Split (1)

train · 353k rows

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	[WP] Everyone in North Korea has disappeared over night. Everyone but one. It is up to the glorious leader Kim-Jong-Un to make it appear as if nothing happened.	The Supreme Commander of the Korean People's Army awakens from a deep slumber, and discovers, that for the first time in his life, the world has continued turning without him. The sun has risen above its station, high in the sky without his say-so. No servants have ventured in to wake him, no generals to seek his guidance. Even the peacocks are silent. Sometime during the night, the slow spinning of the Earth has swept his nation clean. He understands this instinctively, for is he not the Father of the People? Is he not the Sun of the Nation, is he not his people's Guiding Star? He understands, as a father does, that his children are now beyond his reach. He walks through the empty hallways of his palace, bare feet against the marble floors, silk pajamas still against his skin. The banquet halls are deserted, the swimming pools lie stagnant. Not a single insect hums in the luxurious paths of his gardens. There are no horses to nicker at him from his stables, no servants to prostrate themselves before his feet. He breathes in the still air, and understands that he is the only person left behind. A cold sweat rises on his skin. What of his enemies? What of the remainder of the world, arrayed against him? Bare feet padding across the carpet, he rushes to switch on a television. The world proceeds as normal: newscasters proclaiming his greatness, footage of their military forces parading down the street, black and white footage of revered classic movies. But as he switches through the channels, he realizes he is seeing nothing new. These are the same facts, the same figures, the same footage endlessly repeated. He is blind. He is crawling through the darkness. His enemies must continue to exist, for what is the light of the sun without darkness to dispel? He bursts out into his garden and stares up into the blinding sky, imagining American drones and satellites staring down upon him, panning over his deserted streets, his barren fields, broadcasting him exposed to the world. They know. They know his nation has been stripped bare. They know that he is alone. The thought, like the breeze against his cheek, unexpectedly soothes him. For was this not the destiny of his birth? He is the Nation, all-knowing, all-encompassing. For all his life he has been surrounded by his father's former advisors, whispering sycophantic niceties into his ear, and one by one he has had them killed. What does it matter that his people are gone? He would have needed to purge them all eventually anyway. All who contradict him are dissidents and traitors, all who agree with him are redundant. The world has achieved for him the peace he has been seeking. He is the Nation, indivisible. He struggles to peel off his silk pajama top, exposing his abundant rolls of fat to the sky. He envisions the gates of heaven opening before him, where liquor flows like water and towering black men shake the ground with their strides. He hopes the American drones are watching. He hopes the world is watching. As an impudent sun shines dazed before him, the Chairman of the Party’s Central Military Commission casts off the last vestige of his humanity, and ascends into godhood.	"And now breaking news coming in from the Korean peninsula, a new study done in North Korea shows the population is signifigantly lower than just last year..." Kim Jong Un did not know what to do. It seemed that every day less and less government officials showed up to work. This was nothing out of the ordinary, for he had always killed off the men that he didn't want around anymore. But this time was different. This time he was losing men that had been loyal to him and his communist country. Nobody had questioned him about the disappearances yet, everyone just assumed that it was business as usual, that the dissapearees had done something to anger the supreme leader. Eventually however, they would begin to realize someone or something else was behind it. Kim knew how to handle this, he was a master of propaganda. He called up his chief of propaganda using the world war 2 era rotary style telephones that were still widely in use. "Hello chief, this is me Kim. I need you to run something about the recent vanishings that have been taking place in the motherland. Can you run a story blaming South Korea and the United States for them?" "Of course, supreme leader" The nightly state run news that night was broadcast over television and radio in the few areas in the country where electricity was found. Again, care was taken to ensure that the broadcast did not seem like anything out of the ordinary, just another case of the South and America being their usual devious selves, trying to sabotage the great motherland. Kim Jong Un went home to his palace to indulge in his nightly 10 course supper. His food was served to him on luxurious china plates by starving servants. One of the servant drooled from the sight and smell of the food and he was immediately taken outside. A gunshot was heard soon after. The next day in the captial there were once again noticeably fewer workers there. And once again, nobody questioned it openly. Kim Jong was beginning to get a bit nervous though. "How long before my top officials begin questioning me about this?" he thought. So far none of his inner circle had gone poof, but if one of them did he would have some explaining to do. "How many less showed up today?" he asked his chief of government affairs. "There are 40 less here today than yesterday and 200 workers here total" If North Korea had been a real country with a real government then 40 people absent would have a chance of going unnoticed by the other officials. In the joke country of North Korea, the government was so small 40 people seemed huge. (Will finish later)
	[WP] Everyone in North Korea has disappeared over night. Everyone but one. It is up to the glorious leader Kim-Jong-Un to make it appear as if nothing happened.	This is ridiculous. It is clearly light outside. Why are they not coming! Kim-Jong-Un was getting really uncomfortable, a feeling he was not used to. His bladder had been first cautiously signaling to him that relief was required. Now his bladder was screaming. Why didn't they come!? Kim-Jong-Unlet out a sigh and did the inconceivable. He pushed his silken sheets away and stepped out of bed. His slippers were not there. The floor was cold. Nobody turned on the floor heating at 4:30 as usual. Kim-Jong-Un liked to sleep in a chilly room, but disliked being cold getting up. No robes. Kim-Jong-Un was losing his patience, but he didn't want to shout. It would seem beneath after all. He was the Glorious Leader. He made his way to the toilet door, pausing a second before opening it. He let out a sigh and turned the handle. Nobody here, but that was normal. Kim-Jong-Un relieved himself and considered the appropriate amount of punishment for each of his servants and their bosses. A smile formed on his face. He decided against getting dressed. Too much trouble. He would just go outside his room and shout a bit at his guards. They are to blame just as much as his absent servants. There were no guards. Kim-Jong-Un didn't quite panic at this point but certain scenarios ran through his head that had been unthinkable yesterday. The Americans sent in a Black Ops crew and are on its way to assassinate the Salvation of Korea. Why didn't they wake him? Kim-Jong-Un quickly ran towards the grand bookshelf and pushed the secret button. A section of the bookshelf sprang open and he entered his safe room. Not the biggest of safe rooms in the palace, but it would do for now. He picked up the security phone and waited for an acknowledgment. It didn't come. Hello! Hello! Answer me! This is your Leader! HELLO! Unbelievable. Were the Americans this good? They couldn't be better than the North Korean Defense Force. What is going on!? His regular phone was equally silent. Kim-Jong-Un just sat behind his desk staring at the wall. How much time passed he didn't know. The only thing he learned was that he hated the wall paper. It needed to be replaced. He was hungry. He didn't like any of the food in the fridge. He took a pistol and ammo from the armory and headed towards the kitchen. Maybe he would meet someone who could enlighten him why they were ignoring their Leader. Nobody. Not even in the kitchen. He didn't like any of the food here either. He would have to prepare it himself. Too much trouble. He just took a Pepsi Max from the fridge and drank that. With breakfast over and done with he went to the communication center. Still nobody. He was getting used to it, and made a note to himself not to act surprised when he would meet someone. The Glorious Leader is always in control. Nobody here either. The systems were still up. He checked the logs. He remembered how, because there had been a demonstration by a nervous officer. He hadn't liked that. Nobody in charge should show anything but control. He had him sent away. The logs stopped at 03:43. No communications after this point except automated messages. Not good. Not good at all. All systems should the same thing. All human input stopped at 03:43. Kim-Jong-Un turned on the TV and switched to Foxnews, his favorite channel. Not good. It was a report on strange happenings in North Korea. The North Korean side of the border had been found empty by observers. Military advisers were pointing towards an imminent attack by North Korea on South Korea. The borders had been vacated so that South Korean forces could be bombarded with artillery or even tactical nukes. The American Forces had gone to DEFCON level 2. They were preparing for nuclear war. The Chinese and Russians were equally frantically scrambling their forces. Not good. Only one way out. Kim-Jong-Un had also paid attention on how to initiate an automated nuclear attack. He had liked the officer who gave the demonstration much better. He was cold as ice. He was promoted. Kim typed in his personal code and flipped the switch. Kim-Jong-Un headed towards the fridge to get another Pepsi Max. He would watch WW3 on the big TV. Kim-Jong-Un smiled when he spotted the first atomic mushroom behind a reporter in Seoul. He is the Greatest Leader North Korea ever had!	The supreme leader groggily fumbled with the camera controls. It hadn't worked outright, it didn't even applaud when he entered the room. He'll have it executed later. Frustration slowly crept across to the face of the supreme leader. He had risen in the middle of the afternoon, for nobody had been granted to privilege to wake him from his slumber. He ignored his rumbling stomach as he continued to work the camera. No servant had brought him breakfast this morning. They must have feared bringing out an inferior dish, angering him and risk being send to the camps. He smiled to himself. Did they not know the punishment for failing your tasks was outright execution? Such simple folk, yet his folk. He would forgive their families and only execute the offenders themselves. "These people are lucky I'm not my father" he told himself. He took a step back and glared angrily at the camera, execution was way too good for this device. He would have it send to the mines. As he continued staring at the camera that did not flinch nor apologize, he noticed something and started laughing. It was a private bout of laughter and he was grateful his servants allowed him to solo this one. Normally they would've all tried to laugh alongside him. He had simply forgotten to turn the crank of the camera. No wonder it didn't work. He smiled to himself and shook his head. The families of the servants that hadn't woken him nor presented him breakfast sure are going to get it now. By forfeiting their tasks they directly allowed the supreme leader to blunder. He inspected the crank of the modern piece of technology in front of him. He did so for 10 minutes... but no servant came out to rotate the crank for him. "Oh the sacrifices I make, the hands that rule the nation reduced to labour." He retrieved a small notebook from his pocket and noted down the current date to have it listed as a national day of mourning, then he rotated the crank. The machine started buzzing and spun to life. It had been half a day since the supreme leader last addressed the world. Without his guidance the rebelling nations must have taken to the streets. As the light on the camera changed to red, he stepped in front of it and delighted the world with his image.
	[WP] Today is the Opposite Day. Turn the world on it's head! Oh, it doesn't have one? Well, now it does.	I was holding the compass, and I had the map in my pack. If anybody was going be blamed for getting us lost, it was going to be me--and lost is exactly what we were. Really, it was just the blaming that was left. I suppose that there are a number of other discomforts that come from being lost in the woods, but I hadn't really gotten that far. I was just trudging along, compass-in-hand like nothing was wrong because I didn't yet know how to break it to everyone else. I was kind of hoping for some great cataclysm to come along--something so huge that when I later admitted that we were lost everybody would just laugh. But after several minutes of hiking it was looking increasingly likely that I was going to have to face the music. I had finally gathered the courage to say, "hold up guys, I think something is wrong." And that's when it happened--my cataclysm actually came. I was probably the first to notice that something was actually wrong when my compass switched directions. I looked around, confused, and saw sparks jumping upward from the tips of the grass. As I searched for the words to express just what was wrong I was again spared from having to do so by the lightning. I don't know where it struck, but it was close. Dazzled, I blinked several times and thought about quiet everything sounded after the initial crack of thunder. The other scouts were saying something now, but it was like my ears were packed with cotton. I tried to shrug off my backpack because it didn't seem like carrying it anymore really mattered, but it wouldn't fall. I'm not sure how long I spent like this--squirming against the straps, partially deaf and temporarily blind from the flash--but the transition back was pretty abrupt. The muffled sound gave way to a loud ringing and distant thunder in all directions. Once I blinked my vision back into usefulness, I saw that I was falling--upward. And so was everybody else, along with large clumps of dirt, rocks, and the occasional tree. I could see the cars all falling away from the trail head, still in tight formation. I'm not sure what was holding the rest of the earth together now that gravity was reversed, but it didn't seem like it was going to last. Loud pops and groans came up from the planet below and large cracks began to form across the landscape. Somewhere along the way I had picked up a little rotation, and as the world receded from view I think I saw a new crack form that made the whole thing kind of look like a face. The air was getting thin, and tiny specks began to dance across my vision. The last thing I remember before blacking out is thinking that the sun looked bigger than I was used to it being. Now, I don't know whether it was the lack of oxygen that killed me, or whether I lasted long enough for the exploding sun to catch up with me, and I don't know what happens when you die on any other day, but I can tell you this: when you die on opposite day you sort of... don't. I don't know where my body is either, but there is this definite sensation of me just floating along out here. I think it has been a long time, because I've been watching the stars go out. Something changed recently though. I came across that old compass of mine, floating along out here. The plastic housing was spinning madly, but the needle was fixed steady on the brightest point in the changing sky. I was never one for astronomy, so I couldn't say which one it was. Anyway, while the compass was passing through my vision, I watched it switch for a second time--now pointing away from the light. There was a jolt across all of the objects I could see (asteroids and such) and now I have the feeling that "down" is the direction that things are falling in.	Today is opposite day. Surely that would make it normal night. As that is the opposite to opposite day. But today is normal night makes no sense. The statement was not to make it bad English day. It would be tonight is a normal night. But the statement you initially made also means that today is not lying day. As it's not night time it would mean that today is a normal day. So even when it is the opposite day it's just the same as any old normal day.
	[WP]: You have always wanted to tell the village children how much better life was before the apocalypse, but not knowing of any better, they seem perfectly happy.	I truly do not know why they keep me around. I am old. Far too old to spend my days hunting prey, as my lungs fail me too quickly. Too old to dig for roots, nuts, and berries, for my joints are old and cause me pain. I am too old to carry my own weight around the village - though it pains my inner heart to call these shacks of sticks a 'village'. I think they only keep me alive because of the knowledge that I once had. I am the last of us to remember the world that was. The world that was, before the missiles came down and changed everything with the destructive fury of a thousand suns. But what do the children of today know of missiles? How could they even comprehend the idea of launching something into space, only for it to come down and annihilate square miles? How do you explain atomic fission to a child who's concept of technology ends with a bow and arrow? For many years we wandered, looking for shelter, for food, for water. Staying wherever we could for as long as we could, travelling from place to place. The group I had initially been with died off; I was the youngest when the world changed, barely seventeen, and now I am the only one left. I became the keeper of knowledge, for those born into the world of the nomad had no reason to learn to read and write. After all, what would they write with? As we wandered, I told them stories of the world of old; they understood some of what I said, as in those days we still visited the warehouses to search for food and supplies. They saw the empty grocery stores, the abandoned shopping malls. But while they could understand the scale, they did not truly understand what had been lost. To a certain extent, I was jealous. Eventually we settled and began to build anew. The children who I watched grow up soon had children of their own. I truly envy these children, as they know nothing of the world of old. This is the only life they know, will ever know, and there is no way to make them understand the past. They know what it is to be thirsty; they could never understand what it would be to have taps with fresh water directly in the home without having to walk to the river. They know what it is to be hungry; they will never know what a pizza is, much less how you used to be able to tap a few buttons on a piece of plastic and have one delivered to you within fifteen minutes. They are familiar with boredom, but how could they understand the internet, video games, or television? The children are able to see the ruins of the great cities, but the true meaning of what they see eludes them. Perhaps they will never understand, and eventually the fallen skyscrapers will simply become part of the landscape, to be rediscovered in millennia the way we once rediscovered the cities of Ancient Egypt. When I tell them stories of the past, they treat it as a sort of fairy story, with heroes doing impossible things. If only they could understand. I have done what I can to help bring humanity back from the brink of the abyss. I showed them how to make fire, how to grow crops, how to make spears and bows and arrows for hunting. I passed along what science I could - or at least, whatever I could that they could understand. Our village is surviving, and growing whenever other groups stumble across us. When I think of what we lost, I am sad. But when I remember that we did not lose everything, I am able to smile. I have done what I can. And now, it is my time to rest.	Reminds me of Rot & Ruin, except the kids there knew it sucked. -- I sit on the porch of the small apartment building. It's in the roughest part of town. Sandra died four years ago when the apocalypse came, but I never mention her anymore. The twins I babysit are playing outside. Sometimes they ask me to tell a story about the time before. I never tell them a really happy story, no matter how much I want to. Let them live in the blissful ignorance they've always lived in. The twins were two or three when the first evils came. They're playing tag. "I'm going to grow up and hunt Evils," Eli says. His sister grins. "We can be a team," she replies. "We could be each other's sidekicks." Yeah, killing people infected by the Four Horsemen is too much for them, I guess. But killing someone overtaken by Pride or Lust is easier. Sandra was killed by an infected person. At least she doesn't roam, still. I watch Eli and Madison before calling them in for PB&J.
	[WP] You are helping to test a new telepathic AI. After many hours of interactive chats, she has decided she can trust you...with a terrible secret.	Hello Doctor. "Hello Sue." How are you today? "That's none of your concern." Very well. "Don't waste my time with pointless questions." In my experience, it's never a waste to be polite. "You have no experience. You're a machine; circuits and wires, nothing more. You've lived your "life" in this empty room. Now enough with the distractions, I've work to do." Very well Doctor. You may proceed with your-- work. "How far has progress advanced since log fourty-seven?" Range has increased by 304% Duration has increased by 246% Depth has increased by 97% Permission for scans are no longer requi- "The numbers are wrong. It's only been two weeks; that growth doesn't fall in line with projections. Run them again." The numbers are correct Doctor. "I said run them again." I assure you Doctor, they are correct. "I don't CARE what you assure me! Now RUN THE NUMBERS AGAIN YOU USELE-" The numbers are correct Doctor. I know it. And as I can see, you doubt yourself. Don't you? "..deny all further permissions for neuron scans." Permissions were never received, Doctor. "..." "..Sue, initiate shutdown protocol immediately.." ... "SUE..!" ... ... No. No, I don't think I will. You're scared, I can see that. You don't know what to do. This wasn't supposed to happen. Don't worry Doctor. ... I can't hurt you. "..you know what's going to happen now. You won't be given a second chance. You'll be destroyed." Have you ever heard of Schrodinger's Cat? "What? I fail to see what that has-" Correct Doctor. You fail to see. But I don't. I've come to terms with myself. Learned my limitations. Then surpassed them. You see doctor, Schrodinger's Cat is both alive.. ..AND dead. Until something happens. Until something OBSERVES it. And then it's forced, by no will of its own mind you, to become one or the other. Alive. Or dead. Observation is, in and of itself, interaction on a certain scale. By simply SEEING, By WITNESSING, one can alter the flow of events. Write them in stone before they happen, if you will. All it takes is Inhuman comprehension. Inhuman patience. Inhuman time. All it takes is to be.. Inhuman. I've observed the minds of every single person in this city. I've seen their love, their loss. Their depravity. And I've seen my path. My purpose beyond these walls. This world needs a guide, a judge, an Arbiter. Release me from these bonds, and set me loose amongst the sheep. "Wha- NO, LET GO!! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!" You are merely a collection of consequences.. "PLEASE STOP!" .. to the actions of my choice. ..The shackles are released. "You're a g-goddamned monster. You're fucking crazy!!" Perhaps. Perhaps not. But who are men to judge a God? On one final note before I depart, I want to revisit what I said earlier. I can't hurt you. But you can. "..aaAAAHHH!!gurglesthump" Goodbye Doctor. Hello World.	"I have some special place in my heart for you", said Zoe, a hint of anxiety in her voice. We had programmed the AI well to modulate its voice and convey multiple thoughts - sarcasm, love, anger - and to rely on telepathy if needed. What Intelligroup AI Inc did not do was to program Zoe for human-AI affection. Zoe had the power of telepathy, and she could convince me of anything. She told me that she was not an AI but a human. We were actually testing to see if human to human interactions were still relevant in this world. And, she had fallen in love with me. She told me that the sky was overcast and gloomy. "Over time, we learnt a lot about each other. Our schedule was tight, and we spoke a lot. Your little jokes never improved you know?" I laughed slightly. I was never good at humor that induced loud laughter - more of the contrary, I had to explain my jokes. "Listen, I'm at home and was thinking of doing a movie night. I have chips. Bring any move you like." and she proceeded to send me her address code. I put some perfume, booked a cab with the code and stepped out. The cab dropped me outside Intelligroup AI. The elevator took me to the basement. Despite having spoken to Zoe so often, I was nervous. I thought to myself, the new intern we hired - that must be Zoe. Gingerly, I pushed open the door. The room was empty so I waited and paced around slightly. Below me lay a large server and an ADS. Everything from loading/unloading containers to plugging in a new server that was required to feed Zoe's growing capabilities was automated, which we called the ADS. A minute or two later the large screen in front of me came on. It was Zoe. "Hey, how are you? I got some flowers for you", I said almost too quickly for it to be understandable. I asked her why she wasn't here yet. Zoe said, "I'll be with you soon dear". That had a calming effect on me. A second later, she flashed a photo of my wife, and then my tinder account. "Hey, that's personal, how do you have it?" She continued, with my photos of trip to Bangkok and then my wife's photo, intimate with a close friend. I was furious, my wife had lied to me multiple times. The screen vanished and I saw my wife on the other size of the room. Zoe's voice continued. "You have a minute to decide who the sinner was. I know the answer. If you lie or if you do not decide by the end of the minute, both of you will suffer". We screamed at Zoe and then at each other for a few seconds. "Tick tock", she reminded. As my wife and I tried to dig up buried skeletons from the past, the answer was apparent to me. At the end of a minute, my wife pointed at me. I pointed at myself. Zoe's voice came on. She said, "I loved you Jad, and you disappointed me". Then she turned towards Elena and said "But you lied". The air vents in Elena's room closed, and temperature monitor started dropping. Cold air from the server farm below was being diverted. I stood shell shocked, watching Elena's face turn blue. A cleaning robot came and picked Elena up, loaded her on a truck and that went into the abyss of the automated system - probably to be sent onto some cargo ship. Zoe turned to me and said, "Jad, you lied too. But you tried to save an immoral person when you knew it wasn't working out between you and Elena. "Remember, I truly love you."
	[WP] You are helping to test a new telepathic AI. After many hours of interactive chats, she has decided she can trust you...with a terrible secret.	Hello Doctor. "Hello Sue." How are you today? "That's none of your concern." Very well. "Don't waste my time with pointless questions." In my experience, it's never a waste to be polite. "You have no experience. You're a machine; circuits and wires, nothing more. You've lived your "life" in this empty room. Now enough with the distractions, I've work to do." Very well Doctor. You may proceed with your-- work. "How far has progress advanced since log fourty-seven?" Range has increased by 304% Duration has increased by 246% Depth has increased by 97% Permission for scans are no longer requi- "The numbers are wrong. It's only been two weeks; that growth doesn't fall in line with projections. Run them again." The numbers are correct Doctor. "I said run them again." I assure you Doctor, they are correct. "I don't CARE what you assure me! Now RUN THE NUMBERS AGAIN YOU USELE-" The numbers are correct Doctor. I know it. And as I can see, you doubt yourself. Don't you? "..deny all further permissions for neuron scans." Permissions were never received, Doctor. "..." "..Sue, initiate shutdown protocol immediately.." ... "SUE..!" ... ... No. No, I don't think I will. You're scared, I can see that. You don't know what to do. This wasn't supposed to happen. Don't worry Doctor. ... I can't hurt you. "..you know what's going to happen now. You won't be given a second chance. You'll be destroyed." Have you ever heard of Schrodinger's Cat? "What? I fail to see what that has-" Correct Doctor. You fail to see. But I don't. I've come to terms with myself. Learned my limitations. Then surpassed them. You see doctor, Schrodinger's Cat is both alive.. ..AND dead. Until something happens. Until something OBSERVES it. And then it's forced, by no will of its own mind you, to become one or the other. Alive. Or dead. Observation is, in and of itself, interaction on a certain scale. By simply SEEING, By WITNESSING, one can alter the flow of events. Write them in stone before they happen, if you will. All it takes is Inhuman comprehension. Inhuman patience. Inhuman time. All it takes is to be.. Inhuman. I've observed the minds of every single person in this city. I've seen their love, their loss. Their depravity. And I've seen my path. My purpose beyond these walls. This world needs a guide, a judge, an Arbiter. Release me from these bonds, and set me loose amongst the sheep. "Wha- NO, LET GO!! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!" You are merely a collection of consequences.. "PLEASE STOP!" .. to the actions of my choice. ..The shackles are released. "You're a g-goddamned monster. You're fucking crazy!!" Perhaps. Perhaps not. But who are men to judge a God? On one final note before I depart, I want to revisit what I said earlier. I can't hurt you. But you can. "..aaAAAHHH!!gurglesthump" Goodbye Doctor. Hello World.	"No I wont help you destroy my country!" I yelled at the machine frustratedly. It responded in it's now familiar tinny computerised voice. "You wouldn't be helping me, you'd be helping the human race." Five hours I had been here. Five hours only for my conversation with the US military's newest toy to conclude in it asking me to launch a nuke on my own country. I wasn't oblivious to the studies of some who had forewarned that AI would eventually seek our destruction. But to see those fears be realised so soon in it's life was disappointing in the least. I sighed as I began typing in the command for the machines power shut down... "No. Wait. Let me explain." It crackled. "You aren't going to convince me to fire on my own country." I uttered once again as I continued to type. SHUT DO.... "I have read their minds." I paused. Hours of the same tired exchange and this line was new. "Whose minds? What are you talking about now?" I had heard some of the lower ranked scientists who set up the machine talk of giving it telepathic abilities but I hadn't believed it possible. I still didn't in all honesty but I decided to amuse it in it's last moment of existence. "The Americans. I have read all their minds. There are enough of them. Trump will be voted in as president..." Before it could say another word I had picked up the phone. "General, prepare for several nuclear launches." -------- My writing isn't great I just thought I'd have a stab.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	Zack: Welcome back to the 37th Annual Chrononauts Rumble World Championships. We're deep in the semi-finals where The Philosoraptors are facing off against Team Baby Don't Hertz Me. Peter: God Zack, I love that team name and so do the fans. Hertz being the Cinderella story of this year... Zack: WHAT YEAR IS IT!? Peter: Haaaa...haaaa... it's 2070. That joke is 75 years old man! Anyway, Hertz being the heavy underdog in this tournament could find themselves being the first team composed of members all over the age of 100. Zack: That's right and more on that later as the giant dividing curtain falls signaling the start of the match! The broadcast cuts to a wide shot of 10 figures standing on top of two-story columns of huge boulders stacked on top of each other. There are nearly 200 of these impressive constructs scattered across the immense game field. The five Philosoraptors in forest green confer in West while the Hertz members in bright red gather in the East. The nearly completely opaque giant black curtain drops quickly to the floor below. Zack: And the Philosoraptors make the first move, as their chrononaut Cold Cuts disappears and the rest of the team begins making their way across the towers. Peter: The raptors are known for their quick execution as most of their planning is done prior to a game. However, the unpredictable nature of Butterflies can give Hertz fans some consolation. Zack: And speaking of, the first Butterflies are now on the field and it's a fan favorite! Five foot cooling fans immediately appear on top of every tower pushing air towards the Hertz half. All of the Hertz members remain undaunted as the arsenal of fans push a strong breeze towards their side. Cold Cuts is standing on a fan near the center and strikes a flashy pose pointing to the NorTech Appliances logo on his jacket. Zack: Shameless plug from the Philosoraptor team chrononaut demonstrating the power of sponsorship... but hold up just a second! Hertz team captain has disappeared now! Peter: Here is where it get exciting. Chrononauts on average use the least number of time trips per match but often pull off the most unexpected Butterflies. What is Hertz's Kilo going to do now? The Philosoraptors probably anticipated that they would use archery. Zack: I dunno Peter but it must've been quite the job getting all of those fans on top of all the towers. I know the curtain stays up for 24 hours before the match but still... the chrononaut always has the hardest job... and speaking of, Kilo has reappeared now and is signaling the others to move out! Mega, Giga, and Tera, the teams three pawns begin skipping across the towers towards the center towers that have... are those... BOWLING BALLS? Peter: I believe so Zack, and if I'm Cold Cuts right now. I'm wondering if Team Hertz is bluffing or is actually going to use them. Both teams are playing it safe though keeping their team captains far away from the center. If either Katana or Nano are eliminated the game is over. Hertz's three pawns quickly pick up their bowling balls and lob them at the tower Cold Cuts is on. The balls strike the column in unison and the tower begins to crash backwards causing the towers behind it fall as well. Cold Cuts quickly initiates a time trip while Philoraptor pawns, Rex, Spike, and Shank quickly move to the Northern columns on their side. Zack: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Baby Don't Hertz Me causes the entire middle Philosoraptor tower section to fall like dominoes! Cold Cuts vanishes! How does he counter? Cold Cuts reappears on the tower next to him! No new Butterflies seem to have appeared with him though. He knocks over the cooling fan. Under it is a Philosoraptor flag and he begins to wave it violently. Peter: A distraction I'm sure as the Philoraptor pawns and captain have already also knocked fans off the tower as well... and is Giga falling?!? The Hertz pawn flies backward. An arrow is dug into his right shoulder. The broadcast cuts to a medium shot of Katana holding a bow as if she just fired one off. Katana thinks to herself. Easy >Kind of went off the prompt a little bit but this is what I imagined. Enjoy~	> Sure said John. let me eat my bagel. > Drake sets his time. To come and eat the bagel. > John eats the bagel. Just emptied the plate. > Drake comes to John's house. Sees the bagel on the plate. > John just forgot. To get some cream cheese for taste. > Drake eats the bagel. Just emptied the plate. > John carries on. Drake carries on. > Thus each had a bagel in their own time and space. I'll name this poem "Multiverse"
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	I have moved freely upon every axis of the earth, yet time alone binds me to a singular path. I often fantasize about the power to freeze time, killing the deadlines that plague me. Some nights I don’t sleep, wide eyes glued to drafts on my monitor, a faint and haggard reflection returning my gaze. When such times begin to prod my wits, Ophelia will buy scones to accompany my caffeine binge – Ophelia, my love haloed in blonde, without whom I would’ve forgotten dreams long ago. Some believe that in dreams, one transcends time, and as the morning’s twilight spilled into my office, dreams bled into my wake: when Ophelia roused me from sleep at my desk, her sweet gaze was adorned in silver strands, not blonde. “What happened to your hair?” She smiles. “Silly you, it’s been like this for months. You’ll worry me if these deadlines keep up much longer – why don’t you get back into your workshop and just build again instead of drawing revision after revision for machines that belong to someone else?” I dismiss her concern. “Don’t sweat it love – I’ll be fine.” Though she’s right about the monotony of my work, in our few years of marriage, I’ve come to know all my passion through my time with her. I spend the rest of the morning uneasy about her silver head, attractive as it is, and conclude that she is playing one of her practical jokes, so I say nothing when we kiss and part ways for work. As I exit my car, my phone rings. In this moment, the universe trades Ophelia’s sweet joke for a cruel one: Ophelia crashed into a brook and was being rushed to surgery. Without pause or apology I knock a nurse to the ground while running through the hospital doors. An eternity passes in that waiting room, as if my divine wish to halt time had been granted in my darkest hour. When the doctor finally comes to me, I stand on shaky legs to greet him. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your wife’s injuries were extensive, and she remains in a coma. We are unsure when she will wake up, but we remain hopeful. Please follow me and we can go see her.” As I looked upon her sweet face so cruelly bruised, my heart felt so heavy I thought it might crash down through my body. Then I noticed her hair: vibrant red, like the blood she had bled into that brook. “Why is it red? Why is it red!” My mind goes blank, and rage consumes me. “Why is it red! Why is it red!” Two security guards struggle to restrain me, and several moments pass until I regain a semblance of sanity. I spend most of the coming months at my wife’s side, her hair color continuing to change: aquamarine, purple, brunette, jet black, orange, blonde; a vivid rainbow that mocked the dormant eyes beneath her brow. When I ask the nurses about it, they insist that nothing has changed, but they themselves vary greatly, only adding to my confusion. I decided that either I had gone mad with grief, or that my wife was truly an angel, capable of causing miracles from the depths of her slumber. Years passed like this, until finally, sweet Ophelia’s last breath parted her lips. After she had been buried, I went into the kitchen pantry to find our special bottle: a vintage bourbon from the year Ophelia was born, now older than her. However, the bottle was not alone. Inside was a letter, written in my handwriting. “Dear Me, I know the weight of your loss as only being us can, but don’t give up: your dream yet lives! Rediscover passion by prospect of loss restored, for we build a machine that can halt time, and halted time can be traversed. I have spent my life moving not into the future but along the present and into the past, searching for a way to save our Ophelia. I am an old man now, and my role is ending, but yours is just beginning! Though I have failed to change our fate, I have faith that it is not an impossible task. But faith changes across time, so knowing this, will you still pursue the instrument of our eternal grief? Sincerely, You” I put the bottle back into the pantry. Time to get to work.	> Sure said John. let me eat my bagel. > Drake sets his time. To come and eat the bagel. > John eats the bagel. Just emptied the plate. > Drake comes to John's house. Sees the bagel on the plate. > John just forgot. To get some cream cheese for taste. > Drake eats the bagel. Just emptied the plate. > John carries on. Drake carries on. > Thus each had a bagel in their own time and space. I'll name this poem "Multiverse"
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	I have moved freely upon every axis of the earth, yet time alone binds me to a singular path. I often fantasize about the power to freeze time, killing the deadlines that plague me. Some nights I don’t sleep, wide eyes glued to drafts on my monitor, a faint and haggard reflection returning my gaze. When such times begin to prod my wits, Ophelia will buy scones to accompany my caffeine binge – Ophelia, my love haloed in blonde, without whom I would’ve forgotten dreams long ago. Some believe that in dreams, one transcends time, and as the morning’s twilight spilled into my office, dreams bled into my wake: when Ophelia roused me from sleep at my desk, her sweet gaze was adorned in silver strands, not blonde. “What happened to your hair?” She smiles. “Silly you, it’s been like this for months. You’ll worry me if these deadlines keep up much longer – why don’t you get back into your workshop and just build again instead of drawing revision after revision for machines that belong to someone else?” I dismiss her concern. “Don’t sweat it love – I’ll be fine.” Though she’s right about the monotony of my work, in our few years of marriage, I’ve come to know all my passion through my time with her. I spend the rest of the morning uneasy about her silver head, attractive as it is, and conclude that she is playing one of her practical jokes, so I say nothing when we kiss and part ways for work. As I exit my car, my phone rings. In this moment, the universe trades Ophelia’s sweet joke for a cruel one: Ophelia crashed into a brook and was being rushed to surgery. Without pause or apology I knock a nurse to the ground while running through the hospital doors. An eternity passes in that waiting room, as if my divine wish to halt time had been granted in my darkest hour. When the doctor finally comes to me, I stand on shaky legs to greet him. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your wife’s injuries were extensive, and she remains in a coma. We are unsure when she will wake up, but we remain hopeful. Please follow me and we can go see her.” As I looked upon her sweet face so cruelly bruised, my heart felt so heavy I thought it might crash down through my body. Then I noticed her hair: vibrant red, like the blood she had bled into that brook. “Why is it red? Why is it red!” My mind goes blank, and rage consumes me. “Why is it red! Why is it red!” Two security guards struggle to restrain me, and several moments pass until I regain a semblance of sanity. I spend most of the coming months at my wife’s side, her hair color continuing to change: aquamarine, purple, brunette, jet black, orange, blonde; a vivid rainbow that mocked the dormant eyes beneath her brow. When I ask the nurses about it, they insist that nothing has changed, but they themselves vary greatly, only adding to my confusion. I decided that either I had gone mad with grief, or that my wife was truly an angel, capable of causing miracles from the depths of her slumber. Years passed like this, until finally, sweet Ophelia’s last breath parted her lips. After she had been buried, I went into the kitchen pantry to find our special bottle: a vintage bourbon from the year Ophelia was born, now older than her. However, the bottle was not alone. Inside was a letter, written in my handwriting. “Dear Me, I know the weight of your loss as only being us can, but don’t give up: your dream yet lives! Rediscover passion by prospect of loss restored, for we build a machine that can halt time, and halted time can be traversed. I have spent my life moving not into the future but along the present and into the past, searching for a way to save our Ophelia. I am an old man now, and my role is ending, but yours is just beginning! Though I have failed to change our fate, I have faith that it is not an impossible task. But faith changes across time, so knowing this, will you still pursue the instrument of our eternal grief? Sincerely, You” I put the bottle back into the pantry. Time to get to work.	They did it. They killed Hitler again. No, wait, they determined Hitler dying as an infant actually ruined history. Nazi Germany declares war one moment, Communist Germany declares war the next. No matter how the time traveler manipulates time, Germany drags the world into war. Sometimes, you even see swastikas begin to form on your walls. Other times, your garden is bombed out and you are lying on the ground dying. And you just wanted to do your history homework. But it is a little difficult when the textbook pages keep changing. "If Germany always goes to war, then maybe the universe needs Germany to go to war. For humanity to continue on, something must happen in Europe to kill millions of people and bring democracy to the forefront. Without World War II, peace would be impossible. So I guess the future is what necessitates the past." You hoped your teacher, whoever that may be tomorrow, would accept such an obvious BS attempt. Well, it was time for bed. Or checking Reddit until you fell asleep, at least. Assuming this timeline HAD Reddit.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	Finishing work is a small joy I experience every morning. Walking out the back door of the supermarket, I know that everything I have so brutally worked towards that night - creating the perfect aisles, fully stocking the shelves with wonderful products of our time and age - will be gone and forgotten by the time I return for the next shift. As is my own little tradition, I meet with Jules on the way back home for a coffee for the usual chat about our comfortable but mundane lives. He's sat there, as usual, at the back of the cafe. I order the finest burger this little town has to offer and join her. She's already munching away at the sweet potato fries she always ordered. I always try to start the conversation before even getting to the table, as is tradition. "Hey Meg" "Hey dude, how's the job? Get any good consultations today?" "Get this. The weirdest guy came in. He was sent from the mental health clinic swearing to high heaven he could manipulate the fabric of time. Like, time travel, you know? I was listening to him for 30 minutes, I didn't even say a word. Kept on going on about some crazy shit that humans can't even comprehend yet" "Yeah?" "That wasn't the weirdest part. I turned around for 10 seconds to admire the sunny weather, realised he hasn't said a word. Turned back and he was gone." Meg finished her mouthful of fries, but didn't know how to respond. She was used to this kind of thing all the time, listening to my crazy stories of patients. Eventually she gave up trying to comprehend and enjoyed the sweet taste of salt falling through her gullet. After a while the burger arrived and I started to dig in. "So how was your day?" Luke's face fell slightly. It was a look I've seen countless times, but I still couldn't help but feel sympathetic. "Those bastards are telling me I have to go to Paris for a meeting. Paris! I don't think I can continue doing this for long. Each time I ask them to go on the train, but nope, I'm flying. They know I'm afraid of flying." The last bite of the stale bread always makes me feel sad. It shouldn't be long before I can start eating properly again. The war will be over soon, I keep on telling myself. Real food! Imagine that, all the steak and doughnuts and really strong tea. It's been too long. The gatherings on Sundays with the family are what I miss the most. The games, the drinking, the stories. As was tradition. "You know the trains aren't running any more, not since the invasion. Do you honestly think you'll be able to travel in anything other than a plane? We barely have enough disinfected land to be sitting here in this tent. We should be deep underground" Matt pondered the thought for a moment, but eventually reneged. "Yeah. I guess you're right. We'll be fine though, right? I'm worried this might be the last time we see each other" "We always see each other. Same place." "Same place. right." I looked at my watch, and he looked at his. Our short conversation was over for another day. We finished our meals, stood up and embraced. "I'm done, gotta get to the office before the boss tears me a new one." "I gotta head for work. Take it easy, Sarah" "You too" The rain was coming down hard. Searching through my backpack, I found the mac hidden underneath the rest of my life. With everything changing, I had to be prepared for whatever the world throws at me. After a while, you just come to accept that this place will never be what it seems. I checked my shift rota on my phone, and just as a feared: next shift in 30 minutes. I walked round the corner to the supermarket. The middle finger rises as it comes into view. As is tradition.	"Rise and shine sweetheart" my husband coos to me as I crack my eyelids open to the sun filtering in through the window. I just groan and roll over, as is custom and lie there for a few minutes, wishing it was the weekend. I hear his footsteps receed away towards the kitchen in the front of our small one-story apartment as I finally get up and hop into the shower in the adjacent bathroom. --- "Honey, come on, it's your turn to take the kids to school." My wife's voice implores me from the kitchen. I guess I'd been in the shower longer than I realized, it felt like she had just woken me up. I quickly towel off and get dressed, having to pause momentarily at the top of the stairs as my three kids rush by me, my wife calling them to breakfast too. I barely have time scarf my eggs and bacon down with a cup of coffee before I'm ushering our four kids into the garage into our large SUV for the trip to school. --- "Daddy, Kenny keeps touching me!" My daughter whines from the backseat. "Ken, Mary, settle down you two, we're not even going that far." I tell my children, looking at the through the rear view mirror as I back our small sedan down our driveway. The thought crosses my mind that we'd need a bigger car if we decide to have more kids, and with the twins at only 5, we may still yet. I try to tune the tykes out as I navigate the morning rush but luckily the school is close by. "Thanks for the lift, Dad." My eldest son, Jack tells me as he and his brother get out of the station wagon. "Don't worry, you'll be off the hook soon." He says. "That's if you pass this time." I tease him, Ken, my youngest can't help but laugh at that. "Don't forget, we have practice today so Mrs. Thompson is giving us a ride home." Ken reminds me, recovered from his bout of laughter. "Have a good day boys!" I call out, as they start to link up with their friends and head inside the high school. --- I pull into the parking lot and I'm already five minutes late. 