- Datacide - http://datacide-magazine.com -

We can do n. . .

He’d always wanted to fuck Donna something about her breasts always had him running for the school toilets, holding in his ecstatic screams as his teenage juices hit the bathroom walls.
Now finally here they were, what he’d been waiting for in 3-d technicolour, her beautiful pungent odours filling the room as her knickers hit the floor . But when she mounted him it wasn’t her but his mother, his sister, it was Mrs Maryland screaming as she rode him. This isn’t what he wanted, and he tried to stop his mind twisting and turning.
And coming round the corner of his mind he starerd into his own eyes and then he knew he should have stuck it in her ear and fucked her brain the good old fashioned way. Striking him now a moment of realisation; perhaps this was his deepest desire, maybe this was what he really wanted to make love to himself; yet now it wasn’t him, it wasn’t even her, a cheap copy moving and moaning, the sounds weren’t even right more cow than human, these 8 bit machines are never up to scratch.
He knew very well what he must do, defunct machines must always be retired, I mean no-one worries about old machines nowadays, even if they do look human; who bothers with the scrapheaps not with the all new fully functional models coming in and what if they have no real personalitys. What do we want with reality when virtual caters for all your needs, soon they won’t even need us, who wants humans when the machines can fuck each other, their spawn running freely, a nice semi detached somewhere on the net.
If only the virus didn’t run so deep maybe we could reset, before the bug makes us defunct, to things we need more than they need us. Function is everything and with no space to move our brains they spill out lost on disks that won’t load, not on this format, not in this hyper time.
And wondering if we’ve past our peers we overtake ourselves realising too late that here we drive on the other side of the road, here climax the end of the line, Greenwich station. Raise the roof,the ultimate party, a wafting mass of burning flesh sent high into the night sky, and the ones who still can breath wish they hadn’t come.
Now he has, he wipes the blood and returns his limp member to the safety of his shit stained underpants. Believing for once maybe it would be a good year, not many commence with the beginning of the end.