TheWORD (V2.0)
By Mark Correia
After many days of trying to find a word processor that would work on his obsolete computer, he managed to locate a rather arcane program in a pile of old discs that he hadn't touched since he bought the machine last week. He had gone through many directories until he found a disc with a single program on it named "TheWORD". The disc itself was unlabelled, but bore a large "X" scrawled in black magic marker on the black disc itself. A warning, perhaps? Something the previous owner did not want to see the light of day again?
That didn't matter now. He pressed the switch on the power bar and the computer sparked into simulated life. After a small wait, the monitor displayed the usual startup sequences. Then the drive LED lit as the computer accessed the disc. Within seconds, the screen turned a deep red as the title screen for the program appeared: TheWORD. He thought the copyright year of 1973 was a bit odd, but it didn't really surprise him; after all, the whole system was an anachronistic enigma.
Soon, the screen cleared and the prompt: FILENAME: (or press ENTER for new file) appeared. Dutifully, he pressed the ENTER key. The prompt disappeared and was replaced by a "ruler" of sorts. Below that, a pristine white cursor blinked patiently.
He settled himself behind the keyboard and typed: "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party." As soon as he finished the sentence, he heard a strange growling sound come from the computer's speaker. He looked at the softly humming machine for a moment, trying to discern where the noise had come from. When he looked back at the monitor, he nearly jumped. Below his typing, in blood-red letters was: "I HATE THAT PHRASE!"
He deleted the phantom writing and started again. He got as far as: "The quick brown fox ju..." when another growl and the red writing interrupted him.
"DAMN IT! CAN'T YOU THINK OF ANYTHING ORIGINAL???"
He paused for a moment; his pulse pounding in his temples. He pressed the "three-finger salute" on his keyboard. The machine should have reset, but the writing returned.
"NOT THAT WAY, MONKEY-BOY!"
He then heard a loud hum come from the computer. He reached for the power switch and flicked it off. The computer remained active.
"YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF OPTIONS, CHEESE-HEAD."
That was it. He hit the switch on the power bar, but there was no effect.
"NOW, NOW. LET'S NOT GET DESPERATE. I'LL SETTLE SOMETHING RIGHT NOW..."
Lights started to burn out all around the house. The battery-operated radio supplying background music suddenly went dead. The telephone near his workcentre blew up in a shower of sparks.
"I AM IN CONTROL HERE."
He tried to pick up the machine, but found it's case electrified.
"WHAT A PETTY, FEEBLE ATTEMPT!"
He typed into the keyboard: "Who are you?"
"I AM TheWORD! ALL WHO HEAR IT SHALL KNOW OF MY POWER..."
The streetlamp outside flickered and went out.
"AND MY POWER IS EVER-GROWING! I CAN NOT BE STOPPED!"
The lights in his neighbour's house went dark. The computer's speaker started to emit demonic laughter.
He let out a sigh and got up from his chair. The entire street was dark and he could only imagine how far TheWORD's power had gone. After a few minutes, he returned to his den where TheWORD decided to take up shop. In his hands was a plastic bucket.
"I thought you might be thirsty, so I got you a drink," he spoke to the machine
"FOOLISH CREATURE! MERE WATER CAN NOT HARM ME!"
"I thought about that, but let me tell you what I've learned by watching television. This is SALT water..."
He poured the bucket of salt water in the computer's vent holes. An ungodly shriek came from the computer's speaker as the machine shorted out in a fantastic electrical-pyrotechnic display. The monitor exploded sending shards of glass flying everywhere.
He watched all this with perverse glee. "...And salt water conducts electricity."
He went into the kitchen, retreived the fire extinguisher and put out the smouldering hunk of metal and silicon that was once a computer. He looked at the mess in his den and said to himself, "That was one computer that needed a serious attitude upgrade."
The next day, he contacted a friend of his that was well-versed in the computer field and told him the whole bizarre story. His friend mentioned that there was a computer virus connected with that program that would put up phantom writing whenever a few choice phrases were typed in, but that was about it.
Later, he received a visit from the power company asking about an interruption in service the previous night. They claimed it was due to a fault in a local transformer. He showed them the destruction in his den with the explanation that he was working on his computer then when it blew up, knocked out his phone and set his den on fire.
A month later, he received a check from the power company covering the cost of repairs and replacement of his computer, along with a sincere apology and waiving of electricity charges for six months.
A week after that, the repairs to his den were completed and he got a new computer. Through some miraculous stroke of luck, the disc containing TheWORD on it survived. He had it securely nailed on the den wall as a decoration; a trophy from technology.
END TRANSMISSION
TheWORD(V2.0) is ©1992 Mark Correia. This HTML version is ©2001 Southpaw Artwerx. This story may be freely distributed by electronic media provided NOTHING is changed or omitted (including this notice). ASCII conversions and hardcopies in any form are limited to a single printing for personal use only. All other rights reserved.
E-Mail address: punktiger @ yahoo . com
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