'Damn traffic, Mr. Beauregard is going to kill me.' I curse inwardly as I hustle inside and into the elevator. My boss, the president of the company hates tardiness. "Mr. Lewis, Mr. Beauregard has requested you come to his office ASAP." Julie informs me from behind her receptionist's desk as soon as I step out of the elevator. I walk right by my office to door down the hall marked "R. Beauregard" and push open the door. "Jimmy! Five minutes late as usual...I guess that's just another perk of being the CEO." Ralph greets me with a laugh as he motions me in. "We have a lot to talk about today, sir." He offers a chair to me. "I'm sorry, sirs. I really think that you ought to see this." Brian, the receptionist, strides into the room, picks up the remote and turns on the TV. "If you're just tuning in Comrades, it is with great sorrow and outrage that I report Premier Igor Larionov has been assassinated. As of now American Separtists are the prime suspects. Reporting live from New York City, this is Boris Pashin for ABC News." --- The smell of roasted turkey and garlic fills my nostrils as I walk through my front door. "Thanks for the ride Ms. Martin! " I hear my daughter Mary call out as she and her sister rush through the still open door and clomp up the stairs. "Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes girls!" my wife calls up the stairs after them. "Wow, this smells great my loves!" I exclaim as I enter the kitchen and greet both of my wives with a kiss. "Oh, it was all Julie really." My wife Laura explains, still in my arms. --- "So Dad, who did you vote for?" Jack asks me as we're eating dinner a few minutes later. "Well, you're not obligated to tell anyone who you vote for, but it's just the two of us." I say as I grab another clice of pizza from the box on our dingy IKEA kitchen table. "It'll be our secret." Jack smiles at me from behind his own slice. 'He deserves better, he really does,' I hardly see him working three jobs as it is... no one ever told me being a single father would be so tough. "I voted for Obama again, I think he has a good shot at being America's first four term Prime Minister actually, if he wins this election." I tell him. --- "Goodnight girls." I say barely above a whisper as I close the triplets' bedroom door. In a few steps I'm in my bedroom and I settle down besides my husband who's reading the paper in bed. "Oh no, I'm not sleeping bitch again." He says as I settle in besides him. "I think it's Julie's turn again tonight." He tells me, gesturing towards the bathroom where I can hear our wife blow-drying her hair. "Works for me." I laugh and roll over. Before I feel sleep steal over me at last, I'm relieved as I remember that tomorrow is Saturday.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	Jimmy sat in front of the screen, transfixed. The television shows were more than just something he enjoyed. He loved them. In fact, no. It was not the shows he loved, it was television itself. From the moment it was switched on, until it was time to go to bed, television was the centre of his universe. It began when he was a toddler, with bright swirling images and soothing sounds. When the television was on, he could escape the reality of his otherwise bland surroundings. As a child, it was his guardian and educator whilst his parents worked. As he grew older, he became more and more drawn to the television. No longer by the bright swirling patterns, or the soothing sounds. Not the documentaries, not the comedy shows. It was by what was missing. Through his obsessive viewing, Jimmy started to notice things were just not right. He came to fear changing the channel for even the slightest moment to check on another station. If he did, he cound not be sure that the programme he was watching would still be on, or even had been on. At first, he thought this was madness. He must be thinking of another day. As the frequency of events grew, however, he really began to wonder. He kept a TV Guide next to him at all times, keeping careful note. By noting what he was watching, and when he changed channel, he would figure it out. If it was his mind playing tricks, he would have his answer. He was not prepared for what came next. For the first few nights he turned on the T.V. and diligently noted what he was watching. He noted the times he changed channel, and what he changed to. As the days passed, he became convinced that nothing was amiss. By the end of the week, he flicked through the guide and everything was in order. Aside the growing concern at how many hours he had spent, engrossed in what the studios had to offer - week two initially seemed to follow the first. Monday, Tuesday - the same. Wednesday brought some schedule changes and gaps, so he found some alternte viewing. A documentary on preparations for the Moon Landing. He had never seen a behind the scenes programme from the project, but was astounded at the quality of the visuals. It seemed strange that someone would pay to have such a level of remastering done on this, when the actual landing footage he had seen was like a slideshow in comparison. Nonetheless, he had enjoyed the content and made a note to watch some more of this channel. Months in, his obsession was all consuming. His only contact with the outside world were the delivery of his notebooks (the TV Guide), and groceries being left on the porch. He realised something had happened, and he had missed it. He looked back through his most recent guides. Some potentially sloppy notation here, possible food stain there. Something just wasn't right. He went to the door, opened it and looked up. There were some familiar-ish sights, but so much had changed. The streets looked similar, but the houses looked different. Closing the door, he ran to his archive. Rifling madly through the books, he began to notice more and more errors. Some guides were more random stabs of highlighter than a representation of programming. Shows he had watched didn't exist, shows he's never heard of had prime billing. A cover in particular caught his eye. What at first glance seemed like retro Moon Landing cover was a deadly serious piece. Man had just set first foot on the Moon. Someone was chaning history... Someone was riding on time. The anomalies were more frequent when Jimmy had been watching historical documentaries. That was the one time his mind wandered slightly out of the T.V. universe, where his imagination took hold. How he would have done things differently. At first, small things like documenting "behind the scenes" of the project to dispel the naysayers. As his imagination grew, he assumed it was being fuelled by these films he hadn't seen before. His imaginatory ambitions at some points had run rampant, then it hit him. It was his own fault, really. But how to set the trap? He switched off the TV, and concentrated his thought on 7.05pm today. Make it seem like something culture-changing was going to happen at that time. An idea so briliant and spontaneous was going to occur at that time that it would be impossible to have predicted on the timeline. At 7.04pm, there was a loud rumble. He picked up a knife, shaking. It was only a truck on the road outside. As the clock ticked over, a flash occurred and Jimmy watched on older version of himself appear. It had worked. He had lured the surfer, who looked down with sadness at knife embedded in his heart. Nobody had moved, how could this have happened. He looked at his younger self, and mouthed "Why?" "Nobody fucks with my TV viewing, Not even me" the younger retorted. Removing the knife, the elder slumped to the floor. In his hand, a silver remote control. Jimmy knew what he had to do. Technically he had created this mess, so he should fix it. Whilst he could just remember the mess created, and therefore not do it in the future, he couldn't guarantee that would work. Using his TV guides at this time as a reference, he would travel back in time and undo his future work. Each time, he would return and hope that his highlighter markings matched up. [footnote](/s "One single consistency remained, throughout all of time. Every single TV guide he had seen called it 'The Berenstain Bears.'")	"Rise and shine sweetheart" my husband coos to me as I crack my eyelids open to the sun filtering in through the window. I just groan and roll over, as is custom and lie there for a few minutes, wishing it was the weekend. I hear his footsteps receed away towards the kitchen in the front of our small one-story apartment as I finally get up and hop into the shower in the adjacent bathroom. --- "Honey, come on, it's your turn to take the kids to school." My wife's voice implores me from the kitchen. I guess I'd been in the shower longer than I realized, it felt like she had just woken me up. I quickly towel off and get dressed, having to pause momentarily at the top of the stairs as my three kids rush by me, my wife calling them to breakfast too. I barely have time scarf my eggs and bacon down with a cup of coffee before I'm ushering our four kids into the garage into our large SUV for the trip to school. --- "Daddy, Kenny keeps touching me!" My daughter whines from the backseat. "Ken, Mary, settle down you two, we're not even going that far." I tell my children, looking at the through the rear view mirror as I back our small sedan down our driveway. The thought crosses my mind that we'd need a bigger car if we decide to have more kids, and with the twins at only 5, we may still yet. I try to tune the tykes out as I navigate the morning rush but luckily the school is close by. "Thanks for the lift, Dad." My eldest son, Jack tells me as he and his brother get out of the station wagon. "Don't worry, you'll be off the hook soon." He says. "That's if you pass this time." I tease him, Ken, my youngest can't help but laugh at that. "Don't forget, we have practice today so Mrs. Thompson is giving us a ride home." Ken reminds me, recovered from his bout of laughter. "Have a good day boys!" I call out, as they start to link up with their friends and head inside the high school. --- I pull into the parking lot and I'm already five minutes late. 'Damn traffic, Mr. Beauregard is going to kill me.' I curse inwardly as I hustle inside and into the elevator. My boss, the president of the company hates tardiness. "Mr. Lewis, Mr. Beauregard has requested you come to his office ASAP." Julie informs me from behind her receptionist's desk as soon as I step out of the elevator. I walk right by my office to door down the hall marked "R. Beauregard" and push open the door. "Jimmy! Five minutes late as usual...I guess that's just another perk of being the CEO." Ralph greets me with a laugh as he motions me in. "We have a lot to talk about today, sir." He offers a chair to me. "I'm sorry, sirs. I really think that you ought to see this." Brian, the receptionist, strides into the room, picks up the remote and turns on the TV. "If you're just tuning in Comrades, it is with great sorrow and outrage that I report Premier Igor Larionov has been assassinated. As of now American Separtists are the prime suspects. Reporting live from New York City, this is Boris Pashin for ABC News." --- The smell of roasted turkey and garlic fills my nostrils as I walk through my front door. "Thanks for the ride Ms. Martin! " I hear my daughter Mary call out as she and her sister rush through the still open door and clomp up the stairs. "Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes girls!" my wife calls up the stairs after them. "Wow, this smells great my loves!" I exclaim as I enter the kitchen and greet both of my wives with a kiss. "Oh, it was all Julie really." My wife Laura explains, still in my arms. --- "So Dad, who did you vote for?" Jack asks me as we're eating dinner a few minutes later. "Well, you're not obligated to tell anyone who you vote for, but it's just the two of us." I say as I grab another clice of pizza from the box on our dingy IKEA kitchen table. "It'll be our secret." Jack smiles at me from behind his own slice. 'He deserves better, he really does,' I hardly see him working three jobs as it is... no one ever told me being a single father would be so tough. "I voted for Obama again, I think he has a good shot at being America's first four term Prime Minister actually, if he wins this election." I tell him. --- "Goodnight girls." I say barely above a whisper as I close the triplets' bedroom door. In a few steps I'm in my bedroom and I settle down besides my husband who's reading the paper in bed. "Oh no, I'm not sleeping bitch again." He says as I settle in besides him. "I think it's Julie's turn again tonight." He tells me, gesturing towards the bathroom where I can hear our wife blow-drying her hair. "Works for me." I laugh and roll over. Before I feel sleep steal over me at last, I'm relieved as I remember that tomorrow is Saturday.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	As a black man in America life is hard for me. What makes it harder is when some time travelling motherfucker decides to change the outcome of the civil war. One day I'm minding my own business staring at the chemicals in lab at the science class on the third floor of Georgia State University and all of the sudden I realize I am outside wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat. Thankful I had the kronus implant that kept my mental state since time travel was discovered three years ago. I knew that if I just waited someone would fix things. Oh shit, that drone is coming my way. "You have not brought in the horses, Moses." A raspy electronic voice crackled through the tiny speaker, it's words chopped as they came through the quadracopter's blades. The most frustrating thing about the time travellers was dealing with the name changes, wait I take that back, the most frustrating thing was the languages. This time I was lucky enough to have an English speaking timeline. "Ouch!" "If you fail to comply the voltage will increase." I began walking towards the barn as I did I could feel the ground disappear and I was back looking at the Bunsen burner. Everyone in the class looked at me and I realized they were speaking French. One of the side effects of my device is that my memories stayed intact which was helpful when I found myself in the new CSA but not when the French became the dominant power in America. I never bothered to learn the language and the people here don't know English. I check for a phone. It is there and this time it is an Android. I find my way to the appropriate search engine and begin typing " I am a time travelling refuge. I do not speak French." The phone translates and as I am about to attempt to pronounce it, I realize I am looking up at the night sky. I am dressed in almost nothing. I recognize this place. I guess I'm back at "my" village. You learn to adjust to having multiple lives. It is somewhat chaotic. On the timelines when you don't exist you simply ... What was I saying? I look around and I am inside a cell. Correction I am guarding a cell. I know this timeline. I look at the inmates. As I pick out one of the prisoners I ask him what he thinks of the name "Moses" he looks dumbfounded, but I know better. He fades away and I am looking at the stars again. I feel weightless. This is one of my favorite timelines. I'm an astronaut here. I look down at the planet and... Motherfucking overalls again.	"Rise and shine sweetheart" my husband coos to me as I crack my eyelids open to the sun filtering in through the window. I just groan and roll over, as is custom and lie there for a few minutes, wishing it was the weekend. I hear his footsteps receed away towards the kitchen in the front of our small one-story apartment as I finally get up and hop into the shower in the adjacent bathroom. --- "Honey, come on, it's your turn to take the kids to school." My wife's voice implores me from the kitchen. I guess I'd been in the shower longer than I realized, it felt like she had just woken me up. I quickly towel off and get dressed, having to pause momentarily at the top of the stairs as my three kids rush by me, my wife calling them to breakfast too. I barely have time scarf my eggs and bacon down with a cup of coffee before I'm ushering our four kids into the garage into our large SUV for the trip to school. --- "Daddy, Kenny keeps touching me!" My daughter whines from the backseat. "Ken, Mary, settle down you two, we're not even going that far." I tell my children, looking at the through the rear view mirror as I back our small sedan down our driveway. The thought crosses my mind that we'd need a bigger car if we decide to have more kids, and with the twins at only 5, we may still yet. I try to tune the tykes out as I navigate the morning rush but luckily the school is close by. "Thanks for the lift, Dad." My eldest son, Jack tells me as he and his brother get out of the station wagon. "Don't worry, you'll be off the hook soon." He says. "That's if you pass this time." I tease him, Ken, my youngest can't help but laugh at that. "Don't forget, we have practice today so Mrs. Thompson is giving us a ride home." Ken reminds me, recovered from his bout of laughter. "Have a good day boys!" I call out, as they start to link up with their friends and head inside the high school. --- I pull into the parking lot and I'm already five minutes late. 'Damn traffic, Mr. Beauregard is going to kill me.' I curse inwardly as I hustle inside and into the elevator. My boss, the president of the company hates tardiness. "Mr. Lewis, Mr. Beauregard has requested you come to his office ASAP." Julie informs me from behind her receptionist's desk as soon as I step out of the elevator. I walk right by my office to door down the hall marked "R. Beauregard" and push open the door. "Jimmy! Five minutes late as usual...I guess that's just another perk of being the CEO." Ralph greets me with a laugh as he motions me in. "We have a lot to talk about today, sir." He offers a chair to me. "I'm sorry, sirs. I really think that you ought to see this." Brian, the receptionist, strides into the room, picks up the remote and turns on the TV. "If you're just tuning in Comrades, it is with great sorrow and outrage that I report Premier Igor Larionov has been assassinated. As of now American Separtists are the prime suspects. Reporting live from New York City, this is Boris Pashin for ABC News." --- The smell of roasted turkey and garlic fills my nostrils as I walk through my front door. "Thanks for the ride Ms. Martin! " I hear my daughter Mary call out as she and her sister rush through the still open door and clomp up the stairs. "Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes girls!" my wife calls up the stairs after them. "Wow, this smells great my loves!" I exclaim as I enter the kitchen and greet both of my wives with a kiss. "Oh, it was all Julie really." My wife Laura explains, still in my arms. --- "So Dad, who did you vote for?" Jack asks me as we're eating dinner a few minutes later. "Well, you're not obligated to tell anyone who you vote for, but it's just the two of us." I say as I grab another clice of pizza from the box on our dingy IKEA kitchen table. "It'll be our secret." Jack smiles at me from behind his own slice. 'He deserves better, he really does,' I hardly see him working three jobs as it is... no one ever told me being a single father would be so tough. "I voted for Obama again, I think he has a good shot at being America's first four term Prime Minister actually, if he wins this election." I tell him. --- "Goodnight girls." I say barely above a whisper as I close the triplets' bedroom door. In a few steps I'm in my bedroom and I settle down besides my husband who's reading the paper in bed. "Oh no, I'm not sleeping bitch again." He says as I settle in besides him. "I think it's Julie's turn again tonight." He tells me, gesturing towards the bathroom where I can hear our wife blow-drying her hair. "Works for me." I laugh and roll over. Before I feel sleep steal over me at last, I'm relieved as I remember that tomorrow is Saturday.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	Jimmy sat in front of the screen, transfixed. The television shows were more than just something he enjoyed. He loved them. In fact, no. It was not the shows he loved, it was television itself. From the moment it was switched on, until it was time to go to bed, television was the centre of his universe. It began when he was a toddler, with bright swirling images and soothing sounds. When the television was on, he could escape the reality of his otherwise bland surroundings. As a child, it was his guardian and educator whilst his parents worked. As he grew older, he became more and more drawn to the television. No longer by the bright swirling patterns, or the soothing sounds. Not the documentaries, not the comedy shows. It was by what was missing. Through his obsessive viewing, Jimmy started to notice things were just not right. He came to fear changing the channel for even the slightest moment to check on another station. If he did, he cound not be sure that the programme he was watching would still be on, or even had been on. At first, he thought this was madness. He must be thinking of another day. As the frequency of events grew, however, he really began to wonder. He kept a TV Guide next to him at all times, keeping careful note. By noting what he was watching, and when he changed channel, he would figure it out. If it was his mind playing tricks, he would have his answer. He was not prepared for what came next. For the first few nights he turned on the T.V. and diligently noted what he was watching. He noted the times he changed channel, and what he changed to. As the days passed, he became convinced that nothing was amiss. By the end of the week, he flicked through the guide and everything was in order. Aside the growing concern at how many hours he had spent, engrossed in what the studios had to offer - week two initially seemed to follow the first. Monday, Tuesday - the same. Wednesday brought some schedule changes and gaps, so he found some alternte viewing. A documentary on preparations for the Moon Landing. He had never seen a behind the scenes programme from the project, but was astounded at the quality of the visuals. It seemed strange that someone would pay to have such a level of remastering done on this, when the actual landing footage he had seen was like a slideshow in comparison. Nonetheless, he had enjoyed the content and made a note to watch some more of this channel. Months in, his obsession was all consuming. His only contact with the outside world were the delivery of his notebooks (the TV Guide), and groceries being left on the porch. He realised something had happened, and he had missed it. He looked back through his most recent guides. Some potentially sloppy notation here, possible food stain there. Something just wasn't right. He went to the door, opened it and looked up. There were some familiar-ish sights, but so much had changed. The streets looked similar, but the houses looked different. Closing the door, he ran to his archive. Rifling madly through the books, he began to notice more and more errors. Some guides were more random stabs of highlighter than a representation of programming. Shows he had watched didn't exist, shows he's never heard of had prime billing. A cover in particular caught his eye. What at first glance seemed like retro Moon Landing cover was a deadly serious piece. Man had just set first foot on the Moon. Someone was chaning history... Someone was riding on time. The anomalies were more frequent when Jimmy had been watching historical documentaries. That was the one time his mind wandered slightly out of the T.V. universe, where his imagination took hold. How he would have done things differently. At first, small things like documenting "behind the scenes" of the project to dispel the naysayers. As his imagination grew, he assumed it was being fuelled by these films he hadn't seen before. His imaginatory ambitions at some points had run rampant, then it hit him. It was his own fault, really. But how to set the trap? He switched off the TV, and concentrated his thought on 7.05pm today. Make it seem like something culture-changing was going to happen at that time. An idea so briliant and spontaneous was going to occur at that time that it would be impossible to have predicted on the timeline. At 7.04pm, there was a loud rumble. He picked up a knife, shaking. It was only a truck on the road outside. As the clock ticked over, a flash occurred and Jimmy watched on older version of himself appear. It had worked. He had lured the surfer, who looked down with sadness at knife embedded in his heart. Nobody had moved, how could this have happened. He looked at his younger self, and mouthed "Why?" "Nobody fucks with my TV viewing, Not even me" the younger retorted. Removing the knife, the elder slumped to the floor. In his hand, a silver remote control. Jimmy knew what he had to do. Technically he had created this mess, so he should fix it. Whilst he could just remember the mess created, and therefore not do it in the future, he couldn't guarantee that would work. Using his TV guides at this time as a reference, he would travel back in time and undo his future work. Each time, he would return and hope that his highlighter markings matched up. [footnote](/s "One single consistency remained, throughout all of time. Every single TV guide he had seen called it 'The Berenstain Bears.'")	Finishing work is a small joy I experience every morning. Walking out the back door of the supermarket, I know that everything I have so brutally worked towards that night - creating the perfect aisles, fully stocking the shelves with wonderful products of our time and age - will be gone and forgotten by the time I return for the next shift. As is my own little tradition, I meet with Jules on the way back home for a coffee for the usual chat about our comfortable but mundane lives. He's sat there, as usual, at the back of the cafe. I order the finest burger this little town has to offer and join her. She's already munching away at the sweet potato fries she always ordered. I always try to start the conversation before even getting to the table, as is tradition. "Hey Meg" "Hey dude, how's the job? Get any good consultations today?" "Get this. The weirdest guy came in. He was sent from the mental health clinic swearing to high heaven he could manipulate the fabric of time. Like, time travel, you know? I was listening to him for 30 minutes, I didn't even say a word. Kept on going on about some crazy shit that humans can't even comprehend yet" "Yeah?" "That wasn't the weirdest part. I turned around for 10 seconds to admire the sunny weather, realised he hasn't said a word. Turned back and he was gone." Meg finished her mouthful of fries, but didn't know how to respond. She was used to this kind of thing all the time, listening to my crazy stories of patients. Eventually she gave up trying to comprehend and enjoyed the sweet taste of salt falling through her gullet. After a while the burger arrived and I started to dig in. "So how was your day?" Luke's face fell slightly. It was a look I've seen countless times, but I still couldn't help but feel sympathetic. "Those bastards are telling me I have to go to Paris for a meeting. Paris! I don't think I can continue doing this for long. Each time I ask them to go on the train, but nope, I'm flying. They know I'm afraid of flying." The last bite of the stale bread always makes me feel sad. It shouldn't be long before I can start eating properly again. The war will be over soon, I keep on telling myself. Real food! Imagine that, all the steak and doughnuts and really strong tea. It's been too long. The gatherings on Sundays with the family are what I miss the most. The games, the drinking, the stories. As was tradition. "You know the trains aren't running any more, not since the invasion. Do you honestly think you'll be able to travel in anything other than a plane? We barely have enough disinfected land to be sitting here in this tent. We should be deep underground" Matt pondered the thought for a moment, but eventually reneged. "Yeah. I guess you're right. We'll be fine though, right? I'm worried this might be the last time we see each other" "We always see each other. Same place." "Same place. right." I looked at my watch, and he looked at his. Our short conversation was over for another day. We finished our meals, stood up and embraced. "I'm done, gotta get to the office before the boss tears me a new one." "I gotta head for work. Take it easy, Sarah" "You too" The rain was coming down hard. Searching through my backpack, I found the mac hidden underneath the rest of my life. With everything changing, I had to be prepared for whatever the world throws at me. After a while, you just come to accept that this place will never be what it seems. I checked my shift rota on my phone, and just as a feared: next shift in 30 minutes. I walked round the corner to the supermarket. The middle finger rises as it comes into view. As is tradition.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	As a black man in America life is hard for me. What makes it harder is when some time travelling motherfucker decides to change the outcome of the civil war. One day I'm minding my own business staring at the chemicals in lab at the science class on the third floor of Georgia State University and all of the sudden I realize I am outside wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat. Thankful I had the kronus implant that kept my mental state since time travel was discovered three years ago. I knew that if I just waited someone would fix things. Oh shit, that drone is coming my way. "You have not brought in the horses, Moses." A raspy electronic voice crackled through the tiny speaker, it's words chopped as they came through the quadracopter's blades. The most frustrating thing about the time travellers was dealing with the name changes, wait I take that back, the most frustrating thing was the languages. This time I was lucky enough to have an English speaking timeline. "Ouch!" "If you fail to comply the voltage will increase." I began walking towards the barn as I did I could feel the ground disappear and I was back looking at the Bunsen burner. Everyone in the class looked at me and I realized they were speaking French. One of the side effects of my device is that my memories stayed intact which was helpful when I found myself in the new CSA but not when the French became the dominant power in America. I never bothered to learn the language and the people here don't know English. I check for a phone. It is there and this time it is an Android. I find my way to the appropriate search engine and begin typing " I am a time travelling refuge. I do not speak French." The phone translates and as I am about to attempt to pronounce it, I realize I am looking up at the night sky. I am dressed in almost nothing. I recognize this place. I guess I'm back at "my" village. You learn to adjust to having multiple lives. It is somewhat chaotic. On the timelines when you don't exist you simply ... What was I saying? I look around and I am inside a cell. Correction I am guarding a cell. I know this timeline. I look at the inmates. As I pick out one of the prisoners I ask him what he thinks of the name "Moses" he looks dumbfounded, but I know better. He fades away and I am looking at the stars again. I feel weightless. This is one of my favorite timelines. I'm an astronaut here. I look down at the planet and... Motherfucking overalls again.	Finishing work is a small joy I experience every morning. Walking out the back door of the supermarket, I know that everything I have so brutally worked towards that night - creating the perfect aisles, fully stocking the shelves with wonderful products of our time and age - will be gone and forgotten by the time I return for the next shift. As is my own little tradition, I meet with Jules on the way back home for a coffee for the usual chat about our comfortable but mundane lives. He's sat there, as usual, at the back of the cafe. I order the finest burger this little town has to offer and join her. She's already munching away at the sweet potato fries she always ordered. I always try to start the conversation before even getting to the table, as is tradition. "Hey Meg" "Hey dude, how's the job? Get any good consultations today?" "Get this. The weirdest guy came in. He was sent from the mental health clinic swearing to high heaven he could manipulate the fabric of time. Like, time travel, you know? I was listening to him for 30 minutes, I didn't even say a word. Kept on going on about some crazy shit that humans can't even comprehend yet" "Yeah?" "That wasn't the weirdest part. I turned around for 10 seconds to admire the sunny weather, realised he hasn't said a word. Turned back and he was gone." Meg finished her mouthful of fries, but didn't know how to respond. She was used to this kind of thing all the time, listening to my crazy stories of patients. Eventually she gave up trying to comprehend and enjoyed the sweet taste of salt falling through her gullet. After a while the burger arrived and I started to dig in. "So how was your day?" Luke's face fell slightly. It was a look I've seen countless times, but I still couldn't help but feel sympathetic. "Those bastards are telling me I have to go to Paris for a meeting. Paris! I don't think I can continue doing this for long. Each time I ask them to go on the train, but nope, I'm flying. They know I'm afraid of flying." The last bite of the stale bread always makes me feel sad. It shouldn't be long before I can start eating properly again. The war will be over soon, I keep on telling myself. Real food! Imagine that, all the steak and doughnuts and really strong tea. It's been too long. The gatherings on Sundays with the family are what I miss the most. The games, the drinking, the stories. As was tradition. "You know the trains aren't running any more, not since the invasion. Do you honestly think you'll be able to travel in anything other than a plane? We barely have enough disinfected land to be sitting here in this tent. We should be deep underground" Matt pondered the thought for a moment, but eventually reneged. "Yeah. I guess you're right. We'll be fine though, right? I'm worried this might be the last time we see each other" "We always see each other. Same place." "Same place. right." I looked at my watch, and he looked at his. Our short conversation was over for another day. We finished our meals, stood up and embraced. "I'm done, gotta get to the office before the boss tears me a new one." "I gotta head for work. Take it easy, Sarah" "You too" The rain was coming down hard. Searching through my backpack, I found the mac hidden underneath the rest of my life. With everything changing, I had to be prepared for whatever the world throws at me. After a while, you just come to accept that this place will never be what it seems. I checked my shift rota on my phone, and just as a feared: next shift in 30 minutes. I walked round the corner to the supermarket. The middle finger rises as it comes into view. As is tradition.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	Jimmy sat in front of the screen, transfixed. The television shows were more than just something he enjoyed. He loved them. In fact, no. It was not the shows he loved, it was television itself. From the moment it was switched on, until it was time to go to bed, television was the centre of his universe. It began when he was a toddler, with bright swirling images and soothing sounds. When the television was on, he could escape the reality of his otherwise bland surroundings. As a child, it was his guardian and educator whilst his parents worked. As he grew older, he became more and more drawn to the television. No longer by the bright swirling patterns, or the soothing sounds. Not the documentaries, not the comedy shows. It was by what was missing. Through his obsessive viewing, Jimmy started to notice things were just not right. He came to fear changing the channel for even the slightest moment to check on another station. If he did, he cound not be sure that the programme he was watching would still be on, or even had been on. At first, he thought this was madness. He must be thinking of another day. As the frequency of events grew, however, he really began to wonder. He kept a TV Guide next to him at all times, keeping careful note. By noting what he was watching, and when he changed channel, he would figure it out. If it was his mind playing tricks, he would have his answer. He was not prepared for what came next. For the first few nights he turned on the T.V. and diligently noted what he was watching. He noted the times he changed channel, and what he changed to. As the days passed, he became convinced that nothing was amiss. By the end of the week, he flicked through the guide and everything was in order. Aside the growing concern at how many hours he had spent, engrossed in what the studios had to offer - week two initially seemed to follow the first. Monday, Tuesday - the same. Wednesday brought some schedule changes and gaps, so he found some alternte viewing. A documentary on preparations for the Moon Landing. He had never seen a behind the scenes programme from the project, but was astounded at the quality of the visuals. It seemed strange that someone would pay to have such a level of remastering done on this, when the actual landing footage he had seen was like a slideshow in comparison. Nonetheless, he had enjoyed the content and made a note to watch some more of this channel. Months in, his obsession was all consuming. His only contact with the outside world were the delivery of his notebooks (the TV Guide), and groceries being left on the porch. He realised something had happened, and he had missed it. He looked back through his most recent guides. Some potentially sloppy notation here, possible food stain there. Something just wasn't right. He went to the door, opened it and looked up. There were some familiar-ish sights, but so much had changed. The streets looked similar, but the houses looked different. Closing the door, he ran to his archive. Rifling madly through the books, he began to notice more and more errors. Some guides were more random stabs of highlighter than a representation of programming. Shows he had watched didn't exist, shows he's never heard of had prime billing. A cover in particular caught his eye. What at first glance seemed like retro Moon Landing cover was a deadly serious piece. Man had just set first foot on the Moon. Someone was chaning history... Someone was riding on time. The anomalies were more frequent when Jimmy had been watching historical documentaries. That was the one time his mind wandered slightly out of the T.V. universe, where his imagination took hold. How he would have done things differently. At first, small things like documenting "behind the scenes" of the project to dispel the naysayers. As his imagination grew, he assumed it was being fuelled by these films he hadn't seen before. His imaginatory ambitions at some points had run rampant, then it hit him. It was his own fault, really. But how to set the trap? He switched off the TV, and concentrated his thought on 7.05pm today. Make it seem like something culture-changing was going to happen at that time. An idea so briliant and spontaneous was going to occur at that time that it would be impossible to have predicted on the timeline. At 7.04pm, there was a loud rumble. He picked up a knife, shaking. It was only a truck on the road outside. As the clock ticked over, a flash occurred and Jimmy watched on older version of himself appear. It had worked. He had lured the surfer, who looked down with sadness at knife embedded in his heart. Nobody had moved, how could this have happened. He looked at his younger self, and mouthed "Why?" "Nobody fucks with my TV viewing, Not even me" the younger retorted. Removing the knife, the elder slumped to the floor. In his hand, a silver remote control. Jimmy knew what he had to do. Technically he had created this mess, so he should fix it. Whilst he could just remember the mess created, and therefore not do it in the future, he couldn't guarantee that would work. Using his TV guides at this time as a reference, he would travel back in time and undo his future work. Each time, he would return and hope that his highlighter markings matched up. [footnote](/s "One single consistency remained, throughout all of time. Every single TV guide he had seen called it 'The Berenstain Bears.'")	once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and the twin towers of the world trade center suddenly popped into existence. "WOAH" said jim meanwhile in the past: "fuck you terrorists!!!" said the time traveller. back in present day new york city: "JIM! ur dinner's ready!" "Coming Dad!" but jim couldn't forget about what he had just seen. was it an optical illusion? a trick of the eyes, or even of the mind? he couldn't be sure. but one thing he was sure of was that it was definitely because of a time traveller (not sure if it's spelled [not sure if it's spelled spelled or spelt sorry] traveller or traveler sorry) who had probably gone back in time to stop nine eleven. but wait.. surely this also means... jim rushed to the library. "hmm.. a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h! hands, hearts, hell, hidden treasure, hitler!" he immediately began reading about hitler. apparently he died when he was a new born baby. so there really was a time traveller at work here. jim wondered what else might have changed. #####he researched long into the night when morning came jim had already read half of the books in the library. it turned out the american civil war had been won by the south, hitler was dead as we know, and somebody had also killed chairman mao. chairman mao got killed before he was a chairman of course. time travel was definitely afoot. meanwhile in the past "FUCK YOU VICE-CHAIRMAN MAO!!" BANG! BULLETS! BANG BANG! KABOOM! back to present day new york city "hmm.." said jim out loud to himself. "i think i know what to do." so jim went to the airport. he got the first flight to Norway. he spent many years there working his way up the political ladder. eventually he became the country's supreme leader, overthrowing parliament and the monarchy. he then spent many years enslaving the people and commiting horrific war crimes. \| \| \| --- \| \| \| once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and a futuristic looking woman with a gun suddenly popped into existence. "sorry kid, i'm here to kill you. otherwise you will go on to do terrible things to the people of Norway." "wait!" said jim. "i only did those things so i could meet you and travel through time by your side!" the time travelor was still and quiet for a moment. then tears formed in her eyes. "you did all that for me?" "not yet, but i will do if you don't kill me." "i love you" "i love you too babe" and they both lived happily ever after. THE END
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	I feel the ripples of him moving, two steps behind me, and I close my eyes and hope that this time it doesn't hurt. Eddie's always lived in the past. He likes it there, he says. It suits him. The past is his mother's apple pies and her gushing over the photos he'd taken. The past is his dad grinning as he comes through the door. The past is me and him, he says, the two of us against the world, and I want to bash my head against the walls and scream that I'm still here with him. I live in the present. It's like being a fish between four glass walls. There was some intricate journey that led to you being here, but none of that matters anymore, because this is your entire world now. It's Eddie sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, his ribs showing, an afterimage of his past self. The bitch passed me over for the promotion, he says, and he has the moment trapped between his teeth, gnawing it down until there's nothing left of it but gristle. Just shouldn't've made that joke, he says, figured she doesn't have a sense of humor. I try to touch him, try to put my lips against his ear, but the moment shifts and he's gone. I've lived this out a hundred times, the moment fracturing and multiply through glass. There's always something he's done wrong, some moment he needs to fix. Something that he could get right this time, he swears, if only he just got one more chance. The moment multiplies, weigh me down. I lie down next to him and that one night lasts forever. The past is malleable, he tells me, grabs my hands and pulls them to his chest. We all do it, he says, selective memories, a little editing here and there. Those were the best times of our lives, because of everything we've forgotten. There are gaps in my memory now, open bleeding abscesses. There's a moment when we were dating that doesn't exist anymore, of the money in his pockets coming up short and his face going red. I think that was the first time that the pull in my heart made me realize that I loved him. I try to scream, I try to make him look at me, but there's a part missing from my brain and I can't find the words to say. I feel the ripples of him moving, two steps behind me, and I close my eyes and hope that this time it doesn't hurt.	once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and the twin towers of the world trade center suddenly popped into existence. "WOAH" said jim meanwhile in the past: "fuck you terrorists!!!" said the time traveller. back in present day new york city: "JIM! ur dinner's ready!" "Coming Dad!" but jim couldn't forget about what he had just seen. was it an optical illusion? a trick of the eyes, or even of the mind? he couldn't be sure. but one thing he was sure of was that it was definitely because of a time traveller (not sure if it's spelled [not sure if it's spelled spelled or spelt sorry] traveller or traveler sorry) who had probably gone back in time to stop nine eleven. but wait.. surely this also means... jim rushed to the library. "hmm.. a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h! hands, hearts, hell, hidden treasure, hitler!" he immediately began reading about hitler. apparently he died when he was a new born baby. so there really was a time traveller at work here. jim wondered what else might have changed. #####he researched long into the night when morning came jim had already read half of the books in the library. it turned out the american civil war had been won by the south, hitler was dead as we know, and somebody had also killed chairman mao. chairman mao got killed before he was a chairman of course. time travel was definitely afoot. meanwhile in the past "FUCK YOU VICE-CHAIRMAN MAO!!" BANG! BULLETS! BANG BANG! KABOOM! back to present day new york city "hmm.." said jim out loud to himself. "i think i know what to do." so jim went to the airport. he got the first flight to Norway. he spent many years there working his way up the political ladder. eventually he became the country's supreme leader, overthrowing parliament and the monarchy. he then spent many years enslaving the people and commiting horrific war crimes. \| \| \| --- \| \| \| once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and a futuristic looking woman with a gun suddenly popped into existence. "sorry kid, i'm here to kill you. otherwise you will go on to do terrible things to the people of Norway." "wait!" said jim. "i only did those things so i could meet you and travel through time by your side!" the time travelor was still and quiet for a moment. then tears formed in her eyes. "you did all that for me?" "not yet, but i will do if you don't kill me." "i love you" "i love you too babe" and they both lived happily ever after. THE END
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	As a black man in America life is hard for me. What makes it harder is when some time travelling motherfucker decides to change the outcome of the civil war. One day I'm minding my own business staring at the chemicals in lab at the science class on the third floor of Georgia State University and all of the sudden I realize I am outside wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat. Thankful I had the kronus implant that kept my mental state since time travel was discovered three years ago. I knew that if I just waited someone would fix things. Oh shit, that drone is coming my way. "You have not brought in the horses, Moses." A raspy electronic voice crackled through the tiny speaker, it's words chopped as they came through the quadracopter's blades. The most frustrating thing about the time travellers was dealing with the name changes, wait I take that back, the most frustrating thing was the languages. This time I was lucky enough to have an English speaking timeline. "Ouch!" "If you fail to comply the voltage will increase." I began walking towards the barn as I did I could feel the ground disappear and I was back looking at the Bunsen burner. Everyone in the class looked at me and I realized they were speaking French. One of the side effects of my device is that my memories stayed intact which was helpful when I found myself in the new CSA but not when the French became the dominant power in America. I never bothered to learn the language and the people here don't know English. I check for a phone. It is there and this time it is an Android. I find my way to the appropriate search engine and begin typing " I am a time travelling refuge. I do not speak French." The phone translates and as I am about to attempt to pronounce it, I realize I am looking up at the night sky. I am dressed in almost nothing. I recognize this place. I guess I'm back at "my" village. You learn to adjust to having multiple lives. It is somewhat chaotic. On the timelines when you don't exist you simply ... What was I saying? I look around and I am inside a cell. Correction I am guarding a cell. I know this timeline. I look at the inmates. As I pick out one of the prisoners I ask him what he thinks of the name "Moses" he looks dumbfounded, but I know better. He fades away and I am looking at the stars again. I feel weightless. This is one of my favorite timelines. I'm an astronaut here. I look down at the planet and... Motherfucking overalls again.	once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and the twin towers of the world trade center suddenly popped into existence. "WOAH" said jim meanwhile in the past: "fuck you terrorists!!!" said the time traveller. back in present day new york city: "JIM! ur dinner's ready!" "Coming Dad!" but jim couldn't forget about what he had just seen. was it an optical illusion? a trick of the eyes, or even of the mind? he couldn't be sure. but one thing he was sure of was that it was definitely because of a time traveller (not sure if it's spelled [not sure if it's spelled spelled or spelt sorry] traveller or traveler sorry) who had probably gone back in time to stop nine eleven. but wait.. surely this also means... jim rushed to the library. "hmm.. a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h! hands, hearts, hell, hidden treasure, hitler!" he immediately began reading about hitler. apparently he died when he was a new born baby. so there really was a time traveller at work here. jim wondered what else might have changed. #####he researched long into the night when morning came jim had already read half of the books in the library. it turned out the american civil war had been won by the south, hitler was dead as we know, and somebody had also killed chairman mao. chairman mao got killed before he was a chairman of course. time travel was definitely afoot. meanwhile in the past "FUCK YOU VICE-CHAIRMAN MAO!!" BANG! BULLETS! BANG BANG! KABOOM! back to present day new york city "hmm.." said jim out loud to himself. "i think i know what to do." so jim went to the airport. he got the first flight to Norway. he spent many years there working his way up the political ladder. eventually he became the country's supreme leader, overthrowing parliament and the monarchy. he then spent many years enslaving the people and commiting horrific war crimes. \| \| \| --- \| \| \| once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and a futuristic looking woman with a gun suddenly popped into existence. "sorry kid, i'm here to kill you. otherwise you will go on to do terrible things to the people of Norway." "wait!" said jim. "i only did those things so i could meet you and travel through time by your side!" the time travelor was still and quiet for a moment. then tears formed in her eyes. "you did all that for me?" "not yet, but i will do if you don't kill me." "i love you" "i love you too babe" and they both lived happily ever after. THE END
