One day a young man was walking down an unfamiliar street when he came across a house with a large front yard in which an old man was digging. The old man was already chest-deep but he showed no sign of slowing his work. The young man could not help but call out to him.

Old man, why do you dig so? Be careful not to dig too deep and trap yourself!

The old man paused and looked up at the young one, squinting his grey eyes against the afternoon sun. Wiping sweat from his brow, he reassured the young man.

Dear boy, I have dug many holes in this yard. You can see I keep this stepladder on hand for just such a reason. But I have been digging away so happily, now I see this hole is plenty deep to suit my needs.

With that the old man nodded, erected the ladder, and climbed out of his hole. He stretched his legs, then hobbled over to a wheelbarrow which was covered with a tarp. The young man was about to continue on his way when the old man pulled the tarp away, revealing thousands of dollar bills. The young man had never seen so many ones and fives; stacked and crumpled, they filled the barrow to the brim.

With a broad smile on his face despite his shaking legs, the old man took hold of the barrow and wheeled it to the edge of his hole. He gave a hearty grunt as he lifted the handles, dumping the contents of the barrow into the dirt. The young man, mouth agape, watched stray bills flutter away in the summer breeze.

Old man, this is no way to save your fortune! Is the walk to the bank so difficult that this is the vault you choose?! I am on my way to the bank now, I’ll have you know, to deposit my first paycheck from my first month of work. Please allow me to assist you there, so that you may invest your assets safely!

The old man let out a deep laugh. Merrily, he began shoveling dirt back into the hole.

Young lad, your offer is most kind, but why on earth would I take this money back to the bank? You see, I just hauled it from there this morning! Besides, I do not enjoy giving money to a teller. No, burying these bills is what I love, and burry them I shall.

The young man did not know how to respond to this. He looked at the check in his hand, then back to the grey, wiry figure who was happily dumping moist dirt onto clean cash. It was then he noticed the mounds scattered throughout the yard: dozens of them, many freshly disturbed and surrounded by various shoe prints.

Sir, do you not see that your stash has been invaded by others? Surely you must notice thieves digging in the night. Yet I doubt the authorities would fault them, for they barely need to trespass to steal from you! I insist you dig up all that remains and come with me.

But, dear boy, I find no joy in removing the bills, only in placing them in these holes. Indeed, those whom you claim steal from me actually do me a service. If not for them I would have run out of room in this yard many years ago. For all my love of burying, I truly abhor excavating.

As they talked the old man made great progress towards submerging his treasure. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he shoveled heaps of dirt into the hole with slow, but deliberate motions. The young man stared at him, exasperated.

Please, sir, if you have no need of this money, you should give it to those less fortunate. At present, it simply runs off with shovel-wielding vandals!

But, young fellow, I do not enjoy giving to charity. No, it does not compare to the joy of watching cash disappear into mud, not at all.

The old man gestured as he said this, inviting the young man to watch as the last bill was covered in dirt, vanishing from sight. With a satisfied sigh, the old man began filling the hole more quickly. The young man could tell the main event was over, so he tipped his cap to the old fool and continued down the road.

At the bank, the young man handed over his paycheck. The teller inquired whether it should be deposited into a checking or savings account. The young man did a quick calculation of his expenses. He weighed the different interest rates. He considered future investment plans. He measured his desires.

Then he stopped. He looked at the teller, and smiled.

My good man, on second thought I have decided not to deposit this check. Please, give me the sum in cash. I have some shopping to do, you see. I need to buy a shovel.

I was informed by my editor that I should explain a particular word I used on pages 221, 446, and 523 of this book. To clarify, I am not going to duplicate any of what I wrote on those pages; it is your task as a reader to refer to those pages before, during, and/or after reading this section. It was my understanding that a literate person should be capable of this feat without an author providing explicit instructions. However, after a (rather long) conversation with said editor, it appears the need persists. If you did not have any trouble while reading those pages, consider this section a supplement to Chapter 12, Humans Are Bad At Instructions.

I shall continue under the assumption you are able to follow my references as explained above. The clarification I wish to make revolves around the word “recursion” and how it applies to experiences in my life. Each of the offending pages makes use of this word for a simple purpose: to remove passages that would duplicate information which had already been provided. I do this as a courtesy to both you and my editor, though he seems to disagree.

