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sometimes artists worry if their art is actually capable of making the world a better place, or if its all just wasted effort. what you need to remember is: all art is evil, and the sole aspiration of the artist should be to maim as many onlookers as possible.
movie title: DICK GRINDER
scene one: dimly lit night scene where a character we'll never see again gets his dick mutilated by what is implied to be a sentient meat grinder
scene two: daytime. our protagonist is wearing glasses and giving a lecture to a class of bored high school or college students. "what.. is... a meat grinder?" he looks around the classroom expectantly, then begins writing on the chalkboard. "and would it feel good... to fuck one?"
in cyberpunk future world, phones wont have physical cameras in them anymore. instead, your phone will measure your exact coordinates and facing angle and use that to construct a milimeter-accurate rendering of the scene in front of you by downloading assets from the metaverse. this will take upwards of a minute, consume enormous amounts of processing power, and only work if every subject within frame has an up-to-date Worldspace Meta license, but you'll be able to zoom enhance and rotate images like in that movie so its worth it
every night i sleep in a machine that contorts my body into the exact opposite of gamer posture, and which extracts all the light my screen pulsed into my eyeballs. exactly the amount i spent on food is deposited into my bank account, and my one set of clothes are laundered meticulously. blackout curtains obscure the comings and goings of seasons, and the clock on my computer is covered by a small square of tape. one day i will die, time having managed to creep into my facility regardless, and when i stand at the gates of death i will fail to verify my age correctly and be sent to a penance realm for bureaucrats and petty liars.
OOPS
youre parking a car with a rear-view camera. as you back up, you spot a glimpse of a tiny man, maybe seven or eight inches tall, a fraction of a second before your rear tire crushes him with a sickening noise. you leap out of the car and find that the gnome—because you know it to be a gnome, you understand despite never having seen a gnome, despite never once believing in sprites or faeries of any variety, that this is a gnome—you find that the gnome has been turned into a pile of gore indistinguisable in appearance or smell from that of a smushed piece of blueberry pie with graham cracker crust. nobody will ever believe what has happened here. what do you do?
scoop up his blueberry guts and eat them, to give his death some slight meaning
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