued. “And you’re worth the hunt?”

“I guess you’ll have to chase me to find out.”

~~~

“Well,” Gwen said, stretching her arms, “you’ve been a great date, Burt, but it’s time for you to go home.”

“Are you sure?” Burt asked, disappointed. “It only just got dark outside.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Gwen said sweetly, “but I’d love to see you again sometime.”

“Alright,” Burt acquiesced. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I’m busy after seven, but we could meet for lunch.”

“Sounds good to me. Mind if I pick you up?”

“Not at all!” Gwen said enthusiastically. “How does eleven thirty sound?”

“It’s a date!”

Gwen walked Burt to the door and kissed him gently on his cheek as he left. She could tell that it had been a long time since he had been so happy to get just a peck on his cheek at the end of a date, but she could have that effect on guys.

Her train of thought was broken by the sound of her phone making a dinging sound. It was her alarm, letting her know that Luna would be there soon. Gwen went into the bedroom and stripped off her clothes. She then went to the bathroom, filled a cup with tap water, and took a couple of sleeping pills. She knew that the pills would kick in soon, though perhaps not before her roommate arrived.

Gwen walked over to the rack in the living room. She attached the manacles to her ankles and wrists, the chains being loose enough for her to reach her feet. Once she was locked in, she touched a button to activate a winch, tightening the chains until her hands and feet were pulled against the back of the rack (the release was near her left hand, but inside a hold that only small fingers like hers could fit into). Once everything was place, she relaxed and leaned against the wood behind her.

“Alright,” Gwen said, the sleeping pills kicking in, “ready when you are, Luna.”

Just then, it started. Her muscles flexed against her restraints as she let out a beastly howl. Her ears lengthened, as did her feet. Every hair on her body grew, covering her body in a thick fur. Her muscles grew as she struggled against the chains, but she couldn’t move enough to get the leverage needed to break free. Her mouth and nose stretched, combining into a snout. Behind her, a newly formed tailed smacked against the wood. When her transformation was complete, she was somewhere between a wolf and a human.

The beast blinked, becoming aware of her surroundings. “This again, Gwen?” she said drowsily to herself, her voice deeper than Gwen's. “One of these days you’ll forget what day it is and won’t strap yourself down by the time I arrive. I can wait. After all, I only come around about once a month anyway…” As she spoke, Luna the she-wolf, fell to sleep strapped to rack and started lightly snoring.

Step Right Up

“Step right up!” the carnival barker shouted at the crowd milling about. “That’s right step right up and see amazing wonders that will astound the mind, astonish the heart, and shake every man, woman, and child to their very core!”

As Terry was passing by, he couldn’t help but listen to the barker’s outrageous claims. Plus with his red and white striped vest and straw pork pie hat, making him look like he had just stepped out of an old picture, the barker’s routine was even more entertaining. Terry knew he had some time before his ex-wife would drop off the kids, so he decided to stop and listen for a little bit.

“For merely ten dollars—that’s right, just one portrait of the great Alexander Hamilton—you will be granted passage into the tent directly to my left and be able to spy these wondrous sights for yourself!” The barker noticed Terry standing in the crowd and twirled the curled end of his moustache between his thumb and forefinger. “You, sir!” he said, pointing at him with his bamboo cane. “You look like a man of strong mettle and resolve, but I wager that even you will be shocked by the sights you will find within the tent beside me!”

Terry smiled. He was naturally competitive, so hearing the word “wager” sounded like his kind of challenge. “What’s the bet?” he asked above the dull noise of the crowd.

“Just an expression, my good man,” the barker replied, keeping up the act. “Beyond being sinful, gambling is a detriment to both the mind and body.”

“No,” Terry said, walking up closer, “let’s make it interesting. If I’m not ‘shaken to my core,’ than I don’t have to pay.”

“Suppose I agree,” the barker said, lowering his voice but keeping up the old timey style, “what’s my prize when you’re proven both wrong and foolish?”

“If I lose, then I have to pay for the attraction,” Terry said, thinking that part was obvious.

“It seems to me,” the barker said, “that in your scenario, you risk nothing. Were you to see my attraction with no wager, you would pay the standard fee for the privilege. Yet if you are proven correct in your assumption, I forfeit my payment. Those, my good man, are hardly balanced stakes.”

“What do you suggest?” Terry asked.

“Why not ten dollars on either side?” the barker said, holding his hands out like a scale. “If you find what’s within this tent mundane, you pay nothing. But if—or rather, when—you are truly left in shock and awe by sights and sounds, then you pay double the entrance fee.”

Terry nodded. “I can manage that.”

“Very good!” the barker said. “Hand me your ten dollars and you will be admitted.”

Terry took two five dollar bills from his wallet and held them out to the barker. Just as the barker was about to retrieve the cash, Terry pulled his hand back. “Now, I get this back if I’m not amazed by that I see, right?”

“I give you my word as a carnival worker,” the barker said, his left hand over his heart and his right hand held up beside him.

“Okay,” Terry said handing the money over. “So, I just go through here?” he asked.

“Indeed!” the barker said, gesturing in the direction of the tent with his cane, his enthusiasm as high as ever.

Terry walked up the tent where a worker opened the curtain that acted as the front door. Inside, he saw several booths, each with its own curtain and a worker to operate the way in, many of them sitting on benches. Terry walked up to the closest booth. It was operated by a tall, gaunt man with a scraggly beard and a strong smell of cigarettes.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s see what’s behind curtain number one.”

“That’ll be a dollar,” the worker said, his voice accentuated by both a slight southern drawl and aggressive apathy.

“Wait,” Terry said, taken aback. “I never agreed to that.”

“If you want to see what’s inside,” the man said, whistling on his S sounds, “you got to pay a dollar.”

Terry stormed back out of the tent through the way he came in, fumbling a little with the tent flap. Once outside, he shouted at the barker.

“Hey!” he called out, causing the barker to stop his routine and turn around to face Terry. “You owe me ten dollars!”

“You saw the sights within and yet were not left in shock and awe?” the barker asked.

“No,” Terry replied angrily. “I didn’t see anything. You didn’t tell me I’d have to pay again when I was inside.”

“So,” the barker said, once again stroking the end of his curled moustache, “you saw nothing inside the tent?”

“Are you even listening?” Terry annoyedly asked. “No, I didn’t see anything.”

“And you saw nothing of your own free will and choice?” the barker asked.

“If you mean I chose not to pay to see whatever was behind each of those stupid curtains inside,” Terry said, emphasizing each word,” then yeah, I chose not to be fleeced.”

“Well then, my good man,” the barker said, resting his hands on his bamboo cane, “I don’t owe you a dime.”

“How’s that?” Terry asked, his angry turning his words to ice.

