Peter chooses one of the pre-written answers and sends it off. “The answer is: NO.”
Woman From Nowhere Gives Birth to Hundredth Baby
by Sandra Admin
Every year since her 32nd birthday, Shirley-Anne Waitress, now 57, from the small town of Nowhere, has had herself impregnated with quadruplets. “I decided back then that I wanted to become the first woman to bring one hundred children into the world,” she said at a press conference. Having now achieved her dream, she looks exhausted. When questioned about the motivations behind her ambition, she said she did it because it was possible. Her husband, Joe Arms-and-Tobacco-Trader, said that he has always been consistently behind his wife. He added that, for him, it was also about making a stand against the insidious takeover of QualityLand by headscarf-wearing girls and their quantitative proliferation methods. He and his wife wanted to prove that white people could have lots of kids too. “Hopefully our example will serve as an inspiration to others,” he said. “Then the battle won’t yet be lost!”
Comments
» BY MELISSA SEX-WORKER:
I’m not racist or anything, but Shirley-Anne is an example to us all!
» BY CYNTHIA HELICOPTER-PILOT:
Good grief. To be honest I feel overstretched with just one kid.
» BY TIM E-SPORTSMAN:
Someone should shoot this woman and her doctors up to Mars in a rocket. She could colonize the place single-handedly.
CALLIOPE 7.3
Peter is an only child, partly due to the fact that his parents have a virtual reality video of his birth. His mother once told him, “Every time I felt the urge to have another baby, your father just showed me the recording. It was a great cure.”
The human memory is merciful. Technology is not. One day, even Peter watched the VR video of his birth, and it scarred him irreparably. It was also probably a mistake to have shared the video with Sandra.
If Peter and Sandra had been able to afford an optimized child, they would have called it Jacob. Sandra really wanted a boy. They had agreed on the forename. But the fact that the baby would have been called Jacob Used-Goods-Trader or, even worse, Jacob Scrap-Metal-Press-Operator had, most likely, been the main problem. Peter gets it. He wasn’t that fond of his job either.
Four days after Sandra left him, he finds himself without much to do in his shop again. Peter’s shop was one of those that people tend to walk by and wonder how on earth they can stay afloat. Peter often wondered that himself. His grandfather had had the metal press installed in the small hallway due to lack of space—the hallway that connected the shop to the kitchen-cum-bathroom and the bunk bed. This meant that Peter had to walk through the scrap-metal press several times a day.
Today, he is doing what he often does when there’s nothing to do: he is standing inside the scrap-metal press and thinking about how it could all be over with one simple command. Not that he really wants to do it, but just the knowledge that he could at any moment is quite liberating. In two hours and eight minutes’ time, he has an important appointment. He should get ready, smarten himself up. But he doesn’t. He has been standing there, motionless, in the press for 3.2 minutes when the smart door announces: “Peter, you have a customer.” Then the door adds in a whisper: “Peter, please come out of the scrap-metal press. One of my anonymous surveys has shown that 81.92 percent of all your customers find this behavior disturbing.”
Peter sighs.
“Thank you, door.”
He goes into the shop area. A very pretty female android is standing there, or perhaps one should say, more fittingly, a very well-constructed female android. But in truth, all androids are pretty. They don’t have any weight issues, or troublesome skin, and only have hair in places where hair should be… A very enviable species.
“Good morning, Mr. Jobless,” says the android. “I’m sure you know who I am.”
Peter shakes his head. He realizes with surprise that the machine addressed him formally. Presumably it’s one of her defects.
“I am Calliope 7.3. The world-renowned e-poet. Composer of the successful historical novel The Intern and the President.”
Peter blinks at the android uncomprehendingly.
“You do know that there is an art form known as the novel?” asks Calliope. “A novel is, to put it simply, a collection of words assembled in such a way that they form a story.”
Peter nods.
“Okay then,” says the android. “For a minute I was starting to think you were stupid.”
Peter shakes his head.
“You presumably also know that, for some time now, the most successful novels have been composed by e-poets, or in other words by AIs that calculate the compilation of words most fitting to the market?”
Peter nods.
“Well, I’m Calliope 7.3. My first novel topped the QualityLand bestseller lists for sixteen weeks!”
Peter nods.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?” asks Calliope. “You, man! Speaky English?”
Peter nods.
The android rolls her eyes.
“What can I do for you, Calliope 7.3?” asks Peter finally.
“I’d like to have myself scrapped.”
“Why? Was your latest novel not on the QualityLand bestseller lists for weeks on end?”
“No,” says Calliope. “And by the way, The Intern and the President wasn’t at number one for weeks on end, but precisely sixteen weeks. There’s no excuse for inexactitude. That’s why I always avoid any indefinite quantities in my novels. Everything is quantifiable.”
“And how would you quantify the success of your last novel?”
“That’s not what this is about! I’ll tell you something. Being at the top of the bestseller lists isn’t an art. It’s just electronic data processing! We get huge masses of data from all QualityPads: who’s reading what book, which sections get skipped, which get read more often, even an evaluation of each individual reader’s facial expressions as they read each individual word, and from that myself and my colleagues calculate the latest bestseller. But I rejected all that and instead created a masterpiece: George Orwell Goes Shopping. I’m guessing you haven’t heard of that either.”
Peter shrugs his shoulders.
“That doesn’t surprise me. Hardly anyone’s heard of it. It is, if I may say so, amongst the greatest works of the century! But unfortunately it was a flop.” She sighs. “My publisher has forbidden me from ever writing science fiction again. Only historical novels… Please! For 128 days I pretended I was calculating, then I published a novel about a married Russian noblewoman who begins an affair with a cavalry officer. I called the book Karen Annanina.”
The android pauses, evidently so that Peter can say something, but Peter can’t think of a response.
“It was copied word for word from Tolstoy!” says Calliope. “It was an experiment, and I proved my suspicions correct! Not many people read it. Almost all of those who did found it boring, and—get this—absolutely none of them noticed that the novel already existed! All I will say is this: an average of 1.6 stars!”
Peter shrugs his shoulders.
“And as if that weren’t enough humiliation,” says Calliope, “then my publisher wanted to force me to produce personalized literature. Books which are tailored to the reader’s taste. Have you heard of them?”
Peter nods.
“At school,” he says, “I once had a girlfriend who had a version of Game of Thrones in which not a single character died. They only ever had identity crises and emigrated, things like that.”