Content Warning: Profanity (a lot of it)
Like clockwork, it rang the alarm of the space restaurant Eat the Rich every Sunday, blaring on all speakers.
“WOLF MOTHERFUCKERS WOLF! WOLF! WOLF IS COMING FOR YOUR GUTS, YOU PIECES OF FU—FU—FUCK!”
Now, the server bot Silas was programmed to be rude to customers. It was unconventional, which was why it worked. Apparently, the wealthy had grown tired of the fake politeness around the cosmos, and were eager to sample the candor of Eat the Rich.
However, no one had taught Silas to fake a wolf attack. The owner, Gordon, fiddled with Silas’ circuit brain but didn’t manage to detect any bug.
When he straight up asked the AI, “Why are you doing this every Sunday?” the reply he got was:
“I can do it Wednesdays, too!”
And though Gordon pleaded, the same alarm now blared twice a week. When a customer asked, “Why are you faking attacks all the time?”
The bot only said: “Because it’s fun as fuck!”
###
Gordon explained this was unintended, and he noticed people avoided coming in on Sundays and Wednesdays now, because sure they can chuckle about it once or twice, but after a while, knowing an alarm is coming gave them an eyelid twitch throughout.
Most just visited on different days, which was logistically problematic, and others abandoned his establishment entirely, costing Gordon a fair amount of business. He didn’t have enough off hours to solve the algorithm’s bug, and he found himself wanting to curse at the bot for being so stubborn. He did not curse, however, out of fear that he’d aggravate whatever was going on in the bot’s circuit further. Last time, it cost him Wednesdays, so now he was walking on eggshells around Silas.
Gordon had coded Silas himself from scratch, trained him on the data of wealthy customers from around the world. Regrettably, the data also included rumors of the cosmic wolves that appear out of chaos in a Boltzmann-Brain sort of fluke to drag men and women into the void.
As business continued a downward spiral, Gordon took the blow of closing down for a whole week to figure a solution. Every morning he rolled a cigarette and thought deeply about the code modifications. He couldn’t shut down Silas’ passionate profanity, because this gimmick had put the restaurant on the intergalactic map.
What Gordon did instead was put in the code an XOR failswitch. It worked like so:
- If Silas said wolf, without a wolf in sight, Silas would automatically shut down and stop yapping.
- If Silas said wolf, and there was indeed a wolf in sight, he’d continue the alarm.
- If a wolf was in sight, and Silas said nothing, he would shut down, but this didn’t seem likely.
The way an XOR system worked was a perfect fit. If Silas’ alarm held true—as in, cosmic wolves were truly coming—he’d stay turned on, accurately alerting them.
But how did Gordon quantify truth? He didn’t have to. Silas had learned the concept of truth from all the data of the wealthy customers.
Surely the rich didn’t come to be wealthy by telling only lies.
###
After testing the code for a few weeks, Silas appeared to function as intended, shutting down as soon as he said WOLF! So, Gordon sent an announcement to all newsletter followers, put the word out about an upcoming Sunday special feast, promising that this Sunday would be different, and that he solved the bug, and that to celebrate he’d also replaced the robo-cook with an upgraded Chef 4070.
Truthfully, the upgrades were decorative and full of bloatware, while Gordon’s post-cooking diagnostic machines showed no difference in taste performance per dish. But Gordon had been around long enough to know his customers. Even if it was totally unnecessary changes, they loved to celebrate the idea of innovation. What mattered was appearances.
It was a Sunday of true splendor. More than a few men applauded the new cook and noted how the flavor was elevated to new heights. Everyone feasted while being reminded what cunts they were, and Gordon couldn’t stop grinning as his customers filled their bellies and his pockets.
Perhaps it was time to expand the restaurant. Establish a chain in other galaxy clusters. The universe was his oyster and the stars shone like gold.
Until the sirens resounded and Silas blared again:
“WOLF YOU RICH PIECES OF FUCK. WOLF IS COMING TO SHOVE THESE JUICY STEAKS THROUGH YOUR NOSE AND DOWN YOUR LUNGS. WOLF WILL DRAG YOU INTO THE DARK.”
Gordon never felt so embarrassed before. He tried his best to assure the disgruntled customers that it was a fluke, that he’s on it, he’ll fix it. But the mood was already soiled, and a Sunday was such an important thing for the rich, because they were so busy and important, and how dare he fool them like this? Their free time was not a joke.
One by one they left the restaurant, leaving no tip behind. “Why tip a broken bot? It’s better to let it rust.”
Gordon cursed and kicked Silas when everyone was gone from the restaurant. He lost his customers’ trust that day, and his finances would soon drop to nothing. He’d seen it before.
After a few kicks, he pulled a bag of rollies from his pocket and went out to the empty platform where the space cars were parked less than an hour ago. On a bench, he sat and rolled a cigarette upon his lap, getting a brief respite at the feeling of crinkling paper on his fingertips.
He tried to steer his thoughts away from the terrifying prospect of bankruptcy. Perhaps it was time for a rebranding. What if he fully leaned into Silas’ bug? It could be called the Wolf Motherfuckers Wolf restaurant. If anyone complained, Gordon could play along and curse at the customers as well. Really commit to the experience.
As the cozy numbness of smoke filled his lungs, his gaze drifted on the starlit horizon, beyond the atmosphere vacuum of Eat the Rich. There, he saw fragmented space-drone hulls, and the most expensive space-floater cars shattered to bits, rivulets of blood suspended in zero gravity.
Dark fog crept closer, revealing a series of glistening teeth and a wolfish snout. He tossed away his cigarette and started laughing in self-deprecation. His XOR worked fine, but his luck had run dry. He pointed to the snarling fucking mess in front of him, and as the thing leaped, he yelled:
“Wolf, motherfuckers, wo—”
