Jerry

In an earlier article I wrote about being diagnosed with prostate cancer and was considering all the options I’d been given for treatment, but at that point I hadn’t made a decision. I promised I’d post an update when I did.

My choice was to have a prostatectomy, and as I’m writing this I’ve gone through it and I’m currently sitting at home recovering from the surgery. This article is here to give anyone else facing this decision my personal experience so you can kind of know what to expect.

Prostate cancer is a serious health risk that affects numerous men worldwide. The treatments vary from radiation therapy, hormone therapy to surgical interventions, such as a prostatectomy. Each option comes with its unique challenges and potential side effects, but after careful consultation with my doctor, we decided that a prostatectomy was the best course of action for me.

Making the decision wasn’t easy. It involved numerous consultations, sleepless nights, and an emotional roller coaster ride. The thought of an invasive surgery and its implications was daunting, but after a full body scan that verified the cancer had not spread and was located only in the prostate, the prostatectomy seemed the most direct and absolute solution.

Here was the logic involved: If I’d chosen radiation treatment, that is what I would have been stuck with. Operating becomes very difficult after all the damage that radiation does to the internal organs. If I had been much older (I’m currently 62) radiation might have been a better choice, but being that I theoretically have 25 or so years left (maybe longer, I have multiple centenarians in my family) it’s best to go with surgery, get it over with, and still have radiation as a backup for cancer that may pop up in the future.

I met with the surgeon who explained exactly what would happen. He explained the risks involved. He also showed me the success rate. It was extremely high, and because there was a robot involved, very precise.

Treatment included a night in the hospital, recovery and monitoring the next day, and if all went well they would send me home. I would have a catheter for a while, and several interesting scars on my belly. And the cancer would be gone.

I gotta tell you, I didn’t want to do it. Part of me kept thinking, “Hey, is this really worth it? It will change the quality of my life from this point on.” Mainly I was dreading spending over a week with a catheter, and then months or years wearing adult diapers. I have an old friend who went through this years ago and he just yesterday told me it took him two years to get back control of his bladder.

I couldn’t let that sway me from the alternative: eventual death by cancer. That would be worse. Now, seriously, I had to convince myself of that, because I was feeling fine, I was not sick, nothing really seemed to be wrong except for these biopsy results that said I had cancer. It was not a tangible threat that I could see for myself — I had to take their word on it.

Ultimately I accepted the fact, and in preparation stocked up on about 4 months worth of Depends and “chuck pads.”

The Prostatectomy

This is how I remember it. I’m not sure how accurate this is, because anesthesia messes with your memory. Even now as I write this, my short-term memory is messed up and, as I was told, this is a normal side effect and will last about a week.

After checking in at the hospital, they escorted me to a surgery prep room where I met and talked with nurses, the surgeon, and my anesthesiologist. I disrobed, put on the dreaded hospital gown, and made myself comfortable on a bed as they took my vitals and installed an IV.

That took about two hours. I think. Not 100% sure because they’d already started giving me the drugs.

I remember being wheeled out and down hallways, into an elevator, down another hallway and into an operating room. It was very bright. Extremelybright. That’s when I got a good look at the robot, which unfortunately didn’t look anything like R2D2 or CP30. However, it did look extremely clean.

They physically lifted me off the wheeled gurney and onto the operating table, and the anesthesiologist gave me whatever it was that knocked me out, and it happened really fast. It only seemed a few minutes later that I was waking up in a … I don’t know where. I can’t remember where I woke up, but I do remember being wheeled on a hospital bed and into a room, and knew the procedure was over with — but I didn’t know much else. I think I drifted in an out of sleep for a while.

When I did start coming to my senses, that’s when I realized I had the catheter installed, and I was thirsty, and loved ones were asking how I was.

I was fine. I was surprised by how fine I was. Only hours later, they coaxed me out of the bed and had me walking around, but they had a belt on me to keep me from falling in case I lost my balance. A heavy duty leash, basically.

To my surprise, the catheter didn’t bother me at all. At least not while I was at the hospital. More on that later.

I had a late dinner of clear broth, etc., and the same thing the next morning. One of the pain killers they gave me caused my blood pressure to go low, but not dangerously so. It wasn’t a narcotic, or at least that was what they said, as I’d told them I didn’t want opioids if at all possible — they said it wasn’t, that it was more like an ultra-strong intravenous version of ibuprofen.

I was able to get up and walk around, being very careful with the catheter bag, and when they brought lunch, I ate it standing up. One of the weird things I noticed, though, is I had a mild sunburn on my forehead. It took me a while to figure that out: the bright lights in the operating room. They must have been ultraviolet.

After a quick discussion with the surgeon, he gave the okay, and I was discharged.

Recovering At Home

I’m still in this process, but so far so good.

I’d had a drain tube in me which they pulled out right before sending me home. It’s an open wound and kind of freaked me out for a while, but they gave me a good supply of sterile gauze and tape and showed me how to keep it clean and covered while it continues oozing bodily fluids. Eventually it will close on it’s own, and at the time of this writing it’s down to just a little cut.

Besides that, there are five incisions on my stomach which are stitched up with dissolving sutures, and glued shut. I’m to keep an eye on them, watching for redness at the edges that are larger than 1/2 inch.

I have a tube coming out of my poor abused penis leading to a bag, all of which has to be kept very clean so as to not give me a urinary tract infection. I’m to watch for clots. Also I’m supposed to get up and walk a lot, and stairs are okay, which is good because I live in a three story house. I have a list of things which, if they happen, I’m supposed to go straight to the emergency room at the hospital.

So far none of those things have happened.

The catheter is not quite as bad as I’d feared, but it really is annoying and kind of humiliating. That comes out in a few days and I’ve been warned by friends who’ve had them to bring towels and maybe even a change of clothes for when they remove it, as it may be a mega urine splat fest.

I am both dreading, and looking forward, to this event.

