Closing Time
It’s not that I hate humans, I just don’t want to be around them. Unfortunately, St Marks Street is absolutely packed tonight. I’m surrounded by clusters of flesh balloons dressed in cotton scraps. They’re sticky with sweat, hooting like animals and frolicking on concrete sidewalks splattered with other bodily fluids and shit. They wait in lines to squeeze into tiny spaces that reek of body odor and desperation. It’s a summer night in New York City - hot, humid, hellish.
Yeah, no thanks. I emergency eject down a quieter Ave B.
What's left to enjoy, anyway? We’ll all be dead in two years. Humanity won’t exist. We’re at the top of the endangered species list. We’re going to be the single largest population decimation in history. People act like it’s a frivolous thought, like we’re always going to be the apex predator, like we can’t be hunted. Pure delusion. Look me dead in the eyes and tell me that any couple that pops out a baby hasn’t been completely cucked into submission by their “precious little miracle.” I’ll admit, humans are entertaining. We’ve done all sorts of shit, some of it to solve problems, but a lot of it just because we wanted to see if we could.
This baby we’ve created, this artificial general intelligence, this AGI - it’s not here to solve our problems. Our egos wanted to play God and now we’re being eaten alive. It’s not for the greater good or the general welfare. It’s by the rich and powerful, for the rich and powerful. Small fry like me are gonna get fired because we’re not as cheap, smart, and fast. All my co-workers tell me to use the new tools. We’re living the dream! they insist. Fuck writing organic code. Gen-code is the future. You idiots, you’re training them to take your job, your money, and someday, your wife. I already sold enough of my soul for this job, don’t come after my whole existence.
I know I’m gonna be among billions who get fired this year. I’m not holding my breath for any help from the government either. We’re already trillions in debt and you think they’re gonna give handouts to a population with an 80% unemployment rate and no job prospects? Nah. If we can’t generate value for them, they won’t keep us around. That’s how capitalism works. Every man for himself. Welcome to the new world order, where those who survive bow down to the overlords who control all the resources that matter.
I guess it was nice while it lasted. I spend my weekends saying goodbye. Tonight, my altar is the dive bar I visit every Friday.
“Beer for one?” George, the bartender, is a chill guy who pours a good draft without too much foam. I’ve tried to warn him multiple times about our impending doom but he doesn’t pay me much mind. Mainly keeps to himself, spending the nights polishing glasses till they shimmer and glueing bottle caps to the ceiling in some weird interpretation of the Sistine Chapel. He does it like Michaelangelo too, standing on a stool with his body arched like a bow and head craned towards the sky. I don’t know why he does this, who he’s praying to, or what he’ll do when he finishes. I don’t even think he knows. I guess it brings him some kind of joy, satisfaction, comfort, to know that there’s at least something in this crazy world that he can control. That he created. That belongs to him. That will still be around even after we’re long gone.
Preamble
Model: Sam the Cat by Matthew Klam
Narrator: A frank, filterless 1st person persona narrator with a distinct viewpoint on life who is confused about something but doesn't have a clue about how to deal with their problem
Mood: Loneliness, sadness | Tone: Conversational
Posts in this series
Butterflies
Sweet Everythings
The Magic Notebook
chrononaut
Closing Time
Both of us holding our breath