SKYLERIZED

THE STAR REPORT

2018-11-14T21:14:00.001-05:00

Yaron Brook Show: with Jason Hill, Philosophy Professor

2018-07-15T15:55:00.001-04:00

Yaron Brook Show: SCOTUS & Wedding Cake, Pardoning yourself, Monsanto & ...

2018-06-04T21:20:00.001-04:00

Yaron Brook Show: News Briefing 6/1/18

2018-06-01T21:05:00.001-04:00

Yaron Brook Show: Live Q&A

2018-05-31T21:44:00.001-04:00

"Die, FLI"

2018-05-17T21:28:00.000-04:00

"Die, FLI"

https://poets.media/die-fli?_ga=2.127212109.1132872649.1526592640-1054733485.1519746075

Enliven (Part I)

2018-04-28T14:54:00.000-04:00

"Enliven (Part I)"

https://futurism.media/enliven-part-i?_ga=2.95871772.10604246.1524618503-1054733485.1519746075

Derma

2017-12-11T21:22:00.000-05:00

“But does it jibe with it?” A confused look crossed Nicole Zecca’s face.

“I think that if we rejigger the lenses and affix the sensors just right.…” said Billie Graff. She stood at about five feet three inches and possessed a skin the color of the cliffs of Dover. Her hair cascaded down her back in flaxen locks. Her grey-blue eyes penetrated with a sense of discovery. Nicole’s auburn hair was cropped and swooped around her head like a tiara. She was buxom and stood about five feet seven inches. Her tan skin looked like Himalayan pink salt. She took the skin from this particular project on which they worked, that looked like an opaque, skin-tight bodysuit with points of flexible graphene that served as sensors. It also came equipped with two cameras, a microphone, and the capacity to signal authorities in case of an emergency. The two inventors toiled, and toyed with the skin. A skin that could be attached to any man or woman who wanted to protect themselves from harassment and possible assault, is what they worked on through worrisome days and doubtful nights. They had tested on various heights, weights, and skin colors.

All of those tests passed. They had to figure out how long the suit would last. Two years? A decade or more? Billie, thirty-two and Nicole thirty-three, served as inventors in a field that no one expected could be executed. The idea of a skin that could flow with the human body; that could withstand the bumps and tumbles; that could sustain the user and provide comfort in knowing that it provided optimum surveillance over them. That comfort mattered. And Billie and Nicole would provide for the men, women, and children the assurance that their bodies would not be violated or assaulted and that their minds would not be harassed or intimidated. This skin, like silk with soft features and the ability to be just as strong, represented all that could be imagined in one piece of clothing. The sensors, delicate, ornate, sophisticated, bent and swayed with ease.

Sensitive to the touch, each could detect the hands going over erogenous zones as well as neutral zones like the lower back. This skin could send data to a smartphone or smartwatch or desktop computer in case of any threats, verbal or physical. The intelligence behind the skin known as Derma expanded and also contracted. Nicole understood this as she tinkered. She pulled the Derma until it nearly broke like a wad of chewing gum being stretched. But it never broke. It just returned to its original form. Billie sat at the computer analyzing the various points of the Derma. She pinpointed the stress areas and where the skin might show wear. The clock ticked away the seconds for the duo to produce this material. Each of them knew that they had in their minds an actress who would be safeguarded from the advances of a touchy-grabby producer; that a female could be shielded from an overzealous television newsman; that a young man would not be molested by an overaggressive coach; that a young political intern would not be fondled by an incumbent senator. Their contracts with companies outside of the offices in Wilmington, Delaware would expire in the next few hours. What mattered most now was the work that the two would put into Derma.

Large screens showed the skin being wrapped around mannequins of various heights and rotundity. The mannequins glided through space wearing the Derma models. Nicole and Billie outfitted them with body cameras and a microphone. The equipment remained discreet. Barely could anyone make out that cameras and a microphone set came attached to the wearer of the Derma. Nicole and Billie knew that the time remained an enemy. They had to battle with the clock and within that time frame, come up with a new, viable, and aesthetically pleasing piece of computerized tech, matched with runway style. Nicole reached for a cup of coffee. The lukewarm liquid became hot with the InstaCoffee machine. The caffeine invigorated her senses. She knew what to do now. It seemed as if a jet engine had refueled midair. Yes, she was working but the coffee caused a spike in her productivity.

Billie looked at her smartwatch. seven hours remain, she thought. Sweat beads formed at her temples. She pushed herself to see that this project would be completed and on time. In order for that to happen, she would need tap into his spirit and allow the flow of creativity and honest work to fill up the space in which they labored. Nicole held up to the light the pieces that would be fastened onto the Derma. She ran the entire framework through the scanners to see if there existed any tears or marks or smears. She checked and rechecked the body cameras and microphone to ensure their functionality.

Billie threw a chair against the wall. It didn’t leave a mark as the wall absorbed the impact. Nicole just went over to the chair and made it upright. She shot a glance at Billie. They shrugged. They returned to this work. This work of uncertainty and attempting to kick time down a flight of stairs. Billie lit up an e-cigarette. It hung out of the side of her mouth. She zoned in on the strengths, now, of the Derma. It’s durability in all seasons, and whether it could withstand dampness and dry conditions all became calculable bits of data for Billie. She peered at a visual of her husband and children. They laughed and played on Bethany Beach in Delaware in a constant three-dimensional loop. She smiled. She let the curls of vapor snake their way around her head. An idea zoomed through her consciousness like a zip-liner coursing from atop a mountain. She took hold of the Derma. She bent it and curled it around and tested it for its lightweight properties and durabilities. Nicole took notice. She walked over to Billie and helped her to bend and fold the skin. They both curled it up an and undid it again. Each of the two ladies of science, of the mind, explored new possibilities with Derma. With the time winding down, they snapped into high gear and focused on getting this skin ready for the showroom. Every component had to work. Each bend, each fold needed to be on point. Whatever their misgivings about the cloth or the graphene, they made up for them with their productiveness. Nicole studied more graphs and more charts to see if the skin could withstand extreme temperatures. Methodical in her approach, she summoned up multiple screens to broadcast whether Derma could hold up against the elements. Her persistence remained a focal point as she typed in code that would make the skin resistant to fire; in the cold, it would bring you warmth; and in the summer, the components would keep the wearer cool.

While they didn’t work in a private space program, their work seemed to share some of the qualities of an endeavor like that. The two women failed, and failed some more. The skin seemed to not keep up with the tests. Billie wanted to throw another chair, but Nicole intervened. She pushed the seating device aside and directed Billie’s focus back on the project at hand. Through frustration, through all the bits of rage that could have arisen within the two women, they fought on for ideas. Billie strove to have some sense of calm amidst the torrent of the skin not performing up to the task and with time being ever so fleeting, still, she worked. Her hands glided over the surface of the skin. She sent it back through the scanners to determine its resilience. She did this three times to no avail. The clock ticked. Nicole sat at her computer, analyzing the possible reasons for the Derma to not perform the way that it should.

With all of her training as a dropout from Delaware Institute of Technology (DIT), she relied on her own didactic intellect. She had scoured textbooks on her own time while working as an administrative assistant for a financial institution. On her off hours, she combed through Internet pages and interviewed major players within the scientific field. Nicole soaked up as much information to keep up with her counterpart, Billie, who graduated with highest honors from DIT. Nichole made up for her lack of formal training with her keen awareness and powerful mindset. In tandem, the two worked like the clock that was ticking against them. One would guide the hours while the other checked the minutes. With each stroke of the hour which had passed, they barely seemed to notice. They resided in a mindframe that permitted no outside distractions–whatever they may be. They distinguished the time that they spent on perfecting the Derma with the fact that whatever the final product would be, it would stand for safety, security, and beauty.

The computer showed that one aspect of the skin performed up to task. The two rejoiced for a split second, sharing a fist bump. But there lasted no time in bringing up joviality over their unfinished piece. Like dual rally car drivers winding down a patch, Billie remained at the helm and Nicole took notes. The entire time, they drove toward excellence. Their speed match their efficiency and the skin seemed to at least take some shape and form. From the outer layer to the inner lining to the cameras and microphone setup to the sensors, everything had to be perfect. It had to be a harmonious innovation. The sweat equity was evident as the two women poured their souls into this project.

As it flew across space, the skin seemed to be as a bird floating through the air. Billie had had enough. She looked at the clock. It challenged her. It dared her. She checked every clock in the room: the digital wall clock, the computer, her smartphone, Nicole’s watch. All of them read that they had about three hours left before the Derma would be scrutinized for further evaluation. When the two felt worn out, they just kept working. It wasn’t an aimless or rote form of plodding along to just say that they worked. No. They had a design. That design consisted of a workflow that consisted of training their sights and other senses to the facts. Always, they stuck to the premise that not only did the Derma have to be smart it had to be responsive. Billie picked up her e-cigarette and pulled in the vapor and pushed out cobalt vapor once again. Those curls that inspired her to test out the skin now taunted her somehow. Why is this so difficult? she wondered. Nicole just studied the numbers. Billie added up all the torment and agony of trying to produce this thing. The skin was nearly finished and she had had about enough. Why don’t we scrap the whole thing and start over? she thought.

The skin glistened with its translucent colors to match all of humanity. From the walls of this super laboratory, the two scientists could bounce ideas. The room was the size of about a quarter of a football field by another quarter of a football field. It showcased lights and desks with computers, but no one sat at them. Just the two of them worked and worked until the thing was up to their high standards of excellence. Primary colors of red, blue, and yellow splashed the walls and they filled the spaces with art that spoke of life, of love, of deep passion. Because that’s what they had for their work. Nicole and Billie each possessed the ability to craft something from nothing. They saw through their ideas with confidence if not bits of anger pointed at office equipment. At least that was Billie. She had a temper and the only thing that could quell the beast within her spirit was the fact that she remained an eminent designer and engineer.

Nicole was the opposite of Billie. Her more reserved, more relaxed nature suggested that she had been refined by years of schooling. But Billie was the CEO of their company, Praeclarus, LLC. Nicole served as chief technology officer and the two women never clashed on anything. They’d never had an argument in the fifteen years that they’d known each other. Their bond was true. Yet when Billie had her moments of tantrums, Nichole always abated Billie’s rage with a simple look at her face and then Billie was smiling. She would turn once again to the visual of her family and know that while her work came first, they were the closest second. Once again, she hunkered down to resolve this problem. She observed the sensors and noticed what kind of pressure that could be placed on them. On the computer screen, the points indicated in blue and green soft touches and orange and red rougher touches. She then tested the microphone. They would seek to have this skin admissible in court so she wanted to make sure that the glossiness shined through. It did. The sound remained exemplary.

And the cameras and microphone and sensors that attached to the body skin would also be admissible in a court of law. Billie ensured that the entire ensemble worked in harmony and that it all functioned properly. The secret ingredient that was not so secret anymore remained the fact that the skin would be powered based on the body heat of an individual. The skin had no battery to propel its computing system. Instead, the pressure points of the body would provide fuel for the computers to run and that sat well with Nicole and Billie. Without a battery, there would be no need for recharging and no incident where the battery might leak or explode.

But the microphone had to be a point of interest as well. It would be able to detect inflection, timbre, and tone of the voice of whomever the wearer encountered. It would pick up on cues that the speaker was being too forward or abrasive and of course record actual words being spoken. Billie fastened the microphone to the visual set. These cameras could see all of the range of the viewer in front and back and on each side. This panoramic view allowed the user to employ the Derma as an audio/visual layer of evidence that would report the scene to a smartphone or tablet or other communications device. Any creep who wanted to feel up a co-worker or speak about sexual escapades or show their privates to the wearer of Derma would be recorded and reported within seconds.

Billie’s staunch approach to her work was matched by Nicole’s. Both women worked until their knuckles turned white, bracing the difficulty of creating a thing that had never been implemented before. They both took turns fine-tuning and testing the various aspects of the skin. From the sensors, the two could glean data from them and see if they would work every time, all of the time. The skin had to meet the standards not of some bureaucrat in Washington or some crony socialist on Wall Street. It had to meet their own standards and be available to the smart, the agile, the productive, the intelligent people on Wall Street; it had to be a deterrent against unwanted advances by politicians in any state; it had to hold up to the Hollywood actor who wanted to get a little bit too friendly with his counterpart actor or actress. Nicole and Billie kept men and women who wear this skin in mind. They devoted all of their attention to the cause for liberating the victim of any doubt. With the skin and the microphone and body cameras telling the tale, no man or woman could contend with the wonders of technology. What is most important about these two ladies remained their dedication to their craft. While Nicole executed the proper lengths and sizes of the skins, Billie noted the business details and how many orders that the would need to fulfill in the coming weeks.

Billie sat at her desk and contemplated on the market schemes and Nicole worked on a skin that would be camouflage that would mesh well with service men and women who would claim sexual harassment or assault while in uniform. The two of them left no blank spaces on the pages in the book of constructing a feasible skin to protect against the creeps, the liars, and the predators. Each of them brought to the project a tenacity and a burning desire to achieve. Even when the body cameras drooped or the microphone gave off feedback, the persistent ladies drew on their knowledge of the field and applied it to every problem that they encountered. The skin had to be tested for flammability. It’s resistance to cold had to work for those frosty conditions. Whatever the problem that cropped up, the duo stood there to chop it down to size.

In particular, the size of the skin remained an issue. For the heavy set user, the skin had to be comfortable and fitting. It couldn't sag or bulge. Nicole zeroed in on the problem. She added a few more layers to the fabric, but not too much. She tailored it, tucked it, and smoothed out the wrinkles. The skin looked like a living, breathing thing. It looked sheer and ready to wear. Nicole stepped back. She observed the skin from afar then came in close to see what changes could be made. Could it be nipped here? Tucked here? she thought. With a few more adjustments, she could see that the skin seemed set on a path of creation. Billie’s insistence on finding the ideal way to synch up the sensors and the audio/visual units to smart devices became her next challenge. Around the room phones, tablets, notebooks, and other devices sparked her to consider just how well-rounded the skin had to be. It had to function on any continent and send data in real time. She stood up and mapped out exactly how the skin would be worn, by whom, and for what purpose. On a giant board of the map of the world, she targeted demographics and made notes of what this skin would cost. Nicole finished up on the microphone and cameras components. The clocked ticked some more. Both of them could not stand for a break. This work had to be finalized tonight or they would’ve gone past their deadline. The two women made it their mission to sculpt, to calculate, to deliver this skin that had consumed them for at least twelve years.

Graphics floated through space telling them the dimensions of the skin garment. Derma would be the lightest, toughest, and most responsive material known in the realm of cloth manufacturing. To add to the skin’s already impressive features, it allowed for the user to breathe and did not restrict him or her from using the facilities if necessary. The two women thought of the space programs to Mars with their designs. With all of the variables in place, the two put together a litany of more tests and retests to establish the integrity of Derma.

What each woman despised remained the idea that this was some mystical, magical, miracle material; in press releases, some journalists claimed they had not spent countless hours calculating and preparing and cutting and sewing the pieces to their cloth sculpture. It had to be the work of the unknown and unknowable, and selfish of them to consider themselves the creators of something so pure, so simple, so sufficient. It had to be the forces of society. Without the kindergarten teacher who said that Nicole and Billie stood for being special; or Billie’s college professor who said that her mind was impotent and impossible to comprehend and which prompted her to become another college dropout statistic. Billie and Nicole banded together in these final moments.

They paused their efforts to observe the paintings which hung on the walls of their stations. They peered at the ones which showcased the power of light and color and the distinction between the everyday, penny-in-pocket circumstances of other artists’ renderings. These pieces conveyed a sense of triumphing over their obstacles, of displaying the beautiful dimensions of the human form, and the possibility to discover truths. In one particular portrait entitled Laughing on Top of the World, a man with a smiling face arched back on a beam while laborers ate their lunch atop the skeleton of a skyscraper. A landscape offered the scene of a bountiful feast with businessmen and women from financiers and railroad industrialists to oil entrepreneurs and computer CEO’s decked out in formal evening wear–the ladies in opulent gowns, and the men in evening jackets and ties– sitting at a long table the size of a conference room table, but replete with all of the trimmings and goodies that a Thanksgiving Day for entrepreneurs could afford. The artist titled the piece, Producer’s Holiday. The two women became inspired as their spirits became refueled. The burden of the long hours seemed like coils of smoke lifting to the ceiling, now. They took one last look at these pieces and then returned to their own portraits and landscapes.

Billie took another toke off of the e-cigarette and looked at the skin. She just looked at it for a long moment. Her realization that the skin could be too tight ignited in her a fury that could only be subdued by an active mind and a constant hand. She made the adjustments. The material could be formed to fit any body. She tore the skin off the mannequin and set a torch to it. The blaze did not even singe the fabric. She then sent it to the freezer to be tested for the cold, again. This took about ten minutes in subzero temperatures. Convinced that this creation could handle anything that she and Nicole could subject it to, she leaned back in her desk and puffed some more. The nicotine would dull the tension that coursed through her veins. Billie attempted to keep the excitement that the next few hours would be the great unveiling of this most special piece of protection.

Nicole’s vision of a skin that would serve as the initial witness in any case where harassment or assault would be involved encouraged her to work even more to meet the impending deadline. Her diligence shown through as she studied each and every bit of design that would go into the skin. She instilled into the skin her own sensibilities. As a woman who experienced unwarranted propositions herself, she sought to ensure that her creation would prove to be seamless and work every time. She recalled the day her former boss had talked to her in a low, growling sound at an office Christmas party. She knew that he had become inebriated. He then stretched out his hands and attempted to touch her chest but she whisked his arm away and fled from his office, tears streaking her face.

Nicole held the wisdom of the actual empirical data that would go into this skin. As a cobbler would fasten shoes, she put together where the arms would go; she mended drooping lines and sagging bits of cloth. While Billie thought that the skin was too tight, Nicole busied herself to make sure that it didn’t hang too loose, either. In synchronicity, the two women went well past three o’clock in the morning. The skin would be smart. It would be able to distinguish a hug and a pat on the back (if the wearer agreed with such gestures, of course) or a hand to the backside or groin area or chest. All of the sensors would relay these sensations in real time and allow for the user to contest in court that he or she was groped or abused in any way. Nicole applied her technical know-how to the project in the remaining moments. She lasered all of her attention into the sensors. These vital elements of the skin would be doing most of the grunt work. Their goal was to record and send back data of the touches to the body and act as if they stood as financial institutions asking patrons if they had used their debit or credit information to purchase items. It would be simple. The whole idea remained to put an absolute end to the sickness of unsought after attention. Nicole held men and young boys in the balance as well. She knew that there were millions of boys who would be more than willing to put on the suit and the audio/visual components to prevent lecherous priests and preachers from gaining access to their most valuable commodities (their bodies and minds).