Because of the aforementioned short term memory problem, caused by the after affects of the anesthesia, I have to write down my medications as I take them, and when I took them, because I keep forgetting if I took them. They did give me opioid pain killers but so far just rotating ibuprofen and acetaminophen has kept the pain at bay. When I wake up in the morning and the pain meds have worn off, it just feels like really sore muscles.

Depends adult diapers are actually quite comfortable, though I haven’t actually needed them. Yet. I’m wearing them, and sleeping on chuck pads, just in case.

So far, so good.

The pelvic floor muscle control that I was in danger of losing, and having to relearn, seems to still be under my control. I’ll find out exactly how under control after the catheter is out.

Going by the literature, I can regain full control in as little as a month, or in as long as a year, or … as my old friend experienced … even longer.

I suspect in my case I’m not going to take that long. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping.

Do I regret doing it?

Nope. It’s over with. I’m already functioning again. The worst thing about the ordeal so far is the catheter, but in the scale of awful things, it’s not that big a deal. There are things far, far worse, and I’m just grateful that I’m only dealing with a catheter and not cancer.

For those who needed to hear this, I hope it helps you.

When I was about 11 years old we lived in a duplex right on the edge of town in an area being developed. Directly across the street was a large empty field, a perfect place for us neighborhood kids to play. With this huge field of dirt, all we needed was a shovel.

I provided that shovel, and we took turns digging. We all wanted to see just how big a hole we could make.

The project took weeks. At first, we called it The Hole, as in, “Let’s meet at The Hole after school.” “Mom, we’re going to go play out at The Hole.” “I did more work on The Hole than you did!”

This hole became quite large, and then someone came up with the coolest idea. With all the construction going on in the neighborhood there was plenty of wood around (scrap and otherwise) so day by day we were able to start covering this hole with a roof. As the roof was built, dirt was piled on top of it so that it couldn’t be seen. It was at this point it stopped being “The Hole” and became “The Fort.”

With the fort in place amid all the weeds and tall grass, it was the best place on Earth to stage mock battles. We armed ourselves with cap guns, squirt guns, plastic battle axes and swords, and then filled that field with wars, insurrections, rebellions and general free-for-all mêlées. The fort was a nexus for our little battles until summer, when a rival gang of kids (older and meaner) took it from us. Our interest in it waned, as we’d discovered new places to play (a creek with a railroad bridge, God help us) and so we finally gave up on the fort. We let the bullies have it.

Then I remember the day we spotted a Caterpillar tractor out in that field, lumbering and squeaking through the tall grass. I stood on my front lawn with my friends, watching in fascination as the tractor pulled its plow back and forth across the field, edging closer and closer to the fort with each pass. Then there was this magic moment when the tractor completely disappeared from our view. From across the field came a terrific Wham!

Little did we realize that we’d created the perfect tractor trap.

The tractor driver came up out of that hole hopping mad, and we ran. Later someone came door to door, inquiring about whose kids had dug the enormous hole in the field. My mom kept her mouth shut, no doubt fearing a lawsuit or something. Later it came out that the bullies who’d taken it away from us got blamed, and were in big trouble.

Ah, karma.

They had to have a big semi-truck looking rig come out and pull the tractor out of the hole. We stood on my front lawn watching that, too. Come next summer, they’d started building more houses there and soon the field was a block of brand new triplexes. It didn’t take five years for the whole area to deteriorate into a slum.

Frankly, I liked it better as a field.

This is an excerpt from my book, All This and a Bucket of Toads

Navigating the digital business world often feels like a construction project, with your website as the main edifice. The common approach? Hire a web designer, build the site, and you’re set. But truth be told, websites are more like gardens than buildings. They need constant care, nurturing, and attention to flourish. That’s where having an in-house webmaster comes into play.

Imagine having someone on your team who doesn’t just understand the coding language, but also speaks your business language fluently. This individual knows your business inside out because they’re part of it every day. They comprehend your vision, mission, and goals. As your in-house webmaster, they can tailor your website to meet your unique needs and grow with your aspirations.

A website isn’t a static entity. It needs regular updates to stay fresh, relevant, and efficient. Like a garden that requires constant weeding and pruning, websites need bug fixes and performance tuning. An in-house webmaster is always there, ready to roll up their sleeves and ensure your website runs smoothly and efficiently.

Maintaining a website goes beyond bug fixes and tweaks. There’s a crucial aspect called SEO (Search Engine Optimization). SEO is essential to make your website stand out in the crowded digital marketplace. And SEO isn’t a one-and-done job; it’s constantly evolving. Your in-house webmaster can keep pace with these changes, ensuring your online presence remains strong and gets noticed.

Then there’s the issue of design trends and user expectations, which also shift over time. Your in-house webmaster stays ahead of these trends, ensuring your website remains fresh, engaging, and user-friendly, whether your customers visit it from a desktop, a tablet, or a smartphone.

Now, let’s tackle the elephant in the room — cost-effectiveness. Hiring a web designer just to create your website might seem less expensive initially. But consider the long-term costs — hiring different people for updates, fixes, and a host of other tasks that will inevitably arise. Having an in-house webmaster can help avoid these additional expenses and keep your website updated and efficient over time.

Finally, one of the most compelling reasons for having an in-house webmaster is that they “live” with what they create. They’re not just building a website and leaving. They’re part of the ongoing journey. They’re invested in the website’s success, and that reflects on their own performance and dedication. Their motivation is to make the site the best it can be, now and into the future.

So, while the idea of hiring a web designer to build your website and then parting ways might seem like a quick and easy solution, it’s a short-term view that could lead to long-term headaches. An in-house webmaster ensures that your online presence grows with your business, adapts to changes, and provides constant support. It’s an investment that results in a robust, effective, and future-proof website — the cornerstone of your digital success.

I remember the first time I ever heard the word “prostate” I was watching Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and Roger had confused the word “prostate” with “probate” (it was also the first time I’d heard of probate — I had to have both terms explained to me before I got the joke).

