I’m in Bartlesville, Washington County, Oklahoma. A place where a burger costs $4, the streets are kind and a calming breeze filters through the oak trees of Bartlesville Kiddie Park. It was the mayoral election, with red and white garlands pinned on proud chests, the gay sounds of a brass band in full swing and the two mayoral candidates going round shaking hands with the locals. I’m leant against a tree, smoking a spliff, taking notes in a black notepad. An old drunk approaches me miming to take a toke, I oblige. He takes a big hit then starts coughing.
“Is that tobacco in there? What the fuck?”
“Of course. Nicotine is complimentary to cannabis, even a kid knows that.”
“You European or something?” he says. I take a hit of the spliff, holding it in as I speak, jaw dropping low over my neck.
“I served at an American airbase in Germany. They taught me the art of smoking kush.” I say, exhaling a huge cloud. “We flew whirlybirds over Berlin, listening to techno, eating kebabs. You eaten a kebab?”
“Kebob?”
“Donner kebob.”
“Anyway, thank you for your service.” He says, saluting me. I salute back, wink at him and give his cheek a light slap.
“Take care now, you hear?” I say to him. I stare as he walks away, the cracks of the PA system shift my attention back to the stage set up on one of the park lawns.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of Bartlesville, welcome to the mayoral election debate! May I welcome to the stage the two candidates, Mr. Gorm and Mr. Czerwony!” says the host, clapping with the microphone in her hand so huge sonic bangs crash across the audience. Two old men approach the stage wearing cheap suits. I wouldn’t ask either of these cunts to make me a cup of tea, nevermind run for mayor. But this was America. They pretty much invented democracy. In fact some of the original founders were still in the senate, kept alive with IVs of human blood, mechanical hearts pumping dust through translucent bodies. By comparison, the men on stage were young bucks. The two candidates went to their podiums, tapping the microphones, talking over each other as they made their introduction.
“I’m Barry Gorm and I’m a moderate. I want to say, I’m glad to be here.”
“My names Ralph Czerwony and I’m a goddamn American. This country has gone down the toilet.”
The audience started clapping and cheering, with the host laughing between the two.
“Okay, you know these guys, either have served as the Mayor of Bartlesville for years, so we’re going to take some questions from the audience. Are you guys excited?” said the host. The crowd cheered.
“I said! Are, you, guys, excited?!” says the host again. This time the crowd goes apeshit. I always had a problem with that, even as a child. It seemed inconsequential what the first cheer would be, as it would never be good enough. You may as well save your energy for the second cheer. However, I resisted such wretched manipulation over what had been my genuine appreciation in the first instance. How dare they. To trick children into repeating themselves to suit the fragile ego of the performer, endlessly repeating it through life, getting unwarranted cheers from adults you had trained like seals. It was disgusting. I spat on the floor, making my way closer to the stage.
A guy with a big foam finger had the first question. He had to shout it a few times, someone had to run over and tell the brass band to stop playing, finally he managed to say:
“Why should I vote for you?”
“That’s a great question. As sitting mayor, Mr. Czerwony, would you like to answer?”
“Well, a vote for me is a vote for the community. I want to bring in jobs to the area. We need to make deals with big business and attract them over here and those damn kids can get off their asses and get to work!” shouts the Mayor. Everyone starts yelling and clapping.
“Mr. Gorm?”
“Those damn kids better get off their asses alright? They should mow lawns again. Where do you see them, huh? When I was a kid, I went around washing cars. Now who washes the cars? Nobody? Yourself. It’s yourself.” He says, pretending to wash a car.
“Okay next question. The woman with the bucket hat.” Says the host, pointing out to the crowd.
“Yup, what are you going to do about municipal waste?”
“This city is filled with trash. There’s too many people here. We need to get the contracts to the right people, people I know from my position as mayor. Only I can do it, right?” says Czerwony.
“We should get animals to pick up the trash. They can train a dog to be a police officer, they should get dogs to pick up the trash, why haven’t they done that? It should be easy.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. Does anyone else have any questions?” the host says. I put my arm up but its ignored.
“Uh, I kinda wanna ask you guys, what do you think about the Epstein files?”
“What files? I’ve not seen any files, have you?” says Czerwony to the host, then to the crowd. They all start booing. Barry Gorm starts smiling with a vacant look in his eyes.
“Who here thinks the Mayor should release the files.” He whispers into the microphone. The crowd start cheering.
“Look, I’m just a mayor. What do you want me to do over here, go over to J. Edgar Hoover’s house and ask to see these files? We don’t even know if they even exist.” The Mayor says, with the host waving for the audience to settle down. I put my hand up. I am missed once again. An old man wearing dungarees and a pot on his head stands on his tip-toes and calls across the crowd in a cracking voice.
“I’m a Czerwony man, always voted for him. My family all votes for him. My pappy, and even his pappy, voted for Czerwony’s pappy back in the day. Mmm, yes siree, we always voted for ya. But I gotta say, mmm, my farmland ain’t produced no crops this summer. Hell of a time to be a farmer, we ain’t seen no nothing like it, no siree.”
