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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

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