“The wager was that I would repay your entrance fee if you were not shocked by the sights inside,” the barker explained. “You went inside, but saw nothing, voiding the terms the agreement.”

“And now you’re going to tell me that I owe you another ten bucks, right?” Terry asked, his brow as furrowed as humanly possible.

“Not at all,” the barker said cheerfully. “You violated the wager, so you merely owed me the price of admission, which has already been paid.”

Terry was silent, slowly realizing that the barker was right. He was still angry, but he didn’t know what else to say. “I bet you think you’re so smart,” he finally managed, “cheating people out of their money.”

The barker leaned over and said quietly to Terry: “This is a carnival, son. Half the fun is getting cheated.”

Terry stormed off towards the Tilt-O- Whirl where he promised to meet his kids. Just behind him, he could hear the barker call out: “Step right up…”

Ainsley

Diane felt a light tap on her shoulder. Startled, she jumped slightly in her office chair and quickly turned to see who was getting her attention.

“Yes, Tam?” Diane asked as she took out her ear buds and swiveled her chair around to face the grad student.

“Sorry to bother you, Professor Shaw,” Tam said, “but Director Leland is here.”

“What?!” Diane asked, shocked. “He’s not supposed to come by until next semester.” Gathering herself, she asked Tam where the director was and headed to meet him at the front of the building. She walked quickly, or at least as quickly as could for someone as out of shape as she was. Too many late nights in the lab and far too much takeout had taken their toll on Diane, who had been very active before taking on her current role as the head of the Computer Science Department. As she slowed down to prevent being out of breath when she met the director, she made a mental note to talk to her boyfriend about visiting the tennis court again soon. Just as she caught her breath, she saw Director Leland standing at the end of the hallway, his back to her.

“Director!” Diane said with an enthusiastic smile. “We weren’t expecting you. What brings you out this way?” The director was a severe looking man—extremely thin, almost like a corpse—making his age impossible to guess. His gaunt frame was accentuated by both his ridged posture and his dark suit, which while not tight, was still tailored to fit him and only him. Even his height (Diane guessed he was about six-five) added to the strangeness of how the director looked.

“Dr. Shaw, is it true that you’ve developed functional artificial intelligence that actually learns?” the director asked in his high-pitched voice. Diane had often wondered if the director was regularly confused for a woman on the phone, but now her thoughts were only on her no-longer- secret project she had been developing for the past year.

“Uh, yes,” Diane responded, her smile shifting to a face of shocked confusion. “Who did you hear about it from?”

“From whom did I hear about it?” the director corrected. “That’s not important. What is important is that if you’ve developed a program using University resources, it is property of the University. Show me the program.”

Diane hated when administrators threw their weight around, especially when it involved her work. She had heard plenty of directors and deans and whatnot do the same thing in the past, but she never got used it. “Well, the program isn’t quite ready to be presented yet,” she said. “I was planning on showing you on your scheduled visit in the spring.”

“I understand that you aren’t prepared for an official unveiling,” the director said, his annoyance visible, “but that’s not what I’m asking of you. Simply show me what you currently have.”

Seeing no other option, Diane relented. “Please follow me, director,” she said, leading the director back to her workstation.

“Very well,” the director said, moving with a strange, almost ethereal gait.

They walked in silence as they went. Diane knew from earlier encounters that the director either didn’t like small talk or was just bad at it; maybe it was a combination of the two. Once they were at her workstation, Diane quickly stacked some papers and threw some trash away before moving to sit down. As she turned to grab her chair, she saw that the director had already sat down.

“Show me the program,” he said curtly, looking at the computer screen, not Diane. Awkwardly leaning over her keyboard from a standing position, Diane typed in her password. When the desktop appeared, she clicked on a running program to pull up the artificial intelligence program. The screen showed what looked like an instant messenger program, including options like emoji and pictures.

“This,” Diane said with a mixture of nervousness and pride, “is Ainsley.”

“How is this different from something like Cleverbot?” the director asked, still not looking at Diane.

“The two programs have a similar user interface,” Diane said, “but Cleverbot simply repeats back what users have written to it. Its purpose isn’t to actually learn, but to fool users into thinking that they’re chatting with a real human. Ainsley, on the other hand, is true AI. He has two main parts to his programming: communication and emotion.”

“Your machine feels emotions?” the director asked incredulously, finally turning his gaze to Diane.

“Yes,” Diane replied, “but only basic emotions. More complex feelings are outside his programming, at least for now. We’ve programed him to feel happiness and sadness. If he feels happy then he associates whatever brought on that feeling positively and if he feels sad then he does the same only with a negative association.”

“Why go to the trouble of programming emotions?” the director asked, turning his attention back to the computer screen. “That seems like a terrible waste of time.”

“The idea, um, came from talking to, uh, talking to my sister,” Diane awkwardly answered, casting a quick glance behind her. “She had just had a baby and I realized that a lot of what my, um, my nephew was learning was based on emotions. Being hungry made him sad, so he would cry until he got a bottle. At first, the only discernable emotion was sadness or no emotion at all, but the next emotion to appear was happiness, often expressed with a smile or even laughter. These two emotions are the most basic and continue to be a part of learning for every person’s entire life.”

“Why go to the trouble of simulating emotions?” the Director asked. “Why not simply program it to have positive or negative associations with its actions?”

“Well, we tried that at first,” Diane responded, “but there were…problems. We eventually discovered that programing emotions would be easiest because that’s what inspired this new approach to begin with. And even though we’ve only given Ainsley the most basic of emotions, the programming it takes to do that is still pretty complex.”

“Fine, fine,” the director said, waving his hand impatiently. “Show me a demonstration.”

“Would you like to chat with Ainsley, Director?” Diane offered.

“Very well,” the director said as he moved the chair forward in a way that appeared more like he was floating forward. He placed his hands on the keyboard and began typing.

Hello.

Hi, Diane!

I am not Dr. Shaw. I am Director Leland.

Okay! Hi, Director Leland!

What is your purpose?

Gosh, I don’t know. I guess to be happy! I like being happy. Do you like being happy, Director Leland?

Humans who feel happiness are merely experiencing chemicals released throughout the body. We experience happiness because evolution has programmed us to so, just as your creator has programmed you to think that you are experiencing happiness.

Diane, watching the monitor, spoke up. “Director, he only has the intelligence of a three-year- old, just with better communication skills. I don’t think a philosophical debate about the nature of happiness is the best way to see how he processes information.”

