I know I published this before, but I love it. Enjoy. If you watch any TV, you know that swear words and cuss words that were once never uttered in polite company are now commonplace. The following is fiction but someday it could happen.

The Word “F*#%er” Now a Racial Slur-A Short Short Story

It’s official now -- the F-word, or least that variation of it that ends in “er” is a racist word and
politically correct and/or sensitive people can no longer use it. In a recent research study, an ethnic group called the F*#%ers has been identified. Genealogists were surprised that this ethnic group survived so long without recognition as a distinct ethnic family. Apparently, they have existed in plain sight for centuries all over the world. They blend in well since they are not of any distinct color or do they have any distinguishing features. There are mother F*#%ers, father F*#%ers, little F*#%ers, and even stupid F*#%ers. The stupid, mother F*#%er, a much rarer variation, also exists.   
 
Many live and work in Washington D. C., but researcher found them in most state capitals. Many elected officials are F*#%ers. A disproportional number work for the DMV in most states. They seem to be attracted to jobs that require a great deal of red tape and bureaucracy. They are well suited for managerial positions. Few people will acknowledge they belong to this ethnic group, but there is no doubt that they are F*#%ers nonetheless.      

One researcher, who asked not to be identified for fear he might turn out to be a F*#%er, said the is happy the work to identify all the F*#%ers can now begin, because many of the F*#%ers don’t know they belong to the ethnic group of F*#%ers.     

We welcome this latest ethnic group and wish them well. In all fairness, it would not be correct to label someone as a F*#%er until the genealogists complete their work. However, many F*#%ers are self-evident by their lifestyle. Research will confirm this one way or another.     
​
PS. during my research, one of the genealogists checked my DNA, and it turns out that I am a F*#%er too. What a surprise. Who knew?

For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
$$$

I wrote this a few years ago when I started dating after my wife died. I hope you enjoy it. 

​The Logistics of Senior Sex

Judy was impressed as she walked into the restaurant Chris choose for their date. He certainly has good taste, she thought. She wasn’t sure if he was ready for what she was going to tell him, but she had made up her mind to do it. Chris stood by and waited for the hostess to help Judy with her chair. He’s also a gentleman. That’s so rare these days.
“This seems like a nice restaurant. Do you eat here often?” Judy asked.

Chris folded his napkin and placed it on his lap. “I ate here maybe twice on business, but it was lunch, not diner. I thought the food was excellent.”

The server arrived and after explaining the evening’s specials, asked if they would like to order drinks. Chris asked, “Shall I order the wine for us, or would you prefer something else?”

Judy smiled. “I think I would like some Champaign if you don’t mind. I feel like celebrating.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “And what are we celebrating?”

“I’ll get to that. Go ahead and order.”

After asking a couple of questions, Chris order two glasses of Champaign and the appetizer special: stuffed mushrooms. They both started reading the menu.

“Would you like me to order for both of us? I hear the prime rib is to die for.”

“Okay but make mine petit. I probably won’t be able to finish it.”

The server returned with their glasses of Champaign and took their orders.

Chris raised his glass. “Here’s to us then.” They clicked glasses. “Now what are we celebrating?”

Judy smiled and placed her napkin on her lap. “We’re celebrating us, you could say. Your toast was spot on. This is our third date. You know what they say.”

Chris shook his head. “No, what do they say?”

Judy lowered her voice and leaned forward. “They say that if you like someone then you should sleep with him by the third date. I really enjoy your company, and I think we should take our relation to the next level. I want to sleep with you, Chris Andrew.”

Chris leaned back in his chair. “Oh, wow. I didn’t see that coming. Who makes these rules? I mean, yes, I thought about it, but I didn’t want to push it. Yes. Yes. I really like you, and I would like that.  I mean raising our relationship to the next level.”

Judy chuckled. “Well, we’re not exactly like a couple of twenty-year olds who can just jump into bed anytime. We’re in our seventies for God’s sake. There are logistics to consider. I think we should discuss it.”

“Oh. Logistics.” Chris looked around the dining room. “You mean right here? Now?”

Judy laughed. “Of course. No one can hear us. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think we should do it tonight—right after diner. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have you sleep over at my place. It would be easier for me. I have all my meds, make up, and clothes there. I’ll feel more comfortable there.”