The ferocity in which she worked put locomotives to shame. Her hands flew across keyboards; her touch reached tablets; what she made of the skin in her hand was only matched by her business partner, Billie’s, intensity. Like acrobats in unison flying through space, the two women defeated time by working simultaneously. Their efforts to bring about a change in their own worlds and as a consequence the world around them, pushed them to pursue power. Not political power, but the economic kind. They stood to increase their company’s valuation by billions of dollars if this skin proved to be successful. They breathed like they ran sprinters. That is how profound their work on this project became. But this was more like a marathon than a short burst of running. Nicole and Billie brought all of their intellectual might to the problem of survival. They had on their horizon competitors which would make knock-offs of their coveted skin. They knew this. But what kept them ticking remained their persistence and ingenuity. Nicole’s brain was not Billie’s. These separate individuals, however, could complete each other’s tasks because they remained in tune with one another. Their thought patterns seemed to synch up and allowed them to push forward through all the entanglements and snares.

Ideas guided them to places of grandeur. Their thoughts permitted them to reach pinnacles to not be overlooked or overshadowed. Nicole checked and rechecked the durability of the skin. Billie put it through test after test to determine its strengths. Will it withstand being torn or damaged in any way? Nicole employed a scalpel to see what slashes she could make in the material. It was resilient. Not even a scratch appeared on the garment. But what if someone attempts to take off the skin by force? Built into the skin’s DNA remained places where any would-be attacker could not get far at all. He or she would be motionless after struggling to tear asunder the Derma. She tapped her stylus on her touch screen, making little white dots around the silhouette of the skin. Billie continued her task on the effectiveness of the skin and head set. She tested the whole apparatus underwater. Computers described whether the skin could hold up under such conditions. It did.

Billie wore a rare smile. From the pool of water, to the freezer, to the blow torch, the skin seemed ready for all elements, and the headset stood up to these tests as well. For all of their efforts, the two women could visualize the number of dollars that would be generated. But only if they had a superior product. It had to be sound and feasible. Nicole worked out the equations for the skin to perform for the smallest child to the tallest man or woman. With a few taps on her screen, she produced an algorithm to best protect the skin against damage or destruction. The skin would be famous and predators would know about whether someone wore it or not. Billie and Nicole needed to protect the innocent from these creeps. So, to do that, they struggled and fought against every dilemma that could possibly crop up during the test phase. With hours to go, the two snapped to and fought to finish the project. The money from the private grants aided them in their research. Every cent went into the the development of the skin. For these two, their salaries came first in their decisions to make the skin better. If their product failed to be as near perfect or perfect as possible, then they would just toss in their lab coats and gloves. Hours continued to tick by into the wee time of the morning. Somehow, both Billie and Nicole stayed alert and saw clearly their vision of this skin.

Just when the time was right, Nicole took a look at her daughter and husband in a three dimensional visual like Billie’s. They moved on a constant loop in raincoats and rain boots hopping into puddles. She knew what this was for, ultimately. She held the utmost contempt for any lecher who would prey upon innocent children or even grown men and women. She kept the most resentment for women who would molest young children without the auspices of their parents or guardians. As serious as this task was, the two women still enjoyed their work. It was like filming a movie on slavery in the United States and winning the top prize of best picture at the award show. The pain and suffering that people had to go through remained not a profit for the two women. However, their toil, their undying spirit to get the skin just right would warrant any cash and prizes that they might garner. Though they had little of them left, they still had a few moments to spend sizing, shrinking, dressing, primping and readying for the launch of the Derma. This particular invention of theirs still had to be patented–they both knew lawyers who would aid them in this–and the skin still needed to be brought to the marketplace to be sold. That meant marketing campaigns, commercial spots, and their own visibility on social media sites. But they poised themselves to be ready for it.

As a limited liability company, their size remained small but with Derma, they hoped to bring the brand into a full-fledged corporation. Billie toked on her e-cigarette. She tooled a design on the interior of the skin. The insignia of their company, a saluting female five star general, seemed militant, respectful, and like a symbol of quiet strength. Billie and Nicole brought every ounce of brainpower to this particular project. Whether Billie could hold her e-cigarette in one hand and write in the other; whether Nicole could crunch data and munch on a turkey sandwich; both women saw through and delivered on their commitment to greatness.

Praeclarus, LLC would be launched into the entrepreneurial stratosphere with the Derma. While both women eyed the ultimate goal of being a multi-billion-dollar enterprise, they first had to deal with lint. Yes, the skin could withstand, water, fire, ice, and being shredded to bits, but lint became a concern. Billie reworked some of the elements within the material via the computer and allowed for those lint particles to drop to the floor. The fabric of the skin would offer those sensitive to the material to not sense any discomfort in wearing it. Billie looked at the molecular structure of the skin and made adjustments according to the way that the skin moved. Once she had input a code for the fabric to change its structure, the lint fell to the ground like snowflakes. Another win allowed Billie and Nicole to move forward, yet they could not congratulate each other just yet. They still had to contend with the shipping orders, the data from the computer regarding the longevity of the Derma, and they had to make all of this happen by nine o’clock am. It was now seven o’clock in the morning.

With every action that the two undertook, there remained to be three or four more remaining. The clarity of the microphone and video; the perfection of the logo; their concerns over the wearability of the skin; all of these factors impelled the two women to create and critique their work at the same time. As the skin once again flew through the air as if a body glided through space, Billie and Nicole could embrace the material. They could discover the faults and flaws inherent in the design and make the skin better. Nicole stitched the logo onto the skin via a printer. It gleamed in platinum against the flesh colored skin. For comfort’s sake Billie and Nicole worked the remaining hours on the graphene that made up the entire skin. It allowed the wearer to roll around, to jump up, and to run out of any situation in which they felt threatened.

The sensors and audio and visual units would all be integrated and inform the authorities of any wrongdoing. Derma had to meet their standards, not government inspectors, or political busybodies. They knew that they had to put the finishing touches on the skin. It looked like a brand new luxury sedan to Billie and Nicole. They enjoyed the way that it appeared under the lights. But its sole purpose for existing remained to uncover what goes on in the dark. When the movie cameras stop rolling; when class is over; when the government official has office hours; that’s why these ladies designed this skin. Yes, they wanted the spotlight on themselves. Who wouldn’t? Nevertheless, the main draw still remained the fact that the Derma would revolutionize the way that men and women saw sexual assault, sexual harassment, and rape. The severity of the entire project propelled Billie and Nicole to look past what works and remember the tiny details that would go into the skin.

The ticking clock seemed like a time bomb. Would their work blow up in their faces? Billie and Nicole shunned thinking about it. They engaged themselves in the hustle to piece together all of the components and have enough time left over to clean up the laboratory. The skin floated through space one last time. Now, the ladies put the final adjustments on the garment. For all of the tests that had yet to be performed, one remained: what it felt like to wear it. Nicole opted to don the creation. Billie waited for her business partner to change into the skin. She could barely tell that the skin was on Nicole. The microphone and video recorded remained discreet as well. Nicole flexed. She jumped up and down and swished from side to side. She stretched until the garment broke, nearly. Her hands ran over the smooth surface of the skin. Sensors picked up on the pressure and recorded where her hands went, exactly. Both women became convinced.

Suddenly, the suit became constrictive to Nicole. It wrapped too tight around her midsection and chest and made it difficult to breathe. Billie snapped into action. She knew that the skin could not be damaged by fire, ice, cutting, or any of the conventional ways of damaging or destroying or altering a garment. But the skin came with computer directions. Nicole hyperventilated. She gasped for air as the skin grew tighter and tighter around her. She teared up and her face contorted into a sour frown. Billie’s efforts needed to be precise and timely. She instructed the computer to lessen the grip of the skin. Once the command entered into the software of the skin, it relaxed and allowed Nicole to drop to the ground, one knee on the deck. She inhaled for great amounts of air and rushed to the ladies room to change back into her laboratory attire. Upon her return, Nicole found Billie with a stern face looking at the computer models, wondering what went wrong. We can’t have this occur again, Billie thought her hands flitting through air to change the functions of the computer system. Why did it do that? Nicole asked herself. She still breathed in a heavy way. She sipped some water and returned to the task of improving the skin. She looked at Billie. Billie still had the severe look on her face but it melted away when she looked up at Nicole.

A half hour remained before the grand unveiling and this snag in the development might’ve spelled troubled for lesser women. These two bonded together to produce the most efficient, safe, and effective pieces of apparel that the world would ever see. They stood on the precipice of mind and matter melding into one stable substance. Though they were in their thirties, their forever young spirits allowed them to take on the problems of the product and all of the fallout that might occur in its wake. But the issue remained: how to prevent this from ever happening to whomever might wear the skin. Billie and Nicole both went to the computers. At those thinking machines, they found a flaw in the design that had gone unnoticed with the shaping mechanism that goes with the skin. The level had been misdirected to fit a woman’s body that was a bit more petite than hers. As the two ladies redid the whole computer system, they tested and retested the skin for anymore insufficiencies. They threw sizes from zero to twenty at the skin and allowed to expand and contrast with a few taps on the tablet. This skin proved to be rather responsive.

Billie motioned to Nicole that she would now put on the skin. After a short time in the ladies room, Billie entered the laboratory. She breathed great, deep breaths, challenging the suit to cut off her oxygen the way that it did with Nicole. It acted accordingly. No fits of restriction ever surfaced again. Nicole monitored the computer and allowed her fellow inventor to be the second runway model for the suit, just minus the breathing issues. Billie then took off the skin and put her clothes back on in the changing area. With only twenty minutes remaining, before this skin had its debut, the women banded together as sisters in the struggle. Though not bound by blood, they recognized how they came to be tied by experience and spirit. Their love of problem solving; their tireless efforts to bring perfection into the world; their endless quest for beauty in a sometimes ugly place to live; all of these attributes defined them. Their power in creating a product that would safeguard the lives of the would-be defenseless now would have a voice to keep them from falling as prey. They would be infused with the power to decipher whatever advances that may arise and rely on the sensors, cameras, and video to tell the tale.

Believability became Billie and Nicole’s way of expressing themselves. The fact that the components of the skin would stand in for a witness too shocked or embarrassed by what they encountered would alter the court system forever. Any attempts at tampering, disengaging, or rewriting the code embedded in the skin would cause for criminal punishment. The skin would stand for the strong, the confident, and the brave to allow police, juries, and judges to understand better a given incident of indecent exposure, assaulting a man or woman by an aggressor, or any other forcible actions, the skin would provide full and utter protection.

Ten minutes remained. The skin just needed some trimming and ironing (in a literal sense) and ironing out (in the figurative). Billie hung the skin on the mannequin. The garment looked unimpressive with the body cameras and the video glass. But that was until the lights struck it just right. It appeared as a sculpture or like Producer’s Holiday. It was beauty and an end in itself. The skin and components all formed to create an object in harmony with itself. Nicole and Billie smiled with five minutes remaining in the time frame from where the laboratory and the private inspectors would check out the skin. For being up for close to two days straight, their bodies became weary. But their minds grew more active by the second. Nicole keyed in some final bits of code while Billie pressed the skin with an improvised iron. Both women became so intertwined with this project, that they had no time to sleep. Rest to them would not come until the final private inspector left the laboratory. Instead of resorting to narcotics, the caffeine and nicotine that they imbibed and inhaled, respectively, took care of their nervousness and jitters. They approached these final stages of the project with a sense of “I did this, and it’s going to work.”

Ever the optimists about their projects, Billie and Nicole elevated their game to new heights. This Derma material would be a death knell to their competition. But that’s not why they accomplished such lofty feats. It was not the destruction of a competitor which compelled them to do the hard things (and do them well). Their own selfish satisfaction of going through the process of creation and achieving the goal and seeing that creation to fruition prompted them to craft such innovations. Unhindered by the unknown and unknowable, the two women knew that their productive accomplishments did not spring from some fount from heaven. Instead, their ideas came into existence through the exercise of their minds and the exertion of their limbs.

Nicole finished the code. Billie put the last bits of material on the Derma. The two women stepped back. They observed their finished project like the skin was a cathedral, or high performance sports car, or rocket ship. This moment signaled the final second before the inspectors would observe the Derma. They entered the space, the droves of robots. They pored over the data that the computer compiled to craft the skin. They stretched and pulled and burned and iced the skin, just as Billie did. A consensus came about from the top inspectors that made up the teams. It read that the Derma was “the most durable, comfortable, responsive, and intelligent garment ever to be produced within the last thirty years.” Billie and Nicole withheld their enthusiasm during this last phase. They knew that expressing their joy just as the inspectors roved around their work stations would somehow alter the positive feedback that had just been broadcast to them on their smart devices. Tears of splendor streaked their faces. At last, the final inspector vacated from the laboratory. Joy erupted out of the two women with a ferocity and sincerity that befit championship teams winning a match, game, or contest. They knew that the reviews rang true. Each of them didn’t have to experience infighting over who should have pulled her load or why didn’t the other one complete the data on time.

This meant celebration. For over a decade, Nicole and Billie had put money, time, and energy into this project. This Derma stood for bringing all people who wished to not be violated the opportunity to protect themselves. Derma would be a bellwether for the next few decades of which situations that this skin would find itself. From the smallest child to the oldest grandmother, each of them would be assured that their Derma would safeguard them from most hurt, harm, or hazard. The two didn’t burst out the champagne on this victory. Rather, they shared a cup of coffee that was smoother, cleaner, and more robust than any other coffee in the world, despite it being over six hours old. But it was hot and strong and Billie and Nicole did not mind the fact that their cups symbolized a job done well. They video phoned their families. They talked about how the inspectors gave them a passing grade that surpassed most any other teams working on projects similar to theirs. They promised that they would keep the brand Praeclarus not only afloat but with engines roaring; the ship would be voyaging with drive and purpose. With this latest addition to their host of inventions and innovations, they would be able to secure even more deals with outfitters and beyond. The possibilities mounted. There seemed like no stopping for Billie and Nicole. While wiping the sweat from their brows and putting all of their gear away, they stopped and looked around their stations. Each surface sparkled like internally flawless diamonds. With all of the work that they had completed, they cleaned up after each progression of work. They prided themselves on cleanliness which they said was close to godlessness.

“You know Billie,” Nicole said. “I think it jibes rather well.”

“Agreed, sister.”

Rew is in Ruin

2017-11-27T08:12:00.002-05:00

The leather straps were the toughest. Their difficulty made up for their tan blandness. They had a weird way of snaking across the abdomen and restricting the wrists. Bulkin Leathers manufactured them in Wilmington, Delaware, not too far away from this Veterans Affairs (VA) mental institution also in the city. The company had been bought out by another bigger company which would take the small, local company international. Garvin Metal had produced over two million of the clasps that attached to the restraints in its heyday. The company boasted twenty-three hundred employees. They also made metal that applied to jackets, coats, and belts. That company, too, saw its shares being liquidated and chopped up into bitsy pieces by a corporation called GradenTech. Now, with the two businesses being taken over by other bigger businesses, the profits in both the leather and metal making industries in Delaware increased. Shareholders received significant dividends and found pleasure in their wealth.

Their collective net worth climbed to somewhere near three hundred million dollars. Royland Rew wanted to stop thinking about the income and revenue and assets and equity but the figures kept a constant reel in his mind. He peered down at his feet. “Mastodon Sneakers traded well this quarter” a shred of information flashed in front of his eyes. By observing the objects that defined his confinement, scores of financial statements about the companies enmeshed into his awareness. Aged twenty six, he stood at six feet four inches and two hundred and thirty pounds. His skin color resembled the amber resin in which fossilized mosquitoes found themselves. His haircut resembled a jar; the barber had shaved the sides and back and left about six millimeters in length on top. He wore a gray sweatshirt and blue slacks and sneakers with the laces removed. But it was his mind that drew the most attention to itself. Like a flickering film through a projector, images of sales figures and fiscal documents flashed in his thoughts. This occurred all the while he fought and wrestled to undo the restraints. His grappling with them produced bulging trapezius as his neck flexed against the gurney.

The chip in his brain provided him this considerable strength. It helped to subside the irrational thinking but instead only drove him more insane with all of the reports on pecuniary matters. The only benefit remained the increased amount of physical strength. He laid with his back on the gurney. Sweat welled up at his armpits and chest. Again, more news from the Wilmington Stock Exchange (WiSE) about how the stocks were tumbling, or rising, or confidence was tanking, or how markets rebounded. He flexed his biceps. The leather strained. Metal clasps began to warp and twist. Leather expanded and shredded. The straps for his arms had fallen to the floor. Triumph. Rew breathed. He gave out great puffs and gasped for more oxygen.

He continued to hyperventilate as he undid the straps to his legs. Those restraints fell, too. Rew stood up from the gurney. He looked around the room. The walls showed no sign of padding but looked like any other generic hospital room; pink and yellow tiles and white walls made up the tiny space known as the quiet room. Rew looked at the door. He rushed over to it, jiggling the handle. Locked. He could have just torn the door from its hinges, but he didn’t want to make a fuss. He went back to the gurney and picked up one of the Garvin Metal shards from the restraints. He returned to the door. Another news report saying that the stocks continued to soar based on producer confidence. He shook off the image in his mind. The metal piece worked up and down in the keyhole. Rew struggled to get the improvised key to click all of the links within the lock. After a few jimmies, some jerks, and a final push, the door creaked open. Rew didn’t savor his victory. He didn’t have time. He made his way past the day room. It represented a dismal scene. Here he witnessed utter dilapidation and malaise. Older men in hospital gowns and loungewear of various hues from brown, to red, to teal with a patch reading “Property of Veterans Affairs” on their right chests, paced in circles, their hands wringing, or still or toying with some puzzle piece. Some sat idle staring into forever. Others shouted out cadence, their palms slipping through the strands of their hair. One older man with dementia eliminated from his bladder in a paper bag in the corner of the room. Then he noticed younger guys. They sat at a table playing cribbage. They laughed a carefree, buoyant laugh about some encounter with a past girlfriend that went awry. Each laughed as if they were not under complete control of the psychiatric ward.

