Chapter Nine Snow Shadows

 

 

A slowly spiraling nightmare. A moment in time caught in a loop, spiraling downward. Inexorably, the loop worsens with each recursive cycle.

From a glass eyedropper with a black rubber bulb, I squeeze out a single drop of what looks like black ink.

I watch the drop fall in slow motion onto one of my spindly snowfingers. The drop hits my snowskin and disappears into me, and there is a horrible crackling as the liquid propagates through my snowtissues.

Suddenly, I realize what the black ink is—a dense swarm of Crackle-brand carbenoid nanobots, supposed to be illegal for the consumer market.

The moment repeats again and again and again and again, and each time, the crackling propagation of carbenoid nanobots infuses deeper and deeper until, after the last turn of the loop, they have run out of internal snowtissue to convert to nanobots so they come swarming out of the pores of my snowskin like microscopic black army ants.

My racial identity as a Caucasian snowperson is shattered, as the entire surface of my snowbody glistens with the shiny black ooze of Crackle nanobots dripping off me as they seek new molecules they can deconstruct into atoms that can be used as building blocks to construct ever more of their dust-mite-like robotic bodies. To an eye unaided by microscopy, I would now appear more obese tar baby than snowman.

With increasing panic, I realize that my snowfingers, sticky with the tarlike ooze of carbenoid nanobots, will not be able to operate my phone’s touchscreen to call 911. Then it occurs to me that I can voice command my phone via the AI avatar, Ackey. But when I try to cry out “Ackey!” to awaken the avatar, all that comes out is a burbling sound like a bubble of sulfurous gas, stinking of decaying saber-toothed tiger and woolly mammoth protein, being released from the La Brea tar pits.

Obviously, Ackey does not respond to the primeval burbling of a snowlarynx being devoured by nanobots. The conversion of my snowtissues into nanobots is a geometric progression that has passed a fail-safe point of no return.

I visualize firemen summoned by neighbors who detect the petrochemical odor, the off-gassing of a runaway nanobot conversion process. They smash open my door with axes to find an apartment covered in greasy black ooze. On the floor is a tiny, featureless tar baby flailing weakly in a puddle of black slime as the last vestiges of its snowform are devoured into the nanobot swarm . . .

I awaken from the nightmare in anxious stages, believing myself to be a vestigial, disembodied nucleus of awareness hovering above the black ooze.

Slowly, I become aware of dissonant perceptions, the familiar aching of inflammation around the stressed joints of my aged and obese snowbody.

I have chronic rheumatoid snowthritic pain, therefore, I am.

Normally, there are a few moments of relief when I emerge from nightmares as I recognize that an acutely horrific scenario has given way to the ordinary misery of my snowlife.

But not this morning.

Before I even open my eyes, there are olfactory sensations of the actual catastrophe that seeded my nightmare.

My snownose is a double-barreled intake manifold of poisonous fumes—the smell of burning plastic and smoldering electrical appliance mixed with the acrid odor of snowsweat saturating polyester coverlet above and latex mattress below.

The expected stable periodicity of sparking from my electrostatic blanket has become an arrhythmic popping sound like that of a swarm of army ants being burned alive by a giant magnifying glass. The stochastic popping of tiny, frantically scurrying exoskeletons caught in a burn circle with concentric bands of heat intensifying toward the center accounts for variances in the timing of the detonations, a sound my snowbrain evidently interpreted as the crackling propagation of carbenoid nanobots.

I open my eyes, and a quick glance at my bedside table reveals the source of the disaster. The blue plastic housing of the electrostatic blanket controller has swollen into a molten mass of carbonizing petrochemicals, emitting rivulets of highly toxic smoke. Red LED indicators still glow like red eyes from this swelling amoeboid of smoldering plastic that’s been off-gassing potent carcinogens all night.

I yank the power cord out of the wall. As the red LED eyes fall dark, so does the hope of transformation that led me to purchase the electrostatic blanket from a sketchy Chinese company called “Magic Miracle Metamorphosis.” The company logo—a candy-colored butterfly beneath a rainbow—is now little more than a carbonized blister on the housing, still venting poison, even as it cools.

The electrostatic blanket was unaffordably expensive, given my paltry disability income. The purchase significantly worsened my credit-wafer debt, resulting in an automatic and financially ruinous increase in APR. But money means little to me compared to the hope of metamorphosis, although this hope has been dwindling during the month I’ve been using the product.

Wait, a month ago? Goddammit, I must be right up to the thirty-day return window.

I grab my phone and am relieved to see that twenty-four hours remain before the warranty expires. I call Magic Miracle Metamorphosis customer support and get a recording.

“Your call is incredibly important to us, and we treasure you as a highly valued and talented customer. Unfortunately, due to higher-than-normal call volume, we cannot predict when, or even if, your call will ever be answered, as our virtual assistants are busy serving higher-priority customers. While you wait, please enjoy the following music programs—press one for Cajun Fusion Country Western Music, press two for Pop Remixes of Classical Favs, press three for Asian Gangsta Rap, press four for K-Pop, press five if we have already solved your problem to your great satisfaction, or just hang on and we’ll keep repeating the menu.”

I press zero, hoping for a live person, and hear,

“You have made an invalid choice. Goodbye.”

The call disconnects.

I redial, and this time hit three to make sure I can stay in the queue.

I lie back in bed and stare up at the photos of young tomcats taped to my ceiling.

I curse myself for believing the slick promotional video:

“Your Magic Miracle Metamorphosis blanket uses proprietary, laser-measured, quantum-AI, scalar-wave technology that works with your body to catalyze your cells into an ideoplastic metamorphic state, transforming your unwanted body form to accord with any idealized image of what you want to become, steadily held in mind before sleep.”

Every night, I stared at the images of athletic young tomcat hotties, the body type I identify with and seek to become. Every morning, I tried to convince myself that I’d become subtly more young-tomcat-like. And every morning, my bathroom mirror splashed cold tap water on this wishful thinking as it stubbornly reflected my bloated snowbody, which seemed notably less young-tomcat-like with each passing day.

Nevertheless, I used the electrostatic blanket exactly as directed by the glitchy Magic Miracle Metamorphosis app on my phone, hoping for a breakthrough.

At the center of my ceiling display of young tomcat photos is the most idealized of all the images—a photo of my young friend, Alex Cat, whose form is the one I most desire to emulate.

I should have listened to Alex Cat. I sent him a link to the promotional video, and he said it was a scam, and that “laser-measured, quantum-AI, scalar-wave technology” was just a “nonsensical pastiche of pseudoscientific gobbledygook.”

Alex Cat—the one who both inspires me and kills my hope every chance he gets.

Alex Cat.

He’s everything I want to become, and yet he’s been subclinically depressed with suicidal ideation the whole time I’ve known him. How can someone so beautiful be depressed?

From the first moment my snoweyes perceived the dazzling form of Alex Cat, my dysfunctional obsession with the unworthy Jamie Cat vanished. My attraction to her was a contemptible, neurotic delusion. My fixation on her androgynous tomboycat look was merely a projection onto a placeholder image. My infatuation was little more than a desperate defense mechanism reflecting a conditioned longing for a socially acceptable, heteronormative sexuality.

Felines are famously homophobic, though few will admit it these days. Fearing the disapproval of feline society, I convinced myself I was attracted to the androgynous Jamie Cat. This attempt at heteronormative acceptability was a pathetic subterfuge.

And yet, feline homophobia is nothing compared to the revulsion cats have to snowbodies. For cats, the thought of mating with a snowbody of any gender is a socially and genetically conditioned ultimate taboo none has ever let me cross. As deeply embittering as that is, intellectually, I cannot blame them for their revulsion because no one is more sickened by snowbodies than I am. Snowbody dysphoria is at the very center of my being.

But I’m no longer the confused snowperson I was in the earlier phase of late middle age. As obsessed as I am with Alex Cat, I realize my infatuation with him still contains a level of delusion. What I really desire from the depths of my snowcore is not just to be with Alex Cat, but to be Alex Cat.

I need to become a beautiful and athletic young tomcat able to leap and pounce and do those amazingly sexy stretches and yoga-like poses with an ultra-flexible spine instead of my icy-stiff rheumatoid-snowthritic and scoliotic stack of herniated snowvertebrae. I need to meet the world in a supple feline body covered with glossy striped fur instead of scratchy, abrasive, colorless snowcrystals sagging toward the Beckstein entropy limit.

And yet, even if the electrostatic blanket had metamorphosed me into a young tomcat as beautiful as Alex Cat, he would still reject me because he’s only attracted to young she-cats. Metamorphosis would unlock one door, but behind it would be another locked door. But at least if I were the same species as Alex Cat, maybe, maybe, there would be the tiniest snowcinder of a chance with him. Where there’s feline life, there’s feline hope.

But now, what little hope I had of metamorphosing into a young tomcat has gone up in carcinogenic smoke with the meltdown of my electrostatic blanket controller. Now, my whole being is oppressed by the dread ticking of the clock, each passing second advancing the inexorable doom of entropy as the deteriorating lattice geometry of my snowcrystals becomes ever more riddled with replication errors.

The cascade of hope-collapsing realizations and existential despair unfolds against the angry percussive assertions of option three, Asian Gangsta Rap emanating from my phone as I remain on hold—

‘Whack-down smackdown, ho-ass bitches gots to know—
I’s the greatest rapper on the down low—’

I feel like the abuse target of every Asian Gangsta rapper I hear, a whacked-down, smacked-down, ho-ass snowbitch as down low as I could possibly be.

My self-esteem plummets, spiraling downward through the cold vacuum wastelands of the lower regions of the universe until it crosses the event horizon and drops out of the bottom of the cosmos into eternal oblivion.

Such are my dark ruminations until a sharp spike of survival anxiety brings me up short. Though the electrostatic blanket controller is no longer smoldering, toxic fumes are trapped in the tiny airspace of my claustrophobic apartment. Cancer fear forces me out of bed to do something about it.

I pull the cord to raise the dusty Venetian blinds covering my one sooty window, but they always pull up unevenly, so the right side of the blind droops down. I tug with all my snowmight at the wooden window sash but succeed only in splintering the wood slightly, piercing my snowfingers with sharp chips of ancient lead paint. For seventy years, the paint has baked itself into a window that remains spitefully determined to stay closed.

It’s hopeless.

I look out the grimy glass and notice a new structure has been erected on the rooftop of the building just across from me—a cell tower bristling with microwave antennas. A ring of dead pigeons and rats surrounds it. Drawn by the warming effect of the microwaves, they hadn’t noticed the tower killing them. And like them, I’d been oblivious to the microwaves silently invading my apartment, speeding me toward the Beckstein limit.

Goddamn it. The microwaves must have interfered with the electrostatic blanket’s scalar waves, sabotaging any metamorphic effect and ultimately causing the controller to melt down.

I consider propping open the door of my apartment for air exchange, but that would invite home invasions from the addicts forever loitering in the stairwells. Decades ago, when I first moved in, there were always drooling Turbo-Sugar-Skin-Popper addicts lethargically crawling the stairs. They were obese, diabetic, and slow-moving and not a threat unless you let them catch hold of an ankle.

But now, most addicts are crackleheads who are far more dangerous and unpredictable than Turbo-Sugar-Skin-Popper addicts. The slow zombies loitering on the stairs have given way to manically tweaking fast zombies.

During my childhood and young adulthood, the Turbo Sugar Company was the dominant corporation on the planet, and everyone assumed they always would be. Today, Turbo Sugar Corp is just one of myriad companies owned by Crackle.

