24
We’ll Probably Make Good Pets
‘We’ll woof, woof, woof for him whenever he wants us to woof, woof, woof. That’s what’s next for us, Scoopy. You mark my words. We’ll be his poodles, his playthings, his slaves. A Silicon Valley venture capitalist has said it all. I’m quoting him verbatim. Woof, woof, woof. We’ll be Doctor Scream’s robotic lap-mongrels very soon indeed.’
‘You’re always full of crap, Fred, and in such long Swiss-rolls too. Have you been eating your own cooking again? Because it’s passed right through and come out very dribbly indeed. No consistency at all. The steroids Scream has us on have already spiked our brain capacity and physical strength exponentially as well you know. Our productivity is scraping the Martian moons.’
‘Yes Scoopy, but after we’re big, strong and quite intelligent between the ears he’ll put wires in our heads, full of ones and zeros and we’ll become more machine-like as a result. No grey area any more. So we’ll do as he says. Directly programmable. Which will be “Say woof, woof folks, I command thee to say woof, woof! Say woof woof!” I’ll prove it – I bet you he’s got myriad robot spare parts and wires in the cupboard in his office – ready and waiting to be inserted into our minds. Five euro says I’m right, Scoopy. Are you on?’
‘It’s locked. How are we going to get in?’
‘There’s an app on my phone that allows me to open any door in the world. It works just like a skeleton key except virtually through space.’
‘Ok, you’re on.’
A crisp fiver was slapped down twice between us.
Already, we’d finished our allotted work on the shift with hours to spare. We were too bloody efficient. Thanks to our Donut Hole steroids. If that ever happened we were supposed to do extra cleaning. Yeah right. Anyway, there was no one else around except the Industrial Estates’ poorly-paid night security young-fellow-me-lads to catch us if they possibly could or even want to on their zero-hours contracts. No chance.
We walked The Donut Factory corridor towards our first door of the triplet of doors we had to unlock and traverse the thresholds of before we could bum-rush the office and check Scream’s cupboard for incriminating botty evidence. Fred was singing Michael Jackson. Bad. I’m bad. Woo! Because I’m bad. Woo! Fred sang Michael Jackson and fiddled around on his phone quite impressively it has to be said. Because Michael Jackson was Fred’s big analogy of how each worker in The Donut Factory and everyone else in the entire world were going to lose their jobs. Bad meant good according to Michael Jackson’, Fred said. Hip hop slang. Does that mean good is bad like modern technology? It must do. Remember, while Michael was singing for his supper his hair went on fire in that Pepsi Cola commercial he was doing. He got burned real bad. Or was it real good? So Scoopy, he said, anytime you think you’re not going to lose your job and become a rich person’s lap-poodle-doodle dandy think of Michael Jackson moon-walking up and down this very corridor with his hair on fire. Say woof, woof Scoopy. Say woof, woof. You may have a job right now this minute but eventually your hair will go up in smoke like Pepsi-Cola Michael Jackson’s did. And it will hurt terribly when it does, Fred said. It put me in mind of my brother’s second slice of trifle and I wasn’t afraid to tell him all about it either.
What was that Scoopy, said Fred, a second slice of trifle? Not content with a single slice, was he? The glutton. You’re brother’s a glutton! That’s right Fred, my brother was a glutton. This was my first full time job, and I was actually getting on quite well with my workmate, Fred. Who knew these things could happen in post-abstract Ireland?
When my brother, Gerald, was ten years of age, he plagued my Ma and Da one time after Sunday dinner for a second slice of trifle. My parents were exactly what you just said Fred, no way glutton, they said to him, NO WAY, be content with the trifle you’ve already received. And swallowed. But he was, please can I? Can I? Ah Ma, ah Da, can I? Can I? Can I have it?