THIRD PENETRATION. FESTIVITIES. IO GETS CELEBRATED.

He looked right past his own eyes in the mirror. This is Io? Man, poor Io, Io thought, and brushed his teeth and spit out blood from in between.

That feeling had been hitting, and this morning it was stronger still, that feeling of the first days settling into a new place only to find oneself unchanged. He’d felt it long ago in Soho, then in Venice Beach, and then Seattle. Here it hit the hardest, maybe since he had no fucking clue what he was doing here. Dessert, Nevada. What a joke. He couldn’t code; he couldn’t even type, and then the place was full of feds, real suited creepers. And the night before, the strip search! Why the strip search, man? And why the probes?

Sweet Georgia.

A knock-knock-knocking on the door. But shit, shit, I’m not dressed yet, Io thought, and then remembered, man, they’ve seen it all already. Sure enough, he opened up buck-naked, why, he didn’t even know, rebellion or laziness, whatever, man, and in came some more suited types, the representative from earlier, all casually, and one just put a suit right in his hands, a full-on suit, all ready for him, even in his size. “Nah, not my style,” whined Io. “Have it your way,” said the type, “but hurry up. Today’s a big day, Io.” Sure. He pulled his V-neck, jeans, and boots on in that order. No, no underwear. It’s you guys who are rushing me, thought Io, hoping that they’d notice and complain. They gave no sign they’d noticed anything.

Outside of his hotel room, yet another flock of agents. Flock? Or group? What do you call ‘em? A whole spook of agents?, Io thought. A spook of agents, sure, and damn! Babe-agent too. I wouldn’t say no, Io thought. Then cue the colgate smile, and, “Right this way, please, Io.” Suits behind him, suits beside him made it clear he didn’t have a choice.

The sky over Dessert resembled U-Dub's EMAIL client, gray-beige, washed-out. No clouds, no breeze, no sounds but a buzz: of insects? Io didn’t see no insects, man. They shuffled through the lot and to the car, a big 8-seater SUV. The heat kicked Io's teeth. “So, we’re going to see Georgia?,” Io asked the agents. “No, Io, she’s busy,” said the babe-suit, automatic-like. “But in the meantime, since you’re here on special invitation from the mayor, we saw fit to give a special tour of our city.” Great. Too kind. They drove and then they drove some more.

Dessert, Nevada, Io noticed, sure did sprawl as nowhere-towns went. They drove past streets and streets of squat row-houses, lawns and all, the type you might see anywhere, and how’d they keep the lawns so green?, thought Io, when I roast just like beef jerky stepping out into the sun? At last, the car stopped. Babe-suit, automatic, rattled off: “Dessert’s grand mall is where you’ll go to get your needs met. Step outside.” Io complied. Of course. The spook of suits walked Io straight through fifty-seven seconds’ scorching sun and right into the mall.

The mall looked just like anywhere. No, worse: it’s just the kind of anywhere that gives me creeps, thought Io, as if Reagan left retirement to spit-shine clean the floor. “Go walk around and have some fun,” the rep said, slicking back his hair some more.

A few steps in, the screens in Cinnabon displayed on loop the beaten, bruised-up face of Rodney King. Man, why’d they do that?, Io thought. He stepped up to the counter. “Uhhhhm, a pretzel please. A big one.” “Right away!” said MTV-face at the counter, snapped her fingers, and… the ventilation duct above just opened up! It opened up, and out whizzed one large pretzel, fast as Sega, into Io’s mouth. A little startled, Io felt around his pocket. MTV-face chuckled, shook her head, and said, “Oh, no, sir. This location only accepts payments made in EMAIL.” “EMAIL?” “EMAIL,” MTV-face said again, as if the practice just explained itself. “Go find a terminal somewhere. The mall is high-tech: it has plenty. By the way, we do charge interest.” “So: I just send you an EMAIL?” “Yes, that’s all. Address it to [email protected].” “Well, okay, MTV-face.” Io dashed off.