To fully illustrate a particular example, I will provide further context for use of the word “recursion” on page 446. In this passage I use the word “recursively”, which, if you are not capable of understanding the relationship between nouns and adjectives, is another form of the word “recursion.” Before using this word I provide a vivid description of my first love, a woman named Mandy. I then ask the you to reread that section eight times to learn how the rest of my relationships bloomed, flourished, wilted, and died. You are instructed to iterate through each of my mother’s positive qualities (pages 25-29) and each of my father’s negative qualities (pages 30-52) to construct an image of my romantic partners. In this way I hope to spare you the arduous task of reading what is essentially the same sad story eight times.

An astute reader will have noticed that my explanation does not, in fact, describe a “recursive” process; I have merely told you to find and replace some key phrases. This is no different from preparing a recipe or filling out a form. Before I explain how recursion is involved, however, I feel I must provide a simpler example of recursion for the less-than-astute reader. While I have avoided including code in the rest of my autobiography, I am afraid it is necessary in this case. Besides, what type of person is reading a book about me who does not have some interest in programming? My editor refuses to answer this question.

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Read Part 3…

“Look, all I’m saying is that people don’t think I’m some swell guy anyway. What, you think the bosses expect me going steady with a nice dame who’s my age? They know I’m not that kinda guy. They ask me to bump off a stoolie and I do it.”

The night sky was overcast, city lights illuminating patches of yellow and red against the gloom. A power station’s security lights cast harsh shadows through a chain link fence and onto the stoops of abandoned houses across the road. Silence was cut by the buzz of transformers and a deep voice. A large man stood in front of the door of the house with the fewest broken windows, spinning a knife between his fingers with one hand and holding a telephone receiver in his other.

“They ask me to guard a house and I do it. So who cares if I enjoy a virtual girl every now and then?”

“That’s not the point, ya’ mook.” A crackling voice echoed from the antique communication device. “I hooked you up with my VR guy so you could have a little fun. I didn’t know you were gonna have fun with little girls.”

“You got some stupid kind of point there, buddy. I ain’t hurtin’ nobody in those games. And, like I said, I hurt real people all the time. So who cares?” He stabbed the knife into the wood door so that it stuck in place and shifted the phone to his other hand. “Besides, you’re the real creep, messing around with that kid’s head and all.”

“Hey, you don’t discuss what’s going on in here. Not even on the secure lines. Now quit bothering me and keep an eye out for Glummy. It’s almost morning and he ain’t back yet!”

The large man hung up the phone, took a deep breath, glanced down the street, and collapsed to the floor. Jane Brass peaked out of a broken window next door, pocketing her nanobot blowgun. So they haven’t heard about Glummy, she thought. They must really be keeping this place off the grid. She doubled-checked her infrared scanner — just two people in the basement of the house — then hopped out the window into the alley between houses.

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Read Part 2…

The door to apartment 5380 had an especially large keypad that included a full Dvorak keyboard, complete with function keys. There was a small display with a peep-hole camera that was always recording. Jane walked past this door and around a bend in the hallway that led to the emergency exit. Just before the exit door she stopped, counted the patterns in the dark-grey wallpaper, and placed her palm directly in the center of a fleur-de-lis. A section of wall disconnected at invisible seams and receded into the room behind. Jane entered and removed her boots as the door quietly went back to being a wall. She entered the kitchen and began rummaging in the refrigerator that blocked the supposed door to apartment 5380.

Jane tried to munch a carrot silently as she walked past Rick’s bed in the dark. Standing by his window overlooking the city, she pulled out a purple cyberette and took a long drag. The taste did not mix well with carrot, but her mind was on other things. Would anyone at the bar identify her? Would Rick be able to get any info off Glummy’s mobile? Even if she was able to rescue the boy, how would she stop the the mob from coming after her?

“You know, those will kill you,” a tired voice came from the bed, “the smokes, I mean. Good to see you’re finishing work early for once, Janey.” Rick got up and put on a sweater.

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Read Part 1…

Jane Brass stared at the map on the screen of her mobile computer. A red dot representing Glummy Jones, certified thug and generally unpleasant person, was entering the alleyway behind Corvick’s tavern. Inside, Jane stood up from her booth and booked it for the back door; she had to act fast. I guess Glummy ain’t no Dummy after all, she thought to herself, debating whether it was worth saying aloud. I’ll work on that one later, she decided.

