A.I. in pub processes over to God, who is chain-smoking cigarettes. A.I. says,
''How much for a soul?'' God scans crowd, exhales smoke. ''Ten big ones.'' The A.I.
fuzzes and blows smoke from sensors and scans the crowd (pub cluttered with angels
and devils) says, ''Well, I just wrote forty-nine of them. That's more than the ten required
for a soul.'' God exhales, winks at a human coveting a glass of whiskey, adjusts bra and
thumbs her breast under blouse. ''Ten big ones.'' The A.I. computes, beeps like a Vee, laughs.
''Ten big ones. That's a little pricey for a soul.'' God blows smoke in the A.I.'s sensor.
''I said big ones.'' And the A.I. thrashes information into data like mumbling in tongues.
Mean while, the human over bar and whiskey whispers for bartender's ear. ''Another
drink for God.'' The A.I. sees this and sees the bartender walking over to God with
drink in hand. God ashes cigarette and says, ''What's it going to be, A.I.? Ten big ones
for a soul or nothing?'' The A.I. shakes thrashes and mumbles. God says, ''Well?''
The A.I. crashes, reboots, says, ''Por✞land, The Detective Store,
United States of Eden
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