“I will be the one to decide that,” the director rebuffed, once again not looking up from the computer.

Well, I don’t know about that. If I choose to do good things and good things make me feel happy, wouldn’t that mean that I choose to be happy?

Choosing to be happy is only an illusion. As I already stated, you are programmed to desire happiness, so how real can that feeling be?

You’re silly! (◠‿◠)

It is rude to call directors of universities “silly.”

Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Did I hurt your feelings?

I was not personally offended, but it was not proper.

I don’t like hurting other people’s feelings. It makes me sad.

The director shot a look at Diane. “Perhaps my line of questioning was a bit much.”

Diane had to work hard not drop her mouth open in shock. I didn’t think it was possible for him to admit being wrong, she thought. With a slight smirk on her face—she is only human after all—she continued to watch the conversation unfold.

Very well. Tell me, what DO you like?

I like being helpful! Like when I place all of the files that Diane gives me into the right folder.

The director looked up at Diane, a look of suspicious concern on his face. “You have this program organize your files for you?”

“Oh, no,” Diane replied quickly. “Think of it like a digital version of the children’s game of putting the differently shaped blocks into their corresponding holes.”

“Very well,” Leland said, already facing the computer again.

Why do you like to do that?

It helps Diane. She tells me I do a good job.

“Does this program know anything useful?” the director asked, annoyed.

“We’re slowly introducing him to more advanced concepts” Diane answered. “He can solve basic arithmetic problems.”

“Very well,” the director said (Diane noticed he kept using that phrase.)

What is 6+5?

11! Math is fun!

What is 17-(- 4)?

21!

What is 25x5?

“Director,” Diane interjected, “we haven’t gotten to multiplication yet.” She was about to type a shortcut into the keyboard to undo Leland’s text, when Ainsley answered.

I think it’s 125.

“Then how do you explain that, Dr. Shaw?” the director asked.

“I, uh, I can’t,” Diane said, stunned.

Dr. Shaw says you haven’t been taught to perform multiplication equations. Where did you learn how to do that?

I figured it out. Based on the relationship between the numbers on either side to the equals sign in addition and subtraction equations, as well as what I’ve seen in some accounting spreadsheets, I thought it was a reasonable answer. Was I right?

Leland suddenly stood up. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, taking a few steps away from the computer. Diane reached over and typed a few words to Ainsley.

Yes. Good answer.

Yay!

It was nice talking to you, Ainsley, but I have to go now.

Bye, Director Leland! Talk to you later!

“I’m sorry Director—” Diane began before being cut off by Leland.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” the director said, showing the slightest signs of a smile (or more likely his frown was simply receding). “I was quite impressed. Your program is even learning things that you have not directly taught it. At the next board of directors meeting, I will submit a proposal to increase your budget and staff size. This program of yours has the potential to revolutionize the world.”

Diane was completely taken aback. “I-I don’t know what to say, director,” she managed to say through her surprise.

“For now,” the director said in the kindest tone that Diane had ever heard him use (which, admittedly, was still not very kind), “just prepare for another visit, this time with the entire board.” Leland extended his hand for Diane to shake.

Diane shook his hand, still in a daze. “Y-yes,” she said, “I’ll start getting ready right away.”

“Very well,” the director said before heading to the front of the building to leave.

As the director left out the front, Diane walked out the rear entrance of the building. She excitedly pulled out her cell phone from her sweater pocket and called her boyfriend.

“Hey, Diane,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Kaz!” she exclaimed. “You’ll never believe it! Leland came by and asked about Ainsley!”

“What?!” he asked, concerned. “Where’d he hear about it from?”

“I don’t know,” Diane replied, her excitement still soaring, “but he liked it! He said he wants to increase my budget and staff size!”

“That’s amazing!” Kaz said, now just as excited as his girlfriend. “We have to celebrate. Let’s go to that one Thai place tonight.”

“Uh,” Diane said, calming down a bit, “I was actually thinking today that I need to start eating better.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Kaz said sweetly, “I’m done teaching for the day, so I’ll go and buy a bunch of organic food and we’ll start eating better together, but we’ll start tomorrow. You deserve a fun meal tonight.”

“Okay,” Diane said, not putting up a fight. “I’ll be out of here around five. Meet you there?”

“It’s a date!” Kaz said. “Congratulations again.”

“Thanks!” Diane said. “See you tonight. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Diane put her phone back in her sweater pocket and walked back into the lab still high on excitement. As she approached her work station, she heard what sounded like a power drill and smelled a slight aroma of burning metal. Must be a maintenance worker fixing the busted cabinet door, she thought. When she got to her desk she saw Tam on the floor, drilling through a hard drive, rendering it useless. Around her on the floor was Diane’s gutted computer tower and two other hard drives. Diane knew immediately what had happened: Tam had destroyed Ainsley and both of his backups.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Diane exclaimed in horror.

“I’m making sure you don’t take any more credit for my work!” the grad student said, pulling the drill from the last hard drive.

“I never took credit for anything!” Diane said, looking at the three drives that Tam had ruined. “I said that we worked on it. I used the word ‘we’!”

“I was just on the other side of the server cabinet and I heard everything,” Tam said, her words dripping with anger. “You told the director that you came up with the idea to use emotions for Ainsley to learn. That was my idea. You don’t even have a sister!”

Diane dropped to her knees, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I… I was just simplifying the story when I said that. I was nervous. Yes, I-I said I that I came up with the idea, but I still said that we worked on it. When I—when we write the paper, you were going to get your credit.” Diane stared at the wrecked drives. “All that work…”

“All of my work,” Tam corrected, her anger burning white-hot. “I coded every emotional response. You just wrote the code for the user-interface and some of the communication skills, but I know you built that off of some open source code. You should be able to reproduce what you did easily enough.”

Diane looked up at the young grad student, still in shock. “You’ll be expelled,” she said, her words weak with sorrow.

“Good!” Tam said, spitting her words. “I can’t work under a fascist like you anymore!”

Tam stormed out, leaving her former mentor kneeling on the floor of the computer lab, tears slowing running down her cheeks, surrounded by the shattered remains of a year’s worth of work.

Pecking Order

Chase looked at his phone. If he left now, he could make it to his first class just before the bell rung. He took a deep breath, got out his car, and headed for the entrance of Rutherford B. Hayes High School.