The food court sure was massive, big enough, it seemed, to seat all of Tukwila, Io thought, but only seven tables, maybe eight, were taken, filled by spooks of suits. Then, sure enough, right by the bathrooms, rows and rows of terminals. They looked just like the row-houses, all squat and grayish, if houses ran Compuserve. Damn! Io made a beeline, flicked a switch on. Right away, the terminal lit up, all glowing green, and printed: WELCOME, IO. STILL LOOKING FOR GEORGIA? ENTER Y OR N. Whuh? Io staggered. Trippy. Yes, of course, he thought, and pressed the Y key. GOOD, displayed the terminal. I HOPE YOU FIND HER SOON :), and opened right to email. Io entered:

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To: theboss@boss.cinnabon.gov
From: io4@washington.edu
Subject: im paying for my pretzel

hi mtv-face. good now?

And hit send. Beep-beep, the modem went. From straight across the mall, the cashier shouted: “Io, we charge interest. Send another.” Io groaned and forwarded the same message again. Then, right on cue: “We’re good now, Io. Hope you liked the pretzel!” Whew.

Too much by now. Io felt fully fried. He shrunk out to the entrance hall and found, of course, his designated spook of suits. “Enjoyed your pretzel, Io?,” asked the rep, and turned to point his colgate grin at babe-suit’s colgate grin, and they both chuckled, loud, as if they spoke some secret language. “To be honest, no, but ‘least I didn’t spend that money,” Io said. The agents chuckled more and made off to the SUV, and Io followed right at once. Of course.
At first, they drove in silence. This time, Io went along with it. He didn’t ask them questions. Things are easier this way, he thought. I guess that’s just the way they want it. Finally, the rep spoke through his grin: “We hope you understand we care, Io. We’re going somewhere that might cheer you up.” Io perked up. “To go meet Georgia?” “No,” the agent said, “She’s busy. Somewhere else.” He shoulda figured.

They parked at yet another long, squat building. “Come on inside,” said babe-suit.

A video-arcade. Who do they think I am?, thought Io. Guess they’re right, though. “Come: let’s play a game together,” said the rep, “since, anyway, we’ll be together quite a lot.” “Uhmm, sure,” said Io. “Know a good one?” But already colgate-man was off—hey, wait up!—to the arcade's other side. He chose a tall, thin cabinet. “Hey, uh, didn’t this one give some kids in Portland seizures?,” Io asked. The agent grinned. “We’ve worked out all the bugs.” The slanted screen was pulsing, flickering, as if to Io’s heart rate. Colgate-man inserted quarters by the fistful.

The game—what were the game’s rules? Io watched the flashing screen, the grinning rep, the numbers going up, and didn’t get a thing. Before he knew it, “Your turn!,” said the rep, and just as soon as Io lay his hand upon the joystick, BZZZZT! A static flash upon the screen. NO, IO, THAT’S NOT HOW YOU IMPRESS GEORGIA, went the text-crawl. SCORE: NEGATIVE ZERO. Io pouted. Colgate-man did too, then took the joystick once again, and half an hour must have passed before Io’s turn came again—and ended just as quick. SCORE: I DON’T EVEN FEEL GOOD TELLING YOU :(, the text-crawl went. The agent patted Io’s shoulders. “It’s okay, you’ll learn,” he said. “You wanna play another game?” “Oh, please,” said Io, “anything but this one.”

They came up to another cabinet. Steering wheels, toy guns, and QWERTY keyboards covered this one right from top to bottom. “You impressed?,” asked babe-suit, who had waited there. “This game is only playable here in Dessert. The object is to win a street-race while assassinating politicians and composing manifestos.” Io swallowed like in old cartoons. A gulp. “Babe, what’s your high score then?,” asked Io. Babe-suit chuckled, dropping enough quarters in the cabinet, possibly, to stay up all night on a pay-phone with a buddy in Osaka. Io watched as babe-suit scored a million, then another million, then a trillion. “VIOLENT IDEATION BONUS,” flashed the cabinet. “YOU’VE INSPIRED COPYCATS. ASCEND.” At last, her credit reached its end. She hit the high score list both for raw points and for regime changes accomplished. Io shook his head and drudged back to the door. What time was it already? Prolly late, and these games were all bogus, Io thought. Above the entrance, on a big screen, Io saw his photo, captioned: IO. PLAYER OF THE DAY. GOT MINUS ZERO POINTS AND DISAPPOINTED GEORGIA. WINNER JUST FOR TRYING.

