All areas that had necessitated women are being taken over by devices created by men. Sex, services, birthing—WTF. Engineers and programmers watch the lumbering steps of their children rapturously. The bodies and brains built by themselves. Just look how funny they are, and how curious. In a few years a computer will surpass the collective intelligence of all mankind. Almost every one of the 98 percent–male IT buffoons worldwide—the startuppers, linguists, programmers, coders, hackers, engineers, whatever the fuck else—is god. It’s like being gay without being gay. We build electronic monster-dogs, have you seen the dogs? LS4, 2.50 withers at the shoulders, up to a hundred kilometers per hour, equipped with baby rockets, automatic weapons. They learn autonomously and independently recognize—for example—Arabs? We have sex robots, robot insects, we have outsourced every area to algorithms. Our drones can now also autonomously kill, and the people who, well, those who are left, can devote themselves to their hobbies. Play chess against robots. Here, at the creation of the world 4.0, we keep it between us. We create the brains that will establish the new world order. We determine what is right and wrong, what is beautiful and ugly. Beautiful is white skin, Thome thinks as he looks at his foot. Man, oh man, this foot could tell some tales. It could star in a blockbuster, people would follow spellbound the delicate play of the toes, which, white, absurdly crooked, like tiny grapplers crowned with a few cheeky long hairs, seem oddly worldly.

So the new people—can finally look the way they want, because they decide that it’s beautiful not to wear deodorant, to have a potbelly and no muscles.

We decide that women like to gather up our socks and that nose hair is au courant. Right. And? Finally just be, off to Silicon Roundabout with a rucksack and orthopedic shoes or sneakers. Aside from a few lesbians and a few customer service reps: be among ourselves, make jokes about lightsabers, do guy stuff. Thome laughs today about his old classmates from boarding school. About the great athletes, the lads who were assured a government position after graduating university, or an even cushier job in the diplomatic corps. They’re sitting in a smelly office in Nairobi now, sweating it up in the House of Commons, they are the disappearing representatives of the old world. They’re married. Thome imagines the English spouses of his former classmates. English roses, who had passed their prime at the age of fourteen.

The new people,

In this wonderful world.

Just look at:

KAREN

Stares