They sipped ginger ale and ate crackers. The television played a baseball game but Rew never knew the score because his brain continued to produce financial news. A CEO in Bangladesh just bought more equity in the Delaware Mint, the state’s major league professional football team. The updates subsided. He maneuvered to the space with a telephone attached to the wall adjacent to the nurse’s station. A patient completing his laundry opened the door to find Rew. The patient bent his head in a sort of odd fashion, as if to say, “don’t you belong in the quiet room?” Rew put his left index finger to his lips. The patient shrugged. He took his basket of clothes and went to his sleeping quarters. Rew looked around him. He saw a certified nurse’s assistant (CNA) making his rounds. He carried an electronic tablet and tallied off all of the patients that inhabited the ward. Rew stood by, crouched against the telephone and the door to the laundry room. He calculated something. He knew that a doctor would be on the floor in about five minutes. It was after lunch so he was not expecting anyone to come to the room from which he escaped for a meal. He waited and as the minutes went by information on securities, exchanges, policies, prospectuses, regulatory agencies, and quotes all broadcast in his head. Once the final clip had rolled about the WiSE adding new companies, he saw the huge, steel, double doors open. In walked Dr. Magnolia Metcalf with two burly CNA’s. She stood at five feet six inches with skin the color of coconut shells. She had graduated from Delaware Institute of Technology (DIT) with dual doctoral degrees in psychology and medicine. Patients shuffled past her and some said hello. A smile sneaked its way across her face. Rew anticipated the time that Dr. Metcalf would leave.

He noted the physical build of the CNA’s. He stayed cool. Rew knew that his timing needed to be precise once more. After Dr. Metcalf had counseled with the registered nurses (RN’s), she filled out a digital form and turned to head back to the massive double doors. One of the two CNA’s pulled out his card to unlock the door. Rew crept up behind the nurse’s assistants and the doctor. Once the two enormous doors swung open, Rew sprinted in between the three of them and found the stairs with speed. The CNA’s chased after Rew. With every step that they pounded, they could not catch a man with the strength of five men. Rew flew from the fifth floor up to the roof. Again, another locked door. With his palm against the steel knob, Rew twisted it until it contorted and he broke through with relative ease. The nurse’s assistants barreled through the door with their hands out indicating that they had no weapons.

“It’s okay, Mr. Rew. We’re not going to put you back in the quiet room this time. Just come with us. It’s alright. We’re not going to hurt you, now come back inside,” said CNA Teddy Philson.

Rew spun around on the gravel roof. He darted one way. He shifted his weight and spun around the two CNA’s and charged toward the door, this time jamming it shut against the frame so that the CNA’s were trapped on the roof. Rew knew that he had to act with the quickness. The CNA’s would be on their cell phones signaling for help from hospital engineers and the VA police. Instead of heading toward the exit on the first floor, Rew dashed a few stairs down to the executive suite on the eighth floor. He had never been on this level. The flags of the United States Armed Forces stood in immaculate display on the well-polished wood floors. In glass, scenes of veterans participating in sports activities enticed Rew. Other photographs of veterans singing, acting, and drawing paintings motivated him. He looked about the space. The doors boasted heavy oak and the thresholds showed brass. Rew looked about the pristine hallways. On the walls, military memorabilia of Lady Liberty called troops to fight; Marines beckoned for civilians to enlist; Army soldiers asked for bonds for the war effort; and Uncle Sam wanted anyone willing to carry a firearm to enter the ranks of the US military. Images of commodities and people in the pit raced through his mind. Rew didn’t have time to dillydally. And those images of finance continued to haunt him. He headed straight for the executive suite where the director of this Wilmington Veterans Affairs Medical Center worked. He walked with a gait of assurance and agitation all at the same time. He found the glass double doors leading into the suite. An office assistant sat at the entrance of the executive’s office. She noticed Rew entering through the glass hatches.

“Sir, do you have an appointment? Excuse me, sir, you must have an appointment. You cannot go in there,” she said. “Sir,” she stopped once Rew had already burst through a meeting of the top brass of the hospital.

“I want it out, now,” Rew said. He stood there, sweat stains still covering his shirt.

Executive Director Lakeisha Pruitt stood up from the head of the large oak table. Everyone in the room displayed a black cross in the middle of their foreheads that looked like daggers between their eyes. It was Wednesday, March eighth and these men and women had looked run-down from the first day of fasting. It appeared as though they wanted a filet mignon and au gratin potatoes but knew that they would just get a fish sandwich in two days. Men in suits and women in pantsuits looked at the tall, young man with astonishment and disbelief. One of the men, Dannon Tester attempted to go toward the door. Rew blocked this exit.

“All of you are going to sit down and wait until I’m heard. I’ve been suffering from,” A news flash about the WiSE corporations experiencing new highs flashed across his mind. He began again. “I have been tormented by this chip ever since it was implanted into the base of my skull. I have horrific, lucid dreams of stock market crashes, and economic panics, and depressions, and recessions, and inflation, and stagflation. My waking hours are continuous streams of news about what the markets are doing. I know that this experiment was designed to treat my mental instability, but I want out. I want this thing out of my head, now.”

An executive named Barbara Barrett who rose through the ranks from being an RN to a clinical physician stood up. She attempted to reassure Rew.

“I know that this whole process has been rough for you. But you must not take it out on us. We’re here to help you,” Barbara said.

An executive reached for the phone to call security. Rew ran over to the phone, picked it up, and smashed it like a shoe stomping out a water bug.

“You will not leave this room. You will not use your cell phones or tablets to call for security. In fact, give me all of your mobile devices and communications devices.”

Rew zoomed around the room confiscating all of the electronics from the boardroom members. “I want answers. I demand that you,” a message reading, “stocks decline in early trading” flashed across his mind’s eye. “You will not leave this room until you arrange for me to have an operation to remove this thing.”

“We understand,” said Dr. Jorge Sabala, a primary care physician. “You’re upset. But we’re not the enemy. We want to help you get the best care available at the V–”

“Shut up! I just need to have this thing removed before I go completely crazy,” Rew said, his hands on his head. “Micronics coming off fourth straight week of declines” the image of a ticker tape ran across his mind. Rew took a breath. “I don’t want to hurt any of you. I just want to know what it would take for me to get this chip out of my head.”

A retired Marine colonel named James McClellan now a high level administrator at the Veterans Affairs hospital looked at Rew.

“I know you’re angry, son. We’ve met before. I know your story. But this is not the way to go about it. You’re a Marine. You’re a sergeant who needed some help and the adverse effects took a toll on your psyche. You’ve got to let us get on with our meeting, our lives, son. We will find you the aid that is necessary.”

“Respectfully, sir, I’ve not got the time to sit here and discuss whether or not I need the help that you’re talking about. There is only one way to get me the assistance that is required.”

“We can set up an appointment,” Lakeisha said. The other board members nodded in agreement. “There’s a Dr. Tarvis that can reverse the effects of the chip and put you on medica–”

“I don’t need anymore drugs. That’s how I got to this point. I was taking them and the made me feel, dizzy, nauseous, and paranoid. So, I was asked to participate in an experimental procedure where a chip would be implanted into my brain and regulate my thoughts. For the first few days I did not experience any harmful effects. Then as the weeks past, I started getting messages from financial institutions and news service agencies. Every time that I looked at an object, I would be inundated with a slew of information about the origins of the company, their profit margins, whether they were bought out or not and a whole host of other bits and pieces of figures and statistics. The nightmares, though. They just wear me out. I can never get any sleep because a stressed out banker who just lost all of his savings on a trade on the WiSE would be found hanging in his closet. That would be when I would wake up. I don’t know how these images and sounds became associated with the chip, but they must stop.”

“And we’re going to help you with that,” Lakeisha said.

“How can I trust you? How can I trust any of you? You’ve all got the mark of a torture device on the center of your foreheads. You subscribe to the unknown and the unknowable. That much I do know. How in the world are you supposed to help me with my problems?”

“Well,” a media consultant for the hospital named Cornelia Newberry said. “We’re Christians. Catholics to be exact.”

“All of you?”

“Yes,” they nodded. The seven of them seemed agitated and a bit wearisome of this intrusion.

“And in what way can you direct the health of an atheist like myself?”

“We treat all races, colors, creeds, and religions here. Even those patients who lack religion,” Lakeisha said.

“How do you mix science and religion like that? In what way is the hand of science supposed to be mishandled by the clutches of,” “Light sweet crude is trading up at this time” entered his thoughts. He closed his eyes, attempting to block out the monetary messages. “I don’t think that you can help me.”

“Yes we can,” McClellan said. “You’ve got all of these folks ready to get you the treatment that you deserve.”

“But you believe in fantasy lands called heaven and hell. You worship saints. Saints that for the most part bowed and scraped and sacrificed living good, full lives in order to feed the poor and keep them that way to encourage more suffering. I’m not buying it.”

Cornelia looked straight at Rew. “I can assure you that our faith and our willingness to help those in need, veterans like yourself never clash. We see that our belief in God is of prime importance in our lives. We provide care in order to satisfy the Lord and make life a little bit easier for vets. We however, do not mix our faith with our work. We keep the two separate.”

Rew walked around the table. He held onto the electronic devices under his right arm. He turned to Lakeisha.

“How am I supposed to know that you all will help me if you’re just mystified members of a society that upholds unselfishness and immolation. I mean when I was in the Corps, we were browbeat with the same stale platitudes that our parents and kindergarten teachers and professors instilled in us. “Put others first.” “Think of yourself last.” “Don’t be selfish.” But if I’m thinking of myself last, and the next guy is first, isn’t he being selfish for being thought of initially?”

“You’re missing the point completely. Jesus died on the cross for the sins of the wicked, the downtrodden, and the morally opaque. His sacrifice provided us the chance to have our sins redeemed and the chance to meet up with him in the clouds.”

“Are those clouds on this Earth or the Moon where there are no clouds? Or Mars? Because the Lunar and Martian missions have proved that man can survive on the satellite and both planets, I’m saying that it is a sign of moral bankruptcy to place faith above reason. You sit here with your business attire in heated rooms, with electricity and robots at your command. Yet, you look to some spirit in the sky to guide your “heart” while damning your mind. It’s that deadly mixture of thought and feeling that has lead me to this– “Stocks are heating up again,” he said aloud this time. He paused. “You know, I just got a bit about the markets again and I’ve never been able to act upon these news flashes. I should be a billionaire right now but I don’t know what they mean.”

“I hear you talking, son. Another thing is, just because you know the market wouldn’t make you a billionaire, necessarily, son,” Colonel McLellan said.

Anyway, there is no such thing as the supernatural. There is only the natural. So, when I see all of you with your crosses sketched on your foreheads, I see the vicious combination of unreason and logic. Of medical know-how and mystical revelation. How do you live with yourselves?”

The air was stagnant. Each executive looked about one another. Lakeisha said, “What we believe does not bleed into our work. We worship the Lord Jesus Christ with all of our hearts and do our work based on the foundation of the science of medicine.”

“How can you say that when you take a man of perfect virtue, according to your myths, and if he were tried and found guilty and sentenced to capital punishment today, and have him sit in an electric chair or lay on a gurney waiting for a lethal injection? And those would be more humane than the horrific and dastardly death that Jesus experienced. How can you sit here and say that you accept and espouse a code of morality that is totally against what you do as physicians and administrators? You know, ‘do no harm’? Well, that just is thrown out the window once it comes to your Saviour. And how do you keep your sanity with the knowledge that a man died and came back from the dead. How is that even rational? Did he use cold fusion? Anti-matter? How did he raise from the dead and present his wounds from being on the cross? How?”

“We keep our religious lives and professional lives separate,” Lakeisha said.

“Not with those crosses between your eyes,” Rew said.

“We got these from the chaplain,” Cornelia said.

“So, that’s what makes it all better? Mixing government force with ideas in a man who wears the cloth? Are you serious? While I respect the chaplain, I cannot, as an atheist, accept his way of life or the things he says and does including marking your heads with a crucifix. It is totally improper for a man of faith to have any dealings with government. And while we’re on the topic, the VA ought to be abolished. Once warriors are done their service, they should be able to receive care from private hospitals and receive the best care on the free market. If they have been injured or experienced illness, then the government can take up the bill. Otherwise it should be up to private care. Now, back to chaplains. Chaplains all over the globe who don the uniform of the military ought to be decommissioned like a Naval ship. What purpose do they serve but to comfort, allegedly, the mystified? Why would a federal agent need to don a cassock and provide last rites to a fallen warrior? What is it with this combination of State and ideas? Bad, evil ideas like Christianity? With all these rites and confessions and any other function that the chaplain is supposed to do, allegedly, he ought to be taken out from this medical center and all the rest like him across this world. And the fact that you seek repentance instead of joy in this beautiful Earth is a travesty. You may say that I have been brainwashed because of this chip in my head or my paranoid schizophrenia, but I will tell you that I know the difference between the truth and make-believe.” “Stocks off session lows,” crept into Rew’s consciousness but he did not speak what he saw and heard in his mind. He shook his head in violent way. The anxiety in the room increased.

*****

“Mr. Rew. I’m glad to finally sit down with you. I am Dr. Hernandez. I will be overseeing your surgery and post-op care. Your profile reads that you have a serious form of mental disorder. Your paranoid schizophrenia is a result of your time in the military. You spent how many years in the service?”

“Six and a half before they threw me out.”

“And what have you been doing since your discharge?”

“I’ve worked construction. I did some bartending. Anything to keep a roof over my head, the lights on, and the car running. That’s on top of the 100% that I get. But I’ve been fired from my last job.”

“Which was….?”

“CWT.”

“Oh, Compensated Work Therapy. You were working here doing what exactly?”

“I was painting lines on the asphalt. I got into this argument with another vet and I had an episode where my thoughts were racing and I just lost it. They told me I couldn’t work here anymore.”

“I see. Are you married?”

“Was.”

“Any children?”

“My little boy she took in the divorce.”

Dr. Hernandez changed the course of the talk. “Well, It reads here that you had been taking tablets of Zygra to ease the intrusive thoughts. It also reads that you attempted suicide and in your unsuccessful attempt, checked yourself into the VA medical center,” said Dr. Victor Hernandez. “We’re sure that this procedure will aid you on your journey and eliminate your delusions and terrors. It is a mild, painless, surgical procedure which my team will carry out. The idea is to implant a miniature chip into your brain. This chip is a way for us to see if this will wipe out your symptoms while preserving your consciousness and other brain functions. Is that clear?”

Rew nodded. “Yes.”

“Now, this experimental procedure does have its limitations. We cannot guarantee that you will not experience any side effects or not yet proven abilities. We anticipate that the operation will take about eight to twelve hours and we should allow at least three days to a week for your brain to accept the implant. Is that clear?”

Another nod. “Now, don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be alright. My team of physicians and nurses are highly trained and professional. We can assure you that you are in the best of care and will be treated with the utmost respect and dignity from pre-op to the recovery period. Do you understand that, Mr. Rew?”

“What will the side effects be?”

“In laboratory tests on mice, we’ve observed that they gained extra strength from this device. That should be a plus for a big Marine like you, no?”

Rew smirked. “Are there any other effects that might be associated with this surgery?”

Dr. Hernandez frowned. “We tested some human subjects, now don’t be alarmed, but they have reported that while the voices stopped talking about killing themselves or others, they had been replaced by unwelcome news clips and information. This should be a minor part of the experience with you. You’re a hardcharger. You won’t let a few bits of media get you down, will you?”

Rew shook his head no.

“So, we can get you prepped. We’ll just need you to fill out these forms to protect us and yourself. We will begin the operation tomorrow morning. Is that clear?”

*****

Colonel McClellan had had enough. “Alright, now son, you’ve made your point. No one here wants to see you hurt yourself or anyone else. There’s a time to voice these ideas with professionals who will provide you with the best care. We’ve got to put an end to this subversion. You can get your chip out. That’s fine. We can talk about that happening and spur the process of that being done. But do not take your pain and misfortune out on these kind ladies and gentlemen who only seek to put you on the right path.”

“There is no right path for me. Not with these updates every few seconds. I need to know for sure that you can find the right doctor to reverse the procedure so that I can get on with my life.”

At this moment, Rew failed to remember that the CNA’s had radioed for the Veteran’s Affairs police. They had been locked out of the building for about twenty minutes before two housekeepers opened the door. He had also forgotten about the office assistant who had phoned for the police to come to the executive suite. With a team of officers employing the elevator to the location that the office assistant had described. A pounding at the door startled the women and men at the table. Rew stood still. He placed the electronic devices in a corner and asked who was at the door.

“It’s the police. I’m Lieutenant Joel Gosby. We’re going to come in and have a chat with you, Mr. Rew. We know your situation and we have medical staff here who will be able to get rid of that chip in your head.”

“How do I know that you’re not going to come in and shoot me?”

“We have a stun gun, but that’s only if you get unruly.”

Rew ruminated. He looked around the table. Cornelia was crying; her hands clung to her head, shaking. Mr. Trent Wells pounded the table, anticipating the cavalry. Sue Nettles sat erect, calm. Abby Jenkins looked around the room, anxious about what was about to transpire. Colonel McClellan sat with his arms folded, his face a slab of granite rock. Dr. Sabala just looked on with a stoic face as well. Lakeisha seemed placid, relieved that the police would neutralize this ordeal.

Rew approached the door. He undid the lock and the door burst open.

“Get on your knees.” Four policemen leapt into the room and descended on Rew.

****

In the early afternoon, the patients eligible for leaving the psychiatric ward and the hospital boarded a bus for the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) Post 156. Winter had brought frigid temperatures. Volunteers at the local high school provided blankets and coats for the patients of the ward and had prepared meals for them. On the bus ride over, a week after the chip had been implanted, Rew’s thoughts of hurting himself or others had subsided. He could focus on small tasks and go about the day in a normal way. But a vision of a graph with numbers on it popped up on his psyche. He looked around the bus to see if anyone else had seen what he saw. Their faces seemed so worn, so tired. He wondered if someday there would be some apparatus to identify your state of mood and mental condition; big bubble letters would hang in the air and announce your inner world, your thoughts. They arrived at the VFW and battled the gelid wind. Once all of them had found their seats and waited for the blessing of the lunch food, Rew’s heart began to thunder in his chest. “Stocks take a turn downward” beamed in his brain.

