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Today’s story is narrated by Cameron Daxon, a writer and voice actor living in LA.
The Infinite Ultra-Whisk
Dennis rubbed the scruff on his face, poked at the bags under his eyes. If only they were full of money, he thought, then I’d split them open and save everything. His company, his house, his marriage, and maybe the fucking world while he was at it. These were just as likely to occur. His medicine cabinet squealed as it opened, and he took out his razor and makeup kit to try and fashion a presentable image out of the tired potato that was his face. He was lucky Desiree showed him how to use all this shit; how many fathers could rely on their daughters like that? And what had he done for her?
The drafty bungalow was extra clammy today. A moist cold front was moving in that sort of clung to everything like slugs, making every surface a little damp in his home. He looked around at the place; his face wasn’t the only thing that needed a little r-and-r. Beaten-up couch, chipped lino floor, faded paint on the walls—when had he gotten so used to living in a sad rendition of a Dali painting?
On the cracked tile counter was a pristine case: latch-sealed on the outside, padded and moisture-proof on the inside, it held his only key to his only possible good future. It all came down to his one shot, this final presentation before the wolves of industry. Maybe then he’d fix up the place, make room for his daughter and her fiancé and their kid. Maybe he could get everything back he’d lost and all the rest he’d always wanted…
Wow, if there was proof humans could get used to anything, there it was: he lived on fantasies like whale sharks lived on krill, just swimming incessantly, letting whatever fantasy that flowed into his head be his daily bread. Man cannot live off mind bread alone.
The investors all shook Dennis’ hand, their veneer smiles glinting in the blaring convention center light. They all looked so young, but in the way that airbrushed action figures did; if they were held up to a flame, they’d melt.
“We love the proposal. Absolutely do.”
“And what a story! Real rags to riches to—” another said, letting the golden future in Dennis’ head fill in the rest.
“Your appliance is gonna change everything,” said Leeds. “But first we gotta work on some things.” He took Dennis aside. “The name: The Infinite Ultra-Whisk? Isn’t that like selling eternal life? Are you over-promising?”
“It will last forever. It’s guaranteed. That’s my whole mission and you know it. Forever, Inc. Appliances that never break.”
Leeds shook his head, still grinning. “And that’s what people need in this world: quality and promises. But they don’t really expect forever. They don’t need to hand things down to their kids. They’ll just buy another.”
Dennis should have expected this. “You’re talking about planned obsolescence. You’re talking antithesis to everything I want to do.”
“No, not theology. Economics,” Leeds said. “If everything you make lasts forever, then you’ll go out of business.”
“That’s the point.”
Leeds laughed. “The point is to be in business forever.”
Dennis knew that laugh. Leeds wasn’t going to let this one go. He put an arm around Leeds. “Will you join me on stage for the presentation?”
“You know I don’t do presentations.”
“Just stand there. Look pretty like you always do. Billionaires are the best press.” Dennis patted Leeds’ delicate face.
“It’s all of us or nothing,” he said, trying to one-up Dennis. He knew Dennis hated the lot of them. Dennis knew that the more people up there on stage, the less credit he got, the less power he had, the more likely his Infinite Ultra-Whisk would be focus-grouped and re-designed until it broke like everything else. That’s all these rich phonies believed in: making things as shitty as possible to make money forever.
Dennis took the risk. He agreed to Leeds’ suggestion. The group of astronomically rich individuals more or less agreed, some frantically calling their assistants to re-arrange their entire days around this minor inconvenience, with special attention to their nutrient intake and exercise requirements. How else did one stay perfectly fit for all things at all times?
Dennis stepped into the spotlight with his wealthy retinue in tow at the Suburban Inventor’s Conference. He set his case on the table he’d requested, something short enough that even the front row could see what he would reveal, and undid the latches. He removed his magnum opus: The appliance pedestal, the stainless steel bowl, and the whisk attachment all came together with satisfying clicks. He thought he heard the audience sigh and ooh and ah, so perfectly intoned it could have come off a track. He began his spiel:
“This is the last whisk appliance you’ll ever need. It will become an heirloom for generations, until we no longer need to whisk things, which will be never.”
On the screen behind him, his face was replaced by images of various whisked items.
“The perfect egg whites for macarons, for whiskey sours, for whatever!” The stiff, white peaks were replaced with frothed yellow matter. “Smooth egg liquid for omelets that will have your guests begging for more.” These replaced by a buffet of food that went far, far into the horizon with a horde of human beings engorging on Devil’s Eggs, Macarons, and more, all crafted with the help of the Infinite Ultra-Whisk.
“And it’s convenient, too! Completely submersible for handwashing or your dishwasher. The components will last forever—and if they don’t, they’re covered by a multi-generational guarantee. The first of its kind! Now, without further ado…”
He plugged in the whisk, and away it went.
A murder of mechanical crows swarmed overhead, their fish-eyes scouring the scoured earth. They swarmed, those robotic winged drones, over the car park with its waves of asphalt, cars and trucks and bodies surfing the tired cracked surfaces; and then over the convention center—which had fared better than other buildings nearby. The collapsing center still had moisture in it, something the birds’ sensors picked up on, and so they crashed through a cracked skylight, glass tinkling down onto the eviscerated carpet as though worn down by decades of penitents looking for salvation. Swooping, scanning, searching, they searched the place for water. They found a dirty puddle of it, surrounded it, sucked it all up into their bladders. Around the puddle stood the forlorn entryway, the banner still high and mostly intact. Their infrared vision flickered on: 2035 INVENTOR’S-, with thematic words: VISION, CHANGE, ETERNITY.
Their sensors picked up something else: a mechanical sound. Their intelligences fired to life; there was something with power! Something with life in it!
Their metal squawking echoed, waking mutants hiding in the shadows and disturbing the glass on the remaining panes. Something with too many eyes and claws snatched a drone, tried to eat it. Its water bladder burst, the exposed circuits electrocuting it to smoking, stinking death. One crow took a sample of the creature for later. The rest had taken off, searching for the sound.
Soaring through darkness and machine-gun smatterings of light, they got closer and closer, synthetic feathers hushing the place. And there it was: in the middle of an auditorium on a low table, human skeletal hands around it in undying worship, was a silver stainless steel appliance, its wire-basket appendage still turning the air. The crows inspected it for their masters, who commanded them to bring the artifact back—
For science!
The drones dismantled the appliance and dispersed from the table, their quarry carried among them like storks carrying a single, adamantine child—
For the collection!
The skeletal hands were now curled around empty space; those desiccated digits clutched the memory of the Ultra-Whisk and would continue to hold that precious dream until they turned to dust—
For proof that something can outlive the hubris of man!
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