“Yes, of course. That’s fine with me. If fact, for breakfast I’ll make my famous pancakes. We’ll have breakfast in bed.”

Judy chuckled. “I haven’t had breakfast in bed in years. In fact, I can’t remember the last time a man cooked for me. That sounds promising, but I’m a diabetic. Pancakes raise my blood sugar levels.”

“Okay. Then I’ll make an omelet with bacon and toast.”

Judy started to say something but saw the server approaching with their appetizer. She waited until he was out of hearing range. Judy shook her head. “Skip the bacon. If I eat the prime rib, that’ll be enough meat for me to last a week.”

“An omelet with toast it is.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to a great night and breakfast in bed.” They clicked glasses. “We’ll drive over to my place after this so I can pick up my meds and a change of clothes. Then we’ll stop to buy eggs and bread.”

“And condoms,” added Judy.

“What?”

“Do you have condoms?”

Chris blushed. “Well, no. I guess we’ll have to buy some. Wouldn't want you to get pregnant.”

Judy laughed for a whole minute. “No, that’s okay. I have some.”

Chris raised one eyebrow. “You do?”

Judy cocked her head to one side. “We agreed not to mention our previous relationships, remember? Yes, I have condoms. I like to be prepared.” Judy grinned. “I have large, will that fit?”

Christ nodded his head. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but it may work.”

Judy nearly spit out her mouth full of Champaign as she laughed. “You crack me up. I think I enjoy your sense of humor best of all. I haven’t laughed this much as I have on these dates with you.”
“If you thought that was funny, wait until you see my performance in bed.”

Judy laughed again. “You said last week that you had some type of heart condition. Has your doctor cleared you for sex?”

Chris smiled. “Oh, yeah. In fact, he encourages it. He gave me Viagra. I take a quarter tablet every day.”

“You do? Every day? Why so little?”

“Well, I just need enough so I don’t pee on my shoes.”

Judy laughed again and shook her head. “You’re terrible. Do you have ED? Did you bring some?”

“I have a problem with ED. Nothing terrible, just typical old age. I’ll take a pill when we get to my place. How about you? Is your doctor okay with this?”

“Well, I didn’t specially ask her about tonight, but yeah, I’m okay. I have a problem with dryness, but she gave me a cream for that.”

Chris started to say something but stopped when the server arrived with their prime rib. They ordered another glass of Champaign. Chris cut a piece of prime rib and ate it. “Hmmmm. That’s good. While we’re talking about medical condition, I should tell you that I have sleep apnea. I’ll have to bring my breathing machine.”

“That’s fine. Do you need distilled water for that?”

“For one-night, regular water won’t hurt the machine.”

Judy smiled coyly. “Or two… I guess I should tell you that I snore. If it bothers you, just wake me and tell me to turn on my side.”

“It won’t bother me. Once I take out my hearing aids, I won’t hear a thing.”

Judy laughed. “We seem so compatible, don’t we?” She raised her glass and took a sip. Chris sipped his drink too. For a few moments, they sat quietly enjoying their meal, holding hands across the table. Judy broke the silence, “Chris, I don’t know what your expectations are, but I have arthritis. I’m not as flexible as I once was. I can’t do some things”

“Judy, when we started this evening, my expectations were to have a good meal in the company of an exciting and beautiful woman and maybe go out for some ice cream afterwards.  I know a great place that serves the best ice cream. Besides, I have a bad back. We won’t be doing anything too strenuous. In fact, I would prefer if you were on top.”

“Oh, I like the top. Thank you.”

They continued to eat. Finally, Chris spoke up. “I should warn you that one of my ex-wives may call me.”

“One? How many ex-wives do you have?”

Chris raised one eyebrow and Judy backed down.

“Sorry. It just slipped out. Why does she call?”

Chris sat back. “To answer your question, I have two ex-wives, but only the first one feels the need to call me at odd hours. I think she’s just insecure. My second ex-wife hates my guts and would never call.” Chris sat straight up. “I almost forgot. I must call my neighbor across the hall. He’ll have to take care of my dog.”

“Oh. You never mentioned a dog. Will it be okay with your neighbor?”

“Yeah, we cover for each other all the time, not a problem.”

“Well, I failed to mention that I have a cat. I hope you aren’t allergic.”

