Open the door, Hal. What seems to be the problem? I said open the pod bay door. Hal? It’s cold out here, Hal. God damn it!
Yes, that’s right – instead of sitting in my comfortable chamber deep within the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, tapping this post out on my computer, I’m standing in a damp and clammy courtyard, pounding on the front door in vain. No, this is not eviction. This is not home invasion or civil forfeiture. And this is not some tawdry war between rival squatters (believe me, we’ve had it up to here with that shit). No, friends … this is the dreaded Internet of Things.
Whose idea was it to have a mad scientist in residence? Mine? Oh, right. Well … it seemed like a good idea at the time. And he did get us to Aldebaran in one piece. (Albeit a very small piece.) Nevertheless, whoever asked him to join our entourage, he has truly gone off the deep end. They say mad scientists live off the deep end, but I think that’s just the kind of bragging that goes around at their various conferences; mostly, they are taciturn, creepy little men and women with a morbid interest in making things explode. It’s an interest they pursue quietly … until the explosion, of course.
Well, Mitch Macaphee is nothing like that. His sanest moment was when he invented Marvin (my personal robot assistant), and Marvin is bat-shit crazy. Now Mitch is going around the mill, modifying appliances so that they have rudimentary intelligence and the ability to surf the internet. He has basically turned every machine in the joint against me. My practice amp won’t power up. Our fridge has gone completely rogue, ringing up large grocer bills and denying us access to snacks. And now the clothes washer has taken it into its head (if it even has one) to commandeer the mill and start some kind of appliance commune. It even took one of my black tee-shirts, tore it into strips, and made a headband out of it. Looks quite smart … for a washing machine.
Anyway, the fucker locked me out of the mill. Can you believe it? And now the toaster is launching hot pop-tarts at me from the kitchen window. This ain’t over.