“Do you have a question?”
“Whatcha gonna do about it, Czerwony?”
“About what?”
“The sun!” shouts to the old man, pointing upward. The audience start to clap.
“Look. I’m working with the Department of Defence on this. We’re creating surface to air missiles that will spread clouds over the city, help block out the rays with special substances. It will also help with those chemtrails in the sky.” the Mayor says, nodding. The crowd in the park all start talking amongst each other about the idea that planes were spreading chemicals over America that killed their sperm. Gorm leans on his podium, shouting at the Mayor.
“Excuse me. Are you saying that you’re working with the Department of Defence?”
“Yes.”
“The Department of Defence? The actual DOD?”
“Yes.”
“This man just admitted to working with the Department of Defence.” Gorm shouts, slowly raising his arm and pointing at his opponent with a finger like a chicken wing.
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a government department. They’ve been doing weapon tests all over this country for decades. You get a little extra money in the budget.”
“Do you have anything to add Mr. Gorm?” the host says. Gorm shakes his head sadly. I then throw my arm up as hard as I can, trying to lift it further with my other hand.
“Me. Pick me.” I keep repeating. The host finally points at me.
“Yeah, I gotta question. Do either of you two know what AI stands for?”
“Hmm? AI? Is that on old McDonald’s farm?” says Czerwony, laughing. “I might not know about computers, but I know my nephew uses it for all his school work. It’s better than a teacher. He’s even started dating it. Boys will be boys.” Says Czerwony with a little smile on his lips.
“AI is that Spielberg movie, right? Jude Law? I got that on special edition DVD. I used to collect a lot of movies but then they stopped selling DVD players. What am I meant to do with all the DVDs, can anyone tell me?” Gorm says. Before the host can move on I’ve already approached the stage and hold up my phone.
“This is AI. This.”
“That’s a cellphone.” Gorm says proudly. I stand between the two old men and hold my phone aloft.
“Hello there.” The AI says.
“Welcome to the future of politics. You don’t need to vote between these two wrinkly sacks of shit any more. This is a hyperintellectual being able to oversee every section of the economy. This is the next step in human evolution. This is Grok.”
“Haha, okay, let’s get you off stage mister.” The host says, trying to usher me off stage.
“Let’s hear it out. Ask it a question.” Says someone from the audience. Other start agreeing.
“Heh, okay then. One question. Why not?” Says Czerwony, shaking his head.
“Grok, why should we vote for you?” a woman calls out. I keep my phone held high. It takes a moment. And then the AI delivers a political speech so emotional, so inspirational, that the crowd begin to weep. Even the candidates on stage have bowed their heads, and all were quiet.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” Grok finishes. The crowd place their hands over their hearts and pledge allegiance to the AI.
A few days later, the votes have been counted. 90% had voted for Grok, the first AI to be elected to a mayoral position. It was unclear what sort of physical form Grok would have, with ideas thrown around like a large console in front of a tube of light, to inserting a screen into an androids face and have it walk around offices and open up buildings with big pairs of scissors. It was actually Grok who decided that its form should be inside a crystal ball mounted between where a trunk split on a small tree. This combination of vegetable and digital would be carried round by a Galápagos tortoise, steered by Grok via a neuralink implant embedded inside the tortoise’s skull. This shambling form took to the balcony of the Mayor’s office to the cheers of the people of Bartlesville.
“Thank you. I will be the best mayor this city’s ever seen.” Says Grok. I am across the plaza square, leaning against a drainpipe, smoking one of my spliffs. Seemed like I’d done a good thing for democracy. A truly objective candidate had run for office, not one who could be manipulated, get facts wrong, react emotionally, become corrupt. It was the perfect politician, able to have a personal relationship with everyone in Bartlesville, doing politics at a micro scale. Of course, there might be questions around if the AI controlled the town, then who controlled the AI, but nobody really cared about anything any more. Could it be any worse than a human mayor?
I hit a bar later that night and see Barry Gorm and Ralph Czerwony drinking Miller Lite, watching the baseball gloomily.
“Well look who we got here. Two has-beens jerking off together. How does it feel to be permanently unemployed?”
“You mean retired? I don’t mind.” Czerwony says, sipping his beer.
“What about you Gorm? You sad a robot took your job?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” Gorm says, slamming the bottle on the table so it foams up. I sneer at both of them, go over to the Jukebox, my face lit a sickly green. I flick through the tracks before finding the one, The Cruel Angel's Thesis. I slide fifty cents in the slot and leave, clicking my fingers as I walk past the two ex-Mayors.
“Better luck next time boys. Heh heh heh.” I say. Gorm stands up, drunk, Czerwony tries grabbing at him.
“You go fuck yourself!” he shouts. I hit the vape and turn around.
“The only one who’s fucked here is you.” I say, flipping him off. He runs towards me. Chkt, chkt. I’ve stepped forward and slightly to the side. Gorm starts making a noise like Gyaaa-ah-ah-ah. It was so fast people were still processing what had happened when he fell to his knees. There is an acupuncture needle in each eye.
