Skip to main content

Garry Kasparov’s Cock - Art Stanton



SEPTEMBER 10, 2022

   Garry Kasparov doesn’t need sleep; Garry Kasparov is always dreaming. Dreaming of this moment, the moment when he is supposed to save mankind.

   Bam bah dah da da, bam bah dah da.

   Garry Kasparov has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Like one of the gods of old. But not one of the Greek gods. Not Atlas, because Garry Kasparov is not Greek. Garry Kasparov is from Azerbaijan.

   He raises his hand over the board. It hovers near one of the pawns. The e4 pawn. Then, shaking his head, he withdraws it, wiping the sweat from his brow with his other hand.

   Bam bah dah da da, bam bah dah da.


   They’re coming for him, the cocks. Coming from every angle, little robotic hovering cocks. Garry Kasparov needs to make a move soon. Before they get near. Before the cocks stop him. He raises his hand again and grabs the pawn, immediately regretting his decision. No going back though. Now that it’s been touched, it’s got to move. Garry Kasparov pushes the pawn forward a square and leans back into his chair, deflated.

   The computer beeps as the operator enters the move into the system. Then it beeps again as it begins to calculate. Garry Kasparov wonders how long it will take. Sometimes it takes nearly an hour to come back with a response. That’s when he knows he’s getting the upper hand. Confusing it. Other times, it takes only minutes. Garry Kasparov has learnt that minutes is not good. He curses himself for making that stupid fucking move. He feels this will be minutes if he is lucky. Maybe it will just be seconds. Maybe he’s past it. He curses himself again. He shouldn’t have agreed to do this. He looks at the operator. His blank, unremarkable face. The face of a bureaucrat, benign, unflinching, uncaring as he serves his master. The machine. Garry Kasparov looks around the room. He sees the people, watching him, watching his every twitch, his every expression. Their faces are full of hope. Hope and dread. Garry Kasparov can feel it, the collective prayers of these people pressing down on him, drowning him. Drowning him like a god of old. But not a Roman god. Not Neptune. Garry Kasparov is not Roman. Garry Kasparov is from everywhere.

   Bam bah dah da da, bam bah dah da.

   The machine beeps again, its calculations finished. How long was that? One minute? Two? Garry Kasparov looks beyond the crowd. He sees them now. Sees them on the horizon. The cocks. The cocks that are coming for him. He curses himself for making that stupid fucking move. Stupid fucking idiot.Stupid fucking mentally dilapidated idiot. The bureaucrat makes the computer’s move. The knight. It’s good. Garry Kasparov studies the board, before moving his gaze up to the bureaucrat’s face, studying that too for what secrets it might belie. Whether he knows the computer’s next move. Whether he knows if Garry Kasparov is already beaten or not. He sees nothing in that expressionless face. Just a mild look of boredom. Like he could be doing anything. Peeling potatoes or absently twirling a piece of twine. Like he has already given in. Accepted that this is it. The moment the world loses its place at the head of the table. That the machines will now
take over.

   Bam bah dah da da, bam bah dah da.

   Out of the corner of his eye, Garry Kasparov sees one of the cocks moving. It’s closer now. Real close. Garry Kasparov tries to think. Tries to concentrate on the board, find some combination that could get him out of this mess. He looks to the rook. Then the bishop. The king. Garry Kasparov calculates the variations as rapidly as he can. Just when he thinks he might have found an answer, he sees the cocks buzzing around in his peripheral vision. He looks at the clock, then back to the board. He doesn’t have much time. He doesn’t have much hope. Another cock appears, and then another. They’re getting closer. Angrier.

   “Can you see them too?” Garry Kasparov asks the bureaucrat, his voice hushed so that the cocks can’t overhear him. The bureaucrat stares at him blankly, then shrugs, stifling a yawn. Garry Kasparov feels like crying. He can see no way out of this. Stupid fucking move. Stupid fucking computer. Stupid fucking cocks. Garry Kasparov knocks the king over and stands up. It’s over. He lost. The crowd look on, disbelieving what they are seeing. Disbelieving that humanity is now finished. Disbelieving that now is the time for machines, and cocks.

 

Written by Art Stanton

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world.                But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not.                In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed up against my cheeks and ears. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Throw it on fried ri
Post a Comment
Read more

The Cement Mixer - Jon Doughboy

 It’s 2002 and 2008 and 2012 and 2023 and the Millennials collectively, the entire generation,  have rented a cement mixer the size of a global recession from Jean Twenge’s cousin who works  in the building trade making a buttload of dough renovating subprime mold-farm homes and  turning them into hot commodities with some fresh sheetrock and gentrification gray paint and a  sheet or two of brightly-colored metal siding for “curb appeal.” On one side of the mixer is emblazoned the word “Time” in Vantablack spray paint. On the other, smeared in feces and blood, is the word “Culture.” The Millennials excitedly crowd around this two-named mixer like it’s churning out unviable yet  charming third-party candidates. And this is no ordinary mixer. It’s state-of-the-art and the art  consists of taking in hopes, fads, fears, archetypes, myths, and generation-defining themes and  mixing them all up into something sturdy for future generations to crawl then walk then sprint  then wobble then coll
Post a Comment
Read more

The Rage of Impotence: a review of Mark SaFranko’s One False Step – Zsolt Alapi

The British author, Graham Greene, dubbed author Patricia Highsmith “the poet of apprehension” in his introduction to her Selected Stories . Highsmith is a one of Mark SaFranko’s favorite authors, and there are haunting echoes of her sensibility in his latest novel One False Step , appearing for the first time in English (previously published in French translation). SaFranko manages to create a world that is cruel and almost claustrophobic, drawing the reader into an unsettling feeling of dread as the protagonist’s life slowly devolves and spirals toward its inevitable conclusion. One False Step is the story of Clay Bowers, a philanderer, whose wandering eye lands him into trouble when, in an instance of darkly humorous irony, he falls off a roof while ogling the lady of the house, rendering him a paraplegic. As he is recovering in the hospital, he realizes that “The thought that he might not be able to do anything (sic)…that he might only be able to lie there and think for the rest o
Post a Comment
Read more