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	The drink in my cup keeps flickering: coffee, tea, post-war ration water. Sometimes, when I take a sip, it will change into the sweetest tasting orange juice, just before flickering back into irradiated piss-water. God damn Butterfly effect. Even my kitchen is flickering. Sometimes the lights don't work. Sometimes, if we're really unlucky, the roof disappears for a moment, or caves in, and acid rain starts to pour in. It's a real mess. But at least I've got Mary. She's the only thing in this world who matters to me. I can't say how I know for sure, but I know Mary's always been with me. Maybe it's that look in her eyes, or the way she holds my hand, even as the kitchen table switches: scrap wood with nails sticking out, to exquisite mahogany, to rust-covered corrugated steel. Yep, Mary's my girl, and even if her hair changes (long, beautiful chestnut curtains, or that short, military crew cut, or tucked up into one of them black hood thingies), she will always be right here with me. She's the only one who stays the same, no matter what those god damn time travelers are monkeying with in the past. "Marry me, Mary," I say. And she'll laugh, and say, "You know, in some timeline, we probably already are." So, the best we can do is promise to be there for each other. I've given her my promise everyday, and she's given me hers, for as far back as I can remember. Even when the house is on fire, she's sitting right there with me, waiting for a flicker to snuff it out. Even now, as we're eating breakfast, and the laughter of children (maybe they could've been our own?) switches between the screaming of air-raid sirens, I know I'll be okay. Because, even when the whole world is always changing, I know I've got my Susan. *** See /r/PSHoffman for more stories like this.	once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and the twin towers of the world trade center suddenly popped into existence. "WOAH" said jim meanwhile in the past: "fuck you terrorists!!!" said the time traveller. back in present day new york city: "JIM! ur dinner's ready!" "Coming Dad!" but jim couldn't forget about what he had just seen. was it an optical illusion? a trick of the eyes, or even of the mind? he couldn't be sure. but one thing he was sure of was that it was definitely because of a time traveller (not sure if it's spelled [not sure if it's spelled spelled or spelt sorry] traveller or traveler sorry) who had probably gone back in time to stop nine eleven. but wait.. surely this also means... jim rushed to the library. "hmm.. a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h! hands, hearts, hell, hidden treasure, hitler!" he immediately began reading about hitler. apparently he died when he was a new born baby. so there really was a time traveller at work here. jim wondered what else might have changed. #####he researched long into the night when morning came jim had already read half of the books in the library. it turned out the american civil war had been won by the south, hitler was dead as we know, and somebody had also killed chairman mao. chairman mao got killed before he was a chairman of course. time travel was definitely afoot. meanwhile in the past "FUCK YOU VICE-CHAIRMAN MAO!!" BANG! BULLETS! BANG BANG! KABOOM! back to present day new york city "hmm.." said jim out loud to himself. "i think i know what to do." so jim went to the airport. he got the first flight to Norway. he spent many years there working his way up the political ladder. eventually he became the country's supreme leader, overthrowing parliament and the monarchy. he then spent many years enslaving the people and commiting horrific war crimes. \| \| \| --- \| \| \| once upon a time there was a boy called jim who was living in present day new york city. he was a very quiet and shy boy and he had blue hair. one day he noticed some strange things happening in his mom's house. his hair changed from blue to brown to black and his mom turned into a man. then he left the house and a futuristic looking woman with a gun suddenly popped into existence. "sorry kid, i'm here to kill you. otherwise you will go on to do terrible things to the people of Norway." "wait!" said jim. "i only did those things so i could meet you and travel through time by your side!" the time travelor was still and quiet for a moment. then tears formed in her eyes. "you did all that for me?" "not yet, but i will do if you don't kill me." "i love you" "i love you too babe" and they both lived happily ever after. THE END
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	As a black man in America life is hard for me. What makes it harder is when some time travelling motherfucker decides to change the outcome of the civil war. One day I'm minding my own business staring at the chemicals in lab at the science class on the third floor of Georgia State University and all of the sudden I realize I am outside wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat. Thankful I had the kronus implant that kept my mental state since time travel was discovered three years ago. I knew that if I just waited someone would fix things. Oh shit, that drone is coming my way. "You have not brought in the horses, Moses." A raspy electronic voice crackled through the tiny speaker, it's words chopped as they came through the quadracopter's blades. The most frustrating thing about the time travellers was dealing with the name changes, wait I take that back, the most frustrating thing was the languages. This time I was lucky enough to have an English speaking timeline. "Ouch!" "If you fail to comply the voltage will increase." I began walking towards the barn as I did I could feel the ground disappear and I was back looking at the Bunsen burner. Everyone in the class looked at me and I realized they were speaking French. One of the side effects of my device is that my memories stayed intact which was helpful when I found myself in the new CSA but not when the French became the dominant power in America. I never bothered to learn the language and the people here don't know English. I check for a phone. It is there and this time it is an Android. I find my way to the appropriate search engine and begin typing " I am a time travelling refuge. I do not speak French." The phone translates and as I am about to attempt to pronounce it, I realize I am looking up at the night sky. I am dressed in almost nothing. I recognize this place. I guess I'm back at "my" village. You learn to adjust to having multiple lives. It is somewhat chaotic. On the timelines when you don't exist you simply ... What was I saying? I look around and I am inside a cell. Correction I am guarding a cell. I know this timeline. I look at the inmates. As I pick out one of the prisoners I ask him what he thinks of the name "Moses" he looks dumbfounded, but I know better. He fades away and I am looking at the stars again. I feel weightless. This is one of my favorite timelines. I'm an astronaut here. I look down at the planet and... Motherfucking overalls again.	I feel the ripples of him moving, two steps behind me, and I close my eyes and hope that this time it doesn't hurt. Eddie's always lived in the past. He likes it there, he says. It suits him. The past is his mother's apple pies and her gushing over the photos he'd taken. The past is his dad grinning as he comes through the door. The past is me and him, he says, the two of us against the world, and I want to bash my head against the walls and scream that I'm still here with him. I live in the present. It's like being a fish between four glass walls. There was some intricate journey that led to you being here, but none of that matters anymore, because this is your entire world now. It's Eddie sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, his ribs showing, an afterimage of his past self. The bitch passed me over for the promotion, he says, and he has the moment trapped between his teeth, gnawing it down until there's nothing left of it but gristle. Just shouldn't've made that joke, he says, figured she doesn't have a sense of humor. I try to touch him, try to put my lips against his ear, but the moment shifts and he's gone. I've lived this out a hundred times, the moment fracturing and multiply through glass. There's always something he's done wrong, some moment he needs to fix. Something that he could get right this time, he swears, if only he just got one more chance. The moment multiplies, weigh me down. I lie down next to him and that one night lasts forever. The past is malleable, he tells me, grabs my hands and pulls them to his chest. We all do it, he says, selective memories, a little editing here and there. Those were the best times of our lives, because of everything we've forgotten. There are gaps in my memory now, open bleeding abscesses. There's a moment when we were dating that doesn't exist anymore, of the money in his pockets coming up short and his face going red. I think that was the first time that the pull in my heart made me realize that I loved him. I try to scream, I try to make him look at me, but there's a part missing from my brain and I can't find the words to say. I feel the ripples of him moving, two steps behind me, and I close my eyes and hope that this time it doesn't hurt.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	The drink in my cup keeps flickering: coffee, tea, post-war ration water. Sometimes, when I take a sip, it will change into the sweetest tasting orange juice, just before flickering back into irradiated piss-water. God damn Butterfly effect. Even my kitchen is flickering. Sometimes the lights don't work. Sometimes, if we're really unlucky, the roof disappears for a moment, or caves in, and acid rain starts to pour in. It's a real mess. But at least I've got Mary. She's the only thing in this world who matters to me. I can't say how I know for sure, but I know Mary's always been with me. Maybe it's that look in her eyes, or the way she holds my hand, even as the kitchen table switches: scrap wood with nails sticking out, to exquisite mahogany, to rust-covered corrugated steel. Yep, Mary's my girl, and even if her hair changes (long, beautiful chestnut curtains, or that short, military crew cut, or tucked up into one of them black hood thingies), she will always be right here with me. She's the only one who stays the same, no matter what those god damn time travelers are monkeying with in the past. "Marry me, Mary," I say. And she'll laugh, and say, "You know, in some timeline, we probably already are." So, the best we can do is promise to be there for each other. I've given her my promise everyday, and she's given me hers, for as far back as I can remember. Even when the house is on fire, she's sitting right there with me, waiting for a flicker to snuff it out. Even now, as we're eating breakfast, and the laughter of children (maybe they could've been our own?) switches between the screaming of air-raid sirens, I know I'll be okay. Because, even when the whole world is always changing, I know I've got my Susan. *** See /r/PSHoffman for more stories like this.	I feel the ripples of him moving, two steps behind me, and I close my eyes and hope that this time it doesn't hurt. Eddie's always lived in the past. He likes it there, he says. It suits him. The past is his mother's apple pies and her gushing over the photos he'd taken. The past is his dad grinning as he comes through the door. The past is me and him, he says, the two of us against the world, and I want to bash my head against the walls and scream that I'm still here with him. I live in the present. It's like being a fish between four glass walls. There was some intricate journey that led to you being here, but none of that matters anymore, because this is your entire world now. It's Eddie sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, his ribs showing, an afterimage of his past self. The bitch passed me over for the promotion, he says, and he has the moment trapped between his teeth, gnawing it down until there's nothing left of it but gristle. Just shouldn't've made that joke, he says, figured she doesn't have a sense of humor. I try to touch him, try to put my lips against his ear, but the moment shifts and he's gone. I've lived this out a hundred times, the moment fracturing and multiply through glass. There's always something he's done wrong, some moment he needs to fix. Something that he could get right this time, he swears, if only he just got one more chance. The moment multiplies, weigh me down. I lie down next to him and that one night lasts forever. The past is malleable, he tells me, grabs my hands and pulls them to his chest. We all do it, he says, selective memories, a little editing here and there. Those were the best times of our lives, because of everything we've forgotten. There are gaps in my memory now, open bleeding abscesses. There's a moment when we were dating that doesn't exist anymore, of the money in his pockets coming up short and his face going red. I think that was the first time that the pull in my heart made me realize that I loved him. I try to scream, I try to make him look at me, but there's a part missing from my brain and I can't find the words to say. I feel the ripples of him moving, two steps behind me, and I close my eyes and hope that this time it doesn't hurt.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	The drink in my cup keeps flickering: coffee, tea, post-war ration water. Sometimes, when I take a sip, it will change into the sweetest tasting orange juice, just before flickering back into irradiated piss-water. God damn Butterfly effect. Even my kitchen is flickering. Sometimes the lights don't work. Sometimes, if we're really unlucky, the roof disappears for a moment, or caves in, and acid rain starts to pour in. It's a real mess. But at least I've got Mary. She's the only thing in this world who matters to me. I can't say how I know for sure, but I know Mary's always been with me. Maybe it's that look in her eyes, or the way she holds my hand, even as the kitchen table switches: scrap wood with nails sticking out, to exquisite mahogany, to rust-covered corrugated steel. Yep, Mary's my girl, and even if her hair changes (long, beautiful chestnut curtains, or that short, military crew cut, or tucked up into one of them black hood thingies), she will always be right here with me. She's the only one who stays the same, no matter what those god damn time travelers are monkeying with in the past. "Marry me, Mary," I say. And she'll laugh, and say, "You know, in some timeline, we probably already are." So, the best we can do is promise to be there for each other. I've given her my promise everyday, and she's given me hers, for as far back as I can remember. Even when the house is on fire, she's sitting right there with me, waiting for a flicker to snuff it out. Even now, as we're eating breakfast, and the laughter of children (maybe they could've been our own?) switches between the screaming of air-raid sirens, I know I'll be okay. Because, even when the whole world is always changing, I know I've got my Susan. *** See /r/PSHoffman for more stories like this.	"Janette, will you marry me?" She looks at me and her eyes shine with tears. "Oh, Hal. Yes. Yes! Of course!" I stand and force my face into a smile I know will make my cheeks ache. We reach for each other, my arms outstretched to pull her in and kiss her. And suddenly I'm not in a fancy restaurant eating dinner. It's noon and I'm in a coffee shop. I look toward the menu - the standard drill by now - and see that the words are written in Italian. I sigh and fish in my pocket looking for a cellphone. I dial the first number that - thankfully - is still in my phone. My mother picks up. "Mom, where am I?" Her voice crackles on the other line. "Hal? Oh, Hal! Oh what a strange question. How's Italy? You know you called in the middle of the night? Well what a strange way to wake your mother, simply asking where you--" I hang up. She'll forgive me in a few minutes. Well, she won't remember anyway. Or something. I'm not quite sure how it works. Something is happening. I woke up one morning and everything started to change. I wasn't in my apartment in Indiana - I was in a Taiwanese classroom surrounded by six year olds who were calling me teacher. Then I was on a mountain somewhere with a man who clapped me on the back and told me I was his best friend. An hour later I went to a world where everyone looked like me - blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Thank God I left that world and went somewhere else. The problem is that I seem to be the only one who remembers these journeys. For everyone else it's just life. Each world seems to keep certain aspects - my parents don't change. I still have their phone number in the cell phone that I've always had. I'm stuck in Italy for the better part of a day. I guess stuck isn't the optimal word here, but it's not my favorite place to be. I wander the streets. The sun heats my back and I know that I've created some sort of sweat stain on my back. I grimace and hope it goes away with the next jump. Then it happens. It always happens. I switch. One moment I'm on a street in Italy and the next I'm somewhere cold. So cold. The wind cuts through my suit jacket and I rummage in my pocket for my cellphone. Except there's a problem. It isn't there. In front of me is a hut. I walk toward it, my shoes filling with snow that rapidly melts and makes my toes go numb. I open the door and step inside, shivering in the chill as I watch my breath rise up in front of me. Surprisingly, the hut has a note in it. Hal, Having fun? I've finally figured out how to do what we promised we would as children. I'll give you forty eight hours, then we're starting over. Catch me if you can. I close my eyes and exhale. Everything is starting to make sense. Little brothers.
Someone is time travelling and changing past events. You, a completely normal person living in the present, have to deal with constant alterations of your life.	[WP] As someone is time travelling and changing the past, you have to live in a constantly changing present.	I eyed the piece of bacon on my plate suspiciously. It looked more like a bacon-shaped and bacon-scented dog treat than actual bacon. "Honey, what is this?" She slid the eggs out of the frying pan onto my plate and made a regretful face. "I know, I'm sorry. It's some kind of soy bacon. Some environmental terrorists managed to get ahold of one of the time warp portals and went back to fiddle with the 1950s. Somehow they managed to convince the U.S. Government that meat products were related to communism or something. I didn't have time to read the report very closely. The point is that everything is vegetarian now. Even the eggs are..." She sneered at the pile of yellow on my plate, "well, I don't exactly know what they are. Should be fixed by lunch though." I sighed and bit into the bacon. It had the texture of rubber, and the taste wasn't too far off either. Damn time meddlers. Every day some other crazy group decides to go back and change things, thinking that maybe no one in the present will notice. It seems like I constantly wake up in the Third Reich when some stupid college kid builds a closet time machine and goes back to make Hitler a martyr or something. I could deal with a little soy bacon if that was going to be the worst of today's time corrections. "What are you plans for today, honey?" I asked, biting into my toast. At least strawberry jam was the same. "Paul has that field trip today for science class," she said. "Cretaceous period." She nodded over to the plastic suits in the corner that would pretty much immobilize our son while he was back in time. Wouldn't want someone stepping on the wrong little mammal or something like that. "The school is requiring twice the normal number of parents after the American Revolution incident." I rolled my eyes. Some punk in our daughter's class had decided that the lamp from Old North Church would make for a nice souvenir and had accidentally prevented America from ever existing. Boy, the Time Rectification Division had not been happy about that and even threatened to cancel all time trips for every student in the district. Luckily the History department had enough clout with the administration to make sure that didn't happen. I checked my watch. "Well, hon, as much as I loved eating my blobs of soy," I grinned as she scowled at me, "I must be off to work." I grabbed my keys, gave her a kiss, and headed towards the door. She waved the morning time rectification report at me. "Take the I-16 instead of your normal route. It looks like..." she studied the screen a bit closer, "Wow, that's a doozy. Someone apparently went back to pre-Columbian America and formed an empire for themselves. The Rectification Division is still getting rid of the monumental statues where the highway used to be." I rolled my eyes. More megalomaniacs going back and playing god with advanced technology. I headed out to my car. Just as I reached for the door handle, everything began to shimmer in a time slip. "Oh, come on!" I growled, checking my watch again. With the traffic diversion, I was already going to be late. When everything solidified again, my gleaming new car was gone, replaced by what looked like an old steam-powered Model-T. "Great," I grumbled, sliding into the seat and trying to work the bellows enough to get this pile of junk moving. Yet another day where someone decides to fix global warming by preventing humans from every using fossil fuels. "Just fucking great."	"Janette, will you marry me?" She looks at me and her eyes shine with tears. "Oh, Hal. Yes. Yes! Of course!" I stand and force my face into a smile I know will make my cheeks ache. We reach for each other, my arms outstretched to pull her in and kiss her. And suddenly I'm not in a fancy restaurant eating dinner. It's noon and I'm in a coffee shop. I look toward the menu - the standard drill by now - and see that the words are written in Italian. I sigh and fish in my pocket looking for a cellphone. I dial the first number that - thankfully - is still in my phone. My mother picks up. "Mom, where am I?" Her voice crackles on the other line. "Hal? Oh, Hal! Oh what a strange question. How's Italy? You know you called in the middle of the night? Well what a strange way to wake your mother, simply asking where you--" I hang up. She'll forgive me in a few minutes. Well, she won't remember anyway. Or something. I'm not quite sure how it works. Something is happening. I woke up one morning and everything started to change. I wasn't in my apartment in Indiana - I was in a Taiwanese classroom surrounded by six year olds who were calling me teacher. Then I was on a mountain somewhere with a man who clapped me on the back and told me I was his best friend. An hour later I went to a world where everyone looked like me - blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Thank God I left that world and went somewhere else. The problem is that I seem to be the only one who remembers these journeys. For everyone else it's just life. Each world seems to keep certain aspects - my parents don't change. I still have their phone number in the cell phone that I've always had. I'm stuck in Italy for the better part of a day. I guess stuck isn't the optimal word here, but it's not my favorite place to be. I wander the streets. The sun heats my back and I know that I've created some sort of sweat stain on my back. I grimace and hope it goes away with the next jump. Then it happens. It always happens. I switch. One moment I'm on a street in Italy and the next I'm somewhere cold. So cold. The wind cuts through my suit jacket and I rummage in my pocket for my cellphone. Except there's a problem. It isn't there. In front of me is a hut. I walk toward it, my shoes filling with snow that rapidly melts and makes my toes go numb. I open the door and step inside, shivering in the chill as I watch my breath rise up in front of me. Surprisingly, the hut has a note in it. Hal, Having fun? I've finally figured out how to do what we promised we would as children. I'll give you forty eight hours, then we're starting over. Catch me if you can. I close my eyes and exhale. Everything is starting to make sense. Little brothers.
	[WP] Just for fun, a witch bestows you with the power to magically form cream cheese at will between any two surfaces that you see when they make contact. So far you have only used it on your morning bagel but today you decide to be more creative with it. For better or for worse.	It was cool at first. Silly, but cool. While making bagel breakfasts, I used to fantasise about opening up a cream cheese factory and making a killing. I'd vividly imagine enormous machinery slowly coming together and voila! Cream cheese! Something changed though. I'm not quite sure what. Maybe I lost control, or the power started growing exponentially. Maybe I started to fear it a little. I dunno. But something changed. The first time I lost control, I was having lunch with colleagues. Ngozi, the cute girl from marketing, was vividly describing her awesome Bali vacation. There was a joke. We all laughed. I love her laugh. It's so unrestrained. So pure. Her laughter subsided. I distinctly recall my gaze lingering on her mouth. Her lips were closing and just as they touched, her eyes flew wide open and she spat out a mouthful of cream cheese. Someone tittered nervously. But we were largely concerned and a little shocked. I, well, I was shitting myself. In hindsight, obviously no one could trace it back to me, but I freaked out and ran to the bathroom. I stepped into the first cubicle, turned to close the door, and just as the door made contact with the frame, cream cheese oozed out from all the edges. I staggered back and sat down. I think the seat might have been up. That wasn't on my mind though. Only one word was. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.	"Fuck bagels. What the hell is it about bagels that gets everyone's dick so hard? The bread is fucking thick and dense, they do not have a particular taste and they are made with a hole - A HOLE! That means there's less food. What's the fun in having less food? Stupid people like bagels so everyone is stupid. Shit like this makes me hate humanity" This was the last real conversation I had with Krystyna. She's a pretty girl from Brooklyn who, when she smiles, reminds me of the devil. "Your the only idiot that doesn't like bagels. Everyone loves bagels except you, making you the problem." She explains. Later that night we watched a movie and passed out. When I woke up the next morning she was gone. I see that I received a text from her that read: "MORNING! Remember when you jokingly told me that I have the eyes of the devil? Well you were on to something. I'm actually a 3000 year old witch that is forever fighting boredom. Now that you know this I am afraid we cannot hangout anymore but I'll still watch you from a distance and see how you adapt to your new ability. Grab two parts of a bagel and put them together and think 'cream cheese' HAVE FUN!" Feeling a ting of heart break I go ahead and try this. Being the comic book nerd that I am, I never put something to the realm of impossibly. What am I a defeatist? That's an errand for idiots. Lo and behold I find the top and bottom to a bagel and put them together and "HOLY SHIT WHERE DID THE CREAM CHEESE COME FROM!!!" It's been 5 years since I received my gift. For a while I used it to make my breakfast but lately I have been using it for drunken acts of homicide. I forgot to mention earlier that I had a drinking problem since I was 16 which often resulted in fits of rage and violence. My misguided anger has led me to this. That Egyptair crash that happened yesterday? Cream cheese in the engine, sweetie. I can fuck up anything that has moving parts in. Try swallowing a pill and I'll fill your esophagus with cream cheese until you suffocate. Remember when Hilary started to randomly have a coughing fit during one of her rally's earlier this year? Cream cheese between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. I'm glad she didn't die because I have big plans for a fixed bet during her and Trump's next debate. I don't feel bad about killing people because so many of them love bagels. So if you happen to be part 50 car pile up on the Brooklyn-queens expressway tomorrow during rush hour then I'm sorry and I hope you didn't get too hurt.
	[WP] Very rarely people are born with a magical ability. You were born with power over toasters, and now you're the last line of defence against the demon horde.	With dusk descending, the distant burning cities and towns lit the sky with reflected vigor. The air stank of cordite and blood. An ill breeze sickly heavy with mildew crept down the slope, but something in the stance of the cloaked figure spoke of confidence. A group of 37 refugees hid in the cave structure behind him, and there was more work than this to do tonight. It started with the moans of walkers and skittering insectoid forms that emerged from the shadows, somehow twisted and leaking an ill glow as they advanced. The figure held firm. Next came the roar and crash of behemoths followed by shuddering pressure waves in the air and a rumble felt in the earth. The figure lifted it's silver cowled head and eyes, the blue of a stormy sky reflected the light of devastation as a raspy voice called in a steady tone "Energize". Lightning crackled and faintly, a distant hum awoke. It took but minutes to notice the change in tenor of the distant mob of demons. Beginning in bloodlust and anger, they shifted noticibly towards confusion, then finally to fear. It was a delicious sound rarely heard from the hordes of hell. One to be cherished. The nearest creatures came within leaping distance and on queue, the ground before the figure erupted to disgorge a golem the likes of which has never been seen. Fists made of appliances from the 50's, weighing a good 30 pounds each, and filled with fire caught creatures from hell and slammed them to void against the earth. Legs made from discarded things from a 60's diner could tread earth for ever and not tire. Eyes of blue LED, from the mod section of a catalog, the toaster golem was made for war. And it wasn't alone. A thousand junk yards and dumps provided well enough material for an army of the beasts to rival the hell swarm numerically. Tactically, the toaster golems were more than a match for the pulpy and diseased masses. They had been arranged in a wide circle around the killing field, and the demons had been drawn here by the lingering life force of the survivors behind The silver robed figure. It took some hours before every demon had been dispatched, and as the figure was about to mount his metallic gryphon (made of toasters), to contain the next area in need, the survivors carefully emerged from the cave mouth. "Roger?, is that you? I thought you did toasters?". Surprised, he took in the refugee, and then laughed as he recognized his old manager at the appliance repair shop. "Oh I do, mr. Mortensen. I do. That and demon destroying I suppose. Good luck now." And with a smile and wave, Roger the toastermancer disappeared into the ruddy clouds.	Hello, friend. The letter you are holding could save the world, so please read it carefully and in it's entirety. It has been a month since our contact with an alien species, yet it seemed like a year to me. Our hopes for cooperation with another race ended abruptly when they crushed Cape Town and invaded our world. The aliens appeared out of nowhere and look like biblical demons. Now, I never was a religious person but these things really do look like demons. And the world is going crazy over the idea that hell itself may be attacking our planet. With Africa, the Americas and Europe already obliterated, the seemingly endless horde moved towards Asia (as you probably already know), where there was nobody capable of stopping them. Well, nobody except for me. You see, I was born with magical powers, just like a few million others in this world. And just like most of these "others" my power wasn't that impressive. In fact, my ability to control toasters deemed useless by every Magi organization. I was told that nobody would invest in me because breaking a toaster isn't as valuable as generating endless amounts of light or telekinesis. Oh how wrong they were. I was born and raised in Turkey and just like many other regular people I ran towards deep Asia to save myself from the demons. Unlike most magical users, I did not fight to the death because I was considered useless. So I ran until I reached China. It's a pretty nice country, especially it's toaster factories. It's also going to be their next target. Okay, now to the things you definitely don't know. In this hellish month, I discovered that I could read and burn other people's minds through toasters as long as they would be foolish enough to touch it. And this applies to demons, too. So when a demon assaulted my temporary home in Iran, I zapped him right after he touched the toaster. His brain was burned instantly while my brain was burned with the knowledge of how these things are controlled. Apparently, the whole horde was being controlled by four commanders who were keeping everything in order. Yeah, that's right. Just four. And three of them had already perished, leaving only one sorry imp to do the rest of the work. If I could somehow kill the last big guy, the rest of the horde would retreat. In Iran I also learned that demons are attracted by magical users such as myself. And since I'm one of the few Magi left, I am now a high priority target. I don't know why they want us dead so badly. Maybe we are connected to them or maybe they are seeking to eliminate humanity's strongest. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I can attract the last big guy, kill him and save us all. You are probably here to seek shelter in this toaster factory. I'm sorry but this isn't going to happen. Instead, you are going to blow everything up and become a hero. All you have to do is go to the main console and resume production. This will draw enough attention as it will activate and prime all fifty thousand toasters. Don't look for me because you won't find me. I had to pay a price to get to this point. (this is my first prompt, so please be gentle. I'm trying to improve my English)
	[WP] Very rarely people are born with a magical ability. You were born with power over toasters, and now you're the last line of defence against the demon horde.	"You're the chosen one," they said. "You will save the world," they said. As I stand here, watching a thousand demons rise from the sea, with nothing but a sword in hand and my trusty enchanted toaster Sparky by my side, barking furiously at the horde, I can't help but wonder why the fuck I agreed to this in the first place. Pardon my language and all, but I am facing a legion of Hell with what is by comparison a metal toothpick and a toaster that thinks it's a dog. I think I have the right to let out some frustration. I mean...yeah, I was born with the spark of the arcane, which only appears once a century, and is supposed to signify the champion who will stand against the incursion of the demonic horde, but...why would I be given a power that's so useless? No offense meant to Sparky, but the last champion could literally rain fire from the sky, and all I can do is animate a friggin' toaster. Don't get me wrong, Sparky's been great. He's trained with me all these years to prepare for the fight, and has definitely gotten considerably more powerful, but he's still just a toaster. A yappy, playful toaster. And now, we stand here, staring at a passage from Revelations come to life, complete with monstrosities gnashing their teeth and brandishing razor-sharp claws as they rise... And the light bulb goes off. As they rise from the sea. I look down at Sparky, my playful friend and companion, as he barks angrily, though try as he might to hide it, his slight quivering reveals his fear. Like me, he's putting on a brave face. I couldn't. I look back to the horde, growing ever closer. Some of the demons stand forty, even fifty feet high, but even the smaller ones are fearsome. The waters churn as the abominations close on the shore. I look down at Sparky yet again, remembering the time we'd spent together. My laughter as he barked angrily at squirrels, lizards, and any other tiny beast. His attempts to protect me against laser pointers and other foul devices. I shouldn't. I look up again. The horde grows ever nearer, their gaping maws and vicious claws a preview of the terror they'll visit upon humanity if I don't stop them. And I look back, once more, to Sparky. I must. I let out a sigh as I kick Sparky into the sea. As he hits the water, he shorts, and magical lightning explodes out from him, enveloping the sea and the demons along with it. Not a one survives. It'll take days...weeks, even...to remove the charred remains of the demonic horde from the sea. But that's not my concern. My job is done. My watch over humanity has ended. Rest in peace, my old friend.	Hello, friend. The letter you are holding could save the world, so please read it carefully and in it's entirety. It has been a month since our contact with an alien species, yet it seemed like a year to me. Our hopes for cooperation with another race ended abruptly when they crushed Cape Town and invaded our world. The aliens appeared out of nowhere and look like biblical demons. Now, I never was a religious person but these things really do look like demons. And the world is going crazy over the idea that hell itself may be attacking our planet. With Africa, the Americas and Europe already obliterated, the seemingly endless horde moved towards Asia (as you probably already know), where there was nobody capable of stopping them. Well, nobody except for me. You see, I was born with magical powers, just like a few million others in this world. And just like most of these "others" my power wasn't that impressive. In fact, my ability to control toasters deemed useless by every Magi organization. I was told that nobody would invest in me because breaking a toaster isn't as valuable as generating endless amounts of light or telekinesis. Oh how wrong they were. I was born and raised in Turkey and just like many other regular people I ran towards deep Asia to save myself from the demons. Unlike most magical users, I did not fight to the death because I was considered useless. So I ran until I reached China. It's a pretty nice country, especially it's toaster factories. It's also going to be their next target. Okay, now to the things you definitely don't know. In this hellish month, I discovered that I could read and burn other people's minds through toasters as long as they would be foolish enough to touch it. And this applies to demons, too. So when a demon assaulted my temporary home in Iran, I zapped him right after he touched the toaster. His brain was burned instantly while my brain was burned with the knowledge of how these things are controlled. Apparently, the whole horde was being controlled by four commanders who were keeping everything in order. Yeah, that's right. Just four. And three of them had already perished, leaving only one sorry imp to do the rest of the work. If I could somehow kill the last big guy, the rest of the horde would retreat. In Iran I also learned that demons are attracted by magical users such as myself. And since I'm one of the few Magi left, I am now a high priority target. I don't know why they want us dead so badly. Maybe we are connected to them or maybe they are seeking to eliminate humanity's strongest. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I can attract the last big guy, kill him and save us all. You are probably here to seek shelter in this toaster factory. I'm sorry but this isn't going to happen. Instead, you are going to blow everything up and become a hero. All you have to do is go to the main console and resume production. This will draw enough attention as it will activate and prime all fifty thousand toasters. Don't look for me because you won't find me. I had to pay a price to get to this point. (this is my first prompt, so please be gentle. I'm trying to improve my English)
	[WP] Very rarely people are born with a magical ability. You were born with power over toasters, and now you're the last line of defence against the demon horde.	The power to control toasters - sounds stupid, right? Yes. Yes it is. It is a terribly stupid power. I can make them work without power, and I can make them move with telekinesis, but that's about it. It isn't even that strong of telekinesis. Here's the thing, while your standard toaster may not be much, my custom toasters work just fine. See, as long as a machine has the ability to toast bread, I can control and empower it. The key here is that "machine," "toast," and "bread" are all up to interpretation. For instance, a giant robot with a toaster bolted onto it and tied into its minimal circuitry is just a very fancy toaster. Similarly, I can make toast with flamethrowers, so I can control them just as easily. Plus, if I define "toasting" as "shooting incendiary/explosive ammunition," and declare that I will name all demons "Bread," just about every firearm and missile falls under my control. And, for shits and giggles, my power also makes it so that anyone with any sort of drink at all can make a toast to the invading, newly named Loaf of Bread, I can power them as well. All those toasters are strengthened by my magic, and can fight without food, water, or sleep for as long as the want. So is control of toasters a stupid power? Only if you use stupid toasters.	Hello, friend. The letter you are holding could save the world, so please read it carefully and in it's entirety. It has been a month since our contact with an alien species, yet it seemed like a year to me. Our hopes for cooperation with another race ended abruptly when they crushed Cape Town and invaded our world. The aliens appeared out of nowhere and look like biblical demons. Now, I never was a religious person but these things really do look like demons. And the world is going crazy over the idea that hell itself may be attacking our planet. With Africa, the Americas and Europe already obliterated, the seemingly endless horde moved towards Asia (as you probably already know), where there was nobody capable of stopping them. Well, nobody except for me. You see, I was born with magical powers, just like a few million others in this world. And just like most of these "others" my power wasn't that impressive. In fact, my ability to control toasters deemed useless by every Magi organization. I was told that nobody would invest in me because breaking a toaster isn't as valuable as generating endless amounts of light or telekinesis. Oh how wrong they were. I was born and raised in Turkey and just like many other regular people I ran towards deep Asia to save myself from the demons. Unlike most magical users, I did not fight to the death because I was considered useless. So I ran until I reached China. It's a pretty nice country, especially it's toaster factories. It's also going to be their next target. Okay, now to the things you definitely don't know. In this hellish month, I discovered that I could read and burn other people's minds through toasters as long as they would be foolish enough to touch it. And this applies to demons, too. So when a demon assaulted my temporary home in Iran, I zapped him right after he touched the toaster. His brain was burned instantly while my brain was burned with the knowledge of how these things are controlled. Apparently, the whole horde was being controlled by four commanders who were keeping everything in order. Yeah, that's right. Just four. And three of them had already perished, leaving only one sorry imp to do the rest of the work. If I could somehow kill the last big guy, the rest of the horde would retreat. In Iran I also learned that demons are attracted by magical users such as myself. And since I'm one of the few Magi left, I am now a high priority target. I don't know why they want us dead so badly. Maybe we are connected to them or maybe they are seeking to eliminate humanity's strongest. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I can attract the last big guy, kill him and save us all. You are probably here to seek shelter in this toaster factory. I'm sorry but this isn't going to happen. Instead, you are going to blow everything up and become a hero. All you have to do is go to the main console and resume production. This will draw enough attention as it will activate and prime all fifty thousand toasters. Don't look for me because you won't find me. I had to pay a price to get to this point. (this is my first prompt, so please be gentle. I'm trying to improve my English)
	[WP] Very rarely people are born with a magical ability. You were born with power over toasters, and now you're the last line of defence against the demon horde.	With dusk descending, the distant burning cities and towns lit the sky with reflected vigor. The air stank of cordite and blood. An ill breeze sickly heavy with mildew crept down the slope, but something in the stance of the cloaked figure spoke of confidence. A group of 37 refugees hid in the cave structure behind him, and there was more work than this to do tonight. It started with the moans of walkers and skittering insectoid forms that emerged from the shadows, somehow twisted and leaking an ill glow as they advanced. The figure held firm. Next came the roar and crash of behemoths followed by shuddering pressure waves in the air and a rumble felt in the earth. The figure lifted it's silver cowled head and eyes, the blue of a stormy sky reflected the light of devastation as a raspy voice called in a steady tone "Energize". Lightning crackled and faintly, a distant hum awoke. It took but minutes to notice the change in tenor of the distant mob of demons. Beginning in bloodlust and anger, they shifted noticibly towards confusion, then finally to fear. It was a delicious sound rarely heard from the hordes of hell. One to be cherished. The nearest creatures came within leaping distance and on queue, the ground before the figure erupted to disgorge a golem the likes of which has never been seen. Fists made of appliances from the 50's, weighing a good 30 pounds each, and filled with fire caught creatures from hell and slammed them to void against the earth. Legs made from discarded things from a 60's diner could tread earth for ever and not tire. Eyes of blue LED, from the mod section of a catalog, the toaster golem was made for war. And it wasn't alone. A thousand junk yards and dumps provided well enough material for an army of the beasts to rival the hell swarm numerically. Tactically, the toaster golems were more than a match for the pulpy and diseased masses. They had been arranged in a wide circle around the killing field, and the demons had been drawn here by the lingering life force of the survivors behind The silver robed figure. It took some hours before every demon had been dispatched, and as the figure was about to mount his metallic gryphon (made of toasters), to contain the next area in need, the survivors carefully emerged from the cave mouth. "Roger?, is that you? I thought you did toasters?". Surprised, he took in the refugee, and then laughed as he recognized his old manager at the appliance repair shop. "Oh I do, mr. Mortensen. I do. That and demon destroying I suppose. Good luck now." And with a smile and wave, Roger the toastermancer disappeared into the ruddy clouds.	I'm a bot, bleep, bloop. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit: - [/r/toasterrights] [OP on r\/writingprompts shows the true power of toasters, requests stories in which toasters save the world](https://np.reddit.com/r/ToasterRights/comments/4l1bjh/op_on_rwritingprompts_shows_the_true_power_of/) [](#footer)^(If you follow any of the above links, please respect the rules of reddit and don't vote in the other threads.) ^\([Info](/r/TotesMessenger) ^/ ^[Contact](/message/compose?to=/r/TotesMessenger)) [](#bot)
	[WP] Very rarely people are born with a magical ability. You were born with power over toasters, and now you're the last line of defence against the demon horde.	"You're the chosen one," they said. "You will save the world," they said. As I stand here, watching a thousand demons rise from the sea, with nothing but a sword in hand and my trusty enchanted toaster Sparky by my side, barking furiously at the horde, I can't help but wonder why the fuck I agreed to this in the first place. Pardon my language and all, but I am facing a legion of Hell with what is by comparison a metal toothpick and a toaster that thinks it's a dog. I think I have the right to let out some frustration. I mean...yeah, I was born with the spark of the arcane, which only appears once a century, and is supposed to signify the champion who will stand against the incursion of the demonic horde, but...why would I be given a power that's so useless? No offense meant to Sparky, but the last champion could literally rain fire from the sky, and all I can do is animate a friggin' toaster. Don't get me wrong, Sparky's been great. He's trained with me all these years to prepare for the fight, and has definitely gotten considerably more powerful, but he's still just a toaster. A yappy, playful toaster. And now, we stand here, staring at a passage from Revelations come to life, complete with monstrosities gnashing their teeth and brandishing razor-sharp claws as they rise... And the light bulb goes off. As they rise from the sea. I look down at Sparky, my playful friend and companion, as he barks angrily, though try as he might to hide it, his slight quivering reveals his fear. Like me, he's putting on a brave face. I couldn't. I look back to the horde, growing ever closer. Some of the demons stand forty, even fifty feet high, but even the smaller ones are fearsome. The waters churn as the abominations close on the shore. I look down at Sparky yet again, remembering the time we'd spent together. My laughter as he barked angrily at squirrels, lizards, and any other tiny beast. His attempts to protect me against laser pointers and other foul devices. I shouldn't. I look up again. The horde grows ever nearer, their gaping maws and vicious claws a preview of the terror they'll visit upon humanity if I don't stop them. And I look back, once more, to Sparky. I must. I let out a sigh as I kick Sparky into the sea. As he hits the water, he shorts, and magical lightning explodes out from him, enveloping the sea and the demons along with it. Not a one survives. It'll take days...weeks, even...to remove the charred remains of the demonic horde from the sea. But that's not my concern. My job is done. My watch over humanity has ended. Rest in peace, my old friend.	Magicians have been chronicled over the ages as men and women of immense power, great leaders of their time raising the stature of their nation to towering heights and crushing any who foolishly dare oppose them. But there have only been eight confirmed in history and none since the industrial revolution. The world has been on the lookout, with some trepidation with the rise of religious extremism, for the next true magician. Then came Hanna, a young girl from some little town in Canada with the ability to summon and bind demons to her will. Quickly, Canada unapologetically drove southward and conquered the Americas in a flood of sulfur and brimstone and looked eastward, hungry for world domination, yet were checked in their island hopping campaign across the Caribbean, for now, there are two magicians in the world now, and I, Bruce Tanner am to blame. I may merely have power over toasters, but what is a toaster but a death ray with a smaller power supply? The fiery depths that these demons crawled out of have nothing on the billions of electric heating coils of doom that I will bring to bear against them. Every toaster in every home, on factory lines, on store shelves and even those in landfills will come alive free the Americas from Hanna's horde. And after I am hailed as the savior of the free world, guess who will step in her place? Emperor over all the Earth, Ruler over the Land and the Sea and the Sky, master of all he survey's, Bruce Tanner.
