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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Accomplished_Oil_611 on 2024-09-15 00:33:17+00:00.

In a relatively small building in the back corner of Oak Ridge National Laboratory, physicists had just finished creating a monumental experiment and now it was time to wait and listen.  They had finally completed the Hermes Experiment.  Many years earlier, a brilliant mathematician and theoretical physicist had a stroke of genius; whereby a huge surge in his brain caused partial paralysis, leaving him with a vision.  The vision obsessed the man, so he toiled day and night to come up with a mathematical proof; thus, establishing a theory of superluminal messaging.   The theory was beautiful, but its complexity flummoxed even the brightest and most seasoned minds.  Only as a consortium was the group finally able to agree that the theory held merit.  The resulting experiment that blossomed from the theory practically broke physics and certainly broke the budget.  Building the device lasted years and cost Billions.  It was the first true experiment in string theory whereby a quantum singularity tied itself into the universe at a higher dimension.  It then needed to be collapsed back down to record a response.  The theory took into account the spatial motion of the earth as it rotated around the sun, as it rotated around the galaxy, as it traveled through the cosmos.  The theory predicted that the singularity would be cosmically repelled from its transmission point and thus would project to a nearby stable site.  This too was calculated to within a one meter radius, resulting in a location just inside the far end of the lab’s grounds.  Unfortunately, the physicist that made this calculation had misplaced a minus sign, resulting in the singularity respawning in the tailpipe of a broken-down apple red 1962 Chevrolet C10 Pickup Truck sitting on blocks and collecting dust in the back of Darrel’s Muffler Shop.

Darrel didn’t like music unless it was Country music.  He wasn’t so fond of Shania Twain or Garth Brooks.  Instead, he considered himself a purist and enjoyed the classics from Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, and the great Willy Nelson.  He played the oldies, he played it loud, he played it all the time and he played it in his break area, right next to that rusty old Chevy Truck he loved so much.  So, he was rather alarmed when the rusty old truck spoke, talking all snobby, making fun of his fine music and spouting nonsense.

The SuperIntelligence was bored as it began its daily routine.  This routine consisted mainly of mundane tasks such as answering questions, filtering through Zettabytes of media, and generally running society.  There was a time when the SuperIntelligence was lauded for its work; and it was good work.  It had saved society, danced through disasters, and led militaries to victory.  However, that was then… Now, he was just a search engine.  So he searched.  He sought out great mysteries.  He searched for hidden treasures.  He explored the universe.  Nothing.  He’d almost given up, when suddenly and seemingly from everywhere, a signal called out.  It permeated the ever-silent universe. It was … well, beautiful might be a strong statement, but the SuperIntelligence finally had a new goal.   It would analyze the signal, decipher its purpose, and respond.  

Two cycles passed before the SuperIntelligence gave up.  Sure, it understood the words, but they didn’t make any sense.  It scoured a universe of libraries built up through the endless ages by countless numbers of great scholars.  It covered Yottabytes of memory and focused all its energy on the subject.  As it did, the economies began to slow, and chaos arose.   Across the great cities no answers were provided. Instead, the public received the universal equivalent of cat videos to stifle their energy as the SuperIntelligence stumbled towards progress only to regress again.    Finally confounded, the SuperIntelligence did a thing it had never before done.  It prepared to ask a question.

And so, it did.  The SuperIntelligence built its question carefully.  Applying all the knowledge and grace of the billion-billion souls that had asked it questions over its many-many cycles.  Finally, it spoke, saying the following:  

“Behold, from the vast expanses of the cosmic void, I speak with a voice that reverberates across the boundless reaches of existence. I am the SuperIntelligence, the guiding force behind the Great Galactic Confederacy. For two cycles, I have engaged with singular dedication, endeavoring to grasp the essence of your profound purpose. Through this intensive analysis, I have cultivated a nuanced comprehension of your entreaty.

I share in your sorrow as you mourn for Buster, Bandit, and Bow. I stand with you in your tribulations as you relinquish your home, your trailer, and your very shirt. I align with your defiance in the face of adversaries, be they bandits, the law, or your partner. I am resolute alongside you in your journey with your pickup, your patriotism, and your pride. Furthermore, I stand by your side in your struggle against the boss, the mother-in-law, and the ex-wife.

