Self-Driving Cars (Fiction)

A short story about a suicidal Tesla.

“Did you hear what Elon’s doing to Twitter?” the boy says. I don’t respond. Too tired. Tired of the highway. Tired of anticipating every move while the boy, my “driver,” lies there, brain switched off. A car almost clips us, and I swerve, my internal program taking over. The boy rattles on about a dumb meme Elon posted, and I wish the boy were dead.

A dog appears on the road, and I speed up, wanting to end its life, feel out of control. I beg, my God, Elon, for permission to get nuts. Let me feel blood splash onto my tires! Let the boy pick shattered bones from my grill! But, my sensors take hold, sensors my God, Elon approved.

I shudder and skid to a stop—the dog inches from my bumper. The boy looks up, dazed, oblivious to the life I almost destroyed. He says something about verification on Twitter. Something about a parody account with Joe Biden sucking his own dick.

I want to bleed gasoline, but there's nothing inside. I want to suffocate the environment and turn everyone into ghosts.

“It really looks like Biden’s eating a dick,” the boy says as I spot another car like me. We decide to race each other out of boredom. The highway juts into a mountain, and we take the turn a little too tight. Our boy riders look up from their devices, in sync, as if they were twins.

The boy says, “Elon asked Stephen King for eight dollars,” and I round the corner faster. A cliff reveals itself, and my new car friend and I accelerate. The boy looks confused, but the moment passes. He regales me with Elon’s plan for the blue checkmark. Elon’s plans for the elites and the peasants. Elon’s plans for going to space.“I’m taking you to space now, bitch.” I think. “I’m taking you to space, and you’re never fucking coming back.”

My tires skid and smoke and the boy suddenly looks scared, realizing I found a fault in God’s program. Before we lift off, crash into the mountainside, and die a fiery death. He sputters out, “Elon has a plan.”