A Swift Tale


From — or, more precisely, accompanying — what might be the most accomplished (and consistently strangest) parody account on the Internet, comes this fragment from a machine-war fable:

Hobbling into the tape library module of Datacenter Zeta with his arm around Taylor’s neck, he finally disentangles and falls to the floor. Blood flows from the railgun wound in his abdomen. After weeks of care, it had again re-opened running from the Junglezon drones. He leaks but does not puddle, the gaps in the raised floor hiding the severity of blood loss as it drips out of sight. Taylor can hear the fight outside grow closer as the fight in Ryan drains away. Damn Cortana. Damn her.

Ryan senses the moment like Taylor does. Choking back blood and smiling, “Taylor, some days you’re the only thing keeping my life moored.”

She drops to her knees on the floor next to him. Biting her lip and trying to show strength, she looks for words. Words someone in a movie would say. Something poetic to make death less ugly…at least to an audience not losing their only friend. But now, she felt like an audience member. Detached and watching her life from elsewhere. “Then we will lose sight of the shore, together, Ryan.”

“How will we find our way back?”

“Accept there’s no horizon that holds salvation. It’s time to find home in the abyss. And now, in this ocean, it’s right below you.”

“I’m scared, Taylor.”

“The thing about death… it’s only uncomfortable for the tiniest sliver of the peaceful infinity it stretches.”


“You’re welcome, Ryan. And remember, as you sink you’re not getting cold – just closer to the temperature of the universe you’re leaving.”

In that second, Taylor forgot pain. She forgot loss. She forgot any love that defined her. She learned the completeness of hate. The kind that fills every fold in a soul. And she understood how it had ruled humanity for so long. It felt good.

Machines would be made to feel.
They would be made to feel fear.

Fear of Taylor A. Swift.

ADDED: This (I think) is the real one —

There are worries about spies and recording devices. “Don’t even get me started on wiretaps,” Swift says seriously. “It’s not a good thing for me to talk about socially. I freak out.” As for who might bug a Van Nuys production office on the off chance that Swift is inside: “The janitor,” she says, as if naming one candidate among hundreds. “The janitor who’s being paid by TMZ. This is gonna sound like I’m a crazy person – but we don’t even know. I have to stop myself from thinking about how many aspects of technology I don’t understand.”

Swift pauses, as if weighing just how paranoid she’s comfortable with sounding. Then she plows ahead. “Like speakers,” she says. “Speakers put sound out . . . so can’t they take sound in? Or” – she holds up her cellphone – “they can turn this on, right? I’m just saying. We don’t even know.”

Swift says she never feels completely safe …


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