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,
by spoiling hops, my meatsuit was invaded by unwanted gasses. It was a cavalier decision

improper of an agent, I know.

After an hour more of observing their repeated motions in off-time to the lights with

fluctuating wave frequency, I decided to return to my indigenous cell which operates as my

current base of operation. Their vehicles work mechanically. In this agents opinion, the

mechanical technology is the truest example of this species' ability to adapt to their lower level

thought processes. There must be something to be said of how the rumble of a combustion

engine vibrates a meat body.

I was so enamored by this feeling that I forgot about their ridiculous sense of law

imposed on the pilots of these fantastic machines. When I inevitably did something wrong,

strobing lights and screeching noise began to follow me. The lights, by their distinction, blue.

This heavy disruption a sign of high authority. I stop my machine.

An officer, comes to the side of my car and I remember to roll down my window and of

course, show the respect an officer expects. He asks, "Sir, are you aware that you were driving

on the wrong side of the road?"

This was not really a question, but the answer to it was no. I respond, "I'm sorry, I forgot

where I was."

He seems to take on a more familiar tone and asks, "Oh, you're no illegal alien then, are

ya, eh?"
 I panic, and my meatsuit begins to pour liquid from its pores, "Oh no sir, I'm a sack of

juices like everyone else."