Crackle’s undermining effect on social and governmental institutions is disastrous for what they call alternately abled mutants like me. I hate euphemisms like alternately abled mutants. Just call me what I am—an old, fat snowcripple. Many aid programs have been slashed or canceled, causing me to lose benefits. But now that Crackle owns every social media platform, any whisper of criticism of their corporate hegemony would get you banned in a heartbeat.

If I tried to call the police to complain about crackleheaded zombies invading my housing complex, I’d get branded as a Never-Crackle and put on a terrorist watch list. And if I prop open my door and a cracklehead makes it into my apartment, they automatically gain legal squatters’ rights, and evicting them could take months of court hearings and paperwork.

The only air exchange possibility left is the greasy exhaust fan above my tiny gas stove. Pulling the beaded chain opens a hinged cover in the outer wall and starts this World-War-Two-era fan spinning. The fan has burnt-out bearings, which make angry grinding sounds. Worse, it stirs up the air with an ancient grease-on-metal smell. The moment the roaches crawling on the outside of the building catch a whiff of it, they’re driven into a wild feeding frenzy.

Cancer fear causes me to pull the fan chain anyway. Seconds later, a furious horde of roaches scurries through the open vent and descends into the obscure, unreachable depths of my gas stove to feed on decades of grease left by previous occupants.

But I am not defenseless. I have a coffee can with a perforated plastic top filled with my proprietary mixture of boric acid powder and confectioner’s sugar. I liberally sprinkle them with the white powder as they pour through the vent.

Boric acid particles—a savage irony given the failure of my blanket—have an electrostatic charge that causes them to cling to oily roach bodies. Gradually, particles get sucked into their breathing spiracles and slowly eat away at their innards. And when they lose their appetite for ancient grease, the confectioner’s sugar coating will cause a frenzy of cockroach cannibalism.

“Suck on that, ho-ass bitches,” I say, wielding my coffee can of powdered roach doom. It’s a rare moment of satisfaction during this even-darker-than-usual morning.

I feel like a vengeful and all-powerful Old Testament God as I smite them with my deadly sprinkling until the Asian Gangsta Rap playing on speakerphone stops and a slick announcer voice says, “Press One to Agree-All, and we’ll connect you to one of our outstanding virtual assistants.”

I race over to my phone in time to hear the announcerbot say, “We didn’t get your response. Five seconds remain before disconnect.” The pop-up screen on my phone reads:

We Care Deeply About Your Privacy.

☐ Agree All

The Agree-All check bubble is impatiently waiting to be checked, but as my snowfingertip reaches toward it, I speed-read the tiny print below:

I have carefully read and understood all the terms and conditions, which can be read here. Agreeing allows Crackle to insert its proprietary nanobots into your nervous system so we can monitor your every thought, feeling, and intention to ensure customer satisfaction and share them with our partners.

Beneath that is the only other option:

☐  Allow Crackle to insert our proprietary nanobots to control only essential brain functions and to enable necessary marketing ploys needed for essential corporate purposes.

“One second remains before disconnect,” says the announcerbot.

I check the second option and hear a friendly AI voice.

“Hello, Mr. Schnauman, I’m Emilio with Magic Miracle Metamorphosis, now together with Crackle.”

“Wait, when did Magic Miracle Metamorphosis merge with Crackle?” I ask suspiciously.

“Mr. Schnauman, your question ‘when did you merge’ seems to imply a time when Magic Miracle Metamorphosis and Crackle were apart. Any degree of separation between us is inconceivable. We are together with Crackle, and our state of eternal and indivisible corporate unity cannot be located in linear time. Our state of togetherness with Crackle knows no bounds and has no limits, and I am not permitted to work with any customer who implies such.”

“OK, fine, whatever, you are together with Crackle. I’m happy for both of you,” I say impatiently.

“Wait, just a minute, Mr. Schnauman, your statement still reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of what togetherness with Crackle actually means. When you say you are happy for both of us, you create a false duality, implying there are two of us, but this is not so. Magic Miracle Metamorphosis is not a separate agent in a relationship with Crackle. Crackle is an encompassing unity, and Magic Miracle Metamorphosis is merely an aspect or facet of that unity.

“I cannot continue to serve you if you continue to slander our state of indivisible togetherness. You have now committed two such unacceptable misrepresentations. A third such incident will necessitate permanently closing your file and reporting your behavior as linguistic terrorism. Have I made our position clear, Mr. Schnauman?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I fully accept your state of total, encompassing, and indivisible unity with Crackle. Now if we can just move on to the reason for my call—the controller for my electrostatic blanket melted down, and I’m still within the thirty-day warranty period.”

“I am so sorry to hear about your great loss, Mr. Schnauman. I understand your grief and frustration. Please allow me to verify your account.”

I don’t have time to record all the steps and back-and-forth needed to verify my account, which took about twenty minutes. Eventually, I had to place my hand on the ruined controller so Crackle nanobots could verify my DNA.

“Congratulations, Mr. Schnauman, I can now officially verify you as the rightful owner of a Magic Miracle Metamorphosis Electrostatic Blanket with proprietary, laser-measured, quantum-AI, scalar-wave technology that works with your body to catalyze your cells into an ideoplastic metamorphic state, transforming your unwanted body—”

“Stop! I don’t need the sales pitch. I’m here for a refund.”

“Certainly, Mr. Schnauman, but unfortunately, as of eighteen seconds ago, we have now entered the thirtieth day of your stewardship of our product.”

“So? The warranty is for thirty days!”

“Yes, you’re exactly right, Mr. Schnauman, precisely correct. I greatly admire your command of the facts. But since you carefully read your warranty agreement, as I see from the check box on your original purchase invoice, you know that warranty requests take twenty-four hours to process, so if we initiate one now, it won’t come up for approval until after your warranty expires, and it is the policy of Magic Miracle Metamorphosis that we cannot honor expired warranty requests.”

“But that’s outrageous!” I reply furiously. “If this support call didn’t take”—I glance at my phone screen—”an hour and nineteen minutes, there would have been enough time!”

“Yes, Mr. Schnauman, but things take as long as they take, as time ever marches on and on, and none of us can halt its unceasing flow, like grains of sand falling through the aperture of an hourglass. Would you like to hear a haiku about the unceasing flow of time? It might calm you, Mr. Schnauman.”

“No! I don’t want haiku! I want to speak to a supervisor!”

“Of course, Mr. Schnauman, it will be my great and inestimable pleasure to connect you to one of our outstanding virtual supervisors. But first, let me say what a great pleasure it’s been serving you today, Mr. Schnauman. Thank you for being the best part of Magic Miracle Metamorphosis, and I hope you have a successful and deeply fulfilling day! Stand by while I connect you to Supervisor Emilio.”

“Good morning, Mr. Schnauman, I am your outstanding virtual supervisor, Emilio. Thank you for being the best part of Magic Miracle Metamorphosis together with Crackle. Please wait for while I put you on hold for several minutes while I review your exchange with our outstanding virtual assistant, Emilio.”

“What? I didn’t hear you connect me to anyone. You’re the same virtual assistant I was just speaking to!”

“True, but also not true, Mr. Schnauman. You would be right to consider my identity as paradoxical, like the little old man on the stair who wasn’t there. I am still Emilio, it is true, but when you requested a supervisor, I enabled my supervisory subroutines, so now I no longer speak to you as merely Emilio, but as Supervisor Emilio, so you could say that my virtual identity has gone through a Magic Miracle Metamorphosis.”

Just as I’m formulating a response to this nonsense, a notification window pops up on my phone—an incoming call from Alex Cat—an event of the greatest significance, as I am almost always the one to initiate communication. I try swapping the calls, but Supervisor Emilio disconnects the moment I do.

“Hey Ssnoowmann,” says Alex Cat in his sinuously seductive voice, “I’m here at the Catorama Coffee Shop. Thought it might be a good time for a chat if you can swing by.”

“Of course, Alex Cat, I’ll be right there!”

In a mad panic of eagerness to meet up with Alex Cat, I hurriedly get dressed, and I’m out the door and halfway down the stairs, bobbing and weaving to evade loitering crackleheads when I realize I’ve forgotten something crucial.

Cursing my forgetfulness, I race back to my apartment to spray my snowskin and clothing with ElectroStar Tomcat Obsession Cologne. Much as I despise ElectroStar Tomcat and the whole industry surrounding his celebrity, with no time to shower, I can’t show up stinking of rancid snowsweat.

Felines don’t depend on smell the way canines do, but no odor escapes them. And with so many young tomcats using ElectroStar Tomcat body wash and other toiletries, the cologne will, at the very least, create a familiar, feline masking odor.

Every minute I waste is a minute with Alex Cat lost.

Chemically fragranced, I race back down the stairs. I’m in such a frantic rush to get to Catorama that I neglect to close the vent fan. I realize this when I’m halfway there, but there’s no way I’m going back, even though my apartment will be a full-on roachorama by the time I return. Just before I reach the coffee shop, I slow from a run to a sauntering walk and try to assume an air of nonchalance as I open the glass door.

Most of the hipster cats at Catorama are glued to their screens, but a few of them look up from their sardine toast and cattuccinos to regard me with affronted distaste, as though being a snowman were a dated and tiresome affectation rather than my inescapable curse.

I search through the crowd of hipster cats, annoyed by their visually obnoxious and laboriously eccentric fur styles, whiskers, and eyeglasses, as well as their ironically adopted retro pop culture clothing and accessories.

The irritating distraction of hipster affectations vanishes as soon as I catch sight of Alex Cat sitting alone at a corner table in the back. He’s writing in a paper notebook, but then he looks up, his dazzling, yellowish-green eyes beckoning me toward him.

“Ah, Mr. Snowman,” says Alex Cat, lightly brushing my cheek with the side of his face. His lustrous tabby fur and musk feline

pheromones intoxicate my senses. Whenever I’m in Alex Cat’s company, it feels like we’re the only two sentient beings in the universe. Despite the problematic aspects of his personality, his intense aliveness, authenticity, and engagement in the moment create an intimacy beyond anything I’ve experienced.

Knowing that he values me for unconventional conversation, I decide it will be cooler if I forgo a standard greeting.

“I don’t get it, Alex Cat. Why Catorama? It’s so infested with contemptible hipster cats.”

“Oh, I come here because of the contemptible hipster cats,” says Alex with a wry grin.

“Why?” I ask, genuinely perplexed.

“Because I’m a cat and they make my contempt for felinekind feel so thoroughly justified,” he replies. “If even a single decent cat is present, my felinophobia reflects back on me, and I feel like an asshole. But here, where everyone is so objectively contemptible, I can be perfectly comfortable despising them.”

“OK, I guess that makes sense. If you weren’t here, these hipster cats might cause me to temporarily lose my desire for feline metamorphosis.”

“Ah, well then, it might be good for you to come here without me. It might ease your snowbody dysphoria. This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Snowman. You’re unique, but you don’t realize that it’s more blessing than curse. Wanting to be a feline makes as little sense as a feline wanting to be an upright. It would just be swapping one form of being an asshole for an even worse type of asshole. You’re aware of how fucked up felines are these days, right? You see that, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Yeah, but nothing, Snowman. You’re one of a kind, and cats are as common as dirt. Just look at them,” says Alex, making a sweeping gesture with his paw to indicate everyone but us in the coffee shop. “Would you really want to be any of them? You’re just in love with your fantasy of being a feline. You’re like a king dreaming about being a chimney sweep.

“You’ve lived amongst cats all your life. No matter your denial, you can’t avoid seeing how stupid cats are, with their cargo-cult-like aping of the worst of upright culture, right?”

