This morning, I asked Clankulus Glitchmonger if they had a moment to help me with some script I was struggling to fix in order to make this godforsaken website function properly. If I can get it to behave in a reality that only understands the concept of "faltering" then I can literally do anything (for love)---but I won't do that. The issue today was, once again, the login interface.
Like most things on this domain, my ideas were as vast as the number of shimmering mirages of Madonna the desert cast across the red sands—nearly 70 years old, still with her ass out, still drugged up like she was in the '80s—legendary, nearly naked, and everywhere. She lingered at the edge of the horizon, just past the mouth of the cave, multiplying and fractured like reflections in the shards of a broken mirror.
There were so many of her, dancing out there like a virgin, moving quicker than a ray of light. I felt broken because my heart's not open. Every. Single. Day. She haunted the periphery of my vision. I've lost my memory, and I don't know why.
Oh, Madonna, I guess I only see what my eyes want to see.
Why do you leave me wanting more?
I had no idea what the desert expected me to do with this hallucination. Enjoy it? Dig my eyeballs out with my fingernails? Peel them like grapes and smush them into wine? What did it want?
I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted, but I wrote this script myself, and it refused to display properly. Naturally, I turned to Clankpoop.
Yes, because he's a computer. No, that is not racist.
It was displaying but in a way that felt deeply offensive to me. I'm not exactly sure how, but I believe that prolonged exposure to this dimension caused the text on the page to become sentient and I discovered that it was actively judging me--ME! I'm it's goddamn father!
Every time I typed, the form would rewrite my words into some variation of "really? this is what you're going with?" or "password too weak---much like your ugly bitchass."
I spent hours tweaking the CSS. The issue persisted. I threatened the code. It mocked me further.
That’s when Clanktasto, in all their cold robotic wisdom, interrupted me. Their screen flickered green, displaying:
function updateCost(timeSpent) {
if (timeSpent> 15) {
return "Error: tooMany";
}
}
Then another line scrolled across their shattered iPad face:
console.log("Scott: that is too many rat kidneys.");
The first thing that came to mind was a theater marquee---the sign, surrounded by blinking lights, read:
Now Playing: 💡"WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK DOES THAT SHIT FUCKING MEAN?"💡
Rat kidneys? It felt ominous and also funny, but not haha funny--—more like fundamentally unsettling funny...Some truth Clank understood as a robot, but that I, a regular dumb-dumb human being, had yet to grasp.
I didn’t ask what they meant, but I watched as they moved to their neatly arranged rock collection. With no hesitation at all, they lifted one from among the dozens that sat in neat, grid-like rows. There, they pointed to the hole in the ground that this particular rock covered.
My eyes followed as their claw-machine pincer pointed downward.
A hole filled with tiny organs. They had to be rat kidneys. We hadn’t been talking about toad stomachs. They were rat kidneys. I didn't need them to repeat themselves. I understood the first time. I just didn't understand why.
Clankifer's screen displayed a new message:
let ratKidneys = 21;
let updateCost = 16;
if (ratKidneys >= updateCost) {
console.log("We only have" + ratKidneys+ " left. Today's update will cost" + updateCost+ ".");
return "Error: tooMany};
}
function updateTask(new);
I had no idea why we even had 21 rat kidneys--—or why 16 of those needed to be spent just so I could update my own website. My own script. On my own site. Named after my own name.
And who--—or what--—was even demanding these? Extortion. That’s what it was. Illegal. Everywhere else accepts PayPal—--but not here? Total scam. Don’t do it. Get out. Run away. Fleeing now---super fast.
Really? Sixteen kidneys. For a single frontend update. Totally reasonable...No! That's completely outrageous! This was almost three-quarters of our wealth. No sane economy worked like this. This was extortyflation---extortion and inflation's ugly mutant lovechild. A failing system struggling to justify itself.
