Access denied.
Access denied.
Access denied.
*
"When I fall in love, it will be completely."
"I would die for you...Beg and steal for you...Yeah,
I'd fall for you."
"If you fall, I will catch you I'll be waiting"
"And I will always love you..."
"Love, love me do. You know I love you. So please,
plea-ea-eease-"
"I wonder wonder wonder wonder who-"
(on the drive over, she used the CD's he'd burned her)
*
He had been the doll Poppa. And now she couldn't
possibly understand.
All the growly noises fetish file
1006mblu7<>lpZ3q.htf
Grr-upp.
Mmmmschurplsjoeiouocxxxliwkie##%*#%!!%$#sfeb
Larrschbruachshitklmelamphi^^^!!lsie.
Hawkins, 300.
Asimov and Fowles, 124 MB.
She'd quote Emerson and Thoreau on demand.
Say "Mmm, lick my boot, you nasty boy" in Swedish and
Polish, German, Norwegian and Dutch.
Requisite whip lashing out on cue.
With smile. Service always dished out with the smile.
And she'd meant it.
It was almost their one-year, too.
*
Blue lights. Blue lights flashing. Uh-oh. Silver-blue
lights. Flare of electricity near what could be
visually described from an outside source as the
region of the temples.
Surge?
Charge. Overextending-
*
Form unto the void that Warren's selfish, lonesome
vacuum had been, a social anti-magnet borne of
self-disgust, low self-esteem, gross perversion, and
plain unlikability.
Mixed, of course, with the inflated sense of
self-importance, the desire to play at God when
wagging his own dog wasn't cutting it, too much time
on his own two hands doncha know, and much, much
better, don't you think, than making bombs?
Then came her. April, breath of love and life and,
suddenly, sex- yes, perfect girlfriend. Who kow-towed
and obeyed and smiled happily to exist for him.
No matter that it was circuitry and-- really, truly,
pun not intended-- silicon, all wires and synapses,
electrical impulses... because really isn't that the
human brain anyhow?
*
Knock-knock. "Who's there?"
"It's April; I'm looking for Warren?"
Knock-knock. "Who's there?"
(bright *smile*) "Is Warren here?"
Repeat pattern 147 times.
*
Ideal. He'd poured out his own bits and pieces in that
ever-elusive search for self-optimization. The tip of
the self-actualization pyramid.
Pillars of character and integrity, even, added to the
broth like so much hope and needy desire, like so many
bulbs of tiny pearl-onions, carrots and chunks of beef
(or rawhide leather?? flavored condoms? -not that
they'd needed it...)
*
Two little girls sitting idly on the swings. Excepting
that one of them, in a pretty, fuschia floral dress,
is hanging limply as though...her batteries had just
ran out. Its. It.
Two little girls sitting idly on the swings.
Excepting, of course, that these are no two ordinary
little girls. And one of them was dead. Well, in the
sense that anything cognitive had ceased to become an
issue. Dead in the sense that sentience had now
departed from the slight, girlish frame (excepting, of
course, the bosom) --possibly forever-- and that the
femme/robot-sex moppett known as April had thus left
the earthly plane of existence for good.
The other, well, the other was taking a break from
worrying about her mother and her newly blood-bonded
sister, taking a break from any close and foreseeable
apocalypses to revel in the all-too-human self-pity
that comes from being ditched twice by "a couple of
good ones" in sweet succession.
But that's a whole other ballgame. Or is it? Two
little girls, sittin' out on a ballgame, still waiting
to know who wrote the Book of Love.
Excepting that one was dead.
*
He was stuffing the sports bag with a blue sweater,
and a couple of rolled up socks. Wondering, stiffling
the tingly edges of panic. Musing.
How the flow of battery juices should have ceased by
now. She just kept going, and going, and going.
Irritated, because Katrina had begun to rave about
said "sudden change in plans." Truth be told, he'd get
it threefold from his mother in a few. Great. Just
great.
It just didn't make sense. When and how and where and
why had she found him out?
Well, he knew Why. But When and Where and How?
Orange sweater, two undershirts. Five pairs of briefs.
Bit back the annoyance. And concern, plus anxiety.
"Honey, look, Kat- like I said it's only gonna be..."
*
Warren, honey, she's asleep. I think I broke her. But
it couldn't matter, because I'm your girlfriend and
she lied.
*
Unbelievable, really, that this machine-- this
robot-girl, mere plaything with synthetic hair and
athletic *looking*thighs, eye-candy boobies- would
hang on for dear, continued artificial-intelligence
existence.
Rage, in her own doll-machine way, against the dying
of the light. For the darkest hour comes, indeed,
before the dawn. And maybe she'll find her chips-mate
other-half in that big junkyard-haven in the sky. For
the Pentium heart that did beat. Or maybe absence of
the being is reprieve enough.
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