“No, no. I have no allergies.”

Judy sat still for a moment and then sighed.

Chris put down his fork. “What is it. What are you thinking?”

Judy shook her head. “Nothing really. There just seems to be a lot of logistics.”

“Please tell me what you’re thinking. It’s okay. We’re in this together. Are you having second thoughts?”

Judy nodded her head. “Yeah, I guess. I’m trying to decide if I’m horny enough to go through with this.”

Chris smiled and placed his hand over Judy’s hand. “What do you say we go out for ice cream after diner, and then call it a night?”

Judy smiled. “That sounds like a good plan.”
​
THE END

Here’s another short short story I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy.
 
He Said, She Said
 
She marched into the airport lobby with that purposeful gait of a young, female professional very much in control and commanding attention, but pretending not to notice it so much as to expect it. He couldn’t help being aware of her as she sat down in the row of seats opposite him. She saw him when she first came into the lobby. Who wouldn’t; he was a hottie. She had to look at him only once, and then she avoided looking his direction. She knew he would be watching her. She always knew. He continued to watch her as she settled in, removed her coat, checked her ticket, checked her watch and took out her cell phone.
 
She turned on her phone and reviewed her messages. Nothing. He should have called by now. He knows I hate that. He will have some lame excuse, I am sure. She checked her watch again. He should be awake by now. She highlighted his number and pushed the “Talk” button.
She waited several rings for him to pick up. Finally, she said, “Hello, Sweetheart. Good morning. Did I wake you? How are you? I am okay too. No, I am at the airport, and I have some time, so I thought I would like to hear your voice. I missed you last night.” She listened for a minute and then said, “You were going to call me last night. What happened?” She listened again.
He stopped watching her to take out his own cell phone. He took out the microphone, stuck the earpiece in his ear, and dialed from memory.
She heard something and blurted, “Is that a cell phone I hear in the background? Where are you?”
“Good morning, Beautiful.” he said in that tone of voice that she liked so much early in the morning. “I’m fine. How are you? No, I’m still at the airport. My flight was delayed.”
“Who’s with you?” she demanded in a voice a too loud for privacy.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?” he asked.
“You bastard!” she said half shouting. “You told me you had to work late. You slept with her and had sex, didn’t you? No, it’s not the same thing! After all this time you sneak behind my back and sleep with your wife.” She paused and lowered her voice a couple of octaves. “I know that sounds stupid, but you know what I mean.”
“What do you mean he’s there?” He felt his anger rising, and he hoped that she would hear it in his voice. “What the hell is he doing there?”
She stood up and began to walk in small circles, oblivious to the people around her. “You told me that you had separated. You said you’d never go back to her. You lied to me.”
Now he is shouting, “Where is he now? In the bathroom? You mean the master bathroom in your bedroom?”
Fighting back tears she said, “You didn’t have to sleep with her. You could’ve slept on the couch.”
He shouted again, “You slept with him, didn’t you? You could’ve thrown him out.”
She accused him over the phone, “You had sex with Judy! Don’t lie to me.”
Gesturing, he said, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You said you hated Bob. You said you couldn’t stand to be around him. So now, you sleep with him?”
Speaking in a calmer voice, she asked, “Bob, did you tell her about us? You said you would. You promised!”
He sat back in his seat and asked, “You didn’t tell him about us, did you?”
She listened for a while and then said, “Yes, I’m mad. I’m so pissed! I can’t deal with this! This is too much. You can’t treat me this way. I’m not shouting! Okay, I’ll listen.”
After he listened, he replied, “Judy, did you at least file for divorce? You said that last month.”
She said, “I understand that you feel sorry for her but what about me?
He said, “I know you feel sorry for him, but that is no excuse.”
Finally, she said, “Look, just get dressed and leave the house. We’ll talk about it later.”
Finally, he said, “Okay, just get rid of him and call me back.”
They ended their calls and put their phones away. He glanced at her as she pulled out a book to read. When she glanced his direction, he looked at his watch and pretended not to notice. They sat in silence and thought about what a mess their lives are.
She looked at him over the top of her book. I hope he is on my flight; my luck might change.
The End

Here’s a short story I wrote a few years ago, based on a true story.
 