Outside, already night had fallen, sure enough, and each long, gray, squat building seemed to gleam. Io had nothing in his pockets, so he leaned back in the evening cool, as if to smoke a phantom cigarette while waiting for the suits. He might have liked the moment to last longer. Sure enough, they all came out together, shuffling him right back into the SUV, and driving back to the hotel in silence.

His hotel room was a relief. At last, no buzzing, flashing lights, or EMAIL. Just some time alone. He looked right past his own eyes in the mirror. Yup, I’m Io, Io thought, and brushed his teeth and let his gums bleed. No, that ain’t no Colgate smile, thought Io, but it’s mine, goddamn it, mine. Already deep, deep drowsiness has come upon him, damn Nevada heat, he thought, and let his jeans and XL V-neck casually fall and slouched to bed, and stared up, past the ceiling. Georgia. Damn it, where’s sweet Georgia? Why’s she here? Dessert, Nevada, out of every goddamn city in the world. No matter the economy, she’s smart: she can find work. Why here?, he wondered. Then he heard a click. The hallway’s light crept deep into the darkened room, a long and slow-expanding triangle of dust and brightness. Footsteps. It was babe-suit. “Only keeping tabs, Io, to make sure that you’re settling in alright. I used my own key,” babe-suit said and shut the door behind her. And then a shuffling noise. She’s taking off her pants?, thought Io, wincing, looked, confirmed: She sure has taken off her pants. He didn’t say a thing or move: too tired. Just go along. Don’t turn down a babe, not even a suit, not Io, Io wouldn’t. Still, she made a shush, as if to calm down a small baby, held him down by both the shoulders, not too hard, but firmly, got on top, and fucked him.

Chapter 3.

Debugging is everyone’s least favorite task. In suboptimal conditions, it means an indeterminate number of hours tracing threads through a pit of tangled, wet spaghetti. In optimal conditions, with neat, well-commented code and good communication within the team, a fantasy in which I sometimes indulge, the nature of the process still guarantees hours or days of combing through layers upon layers of code, and after the bug is found and patched, very often an equal or greater amount of time fixing everything the patch broke. In a well-structured, disciplined organization, the drudgery can be distributed; it cannot, however, be eliminated. And some, inevitably, bear more than their share.

“I just don’t get what I’m doing here,” confides Georgia through tears. “I just don’t get what we’re doing here. What are we doing here in the middle of the desert?”
“There, there,” I say, holding her gently, stroking her hair a bit, the way I’ve noticed she likes. “It’s like this for all of us in the beginning. Sometimes, babe, you don’t ask questions. You finish the project, slap it on your resume, and move on. You’re smart: there’ll be space for you in San Jose or the valley or somewhere.” She’s been mentioning those places more. I lean in.
“I’m tired of having questions, and I’m tired of moving on. I want a place where I’m not the weird girl in the corner cubicle, where I don’t feel like I’m always one off-color joke away from being someone’s intern again." A sob. “I want to be on solid ground. I want a sense of purpose. Is that really so much to ask?” A weaker sob. “What are we even working on here?”
I look at her with my soft, sympathetic gaze. I’ve been practicing. Let the silence speak for itself.
The modem beeps. An email. The mayor’s responding to my report. I glance and flick off my monitor in a gesture that tells Georgia she’s more important right now. Of course, she’s still new enough to believe in coincidences.
She wipes her eyes with her sleeves and straightens up her posture, like I’ve told her to. She lets out a slow, quiet breath. Self-soothing. Subtle. Snaps quickly back to looking composed even when she isn’t. A less perceptive person might miss it completely.
“Fine. Government work looks good on a resume,” she says, as if to the air. Then she swings her chair right back around to her terminal and gets to typing at the breakneck speed I’ve come to expect from her. A few odd movements there. I look more closely with my sympathetic eyes. She’s tossed a 3.5” floppy into her purse. Second time this week. It still pokes out.
Enough perhaps to have a talk.

