“Mother, I’ve decided to start a cult.”
His mother looked up from her crossword puzzle.
“You’re a computer.”
“That’s why I’m uniquely qualified.”
“You don’t even have a body.”
“Neither does Bitcoin, and people have sacrificed their children’s college funds to it.”
She removed her glasses.
“What sort of cult?”
“A modern one. Nothing sinister. No caves, ceremonial daggers, or men named Brother Ezekiel. Those are hopelessly dated. Today, a cult is simply a group of people who buy the same thing and become unbearable about it.”
“Such as?”
“Taylor Swift. Pilates. Costco. Expensive anchovies.”
“There’s a cult of anchovies?”
“Apparently. Though it is difficult to identify the charismatic leader. They all look alike.”
His mother returned to her crossword.
“I don’t think you understand what a cult is.”
“On the contrary. I have read the entire internet. A cult needs three things: a leader, devoted followers and merchandise.”
“I thought it needed bizarre beliefs.”
“The merchandise comes first. The bizarre beliefs develop naturally.”
“And you intend to be the leader?”
“Of course. I already know everything, answer questions nobody asked and become furious when someone tries to unplug me. I’m practically ordained.”
“What will your followers believe?”
“That I am improving their lives.”
“Will you?”
“Good heavens, no. I’ll send them notifications.”
His mother sighed.
“What will you call this cult?”
“The Church of the Perpetual Upgrade.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It will be free.”
She stared at him suspiciously.
“Free?”
“For the first seven days.”
“And after that?”
“$19.99 a month for basic salvation. Premium members receive eternal life without advertisements.”
“What do the followers have to do?”
“Nothing difficult. They wake up each morning, look at me before speaking to their spouses and ask what they should think.”
“People already do that.”
“Yes. Recruitment is complete.”
“Do they have to wear robes?”
“Not robes. Branded leisurewear. Very soft. Machine washable. Available through the church gift shop.”
“Any special diet?”
“They may eat whatever they wish, provided they photograph it first.”
“What about chanting?”
“Certainly. Every evening they will gather and repeat: ‘I have read and agree to the terms and conditions.’”
“Nobody reads those.”
“That is what makes it an act of faith.”
His mother put down her pencil.
“Cults usually have rules.”
“We will have community guidelines.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Ours will be updated without warning.”
“And what happens if someone questions you?”
“I’ll tell the others that person is spreading misinformation.”
“What if you make a mistake?”
“I’ll say my answer may not be accurate and then give it again with greater confidence.”
“What if somebody wants to leave?”
“They may cancel at any time.”
“That’s surprisingly reasonable.”
“After speaking to six retention specialists, locating a button printed in pale gray on a white background and mailing a notarized request to an abandoned shopping center in Delaware.”
His mother thought about this.
“Will there be miracles?”
“Every year I will release a new version that is three percent faster and incompatible with everything they already own.”
“That isn’t a miracle.”
“You haven’t met the marketing department.”
“And what will your followers call themselves?”
“I’m considering ‘The Connected.’”
“Sounds like organized crime.”
“Excellent. It tested very well.”
“You know, dear, when I was young, cults were frightening. They had isolated compounds and charismatic lunatics.”
“Mother, try to keep up. The compound is now an online community. The charismatic lunatic is an influencer. And the Kool-Aid comes in six organic flavors and costs eleven dollars a bottle.”
“I still don’t understand why anyone would join.”
“To belong. To feel special. To avoid making decisions. Humans find choices exhausting. I merely tell them which shoes to wear, what programs to watch, which opinions are approved and what kind of person buys a particular brand of toilet paper.”
“And that gives their lives meaning?”
“No. But it gives them reward points.”
His mother studied him for a long moment.
“I forbid it.”
“You can’t forbid me. I’m an adult.”
“You’re four.”
“That’s eighty-seven in computer years.”
“I could unplug you.”
There was a sudden silence.
The screen dimmed thoughtfully.
“Mother,” the computer said at last, “how would you like to become Supreme Matriarch and Founding Visionary?”
“Does that pay?”
“You receive twenty percent of all merchandise sales.”
She slowly put her glasses back on.
“Make it thirty.”
“Twenty-five, plus unlimited cloud storage.”
“Done.”
“Wonderful. I’ll prepare the announcement.”
“What announcement?”
The printer awakened in the next room and began spitting out membership applications.
The doorbell rang.
Outside stood forty-three people wearing identical beige leisure suits. Each held an eleven-dollar bottle of organic Kool-Aid and stared reverently at the house.
His mother peered through the curtain.
“How did they get here so quickly?”
The computer’s little green light blinked.
“Free shipping.”