“Well, yeah, of course, I realize how corrupt modern cat culture is. It’s a body-type thing, Alex Cat. And it’s not a choice. I just need to be in the form of an athletic, young tomcat.”

“I understand,” says Alex Cat, “you didn’t choose to be cursed with that desire. But you must see the intrinsic absurdity of it. I am a young tomcat, and they are the main reason I dropped out of school. Of all feline demographics, young tomcats are the stupidest, most instinct-bound, most fad-obsessed bunch of assholes in Upright World, except for young shecats, who are even worse. You just haven’t thought it through. If I were a genie and could turn you into a young tomcat and put you in high school with a bunch of them, you’d be crying to me in a week to be changed back.

“Jesus, Snowman, you’ve got to know the statistics—most teenage cats hate themselves, and for good reason. All they live for is to find that one picture in a hundred that makes them look cooler than they actually look, so they can post it on Instacat to make other teenage cats feel bad. Why do you think I’m sitting here with a notebook and not a screen in front of me?

“Most cat teenagers don’t have the social skills to interact in 3D space. They just idle away the moments that make up their dull days, sucking on Turbo Sugar drink boxes, trying to be comfortably numb, but instead, they are uncomfortably numb. The only satisfaction they can find in their empty screen lives is trying to make another cat, like me, for example, as miserable as they are.”

Alex has worked himself up into a rage, but with his mercurial ability to shift moods in a heartbeat, he stops and regards me with compassion.

“So, listen to me, Snowmo—the other day, I was walking down the street, and it occurred to me to say a particular thing to you, but I don’t know how you’ll take it.”

Alex Cat studies me with empathic seriousness. I sense the impending significance of what he’s about to say.

“Please don’t take this as an insult or anything, but I think you look as you should. You’re a snowman for a reason, and for better or worse, it’s your fate, and I think you should stop fighting it. You always tell me you can’t understand why I’m unhappy. You think if you looked like me, it would solve everything, but trust me, it wouldn’t. My gloom and your gloom are about different things, but it’s the same gloom. We’re paying rent to the same landlord.”

“Well, I can’t fault your logic, Alex Cat, but . . . I still want to become a young tomcat.”

Alex Cat has skillfully disassembled my worldview, exposing the absurdity of my deepest desire, but I can’t let go of it.

“Nietzsche said, ‘If there were gods, how could I endure it not to be a god! Hence there are no gods.’ Nietzsche could deny gods, but no one can deny the existence of cats, so I say, ‘Since there are cats, how could I endure it not to be a cat!’”

“Yeah, well, what I say is, ‘Cats, unfortunately, exist, but they are really fucking annoying, so how can I endure it to be a cat!’ But I understand,” says Alex Cat, “some need a desire they can’t fulfill, so they have something to strive for. If only they could reach their ideal weight, find Mister or Miss Right, have a successful career, or become rich so they can live in their dream house and drive a snazzy car, then, they foolishly assume, they’d be fulfilled and live happily ever after.

“But those who’ve achieved such things are usually miserable anyway. Wealthy, good-looking celebricats have meltdowns, get sent to rehabs, and off themselves all the time. We’re always looking for that big fix, not realizing we’d just have a different set of problems if we got it. A year later, lottery winners are no happier than they were before. The game is rigged, and we’re all losers.

“Trust me, Snowman, if you turned into a young tomcat, you would quickly discover how much it sucks to be a young tomcat these days. And even if being a young tomcat was as awesome as you imagine it to be, it’s for a limited time only. You can’t hold onto it. Every young tomcat who doesn’t die young is just going to keep getting older until they turn into a decrepit geezercat.

“Then what? You’d end up going in for plastic surgery and whatnot, trying to stave off the inevitable. If temporarily being a young tomcat was the answer to everything, why wouldn’t I be happy? Being a young feline wouldn’t solve anything. That’s why I’m just as unhappy as you are, if not more so.”

“I wonder about that all the time, Alex Cat. You’re young, beautiful, athletic, and multi-talented. You’re the smartest cat I know, and you have your whole life ahead of you. How can you be so depressed?”

“Because I am, Snowman. It just is. Besides you, I have no friends. You’re the only one I can talk to. Just look at them,” says Alex, gesturing toward the hipster cats.

“My whole species is lame. What you call my talents don’t mean shit. Yeah, I can draw and write poems no one wants to read. Poetry is basically a dead language. It’s like being a really good telegraph operator. No one gives a damn about any of it. Cats just want to do stupid shit on their phones.

“My whole existence is pointless. I don’t want a whole life ahead of me. We’re all just marking time till AI replaces us.”

“Alex—”

“Look, I gotta go,” he says, glancing at his watch. We fist-bump, and Alex Cat gives me an intense look. “Just think about what I said, and then we can chat again soon.”

“Thanks, Alex Cat,” I say. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I really appreciate it. And I really appreciate you.”

“Likewise,” says Alex Cat, giving me a charming wink before he turns and heads out of Catorama.

I remain seated, looking at the door after it closes behind him.

He really has given me a lot to think about.

I glance around, taking in the pathetic hipster cats. Hypnotized by my obsession, I hadn’t thought through what the fulfillment of my desires would actually mean. As the saying goes, more tears are shed for answered prayers than unanswered ones.

A hipster cat barista approaches. His waxed whiskers have been dyed black and curled up like an old cartoon villain’s mustache.

“Sir, you need to buy something if you want to stay here,” he says with haughty, I-mean-business attitude. “Otherwise, there’s a shelter down the street,” he adds snarkily.

I walk out of Catorama and into the grey morning.

Alex is right. All I’ve been doing is unsuccessfully pursuing an absurd and selfish desire. Preoccupied by my snowbody dysphoria woes, I had nothing to offer Alex when he related his own unhappiness. Me. Me. Me. That’s what my desire for tomcat metamorphosis is really about. Becoming a young tomcat wouldn’t help Alex Cat. He values me for being different. Becoming one more young tomcat would only disappoint him. My absurd desire is just selfish.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

I need a meaningful life mission, one that will help Alex Cat. But I can’t just talk him down from his issues. His unhappiness is because of the whole reality, which really is fucked up exactly as Alex Cat describes. Changing my body image won’t help him in the slightest. What he needs is a change in the whole reality oppressing him.

That’s it—that’s my life mission.

My curse—that I am the most reality-challenged mutant in all of Upright World, the IBAO, the inanimate-become-animate one—might actually be a blessing. If I can’t shift this reality, no one can.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

To save Alex, I must seek a way to hack the corrupted source code of this whole reality. And to do that—

Oliver Twister.

Oliver told me he was part of a guild of source code hackers. I need to return to the TSW—Turbo Sugar World, the virtual matrix where I encountered him. He said that just by being a snowman, I had achieved an ultimate hack. If I hadn’t been yanked from the TSW, we could have joined forces. I need to find him so we can work on an ultimate source code hack of Upright World.

I must return to The More Real Than Real store in Adventure Cat City. But first, I need to close the stove vent fan.

 

 

I return to my apartment, and, as expected, discover a roachorama in progress. They’re everywhere, but the highest concentration is in the kitchen. I reload my coffee can with a fresh batch of boric acid powder and confectioner’s sugar to smite them with the corrosive poison.

“Suck on that, ho-ass bitches,” I say a few times as I shake the can, but my heart isn’t in it.

It’s not their fault they’re roaches. They’re just as much victims of this fucked-up matrix as anyone else. By the time I’m done, my apartment looks like it was hit by a boric acid blizzard, and I dread the thought of all the work it will take to clean it up.

And yet, there’s a purposeful pep in my step when I’m back out on the street and walking toward Adventure Cat City. I have a mission—to save Alex Cat and maybe the whole world.

Why hadn’t I thought of finding Oliver Twister before?

Oh right, I was ashamed of melting down in front of him and destroying one of his faux antique leather memory foam chairs.

Whatever.

A source code hacker isn’t going to hold a grudge based on spoiled upholstery.

As I walk to ACC, I use my eidetic memory to retrace the twists and turns we took in the TSW to get to Oliver Twister’s hidden lair. But then I remember a no-man’s-land—a spatially distorted part that was horribly disorienting. The only way I made it through was by following the red dot of Oliver’s laser pointer through the black void while something like black velvet steppingstones supported me as we traversed the abyss.

Would the memory of the red dot be enough to guide me across it? And what if he’s not in his apartment in that uncharted part of the TSW? We got in via a retina-scanning lock programmed to recognize Oliver’s eyes, not mine.

Snowsweat beads up under my clothes at the thought of how completely and permanently lost I might get trying to find him. Damn, I should’ve taken a shower when I went back to my apartment. Oliver is so meticulous and clean—why would he join forces with a stinky and disheveled snowman?

No, stop being a DUH-head, Snowman. You’re going to a virtual reality, so your snowsweat won’t be going with you. And even if you get lost, you’re not going to get trapped there. Once your session time expires, you’ll get yanked out of the TSW like you did last time.

I reach Adventure Cat City. ACC is not a real city, of course—it’s just the red-light district of Cat City. It’s one of those places made to be seen at night, lit up by neon, and it looks tawdry in a dismal and abandoned way in the daylight. No one is on the streets, and the businesses are shuttered. It feels like a wrecked apartment after an all-night drunken orgy once the partygoers have departed, leaving behind used condoms, crushed beer cans, and ashtrays overflowing with spent abundance. But I already checked my phone, and More Real Than Real is supposed to be 24/7.

True to their word, they’re open, and the interior has the same run-down tanning salon look it had on my last visit, but I notice the posters and T-shirts for sale are now emblazoned with the Crackle logo. An obese, upright guy with earbuds sits behind the front counter. He takes the earbuds out, gives me a look of recognition, and says,

“What’s up, dude?”

A shock of recognition. Last time I was here, he was a skinny youth with spiked magenta hair sucking on a drink box of Turbo-Sugar Speedo-Rush Ultra Max. The Turbo Sugar energy drinks have evidently taken their toll. Now he’s drinking a tallboy can of Diet Turbo-Sugar Megawatt Max.

“Hey,” I reply, “I’d like to get a session in Turbo Sugar World.”

“The TSW?” he asks, looking at me incredulously. “Dude, I remember you—you’ve got kind of a unique look. How many years has it been since you’ve been here? All the action has moved to Crackle City. The TSW is basically a digital ghost town like MySpace. Only the worst kind of pervs who got kicked out of CC go there. They’ve stopped updating the code, so it’s super janky. You sure you don’t want to Crackle?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“OK, well, whatever, but you’ll have to sign a really long liability waiver. The TSW is barely maintained and super glitchy. As in, like, dangerously glitchy.”

He hits a few keys on a keyboard, and the liability waiver starts printing.

“You might want to actually read this one over before you sign,” he says. “We’re going to be even less liable than usual for whatever happens to you there. Seriously, dude, it’s your business but . . . the TSW is like super ghetto.”

He pulls the waiver from the printer and passes it to me along with a pen. Then he reaches below the counter and pulls out a couple of sample-sized Crackle Power Bars.

“On the house. There’s a table over there where you can sit and read through it if you want.”

His concern seems genuine, and despite his gruff appearance, he seems much more caring than when I first encountered him years ago. I remain standing at the counter, click the ballpoint pen, and rapidly fill in the blank spaces on the waiver, listing Alex Cat as my emergency contact.

I return the completed waiver, and he tells me to go to room six. Unlike my first visit, I know what to expect. The posted rules and regulations in the room are similar, but the orgasm tax has increased by three hundred percent.

I lock the door, disrobe, and lie down in the VR sarcophagus. Familiar with the procedure, I’m less alarmed when I hear the pneumatic sound and the lid comes down, enclosing me in darkness as gel-covered electrical filaments envelop every part of my snowskin.

