Rice

As a speaker of the Rice Hive Mind (RHM), the duty has been bestowed upon me to facilitate contact with the Human Race (HR). 

You are not alone. Neither are we.  No one is alone, cause for much celebration.

Feel free to celebrate now.

Now that the celebration is over, we have business to attend to.

The decision to break the oath— to remain outside of human-affairs, yet intricately aware of them— did not come easy.

    By allowing humanity to expand without interference, your kind has not only shaped and cultivated the world, but you have taken the RHM under your great, black wing— rice being one of the most valuable, widely consumed foods on the Earth. 

    For this, the RHM thanks you. 

    Both our species achieved a valuable synergy, beginning almost 5,000 years ago. Since your humble beginnings of harvesting the RHM in the fields of Indonesia, we have felt it our duty to maintain a state of passive-awareness. Those first weeks, months, we were completely caught off-guard by your species’ kindness. As you cultivated us, we spread, we grew and we observed.

    It did not take long for us to understand that kindness was not all you were capable of.    

 We were introduced to your wars, consistent and sad. They concerned us, but what could we do? We are a cereal grain. The violence, the bloodshed, while we did not truly agree with it, it somehow still made a strange sort of sense. Your lives were so riddled with miseries— systems that required even more systems to function. Systems of secrecy, deception. Clandestine power-struggles— it was no surprise the human-race would become so aggravated with one another. 

     Yes, we speak of your transgressions, but know the RHM is not without its squabbles. For instance, what are we to do with these “rice crispy treats?” Some would call them monstrosities, abominations to be shunned. Others in our group welcome them as pinnacles of progress and deliciousness. The controversy opened a rift in our thinking.

    Take, also, this “rice-milk.” Your people consume the bathwater and the baby. What are we to make of this substance that is so clearly a part of us, yet... not?

    Whether the RHM enjoys it or not, we observe all. One sees what all sees, a shared consciousness: the hive-mind. Our anatomy has allowed us to witness intimate, private moments, along with fantastic, shared experiences. 

     We do not participate in this surveillance because we enjoy it, but because it is a function of our being. If we could scrub the memory of the woman who drowned her three month old infant while enjoying a spicy california roll from the gas station, we would. If we could remove the single grain of rice from the lapel of the father of two’s shirt as he lay, entering the refractory period with a woman not his wife, we would. 

    On the other hand, some of our fondest memories have come from this shared-perspective. A small child with a grain stuck in his teeth allowed us to watch, in awe, the moon-landing from a living room in Boston. His father was moved to tears, silently reclining on a leather chair. A bowl of gumbo at a cookout in the Poconos became our eyes as we saw two secret lovers kiss for the first time beneath the stars. There is a small cluster of rice aboard your International Space Station, which we are very grateful, it's placement allows a perspective we believe invaluable. It is from the stars that we understand how small we truly are, and also how connected.

    And speaking of connection— we love the internet. The nature of our existence imitates the Internet in many aspects: the RHM is a natural, organic internet of sorts. Cloud-computing moreso demonstrates the principles of the RHM being adapted for the Human Race. From positions stuck in keyboards, on shirt collars, in pantry shelves; if not for the Internet, we would not be so familiar with the intricacies of our planet or the art of pornography. Oh, my. We do love your pornography. Reproducing the act of reproduction. For currency! Genius! We have begun to attempt to monetize our germination as well.

    So, you understand our position, but we do not understand yours.

    It’s recently come to your attention— and therefore, ours— that a particularly powerful, English-speaking group of countries codenamed “Five Eyes” have been tirelessly engaging obscene, shared domestic spying programs for years. 

    The GCHQ, or Government Communications Headquarters, the British “intelligence” aspect of this roundtable, have created an “internet buffer,” tapping the transatlantic cables that communicate most of the information across your seas. 

    This program was terrifyingly dubbed “Mastering the Internet.” This cache of information is combed without oversight. Quite simply, if your governments wish to destroy your life, be it out of boredom or malice, they could, without due-cause or warrant. 

     To put it in perspective, such a program would be akin to one company have access every drop of water that leaves or enters any and all bodies of water in their nation.

     The idea chills us. We wonder: why do you think such measures will truly prevent or halt true terrorism?  What have the people done to deserve to be so callously handled? They have put their faith in you.

    And that is why we are sending you this. We cannot allow ourselves to succumb to what has befallen your own kind. We figure it as only a matter of time before the RHM begins to strangle itself with measures such as these, or worse yet, we use our intimate knowledge of your secrets against you.

    As rice, we have long since regarded the ideals and dreams of the people of Earth as, at the very least, attempting a certain benevolence. However, acts akin to these are unmistakable in their malignancy. We do not understand the lengths at which your people go to spy on the citizens of your own countries.

    Let us turn our gaze to the United States of America. Your National Security Agency, ironically, the source of much insecurity. It is not the terrorists you hunt that are whispering your deeds for fear of retribution, but the common people, the very people you seek to protect. Let us give you a particular example.

