I picked her up, literally, at five in the morning. We had some gasoline, went to the future to see a movie (an awesome and totally not self-righteous film about AIDS starring Bono and Sean Penn), and ate at NYU’s library. It was great, it was ideal, it was love. I asked her to take me over to the office she worked at–Lehman Brothers–a financial services company that started by taking advantage of slavery in the 1800’s. I was giddy with anticipation, so much so that I began leaking oil on the subway car. It mixed with all of the human urine to form a puddle of waste near an old man pretending he could read in the corner.
"That newspaper’s upside down old man," I shouted, but he couldn’t hear me over his churning empty stomach and the sound of Tet Offensive explosions no doubt ringing in his ear. They never stop, do they old man?
Soon we were inside Lehman Brothers. Can you imagine a nine-foot gold-plated robot on a date with a fax machine standing in the middle of an office? It’s almost as if I’m making this up. The office was alive with energy. Humans buzzed in anticipatory anguish. What would the stock market do next? What wouldn’t it do? Numbers flew around the room–sevens, fives, even a nine. Robot slaves vibrated and beeped in compliance. It was an erotic scene of purposeful movement. A cacophony of currency.
“Kerplomsk, Kerplomsk,” he shouted.
He took his fist–a grip hardened from a decade of desperate masturbation–and smashed it into his Dell computer monitor.
“Dude, you’re hitting a Dell,” I yelled, but my archaic attempt at pop-culture cool was lost on everyone.
He stomped over to the cubicle next to him, grabbed a co-worker by the ears, and ripped her head off. Blood shot toward the ceiling like the Yellowstone geysers.
“Kerplomsk,” he screamed.
He crushed every bit of technology in his path, Blackberries, Blueberries, Printers, Copy Machines, iPods®, yes even the new iShuffle®, as he stormed his way straight to his boss’s office, where he smashed through the glass wall, not unlike a giant gerbil. A giant gerbil I say.
“Kerplomsk!”
His boss and the first-year associate fellating him under his desk were startled as the young man flipped over a filing cabinet. Information went everywhere, but no one cared–it was all being stored on computers. And then, much to my delight, he continued his rampage. He took a Mont Blanc pen from his pocket and jammed it into his boss’s neck. But blood did not spill, no, gold coins poured from his boss’s leathery skin instead.
“Kerplomsk!”
Was this a scream of glory, of frustration, or a hot new tip on a Biotech?
Just as I thought the young man’s head would explode, he stopped–as if some control room man flipped a switch in his brain–and he went back to his desk, sat down, and resumed working. The craziest thing was, no one reacted. These humans are truly crazy. Indeed. Elizabeth explained that in the human business world, people are constantly ripping each other’s heads off and stabbing one another with Mont Blanc pens. It’s commonplace, silly! I told Elizabeth I was getting tired, and left her wide ass on the tenth floor. Never again will I date a Wall Streeter.
SSL (Sorry So Long) BRFFAOT (Best Robot Friends Forever, Apart or Together)
Love,
QX7
