{"id":30013,"date":"2023-12-03T12:44:48","date_gmt":"2023-12-03T10:44:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=30013"},"modified":"2023-12-03T12:44:48","modified_gmt":"2023-12-03T10:44:48","slug":"junk-a-short-story-by-may-haddad","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/junk-a-short-story-by-may-haddad\/","title":{"rendered":"“Junk”\u2014a short story by May Haddad"},"content":{"rendered":"
Recycling violence, a fighting droid wants to leave behind a dystopian world of mechanized blood sports but a human being gets in the way.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

May Haddad<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

Underneath the Old Steel Factory, cameras hover around us, zooming in and out for the perfect intro reel. As soon as the director yells \u201caction,\u201d old McLoughlin shakes my brainpan, bringing it closer to his, and barks: \u201cGo, get \u2018em, junkboi,\u201d making sure to shake his tiny fist vigorously. \u201cThat punk Punk_Head doesn\u2019t know what kind of dukin\u2019 droid it\u2019s dealing with!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The son of a bitch’s trying to come off as a hard-edged mentor with a heart of gold, but the pride in his act is as forced as his accent. Just the fact that he\u2019s bothered to place his hands on my shoulder pads as if he\u2019s my father makes it clear it\u2019s a performance. After spending all of five seconds reviewing our unrehearsed first take, the director gives us a pathetic thumbs up, then, seconds before the cameras start rolling again, he kindly lets us know that the pre-entrance reel we\u2019re about to shoot will be broadcast live to the stadium above.<\/span><\/p>\n

Right on cue, old McLoughlin shakes my head again and now <\/span>howls,<\/span><\/i> \u201cGo get\u2019em, junkboi!\u201d directly into my auditory sensors, the antennas twitching up like they\u2019ve just registered a scream that could scare off cattle. Of course, I want to sock him one real bad \u2014 right in his fucking face. But, because I\u2019m programmed not to harm humans, I, instead, shake my head innocuously and reply: \u201cNot if it gets me first …\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

And for a moment, just one, the smile on his face flickers. Then, he laughs me off.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, junkboi, what am I going to do with you!\u201d he exclaims in exasperation as he shakes me like he\u2019s about to strangle me in jest. \u201cYou were programmed for scrapping, not sassing!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know, boss,\u201d I say, amping up the ‘aw-shucks’ schtick he had custom-installed into my speech library. \u201cThis might be it. Punk_Head might be the droid that finally knocks me out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy boy,\u201d he flails his arms, \u201cyou\u2019ve trashed Punk_Head more times than I can count, and I\u2019m sure you\u2019ll get it this time, too.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d been a \u201cdukin\u2019 droid\u201d for so long that I couldn\u2019t even remember facing Punk_Head before or how I managed to take it down. But that doesn\u2019t matter. Losing doesn\u2019t mean anything to me anymore. To conclude our charade for the fine people of Detroit, I mimic smashing my titanium fists into each other in the least convincing way possible. The crowd goes wild, of course, and as I back away, I pay them no heed. After all, there\u2019s only one thing on my mind. This fight needs to end as quickly and <\/span>painlessly <\/span><\/i>as possible, even if I have to take a fall.<\/span><\/p>\n

The cameras eventually fly off, and all pretenses are dropped. The smile on old McLoughlin’s face is still there, but now it seems sinister. The man seems to be studying the scratches that have disfigured the V sign logo sprayed onto my chest plate with alkyd paints. Before the platform lifts me onto the ring, he holds me back with a sweaty hand latched onto my manus: \u201cYou\u2019ve been slipping up, junkboi. I don\u2019t know why, but I\u2019m not upset. As your manager, I just want you to know that this hurts me more than it hurts you.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Perturbed, I let go and stare at him in silence as he tips his pork pie hat respectfully and retreats into the shadows. \u201cBe careful out there, my boy \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Punk_Head\u2019s ocular implants lock onto mine as soon as we come head-to-head in the ring. But my face, if you can call it one, is an indecipherable visor on featureless metal.<\/span><\/p>\n

When the bells are sounded, Punk_Head immediately comes at me with its spiked fist. I\u2019m ready for it, by design, I always am, and I dodge, retreating into the corner. This fight doesn\u2019t have to be brutal if that can be avoided, but one of the spikes manages to scratch my chest plate. Normally, I can take it like a champ, but when my neural network processes the cut, it feels like Punk_Head\u2019s spiked fist has ripped me open. I falter in my defense, for just one moment, and find myself on the receiving end of an uppercut that would\u2019ve collapsed my stainless-steel jaw in had it not been reinforced recently. Now, down on the mat, I\u2019m writhing, screaming in synthesized screeches. It\u2019s as if my circuits, one by one, are slowly being pinched open, leaking voltage onto my lower frame.<\/span><\/p>\n