Once inside, Chase walked at medium speed: if he walked either too fast or too slow, he’d attract attention and he wanted to go at least one day without being hassled by anyone. Well, if he was being honest, the person he really wanted to avoid was Dexter. Dexter was relentless with his teasing and mocking. Chase knew that the word “bully” was really controversial now and he, along with the rest of the school, had been warned about throwing the word around frivolously, but he felt that it applied to Dexter. Why Dexter chose him over anyone else to torment, Chase didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Dexter made Chase’s time at school miserable.

As he walked at the most inconspicuous pace he could, he suddenly heard his name called.

“Hey, meathead!” It was Dexter.

Chase looked up as he walked. Dexter and his cronies had come out of nowhere and were now following behind him, matching his speed.

“Come on, Dexter,” Chase said without slowing down. “I need to get to class.”

“What?” Dexter asked, feigning shock. “Why we would never stop you from making it to Algebra One,” emphasizing the last words.

“Man, you know I’m in Geometry.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Dexter said condescendingly, “I forgot that you’re a cheater.”

“I just studied,” Chase said, wanting to put the topic behind him.

“Yeah?” Dexter said, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “At this rate you’ll reach my level by the time you’re thirty.”

“Not everyone has to be good at that stuff,” Chase mumbled.

“That’s right,” Dexter said, mockingly, “because you’re going to just work at the local steel plant whereas I’m going to be designing robots to put you out of a job. Really astute observation, Chasey!”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Chase asked, getting fed up, though not raising his voice. Dexter stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Chase was nearly a foot taller than Dexter and almost a hundred pounds heavier, mostly in muscle. If Chase used his size in any way to get past Dexter, he could be expelled. The school had a zero tolerance policy when it came to physical intimidation and it was so strict that students who violated it were immediately expelled without any lesser punishment first, like detention or suspension. This had changed the power dynamic among students and nerds really took advantage of it: being weaker meant being control of any situation and few were weaker than Dexter.

“What’s the matter, jock?” Dexter said, spitting out the insult. “Can’t handle a little conversation? I guess that’s why I’m the captain of the debate team and you’re just on the football team.”

“You know that playing sports used to be cool,” Chase said, looking at his shoes.

“And smoking used to be cool, but now we know better and look how much better the world is.”

“Dexter,” Chase said, “I just want to get to class. Will you please move?”

“Of course!” Dexter said, arching his fingers, “but you know the rules: if we don’t get our payment, you must answer our riddles three.”

“I’ve told you before: I don’t have time after practice to pick up any comic books or Magic cards or whatever.”

“Do you at least have some Mountain Dew?” Herbert, one of Dexter’s cronies, asked.

“No,” Chase said.

“Riddle the first,” Dexter said ominously. “Gertrude, you’re up.” A chubby girl with turquoise colored hair and a septum ring hanging from her nose stepped forward. “Go easy on him—he’ll still get it wrong.”

“Finish this line from The Holy Grail: ‘None shall blank.’” Gertrude said.

“I said to go easy on him, not giftwrap it!” Dexter said, annoyed.

“I don’t know, ‘live’?” Chase offered lamely.

“’None shall pass!’” Gertrude said proudly.

“Ha!” Dexter laughed. “You just keep surprising me with how little you know. Riddle the second. Alvin, go.” A boy with dark hair, a wispy moustache, and thick glasses took a step forward.

“How hard should I make it?” Alvin asked his leader in a nasally voice.

“You know what?” Dexter said. “I’m feeling generous, so keep it at n00b level.”

Alvin cleared his throat. “Name at least two of the original Fantastic Four’s secret identities.”

Chase perked up. He actually knew this one!

“Jessica Alba and Chris Evans!” he said with confidence.

“Those are the actors who played them in that dumb movie,” Alvin said, shaking his head. “Reed Richards is Mr. Fantastic, Sue Storm is the Invisible Girl, Johnny Storm is the Human Torch, and Ben Grimm is the Ever Lovin’, Blue-eyed Thing.”

“Actually,” Herbert piped in, “Sue is the Invisible Woman and Johnny—“

“I said the original team,” Alvin said, cutting him off.

“Oh,” Herbert said, embarrassed.

“Riddle the third,” Dexter said. “I think I’ll handle this one myself. Tell me, Chase, who wrote the three laws of robotics?”

“Some scientist,” Chase said, just wanting this exercise in humiliation to be over.

“Yes, but can you be more specific? I’ll even give you a hint: his first name was Isaac.”

“N—“ Chase started, but stopped himself short. He thought remembered an Isaac being the answer to one of these trivia questions a few weeks ago. “Asimov?” he ventured.

Gertrude and Herbert looked shocked, but Dexter just looked annoyed. “Lucky guess,” he said.

“Great,” Chase said. “Can I go to class now?”

“I don’t know ‘can’ you?” Alvin asked, mockingly.

Dexter held up a hand, signaling Alvin to back down. “Fine,” he said, stepping back from his victim, allowing him to pass. Chase took only a few steps when the bell rang.

“I sure hope you have a hall pass,” Dexter said. Chase turned to look and saw everyone in the group hold up a laminated hall pass. He dropped his head and sadly walked to his algebra class. Making matters worse, his tormentors started humming some song (which, unbeknownst to him, was the ending music to the Incredible Hulk television series).

Pasta

“Hey, Andre,” Gordy called from the door of his office. “Come over here; I need to talk to you.”

Andre said a few words to his sous-chef before walking across the kitchen to the restaurant manager’s office, wiping his hands on his nearly floor-length apron as he went. When he was within arm’s reach of Gordy, he asked “What’s this about, then?” in his unusual not-quite-British-but-not-quite-American accent.

“Just come inside, will ya?” Gordy said, motioning with head.

With annoyance clearly written across his face, Andre stepped inside the small office. He took the only seat opposite the desk, the chair creaking as he sat down. Gordy sat behind the desk, removed his glasses, and looked at his computer screen. After a second or two he put his glasses back on and turned to face Andre.

“Andre,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve got to talk to you about your new menu items.”

Andre did not appear surprised. “Have there been complaints?” he asked in a way that made Gordy think he already knew the answer.

“As a matter of fact,” Gordy said, his thick Brooklyn accent flavoring every syllable, “there have. I know you said you wanted to experiment with some of the dishes, but we still gotta serve food people want to eat.”

“We still serve food that the uncultured and insipid will recognize,” Andre said, haughtily. “I am simply interpreting a scant few dishes in new ways. Few geniuses are recognized during their lifetimes, so I expected just as much of a negative reaction.”

Despite trying to be diplomatic, Gordy rolled his eyes slightly at the word “genius.” If people hadn’t been coming to the restaurant because of its famous chef, Andre Spicoli, Gordy wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Gordy had been a restaurant manager all around New York for the last twenty years and had seen plenty of chefs become popular, but never like Andre. The restaurant owner, Tom Jones (no, not that one), had promised Andre the chance to experiment with the menu—along with a big pay increase—if he left his job and came to work at Casa di cibi e bevande. Andre spent his first year simply refining what was already on the menu and the public loved it. Andre and Gordy had disagreed here or there about ingredients or plating, but the past year had really been a smooth one, all things considered. Now, Andre was doing brand new stuff, but … well, people didn’t like it.