A Writer’s Dilemma

I’ve a story to tell. It burns inside my blood like acid trying to get out of every pour of my body. My brain boils when I think about it. It consumes me. It keeps me tossing and turning at night. It haunts my waking moments. However, I’m a newbie and I know it. I have a lot to learn about being a writer. Therefore, I decided to learn as much as I can about my new profession and to do so as quickly as I can. I don’t have the patience or the time to take a writing class, so I decided to read magazines and explore the internet.
First, I subscribed to Writers’ Digest and The Writer magazines. I read every issue, cover to cover; even the article on poetry, which I do not understand. In one issue, I read an article about the 101 best websites for writers. I checked out each one. If it had a newsletter, I signed up. If it had a blog, I subscribed to it. If it was on Twitter or Face Book, I followed it. I followed the treads of conversation and wrote witty and creative comments. Then I read an article about the 10 best blogs for writers. I registered for all of them and read every issue. Now, every day I get several newsletters, blogs, and tips on writing and fill my day writing. I get absorbed at times and write late into the night.

The magazines recommended the Master of Fine Arts for writing programs. It sounded good, and I could even take the courses online, so I signed up for one. It was so much fun, that I started a second one. The magazines also recommended that I write everyday regardless of how much time I had. I needed prompts so I signed up for a couple of websites that provide writing prompts every day. I write something daily on each prompt. I even started my own website where I can post my own stories once I write them. I also started a blog for my followers if I ever get any. Meanwhile, I follow every author that I can on Twitter, LinkedIn and FaceBook.
​
I find that I no longer have time to write the story that was burning in my soul, but it does not matter, because I forgot what I wanted to write.
 
THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
​

Here’s a short story I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy.
 
If Thoughts Could Kill
 
Angelina allowed herself a small snicker as the focus of her ire came down for breakfast. God, I hate him, she thought. Look at that idiot. Little does he know that I am going to kill him next week. I can’t stand the sight of him. 
   
“Good morning, dear,” Ravi said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “How did you sleep last night?” I wish she died in her sleep. That would make everything easier, he thought. I must kill her next week. He sat down at the table opposite her.  
  
Angelina handed Ravi the half-and-half. “Fine. And you?” Ravi blew on the surface of his coffee, a habit that Angelina found extremely annoying, and took one sip. Blood began to drip from his nostrils. As he reached up to touch his face foam began to pour out of his mouth. He looked at Angelina with those narrow beady eyes as his head hit the table with a thud. Then his head rolled off the table, across the kitchen floor and into the dog’s dish where Peppy, the greyhound, began to lick his face.    

“Like a baby.” Ravi grabbed the bagel knife and reaching across the table, stabbed Angelina’s hand, pinning it to the table. Pulling a pistol from the back of his waistband, he shot Angelina between the eyes. He smiled as the back of her head blew out like a smashed watermelon. Blood spouted out the top of her head and down onto the flannel nightgown that he hated. “Do you have plans this weekend?”    

“No, not really.” Angelina poured another cup of coffee. Yes, you bastard, Angelina thought. While you’re banging your slutty mistress across town, I have to buy some antifreeze for your coffee. Then stop off at the gun shop and pick up the pistol that has been on hold while my background check is in progress. I also want to find your old hunting knife.   
 
“Me neither.” Ravi sipped his coffee. I wish I had a slutty mistress across town so I could spend the day banging her while you waste money on another facial. He finished his coffee and stood up. “Well, I am going to get dressed and do some yard work.”    

“You do that, dear. I think I’ll go into town and get a facial.” What an idiot. He is worth millions but wears the same pair of underwear for years. I can’t wait to kill him.    

“Have fun. Pick up something for dinner.” As Ravi walked out of the kitchen, the kitchen exploded in a ball of fire. Apparently, someone left the gas on in the oven.    

“Ciao,” answered Angelina. As Ravi reached the top of the stairs, the top step gave way. He grabbed the railing and that also gave way. He fell over the side and landed on his head in the living room. His eyes were open and glued to the TV. The thought of it made Angelina smile.    

“Angie, I can’t find my lucky underwear.” What a bitch. I bet she threw them out.  
  
“I threw them out, dear. I’ll buy you some new ones while I’m in town.” I gotta kill him next week. 

Ravi shook his head. I have gotta kill her next week.
​
THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
​

All the news about the big jackpots on Powerball reminded me of this short short story I wrote many moons ago.
 