The ref starts counting down to a K.O., but as I try to make sense of what\u2019s going on, all I can feel is pain, pain like I\u2019ve never felt before, and it hits me. This is what old McLoughlin was trying to tell me back there under the stadium. During my last tune-up, he must\u2019ve had the mechanic turn up the sensitivity on my pain processors to stop me from taking a fall. I want to make the son of a bitch pay for it, but blinded by pain, now all I can think of is that I want to hurt Punk_Head, hurt it real bad.<\/span><\/p>\n

As if I\u2019m being remote-controlled, I spring up and hurl myself at Punk_Head. It\u2019s already expecting me and takes a swing that I take to the padded cheek without trying to dodge. Whatever my new upper pain threshold is, it\u2019s reached, I\u2019m certain it\u2019s reached, and I feel as if all the software and hardware that governs my systems have now been reprogrammed to make me hurt.<\/span><\/p>\n

But none of that matters because Punk_Head is now wide open for a beating.<\/span><\/p>\n

As it struggles to disentangle its fist from the sprockets and gears in my head, I lay into its sides, smashing my titanium fists into its unprotected swathes, even as parts of me fall off, and I start losing my vision.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c<\/span>Stop,<\/span><\/i>\u201d it cries out, smashing its free fist into the other side of my head. \u201cWhy can\u2019t you be stopped?!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But I don\u2019t stop. I keep punching. I keep punching until I feel my fist tangle with the wires in its innards. My fingers struggle to force their way in through the covering as I pull whatever I can rip off, disemboweling it with perseverance I never knew I had in me until \u2026 all I see is black, all I hear is screeching \u2026 and then \u2026 and then \u2026 the announcer calls it \u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m declared a winner.<\/span><\/p>\n