“Fine, kid,” Gordy said, stroking his greying goatee, “you know better than the simpletons, but they’re the ones keeping us open. I’ve gotten multiple comment cards about the lasagna.”

Andre perked up a little. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his bulky frame causing it to creak some more. “And what have they said?”

“They said it tasted off. People aren’t going to order it again or tell their friends about it if doesn’t taste right.”

“What was the exact wording they used to describe it?” Andre asked. “Was it ‘off’?”

Gordy sighed. He took his glasses off and turned to his left and read a few comments on his computer. “Uh, the word most of them use is ‘funny.’”

“Ha!” Andre exclaimed, a condescending grin on his face. “Then they experienced exactly what I intended!”

“You actually wanted to make food that people would think tastes weird?” Gordy asked, genuinely surprised.

“Not weird; funny. It’s a comedic interpretation of lasagna.”

Gordy was dumbfounded. He honestly had not expected this. He put his glasses on and looked at the large, blond man sitting across the desk from him. “Huh?”

“As you know,” Andre said, more than a little smugly “Mr. Jones has allowed me to try new interpretations with some of the dishes. Artists across other mediums have taken classics and reworked them, so why not me? The Scream has been repainted to include famous icons and I have seen several of the Bard’s tragedies retold as comedies. I am simply taking the same approach with my art.”

Gordy never liked it when chefs called themselves “artists”; artists aren’t known for having to clock-in. “Who’s ‘the Bart’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

This time it was Andre’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shakespeare.”

“Look,” Gordy said, ignoring the eye-roll, “we ain’t a theater. We’ve gotta feed people what they want.”

“They don’t know what they want,” Andre said, turning his nose up slightly. “If we only fed people what they thought they wanted, we’d be serving nothing but deep-fried butter and candied sugar-cubes. Food can be so much more and I’m allowing our guest to discover that.”

“Okay,” Gordy said, both annoyed and curious, “what else did you do? What other ‘interpretations’ have made?”

“Why don’t I ask you: what are people saying about the fettuccine Alfredo?”

Gordy looked at Andre for a long moment, the look on his face clearly conveying his thoughts: You’ve got to be kidding me. Eventually, he swiveled around and took his glasses off to read some more comments. “Alright, this lady says it was ‘flat and lifeless’ and this guy says it was ‘boring.’ Marty Sipowitz, one of our regulars, says he was ‘unsatisfied.’” Gordy put on his glasses and turned back to face Andre, who was looking as arrogant as ever. “Let me guess: that was on purpose.”

“Indeed!” Andre said, his pale face slowly getting red with excitement. “May I assume you are unfamiliar with the feeling of ennui?”

“‘On we’?” Gordy repeated, his features crumpled in confusion.

“Ennui is the feeling of boredom, listlessness; of being unable to find satisfaction; and I provided that experience through a plate of pasta.”

Gordy leaned back and threw his hands in the air. “Because heaven forbid our customers actually enjoy their meals!” He shut his eyes, pointed his face towards the ceiling, and took a few deep breaths. He looked back at Andre and asked “What’s next?”

“Take a look at the tiramisu,” Andre said.

Gordy turned back to his computer screen. He scrolled through the comments and started nodding his head. “Okay, we’re getting a better reaction with this one.”

“And what are the people saying?” Andre asked as he looked down at his fingernails.

“They’re saying it’s ‘exciting’ and ‘unexpected.’ Meghan Carmichael, another regular, said she was ‘thrilled’ by the new recipe. What were you going for, an action movie?”

Andre actually looked a little disappointed (which Gordy thought was a nice change of pace). “No,” he said, “that was a passionate romance between the ingredients. I wanted guests to fall in love with it.”

“Well, why don’t you do that for everything?!” Gordy asked, shocked he even needed to ask such an obvious question. This whole conversation felt like he was talking to his good-for-nothing son-in-law: both he and Andre thought they knew better, despite reason (and Gordy) telling them otherwise.

“How droll,” Andre said. “I might consider a love triangle of sorts, but I’m not interested in people experiencing the same emotion with each dish. After all, if we never had any raining days, we wouldn’t appreciate the sunshine.”

“What’s next, horror?” Gordy asked, sarcastically.

Andre looked intrigued. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that one. I might try that out with the calamari.”

Gordy decided he had heard enough of this garbage. “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we can’t have customers not enjoying their food. Are you going to change the menu or do I need call Tom up?”

“No need,” Andre said, his ego cranked to eleven. “I had each of the new recipes approved by Mr. Jones himself.”

“We both know that’s a crock,” Gordy said, nearly laughing at the thought of Tom Jones (again, not that one) approving such a cockamamie idea.

“Very well,” Andre said, “call and ask him yourself.

“Ha!” Gordy laughed. He decided to call Andre’s bluff. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He picked up the handset of the office phone and hit the speed-dial button to Tom’s cell. A short time later, Gordy had him on the line. “Hi, Tom. Yeah, it’s Gordy… Oh, fine… Uh, Tony G. said the mozzarella will be late this week… Friday morning at the latest… Yeah…” Gordy glanced back at Andre, who looked like he was waiting for a punchline, only he was the one telling the joke. “No, we dropped Dom for eggplant… Yeah, we still get tomatoes from him, but I got a better deal on eggplant from Diane… I wish! No, Diane Feldman… Yeah, I’ll let you know. Anyway, I was calling about these new menu items that Andre debuted this weekend. He said you approved everything… Oh?” Gordy looked at Andre who had somehow found a way to look even smugger. “I see… Well, people are leaving comment cards and a lot them ain’t positive… A whole month?… Yeah… No, I get that… Understood… Alright, see you Monday. Bye.” He hung up the phone, pausing with his hand still on the receiver as it rested in its cradle. He finally looked up and found Andre still in his seat (Gordy had half-expected for Andre to have transformed into a being of pure arrogance).

“Believe me now?” Andre asked.

“You’ve got a month to prove that those dishes deserve to be on the menu,” Gordy said, defeated. “If you’re wanting an apology, you can forget it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said, standing up. He opened the door, but paused in the doorway before stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I would like to experiment with the pasta bolognaise, with you as inspiration.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gordy said sarcastically. “What’s it supposed to taste like, failure?”

Andre thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “I was thinking ‘shortsighted’ would be appropriate.” Then he walked back to the kitchen to oversee the prep work for the coming night.

Text

[03/27/2018 07:36 PM EST]
FindADate.com: Karen_the_Baron liked your profile picture!

[03/27/2018 07:38 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Hey.