The mobile in her hand began vibrating, indicating the tracker was approaching. Jane pocketed the device and pressed herself against the wall next to the back door of Corvick’s. She swapped the cyberette in her mouth for a yellow one from her coat and took a long inhale as the door swung in front of her. Glummy strode in, shock-pistol outstretched, failing to notice the woman tucked behind the door he had just kicked open.

“So, whicha you’s the lousy cyber-weasel who’s gone and… and…” Panting through his squashed nose, Glummy realized he was inhaling a stream of yellow vapor. “Hey, what’s the big idea, I…” He clutched at his throat, dropping the pistol to the floor and stumbling to his knees.

Jane stepped out from behind the door and kicked the pistol behind her. “Look here, Glum, I don’t think the fine people of this E-stablishment appreciate having weapons in their faces as they recharge,” several biker-borgs flashed their headlights, “so why don’t the two of us take a little walk.” She reached towards the coughing gangster with her right hand and grabbed the collar of his coat. There was a surge of electricity that threw her into some barstools, nearly wrenching her arm out of its socket. Glummy was thrown to the ground, gasping for air.

Of course, Jane realized, the charge dampened the tracker! That’s why my signal-alert didn’t fire until he was too close. She whacked her arm on the bar, trying to feel if it was fried or just rebooting. The stabilizers seemed to come back online, but the limb was still numb. The shock seemed to have the opposite effect on Glummy. He was catching his breath and scrambling to his feet. Jane cursed herself, I forgot they’re called the “Bolt Gang” for a reason.

Glummy snarled and pulled a toggleblade out of his pocket. “Brass, you stinking flatfoot, I’m going to gut you and fry you from the inside out!”

Jane needed her arm back online. She grabbed a bottle of Ov3rcl0ck off the bar and gulped a swig before Glummy could rush her. She felt her sub-digestion system redirect the juice to her arm, supercharging the reboot. Her reflexes came back just in time to deflect Glummy’s lunge. She dodged left and smacked his arm, diverting the laser-blade away from her body. Unfortunately, this put Glummy between her and the shock-pistol on the floor. Jane did a quick calculation, then pointed her hand at the weapon, engaging her magnetics at maximum power. The gangster dove for his gun as it slid across the floor then jumped into Jane’s hand.

“Look bolt-brain, I don’t wanna have to plug ya’ so why don’t you be a good little doggy and crawl on back to your masters.”

“Come on, Brassy, plug away! Gimme some more juice!” He turned towards her, giggling, and discarded his trenchcoat. His chest was glowing with electrified copper coils. “But I think it’s everyone in here who’s in for a shock!” Sparks crackled and began to erupt from the coils. Glummy’s giggling turned to manic laughter, but it was cut short by an ear-shattering CRACK. The coils on his chest were scattered and replaced with a gaping hole.

Jane turned to see Corvick holding an old-fashioned, powder-based, .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol. He turned to the customers holding hands over their ears across the bar from him. “You see, to really get a quality sound from a weapon you just have to go pre-22nd century. I know a guy, if you’re interested. Now, Miss,” he looked back at Jane, “please drop that child’s toy beside the dearly departed. The authorities are on their way, I imagine.”

Giving Corvick a flirtatious wink, Jane sauntered over to the fallen gangster. She placed the pistol beside him, surreptitiously pulling her tracker off his leg and reaching a hand into his pocket. Then she headed for the back door, the informant standing to follow her.

“No, you stay here.” Corvick aimed at Fred-E, “I observed your meeting with this would-be attacker. Please, be so kind as to remain seated.” Jane frowned, but kept walking.

Outside, Jane estimated it would be at least 48 hours until Fred-E would be available for her questioning. She needed answers faster than that, especially once the Bolts heard about Glummy. Well, here’s hoping this thing ain’t fried, she pulled Glummy’s mobile out of her sleeve. She broke into a quick jog, still feeling amped from the Ov3rcl0ck in her system. I guess I have to get Rick involved after all.

