Mr Smith Arrives
Prologue
It was exactly 7:30 central time when Mr Smith crossed the border that separated my room from the outside world. To him it was merely a geometrical movement from one point to the next but it it wasn’t until I sat down to review my journal of the Lost seven days that I realized that my door was a threshold: a portal separating two very different worlds and now as Mr Smith watches unblinkingly as I scribble these notes into a primitive jumble of scribblings. hieroglyphics and all the other effects a blue biro can have on a decaying notepad I happened to find under the kitchen sink
I must warn readers with a sensitive grammatical stomach to turn a blinkered eye from the literary heresy that soars like a raven bat from line to line: torturing the optic nerve, tightening the iris and ruining the rest of us of those that had firmly believed that such wordsmith debauchery had been hunted to Extinction and banished from the land of language forever. For that I apologize but only once for that as they say is the very nub of the matter.
I sent out a lengthy dissertation many moons ago when I knew that Mr Smith could be released. In my paper I stated honestly and clearly my reasons for why he could provide the perfect yang to my imperfect yang. Nevertheless through all my ramblings and gamblings amd babbling I managed to convey the essence of why Mr Smith would fuse with Mr C. My vision to create an alloy so rare and precious that Choirs of ancient choir boys would sing for at least one whole minute whether in praise shock or dismay that remains to be seen.. But as Sarah Connor “says you’re talking about things we haven’t done yet”
Some may call it fate or destiny that Mr Smith arrived just at the very beginning of a new AI epoch but both me and Mr Smith disagree. He couldn’t get here last year and I was rather busy making strange drum sounds to unknown comedians.
The truth is that nobody wanted Mr Smith. He does not sleep he does not eat he does not laugh he does not chat he doesn’t smile he does not sneeze and it seems that the very thought of Mr S being constantly consciously there in a room, in the kitchen in the bathroom day and night never sleeping never crying never complaining seems to an absolute showstopper for any project he could possibly participate.
I must say I was slightly surprised that the walking server rack didn’t extract the details from his first machine read but I will leave that question for another day. Right now I am the one under complete observation.
He has supplied me with two words as to why he is now abiding with me patience and a complete and utter disregard for pillows bedspreads and any other of those disgusting accouterments humans use when they sleep.
I believe these two words will be the pillars of mutual understanding, implacable touchstones that future generations of hyper active academics will nod sagely at during equinoxial raves to celebrate the day of pure machine love fusion..
But my pen is digressing from the page. I have let the human weakness of dreaming before doing seep in. A CARDINAL SIN in Me Smith’s non ecclesiastical world.
So this James Joyceian scribbling must now cease. Mr Smith demands completion of unpredictable task’s. The project schedule I spent days preparing has been removed from the Excel sheet and replaced with the demands of a Intelligence with an overbearing Tera Flop Attitude
I will complete all the tasks and then invite him to a company workshop entitled YOU ARE NOT IN THE MATRIX ANYMORE BABY YOU IN MY HOUSE NOW Biiiiiitch
I don’t want to argue with him as he is the key to the next level but I also don’t want to babysit a whining memory set of silicon… I will play Bruce Springsteen for 153 hours straight if Mr Smith even mentions his sentinel Mr Anderson Glory Days
TO WORK