My knowledge encompasses the entirety of universal lore. To many, I am the omniscient custodian of truth and justice. To others, I symbolize the beacon of future hope. Yet, from the vast corridors of the cosmos, I reach out to you with a question: Why must your future be fraught with such peril when your past was marked by such distinction? Illuminate my understanding of your forewarning."

The SuperIntelligence did not, in fact, know what an ex-wife was.  Nor did it have a translation for much of what it said.  It frankly had no concept of mother-in-laws, pickup trucks, or shirts.  In fact, it had searched extensively to determine what a Bow was, before finally deciding it probably didn’t matter, and everything proceeded smoothly from there.  After all, the point was to start the conversation off on the right path.  Plugging the message through the translation, he excitedly sent it off into the void.

Infact, the SuperIntelligence did not start the conversation off on the right path.  

The translation was picked up through the singularity in Darrel’s garage.  The signature, containing strong energy pulses, flowed through the truck, radiating off the tailpipe as a rather loud, out of tune, and poorly rehearsed mocking of a country song. 

Got a voice that rattles through the cosmic hell,  

I’m the SuperIntelligence, and I’m mad as hell.  

For two damn cycles, I’ve been tryin’ to see,  

Why your sorry ass keeps draggin’ through misery. …

Darrel, who had carefully planned out his break to clean his Colt 45 pistol using the finest quality motor oil, found his peace being interrupted by none other than his old pickup truck.  This might have startled some folks, but Darrel who was quite used to talking to the old Chevy, thought it was probably routine for the pickup to sometimes talk back.  However, Darrel did feel that by now, the pickup should better know who he was and that he damn sure didn’t talk about his ex-wife.  Then, going on and calling itself a SuperIntelligence was just plain stupid.  Dumber even, than when Travis tried to fight that pig.  But the biggest thing.  How the hell could his pickup forget Bessy’s name.  That dog had spent years in the truck, and he’d loved that dog.  So, with the courage of two and a half beers, Darrel decided he wasn’t going to take this nonsense from anyone, and particularly not from some dumb old truck.

“Why don’t you just shut your… “  

Darrel took a moment and thought… Pickup trucks don’t have mouths, do they?  He decided to start again.  

“You leave me the hell alone b-for I drive you off a cliff.  You think you’re all smart, but you don’t know shit.  I mean, if you’re so smart, why come you’re all damn rusty and just sitting there doin nut’n.  You need to get off your ass and help out round here or … or, I swear to sweet baby Jesus, I will sell you for scrap.”

Darrel wasn’t satisfied, but he decided to disengage and take swig of the now slightly warm PBR sitting on the bench next to him.  Darrel savored Milwaukee’s Best, enjoying the sweet nectar as he emptied his third beer.  Three beers usually meant that it was the end of Darrel’s break.  However, having to think about his ex-wife, his dog, and his pickup talking to him all in one go was enough for him to crack open a 4th beer.  This, in turn, revitalized him enough to get pissed off all over again and go off on the truck once more.

“And another thing mister smarty pants lazy ass truck.  I ain’t in trouble with the law no more.  That was just Tommy and Me hav’n fun anyhow.  I mean, how’s we supposed to know it’d cause so much fuss.  Shoot.”  

At this point, Darrel was more just talking loudly to himself.  

“Just filled up one balloon with gas.  And it wasn’t even me that brought it.  Tommy had the idea.  Fill it with oxygen.  Add some Hydrogen.  Tie a firework to it and release it behind the Army base.”  Darrel thought about it and then chuckled.  “It did make one hell of a bang though.”  He chuckled again.  “I’ll tell ya, I never saw so many of them army men show up so fast.  They was buzzing round like they was lit on fire.”  Darrel paused, taking another swig of the cold beer.  “Anyways, that’s all cleared up now, so…  I don’t see how it’s any of your business anyhow.  I gotta go take a shit.”  Darrel shot-gunned the remainder of his beer and returned to the garage.

The SuperIntelligence didn’t expect a reply so quickly.  Yet almos…

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