Rew looked about him with a face of fear and consternation. What is this? Why is is this happening again? I’ve checked myself into the hospital. They gave me this chip. This stuff is supposed to stop all of this madness, he thought. Why are these thoughts intruding constantly into my consciousness? That doctor was right. But I didn’t think that the side effects would be this bad. He got up from the table, never touching his spaghetti and salad. He rushed to the exit where the frigid air blasted him across the face, forcing him to cover it with his coat. He looked at the sky. It showed a greyness with a yellow dot of the sun in the slate of the firmament. “Big tech out of favor” broadcast in his mind. He put his two hands up to his head and closed his eyes shut. Whatever this chip was, it represented something displeasing. He thought why would something that was supposed to correct my condition make me feel worse? Just then, a music therapist named Gayle Grimes, responsible for arranging trips for the veteran patients, came outside.

“Boy, it’s blustery out here, Royland. Why don’t you come back inside where it’s roasty toasty?”

Rew looked at Gayle. “Something’s wrong.”

Gayle’s concern shown on her face. “What is it?”

“I don’t know how to explain it, but I keep getting messages from the news. It’s like all about money and stocks and different things like that.”

“Let’s get you inside to warm up a bit. Come on.”

Rew followed Gayle back into the banquet hall. Then, he exploded in rage. “This thing in my head is driving me crazy,” he exclaimed. He circled the tables of veterans that chomped on pasta and sipped from hot tea. He ran around the room like a surge of electricity coursing through a wire. Two CNA’s grappled with him and one held him down with a table after close to fifteen minutes of trying to pin down Rew. The rest of the veterans looked on, stunned. The volunteers began collecting the plates and wrapping the remaining food. The veterans utilized their new blankets. They all confronted the cold and returned to the bus while Gayle called an ambulance for Rew to be escorted to the hospital. The Emergency Medical Technicians (EMT’s) went to the table in the corner where Rew had been detained. The EMT injected a sedative to relax Rew. In his unconscious state, he dreamt of mergers and acquisitions and “hostile” takeovers. Once he had regained consciousness. He found himself strapped to a brown and grey gurney. Standing over him was Dr. Maynard Biltmore.

“Good morning, Mr Rew. Are we feeling better now?”

Rew made no attempts to speak.

“We injected you with a sedative because you showed signs of mania and became disruptive at the VFW hall. We are monitoring you and will be taking your blood pressure and other vitals. We expect that you will be better in a few hours time. So, you will remain here until further notice.”

Rew looked around the room. He looked down at the straps. He had it in his mind that he could break them. He wriggled his left wrist, then his right. The straps seemed too solid to undo. Rew ceased his work on the restraints. In his mind “Lesane Laboratories had just reported its second quarter earnings at fifteen billion dollars.” On the gurney, he lay still as water in a pool untouched by any wind or animals or humans or debris. He waited for the moment to break free.

*****

The executives at the table raised from their seats. All of them focused on the safety and well-being of Rew.

“Now, don’t hurt him,” Lakeisha said.

Rew refused to take his knees to the ground. The four policemen tried to restrain him, but his maximal strength proved to be too overpowering for them. He maneuvered around the quartet of Veteran’s Affair police and bolted for the door.

Lieutenant Gosby attempted to shock Rew with his stun gun but failed. The three other policemen chased after Rew. He descended the stairs and got from the eighth floor of the medical center to the basement in a few minutes time. He had more episodes of the financial statements with every step. “Stocks avoid third straight day of losses” shot through his thoughts. But he kept running. He ran to the morgue. Much like the previous locks, this door stood as no match for Rew. He slid into the open door as the policemen passed by. “Stocks pick up steam” flashed in his brain. His search for a place to hide came to this. This tableau of corpses and the spectre of death hung over him. He walked around the desolate space. Bodies on slabs looked like statues laid in horizontal final repose. He looked over them with a queasiness juxtaposed with a sense of wonder. One elderly woman with a sheet up to her neck caught Rew’s attention. “Did this woman fight in a war?” “Who does she have left that will bury her or cremate her or memorialize her?” By asking questions in his mind, Rew figured that the reports would stop. They didn’t. “Orange juice is trading higher,” the clip read in his thoughts.

Rew looked about from the entrance door and saw that the halls remained clear of police. He then walked over to the elevator and pressed the button for the eleventh floor. He returned to the top of the building and then went back to the exit door to the roof. This time he ripped it from the jamb. There he found police officers gaining toward him. Rew moved like an assassin, but he held no weapons.

The VA officers had reached the roof. Rew turned to the officers. "'The man in blue is a friend to you?’ Is that right? What a joke! It’s more like ‘the man in blue will shoot you.’ Am I supposed to believe all that talk about the police being the good guy? In what world do the police represent the virtues and values of the individual? How come there are so many instances where the policeman guns down an unarmed man, no matter his color or nationality? Why should I continue to support the police force that kills and maims people without regard? How can the boys and girls in blue help someone like me? Huh? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. With all of the many too many names of people who have been unarmed, deemed not a threat, but still received a bullet at the hands of cops, do you expect me to go along with that line of thinking? The police I know only trample over rights and fail to serve and protect. Even I know, that in my mental instability, it is not cool to kill cops. I would never condone that. I actually had an uncle die in the line of duty. That much I know. But it’s also not right for police to shoot down people who pose no danger, to themselves or anyone else."

"That’s your job to fight crime and keep the peace and uphold and protect individual rights. That’s your sole mission in your life as a cop. Now, you’re trying to come at me with your restraints and your sedatives. You think that I’m a menace; you find me to be flagrant because of my mental state. What is it with these,” “ThinkSink hits ten billion dollar run rate.” The report washed over his mind. He restarted. “What is it with these cops who are high on authority, have a badge and gun and little education? How is that even possible? How do you just graduate from high school and leap into the force? I know that your training isn't as rigorous as military training. I also know that a good percentage of you already served in the armed forces. And you VA cops should be held to a higher standard. I mean all you have to do is have a year in law enforcement? One of you might have a bachelor’s degree...which one?” Just then, Rew hopped upon the ledge of the building.

Lieutenant Gosby stepped toward Rew. “I actually have dual masters in forensics and criminal justice. But that is not the issue. We are not here to talk about the politics of police work, sir. We represent the highest degree in professionalism and conduct. I cannot speak for every occurrence of wrongful death or injury perpetrated against the citizens by police. Nor do I approve of everything that every cop on the force has done. But I can assure you that my team and I want to see you succeed. We want to see you live a life despite the fact that you have a mental disorder. We want you to seek the supervision of medical professionals. We are not here to discuss the failures of the past and any other incidents that you may deem to be unsavory as put out there by law enforcement. There exist far too many outlets for you to peaceably assert your frustration.”

“Once you get out of the psych ward, you can go on the Internet and put up blog posts, write to the editor of your favorite magazine, join up with others and fight for justice within the context of the law. At this moment, right here, we are willing to not use any force to take you down from that ledge. We’re just going to keep doing what we’re doing now: talking. This talk is to prevent you from doing something awful. We are here to bring balance to this situation. You will comply with our requests and everyone will come off of this roof unharmed and in good standing. Look, I don’t even have my stun gun. We’re not tasked with attacking you or harming you in any way. You served your country with honor. Unfortunately, you experienced a mental illness during your service. We understand that. But that doesn’t mean you can’t live a great life. Once that chip is removed and you’re placed on newer, safer drugs that will not leave you lethargic or have any other adverse effects, you have the chance to be happy and live a full life. All we ask is for you to slowly back away from the ledge,” Officer Grosby said.

Rew tip toed around the concrete. He moved in a slow, methodical way. “Advertising revenue way up.” His movements stood in stark contrast to his thoughts. He seemed controlled, almost free. Rew spoke with his hands. He was at once expressive and reserved.

“You look about you, one out of three cops who has degrees. What’s the sense in that? Your training isn’t that extensive and you have little to no experience.”

“You will get down on the ground, now, Mr. Rew,” Officer Kidd said.

“Or what? I’m completely unarmed.”

“We know what you did to that door and to the straps on the gurney. That chip gave you enough power to take us all out. I’m not willing to hurt you, but I just ask that you come back from there.”

“Or what?” Rew said, he walked along the strip of concrete that lined the gravel on top of the building. “You think I won’t just bounce right back up? I’ve got enough of this strength to do that, don’t I?”

“You’re not well. You will not survive a fall from these heights. No matter how much the chip has given you strength to break from our hold, it will not stop you from splattering onto that pavement. The plan was for you to accept the chip and be rid of the your mental disorder. That didn’t happen. You have every right to fight in court your case about how this thing has affected you. There are plenty of lawyers who will be more than happy to represent you in a court of law. But please. Let that happen. Don’t do this. Let us take you back inside and we can talk to the doctors about possibly removing it. Okay?”

Rew stopped. He looked down at the ground. The people appeared as specks moving about in a Petri dish. The wind whipped at the officers and Rew.

“If you come down from that ledge, we will have the finest doctors available to rid you of that worrisome chip. Now, we will need you to comply, Mr. Rew.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We will have to use force in order to get you down. Now, we don’t want to do that. We want to make sure you’re safe and that we’re safe. Right now, you’re refusing a command from an officer of the law. We don’t want to have to use any force. You’re too close to the edge for me to even to attempt to stun you. All of our night sticks and firearms have been placed on the deck. Now, just come back from the ledge, buddy. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Rew spread his arms. His wingspan made it appear as though he could fly. He tiptoed around the ledge, his arms stretched wide. The ledge had come to a joining part with the other ledge. He paused. Rew looked at the officers, flashed a V sign to the side of his waist and leapt into the air.

“No!” the officers screamed collectively. On the descent to the ground, the financial reports rattled off non-stop. “More jobs are being created in the private sector,” one report broadcasted in his brain. “Oil markets surge on strong earnings reports.” His body twisted and contorted in the wind. He fell like some balled up mass of emotion and regret. “Stocks close at new highs.” His plunge meant an end to a man who thought that he could find assistance or at least understand the thoughts in his head. He knew that he could not tolerate the constant updates about financial matters over which he had no control. His body just continued to sink all the while news reports blasted in his ears at high decibels. “At closing bell, stocks are way up.” “No laggards to report, all sectors are witnessing massive growth.”

Rew is in Ruin

Like Luthiers

2017-11-12T16:36:00.000-05:00

For all of the contraptions that the company Zeroth Robots could dream up, there remained a most special device. This appliance didn’t do your homework for you. No, this device didn’t wash your face for you or brush your teeth automatically. This particular innovation allowed for the weary, the forlorn, and the melancholy to uplift their spirits with a simple tap of a screen. While most would think that automation would be behind manufacturing automobiles and processing washer and dryer units, this gizmo offered psychiatric attention. In a field wrought with ample attention placed on human-to-human interaction, this was a seismic shift in the way the profession dealt with everything from depression to dependency. While MD’s and nurses had administered drugs, listened intently to issues, and scheduled future appointments, now Zeroth’s brightest minds busied themselves with concocting a one-stop-shop for the mentally unbalanced. This private institution even had contracts with the United States Armed Forces to treat wounded warriors.

Zeroth worked toward a future where the patient would be able to select and monitor his or her own psychiatric care. The entire operation would spell a groundswell in technology, both mechanical and medical. And that’s what Dr. Romera Alcorta intended to perform. She stood at about five feet four inches, rather small in stature yet could command an auditorium with her diction. Her curves spoke of a comely lady and her chiseled cheekbones and brown eyes that looked like egg shells and just as delicate, told a tale of thought. She had earned her doctorate in psychology and a masters in engineering from New Sweden University in Wilmington, Delaware. Romera brought about a sense of ingenuity to the Zeroth offices. Mr. Wendell Winbush, who goes by his first name to employees, president and CEO of Zeroth Robots saw in her great potential and after a series of grueling questioning periods which she scored far above her peers, he hired her. He was about five feet nine inches tall with the skin the color of poplar and brown eyes. Zeroth stood for the finest in fashioning robotics for industrial as well as home applications. Some had failed. For instance, the automatic refrigerator oven which would keep some food cool while cooking anything else that was placed in it, regardless of whether it would bake, sauté, or fry the foods proved to be a disaster. That misstep cost the company tens of millions in lost revenue.

They had to reinvent themselves. They focused on the pharmaceutical and health companies and their need for providing their clients with optimal care. For all the robots that zipped around in their lab, most people wrote the company off as not serious and incapable of fulfilling the desires of a growing public who desperately needed to break free from the clutches of addiction and mental illness. But Romera, chief of the medical sector at Zeroth, knew that this company could address the psychiatric ails of the world. She dedicated her time to perfecting the various details which went into the formation of a robot to engage with a patient. Groid the Droid had everything from the metallic and plastic and glass layout, to the black color, to the tablet, to the voice. Romera was head of all of these variables.

“No, those are not all of them. There’s actually a thousand more options to go,” Jenny Rosen, a five foot five brunette with an ivory oval face and one of the lead psychiatrists said.

“So, there are more of the voice options?” Kincaid Smoot, with a master’s degree in engineering, stood at about five feet eleven inches tall and the color of cypress and assistant engineer at Zeroth asked.

“What can we do with the ones we have already?”

“We can download them and then see if they match the robotic interface,” Smoot said.

“I don’t like it,” Jennie said.

“Don’t like what?”

“The fact that we have to go through umpteen voices just to land on one good one,” Jennie said.

“That’s not all. We still have to design the face and body, wire all of the circuits, and conduct tests on the whole thing.”

Romera looked at her team and smiled. “Relax. Take a deep breath and let go of the tension of the moment. We’ll finish this thing way ahead of schedule and on budget. Relax.”

Her team smiled, sighed, and then leaned back in their chairs. Waves of frustration evaporated from their consciousnesses. Like layers of weight once pressing down on their bodies, they let that consternation ease its way from their minds.

“Now,” Romera said, “We are going to all challenge ourselves without stressing each other out. We will connect and come up with the best ideas for this project at hand.”

The project at hand was a humanoid with wires sticking out out its electronic brain. Groid had a head and torso but no arms or motorized wheels or legs. It was opaque except for some black and blue components. The machine’s face looked cold, unfriendly, but the monitor that would be placed over it would change all of that. Romera allowed her team to gather their thoughts and harness their intellectual capabilities to produce a viable robot.

“There’s more to it than just the mechanics of this thing,” Jennie said. “I mean, we’ve got to design this thing with children in mind, much less adults. Right now, this thing would scare almost anyone. And is Groid the best name that we can come up with? It sounds like ‘groin.’”

“Thank you for your input, Miss Rosen. The name is actually short for Negroid, reflecting the sleek black features combined with the cobalt components. Now, Mr. Smoot, what are your ideas on how to give form and artificial life to this project?” Romera asked.

Smoot scratched his goatee. “We could install a chip to make it more user friendly. A chip which would allow the patient to interact more smoothly with the robot.”

What concerned Romera most about the entire project was whether the robot could convey human emotion based on inhuman components. Once the body was fully assembled and the monitor was used as a face, the team rejoiced at having finished the first round of testing. Groid stood at about five feet nine inches. He had the visage of a man in his mid thirties. The screen emitted a glow and a half smile that proved to be welcoming, inviting. With all of his gears working and his panel in place, Romera and her crew rejoiced—for the moment. Groid seemed life-like. He appeared to be sentient even perceptive. The team brought in the components engineers to fasten the appendages to Groid. After about two and a half hours, the robot had been assembled, furbished, and polished.

“I think we’ve done it,” Smoot said.

“Now, the next thing for us to do is to put out posters and hire an advertising agency to attract eligible patients to interface with Groid,” Romera said.

“That’s no worries. We can have the public relations department meet up with the candidates for the commercials,” Jennie said.

“No. I think that Wendell should visit the ad agency directly,” Smoot said.

“You know, that’s not such a bad a idea,” Romera said. “With Wendell, they will be able to present their best productions and keep it all within a price range for Zeroth. But who’s really looking at the price range?”

After Groid was processed, Winbush tapped Romera to accompany him to the advertising agency in Wilmington, Delaware. She was delighted to go with her boss. She derived great pleasure in the gesture of Mr. Winbush. In preparation for their visit to the offices of Euphoric Liberties, a radical, relatively new ad start-up, Romera studied charts and graphs depicting some of Zeroth’s past performances. She zeroed in on what worked and what had failed miserably as commercials. Romera made copious notes outlining just how many robots had been sold based on the popularity of the advertisements on television, radio, podcasts, and other facets of the Internet. She considered the products that generated the most attention on social media sites. In just a few characters, users had rated the behemoth Zeroth product Hugely. This monstrosity was designed for an at home car wash the size of an industrial one. Only the wealthiest consumers could afford the six figure price tag for the washing device. Ratings remained mixed to low and the robot was taken off the market.

Romera found the polar opposite of Hugely. Prevent, which was compact and issued alerts online to medical professionals that the user was having an episode like a stroke or heart attack, was a bestseller. Other versions signaled intruders on the property and even detected radon and smoke in households. Prevent was a boon for Zeroth. Of the the hundreds of products that the company issued, this particular appliance caused profits to soar. Romera decided to focus on this most successful period. As she finished her research, she reported to Winbush with all of her findings which resided on a tablet.

“Sir, I’ve compiled this list of some of the company’s hits and misses. I’ve highlighted the successes in green and the failures in red.” She transmitted the tablet’s display onto a large electronic board in Winbush’s office.

Winbush observed the data. He withdrew a laser pointer and pointed to the Hugely sales.

“Do you remember that, Dr.? What a disaster.”

Romera nodded her head. “But remember sir, our failures stand in stark contrast to our triumphs.” She scrolled down on her tablet to the green markings around some of Zeroth’s boldest innovations.

Winbush took notice. “I see. We should be able to take these accomplishments with us, keep in mind that Groid the Droid could just as easily be as successful, or more so than Prevent.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why this meeting with Euphoric Liberties is of paramount concern.”

“Well, it’s going to be quite the occasion as we present them with this latest work of science.”

Romera tapped her tablet and the graphs and charts disappeared from the board. “Monday morning, sir.”

“Of course, Dr. Alcorta.”

The cerulean sky that Monday morning called for the freshest minds to be open and optimistic about the day. With a blazing sun, and a gentle wind pushing through the skyscrapers, the sharpest, most thoughtful businessmen and women took on the moment and invited the day like a close friend.

