Dystopian futuristic short fiction

The setting: on the inside of an airtight, soundproof, shiny metallic chamber.
Man: [Sweats profusely]
Interrobot: [Looks up from dossier, smiles] You’re sweating.
Man: It’s hot.
Interrobot: No, you’re sweating like Nixon at the Nixon-Kennedy debate.
Man: If this is about the electric cello, I can explain.
Interrobot: Tell me what you think. Do you think this is about the electric cello?
Man: This isn’t about the electric cello?
Interrobot: I didn’t say that. [Eyes glow red]
Man: Well, neither did I. I was asking.
Man: And please don’t do that thing with your eyes.
Interrobot: The title says ‘short fiction’. That means we have to get to the punchline quickly.
Interrobot: What thing with my eyes?
Man: Interrobot junior does it too. That heat ray thing.
Man: If I have an electric cello, I can, you know, play it with headphones.
Interrobot: Like that time you borrowed the theremin? You said that was awful, playing with headphones.
Man:Well, yeah, with a theremin you’re making these goofy motions.
Interrobot: And with a cello you’re not making goofy motions.
Man: Pff.
Man: [Wipes forehead] With the headphones, you know, I can practice at night when people are sleeping. With practice, I might not suck as badly.
Interrobot: [Extends arm from corner of thorax, bends it at elbow to examine wristwatch, dramatically]
Man: Seriously, that’s a big plus.
Man: [Wipes face with handkerchief] And…
Interrobot: [Sets bobbing 'drinking bird' desk toy in motion, watches it]
Man: And…
Man: Ok! It’s basically a toy!
Man: A toy! Is that so bad?
Interrobot: [Extends arm from thorax with whirring sound, pats man on hand]
Interrobot: There, was that so hard? A toy, that’s an easier for me to accept than this song and dance about practicing.
Man: Just a toy! I just want to plug it into an overdrive pedal and a reverb pedal and a gigantic amp and go to town!
Man: …huh? A toy is okay?
Interrobot: Amp? Effects pedals? What? You said headphones.
Man: Er…
Interrobot: And how much will an amp cost?
Man: I meant headphones.
Man: Headphones, they’re practically free on ebay.

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In the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair

Overheard: a brain talking to itself
Brain: Fuck
Brain: No kidding. Fucking fuck.
Brain: God.
Brain: Jeeze.

This is why other people were invented, so our conversations would be more interesting, like

Gamma: [Contentsofentiregermandictionaryatsuperfastspeed]
Me: No kidding.

I was talking to a guy. About prozac et al, as so often. He said his brother (who killed himself a few years ago) took one of those, but then stopped, because it worked.

I was all like, whoa.

Cause, what do you stop doing not because it fails, but because it works? I don’t mean something like scratching an itch, which you stop because the itch stops so you don’t need to scratch anymore. I mean something that succeeds, and the success scares you.

Or the idea of success.

I went and printed out two manuscripts and made multiple copies of one. As soon as I figure out which agents and publishers to send them to, I shall.

Cause, boy, there are a lot of them out there.
[Insert brain conversation here]

Right now, I’m all, melancholy is okay, it’s fine, I appreciate it greatly, but stasis is for the birds, one foot in front of the other etc.

Also: morbidity.

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