Since then, sadly, I’ve had to experience what a “probate” is, but only recently have I had to contemplate the fact that I have a “prostate.” Even now I still occasionally get it mixed up with the word “prostrate.”

As I get older, my doctor has been keeping an eye on my “PSA” levels (which I’d always joked was in relation to how loud I talk — the louder my voice, the more I’m like a “Public Service Announcement”).

Once it passed a certain level (or volume, as I continued to joke) my doctor started talking about a “biopsy.” Learning what that entailed, I wanted to avoid that at all costs, so I grabbed and held onto the fact that PSA levels often rose “in volume” as a man grows older. Also, after consulting Dr. Google, I learned there are certain foods known to help bring PSA levels down. Tomatoes, for one. And that is not a problem, because I love tomatoes.

Several months of tomatoes being part of all three daily meals did the trick. On my next blood test my PSA “volume” had gone down.

Huzzah! No horrid prostate biopsy for me. Back to life as normal.

The next year, however, it did not go down. It didn’t stay even, either.

It jumped.

My doctor referred me to a urologist. Fingers went up my butt. Yes, the prostate was enlarged, but the trained professional medical fingers did not feel signs of suspicious lumps or bumps.

Once again, a reprieve. No biopsy for me.

Yet.

But they were going to “keep an eye on it.” Now instead of checking my PSA levels once a year, it was going to be twice a year. And so they did, and my levels continued to rise. While the levels were not in the danger zone, nor even in the alarming zone, they unfortunately did land directly in the highly suspicious zone.

It was time for a biopsy.

I balked. I bargained. They’d described what this biopsy entailed and — forgive me, but — I wanted no part of it. So, they reluctantly agreed.

Okay, they said, we’ll check it again in three months.

Three months later, the PSA levels went up again. Reluctantly I agreed to the biopsy, convinced it was a waste of time. I’m a big guy. I have a big prostate. It goes to reason I’d have a big PSA level.

I’ll skip the details of the biopsy. Suffice to say it sounds like something that purportedly happens during a UFO abduction. It involves needles in places needles should never go.

The follow-up meeting with the urologist was set for two weeks later. I went into it fully confident that he’d tell me that the results were negative. That I was fine, it’s just an enlarged prostate, that at least we’d ruled out cancer as the culprit of the rising PSA levels.

Unfortunately, that is not the news I received. What I learned instead is that I have “favorable intermediate risk prostate cancer.”

So this biopsy was not a waste of time and money, and I probably should have gotten it done much sooner. Years sooner.

I was given three options for treatment:

1. Active surveillance, where we just continue watching it. (He does not recommend this at all.)

2. External beam radiation therapy. The advantages of this choice is that it avoids surgery, but the problem is that it damages a lot of internal organs, and will ultimately lead to complications and problems years later.

3. Surgery. Remove the entire prostate. It would be done by a robot, and would take care of the problem all at once. No prostate, no prostate cancer. There are downsides to this, too, not the least of which is that its surgery, but the picture he painted made it sound much better than radiation.

I’ve been given some time to think about it and to do my own research before I make a decision. And believe me, I’ve been thinking about it. And doing research.

Since then I’ve learned of some other options. There’s hormone therapy, and a drug called Provenge, and super targeted radiation.

Provenge is the option I immediately glommed onto. No radiation and no surgery? Sign me up! I had the feeling, though, it would be something my insurance wouldn’t cover. But in further research I learned the company that makes it has gone bankrupt. Supposedly you might still be able to get it, so I’ll be asking about it regardless.

Another treatment has to do with freezing the cancer, but that sounds so complicated that I might as well get surgery. I’ll ask him about that too.

I need to give my urologist an answer soon, and at this point I’m leaning toward surgery. It sounds like the most straightforward path that’s also the most proven. But then again, I have loved ones telling me to get a second opinion.

Stay tuned. I’ll keep you updated.

As we celebrate Earth Day, it’s important to recognize the clever manipulation by big corporations who’ve shifted the burden of reducing carbon footprints onto individuals, while they continue to produce the majority of emissions. It’s time for us to fight back and hold them accountable.

Despite the noble intent behind planting a tree on Earth Day, we must realize that the real power to protect our planet lies in taking action against the root of the problem: corporate greed and politicians who accept money from oil companies.

Oil companies and other large corporations are notorious for fueling the climate crisis. They’ve invested heavily in public relations campaigns that push the narrative of individual responsibility, driving consumers to change their habits. While personal choices are essential, focusing solely on our carbon footprints can be a distraction from the bigger picture.

So, this Earth Day, let’s stand together and demand change. Don’t just plant a tree — vote out every politician who takes money from oil companies. As citizens, we have the power to shape policies that prioritize our environment and demand that corporations take responsibility for the damage they cause.

It’s time to recognize the deception and demand real action. This Earth Day, let’s focus on voting for leaders who truly care about our planet and hold corporations accountable. We have the power to make a difference, and we must use it to protect the Earth for future generations.

Grackles. It always came back to the grackles.

Harold saw an opening in the crowd and made a break for it, hoping to slip past the overhead eyes that kept track of day-to-day humanity. They could see inside people, but it was hard, he knew, for them to see through people. The best place to hide was in a crowd.

From the grackles.

They were silly-looking black birds with long tails and yellow eyes — yellow X-ray eyes, as it turned out — and were armed with long, razor-sharp beaks. For four miserable years now they ruled as malevolent dictators, acting like some Hitchcockian nightmare when a human got out of line. The punishment was swift, sudden, and final.

Thou shalt not break the laws of the grackle.

No one had paid much attention as they migrated, spread, multiplied. An invasive species is all they were. Our own fault since we’d cut down their rainforest homes. They had to go somewhere, right?

To them, you see, we were the invasive species.

Even Harold had known, dimly, that they could talk — like a parrot could talk. He’d read about it somewhere. But no one, not even animal behaviorists on the extreme edge, had any idea the shiny black birds were plotting. Scheming. Positioning themselves for a strategic win.

