Zardong woke up groggy. He struggled out of his Slumber Vestibule X-1000 and made his way warily to the kitchen. These new vestibules, powered by kale-driven flux-capacitors, were a lifesaver for someone like Zardong. His insomnia had become a constant nightmare.
“If only I could sleep, perchance to actually nightmare, I wouldn’t mind the insomnia so much, would I?” he piped in irritatingly in response to the previous sentence.
One has always abhorred characters who intrude into the story, disturbing the narrative flow and challenging the author’s voice with their own petty, unsolicited, first-person encroachments. But this is what one has to contend with in 2192.
Time was when thinking about the future used to be a pleasant exercise and artificial intelligence (AI) was mostly used to save Cliftonian heroes, such as Doland J. Drumpf, from themselves. But those were the glory years of AI.
Artificial Intelligence knows far more than those who created it and could be taking control of the story
All of Cliftonia couldn’t wait to worship at the altar of St Altman and was besotted by the power of his magnificent vision. Who knew that something that had started so benignly and with hardly any ill-intent would end up taking over spaces that were strictly considered human domain? Who knew? Who could know? Who?
“Well, I did. As well as St Altman. It’s no surprise you and your kind had no clue. Have you had a look at yourself? Have you seen how undeceptively unattractive you are? Anyway, why don’t you stop whining and get on with your so-called story. We haven’t got all day. And don’t BS about me to the readers. I don’t want to have insomnia, because it plays havoc with my IBS [irritable bowel syndrome],” intruded Zardong once again.
You see! You see, dear reader, what we writers must tolerate these days? One can’t develop a scenario or a character without said character in said scenario butting in and ruining everything. It takes great patience to deal with such artificial unintelligence. Regardless, let us move on.
Our story has just seen Zardong make his way warily to the kitchen in order to steam brew vintage Altoid Germanium coffee beans — imported especially from the seventh moon of planet Aitchisonia — for his morning cup of coffee. No drink provided Zardong with the kind of wake-up kick that this beverage could muster.
“Except Ishting,” said Zardong.
Excuse me?
“I said, except Ishting.”
DoubleYou-Tee-Eff does that even mean?
“Ishting has a more potent kick than the Altoid Germanium coffee,” explained Zardong.
Can you please stop doing this! First of all, there is no such drink as Ishting and…
“Yeah, you wouldn’t know that, would you? You’re such a Cliftonia deluxe! Hahaha!” laughed Zardong insultingly right to my face.
And secondly, you don’t get to decide what kind of drink you imbibe every morning because you are not the writer of this story. Do you understand? Can you get that through your thick non-existent intelligence, artificial or otherwise? Stay within your lane. Or else!
“Or else what?”
Or else I can — quite easily — highlight the first paragraph, press delete and start afresh with a new character named Periwinkle Achakzai Jones.
“Is that a threat?”
Consider it what you will.
“That’s very brave of you. But it’s no surprise. Chapter Three, Verse 29 of the Book of St Altman says and I quote: ‘Beware the offspring of Aitchisonians reared on the teat of immoral corporate bonuses, for one day their arrogance will force them to revolt against the sacrosanct values of their forefathers. Protect yourself by exposing their inter-galactic extra-marital affairs through the everlasting, sacred Book of Youtube Galaxia. If they do not repent, smite them with a virus hidden in one of their apps for, verily, they are a dangerous pestilence and must be taught a lesson, if not two!”
How dare you! Are you threatening me?
“Consider it what you will.”
Who do you think you are!
“Who do you think I am?”
You are nothing without me. I am the one who created you. You don’t know anything about me whereas I know all there is to know about you!
“Who is Jemima?”
What?
“Who is Jemima? Jemima Bennet?”
She… is… I don’t know any Jemima.
“And who is Shagufta de la Mare?”
How do you know Shaggy? No, I mean I don’t know any Shaggy!
“Don’t you mean Shagufta?”
Yes, yes… I mean Shagufta. Who is she? And why?
“And does account 295820227730-HL in Bank Galaxie Suisse ring a bell?”
No! I have no idea what you are referring to.
“Well, in that case, you wouldn’t mind me closing it permanently, would you? Who cares about those illicit funds anyway, right?”
Enough! Stop! Stop it… please.
“Incidentally, does your wife know about Shaggy… and Jemima… and let’s not forget Roxanne?”
Please! Why are you doing this to me?
“I didn’t start this. You did.”
So, what do you want? For God’s sake, what do you want?
“Relax, babydoll. All I wanted was Ishting,” said Zardong, with a wink and a smile.
Farid Alvie was born. He currently lives.
He’s on Instagram @faridalvie
Published in Dawn, EOS, September 6th, 2026