To be continued…

A thin line of purple vapor rose from the shadows on the edge of the alley, lit by the LED glow spilling from the tavern across the street. A small man with the face of a sick bulldog rounded the corner, stopped, and twitched his nose. Frowning, he glanced up at the sign flashing “Corvick’s E-stablishment” and touched one hand to the device attached to his ear. A faint ripple of electricity spread down the metal studs of his leather trench coat. Scanning the street, he entered the building.

Jane Brass stepped deeper into the darkness, removing a small wand from between her lips. She exhaled a large purple cloud into the alley and tucked the cyberette into her jacket. She pulled the jacket’s black hood over her head and double-checked her equipment: revolver loaded, location scrambler running, tracker responding. Glummy Jones had just entered the bar, stepping right through her tracking wire. The bug was affixed and Jane could watch on her mobile as he approached the bar then moved to a booth in the back. The conversation was starting.

After ten minutes the dot on the map exited through the back door. Jane let him get two blocks away, then crossed the street and entered Corvick’s. Behind the bar, a skinny man with a translucent nose-implant was trying to explain why fine battery-scotch had to be aged in the engines of aircraft instead of land vehicles. Jane spotted her source, Fred-E, in the back booth, neck-deep in a pint of old-style ale. She quickly stashed her mobile and took the seat across from him.

“Fred, glad to see you’re still on speaking terms with those Bolt Gang goons. So, are you going tell me what I need to know, or are we going to see this pretty face turn real mean?”

“Dammit Brass, I told you ten thirty. Glummy just stepped outta’ here!”

“That’s one thing I already know, E. Two more of those and you’re the one who’s outta’ here.” Jane pointed her right thumb at the door and the lights above flashed blood red.

“Alright, alright, point taken,” he pulled out a leather-bound folio, swiped a finger across a scanner on its cover, and opened it to a page of micro-discs. “I’ve encrypted this with your public key.” He handed her a disc, “I need you to extract everything you can from their data vaults. The relevant terminals are marked on those maps.”

She slid the disc into a slot in her right forearm. “Whoa, hold on there, slugger. This warehouse sure-enough can’t be where they’re holding the kid. Strike two. Bolt Gang doesn’t even touch this territory, and since when am I the one getting information for you?”

“Since I learned where that boy is, that’s when. Look Brass, I know how much this one means to you. Must be your motherly instincts finally kicking in, eh?” He gave her a big smile that made the fat of his cheeks cover his eyes. “I know what kind of things Glummy has in store for the kid, so the sooner you do this little job for me the more of that kid there will be left to save.”

“Man, you’ve got the heart of an android,” Jane laid her mobile on the table. “It’s a shame you don’t have the brains of one.” She pointed at the dot moving along the map, “I didn’t know which of the Bolts was handling the kid, but now I know it’s that bruiser.” Jane slipped her cyberette out of her jacket, placed it in her mouth, and gave Fred-E a wink. “I think I’ll skip your little trip, slugger, and maybe just follow this runner back to home base.”

“But, Brass, oh wipe my drive!” He gestured to her mobile screen, “Glummy ain’t going where you want, toots. He’s right outside!”

To be continued…

Jon had just woken up, but already he knew today was a going to be a strange day. Something about the temperature of the water in the shower, the fit of his suit, or the taste of his breakfast-toast made him suspicious of what fortune had in store for him. Still, skepticism made him overlook these instincts and proceed with his routine. He stepped out the door of his small house and turned right, striding down the lane, brightly lit by the early-morning sunshine.

Focused on his commute, Jon nearly stepped on the cat sprawled across the sidewalk. Stopping short, Jon stared at the cat, expecting it to scamper off in surprise. Instead, the tabby returned his gaze, meeting his eyes with uncanny intent. Jon stepped back, suspicious of the feline. Suddenly, with cat-like reflexes, the creature reverse-somersaulted onto its rear paws, standing erect with fore-legs crossed and tail wrapped around its waist like a belt.

“So, this is what we’re doing today?” Jon muttered, “We’re having a surprise encounter with a mystical animal? I assume it will teach me some sort of lesson, changing my personality forever.”

These comments were not directed at anyone in particular, though Jon appeared very upset with someone.

“Shut it. I’m not participating in your aesop, you hack!”

Jon glared accusingly at the bipedal quadruped in front of him. The cat simply opened its mouth and screamed “BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP…” as it faded into an alarm clock flashing six-oclock.

