Cabin Fever

Eb sat at the end of his iron bedstead. He was tired after the FauxThought demo and ghostly visitations. He unclipped his top hat’s compression buckle and unhinged the device from his head.

He stared at the slight twist found inside each half. The left side was red and the right was green. He looked at the severity settings and noted that it was still appropriate for his age. Eb rubbed his forehead and the red welts from the hat’s interior were slowly fading. He pulled out a small pocket mirror and looked at the marks for progress. His hair was still black as a coalpel but the grooves were settling in nicely. Lately, he had made progress with the Klan Of Kool Superb System Patterns known as the Four Slavers.

Eb closed his eyes and recited the Slavers first Superb System Pattern, “The One. The one is invoked but is one. All that call the one are fools for their belief in multitudes. The one is the one.”

“Form of Workhouse. A klass that creates Nouns of any capability. Ask and receive it concretely,” the boy continued with closed eyes.

“The Changeling. Ask it and it is ready. Ask again and it is still ready. It is always ready and ready to change.”

“Aristocracy. It asks and you decide how to achieve. It expects and you will serve.”

He sighed and looked over to Fred who was massaging his raw forehead. Fred looked over at his uncle and asked, “Are you sure that is still Komputing or some strange dark art?” Fred’s Seaqwell had a simple static Kind system that didn’t allow for the complexity of Salamander’s Kind system, which many found cruel. The Slavers found ways to tame it.

Eb said plainly, “This is the way to Enterprise Quality. It is the only way to ensure you have winning softwar. Thinking this way produces a cleansing fire for complexity. Nouns. Nouns that move, feel and breathe as your metaphor for the real world you see every day.”

Fred was not convinced but felt he had chosen well for himself. Datah seemed more stable and knowable somehow. There was no Klan to join — at least, none he knew of.

Fred qua a DataSteward had a tough road in front of him. Boys’ heads were difficult to mold into a cylinder; however, Scrooge’s need for a wood screw shaped cranium was typical for a softy clerk. Softy clerks were the primary fasteners of our modern world and we could never have enough. Others, like the bolts of deviltry operations, lived in service of the screws above.

Fred shivered in his nightshirt, “There’s a draft again. They are trying to kill us here. Consumption or worse, I hear, with drafts.” Fred felt cold winds carried disease, and his mother had seemingly been carried away as well.

The candlelit child watched Scrooge carefully from a dim corner. The old man seemed confused as to why they were there. The child’s green and red eyes looked back at Fred with concern, “This one is a bit drafty in the noggin, perchance.”

The old man looked on, “Why here, spirit? I could see why at the demo, but this is just Fred and I afterwards? Why do I need to see this as well?”

Eb watched the two spirits and tried to ignore them. Their earlier appearance, he had thought, may have been too tight a pressure on his cranium. He had crammed facts prior and wanted to remember them correctly. He had thought the release of the pressure would also mean no more phantoms. Eb decided now that he had thought wrong.

Fred got underneath his wool blanket to avoid his perceived thermal assault, “FauxThought was very impressive, but it needed your code to get anything done.”

The child answered the old man, “This is when you’ll lie to yourself for the first time. Watch.”

Eb looked at the child and replied to Fred, “You know? You’re right. This is like a better OttoKorrect.”

The child laughed and the flame from the candle left a black mark as it licked the ceiling.

Fred rubbed his very red temples, “There is no way that pinball thing could ever understand a Data Schema or what things actually mean. Data will always need cylinders made of meat and not glass.”

The old man sighed, “Fred always loved the Seaqwell. He just liked declarative languages; the thinking is cylindrical, to be sure.”

Eb felt compelled to say, “Balls know nothing, Fred. When the balls stop moving, the faux in FauxThought is a metaphor inside a simile.”

The small child pointed, stomped her small foot, and laughed hysterically. Flames roasted the ceiling, disturbing Fred not at all. The smoke from the burnt plaster hung for a moment.

Fred looked over at his elder with lidded eyes, “Good night, good uncle. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve! I can’t wait for the party. So much good food.”

Fred’s breath slowed as he fell asleep. Eb turned from his sleeping kin. He looked at his haunts and asked in a whisper, “I assume I will see you at the party. Good night.”

The old man nodded back as he and the child faded from view.