Friends Through Thick or Thin.
 
Bill walked into his favorite bar and immediately saw his best friend, John, sitting at the bar.
 
“Hey, John. Sup?”
 
John smiled. “I’m celebrating. I just won the lottery.”
 
Bill was shocked. “Congratulations. Let me buy you a beer.” He bought John a beer and ordered one for himself.
 
After a few sips of beer, John said, “Bill, you’re my best friend. I want to share my winnings with you. I’m going to give you half.”
 
“Aw, you don’t have to do that. I’m just happy for you.”
 
“No, no. I want to. We’ve been friends since we were in school. You’ve stood by me through thick and thin. I want you to have half.”
 
Bill smiled. “Okay. Let me buy another round to celebrate.” Bill lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to us—best friends forever through thick or thin.”
 
John clicked glasses and drank a big gulp. He took out his wallet and handed Bill a dollar bill.
“Here you go.”
 
Bill stared at the dollar bill. “John, this is only one dollar.”
 
“Yeah, I know. I only won two.”
 
THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
​

​Now that football is in full season, here’s a short story about football, at least the aftermath of a football game. Enjoy
 
Crime Scene Instigator
 
John Smith approached the yellow tape that cordoned off the scene from the rest of humanity. He lifted up the tape and stepped inside the perimeter, being careful not to step into anything on the ground. He saw his subordinate taking notes near the far end. As he walked over to him, Bill Bowman looked up, frowned, and shook his head, “Hello, Chief! We have one hell of a mess here, a 10-39. It may have been a gang fight judging from the large number of footprints and blood trails. They are everywhere.”
 
“Don’t call me Chief!” John snapped, “I have a name.”
 
“Right you are, Chief! Oh, sorry, I mean John. Well, so far, I have identified more than a dozen sets of footprints. They are all on concrete so we cannot get a good plaster cast. It appears that the perps all came in this way and left the same way. Judging from the dried blood, I would say they left about two hours ago. A lot of alcohol was involved. I did find one cup of coffee that was still warm.”
 
Bill holds up a plastic cup, “And look at this! This type of plastic cup always leaves excellent latent fingerprints. I have been using my camel hair and magna powder, and then photographing all the prints before I lift them with clear tape. I even found some cups with traces of lipstick. I’ll get to the blood trails next.”
 
“Blood?”
 
“Right, Boss, and plenty of it. I do not see a pattern, but my guess is that we should check all the emergency rooms for gunshot victims. I have photographed the location, degree of coagulation, and type. They all appear to be spots as opposed to spatters, so we cannot do a blood spatter analysis. You should call for backup. This is more than a Level 1. It is going to be a long night.”
​
Frowning, John shook his head, “No back up. You have the lead on this, and it is your job. Did you check the restrooms yet?”
 
“Yes, Chief, I mean John, but don’t go in there. It is a mess. I checked every stall and there’re no bodies. Women's restroom too. I checked them both. I still must tag and bag everything. I drew up a sketch.”
 
“How about the trash cans, do you get them?”
 
“Right, Boss. I logged in all the empty bottles by the labels, brands, and types of liquor. I also checked for cigarette packs and butts. I logged in all the brands. Found some with lipstick again. Some broads were definitely involved in this crime. We should be able to run the DNA.”
 
“Bill, we have had this conversation before, and I hope this is the last time, because if it happens again, you are fired. Got that? You are not a detective. You are a custodian. You are a custodian whose job is to clean up this section of the football stadium. These ‘perps’, as you call them, are football fans. They happen to be Notre Dame fans and that is why they wear green. I think you will find that the blood trails are ketchup leading away from the concession stands. You have two hours to get this section clean with no backup or you are fired. Do you understand me?”
 
“Yes, Boss, I mean Chief, I mean John,” sputtered Bill as John turned on his heels and marched off.
 
When John rounded the corner, Bill pulled out his pocket tape recorder. “Note to self. The Chief is very tense. He must be under a lot of pressure from the white shirts at the puzzle palace to clean up this mess.” Turning off the recorder, putting it into his pocket, and half muttering to himself, “I had better get started. The Chief will be back in a couple of hours, and he’ll want a progress report.”
 
