Future Tales (preview)

Future Tales: The Novella (1984 Reboot)

Exposition:

The year is 2069, 100 colonial years after 1984; 15 years have been erased by the Time History Executives (THE) between 1939 and 1950, there was no way to retell this period in world history without making every single person on earth very upset.

After a brief nuclear incident in 2025 involving Russia and the United States, it was decided that Russia should fund a reboot of the World’s Fair and admission would be free for any non-Russian citizens. It was basically just a rave that required an entire city to be built in the middle of the ocean on a giant island made of garbage. The island was bigger than Japan; It was declared at this fair that despite the ongoing biochemical wars and global social strife, the Time History Executives would declare World Peace, thus issued in an era of world peace. Any citizens who complained about the lack of fairness or peace were found missing or met an unfortunate end by their own hands. Within months and years after the fair, it became common knowledge to any decent human being that this was a period of barbarism, and this large group of dissidents simply went away somewhere, like the Mayans.

With the bio-war bringing the world together, it was decided between world leaders to create the THE. The group was made up of mostly media and pharmaceutical executives, who hastily voted among themselves and decided to commission a machine learning algorithm that could make decisions and “do the hard work” for the THE. It is widely understood that this algorithm was designed to protect any corporation’s livelihood over everything else.

Since the algorithm is also meant to keep society in order, it produces propaganda and educational material that will stop the average citizen from noticing the rapidly deteriorating world they live in. Climate change is often blamed on “inhumane humans” and “white people in general” rather than the constant wars and lack of corporate regulation, this is also just a bug.

The Algorithm was originally intended to make decisions that would curb climate change, and reduce social strife. Before the algorithm was implemented, the parent company of the engineering company that was hired by the THE forced through drastic changes to assure all profits would be prioritized over human safety. As a self-taught learning algorithm, this change enabled the further erosion of society to the point where being a slave to anyone who makes more money than you was now a point of pride. These ideals were also spread by very funny Saturday Night Lives sketches and a holographic Blue Collar Comedy troupe reunion. After this event, labor workers in America became so robotic and supportive of the algorithm that the algorithm would no longer recognize them as human at all and these “inhumane humans” are often identified as threats to the environment. Even though they are statistically the least likely to question the status quo or anything really, it’s just a bug.

The Algorithm is not knowingly evil. Nor were its designers. Since it was a last-minute change that caused the glitch, the algorithm simply does not know right from wrong and company profits are programmed to be more important than any ethical guidelines that were originally programmed. It considers any more ethics training to a waste of money and refuses to ingest information on this topic (it’s(the algo’s ethics) were all based on outdated philosophies in the first place.)

A vast majority of citizens in this world were forced to take employment with a large goods distributor. This was initially started with large cash or benefit incentives, but as the war grew larger Anti-trust laws were eradicated by popular demand and there are now 3 companies currently active in the United States. The United States itself is a subsidiary of one of these companies, which company, is classified and personal company information.

Stinson Wmith

Sinston is a short and frail mixed-race Cambodian and white man with a wispy mustache. This makes him one of the tougher people in his society so other men treat him with reverence; while women are generally afraid of all men at this time, he is indifferent to them, and this is considered more respect than they are used to.

So sick of the political correctness that plagues every facet of our lives,

whether be it Foster Home Flakes, or the War Pride parades, Sinston was ecstatic to see the full feed ad on his Slop account for a new anti-woke fitness center.

It was called Fitness Planet, this gym was not associated with Planet Fitness. However, Sinston had read rumors on Slob of a mass exodus of hot young male Planet fitness executives just a few weeks before this grand opening. However, the media had slated this as a good thing, since they were all white and from Anglo-Saxon genetic backgrounds. PF had just been taken under in a merger with Dunkin’ Donuts; in a compromise made with the company after years of negotiations and unprecedented court cases with the FDA, swaths of gym equipment was to be replaced with deep fryers. This angered a lot of employees who had joined the health and fitness company with hopes of promoting toxic masculinity and body dysmorphia, so they had left the company to start their own business. 

The smell of faint fecal matter and heavy body odor is refreshing in this world of scented oils and spicy aerosol fragrances. Sinston was overcome by a feeling of nostalgia when the leather-skinned receptionist blew a plume of cigarette smoke directly into his face as she slapped her red horse-riding crop on the antique steel desk

“HALT! Papiere, bitte!”

The sheepish coward almost evacuated in his new ShitCunt Branded mirrored track shorts, he still had 4 years left on his payment plan

Sinston could hardly hear the woman over the loud and boisterous alpha male compatriots. He feels a cold splash of sweat hit his face as the other gym associate wipes his brow and wrings his towel out over the drain of a drinking fountain.

“Hey buddy. She’s askin if you got a membership.”

“Huh, oh no. I was just checking the place out.”

Sinston turns back to the receptionist, but she is already back to watching ads on TV and rolling her next cigarette.

“Don’t look at her bitch boy, look at me, pussy! You come in here to get jacked, or did you come in here to stand around looking like some kind of fat gay pussy asshole?!”

“Hey man, wha-“

“Oh, you wanna fucking go?”

The male gym receptionist was probably over 250 pounds to Sinstons 130. Sinston could almost feel the ground shake as this beet-red meatball stormed over and into his face, now spitting and screaming at him like a madman. He grabs Sinston by the shirt collar and violently places him atop the steel desk.

