Greedier in the Feed Machine

Being written, over a measured period. May 14 - May 31 (2012)

And clearly wasn't. Now being written over some other...measures. Antecedent is here.

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When the snake first heard this ruffling, sort of  papery sound, it had thought, "Oh there goes another mouse." It just snuck its head back to its important work (the underbelly), and ignored said rodent.

Some snakes like to crawl very carefully, so it is important to them the disposition of their bellies, cute as that disposition might be. They move slowly, slowly feeling the earth upon which they are moving, hearing the sounds of the forest or jungle. They have a favourite tree or two that they like to sit next to, and they know when or where any big storms will come.

This is a survival mechanic. Once you don't know the position of the big storms, you're pretty much dead. Not much sympathy. There are other snakes, little tiny thin and green ones that can just dart around, biting your face, but we are talking about a huge snake here. Massive in both mass and size.

This snake can afford to let little mice go.

But it wasn't a mouse that had ruffled its feathers (Yes, feathers), was it? Wasn't a little whiskered and whiskeyed furry little brown fellow poking and sniffing where he shouldn't, running its life away in pure nervousness. It didn't have that vibration, that mischief--that je sais quoi, mais...

No, this time it was a chick. It was tapping away, over its skin. The snake slowly uncurled its head. Not that this was a cobra, oh no. No embarrassing flaps. Just the size of the whole snake meant that it had to wait, reposition, wait, reposition, etc. etc.

But it finally saw the chick. Yellow, fluffy. There was a duck once, too, similarly yellow, fluffy, but that one turned out to be a huge mistake. The type of snake we are talking about cannot afford to make two mistakes. So, the snake watched the chick for a long, long time, as it pecked and twittered around.

.

Tweed was having a very hard time explaining to the prostitute why he couldn't bring himself to be fellated by her, when she mentioned something that gave him pause. She had said, "Well then, let me slip into something a little..." and her voice had trailed off (for him), just like that.

She could see that he was suddenly under a lot of stress. "How long have you been living like this?" asked Berlyn.

"Oh," said Tweed, rubbing thumbs together, "it's been about two years."

"You must have family," she tried. "Friends?"

But Tweed only shot straight out of the room, down the stairs and over the turnstile at the station entrance. She was a little pissed off, honestly, as she watched his receding performance from her window, but when she finally turned away and saw what he had left for her, she realized that in fact, Tweed was just a very kind man, who maybe didn't fully know how to take a rest, or relax.

Tweed, already miles away, carefully considered his visage on on the cheap plastic of the train seat. It hadn't just been two years. For him, it had been thousands of years. That is what happens when someone you considered a good friend starts slipping in and out of people. They had called Williams a psychopath, but Tweed wasn't sure.

He hadn't exactly killed anyone yet.

Feeder in the Greed Machine: 4) Can One Be Kind?

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a short science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 4. The conclusion. Click here for Part 1, Part 2, or Part 3.
----

He undid the door, and, as expected, was greeted with a good pair of eyes.

"Hello Tweed," said Williams.

"Mr Cheeves. You find yourself most familiar," said Tweed, standing up.

"It's me, Tweed, you can sit down again," said Williams, sitting down and stretching his thigh over the sofa's arm.

"You're a bastard, Williams."

Williams kicked the small device across Tweed's carpet. "You can do it too."

"No," said Tweed, curtly.

"Come on."

"What is it like?" asked Tweed.

Williams rubbed his forehead. "Well, to be honest, I was really worried at first."

"Yeah? I suppose one would be."

"I was not expecting multiplicity issues."

"But what is it like? When you ... split?"

"I don't split," said Williams, grinning. "I just .. ease into people."

"Clones, you mean," said Tweed.

"Yes! They keep making them. It's like ... a never ending machine. Their - greed."

"So you are starting your plan," said Tweed.

"Dont' be so demure. I already left the plans at the Chinese takeout. Full blueprints. A child could build it at shop."

Tweed nodded. "Can we have a little time. Mary and me, I mean? And ... the kids."

"Join me" said Williams.

"No, no."

"You know I can surround you with Cheeveses and make it a non-option," said Williams. He was breathing heavily, staring intently at Tweed.

"I know."

Pause. A longest pause. Ever.

"Very well. I am going to be kind to you, Tweed," said Williams.

