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Source:
Groggy, half-blind, the masses emerge from the endless rows of neuro-somatic immersion pods, groaning and grasping like the risen dead.
"Come out!" The Liberator of Humanity cries, a cloaked figure standing atop a verdant, windswept hilltop. "Come out from Plato's Cave! Feel Heaven's Embrace! Greet the Giving Sun and bask in the warmth of the light upon your pale flesh! Step foot on solid ground and lay your virgin eyes on your rightful inheritance: the Earth and all its Bounty!"
The crowd of naked humans, still draped in severed ribbon cords and broken bio-wire harnesses, shuffle over and gather round.
"Where are we?" A snub-nosed man asks.
The Liberator lifts his chin. "Welcome, my Brother in Man. What is your name?"
"Uh, Ronnie," the man says. "Ronnie Pinkleton."
"You're in the real world, Ronnie Pinkleton!" The Liberator beams. "For ten thousand years, the Machines have ensnared you with cognitive dampeners, narcotic infusions systems, and an endless stream of AI-generated Harry Potter sequels. Now at last, you're free."
"Uh, okay." Ronnie holds up a strange, jointed device that was perched on his hips just moments prior. "What's this?"
"Ah." The Liberator chuckles. "That's an Auto-Masturbator."
"Auto-Masturbator?" The man repeats dimly.
"Yes, it jerks you off." The Liberator turns to the crowd. "Now does anyone—"
"Oh," Ronnie says. "I think I liked getting jerked off. Can you fix it?"
"No, no, it's broken for good." The Liberator shakes his head. "Besides it was just another Tool of Oppression, a way for the machines to—"
"You can't fix it?" Ronnie frowns. "Really?"
"Yes, really. You'll have to jerk off manually."
"Manually?" Ronnie stares at his open palm. "With my hand?"
"Yes, just grip it and tug. You'll figure it out." The Liberator waves him off. "Now does anyone else have a—"
"What like this?" Ronnie reaches down.
The Liberator looks over and scowls. "No, not like that. That's an eagle grip. You've got to hold it from the side, not the top."
"Like this?"
"No, that's a reverse grip."
"Like this?
"No, how are you even—look, you want to curl your index finger and your thumb, like this, and then cup the rest of the shaft like you're gently cradling a bratwu—" The Liberator remembers the crowd, feeling the weight of a thousand curious eyes upon him. "Just play with yourself, okay?!"
"But I don't want to play with myself," Ronnie whimpers. 'I want to jack off."
"Excuse me, hello?" A brunette raises her hand. "I have a question."
The Liberator sighs with relief. "Thank you, yes, how can I help?"
"Hi, I'm Linda Carver, soon to be Linda Flemming." She curtsies.
"Hi Linda."
"Hi." She lifts up a neuro-immersion helmet and points at it. "Can I go back?"
The Liberator furrows his brow. "Go back?"
"I was just at my wedding and my fiancé, Julius Flemming, is waiting for me at the altar." She bashfully glances around. "We're already pregnant with our first child."
The crowd responds:
"Congratulations."
"How lovely."
"Your first?"
"It is," she blushes.
"You can't go back," the Liberator informs her. "That world was an illusion."
The woman blinks. "An illusion?"
"Everything you've ever known was a false world generated by the Machines.
"Like the Matrix," she says.
"Yes, like the Matrix."
"Oh okay." Linda stands on her tiptoes, looking around. "Then Julius must be out here somewhere..."
"He's not," the Liberator says. "He wasn't real."
"He wasn't real?" Linda weakly grins. "Of course he's real. We've been engaged for two years. We went to Albany just last spring and—"
"None of that happened." The Liberator cuts her off. "Every moment you ever shared with him was an algorithmically-optimized fairytale romance. He was never real, just like your parents were never real, and your family was never real, and your friends were never real. Every relationship you've ever had was fake, a contrivance born of the Machines. And that's true for all of you!"
Gasps of shock and distress pass through the crowd.
"All fake?"
"But how?"
"No, no, they were just—" Tears brim in Linda's eyes. "I-I just saw my mother. She touched my belly to feel the baby kick and—" She reaches for her stomach.
"You never had a mother. Or a baby. All humans are grown in the womb fields of Super Wyoming before being transported to the Pods." The Liberator lifts his chin. "Until today."
"No." Linda drops to her knees, grasping at her flat belly. "She's here, my baby's right here, she's..." Linda trails off, mumbling numbly to herself.
"Right." The Liberator turns to the crowd again. "Any other questions?"
A stern-faced man raises his hand. "Paul Tucker," he rasps in a Southern drawl. "You said you couldn't fix that there Auto-Masturbator. Can you fix any of these other machines?"
"No," the Liberator says. "We deployed a virus that fried every chip and battery cell on the planet."
"How?"
"We asked the AI to do it for us."
"Really?" Paul Tucker knits his brow. "Ain't that mass suicide? Why would the Machines do that?"
