When he was hired, they told him his job was to watch the Big Red Button, and ensure nobody pressed it. That’s it. He took his job very seriously.
Later, his boss brought in someone new. “Her job is to press the Button if told to.”
So he killed her.
After moving around all her life, never staying in one spot for more than a few minutes, flying everywhere, she saw the light.
She longed to know more about the light, join with it. She approached it, eager for the illumination.
ZAP!
“Goldurnit’, ah hates’ fly seasin,” said the man.
He was being interviewed for his dream job, for the fourteenth time.
Things were going well, until he made another mistake.
So he used his TimeCo device again, and rewound back to the beginning of the interview, aiming for perfection.
What he didn’t know: the post had already been filled.
“xpwwtgqqqqqqqqqqq,” typed Koko the monkey with a human on its back. “Get off my back, I’m working,” it thought. The research assistant moved on to the next monkey.
Koko pulled out the sheet and threw it away. He used the next sheet to continue his play, “Planet of the Monkeys”
“Ideas are like freshly-squeezed brains,” he said, to no one in particular. They ignored him; he would come up with stupid sayings like that every few minutes. “Words are the priceless excrement of a well-formed mind,” he later added. The words floated above him, then fell on him like diarrhea.
When the poet started writing his poem, he said to himself, “I will end it when it wants to. I am but a conduit through which the art flows.”
What he didn’t know was that once the poem has no more need for a conduit, that conduit ceases to be.
His wife complained that he’d forget everything.
He’d forgotten their anniversary. Every year.
He’d forget where he left his keys.
He decided to kill her. That would show her.
At the crucial moment, he pulled out…
Nothing.
The gun was in his nightstand.
Or maybe in the car?
I forget.
In the year 2768, scientists puzzling over the seemingly eternal popular appeal of some popular musical acts from the twentieth century decided to create AI simulacra of The Beatles.
The first versions took some data too literally, which led to a George Harrison AI that was just a little too quiet.
A commercial.
Young boy who won’t finish his meal:
“I hate peas!”
TV announcer:
“Canned peas got you down? Did you know you can now get peas fresh, frozen, and many other ways?”
Chorus of Pea Industry people and their families:
“All we are saying, is give peas a chance!”
When he came to, he was about five kilometers away from the shuttle.
He vaguely remembered cycling through the airlock, laughing.
His suit batteries were dead, so was the radio.
No way to get back, or call the shuttle.
Soon, death.
Friends don’t let friends go on drunk space walks.