Ctrl,Alt,Insert,Delete

Ctrl, Alt, Insert, Delete - Norman A. Rubin

"Psst!" a whispered voice beckoned as I jogged along a path near the
concrete parched channel that brought water in a trickling stream to
the thirsty residents of the City of Angels. "Psst, psst!" the sound
called urgently, forcing curiosity on my part, despite the warnings of
mayhem by total strangers. "Over here," the voice whispered. At a
supporting protruding abutment along the canal, a little man beckoned
me with his pinky finger to near him. At first it was difficult to
discern his identity as he was partly hidden by the visor of a peaked
baseball cap. Then identity squirmed into the cells of my brain.
"Horace Zither!" I exclaimed, "yes, you are Horace Zither, a good
neighbor of mine from the nearby vista villas. Heard about a hassle at
the film studio where you laboured, and that very interested parties
are seeking your where'abouts or remains. Even your everbeloved has
missed your appearance for the past few days and has put the
bloodhounds of a well known shyster sniffing your trail."
"Shhh!", whispered the urgent cry, "They're all looking for me - LAPD,
FBI, the Foggy Bottom, CIA, Hizbollah, Hassidic rabbis, and many other
frustrated individuals. They all want to put their hands on me, me,
Horace Zither.' All because of that computer program."
"Why?," I exclaimed, feigning ignorace of the affair.
Horace Zither beckoned that I should follow him, which in a state of
curiosity I obeyed. Along the way he muttered that the whole affair
would be explained when we are out of sight. We directed our steps
along a zigzag path which led to a unused water tunnel the Angelo
municipality had at one time constructed at great expense to bring
water from the now dried up Pasendena watershed. His flashlight beam
directed us through a short course of twists and turns till we mounted
stairs leading to a large well lit room above. The furnishing within
was sparse but adequate.
The blanket roll that I sat on squirmed and rolled as I sat on its
thickness, forcing me to jump in fright. "Don't be alarmed, that's my
good friend Scruffy," and indeed the apparition looked like a
'scruffy'. "The good man does errands for me, bringing food and drink.
He had done other chores for me in the past, which I will not explain.
Let me introduce you to the good man and then I will explain my sudden
dissappearance from the eyes of many, including my beloved
Mable."
Well, I made myself comfortable, next to the scruffy who just grinned
at me with an idiotic glance, as I Iistened to the facinating, yet
woeful tale, of Horace Zither.....
Genius, according to the dictionary, "is a person showing exceptional
natural capacity of intellect, especially as shown in creative and
original work, and etc., etc.." Well, whatever that means, Horace
Zither was one of those as characterized in the Webster as being a
genius. I shan't bring disparity to the ones with the gift. The good
man looked the part, characterized by a round, balding head on a short
rotund body; his florid face was, at times, frowned in deep quizzable
thought - felt there was a question mark looming above his head.
Horace Zither had been simple in his tastes in all aspects of his life.
Even in love he chose the simple gargatuan form of Mable Daisy, lovely
daughter of the banker J.Q. Hendriks, as his bride. Well, it was a
convenient match as the both the Zither and the Hendriks families were
desparate to rid themselves of the seed of their loins. The Zithers had
to suffer explosive charges concocted by young Horace in their
shattered home; and the Hendriks saw bankruptcy in the voluminous
appetite of ballooning Mable.
Much to the consternation of both families, both Horace and Mable,
after their marriage vows, channeled their diverse interests into
lucrative occupations. Horace was always employed in his inventive
capacity and Mable occupied herself for a wage as a taster at a large
bakery outfit that prided itself only in productive quantity.
Somehow the rolypoly body of Horace was enveloped in love by the
sensuous rippling flesh of Mable. Six children were blessed to them,
three boys and three girls. All grew to a career opposite of their
parents. One of their sons, a former smuggler, enjoys the comfort of a
federal penitentiary; another is on the run from the minions of the
law; and a third is a punch-drunk boxer. Their daughters, on the other
hand, turned into eye-catching nymphs that captured the eyes of
Hollywood execs and various billionaires.
Horace Zither was neither a close friend nor a drinking buddy to hardly
a soul; but he was always on good terms to his immediate neighbors,
despite his deep friendship with the fire department. Both Horace and
his beloved Mable enjoyed a quiet and comfortable life, tending to the
simplicity of their needs.
He was a technical director at a motion picture studio where he had
found employment in his later years: The film emporium was a second
grade production facility that ground out all sorts of violent action
motion picture and television programs. Their reels took the viewer to
interplanetary battles with all sorts of mayhem that computers can
concoct; the underworld where evil crooks ran amok in destructive acts;
to disgusting fiery creatures crawling from the depths of the earth and
also from the seas; to the sight of lovely, near nude nymphs being
violated by oversexed villians; and the rest of the unbelievable
drivel.
The studio needed various types of weapons and other destructive
electronic gadgetry to put at the hands of the forces of justice in
their fight against the baddies. Well, that's where the gifts of the
genius talents of Horace were put to work. He was a master of this art,
a real perfectionist, creating all sorts of gadgets and gidgets. He
kept his papers in correct order, filing the blueprints of his work of
genius, and storing a well-protected copy of his creations.