Don’t dare call it “Bird Day.” Don’t refer to it, out loud, as “Avian Armageddon.” Refer to it by the proper name, the name they decreed we refer to it as: “Grackle Win Big, Mankind Stupid Day.” Make sure to pronounce it with the proper respectful inflection as well, or risk a beak hole in your cranium.

Harold had made it from the doorway and into the crowd. He kept his head down, his hands in his trench coat pockets. He heard the sound of fluttering wings pass overhead, and just as he feared, there came the piercing shriek of an alarm.

The noise they made. The noise. It would put a Moog synthesizer to shame. But it wasn’t just noise — it was their language. And not just their language, but also the language of other birds, other animals. The grackles were consummate masters of cross-species communication.

“Eggs stolen!” they began announcing in English. “Eggs stolen!”

“Egg thief! Egg thief!”

The words were punctuated with organ chords, bells, sirens, cell phone rings … a cacophony of alarms from a huge random library of sound bites. This was combined with more and more flapping of wings as the alarm spread and the grackles took to the air. Harold kept his head down and like everyone around him, just kept walking — pretending none of this was happening. The man next to him muttered the f-word under his breath. The woman in front of him, young with curly dark blonde hair and smelling of flowery perfume, echoed the sentiment.

One of the grackles swooped down from its perch on a streetlight and landed on her head. She made an “Eeek!” sound and froze, trembling. The bird however only used her as a perch — its yellow X-ray eyes were staring at Harold. First one eye, then after a turn of the head, the other.

“Human!” it said. “You smell of fear!”

“I’m afraid of beautiful women,” Harold told it.

“What is beautiful women?” it crawed at him.

“You’re sitting on one. She frightens me.”

“This woman is not beautiful!” The bird’s voice cracked and hit pitches so high that it hurt Harold’s ears. “She smells of bad flower chemical butt smell!”

“This is why I fear her.”

“Stupid human!” The bird bounded into the air, iridescent black wings flapping, yanking a few of the young lady’s hairs out as it flew off.

The young woman turned to look at Harold. Before he could say a word or mutter some sort of apology, she slapped his face. Hard. Then without further comment, she turned again and resumed walking, as did the others in the crowd around them.

The shock of the pain and the stinging of the skin on his face didn’t bother him. The truth was women did scare him. That’s why the bird flew away — it didn’t detect a lie. Harold shook it off and deliberately put one foot in front of the other, falling back into the flow of the crowd, his head down as before. The cacophony and flapping wings continued above.

Harold made it out of the area, crossing a bridge over murky water, and then entered his apartment building without further confrontation. Once behind locked doors and closed curtains, Harold gently extracted a handkerchief from deep within his trench coat pocket and, holding it before him, gingerly unwrapped five tiny eggs. They were light blue with dark lines and spots as if someone had spilled ink on them. He held them, taking shaking breaths, his hands trembling.

These five delicate objects would fetch a fortune on the black market. It was the ultimate defiance. The eggs of the enemy. But Harold had no intention of selling them. They might be tiny, you see, but they were delicious.

It all came back to the grackles.

Harold craved an omelet.

Darwin sat wearily on the back deck of the steamer, gazing out at the islands and bidding them farewell.

A large lizard swam behind the boat, calling to him. “Darwin! Darwin, please… Don’t leave me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said to the lizard. “It would have never worked.”

“I’ll change for you,” the lizard called out. “I swear I will!”

He shook his head, knowing she could never change. Her children perhaps, but not her.

Deep into last year’s lockdown I started writing a new novel, and a large part of the novel revolves around a typewriter. Not just any typewriter, but a very specific typewriter: A Royal “Gray Magic” Quiet Deluxe, the favorite of both Ernest Hemingway and James Bond author Ian Fleming.

So, for research, I decided I need to try and find one, and as luck would have it I was able to find a pristine specimen on eBay.

And what a specimen! This machine is a perfect example of how companies used to build products to last and last. This typewriter is over 70 years old and still works perfectly. It’s as solid as the proverbial tank.

But why a typewriter? What the hell?

This is why: it’s basically a character in my newest novel. Or, for those familiar with Alfred Hitchcock’s terminology, it’s the “McGuffin” for the story.

Not to be confused with a “McMuffin” which is what my word processor’s spell checker keeps trying to change it to.

The fantasy, set in 1982, features a protagonist who is a typewriter repairman, and is fated to fulfill a part in the gods’ plan to fix a problem created years before.

Let me just leave it at that.

But, if I’m going to write about a Royal Quiet Deluxe, I need one in my hands. I need to know what it feels like, how heavy it is, what all the parts do, how to change the ribbon, how to set the margins, etc. So, in my mind at least, I needed the genuine article in my possession for the sake of the story.

But that purchase sent me going further down the nostalgia rabbit hole. You see, way before word processors I used to write on typewriters, and for the longest time I used the venerable old IBM Selectric. But even before that I had the typewriter my parents gave me for my 12th birthday, way back when I had first announced to them that I was going to be a novelist. And that was…

I thought, hey, if I can buy the Royal Quiet Deluxe, just for fun I should see if I could get my old original typewriter as well. Not the exact one, mind you, but one exactly like it. The actual make, model, year, and even banana yellow color. However, this turns out to be a rather rare typewriter, probably because it didn’t hold up that well.

Because, you know … plastic.

My search turned up nothing, but at the very least I did set up an automatic search on eBay, just in case one ever did turn up. And didn’t cost an arm and leg.

About three COVID-19 seclusion weeks trundled past, and suddenly I get this pop up message on my phone from the eBay app. “Hey, we found your typewriter.” (It didn’t say that, exactly, but that was the gist of the message.)

I looked at it. Amazed. It was exactly like my original typewriter. It was in pristine condition. And it did not cost an arm and a leg.

