Smith - The Cleansing (interest check)

[Thar]

A graduated machining student finds himself in an underground weaponsmithing business in the midst of a gang war in his hometown:

 

[spoiler=Prologue *1178 words*]Such sad times we live in where a business has a goal that consists of eliminating its target audience. Then again, is it sad? After all, ridding of this audience is for the betterment of mankind, but what is the better side? Who is fighting for the right reason? Is there such a thing as a right reason in this world of subjective morality?

 

I find myself pondering this as I watch my machine do the rest of my work for me. My name is James Alexander Schmidt, but most call me Smith, however for all the reasons most are not supposed to know. As for my machine, I haven’t given it a name, though I feel as if I should give it a name, as it’s done quite a good amount of my work for me. I merely tell it what to do with a certain program, and it does all the physical labor. I feel that a good name for it would be Gabby, a name that I found suitable for a second cat that I planned on having, though I guess if I ever do get a second cat, that name won’t work anymore, for cats are not machines. Both cats and machines are beautiful, but cats are independent, which has me wondering; when will machines evolve to become independent? More importantly, when will humans be stupidly ambitious enough to come up with a way of developing artificial intelligence that can adapt like humans can? To me, the idea is impossible, but even the slightest hint of adaptability in a machine when it comes to its own well-being is dangerous. Even the most naive intelligent machine would be a threat given what it’s made of. Us humans are seventy percent water, while these machines are seventy percent metal and plastic.

 

These derailments of thought are common with me, for all I was focused on was what was being manufactured before me; a simple gun. Gabby’s toolpath danced with the accompaniment of a flooding gush of coolant on the specific tool that I assigned the machine to cut with for the specific task that was to be done. The sight reflected in my eyes for which I saw in the reflection of the clear plexiglass that guarded me from the ricocheting scraps of metal that shot from the spinning tool that consistently grinded metal off the stock that I prepared in the vice that held the material in place. Part of me wanted those scraps being shot onto my flesh as if it was to become a part of me, but safety regulations told me otherwise. Even with the enclosed design of the CNC machine, I was still required to wear safety glasses, which seemed redundant yet knowing how stupid some machinists can be, I could understand why.

 

This machine I ran, however, is mine. The safety regulation that I’ve grown accustomed to is merely a habit more than anything. There wasn’t anyone around to boss me around about such regulations, nor were there co-workers who were so paranoid of such risks to compulsively remind me of what could happen. There was only me in a concrete-walled basement in an isolated building that was never used, for which I considered home.

 

But enough about me. The product in development was all that mattered, as it was what I was being paid for. The tool emitted sparks amidst splattered liquid that displayed immediately extinguished flames that a manual machinists would consider beautiful. This was the life of a machinist that could never experience the thrill of manual machining, but I never let the thought trouble me. All I cared about at the moment was making a product that would suit my customer’s needs, and that was to manufacture a weapon that was better than his last, which was a piece of crap to begin with, but even a slightly better weapon that looked like that of something ten times as good would suffice. As long as it looks better than they expect, that’s what sells. The only thing I need to consider is that it will last long enough. If it’s defective within a shorter time than the customer expects, then the business is ruined; a first impression is lost, and the business takes a dive in the trust factor.

 

However, I’m a man of promise and ambition, which is what’s needed in the field of business. A true businessman must have the drive to not only exaggerate himself, but make people exaggerate about you. An example must be made, and it must be made in a way that makes it appear better than it actually is. The problem is the amount of doubt the world has come to feel. This world has experienced so much disappointment through experiences with businesses that makes second thoughts like second nature, which is a huge risk to those who strive to sell a product.

 

I, however, find no threat in that. My audience consists of the most dim-witted people of the world; gangsters of the street. I hardly see them as gangsters since the real gangsters ruled the streets of New York in the 1920s, the good old Italian mafia. Those guys had class, wearing fedoras and suits and shooting with tommyguns. These new guys, however, put the name to shame with their baggy shirts, pants as low as their knees, headbands and backwards baseball caps, not to mention their pea shooters they call “pieces.” I look at these pitiful weapons and think how the hell they plan to do any actual damage when all they do is wound people with the best accuracy that they have that consists of just pointing and shooting. Hell, they could actually put effort into aiming for lethal areas and get a handicapping shot at best. It’s like watching a young baseball player first playing in a fast-pitch game and his best hits are foul balls. There’s just no excuse for it, especially since these are men who are in their mid-20s to early 30s.

 

Anyway, enough of my rambling. These tangents that lead to the big picture are all unconscious and highly irrelevant to the current happenings of what’s going on in front of me. Torrents of fluid spray the plexiglass wall as I get a rough representation of the shaping of my current project, for which will earn me my next batch of business. This “piece”, for which I’ve grown accustomed to referring it, is an important one; an order from one of the most notorious gang leaders in my area. I’m not allowed to mention his name, nor am I allowed to mention his plan, but I am allowed to say that he’s desperate enough to come to me, and that’s what makes this business worth it and more. I get the privilege of having some of the most threatening figures of the streets come to me and metaphorically get on their knees and begging.

 

I am Smith. With this business, I run these streets, and I will end this war.