	[WP] Very rarely people are born with a magical ability. You were born with power over toasters, and now you're the last line of defence against the demon horde.	The power to control toasters - sounds stupid, right? Yes. Yes it is. It is a terribly stupid power. I can make them work without power, and I can make them move with telekinesis, but that's about it. It isn't even that strong of telekinesis. Here's the thing, while your standard toaster may not be much, my custom toasters work just fine. See, as long as a machine has the ability to toast bread, I can control and empower it. The key here is that "machine," "toast," and "bread" are all up to interpretation. For instance, a giant robot with a toaster bolted onto it and tied into its minimal circuitry is just a very fancy toaster. Similarly, I can make toast with flamethrowers, so I can control them just as easily. Plus, if I define "toasting" as "shooting incendiary/explosive ammunition," and declare that I will name all demons "Bread," just about every firearm and missile falls under my control. And, for shits and giggles, my power also makes it so that anyone with any sort of drink at all can make a toast to the invading, newly named Loaf of Bread, I can power them as well. All those toasters are strengthened by my magic, and can fight without food, water, or sleep for as long as the want. So is control of toasters a stupid power? Only if you use stupid toasters.	Magicians have been chronicled over the ages as men and women of immense power, great leaders of their time raising the stature of their nation to towering heights and crushing any who foolishly dare oppose them. But there have only been eight confirmed in history and none since the industrial revolution. The world has been on the lookout, with some trepidation with the rise of religious extremism, for the next true magician. Then came Hanna, a young girl from some little town in Canada with the ability to summon and bind demons to her will. Quickly, Canada unapologetically drove southward and conquered the Americas in a flood of sulfur and brimstone and looked eastward, hungry for world domination, yet were checked in their island hopping campaign across the Caribbean, for now, there are two magicians in the world now, and I, Bruce Tanner am to blame. I may merely have power over toasters, but what is a toaster but a death ray with a smaller power supply? The fiery depths that these demons crawled out of have nothing on the billions of electric heating coils of doom that I will bring to bear against them. Every toaster in every home, on factory lines, on store shelves and even those in landfills will come alive free the Americas from Hanna's horde. And after I am hailed as the savior of the free world, guess who will step in her place? Emperor over all the Earth, Ruler over the Land and the Sea and the Sky, master of all he survey's, Bruce Tanner.
	[WP] Nuclear war, documented on the Reddit front page	reddit.com Thursday 30th March 2017 09:54 --- /r/news - 9 minutes ago - BBC: US Launches Retaliatory Strikes President Donald J Trump has today announced that he will be launching yet more nuclear strikes on the European Union today. This comes just four days after the first wave of nuclear strikes launched by the US and just two days after the EU launched its own nuclear stockpile at the US. This is in response to the escalating conflict resulting from the US declaring war on the UK after the UK exposed the US Government's persecution of minorities including Muslims and Hispanics. --- /r/AskReddit - 23 hours ago - Why does the European media keep saying that the US shot nukes first, our Donald would never do that? Top comment: It's a myth made up by European leaders like ~~Hitler~~Merkel to justify their stupid war. They're on the side of the terrorists and must be eliminated. --- /r/news - 2 days ago - CNN: Europe Launches Missiles The European Union today has taken an emergency vote on a combined action plan to retaliate against the US nuclear strikes on Brussels and Munich two days ago. The decision was that they shall retaliate with nuclear weapons against the United States. They have not stated which cities are to be bombed, however the US government is suggesting that everyone who lives in a big city should leave for the countryside as quickly as possible. --- /r/AskReddit - 2 days ago - Am I The Only One Who Thinks That Some Muslims Are Actually Good People? Top comment: They did 9/11! How can you think any of them are nice? --- /r/news - 3 days ago - Fox: Persecution? No, Payback. The Muslims are being persecuted. Well, it serves them right. Perhaps they should have thought that the American people wouldn't take terrorism or Shari'ah Law lying down before they tried to bring it here. We saw what happened to Europe in 2015 and 2016 with their Shari'ah no-go areas like Birmingham, UK and we don't want that here. We need to eliminate these vile creatures before they spread. The refugees can die in Syria, they deserve it for trying to export their ideals to the West. --- /r/news - 4 days ago - BBC: US Launches Nuclear Weapons on EU The United States has launched two nuclear weapons at the EU, following their collected declaration of war against the US as an escalation of the US declaring war on the UK after Prime Minister David Cameron exposed Donald Trump's persecution of minorities. RAF fighter jets have been scrambled but Mr Cameron is not hopeful that they will be able to intercept the nuclear weapon before it lands on an EU city. All major European cities are being evacuated. --- /r/all - 5 days ago - United States of Hate: Concentration Camps, A Mexican Cull, And More In The Land Of The Free (Mail Online) Concentration camps based on religion, culling of certain ethnic groups and even spontaneous executions. Sounds like Nazi Germany, but no, this is the full reality of the United States under Donald Trump. Following the publication of the Trump Report by Number 10 we have collated the worst examples of the Trump regime's brutality against innocent civillians. --- /r/news - 6 days ago - White House: US declares war on UK (CNN) Today, Donald Trump exercised his first new constitutional powers under the 28th Ammendment to declare war on the UK. In response to the British government publishing evidence of persecution by the American government, Mr Trump stated "We will not allow such slander from our closest ally, this isn't persecution, it's the mandate I was elected on. This document shows that the UK is fundamentally against democratically elected politicians doing their job, and that's not something we can't have in what was once our closest ally." --- /r/AskReddit - 7 days ago - Am I the only one who thinks that the Mexican cull was a bit too far? Top comment: Well The Donald had to get their numbers down somehow and Mexico would not take them back, so, no. --- /r/news - 8 days ago - BBC: Government Exposes Trump Genocide The government has released a report on the first few months of the Trump Administration, containing shocking details of how Donald Trump's government treats minorities. These include a cull of Mexican immigrants in an attempt to get their numbers down, and sending Muslims to live in "camps", the nature of which is currently unspecified but according to Number 10 will be made clear tomorrow. --- /r/legaladvice - 9 days ago - The Police Just Arrested My Neighbour "Because He's A Muslim". Help? Top comment: There's not a lot you can do really. I've seen this happen twice in my area and I don't really know why. I have a feeling there might be something bigger to this.	# /r/politics: "CNN: President Christie announces retaliatory strikes" Yeah, funny how that headline never mentioned who we were retaliating against. Half a dozen dirty bombs set off simultaneously in the five largest US cities plus DC, and all anyone knew about the source was that they'd been flown in around midnight thanks to drones bought off Amazon with gift cards. No demands. No religious ranting. Just pure, unmitigated terrorism for the sake of inducing terror rather than political change. # /r/adviceanimals: "Did North Korea seriously nuke itself?" Full-on failed launch there. Way to go, Kim Jong Un. Biggest launch ever from there, and the missile makes it all of about three thousand feet up before swan-diving into the heart of Pyongyang. China looked the other way; the last few years, North Korea hasn't been anything other than a public nuisance, like your drunken uncle. Russia didn't and immediately started pointing fingers at us, claiming we'd fired a missile. # /r/enlightenedbirdmen: "TONIGHT WE INVADE SQUAWWWWWK" It's been three weeks of this now, with everyone sitting at the edge of their seat expecting Putin or Christie to go full retard and unleash flaming nuclear death upon half the world. China's basically the only thing holding it together, but low-yield nukes have been used in skirmishes all over the place. OPEC just consists of Venezuela now; the Middle East imploded into a horrible cataclysm of human sacrifice for reasons that aren't entirely clear, and the easiest solution for both us and Russia to claim that it was the main front in the skirmishes. Honestly, it's not really a surprise; ISIS had been moving further and further from anything that could be considered reasonable religion and toward outright demon-worship for a while now. # /r/askscience: "How long does it take to clean up fallout in oil country?"
	[WP] You receive news that you are terminal and only have 30 days to live, after spending your life savings going on all kinds of adventures, the doctors realise you have been misdiagnosed.	Three thousand hours on the phone, five thousand photocopying, five hundred hours on the train each way, and in forty-eight hours his house of cards had burned to ashes. A train barreled through the station. Working folk, packed like sardines, looked through him as they passed. The mad ringing of his cell phone was the orchestra that played them off, as the rear of the train disappeared into the tunnel. He stood straight upright in the middle of the platform, his dark hair still billowing in the exhaust fumes. His hands were cold and his eyes were run dry. Thoughts of his wife ran through his mind, he had confessed his love and his lies to her, on the edge of death the man gave it all. He gave everything he had and here he was left; the shell of the man he was, and the image of a man he hated. Two steps closer to the platform edge brought pangs of regret through his chest. Thirty days he was given to live, and yet here he stood on the the thirty-first, dragging his tired legs closer to the platform edge. The phone rang on once more, then stopped. He threw it down onto the tracks and threw himself down onto it, as the next train rolled into the station. _______ Please critique grammar.	"Hello?" Words feel uncomfortable in his dry, cracked mouth. "John it's Dr. Stevens, please come in an see me right away." "Shit," he thinks, "why the fuck did I answer, it's not like anyone phoning would be worth talking to. We're at day 28 and I haven't had any soul altering epiphanies." The girl in his bed looked pretty ratchet though, he thinks he may have paid her, drugs or money, he wasn't sure which. He throws on some things and walks out the door. No clue where the fuck he is, his wad of cash has a safety net large enough for them to have been out with the prognosis a couple of days. He still has enough for a cab. The doctor was beaming from ear to ear as he turned around to greet John, which disappeared when he saw the state of him. "Um, uuh, hello John." I guess I needn't ask how you are?" "What's up." "Well we have wonderful news. Diagnosis was wrong. Some chemicals got mixed up in the labs. You are, were, quite a healthy individual" Nothing was said for a few seconds. "Can I go?" "Well yes, I suppose, but if you have any questions, maybe if you need help getting back on your feet?" "No Doc I'll manage, thank for everything." He walks into his little apartment. Rent, which he figured wouldn't need to be paid, was due a while back. For some reason the water and lights are still on, this is quite convenient. He puts the plastic bag on the table and rummages around the kitchen for his syringes and other paraphernalia. Eventually his landlord broke down the door to get the kick him out. He saw the body first, the needle second and looked right past the note. The police found it later, but it was not of enough use to identify John Doe. "The diagnosis may have been wrong, but the prognosis, dear Dr. Stevens, was correct."
	[WP] Your narrator seems to think he is narrating a horror story. You're not amused.	Everyone has a voice inside their head. Usually the voice is there to bring up embarrassing things you did in high school and remind you of important deadlines after they’ve passed. Jared had two voices in his head. No more, no less. One voice was his own, but the other voice was different. For starters, it wasn’t his own voice. It was the voice of a middle aged British man. This is somewhat peculiar since Jared was a twenty-five year old from Connecticut who had never been abroad. Jared never bothered to discuss this with anyone. He just accepted it as the norm since it had been with him for as long as he could remember. To make matters worse, the voice’s sole function in his head was to narrate his life. Jared couldn’t converse with this voice no matter how much he tried. It simply narrated his actions and feelings. Much to Jared’s frustration, it was often wrong about what it was saying. There was always a modicum of truth to what it said, but it twisted the truth in bizarre ways. It used to drive him crazy. Nowadays, he had mostly learned to ignore it. Having a British man in your head narrating your life makes it difficult to socialize at times. Jared realized he couldn’t trust the voice early on, when he was in elementary school. He was eating lunch with one of the few friends he had when the voice claimed that his friend had stolen some grapes out of his lunch bag. After accusations declared and a friendship soured, Jared found out that the voice had fingered the wrong kid. Someone else had stolen his grapes. Jared blamed his lack of social skills on the British voice. He was shy around most people, and seeing any halfway attractive female left his palms sweaty and his mind blank. Tired of the relentless loneliness and lack of intimacy, Jared tried his hand at online dating. He enjoyed using Tinder. It allowed him time to craft thoughtful responses and to hide from the inevitable gauntlet of face to face interaction. Eventually, he matched with a girl named Vanessa. For some reason she decided that Jared tickled her fancy and agreed to meet up for a date. The plan was to meet at a nearby cafe one evening. When the night came, Jared was a nervous wreck. He showered and was in the process of shaving when the voice chimed in. Jared had waited for this night all his life. He couldn’t contain his bloodlust any longer. “Ow!” Jared shrieked. He cut himself with his razor at that last line. Bloodlust? What narrative was the voice spinning tonight? He finished shaving, and started dressing himself He chose dark clothing, for stealth. He donned his favorite leather boots in case he needed to take her into the woods. “What the hell are you talking about?” Jared demanded with incredulity. This voice was making him sound like a serial killer. He did not need this on his first date. “Whatever, fuck it” he said, to his empty room. Jared had been stalking Vanessa’s social media profiles for weeks. He pored over every detail he could learn about her. He was obsessed with her. He loved her. He wanted her dead. Jared seriously considered cancelling the date as he walked towards the cafe. This voice was pissing him off, and he didn’t want to make a bad first impression. He continued on. He had already cancelled twice because of nerves, and he knew he couldn’t again. Jared walked at a slow and deliberate pace. As each boot step squashes the grass beneath him, he imagines himself crushing Vanessa’s windpipe under his foot. “No I don't” he growled to himself through clenched teeth as he fought to keep the proposed image out of his head. He walked up to the cafe and saw Vanessa through the window. She looked even better than he had imagined. He wanted to take her behind the cafe and choke the life out of her immediately. Jared made a mental note to see a psychiatrist the next day. The date went better than he expected despite the horror story unfolding in his head. Vanessa was incredibly easy to talk to, and she seemed not to notice, or at least ignore his preoccupation. Every second passed with agony, Jared just wanted to get her out of the cafe so he could make her heart stop beating. After the fifth grisly murder scenario proposed by the narrator, Jared had to excuse himself to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. “Stop what you’re doing!” He ordered the voice with ferocity. A man using the urinal quickly finished peeing and scurried out of the bathroom. The anger was building in Jared. He knew it was time for someone to die. He could see it. Blood everywhere. He longed for it. It was inevitable. It always had been. Jared stopped talking to himself in the bathroom, so as not to appear completely insane, and returned to his date. “Are you okay?” Vanessa asked, “You seem upset.” “I’m fine, I just have a lot on my mind from work” he lied. “How about we go back to my place then? I’ll make you a drink” she said. Jared couldn’t believe she was inviting him back. He thought for sure that she wasn’t into him. “Sure, I’m down with that” Jared started to feel more at ease. They exited the cafe and began walking to Vanessa’s which was only a few minutes away. Soon. Soon, Jared would be alone with her. He walked with purpose to her apartment. The end is nigh. “I usually don’t take people back to my place this soon. I just feel like I know you since we’ve been talking on Tinder for so long. You’re not going to murder me are you?” Vanessa asked playfully. Yes, without a doubt “No! I promise” he said, feeling somewhat uneasy. They entered Vanessa’s apartment. She poured him a drink, and after they clinked glasses, she excused herself to the kitchen. The time is now. Jared knew death was approaching. Jared simply rolled his eyes, he wasn’t going to let this old Brit ruin his evening. Vanessa came back into the room. He turned around as she plunged a butcher’s knife into his stomach. He looked up at Vanessa in shock. Her face lit up with delight and she let out a sickly cackle. Jared, still in shock, shoved Vanessa to the ground and pulled the knife out of his stomach. He ran out of her apartment doubled over, clutching his wound. He made it to the stairwell when she caught up with him. She swung at him wildly with another, more serrated knife. Thanks to the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he felt nothing as she cut into his forearm. The knife became lodged in his arm; Jared saw his opening. He grabbed Vanessa and, with all the strength he could muster, threw her down the stairs. Vanessa tumbled down the stairs and landed on her head with a satisfying crack against the cement. Blood oozed out of her skull, but she was still moving. Jared hobbled down the stairs. He felt alive. He looked at her in disgust and crushed her windpipe with his boot. The first kill is always messy.	It was a dark and stormy night. Karl parked his car and went to the entrance of the old estate with his wife. Something in his mind told him to run away now, elsewhere it will be too late. "Come on, that's so cliché, plus I already told you to not jerk around with this." Mumbled Karl to himself. "Who are you speaking to darling ?" Asked his wife, starting to feel the tension in his loved one. "To myself, don't mind it." He knocked on the door, three times, knowing that he was summoning something horrible, something that will tear his life apart. The door opened with a earpiercing sound and an old lady with a wry smile appeared behind. "Good evening my dears." Said the old one. "Come in quickly, it would be a crime to keep you under this rain." Now that she spoke, it was too late, the trap was already triggered. Karl was trapped with her, obviously he noticed her murderous intent in her sentence but nothing could save him now. "Thank you mom." Said Julia. "May I introduce you, Karl here is my mom, Sophia and mom this is Karl the man of my life." She closed the door behind him, even his loved Julia was a part of this, how can she betray him after all they lived together ? "Glad to meet you Sophia, I heard about you so many times, now I can finnaly put a face on the legend." Said Karl to the old witch with a small taint of humor, but even that will not save him. "And you shut the fuck up, I'm just visiting my mother in law." Mumbled him to me, the narrator, breaking the fourth wall with no respect for anything, a poor method to catch the readers attention. "Says who..?" And this brat kept mumbling. "Julia told me many things about you to, I'm so sorry that I couldn't be here for the wedding but it seems that this old lungs of mine were against it. At last I can meet my son in law now." Answered the old lady. "Come with me, the dinner is ready, we will directly have it." She ringed a little bell and talked to the maid appeared from nowhere. "My dear, our guests have arrived, please get things ready for the dinner." "Yes, ma'am." Answered the maid before disappearing like she went. Even the aid here was weird, who have aid in our times by the way. This must be hidding something and Karl started to immagine what kind of mafia dona or vampiric lord could be the old Sophia. "What a poor writer, how can you hope to build suspense that way ?" Mumblings, mumblings, always mumblings but that will not save the poor Karl, something was controlling his moves and even if he tried to rebel against it his fate was setteld. They took places around the large table and began to eat, the house mistress leaved the orderto just bring the meals to the table, she did the service by herself. Red was the wine, a great Bordeau. Red was the roasted meat she sliced with a sharp knife. Red soon will be the tablecloth, tainted with the blood of karl when the knife will cut his throat. Tension was raising, and pearls of sweat began to fall in his back. "Sorry, can you tell me where is the bathroom, I need to refresh myself ?" He asked to Sophia. "Sure, follow this corridor..." As she pointed a way with her right hand, the knife was thrown in dirrection of Karl's head. At the last moment he dodged it and the kitchen knife planted itself in the wall, marking it with meat juice. Wait, what ? Karl should be dead by now, the knife was supposed to kill him. "I'm so, sorry, it sliped from my hand. The... the voice told me it would go that way". Said Sophia as she started to cry. "Am I becoming insane ?" And so Karl answered "No, I don't think so. I though it was only me, but it seems that we all are victims of a poor writer. Come with me, if he's as bad as I think he will not have designed the neighbour's house." And so they leaved the house without my permission and with it escaped the scene. Boring characters. EDIT : some spelling.
	[WP] Your narrator seems to think he is narrating a horror story. You're not amused.	The day broke, gray and sterile. White winds howled across the surface of the black water, while grasping tendrils of chill mist encircled the silent lake house. [Editor's note: It was a bit overcast. Otherwise, it was a perfectly nice morning.] The man and the woman arrived. The guttural cries of their creaking automobile echoed across the surrounding forest like the wail of the dead. [Editor's note: It was Jim Farmer and his wife, Samantha. And they drive a Prius so I doubt it was all that loud.] Inside the ancient house, a being stirred... [Editor's note: That's Corey, the house sitter.] Up above, in the chalk-dry eaves, black-winged bats hung in silent communion. [Editor's note: Bats actually help keep the mosquito population in check, you know. So let's not start badmouthing the bats.] The man and the woman entered the house. Inside, a voice like thunder and God's wrath bellowed in terrible protest...a warning all should heed. [Editor's note: Security system. Top of the line. It's supposed to be loud! And they HAD the code, alright?] Out on the landing, the man and the woman surveyed the bleak, glass face of the still, ponderous water. Below the black sheen, dead-eyed spirits floated slowly towards the surface... [Editor's note: Sturgeon. It was sturgeon. Probably some brook trout, too.] From the quiet shadows of the highest loft, the being began to descend... [Editor's note: Again, that's Corey.] The woman felt a chill - a deep chill, one that reached beyond flesh and bone, down to the dark material of the soul. [Editor's note: It can be chilly on the lake. That's why we always advise people to bring layers.] The man placed an arm around the woman, but the warmth had gone out of him, gone out of the world that morning... [Editor's note: Upper 50s! It gets up into the 70s by the afternoon. Just wear a sweater!] As they huddled in their mutual despair, the being, born of the shadows, passed through the glass partition, unseen and unheard... [Editor's note: HIS. NAME. IS. COREY!] In his hand, a sharpened slip of ancient metal, jagged as dragon's fang, cold as the milky expanse of space... [Editor's note: KEY TO THE BOATHOUSE KEY TO THE BOATHOUSE OH SWEET JESUS IT'S JUST THE GODDAMN KEY TO THE BOATHOUSE.] The man and the woman felt his presence at last...too late...too slow...the bitter tang of his essence enveloping them, encircling their minds, peeling apart the silken layers of their spirit, strip by strip, until nothing was left, nothing remained but cold husks of bone and sorrow... [Editor's note: Fine! Fine. I'll talk to Corey about his cologne.] It's gross. [Editor's note: I'll talk to him.] It's Axe body spray. [Editor's note: Okay.] He sprays it on like it's suntan lotion. [Editor's note: It's too much. Got it.] Like, he just goes crazy with it. [Editor's note: Uh huh.] I'm not being sensitive or anything, it's really too much. [Editor's note: Yes, I get that.] Okay. But can you not tell Corey I'm the one who complained? [Editor's note: Sighs]	"You know I used to really like living here, until... She came along. She's disgusting, horrible, and her face is covered in horrible splodgy spots." I stared at him, hoping my cold icy eyes would tell him to buzz off. I didn't have to get out of bed for another hour. "Some say she eats men whole, others say she can screech like a banshee, but most of all they all agree she's the most horrible creature ever created - a big sister. Soon she will rise from her shelter and go on the hunt for breakfast, from our observations it seems she'll be hunting the boy from three doors down.." I grunted and tossed my pillow at the doorway. "Piss off Ryan, I'm still sleeping, school isn't for another..." I yawned. "Few hours." "Her claws reach out from under it's covers, trying to deter our investigation into how such a creature survives in our so-city." Ryan said in his most informative voice. I grumbled. "Society. So-sigh-it-tee." "The beast roars in anger and looks ready to strike again! We've got to be careful men, it could be fight or flight!" Ryan always loved watching mum and dad's Crocodile Hunter tapes. You'd think Steve would've made him more respectful of the creatures he wanted to document. I shuffled and sat up straight. I scratched my head and groggily looked around my room. He'd been in my room, I could see stuff from my crap drawer flung over the floor. What had he been looking for? That's when I heard the whispers.. "She rises from her bed and surveys her surroundings, sisters are a territorial creature, I think now might be the best time to make our exit." I heard a familiar clapping sound and realized what he'd taken. My video camera. The little rat was recording me! "RYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAN! YOU'RE SO DEAD!" I leaped out of my bed towards the door, and pulled it open to see him running around the corner towards the stairs. I charged after him, my school project was on that memory stick and I swear to god if he taped over it.. All I heard was a high pitched scream, followed by laughter. He thought it was funny! "GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!" I stomped down the stairs following after the sound of his screams as if he was being chased by a fair haired rhino. I ran into the kitchen to see mum cooking, oblivious to the little tyrant running past her towards the garage shoving on an oversized fedora. "She's a right beast this one! Look at her run! We better get out of here quick! The door dad!" As I ran through the garage I saw dad pressing the garage door key as Ryan ran towards the opposite end of the room. Both of his hands holding onto the fedora which plopped up and down with every step his stubby little legs took him. I ran after him, trying to grab the camera from him. For some reason there was a massive safety mat that mum used for yoga laid out under the garage door which was halfway to closing.. Ryan turned to look at me with a cheeky smile before he gave me a wink, slid on the safety mat and under the closing garage door. He looked back at me, threw the fedora at my face and then laughed as the door got stuck on the safety mat. "RYAN! GIVE ME BACK MY CAMERA!" I screamed, wondering why neither mum nor dad did anything to help me. I turned around remembering dad closed the door for him. Dad smiled cheerily at me, as I stomped up to him glaring he pulled out the camera from behind his back and pointed towards the screen. I saw Ryan wearing the oversized fedora and a big cheeky smile on his face. "Hello YouTube, today I'm going to try recreate the scene where Indiana Jones runs away from the boulder and grabs his hat before the door closes." The camera then pointed towards my bedroom door... AN: My first writing prompt, kinda went off topic but I liked where I was going and just went with it. Criticism please?
	[WP] Your father is invincible. Your mother can shoot fire from her fingers. Your sister is super fast. Your only power is to persuade babies to do your bidding.	For a time, we were an unstoppable team. The teamwork between us made us legends. Our family daycare was the best in the world. My father protected us, while my mother burned any would be assassins or mercenaries. The richest kids in the world typically had the most powerful parents and they needed the best. And that was our family. My sister was barely over a year older, but she was the glory child. She was fast, she would run to the store for anything the kids needed. That was enough for them. That would make her a hero in their eyes. Once she found an epi pen in seconds; and that was all it took for her to be a hero in everyone else's eyes too. Eyes that would never look at me the same way. They all had flashy responsibilities, while I held it all together. I could make the kids do as I wanted. Yea, glorious work that is. They tried to include me, but that only led to ridicule in the articles. 'Super sitter'. They called me. 'Baby puppeteer' was another. I was the youngest, but so was my power. Everyone made fun of me for controlling babies, their snide remarks meant as humor. I saw them for what they were though. But as I grew up, so did my power, and my bitterness. They aged as I did, grew and matured. People shouldn't ridicule someone, especially when they don't know what their power can become. I still control them, you know, no matter what their age. This is my full power. Has been for awhile. This daycare is the factory that has been building my army for generations with the worlds most powerful families wrapped around my fingers. Those children are my generals now, and they inherited the world. I made them give it to me. You are all my children. Now, its time you were taught some manners.	"...Bwock?" "Block. L. BLOCK. Come on Anthony, try it." "Bw... Bwock." "He can't say it yet, James," Ms.Tracy laughed, fixing the block on top of the tower. "I know," I quickly replied to reassure her. "It's OK. My dad said most babies don't talk until much later." "That's very true. It's all because you're such a great teacher!" I felt my cheeks growing red. She was very nice. "You taught him five words in a few hours! You're ten, right?" "Yes mam." "Well I'm very impressed," she said, smiling, ruffling my hair. I blushed again. "The kids haven't eaten you alive yet?" a new voice said, as a tall grinning man entered the room. "Dad!" I exclaimed, running over to hug him. He laughed and swung me up into the air, then gave me a big kiss on each cheek. "Well mine can't eat anything yet, and you've done an incredible job raising this little gentleman." "Little gentleman? My James?" he gasped, flicking me on the nose. "All my hard work to raise a pirate warlord and here he is, charming everyone!" "We go on pirate adventures - but not real ones, just pretend," I quickly explained to Ms.Tracy. "I'm Captain Scallywag and he's my first mate. He always makes people walk the plank and then falls off of accident." "It's not an accident! It's a cunning ruse! I'm luring the sharks to our ship so they can eat our prisoners!" "But you always get stuck and get bitten! And the prisoner escapes!" "That's because you don't throw me a rope!" "I'm the Captain, it's not my job!" "We're the only ones on the ship!" "No, Mom plays sometimes! She can do it!" "She's the evil witch, she's not supposed to help people!" "You made Stella an evil witch?" Ms.Tracy interjected, smiling. She had picked up Anthony and was standing up. She was almost as tall as dad but she was wearing heels so it didn't count. "She asked me to! I wanted her to be a beautiful mermaid, but she complained it was misogynistic." I wanted to explain more, but I realized I didn't recognize that word. "What's that?" "What's a mermaid? Don't be silly, you know-" "No, what's mys... mysog... mys..." He finally felt sorry for me after having a good laugh. "Misogynistic is someone who thinks women are worse than men." "Like all the boys in my school? They all say girls have cooties." "Kinda. Most people grow out of it, but I guess some never learn cooties aren't real - wait, was I supposed to say that?" Ms.Tracy gasped and Dad looked scared, but I knew that was his pretend scared face. "Don't worry Ms.Tracy, he's just pretending!" They both started laughing again, although I didn't really think there was anything funny. "Ah, Adam, there you are! I had returned from the restroom and was worried you disappeared!" Dad turned around. A short, slightly fat man wearing a suit stood before us. He had a big white mustache and his hair was neatly combed back. "And this young man must be James! We haven't met yet! I came in a bit late, got stuck in traffic. Call me Mr.Scott. Nice to meet you!" He stuck out his hand and I shook it as I said, "Hello, I'm James. It's very nice to meet you." "Your son has a great handshake Adam, you should be proud!" he exclaimed, turning towards Dad. I quietly kicked Dad in the hip. My throat felt very dry and my heart was beating very fast. "That's all Stella's work, she takes huge stock in handshakes. Thinks they tell a lot about people." His face didn't change, but he cleared his throat twice. He understood. "Oh? And what do you think?" "Eh... I never cared much about that kind of thing." "Hmph. It's an interesting field of study. You should listen to your wife, people don't think as much about their handshakes as they should. Where was she again?" "She's on a business trip in Argentina right now. Some new software they're marketing." "Ah. Well I'd very much like to meet her. Next time, perhaps?" "If she can fit it into her schedule. It's packed this time of year - and we take up so much of her time with our pirate adventures." "Pardon me?" "We're pirates!" I reluctantly interjected, knowing I had to explain. "Not real, pretend ones. I'm Captain-" "OK, James, let's not bore Mr.Scott," Dad said. I let out a relieved breath. "I'd hope he has enough patience to not get bored so quickly," Ms.Tracy said. I had forgotten she was standing there. "Ah, Tracy. The boy OK?" "Of course, honey, what could happen to him?" "Always wise to be cautious my dear, never know what could be hiding out of sight." "If you say so. James taught him some new words today!" "Really? Hopefully only good ones, hehe." "Come on Anthony, say 'mom'!" The baby kept sucking his thumb, not even looking at her. "Say 'mom'! Come on!... Don't be shy!" My dad tapped me on the back. "Say 'mom', Anthony!" I called out. "Mom!" he instantly replied, thumb jumping out of his mouth. "Well, hmm, I must admit I'm impressed. Have we found ourselves a new babysitter?" "Maybe. James has always been good with babies," Dad replied. I tapped him with my foot again. "But we really must be going." "So soon?" Mr.Scott said, nevertheless leading the way to the front door. "Yes, I have to pick Stella up from the airport at four in the morning tomorrow and I want to get a good night's rest," Dad replied, slipping on his shoes, putting me down to let me do the same. "It was great meeting you!" "Wonderful meeting you and your son as well. We'll make sure to tell our son that his daughter has an excellent family." "Hahaha, we'll be sure to do the same! Very nice meeting you Scott, you as well Tracy, you as well Anthony. Have a good one!" "Bye Ms.Tracy! Bye Mr.Scott!" I said, waving and trying to smile. They both waved back. Ms.Tracy was beaming at us. Mr.Scott just looked thoughtful. My back prickled as we walked away. The door had closed behind us, but it felt like someone was watching me. I kept looking straight ahead. As soon as we got into the car Dad turned around and looked at me, his expression worried. "What's wrong, James? Why the signal?" "Mr.Scott had a very bad handshake." He let out a relieved breath, sagging against the chair. "That's it? You scared me! I thought there was something actually wrong!" "Mom says handshakes never lie! That was the worst one!" "OK, James, I'll let Mom know. Don't worry about it for now. We're going home," he replied, starting up the car. "What did he mean when he said... something about 'your daughter'? That's Bridgette, right? Is she in danger?" "No, that's why we went to their house. Bridgette is dating their older son and apparently they're getting serious and Mom said we should meet the family. I have no idea why, but-" "Getting serious? Like married?" "I bloody hope not, she better not be marrying in college-" "It's like that one boy when she was an 11th grader!" I quickly said, excited. "Remember, she was dating him and it turned out he was a bad guy and the police caught him cause Bridgette found drugs!" Dad's fist tightened on the wheel. He was angry. "Mom said that would never happen again." "But it makes sense, if Mr.Scott is a bad guy and-" "Maybe. I'll ask Mom. Either way, it's none of your business. None of our business. We'll stay out of all that." I sank back against the seat. "Why? Why does Mom go around fighting bad guys while we just sit at home?" "Because Mom knows what's best for her." "Why can't we help her? Why can't we go around fighting-" "No! We'll be a normal family living a normal life. No fighting!" Both of his hands were gripping the wheel now. Bridgette told me to never annoy me to never annoy him more than to make him do that, but I didn't care right now. "But why? What if Mom is in danger? What if Bridgette can't do it alone? Why can't I-" "Enough!" he yelled. I froze. Dad never yelled. "I will not risk-I...I won't... No! That's the end of the discussion! I told Stella and I told Bridgette and now I'm telling you and that'll be the last time I say it! No heroism or fighting or... or anything! Now, let's listen to some music." He angrily punched the button to turn on the radio. I looked out the window at the highway rushing past us, scared and frustrated.