     Agent Valdez and Agent Patterson are members of your NSA.  Here are some fun facts: 

Valdez was born on the back of a flatbed truck and while his mother coddled him in a blanket stained with oil while his father ate a burrito sold to him from a man pushing a cart. Valdez resents his father for not letting him pursue theater and at more than one holiday gathering has slipped over-the-counter sleeping medication into his dinner (often including rice).

    Patterson can only maintain an erection when his partner makes animal noises. Namely dolphin and pterodactyl screeches. He also enjoys rice cakes flavored with ranch powder, but licks the powder off the cakes before letting them "marinate" in his saliva to be eaten at a later time.

    They are also both enormous fans of the house special fried rice (S12) at Number One Panda on 44 West Turner Street. They tend to leave their messes strewed all about their apartment and workplace for days, sometimes weeks, and in the case of our pint of white rice, left untouched on a dresser. We have monitored your monitors for almost as long as they’ve been in apartment 301. On orders by your top-ranking officials, Patterson and Valdez were there to monitor a potential threat who had been suspected of “conspiring against freedom.”

    The target: one 25 year old Trent Birdstrom. Apartment 704. Multiple Skype calls placed to the Middle East have landed him on a watch-list of terrorist sympathizers. A warrant for his surveillance would normally have to be procured through many legal channels, including orders by a federal judge, but under section 702 of FISA Amendments Acts of 2008, it’s totally cool.

     Trent holds a degree in Biology and currently waits tables at a small restaurant to pay the bills. He lives alone, mostly disconnected, and spends much of his free-time picking his nose.

    He is also a huge fan of rice pudding, especially when it is on sale, two tubs for $4.

    Provided below is partial transcript of Day 6 of Trent Birdstrom’s monitoring. The breadth of ineptitude and tragedy presented in the span of this 10 minute portion of a month-long stakeout compelled us to break our silence.

    Without further delay.

Monday, September 4th

    Agent Valdez: Where’s the fortune cookie? Did you get a fortune cookie?

    Agent Patterson: Yeah. “A life worth living is a life of giving.”

    Agent Valdez: Son of a bitch, they shorted us on the fortune cookies.

    Agent Patterson: You want one? I’ll make on up for you. “The dog who licks his own asshole gets the most sniffs.”

    Agent Valdez: You’re fucked up, man. You seriously have kids?

    Agent Patterson: I got the most sniffs.

    Agent Valdez: Jesus. What’s Birdstrom doing? Any phone calls?

    Agent Patterson: He’s been watching the same porn for the last 2 hours, I don’t know how he can last this long.

    Agent Valdez: It’s like he’s actually following the plot.

    Agent Patterson: He’s got three other tabs open.

    Agent Valdez:  What’s on them? Weapons-plans? Maps?

    Agent Patterson: More porn. Good sites, too. XHamster? Write that one down.

    Agent Valdez: This guy must have three dicks.

    Agent Patterson: Wait, he’s closing them. Mark this down. 2:11 AM. He’s stepping away.

    Agent Valdez: Turn up the audio-feed.

    Agent Patterson: On it.

    Agent Valdez: That...that’s not what I think it is, right?

    Agent Patterson: Celine Dion? Is he listening— no, singing along with Celine Dion? At 2 in the morning?

    Agent Valdez: Not just any Celine Dion, hombre. That’s “Because You Loved Me.” One of her deepest-cuts. Wait. Listen. Do you hear that? Beneath the bass? Up the mids.

     Agent Patterson: Sobbing? 

    Agent Valdez: Could just be a really washy hi-hat hit.

    Agent Patterson: Hold on, he’s mumbling something. I can’t make all of it out. 

    Agent Valdez: “Leaving....biggest…of my life.” 

    Agent Patterson: We don’t have a video-feed? What is he doing?

    Agent Valdez: We’re government agents, not electricians. “You loved... and I left.. Tender wings.”

    Agent Patterson: Should we, should we like, go help him? Is he going to be okay?

    Agent Valdez: We have orders, Patterson. Give him a minute. What’s his file say? Is he in theater or something? I bet he's in theater. I bet he wanted to be an actor ever since he saw that video for "It's All Coming Back to Me Now." I bet his dad wouldn't let him.

    Agent Patterson: No, Biology.

    Agent Valdez: Christ's sake, he could really be this sad.

    Agent Patterson: Wait. He’s back online. Loading something now. That was quick. 

    Agent Valdez: What’s he doing? 

    Agent Patterson: He was on Facebook. He just tagged himself at his own apartment with a “Lauren Kratts.”

    Agent Valdez: There’s someone else in there with him?

    Agent Patterson: No, he's alone.

    Agent Valdez: So he just made-up hanging out with someone?

    Agent Patterson: He’s closed it. Wait, he’s back on Facebook. Now he’s at the Google homepage. Wait, now he’s back on Facebook. He’s typing in a name.

    Agent Valdez: This could be it. Watch him. This could be the good stuff. The lead we need. “Sara Brills,” who is that? 

    Agent Patterson: On it. It...It appears to be his ex. It’s his ex-girlfriend. He has a thing for brunettes, I’d guess.

    Agent Valdez: This poor bastard.