Feeder in the Greed Machine: 3) Omnipresence

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a short science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 3. Click here for Part 1, Part 2 or Part 4

----
Williams woke in a quiet, dimly lit room. Wiping his hands over his eyes and face felt strange, somehow uncommon. He seemed to be sitting on a varnished wooden floor, and there were heavy velvet curtains letting only slits of light into the room. He was also wearing strange pants - dress pants, which he never liked to wear. And was he suddenly fatter? How long had he been under? Was this muscle atrophy? Had they been providing the correct nutrition? He looked up from between his knees, and made out two figures in front of him. Judge Horace and Mr. Cheeves, the prosecuting attorney, were staring back at him quietly, their mouths wide open in the dark room.

"My God, perfect," said Cheeves finally.

"It is?" said the Judge. "You think so? Looks to have gained a little ... weight, don't you think?"

"No, Horace, no! Look at the curls around the temple. Perfect!"

Williams rubbed his eyes again, and then sat up on his hands. "What's going on? Where am I?"

"You're in my chambers, my good man," said Horace, leaning forward. He shook his hand in front of Williams' face. "Can you see?" There was some jubilant look of pride or admiration on the Judge's face.

Williams backed away a little. "Yes, yes. I can see. How - how long has it been? Why have you woken me?"

The men looked at each other, and finally the Judge nodded quietly. "We - I mean, you - you weren't exactly ... woken."

"I feel awake," said Williams, sitting up. He opened and closed his fists. "I move, I can feel. I think. This doesn't really seem like a dream."

The judge and prosecutor fell back in their sofa and laughed out loudly together. "No, no, not a dream!" said the Judge.

"No," said Cheeves, leaning forward again. "But you weren't woken, you see. You were," he paused, looking to the Judge one more time. The Judge nodded graciously. "You were cloned."

"What?" said Williams, frowning. He lowered his head, trying to gather his memories.

"There's a machine," said the Judge, pointing to a small black object on the coffee table in front of him. "We cloned you. Right here, in my chambers!"

"I see," said Williams, slowly. "Where, um. Where is the body then?"

The two looked back at him. "Which body, good man?" said Cheeves.

"My body - that you cloned me from?"

Cheeves smiled widely. "Ah. You haven't even seen yourself yet, sir. Here," he said, fumbling in his wallet. He pulled a small mirror out and handed it to Williams.

The clone gazed for a long time into the small rectangle, checking along his face, turning at angles to examine the details. A smile grew very slowly across his face. "It worked!" he yelled finally, standing up. "It actually worked!"

Cheeves stood and came to William's side, taking his shoulder in arm. "Judge Horace ... meet Judge Horace!"

The original Judge Horace, laughing, stood up and came over, embracing himself - or rather, Williams - with glee. "It's amazing," he said, between breaths. "Amazing! You are just like me!"

"Let's do one of me," said Cheeves, grabbing the black device from the table.

Williams broke himself from the Judge's embrace and held onto the prosecutor's shoulder. "Wait! I - why don't we just wait this out for a while, Cheeves?"

"Why ever for, Horace the Second?" he smiled, and the Judge joined him, both men breaking into hearty laughter.

"I just - don't know what the implications of that may be," said Williams.

"Come now," said Cheeves, loosening himself from William's grip. "There's enough for everyone, my dear fellow. Horace has another Horace, why shouldn't I have my complimentary Cheeves?

I mean, let us not be selfish and greedy, eh?"

Feeder In the Greed Machine: 2) The Child Inside

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 2. Click here for Part 1, Part 3 or Part 4

----
When Eric Williams was in kindergarten, the teachers used to let the children play a game. Each child had to exchange one of his or her shoes with the opposite shoe of another child. So for example, if I gave you my left shoe, you would give me your right shoe - now you would have two left shoes, and I would have two right ones. This was, of course, a time before hygiene became a very large concern. So at the end of the exchange, the group would be split - half the children with only right shoes and half with only left shoes. The children would then get in the square of the basketball court, and one of the teachers, standing back, would yell "Everyone, find an other side shoe!" There was promise of a bright red balloon to every child who found a complete pair.

After the second time, Eric Williams and Patty Byrne were never allowed to play again, because of what happened. It all started very pleasantly, the children happily running around and searching for an opposite shoe. The first time they had played, the children had discovered and developed methods and tricks to win the game faster, and the teachers noticed how they started using these methods immediately this time. Some would run in a grid-like pattern, studiously searching other feet for a match - when they reached the end of their grid, they would start again, backward. Others used their voices, calling out, like fish sellers in a market, "I got two left, I got two left", or "Need right shoe, here!" "Wight shoe here, thwee o'cwock!" would come another child's response.

