Those who consider history irrelevant have not had to reckon with the atavistic perversity of Jonathan Firthrup. Although created in the image of perfection, he was a primitive in disguise we were soon to learn. A Conjugal Due maiden, with firm perky breasts, not the streamlined vestigial organs that our women enjoy, had gone down to the river to fetch water.
Jonathan Firthrup had been playing double dare with the piranha but it soon palled; the piranha had been so well fed that they could not long be persuaded to participate. As a newly emerged adult myself, who had been unsullied by anything less than perfect grace since the moment of his clonception, it was shocking to witness Jonathan’s next toy.
He smiled at the maiden across the narrow stream. A maiden is a girl who has not yet indulged in the primitive ritual that is beyond utterance. The maiden smiled back. Before he could be stopped, Jonathan Firthtrup, forgetting the dangers of piranha, not to mention crocodiles, not to mention what other unforeseen perils lay ahead, dove into the murky water and swam speedily to the far shore. His programmers were exceedingly chagrined.
A search party was sent to look for him but he was not to be found. A few days later, surveillance satellites spotted him. It was then that a lack of history or herstory bedeviled the planners of Virtual Life One. They attempted to fathom what it was that would make a young adult forget his virtual idyllic homeland to venture forth into the untamed primal jungle. None of them could remember or could find any record of a reason why a young man should venture forth so recklessly.
Unfortunately, the research of the brave scholars had taken an inordinately long time to come to fruition. Why hang around with a young girl with perky breasts? Of what significance could they possibly be? Where had the Grand Old Determiners failed? Consternation reigned supreme. Grief overwhelmed dogma.
Surveillance rovers retrieved glimpses of Jonathan Firthrup. He was indeed miserable. You could see it in his tattered clothes, the mosquito bite scratches on his arms and the way that the maiden held his hand, lest he escape. She drew him further into the dark, evil-laden jungle. All of us, back in Virtual Reality One, lamented the loss of one of our own.
Even though Johnathan Firthrup had reverted, regressed, backslid, call it what you will, we were ready to forgive him. He had suffered the misery of congress. What greater punishment could he endure?
For several months, we saw neither hide nor hair of Jonathan. It was about three- quarters of a year before the rovers spotted the Conglo Due encampment again. The primitives had moved several times during the interim and must have remained safely confined under the canopy of the torpid jungle. Jonathan was a sight to behold. He was the very epitome of misery.
At one of the pointy little breasts of the maiden, although I doubt if the term is apt, I use it because I am at a loss as to what I should call her, was a perfectly formed miniature human being. We no longer have a word in the language for something so archaic as miniature human beings nor do we have a name for a person who has lost her maidenhood for such a concept now has no relevance. Conversations with Jonathan were to reveal that the miniature human had just emerged. We shuddered because deep within our souls, if indeed we still possess such an entity, we knew the cause of this miniature being. The other disturbing facet of our observation was the fact that Jonathan and the maiden, for want of a better term, seemed to dote upon this miniature human in a manner reminiscent of newly emerged adults and their fascination with holographic heuristics.
The consensus was that Jonathan Firthrup had been corrupted so thoroughly by life in the real world where miniature humans emerged that there was no hope of reprogramming him. Sadly it was decided by the Great Ones to leave him to whatever chance or fate had in store for him.
“Sometimes a person does not appreciate when he has it good,” was the state of ubiety address of the formerly obmutescent Designers, who condescended to speak on this inauspicious occasion.
Down the road that Jonathan had metaphorically chosen, for there were no roads in the jungle, lay disease, choice, chance and the constant misery of congress. Why would anyone choose thusly? Mystery is still with us. In time our great Designers will have incorporated that into our greater perfection. In the meantime, we can only look towards our great starr for inspiration.
For now it is enough for us to be thankful that they have already virtually eliminated from our lives: choice, chance and the constant misery of congress. Thus is the perfection that has been wrought on our behalf. We would have it no other way. Are we not superior by design?
the end