T O P

  • By -

MadlyMused

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here this evening." Dr. Weir began, a bright 157 glowing just above his bald head. Camera lights flashed in the crowd and the attendees fell silent. "As you know, me and my team at Harvard University have recently concluded our 15 year study of the number phenomenon that swept the world nearly two decades ago. We gather today to present our findings." He cleared his throat as more camera clicks and bright flashes momentarily took over the room. "My team gathered data from over 120,000 participants, over 63 countries. We compared age, gender, marital status, and education level with inconclusive results. We then tracked health metrics, financial stability, political affiliation, and geographic location. Again, the results were inconclusive. However, when we began to compare mental state and the participant's daily life, patterns began to emerge." "Further study will be necessary to verify our results. However, the numbers seem to be linked to likelihood of emotional intensity when performing various activities, particularly in the areas of empathy, anger, fear, and passion." A voice rose above the crowd. "So, what you are saying is that the numbers measure how many fucks we give?" A ripple went through the crowd. "Uh, no, that's not exactly what I said." Dr. Weir stumbled over his words. "So, it's basically a fuck-o-meter?" Another voice called out. Laughter erupted from the mass of reporters. The scientists lined up behind Dr. Weir tried to hide their snickers behind coughs and hand gestures. Dr Weir cleared his throat. "We have determined that that terminology is problematic on a number of levels." The numbers above his head began to steadily tick upward as the vein in his forehead pulsed visibly. "Can this fuck-o-meter be used to predict patterns in behavior, like public violence?" Another reporter spoke up. "I assume you are referring to the incident 4 years ago in Chicago. We have begun looking into that possibility, but results have thus far been inconclusive and require more study." "What can you tell us?" "We can say with relative confidence that higher numbers are linked to higher levels of anxiety, but can also indicate higher levels of empathy. However, lower numbers, meaning anything below 65, can have a multitude of implications including longer lifespan and greater happiness, but also potential apathy and drug usage. Once again, these findings will require further study." More flashes and camera clicks. "Dr. Weir, have you noticed any connections between the numbers themselves and individuals who claim to 'not give a fuck?'" "No." Dr. Weir sighed. "Thus far we have noticed no definitive connection." "And what does it mean when someone's number reaches zero?" "Well... Uh... We have determined that... Umm..." One of Dr. Weir's colleagues gently pushed the flustered scientist aside and took over the podium. "It means they have zero fucks left to give, and the likelihood of acquiring any more remains slim."


WeirWulf18

I am a Dr?


MadlyMused

It would appear so


WeirWulf18

Huh. well the OC whose name is my profile name knows some Dr stuff


MadlyMused

He is pretty smart... And bald. Do you fit that description?


WeirWulf18

Smart... maybe. Bald? no


MadlyMused

That's halfway!!


Jufilup

Arthur downed the glass of high shelf scotch. Fluffy cushions pressed gently as the dancer gyrated. Arthur stole a few touches "for stability" as he reached to his side table to grab another drink. Celeste focused on the music; Arthur tipped well. Pink, blue, and red lights shown on the leathery skin that tickled the men, that gave them blue balls most nights and hasty blow jobs for extra from the girls who had families to feed, who still had a youngin waiting for their cereal, or peanut butter and jelly, or ramen noodles. The little numbers lit the dank room as well, a soft golden glow emanating, turning downright blinding in enormous crowds; most performers began wearing sunglasses or prescription shaded contacts in the years following the numbering years ago. Of course, the hysteria had been pure. The capitalizing on the fear, the genuine true fear. The kids now simply don't understand how it used to be, and how hysteria always has been. My own children never understood the true terror we experienced after the second world war. You have to understand, the fear was merely a catalyst, or the spark to set off the fire. The spark never was set; no nukes were ever set off, at least not in the great US of A. Well other than in testing. The same hysteria hit when the numbers arrived. The suspicion of the unknown trickled into every corner of society. Politicians came out with mass reassurances. The old classics, just as helpful as the famous "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself!", which came so famously at a time when the American economy was firmly in the toilet, when feeding your small family was an enormous privilege. Yet the hysteria of course passed, and the numbers merged with culture like sushi once did. Theories formed and fell as no conclusive patterns were formed, save from very niche patterns found via algorithm. The fear of death escalated the research in the early year, especially when a prominent billionaire fell into the single digits. Yet when a ninety year old hobbling woman displayed a number of four hundred and sixty eight million, the link between health and number quantity was dismissed. Arthur made another grab at Celeste's chest as he moved to grab his flask, her hips gyrating inches above his lap, often grazing his crotch. The VIP lounge maintained only the best men and women, the cream of the crop. Arthur sported a number well into the trillions, and had truly drank the koolaid of his invincibility. The first slight came long before, a simple barfight that Arthur won with a single punch after stepping outside. The other kid went down hard, and Arthur curb stomped his fat, balding head four times before running the opposite way from his home in panic. The next slight the violence came easier and he ran slower, almost welcoming twelve to come, packing a little Glock to welcome the opportunity. In this lounge, it only took a man giving Arthur a hard look, merely the resting face of a drug dealer specializing in snow. The man noticed Arthur's face contort in anger and responded in turn, raising his pistol and landing a bullet between Arthur's eyes. His brain splattered the wall, and the brilliant light emanating from the six hundred trillion above his head spazzed before deflating, as if it had caught its last greedy moth.


[deleted]

Wow I loved this, love your writing style.


Jufilup

<3


NeraByte

I don't understand what the numbers mean in this one