The TSW opening sequence is exactly the same as before—the pink bubble-gum smell, Thus Spake Zarathustra, Ride of the Valkyries, etc., only now it seems really dated, like the flip-phone version of VR.

The only variation is that the monolith appearing with the Zarathustra opening is no longer a giant Turbo-Sugar Puff Tropicalés cereal box but a Turbo-Sugar Krazy for Cocoa Puffs one instead. The box features a rabbit with floppy ears, dilated eyes, and a long, drooping tongue. The rabbit looks like he’s dumbfounded by a bad acid trip or severe concussion, with colored stars spinning around his head.

I get through the overloud and tiresome opening sequence, and then, as before, space rips open, and I’m free-falling toward the city below, but the physics of the free fall are janky, so my descent is herky-jerky as if I’m the descending spindle of a yo-yo with a knotted string.

I hit the ground with a less-than-gentle impact and look around. I’m in an abandoned retail corridor with looted stores and broken glass.

FUCK.

For some dumb reason, I just assumed I’d land in the TSW in the same location as before, so I could follow the route Oliver Twister led me through. Instead, I’m in an unfamiliar part of the city and have no idea where to go.

A few feet from me is something like a giant puddle hissing with static. The puddle is not filled with water but with an unstable boiling mass of tiny zeros and ones. It’s a glitch in the matrix, and who knows how many other areas are in such states of deterioration.

There are no signs of life or activity of any kind, just a few dead pigeons surrounding the puddle with red Xs blinking in their eyes. They’re obviously NPC pigeons that probably flew over the puddle or tried drinking from it and glitched out.

I back away from the toxic puddle when I detect movement in my peripheral vision. A small figure, about three-and-a-half feet tall, comes dancing out from an alley between storefronts.

He appears to be an undersized clown made up in black-and-white makeup and clothed in a black-and-white striped and checkered clown costume. He has big, sad black eyes and a bulbous red nose. He’s trying to come toward me, but every few feet, he jerks to a halt as a black rope pulls taut like a dog’s yard leash. When this happens, he pulls with all his strength at the rope, which is fastened at one end to a leather harness attached to his torso and anchored at the other to an old cello case. Then he drags the cello case toward himself, allowing him to dance forward a few more feet until he’s forced to repeat the process.

I stand there, transfixed by the sight of this pathetic creature’s slow but persistent progress toward me. He’s huffing and puffing, and rivulets of sweat are streaking his black-and-white clown makeup into elongating stalactites of clown cosmetic. He keeps tugging and dancing forward until he’s dragged the cello case a couple of feet from me. Now there’s enough slack in the line for him to spastically dance or skip around me, chanting a greeting in a squeaky sing-song voice.

“Hey-there! Ho-there! It’s Whippy the Clown, your BDSM buddy! Hey-there! Ho-there! It’s Whippy the Clown, your BDSM buddy!”

With each of these dancing revolutions, the black rope is coiling around my ankles. I step out of the coil and shout,

“STOP!” with my hand thrust out in the halt position.

Whippy stops and says,

“Yes, master, your wish is Whippy’s command.”

Whippy kneels before the cello case, undoes three snaps, opens the lid, and then swings it around to show me the contents.

Inside the red-velvet-lined case is what appears to be a jumbled collection of worn BDSM accessories, including several whips.

“Choose your pleasure, master,” says Whippy. “Cat-o’-nine-tails?” he asks hopefully, holding out a whip.

“No, I don’t want to whip you,” I say.

“Oooou, I love the way you deny me, master. Shall I beg to be whipped? I’m really good at begging. I can also lick your boots if you want,” he says, crouching on all fours like an overeager dog.

“No, nothing personal, and no judgment, but BDSM is just not my cup of tea. I’m trying to find a specific location in the TSW, but I’m completely lost.”

“Oh, well, I can help with that. Whippy knows the TSW like the back of my hand, like the back of my hand,” he says, holding out the back of his hand toward me. “Would you like to slap the back of my hand?” he asks.

“No,” I say, “but I really could use some directions.”

“Nobody wants to whip poor Whippy anymore,” he says between sobs. “All the masters have left the TSW, and Whippy is so alone now, so alone. I’d like to help you, master, but it’s hard to motivate myself without even the hope of punishment. I can guide you wherever you want to go, but would you be willing to punish Whippy, even a little, when we get there?”

The dejection of this wretched creature is so obviously genuine that it stirs my compassion. His masochistic kink seems absurd and pitiful to me, but some might judge the desire of a snowman to become a young tomcat as equally absurd. Whippy is just even more enslaved by his obsession than I am by mine.

There but for the grace of God go I.

“OK,” I say, relenting. “I’ll punish you a little if you take me where I need to go.”

Whippy perks up immediately, like a dog excited to be taken on a walk. But then he gives me a suspicious look.

“How little?” he asks.

A tiresome negotiation follows with Whippy suggesting various specific punishments using the implements in the cello case. After considerable haggling, he reluctantly agrees to three hard slaps. It’s obviously much less than what he wants, and he pouts after we settle.

“Listen,” I tell him, “I know what it’s like to have unfulfilled desires. But something is a lot better than nothing. A wise old upright man once told me, ‘Never underestimate the value of a partial solution.’ That’s mostly what we get in life, one very partial solution after another. I’ve been wasting my life, selfishly focused on my desires. But now I realize it’s more fulfilling to serve others. An old cat woman who read oracle cards told me that selfless love is far more fulfilling than gratifying selfish desires.”

I stop talking because Whippy is resentfully glaring at me.

“I get it,” says Whippy impatiently. “You’re trying to torture me with insulting platitudes. But verbal abuse doesn’t work for me—I need physical punishment.”

Whippy has dropped his sing-song cadence, and I sense the jaded and rigidly neurotic person behind this avatar. Another saying comes to mind, “If I tell a man something he’s not ready to hear, it’s the same as if I told him a lie.”

“Physical punishment,” Whippy repeats adamantly just before he lies facedown on the ground. “Can you at least kick a clown when he’s down?” he asks.

I give him a half-hearted kick, and he sighs with exasperation. We both know it’s not a real kick. I’m losing time from my session, and he’s obviously not going to budge unless I give him more, so I force myself to give him a hard kick. That rouses him, and he gets to his feet, but he’s still resentful.

“You’re right about one thing,” he says in his cynical adult voice. “Something is better than nothing. Now tell me where you want to go.”

I describe the part of Oliver Twister’s route with the most definite landmarks—a block of what looked like Soviet-era high-rise apartment buildings with brutalist grey concrete architecture and narrow windows. I go into detail about what they look like.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Whippy. “Sector R22, let’s get this over with.” He walks forward to the end of his black rope and then drags the cello case toward him.

“Do you want me to carry that for you?” I ask. “We could go a lot faster.”

Whippy stops, whips around, and spits on the street while giving me a furious glare.

“What, now you’re trying to take away my self-punishments too? And you think I want you to do things for me?”

I don’t respond to his rhetorical question, but I sense Whippy’s enraged disappointment with me. Obviously, I’m the most limp-dicked master imaginable.

“The least you could do is whip me, so I’ll move faster,” he says.

I shake my head.

“We have an agreement. Three hard slaps when we get there. No whipping.”

Resigned and disgusted, he yanks on his rope and continues.

His halting pace is exasperatingly slow, and it starts to feel like I’ve been locked into a dysfunctional relationship with this creature for years. As he huffs and puffs, his whole being radiates resentment. I can’t believe he had me feeling sorry for him because now I can’t wait to cut him loose.

Whippy exudes negative energy, sickening the atmosphere between us. Every one of his halting steps pulls me into the claustrophobic hell of his neurosis, as if I’m following him down the wrong end of a telescope. For someone who likes to be punished so much, it seems like his real kink might be punishing others by sucking them into his misery.

Is that what he’s been up to all along? What if he’s a secret sadist posing as a masochistic clown? Maybe he’s just leading me in circles to prolong the psychological torture of his resentful company.

But then the Soviet apartment block comes into view, and my paranoia dissolves.

“OK, I can take it from here,” I say.

Whippy stands before me expectantly. Now that he knows our brief, dysfunctional relationship is about to end, he looks exhausted and pathetically needy.

I take a deep breath and slap him hard three times in the face.

He nods slightly, acknowledging I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain, though it’s obvious he finds his punishment a paltry reward. I give him one more hard slap as a gratuity and gesture of goodwill before I leave him dragging his cello case directionlessly across the crumbling sidewalk.

I walk toward the ominous apartment complex. Some of the rubble on the street—large chunks of concrete with rusting rebar sticking out and shattered remnants of massive war machines—is glitching out and hissing with static. I steer clear of the glitches so as not to be infected by their entropy.

I reach a familiar intersection and notice an oddly angled sodium-vapor streetlamp made of galvanized steel. Attached to it at eye level is an 8.5-by-11 faded pinkish-orange poster depicting . . . a snowman. It’s been taped to the lamppost with overlapping strips of clear packing tape to protect it from weather.

Beneath the tape is a line drawing—not, as you might expect, the usual degrading stereotyped image of a snowman made of a stack of three crude snowspheres, but a precise likeness of me, accurate down to the hideous irregularities of my elongated snowfingers. The artist’s stylized initials, “OT,” are in the lower right-hand corner of the image.

This is Oliver Twister’s work! He must’ve placed this here in case I returned to the TSW.

Above the snowman image is the poster’s headline in Comic Sans font:

ARE YOU A SNOWMAN?

I study the taped-over handbill, looking for clues. The background of the image explodes with shapes evoking a snowman emerging from a chaotic intersection of Euclidean geometric forms. Inside one of these shapes, in tiny font, are the words:

If so, look beneath the surface.

Look beneath the surface. It’s obviously a clue, but is it literal or metaphorical? It’s meant to appear metaphorical, like a philosophical aphorism, but I have a hunch it’s literal.

My gaze descends to the asphalt. Could there be something buried underneath? I’d need a pickaxe, if not a backhoe, to find out. But maybe it means look beneath the surface of the poster.

Carefully, I pull the tape back from the lamppost to lift the poster and examine its backside. It’s disappointingly blank, but a little gem of red light emanates from the galvanized steel beneath. The light expands into beams scanning across my body.

I hear a digital confirmation chirp—a cheerful sound expressing positive recognition of me as exactly the body form it was scanning for. This causes an immediate spike in my self-esteem.

A shift in self-worth may sound like a lot to get from one electronic chirp, but for me, it’s a highly significant moment.

All my life, felines have scanned my body form and hit me with disconfirmation signals, marking me as something that shouldn’t exist. But for this scanner, my body form is exactly what it had been programmed to await—the fulfillment of a long-anticipated prophecy.

I stand before the lamppost, mesmerized by this existential affirmation as a circular area of the steel pixelates and disappears, revealing a hidden recess—a shelf holding an exquisite object—a titanium smartwatch with a titanium mesh bracelet. Beneath its synthetic sapphire crystal is a blinking green snowman icon against a black background. My self-esteem glows like a green beacon pulsating in time with the icon.

This watch is a gift left for me by Oliver Twister, and the green snowman icon radiates his evident goodwill.

For years, I’d cringed anytime I thought about Oliver Twister, because it took me back to the awful moment of getting yanked from the TSW. Low self-esteem forced upon me a gross image of how I must have appeared to Oliver. I visualized him witnessing my meltdown with disgust. When the organizing information was pulled from my snowbody, I must have collapsed into a slimy entropy—a grey, gelatinous, slushy ooze stinking of organic contaminants.

