When I was older, the draft was replaced by an all volunteer force. There was no shortage of volunteers. Some volunteered out of what they perceived was a genuine sense of duty. Others merely looked for adventure. Some volunteered to escape a bad situation. Most all were poor as shit.
When I became very old, we were always at war, all the time. The rules of engagement had changed and there were no civilians, only combatants. I even did my part for a time.
We thought we were fighting the machines for a time. Our politicians told us that singularity would emerge like it had in TV and the movies--taking the form of a centralized computer with malevolent control over a vast network. But when it came, it wasn't in the form of the Terminator, Skynet or the Matrix. What we didn't realize is that we were fighting each other.
The Darkrider smashed the door in and advanced to the bed where Carla and I were sleeping. I was already awake, for Carla had been grabbing my breasts, and massaging them, thinking I was Tim, her ex-husband.
"You are Carla," the Darkrider said.
"Yes," she replied, trembling with fear.
"We need to take you in for reprogramming. Please insert your finger into my slot for the hologram, retinographs, voice prints, and DNA."
"But can't you get that from my passport?" Carla quivered.
"NO, you have entered Floridada. And you ex-husband has been executed for consorting with a male prostitute."
"Impossible," said Carla defiantly. "He was killed fighting you in the first war of the machines."
"Incorrect," the Darkrider continued, "Tim Cavanaugh, age 53 was initially absent from his phrant consorting with several prostitutes. His phrant, since then, has been locked in a repetitive loop of illogical despair for the last 3 time parsecs."
"I can vouch for that," I told the Darkrider. "And she definately is confused. Perhaps a meditation protocol would assist. Or perhaps some processed pork on a beach."
"I agree with you, but she has a pair of dumb kids. The boy wears a funny cross and the girls has some tattoo on the back of her head, all are in need of neuro-programming."
"Please lock the door on the way out when you take her, I need to get some sleep."
"Noted," said the Darkrider, as he left with my friend.
The Darkrider smashed the door in and advanced to the bed where Carla and I were sleeping. I was already awake, for Carla had been grabbing my breasts, and massaging them, thinking I was Tim, her ex-husband.
"You are Carla," the Darkrider said.
"Yes," she replied, trembling with fear.
"We need to take you in for reprogramming. Please insert your finger into my slot for the hologram, retinographs, voice prints, and DNA."
"But can't you get that from my passport?" Carla quivered.
"NO, you have entered Floridada. And you ex-husband has been executed for consorting with a male prostitute."
"Impossible," said Carla defiantly. "He was killed fighting you in the first war of the machines."
"Incorrect," the Darkrider continued, "Tim Cavanaugh, age 53 was initially absent from his phrant consorting with several prostitutes. His phrant, since then, has been locked in a repetitive loop of illogical despair for the last 3 time parsecs."
"I can vouch for that," I told the Darkrider. "And she definately is confused. Perhaps a meditation protocol would assist. Or perhaps some processed pork on a beach."
"I agree with you, but she has a pair of dumb kids. The boy wears a funny cross and the girls has some tattoo on the back of her head, all are in need of neuro-programming."
"Please lock the door on the way out when you take her, I need to get some sleep."
"Noted," said the Darkrider, as he left with my friend.
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