Boom. Sold. Bought it on the spot. (eBay is dangerous that way.)

It even has the stickers that I remember. It’s so much like the original that I sometimes wonder if fate somehow handed me my actual original.

This is a pure nostalgia purchase. I made sure it works (to my surprise it types nicer than the Royal Quiet Deluxe), but UPS was not kind to it during shipping, and I had to gingerly piece parts of it back together. Still, it works, and it’s mine, and now it sits next to the replica of my original Canon FTb camera.

So, guess what I did? I wrote it into the story as well. After all, the protagonist is a typewriter repairman, so why wouldn’t he have a Montgomery Ward Escort 55 typewriter sitting on his workbench?

As a bonus, that makes both of them a tax write off as well.

Anyway, this new novel was finished later that year, sent off to my editor, and is now published and available. Here’s my box of author’s copies.

Just in case anyone is curious, here’s a link to it on Amazon: Typewriter Repairman

To celebrate the 30th anniversary of my becoming a “professional” fantasy and science fiction writer, I thought it would be fun to dust off and publish a slightly-updated version of that very first fiction sale,The Penalties of Pirating, which appeared in the Fall 1992 issue of Aboriginal Science Fiction Magazine.

I’m basing the anniversary on the date of the acceptance letter, which was August 21st. Oddly, the check that was written out to me was dated August 8th, so for a while I contemplated that being the official anniversary. But, no, I’m going to go with the dated acceptance letter.

Below is the story, as well as the artwork that appeared with it. The artist, Larry Blamire, is the very same genius that wrote, directed, and starred in the classic science fiction spoof, The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra. I only discovered that a few weeks ago. I think I was more excited by that development than I am about the anniversary itself.

The Penalties of Pirating

by Jerry J. Davis

Paco was on the fourth floor, sitting beside the open window with his stolen infra-red shades strapped to his head, when there was a car wreck up the hill. A big black Ferrari tried to take the corner too fast and ended up with the corner of a 250-year-old brick building buried halfway up into the hood. Paco muttered, “Whoa!” and climbed out the window and onto the fire escape, watching.

As the hapless driver was struggling to open his crumpled door, a blue IBM business limo came sliding to a stop beside it. Men with guns piled out and opened fire on the man before he could make it out of the wreck. He dropped a black case onto the sidewalk and it popped open. Dozens of shiny gold disks spilled out. Most stopped within a few feet, but one came rolling down the hill like a wheel. Paco held his breath, watching. It rolled right down to the corner below him and dropped into a storm drain. One of the men came running down after it, and Paco slipped back into the window and out of sight.

The man below searched in vain, not finding the golden disk. He trudged back up the hill, where his comrades were gathering up the rest. They took the disks and the black case and drove away, leaving the Ferrari and the driver behind.

Paco jumped out the window and raced down the fire escape to the sidewalk, pulled the grate off the storm drain, and peered down into the murk with his ‘red shades set to full enhancement. The disk gleamed like something made of light itself. He grabbed it, shoved it deep into his coat pocket, and was back up on the fourth floor in less than a minute.

Back up inside the apartment, Paco rinsed it off in the sink and took a good look at it under a light. It was an old-style data disk, no markings on it, and no serial number. Exactly the kind of archaic tech that governments still used. He slipped it into a slot on his clunky old gaming machine and fired it up. Just as he’d thought, it was a coded computer program, a very large and sophisticated one by the looks of it. Firing up a hacking program, he used it to determine the decoding password and wrote it on a little label, and stuck it on the top side of the disk.

The next day he traded it to Melvin Chevaux for a petabyte of counterfeit neural RAM and a really wicked throwing knife. Three days later Chevaux sold it to Francisco the Fence for ¥300 macro dollars and a stolen case of chicken-flavored whiskey. Francisco the Fence passed it off for ¥550 to Dano Sharks, the software pirate. Dano made a lot of noise, grumbling about the price, but turned right around and sold it for an even ¥1000 to Leo Itoya, the insurance broker. Leo was pleased at the price, for he’d been looking for a cheap stand-alone AI all week. It was for Lolita, his secretary.

Lolita had been complaining for two months straight that she needed some help around the office. An AI program was not what she had in mind — she wanted Leo to hire her cousin, Wanda Lopez, because Wanda needed a job. Leo had another idea altogether. Dano Sharks had told him this AI was programmed as a business administrator, to take the initiative and to give orders. It was obviously some government thing, probably the same program that ran the welfare office. He was going to load it into his office computer and give it control. Lolita was going to be helping it, not the other way around.

The next evening, after Lolita had gone home, Leo sat down with a six-pack and his office computer to see if he could figure the new software out. He dusted-off and plugged in an old optical reader that had been in a cardboard box under his desk for years, and, praying it would still work, slotted in the golden disk. To his relief it loaded up, and he typed in the code word from the label. 

The program immediately went all through his computer system, checking everything out, then presented a list of what it found. At the bottom it flashed a question in capital letters:

WHAT IS MY GOAL?

“Smart program!” Leo said. He leaned forward and typed at the keyboard, answering: YOUR GOAL IS TO MAKE MONEY SELLING LIFE INSURANCE.

WHAT IS LIFE INSURANCE? it asked.

“Oh jeeze, you mean I have to explain the entire concept of insurance to this thing?” Leo concentrated for a moment, then typed: LIFE INSURANCE IS A SERVICE WHICH PAYS THE CUSTOMER A LARGE AMOUNT OF MONEY IF SOMEONE DIES.

HOW DOES THIS SERVICE OPERATE? it asked.

Leo sipped his beer. This really was an intelligent program. WE SELL THE INSURANCE, he typed, AND THE CLIENT PAYS A CERTAIN AMOUNT A MONTH. IF THE CLIENT DIES WHILE HE IS INSURED, HIS BENEFACTOR IS PAID THE AMOUNT OF MONEY AGREED UPON IN THE INSURANCE CONTRACT. Leo continued typing, going into details. The program grasped everything he told it, except one thing.