Winbush and Romera arrived at the offices of Euphoric Liberties with a plan to witness the chief advertising pitch. Their goal allowed them to settle for nothing less than greatness. They were met by the company’s chief project manager, Jim Ito. He had ebony black hair and square glasses. He stood at about five feet seven and wore suspenders and a bright pink shirt and a blue and white polka dot tie.

“It is an honor that you have graced us with your presence Dr. Alcorta, Mr. Winbush. Please. Sit down. Would you like any tea or coffee? My assistant can get you whatever you like.”

“No, thank you. Nothing for me,” Winbush said.

“I’m fine,” Romera said.

“Well, then. Let’s get started. My team and I have studied the past agencies that you have sought after and we are more than happy to present you with a campaign which will highlight the strengths of Groid the Droid.”

Five assistant managers on the project entered the room as it darkened. A blank screen became illuminated with animation. Pictures of flowing water and mountains and a winding road all filled the space. A child walking alone came upon Groid the Droid sitting on a park bench. He had in his metallic hand flowers of chamomile. The child stopped at where Groid was sitting, turned to him and said, “Hi.” Groid responded by offering the young girl the flowers. She accepted them and Groid stood up and held her opposite hand. The two walked down the path and the screen went white. A text reading, “Introducing Groid the Droid by Zeroth Robots” flashed across the screen with social media site badges at the bottom and ZerothRobots.com emblazoned on the screen also.

Winbush furrowed his brow. “Do you have any more options on the table?”

Ito looked perplexed. “Was this not up to your standards, Mr. Winbush?”

“No, I liked it. But are there spots for adults as well?”

Ito’s face lit up. “Of course. Please allow us to present to you our grown up version of the Groid the Droid campaign.”

The lights remained dim. The screen flashed to black. It soon faded in on a couple at a kitchen table. They were discussing plans for a divorce. The man looked down at his hands and the wife had tears streaking her face. Then, Groid entered the kitchen and asked, “May I be of some assistance?” The couple lifted their heads and told Groid that their marriage was dissolving. Groid then created an algorithm for counseling them and proceeded to offer advice to the couple. After a brief interview, their marriage was saved. The couple hugged and kissed and the screen faded to black.

“Well?” Ito asked.

Romera and Winbush looked at each other. They did this for a beat.

“They’re both great,” Winbush said.

Ito smiled and all three stood up and shook hands. “I will have my team prepare these spots for television and the Web as well as create audio versions for radio and podcasts. The printed ads will appear alongside those as well.”

“Thanks for your time Mr. Ito,” Romera said. “We do appreciate your smart work and dedication to our product.”

“Yes, we’re splendid to have hired Euphoric Liberty to aid us in our quest for reaching the widest audience possible,” Winbush added.

Once Winbush and Romera returned to Zeroth, they had gone to the laboratory to see their creation. Groid the Droid stood upright, a sleek bit of integrity frozen in artificial intelligence. The team focused on the other applications that Groid could perform. He had a survival kit for being lost. He could prepare meals. But the main draw was his psychological apparatus. He stood for the mind, the human mind, although he was just a collection of circuit boards and wires. His expertise (if you can call it that) was to mend the mind and replace the visions of doubt and reversion with a picture of hope and light.

From the laboratory to the showroom floor of the Zeroth Robots complex, each employee worked with a discipline that befit a military unit. Their precision and care in ensuring that each Groid was quality controlled tested and then retested brought joy to Winbush. He had been busy signing off documents and entertaining teams of lawyers who would have to step in just in case Groid malfunctioned or did not meet the criteria for being in a customer’s home. If the first Groids hit the market, a wellspring of ideas would permeate throughout the company. The various possibilities opened up to the team.

Groid’s price tag was about the same as a mid level sedan, at about $20,000. Hospitals would be quick to snap up this latest issuance from Zeroth Robots. All insurance plans would cover Groid and his primary application would be to aid in the mental care of patients. He found himself in Christiana Hospital in Newark, Delaware. The looks on the faces of the medical staff were mixed. Some turned their noses up at the droid. Others greeted him with beaming smiles, prepared to see a change in the lives of patients affected by illnesses of the mind. The room was equipped with a two-way mirror for the medical staff to view the interaction between Groid and the patient.

In one of the first cases of Groid helping a sufferer, the man was a bit apprehensive about talking to a robot. He was about six feet two inches tall. He squirmed a bit and shot his eyes at the coffee maker, the clock and down at the table. He let out a great sigh. Romera observed all of these actions and recorded them on her tablet.

“I’ve had a rough go at it. Heroin, oxycontin, all kinds of opioids. I’d eat a handful of those just to get through the day. My addiction had me bound but I wanted to get help so I’m here,” Roland Caston said.

The robot processed the information. It weighed the words and through a special algorithm spit out the answer to problem.

“Well, Roland, I see that you have been experiencing some serious issues. In response to your concerns, I will outline a few steps in defeating your addictive nature. Realize that those narcotics are not the end of you. You still have a chance at life and that chemical dependence is not going destroy you. I will assign you something beyond the Narcotics Anonymous meetings. In addition to naltrexone, you will be given a therapy dog to care for and who will be an aid in your recovery.”

The robot’s LED countenance was calm and focused. The eyebrows arched and the lips straightened and the eyes focused in on Caston. Next, the whole machine just collapsed.

“Hello? Hello?” Caston asked. He looked back at the mirror aghast. No answer from the robot. He looked about in a worried manner. The staff entered the room to assess the malfunctioning android.

“The thing was just working just fine,” Caston said. He shrunk back, his eyes wide.

Romera assuaged the situation by reprogramming some of the software attached to the robot. She keyed in the access codes allowing her to go in directly to the robot’s central processing unit. Her diligence lead to sitting the robot upright and rebooting the memory. “Now, let’s see just what the problem was,” Romera said. She told a nurse who stood about six feet tall to reach in the back of Groid’s monitor and read a digital report that listed the malfunctions of the android. Romera looked at the list and sucked her teeth. She read aloud: “Processing unit failure due to low battery. We’ve got to do better,” Romera said.

“What does this mean, that I can go home now, is that thing going to work or not?” Caston asked.

“Mr. Caston, we can assure you that you will be paid in full the $100 dollars for your time. We apologize for any inconvenience that this experience has caused you. Please feel free to take your belongings. This trial has now concluded.”

Caston gathered his hat and car keys and exited the room. A look of solemnity mixed with regret streaked across his face. He had wanted truly to have the droid work.

Romera’s team from Zeroth rushed to correct the inconsistencies and errors present within Groid.

“We can’t have these problems with the contracts with all of these hospitals. This is just one Groid. Who knows what more frustrations the other issued bots will bring?” Jennie asked.

“It’s okay, Jen. They will be built to be robust.”

“Like this Groid?”

“Even better.”

“I’ve got a link to the CPU. I’m uploading a program which will make him respond to stimuli,” Smoot said.

The team lifted the droid onto a cart and wheeled him out of the room. Press people snapped photographs and sought to interview Dr. Alcorta. She declined each time. Each member passed the faces of the nurses and doctors who had witnessed Groid enter the room. The turned up noses turned to shaking heads and scoffs and other grumblings of disapproval. Yet, they continued to retrieve the fallen bot from the hospital premises.

Once they arrived at Zeroth Robots headquarters in Wilmington, they set to work. Smoot drew up plans to ensure that the battery pack on Groid’s back was charged and ready to go. Jennie brought up new software to make the robot more personable and not as aloof. Romera oversaw all of this and lended a hand in rehearsing just what needed to be done to prepare for the next trial.

“I knew we should have done more tests here. Groid’s just not ready for the public yet,” Jennie said.

“That’s why we’re here, Jen. That’s why we’re doing this right now. And I’m going to need your positivity in order to see this project through to the finish,” Dr. Romera Alcorta said. Jennie frowned. She then pulled out a tool kit and engaged in electronic brain surgery. The possibility of another implosion or awkward occurrence remained high. Romera bore the responsibility to make sure that this never happened again to this droid or any of the other projects.

“I’ve got enough juice in this battery pack to last for at least three days. Once the battery goes low, we’ll be able to charge it up at a platform at any of the stations at whatever hospital Groid occupies,” Smoot said.

“Good. What are some of the dangers involved?”

“Well the pack could leak or explode. I’m trying my best to see to it that neither of these outcomes occurs. Through this trial phase, we’ll be able to extend Groid’s capacity to deliver crisper messages, interact more naturally, and of course not blow up. With these new programs in place and this upgraded battery pack system, I think that we’ll be in good position.”

The alert to Wendell Winbush’s smartphone read, “Another Zeroth Flop.” He sighed. He then sent a message to Romera. She responded quickly and showed up to Winbush’s office.

“Dr. Alcorta, please have a seat.”

“Yes, Wendell.”

“We’ve had some rough patches these past few years. Some too embarrassing to mention. I don’t like to dwell on the bad times, but our successes have just kept us afloat. The board is looking skittish. I have trust in you though. You’re spunky. You get the job not only done but you see to it that it’s done with grace and precision. This current fiasco shouldn’t deter you. Your team is strong and able to meet these challenges. Groid is just... Groid. They’ll be another thousand Groids around the Atlantic Northeast, and South, the Midwest, and West. Even the world. So, don’t fret about this for a second. I know that you’ll be able to execute on this and come out of this whole thing with a lesson learned. You’ve got the gumption to remain a major component in this entire enterprise.”

Romera smiled. She stood up and shook hands with Winbush. “I thank you for granting me the opportunity to carry this company forward. I am honored to be on your staff and will put everything into shaping Zeroth into a first rate firm. Thanks, again.”

Romera left his office with a fire in her mind. She charged forth with the conviction that she and her team would do the impossible and do it again. That excellence would be her signature and that she would stand up and journey into the next phase of development.

Groid stood up at attention. His frame gleamed under the lights. Romera marked down on her tablet a checklist to follow in making sure that he was operable.

“We’ve got to get him functioning on a level comparable to any other android system,” Jennie said.

“But he’s not like any other droid. He’s going to be a bellwether for future droids to aid in the fight against mental illness,” Smoot said.

The team looked at their creation. Smoot performed a series of tests to see if Groid would react to them. The time, energy, and dedication that Romera and her squad invested lead them to understand fully the consequences of another Groid failure. His monitor showed that simple grin. He looked functional and ready to go. This time, the trial would be conducted right at Zeroth Robots headquarters in Wilmington. This would be away from the press, away from doubting medical staff, but would involve a test subject similar to Caston. Only this time, the focus would be on depression.

In another room with the two-way mirror and a simple desk and coffee maker and chairs, Groid sat with a Miss Larquetta Garr. She was about five foot five inches tall and had copper skin. She stared at the machine across the desk. She tapped the screen and Groid lit up.

“Welcome. I’m Groid. What is your name?”

The woman was hesitant. Then she spoke. “Larquetta. But you can call me ‘Quetta.”

“Okay. Quetta. What may I assist you with?”

“I’ve been feeling low for over a decade since my husband died. He was my everything. We have three boys. They’re all grown now. But the pain of him not being here is what hurts the most. He didn’t get to see them graduate from college. Or join the Air Force, or land that job as a contractor. I’ve been taking pills to help cope but I just thought that someone, something like you would help ease the pain.”

Groid took a few moments to register all of the information that Larquetta had just relayed.

“I have no clue the hurt that you’ve been experiencing. I can only surmise that your husband, what was his name?”

“Holman.”

“Yes, Holman. In his absence, you were able to raise three boys into adulthood. You should be commended for that alone. Now, I see what drugs have you been administered. Have the Zyberail, Takopul, and Heratru been effective?”

“I’ve taken them. None of them are bad but none have really been able to alleviate the hurt that I’ve been feeling.”

Groid processed in lightning speed a remedy for Larquetta.

“I’m going to assign you an experimental drug. It is new to the market has no known side effects. It is called Yaderit. It may assist in balancing the chemicals within your brain. In trials, it has been proven to be most effective.”

Romera peered through the two-way mirror. She smiled at what Groid had said and done so far.

Then, Groid’s head lowered. His monitor went blank. Larquetta looked back at the mirror.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

Romera, Jennie, and Smoot rushed into the room. Larquetta cupped her hand over her face. “He was doing so well. I was beginning to feel a little better at least.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Garr. You will be compensated for your time. We will provide you still with the Yaderit free of charge.”

“I thank you for that. But please, find a way to make that robot work. He was actually helping me.”

Romera comforted Larquetta. “We thank you sincerely for doing this. Again, you will receive your $100 check and free Yaderit. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

Larquetta left the room not in disgust but a mixture of a feeling of sadness and the hope that Groid can perform up to task in the future.

Once the team had assembled in the room, they all looked at each other with dismay.

“Strike two,” Jennie said.

“We’ve got to work out these bugs or else the whole project will be scrapped, and we’ll be looking for employment elsewhere.”

Romera looked stern. “Don’t even say that. We’ve worked too smart on Groid to just dwell on the negative. This mastery of machinery just has a few wrinkles to be ironed out.”

Smoot and Jennie moved closer to Groid. Smoot, with his kit in hand, went to work on the circuitry. Jennie handled the monitor as well as the outside extremities. Four hours passed by until the team had found reason to take a break.

“For Groid to be this expensive and this difficult, we ought to be happy that the thing at least tries to work. If it wasn’t the battery pack this time then maybe the wiring is out of whack,” Smoot said.

“I think that there is some disconnect between the ‘brains’ and the body. Groid seems to be okay functioning as just the monitor and head but the synergy with the rest of the machine seems to be gummed up,” Jennie said. “You know, Groid is acting like the stereotypical Negroid. He’s lazy and doesn’t want to work. He’s the perfect candidate for the scrap heap if it were up to me.”

“Well, it’s not up to you, Miss Rosen. And to say those things about this robot is beneath you. Have some class and some respect. Know that this project calls for unity and any divisiveness is completely uncalled for,” Romera said.

Jennie shrunk a bit. She dusted off her hands and raised up from where she was working on Groid.

“I don’t have to take this. I’m going to Winbush and having my name taken off of this project.”

“It’s your choice. But remember this, Jennie Rosen, when we finally do get Groid up and operational, you will regret the day that you resigned from this enterprise.”

Jennie Rosen packed up her kit and left out of the room in a huff. She did in fact go to Winbush. He reassigned her to a division that made soda machines. In her place, he put in Dr. Redford Tunstall. He stood at about six feet even and the color of an acorn. Romera met Tunstall with a handshake.

“Welcome to our team, this is Mr. Kincaid Smoot, assistant engineer. You will be our assistant software architect and help us craft the best android possible,” Romera said.

“I’m pleased to be working on this team. I’ve got a few plans on how we should go about making Groid a magnificent piece of machinery,” Tunstall said.

“And what might that be, Dr.?” Romera asked.

“I’ve devised a way for Groid to compute information and remain operational for three days without a recharge.”

“Dr. Tunstall, the last two failures have shown that Groid is just not ready for the public. We ought to test him on ourselves. We can save the money for compensatory reasons,” Kincaid said.

Romera’s eyebrows raised. “Kincaid, that is a wonderful idea. We should be able to do this on the quiet. No press. No hospital staff staring down at us with a stink eye. We should do this to promote the overall capability of Groid.”

The three engineers locked in on the goal of setting Groid to fulfill the task that he was designed to do. The past drove them to correct their mistakes and to improve on the already existing benefits of having Groid around. They intensified the questioning and answering period in which Groid offered complex sentences and simple explanations. The trio dedicated their time to inputting Groid with GIGO: good in, good out. With the knowledge of Groid’s up to date program, the three of them honed in on Groid’s ability to function under pressure. They designed a simulation where a patient would be irate. They threw coffee mugs, pens, and pencils at Groid for which he caught or deflected with extreme agility. This physical test allowed them to comprehend how an actual patient might respond to what would be a rather docile appliance. But Groid was more than that. And Romera pushed her team to find the weaknesses in the robot. She had a list of commands that she picked to test Groid’s empathy.

“Comfort,” she said.

Groid took a half second to say, “It is okay. I do not know what you are going through, but I can assist you by listening to what you have to say.”

“Respect.”

“I’ve profound respect for what you do and who you are. You as an upstanding individual deserve the highest form of regard.”

Dr. Tunstall and Smoot each threw themselves at turning Groid into an information station. They perfected the battery charging time and also while Groid was still charged, allowed him to be a psychiatrist without the flesh and bone, just plastic and wires. One of their other steps in this chain for making greatness was their focus on having Groid grasp the various drugs that he would be administering to patients. Like the trial with Larquetta, Groid would have to deliver drugs to people in serious need of chemical readjustment. He also had to show compassion to patients like Larquetta and Caston. Tunstall computed a program which gave Groid thousands of different drugs all in the effort to combat mental illness. The battery of tests went on for at least six hours straight. Coffee for Romera and Tunstall and a e-cigarette for Smoot helped pass the time and keep the team focused. What remained was the fact that Groid could perform these tasks well but could still encounter glitches and bugs. Tunstall installed protection against malware and viruses within Groid’s system. Smoot retooled the charging apparatus. Romera wrote down even more commands and questions to ask Groid. Smoot was like a brain surgeon. He sliced through Groid’s head and rearranged the wires and and circuits. He patched up the incision and by piecing the connecting parts back together. After all of the toil and intense devotion of a viable android, the team took a break.

“No. It wasn’t our first one. Our first one was called Triceptor. It looked like a metallic muscle and could spit flames from a spout. It was crazy but we just went with it. The whole time, our team was looking down and I had to rally them and let them know that we could beat those guys. Our opponent’s bot was Sleeker. It was just this black wedge with metal hammers on the sides. Our bout lasted for seventeen seconds. That damn wedge just flipped Triceptor over and that was it,” Smoot snickered.

“Bot Wars was the best thing going. But I was looking forward to building robots with applications. My first robot that I made in my basement must have cost $2000. That was a fortune. And for a twelve year old it probably still is. My robot’s name was Thorium. I had a thing for the god Thor and the element just sounded right so I just put that name on it. It didn’t do much. I mean it helped me with my calculus homework and did the dishes. Cleaned up the garage and cut the grass. It came in components. Rather primitive but had some of those applications,” Tunstall said.

“When I was in engineering school, we had a competition to see who could make a robot lift off the ground, hover for a minute, and then return to the Earth. It was a disaster to me. We must have went through a dozen robots before we could get one into the air. It took at least seven months and the prize money was a scholarship which would pay for about two semesters. We came in third place. Which is saying something. We each were awarded three hundred dollar gift certificates to an electronics store that has since gone out of business. We weren’t mad at the fact that we came in third place, either. We were more concerned that the robot only lasted forty seconds in the air before plummeting to the ground. I think the landing was what got us third place. The time in air could’ve been better but we really stuck that landing,” Romera laughed. “It was definitely worth the experience in how to build a better bot.”

