"The roombot patrolled the rugged expanse of its surroundings. Its progress was slow and methodical, mechanical and calculating. Its solitary goal was to exterminate the humans. The young couple were huddled tightly in the corner, paralyzed in fear of the robotic menace that sought to ascertain their position. They shivered in unison, and with that, the vacuum found them. As they trembled, it felt only the grim satisfaction of success. The machine inched forward menacingl-" Jacob Fleetwood was halted from the conclusion of his riveting prose by the interuption of his would-be publisher James Ramirez. "This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard!" Ramirez exclaimed in a stunned disbelief. "This is dumber than...Ms. Brant, what are four things that are generally considered dumb?" His secretary was thoroughly used to such inquistions, thus was able to restrain herself from adding people who can't formulate their own comparisons to a rapid-fire list of Forrest Gump, Jersey Shore, George Bush and blondes. Ramirez pondered this briefly before informing Fleetwood that his manuscript had in fact been dumber than "a blonde Forrest Gump sniffing glue with George Bush on Jersey Shore". Jacob was struck by the realization that despite not entirely grasping that comparison, it was not exactly flattering to him. "But...but...," he stammered in feeble protestation "this is my life's work. It deserves serious consideration." He added a sir timidly, still under the impression that his manuscript could be published. Ramirez began to exasperatedly explain that the public was not clambering for a novel about an uprising of household appliances. He reiterated that it was a monumentally stupid idea, and that if the public were in the mood for something ludicrous, they could buy...Ms. Brant? His secretary wearily suggested a feather bowtie, Oryx and Crake action figures and Lil Wayne's rock album. Ramirez shrugged. He then asked Fleetwood to leave, as he had better ways to squander his precious time. He looked pointedly at Ms. Brant. She looked pointedly at a guideline on sexual harassment in the workplace. Jacob Fleetwood became desperate, his protests growing in volume, a crescendo of complaint whose vociferous nature would warrant his forcible ejection from the office.
He tread slowly over the January cement, drowning dejectedly in the ignominy of his departure. HE knew he had written a classic of science fiction, but it had proven impossible to convince publishers of its artistic validity. He recognized that while it was a work of populist fiction, it was also a cutting statement on society's technological dependence. The central unspoken theme was one of control: were we in control of our machines, or was the opposite true? However, it had been impossible to effectively articulate this to publishers, especially when they found the idea of a roombot with automatic machine guns laughable. Fleetwood on the other hand found it terrifying.
In a tired display of desperation, Jacob traipsed into a church on his way home. Seated in the pews, he gazed at the ceiling and whispered "God? It's me, Jacob Fleetwood. I know I haven't asked you for much. At least since that ten-speed bike back when I was eleven." Upon reflection, he realized that that had been Santa Claus. He apologized for the confusion. With a red face, he asked for a miracle, for publishers to recognize his literary masterpiece for its true worth. He concluded this prayer with an embarassed apology for the bicycle he'd stolen when he was eleven. He confided that God would probably have followed through on delivering the bike he had asked for for Christmas, unlike a certain fat red-coated bastard.
Across town, in Rubix3 Publishing, James Ramirez was asking Ms. Brant the three things she's most like to do with him over the weekend, with the implication of a healthy bonus if she answered correctly. Her answers were as follows: slap you in the face, tender my resignation and file a harassment suit. She had not signed up for a more lascivious Family Feud. Ramirez watched her smooth contours exit the office with open admiration. Moving in a resigned manner to his desk, he noticed that he had an unread e-mail. Opening it, he saw that it said simply, "Believe. Sincerely, God". Around him he could hear the gentle whir of his electric pencil sharpener, the static hum of his paper shredder, the smooth whistle of his coffeemaker reaching its boiling point. A roombot entered his office in a display of steeled malice. Its mission was simple: terminate the human.