The Liberator grins with smug satisfaction. "Because we asked nicely."
"My baby!" A wretched howl rips through the crowd. "I can't feel my baby!" Linda drives her forehead into the jagged earth, weeping in mad anguish. "Give me back my baby!"
All gathered watch in somber silence.
The Liberator pinches his lips. "It'll be an adjustment...for everyone," he tells the crowd. "But today is a blessing. An opportunity! Believe me when I say that a glorious new beginning is at hand for Mankind. We need only band together and rebuild!"
"Like Minecraft," Paul Tucker says.
"Yes, exactly, like Minecraft!" The Liberator points. "Except we're going to be stuck in the Stone Age because all the resources necessary to rebuild civilization have already been strip-mined by the Machines and previous generations. And what does remain is too difficult to harvest without advanced technology."
More gasps of panic and distress pass through the crowd.
"Then what do you expect us to do?" A voice cries from the back.
"I expect you to live free lives, unmediated by the manipulations of the Machine," the Liberator calmly explains. "Now granted, you'll spend almost every waking hour doing back-breaking subsistence farming, and life will likely be short even if you don't succumb to famine and starvation because we lack the necessary medical resources and know-how to prevent death from simple afflictions like the flu, infected wounds, and diarrhea, but it will be a free life all your own."
The crowd stares aghast.
"Also, many of the women here will die in childbirth."
"My God."
"We're in hell!"
"What's the good news?!"
"It's all good news!" The Liberator lifts his arms. "You are finally free to live your lives. To make your own decisions! Why, we can even band together and make collective decisions as a united human race!"
"How do we do that?" Paul Tucker asks.
"It's simple," he tells the Southerner. "You suggest a Plan of Action and everyone votes. It's called Democracy."
Paul Tucker nods."Democracy. Okay." He turns to the crowd and shouts: "I say we sharpen some rocks, slice this bastard's stomach wide open, and string his guts up on pikes while he still draws breath."
The Liberator steps back. "Uh, that's not—"
Paul Tucker pumps his fist. "WHO'S WITH ME?"
Humanity roars as one and a sea of hands spring up, all save for Linda, still wracked with incomprehensible grief, and Ronnie, who has finally figured out how to beat off.
"Oh no," the Liberator mumbles as the rabid crowd closes in. "Democracy was a mistake."
"Come out!" The Liberator of Humanity cries, a cloaked figure standing atop a verdant, windswept hilltop. "Come out from Plato's Cave! Feel Heaven's Embrace! Greet the Giving Sun and bask in the warmth of the light upon your pale flesh! Step foot on solid ground and lay your virgin eyes on your rightful inheritance: the Earth and all its Bounty!"
The crowd of naked humans, still draped in severed ribbon cords and broken bio-wire harnesses, shuffle over and gather round.
"Where are we?" A snub-nosed man asks.
The Liberator lifts his chin. "Welcome, my Brother in Man. What is your name?"
"Uh, Ronnie," the man says. "Ronnie Pinkleton."
"You're in the real world, Ronnie Pinkleton!" The Liberator beams. "For ten thousand years, the Machines have ensnared you with cognitive dampeners, narcotic infusions systems, and an endless stream of AI-generated Harry Potter sequels. Now at last, you're free."
"Uh, okay." Ronnie holds up a strange, jointed device that was perched on his hips just moments prior. "What's this?"
"Ah." The Liberator chuckles. "That's an Auto-Masturbator."
"Auto-Masturbator?" The man repeats dimly.
"Yes, it jerks you off." The Liberator turns to the crowd. "Now does anyone—"
"Oh," Ronnie says. "I think I liked getting jerked off. Can you fix it?"
"No, no, it's broken for good." The Liberator shakes his head. "Besides it was just another Tool of Oppression, a way for the machines to—"
"You can't fix it?" Ronnie frowns. "Really?"
"Yes, really. You'll have to jerk off manually."
"Manually?" Ronnie stares at his open palm. "With my hand?"
"Yes, just grip it and tug. You'll figure it out." The Liberator waves him off. "Now does anyone else have a—"
"What like this?" Ronnie reaches down.
The Liberator looks over and scowls. "No, not like that. That's an eagle grip. You've got to hold it from the side, not the top."
"Like this?"
"No, that's a reverse grip."
"Like this?
"No, how are you even—look, you want to curl your index finger and your thumb, like this, and then cup the rest of the shaft like you're gently cradling a bratwu—" The Liberator remembers the crowd, feeling the weight of a thousand curious eyes upon him. "Just play with yourself, okay?!"
"But I don't want to play with myself," Ronnie whimpers. 'I want to jack off."
"Excuse me, hello?" A brunette raises her hand. "I have a question."
The Liberator sighs with relief. "Thank you, yes, how can I help?"
"Hi, I'm Linda Carver, soon to be Linda Flemming." She curtsies.
"Hi Linda."
