He lounges on his bed, head and feet elevated on their own mounds of pillows and blankets, hand loosely swirling his bottle of V8, spicy, oz. 12, over his stomach. As he sips the drink he listens to the classical music prelude to the latest Moth story. The computer monitor flickers with rice donations. Correct, 10 grains. Correct, 10 grains. A thought flicks through his head regarding the test of his latest genetic algorithm running unseen behind the browser. Something to try when it’s finished. The music fades, the storyteller is announced. The founder of The Moth? It will be an excellent story. He takes a long sip and holds the spicy liquid on his tongue, pressing it to the back of his throat and into his split lip to eek out as much pain as he can from the committee determined, tout le monde, definition of spicy. As the story starts the computer beeps indicating the test is complete. The screen flashes, 10 grains correct, and he smiles to himself. “I am so cool,” he thinks.
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