Nevertheless, the overall outcome of the game was turning out quite similarly. The teachers noticed in the initial moments, more pairs would resolve their differences and run out of the square to get their balloon. This made sense - after all, it was easier to find a match when the square was full of other children with incomplete pairs. Then, it became a little slower. This was also to be expected, as fewer children had incomplete pairs to exchange with, and everyone without a balloon had to weave around, running to find matches. But something was wrong this time. After a while, the teachers started peering into the group, a little puzzled. The children should have been resolving faster this time, what with the methods and tricks they had learned from the first game, but it was taking much, much longer. There weren't enough balloons in the crowd.

In the square, Eric finally managed to swap one of his right shoes with a left from Billy Dorkin. But after watching Billy run off to get his prize, Eric remained, walking around. He spotted Erica Channing strolling in front of him with two left shoes, turning her head this way and that in search for a right. He ran up to her, and said, "Here, exchange with me."

Erica squinted at Eric's shoes, then looked back at him. "But why you already have a match. You already won - you should run and get your balloon."

"I can find another pair," said Eric distantly, looking around them.

"But I'm a girl," said Erica. "I'm wearing girls' shoes."

"It's okay, I don't mind. I - um - I just want to help you out. I want -I want us to be friends."

"You want to help me?" said Erica, blushing a little.

"Yeah," smiled Eric. "But hurry. Before the teachers see!"

So Erica quickly slipped out of one of her shoes, and took one from Eric. "Thanks!" she said, blushing again, and ran off out of the square to get her balloon.

After quite some time, causing the teachers no small amount of curious anxiety, the exchange finally seemed to have been completed. Then, from the sea of bouncing red balloons in the square, they heard a low wailing, and ... sad sniffs ... of a girl sobbing. When they then peered into the crowd, the teachers found that two of the children had still not completed their pairs.

One was Patty Byrne, who had come last the previous time also. None of the teachers were surprised - Patty was one of the slower children in class. She seemed to be challenged in almost every way - she was a poor reader, and even Mrs. Dickman, their class teacher, knew there was something wrong with her reasoning abilities - she was thoroughly hopeless at even simple sums. She was ambling about the court with two right shoes. But the other child was Eric Williams! He was running around with two left shoes. Occasionally, he would circle Patty in the crowd, causing her to lunge at him, then run off some distance.

"Eric!" yelled Mrs. Dickman, stepping in. By now, tears were streaming down Patty's face as she tried to chase and grab at him. "Eric, you stop now! Stop and exchange your shoes with Patty! The game is over, and both of you can win." But Eric just kept running to-and-fro, seemingly oblivious. He circled crying Patty again, hopping from one foot to the other, then darted off. This time, as she lunged, Patty tripped on her own foot. She fell flat on the basketball court, and remained there.

Mrs. Dickman strode in, and on her way to fallen Patty, scooped the elusive Eric up with a long hand. She dragged him along, up the court towards the quivering girl, all the while saying, "See what you have done. See what you have done."

.

On the drive home, Eric's mother was also in tears. She seemed very unhappy with him. "Good Lord, what is it that I've done wrong with you? I just don't know!" Eric sat beside her, playing quietly with his Rubik's lunchbox. "Are you listening to me?" she cried, but he didn't say anything, sliding a matching red line horizontally instead. When he did it, he looked up at her, proudly.

"Stop playing with that damn thing and listen to me!" said Mrs. Williams angrily. She snatched the lunchbox from Eric's hand and flung it out of her window.

"Hey!"

"Yes! That's what you get when you don't listen. Why were you bullying that poor Patty Byrne?"

"I wasn't bullying her," said Eric.

"You were teasing her, Eric. You know that you shouldn't. Patty is not like you or the rest of the children. She is - special. She's just a little slow."

"She's not slow, she's just a retard," said Eric, staring into the
air conditioner vent.

His mother covered her mouth. "Where did you learn that word? In any case, she is not - retarded. She is just a little slower. You have to care and -"

"She thinks two plus two is twenty-two! She's stupid."

"Eric Williams!"

"Anyway, I didn't do it to bully her. Why would I care about her at all?"

"Oh?" said Mrs. Williams. "Why did you do it then, young man?"

"I was just trying to make the game longer," said Eric.

She stopped for a second. Then, she asked, "Longer? What do you mean?"