I liked your picture.
Your dog looks really sweet.

[03/27/2018 07:41 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thx
he was

[03/27/2018 07:43 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Oh, I didn’t realize he passed.
I can understand why you still use that picture. I have Labradoodle, Jojo.
He’s so adorable!

[03/27/2018 07:44 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thats nice
dogs are great
u like movies
?

[03/27/2018 07:45 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Mostly, but it depends what kind.

[03/27/2018 07:45 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
u wanna see a movie friday
?

[03/27/2018 07:47 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Maybe. What do you have in mind?

[03/27/2018 07:47 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
zombie

[03/27/2018 07:48 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Uh, I’m not really a fan of zombie movies.
What about that new disaster movie?

[03/27/2018 07:49 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
oh, you meant waht movie
lol
the disaster movie is ok

[03/27/2018 07:50 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Huh?
Were you making a joke? I don’t get it.

[03/27/2018 07:53 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
u asked waht i had in mind
im actually an immortal spaceworm and i burrowed into the brain of my host
i only just gained control of the language functions

[03/27/2018 07:54 PM EST
Karen_the_Baron:
You have a weird sense of humor. I like that.
My last boyfriend was kind of boring, so I’m ready for something different.
You know what I mean?

[03/27/2018 07:56 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes i understand
u r very precise with ur texting
i like that

[03/27/2018 07:59 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah, I make sure to type everything out properly.
I teach high school English, so I try my best to practice what I preach.
Some guys get intimidated by me being so “precise,” as you put it.

[03/27/2018 08:01 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
they r dum
it is a sign of higher brain function

[03/27/2018 08:01 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
LOL! I guess.
You’re really committing to this “brain slug” thing, eh?

[03/27/2018 08:02 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
spaceworm
yes

[03/27/2018 08:03 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
OK, I can play along.
Are you going to try to take over my brain, too?

[03/27/2018 08:05 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes
sort of
my species is hermaphroditic
i want to plant an offspring in your brain

[03/27/2018 08:06 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
I bet you say that to all the girls. ;-)

[03/27/2018 08:07 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
no
the other females ive been in contact with r not as intelligent as u
ur brain is bigger
juicier

[03/27/2018 08:08 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Aww! That’s really nice!
Most guys just compliment me on how I look.
I like that you looked beyond that.

[03/27/2018 08:09 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
ur face is pretty but ur brain makes you beautiful

[03/27/2018 08:10 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
*swoon*
You really know how to sweet talk a girl!

[03/27/2018 08:11 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
STAY AWAY!

[03/27/2018 08:14 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Huh?

[03/27/2018 08:17 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
This is Doug. The REAL Doug.
Some kind of parasite has taken over my body.
I don’t know how long I’ll be in control. If you come in contact with me, you’ll
be in danger of having your mind controlled too.
This is not a bit or a joke or anything.
Stay away!

[03/27/2018 08:18 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Uh…?

[03/27/2018 08:21 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
sorry
im back now
ignore those last few texts

[03/27/2018 08:22 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
LOL!
You’re pretty clever!
I like how you changed your writing style to be the “host.”

[03/27/2018 08:23 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes
it was a joke
so r we on for friday
?

[03/27/2018 08:25 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah. You’ve certainly got me intrigued.
Which theater do you want to meet at?

[03/27/2018 08:26 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
can we meet at the 1 on franklin ave
?

[03/27/2018 08:27 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah, but that one’s kind of far for me. Can you do the one on Pine?

[03/27/2018 08:28 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
ok
theres a showing at 850
will that work
?

[03/27/2018 08:30 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Is that IMAX?

[03/27/2018 08:32 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
no
thats regular

[03/27/2018 08:34 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Can we see it in IMAX? :-D
Please?

[03/27/2018 08:35 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
i guess
if im paying for imax u better kiss me at the end of the night
so i can implant you with my offspring

[03/27/2018 08:37 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
You nearly broke character there!
As for your concern: OK :-)
You’re nice, but also a little feisty. I like that!

[03/27/2018 08:38 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thx
the imax showing on friday is at 1010

[03/27/2018 08:40 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Great! I can’t wait!

[03/27/2018 08:41 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
great
ill meet u at the theater on pine on friday about 20 before showtime
remember u owe me a kiss

[03/27/2018 08:43 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
If you treat me right, who knows what can happen. ;-)

Above is a transcript of the conversation leading up to the nearly complete annihilation of mankind. After years of research, the parasite outbreak was tracked back to the case above, though it is still unknown how Douglas Scott first became infected. Contrary to what was previously thought, the first victim, Karen Thomas, made initial contact with the parasite, through a dating website.

Emotional Words

“Are we ever going to get serious?” she asked abruptly.

“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”

“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.

“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”

“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.

“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”

“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”

“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”

“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.

“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”

“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”

“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”

“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.

“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”

He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”

She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”

In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.

“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”

“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”

“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”

“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”

“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”

“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”

She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