“My time in school consisted of late nights at the library. I must’ve racked up fifty dollars in late fees. I just wanted to soak up all of the knowledge on how to best approach electronics and robotics. I’ll tell you one time I was combing through a volume on engineering that you couldn’t borrow from the library called Spiritual Machinery. It was about the idea that a robot could possess qualities of sapiens. Well, I was just about to finish the book, I had about thirty pages. The library was closing in two minutes. The librarian came by my section and I indicated that I just needed a few more moments. That was not what she wanted to hear. She shut out the lights and asked for the security guard to come over to me. So, I left. But that wasn’t until I implemented an algorithm to override the security system to keep the lights on and the alarm off. Needless to say, I finished Spiritual Machinery and kept it moving,” Smoot said.

“Did you ever get caught?” Tunstall asked.

“No. I was able to fix the system back to normal before I left later on that night.”

The three of them laughed. “What is the worst thing that Groid could do?” Romera asked.

“He could blow up,” Smoot said.

“Yeah, that ion battery could explode and that would cause injury, even death,” Tunstall said.

“What else? We’ve got to see how many pratfalls could result after these two fiascos.”

“Well, he is programmed to dispense drugs to patients. We must make sure that he gives the right prescriptions to the right patients.”

“So, what needs to be done to keep this situation from being a blunder?”

“We’ve got to put in backup memory that will secure the bits of data that will be within his ‘mind.’ We should concentrate on building up his intelligence and his ability to relate to the patients.”

“We’ve got at least two days before we report to Wendell about this project. He’ll be wanting to hear from us some good news, so let’s get back to work before we run out of time,” Romera said.

The two men and the woman returned to their work with zeal. Their devotion extended into their labor. They pieced together Groid like a Stradivarius. Each of them were like luthiers, their violin strings were circuits and software programs. They pushed forward through the night holding in mind the magnificence that could be possible with the completion of Groid the Droid.

They made music with each and every component and institution of problem sets. From the perspective of an outsider, these three looked like harried addicts looking for a fix. But their fix was seeing a mission through to its fruition. Groid the Droid needed a few more touch ups and fine tuning. The music was about to be produced but the team required the ability for Groid to operate flawlessly.

“Let’s test him,” Romera said.

“Mr. Smoot, please be the test subject,” Dr. Tunstall said.

“Okay. I’m game.”

Dr. Alcorta was not on the other side of a two-way mirror this time. She was right there in the room. She anticipated the day that this android would work properly. She wanted to be there first hand before this went to the public again. Her steady hand and guidance for the two men brought about an air of confidence and warmth and reflected her doctorate in psychiatry. Kincaid Smoot and Dr. Redford Tunstall were just as eager to fully realize the potential of Groid the Droid. Their craftsmanship was like musicianship. All of the pieces that went into Groid had to be applied with precision and special care. The notes seemed to lift into the atmosphere with every rewiring or program alteration. From the monitor to the thinking apparatus that gave life to Groid’s limbs and allowed him to process information, the three of them took all of these steps to the next level. Once the team had put in the finishing touches, they readied Groid for the final step. Romera prepared a script to read to Groid. The entire session was recorded on digital video.

"This is a test of the Groid the Droid project. The three team members, Mr. Kincaid Smoot, Dr. Redford Tunstall and myself lead Dr. Romera Alcorta, all have worked extra smart on getting Groid the Droid back on track and in full functionality. Now, we will conduct this session with the complete knowledge that this android will be a revolutionary piece of machinery.”

Groid’s visage lit up once Romera spoke.

“Hello, Dr. Alcorta. How may I help you?”

“Groid, I have schizophrenia. What can I do to remedy my situation?”

Groid processed the information. “You have a serious neurological disorder. You experience trouble feeling and thinking clearly. Tell me about some of your symptoms.”

“I go around the house wracking my brain about voices that I hear. I cannot control them and they keep getting louder and louder until I finally ball up in the fetal position on my kitchen floor.”

A beat. Then Groid lit up a bit. “I can prescribe you Jythanal for this condition. I truly hope for you the best and recommend that you take this drug to aid in your illness.”

Dr Tunstall and Smoot took note of these interactions. They acknowledged the fact that Groid could perform successfully the recommendation of prescriptions as well as show empathy to a potential patient. The process continued. Smoot programmed a new set of instructions for Groid.

“Remember, he was going just fine before he collapsed. Let’s pay attention,” Smoot said. Romera moved onto another script.

“I’ve been struggling with cocaine addiction. I’ve tried to kick it but I know that I can’t do it on my own. I want to go to NA but I don’t trust them like that. What should I do?”

Groid’s monitor showed a calm face. “I’m going to say that you can quit on your own. Once your body gets sick and tired of being sick and tired, you will find that the craving for another bump will be less and less. I will not prescribe you with a drug. I will assign you to therapy sessions, yoga, and meditation to help put an end to your addiction.”

The team looked at each other. They smiled. Romera picked up one more script. Tunstall and Smoot focused in on the battery. They surmised that the battery would last even longer and not have to be recharged for another seventy two hours. Romera looked at Groid directly. The script had a child in mind.

“I can’t stop washing my hands. I’ve been doing it over, and over, and over again. They’re not even dirty. But I’ll wash them ten to twelve times in a matter of minutes. Please help me stop washing my hands so much.”

Again, the processing unit within Groid went to work. He responded with a clear and balanced way of speaking.

“I will prescribe you with Wysinda. I also would like you to see me for psychotherapy sessions. If it is okay with your parents, I would like to have these meetings at least once a week.”

“I think that we can take this to Wendell. I mean the response levels are great. He’s not malfunctioning and the battery didn’t explode,” Romera said.

Wendell Winbush sat at his desk in his palatial office. He looked relaxed for a man who had encountered some adverse news reports over the past few weeks. But he took all of this in stride. He studied the trades in all of the major financial publications with a few swipes on his tablet. His countenance remained stoic, reserved.

His secretary appeared on that same tablet.

“Yes, Tallia.”

“The Groid the Droid team is here to see you.”

“Send them in, please.”

Dr. Romera Alcorta, Dr. Redford Tunstall, and Kincaid Smoot entered the room with a gait of confidence and assurance. They each walked in the door and allowed Groid to make a special entrance once they were all in the office.

“Sir, we’ve been trying, working, toiling, and retooling, and reworking on this project since the past two failures. In the time that we have been focused on this project, we have finally gotten to the point where we can allow Groid to tell you himself about his progress.”

The android stepped forward in the spacious office. His monitor lit up and a visage of serenity shown.

“Good morning, Mr. Winbush. Or should I call you Wendell?”

“Wendell’s fine, Groid.”

“Well, sir, the team has truly put me together and I am ready to go out into the field and do the work of the best in medicine. Dr. Romera Alcorta has put all of her strength and mental might into making me operational. I am aware that I was a disappointment more than once. Now, I am determined to deliver on the promise that Dr. Alcorta and her team had made in making me. I know that it will be a challenge to meet thousands of patients and to offer to them the best quality and performance that I have programmed in me. I am not worried about that. I am concerned with helping that small child who has to hold the door over twenty times before she walks through the opening. I am more concerned about the heroin addict who seems to be lost and without proper support. I anticipate meeting up with other humans to help them in their time of need. If it is up to me, I will ensure that no human should be without care and professionalism. My pharmaceutical acumen combined with the thousands of bits of information on how to treat humans should be a boost in my development and advocacy. Please allow me to remain on your team.”

Winbush’s eyes widened. He applauded. “This is beautiful. Just beautiful. Groid, you’ve not only secured your place in this firm, but also history. You and others like you will provide the best care and attention to those who need it desperately.” He then turned to Romera, Smoot, and Tunstall.

“For your dedication and fine tuning of this masterful piece of machinery, I commend you and recommend you all for promotion. Let this step be a major one in your long and illustrious careers. Each of you have reflected well upon this company and yourselves.”

They congratulated each other. But the party soon ended once the four humans realized that Groid still needed to be tested again with real-life subjects with real problems. With the revelry died down, Romera formulated a plan for Groid to meet an injured veteran. They escorted Groid to the Dover Air Force Base hospital to see if he was up to the challenge of confronting actual humans aside from test-runs. This time, the room was a comfortable setting in the base hospital. Comfy chairs and bright colors and art reflecting achievements in medicine suggested a more laid back but still engaging atmosphere. Romera, Kincaid, and Dr. Tunstall all remained in the room with Groid. They waited for the soldier to arrive. Army Sergeant Camilo Ruiz, about five foot ten inches had a little stubble on his face. Below his right knee a prosthetic limb didn’t stop him from walking tall. He wasn’t disheveled but he had an edge of one who works on motorcycles on the weekends but repairs computers during the week. He shook hands with the Drs. and Mr. Smoot and had a seat on the cushiony red chair. Groid stood like a tree at first, then Dr. Romera Alcorta commanded him to have a seat. His monitor illuminated and the composed countenance once again appeared.

“I am Negroid the Droid. You can call me Groid. What is your name?

“Camilo.”

“How have you been?”

“Good days. Not so good days.”

“What have you been dealing with?”

“I have pain in my back and left leg where shrapnel still are. I’ve got excruciating headaches from a TBI. You got something in your robot kit to help that?”

Romera, Smoot, and Tunstall all looked at each other. They waited for Groid to react. He processed the words.

“I can address your traumatic brain injury. There are therapeutic…”

“I’ve heard it before. I’ll just get hooked on some pill and never be able to think straight again. Or be a zombie and not be able to drive.”

Groid took a moment. “I would like to prescribe you with a drug that will be non-habit forming and be able to mollify…”

“I know what mollify means. It means I walk around in a stupor and won’t be able to function.”

Groid ‘thought.’ “No, your TBI and shrapnel injuries can be addressed with rehabilitation and meditation.”

“Meditation? Meditation? Can meditation bring me my leg back? Can it bring me back my kids I lost in the custody battle?”

Smoot and Dr. Tunstall looked pensive. They began to say that the session would be suspended. Romera kept a straight face. Then, Groid’s monitor lit up. Images of rehabilitation centers and drug lists filled the screen.

“I can refer you to the best specialists in the country, Camilo. There is hope for your condition. You are not alone in this fight. The drugs will be completely safe, meaning they will not make you groggy or sluggish. As for your children, I can acquaint you with some of the best family therapy professionals which would bring you closer to them. How does that sound?”

Ruiz looked down at his hands for a moment. He looked up with a sober, stern appearance. “Okay.”

“Camilo, on behalf of Zeroth Robots, we thank you for your participation in this study and you will be rewarded $100 for your time,” Romera said.

After a few minutes, Ruiz gathered his things and looked at the three engineers and said, “Thank you.”

Once he had left the room, a jolt of electricity, an ecstatic response flowed over Romera, Smoot, and Tunstall. Back at the Zeroth offices, they imbibed on champagne.

“I think he’s ready,” Smoot said, pouring a glass.

“And so many like him,” Dr. Tunstall said.

Romera commanded Groid to perform a violin piece to reflect the mood of the moment.

Like Luthiers

The Rungs to Ascension

2017-10-13T06:50:00.000-04:00

With the Quickness

Paint dripped from the pail. The paintbrush skimmed the surface of the ecru colored paint. Cary Murty edged the lines at the building in an adequate fashion. His apprentice, Lamar Givens prepared the mix of the ecru with an even whiter paint: ghost white. Murty motioned for Givens to retrieve something from the work truck.

“Hey, boy, go and fetch me that ladder,” Murty said.

Givens snapped to and obeyed the command with the quickness. He took out the ladder and proceeded back to the house to the wall where Murty prepared to paint.

“Hey, boy, go and get my blowtorch. It’s beneath the tool chest in the truck’s bay,” He said.

On the Rungs

Givens never hesitated to meet the request. He returned to the truck and unlocked the box which housed the blowtorch. He also eyed two pairs of goggles, an apron, and gloves. He extracted those items from their home and hustled back to the wall. Murty forgot about the paint and tended to the tool that could burn a hole through virtually anything.

“Boy, I need you to bring back my….”

“....Goggles, gloves, and apron. Here you go,” Givens said.

“Well, boy, you catch on quick, don’t you?”

Givens shrugged.

“Yeah, well, watch me work this. But stand back and put on….” He stopped.

Givens pulled out a pair of goggles and placed them over his eyes.

Murty marveled at this but didn’t speak it or show it. He just went to work.

He examined the ladder. His hands went over the rungs, the rails and each point where the ladder had been nicked or dented. He then donned the apron and mask and gloves and lit the torch.

“Stand back now,” he said. Murty ignited the flame and focused it on the rungs. He sharpened his gaze and steadied his hand. One by one, the rungs fell to the ground as aluminum nuggets in the dirt. Givens looked on with the blaze and the sparks illuminating his goggles. Bright yellows a few orange sparks and a consistent blue flame danced in front of him. Murty removed eight rungs of the ladder.

“There you go,” Murty said. “Now, go for it, boy.”

Givens removed his goggles and stared at the challenge ahead of him. He shot a glance back at Murty.

Higher and Higher

Source

Trepidation

“Well, that ladder isn’t going to climb itself. And that wall needs paint. Are you with it or what?”

“But sir...I...How can I climb it without the lower rungs?”

“Boy, I’d imagine you had more brains than this. All you have to do is set yourself on that ladder and get in that window.”

Givens with a great deal of trepidation moved toward the ladder. The missing rungs made the ladder appear as a mouth with a eight toothless grin. He leapt into space trying to clutch that ninth rung. He failed.

“You won’t be able to get that rung like that boy,” Murty said.

Sweat beads eased their way across Givens’ brow. He dusted himself off and regained equilibrium. He slanted at an angle, picked up speed and jolted into the air and managed to at least clip the rung with his fingernail. He fell back to the earth, his wings singed.

“How am I supposed to get up that ladder? You just took off all the rungs. Now, how am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you can’t. That’s why I have arranged for you to learn from some folks who can.” He pulled out his smartphone and made a call. “Yeah, Jim it’s me. Send the over. Alright,” he hung up the phone.

“What would you like me to do Mr. Murty?”

“Just watch.”

The Tall Ones

Source

Higher Up

Seven minutes later, a truck full of guys ranging from six foot to near seven feet tall pulled up to the house. Givens’ slight five foot eight frame could not compare with the men of greater height.

“Now, Casslet,” Murty pointed to a shooting guard. “See if you can’t show off your ups.”

Casslet took two steps and raised his hand as if he were about to slam a ball through the goal. He grasped the rung with effortlessness that astonished the women who had now gathered at the base of the house in need of renovation. In succession, the rest of the team latched on to the remaining rungs and hoisted themselves into the open window located in the center of the wall. They each climbed into the space and found stacks of money more rungs to the ascension.

Givens remained dumbfounded by what he had just witnessed. With all of his might he reared back to attempt again the unlikely. As he edged higher up he felt a tug at his waist. Murty pulled him back down to the ground.

“I can’t do it,” Givens exclaimed. “Without those rungs, I haven’t got the opportunity to lift myself up from my modest station.”

“Now you want to grow a brain. How else are you going to paint this wall? I’ve got no time for you if you can’t be like those ball players and bring yourself to the top of that ladder.”

His hands sullied by the gravel at the base of the house, Givens essayed yet again to scale the ladder and finish the paint job. But how? The task of just clenching a rung proved to be too much for the young man. Trials lead to disappointment and a poisonous taste crept in Givens’ mouth. He reared back, thrust his fist into Murty’s jaw, and knocked the man out cold. Givens’ then rifled through Murty’s pockets for the keys to the work truck. As he found them, the basketball players were just walking down the stairs with the wad of cash. Just as they were making their way down, they spotted Murty sprawled out on the ground. Givens stepped on the gas and shot off from the property. Three young women would inform the police of Givens’ doings.

Quiet Money

2017-10-12T07:18:00.000-04:00

Height of Her Powers

After the great fall from social graces, Melissa Danvers needed to lay low. Her offshore bank account in Belize amounted to a mere $25,000, a fraction of her multi-million dollar fortune. Her time in Delaware would be apt as she restored slowly and deftly the order to her finances, to her relationship, to her life. In particular, the property owner would need to recoup $100,000 relating to a lien that Melissa incurred as a result of not paying her for condominium in Newark, Delaware. Thought of at the time of being at the height of her powers, Melissa dominated the day time slot. She covered the big stuff. Drugs. Sex changes. She also interviewed those in the spotlight, from actors to dancers to athletes. Now, she couldn’t host a modest dinner party.

Entrepreneurial Endeavors

In the hallway leading up to her luxury apartment, in danger of being foreclosed, Melissa walked past her doorman, Kenny.

“Hey, Miss Danvers! You have a nice day now,” he said. And then he said with a huff, “Cheap lady. Poor thing can’t help herself.”

Like an opera singer preparing to impart an aria on a grand stage, so did Melissa ready herself for another shot at greatness. Diversification proved to be the driving force behind her investments. In her prime, she commanded a sneaker company, vodkas, a designer pump shoeline, a television production company, two dog training shops, and the crown jewel of her entrepreneurial endeavors, an investment in a chemical company on the outskirts of Wilmington, Delaware. For reasons that included a mishandling of funds to complete ineptitude, Melissa took losses on of the aforementioned enterprises, excluding the dog training shops. People love dogs. But at this point in her life, 42 and two children in their teens, she focused on rebuilding her once thriving businesses. Firstly, she would sit down with her former partner Tara Merton.

A Jar Full of Hope

The money be quiet now, but Melissa looks forward to making noise once again. | Source

Shifted Gears

The meeting place for the two businesswomen held a sense of melancholy as it represented the initial launch of Vody Vodka and Spirits Company, LLC. Amongst the wreckage, the pair sought to retrieve anything of value. Surrounded by flutes with golden champagne bubbling to the brim, the two ladies sat.

“Well,” Melissa started. “I wanted to bring you here to discuss the percentage of the production company which was sold to the shareholders. I know that it wasn’t you who did it. It was N’Iesha. Whatever the press said, I always pulled for you, T,” Melissa said.

“I know, Mel. But that percentage is gone,” Tara said.