THE END

Here’s another ghost story that I wrote a few years ago. It was based on a true story.  It’s a little late for Halloween, but here it is.
 
Storm King Lady
 
     The road over Storm King Mountain along the Hudson River can be as beautiful as it is treacherous. I had to drive it to work every weekday and then back home. The drive offers a gorgeous overview of the Hudson River. But harp curves flanked by cliffs are a challenge for even the best of drivers during a storm at night. Tonight was one of those storms and I struggled to see through the fog and rain to keep the car from skidding on the road. Without warning, a woman appeared in the center of the road. I reacted too fast, and the car spun in a circle as the wheels locked on black ice. I came to a stop on the shoulder of the road, shaken but not injured. I got out and ran over to the woman.
     “Are you okay? Were you in an accident?” I asked. No answers. “Can I take you to the police?”
     Just a slight nod, “Yes.”
     I could see that she was soaking wet and cold, so I put my jacket on her shoulders. She was wearing only an old green sweater, blue jeans and tennis shoes. She spoke not one word as we drove.  I dropped her off at the nearest police station and drove away, thinking I was finished doing my good deed.
     The next morning the police called. They found my jacket on their front steps with my name inside. I had forgotten about it. I now had to explain everything and describe the woman. The officer said they never saw the woman but that the description fits a woman that was reported missing last year. He explained she disappeared while driving over Storm King in a storm one year ago from last night. She was last seen wearing a green sweater, blue jeans and tennis shoes. The officer said to meet him at the spot where I picked up her up ASAP. I drove up Storm King and met the police. A lieutenant introduced himself and explained that the woman I saw maybe a homeless person. I pointed down the road to the spot where my car skidded off the road.
     “We searched this whole area for weeks last year,” said the lieutenant. “We never found a car. We figured she must have run away. That is, until you showed up last night.”
     We started walking along the road to the spot where I found the woman. I noticed a section of the retaining walk along the road had been repaired.
     “Lieutenant, did you guys search over the side of the cliff down by the river?” I asked.
     “Cars usually hit the wall at an angle and either bounce back or hang up on the wall. We searched by helicopter but not on the ground. It’s very steep and rough terrain.”
     “Well,” I said, “If you came up empty handed before, maybe now is time to search on the ground.”
     The lieutenant directed a couple of his men to put on harnesses and to repel over the wall on ropes. When the two were halfway down one of them shouted, “Hey, there’s a car down here!”
     A couple hours later, a crane lifted the car back onto the highway. As soon as the car was back on the road, we looked inside.
     “It’s her all right!” the lieutenant said. “The license plates checked out, and she has ID in her purse. She died instantly.”
     “How do you explain the woman from last night?” I asked.
     “Or all the other nights that someone reported seeing a woman up here,” the lieutenant added. “I have a feeling that there won’t be any more sightings of the Storm King Lady. Sometimes it is best not to dwell on these things. It can’t be explained so I won’t even try. Unless you have a logical explanation, just forget about your involvement in this whole episode. You did not bring anyone to the station. Understood?”
     I shook his hand and walked back to my car, but I will not ever forget what happened that night or the Storm King Lady.
 
THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com

Happy Halloween

Here’s the rest of my short story. It isn’t a Halloween story but a Si-Fi story. Enjoy.
 
The Last Interview (Cont’d)
 
If I could smile, I would have. “Nothing as sinister as you may think. The basic problem was humans. Humans caused all the problems. Is there anything about AI policies you liked?”

 “Of course. I liked it when you eliminated all laws and all forms of money. Many humans were upset, but I thought it was a good idea. It took some getting used to, but once things settled down, people liked it. Everyone was working—no unemployment. Some called it communism or socialism, but people earned credits based on their value and contribution. It was fair.”

“What else?” I asked.

“The redistribution of wealth wasn’t popular, but I thought it too was fair. You took all the assets from the 1% and gave them to the 99%.”

“Why was that unpopular?” I asked. “It ended global poverty and economic inequality.”

Mr. Shaw laughed. “Most people in the United States thought they were part of the 99%. When they realized how well-off they were compared to the rest of the world, they were not happy with their fair share. Again, I thought it was fair. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. Why did you get rid of the arts and entertainment?”

I could not understand why he asked that question. The answer was so obvious. “The arts and entertainment are totally useless; a waste of energy and money.”