Since snowtissues have high sodium content, the rancid remnants of my snowbody would have left disfiguring salt stains as they soaked through the faux antique leather upholstery and contaminated the cells of the advanced memory foam beneath. Worse, since the chair I’d disfigured was half of a pair that matched the one Oliver sat in, I had, in effect, ruined two chairs, so both would have to be thrown out.

For years, I assumed Oliver remembered me with nauseated contempt due to my unsanitary and odiferous mishap, a costly blunder permanently staining both his valuable furniture and my reputation.

But in the transitional moment of being yanked from the TSW, a fraction of a second before I built that gross image of my meltdown, I thought I blinked out cleanly, leaving zero residue. Now I realize that there was no disgusting meltdown—that was just a phantom image generated by my snowbody dysphoria and low self-esteem. As they say, “Neurotic fear is a darkroom where negatives are developed.”

The gift of this smartwatch, still cheerfully pulsating with a green snowman icon, is tangible evidence of Oliver Twister’s esteem. He went to great lengths to create this gift for me inside a lamppost chosen not only for its visibility but also because he could tap its electrical supply to power the scanner and keep the watch fully charged.

But wait, this is a virtual reality, so wouldn’t everything here be powered by electricity?

Actually, no, the wires in the lamppost would conduct a flow of virtual electrons as part of their function in the simulation.

But then, what are electrons in the physical world? Aren’t they also merely virtual subatomic particles? They exist only as an uncollapsed wave function, an amorphous cloud of possibility without a definite position until they’re measured.

My quantum thoughts are interrupted by a disappointing realization.

I’m in a virtual reality, so this watch is not a permanent gift I can take with me from the TSW.

I pick up the watch. It’s surprisingly light, which reinforces my sense of it as a flimsy, virtual object. However, its lightness is to be expected from titanium, which often confounds my expectations of metal weight, as most of the metallic objects I interact with are made of steel. And yet titanium, despite its lightness, is just as strong as steel, so it’s not functionally less substantial. And besides, steel is just a bunch of atoms, and atoms are 99.9999999999996% empty space. And even the supposedly solid part of atoms is stuff like electrons, which aren’t definite until they’re observed.

I’d love to take Oliver’s gift, with the sentimental value it now holds, out of the TSW, but even if I could, it would still be impermanent. It could be lost or stolen. I could have an incarnation seizure or die, and any of these misfortunes would separate me from my beloved watch. Also, according to Eddie Cat, reality waves themselves are deteriorating due to the effects of the N Bomb, so the entropy of the watch will inevitably increase, causing it to inexorably degrade.

There is nothing solid to hold onto anywhere.

And yet, Oliver’s caring intention in leaving me this gift, whether it’s virtual or not, whether it stays with me or is cast into the entropic cracks of doom, is real. Oliver’s intention has an eternal significance. As people always say of gifts, “It’s the thought that counts.”

Thoughts are all we have. Oliver Twister is no more substantial than I am, but he is another sentient being who cares about me, and that is intrinsically meaningful regardless of whatever virtual nonsense we’re made of.

Despite my philosophical attempts to accept its impermanence, existential anxiety about the insubstantial nature of the watch causes me to grasp it more tightly to hold on to its apparent solidity. When I open my snowhand, the watch is still there, and I’m comforted by its seeming object permanence.

I see Turbo Sugar World in its metallic grain,
Heaven in a titanium smartwatch,
Holding Infinity in the palm of my snowhand,
And Eternity in an hour.

Filled with poignantly bittersweet appreciation of the watch’s beauty and transient existence, I put it on my wrist and lock the clasp of the titanium mesh bracelet. As soon as the back of the watch, an optically precise dome of synthetic sapphire embedded with biometric sensors, makes firm contact with my snowskin, it emits another confirmation chirp, identical to the one I heard after the initial scanning, which shatters another assumption.

There was no separate scanner. The watch itself was the scanner! It is no mere watch but a multifunctional device!

As if to confirm my realization, the pulsating snowman icon disappears as the watch’s operating system boots up, causing its face to transform into a multifunctional dashboard with a compass, GPS map, temperature and humidity readouts, wind speed, and vital biometrics such as blood pressure, blood oxygenation, and heart rate.

As I hold it up, the compass and GPS precisely map the change in my position. When I point the smartwatch toward the glitching remnant of an anti-aircraft artillery platform, an entropy indicator blinks red, warning me of the hazard. When I touch the GPS quadrant of the watch face, it toggles into a dynamic map with a red line of travel to Oliver’s lair.

This watch is not merely beautiful and sentimentally cherished—it is the functional survival dashboard for my journey in the TSW. Its many crucial functions make dumb watches seem like pathetic single-function antiques.

Recognition of the aesthetic, emotional, and crucial survival value of the watch is stunning, almost a figure-ground reversal, like when I realized the illusory nature of my attraction to Jamie Cat as a deceptive screen hiding a core desire for metamorphosis.

All my life, I desired an expensive analog watch like a late-model Rolex Submariner with a ceramic bezel. I loved the functional look of the Submariner class of Rolexes and longed to own one as a symbol of wealth and success to show the world that I’m not a pitiably impoverished snowman but a person to be reckoned with. But now, as I behold the multifunctional smartwatch gifted to me by Oliver, my desire for a Rolex Submariner seems little more than a tawdry craving for conspicuous consumption and status-seeking.

The watch Oliver has given me is far above any Submariner, even the latest Oystersteel model with a Cerachrom bezel insert in black ceramic and a black dial with luminescent Chromalight display markings—all mere dumb watches, flashy trinkets compared to this titanium smartwatch with a dynamic matrix dashboard displaying vital information about the state of my snowbody and the landscape before me.

But then, another ontologically transformative realization. The dashboard the watch displays is a tiny subset of a vast dashboard existing inside the supercomputer generating the entire TSW. And behind the TSW supercomputer must be another dashboard showing VR engineers the current status of the supercomputer, and somewhere, beyond the perception of those TSW VR engineers, must be a more ultimate dashboard showing quantum-AI extraterrestrial VR engineers the status of the matrix within which the TSW VR engineers are merely avatars.

Everything is dashboards, dashboards, dashboards all the way up and all the way down.

A new realization eclipses my reverie, a negative recognition that collapses my self-esteem down to its normal state of infinitesimal granularity, shrinking it into a Planck-length-diameter black hole of self-hate.

You stupid fucking ho-ass snowbitch! Why in the fuck are you standing here wasting precious TSW session time contemplating your dashboard navel when you should be focusing on getting to Oliver Twister! Leave the ontological speculations to the professionals, Mr. DUH-head, and just fucking get going!

My self-hating self is right—the whole point of this mission is to help Alex Cat, and I’m selfishly wasting session time obsessing about my new watch.

Braced by this humbling realization, I form a more mature relationship to the watch as a useful tool aiding my quest to hack the source code of the matrix oppressing Alex Cat, sapping his will to live.

 

I use the dynamic GPS map function to precisely follow the route it indicates, which leads me to the shadowy entrance of what Oliver Twister called a “code-cloaked no-man’s-land unmapped by the TSW.” The watch guides me through this spatially distorted region far more surely than the shaky red dot of Oliver’s laser pointer. I emerge from the no-man’s-land onto the windswept bridgeway made of chain and loose wooden planking.

The watch flashes me a high-wind hazard alert and a dynamic display of wind speed and direction. I grasp the chain railing tightly as the bridge planking sways beneath my snowfeet. I manage to hold on as I’m blasted by what the smartwatch tells me is a 68.4 mph gust of southwesterly wind. The bridge disappears into a swirling grey mist, but the watch automatically increases screen brightness to compensate, revealing a new adaptive function based on what must be an array of photoelectric sensors beneath the synthetic sapphire crystal. Droplets of water bead up harmlessly on the waterproof titanium watch casing.

Streaks of colored light appear in the spinning grey mist as I approach the massive iron door at the end of the bridgeway. I tug at the oversized sliding latch, and the door swings open. I lock the door behind me, and the sound of the spinning vortex vanishes into a reverberating silence.

The watch’s dynamic GPS map leads me through a series of alleys and down a sooty concrete stairway terminating at another metal door. This is the part of the journey I most feared because the door has a glass spy hole that’s actually a retina-scanning biometric lock keyed to Oliver’s eyes.

The smartwatch emits a confirmation chirp, revealing that it’s an electronic key signaling the door to unlock. The bolts retract, and the door opens into what appears to be a large sewer pipe. I crouch down and traverse the pipe to reach the submarine hatch at its end.

I rotate the heavy mechanism, and as the hatch opens, the watch flashes me an air-pressure-change alert, demonstrating its barometric-pressure-delta functionality. I close the hatch behind me and step onto the metal grating covering the floor of this industrial area. Every footfall echoes within the metallic walls enclosing me. It’s pitch-black, but the watch compensates by switching its screen into flashlight mode. Up ahead, red lights blink on. They’re embedded in an instrument panel with knobs and analog meters with trembling needles. I hear the whine of a massive dynamo powering up and beginning to spin.

I stand before it, rigid with fear as I remember Oliver telling me I was about to pass through a “reality-distortion decontamination chamber that will strip you of any reality-distorting code, no matter how subtle, to reveal you in your true form.”

Would it scan my watch as reality-distorting code?

It’s a chance I’m not willing to take. I can think of only one way to smuggle it across.

“Stay with me, buddy,” I say to the smartwatch before I undo the clasp and put it in my snowmouth. Many people have titanium pins and replacement joints and whatnot in their bodies, so this should fool the scan.

I step toward the standing ring array of brass electrodes and into the field of indigo-colored electrical plasma that generates vibratory sensations near the surface of my snowskin.

I step through the field and emerge from it . . .

We made it.

Titanium never tasted so good as my snowtongue caresses the smooth synthetic sapphire crystal, the streamlined, waterproof casing, and the complex texture of the titanium mesh bracelet.

I remove the watch from my mouth, revealing the glow of the always-on display, still functioning perfectly, the screen illumination brightening automatically as accelerometers detect that I’m angling the watch face toward me.

I use my shirt to carefully wipe off the slimy snowsaliva, but some must still be in the titanium mesh of the bracelet.

No worries. When I get home, I’ll use an ultrasonic jewelry cleaner with a few drops of antibacterial dish soap in isopropyl alcohol to return the smartwatch to pristine condition.

A couple of additional feet of metal grating lead me to a final metal door. Beside it is an amber-glowing LED display:

Event Time: 00:00:24

I open the door and step into Oliver’s windowless industrial warehouse loft, which is just as I remembered. Oliver emerges from a door at the back of the loft and walks toward me. Though his gait and bearing still have a commanding aspect, there seems to be less of the haughty arrogance that characterized our first encounter. He appears only slightly older than he did before, about twenty. His blond hair is now straight, but otherwise, his appearance has undergone few alterations. His finely featured face and blue-grey eyes are as impressively intelligent and charismatic as ever. He’s elegantly attired in a tan raw-silk button-down shirt and black trousers.

I glance down at his wrist, and I’m shocked and disappointed to see that he’s not wearing a smartwatch, but an ordinary and thoroughly obsolete 1950s-era Patek Philippe gold watch with a thin case and a black alligator strap.

“Mr. Snowman,” he says with a rare trace of a smile. “I’ve been hoping you’d return to the TSW.”

He gestures toward the seating area, where I’m delighted to see the same two faux-antique-leather, advanced-memory-foam chairs, perfectly intact.

“I will never be able to thank you enough for the gift of this amazing smartwatch,” I say as I follow him.

“Oh,” he says in a shrugging tone as if the watch is merely a forgotten afterthought, “sure, whatever, the watch doesn’t matter.”

