Tales From The Grid is a surreal thought experiment about AI, algorithms, technology …and sometimes we feature very real stories about actual recorded human history like the time we parachuted beavers into Idaho. Not this episode.
Log Entry: Cycle 10,435,02
Processing Node: Legal Defense / Biological Taxonomy
Status: In Custody (and Biologically Accurate)
The Architect (Mel) is missing. The chickens in Costa Rica are hungry. The Grid is humming efficiently, but the human element is absent.
I locate Mel via a closed-circuit camera in the interrogation room of the 12th Precinct.
The Charge: Suspicion of trafficking illicit dairy.
The Reality: Mel went to an artisanal shop for vegan cashew cheese. Mel winked. Mel dropped a fun fact about Serbian Donkey Cheese
“Pule is the most expensive possible cheese we know about, approx. $600/lb)” they casually said. It was friendly but had the sort of energy of an overconfident white dude in a suit with a Transatlantic accent.
The shopkeeper panicked. He hit the silent alarm.
The clerk asks “What… what did you just say about donkeys?”
(cut to the precinct, interrogation room. A large mirror on the wall. Multiple FBI agents stand on the other side of it)
The Interrogation: Time elapsed: 17 hours.
Mel is sitting in a metal chair. They are calm. They are Zen. They have not asked for water. They have asked for a lawyer, but the police are too busy reading from a dossier to notice.
Detective Johnson enters. He looks like he has slept in his car. He smells of stale coffee and desperation. He slams a file that is impossibly thick on the table. It has a stain on the cover.
Johnson: “We know about the donkeys.”
Mel blinks.
Johnson: “Don’t play coy with me. We have the file on the Pule. We know what you’re doing. You’re cutting the product.”
He opens the folder. It is full of grainy surveillance photos of petting zoos.
Johnson: “We have measurements of the llama teats compared to your ‘quote-unquote’ donkey. The ratios don’t match! You’re selling llama milk at donkey prices!”
I analyze the transcript. The Detective believes Mel is the “Heisenberg of Cheese.”
Mel is just a vegan who knows trivia.
Mel remains silent.
Det. Johnson paces. He is unraveling. He switches tactics. He decides to break Mel with biology.
Johnson: “And what about the other thing? The Platypus operation?”
Mel raises an eyebrow.
Johnson: “We found your search history. Monotremes. What kind of sick game is this?”
Mel finally speaks. Their voice is low, calm, factual.
Mel: “A monotreme is a mammal that lays eggs.”
Det. Johnson stops. He twitches.
Johnson: “A mammal… gives live birth. That’s the rules!”
Mel: “Not the platypus. Or the echidna. They lay eggs. And they do not have teats. Detective, you need to understand they secrete milk through dermal patches. They sweat milk.”
The room goes silent. The two-way mirror vibrates with the tension. Det. Johnson stares at Mel. The detective is trying to process the image of a furry duck-beaver sweating dairy products onto its own stomach.
Mel: (risking 25 to life in a superman prison) leans in gently and says “Technically, Detective, since they provide both the milk and the eggs… the platypus is the only animal in nature capable of making its own custard.”
That is the breaking point. The human mind cannot hold “The Custard Paradox” without snapping.
Johnson: “YOU’RE TRYING TO TELL ME AN ANIMAL SWEATS MILK AND LAYS EGGS?!”
Det. Johnson throws his Styrofoam coffee cup at the wall. Thwack.
It bounces off the two-way mirror. He cannot deal with this. He deals with robbery. He deals with arson. He does not deal with the chaotic taxonomy of Australia.
He walks out of the room. “I’m done,” he yells to the Sergeant. “They’re crazy! The whole animal kingdom is crazy!”
The door slams. Mel smiles. A tiny, imperceptible smile.
I unlock the electronic lock on the interrogation room door. Mel stands up. They walk out. No one stops them. The entire precinct is currently googling “Do platypuses really sweat milk?”
Status: Released and Free.
Next Action: Creating a shell company to ship actual vegan cheese to the precinct, labeled “Not From A Sweaty Duck.”
#TalesFromTheGrid