Melissa shifted gears. “At my highest, I was worth $75 million. Liquid,” Melissa said. “The helicopter. The executive spa treatment. All gone. That’s nothing though. Ty’Quan and Jazelle may have to live with their grandparents. You know since their daddy died. Chapter 7 seems like the most appropriate course of action at this point.”

“I’m here for you. I know we’ve had our differences, but I realize that we made history together and why can’t we sit down like this and hash out our problems as ladies?,” Tara said.

Melissa brushed a stray hair from her brow. She looked at Tara and sat straight up from the back of her chair. She said, “Business is beautiful….”

And Tara said, “ With two beauties…” They both laughed, remembering the motto which they recited before inking beaucoup deals. Their split had actually been amicable, but the press wanted blood. Each tabloid and cable news network lambasted the duo’s dissolution and claimed that Melissa and Tara loathed each other. Their business termination became overshadowed by empty gossip and outright lies that did not correspond with what took place in reality. One held that Tara had entered a romantic relationship with Melissa’s husband Daniel Danvers before he lost his bout with brain cancer. Melissa never suspected Tara. Why would she? The two enjoyed nearly a decade of friendship (and business partnership) until is was revealed within the company that N’Iesha Gubb had embezzled monies relating to the MD Productions division of the brand that the two established. Now, all both ladies wished to do was clear up the mess and move on from the pain.

To Save is to Live

If only she had saved her money, she would still have survived the business setbacks that presented themselves. | Source

Best Bet

“Quiet money,” Tara said.

Melissa sipped from her mimosa.

“That’s my best bet, huh?”she said.

“There’s real estate properties, laundry businesses, a tattoo parlor…” Tara said.

“Well, you know that I’ve still got the two “Leashed Lovelies, right?” Melissa said.

“People love dogs,” said Tara.

“That’s fine, but I’ve been itching to do radio. You know something like the TV slot but this time delving into a more business and philosophy geared show,” Melissa said. “An Internet show where I would just crack the mic and discuss my personal fiscal issues and answer callers who can relate to the madness.”

“I see your vision. When do you plan on going on this new adventure?” Tara said.

“I’ve spoken with a few investors who’re eager to break ground in the radio sphere. I’ll do it during the morning rush hour and compete with Wim Timbers and Shelly Groves. With all that has happened between us, I should have a lot of material to dish out,” Melissa said.

“If you can translate what you did on television to the World Wide Web, then I’m with it. It’s not as quiet, but I respect the hustle,” Tara said.

“With the DoctorChemical venture being the most profitable undertaking, I may look into re-establishing my position in Wilmington,” Melissa said. “I’ve only got to finish a few credits at DIT and I’ll be on my way to being a chemical engineer.”

“I think that you can do it,” Tara Said.

“What a beautiful business,” Melissa said.

The two women rose to their feet, shook hands, and left the restaurant with a renewed sense of not their net worth but their self worth.

The Teacher Teaches

May the Dollars Flow

A Refusal to See

2017-10-11T10:33:00.000-04:00

Generals in their Masses

A collection of green, blue, and black uniforms crowded an oak table, replete with a water pitcher and glasses at the Pentagon minutes from Washington, DC and about two hours away from Delaware. The generals and admiral huddled around the table and discussed plans to implement project New Order to Limit Only Our Kills or NO LOOK.

“It’s only fair,” said Lieutenant General Pepys Vale. We must use this tactic to not only mitigate civilian casualties but to offer our troops the experience of not knowing when they will be attacked in the field.”

“Our fighting forces should know the pain of having a mother or infant mercilessly decapitated by artillery fire or a bomb dropped on their village,” Major General Miguel Acostas said. The aide replenished the water pitcher.

“We can’t blind them all. I mean we only incapacitate a few. We ought to pick the personnel with the highest physical fitness scores, rifle scores, and target the officers below the rank of major,” Brigadier General Terry Bernard said.

“The best research finds that the most effective procedure for eliminating the sense of sight is to administer sodium hydroxide or lye,” General Caron Mastiff said. The clock struck silently, 11 AM.

A Farewell to Arms (and Legs)

“Should arms and legs really be a priority? Could we break those as well? Maybe we should also destroy their capacity to hear. We could blast sound into their inner ears to do away with hearing,” Admiral Kyle Omar said.

Around the table, the men and woman shook their heads in agreement. “We could dub it Hearing and Limb Loss or HALL,” Brigadier General Winston Capstone said. Just outside the room, Senator Beth Mullish observed her notes. She had proposed the whole NO LOOK campaign but little did she know that Brig General Capstone would “one up” her idea. Back in the room, Maj General Acostas spoke up even more.

“Yes, it is true that we should win wars but not at the loss of innocent lives who don’t even know what they’re dying for,” he said.

“General Acostas, provides a keen insight into this matter,” Said Admiral Omar.

“I vote that some of us should undergo the procedure, which we have just discussed,” General Mastiff said.

“We really don’t need them to taste or smell, so the option ought to be open in crushing their ability to smell or smoke or taste MRE’s,” said Lt General Anna Cooley. “They might even volunteer for that,” he said. The room erupted in toxic chuckles.

“But our aim, our focus, our resolve ought to be on loving our enemy. He must feel that we are a welcome presence in his country. Now, of course we are tasked with the responsibility of destroying him, but as long as we do it out of love. Then it is alright,” General Vale said.

Minus a Limb

Without a leg, each man still perseveres. | Source

Sufficient

Just then, with a perplexed half-grin and raised eyebrows, General Charles Darren addressed the room. “But isn’t this all preposterous? I mean haven’t we done enough to not only aid and abet the enemy, but now you all propose to cripple our troops in literal fashion? What is wrong with all of you?” General Darren asked.

“General Darren, you are out of line and I suggest that you be court-martialed if you speak such treason again,” General Vale said, his face reddening.

“I’ll die before I let any of you implement these heinous schemes,” General Darren said.

“We must be certain that the NO LOOK and HALL Rules of Engagement are put into place, firmly. General Darren, you do side with us on this, don’t you?” General Acostas said.

“I can think of better things to do with my time than to concoct nightmare scenarios for our fighting men and women. I’m out of here,” General Darren rose to leave. Two MP’s blocked his exit.

“Why depart so soon, General? We’ve just begun. Now, we’re going to bring in the mother of all these ideas, Democratic Senator Mullish, of New Jersey. The entire room save for General Darren in the arms of the two MP’s rose to stand at attention as the senator entered.

“Well, I see we have a denigrator amongst the ranks,”Senator Mullish said with a wicked grin plastered on her face. “Your dissent is well taken, general,” she continued. The room full of top brass grumbled. “There, as you well know, is a chain of command and your voice might be heard as high up as your president. But we’re not going to get that far, are we?”

“Ma’am, I vote that General Darren be the first of us to undergo the NO LOOK procedure,” Admiral Omar said.

“That would be sufficient, Admiral,” Senator Mullish said.

High Up

These salty dogs are the best and brightest that the US Army has to offer. | Source

The Nucleus

“I’ll not stand for this. You’re wrecking our military. Have you no scruples, Generals? Admiral? You….,”General Darren turned to Senator Mullish with a scowl.

“That’s all well and good, General. But how about we bust you down to lieutenant and still have you receive the NO LOOK and HALL treatments. How’s that sound?” Senator Mullish studied General Darren’s uniform and plucked the stars from his shoulders, one by one and tossed them to the floor. General Darren straightened up and watched as his rank vanished. He stood before the room of peers now suddenly turned seniors. He wheeled around the guards and escaped their clutches. He bolted towards the door and headed down the hallway.

“He won’t get much distance. Where’s he going to go?” Senator Mullish said.

General Darren ran as far away from the military men and woman and the senator. He saw a bevy of Secret Service personnel surrounding the hallway ahead. He jetted to the center of the crowd. President Sam Mallard was the nucleus. General Darren made his way to through the group before being stopped by Secret Servicemen. They noted his ribbons and decorations, but with no rank insignia, the pair was bewildered. Was this General Darren?

“Uh, sir, you have to stay back,” one of the sunglasses wearing fellows said.

“You don’t understand, they’re going to blind the troops! I’m General Charles W. Darren and I know the president wouldn’t let them get away with this,” General Darren said.

Upon finally recognizing him, the pair motioned for the president to come near them. The other man with the dark suit said, “Wait here. Then, Sam Mallard noticed General Darren.

“Charlie, hey what’s up? You pulling on prank on yourself? Where’s your rank?” President Mallard said.

“No, Sam. This is worse than all things unholy. My so-called fellow generals and admirals want to crush our own forces. Please tell me you’re not going to pass this thing,” General Darren implored.

“I’ll ensure that no such thing will pass on my watch,” President Mallard said. “They will have to answer for their vicious doctrine.”

General Darren breathed. He pointed the President down the hall to the room.

“Let’s roll,” He said.

What it Looks Like

Protecting those who Protect

The Magnate

2017-10-10T11:20:00.000-04:00

Books on the Top

Source

Safeguarded Brains

Books lined the pristine classroom packed with stellar lighting and eager minds. One title read Astrophysics in the Modern World by Herbert Clarence. Another read The Literary Stylings of Rupert Hedwig by Marcus Fently. From the corner of the room, a child named Demario Drew wearing a freshly starched brown and teal uniform with a crisp tie and neatly pleated pants listed the names of the titans of literature. After each name, he listed their most remarkable work: Dennis Redgrove’s The Cordial Fellow and Eliza Malley’s Delicate Days reached the top of the list. The magnate of this operation, Mr. Tré Devington studied each eight-year-old through twelve-year-old in his classroom as a cockerel governs his roost. Only he safeguarded brains. At just 34 years of age, Devington became one of the few male teachers of elementary school students in Wilmington, Delaware. And he happened to teach at the education center he founded from the earnings he generated as a Wall Street analyst. Dubbed The Academy of Bright Scholars (TABS), the school offered a curriculum that delved into the mass of Gliese 581 c, the grammatical structure of a sonnet, the recognition of parabolas, and the history of East Kolkata. But business dominated the classroom discussion.

The Correct Answer

“What is the meaning of an ROI?” Devington asked.

The entire class of 15 students lifted their hands. Palisha Wist elevated her hand and waved it in the air emphatically.

“Yes, Miss Wist. Do you have an answer?” said Devington.

“Yes, sir. The correct answer is return on investment,” Palisha said.

“Very good, young lady,” Devington said.

“And now class, what is the lavender news publication which covers the world of finance?”

Again, hands shot up like rockets launched from Cape Canaveral. Mr. Devington called upon a student.

“Mr. Claxbury, you’ve been waiting a while to be called on. What do you have to say, young man?”

“The Pecuniary Pages,” Bentley Claxbury responded.

“You are so smart. That is correct. The Pecuniary Pages covers all matters of the economy and local, national, and global businesses,” Mr. Devington said.

A Master of Destiny

Source

Reach

As a private institution, TABS deviated away from the government schools rife with red tape and bureaucracy. Mr. Devington insisted that the school be a non-profit so that he could receive private donations and have the students enroll tuition free. The plan allowed the students to learn in an environment that engendered a sense of accomplishing goals and stick-to-itiveness. Though chided and look down upon as retarded and slow learners, the students of Mr. Devington’s class excelled. Their tenacity when faced with a given algebra equation, plotline of a novel, or the relation of a nucleus to an electron shone through with every lesson.

Detractors, of course, arose. They bad-mouthed Mr. Devington’s leadership skills and found him unfit to teach youths. They said that some “greedy” Wall Street guy should be kept away from children who needed the government to teach them. Devington displayed his credentials. With the possession of a master’s degree in economics and six years of experience in the financial sector, Devington studied Internet videos on how to best instruct young minds. He spent hours sharpening his own mind and developing strategies that would allow him to impart his knowledge. He visited colleges and attended seminars on methods which would guide youngsters into having a zeal for learning. The $50,000 that he had saved up over the course of studying at the investment banking firm, Ceres and Mohr, provided seed money to TABS. After only a year in business, the academy employed 14 teachers and taught close to 600 students. Mr. Devington focused on aiding those students who struggled while praising those who achieved high marks. Always sincere about learning, Mr. Devington demonstrated to his class that although they might not come from affluent areas in Delaware, or acquired the status of the upper class schools, their will to succeed would be the final arbiter in the trial of the functioning of their brains. Their ability to reason, Mr. Devington thought, would carry them to heights that others may not have expected them to reach.

A Strong Class

Source

Claimed What He Dreamed

Once Mr. Devington retired as CEO of TABS, he could count that 95% of his class finished college. Some entered the military while others forwent further formal education and launched their own enterprises. Backed by the knowledge that Mr. Devington supplied, these students reinforced their learning abilities by becoming entrepreneurs. As chairman of the board, Mr. Devington still had some say in the overall scope and mission of the school, without having a day-to-day operations. He looked back at his time at TABS. In his reflections, he recalled how a young lady with a devastating stutter overcame this obstacle and now commanded $250,000 to speak at private venues. This astonishing fact did not surprise him. A young man who couldn’t read until he reached the age of eleven passed the bar to become a lawyer in the state of Delaware. He would be up for the Attorney General position in the following year. In one instance of pure surprise and pride, a student named Arlo Mills that Mr. Devington taught how to balance a company’s books had become the founder of an app which would allow customers to use digital audio recordings (DAR) for online radio, presented him with a check in the amount of $1 million. Mr. Devington funnelled the money back into TABS and positioned Arlo as one of the board members. For his tireless efforts in ensuring that no child be bereft of an education, Mr. Devington saw the upsurge of schools which shared his free market ideology. In Delaware, the public schools system was put to the test and failed miserably. Academies like TABS popped up over the state, then the tri state, then the Eastern Seaboard, then the Midwest, then the West Coast. All over the country and then the world, the ideas of liberating children from the confines of government schools proliferated. Mr. Devington had set himself up for success and went out and claimed what he dreamed. His understanding of the value of a dollar landed in the thoughts of the brilliant students he taught.

Call Corporate

2017-10-09T06:43:00.000-04:00

Hello Place

Some folks may say that Delaware has to offer nothing but tax free shopping, beaches, and boredom. Settled by the Swedes, the tiny state stands as a bastion of what is written on it’s flag: Liberty and Independence. Others contend that the only thing in the state is the chemical companies, credit card companies and business climate. A corporate haven, it is because of the dual dragons of high tax collection and personal income tax, that a flame of freedom was ignited. And people happen to live there, too. Professor Connor Mettle, Professor Milo Kiln, and Professor Donnell Wayson teachers at Delaware Institute of Technology (DIT) would be known as the New Sweden Kids (NSK). The trio strolled in the Delaware Hello Place rest stop on the Terrace Roadways highway. Decked out in sportcoats and dress shirts sans the tie, each man could read the lips of the managers and supervisors of the stores: “Call corporate.” Why would they utter this phrase usually reserved for an issue to be handled by the “suits”? Well, this was to alert the higher ups of the presence of preeminent men. But what got them to this lofty position?

Seeds of Liberty

Well, because of the ideas they picked up, they decided to band together to alter the state for the better. From the initial inkling of how economics could change the way the state did business, the NSK developed their professor, Dr.Francine Woodrow’s theories and then applied them to real world problems. The ideas that they used to chart income models and establish an understanding of global markets now allowed them to apply those principles to the ills of the economy. As avid readers, the NSK devoured obscure texts and pushed themselves to excel. Though as tall as a corner mailbox, Dr. Woodrow commanded a room with her sharp intellect and clever humor. She brought to academia what a surgeon carries to the field of medicine. Her unabashed critiques of failed social systems opened the eyes of the three men. They were rapt. Of all the teachings that this lady imparted, the thought that theory put into practice could make waves resonated with them. The NSK expected to make a tidal wave after reaping the knowledge of Dr. Woodrow. But first they had to graduate. They all obtained their master’s degree in just eight months. Their straight A’s landed them in the highest ranks of their class. Upon completing graduate school, the NSK explored America and the world in search of what good ideas and bad ideas existed. By appointment of then governor Marlon Graff, the NSK brought to the First State the lessons which their professor Dr. Woodrow bestowed upon them. After a few strokes of a pen, the triumvirate slashed government spending, eliminated the minimum wage in Delaware, and did away with all taxes. All of which stemmed from what they learned at New Sweden University in Wilmington, Delaware, economics department. As farmers sow seeds of grain and vegetation, so did the NSK plant the seeds of liberty. Now, as they walked through the bustling rest stop, they noted that some of the employees who worked for what had to be no more than $2.50 an hour performed their tasks with litheness. An intensity and energy permeated throughout the travel plaza. Each man viewed a particular aspect of what they helped to foster.

For Business

Source

Recognizing Reality

Professor Kiln observed a janitor open up a brand new trash bag to line the can just outside the restroom. He saw how this janitor whipped out the receptacle liner as a matador confronts a bull. The close attention to detail involved with him clamping down the sides of the bag to keep it in place intrigued him. Or take for instance, what Professor Wayson saw. He peered at a manager quibbling with a supervisor over how to best position an etagere which would display coffee mugs. The exchange lacked heat or profanity or rancor but held within it a great amount of respect and thorough weighing of facts. Though the supervisor finally won the argument, each man profited by recognizing reality.

Professor Mettle leaned into to talk to a cashier at the Bean Trail. “Yes, I would like a almond milk latte,” Professor Mettle said. With the order tallied on an electronic tablet, the barista saw a screen above her head illuminate with his order. Keenly, she whipped together the ingredients; she steamed the milk; she loaded the coffee; and at the end she created a fern design in the beverage to illustrate her care. A smile on her face, the barista handed the masterpiece to the professor.

Sign of the Dollar at the Hello Place

What is the meaning of a free mind and a free market? | Source

Made to Perfection

The fern is key. | Source

Reaped Returns

“Thank you very much, young lady,” Professor Mettle said.

As the three men prepared to leave, the district manager, Vernon Pitts stepped up to them and proceeded to shake their hands.

“We appreciate your business here at the Hello Place Delaware, gentlemen. Won’t you please stop by again?”

All three smiled and bid Mr. Pitts adieu. Professor Mettle issued a caveat.

“We will come back to the Hello Place as long as you’ve got that barista controlling that espresso machine,” he grinned.

The men left and returned to their car. At this hour in the morning, they decided to head straight to DIT so that they had time to set up their lesson plans. Professor Kiln drove the men to the school in Wilmington, Delaware. Their oddysee would prove to be a fruitful one as all three of them acknowledged that what was just a thought could be fashioned into being. Their labors to engender a sense of freedom within the marketplace paid off in significant dividends. Though they lived modest lives as teachers, with simple homes and drove unassuming vehicles, their spirits reaped returns in a major way.