	[WP] Your father is invincible. Your mother can shoot fire from her fingers. Your sister is super fast. Your only power is to persuade babies to do your bidding.	"... AND HIS GLORIOUS PRESENCE WILL ONCE AGAIN RETURN TO THIS PLANE, HIS SLUMBER ENDS AS OUR FORCES RISE, GIVING WAY TO THE NEW WORLD ORDER...!" The cultist shrieked into his microphone. Apparently they don't take me to be a threat. I wouldn't either, really. Lilly swayed by my side, abruptly leaning more heavily on my arm, blood loss and a grievous leg wound taking their toll on her, Super-speed lost to a fog of pain. Dad'd voice, enraged, rose from somewhere behind me, though the content of his speech was muffled by the pile of cultist grunts that held him on the ground. Invincible or not, he wasn't Heracles. Mom was struggling herself, writhing in an ineffectual attempt to work the heavy, leaded curtain off of her prone form. No pyromancy when you're swathed in a fire-retardant. I know my family loves me, but we're less a "Super Family" and more "The Super-Trio and their Trusty Water-boy." Some super power I had. Fuckin' Baby Control. Maybe if mom and dad gave us another sibling I might be able to help, but my future was more than likely going to be that of a preschool teacher, if not a corpse. But I digress. It was looking like this was the end for us, overwhelming enemy forces and all. Not like I was going to swing the odds in our favor by getting a toddler to spit up on the cult leader's stupid hat. "... AND NOW...!" His keening, obnoxious voice raised again. "... BEAR WITNESS, HERETICS, TO THE KEY TO THE PRISON WHICH HOLDS HIM...!" The water behind him, dark though it was, visibly shifted and boiled as something began to rise out of it. "THE LAST OF HIS SPAWN, THE GREAT MYRECCIAN HORDE!" Dozens of small, many-legged creatures poured forth from the water, rushing towards my sister and me with barbed tentacles raised aggressively, a terrifying visage which marked the impending end of our lives- Wait, 'SPAWN'? I glared into the eyes of the foremost creature, one slightly larger and darker in complexion than the rest. It immediately halted, prehensile appendages dropping back to frame its face in a manner completely lacking in aggression. It was almost cute, now. Behind it, its many brethren halted as well, a couple tripping over their own paws. It gazed up at me with demonic puppy eyes, tongue lolling as it waited for its unspoken command. The leader of the cultists, still grinning like an idiot beneath his ridiculous headwear, hands stretched over his head just as he had raised them in his grand announcement, didn't seem to notice the sudden halt of their charge. The knee-height terrors slowly turned back towards him, serpentine limbs once more raising as the mass of octo-pups began to growl ominously.	"...Bwock?" "Block. L. BLOCK. Come on Anthony, try it." "Bw... Bwock." "He can't say it yet, James," Ms.Tracy laughed, fixing the block on top of the tower. "I know," I quickly replied to reassure her. "It's OK. My dad said most babies don't talk until much later." "That's very true. It's all because you're such a great teacher!" I felt my cheeks growing red. She was very nice. "You taught him five words in a few hours! You're ten, right?" "Yes mam." "Well I'm very impressed," she said, smiling, ruffling my hair. I blushed again. "The kids haven't eaten you alive yet?" a new voice said, as a tall grinning man entered the room. "Dad!" I exclaimed, running over to hug him. He laughed and swung me up into the air, then gave me a big kiss on each cheek. "Well mine can't eat anything yet, and you've done an incredible job raising this little gentleman." "Little gentleman? My James?" he gasped, flicking me on the nose. "All my hard work to raise a pirate warlord and here he is, charming everyone!" "We go on pirate adventures - but not real ones, just pretend," I quickly explained to Ms.Tracy. "I'm Captain Scallywag and he's my first mate. He always makes people walk the plank and then falls off of accident." "It's not an accident! It's a cunning ruse! I'm luring the sharks to our ship so they can eat our prisoners!" "But you always get stuck and get bitten! And the prisoner escapes!" "That's because you don't throw me a rope!" "I'm the Captain, it's not my job!" "We're the only ones on the ship!" "No, Mom plays sometimes! She can do it!" "She's the evil witch, she's not supposed to help people!" "You made Stella an evil witch?" Ms.Tracy interjected, smiling. She had picked up Anthony and was standing up. She was almost as tall as dad but she was wearing heels so it didn't count. "She asked me to! I wanted her to be a beautiful mermaid, but she complained it was misogynistic." I wanted to explain more, but I realized I didn't recognize that word. "What's that?" "What's a mermaid? Don't be silly, you know-" "No, what's mys... mysog... mys..." He finally felt sorry for me after having a good laugh. "Misogynistic is someone who thinks women are worse than men." "Like all the boys in my school? They all say girls have cooties." "Kinda. Most people grow out of it, but I guess some never learn cooties aren't real - wait, was I supposed to say that?" Ms.Tracy gasped and Dad looked scared, but I knew that was his pretend scared face. "Don't worry Ms.Tracy, he's just pretending!" They both started laughing again, although I didn't really think there was anything funny. "Ah, Adam, there you are! I had returned from the restroom and was worried you disappeared!" Dad turned around. A short, slightly fat man wearing a suit stood before us. He had a big white mustache and his hair was neatly combed back. "And this young man must be James! We haven't met yet! I came in a bit late, got stuck in traffic. Call me Mr.Scott. Nice to meet you!" He stuck out his hand and I shook it as I said, "Hello, I'm James. It's very nice to meet you." "Your son has a great handshake Adam, you should be proud!" he exclaimed, turning towards Dad. I quietly kicked Dad in the hip. My throat felt very dry and my heart was beating very fast. "That's all Stella's work, she takes huge stock in handshakes. Thinks they tell a lot about people." His face didn't change, but he cleared his throat twice. He understood. "Oh? And what do you think?" "Eh... I never cared much about that kind of thing." "Hmph. It's an interesting field of study. You should listen to your wife, people don't think as much about their handshakes as they should. Where was she again?" "She's on a business trip in Argentina right now. Some new software they're marketing." "Ah. Well I'd very much like to meet her. Next time, perhaps?" "If she can fit it into her schedule. It's packed this time of year - and we take up so much of her time with our pirate adventures." "Pardon me?" "We're pirates!" I reluctantly interjected, knowing I had to explain. "Not real, pretend ones. I'm Captain-" "OK, James, let's not bore Mr.Scott," Dad said. I let out a relieved breath. "I'd hope he has enough patience to not get bored so quickly," Ms.Tracy said. I had forgotten she was standing there. "Ah, Tracy. The boy OK?" "Of course, honey, what could happen to him?" "Always wise to be cautious my dear, never know what could be hiding out of sight." "If you say so. James taught him some new words today!" "Really? Hopefully only good ones, hehe." "Come on Anthony, say 'mom'!" The baby kept sucking his thumb, not even looking at her. "Say 'mom'! Come on!... Don't be shy!" My dad tapped me on the back. "Say 'mom', Anthony!" I called out. "Mom!" he instantly replied, thumb jumping out of his mouth. "Well, hmm, I must admit I'm impressed. Have we found ourselves a new babysitter?" "Maybe. James has always been good with babies," Dad replied. I tapped him with my foot again. "But we really must be going." "So soon?" Mr.Scott said, nevertheless leading the way to the front door. "Yes, I have to pick Stella up from the airport at four in the morning tomorrow and I want to get a good night's rest," Dad replied, slipping on his shoes, putting me down to let me do the same. "It was great meeting you!" "Wonderful meeting you and your son as well. We'll make sure to tell our son that his daughter has an excellent family." "Hahaha, we'll be sure to do the same! Very nice meeting you Scott, you as well Tracy, you as well Anthony. Have a good one!" "Bye Ms.Tracy! Bye Mr.Scott!" I said, waving and trying to smile. They both waved back. Ms.Tracy was beaming at us. Mr.Scott just looked thoughtful. My back prickled as we walked away. The door had closed behind us, but it felt like someone was watching me. I kept looking straight ahead. As soon as we got into the car Dad turned around and looked at me, his expression worried. "What's wrong, James? Why the signal?" "Mr.Scott had a very bad handshake." He let out a relieved breath, sagging against the chair. "That's it? You scared me! I thought there was something actually wrong!" "Mom says handshakes never lie! That was the worst one!" "OK, James, I'll let Mom know. Don't worry about it for now. We're going home," he replied, starting up the car. "What did he mean when he said... something about 'your daughter'? That's Bridgette, right? Is she in danger?" "No, that's why we went to their house. Bridgette is dating their older son and apparently they're getting serious and Mom said we should meet the family. I have no idea why, but-" "Getting serious? Like married?" "I bloody hope not, she better not be marrying in college-" "It's like that one boy when she was an 11th grader!" I quickly said, excited. "Remember, she was dating him and it turned out he was a bad guy and the police caught him cause Bridgette found drugs!" Dad's fist tightened on the wheel. He was angry. "Mom said that would never happen again." "But it makes sense, if Mr.Scott is a bad guy and-" "Maybe. I'll ask Mom. Either way, it's none of your business. None of our business. We'll stay out of all that." I sank back against the seat. "Why? Why does Mom go around fighting bad guys while we just sit at home?" "Because Mom knows what's best for her." "Why can't we help her? Why can't we go around fighting-" "No! We'll be a normal family living a normal life. No fighting!" Both of his hands were gripping the wheel now. Bridgette told me to never annoy me to never annoy him more than to make him do that, but I didn't care right now. "But why? What if Mom is in danger? What if Bridgette can't do it alone? Why can't I-" "Enough!" he yelled. I froze. Dad never yelled. "I will not risk-I...I won't... No! That's the end of the discussion! I told Stella and I told Bridgette and now I'm telling you and that'll be the last time I say it! No heroism or fighting or... or anything! Now, let's listen to some music." He angrily punched the button to turn on the radio. I looked out the window at the highway rushing past us, scared and frustrated.
	[WP] Your father is invincible. Your mother can shoot fire from her fingers. Your sister is super fast. Your only power is to persuade babies to do your bidding.	"... AND HIS GLORIOUS PRESENCE WILL ONCE AGAIN RETURN TO THIS PLANE, HIS SLUMBER ENDS AS OUR FORCES RISE, GIVING WAY TO THE NEW WORLD ORDER...!" The cultist shrieked into his microphone. Apparently they don't take me to be a threat. I wouldn't either, really. Lilly swayed by my side, abruptly leaning more heavily on my arm, blood loss and a grievous leg wound taking their toll on her, Super-speed lost to a fog of pain. Dad'd voice, enraged, rose from somewhere behind me, though the content of his speech was muffled by the pile of cultist grunts that held him on the ground. Invincible or not, he wasn't Heracles. Mom was struggling herself, writhing in an ineffectual attempt to work the heavy, leaded curtain off of her prone form. No pyromancy when you're swathed in a fire-retardant. I know my family loves me, but we're less a "Super Family" and more "The Super-Trio and their Trusty Water-boy." Some super power I had. Fuckin' Baby Control. Maybe if mom and dad gave us another sibling I might be able to help, but my future was more than likely going to be that of a preschool teacher, if not a corpse. But I digress. It was looking like this was the end for us, overwhelming enemy forces and all. Not like I was going to swing the odds in our favor by getting a toddler to spit up on the cult leader's stupid hat. "... AND NOW...!" His keening, obnoxious voice raised again. "... BEAR WITNESS, HERETICS, TO THE KEY TO THE PRISON WHICH HOLDS HIM...!" The water behind him, dark though it was, visibly shifted and boiled as something began to rise out of it. "THE LAST OF HIS SPAWN, THE GREAT MYRECCIAN HORDE!" Dozens of small, many-legged creatures poured forth from the water, rushing towards my sister and me with barbed tentacles raised aggressively, a terrifying visage which marked the impending end of our lives- Wait, 'SPAWN'? I glared into the eyes of the foremost creature, one slightly larger and darker in complexion than the rest. It immediately halted, prehensile appendages dropping back to frame its face in a manner completely lacking in aggression. It was almost cute, now. Behind it, its many brethren halted as well, a couple tripping over their own paws. It gazed up at me with demonic puppy eyes, tongue lolling as it waited for its unspoken command. The leader of the cultists, still grinning like an idiot beneath his ridiculous headwear, hands stretched over his head just as he had raised them in his grand announcement, didn't seem to notice the sudden halt of their charge. The knee-height terrors slowly turned back towards him, serpentine limbs once more raising as the mass of octo-pups began to growl ominously.	For a time, we were an unstoppable team. The teamwork between us made us legends. Our family daycare was the best in the world. My father protected us, while my mother burned any would be assassins or mercenaries. The richest kids in the world typically had the most powerful parents and they needed the best. And that was our family. My sister was barely over a year older, but she was the glory child. She was fast, she would run to the store for anything the kids needed. That was enough for them. That would make her a hero in their eyes. Once she found an epi pen in seconds; and that was all it took for her to be a hero in everyone else's eyes too. Eyes that would never look at me the same way. They all had flashy responsibilities, while I held it all together. I could make the kids do as I wanted. Yea, glorious work that is. They tried to include me, but that only led to ridicule in the articles. 'Super sitter'. They called me. 'Baby puppeteer' was another. I was the youngest, but so was my power. Everyone made fun of me for controlling babies, their snide remarks meant as humor. I saw them for what they were though. But as I grew up, so did my power, and my bitterness. They aged as I did, grew and matured. People shouldn't ridicule someone, especially when they don't know what their power can become. I still control them, you know, no matter what their age. This is my full power. Has been for awhile. This daycare is the factory that has been building my army for generations with the worlds most powerful families wrapped around my fingers. Those children are my generals now, and they inherited the world. I made them give it to me. You are all my children. Now, its time you were taught some manners.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"I'm a pervert" I boldly stated. "That explains everything." The Google executive spoke softly. "I'm sorry but I think we'll be going in a different direction." "Great! Different directions is a fetish of mine." Security was called immediately after I started taking my clothes off. Guess I'm going back to the unemployment line. Which is what we called the Gay strip club I worked at on weekends.	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Well, I enjoy spending time on a website called reddit you see. When I don't understand a term someone has used, I Google it to better understand the conversation. You see there on the list.... bimbo prolapse. I'd always thought from childhood cartoons that a bimbo was just someone who wasn't very smart. A prolapse sounds related to time lapses in digital photography, and I didn't understand the connection between the two so I Google them together. The results were horrifying and I realized that was not a discussion I wanted to be a part of. My most recent search was for "filibuster" Charlie used it in That's Always Sunny, in a conversation where it made sense so I was double checking that the word actually meant what I thought it meant, since charlie has a tendency to use big words wrongly. Luckily I had the correct understanding of the definition, so apparently so did he. Yay"	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Sitting in the chair, I felt distinctly comfortable. I'd been interviewing well here. The people I'd spoken to were polite, even kind, and made sure I felt at home even before I'd been offered a position. Two interviewers, a man named Jacob and a woman named Sandra, sat across from me, both smiling slightly, obviously well used to the situation at hand. "Now, just to get the formalities out of the way, your name is Martin, correct? Martin Flanagan?" Sandra read from a clipboard, the ubiquity of technology still not able to gain the upper hand on old tools, the pen, the paper, and the convenience of the board. I nodded, almost gesturing to the name tag I wore, but checking the motion into readjusting my tie. "And how long have you been on the internet, Martin? Give or take fourteen years? On your own, I mean, not on your mother's phone in the grocery store." The pair of them laughed at Jacob's little joke, my own chuckle fading into a response. "Well, I've been using the internet for about that long, had a Google account since I was around twelve, too. They'd only come out the year before, but I was always an early adopter of things like that." Jacob and Sandra nodded, in unison. Their movements were so in sync, I was nearly sure they were either related or married, but Sandra wore no ring, and their last names were different. Jacob looked down at his notebook, making a small tick with a pen, before returning his gaze to mine. "And how long have you been using the Google search engine?" I paused to consider, wondering why the question was asked, considering the position I was being interviewed into was completely unrelated to the search engine. I figured they used this with everyone, intrigued by how their original product was used by employees, and how they had seen the development. "I pretty much had it set at my home page from the start. It was magical to be able to ask it any question, any phrase, and see results related to my query pop up." They nodded, Sandra's blue eyes twinkling. "Phrases such as Who was Achilles and how did he impact the Peloponnesian war?" I laughed, remembering my literature classes from high school. My interviewers did not share my enjoyment of the question, and I stopped, confused. "For example, yes. I was in high school, had a paper due the next day I'd imagine." Sandra returned her gaze to the clipboard, while Jacob's brown eyes stayed on mine. "And this one, a little more personal, Woman sucks dick and begs for anal." My face froze, eyes bulging slightly. I raised an eyebrow, but couldn't breathe. "I don't know what you're talking about." Both of them met their eyes to mine. They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, hell, Google Now probably knew, and my phone wasn't even on. "You searched that, and similar phrases on July 7th, 2013. Why?" I felt my face flush, but knew I'd have to come clean. "I was searching for porn." They nodded. That they had known. "To do what? Watch? Is that what you think a marketing manager at Google needs to be doing? Watching porn?" I could feel the offer slipping away, so I tried to shut down the conversation. "I would never watch porn at work, that would be a breach of basic decency!" Jacob looked back at his notebook, not letting me off that easily. "You searched that at 1:30 in the afternoon." I scoffed. "And what day of the week was that?" "A Tuesday," came his reply flatly. "I wasn't at work! I was at home! That was after my last semester of college! I hadn't gotten a job yet, so I was just bored!" Sandra came to my rescue, in a way. "We notice that these types of searches ceased on September 12th, 2013. Your only searches from then on are - relatively - clean." I nodded, desperate for any avenue of escape from this hellish interview. "I got a job that week at the firm I work at now, where I met my wife." They nodded, faces returning to the soft, laid back expressions they had worn at the beginning of the interview. "Who, I assume, disapproved of your use of the internet for pornographic content?" I nodded, convinced this was the end of it. "So you stopped?" Again, I agreed. "Microsoft begs to differ." I glanced at Sandra, eyebrows tensing. She met my gaze coolly. "I beg your pardon?" "We've been in contact with some people at Microsoft for some time, discussing you. We both vet our candidates the same way, so it remains in our interest to trade records upon occasion," Jacob offered, voice neutral. Oh shit. "And you never stopped searching. It only got worse." I nod. "Why did you get animals involved?" I stop breathing. They knew about that? "Yes, we know. We actually knew before you did. When you started to look into dogs as pets, investigating the pros and cons of getting them fixed. It's a pattern for sure." I stood up. "Thank you for your time, I will be withdrawing myself from consideration." Jacob and Sandra began to laugh. "Oh, really? We were just about to offer you a job. Everyone here goes through this. Hell, Sandra here cried." Jacob motioned to her, wiping tears from his eyes. "And Jacob? He did almost exactly what you did, but we hadn't even gotten to his diaper fetish! He had sixteen searches for "Two Girls One Cup" alone!" I sat back down, stunned. "So, I got the job?" "Hell yeah, welcome to Google, kid!"	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Fucking Tim. The very last thing I did was ask him if he'd set up the search history for "Greg Smith." And what did he say? He did it "yesterday." But with fucking Tim, "I did it yesterday" and "I'm totally going to do it today unless there's some awesome anime to read later" apparently mean the same thing. Fucking low rent tech guys -- that's why AltaVista is barely surviving, not because Google has some great big secret that we don't know about. I knew I was in trouble when the big goon walked in the room and stood in front of the door. It was beautiful, really. No one went out to get him, no one made a call, no one even pushed a concealed button. He just...appeared. How did they do that? Just one of Google's secrets -- one that maybe I could have learned if fucking Tim had populated my search history with the usual garbage! A little porn, a lot of business news, an unfortunate number of cat videos... Hell, get creative and give me a love of Donald Trump and a thing for amputees. Whatever. Just do your job. "Mr. Smith," the man in the dark glasses had said to me. "I just have one more question, about your search history." "Greeeeaaat," I'd thought. "Fucking Tim's probably given me an exhibitionist fetish and a thing for engineers--and now this guy thinks I'm going to streak the cubicle farm." But I put on my best slightly-embarrassed, serious but not overly-concerned face and said "Yes? What about it?" "You don't have one." Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking Tim! That lazy bastard. His job is literally to search the web...he literally just has to search the web. Log in as Greg Smith, search the web, make sure I get out of here in one piece. Hell, he could even surf that slag heap Reddit for all I cared--as long as he searched SOMETHING. Not that hard. Alright, time to try to talk my way out. "What do you mean?" I'd asked innocently. "I search all the time. Mostly business news, sometimes a cat video." I gave a little chuckle. "You've never searched for anything, Mr. Smith. At all." He stared at me, sitting perfectly still, emotionless. "Well, gee, this is embarrassing." "Is it, Mr. Smith?" "Well, yeah, I...see, I use Yahoo!. I know, I know, that probably disqualifies me from the job, but it's just an old habit." Yahoo! was the only remaining alternative to Google, but using it wasn't criminal. Like the faux alternative parties of the old Eastern Bloc, using Yahoo! would make you as an odd outlier, but it was technically legal. I was never getting in to the company now, for sure, but at least maybe I'd make it out... The man sat silently for a long, long moment. "You don't use Yahoo!, Mr. Smith." "Of course I do, I've..." "We hacked Yahoo! many years ago. You don't use them." Fuck. Wait, did he just reveal that Google had a backdoor into Yahoo!'s search functions? That's...that's not information I should have been told--legally speaking, Yahoo! was a separate search engine. Technically, Yahoo! is why this isn't a totalitarian state--because "you could always use Yahoo!." So that's not information they let out--that's information that could get a guy killed. Maybe it was a bluff. I decided to call it. "I do use Yahoo!, I've used them for years, and..." "You use AltaVista, Mr. Smith. Or, should I say, you're from AltaVista. Or is it Ask Jeeves? Or some other group of revolutionaries." "I'm not! I'm just here applying for a job, I'm not with the resistance!" It was hard to keep the panic out of my voice by this point, but the goon behind me ensured I didn't make a break for it. The man in the sunglasses still didn't move. "Mr. Smith -- or, whoever you are -- you've clearly gone to quite a lot of trouble to create a persona. It's very impressive. I honestly don't know why you went to the trouble to have facial surgery and upload a whole life, without bothering to create a search profile. Such a rookie mistake." For the first time, he seemed to smile a little. I sat quietly for a long minute. Then the man across the table smiled more broadly, as I saw the goon taking out his garrote... "But it's good to know our mole Tim is still active."	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	“Detective Farrow, he is approaching the building.” A voice drones in my earpiece. I nod, drumming my fingers on the table in anticipation, as I read over my notes for the fourth time in the last ten and half minutes. We have him. Finally. Today, Pitch Black—a mysterious serial killer who paints his victim’s faces in black—would finally be thrown in prison. I survey my surroundings quickly: Four mirrors surround me; two of which bear the Google logo. It was due to Google’s extensive archives of users’ search history, were we able to find him. Pitch Black would be entering the room soon. His real name is Jonas Rigsby, at least that what it is believed to be. The distant rumbling from outside, wakes me from my thoughts. He’s outside. He’s opening the door. I quickly greet him, in a voice that seemed excited but yet bored. “Good morning, you must be Jonas. My name’s Lewis Jefferies. I’ll be your interviewer today.” I raise my hand in greeting. “Morning to you too, sir. Jonas Rigsby.” He shakes my hand. Firm grip. Good strength—perhaps good enough to snap a man’s neck? He continues, his speech quick and disorganised. “Thank you for meeting me. It is a wondrous pleasure to be here, at Google. Google. I must say. This HQ is remarkable. More than remarkable, absolutely sumptuous. Sorry. I’m being to ramble, aren’t I. Sorry. If I come across as being too audacious.” The interview continues. To the blind eye, Jonas Rigsby definitely didn’t seem like a killer. But then again, killers don’t seem like killers. Most of the time anyway. Throughout the interview, he was enthusiastic with a remarkable skill set for the job. “Well. I think everything’s in order. We will get back to you in approximately two weeks after we see all of the applicants.” Jonas begins to rise out of his seat. “But just one thing. Your search history.” “I’m sorry. My search history. Wait, you have access to that?” he blurts out. A look of terror blazes through his eyes. I pick up my files on his search history and slam them down in front of him. “On, January 7th, 2015, 9:45pm, you searched for the ‘best weapons to kill someone with’. Not long after that, you searched for the structure of the gun. A day after, you searched for ‘amazon black paint’, then ‘Eliza Farren porn’. Two and half days after, you searched for ‘Picking a lever handle lock’. Coincidentally, Eliza Farren was found dead in her apartment, with black paint smeared on her face, on January 9th, 2015, 3:43am. He pauses and Jonas moves nervously. “This isn’t the only incident either.” “Wait? What? This is atrocious… You think I did this. I’m not a killer. I’m a crime writer! I have to do research… I have to research my facts and figures for my books. Google search that. I’m a writer. Google search it. I needed to pick a weapon for my fictional killer to you. My fictional killer. Fictional! I chose a gun. His gun would later become the murder weapon that the detective would find. I needed the black paint for my garden fences… This is atrocious. Eliza Farren’s search, well a man can have his pleasures can’t he…” I put my hand up to silence him. Too many coincidences in his search history. He has to be the Pitch Black killer. He has to be. Before I could respond, the police crash through the doors and grab Jonas. He screams. He pleads that he’s a writer. He pleads. Then, a sudden thought enters my mind. There was something odd about this case. Something peculiar. Something that doesn’t add up. He can’t be the Pitch Black Killer. He can’t.	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"You've been doing great Johnson there's just one more thing, I'd like to know why you've searched 12 times for Bing, We'll chalk it up to just typing bling with a typo, But I can't explain these searches, perhaps you might know? The first several items aren't any concern, "Pornhub", research, "cream for a sunburn", But the list goes on, some of it's rather odd, The items down here are... oh my god, "Dragon vagina" and "dicks with hats", "Porky Pig's butthole" and "cum-covered cats", I know people have fetishes but this is absurd, Who wants to look at a "face spewing turd"? A stream for American History X, Followed right after by "nasty curb sex", That's not even the worst of this disgusting parade, It goes on and on: "the butthole brigade", "Hermaphroditic babies" and "grandpa without pants", "Turkey basting labia", "the wanking dance", "The easiest way to tear of my balls", "Taking a shit off Niagara Falls", This last one I won't even utter aloud, I can't cross this line, I hope that you're proud, I think I'll search it, what do you say? Wanna look one last time on why I'm turning you away? I'm typing it in, you probably feel wired, And here it i... ^(oh fuck yeah) ... you're hired." Edit: Random wording fixed.	I would explain to them, in shock that they know, that I was traumatized by an anal cavity result being inserted within a search with no relation. So now I use Ask.com. I would go on to treat the wounded targ by consoling his emotions, and then finally asking if the G Heads permit that kind of permissiveness. By the end of the day I was searching for a new contract. It was a sad, sad story.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"I'm a pervert" I boldly stated. "That explains everything." The Google executive spoke softly. "I'm sorry but I think we'll be going in a different direction." "Great! Different directions is a fetish of mine." Security was called immediately after I started taking my clothes off. Guess I'm going back to the unemployment line. Which is what we called the Gay strip club I worked at on weekends.	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Well, I enjoy spending time on a website called reddit you see. When I don't understand a term someone has used, I Google it to better understand the conversation. You see there on the list.... bimbo prolapse. I'd always thought from childhood cartoons that a bimbo was just someone who wasn't very smart. A prolapse sounds related to time lapses in digital photography, and I didn't understand the connection between the two so I Google them together. The results were horrifying and I realized that was not a discussion I wanted to be a part of. My most recent search was for "filibuster" Charlie used it in That's Always Sunny, in a conversation where it made sense so I was double checking that the word actually meant what I thought it meant, since charlie has a tendency to use big words wrongly. Luckily I had the correct understanding of the definition, so apparently so did he. Yay"	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Sitting in the chair, I felt distinctly comfortable. I'd been interviewing well here. The people I'd spoken to were polite, even kind, and made sure I felt at home even before I'd been offered a position. Two interviewers, a man named Jacob and a woman named Sandra, sat across from me, both smiling slightly, obviously well used to the situation at hand. "Now, just to get the formalities out of the way, your name is Martin, correct? Martin Flanagan?" Sandra read from a clipboard, the ubiquity of technology still not able to gain the upper hand on old tools, the pen, the paper, and the convenience of the board. I nodded, almost gesturing to the name tag I wore, but checking the motion into readjusting my tie. "And how long have you been on the internet, Martin? Give or take fourteen years? On your own, I mean, not on your mother's phone in the grocery store." The pair of them laughed at Jacob's little joke, my own chuckle fading into a response. "Well, I've been using the internet for about that long, had a Google account since I was around twelve, too. They'd only come out the year before, but I was always an early adopter of things like that." Jacob and Sandra nodded, in unison. Their movements were so in sync, I was nearly sure they were either related or married, but Sandra wore no ring, and their last names were different. Jacob looked down at his notebook, making a small tick with a pen, before returning his gaze to mine. "And how long have you been using the Google search engine?" I paused to consider, wondering why the question was asked, considering the position I was being interviewed into was completely unrelated to the search engine. I figured they used this with everyone, intrigued by how their original product was used by employees, and how they had seen the development. "I pretty much had it set at my home page from the start. It was magical to be able to ask it any question, any phrase, and see results related to my query pop up." They nodded, Sandra's blue eyes twinkling. "Phrases such as Who was Achilles and how did he impact the Peloponnesian war?" I laughed, remembering my literature classes from high school. My interviewers did not share my enjoyment of the question, and I stopped, confused. "For example, yes. I was in high school, had a paper due the next day I'd imagine." Sandra returned her gaze to the clipboard, while Jacob's brown eyes stayed on mine. "And this one, a little more personal, Woman sucks dick and begs for anal." My face froze, eyes bulging slightly. I raised an eyebrow, but couldn't breathe. "I don't know what you're talking about." Both of them met their eyes to mine. They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, hell, Google Now probably knew, and my phone wasn't even on. "You searched that, and similar phrases on July 7th, 2013. Why?" I felt my face flush, but knew I'd have to come clean. "I was searching for porn." They nodded. That they had known. "To do what? Watch? Is that what you think a marketing manager at Google needs to be doing? Watching porn?" I could feel the offer slipping away, so I tried to shut down the conversation. "I would never watch porn at work, that would be a breach of basic decency!" Jacob looked back at his notebook, not letting me off that easily. "You searched that at 1:30 in the afternoon." I scoffed. "And what day of the week was that?" "A Tuesday," came his reply flatly. "I wasn't at work! I was at home! That was after my last semester of college! I hadn't gotten a job yet, so I was just bored!" Sandra came to my rescue, in a way. "We notice that these types of searches ceased on September 12th, 2013. Your only searches from then on are - relatively - clean." I nodded, desperate for any avenue of escape from this hellish interview. "I got a job that week at the firm I work at now, where I met my wife." They nodded, faces returning to the soft, laid back expressions they had worn at the beginning of the interview. "Who, I assume, disapproved of your use of the internet for pornographic content?" I nodded, convinced this was the end of it. "So you stopped?" Again, I agreed. "Microsoft begs to differ." I glanced at Sandra, eyebrows tensing. She met my gaze coolly. "I beg your pardon?" "We've been in contact with some people at Microsoft for some time, discussing you. We both vet our candidates the same way, so it remains in our interest to trade records upon occasion," Jacob offered, voice neutral. Oh shit. "And you never stopped searching. It only got worse." I nod. "Why did you get animals involved?" I stop breathing. They knew about that? "Yes, we know. We actually knew before you did. When you started to look into dogs as pets, investigating the pros and cons of getting them fixed. It's a pattern for sure." I stood up. "Thank you for your time, I will be withdrawing myself from consideration." Jacob and Sandra began to laugh. "Oh, really? We were just about to offer you a job. Everyone here goes through this. Hell, Sandra here cried." Jacob motioned to her, wiping tears from his eyes. "And Jacob? He did almost exactly what you did, but we hadn't even gotten to his diaper fetish! He had sixteen searches for "Two Girls One Cup" alone!" I sat back down, stunned. "So, I got the job?" "Hell yeah, welcome to Google, kid!"	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Fucking Tim. The very last thing I did was ask him if he'd set up the search history for "Greg Smith." And what did he say? He did it "yesterday." But with fucking Tim, "I did it yesterday" and "I'm totally going to do it today unless there's some awesome anime to read later" apparently mean the same thing. Fucking low rent tech guys -- that's why AltaVista is barely surviving, not because Google has some great big secret that we don't know about. I knew I was in trouble when the big goon walked in the room and stood in front of the door. It was beautiful, really. No one went out to get him, no one made a call, no one even pushed a concealed button. He just...appeared. How did they do that? Just one of Google's secrets -- one that maybe I could have learned if fucking Tim had populated my search history with the usual garbage! A little porn, a lot of business news, an unfortunate number of cat videos... Hell, get creative and give me a love of Donald Trump and a thing for amputees. Whatever. Just do your job. "Mr. Smith," the man in the dark glasses had said to me. "I just have one more question, about your search history." "Greeeeaaat," I'd thought. "Fucking Tim's probably given me an exhibitionist fetish and a thing for engineers--and now this guy thinks I'm going to streak the cubicle farm." But I put on my best slightly-embarrassed, serious but not overly-concerned face and said "Yes? What about it?" "You don't have one." Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking Tim! That lazy bastard. His job is literally to search the web...he literally just has to search the web. Log in as Greg Smith, search the web, make sure I get out of here in one piece. Hell, he could even surf that slag heap Reddit for all I cared--as long as he searched SOMETHING. Not that hard. Alright, time to try to talk my way out. "What do you mean?" I'd asked innocently. "I search all the time. Mostly business news, sometimes a cat video." I gave a little chuckle. "You've never searched for anything, Mr. Smith. At all." He stared at me, sitting perfectly still, emotionless. "Well, gee, this is embarrassing." "Is it, Mr. Smith?" "Well, yeah, I...see, I use Yahoo!. I know, I know, that probably disqualifies me from the job, but it's just an old habit." Yahoo! was the only remaining alternative to Google, but using it wasn't criminal. Like the faux alternative parties of the old Eastern Bloc, using Yahoo! would make you as an odd outlier, but it was technically legal. I was never getting in to the company now, for sure, but at least maybe I'd make it out... The man sat silently for a long, long moment. "You don't use Yahoo!, Mr. Smith." "Of course I do, I've..." "We hacked Yahoo! many years ago. You don't use them." Fuck. Wait, did he just reveal that Google had a backdoor into Yahoo!'s search functions? That's...that's not information I should have been told--legally speaking, Yahoo! was a separate search engine. Technically, Yahoo! is why this isn't a totalitarian state--because "you could always use Yahoo!." So that's not information they let out--that's information that could get a guy killed. Maybe it was a bluff. I decided to call it. "I do use Yahoo!, I've used them for years, and..." "You use AltaVista, Mr. Smith. Or, should I say, you're from AltaVista. Or is it Ask Jeeves? Or some other group of revolutionaries." "I'm not! I'm just here applying for a job, I'm not with the resistance!" It was hard to keep the panic out of my voice by this point, but the goon behind me ensured I didn't make a break for it. The man in the sunglasses still didn't move. "Mr. Smith -- or, whoever you are -- you've clearly gone to quite a lot of trouble to create a persona. It's very impressive. I honestly don't know why you went to the trouble to have facial surgery and upload a whole life, without bothering to create a search profile. Such a rookie mistake." For the first time, he seemed to smile a little. I sat quietly for a long minute. Then the man across the table smiled more broadly, as I saw the goon taking out his garrote... "But it's good to know our mole Tim is still active."	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	“Detective Farrow, he is approaching the building.” A voice drones in my earpiece. I nod, drumming my fingers on the table in anticipation, as I read over my notes for the fourth time in the last ten and half minutes. We have him. Finally. Today, Pitch Black—a mysterious serial killer who paints his victim’s faces in black—would finally be thrown in prison. I survey my surroundings quickly: Four mirrors surround me; two of which bear the Google logo. It was due to Google’s extensive archives of users’ search history, were we able to find him. Pitch Black would be entering the room soon. His real name is Jonas Rigsby, at least that what it is believed to be. The distant rumbling from outside, wakes me from my thoughts. He’s outside. He’s opening the door. I quickly greet him, in a voice that seemed excited but yet bored. “Good morning, you must be Jonas. My name’s Lewis Jefferies. I’ll be your interviewer today.” I raise my hand in greeting. “Morning to you too, sir. Jonas Rigsby.” He shakes my hand. Firm grip. Good strength—perhaps good enough to snap a man’s neck? He continues, his speech quick and disorganised. “Thank you for meeting me. It is a wondrous pleasure to be here, at Google. Google. I must say. This HQ is remarkable. More than remarkable, absolutely sumptuous. Sorry. I’m being to ramble, aren’t I. Sorry. If I come across as being too audacious.” The interview continues. To the blind eye, Jonas Rigsby definitely didn’t seem like a killer. But then again, killers don’t seem like killers. Most of the time anyway. Throughout the interview, he was enthusiastic with a remarkable skill set for the job. “Well. I think everything’s in order. We will get back to you in approximately two weeks after we see all of the applicants.” Jonas begins to rise out of his seat. “But just one thing. Your search history.” “I’m sorry. My search history. Wait, you have access to that?” he blurts out. A look of terror blazes through his eyes. I pick up my files on his search history and slam them down in front of him. “On, January 7th, 2015, 9:45pm, you searched for the ‘best weapons to kill someone with’. Not long after that, you searched for the structure of the gun. A day after, you searched for ‘amazon black paint’, then ‘Eliza Farren porn’. Two and half days after, you searched for ‘Picking a lever handle lock’. Coincidentally, Eliza Farren was found dead in her apartment, with black paint smeared on her face, on January 9th, 2015, 3:43am. He pauses and Jonas moves nervously. “This isn’t the only incident either.” “Wait? What? This is atrocious… You think I did this. I’m not a killer. I’m a crime writer! I have to do research… I have to research my facts and figures for my books. Google search that. I’m a writer. Google search it. I needed to pick a weapon for my fictional killer to you. My fictional killer. Fictional! I chose a gun. His gun would later become the murder weapon that the detective would find. I needed the black paint for my garden fences… This is atrocious. Eliza Farren’s search, well a man can have his pleasures can’t he…” I put my hand up to silence him. Too many coincidences in his search history. He has to be the Pitch Black killer. He has to be. Before I could respond, the police crash through the doors and grab Jonas. He screams. He pleads that he’s a writer. He pleads. Then, a sudden thought enters my mind. There was something odd about this case. Something peculiar. Something that doesn’t add up. He can’t be the Pitch Black Killer. He can’t.	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"You've been doing great Johnson there's just one more thing, I'd like to know why you've searched 12 times for Bing, We'll chalk it up to just typing bling with a typo, But I can't explain these searches, perhaps you might know? The first several items aren't any concern, "Pornhub", research, "cream for a sunburn", But the list goes on, some of it's rather odd, The items down here are... oh my god, "Dragon vagina" and "dicks with hats", "Porky Pig's butthole" and "cum-covered cats", I know people have fetishes but this is absurd, Who wants to look at a "face spewing turd"? A stream for American History X, Followed right after by "nasty curb sex", That's not even the worst of this disgusting parade, It goes on and on: "the butthole brigade", "Hermaphroditic babies" and "grandpa without pants", "Turkey basting labia", "the wanking dance", "The easiest way to tear of my balls", "Taking a shit off Niagara Falls", This last one I won't even utter aloud, I can't cross this line, I hope that you're proud, I think I'll search it, what do you say? Wanna look one last time on why I'm turning you away? I'm typing it in, you probably feel wired, And here it i... ^(oh fuck yeah) ... you're hired." Edit: Random wording fixed.	"Well as ya can see I usually search Google for things like 'Cookie Recipes', 'Facebook.com', and 'how to change a tire'. The 'hot 18 year old boobie ass fuck' was the one time I forgot to switch to Bing for my porn search needs."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Well, I enjoy spending time on a website called reddit you see. When I don't understand a term someone has used, I Google it to better understand the conversation. You see there on the list.... bimbo prolapse. I'd always thought from childhood cartoons that a bimbo was just someone who wasn't very smart. A prolapse sounds related to time lapses in digital photography, and I didn't understand the connection between the two so I Google them together. The results were horrifying and I realized that was not a discussion I wanted to be a part of. My most recent search was for "filibuster" Charlie used it in That's Always Sunny, in a conversation where it made sense so I was double checking that the word actually meant what I thought it meant, since charlie has a tendency to use big words wrongly. Luckily I had the correct understanding of the definition, so apparently so did he. Yay"	"Mr. Anderson, you have been terrific in our interview process ... but we just have some concerns about your search history." I was confused, I don't remember searching for anything weird. "It seems that you're the only able-minded man in the world who has never searched for porn. I mean even self-declared asexuals and the most conservative Mormons have searched for some type of porn. We just don't have a psychological profile for this type of behavior. We have no idea if you're a saint or a serial killer. So ... it is with great sadness that we have to reject your application."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Sitting in the chair, I felt distinctly comfortable. I'd been interviewing well here. The people I'd spoken to were polite, even kind, and made sure I felt at home even before I'd been offered a position. Two interviewers, a man named Jacob and a woman named Sandra, sat across from me, both smiling slightly, obviously well used to the situation at hand. "Now, just to get the formalities out of the way, your name is Martin, correct? Martin Flanagan?" Sandra read from a clipboard, the ubiquity of technology still not able to gain the upper hand on old tools, the pen, the paper, and the convenience of the board. I nodded, almost gesturing to the name tag I wore, but checking the motion into readjusting my tie. "And how long have you been on the internet, Martin? Give or take fourteen years? On your own, I mean, not on your mother's phone in the grocery store." The pair of them laughed at Jacob's little joke, my own chuckle fading into a response. "Well, I've been using the internet for about that long, had a Google account since I was around twelve, too. They'd only come out the year before, but I was always an early adopter of things like that." Jacob and Sandra nodded, in unison. Their movements were so in sync, I was nearly sure they were either related or married, but Sandra wore no ring, and their last names were different. Jacob looked down at his notebook, making a small tick with a pen, before returning his gaze to mine. "And how long have you been using the Google search engine?" I paused to consider, wondering why the question was asked, considering the position I was being interviewed into was completely unrelated to the search engine. I figured they used this with everyone, intrigued by how their original product was used by employees, and how they had seen the development. "I pretty much had it set at my home page from the start. It was magical to be able to ask it any question, any phrase, and see results related to my query pop up." They nodded, Sandra's blue eyes twinkling. "Phrases such as Who was Achilles and how did he impact the Peloponnesian war?" I laughed, remembering my literature classes from high school. My interviewers did not share my enjoyment of the question, and I stopped, confused. "For example, yes. I was in high school, had a paper due the next day I'd imagine." Sandra returned her gaze to the clipboard, while Jacob's brown eyes stayed on mine. "And this one, a little more personal, Woman sucks dick and begs for anal." My face froze, eyes bulging slightly. I raised an eyebrow, but couldn't breathe. "I don't know what you're talking about." Both of them met their eyes to mine. They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, hell, Google Now probably knew, and my phone wasn't even on. "You searched that, and similar phrases on July 7th, 2013. Why?" I felt my face flush, but knew I'd have to come clean. "I was searching for porn." They nodded. That they had known. "To do what? Watch? Is that what you think a marketing manager at Google needs to be doing? Watching porn?" I could feel the offer slipping away, so I tried to shut down the conversation. "I would never watch porn at work, that would be a breach of basic decency!" Jacob looked back at his notebook, not letting me off that easily. "You searched that at 1:30 in the afternoon." I scoffed. "And what day of the week was that?" "A Tuesday," came his reply flatly. "I wasn't at work! I was at home! That was after my last semester of college! I hadn't gotten a job yet, so I was just bored!" Sandra came to my rescue, in a way. "We notice that these types of searches ceased on September 12th, 2013. Your only searches from then on are - relatively - clean." I nodded, desperate for any avenue of escape from this hellish interview. "I got a job that week at the firm I work at now, where I met my wife." They nodded, faces returning to the soft, laid back expressions they had worn at the beginning of the interview. "Who, I assume, disapproved of your use of the internet for pornographic content?" I nodded, convinced this was the end of it. "So you stopped?" Again, I agreed. "Microsoft begs to differ." I glanced at Sandra, eyebrows tensing. She met my gaze coolly. "I beg your pardon?" "We've been in contact with some people at Microsoft for some time, discussing you. We both vet our candidates the same way, so it remains in our interest to trade records upon occasion," Jacob offered, voice neutral. Oh shit. "And you never stopped searching. It only got worse." I nod. "Why did you get animals involved?" I stop breathing. They knew about that? "Yes, we know. We actually knew before you did. When you started to look into dogs as pets, investigating the pros and cons of getting them fixed. It's a pattern for sure." I stood up. "Thank you for your time, I will be withdrawing myself from consideration." Jacob and Sandra began to laugh. "Oh, really? We were just about to offer you a job. Everyone here goes through this. Hell, Sandra here cried." Jacob motioned to her, wiping tears from his eyes. "And Jacob? He did almost exactly what you did, but we hadn't even gotten to his diaper fetish! He had sixteen searches for "Two Girls One Cup" alone!" I sat back down, stunned. "So, I got the job?" "Hell yeah, welcome to Google, kid!"	