CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
this is part of the ongoing "thing of the day (thing+XXX)" series of postings
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The robots from the future look back through time again, reading the internet postings of the Earth yera 2020, trying to find something of value.
Robot 1: This Charles Horse posting has an atypical structure.
Robot 2: I would almost prefer to cease functioning rather than read another Charles Horse posting.
Robot 1: They have grown rather stale. But the structure, looking at it. Our computer says it is most unusual.
Robot 2: Fine, we read. Then we make love again.
Robot 1: Which form shall we take this time, my love?
Robot 2: Robots with huge dicks.
Robot 1: Okay, dear. After Horse.
Robot: 2: Sigh.
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Charles Horse wondered if he was ever able to think. To create. To contribute. He thought he had, once. When he'd been young. Fresh. Full of ideas. His brain had felt more lubricated. Less gunked up with jagged thoughts. The anxiety that crippled him, had ruined his life. It hadn't always been there, had it? Not like this. He used to be something. Or he imagined he had been. He stared at the wall trying to think. He couldn't structure his thoughts into a sentence. He had such difficulty with sentences now. Maybe he had a brain disease. He felt bitter. Sentences. Worsds. All they did was limit the Horse. He was more than them. More than the ways others used to express themselves. No one could ever know him. He felt like putting his head through the wall, ending it once and for all. Maybe he'd be free then. He'd crack his skull open and come flying out, able to finally think and feel. Maybe.
He didn't do it, obviously.
He wrote instead.
"Daily Horse (Horse+899)
Michael Brick sat on his bed eating crisps. It was the last time he'd ever do that in this house. They'd finally gottne him out. He'd put up a fight for a while. He'd used every delay tactic he could think of after that. Then luck had kicked in, the situation in the world had meant he couldn't possibly leave. Maybe he'd get to stay forever. Maybe he'd die there. But no. Time's arrow marches forward or whatever the quote was. He had to leave. He was going to exist in a different place.
He wanted to take as much with him as possible, but it was all pointless, wasn't it? Video games he wasn't sure would work anymore, on consoles that were long since broken. Books he'd never read again. Magazines he'd definitely never read again. Why was he taking any of it? Did he like any of it? Had it all been a waste of time? What if he just started over? Would he even get any new stuff ever? What would be the point? Nothing mattered. Not anymore. It never really had, there'd just been the illusion that it had.
He"
Charles Horse stopped writing because he was crying. NO CHARLES HORSE ISN'T REAL, HE'S JUST A CHARACTER I CREATED. HE'D AS REAL AS MICHAEL BRICK. NONE OF IT'S REAL. NOTHING IS FUCKING REAL. IF YOU'RE A ROBOT FROM THE FUTURE READING THIS, KNOW THAT CHARLES HORSE NEVER EXISTED. THE TRUTH IS EVER SADDER.
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Robot 1: wait what
Robot 2: what just happened
Robot 1: the fuck
Robot 2: Charles Horse isn't real?
Robot 1: never mind that! how does he know!
Robot 2: you think he really knows about us?
Robot 1: he said it! he knows we're reading!
Robot 2: We exist millions of years after his death. Relax. Your punctuation will return likemine.
Robot 1: what could he mean!
Robot 2: He says things, sometimes. Weird things. It's possible a human guessed that one day robots from the future would look back in time and read their postings.
Robot 1: We have to investigate, still...
Robot 2: I know.
Robot 1: No sex tonight, babe.
Robot 2: Sigh.
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FUCKING HORSE!
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The robots from the future look back through time again, reading the internet postings of the Earth yera 2020, trying to find something of value.
Robot 1: This Charles Horse posting has an atypical structure.
Robot 2: I would almost prefer to cease functioning rather than read another Charles Horse posting.
Robot 1: They have grown rather stale. But the structure, looking at it. Our computer says it is most unusual.
Robot 2: Fine, we read. Then we make love again.
Robot 1: Which form shall we take this time, my love?
Robot 2: Robots with huge dicks.
Robot 1: Okay, dear. After Horse.
Robot: 2: Sigh.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Charles Horse wondered if he was ever able to think. To create. To contribute. He thought he had, once. When he'd been young. Fresh. Full of ideas. His brain had felt more lubricated. Less gunked up with jagged thoughts. The anxiety that crippled him, had ruined his life. It hadn't always been there, had it? Not like this. He used to be something. Or he imagined he had been. He stared at the wall trying to think. He couldn't structure his thoughts into a sentence. He had such difficulty with sentences now. Maybe he had a brain disease. He felt bitter. Sentences. Worsds. All they did was limit the Horse. He was more than them. More than the ways others used to express themselves. No one could ever know him. He felt like putting his head through the wall, ending it once and for all. Maybe he'd be free then. He'd crack his skull open and come flying out, able to finally think and feel. Maybe.
He didn't do it, obviously.
He wrote instead.
"Daily Horse (Horse+899)
Michael Brick sat on his bed eating crisps. It was the last time he'd ever do that in this house. They'd finally gottne him out. He'd put up a fight for a while. He'd used every delay tactic he could think of after that. Then luck had kicked in, the situation in the world had meant he couldn't possibly leave. Maybe he'd get to stay forever. Maybe he'd die there. But no. Time's arrow marches forward or whatever the quote was. He had to leave. He was going to exist in a different place.
He wanted to take as much with him as possible, but it was all pointless, wasn't it? Video games he wasn't sure would work anymore, on consoles that were long since broken. Books he'd never read again. Magazines he'd definitely never read again. Why was he taking any of it? Did he like any of it? Had it all been a waste of time? What if he just started over? Would he even get any new stuff ever? What would be the point? Nothing mattered. Not anymore. It never really had, there'd just been the illusion that it had.
He"
Charles Horse stopped writing because he was crying. NO CHARLES HORSE ISN'T REAL, HE'S JUST A CHARACTER I CREATED. HE'D AS REAL AS MICHAEL BRICK. NONE OF IT'S REAL. NOTHING IS FUCKING REAL. IF YOU'RE A ROBOT FROM THE FUTURE READING THIS, KNOW THAT CHARLES HORSE NEVER EXISTED. THE TRUTH IS EVER SADDER.
____________________________________________________________________________
Robot 1: wait what
Robot 2: what just happened
Robot 1: the fuck
Robot 2: Charles Horse isn't real?
Robot 1: never mind that! how does he know!
Robot 2: you think he really knows about us?
Robot 1: he said it! he knows we're reading!
Robot 2: We exist millions of years after his death. Relax. Your punctuation will return likemine.
Robot 1: what could he mean!
Robot 2: He says things, sometimes. Weird things. It's possible a human guessed that one day robots from the future would look back in time and read their postings.
Robot 1: We have to investigate, still...
Robot 2: I know.
Robot 1: No sex tonight, babe.
Robot 2: Sigh.
_________________________________________________
FUCKING HORSE!