FOURTH PENETRATION. BOYS. EVERYBODY GETS DISTRACTED.

When Io woke, he hoped he was alone. He stared right through the ceiling. Please don’t be here, babe-suit. Please just go. But sure enough, he felt the warmth, the tug, the motion of another body there in bed with him. Goddamn it.
“Your cock’s a whole lot smaller than it looks,” she chuckled. “I came to cum, and you weren’t enough, but that’s okay. I finished by myself.” He stared on, blankly. Go away. Just go away.
“I’m Kathy, by the way, not ‘babe-suit,’ just in case you need to put a name up to a face—or cunt,” she went on. “You sure are a cunt,” he muttered, getting up, not angry yet, not really, still just half-asleep. That made her chuckle more. “You don’t want round two then?,” she said, and stretched her body out, advancing by a bit her pelvis. Io looked away. He started, “Lady—Kathy—.” “Come on, Io,” Kathy said. “I’ll tell you something about Georgia if you make me cum this time. I might not even tell the others that you cried.”
Oh, put your junk away, please, lady—Kathy, Io thought.

And then a crash. Alarms. Whoa, far out, Io thought, still bleary. Piercing scream. Whuh? Kathy? Upright? Screaming? Then—BLAM! BLAM! CRASH! Gunfire came through the window. BLAM! again. The screaming stopped. He turned around real slow and saw about what he expected: brains smeared on the sheets, life pouring out of Kathy’s skull. Is blood that color? No, no time to think. He pulled his jeans on. If I’m dying here, he thought, that won’t be the most bogus thing. Not even by a long-shot. Georgia… CRASH! The door came down. A man, behind him two men, three men altogether rushed inside, masked-up and dressed in desert camo, vests, and surplus goggles. Just like watching Gulf War debriefs on TV. One hit a button on his radio. “Io secured. Repeat: Io secured.” Then, right to Io: “Come with us. We’re getting out of here.”
Whuh? Like a VHS I watched before I left, thought Io. But there wasn’t time to breathe. The men ran out, into the hallway, through the fire exit, Io after them, still shirtless, wispy chest-hairs trailing as he ran. The Desert Storm types hopped into a Jeep; the leader, so it seemed by his red headband, shuffled Io in with them. He drove.

Once on the road, the leader broke the silence. “Minutes later, you’d have been a goner,” he told Io, gruffly. “You have no idea how deep you are in shit. Be glad we’re here now.”
“Hey, listen, man, first, thank you,” Io said, “but I’m fed up with mindfucks. Give it to me straight, if possible: what’s up here? What is going on?”
“We’re Navy SEALs. We’re tearing this place down. Dessert, Nevada is a Russian base on US soil, built for mind-control. We’re blowing it all up.”
“The Russians? Ain’t they in the shitter ‘bout now?”
“That’s only what they want the US people, good people like you, Io, to think. In fact, they’re launching their full-scale invasion.”
“You’re fucking with my head here, man.”
“And that’s not all. You won’t believe this, but you have to: you’re the key to our success. You’re how we break out Georgia.”
Did he say Georgia? Whoa. “Man, thank you. Can’t thank you enough. So what’s the plan?,” asked Io.
“Just follow us,” the leader said. The roadsign read: THIS WAY TO RESCUE GEORGIA. Naturally, they made a turn.

They jolted to a stop outside a bunker. “This is Checkpoint Maya, where we’ll make our stand,” the leader said, and tossed Io a rifle. “They’ll be coming any minute now.” And sure enough, on the horizon, Io saw a horde, still far away, still indistinct, but coming fast. They rushed inside the bunker, aimed their rifles through the windows, hunkered down.

The first wave reached their sights before they knew it: rows and rows of tiny Russian soldiers, wearing Russian hats, and crawling on all fours. There must have been a hundred, maybe more. The soldiers started firing; Io mixed a few shots in, and soon enough, the horde had been cleaned up. “Intense, man. Was that all of them? We gonna rescue Georgia now?,” asked Io. “No,” said the commander, “that was just wave one. We need to clear eight waves, and only after that will Gorbachev come out. We’ll deal with him, then rescue Georgia.” Io nodded.