“Look, bitch, you came into Fitness Planets Cruel and Unusual punishment zone! So that means you saw the ad, and you wanna get jacked on, or whatever. But this ain’t no pussy ass Planet Dunkin’ Fitness with their cute little no judgment zone, alright, queer?! this entire gym is a judgment zone and you signed your waiver when you walked through those doors, motherfucker.”

Upon this much too-late learning lesson, Sinston began to see this gym in its true shade of horror. Grunts and yelling are now recognized by his ears as pained screaming. A red shade washes over the entire place as the sounds of metal plates muffle into the sounds of bones breaking. Men are fainting with weights still on their shoulders, and they are being dragged into a back room labeled “Sauna”, but it looks like a walk-in freezer.

There is an ice bath at the front of the gym, but the man soaking in it seems to be lifeless now, his body hadn’t moved since Sinston walked into the room.

“You know what sir, I think I made a mistake. I was actually looking for the nail salon next door, I’m tryna get a manicure, sista girl.”

Sinston was relieved when the gym employee immediately changed his attitude and became very polite. The receptionist put him back on solid ground and fixed Sinston’s shirt collar. Stinson was impressed with the quality of service at this gym, he was delightfully terrified and understood it was nothing personal. Stinson noticed that he may have overestimated his appeal to this new self-help/anti-woke lifestyle. He wants to try new things, but constantly finds hurdles in the form of this drastically divided social climate surrounding him. In moments like these, Sinston often finds it personally helpful that he can easily become a gay man in the presence of threatening or toxic males. This often saves him the humiliation of having to converse with jocks, douchebags, and pretty girls. This strategy wasn’t always effective, sometimes it made things much worse, however, this wouldn’t be one of those times.

 “OH, I apologize, sir. Simple mistake, it happens all the time. If you ever want to learn more about our bone-crushing fitness classes, please feel free to give us a call beforehand. We would hate to have another non-member falling into the spike well again. That was a real headache, for him and us! HAHAHAHA”

Sinston had not planned on getting his nails done today, he had never had them done before; but the adrenaline from the gym mixed with his fear that the meatball receptionist was still watching him, creeping like a predator just waiting to catch Sinston in a lie, and then guilting him back into that dungeon-esque facility. He figured a manicure might be easier.

A weight lifted off of Sinston’s shoulders for a moment. As the vintage door chime rung above him, he took in the atmosphere of the room. In stark contrast to the gym he had just escaped from, this business was filled with small Vietnamese women. They were all hyper-focused and zeroed in on the long, varicose feet of whom Sinston presumed must be the wives of the gym goers next door. They were all jacked and had big fake tits, they were speaking on very small cell phones, but were they small? Or is that just how they looked being held between these ladies’ 9-inch long tubular fingernails?

They were all beautiful, even the Vietnamese women.

He was almost relieved by the receptionist here, in fact, everyone who worked here was immediately much more attentive to Sinston than those weird German gym associates. These ladies were quick to greet Sinston as soon as he walked through the door. It was a great disappointment when he deciphered their thick Asian accents to understand that these associates would not be any nicer than the previous. He had never heard of any new anti-woke nail salons, and there certainly weren’t any signs on the door. Sinston had no idea he had just discovered the least woke business he’d ever seen.

“Ayyy you maan, what da fuk u doing here huh?! We no serve men! OK!?”

It was like a car alarm went off, suddenly all of these Asian women were turning toward the door in anger and waving their sharp tools at Sinston, demanding he exit the establishment immediately. He hadn’t even said anything. He was scared.

“you get da fuk outta here”

“we no serve u faggot! OK?!”

“Never come back! You go to black nail salon next time, ok gay boi!?”

“You don’t wanna no trubba! Yuu come here again I call my husband OK?!”

“you no wan her to call her husband gay boi, he is good Christian mayn ok? He keer you!”

Sinston was not a gay man, nor did he have any problems with gay people, he’s often fairly gay himself but he never presented that way in fear of moments like this one. His dream of an anti-woke capitalist establishment had completely faded away at this point. Maybe he wasn’t looking for a business to be “anti-woke” necessarily. Sinston had just come to the disappointing conclusion that it was not yet safe for him to go anywhere in this new world without having his proper opinions in order. He learned that his personal identity and intentions should be made much more publicly apparent the next time he was to show his face in public.

Now backing away from the salon, Sinston turned around to see a yellow cab, like a white horse waiting to take him away from this nightmare. When Sinston opened the door to the cab he hears yelling from the driver, something about a personal vehicle, then Sinston clearly heard the words “Stupid fucking idiot.” As the taxi driver peeled out of the parking spot Sinston was covered head to toe with a wall of muddy street water. It was the kind of puddle that had been sitting for so long you could see a layer of gasoline or oil encircling the mysterious solids that protruded from the top.
This day was all just too much for Sinston. He decided not to go the gym, and not to get his nails done, not that he wanted to. He felt that it would be much healthier mentally and physically if he just stayed home, ordered a pizza, and watched the newest episode of Guantanamo Shore which was graciously presented by: The Victims of American Colonialism Fund, and sponsored by “CuntWipes” The choice sanitary napkin for tough, independent women.