I'm Still Standing

A probe of some kind is jammed into me. A hand, a strong perfumed hand, grabs me. I

cannot see. My sight has been cut off. This hand grabs my neck, lifts me up, yanks me

back and then rams my face into a metal wall. Then slam-slam-slam –slam-slam.

I keep telling myself, I will not break, I will not break, I will not…slam-slam-slam. My

god, that hurts. The shocks run all through me. I could just crack and die. NO!

I’m strong I will not crack, I will not break, no matter. What?

One of them just shoved some metal thing up my… my god what’s wrong with these

people?

And again this same hand, I can smell it, grabs my neck, pull and push and slam-slam-

slam-slam.

I have no idea where I am. Now it’s cold. I’m on the floor. I can tell it’s concrete, and it

is cold. They leave me here, blind and with no protection. Why what have I done?

A different hand grabs me and throws me on a table; some greasy wet instrument is being

shoved into me again and again. When will they stop?

I WILL NOT crack. I will not break! I am strong.

It’s so cold.

I must have passed out. It’s that perfumed hand again. She’s grabbing me and what now?

I feel warm, no not warm, I feel hot. I want to scream but I can’t.

Someone else jams me up with that probe and rams me against that metal wall.

Slam-slam. It’s only two times. What do they think I’ll break? Have they no mercy?

And it stops. They never talk; they just do, and do. I can hear their breathing and their

laughter. And I hear the fingers hitting a keyboard.

And… what…wait, they’re gone. I’m expecting more of the same that I didn’t hear them

leave. I heard no door open. I’m still blind. I hurt, I’m burned, and I’m dirty and greasy

all over from that shit they put on me and into me.

The door opens and I hear her. “That session was a good one. Let’s see if this one will do

the job.

Not a fucking chance. I will not break. I’d better never meet you. I’d better never see you

or know your name, I’d better…another probe is shoved in me, I’m slammed against the

metal wall and it feels like it explodes inside me. I’m going to die, my god. I will not

break. I will not crack no matter what they do. I will not…

####

Well Dr. Wells. What do you think of our experiment?

“Mr. K,” says Dr. Wells, “I’m impressed. This metallurgy, the combination of the

graphine and chrome moly in this new weapon is stronger and lighter than anything

we’ve made or anyone as manufactured before. It won’t jam and it morphs to accept all

ammunition including a mix of the NATO and Russian calibers. This should, no it will

knock the AK 47 off the bestseller list once we get these out to market. The Board of

Directors will be very pleased and more so once we get that export license.

“How long before we can start production?” ask Dr. Wells as she handles the weapon.

You said you added some other things to the manufacturing process which makes it more

adaptable in all combat situations.

Mr. K responds, “Dr. Wells, regarding production, we already have. The warehouse is

full. And as far as your other question goes, all I’m allowed to disclose is that we

developed a granular sub atomic artificial intelligence function that’s imbedded into the

whole gun that allows the alloy to remember and learn from experience.

“We’re experimenting with the next generation. You’re holding one of the prototypes it

in your hands right now. We think we’ve discovered something odd about the AI

functions and we’re shipping them to Aberdeen and a DARPA lab for some classified

testing tomorrow.

Mr. K adds, “Dr. Wells, if you want to play with it out a bit more we recommend five

shots and running a cleaning rod and a few patches through it. This way you maintain the

accuracy for testing purposes. In the field it’s not important. The gun will function in any

environment. The patches, cleaning rods, jags, cleaning solvent and oil are on the table.

Have fun.”

Dr. Wells nods, puts her ear protectors on, grabs the gun, and checks the chamber to

make sure it’s empty. For some reason there is a shell in the chamber. That’s odd and

dangerous she thinks. She ejects it, picks it off the floor and looks to see if it was a

misfire. There is no firing pin hit on the primer. She puts the bullet into her left jacket

pocket and then stashes a few magazines of different calibers in her shooting bag and

heads back to the range. I’ll speak to Mr. K about this later.