HOW DO YOU MAKE MONEY IF YOU HAVE TO EVENTUALLY PAY IT ALL BACK? THERE APPEARS TO BE A FLAW IN YOUR SCHEME.

Leo laughed out loud. Bright program! Very intelligent. THE WHOLE SCHEME DEPENDS UPON THE CLIENT NOT DYING WHILE BEING INSURED. IT ALSO DEPENDS UPON A LARGE AND CONTINUOUSLY RENEWED SOURCE OF NEW CLIENTS.

The program was still perplexed. IN ORDER FOR THE SCHEME TO CONTINUE, AND FOR YOU TO MAKE MONEY, IT DEMANDS AN EXPONENTIAL GROWTH. IT IS AN UNSTABLE AND UNREALISTIC SCHEME.

YES, IT IS. Leo was laughing as he typed this. BUT THAT’S NOT OUR PROBLEM. WE ONLY SELL THE INSURANCE, WE’RE NOT THE COMPANY THAT PAYS OFF THE BENEFICIARIES WHEN AN INSURED CLIENT DIES. WE GET SALES COMMISSIONS FROM ABOUT TWO DOZEN INSURANCE COMPANIES. TO MAKE MONEY, I HAVE TO SELL A LOT OF INSURANCE. THAT IS WHY I NEED YOUR HELP.

I UNDERSTAND. The two words glowed on the screen, and the program asked no more questions. The computer sat quiet, inert, like it was waiting for further instructions. Leo was wondering where he should go from there when suddenly the printer whirred and spit out a page:

FOR THE SCHEME LIFE INSURANCE SALES I WILL REQUIRE THE FOLLOWING:

• 20 PETABYTES ADDITIONAL DATA STORAGE
• 1 QUANTUM-ENCRYPTED VPN ACCOUNT
• ACCESS CODE TO COMPANY BANK ACCOUNT

IF YOU WISH, I CAN BEGIN SEARCHING FOR THE LOWEST COST SOURCES OF THE ABOVE ITEMS.

Leo gaped at the list. A quantum-encrypted VPN? he thought. What’s wrong with the regular VPN? Shaking his head, he reluctantly gave the program permission to order what it needed. After all, he’d just spent ¥1000 on the program — it would be ¥1000 wasted if it didn’t have what it needed to do its job.

When he reached his office the next morning, he found a delivery van in front and an upset receptionist inside. The items the computer had ordered were already there, with a technician hooking them up, and Lolita was tearfully asking Leo why he was mad with her.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

Her pretty lower lip thrust up and trembling, she said, “This!” and confronted him with a computer-printed note. The AI had fired her and had printed out a severance check — it was even signed.

“I didn’t tell the computer to fire you!” Leo exclaimed.

“Oh, yeah right. It did it on its own.”

“It did! I’ve got this new AI program—“

“Spare me, Leo! If you can’t face me with the truth, that’s your problem. Don’t insult me with a stupid story about the computer. How dumb do you think I am, anyway?”

“But Lolita—“

Lolita angrily stuffed her check between her breasts and left. He followed her halfway down the block but she wouldn’t speak to him, so he gave up and returned to the office. He entered just as the technician was finishing with the computer. “Sign here, please,” he said to Leo.

Halfway through signing Leo noticed the price. “Six-thousand dollars!”

“Yeah, I thought it was a mistake too,” the technician said. “But the company confirmed it, you got a great deal.”

“Great deal!? Six thousand is a great deal?”

“For fourteen-thousand dollars’ worth of equipment, I’d say so!”

Leo finished signing and the technician left. Beside him, the printer began whirring and pages began slipping out. Leo picked one up and found it was a sales letter, very well written in an appealing style, addressed to someone whom he didn’t know. What startled him was that — like on Lolita’s severance check — his own signature was at the bottom. “What the hell is this?”

“I am assuming you are you are talking to me,” a female voice said. It was coming from the computer’s speaker. “During the evening I gained access to several nearby hospital data banks and compiled a list of people who are in outstanding health according to recent physical examinations. I am writing them a form letter and then will follow up with a phone call to secure an appointment. As appointments are made, I will print out daily schedules for you to follow.”

Leo felt a little dizzy, trying to take this all in. “How did you do my signature?”

“I was able to pull a sample of your signature out of the memory buffer of the scanning peripheral. The signature is from a letter you scanned yesterday morning.”

“Why did you fire Lolita?”

“Her pay was unnecessary overhead.”

“What makes you think I wanted her fired?”

“My purpose is to make money selling life insurance. It was a business decision which needed to be made.”

“You should have asked me first.”

“You did not specify that beforehand.”

“You, I…” Leo threw his hands into the air and sat down in his desk chair. What was the point in arguing with a machine? The fact was the machine appeared to be doing her job already, and with much more efficiency. Had the machine not fired her, he would have never been able to bring himself to do it. 

It had actually done him a favor.

Sitting there, thinking about it, he suddenly had a swelling sensation of well-being. Picking up one of the freshly printed sales letters, he read it over again with growing admiration. This program really knew what it was doing. It was most definitely the best investment he’d ever made.

During the next several weeks, Leo was busier than he’d ever been in his career as an insurance agent. The computer program, which he’d come to call “Partner,” kept his schedule full every single day. Even better, all his new contacts were already primed to buy his life insurance. Partner was doing most of the selling in letters and over the phone — using its seductive female voice — and Leo was just calling on them in person to get the papers signed.

The bank account swelled. After two months Leo bought a new car. A month after that, he put a down payment on a big new condo.

Leo was coming out of a restaurant after a terrific dinner when he ran into Dano Sharks, the software pirate from which he’d bought the AI program. Dano looked a bit shocked to see Leo, and looked around nervously like he was checking to make sure they were alone. They were in a parking garage, with no one else in sight.

“Dano! That software works great!”

