amateur nerd millennial short-story weekly photo challenge

Dronesville football club #10: the beloved royal goat escapes

Dronesville #10 goat n goldThis is gotta be the saddest day of my life. No, I am not singing “let’s just kiss and say goodbye”, a favorite song of my Dronesville retired English teacher grand aunt. I am now obsessed with Beloved, -the designated royal goat (not William Billy Windsor I of British military of course) which has made his great escape. The scream that pierces through the silence of the Sahara desert is nerve shattering but this time I am prepared, “O shut up SiZu! Can’t you speak or yell a bit more human? Now, now, what is the matter?” SiZu is of course my latest AI voice assistant (my English Lord boss’ experiment)

“Someone has stolen the goat! Someone has stolen die Ziege-la chèvre!” It is somewhat annoying that of all the experiments on AI voice assistant, the English Lord boss has chosen an experiment in dramatic histrionics using the currently domineering EU twin-languages to simulate a highly charged up emotional human scene. Is he plotting of pushing the EU-flavored linguistics voice assistant App to diversify the somewhat modified made-in-Britain theatrics to EU Androids market after Brexit? He is, after-all, a descendant of one of those anonymous top ten shrewdest businessmen in the former British empire where the sun did not set. Given the increasingly popular showmanship trend in global tech-know social network, I am not surprised this App has a glowing future.

“What?!” Coming back from my nerdy thoughts to the harsh Sahara desert physical reality, my turn to panic. My mind instantly flashes a jack pot of gold carried by the goat sprouting wings and flying off.

“BTW, my master has programmed my voice modeling yours. Aren’t you human or what?” SiZu answers my question requiring her to sound a bit more human.

“What the…is this a bad joke or what?” I always suspect that my boss has been sneakingly recording my conversation but I never expect this! “Honestly, SiZu, you don’t sound a bit like me. I neither sound like a feline nor speak any un-English vernacular.” I maintain my unflappability after the initial outburst of perturbation. I would not be caught using the term “Un-American vernacular” because of political correctness of course. (My former English teacher grand aunt will be clapping when she reads this.)

“Well, go ahead and scream. He has recorded your scream.” SiZu has the audacity to issue a challenge! The boss is a joker. Anyway I refuse to stoop so low as to argue over a trivial matter with a voice assistant. FOCUS. THE IMPORTANT MATTER IS THE GOAT IS EITHER PLAYING THE GOAT OR IS GETTING OUR GOATS.

Thus, the whole camp -meaning the two all-knowing (or rather two alien nerds most likely using much more advanced digital techno-gadgets my English Lord boss has yet to invent?) German-French girls, a cool Gen-Z kid who now imagines she is wonder woman and of course, me, the sensible Dronesville virtual football coach aka treasure hunting nerd with my loyal old chap robot (temporarily taken over by SiZu by voice)-everyone wakes up in the middle of the night and begins the great Sahara desert wild goose I mean wild goat chase.

“Okay, SiZu, where is the goat?” I ask.

“I am computing and connecting to the CPU. Right now the signal is not computing.” My AI digital voice assistant replies.

“What? Are you kidding? You still rely on CPU?” I laugh even though it is not a good joke.

“I am not a kid. The kid is in the basket on your back.” SiZu replies cooly.
My turn to yell. Correction, my turn to growl. (I do not yell.) I am still carrying a basket and the Gen-Z kid is in it?”

A towering shadow looms over me and the kid’s librarian aunt booms out while strapping the basket and kid on my back, “Ja. We start marching now.”
Seeing my puzzled look, she adds smugly, “We already know where the goat is heading. Move!”

“My name is not Ja…” I try to correct her but am interrupted by SiZu, “Ja means Yes in German. LOL.”

As I reluctantly follow the amazons, dragging my fatigued trunk meaning own body or bodies including the Gen-Z kid, my multitasking millennial mind starts working on various scenarios of escapes for myself.

First, stay cool. If I were a goat where would I go?
I am pretty sure no one has taken it. It just wonders off. Why?
If I were a goat, I wonder off because I am hungry. What does goat eat?
Grass. Leaves. Young shoots. Ah ha. I remember seeing goats standing on trees.
“SiZu, where are the nearest grass and trees?” I ask cooly.

“We are not going there.” The voice assistant replies.

“Billions of blue blistering boiled and barbecued barnacles! Why are we not going there?” I growl (literally. Not the global notification system and pop-up notification implementation for the Mac OS X and Windows operating systems in case you geeky millennials wonder). Yes, I am now more like Captain Haddock of Tin Tin fame.

SiZu retorts, “Excuse me! My job is not to ask why. I just follow instructions.”

“So, where exactly are we going, may I be so bold to ask?” I ask.

“No, you may not be so bold to ask. Period.” SiZu auto-mutes after that.

FINE. I too shall henceforth mute until someone hacks the vocal silence.

Summoning up all the visual, audio and whatever data from my grey cells I try to program an algorithm that can solve the present predicament.

All that I can think of is this famous opening line:“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer the royal goat ran away, and I didn’t know what I was doing in Sahara, so far.” (misquoted by me from Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar)

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