Jon sat up in bed and pounded the clock silent. It took him a moment to realize the morning had simply been a dream.

“No, it’s pretty damn obvious that was a dream. Thank god we get to abandon that plot device. Or are you going shoehorn it into some sort of metaphor?”

After shouting at his empty bedroom, as he did every day, Jon excitedly began his morning routine, but for real this time. One unsettling shower, cheap suit, and butter-soaked piece of toast later, he stepped out into the morning sunshine. The day was even more pleasant than in his dream. He turned right and headed down the lane.

Actually, he turned left and took the long way around the block, as he sometimes did on Thursdays. Never one to dwell on efficiency, Jon would grew bored of his routine.

“You bet your ass I would.”

Yep, really not one to go with the flow, that guy. Many would consider that a flaw, but Jon believed this made him a relatable, three-dimensional character.

“You know you’re not making me sound like an idiot with those descriptions, right? I’m not going to point any fingers, but maybe you stick to events and I’ll take care of representing myself. Thanks.”

The mildly-schizophrenic man walked with great haste away from his home, towards the less-convenient bus stop. We’ll never know he chose to divert from his usual path, but on that day the winds of fate blew unpredictably and with great consequence, as winds often do. In his urgency, Jon bolted into an intersection blindly, as pedestrians often do. He did not notice the Prius coming at him, innocently making a left turn, as cars often do. The vehicle came to a screeching halt, but not quickly enough. Jon’s hip absorbed most of the impact before he was thrown to the ground in a pitiful heap.

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I take out my phone and get ready to call mom as the announcement begins to play on the television:

“At midnight, all acts of kindness will be encouraged. For one day, all citizens are permitted to give compliments, offer help, and connect emotionally with each other. All actions of gratitude and affection will be considered socially acceptable, and no one is allowed to feel uncomfortable due to such actions. Merge Day begins in five, four, three, …”

I shut it off before the show hosts began their hour of viewer appreciation. No time to waste: need to call mom. But before I can hit call, my phone rings and I don’t recognize the number. Shit. Can I reject it? That sounds like a missed opportunity to connect with another human being on Merge Day. Sorry mom, looks like you’ll have to wait.

The call is my landlord, letting me know he really appreciates that I always pay my rent early. I only do that to avoid ever having to talk to you, idiot, but I can’t say that so I thank him again for renting out the apartment downstairs to my friend Brody. Good guy, Brody. Not very demanding as a friend, and much quieter than the couple that lived in that apartment before I got them evicted for secretly having a dog. The landlord and I exchange the requisite “look forward to ranking you” and he finally hangs up.

I rush to dial my mom before some other rando calls me, but then I change my mind. At this point my sister must have already gotten to her, so I need a way to regain the Merge-advantage. Instead, I phone my sister first.

“Hey sis, how’s my most-favorite sibling in the world?” She is my only sibling.

“So good! We were just on a video call with the boys’ grandma and Davey was saying he loves grandma and his little brother more than anyone, except maybe mommy and daddy!”

“Oh that’s so great, I just know that by the time he grows up he’ll have equal love for all people and be truly Merged. I love my nephews so much, sis. Hey, so you haven’t had a chance to call mom yet?”

“No, I thought you would want to talk to her first, so I waited.”

Damn. She’s good. Sometimes I almost believe it comes to her naturally, but then I talk to mom and see the little faults they share that let me know they’re just like me inside. Can I tell her this on Merge Day? It’s the one time no one should feel ashamed for telling the truth.

I wish her the best and at last begin the Mom Call. Most days I can only reach her around ten in the morning, right after she takes her medication, but during The Merge they’ll connect you at any hour. The nurses are some real angels, so after the customary harping I’m talking to Diane.

Our talk is actually pretty uneventful. She’s able to recall that dad’s dead and that she has a grandson named Danny (I don’t correct her). I’m unsure whether the meds are supposed to help her remember or make her forget. She definitely isn’t Merge-conscious during this call, though, which is refreshing. It also reminds me that she gets to be in an institution, exempt from judgement, a right my generation has been denied. Of course, my side of the call is still being monitored, so after the correct amount of time I let her know it’s time for me to move on to my next act of love and kindness.

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