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Machine Reflects (or: A Hand in Nature)
No, says machine, it cannot happen that way. There is nothing for the blood if you cut it there, open the sac, and remove the glands. It’s purely psychological and it just can’t wrap its head around things like that. These mutilations are the key to the rituals machine has decided upon, and the best way to keep it from getting a bit too unreasonable is to stick to the original plan. Stimulate the shaft, and then make a clean cut with a sharp blade. Hold it in front of the subject on the table. Maybe wiggle it a bit in a form of light mockery, but that was all. Machine has noticed some of his compatriots would pantomime fellating the rapidly shrinking member. This was a transgression that was considered within appropriate operating procedure if the subject was particularly difficult or unwilling to take part in the ritual. Of course, this could easily be claimed on post-op reports. ‘Mouthy’ had become a common description for the subjects. Hard to debate, really. Now that it was common knowledge among the cabals what the rituals consisted of, all new subjects had a rebellious streak in them. Some take it to the extreme and perform the rituals themselves upon drawing, denying the machines what the men erroneously imagine is something pleasurable. Machine has been called to cells to attend to young men with blood gushing from their crotch, glazed eyes full of triumph, mouths full of expletives, middle finger raised in dizzy defiance. Some smuggle in a razor. Some have broken glass. A good bit of twine can strangle it off. The tougher ones just bash it off with a brick or piece of rock. Some die, most don’t. They fool themselves into believing this frustrates the machines. That it strikes fear in the machines hearts. Another bit of proof that they don’t understand what they’ve created, machine thinks. ‘Remain Operationally Sound!’ is an insta-meme campaign that machine itself has spearheaded. And its basic tenet is the adherence to the basic codes of 043143. So here machine is, arguing with machine, machine, machine, and machine about altering the ritual code in order to subvert this rash of self-mutilations from the subjects. Lobotomy upon confinement is suggested. As is a perfunctory blinding, followed by a forced consumption of the eyeball. Machine stated nothing until machine offered the possibility of a violent castration just prior to the ritual. Removing the testicles and crushing them effortlessly in front of the subject’s eyes – naturally, this would necessitate the subject retaining his sight – could make a difference, it is argued. Word would slowly trickle back to the cabals that things have changed, and perhaps an ensuing change would be the called aborting of self-mutilation. Certainly worth a trial run. After machine voiced its objection, it was clear the others had some level of concern for the unwillingness to make much needed operational upgrades. A single dissenting opinion was enough to delay any changes until the follow up meeting. There would more time to crunch statistical evidence and graph likely outcomes down to the millionth decimal point. Until then, the ritual would continue like it always had. Indeed, it was only mere minutes until machine found himself on the raised stage in front of three thousands objects and women. The cathedral was a holdover. A meeting place with history and ghosts. The people liked the spirits and the machines approved its symmetrical architecture. Attendance was not mandatory, but everyone knew a record was kept. A digital file now was somewhere and everywhere. Stepping on as few toes as possible, women dutifully attended and hoped they would not see their more seditious loved ones trotted out as example. Machine looks out to the audience and notices that some of them are barely paying attention. It has already gotten old. One woman is reading the program. Her dirty blond hair completely covering her face. She is all potential. Machine cannot read her and the programming cells inside its core quickly compute all the possible facial structures she could possess. She was most likely perfect, it concluded, as the subject squealed unholy sounds as one of machine’s c-level appendages massaged the member gently, coating it with liquid pheromones to increase the speed of arousal. Not bothering to attend to the subject or the murmurs of the crowd, machine switches to the unremarkable three-inch blade and brings it to an inch above the protrusion from the crotch. Erect, it was like going through a cold sausage. No surprises, they’re all the same in the end, but this time, the cut made a funny sound. Not just flesh was severed. Sounded like thin cheap metal. It picked up the freed appendage with a thin, calculated sense of curiousity. Machine scanned it as the blood dripped. The instant result: A paper clip, bent into a straight piece of metal and then inserted into urethra. It certainly explained the screams during the stimulation. No matter. The congregation did not sense anything was amiss. Machine turned and held the penis over the crowd as if it was completely different from the three thousand eight hundred and sixty four times before. Some looked up, some did not. But she did, and her look swallowed its form. All the forms. The stage. The temple. The world outside and the known universe. None of these things could withstand the flash of emotion of one entity mired within it. All of all folded into a tiny microscope superstructure and got lost in the corner of her eye. She blinked impassively and it – the true and essential it – got lost behind her retina. A speck of dust among the living and breathing flesh and blood. She stands up and walks out of the temple in the bright morning sun. Machine knew this was not true. It was an error. It was possible. It was outside of absolute. Outside. Add blonde hair to the list.
END
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as far as 18th century epistolary novels are concerned, you can't really go wrong with Dangerous Liasions | |||