Dango picks up an Accelerated Turing Machine at fifty per
cent off in the post-holiday sales.
‘What does it do?’ asks his son, phasing into continuity.
‘It divides time infinitely.’
‘Can I play Minecraft on it?’
‘Maybe. I’m still not sure if switching it on will end the
universe or merely collapse it into a singularity of limitless computational
capacity.’
‘What do the instructions say?’
‘Threw them out.’
Dango’s son is also overweight and a source of constant but
vague disappointment. No one really remembers where he came from and in many
versions of the story he doesn't exist at all. He starts in again with this
shit:
‘Dad, I've been meaning to say, I don’t really want to live
like this, it’s too complicated you know and I’m not really even sure what
algebra is let alone any of this stuff about chronology, I think I’d much
rather be a painter, I did this really good still life of a Caesar salad the
other day, particularly the croutons-‘
Dango cuts him off by groaning loudly and for an incredible
amount of time. He glares at his son until both of them begin to feel
uncomfortable. The vibration causes some of the ash at the end of his cigarette
to fall off, but as the embers reach the point halfway between the cigarette
and the floor they discover that motion is impossible and self-consciously climb
back up.
Dango, still groaning, decides he’s glared at his son enough
and resumes tinkering with the computer. A salad. Jesus. His own flesh and
blood. It will not stand. Pointing a
finger and roaring mightily:
‘There is work to be done, boy! Do you really want to live
in a universe made of seventy five per cent dark matter like some sort of
fucking poor person all your life? This is it boy, this isn't like the time I
sent you off to sell the cow and you came back with that dodgy particle
accelerator-‘
‘I still reckon with a bit of repairs-‘
‘No, listen to me dammit, it’s useless, couldn't fry an egg.’
‘But-‘
‘Shut up. The point is, this is the real deal. You’re good
with computers right? If you set it up you can play your thing, I don’t know
where all these cords go.’
Dango finds the existence of his child worrisome and uncharismatic,
though he’s not sure why. The boy brings out the worst in him, there’s no
denying it; he feels as though his character flaws were graphed out and
represented with unpleasant fractal imagery, spiraling endlessly through the
deep-seated root of yet another anxiety. He has never quite gotten to The Bottom
of The Thing.