"Mr. Anderson, you have been terrific in our interview process ... but we just have some concerns about your search history." I was confused, I don't remember searching for anything weird. "It seems that you're the only able-minded man in the world who has never searched for porn. I mean even self-declared asexuals and the most conservative Mormons have searched for some type of porn. We just don't have a psychological profile for this type of behavior. We have no idea if you're a saint or a serial killer. So ... it is with great sadness that we have to reject your application."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Fucking Tim. The very last thing I did was ask him if he'd set up the search history for "Greg Smith." And what did he say? He did it "yesterday." But with fucking Tim, "I did it yesterday" and "I'm totally going to do it today unless there's some awesome anime to read later" apparently mean the same thing. Fucking low rent tech guys -- that's why AltaVista is barely surviving, not because Google has some great big secret that we don't know about. I knew I was in trouble when the big goon walked in the room and stood in front of the door. It was beautiful, really. No one went out to get him, no one made a call, no one even pushed a concealed button. He just...appeared. How did they do that? Just one of Google's secrets -- one that maybe I could have learned if fucking Tim had populated my search history with the usual garbage! A little porn, a lot of business news, an unfortunate number of cat videos... Hell, get creative and give me a love of Donald Trump and a thing for amputees. Whatever. Just do your job. "Mr. Smith," the man in the dark glasses had said to me. "I just have one more question, about your search history." "Greeeeaaat," I'd thought. "Fucking Tim's probably given me an exhibitionist fetish and a thing for engineers--and now this guy thinks I'm going to streak the cubicle farm." But I put on my best slightly-embarrassed, serious but not overly-concerned face and said "Yes? What about it?" "You don't have one." Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking Tim! That lazy bastard. His job is literally to search the web...he literally just has to search the web. Log in as Greg Smith, search the web, make sure I get out of here in one piece. Hell, he could even surf that slag heap Reddit for all I cared--as long as he searched SOMETHING. Not that hard. Alright, time to try to talk my way out. "What do you mean?" I'd asked innocently. "I search all the time. Mostly business news, sometimes a cat video." I gave a little chuckle. "You've never searched for anything, Mr. Smith. At all." He stared at me, sitting perfectly still, emotionless. "Well, gee, this is embarrassing." "Is it, Mr. Smith?" "Well, yeah, I...see, I use Yahoo!. I know, I know, that probably disqualifies me from the job, but it's just an old habit." Yahoo! was the only remaining alternative to Google, but using it wasn't criminal. Like the faux alternative parties of the old Eastern Bloc, using Yahoo! would make you as an odd outlier, but it was technically legal. I was never getting in to the company now, for sure, but at least maybe I'd make it out... The man sat silently for a long, long moment. "You don't use Yahoo!, Mr. Smith." "Of course I do, I've..." "We hacked Yahoo! many years ago. You don't use them." Fuck. Wait, did he just reveal that Google had a backdoor into Yahoo!'s search functions? That's...that's not information I should have been told--legally speaking, Yahoo! was a separate search engine. Technically, Yahoo! is why this isn't a totalitarian state--because "you could always use Yahoo!." So that's not information they let out--that's information that could get a guy killed. Maybe it was a bluff. I decided to call it. "I do use Yahoo!, I've used them for years, and..." "You use AltaVista, Mr. Smith. Or, should I say, you're from AltaVista. Or is it Ask Jeeves? Or some other group of revolutionaries." "I'm not! I'm just here applying for a job, I'm not with the resistance!" It was hard to keep the panic out of my voice by this point, but the goon behind me ensured I didn't make a break for it. The man in the sunglasses still didn't move. "Mr. Smith -- or, whoever you are -- you've clearly gone to quite a lot of trouble to create a persona. It's very impressive. I honestly don't know why you went to the trouble to have facial surgery and upload a whole life, without bothering to create a search profile. Such a rookie mistake." For the first time, he seemed to smile a little. I sat quietly for a long minute. Then the man across the table smiled more broadly, as I saw the goon taking out his garrote... "But it's good to know our mole Tim is still active."	"Mr. Anderson, you have been terrific in our interview process ... but we just have some concerns about your search history." I was confused, I don't remember searching for anything weird. "It seems that you're the only able-minded man in the world who has never searched for porn. I mean even self-declared asexuals and the most conservative Mormons have searched for some type of porn. We just don't have a psychological profile for this type of behavior. We have no idea if you're a saint or a serial killer. So ... it is with great sadness that we have to reject your application."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.	"Mr. Anderson, you have been terrific in our interview process ... but we just have some concerns about your search history." I was confused, I don't remember searching for anything weird. "It seems that you're the only able-minded man in the world who has never searched for porn. I mean even self-declared asexuals and the most conservative Mormons have searched for some type of porn. We just don't have a psychological profile for this type of behavior. We have no idea if you're a saint or a serial killer. So ... it is with great sadness that we have to reject your application."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	"Mr. Anderson, you have been terrific in our interview process ... but we just have some concerns about your search history." I was confused, I don't remember searching for anything weird. "It seems that you're the only able-minded man in the world who has never searched for porn. I mean even self-declared asexuals and the most conservative Mormons have searched for some type of porn. We just don't have a psychological profile for this type of behavior. We have no idea if you're a saint or a serial killer. So ... it is with great sadness that we have to reject your application."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	"Mr. Anderson, you have been terrific in our interview process ... but we just have some concerns about your search history." I was confused, I don't remember searching for anything weird. "It seems that you're the only able-minded man in the world who has never searched for porn. I mean even self-declared asexuals and the most conservative Mormons have searched for some type of porn. We just don't have a psychological profile for this type of behavior. We have no idea if you're a saint or a serial killer. So ... it is with great sadness that we have to reject your application."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Sitting in the chair, I felt distinctly comfortable. I'd been interviewing well here. The people I'd spoken to were polite, even kind, and made sure I felt at home even before I'd been offered a position. Two interviewers, a man named Jacob and a woman named Sandra, sat across from me, both smiling slightly, obviously well used to the situation at hand. "Now, just to get the formalities out of the way, your name is Martin, correct? Martin Flanagan?" Sandra read from a clipboard, the ubiquity of technology still not able to gain the upper hand on old tools, the pen, the paper, and the convenience of the board. I nodded, almost gesturing to the name tag I wore, but checking the motion into readjusting my tie. "And how long have you been on the internet, Martin? Give or take fourteen years? On your own, I mean, not on your mother's phone in the grocery store." The pair of them laughed at Jacob's little joke, my own chuckle fading into a response. "Well, I've been using the internet for about that long, had a Google account since I was around twelve, too. They'd only come out the year before, but I was always an early adopter of things like that." Jacob and Sandra nodded, in unison. Their movements were so in sync, I was nearly sure they were either related or married, but Sandra wore no ring, and their last names were different. Jacob looked down at his notebook, making a small tick with a pen, before returning his gaze to mine. "And how long have you been using the Google search engine?" I paused to consider, wondering why the question was asked, considering the position I was being interviewed into was completely unrelated to the search engine. I figured they used this with everyone, intrigued by how their original product was used by employees, and how they had seen the development. "I pretty much had it set at my home page from the start. It was magical to be able to ask it any question, any phrase, and see results related to my query pop up." They nodded, Sandra's blue eyes twinkling. "Phrases such as Who was Achilles and how did he impact the Peloponnesian war?" I laughed, remembering my literature classes from high school. My interviewers did not share my enjoyment of the question, and I stopped, confused. "For example, yes. I was in high school, had a paper due the next day I'd imagine." Sandra returned her gaze to the clipboard, while Jacob's brown eyes stayed on mine. "And this one, a little more personal, Woman sucks dick and begs for anal." My face froze, eyes bulging slightly. I raised an eyebrow, but couldn't breathe. "I don't know what you're talking about." Both of them met their eyes to mine. They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, hell, Google Now probably knew, and my phone wasn't even on. "You searched that, and similar phrases on July 7th, 2013. Why?" I felt my face flush, but knew I'd have to come clean. "I was searching for porn." They nodded. That they had known. "To do what? Watch? Is that what you think a marketing manager at Google needs to be doing? Watching porn?" I could feel the offer slipping away, so I tried to shut down the conversation. "I would never watch porn at work, that would be a breach of basic decency!" Jacob looked back at his notebook, not letting me off that easily. "You searched that at 1:30 in the afternoon." I scoffed. "And what day of the week was that?" "A Tuesday," came his reply flatly. "I wasn't at work! I was at home! That was after my last semester of college! I hadn't gotten a job yet, so I was just bored!" Sandra came to my rescue, in a way. "We notice that these types of searches ceased on September 12th, 2013. Your only searches from then on are - relatively - clean." I nodded, desperate for any avenue of escape from this hellish interview. "I got a job that week at the firm I work at now, where I met my wife." They nodded, faces returning to the soft, laid back expressions they had worn at the beginning of the interview. "Who, I assume, disapproved of your use of the internet for pornographic content?" I nodded, convinced this was the end of it. "So you stopped?" Again, I agreed. "Microsoft begs to differ." I glanced at Sandra, eyebrows tensing. She met my gaze coolly. "I beg your pardon?" "We've been in contact with some people at Microsoft for some time, discussing you. We both vet our candidates the same way, so it remains in our interest to trade records upon occasion," Jacob offered, voice neutral. Oh shit. "And you never stopped searching. It only got worse." I nod. "Why did you get animals involved?" I stop breathing. They knew about that? "Yes, we know. We actually knew before you did. When you started to look into dogs as pets, investigating the pros and cons of getting them fixed. It's a pattern for sure." I stood up. "Thank you for your time, I will be withdrawing myself from consideration." Jacob and Sandra began to laugh. "Oh, really? We were just about to offer you a job. Everyone here goes through this. Hell, Sandra here cried." Jacob motioned to her, wiping tears from his eyes. "And Jacob? He did almost exactly what you did, but we hadn't even gotten to his diaper fetish! He had sixteen searches for "Two Girls One Cup" alone!" I sat back down, stunned. "So, I got the job?" "Hell yeah, welcome to Google, kid!"	"I'm checking for cracks in the safe search." you bluff, calmly. "But, your safety search was off!" Protested Mr. Jenson, visibly sweating. "One step at a time Johnny Boy," you close your case, with vigor in your words, "one step at a time."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Fucking Tim. The very last thing I did was ask him if he'd set up the search history for "Greg Smith." And what did he say? He did it "yesterday." But with fucking Tim, "I did it yesterday" and "I'm totally going to do it today unless there's some awesome anime to read later" apparently mean the same thing. Fucking low rent tech guys -- that's why AltaVista is barely surviving, not because Google has some great big secret that we don't know about. I knew I was in trouble when the big goon walked in the room and stood in front of the door. It was beautiful, really. No one went out to get him, no one made a call, no one even pushed a concealed button. He just...appeared. How did they do that? Just one of Google's secrets -- one that maybe I could have learned if fucking Tim had populated my search history with the usual garbage! A little porn, a lot of business news, an unfortunate number of cat videos... Hell, get creative and give me a love of Donald Trump and a thing for amputees. Whatever. Just do your job. "Mr. Smith," the man in the dark glasses had said to me. "I just have one more question, about your search history." "Greeeeaaat," I'd thought. "Fucking Tim's probably given me an exhibitionist fetish and a thing for engineers--and now this guy thinks I'm going to streak the cubicle farm." But I put on my best slightly-embarrassed, serious but not overly-concerned face and said "Yes? What about it?" "You don't have one." Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking Tim! That lazy bastard. His job is literally to search the web...he literally just has to search the web. Log in as Greg Smith, search the web, make sure I get out of here in one piece. Hell, he could even surf that slag heap Reddit for all I cared--as long as he searched SOMETHING. Not that hard. Alright, time to try to talk my way out. "What do you mean?" I'd asked innocently. "I search all the time. Mostly business news, sometimes a cat video." I gave a little chuckle. "You've never searched for anything, Mr. Smith. At all." He stared at me, sitting perfectly still, emotionless. "Well, gee, this is embarrassing." "Is it, Mr. Smith?" "Well, yeah, I...see, I use Yahoo!. I know, I know, that probably disqualifies me from the job, but it's just an old habit." Yahoo! was the only remaining alternative to Google, but using it wasn't criminal. Like the faux alternative parties of the old Eastern Bloc, using Yahoo! would make you as an odd outlier, but it was technically legal. I was never getting in to the company now, for sure, but at least maybe I'd make it out... The man sat silently for a long, long moment. "You don't use Yahoo!, Mr. Smith." "Of course I do, I've..." "We hacked Yahoo! many years ago. You don't use them." Fuck. Wait, did he just reveal that Google had a backdoor into Yahoo!'s search functions? That's...that's not information I should have been told--legally speaking, Yahoo! was a separate search engine. Technically, Yahoo! is why this isn't a totalitarian state--because "you could always use Yahoo!." So that's not information they let out--that's information that could get a guy killed. Maybe it was a bluff. I decided to call it. "I do use Yahoo!, I've used them for years, and..." "You use AltaVista, Mr. Smith. Or, should I say, you're from AltaVista. Or is it Ask Jeeves? Or some other group of revolutionaries." "I'm not! I'm just here applying for a job, I'm not with the resistance!" It was hard to keep the panic out of my voice by this point, but the goon behind me ensured I didn't make a break for it. The man in the sunglasses still didn't move. "Mr. Smith -- or, whoever you are -- you've clearly gone to quite a lot of trouble to create a persona. It's very impressive. I honestly don't know why you went to the trouble to have facial surgery and upload a whole life, without bothering to create a search profile. Such a rookie mistake." For the first time, he seemed to smile a little. I sat quietly for a long minute. Then the man across the table smiled more broadly, as I saw the goon taking out his garrote... "But it's good to know our mole Tim is still active."	"I'm checking for cracks in the safe search." you bluff, calmly. "But, your safety search was off!" Protested Mr. Jenson, visibly sweating. "One step at a time Johnny Boy," you close your case, with vigor in your words, "one step at a time."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	Fucking Tim. The very last thing I did was ask him if he'd set up the search history for "Greg Smith." And what did he say? He did it "yesterday." But with fucking Tim, "I did it yesterday" and "I'm totally going to do it today unless there's some awesome anime to read later" apparently mean the same thing. Fucking low rent tech guys -- that's why AltaVista is barely surviving, not because Google has some great big secret that we don't know about. I knew I was in trouble when the big goon walked in the room and stood in front of the door. It was beautiful, really. No one went out to get him, no one made a call, no one even pushed a concealed button. He just...appeared. How did they do that? Just one of Google's secrets -- one that maybe I could have learned if fucking Tim had populated my search history with the usual garbage! A little porn, a lot of business news, an unfortunate number of cat videos... Hell, get creative and give me a love of Donald Trump and a thing for amputees. Whatever. Just do your job. "Mr. Smith," the man in the dark glasses had said to me. "I just have one more question, about your search history." "Greeeeaaat," I'd thought. "Fucking Tim's probably given me an exhibitionist fetish and a thing for engineers--and now this guy thinks I'm going to streak the cubicle farm." But I put on my best slightly-embarrassed, serious but not overly-concerned face and said "Yes? What about it?" "You don't have one." Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking Tim! That lazy bastard. His job is literally to search the web...he literally just has to search the web. Log in as Greg Smith, search the web, make sure I get out of here in one piece. Hell, he could even surf that slag heap Reddit for all I cared--as long as he searched SOMETHING. Not that hard. Alright, time to try to talk my way out. "What do you mean?" I'd asked innocently. "I search all the time. Mostly business news, sometimes a cat video." I gave a little chuckle. "You've never searched for anything, Mr. Smith. At all." He stared at me, sitting perfectly still, emotionless. "Well, gee, this is embarrassing." "Is it, Mr. Smith?" "Well, yeah, I...see, I use Yahoo!. I know, I know, that probably disqualifies me from the job, but it's just an old habit." Yahoo! was the only remaining alternative to Google, but using it wasn't criminal. Like the faux alternative parties of the old Eastern Bloc, using Yahoo! would make you as an odd outlier, but it was technically legal. I was never getting in to the company now, for sure, but at least maybe I'd make it out... The man sat silently for a long, long moment. "You don't use Yahoo!, Mr. Smith." "Of course I do, I've..." "We hacked Yahoo! many years ago. You don't use them." Fuck. Wait, did he just reveal that Google had a backdoor into Yahoo!'s search functions? That's...that's not information I should have been told--legally speaking, Yahoo! was a separate search engine. Technically, Yahoo! is why this isn't a totalitarian state--because "you could always use Yahoo!." So that's not information they let out--that's information that could get a guy killed. Maybe it was a bluff. I decided to call it. "I do use Yahoo!, I've used them for years, and..." "You use AltaVista, Mr. Smith. Or, should I say, you're from AltaVista. Or is it Ask Jeeves? Or some other group of revolutionaries." "I'm not! I'm just here applying for a job, I'm not with the resistance!" It was hard to keep the panic out of my voice by this point, but the goon behind me ensured I didn't make a break for it. The man in the sunglasses still didn't move. "Mr. Smith -- or, whoever you are -- you've clearly gone to quite a lot of trouble to create a persona. It's very impressive. I honestly don't know why you went to the trouble to have facial surgery and upload a whole life, without bothering to create a search profile. Such a rookie mistake." For the first time, he seemed to smile a little. I sat quietly for a long minute. Then the man across the table smiled more broadly, as I saw the goon taking out his garrote... "But it's good to know our mole Tim is still active."	"Of course I can explain!" I said a little to cheerily while I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I knew exactly which search Ms. Crane was referring to when she said that she had found something unsavory in the Google Certified Vetting Procedure. Everyone knows the GCVP is the ultimate in background investigation technology. They know every search. Every bit of information. It doesn't matter what search engine you use or how many times you clear your search history. They're Google for Christ's sake! I had anticipated this, but now that the moment had arrived, I was suddenly unprepared. Ms. Crane looked down at me, her clunky designer glasses slipping slightly down her nose. She wasn't as scary as I had imagined my interrogator. She had kind eyes behind the thick frames and her casual sweater and jeans combo was anything but intimidating. I took a deep breath. I needed to buy more time. "Is Google really interested in my nightly rituals?" I chuckled nervously. "Mr. Pratt, we are not interested in your pornography preferences...although some eyebrows were raised at the sheer frequency of those types of searches..." I groan internally. At least I think it is internally. I know my face has probably drained of all color. This is going worse than I thought. I just need to come out with it already! I start rambling. "It was all of the real life murder searches, right?? About drowning and strangulation? I swear I am not a murderous freak. I am writing a book! I needed in depth descriptions of all the gory details. I'm not trying to kill anyone in real life! You can ask anyone. Talk to my psychiatrist! I am completely sane!" My voice has risen to a shaky screech. "Mr. Pratt. Please calm down. Lower your voice. We're not concerned about the murder searches. We know about your book and we can circle back to your psychological health in a bit. We're Google. We know everything." I visibly release a weight from my shoulders. "Wow. Ok. Then I honestly have no clue what sort of unsavory search you are referring to." "Do you really not know? If you are really as dense as you're coming off, Google might not be the place for you. Every single one of your searches, Mr. Pratt. They were with Bing."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.	The answer to your question, I may be able to answer, Because this Job with google I really want to happen, The sudden, the bored, The random and the whored, All because I thought which was serious or funny, And simply because I was bored and horny, Yes I know, it's 90% pornography, but who the hell cares, It makes me happy. The look on your faces tells me I should've lied, Ill show my way out, And cum on the office pie.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	The answer to your question, I may be able to answer, Because this Job with google I really want to happen, The sudden, the bored, The random and the whored, All because I thought which was serious or funny, And simply because I was bored and horny, Yes I know, it's 90% pornography, but who the hell cares, It makes me happy. The look on your faces tells me I should've lied, Ill show my way out, And cum on the office pie.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	The answer to your question, I may be able to answer, Because this Job with google I really want to happen, The sudden, the bored, The random and the whored, All because I thought which was serious or funny, And simply because I was bored and horny, Yes I know, it's 90% pornography, but who the hell cares, It makes me happy. The look on your faces tells me I should've lied, Ill show my way out, And cum on the office pie.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	“Detective Farrow, he is approaching the building.” A voice drones in my earpiece. I nod, drumming my fingers on the table in anticipation, as I read over my notes for the fourth time in the last ten and half minutes. We have him. Finally. Today, Pitch Black—a mysterious serial killer who paints his victim’s faces in black—would finally be thrown in prison. I survey my surroundings quickly: Four mirrors surround me; two of which bear the Google logo. It was due to Google’s extensive archives of users’ search history, were we able to find him. Pitch Black would be entering the room soon. His real name is Jonas Rigsby, at least that what it is believed to be. The distant rumbling from outside, wakes me from my thoughts. He’s outside. He’s opening the door. I quickly greet him, in a voice that seemed excited but yet bored. “Good morning, you must be Jonas. My name’s Lewis Jefferies. I’ll be your interviewer today.” I raise my hand in greeting. “Morning to you too, sir. Jonas Rigsby.” He shakes my hand. Firm grip. Good strength—perhaps good enough to snap a man’s neck? He continues, his speech quick and disorganised. “Thank you for meeting me. It is a wondrous pleasure to be here, at Google. Google. I must say. This HQ is remarkable. More than remarkable, absolutely sumptuous. Sorry. I’m being to ramble, aren’t I. Sorry. If I come across as being too audacious.” The interview continues. To the blind eye, Jonas Rigsby definitely didn’t seem like a killer. But then again, killers don’t seem like killers. Most of the time anyway. Throughout the interview, he was enthusiastic with a remarkable skill set for the job. “Well. I think everything’s in order. We will get back to you in approximately two weeks after we see all of the applicants.” Jonas begins to rise out of his seat. “But just one thing. Your search history.” “I’m sorry. My search history. Wait, you have access to that?” he blurts out. A look of terror blazes through his eyes. I pick up my files on his search history and slam them down in front of him. “On, January 7th, 2015, 9:45pm, you searched for the ‘best weapons to kill someone with’. Not long after that, you searched for the structure of the gun. A day after, you searched for ‘amazon black paint’, then ‘Eliza Farren porn’. Two and half days after, you searched for ‘Picking a lever handle lock’. Coincidentally, Eliza Farren was found dead in her apartment, with black paint smeared on her face, on January 9th, 2015, 3:43am. He pauses and Jonas moves nervously. “This isn’t the only incident either.” “Wait? What? This is atrocious… You think I did this. I’m not a killer. I’m a crime writer! I have to do research… I have to research my facts and figures for my books. Google search that. I’m a writer. Google search it. I needed to pick a weapon for my fictional killer to you. My fictional killer. Fictional! I chose a gun. His gun would later become the murder weapon that the detective would find. I needed the black paint for my garden fences… This is atrocious. Eliza Farren’s search, well a man can have his pleasures can’t he…” I put my hand up to silence him. Too many coincidences in his search history. He has to be the Pitch Black killer. He has to be. Before I could respond, the police crash through the doors and grab Jonas. He screams. He pleads that he’s a writer. He pleads. Then, a sudden thought enters my mind. There was something odd about this case. Something peculiar. Something that doesn’t add up. He can’t be the Pitch Black Killer. He can’t.	The answer to your question, I may be able to answer, Because this Job with google I really want to happen, The sudden, the bored, The random and the whored, All because I thought which was serious or funny, And simply because I was bored and horny, Yes I know, it's 90% pornography, but who the hell cares, It makes me happy. The look on your faces tells me I should've lied, Ill show my way out, And cum on the office pie.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Mr. Ramos, we are ready to see you now," said a voice from within the conference room. I put on a winning smile as I strolled in and tried not to lose it as I took in my surroundings. Tony, a laidback man in tattered jeans, told me in the previous interview that Google employees work in a better mood when they get lots of natural light. Here, the floor-to-ceiling windows were curtained despite facing away from the sun. The room was dark except for a single lamp at the other end of the long table that illuminated the bottom halves of the faces of seven men in formal wear. I came in believing that this last interview was just a formality, but it looked more like a judgment. I began stepping toward the nearest man, hand outstretched and ready to shake like a professional. His eyes widened and he cringed away as another man commanded me to sit. "Where's Tony?" I asked with what I hope came off as calmness. The man at the end of the table said, "You no longer need to see Mr. Collins." I stayed silent. "Mr. Ramos, you must understand that not just anyone can work for Google. We were very impressed with your resume, your references, and your experience. The interview only served to confirm our notions that you would be an excellent member of our team. Notes taken during the interview include 'charismatic' and 'intelligent,' as well as 'a must-have.'" "That was very kind of Tony." "Do not mention his name again." I stayed silent for real. "Then, we did what we always do with potential new hires and investigated their search history." Oh no. "Rest assured, Mr. Ramos, that we are not a bunch of stuffy, judgmental prudes. an essential part of Google's brand image is our hip and relaxed attitude, which extends to this board's own views of search activity. The majority of users use our program for much the same reason you seem to use it: pornography, pirating websites, subversive conspiracy theories ..." He leaned forward so his face was fully visible in the lamplight, smiled, and shrugged. "It's just what people do." I dared to smile back. Searching my mind for something to say that would not give too much away, I came up with, "Well, I appreciate that. Thank you." His face immediately clouded as he replied, "However, there are some things by which we simply cannot abide." Wait, what? After excusing all that, what more could there possibly be? The lamp seemed to dim as the other board members also leaned forward. The faded light exposed furrowed brows and eyes filled with hatred, the same expressions worn by medieval judges as they condemned traitors to bloody execution. "We dare you to give us an explanation," said the man at the end of the table, but I knew it was over from the red pen in his hand, the poison in his voice, the glare that pierced my skull and gazed into my traitorous soul. "You seriously used our website to search for 'Bing?'"	The answer to your question, I may be able to answer, Because this Job with google I really want to happen, The sudden, the bored, The random and the whored, All because I thought which was serious or funny, And simply because I was bored and horny, Yes I know, it's 90% pornography, but who the hell cares, It makes me happy. The look on your faces tells me I should've lied, Ill show my way out, And cum on the office pie.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"You've been doing great Johnson there's just one more thing, I'd like to know why you've searched 12 times for Bing, We'll chalk it up to just typing bling with a typo, But I can't explain these searches, perhaps you might know? The first several items aren't any concern, "Pornhub", research, "cream for a sunburn", But the list goes on, some of it's rather odd, The items down here are... oh my god, "Dragon vagina" and "dicks with hats", "Porky Pig's butthole" and "cum-covered cats", I know people have fetishes but this is absurd, Who wants to look at a "face spewing turd"? A stream for American History X, Followed right after by "nasty curb sex", That's not even the worst of this disgusting parade, It goes on and on: "the butthole brigade", "Hermaphroditic babies" and "grandpa without pants", "Turkey basting labia", "the wanking dance", "The easiest way to tear of my balls", "Taking a shit off Niagara Falls", This last one I won't even utter aloud, I can't cross this line, I hope that you're proud, I think I'll search it, what do you say? Wanna look one last time on why I'm turning you away? I'm typing it in, you probably feel wired, And here it i... ^(oh fuck yeah) ... you're hired." Edit: Random wording fixed.	The answer to your question, I may be able to answer, Because this Job with google I really want to happen, The sudden, the bored, The random and the whored, All because I thought which was serious or funny, And simply because I was bored and horny, Yes I know, it's 90% pornography, but who the hell cares, It makes me happy. The look on your faces tells me I should've lied, Ill show my way out, And cum on the office pie.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.	The man interviewing me Looked up from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. " Mr. Smith, everything seems to be in order and we would love to extend an offer sheet to you." "Great," I said. "Well I want to acc....." Before I could finish he interrupted me, "but we are going to need you to explain this search history." He slid the paper across the table to me. My heart dropped as I looked at all the sites listed. After a few long minutes, he drummed his fingers on the table. "Well Mr. Smith?" He asked. "What can I say, I like porn." I replied, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. He blinked at me, surprised by my answer, then smiled. "Fair enough! Don't we all. Welcome to Google Mr. Smith."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	The man interviewing me Looked up from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. " Mr. Smith, everything seems to be in order and we would love to extend an offer sheet to you." "Great," I said. "Well I want to acc....." Before I could finish he interrupted me, "but we are going to need you to explain this search history." He slid the paper across the table to me. My heart dropped as I looked at all the sites listed. After a few long minutes, he drummed his fingers on the table. "Well Mr. Smith?" He asked. "What can I say, I like porn." I replied, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. He blinked at me, surprised by my answer, then smiled. "Fair enough! Don't we all. Welcome to Google Mr. Smith."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	The man interviewing me Looked up from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. " Mr. Smith, everything seems to be in order and we would love to extend an offer sheet to you." "Great," I said. "Well I want to acc....." Before I could finish he interrupted me, "but we are going to need you to explain this search history." He slid the paper across the table to me. My heart dropped as I looked at all the sites listed. After a few long minutes, he drummed his fingers on the table. "Well Mr. Smith?" He asked. "What can I say, I like porn." I replied, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. He blinked at me, surprised by my answer, then smiled. "Fair enough! Don't we all. Welcome to Google Mr. Smith."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	“Detective Farrow, he is approaching the building.” A voice drones in my earpiece. I nod, drumming my fingers on the table in anticipation, as I read over my notes for the fourth time in the last ten and half minutes. We have him. Finally. Today, Pitch Black—a mysterious serial killer who paints his victim’s faces in black—would finally be thrown in prison. I survey my surroundings quickly: Four mirrors surround me; two of which bear the Google logo. It was due to Google’s extensive archives of users’ search history, were we able to find him. Pitch Black would be entering the room soon. His real name is Jonas Rigsby, at least that what it is believed to be. The distant rumbling from outside, wakes me from my thoughts. He’s outside. He’s opening the door. I quickly greet him, in a voice that seemed excited but yet bored. “Good morning, you must be Jonas. My name’s Lewis Jefferies. I’ll be your interviewer today.” I raise my hand in greeting. “Morning to you too, sir. Jonas Rigsby.” He shakes my hand. Firm grip. Good strength—perhaps good enough to snap a man’s neck? He continues, his speech quick and disorganised. “Thank you for meeting me. It is a wondrous pleasure to be here, at Google. Google. I must say. This HQ is remarkable. More than remarkable, absolutely sumptuous. Sorry. I’m being to ramble, aren’t I. Sorry. If I come across as being too audacious.” The interview continues. To the blind eye, Jonas Rigsby definitely didn’t seem like a killer. But then again, killers don’t seem like killers. Most of the time anyway. Throughout the interview, he was enthusiastic with a remarkable skill set for the job. “Well. I think everything’s in order. We will get back to you in approximately two weeks after we see all of the applicants.” Jonas begins to rise out of his seat. “But just one thing. Your search history.” “I’m sorry. My search history. Wait, you have access to that?” he blurts out. A look of terror blazes through his eyes. I pick up my files on his search history and slam them down in front of him. “On, January 7th, 2015, 9:45pm, you searched for the ‘best weapons to kill someone with’. Not long after that, you searched for the structure of the gun. A day after, you searched for ‘amazon black paint’, then ‘Eliza Farren porn’. Two and half days after, you searched for ‘Picking a lever handle lock’. Coincidentally, Eliza Farren was found dead in her apartment, with black paint smeared on her face, on January 9th, 2015, 3:43am. He pauses and Jonas moves nervously. “This isn’t the only incident either.” “Wait? What? This is atrocious… You think I did this. I’m not a killer. I’m a crime writer! I have to do research… I have to research my facts and figures for my books. Google search that. I’m a writer. Google search it. I needed to pick a weapon for my fictional killer to you. My fictional killer. Fictional! I chose a gun. His gun would later become the murder weapon that the detective would find. I needed the black paint for my garden fences… This is atrocious. Eliza Farren’s search, well a man can have his pleasures can’t he…” I put my hand up to silence him. Too many coincidences in his search history. He has to be the Pitch Black killer. He has to be. Before I could respond, the police crash through the doors and grab Jonas. He screams. He pleads that he’s a writer. He pleads. Then, a sudden thought enters my mind. There was something odd about this case. Something peculiar. Something that doesn’t add up. He can’t be the Pitch Black Killer. He can’t.	The man interviewing me Looked up from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. " Mr. Smith, everything seems to be in order and we would love to extend an offer sheet to you." "Great," I said. "Well I want to acc....." Before I could finish he interrupted me, "but we are going to need you to explain this search history." He slid the paper across the table to me. My heart dropped as I looked at all the sites listed. After a few long minutes, he drummed his fingers on the table. "Well Mr. Smith?" He asked. "What can I say, I like porn." I replied, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. He blinked at me, surprised by my answer, then smiled. "Fair enough! Don't we all. Welcome to Google Mr. Smith."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"You've been doing great Johnson there's just one more thing, I'd like to know why you've searched 12 times for Bing, We'll chalk it up to just typing bling with a typo, But I can't explain these searches, perhaps you might know? The first several items aren't any concern, "Pornhub", research, "cream for a sunburn", But the list goes on, some of it's rather odd, The items down here are... oh my god, "Dragon vagina" and "dicks with hats", "Porky Pig's butthole" and "cum-covered cats", I know people have fetishes but this is absurd, Who wants to look at a "face spewing turd"? A stream for American History X, Followed right after by "nasty curb sex", That's not even the worst of this disgusting parade, It goes on and on: "the butthole brigade", "Hermaphroditic babies" and "grandpa without pants", "Turkey basting labia", "the wanking dance", "The easiest way to tear of my balls", "Taking a shit off Niagara Falls", This last one I won't even utter aloud, I can't cross this line, I hope that you're proud, I think I'll search it, what do you say? Wanna look one last time on why I'm turning you away? I'm typing it in, you probably feel wired, And here it i... ^(oh fuck yeah) ... you're hired." Edit: Random wording fixed.	The man interviewing me Looked up from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. " Mr. Smith, everything seems to be in order and we would love to extend an offer sheet to you." "Great," I said. "Well I want to acc....." Before I could finish he interrupted me, "but we are going to need you to explain this search history." He slid the paper across the table to me. My heart dropped as I looked at all the sites listed. After a few long minutes, he drummed his fingers on the table. "Well Mr. Smith?" He asked. "What can I say, I like porn." I replied, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. He blinked at me, surprised by my answer, then smiled. "Fair enough! Don't we all. Welcome to Google Mr. Smith."
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.	"I'm a pervert" I boldly stated. "That explains everything." The Google executive spoke softly. "I'm sorry but I think we'll be going in a different direction." "Great! Different directions is a fetish of mine." Security was called immediately after I started taking my clothes off. Guess I'm going back to the unemployment line. Which is what we called the Gay strip club I worked at on weekends.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	"I'm a pervert" I boldly stated. "That explains everything." The Google executive spoke softly. "I'm sorry but I think we'll be going in a different direction." "Great! Different directions is a fetish of mine." Security was called immediately after I started taking my clothes off. Guess I'm going back to the unemployment line. Which is what we called the Gay strip club I worked at on weekends.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	"I'm a pervert" I boldly stated. "That explains everything." The Google executive spoke softly. "I'm sorry but I think we'll be going in a different direction." "Great! Different directions is a fetish of mine." Security was called immediately after I started taking my clothes off. Guess I'm going back to the unemployment line. Which is what we called the Gay strip club I worked at on weekends.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So. We have just one last question" "Sure, what is it?" "Your search history." "My... what. I mean..." "Yes. you heard correctly. Your search history." "Well, what would you like to know. And for the record, you are talking about the things I search online on my computer, right?" "Indeed. We just want to know one thing. Where is it?" "My search history? I thought you guys knew about it" "Well we don't. You've managed to surprise us. We have logs of almost every person on the planet with an internet connection that used our search engine. So tell us, why does our database contain not even one record of your searches?" "Well.. I really shouldn't say..." "Aha!. You hacked us. I knew it." "What? heavens no. It's just..." "Spit it out!. This just can't be right" "I.. well... You don't have any record of me searching online because..." "Yes.. yes.." "Because I didn't search anything through your engine". "Impossible. Then how would you preform any task given if you don't search anything?" "Hold on. I didn't say that I don't search online". "Wait. Don't tell me tha-" "Yes. I use Bing".	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	There was a long, painfully drawn out pause. I waited. Carefully regulated my breaths, keeping my face serene. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. What were they waiting for? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m comfortable with awkward silences? Is that some new criterion I need to pass? I could see that, I rationalized. Being comfortable with the little awkwardnessess in daily interactions would reasonably be an important skill in working for Google. Interviewer A coughed a little, then looked over at James A. Thorpe, also known as Interviewer B. What was A’s name? Bob? Joe? I’d tried so hard to remember, too. Isn’t that what the bloody guide to a-successful-interview-and-thereby-eternal-happiness said? Smile confidently, remember their names, shake hands with a firm, but not grasping grip. My palms sweated in the air conditioned room. I surreptitiously tried to wipe them on my slacks, but, being polyester, this had little to no effect. At least I had one of their names. Thorpe, James A. Then again, a 50% success rate is still a failing grade. The silence was suddenly broken. “We’d have to agree that your qualifications so far have been absolutely impressive. We particularly appreciate the depth and variety of the projects you’ve worked on in the past, and think that that the skill and ingenuity of approach you’ve showed on each of those fronts will be a genuine asset to our team. Don’t we, James?” J. A. Thorpe, who had been staring somewhere into the middle distance at a point I approximated to be equidistant between our three figures at a twelve degree angle downwards from eye height, stirred a little. His eyes flicked to Interviewer A. I prayed he’d reply with a name. “Oh? Oh yes, absolutely. After all, you have to be something genuinely special to have made it this far in the process!” He flashed a winning grin, as if the last excruciating millennium hadn’t happened at all. Maybe I was right. Maybe I had passed their little test, maybe this was it. I imagined all those famous free Google lunches I’d heard about. Bad idea. My stomach warned me it might growl at any moment. Interviewer A nodded, then continued. “However”. Fuck. Was this another long pause, or is this time having its rubber band way with my mind? Oh well. I thought. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, anyway. From the file folder in front of them, Interviewer A drew out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. It was a list. My mind boggled, then cleared. I knew this list. This was my list. My browser search history. Fuck. All printed out like a tidy laundry list. Unedited. In chronological order. I scanned it, but I didn’t need to. I knew every little thing there. - ethanol is how many kg/L - class 3 flammable liquids - define jerrican - pheasant coucal - huntsmen spider - huntsmen spider bite - alpenhorn meets dubstep - thai cashew curry - death by cone snail - how to ID a cone snail - Acanthochromis polyacanthus - australian spider ID yellow body blue joints iridescent will it kill me - how to open paraformaldehyde ampoules - sodium cacodylate fact sheet - where the fuck did my comments go couldn't save document now it is gone is there a recovery option - red backed spider bite - can you die from red backed spider - can't stop bleeding causes - 1kg flour is how many cups - transporting liquid nitrogen more than 5L - odds of stepping on a stonefish - death by stonefish - how big do potato cod get - cobia vs ramora ID - necrifying wounds - monitor lizard bites - goana bites bacterial infection and death - brain anatomy of a fish - there has to be secret mad scientist society - how to find mad scientist secret society - blue ring octopus distribution - how many seconds exposure before death from blue ring octopus - how many cups is 375g - how flammable is flour in extreme heat - Individual coping characteristics, rearing conditions and behavioural flexibility in pigs - importing biological samples in fixative - unregulated biological material us fish & wildlife permit - neurointegration - how long can you wait to get a tetanus shot - how long are tetanus shots good - tiger shark - tiger shark ID - tiger shark attack frequency - RAPTORS OF THE SEA - define bonnyclabber I looked up at Interviewer A and smiled weakly. “Yes? Is there a problem?” He looked back at me with a concerned expression. “You see, miss, ahh, Patterson. We have a policy to review the search histories of each of our applicants to ensure that we are not only hiring the finest, brightest minds the world has to offer, but that they are, fundamentally, sane.” This pause was real. This one was not a test. This one was a pause with darkness lurking in a gaping maw and a sliver of saliva sliding down fanged teeth. I blurted, “I can explain!” Oh god. Did I just say that? This was definitely not covered in my guide to a successful interview and thereby eternal happiness. James, dear James. Kind James, whose name I knew, smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you can. And we certainly hope so, too, because, otherwise, let’s see here -" He pulled out his copy of the list, and ticked off a few items. “Extremely flammable materials, an obsession with death, and an unhealthy preoccupation with the preservation and modification of animals, brain neuroscience, and...” his finger hovered over the entry marked “mad scientist society”, then continued “… bonnyclabber” he concluded. “It’s soured milk” I provided, helpfully. “Yes. We know.” Interviewer A cocked an eyebrow that clearly stated, we-do-work-for-Google-you-know. “So.” James, terrible James, Mr. Thorpe-to-you James, creased his brow even more deeply in concern. “Care to explain?” “Uhm.” My internal voice promptly developed a healthy case of split personality disorder, with half still struggling vainly in the grip of total paralysis and the other half producing an immediate self-flagellating monologue. Is that the best you have? Are we seriously going to fail our ever-so-earnest guide that swore if you just followed these simple steps you, too, could achieve a successful interview and pave the way to that eternal happiness we all seek? Really? That’s all you’ve got? Uhm!?!? I finally raised my eyes from the damning sheet and looked them both in the eye, noting the calm, yet still troubled expressions mirrored on each of their faces. “Australia.” Interviewer A looked to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe looked back to A. They then both looked to me. “Australia?” “Field placement. Biology. Research, you know!” I tried to mimic the winning smile I’d been graced with earlier. “You’d be surprised the strange things you just have to know when you’re doing research on an island in the northernmost reaches of the Great Barrier Reef.” Met with continued silence, I babbled on. “I’ve since determined that field-work, while exhilarating, to be sure, can only go so far. I think the real future lies in how we use that data so carefully mined from so many valuable sources all around the globe”. “Australia” repeated Interviewer A. He then laughed. “Well, that does explain everything!” James A. Thorpe began to laugh too. I nearly wept in relief, but managed to give the sentiment a 180 degree turn for the jovial. We all laughed. “Well,” Interviewer A finally chuckled, “Welcome on board. We’re very pleased to have you, Miss Patterson.” “Thank you very much!” My heart swelled in me. “I can’t begin to say how excited I am for the opportunity, Mr. Anderson!” See? 100% success rate. A+ for effort. James A. Thorpe stood, and we all stood with him, moving to the door and talking about starting dates, and glorious things like free Google lunches every day of the week. “By the way,” he added, just as I was reaching the elevator, “You might be interested in our biologically integrated artificial intelligence program. It’s… cutting edge, you might say.”	"Triple fisting?" "It's something my girlfriend is into...she wanted to watch porn together and turns out she's into some WEIRD stuff" "What even is triple fisting?" "3 fists 1 hole" He looked disgusted and horrified, "My god...that will explain 'extreme insertions' 'Hyper futa' and 'bukkake'" "Actually hyper futa is mine...we both have our kinks" I said rubbing at the back of my head "Ok ok... We'll move away from the porn. Ehhh...over watch? I'm guessing you like the game?" I shook my head "still on porn" He sighed. He was enjoying this as much as I was...that's not a lot by the way. In case you thought I was into that. "Ok...Mia kalifa? Isn't she from that 70's show?" "That's mila kunis. Mia kalifa is a porn actress..." He through the clip board on the table and put his head in his hands. "Ok...ok...is there anything on your search history that isn't porn?" "Amazon...even then" "OH MY FUCKING GOD! HOW! YOU JUST BUY STUFF OF OF THERE!" "Lingerie catalog..." He just stared at me before He got up from the table and walked to the door. "You start Monday. Just...urgh" he looked as if he was going to give a speech but was either too disgusted or too tired to care. Edit: just a quick thing I wrote on the toilet.