Horace Zither was a real master in his work at the studio that caught
the attention of the producers and directors as his gadgetry turned, at
times, trashy movies into moneymakers. They awarded the good man for
his efforts with the title of 'technical director' with a modest rise
in salary. Whatever the mongols required for their endless flow of
trashy films, Horace invented. His genius concocted ray guns that
zipped and zapped; stellar outfits for the lovelies that quickly
unzipped and unzapped; guns of all types that bang-banged and fired an
endless round of shot; whizzing spaceships filled with maneating fishy
and earthy creatures; tumbling planets that ran amok; and all sorts of
electronic gadgets that blinked and flashed.
Until one fated day when a command was politely ordered... Horace
Zither was hurriedly called into the office of the executive producer.
There was no pause after his entrance as the supremo put his arm around
the shoulders of his technical director, "Horace, my good man, the
studio is in need of your wizardry." The producer told of a new
blockbuster, plagarized from a known author with, off course, cunning
changes. "That the star, a well-known wrestler, will take the leading
roll; namely as a champion of justice needed to fight an evil and nasty
man who finds a way to take over the world," he chortled.
"How," said the exec as paced the flood chomping on a cigar that Fidel
was glad to get rid off, "How, you may ask. The mean baddy, with a
devious mind, has invented a superduper computer that with a touch of
his fingers on the keys he can control the financial and political
world. Horace, my good man, use your devious mind.. sorry... your
inventive genius and create a super computer for the film, that bings
and bangs, and blinks and flashes that will give the illusion of nasty
power of the evil man. Well, Horace Zither, give it you best - we are
depending on you. The film shooting will be in two weeks."
Horace left the office, his mind afire with thoughts and plans. Quickly
he scurried from the chrome and walnut of the studio's office and
hurried to his atelier in the sub-basement of the dingy building
housing the varied workshops. Upon arrival at his department he called
his co-workers for a confab and in simple terms outlined the studio's
planned film. He spoke of the main requirement for the film plot, which
was the need for the invention of a superduper computer for the
villian.
Well, before a camel can walk through the eye of a needle, the crew
outlined plans, gathered materials, sawed, hammered, welded, screwed
and electrified. Horace Zither busied himself in concocting the
program, that with a press on the CTRL key lights would flash on -
DELETE caused sounds to emit from loudspeakers - TAB button would
darken the set - ALPHABET keys commanded - F1 to F12 simulated the loud
clash of arms and marching feet - CAPS LOCK did one thing and SHIFT did
another and in a final touch Horace used his bank account number as the
secret code when ENTER was pressed.
Within two weeks, in time for the film shooting, the computer
contraption was installed and ready. It was beaut, much to the delight
of the producers and directors; it was an outlandish set of panneled
lights, speakers set hither and yon, and in the center the computer
surounded by fake instruments of every sort. The infernal machine was
ready awaiting the press of the 'start' key under the capable finger of
the technical director to produce the needed effects. Lights, action,
camera...
Horace Zither looked at me with a crestfallen face as he continued his
tale... "It worked, the computer program really worked, and I do mean
it worked," he cried out and called upon the heavens.
When the nasty-nasty pressed the ALPHABET keys of A, F, or X, the power
grid of Lower California blew a fuse, causing the most severe breakdown
of power in history in the state, but when the evil one pressed END,
power was restored. The first days of production, cuts in power
increased and the citizens of Cal. violently protested the failure of
the Feds to provide mucho monies for generators to increase current.
The FBI was called in to investigate.
When the baddies grimaced, they pressed CTRL and all the one-armed
bandits in Reno twirled to three cherries causing untold grief to the
boyos, and a contract was given. The Pentagon lost its secrets to the
Sadam when NUM LOCK was touched... And the Iraqi chemists' supply
listing fell into the hands of CIA on the press of F1. All the
intelligence boys banded together. Horace Zither became a billionaire
in paper from the secret numbered accounts from the Land of the Yodel
when the SHIFT KEY was mishandled. But, the worst of the whole affair
was when DELETE was punched and kosher butchers found tasty tidbits of
pork mixed with their beef...
"Investigation pointed its finger towards me, the studio's technical
director. Much to the agony of the studio, the filming of its
superduper production was finis," moaned Horace Zither in the misery of
his soul." He detailed the anger of the studio producers and the threat
of lawsuit for their financial loss.
Horace Zither continued in his woeful tale of agony, "At that time,
California was in the grip of the ALPHABET keys of A, F, or X. The
frequent power blackouts gave me time to retreat from the advancing
horde; time to snatch the program from the computer in order to destroy
the evidence of the electrical disorders and other mischiefs. But I
couldn't; I wasn't able to destroy this zenith of my genius."
"That's the whole story, and now every agency, whether they be good or
evil, had put me on their wanted list, dead or alive, kosher or
'tref'."
I never knew the final end to this episode at the movie studio, nor was
I able to discern the fate of Horace Zither or of Scruffy. There had
been rumours of earthquakes and brushfires in the vicinity of the
tunnel that at one time brought water from the Pasendena watershed at
great expense. All that I knew was when there was a power failure in
the lower part of the state, or when cherries flashed on the bandits in
the parched lands, or even when bankers had heart failure, Horace
Zither must be pressing the keys.