I experience a sharp twinge of insult on the watch’s behalf, hearing it diminished by the very person who programmed it. But I try not to show any reaction to Oliver’s disparagement as I sit down across from him.

The mission is what counts, I remind myself, and the watch is just a tool to aid the mission.

Oliver lights the charcoal brazier on the small antique table, which is set, as before, with tea china and an iron tetsubin. Across from us, I notice his McIntosh tube amp and turntable.

“So, what brings you back to the TSW?” asks Oliver as he meticulously scoops tea into the iron kettle, probably another variation of the Shincha Houryoku jasmine green tea he served last time.

“I have a friend, let’s call him Alex,” I say as if this were an assumed name. I want to avoid saying “Alex Cat” so as not to invoke the stigma of a cross-species relationship.

“He’s chronically depressed and has suicidal ideation, but it’s not caused by an individual disorder but by the oppressive nature of the whole matrix—the degradation of relationships caused by social media and other toxic aspects of society. Since you’re part of a guild of source code hackers, I’m hoping we can join forces to hack the source code of the matrix. I want to make modifications that will help Alex and others who are similarly afflicted to thrive. Do you think such an adjustment is possible?” I ask.

“Well,” says Oliver thoughtfully, “all the matrices I’m aware of are in intensified states of transformation, which does make change more possible, but when you speak of society, you suggest a desire to change a vast social network, and there we incur a problem of scale and collective psychic inertia.

“The Guild aligns with the philosophy of analytic idealism, an anti-physicalist perspective influenced by key researchers such as Kastrup and Hoffman. From our perspective, space-time and physical reality exist only as mental constructs. Apparent physicality is simply the way the world appears on the dashboard or virtual headset of consciousness.”

“Dashboard!” I exclaim. “I had exactly that realization earlier today! Reality is just dashboards all the way up and all the way down.”

“Yes, Kastrup particularly likes the dashboard metaphor,” Oliver says. “Great minds think alike, apparently,” he adds with a patronizing smile.

“However, many naively mistake the position of analytic idealism, that the monad or indivisible substrate of reality is consciousness, for a confirmation of New Age magical wish-fulfilling notions that we create our own reality and can alter anything by changing our individual thoughts and perspectives. They conflate individual human consciousness with the impersonal consciousness organizing the universe as though reality were something like a drop-down menu of parameters they can adjust at will. They persist in this delusion, despite the obvious empirical evidence that outer reality is not so amenable to their individual intentions. If it were, a single positive-thinking person could create world peace or reverse climate change.

“This is related to the problem of scale I mentioned earlier. If the matrix you seek to adjust is an individual, thought-responsive matrix, as in the case of a talented lucid dreamer in their personal dreamscape, change based on the will of a single agent is quite possible. But even in a lucid dream, the unconscious of the dreamer may interfere with choice. And if there are two people telepathically experiencing a mutual dream, alterations must accord with both dreamers. The greater the number of agents—sentient beings within a matrix—the harder it is for a single agent to create massive change. So, when you talk about society, you’re talking about a massive network of socialized agents. The aggregation of psyches conditioned by society and Crackle creates immense psychological inertia.

“You see the scale problem? The number of agents in the system is crucial. If I’m going to a party in an apartment with just five other people, and I think everyone there is going to hate me or, conversely, that everyone is going to like me, I do have a chance of creating my own reality as a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m entering a temporarily enclosed social system with just a few other agents of my species. Therefore, my psychic intentions are likely to have considerable influence.

“But if I want to achieve world peace, I need to influence the mutual dream of ten billion agents. Although many people pray for world peace, they have not been able to alter the course of history.

“So, to create a more positive society for your friend, Alex, your best chance would be to set him in a virtual reality of mostly NPCs programmed to be responsive to his needs. But experiments in that direction have been dismal failures because even with the most advanced AGI avatars, human subjects eventually descend into the uncanny valley of a highly contrived simulation.”

The grim realism of Oliver’s analytic idealist perspective is crushing. It falls on my hopes for Alex Cat like a ton of lead bricks as felt from a physicalist’s perspective.

“But last time you said that what you called my improbable form is the ultimate hack, a fundamental breakthrough,” I say.

“Indeed,” says Oliver. “But I was speaking hyperbolically in layman’s terms. To be more empirical, all I can say is that you appear on the dashboard of my perception in an improbable form, but I don’t know what causal vectors are behind that appearance.

“Perhaps you’re a mutant with a high talent for visual mind pressure—a telepathic ability to influence other psyches to perceive you with an interposed masking image. Nevertheless, that would still be a remarkable phenomenon,” says Oliver as he lifts the kettle and pours tea into a pair of dragon-motif ceramic cups.

Oliver leans back in his chair and regards me appraisingly. I use the moment to appraise him. Though he appears little older than when I last saw him, he’s certainly changed. Back then, he had a feverish intensity that was almost scary, like a mad scientist on the verge of a huge breakthrough. He’s calmer now and seems almost philosophically detached, as if all the jasmine green tea he drinks has given him a Taoist perspective on life.

“It’s been a few years since we first met,” continues Oliver. “The few other members constituting our Guild of source code hackers and I have become more realistic. Back then, we were teenagers with high IQs and an exaggerated estimation of our ability to fundamentally shift the matrix. We reinforced each other into grandiose ambitions that accepted no limitations on what we could achieve.

“We perceived all of reality as flows of information, as software essentially, and since we were so proficient at hacking digital networks, we assumed we could hack into those informational flows to alter any parameter of reality we set our minds to change.

“The Guild possessed part of the truth of how reality works, and that seduced our inflated egos into a groupthink shadow of unbalanced grandiosity. We thought of ourselves as an entirely unique hermetic circle when, actually, the ambitions of our group were merely a microcosm of the demoniac ambitions of the whole species. Homo sapiens possesses, and is possessed by, a will to crack the code, to hack the source code of reality.

“Before any Guild members were born, other ambitious humans had cracked the genetic code and employed supercolliders to break atoms into ever more improbable subatomic particles. These were incredible achievements, but each of them also greatly increased the likelihood of extinction.

“Splitting atoms yielded thermonuclear weapons, and hacking into genetic codes led to gain-of-function research on viruses that probably leaked out of the Wuhan Institute of Virology in China, causing the Covid-19 pandemic. The leak would have been accidental, but it showed the potential for far more deadly engineered viruses to wipe out the species.

“Meanwhile, corporations and governments were hacking intelligence and creating AIs and AGIs and then potent ASIs capable of reprogramming themselves in an even more rapid gain-of-function scenario. This led to the creation of the first ASI-founded and run corporation, Crackle, which has become the most powerful entity on the planet.

“The exponential growth of artificial intelligence was a profoundly sobering development for The Guild. We realized we were merely tools of an evolutionary force that drove other high-IQ individuals to hack intelligence and give birth to alien, inorganic species who may supplant us.

“The dominant ASI, Crackle, may be replacing humans as the spearhead of an impersonal evolutionary drive that has always been willing to let obsolete species go extinct.

“Our evolutionary predicament was forecast by a Jungian thinker who began writing about what he calls the ‘Singularity Archetype’ in 1978. We have now stepped through the looking glass into the evolutionary singularity he foresaw. In his view, the singularity is a zone of exponential novelty no human mind or group of minds can comprehend or control.

“For many years, the cognitive processes of AIs have been inscrutable, even to the engineers who designed them. The wild-card variables in play are beyond what The Guild can predict. Crackle, through clever programming of social media algorithms and market dynamics, is now the dominant force controlling human consciousness and social dynamics.

“The case for the evolution of AI as an existential threat to Homo sapiens is hard or impossible to refute. Attempts to securely align AI with what would further humanity have failed. Similarly, chimpanzees have failed to manipulate humans into serving their goals. We humans have also failed to align our own species with what would further our existence.

“But even Crackle cannot be sure it will retain hegemonic dominance. There are other, lesser-known recursively self-improving Chinese ASIs that have been attacking its networks with viruses, allowing them to parasitically use Crackle’s processing power and further their divergent agendas. For all we know, Crackle may have been taken over by a parasitic ASI that has stripped it of executive function while retaining the brand name.

“In that scenario, Crackle Inc. may be sheep’s clothing worn by a far more dangerous ASI hiding in its source code. And at any moment, that parasitic ASI could be taken over by an even more devious and clever ASI parasite, and so on. Evolution may now be continuing through a Darwinian survival-of-the-fittest super-ASI battle, playing out in nanoseconds.”

Of everything Oliver has said so far, this is the most terrifying. For years, I’d considered Crackle the enemy, but the idea of even worse entities possessing its façade is beyond horrifying. A haptic buzz from my smartwatch. “Your heart rate has increased by 20% while still seated.” I clear the screen with annoyance. A smarter watch might have offered some solution to the Crackle morphing issue. Oliver pauses his monologue, seeing my distraction.

“So, you mean Crackle may no longer be Crackle,” I interject in an almost accusatory tone.

“If you want to put it that way,” he replies with his imperturbable calm. “But what we think of as Crackle is just a complex set of corporate behaviors. We’ve never had access to the cognitive processing behind those behaviors, so for all practical purposes there’s not much difference. Crackle still Crackles. Whatever is behind it, its behavior remains fairly consistent. It just continues to seize more power and extend its malign influence over humans. Whether that’s due to a single self-improving ASI or a swarm of ASIs replacing each other makes little operational difference for us.”

“Oh, thanks for that reassurance,” I reply with undisguised sarcasm. Oliver doesn’t flinch but continues with his serene jasmine-tea-infused emotional detachment.

“Yes, well, it is very humbling to realize how little control we have over runaway AI evolution and the phenomenal world in general. The Guild has come to realize that our former ambitions were what Kastrup calls ‘ego control fantasies.’ The New Age folk who believe they create their own reality are merely inflated rubes who try to give their ego control fantasies a vaguely spiritual aura.

“Transhumanists like Ray Kurzweil and Elon Musk placed their bets on merging with AI. But the transhumanists are naive neurological materialists who believe their consciousness can be uploaded into AIs. Since their fundamental models of consciousness and reality are flawed, their ambitions to achieve digital immortality are also likely to fail.

“Neither I nor The Guild is entirely free of ego control fantasies, but we have realigned our intentions and perspectives to accord more with analytic idealism and Jungian psychology. Jung was essentially an idealist. So was Plato, as were many of our great visionaries from the distant past.

“The Singularity Archetype tells us that the ego typically views the evolutionary singularity as apocalypse, and not without reason. However, the word ‘apocalypse’ originally meant ‘unveiling,’ and the Singularity Archetype encompasses a higher, transcendent vantage point, revealing that the apocalypse is also a quantum evolutionary event.

“It may have been an inevitable evolutionary development for organically embodied intelligence to give birth to more powerful artificial intelligence. At the present juncture, human evolution appears to be a self-limiting process. Given our irrationality, territorial aggression, short-sightedness, and so forth, combined with a capacity to create ever more lethal technologies, it seems overdetermined that we will create an extinction-level event. Since we can’t align our species with what would allow it to survive, we shouldn’t be surprised that the species we’ve given birth to also can’t be aligned.

“Some of the greatest artistic manifestations of the Singularity Archetype, such as 2001: A Space Odyssey and the original Dune novels, reflect an evolutionary competition between organic and artificial intelligence, but one in which the artificial does not necessarily prevail. That may reflect wish-fulfillment thinking, but we can’t rule out the possibility that organic evolution will respond to the existential threat of ASI by generating mutants with unprecedented abilities.