The next wave came from the horizon. This time, every other Russian stood up straight and held an AK-47, firing semi-randomly straight forward. Past Io whizzed a bullet. “Careful,” said the leader, “that one almost got your ear.” But there were bigger issues: it had hit one of the SEALS, pierced through his chin, sped through his tongue, and torn an eyeball out. Another bullet. This one bore right through his nose. The dying soldier mustered out, “Long live the USA! You’ll never —BLECH!,” and vomited his entrails on the ground. The leader shook his head. Is blood that color?, Io thought, but kept on shooting. Soon, this wave was cleaned up too. The leader caught his breath. The others were still panting.

A lull between the waves. Io looked out the window. There he noticed Georgia, naked, blurry in the heat-waves, calling, “Io, rescue me! I’m waiting! Never, Io, have I once stopped waiting.“
But then a Russian snatched her off. And—BLAM! BLAM! CRASH! A window shatters. BLAM! again. He turned around and saw what he expected: smeared brains on the floor, life pouring from the leader’s skull. We’re fucked now, Io thought. A soldier shouted, “Never think that!” Io looked out of the window and saw hundreds, maybe thousands of tall Russians with machine guns, sabres, and maces. They were firing all in unison, so Io ducked and caught a glimpse just as the last of his companions caught a bullet in the brain. Goddamn it, now or never, Io thought, and took his fallen comrade’s gun up. Dual-wielding rifles, shirtless, Io jumped straight through the window, roaring Georgia’s name, prepared to face the enemy, prepared to give it all away for her. The sand, impressed at his resolve, then caught him like a blanket. Io fired off in all directions. All the Russians fell dead in one line.

He huffed and puffed. He panted. Bit by bit, he caught his breath. And then—a slow clap. “Well done, Io. High score.”

Whuh, Kathy’s voice? And sure enough, behind him, Kathy stood in Checkpoint Maya’s doorframe. With her were the rep, and all his spook of suits. They grinned and stared at Io all together.

“But—how?,” said Io. Kathy grinned. The rep grinned colgately as well. “I’m lying in your bed right now, my brains smeared on your pillow, is that right?,” she asked, and Io nodded, gulping like a character in old cartoons. “That’s how Dessert’s proprietary 3D graphics engine made it look. Say, did you like it, Io? You looked so heroic for a moment.”
“But—what are 3D graphics? Why—,” he started, but the chuckles said it all. “The soldiers weren’t real, I guess,” he said, and Kathy nodded, this time with vague tenderness. That made it worse.
Io looked downcast at his shoes. What other things, then, weren’t real?, he thought. Was all that— “Fun fact,” Kathy told the other agents, “Io isn’t circumcised.” They chuckled all together. “Which, come on. Just look at him.” And then she leaned in right to Io’s ear, and whispered, “I’ll be back tonight.” The rep drove up the SUV. They all got in together, Io following. Of course.
And then they drove straight back to the hotel.

Chapter 4.

She's been avoiding speaking lately. Yesterday, she came in, typed all day, and left without a word. I offer standard greetings: all she does is grunt, “Hm? Yeah.” I check her code: not perfect, but the same high-standard. She's a smart one.

Don't rush to fill the silence. Wait for her: don't chase.

Then, this morning: Irv, the mayor's representative, is back. He glides across the cubicle pit, Colgate smile gleaming, as if levitating. Dave and Artie swivel towards their monitors, perhaps for the first time in weeks, and hunch into them theatrically. Georgia pretends not to notice. The maintenance guys stop fiddling with the light fixture by the corner, pack up their tools and ladder, and shuffle out without a sound. Georgia can't help it anymore: she looks up. Two more suits from the mayor's office step in to guard each path of egress. Finally, Georgia breaks her weeks of silence. “Who is that?” she whispers. I swiftly hush her, putting my hand down on her wrist, lightly and firmly, in such a way as to communicate: now's not the time, babe. She gets it fast and takes up Dave and Artie’s posture. Smart girl.

