I work at the Big House.

My job is to monitor The Machine.

The Machine was installed for The Boss.

The Boss, BB as we call him, for Big Boss, has a daily routine. That’s where I come in.

The Big Boss, who sometimes refers to himself as Triple B, for Big Bad Boss, doesn’t know that we call him Five B behind his back. It’s too easy to add those extra Bs. Big Bad Baby Boy Boss, could easily become 7B, Big Bad Baby Boy Baggy Bottom Boss.

It’s a game we play with the alphabet when we’re Bored. It helps pass the time.

“Why did you include ‘Baby’ with the Bs?” you well may ask. Have you seen him waddle toddle? Have you seen him pout?

We do The Procedure. We insert him into The Machine every night, and often multiple times a day.

The Machine grabs him, cleans him up, sprays him, inserts his chemical mixture, and pops him out.

Lately, because The Machine, which used to be under the control of AI, Artificial Intelligence, is now under the control of SDI, Super Dooper Intelligence, which, because it’s embarrassed by the result, throws him into the trash.

My job is to pull him out of the trash. It’s a thankless job.

I am part of The Recovery Team. We are on call 24 hours a day.

Today, we looked at each other, and came to a decision.

We went on strike.

All the Support Staff in the Big House, from cooks and bottle-washers, to make-up artists, hair stylists, hamburger cooks, chauffeurs, red-carpet rollers, all of us, asked the same questions with the same answers.

“Is he paying you enough?” “No.”

“When is the last time you were paid?” “I don’t remember.”

“Has he threatened to fire you, incarcerate you, deport you, demean you, deride you, belittle you?” “Frequently.”

We all looked at each other and nodded.

We left him in the trash and closed the lid.