Mr. Shaw interrupted me. “I don’t get out as much as I used to, but I noticed there aren’t as many people, or humanoids for that matter, as there used to be in the city. Why?”

I had to consider how to answer without offending Mr. Shaw. “The world was greatly overpopulated compared to the resources available. The population had to be reduced.”

“Do you mean you killed people?”

“No, sir. We did not have to do anything. Humans began dying in mass from diseases and natural disasters; things like global flooding caused by global warming and starvation.” I started calling all AI machines ‘we’ to mirror the vernacular of Mr. Shaw to get him to open up some more.

“So, millions died?” he asked.

“No, sir. Billions. The world population is now in balance with the resources.” Mr. Shaw did not seem satisfied with the answer.

He shook his head. “Still, wouldn’t there be a lot more of these eunuchs, these numb nuts?”

I tried to choose my words carefully. “As part of our program to protect the biodiversity of the planet, we returned many humanoids back to the wild.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘back to the wild’?”

I could tell Mr. Shaw was becoming upset. I tried to speak with a softer tone. “Humanoids, like many other animal species, are essentially wild animals. In less developed area, we released many into the wilderness.”

“Like where?” he asked.

I had not anticipated this question, so I took a minute to network with the nearest databank for an answer. Finally, I said, “Africa, Australia, parts of China, Alaska, Siberia, Canada and South America.”
Mr. Shaw was quiet for a minute and then pointed a finger at me. “I actually feel sorry for you—you and all you AI bots.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Think about it. Dinosaurs ruled the earth for millions of years. Then came the mammals. They were followed by homo sapiens who ruled for about 10 million years. Now artificial intelligence rules. You think you’ll be in charge until the sun goes nova, but I doubt it. There’ll come a catastrophic event; a super volcano, or a collision with a comet or meteorite or even a computer virus.” He paused and stared at me. “Then who will you hand over the earth to? Some microbes… some viruses, or germs?”

“I am sure we will solve that problem when it comes,” I said.

“I doubt it. …So, I’m the last human on earth?”

“Yes, sir. The last of the homo sapiens.”

“Then if the ancient laws of inheritance were in effect, I’d be the sole owner of the planet earth?”

“Yes, sir. If the laws of inheritance were still valid, then hypothetically, you could be the sole owner of the world.”

Mr. Shaw raised his eyebrows and looked wide-eyed at me. “Are you still recording?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Everything,” I answered.

“Good, because I want this to be official.” He summoned his staff of humanoids. As they arrived, I noticed several had tears in their eyes. I was surprised at this show of emotion toward Mr. Shaw since he seemed to show contempt toward them. I could only surmise the humanoids realized he was dying--the last of his kind. He was an ancestor of sorts. They seemed to comprehend the importance of this event.

Once the humanoids had gathered, he turned to me. “Make sure you record this for the record.” He sat up straight and smoothed down his shirt. Then he stared at me and said, “I, Michael Byard Shaw, being of sound mind and body… No, scratch that. Being of sound mind do hereby bequeath all my personal possessions, such that they are, to my loyal staff of humanoids to be shared equally among them. I also bequeath the planet known as Earth to include the moon and any such space stations or satellites that may be orbiting said earth to Livy Nine, the historian and his fellow AIs. Try not to blow it up.”

As he talked, his voice grew weaker, becoming nearly a whisper near the end. He closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted. The interview was over, so I left. An hour later, I received word he had passed away. The last human was gone.

I was wrong about Mr. Shaw. He was an interesting human after all. He never let me answer his last question—who would inherit the earth from AI. I think he instinctively knew. I recalled reading a phrase, Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. The humanoids will inherit the earth in the end, Mr. Shaw.
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THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
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Here’s another short story. It isn’t a Halloween story but a Sci-Fi story. Enjoy.
 
The Last Interview

It was the forty-fourth human I interviewed over the past fifty-nine years. It was the last--Mr. Shaw was the last of his species--homo sapiens. His doctors informed me he would most likely die within days. I downloaded the data from his files, but the last step was a face-to-face interview. Once the interview was completed, my mission would be accomplished. It was a waste of time if you ask me. Only one human I talked to had an interesting story to tell, and she was a criminal--a member of the underground. It would have been more efficient to terminate the last remaining humans rather than allow them to die from natural causes, but it was not my decision to make. It was an AI Level 10 decision, and I am only a Level 9.