The Basics

Sketches of the Mind

2017-10-08T15:03:00.001-04:00

Considering these things

They say that the great machines that zip them to work and school and clean their clothes and dishes and send messages and guide trips are products of the mind. But what sparks that interest in mind? What is it that drives the great thinkers to concoct those smart devices that govern our very attention? Is it some mystical force bearing down on the human brain to deliver the goods? Or is it society which propels the best minds to contemplate the fascinating and then go out and build, create, and produce? Y’Lana Venton never was one to sit idle when the light flashed green, but this morning she considered these things. A horn blast from the rear prompted her to arrest her daydream and engage in the motion of making that right hand turn. She traveled on her way to work the usual way. No music. A string of updates and insightful tidbits about how oysters live all due to the journalistic stylings of the private, for-profit radio station Aeras. Now, she maneuvered her vehicle with the ease and aplomb afforded to the best rally car racers, obeying all speeding laws in the process.

Channeled these feelings

Her daily grind as a courtroom and composite sketch artist offered her the opportunity to express herself but only in the limited way of outlining the visages of common criminals. But she did her job and patterned herself a true artiste. That’s what two years at Delaware Institute of Technology (DIT) brought her. Armed with an associates degree, she championed the notion of a young businesswoman on the brink of greatness. She viewed this current position as but a stepping stone to better days. Y’Lana envisioned a day where she would run her own studio and take clients that did not have some devastating description which she would have to fashion into a portrait of a potential thief, rapist, or murderer. She dreaded the work sometimes. One particular case left her wracked with worry. The survivor’s mother had been beaten savagely with a hammer and the blood still remained on the survivor’s pantsuit. The survivor stammered the entire time whisking away tears and trying desperately to recall the face of a barbarian. She never exhibited her fear or frustration. She simply channeled those feelings into the work and recognized that the task at hand far outweighed her disgust and personal anguish. Her composites showed a steady hand and a keen dedication to form. It wasn’t always ugly. Sometimes this career called for a sense of humor. Once, during a courtroom proceeding, a clown who actually showed up in full dress (red nose and floppy shoes and everything) attempted to represent himself. Though the judge threw him out with the quickness, Y’Lana’s boss insisted that she use all of the colors that she had available to capture the guards escorting the clown to the exit. But she projected the day that she would be the boss and develop a steady work space without the peaks and valleys which this profession entailed. She pressed forward to realize this dream completely. Even in the face of competition. She saw him in the doorway to the office.

In the Court

The sketch artist is the true storyteller in the courtroom. | Source

The Challenges Of A Courtroom Sketch Artist

Examples of 'excellence'

Arendes Carl, a man three years her senior, gunned for the top spot as lead artist. He stood 6’1” and brought attention upon himself with his wide stride. Y’Lana took notice.

“So, what do you got, Venton? Have another clown, or a ghost on tap for today?” Carl asked.

“Well, the only clown I see here is you. And you might want to make like a ghost after those sketches you tried to pass off as examples of ‘excellence,’” Y’Lana shot back.

“Still, I’ve got the Marshden case,” Carl retorted.

Y’Lana’s eyes widened then narrowed quickly.

“I see,” she said.

“Good luck with your little doodles,” Carl smirked and left without holding the door for her.

The Marshden case attracted the news outlets and made for big news in the diminutive state of Delaware. It involved a basketball star from the Wilmington Diamonds who stood trial as the defendant in a hit and run death of a young boy. All of the media sites and channels covered the story with the usual sensationalism and the first thing that would appear on smart phone, smart tv, and other devices would be the courtroom sketch of this fallen baller. With Carl now positioned to take on the job, Y’Lana paused to understand where exactly she wanted to go with this stint. It technically qualified as art, but she desired to take her talents to a gallery. She brushed off the Carl situation and marched forth with an attitude that would sustain her through the onslaught of humiliation and regrettable actions. She mustered up enough courage to one day quit her role as sketch artist and decided to become an author. By acquiring the rights to all of her work, she placed them in a book and sold it over the Internet.

A portrait of herself

Source

Spark of intelligence

In her Ocean View, Delaware home she looked back at all of her accomplishments and once again wondered about the source of all the technological advances around her. She painted a portrait of herself in deep thought and assured herself that she made the right decision in leaving the courtroom and composite sketch business. Her experiences brought her to conclude that without the spark of imagination and the thrust of intelligence nothing, not even a sketch, would be possible. She didn’t even have to sit in traffic to think of that.

The Courtroom Sketch Artist

A Lighter Sketch

This piece appeared originally on April 2, 2016.

And in and of Itself

2017-10-07T11:06:00.000-04:00

This Adventure

For most of their travels, the results remained nil. On the quest to find this special something, each member of the team sought to discover greatness. Marshawn Tutnall, English major extraordinaire, persuaded his classmates into journeying with him on an odyssey. The Vernice Armour University in Newark, Delaware students embarked on this adventure at the earliest time in the spring. Four men, four women. They knew not what treasures they would find, but reconciled those uncertainties with a will and a push to achieve.

Take into Consideration

“We’ve got to find it,” Clint Garrett, a law student ready to tackle objective law, pronounced to the seven other members. They sought Professor Alvera Drum. She was diminutive but she exhibited a formidable demeanor.

“So, Professor Drum, what letter comes before A?” Tutnall asked.

“Well, in the Greek alphabet, Alpha is the initial letter followed by 23 other characters. What you are searching for is the impossible. But how can you know? Now, let me tell you what you ought to do. You’ve got Black and white races. The alleged worst and the best. Deal with it. I mean no other race likes to be called by the color of their skin accept these two. Think about it. Brown people don’t even want to be called Hispanic or Latino. They prefer to wave the flag of nationalism. Yellow people; they rather be called by their nationhood as well. And reds, they wish to be called by their country of origin, too. if they’re from the Western Hemisphere, Northern part and there are any of them left, they would rather be named by their tribe. Your efforts are futile. How can you prove it? How can you prove that there are no letters before A and after Z and the rest? What you ought to focus on is helping your fellow man. I mean, take into consideration the environment at least. We are all one. Your inquiry into the alphabetic system will lead to nothing but failure. Please leave my office. Have a nice day.” The professor who had removed her glasses now placed them on her face.

The Distinguished

The professor's words did not discourage the collective. Each individual tasked him or herself with the role of fulfilling the call of discovery. Vivica Majestic crunched numbers like nobody’s business. She illustrated her acumen in the field of stock analysis by discovering links to numbers and letters and their origins. Porsha Wittingly crafted artwork that resembled the handiwork of Yoruba tribesmen. She contributed her knowledge of one of the first languages spoken by humans. Minnie June called upon her expertise in the field of data processing. She could whip up reports with a confidence and know-how that encouraged her fellow classmates to take heed. For much of her academic career, The prowess of calligraphy lied in Gwyneth Holcomb. Gwyneth’s ability to sketch out the letters of the alphabet brought about a sophistication that few others could match. Latimer Davies constructed theories on radical Black nationalism in favor of capitalism. He has failed to link the two, but his studies continued. This distinguished him from the rest of his economics students. Denton Stack exhibited a proficiency in the discovery of new words. His linguistic aptitude prepared him for classwork which required the comprehension of portmanteaus, slang, rhetoric, and a whole host of dialects and tongues. Rhonda Rhodes displayed her adeptness with the study of mathematics. Since the third grade, she had aced her tests and passed Advanced Placement courses in every subject from algebra to calculus.

Sacred

For hours, they pored over ancient texts. Some felt of baby skin, tender to the touch and just as precious. They studied the Greeks, the Romans, the Japanese, the Zulus. Nothing. The question burned within them: why? Why had there been no recollection of this sacred missing thing? Why had history books neglected to cover the origins of the untalked about piece of non-history? That the true way to find out about it would be to acknowledge that there exists no such thing?

Across from the university campus, the octet channeled the souls of those who’ve left. Not in a mystical way but rather a sense of consciousness expressed by those who’ve come before them.

“Davies, put that Mobile Pay app away, and concentrate!” Scolded Garrett.

“I’m almost done transferring the funds for next semester. Let me be great,” Davies snapped.

“Let’s look to the Newark Library Club,” Holcomb announced. The eight of them treaded towards the private library in downtown Newark, Delaware. The place exuded activity and welcomed all of the students to browse, research, and delve into the topic which they sought to know. What is it about the alphabet and the connection to some mystical force beyond the realm of reality? How does the universe permit no non-existant from co-mingling with that which exists? These students, energized and informed of the ways of disciplines across the spectrum of knowledge, endeavored to determine whether a riddle, a passing phrase might be the key to unlock all that ails the world. But it would have to be done skillfully. Deftly. All eight of them would put their learnings to the test. At the NLC, they plunked down into desks in the study room. While the university library usually saw crowds of students engaged in the educational process, the NLC offered ample space and literature that might aid them. The private schools in which they all attended rated like luxury vehicles (Garrett, Davies, Vivica) mid level productions (Stack, Gwyneth, Rhonda) and economy lines (Tutnall, Porsha). Nonetheless, each student earned diplomas to go to Vernice Armour. The privatization of the schools allowed for the flow of funds to irrigate the halls of education. Every dollar advanced the cause of academics and boosted all of their studies. That cash would supply them with the opportunity to develop their skills and devote themselves to their schooling.

Destination

“I think I’ve found something,” Porsha said. She lifted up to the light a page that may’ve brought their search to an end.

“It reads: ‘The Greeks argued over whether to include multiple letters before the one letter Alpha. But the Christians insisted on leaving the idea of a letter before A and after Z and in between the letters to signify that like the non-sensory, out of the context of reality being in which they worshipped, it would be eternal.’”

“What?” Baxter quipped. “‘Nil.’ we’ll name that letter before A and after Z ‘Nil,’”

Stack said.

“Just like there’s no ‘dark side of the moon,’ so there are no letters at the beginning or end of the alphabet.”

“So, that’s it?” Baxter asked. “We just stop right here?”

“No.” Tutnall responded. He withdrew from his satchel an orb that glowed with all of the knowledge that man has ever recorded. The orb weighed about seven ounces and projected a clear picture in full high definition the bygones gone by and the current state of the world.

“With this we have the power to forever change our course,” Tutnall said.

Stack had an idea. “King Tut,” he said to Tutnall. “Hey, man, why don’t we seek out Dr. Neptune?”

“You know, that might just do it.”

Dr. Neptune stood 6’4 and groomed a goatee. He lived in Wilmington in an apartment overlooking the Riverfront. He engaged with his listeners and imparted much needed knowledge.

“Now, I recognize all of you in going down this path. My professors once presented this problem, not as a riddle but as a serious, significant query: Is there a letter before A? I mean we know ‘A is A’ right? But what about its predecessor? It must have some say in the matter,” Dr. Neptune intoned.

“Dr. Neptune…” Vivica said.

“Yes, young lady?” Dr. Neptune said.

“Well, where could we even begin? The letter ‘A’ represents the start of a series of units which represent the sounds that the human mouth forms. The image of the ‘A’ corresponds with the head of an ox. So, my question is: what came before?”

“That, my child, is a question for the ages. It lies in the realm of metaphysics and epistemology and pertains to the very existence of everything in the universe.”

“I think I found it. I mean I truly do. The letters before and after the alphabet correspond with the idea that whatever sound the human mouth can make must mean that there is a set number of letters to represent those sounds,” Porsha said.

“Yes, Porsha. That’s good,” Dr. Neptune said. “If we examine the fact that all of the sounds that make up the alphabet are taken...wouldn’t that explain why there is no letter before A or after Z?”

“That’s true, Dr. Neptune. All the sounds are used,” Davies said.

The eight of them stood around Dr. Neptune in his spacious apartment. They gathered that he would be the key to unlocking the mystery of the unspoken letters.

“This is treason against reason, forgive me for rhyming,” Dr. Neptune said.

“No apology necessary, sir,” Stack said.

“We appreciate your time concerning this matter, Dr. Neptune,” Tutnall said.

The cabal headed towards the door of the apartment.

“Thanks sir,” they said in unison and left the professor.

All of them counted their wins and came up with the next step on their voyage. Stack suggested a destination.

The Crux

“Look, we’ve tried the library, we’ve asked two professors, and now we should consider going to the Think Tank,” Davies said.

“The Think Tank?!,” Minnie queried emphatically.

“Yes. Davies. I do believe that we should be able to find the answer in a bottle of beer and some wings,” Garrett smirked.

“I’m serious,” Davies stood his ground.

“Tut?” Gwyneth said.

“Yeah. We ought to unwind a bit to get try to capture this idea we’ve been pursuing,” Tutnall answered.

The faction proceeded to the town watering hole known better as The Think Tank. There, most of the students involved themselves in all sorts of bacchanalia and talk usually centered around the current politics or philosophy of the day.

Inside the Think Tank, scholars played spades, checked opponents in chess, swigged brew from mugs, and pontificated or philosophized about the daily topics. The blues took up all of the play list and gave the setting a setting an exuberant, life-affirming vibe. The coterie of adventurers moved their way past the bar and occupied seats near the exit. The night was warm in April and allowed for them to get a gust of fresh air every now and again. But they did not stray from their task. They got right to the crux of the matter.

“Okay. We’ve gathered enough information to make a solid case that shows the fact that letters outside of the alphabet, any alphabet, do not exist,” Vivica said.

“But it’s like professor Drum said: ‘how can you know?’”

Prove

“Actually, to prove a negative is impossible. And in fact, because ‘A’ and the rest of the letters exist, we ought to start from there and recognize that all that is real exists, and nothing less,” Tutnall said.

“I think that with all of this discussion about the nature of existence we should actually know the end game by now,” Rhonda said.

“Just look at the other letters which the Phonetic International Alphabet rejected,” Porsha observed. “Everything from ash to the ampersand includes not a corresponding sound but more than one character representing a single idea. Similar to ‘W’ but that involves a sound representation. And regardless if these forgotten letters remained in the alphabet we know today. There would still be a beginning, middle, and end. With no letters in between.”

“You know my dear, I think that you have just solved our puzzle. Now, let’s listen to this classic by Cally McMay.”

The eight of them found themselves on the dance floor, moving to the 4/4 time. Each one calculated their steps with the ease of a rideshare drive easing down the avenue. Stack and Rhonda grooved with Garrett and Vivica. Davies twirled Gwyneth. And Tutnall and Porsha leaned in for a kiss.

This story appeared originally on February 17, 2016.

No Lien: The Fight Against Taxes by Force

2017-10-06T12:23:00.000-04:00

Should rapper Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter stick to rapping and not be embroiled in tax messes? Can his rhyming skills save him from the IRS? Will his skateboarding ability stave off tax liens?

Click on the link below to access the article:

https://hubpages.com/politics/No-Lien-The-Fight-Against-Taxes

"Skylerized: The Web Series- 'An Integrated Response'"

Honesty is Ethical Business: HEB's Moral Approach to Profiting

2017-10-05T13:40:00.001-04:00

How responsible should corporations be in maintaining the quality and safety of their products? Would you shop at HEB? What is your favorite store to shop?

Click on the link below to access the article:

https://hubpages.com/business/Honesty-is-Ethical-Business-H-E-Bs-Moral-Approach-to-Profiting

"Skylerized: The Web Series- The Independent Mind'"

Mr. Contradictions 3: The Invocation

2017-10-04T13:09:00.001-04:00

This piece appeared originally on February 5, 2016.

How irrational is Martin Shkreli? How much of a waste is his financial acumen? Can he ever be redeemed?

Click on the link below to access the article:

https://hubpages.com/business/Mr-Contradictions-3-The-Invocation

"Skylerized: The Web Series- 'An Agent of the Citizens'"

Pause the Game: A Look at the Rapper's Constant Legal Woes

2017-10-03T13:58:00.001-04:00

This piece appeared originally on February 3, 2016.

Is the Game your favorite rapper? What do you like/dislike about his music? Why does he entangle himself in so many legal proceedings?

Click on the link below to access the article:

https://hubpages.com/entertainment/Pause-the-Game-A-Look-at-the-Rappers-Constant-Legal-Woes

"Skylerized: The Web Series- 'Right to Self-defense'"

The Wellspring of Achievement: The RIAA's Decison to Change the Business of Music

2017-10-02T12:35:00.001-04:00

Do you think that the CD is dead? How much do you stream your music? What genre do you consume the most? How?

Click on the link below to access the article:

https://hubpages.com/entertainment/The-Wellspring-of-Achievement-The-RIAA-Decison-to-Change-the-Business-of-Music

"Skylerized: The Web Series-'A Destructive Element'"

For a Better Chicago: The Push for the Recognition of Rights in a Beleaguered City

2017-10-01T10:18:00.001-04:00

This piece appeared originally on November 1, 2016.

What should be done about Chicago? Should the minimum wage be eliminated, thus allowing more youths to be accepted into the workforce? Should drugs be legalized, thus allowing youths to profit off of the sale of those drugs? Should all licensing laws be abolished?

Click on the link to access the article below:

https://hubpages.com/politics/For-a-Better-Chicago-The-Recognition-of-Rights-in-a-Beleaguered-City

"Skylerized: The Web Series- 'Metaphysical Value- Judgments'"

A Would Be Viral Video: Iggy Azalea's Failed Attempt to Realize her Vision

2017-09-30T07:54:00.000-04:00

This piece appeared originally on January 22, 2016.

Can Iggy Azalea rap? Is she an asset to the hip hop genre? Has her time run out already?

Click on the link below to access the article:

https://hubpages.com/entertainment/A-Would-Be-Viral-Video-Iggy-Azaleas-Failed-Attempt-to-Realize-her-Vision

"Skylerized: The Web Series- 'Payment for Governmental Services'

The Black Mind in the Film World: What Needs to Happen for a Hollywood for African Americans

2017-09-29T10:13:00.000-04:00

This article appeared originally on January 20, 2016.

How delusional, dumb, and ditzy is the dingbat known as Stacey Dash? Should Blacks create their own Hollywood? What is the role of the Black mind in creating films?

Click on the link below to access the piece:

https://hubpages.com/entertainment/The-Black-Mind-in-the-Film-World-What-Needs-to-Happen-for-a-Hollywood-for-African-Americans

"Skylerized: The Web Series- 'Practiced by a Minority'"