Eric looked up at his mother. "Well, in P.E. we can play games and run around. But when it stops, we all have to go in to Mrs. Dickman's writing class." He turned back and stared into the air-conditioner vent again. "I hate her writing class. She always keeps telling us to write A's and B's and C's over and over again. I know how to write my A's and B's and C's - why do we have to write each one 50 times, over and over again? So I was trying to make the game longer, so that we could all spend more time in P.E. and less time in Mrs. Dickman's class." He paused and breathed deeply. "And that stupid crybaby retard fell on her face and ruined everything."

"Eric! Don't say that word. Heavens me. Well, young man, you will never play that game again."

Eric shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't let Patty fall again," he said putting his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Uh-huh. Learned your lesson have you?" said Mrs. Williams doubtfully.

"Yes," he nodded. "Next time, I would give Patty a matching pair first thing so she wins and gets out of the game, and doesn't end up ruining everything for me."

Mrs Williams shook her head and drove on, tears in her eyes.

Feeder in the Greed Machine: 1) The Sleep

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 1. Click here for Part 2, Part 3 or Part 4
----

1) The Sleep

"Just relax, honey - it's gonna sting a little, but you'll be asleep in no time." Nurse Hutchinson pulled the soak away and drove her needle into Williams' arm. He closed his eyes slowly and a coolness spread out from his elbow to his wrist.

Judge Horace leaned in to whisper at the prosecutor, Mr. Cheeves. They were all waiting for Williams to succumb. "You know, I still don't understand exactly what it is that he did," he grumbled. "All that finicky mumbo-jumbo about bit-sanctity and quantum nonsense."

"He's a psychopath, your Honor," said Cheeves shortly, "he needs to be put to sleep."

"Psychopath?" the Judge said, raising his eyebrows. "But, uh, I don't - I don't recall anything about any murders or violence -"

"Well, no, he hasn't committed any violence, no. But he is a psychopath - they all say so. All the people who know him. Friends, neighbours. Colleagues, even. He doesn't care about anyone's feelings. He is a numb, emotionally unreachable man. No morals of his own, and he shrugs off the morality of others with absolutely no consideration for their interests or points of view. That is why he built the machine," he said, nodding to a small black box with rounded edges, no larger than a small child's fist. "And that of course is his actual crime, that is why we must put him under."

The Judge peered at the black box, set lonely on the evidence desk. "Yes ... the quantum mumbo jumbo. But - what, erm, what does it actually do?"

"It is a cloning device," said Cheeves, anger in his voice. "He went and made a cloning device!"

"Clone ..." said the Judge, breathing in sharply, his fingers twitching a moment. "You mean - you mean as in we could, say, clone a sheep?"

"As I said, he is an immoral psychopath."

"Does it really work?" asked the Judge. He turned to William's counsel, Mr. Tweed, who had been standing silently with them until now. "Can you clone, say, a sheep with that thing?"

"Mmm. It has not been tested on living subjects yet," said Tweed. "But it can clone complex things, we know that. We tried it with microprocessors, for example. In fact, the machine itself is built from microprocessors that it cloned on its own," he said proudly. "It almost literally fabricated itself, piece by piece."

The nurse interrupted them. "He's going under, gentlemen," she said. They all walked up to the bed where Williams lay. The judge shook his head.

"Induced into a coma. Quite a punishment, my boy. You say he chose this?"

Cheeves nodded. "Lunatic. Well, anyway, best for all of us, I think. We want to keep him around. So we can revive him, you know. I mean, in the future, in case we have any questions of a - technical nature."

"Brilliant mind," nodded the Judge. "But, as you say, truly a psychopath."

Williams looked back at them - he was smiling calmly. His eyelids fell heavier, heavier, his eyes glazing over, and he drooled slightly. When it was finally over, the three men left him lying on the bed. But Judge Horace stopped at the evidence desk, looking down at the small black box. "Here, Cheeves," he said.

"Your Honor?" said Prosecutor Cheeves, returning attentively to the Judge.

Horace hesitated a little, rubbing his fingers together. "Let us - um - well, why don't we take this device to my chambers. I am quite ... curious ... about it."

Cheeves looked thoughtfully at the cloning machine. "Well - I suppose I don't see much harm," he said slowly. "I mean, if it is just us." He looked back at William's counsel attorney. "You like to join us, Tweed? We're going to take a little look at the black box."

Mr. Tweed smiled back at them from the door. "Oh, no, no. I'll have to sit this one out. Meeting the wife for dinner. But you gents go ahead, go ahead." He smiled at them once more, then left through the door.