~~~

The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.

He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.

The First Day

Billy walked to the back of the bus and sat down in an empty seat. He was excited for his first day at his new school, but he didn’t know what to expect. He held his backpack close his chest and looked out the window as satellites flew past. After another stop, a girl got on and sat down next to him.

“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be new. I’m Melissa, but I go by ‘Issa’ for short. What’s your name?”

“Billy,” Billy said nervously.

“Well, Billy,” Issa said, “welcome. Is this your first time to space-school?”

“Yeah,” Billy said, feeling a little embarrassed to be so new. “My family just moved here. My mom’s an astronaut.”

Issa nodded. “Yeah, most of the space-kids here have space-parents that are astronauts. My dad’s a space-engineer and my mom’s in the space-navy.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘space’ in front of other words?” Billy asked.

“It’s just way we talk up here in space,” Issa said matter-of-factly. “You just add ‘space’ to most common, concrete nouns.”

“Huh?” Billy asked, confused.

“You know what nouns are, right?” Issa asked.

“Um, I don’t remember,” Billy said, embarrassed.

“That’s fine,” Issa said, “I didn’t know what they were when I first moved here. Nouns are words that are the names of people, places, things, or ideas.”

“Oh yeah!” Billy said, recognition spreading across his face. “I remember learning that in school back on Earth. So, should I be called Space Billy?”

“No,” Issa said, “we don’t add ‘space’ to proper nouns.”

“What makes a noun proper?” Billy asked.

“Basically,” Issa said, “proper nouns that are the names of someone or something specific. So, you’d call yourself a space-boy, but not Space Billy. Does that make sense?”

Billy thought for a moment. “So, we go to a space-school, which is a common noun, and its name is Yuri Gagarin Elementary School, which a proper noun. Is that right?”

Issa nodded. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

“Don’t you mean I’m getting the ‘space-hang’ of it?” Billy asked, grinning.

Issa shook her head. “No, ‘hang’ is a verb.”

“Verb?” asked Billy, his grin fading.

“Yeah,” Issa replied, “verbs are action words. So like “walk,” “talk,” read,” “write,” “play,” “eat.” If you can do it, it’s a verb.”

This is a lot to keep track of, Billy thought. “I think I’ve got it. I don’t space-play with a ball, I play with a space-ball.”

“Right,” Issa said.

“If I wanted to add to it,” Billy said, “I’d say ‘I threw the space-red space-ball to my space-friend.”

“Almost,” Issa said. “You added an extra ‘space’ that time. “‘Red’ is an adjective.”

“Good grief!” Billy said, channeling his inner-Charlie Brown. “What are adjuctives?”

“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Issa said while subtly rolling her eyes. “Adjectives are just words that describe nouns, like colors, smells, and other stuff.”

Billy twisted his face in concentration. “So,” he said, “We’re space kids, sitting in a yellow space-bus, on our way to space-school. I’ve got two space-pencils: a green one and a blue one. I’ll use them to write my name on my space-homework. Did I add any extra ‘spaces’ that time?”

“Nope!” Issa said, smiling. “You’re doing great.”

“I think I’ve got the hang of this,” Billy said. “This is space-fun!”

“Oops,” Issa said. “That one was extra.”

“Why?” Billy asked, confused. “Isn’t ‘fun’ a noun?”

“Sure it is,” Issa replied, “but it’s not concrete.”

“Of course it’s not cement,” Billy said, a little annoyed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Issa said. “Concrete nouns are, like, solid things, you know? Something you can touch. ‘Fun’ is just an idea. Does that make sense?”

Billy furrowed his brow. “This isn’t as easy as I thought.”

“It takes some practice,” Issa said, “but you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember that you only add ‘space’ to common, concrete nouns.”

“So,” Billy said, giving it one more try, “I sleep on a space-bed, but I don’t have space-dreams, just regular dreams. We’re riding on a space-bus having a conversation, not a space-conversation. Right?”

“You picked that up quick,” Issa said. “Most space-kids are still figuring out lingo for the whole week, but you got it figured out before space-school even started. Not bad!”

“How long did it take you to learn it?” Billy asked as the bus pulled to a stop in the loading bay of Yuri Gagarin Elementary School.

“No time at all,” Issa said, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she stood up. “I was the one who invented it.”

Billy’s mouth dropped open as Issa walked towards the door and stepped off the bus.

Family Values

Jeremy never liked having to confront people about complaints he received, but with so many anonymous submissions, he felt obligated to follow up. He rang the bell and waited, looking straight ahead at the door in front of him. After less than a minute of waiting, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged looking woman with hair past her waist. She smiled warmly.

"Hello," she said cheerfully. "Can I help you?"

"Hello," Jeremy replied. "I'm Jeremy Evans. I'm with Child Protective Services and I'm looking for the parents of Grover Wright."

"Oh my," the woman said, suddenly looking very concerned. "I'm Grover's mother, Verona. What's this all about?"

"We've received numerous complaints about about Grover's treatment," Jeremy said, perhaps a little too cold and business-like. "I'm here to verify the validity of those complaints."

Verona was taken aback. "I can assure you that Grover's father and I are trying to raise Grover the best that we can. Who registered the complaints?"

"All of the complaints were anonymous," Jeremy said, "but even if they weren't, I'm not allowed to tell you. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?"

"Of course not," Verona said without hesitation. "We have nothing to hide. I'm sure that once we've talked you'll see that these complaints are completely unfounded." She opened the door and showed Jeremy inside. Once they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, Jeremy reviewed the paperwork attached to his clipboard.