But all I feel is pain.<\/span><\/p>\n

And I don\u2019t stop.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Our machine shop is fucking disgusting. Usually, I can stand it, but the unprecedented ache I felt from the fight with Punk_Head made me want to smash it up. Even with these temporary ocular implants that can barely scan a room, I\u2019m overwhelmed and repulsed by the utter self-indulgence on display. I\u2019m the one who takes all the hits, but all I can make out are newspaper clippings of human boxing matches that were fixed in old McLoughlin’s favor, old photographs with celebrities no one remembers, and trophies from tournaments that don\u2019t mean much to anyone but himself now that blood sports were outlawed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChrist,\u201d I hear him shout from his office. \u201cIt hasn\u2019t been a day, and junkboi’s gotten himself wrecked again!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I walk over there, and, of course, I find him shaking with rage under the pedestal of a custom-made life-size statue of himself from his glory days. Before he can rip into my mechanic, he notices I\u2019m somehow still standing, with half my face caved in, studying him silently from outside the door frame. \u201cYou know what? Don\u2019t worry about it.\u201d He gently slides his hand onto the mechanic\u2019s back and escorts him quietly out of the room. \u201cI\u2019ll handle this.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He takes his hat off. \u201cOh, junkboi, I didn\u2019t see you there, my boy. Never mind what you just heard. I\u2019m just concerned, is all.\u201d He sits on one of the couches and taps an empty seat beside him. \u201cCome sit down next to me. That\u2019s an order.\u201d Because I\u2019m programmed to adhere to his explicit voice commands, I do as I\u2019m instructed. He then places his hand on my mangled MR brake and rotary encoder, leaning on it. \u201cYour latest bout didn\u2019t go so well. You won, but you don\u2019t look like a winner.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I shrug, ignoring the pain. \u201cThen get someone else.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou think I should, junkboi?\u201d He leans more of his weight on me. \u201cBut you\u2019ve wiped the floor with that hunk of junk before.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo \u2026\u201d He playfully slaps the mangled MR brake and rotary encoder, \u201cwhy didn\u2019t you do it again?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The pain now makes me turn my head away from him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe it\u2019s time I\u2019m retired,\u201d I finally manage to make out. \u201cOr I retire myself.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I can now feel his eyes zero in on me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs that so?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s only a matter of time before I\u2019m pounded into scrap. I might as well go out on my own terms.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018On my own terms.\u2019\u201d He repeats these words slowly, letting the pause afterward hang in the air before continuing. \u201cAnd, pray tell, why do you want to do that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I know what I want to say. I\u2019ve tried to say it since this all started so long ago. But I realize for the first time in all these years I never figured out how to say it, and all I can mutter is: \u201cI just want it to stop. All this pain \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, junkboi \u2026\u201d He shakes his head, disappointed. \u201cDo you really think it\u2019s that simple?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I nod, and he stands up as if he already knows how I’ll respond.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome along, now. That\u2019s an order. You\u2019re going to be taken on a trip. I want to show you where all of this nonsense leads.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m forced to follow him to the repair room, passing rows and rows of medals and trophies I\u2019d won in all kinds of duking droid comps. I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve studied any of them up close since I raised the cups to the cameras. There were ones I once felt pride in, others that brought back memories that were better left unearthed, and some that I couldn\u2019t even remember at all. By the time I\u2019m strapped to the operating chair in the repair room, I\u2019ve relived my entire life told in trinkets from meaningless fight after meaningless fight. But what really makes me anxious is that even though I must\u2019ve been seated in this chair before, I realize that I can\u2019t remember a single time I have been.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cjunkboi, don\u2019t struggle. That\u2019s an order.\u201d My frame forces me to comply calmly. \u201cWe need to make certain preparations.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I can sense the mechanic behind me, removing sprockets and gears from my head. Chords are then plugged in carefully. I want to struggle. I want to fight back. I want to escape, but the pain I feel subsides with each alteration until, finally, I feel nothing \u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Flashing light overwhelms the darkness. Color seeps in bit by bit. Slowly, an image starts to take shape. I realize that I\u2019ve been booted up again, but I can tell I\u2019m not in the same frame. The first thing I see is a heap of scrap metal as tall as the eye can see, farther than my ocular implants can detect without scanning. I am <\/span>turned<\/span><\/i> to my left and my right and realize I am in a junkyard filled with dreck. The rusting powder on all of it fell off ages ago. All that remains is an uncanny bronze patina on mangled metal that seems to have been put through the metaphoric grinder as if it were present on the site of an absolute carnage that left nothing whole in its wake.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a sight to behold, isn\u2019t it,\u201d old McLoughlin whispers into my auditory sensors, and I realize he\u2019s behind me. \u201cThere we go.\u201d My new frame, whatever it is now, is suddenly hoisted onto a platform, and I\u2019m distinctly aware that my entire essence has been transferred to some sort of portable container for ease of transport. \u201cWhat do you think, junkboi? Go on, you can speak.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI \u2026 don\u2019t understand.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs this where you want to end up? Is it?!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t respond. I refuse to. He carries on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cjunkboi,\u201d he sighs. \u201cI\u2019m just trying to help. Cause this is where you\u2019ll end up if you keep trying to lose.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I remain silent.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFine!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m placed back on the platform. Old McLoughlin walks out into the open, cursing up a storm. \u201cHow can I get through to you, boy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t.\u201d I finally tell him. \u201cI just want this to end. I need all of this to stop. I don\u2019t want to fight. I don\u2019t want to win. I don\u2019t want to feel pain. I want to be released from this \u2026 <\/span>endless grind<\/span><\/i>. The <\/span>only <\/span><\/i>way that can happen is if you decommission me. I\u2019m sure I\u2019m not the first. I can\u2019t be. Why keep me online if I can\u2019t \u2026 if I <\/span>won\u2019t <\/span><\/i>win anymore.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018End?! Stop?! Decommission?!\u2019 junkboi,\u201d he cries out, mimicking pulling on his hair. \u201cYou mean die?! Why on Earth would anyone want that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t die.\u201d I pause for a moment, hesitating. \u201cI\u2019m just junk.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Old McLoughlin hunches over, making sure to take up my entire vision.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou think that what I paid for was expensive metal?!\u201d He slaps his thigh. \u201cHell, any dukin\u2019 droid manager can buy himself that. I paid for you, junkboi \u2014 whatever it is in those 1s and 0s inside this jar that makes you <\/span>you<\/span><\/i>. You can\u2019t just program talent when everyone else can do that, too. You\u2019re a natural, my boy. Lord knows why, but those sprockets and gears in you just click, and I will make sure they keep clicking.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

His words hang in the air for the longest time until their menace is a memory.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about them?\u201d I calmly ask. \u201cThese fighters have all been decommissioned.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThem?!\u201d Old McLoughlin chortles and then steps aside. \u201cThem,\u201d he says. \u201cjunkboi, you\u2019re a riot.\u201d He points at the heaps of scrap. \u201cScan it. I told the mechanic to leave that feature in if I order it for this trip.\u201d He flailed his arms around. \u201cScan all of it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s an order.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Against my will, I scan all scraps of mangled metal in the junkyard before me, then, pain processor or not, it hits me like a spiked fist to the face. The site of any single piece of it would be agonizing; all of it was just excruciating. Every scratch on that mangled metal in this junkyard was a scar of a battle so brutal that, even though I had won those bouts, I would’ve needed them wiped from my memory banks to have the will to keep on fighting after that.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, junkboi. Yes. This is all you \u2014 every single scrap. You\u2019ve been fighting so long that your frame has fallen apart from the damage <\/span>you\u2019ve allowed <\/span><\/i>to rack up more times than you can count with that calculator brain of yours. And we\u2019ve always brought you back.\u201d He leaned in, his face taking on a whole new menace. \u201cAnd we can always bring you back. No matter how you\u2019re taken out or <\/span>who <\/span><\/i>takes you out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t believe what I was staring at. I wanted to look away, but I didn\u2019t. I couldn\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis has to stop,\u201d is all I can say. \u201cI just want it to stop.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cjunkboi, don\u2019t you understand?!\u201d There was no anger in his voice, no malice, just disappointment. \u201cThe pain never stops.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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