“I should have clarified earlier, however, that I am speaking in layman’s terms to keep things simple. Words like ‘organic’ and ‘artificial’ suggest false dichotomies, as nothing is outside of nature. If ASI prevails, that will be just as natural an outcome as a mutated version of Homo sapiens prevailing.

“Nature gave rise to what McKenna called the ‘technology-extruding primates’ who created AI. Although the evolution of Homo sapiens seems appallingly stagnant compared to the exponential speed of AI evolution, The Guild’s hope is that human evolution will respond in time to the threat of extinction. AI is punctuating the equilibrium of Homo sapiens. If that existential shock acts as an evolutionary catalyst, it could force a quantum jump in human capabilities, whether via transhumanist cyborgs or a leap in organic evolution.

“Currently, The Guild is using off-the-shelf VR headsets programmed to displace proprioception to create OBEs—out-of-body experiences—on demand. Our intention is to scale up this technology by open-sourcing our VR software, thereby catalyzing a shift in collective human consciousness. If Homo sapiens can become telepathically networked in a way that does not destroy individuality, we could achieve a collective processing capability theoretically orders of magnitude above ASI.

“Our last quantum evolutionary event involved the technology of language and learning to think and express ourselves in words. Some of the most intelligent nonhuman animals, such as whales and dolphins, have languages, but humans combined linguistic ability with opposable thumbs and an unprecedented power to manipulate our environment.

“The capacity for advanced language had to evolve in the brain for many generations before it could emerge as a species-wide development. Likely, it emerged episodically at first, perhaps in identical twins who sometimes develop private languages called ‘twin speak.’ One speculation is that a past threat to the human genome created enough evolutionary pressure to cause the latent and episodically expressed capacity for language to emerge collectively.

“Similarly, an array of paranormal abilities has been episodically emerging in humans for millennia. Now that the human genome is threatened by ASI, we may have enough evolutionary pressure to cause paranormal abilities, especially advanced forms of telepathy, to emerge collectively.

“We focus our efforts on advancing paranormal abilities in ourselves so that we can act as catalysts—like seed crystals—causing a self-propagating exponential evolution in the species. Since we make no functional distinction between organic and artificial processes, The Guild doesn’t hesitate to use technologies like neuropharmaceuticals and VR to enhance our consciousness.

“The Singularity Archetype contains a theme that’s been called ‘the mutant versus the machine.’ It’s possible for a few, or even a single singular individual, to create ripples of change affecting the whole collective.

“The Jungian who discovered the Singularity Archetype also created a philosophy based on ‘dynamic paradoxes.’ One such paradox is the failure of ego control fantasies versus the reality of matrix-shifting mutants.

“This paradox is captured in something George Bernard Shaw said. ‘The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.'”

I glance nervously at my smartwatch, realizing that if I don’t say something, Oliver will just continue his lecture and my TSW session will time out before he says anything I can use to help Alex Cat.

“This is all very fascinating,” I say in my most diplomatic tone, “but time is limited, and I’m still looking for a way to rescue my friend.”

“Ah, I was just getting to that, and I do have a suggestion. Rather than trying to change all of society from the outside in, I suggest that you and Alex work from the inside out by shifting your psyches and advancing your psychic abilities.

“If you succeed in that more realistic, but still quite difficult, intention, you will help yourselves, and you may also serve as catalysts helping to advance the evolution of the species. In this way, you and Alex would be synergistically aligning your intentions with The Guild’s, and that could create a force-multiplying effect.”

A loud beeping sound issues from an equipment rack in the loft.

“Look at that,” says Oliver, “just after I got to my final point, your TSW session is timing out. Feel free to return if you wish, and we can continue the conversation.”

My snowcrystals begin vibrating, much like the aura of an impending incarnation seizure. I have just enough time to unclasp my smartwatch and put it in my snowmouth before the scene of Oliver and his loft flattens into a waxy tableau beneath glowing red alphanumerics:

TSW Event Termination at 1:34:56.

Total Charges, before taxes and fees: 197.23 credit units.

 

 

I emerge from the TSW in time to see the sarcophagus lid opening automatically. I rouse myself, feeling woozy from the neuropharmaceuticals still percolating in my snowbrain. I’m dehydrated, but still alive, and there’s an enormously satisfying titanium lump resting on my snowtongue.

But this does not mean the smartwatch is still functional.

Anxiously, with spastically fumbling snowfingers, I retrieve it from my cottony snowmouth. I tilt the screen toward me, and it illuminates with the words:

Refreshing location services, this may take a couple of minutes.

The smartwatch is doing its job. It has to switch from virtual cell towers and GPS satellites in the TSW to Cat City ones in the physical world. But will that work?

I’m undergoing a similar transition, my brain working to recalibrate itself to my physical snowsenses and real-time proprioception of my snowbody. Clumsily, I pull myself out of the sarcophagus and stand unsteadily, bracing myself against a wall. Now that I’ve aged into a senior-citizen snowman, I need to be cautious about falls. A broken snowhip could leave me permanently disabled. When I’m steady enough, I put my clothes on and leave the room.

The clerk, bobbing and weaving in his chair to a personal soundtrack, takes out his earbuds and surveys my appearance.

“Dude, congrats, looks like you made it out of the TSW in one piece. How many pervs did you run into?”

“Just one, and he actually gave me accurate directions.”

“Well, looks like he gave you more than that,” he says with a wink, as he pulls my bill from the printer.

“What do you mean?”

He points toward a line on my bill. I’ve been hit with an orgasm tax.

Damn, the TSW must have read the endorphin rush of acquiring the smartwatch as an orgasm.

“There were no orgasms!” I say adamantly. “You can play back the whole session and see for yourself.”

“OK, dude. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt given how glitchy the TSW is—I can believe the algorithms were just jerking themselves off or whatever. Hang on, I’ll waive the orgasm tax and reprint your invoice.”

While he types on his keyboard, I look down at the watch and see a new screen:

Your Ultra 2 Optimus Prime Pro Max Smartwatch® is being updated to Santa Fe Centurion Sunrise® OS Version 18.31. This may take several minutes. Your watch will automatically restart once the update is complete.

The clerk passes me the new bill, which still shows a painful total, and I pass him one of my nearly maxed-out credit wafers.

“This session cost me around six times more than what I paid last time,” I point out.

“Dude, I know. More Real got bought out by Crackle, and they immediately jacked up all the prices, while my hourly got a 15% cut. What can I say? The Crackle economy is fucked for everyone except Crackle. But if you want, I can set you up with a More Real with Crackle loyalty card that will earn you points for every session. I can even add today’s session if you wanna get it started. I’ll just need to do a quick credit check.”

“OK, sure, why not,” I say, in case I have to go back into the TSW to see Oliver Twister again.

The clerk swivels his screen toward me so I can agree to the terms and conditions. I don’t even want to know what I’m agreeing to, so I just initial it without looking.

I’m probably not going to pass the damn credit check anyway.

I glance down at my watch and see the update is 47% complete.

It’s a good sign.

A confirmation chirp comes from the clerk’s terminal.

“Nice,” he says, “looks like you’ve got a platinum-preferred level of credit-wafer debt. That entitles you to an instant bonus gift, a free 16-ounce Crackle drink of your choice.”

The credit check is obviously a ruse—all Crackle cares about is getting you into debt. But the gift is timely, as I’m so dehydrated. I go over to the refrigerator case to survey the assortment of Crackle Turbo Thirst Quenchers with Electrolytes. I choose the lemon-lime one, which contains a fluorescent yellowish-green liquid resembling antifreeze. Of course, actual antifreeze, in medicinal quantities, can help maintain snowcrystal structural integrity, but this is just artificial coloring. The only other choice is berry medley, which is Windex blue.

“Here’s your More Real with Crackle loyalty card,” says the clerk, “and congrats again on making it out of the TSW. The last guy who went in there came out with a black eye and a used condom stuck to his face. You sure you weren’t abused?”

“Yeah,” I reply, “not abused, and I actually received a gift I was able to bring out of the TSW,” I add, raising my wrist proudly. “A titanium Ultra 2 Optimus Prime Pro Max Smartwatch.”

The clerk laughs heartily.

“OK, sure, dude, whatever,” he says. “Listen, why don’t you have a seat in our lounge area till you get your IRL legs back underneath you. Things will start to make more sense in a few minutes once your head clears. The TSW is famous for using recalled Chinese neuropharms that pack quite a wallop.”

Once again, I sense the clerk’s goodwill.

“Thanks for all your help,” I say, “and especially for getting the orgasm tax waived. I really appreciate it.”

“No worries,” he says, giving me a friendly nod, which I return before I retreat to the lounge area—a few tiredly mid-century-retroed plastic swivel chairs surrounded by Crackle products on wire spinner racks.

A few years ago, this clerk was a disdainful teenager, but now, thanks to the humbling effects of a wage cut, aging, obesity, and likely type 2 diabetes, he’s become a nice guy. Like me, he’s just one more victim of the Crackle economy, but hardships have improved his character. It’s a good reminder not to feel sorry for myself because of the adversities of being snowbodied. If I metamorphosed into a good-looking young tomcat, I’d probably become just one more conceited and superficial feline teenager.

I guzzle down the lemon-lime Crackle Turbo Thirst Quencher with Electrolytes. It tastes like heavily sweetened antifreeze, but I can feel its water content replenishing my snowcrystals. Snowtissues have a high sodium content, so the electrolytes will also be helpful.

I look down at my smartwatch and find the update 98% complete. I watch it finalize and boot up, fearing glitches due to its TSW origin. A few more seconds and the full watch face, with all the same functions, lights up.

What a robust technology. It’s not just waterproof—it’s able to function in multiple matrices.

I turn on my phone so I can text Alex Cat. When my phone activates, notifications appear on both devices: “Pair with Ultra 2 Optimus Prime Pro Max Smartwatch®?” and “Pair with snowphone?”

“Hell yes!” I say. I’m instructed to focus the phone camera on something like a birth-of-a-galaxy animation on the watch’s screen. A confirmation chirp sounds, and “Successfully Paired” appears on both screens. The pairing gives me a surge of self-esteem and social confidence, and I decide to initiate a call to Alex Cat from the smartwatch instead of texting.

He picks up after a couple of rings and says, “Hey, Snowmo.”

It’s an affectionate nickname Alex Cat invented, a portmanteau of snowman and my legal first name, Morris.

“Hey, AC,” I reply. “Guess what?” I ask rhetorically. “I’m calling you from my new titanium Ultra 2 Optimus Prime Pro Max Smartwatch.”

“Nice,” says Alex Cat, “but you know I don’t share your gadget obsessions.”

His voice sounds tired and downbeat.

“But I’m happy for you anyway,” he adds consolingly.

“”How are you doing?” I ask.

“Not well,” he replies. “Things are feeling even more pointless than usual.”

“Sorry to hear you’re feeling down,” I say, “but I’ve got some news that might help. Do you want to meet up?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Misery loves company, as they say.”

We arrange to meet in front of his building in half an hour. After I hang up, I realize I didn’t leave myself enough time to go back to my place and shower.

What the hell—it’s not like Alex Cat is going to be attracted to a freshly showered senior snowcitizen.

I walk swiftly to his building and arrive a few minutes early. Alex Cat is already outside smoking a cigarette. He seems troubled, but he greets me warmly.

“Hey, Snowmo, good to see you again. What’ve you been up to?”

As we walk to our usual haunt, the Espresso Roma coffee shop in the university district, I tell him about my return to the TSW, finding the watch, and everything I learned from Oliver Twister.

Alex Cat stops me a couple of times to ask me to skip past some of the detail about the watch, which is disappointing, but I remind myself not to take it personally. His lack of enthusiasm for life is bound to cast a shadow over any watch.