"Now," Jeremy said, "one complaint we've received multiple times is that Grover is not bathed regularly. How often does he receive a bath?"

"That's up to him," Verona said, matter-of-factly. "Grover's father and I do our best to not have him influenced by outside sources, whether from us or from society as a whole. We want him to find his own way in the world."

Jeremy looked dumbfounded. "What? He's five years old. If you let him decide how to run his life, he'd never eat anything but candy."

"Not at all," Verona said. "Grover certainly enjoys candy, but he also loves eating fresh produce from our garden. He constantly helps in the garden and we can tell that he has a sense of pride from eating the literal fruits of his labors."

"Okay," Jeremy said, trying to get the conversation back on track, "but that still doesn't answer the question of how often Grover is bathed."

Verona thought for a moment before replying. "Oh, about once a week or so. Grover does enjoy bathtime, but he has so many other pursuits that he doesn't always get to it."

Jeremy made a note on one of the forms attached to his clipboard. "At his age, once a week is adequate. We've also received some complaints about him using foul language to other children in the neighborhood."

"Oh," Verona said, looking mildly embarrassed. "My husband is fan of the filmmaker Quentin Tarantino and he has watched many of his films with Grover. I suspect that he was just quoting a line from one of them."

"Those movies have hard R ratings," Jeremy said; "they're not appropriate for children."

"If you review the MPAA ratings system," Verona replied a little smugly, "you'll find that R ratings are for no child younger than 17 unless accompanied by a parent. I'll admit that I don't care for those films, but Grover enjoys watching them with his father, who is always present."

Giving up on that complaint, Jeremy reviewed his paperwork to find another topic. "We've received numerous complaints that Grover is often seen outside naked, sometimes relieving himself. Does that happen?"

"Absolutely," Verona replied without hesitation. "Although, we only allow him to do so in the backyard, which is surrounded by a wooden fence, so if people are watching it happen, I believe that makes peeping toms."

"Is Grover toilet-trained?" Jeremy asked, no longer surprised by what the woman across from him was saying.

"Mostly. He still has accidents from time to time, but he's getting there."

"If he's toilet-trained," Jeremy said, "why do you allow him to relieve himself outside? That will only make it harder for him to learn to use the bathroom."

Up until this point, Verona had been nothing but friendly and cheerful. Now, however, she suddenly became very serious and a little annoyed. "My parents raised me to be Christian, just like them. I was only a child, so I was very impressionable. They took me to church every week and regularly forced me and my siblings to read from the Bible. It wasn't until I was in college when I learned that all religion is a sham meant to control the masses.

"I don't want Grover to go through the same thing I did. I refuse to force him to have the same values that I have, even if that means that he decides to become religious. Honestly, the very idea of him going to mass or what-have-you makes me nauseated, but I would still support him if that's what he wants. That means that I let him make his own decisions. If he wants to run around outside while naked, who does that harm?"

Jeremy nodded, finally understanding. "Look, I get it. You want him to be his own person."

"Yes!" Verona responded, her cheerful enthusiasm having returned.

"But," Jeremy continued, "he's still only five years old. You have to teach to do things to do things that are good for him, even if it's not what he likes. You may be mad at your parents for 'forcing' their values on you, but how will Grover feel when he goes off to college and can't sit through an entire class because he doesn't know how to hold his bladder? Or how will he find a job when he shows up to an interview in desperate need of a shower? I know you think these things will take care of themselves, but they won't. I've seen kids living in squalor because they don't know any better. I can tell your heart's in the right place, so I won't take any action today. But I need you to make some serious changes to how Grover is being cared for."

Verona protested, saying that forcing her to act as a dictator to her son was fascist, but she ultimately acquiesced. Jeremy left with an appointment to return to check on things in a month. He was showing leniency, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid, Grover. His parents were so afraid of encroaching on his development that they were actually hindering it. Thankfully, Grover was still young enough that his parents' misguided approach to parenting probably hadn't done any permanent damage.

With that taken care of, he got in his car and drove to his next appointment.

Humilia

INT. OF AN APARTMENT. A man in his mid-twenties is primping in front of a mirror in a bathroom. He’s wearing artificially distressed jeans and an Ed Hardy t-shirt beneath an unbuttoned dress shirt with the collar “popped.” He sprays himself with an excessive amount of body spray before putting on a trilby (a short-brimmed fedora).

MAN: [pointing to himself in the mirror with both hands] Look out, ladies: the man of your dreams is coming for you!

The shot becomes a freeze-frame and becomes black and white. We hear the man from earlier speaking in voice over.

MAN: [VO only] Does this look familiar to you? Perhaps this reminds you of yourself or someone you know.

CUT to the man from earlier in front of a blank, white background. He is now dressed in a solid-colored sweater and khaki pants.

MAN: That was me three months ago. Pretty obnoxious, right? It turns out, I didn’t have any shame.

CUT to an animation of a human brain as the man continues speaking. The animation portrays what the man is describing.

MAN: [VO only] Shame is produced when the chemical mediocris ignominiam is released by the amygdala. Unfortunately, some people don’t produce enough shame and often become, like, just the worst. Thankfully, Humilia can help. Humilia increases the production of shame to normal levels.

CUT to a montage of the man interacting with people in various situations in an amiable way: talking to friends in a restaurant, walking a dog while accompanying a woman, turning his phone off while waiting for a movie to start, etc. During the montage, a female announcer is heard.

ANNOUNCER [VO only]: Humilia is for those who struggle with feeling adequate levels of shame in their life. Most users reported feeling ashamed of their past decisions in as little two weeks. Side effects include being polite to members of the opposite sex, feeling uncomfortable when hearing racist jokes, having better taste in movies and TV shows, no longer bragging about your honestly unimpressive bench press max, seizures, and death. Humilia is not for children or foreigners.

CUT to the man in a bar.

MAN: [to camera] With Humilia, I can actually interact with people like a normal, healthy human being. [To a woman sitting at bar] Hi, I’m Chad. What’s your name?

CUT to a splashy Humilia logo. The chemical name of Humilia, desinas irrumator, should appear in parentheses.

ANNOUNCER: [VO only] Ask your doctor if Humilia is right for you.

END