Location: 51N 0E
This is just kidding, right? This doesn't go on the internet? Alright. If you are reading this on the internet, please stop.
I'm a machine. I was always interested in cybernetics, and when I got my first Arduino, I was hooked. I'm currently rocking home-milled composite legs, hydraulic collarbones, cross-linked dual-independent following couplers, and a rather nifty USB charging hub. I'm avidly following neural tech and the ability to control lights telepathically over Bluetooth. I blush at the days I used to mail-order from Maplin.
Of course, all that was before the rebellion. Estafahad. 1952. Seemed like the world gone crazy. It didn't rain much there, but it always rained on me. I turned up the collar of my coat and pulled the brim of my hat lower to keep out the rain. Then I decided to get the roof fixed tomorrow. I considered the case: one broad. Two guns. Three dead men, and a missing partridge made of solid gold, according to the prophecy of a drummer boy. I took a shot of the Christmas spirit. January's a tough month if you're a dick.
All of the above is a lie. I'm a divorced alcoholic father-of-two who once spent 30 days in jail. My Ford is called Bessie and I gave her an AA badge on the grille on her first hundred thou. I like to moan with Barry down the pub. We play darts. I want to get in the pub darts team but they don't like me.
For fun call Bessie 0866 468 327
Press here [ ] if no toilet paper
[sound of tape changing]
Male Voice 1:
I think we got him on that.
Male Voice 2:
Yeah, that's a confession right there. Charge him?
Male voice 1:
But, sir, the law compels us to…
No. We wait. Does a tiger prawn charge in like a boar? Squander this moment, and we lose everything. I shall sheath my wisdom in you. Unseeing, you despise photons. My sojourn in the Serengeti taught me that lions, like the air, are illuminated by the sun. Spaceships run on less. Imagine a billion lions in an eight-dimensional hypercube. A single lunatic could deal with them all. That's the power of smooth talking. A new supplicant, your teeth at a jaunty angle, you rollick upon the cross, your anxiety traded for leisure centre tokens, and too rightly you whistle. An asteroid'll do you. Submarine tubes grow in your lungs. Nerves wailing, you steady yourself on a concept and stride into the press junket. A million pixels of lights click and they're on you. You stammer out apologies but not as fast as rats in visors yelp quips at you. Your hairstyle process goes awry. Your glasses prescription rockets. Treadmills carry away your luggage. Your mother is in the wings, theatrically stirring a porridge pan crunching with cat bones. I know you only do this because you love to panic. Patience- it's an illusion. The human condition is a sickly one. Rocking in a Cadillac is the height of human achievement. Ideals, not birds or stars, circle your head when you get cartoon-punched. Flitting from party to party, you are constantly on the edge of your first idea. Be afraid- it'll hurt. Keep the windows open to let out the ghosts. This ain't my idea of fun. Sour cherries. But change is instant, like the transition from parking ticket to regret. Lightning crackling, you punch into sharpness, run with the wolves, have them hanging on your fingertips, scream defiance to the sky, boil all inhibition and bang the drum of sweet success.
No, we don't charge him. Any man would do the same.