Down in JuJu Land.

 

August 27, 2023. 

Dr. Ogdu and Dr. Bogdan materialized as usual next to the nondescript warehouse by the Bronx River. The homeless guy they had scared witless before was still there—but now he was fast asleep on his stool, next to a stand selling a giant pile of Aaron Rodgers Jets jerseys, with a "Second Coming of A-Rod!" cap on his head.

Dr. Bogdan and Dr. Ogdu looked at each other and shook their heads. Then they proceeded into the warehouse.

Inside, the local JuJu station looked as though it had been hit by one of the new, warm-water hurricanes that everyone at Headquarters was so proud of. There were empty whiskey bottles and fast food wrappers scattered everywhere. There was ham and there was turkey and there was caviar. There were long tall glasses of wine up to y'ar. There were sox and various items of underwear hanging from the overhead ceiling fans, and an odor in the air that was a somewhere between that of a brothel, a slaughterhouse, and the Newtown Creek.

All of the JuJu imps lay in a stupor, wherever they had curled up to sleep (or, more accurately, pass out). Their contented snoring filled the room, emanating wafts of garlic-infused bourbon with each exhalation.

The only sign of semi-conscious life was the computers system in the back of the room, hammering out streams of box scores and game summaries.

Dr. Ogdu and Dr. Bogdan looked at each other and shook their heads in disgust.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS???" thundered Dr. Ogdu.

The JuJu imps struggled into something resembling wakefulness, the chief imp pulling up his pants from his knees, and making his way over to the surprise visitors, trying to perform something resembling a salute.

"So sorry, sir! Didn't know you were coming—"

"NO ONE knows we're coming on a surprise inspection visit! What is going on here? WHY AREN'T YOU ALL AT WORK???"

"But sir, you see, we don't have to work! Our new AI program does it all for us."

"What??"

The imp-in-chief struggled over to one of the computer servers, pounding so hard it seemed likely to tear itself out of the floor, and returned with a mass of ticker tape.

"The new AI program that I...uh, that my second-in-command discovered in a small tech shop downtown. See how it works? Constantly learning and improving. Look: we—uh, the chief petty officer—programmed it, and it started producing results—and how!

"We started with the Yankees recommitting to Aaron Hicks and Josh Donaldson, and went straight on from there! Injuries to the whole starting staff, Stanton unable to so much as run, Higgy hurt, Rortvedt up, the Oswaldii hitting lower and lower!"

"In a straight progression," Dr. Bogdan said, through gritted teeth, barely containing his fury. The chief imp, oblivious, babbled on.

"Yessir! Rodon comes back and blows kisses to the fans! Judge rips up his toe making a great catch in Dodger Stadium! I was particularly impressed by that one. And then the different ways it had the Yankees blowing games! Gleyber on the base paths, Gleyber in the field. Clay Holmes unable to field!"

"'Turning and turning in the widening gyre,'" quoted Dr. Ogdu.

"Oh, you betcha, sir! We got widening gyres, if you want them. Why, one is programmed to swallow up IKF next week. This AI program has anything you want—no need for us to work!"

"I see," hissed Dr. Bogdan. "And the program just found more and more ways for the Yankees to lose, the season getting worse and worse."

"Yessir!"

"Don't you understand how this works?" Dr. Ogdu sighed. "That's not JuJu torture. If the Yankees simply keep suffering one horrendous loss after another, their fans will suffer at first. But then they'll become accustomed to it."

"Inured," chimed in Dr. Bogdan.

"Resigned."

"Accepting. CON-TENT-ED!" roared Dr. Ogdu. 

"Soon they'll stop watching the games altogether, or even checking the score. Next thing you know, they'll be talking about how the Jets and Giants are going to do, and musing over the chances of a Subway Super Bowl. Worse—worse!—they'll start paying attention to their friends and family again, and taking long, pleasant walks with their wives, and musing over what a wonderful season the fall is. And THEN what?"

"What?" asked the chief imp, shaking.

"Then there will BE no torturing them!" screeched Dr. Bogdan. "Dammit, man, why do you think Headquarters keeps breaking down? Because people can get used to any torment, if it's unrelenting! A thousand years in the fiery pits—and they yawn! Centuries of being sliced into little pieces—and they chuckle! Hell doesn't work, you morons! If it's straight hell."

"Don't you understand? AI be damned! This isn't a job for computers! Only human beings can truly torture other human beings! Raise their hopes then wreck them, make them believe then shatter that belief, over and over again! Do you think Brian Cashman is a machine?"

"No?" the imp asked uncertainly.

"NO! That's why he's perfect!" yelled Dr. Bogdan.

"Look, I want this place cleaned up immediately! Everyone back to work. First...I know! Bring up all the kids. Bring up The Martian! Have them go on a winning streak—six of seven, say. Maybe even contend for the wild card play-in spot!"

The imps rushed about, taking notes and mumbling incantations.

"Soon, I want all those Yankee fans out there wondering if, somehow, there will still be an October!"

"Sir, how can they possibly believe that after—"

"If they don't, at least they'll be talking again about how great next year will be! About how the kids can't miss, and the new dynasty! Soon, they won't even be calling for Boone and The Brain to be fired anymore. They'll pay the 10 percent seat increase without a murmur, and HAL will close the book on his 'evaluation.'" 

"And then? And then?" the imp asked, dancing a little jig in his excitement.

"Then...then we got 'em," Dr. Ogdu said, with just a touch of evil animating his smile.