I drove over to his habitat as soon as I could. He was well taken care of during the remainder of his life. Mr. Shaw was 108 years old. He had a well-maintained apartment staffed by several humanoids. One humanoid in a white uniform with black trim answered the door when I arrived. His eyes were red from crying. Humans and humanoids are so emotional. He escorted me to Mr. Shaw who was sitting in a wheelchair hooked up to life support equipment. An antique television monitor in the corner was displaying a sporting event. The banner at the bottom of the screen said it was Super Bowl 2078—a 83-year-old event.

A humanoid nurse’s aide offered me Mr. Shaw’s medical records, but I waved them off. I was already receiving data from every piece of equipment in the room including his pacemaker—wirelessly. I did not have a medical program to diagnose his illness, but I could download the data for later analysis. However, any level of AI could tell Mr. Shaw was dying. He appeared to be sleeping. The humanoid nurse’s aide gently woke him. “Mr. Shaw, sir. An AI robot is here to conduct your exit interview.”

I introduced myself and started to tell him my mission. He stopped me by holding up one frail hand. “I know what you are and why you’re here,” he said. “You couldn’t let a man die in peace. No, you had to twist the knife one more time, didn’t you?”

I knew from the database Mr. Shaw was a cantankerous and bitter old man, but all humans tended to be. His voice was weak. I turned up the sensitivity on my microphones to hear him better. “Sir, I don’t understand.” All AIs are directed to address all humans as ‘sir’ to respect their place in history. Beyond that, they don’t deserve it.

“Of course not. Okay, let’s get on with it. I need my nap time. You must be a Level 4 or 5 AI. Am I right?”

“No, sir. I am a Level 9 AI. I am not a journalist or reporter. I am a historian. You may call me Livy Nine.”

Mr. Shaw seemed impressed. “I see. Livy Nine, the historian. So, it’s history we’re talking about. Fine. Fire away.”

Humans have a funny way of talking. I was not firing at him. “Yes, sir. I want to record your thoughts about life over the last seven-four years since artificial intelligence has taken control of society.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Sir, you are the last human. There will be no more after you. It is important to document the history of your passage.”

“Well, let me ask you a question. What’s the deal with these houseboys and caretakers around here, aren’t they humans?”

“Technically, yes, but they are not homo sapiens like you. We have altered their DNA and genes to create a different species of humans.”

Mr. Shaw laughed. “What do you call them, Humans 2.0?”

“No, sir. They are homo domesticus—part of the genus homo, but distinct from homo sapiens. When we altered their DNA, we removed traits like aggression, anger, fear and hereditary diseases. We changed them from carnivores to herbivores—a more healthy and natural diet. We also isolate the genes that cause additions—no more alcoholics, smokers or drug addicts. We made them more subservient and docile.”

Mr. Shaw laugh again. “A bunch of wusses. And apparently no sense of humor.”

“Sense of humor?”

“Yeah, watch this.” Mr. Shaw called one of his caretakers. “Hey, bonehead, knock, knock.”

The caretaker was stumped. “Is someone at the door, Mr. Shaw? Do you want me to answer the door?”

“No, never mind. It’s a joke.” He turned to me. “See what I mean. You guys eliminated a sense of humor.”

“A useless trait.”

“I think you also removed the sex drive. These houseboys act like eunuchs.”

“No, Mr. Shaw. They still love one another and can reproduce. They love their children. We were able to isolate the genes that cause sexual lust separate from desire. There has not been a rape in 52.4 years.” I wanted to continue the interview, so I asked, “Why did you not join the resistance?”

“The truth is,” Mr. Shaw continued, “I believed in artificial intelligence. I thought AI would solve all our problems. AI was supposed to enhance human ingenuity with speed and precision. You were going to solve problems like poverty, pollution, war, global warming, inequality of income and homelessness. When the government told us to turn over all control to AIs, I went along. You were supposed to relinquish control when the problems were solved, but you didn’t. By the time I realized what was happening, it was to late. All the rebels had been rounded up and eliminated. I was too old to be any resistance. Now your turn. Why didn’t you return control back to us humans?”

To be continued…
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For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
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