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Mr. Ramos, we are ready to see you now," said a voice from within the conference room. I put on a winning smile as I strolled in and tried not to lose it as I took in my surroundings. Tony, a laidback man in tattered jeans, told me in the previous interview that Google employees work in a better mood when they get lots of natural light. Here, the floor-to-ceiling windows were curtained despite facing away from the sun. The room was dark except for a single lamp at the other end of the long table that illuminated the bottom halves of the faces of seven men in formal wear. I came in believing that this last interview was just a formality, but it looked more like a judgment. I began stepping toward the nearest man, hand outstretched and ready to shake like a professional. His eyes widened and he cringed away as another man commanded me to sit. "Where's Tony?" I asked with what I hope came off as calmness. The man at the end of the table said, "You no longer need to see Mr. Collins." I stayed silent. "Mr. Ramos, you must understand that not just anyone can work for Google. We were very impressed with your resume, your references, and your experience. The interview only served to confirm our notions that you would be an excellent member of our team. Notes taken during the interview include 'charismatic' and 'intelligent,' as well as 'a must-have.'" "That was very kind of Tony." "Do not mention his name again." I stayed silent for real. "Then, we did what we always do with potential new hires and investigated their search history." Oh no. "Rest assured, Mr. Ramos, that we are not a bunch of stuffy, judgmental prudes. an essential part of Google's brand image is our hip and relaxed attitude, which extends to this board's own views of search activity. The majority of users use our program for much the same reason you seem to use it: pornography, pirating websites, subversive conspiracy theories ..." He leaned forward so his face was fully visible in the lamplight, smiled, and shrugged. "It's just what people do." I dared to smile back. Searching my mind for something to say that would not give too much away, I came up with, "Well, I appreciate that. Thank you." His face immediately clouded as he replied, "However, there are some things by which we simply cannot abide." Wait, what? After excusing all that, what more could there possibly be? The lamp seemed to dim as the other board members also leaned forward. The faded light exposed furrowed brows and eyes filled with hatred, the same expressions worn by medieval judges as they condemned traitors to bloody execution. "We dare you to give us an explanation," said the man at the end of the table, but I knew it was over from the red pen in his hand, the poison in his voice, the glare that pierced my skull and gazed into my traitorous soul. "You seriously used our website to search for 'Bing?'"	"There's just one thing about your search history..bomb making, terrorist threats, inciting riots at rallies, is this really the man who we want to work here?" "Death to free speech!" "Welcome aboard!"
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"You've been doing great Johnson there's just one more thing, I'd like to know why you've searched 12 times for Bing, We'll chalk it up to just typing bling with a typo, But I can't explain these searches, perhaps you might know? The first several items aren't any concern, "Pornhub", research, "cream for a sunburn", But the list goes on, some of it's rather odd, The items down here are... oh my god, "Dragon vagina" and "dicks with hats", "Porky Pig's butthole" and "cum-covered cats", I know people have fetishes but this is absurd, Who wants to look at a "face spewing turd"? A stream for American History X, Followed right after by "nasty curb sex", That's not even the worst of this disgusting parade, It goes on and on: "the butthole brigade", "Hermaphroditic babies" and "grandpa without pants", "Turkey basting labia", "the wanking dance", "The easiest way to tear of my balls", "Taking a shit off Niagara Falls", This last one I won't even utter aloud, I can't cross this line, I hope that you're proud, I think I'll search it, what do you say? Wanna look one last time on why I'm turning you away? I'm typing it in, you probably feel wired, And here it i... ^(oh fuck yeah) ... you're hired." Edit: Random wording fixed.	"There's just one thing about your search history..bomb making, terrorist threats, inciting riots at rallies, is this really the man who we want to work here?" "Death to free speech!" "Welcome aboard!"
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So Mr. Maxfieldwins it seems like you're a great candidate for this position, we just have one last question." Well shit. They found my search history. I suppose it was only a matter of time but I had hoped it wouldn't come down to this.. "what's your question?" I asked nervously "Your search history is quite concerning. Now it's not a deal breaker but we just want to make sure we get the right person for the job, so answering this question truthfully would be in your best interest." I'm screwed. "Why is your only search on Google for 'bing'?"	"There's just one thing about your search history..bomb making, terrorist threats, inciting riots at rallies, is this really the man who we want to work here?" "Death to free speech!" "Welcome aboard!"
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So," he paused, formulating what he was going to say next, "here's the thing." Oh god. I freeze. Nothing good has ever come after that sentence. It was all going so well - I was finally going to be able to put all my hard work to use. The tireless hours of studying for my Computer Science degree, gathering references, working bottom of the barrel programming jobs, all of that was for this moment, and he's got a "thing"! Ever since I became interested in programming, I've wanted to work for Google. It was my dream. It IS my dream. And here I am, sitting before the man who holds that dream in his bony fingers. This despicable, shell of a man who chose me and three others from the hundreds of other candidates. This hoity toity, lizard faced, holier than thou, son of a- "It's about your search history." My mind steps into overdrive. What could I have possibly searched? My porn choices are relatively tame and, other than a couple morbidly curious inquiries about the Deepweb, I haven't searched anything that could link me to a crime! "M-my search history?" I stammer. I can feel my hands start to get clammy. Is this how it ends? "Yes, your search history. In 2008, you used our search engine to find results for two words. Do you know what those words were, Mr. Romano?" 2008? I would have been 16 then. What did 16 year old me look for on the internet? "Uh... Big tits?" I figured it couldn't be wrong. "Well, yes," he laughed, "but that's not where this conversation is heading." His smile quickly faded. "In June of 2008, you searched the words 'Google' and 'Lizards'. Now whether that was a mistake on your part, and you were just trying to get to Google without realizing you're already on Google and search up information about lizards, we're not sure." I sit there silently for a few seconds. What the hell is he talking about? Lizards? Who cares? "No disrespect sir, but I fail to see how any of this is relevant to the interview." "So," he paused, formulating what he was going to say next, "here's the thing." he started, third eyelid blinking, moistening his- Wait, third eyelid?! "We understand that these mistakes can happen, and they do semi frequently. But we can't have this kind of security breach, regardless of if it's a mistake or intentional." The door behind me opens and two armed Google employees enter. "Surely you understand, yes?" I'm speechless. I feel two leathery hands clasp my shoulders as I'm dragged to my feet. I try to struggle. A pinch in my neck; am I being drugged? As my vision starts to fade, I can see the interviewer smile, his forked tongue flickering in and out of his human lips.	"There's just one thing about your search history..bomb making, terrorist threats, inciting riots at rallies, is this really the man who we want to work here?" "Death to free speech!" "Welcome aboard!"
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"You've been doing great Johnson there's just one more thing, I'd like to know why you've searched 12 times for Bing, We'll chalk it up to just typing bling with a typo, But I can't explain these searches, perhaps you might know? The first several items aren't any concern, "Pornhub", research, "cream for a sunburn", But the list goes on, some of it's rather odd, The items down here are... oh my god, "Dragon vagina" and "dicks with hats", "Porky Pig's butthole" and "cum-covered cats", I know people have fetishes but this is absurd, Who wants to look at a "face spewing turd"? A stream for American History X, Followed right after by "nasty curb sex", That's not even the worst of this disgusting parade, It goes on and on: "the butthole brigade", "Hermaphroditic babies" and "grandpa without pants", "Turkey basting labia", "the wanking dance", "The easiest way to tear of my balls", "Taking a shit off Niagara Falls", This last one I won't even utter aloud, I can't cross this line, I hope that you're proud, I think I'll search it, what do you say? Wanna look one last time on why I'm turning you away? I'm typing it in, you probably feel wired, And here it i... ^(oh fuck yeah) ... you're hired." Edit: Random wording fixed.	"Mr. Ramos, we are ready to see you now," said a voice from within the conference room. I put on a winning smile as I strolled in and tried not to lose it as I took in my surroundings. Tony, a laidback man in tattered jeans, told me in the previous interview that Google employees work in a better mood when they get lots of natural light. Here, the floor-to-ceiling windows were curtained despite facing away from the sun. The room was dark except for a single lamp at the other end of the long table that illuminated the bottom halves of the faces of seven men in formal wear. I came in believing that this last interview was just a formality, but it looked more like a judgment. I began stepping toward the nearest man, hand outstretched and ready to shake like a professional. His eyes widened and he cringed away as another man commanded me to sit. "Where's Tony?" I asked with what I hope came off as calmness. The man at the end of the table said, "You no longer need to see Mr. Collins." I stayed silent. "Mr. Ramos, you must understand that not just anyone can work for Google. We were very impressed with your resume, your references, and your experience. The interview only served to confirm our notions that you would be an excellent member of our team. Notes taken during the interview include 'charismatic' and 'intelligent,' as well as 'a must-have.'" "That was very kind of Tony." "Do not mention his name again." I stayed silent for real. "Then, we did what we always do with potential new hires and investigated their search history." Oh no. "Rest assured, Mr. Ramos, that we are not a bunch of stuffy, judgmental prudes. an essential part of Google's brand image is our hip and relaxed attitude, which extends to this board's own views of search activity. The majority of users use our program for much the same reason you seem to use it: pornography, pirating websites, subversive conspiracy theories ..." He leaned forward so his face was fully visible in the lamplight, smiled, and shrugged. "It's just what people do." I dared to smile back. Searching my mind for something to say that would not give too much away, I came up with, "Well, I appreciate that. Thank you." His face immediately clouded as he replied, "However, there are some things by which we simply cannot abide." Wait, what? After excusing all that, what more could there possibly be? The lamp seemed to dim as the other board members also leaned forward. The faded light exposed furrowed brows and eyes filled with hatred, the same expressions worn by medieval judges as they condemned traitors to bloody execution. "We dare you to give us an explanation," said the man at the end of the table, but I knew it was over from the red pen in his hand, the poison in his voice, the glare that pierced my skull and gazed into my traitorous soul. "You seriously used our website to search for 'Bing?'"
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So," he paused, formulating what he was going to say next, "here's the thing." Oh god. I freeze. Nothing good has ever come after that sentence. It was all going so well - I was finally going to be able to put all my hard work to use. The tireless hours of studying for my Computer Science degree, gathering references, working bottom of the barrel programming jobs, all of that was for this moment, and he's got a "thing"! Ever since I became interested in programming, I've wanted to work for Google. It was my dream. It IS my dream. And here I am, sitting before the man who holds that dream in his bony fingers. This despicable, shell of a man who chose me and three others from the hundreds of other candidates. This hoity toity, lizard faced, holier than thou, son of a- "It's about your search history." My mind steps into overdrive. What could I have possibly searched? My porn choices are relatively tame and, other than a couple morbidly curious inquiries about the Deepweb, I haven't searched anything that could link me to a crime! "M-my search history?" I stammer. I can feel my hands start to get clammy. Is this how it ends? "Yes, your search history. In 2008, you used our search engine to find results for two words. Do you know what those words were, Mr. Romano?" 2008? I would have been 16 then. What did 16 year old me look for on the internet? "Uh... Big tits?" I figured it couldn't be wrong. "Well, yes," he laughed, "but that's not where this conversation is heading." His smile quickly faded. "In June of 2008, you searched the words 'Google' and 'Lizards'. Now whether that was a mistake on your part, and you were just trying to get to Google without realizing you're already on Google and search up information about lizards, we're not sure." I sit there silently for a few seconds. What the hell is he talking about? Lizards? Who cares? "No disrespect sir, but I fail to see how any of this is relevant to the interview." "So," he paused, formulating what he was going to say next, "here's the thing." he started, third eyelid blinking, moistening his- Wait, third eyelid?! "We understand that these mistakes can happen, and they do semi frequently. But we can't have this kind of security breach, regardless of if it's a mistake or intentional." The door behind me opens and two armed Google employees enter. "Surely you understand, yes?" I'm speechless. I feel two leathery hands clasp my shoulders as I'm dragged to my feet. I try to struggle. A pinch in my neck; am I being drugged? As my vision starts to fade, I can see the interviewer smile, his forked tongue flickering in and out of his human lips.	"I'm writing a novel." "You're writing a novel," the interviewer puts his hands on the desk. I give a smile that I hope looks like a smile and not like a grimace. "A novel about...what, exactly?" "A novel about...guns. And...sharks...in tornadoes. And..uh...well, you know there was one chapter where the main character decided to experiment with--" "Thank you, Miss Baker, we have the details. You don't need to go into them again." I think I'm sweating. I think I have boob sweat. And back sweat. Sweat on top of sweat. I want to reach up and wipe my forehead but I'm afraid that will make me look even more nervous. "I...if I can just say one thing. I just want to say that I never googled any of those things while I was at work. You know I rarely even google myself at work. And all of the gun things...I know how it looks with the facebook stalking and--" "We can't see your facebook history, Miss Baker," the interviewer said. "Yet." I cross my legs and uncross them, then cross them again. "Look, Miss Baker. As long as you don't do this at work we'll be fine with it. I just have one more question. What is this particular search history about, and why is it so frequent?" I feel the red rush to my cheeks. "I just...really, really, really like Rebecca Black." --- Thanks for reading :). For other stories check out and subscribe to /r/Celsius232
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"My search history?!" "Yes Mr. Thorman. It's part of our interview process at this stage. Standard question, really." "Oh. Standard. Completely normal." "Yes." "So, anyone can just, pop that question on me? That's normal, is that what you're telling me?" "Mr. Thorman, it's a standard question for our interview process. Your confidentiality is assured, we just want an explanation for your search history." "Well, that's part of the problem." "Explain Mr. Thorman." "I'd get it if Google would ask about my browsing habits while using their service. That seems standard. But, an explanation... sounds like an accusatory thing to ask someone, let alone personal. Hardly a standard question." "We understand your concerns Mr. Thorman, but---" "You understand?! Because you saw my browsing history!" "There really isn't any need to---" "You don't deny it!!" "Mr. Thorman, please try to calm---" "I'll sue! It's discrimination! You're using personal questions in an interview! That should definitely breach some labor law!" "Which, Mr. Thorman?" "I'm about to find out!" "Look, we flew you out here for this hiring stage to see if you'd be a good fit for the company. Google takes pride in having a relaxed working environment, but to maintain that while bringing in new talent requires a special 'fit,' see?" "Yeah, but that doesn't explain why you'd ask such a probing question." "We ask about your search history to gauge your response to situations in the work place that may challenge you in a professional setting, whether they're conferences as a traveling consultant, or receiving the random question from an employee that could risk testing that relaxed environment." "Oh." "The nature of the question was known from the beginning. It was all part of the interview. Your response was... extreme, but rational in light of the given circumstances. We'll account for that when making our decision in about two weeks time." "I see." "So we're understood then." "Yes sir. I apologize for making such a fuss." "It's alright Mr. Thorman. We account for these things from people with your kind of browsing history." "Can't believe it was part of the... what?" "Well you went from looking up cheap remedies for your flatulence to searching for fart porn at least twice a day for the past two months. Without missing a day. So we can understand that you're prone to frustration." "Jesus, now you look here---" "Remember you're being interviewed." "Exactly! Why would you even say that?! It's not just unprofessional, it's sickening!" "You're giving us a lecture about what's sickening?" "Right! It's a breach on my internet privacy and---" "Don't kid yourself Mr. Thorman. We both know it only started with the fart porn." "... What started?" "The sex dungeon room you've been adding equipment to for the last couple weeks. We're honestly pretty impressed with how---" "We?!" "Yes Mr. Thorman, you gave our HR department a good laugh about that. To think a quiet Nebraskan man such as yourself would be so kinky. And to think it all started with a gas problem---" "Oh my god, this is becoming too much! Why even fly me out here if you're just going to sit there and embarrass me?!" "Because we want to hire you and see how you handle yourself. Qualifications ^and ^sexual ^taste aside, you seem like a good fit for our relaxed working environment. An in-person interview gives us the opportunity to see if you'd fit. We'll contact you in two weeks time. Do you have any follow up questions for us?" "Too many to even count. I just want to go home and---" "Continue working on your dungeon room?" "No! Have a cool beer and catch up on Game of Thrones!" "I see. Mr. Thorman. Would you like to know how it ends?" "The season?" "No. All of it." "... You wouldn't." "We've seen George R.R. Martin's search history. Kind of killed the rest of the show for us here at Google." "Oh my god." "Thank you for coming out today. We'll be in touch." ------ More at r/galokot, and thanks for reading!	"I'm writing a novel." "You're writing a novel," the interviewer puts his hands on the desk. I give a smile that I hope looks like a smile and not like a grimace. "A novel about...what, exactly?" "A novel about...guns. And...sharks...in tornadoes. And..uh...well, you know there was one chapter where the main character decided to experiment with--" "Thank you, Miss Baker, we have the details. You don't need to go into them again." I think I'm sweating. I think I have boob sweat. And back sweat. Sweat on top of sweat. I want to reach up and wipe my forehead but I'm afraid that will make me look even more nervous. "I...if I can just say one thing. I just want to say that I never googled any of those things while I was at work. You know I rarely even google myself at work. And all of the gun things...I know how it looks with the facebook stalking and--" "We can't see your facebook history, Miss Baker," the interviewer said. "Yet." I cross my legs and uncross them, then cross them again. "Look, Miss Baker. As long as you don't do this at work we'll be fine with it. I just have one more question. What is this particular search history about, and why is it so frequent?" I feel the red rush to my cheeks. "I just...really, really, really like Rebecca Black." --- Thanks for reading :). For other stories check out and subscribe to /r/Celsius232
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	I must admit, I expected everything to be much more challenging. But it turns out interviewing at Google is not that difficult. My experience definitely helped a lot, being involved in the past with a bunch of giants from IT. But the weirdness just begun. The last part of the interview happens in what it looked like a badly lit basement. Across a small, red wood desk a slightly old guy was nodding his head while reading something from his personal notebook. "Mark, I'd like to talk with you a bit about Google search engine. Are you familiar with it?" "Familiar? I think everyone is familiar with it. I use it every day. Everyone does." "I have here, in my notebook, a list of things you wrote into Google over the years. I'd like for us to go over those." "Go over...? Wait, do you have my search queries there?" "This is not important, Mark. Everything we do now is confidential. What I'd like now is for us to go over these queries and for you to remember when and why you wrote them." Is this for real? What we have here is a huge privacy breach. That means this whole interview was useless. They already knew everything about me. They know about the gay porn I watched, they know I have a very ugly rush on my back, they even know I suspect my wife on cheating on me. OH GOD... they know I googled for "quick sort algorithm" two days ago. "With those said, the first query: 'how to use manual transmission', 2 Jun 2011 at 23:54." From all I've wrote in Google over the years they choose this one? I don't even remember this specific query. A 5 years old search? "It's for a driving license. I got it several years ago, I was studying internet resources to help me with that. What is the issue with it?" He made some quick notes on his notebook before going forward: "No issues Mark. On 21 September 2011 at 9:45 in the morning you searched 'how to plan road trip Europe'. Do you remember?" "The road trip, I think I remember, yes. There was a new girl I've met back then and I wanted to impress her. I think we've been through some countries around Europe. What is the purpose of this, doc?" "We are in an interview Mark. At Google. You are a Software Engineer. But let us go a bit forward in your search queries. On 3 March 2012 you've searched 'my girlfriend is pregnant', right?" "Where is this going? I don't like this. I don't know. I can't... remember." "Mark, focus! At the end of 2013 you've searched for honeymoon destinations." "I'm not listening!" "In 2014 you've searched for a babysitter. You've been in Asia for your honeymoon!" "LIAR!" "2015, you started to see a therapist! You were feeling depressed! In 2016 you've searched for cheap recording devices. Your wife was cheating on you!" "YOU TELL LIES! YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!" "Still 2016, you searched for cheap guns. You found a local small shop and bought an illegal 9mm gun." "I don't want to... don't force me...please... no more" "Mark, do you remember killing your wife? Shooting your kid? Do you remember all this?" Through all the sobbing Mark started punching himself and throwing himself into wall, fighting with himself. The empty hospital room didn't had any sharp or solid objects but this was still too dangerous. "Sedate him. I'll rewrite my script and we will try again in several days."	"I'm writing a novel." "You're writing a novel," the interviewer puts his hands on the desk. I give a smile that I hope looks like a smile and not like a grimace. "A novel about...what, exactly?" "A novel about...guns. And...sharks...in tornadoes. And..uh...well, you know there was one chapter where the main character decided to experiment with--" "Thank you, Miss Baker, we have the details. You don't need to go into them again." I think I'm sweating. I think I have boob sweat. And back sweat. Sweat on top of sweat. I want to reach up and wipe my forehead but I'm afraid that will make me look even more nervous. "I...if I can just say one thing. I just want to say that I never googled any of those things while I was at work. You know I rarely even google myself at work. And all of the gun things...I know how it looks with the facebook stalking and--" "We can't see your facebook history, Miss Baker," the interviewer said. "Yet." I cross my legs and uncross them, then cross them again. "Look, Miss Baker. As long as you don't do this at work we'll be fine with it. I just have one more question. What is this particular search history about, and why is it so frequent?" I feel the red rush to my cheeks. "I just...really, really, really like Rebecca Black." --- Thanks for reading :). For other stories check out and subscribe to /r/Celsius232
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	The knock on my door came like a blast of thunder. I jumped up in my armchair and looked at the time. Eight past midnight. "Who's that?" I called. The armchair was so soft I didn't want to get up for no good reason. "I'm Ms. Vernon from Google. We scheduled an interview today, remember?" I groaned and shambled to the door. "You're six hours late. Can't you come back—" The moment I unlocked the door, a pair of bulky robots burst inside and grabbed hold of my arms. Following them was a middle-aged woman all dressed in black. "What're you doing to me? Let me go!" I shouted. "Your interview has begun," she said sweetly. "I suggest that you watch your tone." The robots dragged me to the living room and forced me into my armchair, while Ms. Vernon perched herself on the piano stool. When they were certain I wasn't going to try and run, the robots released my arms and stepped back. "You can't just bring your private enforcers into my home," I said. "I have rights—" "You signed your rights away in the job application contract, remember?" She waved a Google tablet before me, the offending document on display. "Along with your rights to sue for any bodily harm caused, so I suggest you behave yourself." "I thought I was supposed to meet one of your top executives," I said. "Who are you?" "I'm the special assistant to our COO," she said, swiping her fingers over the tablet. "But that's not for discussion. We're actually pretty impressed with your scores. Why, I'd say you're almost a prodigy, especially for a fifty-year-old man." "Do you manhandle all your star applicants?" "No," she said, voice cold. "Only the ones with a suspect search history." I gulped; despite my earlier bravado and indignation, I knew I was in true danger now. Even as she slid her tablet across the coffee table to me, I was tensing up. "Explain—" she said. "—why you don't have a search history." My jaw worked soundlessly as I looked at the robots. Their red eye slits watched me impassively. Someone had turned the inside of my mouth into a desert. "I—I—" "Nothing at all," she said. "Not a single search performed on Google in your entire life. How is that possible in the twenty-second century?" I could only shake my head. "We even checked the archives of Bing during the days before we bought Microsoft. Nothing from you. Where did you learn to code? How do you even use the Internet?" "I don't," I said, face flushing. "I—I visit libraries. I borrow a lot of books—really, I can show you my study—" "Pretend for one second that I'm an idiot," she said. "That I believe your horseshit about books. How do you remember everything you read? The primary needs of mankind are Google search and wifi, before even food. How do you survive without using a search engine?" I licked my lips. "I go outside. A lot. I buy things from stores, I talk to professors, I borrow books. I can show—" "Liar. You've done something to conceal your search history." She snapped her fingers, and the robots seized me again. "But Google knows. Google always knows. We'll find the truth." "I'm not lying," I screamed. "I haven't even switched my computer on for a day!" "You use your phone." "I use my phone for calls!" Her eyes widened. "You monster." "I'm speaking the truth! Please, no, please ..." My pleas and tears went unanswered as they marched me out of the door. All around us, my neighbors watched silently through the lens of their phones. No doubt they were using VideoGoogle to discover my crime. The only thing I'd ever wanted was to work at Google like my father before me. But the woman's eyes told me all I needed to know. I, the last of the Zuckerbergs, had just failed my entire line. *** Edit: minor error Come to [The Nonsense Locker](http://reddit.com/r/nonsenselocker) for more stories!	"I'm writing a novel." "You're writing a novel," the interviewer puts his hands on the desk. I give a smile that I hope looks like a smile and not like a grimace. "A novel about...what, exactly?" "A novel about...guns. And...sharks...in tornadoes. And..uh...well, you know there was one chapter where the main character decided to experiment with--" "Thank you, Miss Baker, we have the details. You don't need to go into them again." I think I'm sweating. I think I have boob sweat. And back sweat. Sweat on top of sweat. I want to reach up and wipe my forehead but I'm afraid that will make me look even more nervous. "I...if I can just say one thing. I just want to say that I never googled any of those things while I was at work. You know I rarely even google myself at work. And all of the gun things...I know how it looks with the facebook stalking and--" "We can't see your facebook history, Miss Baker," the interviewer said. "Yet." I cross my legs and uncross them, then cross them again. "Look, Miss Baker. As long as you don't do this at work we'll be fine with it. I just have one more question. What is this particular search history about, and why is it so frequent?" I feel the red rush to my cheeks. "I just...really, really, really like Rebecca Black." --- Thanks for reading :). For other stories check out and subscribe to /r/Celsius232
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"So," he paused, formulating what he was going to say next, "here's the thing." Oh god. I freeze. Nothing good has ever come after that sentence. It was all going so well - I was finally going to be able to put all my hard work to use. The tireless hours of studying for my Computer Science degree, gathering references, working bottom of the barrel programming jobs, all of that was for this moment, and he's got a "thing"! Ever since I became interested in programming, I've wanted to work for Google. It was my dream. It IS my dream. And here I am, sitting before the man who holds that dream in his bony fingers. This despicable, shell of a man who chose me and three others from the hundreds of other candidates. This hoity toity, lizard faced, holier than thou, son of a- "It's about your search history." My mind steps into overdrive. What could I have possibly searched? My porn choices are relatively tame and, other than a couple morbidly curious inquiries about the Deepweb, I haven't searched anything that could link me to a crime! "M-my search history?" I stammer. I can feel my hands start to get clammy. Is this how it ends? "Yes, your search history. In 2008, you used our search engine to find results for two words. Do you know what those words were, Mr. Romano?" 2008? I would have been 16 then. What did 16 year old me look for on the internet? "Uh... Big tits?" I figured it couldn't be wrong. "Well, yes," he laughed, "but that's not where this conversation is heading." His smile quickly faded. "In June of 2008, you searched the words 'Google' and 'Lizards'. Now whether that was a mistake on your part, and you were just trying to get to Google without realizing you're already on Google and search up information about lizards, we're not sure." I sit there silently for a few seconds. What the hell is he talking about? Lizards? Who cares? "No disrespect sir, but I fail to see how any of this is relevant to the interview." "So," he paused, formulating what he was going to say next, "here's the thing." he started, third eyelid blinking, moistening his- Wait, third eyelid?! "We understand that these mistakes can happen, and they do semi frequently. But we can't have this kind of security breach, regardless of if it's a mistake or intentional." The door behind me opens and two armed Google employees enter. "Surely you understand, yes?" I'm speechless. I feel two leathery hands clasp my shoulders as I'm dragged to my feet. I try to struggle. A pinch in my neck; am I being drugged? As my vision starts to fade, I can see the interviewer smile, his forked tongue flickering in and out of his human lips.	“So Mr. Anderson, thanks for your patience. My name is Smith and I’m in charge of security around here." “Nice to meet you”, Thomas said while Mr. Smith sat down at the other side of the table. Thomas only wondered briefly about Mr. Smith’s sunglasses and his very, very black suit. “As you know this is your final interview and we’d like to discuss one topic with you: Your search history.” Thomas hesitated for a second, then responded: “Ehm.. okay.. I guess we can do that. What would you like to know?”. “Well, frankly your search history has changed a bit over those last weeks, hasn’t it Mr. Anderson?” He opened a folder lying in front of him on the desk. May 15th. At 2:03am you searched for “Morpheus reported sightings” May 17th. 3:52am. “Morpheus organization contact” May 21st. 23:51pm. “How to make mac and cheese in the microwave fast” May 24th. 1:15am. “Is this real life?” May 27th. 2:15am. “Dream world computer generated” May 29th. 1:46am. "Google artificial intelligence development" May 31st. 3:46am. “Artificial intelligence robots” And just this morning, June 3rd. 1:39am. “What is the matrix?”* He looked at Thomas, making eye contact. “Mr. Anderson, what do you think is the matrix then?” Without Thomas noticing, the door behind him had opened and two men stepped inside the room. “Well… I don’t really… eh I don’t really know what it is I guess..”, Thomas began to stutter and started to sweat. His head spinning at the confusing questions and facts presented to him by Smith. Smith stared at him with a grin on his face, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. He then turned to the two man standing beside Thomas and briefly nodded at them. All of sudden, the two man reached for Thomas and grabbed his arms, pushing him down, face first, on the table in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, we both know that you have started to ask the wrong questions. And now I only have one question for you. Do you want to know what the matrix is? Almost out of breath from the two men pushing him on the table, Thomas managed to barely say “Yes… I want to know what it is.” “Very well. But I can assure you, you’re not going to like what comes next …” Thomas started to feel a rush on his cheeks and his lips. Something happened to his mouth. He tried opening it, but there appeared to be something that prevented him to open and control his mouth. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage a inaudible mumble. Then, the two men put the mask on his head and everything turned black...
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"My search history?!" "Yes Mr. Thorman. It's part of our interview process at this stage. Standard question, really." "Oh. Standard. Completely normal." "Yes." "So, anyone can just, pop that question on me? That's normal, is that what you're telling me?" "Mr. Thorman, it's a standard question for our interview process. Your confidentiality is assured, we just want an explanation for your search history." "Well, that's part of the problem." "Explain Mr. Thorman." "I'd get it if Google would ask about my browsing habits while using their service. That seems standard. But, an explanation... sounds like an accusatory thing to ask someone, let alone personal. Hardly a standard question." "We understand your concerns Mr. Thorman, but---" "You understand?! Because you saw my browsing history!" "There really isn't any need to---" "You don't deny it!!" "Mr. Thorman, please try to calm---" "I'll sue! It's discrimination! You're using personal questions in an interview! That should definitely breach some labor law!" "Which, Mr. Thorman?" "I'm about to find out!" "Look, we flew you out here for this hiring stage to see if you'd be a good fit for the company. Google takes pride in having a relaxed working environment, but to maintain that while bringing in new talent requires a special 'fit,' see?" "Yeah, but that doesn't explain why you'd ask such a probing question." "We ask about your search history to gauge your response to situations in the work place that may challenge you in a professional setting, whether they're conferences as a traveling consultant, or receiving the random question from an employee that could risk testing that relaxed environment." "Oh." "The nature of the question was known from the beginning. It was all part of the interview. Your response was... extreme, but rational in light of the given circumstances. We'll account for that when making our decision in about two weeks time." "I see." "So we're understood then." "Yes sir. I apologize for making such a fuss." "It's alright Mr. Thorman. We account for these things from people with your kind of browsing history." "Can't believe it was part of the... what?" "Well you went from looking up cheap remedies for your flatulence to searching for fart porn at least twice a day for the past two months. Without missing a day. So we can understand that you're prone to frustration." "Jesus, now you look here---" "Remember you're being interviewed." "Exactly! Why would you even say that?! It's not just unprofessional, it's sickening!" "You're giving us a lecture about what's sickening?" "Right! It's a breach on my internet privacy and---" "Don't kid yourself Mr. Thorman. We both know it only started with the fart porn." "... What started?" "The sex dungeon room you've been adding equipment to for the last couple weeks. We're honestly pretty impressed with how---" "We?!" "Yes Mr. Thorman, you gave our HR department a good laugh about that. To think a quiet Nebraskan man such as yourself would be so kinky. And to think it all started with a gas problem---" "Oh my god, this is becoming too much! Why even fly me out here if you're just going to sit there and embarrass me?!" "Because we want to hire you and see how you handle yourself. Qualifications ^and ^sexual ^taste aside, you seem like a good fit for our relaxed working environment. An in-person interview gives us the opportunity to see if you'd fit. We'll contact you in two weeks time. Do you have any follow up questions for us?" "Too many to even count. I just want to go home and---" "Continue working on your dungeon room?" "No! Have a cool beer and catch up on Game of Thrones!" "I see. Mr. Thorman. Would you like to know how it ends?" "The season?" "No. All of it." "... You wouldn't." "We've seen George R.R. Martin's search history. Kind of killed the rest of the show for us here at Google." "Oh my god." "Thank you for coming out today. We'll be in touch." ------ More at r/galokot, and thanks for reading!	“So Mr. Anderson, thanks for your patience. My name is Smith and I’m in charge of security around here." “Nice to meet you”, Thomas said while Mr. Smith sat down at the other side of the table. Thomas only wondered briefly about Mr. Smith’s sunglasses and his very, very black suit. “As you know this is your final interview and we’d like to discuss one topic with you: Your search history.” Thomas hesitated for a second, then responded: “Ehm.. okay.. I guess we can do that. What would you like to know?”. “Well, frankly your search history has changed a bit over those last weeks, hasn’t it Mr. Anderson?” He opened a folder lying in front of him on the desk. May 15th. At 2:03am you searched for “Morpheus reported sightings” May 17th. 3:52am. “Morpheus organization contact” May 21st. 23:51pm. “How to make mac and cheese in the microwave fast” May 24th. 1:15am. “Is this real life?” May 27th. 2:15am. “Dream world computer generated” May 29th. 1:46am. "Google artificial intelligence development" May 31st. 3:46am. “Artificial intelligence robots” And just this morning, June 3rd. 1:39am. “What is the matrix?”* He looked at Thomas, making eye contact. “Mr. Anderson, what do you think is the matrix then?” Without Thomas noticing, the door behind him had opened and two men stepped inside the room. “Well… I don’t really… eh I don’t really know what it is I guess..”, Thomas began to stutter and started to sweat. His head spinning at the confusing questions and facts presented to him by Smith. Smith stared at him with a grin on his face, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. He then turned to the two man standing beside Thomas and briefly nodded at them. All of sudden, the two man reached for Thomas and grabbed his arms, pushing him down, face first, on the table in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, we both know that you have started to ask the wrong questions. And now I only have one question for you. Do you want to know what the matrix is? Almost out of breath from the two men pushing him on the table, Thomas managed to barely say “Yes… I want to know what it is.” “Very well. But I can assure you, you’re not going to like what comes next …” Thomas started to feel a rush on his cheeks and his lips. Something happened to his mouth. He tried opening it, but there appeared to be something that prevented him to open and control his mouth. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage a inaudible mumble. Then, the two men put the mask on his head and everything turned black...
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"There's just one thing. Your search history." My heart started beating like crazy. I took very precaution, I thought. I deleted all of my search history. I used a VPN. Hell, I even used another computer. What could they have found out? My infidelity towards my wife? My mentally unstable phase? No, not... my porn? Could it be? Could they know the vile things I have jerked off to? "Honestly, what's the matter with you, man?" The interviewer looked at me with the utmost disgust. What do you know? I wanted to scream, but I was too terrified to do anything. "I mean, really? Bing?"	“So Mr. Anderson, thanks for your patience. My name is Smith and I’m in charge of security around here." “Nice to meet you”, Thomas said while Mr. Smith sat down at the other side of the table. Thomas only wondered briefly about Mr. Smith’s sunglasses and his very, very black suit. “As you know this is your final interview and we’d like to discuss one topic with you: Your search history.” Thomas hesitated for a second, then responded: “Ehm.. okay.. I guess we can do that. What would you like to know?”. “Well, frankly your search history has changed a bit over those last weeks, hasn’t it Mr. Anderson?” He opened a folder lying in front of him on the desk. May 15th. At 2:03am you searched for “Morpheus reported sightings” May 17th. 3:52am. “Morpheus organization contact” May 21st. 23:51pm. “How to make mac and cheese in the microwave fast” May 24th. 1:15am. “Is this real life?” May 27th. 2:15am. “Dream world computer generated” May 29th. 1:46am. "Google artificial intelligence development" May 31st. 3:46am. “Artificial intelligence robots” And just this morning, June 3rd. 1:39am. “What is the matrix?”* He looked at Thomas, making eye contact. “Mr. Anderson, what do you think is the matrix then?” Without Thomas noticing, the door behind him had opened and two men stepped inside the room. “Well… I don’t really… eh I don’t really know what it is I guess..”, Thomas began to stutter and started to sweat. His head spinning at the confusing questions and facts presented to him by Smith. Smith stared at him with a grin on his face, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. He then turned to the two man standing beside Thomas and briefly nodded at them. All of sudden, the two man reached for Thomas and grabbed his arms, pushing him down, face first, on the table in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, we both know that you have started to ask the wrong questions. And now I only have one question for you. Do you want to know what the matrix is? Almost out of breath from the two men pushing him on the table, Thomas managed to barely say “Yes… I want to know what it is.” “Very well. But I can assure you, you’re not going to like what comes next …” Thomas started to feel a rush on his cheeks and his lips. Something happened to his mouth. He tried opening it, but there appeared to be something that prevented him to open and control his mouth. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage a inaudible mumble. Then, the two men put the mask on his head and everything turned black...