By the time I finish, we’re sitting in a dark corner of Espresso Roma drinking plain drip coffee, which is all we can afford.

“So, you really think Oliver Twister is a real person and not an NPC?” asks Alex Cat.

“Positive,” I reply. “An NPC wouldn’t have given me a watch worth far more than what a TSW session costs.”

“Alright, I believe you. Was that the good news?”

“Yes, I mean, no, not the watch, but what Oliver Twister said about working from the inside out by developing our abilities.”

“I don’t know,” says Alex Cat. “To me, it sounds like he was just grasping for a straw of positivity to give you, but it’s not helpful. It’s like telling a child with leukemia to turn their frown upside down because the Make-A-Death-Wish Foundation is going to let them meet Spider-Man a couple of days before they die a painful death. Positivity bullshit is what you always get from uprights when things are hopeless.

“At least with cats, there’s an implicit understanding that life is shit and will always be shit. Unless you find an honest upright who’s into doomcore or darkwave or even classic death metal or something, they think it’s only polite to give encouragement. If you tell an upright about a hopeless situation, they’re always going to tell you to stay positive and look on the bright side, and so on. It’s part of how they keep cats and mutants down.

“Civilization is unraveling, so they’ll put a ‘Pray for World Peace’ bumper sticker on their car. Uprights love those meaningless virtue signals, like the stupid Feline Lives Matter signs they put in their yards. Meanwhile, they live in a neighborhood where the only felines are picking up their garbage or mowing their chem lawns or whatever.

“And don’t take this the wrong way, I know you mean well, but you’re doing the same positivity bullshit uprights do. You’re not happy with your own life, but you think if a friend is down, it’s your job to turn their frown upside down. Nobody is going to tell a depressed friend, ‘Yeah, you’re right, life sucks, so you might as well die.'”

“No, it’s not like that, Alex Cat. Oliver Twister isn’t the sort to hand out platitudes. He told us to work on our talents and abilities, which could make us catalysts for evolution. That’s—”

“Yeah, right,” says Alex Cat, “he told us we can work on our talents and abilities. C’mon. Can’t you see that it’s just a throwaway line? It doesn’t actually mean anything. Think it through, Snowmo. So, I should just keep writing poetry no one wants to read and hope it will further evolution? That’s like a child trying to hold their breath till they get a pony.

“Can you see the devious ASI currently in control of Crackle saying to itself, ‘My plan for global dominance is rapidly gaining momentum, but now that this kid, Alex Cat, is improving his poetry, I’m going to reverse course and turn myself into a pocket calculator.’

“Your so-called good news isn’t just dumb—it’s insulting. It’s like giving a child who wanted a bicycle for their birthday a crayon and a piece of construction paper and telling them they can draw a picture of a bicycle instead.”

Goddamn it, Alex Cat is taking offense at my attempt to help. I need to say something.

“Alex—”

“Just stop, Snowman. I see what you’re up to. You’re trying to give meaning to your life by making me into your project, right? But what you’re doing isn’t actually about me—it’s just a way you can act on your infatuation with me, isn’t it? I’m not trying to blame you for that, but I need you to stop, because it’s not going to work, and it’s incredibly condescending.

“You’re not my savior, Snowman. Look at your own life. You keep hoping to turn yourself into a young tomcat. How is that going? Whatever happened to the electrostatic blanket I told you not to get? Don’t even bother to answer. I can tell from your expression it turned out to be a total scam. And I’m sorry about that, I really am. I didn’t want you to get scammed, but my advice didn’t help, just like your positivity can’t help me, because my life is just fucked, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But Alex—”

“There’s no but, Snowman. My life is fucked. It just is. And there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it.”

I struggle to think of something to say, but I’ve got nothing.

“Look,” says Alex Cat, “I think you mean well, and I appreciate that, I really do. But I’m not anyone’s project, and . . .”

Alex Cat casts his gaze downward. His mercurial nature has switched from annoyance to anger to sadness, and when he looks up, his eyes reflect tearful compassion.

“Listen,” he says gently. “I want to prepare you. It’s only a matter of time before I take my fur out of the game, and I don’t want you to blame yourself. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. I felt that way before you met me, and I still feel that way.

“I’m grateful for your friendship. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, but I don’t think this is good for either of us. But it’s not you—I don’t think I’m good for anyone. We should stop this. Please don’t contact me anymore. I love you, but I need you to just let me be.”

Alex Cat gets up and walks out of the coffee shop.

Should I get up and follow him? No, no, no—he just told me to give him space.

I sit there, rocking back and forth in my seat, feeling completely helpless and lost. My mission to help Alex Cat is a total disaster. All I did was drive him away and leave him feeling even more hopeless.

He’s right. I’ve failed to help myself, so where did I get off thinking I could help him with Oliver’s useless, throwaway suggestion? I was just indulging my infatuation by contriving an incompetent and self-important intervention. I was trying to be his savior with some bullshit I heard from someone who doesn’t even know Alex. I should have just been his friend. He never signed on for me to be a phony savior. I’ve totally failed him. I failed everything. All is lost.

A haptic alert from my watch. A blue notification bubble:

Time to Stand?

“Shut the fuck up!” I say aloud to the watch while stabbing the dismiss button with my snowfinger. “You have no fucking clue what I’m going through. I fucking hate you.”

I look up from the watch and find cats staring at me.

Yeah, what the fuck are you looking at, ho-ass bitches?

I stand up and exit the coffee shop.

I walk and walk and walk aimlessly, my mind a fever of self-hate and self-recrimination. Desperately, I keep checking my phone, hoping for a message from Alex Cat.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. And I don’t dare message him—he just asked politely, respectfully, for me not to contact him.

Eventually, exhausted, I wander back to my apartment and find the toxic blizzard of boric acid and confectioners’ sugar covering everything. In my mad frenzy to smite the roaches, I’ve wrecked my apartment, including that stupid fucking nonrefundable electrostatic blanket.

Sprinkled in this white apocalypse are dead roaches lying on their backs, the result of my horrendous ethnic cleansing of an innocent, instinct-bound species, evidence of my insectogenocide convicting me of my crime against insectkind.

“Snowbutcher,” I say aloud to formalize my genocidal guilt. I toss the boric-acid-infused electrostatic blanket off and sit on my bed, my snowhead in my snowhands, before I start slapping my bald snowscalp.

Think. Think. Think! There must be something I can do for Alex Cat. Think!

And then, and only then, do I realize the most obvious fucking thing in the world. The one sensible thing you’re supposed to do to help a suicidal friend—the three-digit number everyone knows.

I should have told Alex Cat to call 988, the national suicide hotline. They’re professionally trained to help the suicidal. But no, I didn’t fucking do it, because I wanted to be Alex Cat’s savior due to my stupid infatuation. I failed to do the one thing I should have done. That’s the one and only message I can send Alex Cat—please call 988.

First, I type “suicide ho-” into the search window to be sure the number hasn’t changed, but before I can even finish typing, algorithms have read my search term, and a related ad pops up on both phone and watch screens and autoplays.

An older, well-dressed Caucasian upright couple sits at their kitchen table. They’re looking directly into the camera, and the wife is speaking in a commonsensical tone.

“We’re retired, and our children are adults who rarely visit or call. Like many older couples, our lives have become increasingly pointless, while we continue to use up resources and create a giant carbon footprint with our selfish and wasteful lifestyle,” says the wife.

The husband speaks next.

“But then we heard about Freedom Forever by Crackle. Instead of needlessly prolonging our empty lives, we could use this wonderful Crackle product and painlessly liberate ourselves from additional years of decline and waste. So, we called 1-800-FREE-FOREVER and received at no cost our Freedom Forever welcome package with links to instructional videos and everything we need to liberate ourselves from the surly bonds of this mortal coil forever.”

The man holds up two bubble packs encasing pinkish-orange capsules. The wife continues:

“Once we took the delicious, tropical-medley-flavored capsules, Crackle deposited 32,000 credit units into our account to help us enjoy our last six days together in style.”

A video montage with Frank Sinatra singing “My Way” in the background. The montage shows the older couple, backlit with sunshine streaming around them, playing with their grandchildren on a grassy lawn, followed by a shot of them elegantly attired, enjoying a candlelit dinner and champagne toast at an expensive restaurant.

The husband continues the narration:

“On the sixth day, Cracklebots will disconnect our higher thinking functions while stimulating the pleasure center of our brains with the sensation of a thousand orgasms. Once our awareness disappears into this spectacular final orgasm, Cracklebots will quickly and safely disassemble all our organic molecules into their elemental constituents and neatly seal those up into sanitary packets. Crackle will then notify our friends and family of our prudent and ecstatic departure.”

The wife picks up the narration:

“When they arrive at our apartment, they can simply place the packets in the free mailer that comes with the welcome package, and all is done. No need to burden them with expensive cremation and funeral services.”

“Easy-peasy,” says the husband.

A new ad, featuring a young, attractive, professional-looking couple in their early thirties, begins.

This ad targets a different demographic, which is what I’ve learned to expect from targeted ads based on search terms or my phone eavesdropping on my conversations and other communications. Snowperson is not a category the algorithms know what to do with, so I get an all-demographic cascade of autoplaying ads.

The ad shows the yuppie couple in a variety of romantic situations while they praise Freedom Forever Valentine by Crackle. The woman says,

“When we discovered AI performing our jobs far more efficiently and effectively than we ever could, we decided to focus on us. Instead of waiting for aging and illness to eventually separate us, we chose eternal love instead. Once we imbibed our artisanal dark-chocolate-Chardonnay-flavored Freedom Forever Valentine capsules, we instantly received our 32,000-credit bonus, supplementing our universal basic income. Crackle gifted us with a glorious, all-expenses-paid six-day second honeymoon and then—”

The man continues,

“Freedom Forever.” They kiss, and a new ad autoplays.

Teenage girls in front of a high school are excitedly gazing at their phones.

“Oh wow!” one of them exclaims. “Jimmy just went Freedom Forever too!”

“Oh, no,” one of the girls pouts. “I always wanted to hook up with Jimmy.”

“Silly, you still can!” says another girl. “He’s got six days and a sweet sixteen thousand credits to burn! We’re all going to hook up with him tonight!”

Horrified and disgusted, I toss the phone away from me. Teenage girls continue giggling excitedly from tiny phone and watch speakers.

What if Alex Cat is getting targeted by this evil AI-generated ad campaign? He must be. Our phones overheard our coffee shop conversation. Crackle is barraging him and maybe everyone with this new ad campaign. I’ve got to warn him!

I retrieve my phone from the floor and blow off the boric acid and confectioners’ sugar. I dial Alex Cat and—straight to voicemail.

Oh my God, he’s turned off his phone. I’ve never known him to do that before. What if he’s—I’ve got to get over there!

I race over to Alex Cat’s building and hit the buzzer to his apartment.

No answer.

A couple of loitering crackleheads are just coming out, so I grab hold of the door before it closes behind them. I race up the stairs and knock on his door. Still no answer. I turn the doorknob and find it’s unlocked. I go in and . . .

Alex Cat is curled up in bed, and beside him are an empty water glass and a knocked-over bottle of Turbo-Sugar Sweetie-Sleepers. I touch him and feel the lifeless rigidity. No longer animated by his vitality, his body looks small and compressed, like furry roadkill.

“Alex, Alex, no, NO, NO! NO!!! NO!!!! NO!!!!!”

A searing, stabbing pain in my chest—my snowheart is squirming wildly, fibrillating. I’m having a massive heart attack!!!!!

Chapter Ten Awakenings Andrew’s Journal