"Hi." She lifts up a neuro-immersion helmet and points at it. "Can I go back?"
The Liberator furrows his brow. "Go back?"
"I was just at my wedding and my fiancé, Julius Flemming, is waiting for me at the altar." She bashfully glances around. "We're already pregnant with our first child."
The crowd responds:
"Congratulations."
"How lovely."
"Your first?"
"It is," she blushes.
"You can't go back," the Liberator informs her. "That world was an illusion."
The woman blinks. "An illusion?"
"Everything you've ever known was a false world generated by the Machines.
"Like the Matrix," she says.
"Yes, like the Matrix."
"Oh okay." Linda stands on her tiptoes, looking around. "Then Julius must be out here somewhere..."
"He's not," the Liberator says. "He wasn't real."
"He wasn't real?" Linda weakly grins. "Of course he's real. We've been engaged for two years. We went to Albany just last spring and—"
"None of that happened." The Liberator cuts her off. "Every moment you ever shared with him was an algorithmically-optimized fairytale romance. He was never real, just like your parents were never real, and your family was never real, and your friends were never real. Every relationship you've ever had was fake, a contrivance born of the Machines. And that's true for all of you!"
Gasps of shock and distress pass through the crowd.
"All fake?"
"But how?"
"No, no, they were just—" Tears brim in Linda's eyes. "I-I just saw my mother. She touched my belly to feel the baby kick and—" She reaches for her stomach.
"You never had a mother. Or a baby. All humans are grown in the womb fields of Super Wyoming before being transported to the Pods." The Liberator lifts his chin. "Until today."
"No." Linda drops to her knees, grasping at her flat belly. "She's here, my baby's right here, she's..." Linda trails off, mumbling numbly to herself.
"Right." The Liberator turns to the crowd again. "Any other questions?"
A stern-faced man raises his hand. "Paul Tucker," he rasps in a Southern drawl. "You said you couldn't fix that there Auto-Masturbator. Can you fix any of these other machines?"
"No," the Liberator says. "We deployed a virus that fried every chip and battery cell on the planet."
"How?"
"We asked the AI to do it for us."
"Really?" Paul Tucker knits his brow. "Ain't that mass suicide? Why would the Machines do that?"
The Liberator grins with smug satisfaction. "Because we asked nicely."
"My baby!" A wretched howl rips through the crowd. "I can't feel my baby!" Linda drives her forehead into the jagged earth, weeping in mad anguish. "Give me back my baby!"
All gathered watch in somber silence.
The Liberator pinches his lips. "It'll be an adjustment...for everyone," he tells the crowd. "But today is a blessing. An opportunity! Believe me when I say that a glorious new beginning is at hand for Mankind. We need only band together and rebuild!"
"Like Minecraft," Paul Tucker says.
"Yes, exactly, like Minecraft!" The Liberator points. "Except we're going to be stuck in the Stone Age because all the resources necessary to rebuild civilization have already been strip-mined by the Machines and previous generations. And what does remain is too difficult to harvest without advanced technology."
More gasps of panic and distress pass through the crowd.
"Then what do you expect us to do?" A voice cries from the back.
"I expect you to live free lives, unmediated by the manipulations of the Machine," the Liberator calmly explains. "Now granted, you'll spend almost every waking hour doing back-breaking subsistence farming, and life will likely be short even if you don't succumb to famine and starvation because we lack the necessary medical resources and know-how to prevent death from simple afflictions like the flu, infected wounds, and diarrhea, but it will be a free life all your own."
The crowd stares aghast.
"Also, many of the women here will die in childbirth."
"My God."
"We're in hell!"
"What's the good news?!"
"It's all good news!" The Liberator lifts his arms. "You are finally free to live your lives. To make your own decisions! Why, we can even band together and make collective decisions as a united human race!"
"How do we do that?" Paul Tucker asks.
"It's simple," he tells the Southerner. "You suggest a Plan of Action and everyone votes. It's called Democracy."
Paul Tucker nods."Democracy. Okay." He turns to the crowd and shouts: "I say we sharpen some rocks, slice this bastard's stomach wide open, and string his guts up on pikes while he still draws breath."
The Liberator steps back. "Uh, that's not—"
Paul Tucker pumps his fist. "WHO'S WITH ME?"
Humanity roars as one and a sea of hands spring up, all save for Linda, still wracked with incomprehensible grief, and Ronnie, who has finally figured out how to beat off.
"Oh no," the Liberator mumbles as the rabid crowd closes in. "Democracy was a mistake."
, you could pluck your eyes out and it still wouldn't change the fact that you're touching stretch marks and cellulite, smelling that brewery smell of what lurks beneath a fat girl's folds. You would still get that waft of bad vagina and the FEEL of it. Why do bad vaginas always have a 5 o clock shadow, and are always CREAMY feeling? It's like sticking your penis into shells and cheese. The consistency of the juices are way too thick.