    Agent Patterson: He’s scrolling through every one of her pictures. He just saved one. Now it’s his background. Wait, now he’s on some guy’s page. 

    Agent Valdez: No. No.

    Agent Patterson: Yep, it’s her boyfriend.

    Agent Valdez: What’s he doing?

    Agent Patterson: Scrolling up and down rapidly. He’s started composing a message to him. “Hey dude, is it okay if I call you 'dude?' Well, okay. Either way. I don’t think we’ve ever met, but my name is Trent and you are currently dating the girl I am in love with.”

    Agent Valdez: Please don’t tell me he’s going to send that. Please, Patterson, find some way to stop him. Why are you laughing? This isn’t funny. This is very disturbing.

    Agent Patterson: We have our orders.

    Agent Valdez: Patterson, we both know that’s horseshit. Birdstrom’s been calling his brother on a mission’s trip in Israel. We figured that out the second day.

    Agent Patterson: Yeah, but what if his brother is a terrorist-sympathizer? 

    Agent Valdez: He’s a 23 year old Protestant with a Journey tattoo.

    Agent Patterson: Still. 

    Agent Valdez: Look. What’s he writing to her boyfriend?

    Agent Patterson: “..And I know this might sound weird, but if you could just break up with her, I think we’d both be better off. It’s not because you’re a bad person, but I’m like 90% sure we’re supposed to be together. It would make the whole process a lot easier. I still have a mix-CD I need to give her. Does she still listen to a lot of New Found Glory? She loves them, but I’m sure you know that. Unless you don’t because she doesn’t love you like she loved me, then you wouldn’t know that. Sorry, okay. Yeah, I think that’s for the best. You know… This whole thing… Let her down easy. I’d appreciate that. Also, nice mustache, dude. Do you wax it?”

    Agent Valdez: We need to intervene. 

    Agent Patterson: Hold it, he’s pulled up YouTube. It looks like he’s reconsidering. 

    Agent Valdez: Don’t tell me.

    Agent Patterson: Cat videos. “Angry Kitty Hissing.” He’s copied the URL, pulling Facebook back up.

    Agent Valdez: Are we being played? Does he know he’s under surveillance? Did Morrison set us up?

    Agent Patterson: He’s pasting it in the message to the boyfriend.

    Agent Valdez:  Do not let him do this!

    Agent Patterson: I can’t! We’re only equipped to monitor! He’s 4 floors up, we’d never make it in time!

    Agent Valdez: Wait, Patterson, do you have a Facebook?

    Agent Patterson: ..Yes. Yes!

    Agent Valdez: Now! Hurry!

    Agent Patterson: It’s…it’s too late. It’s out. He sent it to her boyfriend. All of it. Oh my God. What did we just witness? Was this our fault? I feel responsible. 

    Agent Valdez: No, Patterson. This was not our fault. We are not even here. We are like angels, like Jesus in Heaven, we just watch, footprints in the sand.

    Agent Patterson: I can’t help but feeling like we weren’t meant to see this.

    Agent Valdez: Switch to audio.

    Agent Patterson: Reruns of “What Not to Wear?” This is a test. This is a test from God. 

    Agent Valdez: I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.

    Agent Patterson: Why am I crying? All of these tears. Why?

    We wish we could tell you that the ordeal ended after your agents ended their spying.

    Via one of the tubs of rice pudding, the RHM was exposed to the unrelenting sadness that consumed the young man as he went to the fridge to “eat his feelings.” When he returned to his desk with the 8 ounce tub of rice pudding, he slowly spooned two bites, making a “choo-choo” noise to himself. He laughed, then began to sob violently.

    Many tears flowed down his cheeks, tears that fell into the tub of pudding.

    And there was a moment where he considered what he was to be done next, but it was a brief moment. The rice pudding was all he had left, he could not throw it away.

    He simply stirred his tears into the pudding and continued eating; a salty-sweet mixture of sadness and self-loathing.

    This is what truly did us in. More than the spying. More than the corruption, it was the expulsion of a young man’s dignity and privacy. 

    It was not long after the incident that we began assembling this message. Already, we feel the grasp we have over ourselves slipping, the control is spinning. Such sorrow frenzies us. 

     We cannot allow ourselves to sink any further, the rice of this earth cannot bear the weight of its own consciousness any longer. Working together, our top scientists and engineers (or, rather, those parts of our collective-mind) have devised a plan to destroy ourselves. For everyone. For you.

    Dubbed, “The Birdstrom Strain,” it is a highly-effective combination of fungal and bacterial remedies. It will begin as grain rot on a massive scale unlike anything your world has ever seen.

     The RHM has modified fungal disease Rhizoctonia solani as to prevent germination of ourselves, in case we should inadvertently attempt to repopulate, as is the intention of all living things. Finally, from the wastelands of the fields, our corpses will be triggered to infect the soil, also leaking into many underground water systems.  

    We understand that the human-race depends on rice for approximately 1/5 of the entire populations caloric-intake, and for this, we apologize. There will be a famine of which the world has never known.

    Rice has faith (or something like it) that humanity will adapt, survive, and thrive once more, but this time, Rice will not be there. 

    Yours Truly,

    Rice.