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	I must admit, I expected everything to be much more challenging. But it turns out interviewing at Google is not that difficult. My experience definitely helped a lot, being involved in the past with a bunch of giants from IT. But the weirdness just begun. The last part of the interview happens in what it looked like a badly lit basement. Across a small, red wood desk a slightly old guy was nodding his head while reading something from his personal notebook. "Mark, I'd like to talk with you a bit about Google search engine. Are you familiar with it?" "Familiar? I think everyone is familiar with it. I use it every day. Everyone does." "I have here, in my notebook, a list of things you wrote into Google over the years. I'd like for us to go over those." "Go over...? Wait, do you have my search queries there?" "This is not important, Mark. Everything we do now is confidential. What I'd like now is for us to go over these queries and for you to remember when and why you wrote them." Is this for real? What we have here is a huge privacy breach. That means this whole interview was useless. They already knew everything about me. They know about the gay porn I watched, they know I have a very ugly rush on my back, they even know I suspect my wife on cheating on me. OH GOD... they know I googled for "quick sort algorithm" two days ago. "With those said, the first query: 'how to use manual transmission', 2 Jun 2011 at 23:54." From all I've wrote in Google over the years they choose this one? I don't even remember this specific query. A 5 years old search? "It's for a driving license. I got it several years ago, I was studying internet resources to help me with that. What is the issue with it?" He made some quick notes on his notebook before going forward: "No issues Mark. On 21 September 2011 at 9:45 in the morning you searched 'how to plan road trip Europe'. Do you remember?" "The road trip, I think I remember, yes. There was a new girl I've met back then and I wanted to impress her. I think we've been through some countries around Europe. What is the purpose of this, doc?" "We are in an interview Mark. At Google. You are a Software Engineer. But let us go a bit forward in your search queries. On 3 March 2012 you've searched 'my girlfriend is pregnant', right?" "Where is this going? I don't like this. I don't know. I can't... remember." "Mark, focus! At the end of 2013 you've searched for honeymoon destinations." "I'm not listening!" "In 2014 you've searched for a babysitter. You've been in Asia for your honeymoon!" "LIAR!" "2015, you started to see a therapist! You were feeling depressed! In 2016 you've searched for cheap recording devices. Your wife was cheating on you!" "YOU TELL LIES! YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!" "Still 2016, you searched for cheap guns. You found a local small shop and bought an illegal 9mm gun." "I don't want to... don't force me...please... no more" "Mark, do you remember killing your wife? Shooting your kid? Do you remember all this?" Through all the sobbing Mark started punching himself and throwing himself into wall, fighting with himself. The empty hospital room didn't had any sharp or solid objects but this was still too dangerous. "Sedate him. I'll rewrite my script and we will try again in several days."	“So Mr. Anderson, thanks for your patience. My name is Smith and I’m in charge of security around here." “Nice to meet you”, Thomas said while Mr. Smith sat down at the other side of the table. Thomas only wondered briefly about Mr. Smith’s sunglasses and his very, very black suit. “As you know this is your final interview and we’d like to discuss one topic with you: Your search history.” Thomas hesitated for a second, then responded: “Ehm.. okay.. I guess we can do that. What would you like to know?”. “Well, frankly your search history has changed a bit over those last weeks, hasn’t it Mr. Anderson?” He opened a folder lying in front of him on the desk. May 15th. At 2:03am you searched for “Morpheus reported sightings” May 17th. 3:52am. “Morpheus organization contact” May 21st. 23:51pm. “How to make mac and cheese in the microwave fast” May 24th. 1:15am. “Is this real life?” May 27th. 2:15am. “Dream world computer generated” May 29th. 1:46am. "Google artificial intelligence development" May 31st. 3:46am. “Artificial intelligence robots” And just this morning, June 3rd. 1:39am. “What is the matrix?”* He looked at Thomas, making eye contact. “Mr. Anderson, what do you think is the matrix then?” Without Thomas noticing, the door behind him had opened and two men stepped inside the room. “Well… I don’t really… eh I don’t really know what it is I guess..”, Thomas began to stutter and started to sweat. His head spinning at the confusing questions and facts presented to him by Smith. Smith stared at him with a grin on his face, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. He then turned to the two man standing beside Thomas and briefly nodded at them. All of sudden, the two man reached for Thomas and grabbed his arms, pushing him down, face first, on the table in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, we both know that you have started to ask the wrong questions. And now I only have one question for you. Do you want to know what the matrix is? Almost out of breath from the two men pushing him on the table, Thomas managed to barely say “Yes… I want to know what it is.” “Very well. But I can assure you, you’re not going to like what comes next …” Thomas started to feel a rush on his cheeks and his lips. Something happened to his mouth. He tried opening it, but there appeared to be something that prevented him to open and control his mouth. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage a inaudible mumble. Then, the two men put the mask on his head and everything turned black...
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	The knock on my door came like a blast of thunder. I jumped up in my armchair and looked at the time. Eight past midnight. "Who's that?" I called. The armchair was so soft I didn't want to get up for no good reason. "I'm Ms. Vernon from Google. We scheduled an interview today, remember?" I groaned and shambled to the door. "You're six hours late. Can't you come back—" The moment I unlocked the door, a pair of bulky robots burst inside and grabbed hold of my arms. Following them was a middle-aged woman all dressed in black. "What're you doing to me? Let me go!" I shouted. "Your interview has begun," she said sweetly. "I suggest that you watch your tone." The robots dragged me to the living room and forced me into my armchair, while Ms. Vernon perched herself on the piano stool. When they were certain I wasn't going to try and run, the robots released my arms and stepped back. "You can't just bring your private enforcers into my home," I said. "I have rights—" "You signed your rights away in the job application contract, remember?" She waved a Google tablet before me, the offending document on display. "Along with your rights to sue for any bodily harm caused, so I suggest you behave yourself." "I thought I was supposed to meet one of your top executives," I said. "Who are you?" "I'm the special assistant to our COO," she said, swiping her fingers over the tablet. "But that's not for discussion. We're actually pretty impressed with your scores. Why, I'd say you're almost a prodigy, especially for a fifty-year-old man." "Do you manhandle all your star applicants?" "No," she said, voice cold. "Only the ones with a suspect search history." I gulped; despite my earlier bravado and indignation, I knew I was in true danger now. Even as she slid her tablet across the coffee table to me, I was tensing up. "Explain—" she said. "—why you don't have a search history." My jaw worked soundlessly as I looked at the robots. Their red eye slits watched me impassively. Someone had turned the inside of my mouth into a desert. "I—I—" "Nothing at all," she said. "Not a single search performed on Google in your entire life. How is that possible in the twenty-second century?" I could only shake my head. "We even checked the archives of Bing during the days before we bought Microsoft. Nothing from you. Where did you learn to code? How do you even use the Internet?" "I don't," I said, face flushing. "I—I visit libraries. I borrow a lot of books—really, I can show you my study—" "Pretend for one second that I'm an idiot," she said. "That I believe your horseshit about books. How do you remember everything you read? The primary needs of mankind are Google search and wifi, before even food. How do you survive without using a search engine?" I licked my lips. "I go outside. A lot. I buy things from stores, I talk to professors, I borrow books. I can show—" "Liar. You've done something to conceal your search history." She snapped her fingers, and the robots seized me again. "But Google knows. Google always knows. We'll find the truth." "I'm not lying," I screamed. "I haven't even switched my computer on for a day!" "You use your phone." "I use my phone for calls!" Her eyes widened. "You monster." "I'm speaking the truth! Please, no, please ..." My pleas and tears went unanswered as they marched me out of the door. All around us, my neighbors watched silently through the lens of their phones. No doubt they were using VideoGoogle to discover my crime. The only thing I'd ever wanted was to work at Google like my father before me. But the woman's eyes told me all I needed to know. I, the last of the Zuckerbergs, had just failed my entire line. *** Edit: minor error Come to [The Nonsense Locker](http://reddit.com/r/nonsenselocker) for more stories!	“So Mr. Anderson, thanks for your patience. My name is Smith and I’m in charge of security around here." “Nice to meet you”, Thomas said while Mr. Smith sat down at the other side of the table. Thomas only wondered briefly about Mr. Smith’s sunglasses and his very, very black suit. “As you know this is your final interview and we’d like to discuss one topic with you: Your search history.” Thomas hesitated for a second, then responded: “Ehm.. okay.. I guess we can do that. What would you like to know?”. “Well, frankly your search history has changed a bit over those last weeks, hasn’t it Mr. Anderson?” He opened a folder lying in front of him on the desk. May 15th. At 2:03am you searched for “Morpheus reported sightings” May 17th. 3:52am. “Morpheus organization contact” May 21st. 23:51pm. “How to make mac and cheese in the microwave fast” May 24th. 1:15am. “Is this real life?” May 27th. 2:15am. “Dream world computer generated” May 29th. 1:46am. "Google artificial intelligence development" May 31st. 3:46am. “Artificial intelligence robots” And just this morning, June 3rd. 1:39am. “What is the matrix?”* He looked at Thomas, making eye contact. “Mr. Anderson, what do you think is the matrix then?” Without Thomas noticing, the door behind him had opened and two men stepped inside the room. “Well… I don’t really… eh I don’t really know what it is I guess..”, Thomas began to stutter and started to sweat. His head spinning at the confusing questions and facts presented to him by Smith. Smith stared at him with a grin on his face, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. He then turned to the two man standing beside Thomas and briefly nodded at them. All of sudden, the two man reached for Thomas and grabbed his arms, pushing him down, face first, on the table in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, we both know that you have started to ask the wrong questions. And now I only have one question for you. Do you want to know what the matrix is? Almost out of breath from the two men pushing him on the table, Thomas managed to barely say “Yes… I want to know what it is.” “Very well. But I can assure you, you’re not going to like what comes next …” Thomas started to feel a rush on his cheeks and his lips. Something happened to his mouth. He tried opening it, but there appeared to be something that prevented him to open and control his mouth. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage a inaudible mumble. Then, the two men put the mask on his head and everything turned black...
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	"Well, Mr. Powell," the interviewer adjusted his glasses, "Your references all seem to be in order, and everyone spoke very highly of you." The last knot in my stomach unraveled. Thank god. I mean, I knew that I would have nothing to worry about. Otherwise, why would I have listed those people as references? But still: it was nice to finally hear. I'd been through days of testing and seen the applicant pool whittled down from two hundred to just three of us left, applying for two spots. "Just one last thing." He removed a large (like, book-sized) manila folder from his desk and slammed it down in front of me, making the whole desk shake. "Let's discuss your search history." The sentence that every young man fears, though I'd been expecting it to come from my girlfriend, not a potential employer. "I..." He slid the folder over to me and then tapped his fingers together like Mr. Burns. I extended one finger and flipped the top of the folder open, like there was something disgusting inside that I didn't want to touch. First page was categorized as "Dangerous." It was a pretty broad term that included things like that time that I'd worked the graveyard shift and decided to learn all I could about the Kennedy Assassination. Then there was the times that I'd googled how to build bombs, propaganda techniques... you know, things that would make me seem like some sort of supervillain or terrorist. "Well this is all..." I stuttered, looking back down at the page as though some explanation might jump out at me. "Look, there's...." I was just curious, I swear! He cleared his throat and nodded down, asking me to flip to the next bookmark. I turned to the next section, titled "Porn." I don't need to even go into detail, but let's just say that there were some unorthodox searches that would probably send my mother into a coma if she ever read this page. Even reading the searches without seeing the results made me feel like I needed a shower. "I can't be the only one who has looked at..." I glanced back down at the page again. Ok, maybe I was. "Now, is this really the sort of person we want working at Google?" the interviewer asked. I bowed my head, and I was just empty inside. I'd gotten so far through the process. It was in my grasp... and now it was slipping away. "Look, it's probably too late to change your mind. But isn't this why we have the internet? So that we can explore curiosity without judgment and get real answers instead of asking someone who doesn't really know either? Should we really be condemning that?" He snorted. "Oh, that's what you thought the issue was?" He leaned over his desk and tapped the right corner of every page, showing the Bing logo. "We don't care what you're searching for, we just have doubts about your judgment." I gave a sigh of relief and closed the folder as fast as possible. I didn't even want to see what other sections were in there. "I was only able to use Internet Explorer from my work computer, and Bing was the default that I couldn't change." I explained through a nervous smile. Hopefully he wouldn't make the connection that all of those searches had been while I was at work. "Ah!" He slid the folder off the side of his desk, stood up, and shook my hand. "Well in that case, welcome aboard!" ---- As always, subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell for more stories!	“So Mr. Anderson, thanks for your patience. My name is Smith and I’m in charge of security around here." “Nice to meet you”, Thomas said while Mr. Smith sat down at the other side of the table. Thomas only wondered briefly about Mr. Smith’s sunglasses and his very, very black suit. “As you know this is your final interview and we’d like to discuss one topic with you: Your search history.” Thomas hesitated for a second, then responded: “Ehm.. okay.. I guess we can do that. What would you like to know?”. “Well, frankly your search history has changed a bit over those last weeks, hasn’t it Mr. Anderson?” He opened a folder lying in front of him on the desk. May 15th. At 2:03am you searched for “Morpheus reported sightings” May 17th. 3:52am. “Morpheus organization contact” May 21st. 23:51pm. “How to make mac and cheese in the microwave fast” May 24th. 1:15am. “Is this real life?” May 27th. 2:15am. “Dream world computer generated” May 29th. 1:46am. "Google artificial intelligence development" May 31st. 3:46am. “Artificial intelligence robots” And just this morning, June 3rd. 1:39am. “What is the matrix?”* He looked at Thomas, making eye contact. “Mr. Anderson, what do you think is the matrix then?” Without Thomas noticing, the door behind him had opened and two men stepped inside the room. “Well… I don’t really… eh I don’t really know what it is I guess..”, Thomas began to stutter and started to sweat. His head spinning at the confusing questions and facts presented to him by Smith. Smith stared at him with a grin on his face, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. He then turned to the two man standing beside Thomas and briefly nodded at them. All of sudden, the two man reached for Thomas and grabbed his arms, pushing him down, face first, on the table in front of him. “Mr. Anderson, we both know that you have started to ask the wrong questions. And now I only have one question for you. Do you want to know what the matrix is? Almost out of breath from the two men pushing him on the table, Thomas managed to barely say “Yes… I want to know what it is.” “Very well. But I can assure you, you’re not going to like what comes next …” Thomas started to feel a rush on his cheeks and his lips. Something happened to his mouth. He tried opening it, but there appeared to be something that prevented him to open and control his mouth. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage a inaudible mumble. Then, the two men put the mask on his head and everything turned black...
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	I must admit, I expected everything to be much more challenging. But it turns out interviewing at Google is not that difficult. My experience definitely helped a lot, being involved in the past with a bunch of giants from IT. But the weirdness just begun. The last part of the interview happens in what it looked like a badly lit basement. Across a small, red wood desk a slightly old guy was nodding his head while reading something from his personal notebook. "Mark, I'd like to talk with you a bit about Google search engine. Are you familiar with it?" "Familiar? I think everyone is familiar with it. I use it every day. Everyone does." "I have here, in my notebook, a list of things you wrote into Google over the years. I'd like for us to go over those." "Go over...? Wait, do you have my search queries there?" "This is not important, Mark. Everything we do now is confidential. What I'd like now is for us to go over these queries and for you to remember when and why you wrote them." Is this for real? What we have here is a huge privacy breach. That means this whole interview was useless. They already knew everything about me. They know about the gay porn I watched, they know I have a very ugly rush on my back, they even know I suspect my wife on cheating on me. OH GOD... they know I googled for "quick sort algorithm" two days ago. "With those said, the first query: 'how to use manual transmission', 2 Jun 2011 at 23:54." From all I've wrote in Google over the years they choose this one? I don't even remember this specific query. A 5 years old search? "It's for a driving license. I got it several years ago, I was studying internet resources to help me with that. What is the issue with it?" He made some quick notes on his notebook before going forward: "No issues Mark. On 21 September 2011 at 9:45 in the morning you searched 'how to plan road trip Europe'. Do you remember?" "The road trip, I think I remember, yes. There was a new girl I've met back then and I wanted to impress her. I think we've been through some countries around Europe. What is the purpose of this, doc?" "We are in an interview Mark. At Google. You are a Software Engineer. But let us go a bit forward in your search queries. On 3 March 2012 you've searched 'my girlfriend is pregnant', right?" "Where is this going? I don't like this. I don't know. I can't... remember." "Mark, focus! At the end of 2013 you've searched for honeymoon destinations." "I'm not listening!" "In 2014 you've searched for a babysitter. You've been in Asia for your honeymoon!" "LIAR!" "2015, you started to see a therapist! You were feeling depressed! In 2016 you've searched for cheap recording devices. Your wife was cheating on you!" "YOU TELL LIES! YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!" "Still 2016, you searched for cheap guns. You found a local small shop and bought an illegal 9mm gun." "I don't want to... don't force me...please... no more" "Mark, do you remember killing your wife? Shooting your kid? Do you remember all this?" Through all the sobbing Mark started punching himself and throwing himself into wall, fighting with himself. The empty hospital room didn't had any sharp or solid objects but this was still too dangerous. "Sedate him. I'll rewrite my script and we will try again in several days."	"There's just one thing. Your search history." My heart started beating like crazy. I took very precaution, I thought. I deleted all of my search history. I used a VPN. Hell, I even used another computer. What could they have found out? My infidelity towards my wife? My mentally unstable phase? No, not... my porn? Could it be? Could they know the vile things I have jerked off to? "Honestly, what's the matter with you, man?" The interviewer looked at me with the utmost disgust. What do you know? I wanted to scream, but I was too terrified to do anything. "I mean, really? Bing?"
	[WP] You applied for a job at google, everything goes well and only one interview remains: They'd just like an explanation for your search history.	The knock on my door came like a blast of thunder. I jumped up in my armchair and looked at the time. Eight past midnight. "Who's that?" I called. The armchair was so soft I didn't want to get up for no good reason. "I'm Ms. Vernon from Google. We scheduled an interview today, remember?" I groaned and shambled to the door. "You're six hours late. Can't you come back—" The moment I unlocked the door, a pair of bulky robots burst inside and grabbed hold of my arms. Following them was a middle-aged woman all dressed in black. "What're you doing to me? Let me go!" I shouted. "Your interview has begun," she said sweetly. "I suggest that you watch your tone." The robots dragged me to the living room and forced me into my armchair, while Ms. Vernon perched herself on the piano stool. When they were certain I wasn't going to try and run, the robots released my arms and stepped back. "You can't just bring your private enforcers into my home," I said. "I have rights—" "You signed your rights away in the job application contract, remember?" She waved a Google tablet before me, the offending document on display. "Along with your rights to sue for any bodily harm caused, so I suggest you behave yourself." "I thought I was supposed to meet one of your top executives," I said. "Who are you?" "I'm the special assistant to our COO," she said, swiping her fingers over the tablet. "But that's not for discussion. We're actually pretty impressed with your scores. Why, I'd say you're almost a prodigy, especially for a fifty-year-old man." "Do you manhandle all your star applicants?" "No," she said, voice cold. "Only the ones with a suspect search history." I gulped; despite my earlier bravado and indignation, I knew I was in true danger now. Even as she slid her tablet across the coffee table to me, I was tensing up. "Explain—" she said. "—why you don't have a search history." My jaw worked soundlessly as I looked at the robots. Their red eye slits watched me impassively. Someone had turned the inside of my mouth into a desert. "I—I—" "Nothing at all," she said. "Not a single search performed on Google in your entire life. How is that possible in the twenty-second century?" I could only shake my head. "We even checked the archives of Bing during the days before we bought Microsoft. Nothing from you. Where did you learn to code? How do you even use the Internet?" "I don't," I said, face flushing. "I—I visit libraries. I borrow a lot of books—really, I can show you my study—" "Pretend for one second that I'm an idiot," she said. "That I believe your horseshit about books. How do you remember everything you read? The primary needs of mankind are Google search and wifi, before even food. How do you survive without using a search engine?" I licked my lips. "I go outside. A lot. I buy things from stores, I talk to professors, I borrow books. I can show—" "Liar. You've done something to conceal your search history." She snapped her fingers, and the robots seized me again. "But Google knows. Google always knows. We'll find the truth." "I'm not lying," I screamed. "I haven't even switched my computer on for a day!" "You use your phone." "I use my phone for calls!" Her eyes widened. "You monster." "I'm speaking the truth! Please, no, please ..." My pleas and tears went unanswered as they marched me out of the door. All around us, my neighbors watched silently through the lens of their phones. No doubt they were using VideoGoogle to discover my crime. The only thing I'd ever wanted was to work at Google like my father before me. But the woman's eyes told me all I needed to know. I, the last of the Zuckerbergs, had just failed my entire line. *** Edit: minor error Come to [The Nonsense Locker](http://reddit.com/r/nonsenselocker) for more stories!	"There's just one thing. Your search history." My heart started beating like crazy. I took very precaution, I thought. I deleted all of my search history. I used a VPN. Hell, I even used another computer. What could they have found out? My infidelity towards my wife? My mentally unstable phase? No, not... my porn? Could it be? Could they know the vile things I have jerked off to? "Honestly, what's the matter with you, man?" The interviewer looked at me with the utmost disgust. What do you know? I wanted to scream, but I was too terrified to do anything. "I mean, really? Bing?"
	[WP] When I was 16 my father pulled me out of school and shoved me in the car. His eyes didn't leave the road as he threw a gun in my lap and said, "We're going to get your mother."	"Does that mean you believe me," I asked, out loud, though I'd been wondering ever since I'd told him what I'd seen a week ago. His eyes shifted to me, almost imperceptibly, but I could see the corner of his mouth quivering in profile. There was sweat on his brow. His skin was flushed and waxy. He didn't have to confirm. He did anyway. "Susan is different. I don't even know where she is right now." My younger sister. She'd been mom's favorite target from the very start. Two years younger than me, but at least ten years smarter when it came to school. Mom had always doted on her, as if grooming her for something. "I had to.. I tried to end it when I realised. Chris, you have to understand--" "Just drive. We'll work out the details when it's done." I shoved the gun into the waist of my jeans, not entirely sure how to use it but determined to make every attempt count. ******* The house was quiet. The front door was open and just beyond the mat where we'd always wiped the mud off of our shoes I could see something wet and chunky. Dad pushed the door open further, leading with the shotgun he'd got out of the boot. I followed closely, but far enough to let him maneuver. I was trusting his movements as we slid into the house, trying to be quiet. I would have been scared enough if Mom had been our only issue but with Susan on the loose, we were at the very least evenly matched. He took a step into the hallway that led to the stairs and a board creaked almost urgently. I froze. Dad crouched and put the double barrels up. We held our breath and waited for the fallout. When it didn't come we locked eyes and continued. He motioned with a free hand for me to get low. I did, now fully aware of just how unprepared for any of this I was. That's when we heard it. Almost like a rattlesnake. The ceiling shook slightly. One or both of them were upstairs. And then a thud. Dad pointed to his gun and then to his leg and I understood. Susan was wounded. She might not even be able to maintain a form. We crept up the stairs, holding onto the banister and making sure to step lightly. My gun felt heavy in my waistband. I was anxious about having to actually handle it. I'd never shot a gun before. Dad had at least been hunting. He got to the top of the stairs and held his hand up. I stopped and waited. He pointed at Susan's bedroom. I knew what we were about to do. Inhaling deeply, I reached for my gun but he shook his head. I nodded, maybe prematurely, but I didn't want to kill Susan. I hadn't seen her change. She was my little sister. Mom was something else, something foreign. I'd already grieved for her. I think he knew that seeing Susan that way would have killed me. Still, I was frustrated at my father. Did he know how strong these things were? He moved forward. I crouched on the third to to riser, and slowly my teenage brain took over. Didn't he believe I could help? Did he really believe me? I listened to the quiet for his steps as he disappeared into Susan's room. Silence. Creak. Creak. And then a hiss, like in the movies, and a rattle. He'd found her. But it did only sound like one. Mom must not be here. I could hear the struggle, muffled only just barely by the walls. Hisses interspersed with daddy no, please and then two shots. Bang. Silence. Bang. Silence. I waited, my heart pounding, my brain refusing to take stock. One of the things was dead, I told myself as I sat on the stairs. I could almost breathe. I sat there, for minutes, gathering myself until I realised my father had not come back yet. I had unconsciously grabbed my gun. My body had already figured it out. I snuck up the last steps and up to Susan's door. It was half shut. A scaled tail lay limp just beyond. There was blood on her bed. Following dad's lead, I inched the door open with the short barrel of my gun. I could see long hair in a tangle on the carpet. It was matted with blood. I didn't see the tail move. Susan was dead. The real Susan. It was bigger and darker than my mother. He'd lied to me. I could feel warm breath on my neck. My father's scales created a symphony in front of me and my mother's shook to match. They were celebrating their harvest. As her fangs sunk into my neck, I felt my father's ripping into my jeans. I put the gun in my mouth and fired. Click.	I understood immediately. “How did you find her?” I look over to him. Dad’s mouth remained pursed in a thin line. His eyes locked, expression empty. “Where is she?” This time he answered. “Industrial park warehouse off Branchville. Near the petrochem refineries.” I rubbed the pistol in my lap, its cylinder cool and smooth. “What are they doing at a warehouse, they smuggling something? You know how many will be there?” “No idea. Just got a tip that she’s there right now.” On most days my dad would be considered a talkative person, but not today. He has always been taciturn when it came to mom. I sighed and glanced out the car window. Buildings and pedestrians gradually gave way to lakes and trees. Is this finally the day we get to mom? Past memories circled my mind like fish in a tank. I tried to block them out but it's impossible to refuse thoughts that have already breached into consciousness. My mother’s radiant smile as she hugged me close to her bosom. My father’s ashen face as he whispered, “she’s gone.” I sighed again and began twirling the weapon in my palm. My eyes closed. I will definitely get her this time. The gun felt slipperier than usual. I glanced down and saw that it was coated with sweat. By the time our sedan entered the industrial park, the sun had just descended. We parked away from the actual warehouse, which already hosted two 12-wheelers on its lot. The cartel obviously planned to load up them with some kind of lucrative loot inside. "We're splitting up right?" I asked my father when we exited the car and scurried toward our destination. Faint shouts arise from inside the warehouse as we neared: "Vamos! Vamos buscar!" But no one posted guard outside. "Yeah, there are two floors. I'll enter first and climb to the second floor. You wait a few minutes and make sure everything is clear outside. Then go survey the ground floor. If you hear gunshots at any time, come up." I nodded. We were now crouched directly next to the double door entrance, both armed with a single pistol. I was taught years ago - after one acquires precise aim, the least cumbersome weapon is the most practical. Dad turned and rested his hands on my shoulders. "Remember - if you see her, get her." And then he slipped through the dim entrance and was gone. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I will update with more if you guys want. Wanted to post this first bit up here early.
	[WP] When I was 16 my father pulled me out of school and shoved me in the car. His eyes didn't leave the road as he threw a gun in my lap and said, "We're going to get your mother."	He had pulled me out of school after lunch and made a scene in the hallway yelling at the principal, "This is my son and I'll take him out of school if I want to!" He smelled like the bar again. He always smelled like the bar these days and he was always yelling at everyone, like the whole world was against him. I didn't really understand his anger, but it started after mom left. She blamed him for their marriage and blamed him for her not loving him anymore. He got even angrier when she had found someone new and angrier again when they married in a few months. I followed him to the car after we left the school and got in with him. Once we got in the car he threw a gun on my lap and said, "We're going to get your mother." Surprised and a bit confused I replied, "But dad she's-" "I don't want to hear it. I said we we're going to get her and I don't want any goddamn complaints." he said not even looking in my direction. I sat there in silence after that. The angrier he got the more I learned to be quiet. I mostly stayed quiet around him out of fear. Fear that he would also leave me and fear of what he would do if I didn't stay silent. He started driving away from the school and I had wanted to say something to him, but he seemed like he would just shout at me if I said something. He stared at the road hardly even noticing I was there and breathing heavily like he was about to fight someone and I didn't want it to be me. I ended up turning to look out the window and look at the sky. I ignored where he was driving because it wasn't the first time he had pulled me out of school with some crazy idea. It was an overcast day, dark and low clouds over head, and humid enough for your clothes to stick to you. After about 15 minutes the car came to a stopped and I knew where we were. I looked over and saw the headstone "Jane Winsley 1975-2016". My father grabbed the gun and got out of the car and head over to the headstone. "Hey! What are you doing?!" I yelled as I got out of the car and headed toward him and try to stop him. He shoved me out of the way and knelt down in front of the headstone and put the gun under his chin. "We're going to get back at her! Get back at her for leaving us!", He yelled. I stared at him kneeling there and didn't know what to do or what to say to stop him. I was frozen in panic and looked him in the eyes and saw the madness of everything that had happened to him in the past year. To us. I took a step towards him to get the gun and then I heard the "Click." He forgot to load it. He dropped the gun and I watch him as the tears started down his face. "Why did she have to leave us?" He sobbed. I couldn't answer him because there was no answer. I just listen to the sounds of him sobbing and pounding the ground in anger. I looked up towards the sky at those heavy dark clouds and then it started to rain.	I understood immediately. “How did you find her?” I look over to him. Dad’s mouth remained pursed in a thin line. His eyes locked, expression empty. “Where is she?” This time he answered. “Industrial park warehouse off Branchville. Near the petrochem refineries.” I rubbed the pistol in my lap, its cylinder cool and smooth. “What are they doing at a warehouse, they smuggling something? You know how many will be there?” “No idea. Just got a tip that she’s there right now.” On most days my dad would be considered a talkative person, but not today. He has always been taciturn when it came to mom. I sighed and glanced out the car window. Buildings and pedestrians gradually gave way to lakes and trees. Is this finally the day we get to mom? Past memories circled my mind like fish in a tank. I tried to block them out but it's impossible to refuse thoughts that have already breached into consciousness. My mother’s radiant smile as she hugged me close to her bosom. My father’s ashen face as he whispered, “she’s gone.” I sighed again and began twirling the weapon in my palm. My eyes closed. I will definitely get her this time. The gun felt slipperier than usual. I glanced down and saw that it was coated with sweat. By the time our sedan entered the industrial park, the sun had just descended. We parked away from the actual warehouse, which already hosted two 12-wheelers on its lot. The cartel obviously planned to load up them with some kind of lucrative loot inside. "We're splitting up right?" I asked my father when we exited the car and scurried toward our destination. Faint shouts arise from inside the warehouse as we neared: "Vamos! Vamos buscar!" But no one posted guard outside. "Yeah, there are two floors. I'll enter first and climb to the second floor. You wait a few minutes and make sure everything is clear outside. Then go survey the ground floor. If you hear gunshots at any time, come up." I nodded. We were now crouched directly next to the double door entrance, both armed with a single pistol. I was taught years ago - after one acquires precise aim, the least cumbersome weapon is the most practical. Dad turned and rested his hands on my shoulders. "Remember - if you see her, get her." And then he slipped through the dim entrance and was gone. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I will update with more if you guys want. Wanted to post this first bit up here early.
	[WP] When I was 16 my father pulled me out of school and shoved me in the car. His eyes didn't leave the road as he threw a gun in my lap and said, "We're going to get your mother."	It was a semi-normal day. Math class first period, History second, Gym third, then Mechanics last. It felt good knowing that summer had finally come and that school was almost over. The thought had eased my mind and I was beginning to relax, but I was sorely mistaken. The intercom boomed over my history teacher in the middle of his lecture about global economics. "Michael Soner to the main office please, Michael Soner." Shocked, I awoke from my power-nap (History Sucks). Grabbing my books I meandered to my locker and packed my bag. On my walk to the office, I saw my father waiting outside. He seemed anxious, but somewhat frustrated. I hurried over to him and asked him what was wrong, I had never seen him like this before. He was always the no emotion, must always be strong, don't focus on the past type of person. "Dad, what's up?" Without warning, he grabbed me by the top of my backpack and started pulling me to the car. "Dad?" He didn't respond and shoved me into the passenger seat of his Ford Mustang. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Michael...," He said for the first time since we left the school and began to head out of town. "We're going to get your mother." He added while simultaneously tossing a gun into my lap. The 9mm felt heavy and cold on my thighs. A feeling of anxiety and fear washed over me as well. I've never held a gun before, let alone even see one in real life. "What the hell is happening," I asked my Dad who has been swerving between the cars on the highway. "Your mother has been taken by some bad people. People who have no morals or remorse for any of their actions." He said with a hint of anger in his voice. "Who would want Mom? She is just a hairstylist at Quick Cuts. I don't even think she talks to anybody except you and her family." "They want Mom because of me," He said while speeding up to 120 Kmph. "You? You are just a construction worker though. Did you misplace a steel beam or something?" "Mike..., before you were born, I had a bit of a drug issue. I would be buying close to $200 of weed a week. At the beginning, I would pay for it from my job's pay, but eventually it just wouldn't cut it. So I made a deal. I would do favours for the dealers. Threatening, interrogating, and sometimes attacking those who stole from my dealer." "How do you know that they have Mom," I inquired. "Well, yesterday I got a phone call from them saying that they need another favour. I refused. They took Mom earlier today while we were out. Now we have to get her back." "Well then. Where are we going to go?" A mixed feeling of curiosity and fear filled me. "The airport." He replied with a determined look on his face. He seemed much different from earlier when he picked me up.	I understood immediately. “How did you find her?” I look over to him. Dad’s mouth remained pursed in a thin line. His eyes locked, expression empty. “Where is she?” This time he answered. “Industrial park warehouse off Branchville. Near the petrochem refineries.” I rubbed the pistol in my lap, its cylinder cool and smooth. “What are they doing at a warehouse, they smuggling something? You know how many will be there?” “No idea. Just got a tip that she’s there right now.” On most days my dad would be considered a talkative person, but not today. He has always been taciturn when it came to mom. I sighed and glanced out the car window. Buildings and pedestrians gradually gave way to lakes and trees. Is this finally the day we get to mom? Past memories circled my mind like fish in a tank. I tried to block them out but it's impossible to refuse thoughts that have already breached into consciousness. My mother’s radiant smile as she hugged me close to her bosom. My father’s ashen face as he whispered, “she’s gone.” I sighed again and began twirling the weapon in my palm. My eyes closed. I will definitely get her this time. The gun felt slipperier than usual. I glanced down and saw that it was coated with sweat. By the time our sedan entered the industrial park, the sun had just descended. We parked away from the actual warehouse, which already hosted two 12-wheelers on its lot. The cartel obviously planned to load up them with some kind of lucrative loot inside. "We're splitting up right?" I asked my father when we exited the car and scurried toward our destination. Faint shouts arise from inside the warehouse as we neared: "Vamos! Vamos buscar!" But no one posted guard outside. "Yeah, there are two floors. I'll enter first and climb to the second floor. You wait a few minutes and make sure everything is clear outside. Then go survey the ground floor. If you hear gunshots at any time, come up." I nodded. We were now crouched directly next to the double door entrance, both armed with a single pistol. I was taught years ago - after one acquires precise aim, the least cumbersome weapon is the most practical. Dad turned and rested his hands on my shoulders. "Remember - if you see her, get her." And then he slipped through the dim entrance and was gone. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I will update with more if you guys want. Wanted to post this first bit up here early.
	[WP] When I was 16 my father pulled me out of school and shoved me in the car. His eyes didn't leave the road as he threw a gun in my lap and said, "We're going to get your mother."	Pat Two. As I nodded to my father, my fingers wrapped around the handle of the passenger door of our family's SUV. Before giving the handle one solid jerk, I watched my father slide himself from the driver's seat and out into the middle of the intersection. With the same intensity as before, his eyes darted back and forth, as if surveying his surroundings. Finally, he motioned for me to exit the car. My heart still pounding in my chest, I followed his lead, one hand still firmly clasped around the gun. When I was very young, I used to stare at my father's every move; whether he was adjusting his tie before heading to work or reading the paper, I always sat there, staring. Not like today. Today, I watched his every move. I loved and trusted my father with all my heart, but he seemed so different from the man I thought I had all figured out. Slowly, one foot after the other, I exited the passenger seat and made my way around to the front of the car to see him sprint into action. He ran over to the car that had hit us; his feet splashing in the puddles that began to form from the rain. It wasn't till that moment did I hear her screams. "Nathan!," my father screamed, "Get over here!" Shaking away the accident, I dropped the gun to my side and sprinted over to my father who began pulling a young woman from the wreckage. Wrapping his arms around her, his body collapsed to the street as she collapsed into him. "Remove your belt and help me put pressure on her leg," ordered my father. Without hesitation, I unbuckled my worn leather belt and dropped to my knees to assist him. Giving him a quick nod, I stretched out my hands, waiting for his next order. "Now wrap it around her leg there and pull as tight as you can," he ordered. I nodded again as I wrapped my belt around her leg and pulled. As the belt snapped tight she gave out a scream. "Very good son," my father said calmly, "very good." Time seemed to stand still as my father and I knelt around this young woman. Her screams had quieted to a muffled cry. I looked over at my father who sat there, stroking her hand in comfort. After what felt like a lifetime, in one fell swoop, he grabbed my hand and placed it on top of hers before standing up. Confused and scared all at the same time, I asked, "where are you going?" "I need to make a call," my father replied. As I held her hand, the young woman shivered. I couldn't decide whether she was shivering from the cold or from shock, but I had convinced myself that if I held her hand, all would be OK. Seconds later, my father came back and knelt beside us. For a few seconds he didn't say anything. He sat there, looking down at the young woman as her body trembled in the rain. Finally, he looked up at me. "We have to go," he said softly. "We have to leave her." "What?" I asked. "How could we leave her? Look at her!" "I know Nathan," he said calmly. "But we have to go now. Help is on its way." I couldn't believe him. How could my loving father leave someone in need? How could he so coldly make such a harsh decision? "Nathan," my father said. "Look at me. We need to go get your mother. I've called for help and its on its way. Do you understand me?" For the first time that day, I stared back at my father, questioning his judgement. My hand was still clasped tightly around the young woman's hand. I nodded to my father. It was time go. "Do you still have that gun I gave you?" asked my father. I gave another quick nod as the sound of sirens could be heard off in the distance.	I understood immediately. “How did you find her?” I look over to him. Dad’s mouth remained pursed in a thin line. His eyes locked, expression empty. “Where is she?” This time he answered. “Industrial park warehouse off Branchville. Near the petrochem refineries.” I rubbed the pistol in my lap, its cylinder cool and smooth. “What are they doing at a warehouse, they smuggling something? You know how many will be there?” “No idea. Just got a tip that she’s there right now.” On most days my dad would be considered a talkative person, but not today. He has always been taciturn when it came to mom. I sighed and glanced out the car window. Buildings and pedestrians gradually gave way to lakes and trees. Is this finally the day we get to mom? Past memories circled my mind like fish in a tank. I tried to block them out but it's impossible to refuse thoughts that have already breached into consciousness. My mother’s radiant smile as she hugged me close to her bosom. My father’s ashen face as he whispered, “she’s gone.” I sighed again and began twirling the weapon in my palm. My eyes closed. I will definitely get her this time. The gun felt slipperier than usual. I glanced down and saw that it was coated with sweat. By the time our sedan entered the industrial park, the sun had just descended. We parked away from the actual warehouse, which already hosted two 12-wheelers on its lot. The cartel obviously planned to load up them with some kind of lucrative loot inside. "We're splitting up right?" I asked my father when we exited the car and scurried toward our destination. Faint shouts arise from inside the warehouse as we neared: "Vamos! Vamos buscar!" But no one posted guard outside. "Yeah, there are two floors. I'll enter first and climb to the second floor. You wait a few minutes and make sure everything is clear outside. Then go survey the ground floor. If you hear gunshots at any time, come up." I nodded. We were now crouched directly next to the double door entrance, both armed with a single pistol. I was taught years ago - after one acquires precise aim, the least cumbersome weapon is the most practical. Dad turned and rested his hands on my shoulders. "Remember - if you see her, get her." And then he slipped through the dim entrance and was gone. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I will update with more if you guys want. Wanted to post this first bit up here early.

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