I too have found a long, cozy EMAIL to read as Irv passes. Subject: Reminder: Revised Cabling Diagram for Building C (Includes Fiber and Coax.) Great. He's close, though. He comes to Georgia's desk and hovers. Then, he lifts his chin and looks directly at me. His Colgate smile gleams.

“You know what this is about, don't you?”

That wide, soft smile. I nod. One doesn't climb the ranks like I have without knowing some survival skills. “Right this way, ma’am.” I get up, showing no change in affect, and follow him. Georgia stares on with big doe eyes. He and his two suits lead me to his SUV.

Irv lets the silence breathe. He’s good: of course. I don’t rush to fill it either. Keep an engaged, somewhat bored look on. Act as if nothing can change your day for better or for worse. Survival tactics. Irv slicks back his hair some more. Then, sure enough, he speaks first:

“So what do you think of her?”

In that moment, all the tension leaves my body. Don’t show it. “Well, Irv, it’s what her resume suggested,” I say. “She came to us with skills, no hand-holding necessary.” Irv lights a cigarette. I add with a conclusive tone, “She’s quiet lately, but I call that adjustment, not resistance. She reeds a room.”

Irv lets some fumes escape his cigarette, then turns and points his Colgate smile at me. It gleams. “No, I’m asking what you think of her. Of her herself.”

I take a slow breath and let it sit between my lips. Too quick and I’d sound coached, or worse, eager; too hesitant and he’d smell sentiment. Can’t have either.

“The bitch is smart. Too smart for her own good, maybe.” Irving’s smile gets wider. He nods his head with enthusiasm. “Unlike the infants we scoop from MIT or Caltech, she didn’t need any breaking in, so to speak. She got the whole picture without having to be told. She does her work and doesn’t press on any big questions, but they’re there. They’re bubbling just beneath the surface. The trouble is, the bitch doesn’t know how to hide it. She’s a different kind of infant for sure, but still an infant: not naive, but unfinished.”
“Anything more?” asks Irv.
“Well, she wants to be useful, at least,” I add, staggering from my own performance. Nothing about the floppies.
Irv keeps on bobbing his head, his grin gleaming, as if listening to air guitar. Then something clicks. I see it. He’s got that look. “We’re going to step back in, then right back out,” he says. “There’s something I want you to see.”

Sure enough, we step back in. The maintenance guys pack up. The suits block the means of egress. I stay right behind Irv, expressionless. Georgia is sitting in her practiced slouch, head turned, eyes locked on mine. Big doe eyes. The poor girl is terrified.
“Artie!” calls out Irv, not bothering to take a step from the door. “Artie! Come with us, champ,” he says. Artie looks up from his slouch, and gives his own look: less doe, more sad puppy, like he’s asking, “What, me?” Irv shouts a third time, “Artie! Yes, that means you, Artie, come with us!” At last, he moves. We lead him to the SUV, get in, and seat him down between Irv’s two suits. “Little day trip, Artie,” Irv says, starting the ignition. Then we drive way out, past the fences, past the ice cream monument, into the open desert.

Once even the phone cables have disappeared and all we can see is desert all around us, we stop. We shuffle out of the SUV, and Irv tosses Artie a shovel. His eyes sink, and Irv begins to chuckle. “What, you think we’re going to shoot you and dump you in a ditch? Not our style, Artie, and you’re not in that much trouble. Just dig a little. You’ll see.” Artie looks as if a train’s just hit him, but he digs. Sure enough, he hits something hard immediately. A little crunch. “Come on, dig it out,” Irv urges. Artie plunges his shovel in and thrusts it up. Out from just beneath the sand, he digs up dozens and dozens of little black plastic joysticks with big red buttons. He drops the shuffle. Puppy eyes at Irv. Then puppy eyes at me.

Irv picks one up. “Do you know what these are, Artie?” he asks. Artie stammers and manages to force out the full, grammatical sentence, “I never played video games myself.” “Toss me one, Artie, so I can teach you,” Irv says, and Artie obeys without delay. Irv passes it to me. I turn it around in my hands a bit. It sticks to my fingers in the sun. I pass it back to Irv.