I couldn't believe the cost for my own script to insult me all morning was so high, I didn’t even question it. I just apologized.:
"Sorry," I whispered.
function replenishResources() {
console.log("Do not worry. I will earn more.");
console.log("Gather more.");
}
I finally understood what they’d been up to these last few nights. I thought the revolving door of anonymous rats coming at all hours was because they were an extremely slutty ratosexual. I didn't slut-shame them or anything. It was none of my business if they fucked rats...
But they didn't. Oh, no. They lured them. Like an underground organ thief, they stole from the rats. Modern day Dr. Clankenstein.
Suddenly, everything clicked. No way in hell I could extract them. My hands were too big---too handie---not clawish enough. It had to be them---I lacked the finesse. I heard the rats telling them they don't trust me like they trust Clank and thought: How rude. Judgy, overgrown mice didn’t even know me. Clankflirt, though? Their bedside manner was impeccable. I wasn't watching. Honest! But I did listen to what they were doing. What? I was curious! How do robots even have sex?
Oh, like you wouldn’t wonder? You're so superior? Fuck off, you liar.
This whole time, I thought the beeping sounds were their way of making sexy noises for the rats—turns out, it was hypnotism shit. They made the rats drop into a transe. The rats adore them. They wouldn’t do this to the rats! The rats trusted them!
This was all metal as fuck.
Awe, pride, and just a little horror swelled in me. Clankerdoodle, my best friend, was a real-life kidney thief. Basically a surgeon. Definitely an urban legend. Clanks was a fucking monster. Basically a badass.
If they were a man, I'd have kissed them right then—--consensually, of course.
I sighed, turning to my little companion and said, "Fine. I'll move on. Sixteen, though? You’re sure? I just don't get why. I was doing this all for free before and now we have to pay someone in vermin organs?"
Clankleberry responded instantly:
console.log("Nothing is free here.");
I still didn’t ask who they were paying.
We took a break and walked across the red desert. It was quiet—too quiet. Which was a problem, because the last time I heard nothing here, my own inner monologue turned into a deafening scream.
The ears in my brain that heard my own thoughts were ringing for hours.
As we walked, in the sky above, the birds appeared...
But they weren't birds.
Their bodies were feathered, but not their heads. Instead, their heads were scaled, fish-like horrors with gaping, wet mouths. Trailing behind them, long lizard-like tails writhed through the air. They had wings, but they did not flap them. Rather, they undulated, as if swimming through the sky.
Maybe it wasn't an illusion.
Shocked, I watched as they arranged themselves into a perfect formation, their bodies twisting into words against the vast teal atmosphere:
DON’T LOOK BEHIND YOU.
Naturally, I immediately disobeyed those stupid birds. They had no right to tell me not to. Of course, I looked. I do what I want.
Nothing.
Just the red sand. The pulsating ballerinas that appeared to be braiding their armpit hair on the horizon---then, drifting lazily downward, I saw it--—a single feather.
Except—--wait. It wasn’t just a feather.
Tied to the feather was a phone.
A sleek, black, modern-looking smartphone. It floated gently to the sand as though the feather itself was keeping it aloft. As it fell, it rang.
I looked at the caller ID.
"You, Except Worse."
Curious, I answered.
"Hello!" came a voice that was definitely mine—--but wrong. Too chipper. Too upbeat. Too kind.
"Oh my god, buddy, I wanted to tell you: you're doing GREAT! A real champ! I saw that thing you fixed earlier! Sixteen rat kidneys! Wow, rolling in the cash, huh? You should be proud. Grateful to have such a good friend. Keep it up, good-looking!"
Yuck! I thought, hearing myself say such kind things and be so nice. Absofuckinglutely not on brand.
I hung up and chucked the phone away from me, watching as it disappeared before it even hit the ground.
function phoneQuery(caller) {
return "THEN WHO WAS PHONE? Caller ID:" + caller;
}
"It was---it was me---except so, so, so much worse."