Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes? (Who Watches the Watchmen?)

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“Huh, I thought you said something. ‘Guess it was just onna’ those déjà vu moments. You know, when you hear something you recognize out of a dream or something, but the guy who said it actually said something completely different?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“You’ve never experienced déjà vu before?”

“Sure I have. Just not the way you described it.”

“Oh. Never mind.”

“Oi, bartend! Get us a few more rounds, will ya pal? Thanks. My friend here’s a little delirious.”

///---\\

Notes for “City of Dirt,” dated 7/21/1998, final draft remains unposted.

I watched a boy hold up a seven eleven this afternoon, after I woke up. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, but there he was; .380 snub nose revolver shaking in his tight grip. I distinctly remember the beads of sweat on his forehead—unguarded by a mask—as they made wet streaks down his face, dripping over the crest of his brow which overshadowed the dilated pupils of his eyes. The kid must’ve been higher than a kite.

The cashier’s register was cleaned out, but the kid didn’t even make it to the door before his blood spattered on the glass windows of the door. The cashier discreetly pocketed his smoking cannon after shooting the culprit, and he disposed of the boy’s body in the dumpster out back.

And where was I the whole time?

Watching through the Plexiglas door of an opened beverage rack. I don’t even feel guilty for letting it all happen.

That’s the city for you. ‘Lived here twelve years, and that’s just how it is.

///---\\

“So what do you do for a living?”

“I watch people.”

“Like a psychiatrist or something?”

“Yeah. Or something.”

///---\\

An excerpt from “The Filth That Is Human,” published at 8/19/1998

…Casinos, strip clubs, drug holes, gang hangouts; this jungle of concrete is infested with more vermin, more plague, more poison, and more ‘distractions’ from reality that continue to push us, as a society, toward the brink of an ultimate mass suicide. We rot our brains in front of televisions, rot our social skills in front of monitors, rot our speech in front of cell phones—it’s no wonder the artists have packed their bags and gone home. It’s no wonder a decent book hasn’t been published in over a decade. It certainly isn’t any wonder that parents have stopped disciplining their children—they tend to be just as bad as the offspring anyhow.

The rich do nothing, the poor do nothing, and the middle class do nothing. We shuffle into the workplace like zombies and feed on digital messages projected into our heads by talking heads and politicians. We let our minds decay and our bodies grow fat by sitting down, and letting everything do everything else for us. These so-called ‘distractions’ only push more stress upon us, force more insecurity, pressure more intolerance. We are perpetrators of our own selfish victim hood.

///---\\

“Sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes I just feel like they’re everywhere—all around me.”

“Who is everywhere?”

“Watchers, watchmen, I don’t even know. Cameras, the government—something. It’s—it’s really starting to get to me.”

“But isn’t it your job to write commentary on everyone else?”

“Yeah.”

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

“Huh?”

///---\\

An excerpt from “Shadows Of Our Souls,” published at 11/8/1998

…And it is this, ladies and gentlemen, which has polluted us. The very concept of Mortal Sin revolves around the crucial fact of mortality itself. We do not sin because we are greedy, or lustful, or enraged. We do not sin because it is more efficient. We do not sin because it is more passionate. We do not sin because despise innocence or purity.

We sin merely because we live. We sin because we know that we will someday die. We sin to prove that we exist—indeed, the very byproduct of our existence is, for some of us, our soul reason for existence.

We sin to test our boundaries—similar to a recalcitrant toddler whose sitter has left the gate to the playpen open. The only question that remains is what happened to mankind’s babysitter?

///---\\

Recorded conversation with Richard L. Manning (background information and profile attached), 3/12/1999, 2:04 AM

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Hey! How are things?”

“Shitty.”

“Cynical to the end, eh?”

“Rich, it’s gotten worse. It’s like—it’s like they really are everywhere. It isn’t just a feeling anymore—I know they’re there.”

“Slow down, man. Chill. What are you talking about?”

“You know, them. I think it’s the government, but I’m not sure. I can’t really prove anything yet, but soon. I just have to have patience.”

“What would the government want with you, man? Last I checked, the First Amendment was still in place, and that site you always post that’s it. Last I checked, YouNews didn’t prohibit anything, regardless of cynicism or bitterness. You aren’t in danger because of your writing, man.”

“…Fine.”

“…You don’t sound convinced.”

“No, it’s just… Hey, I didn’t wake you or anything, did I?”

“What? Oh… uh, no.”

“Really?”

“Yeah man. I was just… you know, early morning insomnia? I get bouts of that every once in awhile. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh. A-alright. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah—hey, you’re still up for drinks on Friday, right?”

“Oh—oh yeah. Yeah, sure. Hey—”

“Yeah?”

“…You wouldn’t happen to know what the phrase—um—‘quis custodiet ipsos custodes’ means, would you?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Oh… Nothing. Sorry. See you tomorrow.”

“Alright, see you.”

“Bye.”

End, 2:07 AM, 3/12/1999

///---\\

Open, unsaved document present on his computer at scene of crime, untouched since 4/3/1999

They are coming down on me—I can feel it—as if they are the very riders of the apocalypse on Judgment Day. Is that what this really is? A Judgment? One big hoax, a lie; a scientific rat maze to test my intelligence and reaction to stimuli?

What if the test subject refuses to be tested? What if he decides not to be subjected to the tests?

How does one break free of a prison in which the bars are life itself?

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

///---\\

RoboTech Industries investigator Samuel Jacobs stared down at broken object at his feet. The cold fingers were wrapped around a 9mm semi-automatic, the plastic-cored, polymer coated eyes rolled back in the gelatin-based face. Remnants of positronic circuitry decorated the hardwood floor of the single-story house, interspersed with pieces of the subject’s carbon fiber based skull.

“The bullet went right through the ceiling,” A police lieutenant reported the details as he noticed them. “I bet he didn’t feel a thing.”

“He wouldn’t have.” Jacobs mumbled. He broke his gaze on the appliance long enough to motion to his assistant. “Decommission the Gamma series and order a complete recall. Mention a utilities error in the prime subconscious directory and pretend to fire one of our programming engineers for the defect—if only to please the bureaucrats. I’ll start the preliminary work on the Epsilon series when I get back. In the mean time, start production of the Deltas—and have engineering do a last-minute check of their subconscious programming. If another case like this shows up, the product might just end up killing someone. At least Gamma-091 had the decency to blow his own head off. And don’t let the media get any word of this. Bribe whomever you must, but don’t let the Project get out.”

The assistant nodded and jotted his notes down on his pad of paper, then left his side. Jacobs stared at the android a little longer, before starting for the door. He paused on his way out, however, to utter one last thought.

“How does scientific study come to this? We’re here to study mankind, so we built robots for unbiased reports—and this happens.” He looks once more to the computer monitor.

“‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’” he reads. He smirks and steps outside.

“We do.”