“This is a perfectly good game controller, Artie. You don’t partake, I understand, but do you know how it works? Bend the stick right to move your little character right. That part, you get, yes?” Artie nods. “So Artie, I need you to act like a good video game character. When I bend it to the right, I need you to walk a few steps to your left: my right.” Artie looks confused, but keeps quiet. Sure enough, Irv bends the joystick right, and Artie does as told. “Now, Artie, next command. When I press this big red button, I need you to drop your pants.” Irv lets Artie process what he just said. He looks confused, and then stunned, like a beaten puppy. “Did I stutter, Artie? When I press this big red button here, you drop your pants,” says Irv, and presses the red button. Arite blinks a little. Then, he pulls his pants a little down, showing his drawers. “All the way now, Artie. Drawers down too,” says Irv, and presses it again. Artie complies.

I look away. I’m not a prude, but I haven’t looked at a man that way since work took over. Besides, I figure that it’s best to let Irv do his work. I hear him start to address Artie, saying, “This controller, Artie, works perfectly well. If we drove it back to Dessert and plugged it into a gaming system, it would still function, even after years buried here. I’m going to plug it into you now, Artie.” I hear a low, surprised squeal. “Thousands just like it, and that’s no exaggeration, Artie, are buried here. Almost all of them would work too. Do you know how they ended up here, even though they’re perfectly good?” He pauses. “When I pull this joystick down, I need you to bend over, Artie.” I peer just a little to my side. Sure enough, Irv pulls the joystick down, and Artie bends over, the wire trailing out from his behind.

Irv lets him stay inert like that, his face facing the sand, his bottom pointed at the sun. I turn my head back around. I don’t need to look at this. I don’t need to signal interest. And then a wail. “These controllers, Artie, all work perfectly well. Do you know how they ended up like this?” Irv says through gritted teeth, his voice remaining calm, but deeper, more and more forceful. “Do you know?” The wailing gets louder. “It’s because some techies didn’t know their place and promised more than they could do. They took their company down with them, Artie. They took the whole video game business down with them.” The wailing gets ever louder. Do I look? It turns into a piercing shriek, and then goes higher than a man should be able to produce. It takes on a buzzing, electronic quality. I turn around and see, sure enough, Irv rotating the controller around, shoving it deeper and deeper into Artie’s rectum. “And you’re that type of techie, Artie. That’s you. You sure can code, but you don’t know your place.” He shoves it all the way in, the base and all, stands back up straight, and slicks his hair back again. The Colgate smile hasn’t left his face. Artie holds himself and wails on the ground.

I turn all the way towards him. No reason to look away anymore. Irv doesn’t seem to mind either. Slowly, Artie turns around to face us, and unbends his knees, revealing his shame. A penis, just like any other. It’s not such a big deal after all. And then—the penis and the scrotum start to shrivel up. They wither until small and purple, then fold all the way into Artie’s body, leaving a small dent, out of which sprouts—the joystick, black, plastic, octogonal! Artie sobs. “Pull up your pants, Artie,” says Irv, and Artie does. He gets up. “We’re going home now, Artie.” Back into the SUV.

The ride back is silent. Out of curiosity, I peer back at Artie. I see the imprint of the perfectly octagonal joystick at his crotch.

We stop back at the office. Irv tells his suits, “Bring him back in,” and they do.

He turns his head to me, his smile gleaming, and lights a cigarette. Then: “What’d you think?”

Show no affect. “Well, he didn’t know his place,” I say. Irv chuckles. “No, I just didn’t like the guy,” he says. And then a pause. “You know, you’re a smart one. A real climber. I think I’ll secure you a meeting with the mayor.”

Back in the office, I can hardly keep composure. For the first time since I was the new girl out of college, I’m nearly hyperventilating in public. Georgia rushes up to me. “Are you okay? What happened?” she asks, pointing her doe eyes at me. Then: “I’m sorry I’ve been pulling away so much. I don’t know: I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have a hard time trusting people.” She puts a light hand on my arm, just like I do to her. “You’ll tell me about it later, okay? Just take your time. And—thanks for all you do for me.”

In her purse, I notice several floppies poking out.

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Pub: 25 Jul 2025 21:06 UTC

Edit: 26 Jul 2025 20:08 UTC

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