Steven Cook

The Anthropologist

They seem to be attracted to flashing lights. They gather in cells with pounding, steady low-frequency vibration under strobing light set to the same steady rhythm. When they are put in an environment with these conditions, they wiggle. I presume that they try to wiggle to the same steady beat as their environment, but this is only because their movements jerk very close to the beat but rarely does one seem to count time precisely. The findings of this particular field outing may prove misleading as this sample group are all of the same cultural background and age. They identify themselves as middle classed and middle aged, measured by them, respectively, by perceived ownership of a symbolic currency and revolutions around their pilot star. Most identify themselves with an added qualifier of race. This is decided by skin tone and geographical origin of their family. Most here are Caucasoid, or "white." Gender is nearly evenly mixed, with a slightly higher concentration of female. Against one wall of the cell is a long table which an authority figure stands behind. The table looks like wood but feels like plastic. The authority figure's main duty is to trade a liquid for symbolic currency. The liquid, when orally consumed, poisons their organic body, but produces a supposedly desirable mental effect. When this agent attempted to consume a popular liquid made, as best as I could gather from an intoxicated patron calling his self Jared,

eh?" . "Oh. the mechanical technology is the truest example of this species' ability to adapt to their lower level thought processes. by their distinction. I decided to return to my indigenous cell which operates as my current base of operation. comes to the side of my car and I remember to roll down my window and of course. I stop my machine. show the respect an officer expects. Their vehicles work mechanically." He seems to take on a more familiar tone and asks. are you aware that you were driving on the wrong side of the road?" This was not really a question. my meatsuit was invaded by unwanted gasses. are ya. When I inevitably did something wrong. strobing lights and screeching noise began to follow me. "I'm sorry. An officer. This heavy disruption a sign of high authority. I respond. I know. I was so enamored by this feeling that I forgot about their ridiculous sense of law imposed on the pilots of these fantastic spoiling hops. After an hour more of observing their repeated motions in off-time to the lights with fluctuating wave frequency. It was a cavalier decision improper of an agent. In this agents opinion. The lights. blue. There must be something to be said of how the rumble of a combustion engine vibrates a meat body. He asks. I forgot where I was. you're no illegal alien then. but the answer to it was no. "Sir.

"Oh no sir. and my meatsuit begins to pour liquid from its pores.I panic. I'm a sack of juices like everyone else." .

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