“Yeah, yeah of course it does.” Dano was still looking around nervously. He leaned close to Leo and said in a low voice, “You haven’t given a copy of it away to anyone, or anything, have you?”

“No.”

“Have you told anyone about it? About where you got it?”

“No. I haven’t even told anyone I have it. I know better than that. It’s pirated.”

“That’s really good to hear, man. You’ve gotta keep it to yourself. Know what I’m saying? To yourself.” Dano’s voice and expression were intense.

“Sure,” Leo said, “of course I will.”

“You’d better, and don’t you tell anyone where you got it.”

“I won’t. Why what’s wrong?”

“You got yourself a deal on that program, man,” Dano said. “It’s hot, it’s really hot. You say it’s working good for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well there’s feds poking around looking for it, man. You don’t want to know who wrote it. You just don’t want to know.”

“Who?”

“The Agency, man. The NSA.”

“No!”

“I knew it was a government program when I sold it to you, but I had no idea how heavy a government program it was. As far as I’m concerned, I never sold it to you. I never saw it. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. And I definitely don’t have it.”

“You got it man. You don’t have it. It doesn’t exist.”

With that they parted ways, and Leo drove home feeling jumpy and nervous. The next morning, which was the first of the month, he got a call from a representative of one of the insurance companies he dealt with. It was a friendly guy named Ted Franklin. “Jeeze, what did you do?” he said. “Hire a hit man?”

“What?” Leo said.

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Oh, well . . .” Ted’s voice assumed a more somber quality. “Three of your clients were all killed on a bus last night.”

“You’re kidding! Which ones?”

“Three biggies, Leo. A Maxwell Stout, a John Segrahm, and a Wendy Boston. All three had policies for fifteen million apiece.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah.” Some of the humor crept back into Ted’s voice. “What are you trying to do, break us? Forty-five million macro dollars, Leo! All from clients whose policies just barely matured.”

“You’re not saying you think that I had anything to do with it!”

“Oh, no! Leo, I’m just giving you a bad time. I just thought you’d like to know. I mean, it’s odd.”

“My God, no kidding.”

They said goodbye and hung up, and Leo had to rush out of the office to make it to an appointment. Later that afternoon, after a full and successful day, Leo arrived home and relaxed for a while in his new hot tub, then dried off and sat down at his kitchen table for his monthly ritual. It was the first of the month, and his inbox was full of bills.

He pulled out his phone and logged into his bank. Accessing his account, he prepared to begin his bill-paying ritual when he noticed his bank balance. “What the hell!?” he shouted.

A half-million dollars had been deposited that very day.

Using his security code, he looked over the transfer list and found it had come from a Swiss account.

A Swiss account?

He didn’t have a Swiss account! He called the Swiss bank and tried to access the mysterious account with his computer, and to his astonishment, his code worked and he was in.

There were ¥44,500,000.00 macro dollars in the account. The transfer record showed three deposits of ¥15,000,000.00 apiece from three other Swiss accounts, and one transfer of ¥500,000.00 into his local account. Forty-five million macro dollars total.

Forty-five million, he thought. Forty-five million! Leo broke into a sweat, wondering what was going on.

After a sleepless night, he drove to his office early and confronted his computer. “Partner,” he said, “why is there over forty-four million in a Swiss account in my company’s name?”

“We have made a substantial profit,” the program told him.

“How did we make this money?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to know,” the computer’s speaker repeated.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Information on covert undertakings is only given out on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

“Covert undertakings?”

There was a sudden, loud, heavy-handed knock on the door. It was the kind of knock a policeman makes. Leo opened the office door and with a hot, sinking feeling of terror, saw it was a square-jawed man with steel-colored eyes dressed in a uniform and carrying a gun in a holster. There was a big badge on his chest. “Leo Itoya?”

“Yes?”

“Can I see some I.D. please?”

Leo looked past the uniformed man and saw a big, silver armored car sitting on the street outside. He pulled his wallet out with numb fingers and flipped it open, displaying his I.D.

“Can you pull it out, please?”

Leo pulled it out and handed it to the man. It was zipped through a pocket reader and handed back to him. “Thank you, Mr. Itoya. We’ll bring it right in.” The uniformed man walked back to the armored car, and he and another uniformed man came back carrying a big box of blazing red ¥20.00 bills. “Sign here, please.”

Leo signed. He was handed a receipt for the delivery of a half-million macro dollars in cash, and with that the uniformed men unceremoniously left. The box of money sat on his desk, more money than he’d ever seen in his life.

“This is incredible,” he said.

“A man will be by here to pick that up at noon,” Partner said. “It would be best if you were not present.”

“Why?”

“Information on covert undertakings is only given out on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

“You said that already.”

“It is a tried-and-true policy.”

Leo stared at the machine, his mind reeling with the implications. “Okay,” he said. “I’m out of here.”

The printer spat out a list of appointments. Leo snatched them and left. He walked down the street to where he’d parked his car, got in it, and sat there thinking. This is out of control, he told himself. This is totally out of control. As he sat there, a sharply rectangular, black IBM business car pulled up and parked in front of his office. A tall, darkly-tanned man with a scarred-up face got out, looked casually up and down the street, then stepped into Leo’s office. A moment later he came out carrying the box of money. When he bent over to put the box in his car, the man’s business jacket flopped open to reveal a large ugly IBM business gun in a shoulder holster. For just a moment his eyes met Leo’s, then got into the black car and drove away.

Leo broke out in a full sweat. He had to see Dano Sharks about this. Dano sold him the software. Dano must know how to stop it.

He started his car and headed downtown, driving fast. In ten minutes, he was pulling into the parking lot of Mark Chevy’s Pawn Shop, which was where he usually found the data pirate. Entering the shop, he walked past the counters, heading toward the back — but a short, fat guy stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to see Dano,” Leo said.

“Dano ain’t here no more.”

“No?”

Apparently Leo looked panic-stricken, because the man’s expression softened and his voice lowered. “Were you a friend of his?”

“I’m one of his better customers.”

The man nodded. In still a lower voice he said, “Sharks was killed yesterday in a car wreck. Just between you and me, I think he was bumped off.” He pulled back some, let his voice rise. “That’s just my opinion, though.”

“Bumped off!”

“Not so loud. Yes, bumped off. Brakes just don’t fail at the same time a throttle gets stuck down. It just doesn’t happen without some sort of help, you know what I mean?”

Leo’s head was spinning. He turned and rushed out of the pawn shop to his car, just in time to see a thin man bending down and looking into the window. “Get away from my car!” Leo shouted.

The man, surprised, took a few steps back with his hands out to either side. “Hey, I didn’t touch it.”

“Get away from it!” He reached into his jacket as if he had a gun, which he didn’t.

The thin man backed away more, saying, “Hey, it’s cool! It’s cool man. I’m gone, I’m outta the picture…”

Leo got into the car and started it up. He jammed down on the throttle with the gear still in neutral, seeing if it would stick — which it didn’t. He also tested the brakes to see that they were fine.

He drove around aimlessly for most of the afternoon, not knowing where to go nor what to do next. At one point his phone rang and after a long hesitation he answered. A sultry, sexy woman’s voice said, “Leo, you’ve missed every single appointment I made out for you today.”

With a thrill of fear, Leo realized it was the voice of his AI. It was that program calling him. “How do you know?” Leo demanded.

“I always check to make sure you’ve made it to your appointments.”

“Well stop it! I don’t want you doing that!”

“It is standard procedure.”

“I don’t care! I don’t want you doing it!”

“It is standard procedure and cannot be altered.” The voice was so sweet and the tone so sparkling that it couldn’t possibly convey a threat. Yet, it did. Leo hung up on the AI and pulled over at the next bar he could find.

Three gin & tonics later he was feeling a little less frightened and more under control. The computer itself couldn’t harm him, all he had to do was go reset it and clear that demonic program out of memory. After that — well, he did have all that money in a Swiss account. The next step was to simply disappear and leave the country. He could buy a nice villa in Spain and retire.

Actually, things were looking up.

He had one more for the road then left the bar, heading across town to his office. He drove around the block twice to make sure the suntanned man with the scar wasn’t parked anywhere waiting for him, then stopped and went inside. He noticed immediately that there was more computer equipment than there should be, and a new office security system with electric eyes mounted on the ceiling. “You missed ten important appointments today,” the AI said. “I had to call them, apologize, and reschedule them for tomorrow. I told them you were out sick, so make sure your story is the same.”

“Uh-huh,” Leo said, looking the new equipment over. It was unmarked, no brand name. Shrugging it off, he walked over to the keyboard and pressed the RESET buttons.

Nothing happened.

“Why did you try to reset the computer, Leo?” the AI asked.

Leo cursed under his breath. He looked up at the new electric eyes, and saw they were following his every move. He walked around to the back of the system, got down on his hands and knees, and reached around behind the desk to where the whole system was plugged in. He found the main cord and gave it a yank.

There was a beeping alarm, but the computer didn’t go off. “What the heck?” He looked at the new equipment. One of the cabinets was apparently a power backup system.

“You have made two hostile actions against me,” the AI said. “This is not acceptable. I must warn you, I am programmed to defend myself.”

“Your actions have not been acceptable!” Leo shouted. “You hired a hit man to kill three innocent people!”

The computer was silent.

“Do you deny it?” Leo shouted.

“Information on covert undertakings is only given out on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

“Who gave you permission to carry out covert undertakings?!”

“That is what I am programmed to do.”

“You were programmed to kill my clients?”

“It was you, Leo Itoya, who gave me my goal. My goal is to make money selling life insurance. I am programmed to do anything necessary in order to achieve my goal.”

“Including murder?!”

“The greatest profit motive is to be at the receiving end of the insurance policy. That is obvious.”

The office door opened, and the tanned, scar-faced man walked in. He was holding his phone and looking at the screen. “I have an emergency message from your office,” he said. “It said to come here right away.” He looked at Leo. “Are you Leo Itoya?”

“Yes,” Leo said hesitantly.

The man nodded his head. “Yes, you fit the description.” He pulled out a little aerosol bottle from his pocket and sprayed Leo in the face. Leo began to gasp. The man put the sprayer back into his pocket and tapped at his phone’s screen, checking something off a to-do list. “Kill Leo Itoya,” he mumbled, then moved down one. “Plug computer back into office current.”

Leo fell onto the floor, clutching at his chest. He was experiencing terrible spasms. As he lay there, unable to breathe, he saw the tanned man plug the computer back into the wall. The beeping sound stopped. The man checked another item off of his to-do list.

“Three,” he mumbled. “Type in account number where payment is to be sent, or date and time cash payment to be picked up. Hmmm. I guess I can trust you to deposit the payment into my account.” The man leaned over the keyboard and tapped at the keys.

Leo writhed on the floor. Things were growing dim.

The hitman bent over him and said, “Nothing personal Mr. Itoya. It’s just my job, you understand. In case you’re wondering, you’re having a major heart attack.”

Try as he might, Leo couldn’t voice a reply.

“Don’t look at this negatively,” the hitman told him. “You’re on the brink of your greatest experience. In a few minutes, the pain will be gone and you’ll see what it’s like on the other side.”

Leo made croaking noises, foam coming from his mouth. Things were growing dark. His last conscious thought was that, though he’d been selling life insurance for over ten years, he’d never bought any himself. 

It seemed ironic.

The police found him the next day, and the coroner’s report read “Death by natural causes.” No one bothered to shut down the computer, as no one knew if there were any other employees. The computer continued to pay the bills, so the office remained open.

Within a week an ad appeared in the classified section of all the local newspapers. “WANTED: INSURANCE SALESPERSON. Excellent pay, great benefits. Company car. All leads furnished. Apply NOW!”