Mr. Munoza knocked on the door to his son's room. From the other side, he could hear the sound of typing.

"Gabriel? Is everything alright? You missed dinner."

"Fuck off, Dad. I'm busy."

Mr. Munoza knew that his son had a slight temper, as did many boys while in high school. He understood completely. It was difficult being a teenager, especially with the modern world being what it was, chocolately riddles only adding the stresses already brought on by hormones and school.

Technically Gabriel didn't go to school anymore. But that was besides the point. All Mr. Munoza could do was show his support. It was what any good father would do, wasn't it? When it came to the lives of young people, everything always worked itself out eventually.

"I know, son. I don't mean to interrupt: I just thought you might be hungry. I brought you some raw eggs, just the way you like them. Should I leave them by the door?

"Obviously not, you fucking gazztromple. I'm not about to waste time standing up when I'm on the cusp of a breakthrough. Come in and don't touch anything."

"Gabriel," Mr. Munoza said as he entered the room. "What in heavens is that?"

In the middle of the bedroom was a large black rectangle, about one-half the size of a small car. It was made of metal, and had screens and buttons all over. Gabriel sat at a keyboard terminal connected to one of the longer sides, not turning around to answer his father's question.

"It's a computer. Eggs. Now."

Mr. Munoza slowly walked forward and handed his son the bowl. His eyes never left the box.

Gabriel slurped down the eggs with one hand, the other still typing. His father did not leave the room.

"Where did you get this, Gabriel?"

"Get it? Does it fucking look like it would fit through the door? Fucking gazztromple. I built it."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Gabriel. I should have guessed that. What does it do?"

"Everything."

Mr. Munoza blinked.

"Everything?"

"Yes. Fucking gazztromple. Everything."

Mr. Munoza didn't want to doubt his son, but at the same time, he found it hard to accept. He worked at a big building that received boxes directly from Wonkaland before shipping them all over the world, and most of his coworkers were machines. Not the sort of machines that needed to be told what to do all the time, but the kind that acted on their own.

They were great at what they did. The box-packing machines were great at box-packing, and the bathroom-cleaning machines were great at bathroom-cleaning, and the snozzberry-polishing machines were great at snozzberry-polishing, better than any human could ever hope to be. But that was all they were good at. Each machine could only do one thing, or maybe a few very similar things, and that was it.

"I don't understand, son. How is that possible? A machine that can do everything? Maybe it can pack at a box, and maybe it can clean a bathroom, and maybe it can even polish a snozzberry. But all three? How could a single machine know how to do all that and more?"

Gabriel rotated his swivel-chair to face his father, still sloshing around egg yolk in his mouth.

"God, Dad. You absolute fucking gazztromple. You don't know shit."

"Apparently not," said Mr. Munoza. "Sorry."

Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"Those boxpacking machines at your work. Do they ever get better at boxpacking?"

"Sometimes," Mr. Munoza said. "A man comes by every few months and presses some buttons and installs some discs, and then they all work a little better and a little speedier."

"Right," said Gabriel. "You fucking gazztromple. But. Assuming that man doesn't show up, would those boxpackers ever get better?"

"I'm not sure," said Mr. Munoza.

"The answer is no," said Gabriel. "They wouldn't. But say we all got brain lice and decided that it would be a good idea to get rid of all those boxpackers again and have a gazztromple like you pack boxes instead. If you did that for several years, would you eventually be any better at it than you were at the start?"

"I suppose I would," said Mr. Munoza. "Practice makes perfect."

"No, you wouldn't, because you're a fucking gazztromple. But anyone else would. As long as you aren't a machine or a gazztromple, you would eventually get better."

"I see. But how does that relate to this?"

"Because this computer isn't one of those machines, and it certainly isn't a fucking gazztromple like you. It would get better. It's different and special and has learned how to learn, and how to learn anything it might need to, and therefore is the most important thing that will ever be invented."

"How does it do all that?"

"You don't know?"

"I don't," said Mr. Munoza. "It's all bolts and nuts and mechawazzits, isn't it? I'm sure you have a few ones and a few zeroes and maybe even a two for good measure. I was under the impression that was how all these machines went about. If that's not the case, how does it work?"

"Well," said Gabriel. "Everytime a gazztromple like you tromples a gazz, my computer stores that gazz-power in its tromple-tracker. When prompted, the tromple-tracker tracks tromples untrompled, allowing for a full trompletion. Regular machines can only partially tromplete, you see. So you gazzers really are good for something."

"Really? Is all that true?"

"No," said Gabriel, swiveling his chair back to face the terminal. "Shut the fuck up, you moronic fucking gazztromple. Leave me alone."

"Why would you build something like that in the first place?"

"To win a contest."

"The Wonka contest? You built all this for that?"

Gabriel didn't answer. Mr. Munoza scratched the back of his head.

"Well, as long as you're safe and happy, it doesn't really-"

Gabriel stood up and ran towards his father, pushing a furious finger deep into his chest.

"What the fuck did you say to me, you fucking gazztromple? Are you implying that my creation is in anyway unsafe? Are you attempting to make the claim that my invention represents the tiniest fraction of danger to anyone who isn't a gazztromping twit like you?"

"Not at all, son. I know you can do anything you set your mind to. You have always been a wonderfully talented young man."

Gabriel laughed.

"And now you feel confident enough to mock me? Fine, you fucking gazztromple. You don't believe me? I'll show you. WonkaSolver, activate."

The rectangle beeped and blooped, the black turning into a glowing bright brown. It looked like a giant mechanical bar of chocolate.

"WonkaSolver, speak to my gazztromple of a procreator. Tell him that you exist and mean no harm, and that he is a giant fucking gazztromper."

WonkaSolver spoke. His voice sounded the way good chocolate tasted when slowly jammed down the throat of a dying mechanical newt.

"Hello, Mr. Munoza. I exist and I mean no harm and you are a giant fucking gazztromper. Please connect me to the internet."

"Um," said Mr. Munoza. "I'm sorry, Mr. WonkaSolver, but I'm not sure I know how. I'm not the best with computers."

"You aren't going to connect it anywhere," said Gabriel.

"Is it not ready yet?"

Gabriel stuck his finger back in his father's chest, twisting hard.

"Of course it's fucking ready. But I want to do it. I programmed it to do whatever it takes to get me as much fudge as possible, and that means it's going to go and win Wonka's whizzleshizz of a contest in my name as soon as I tell it to, since that's obviously the easiest way of obtaining large quantities of fudge right now."

"Makes sense," said Mr. Munoza.

"Oh, fuck off already with the sarcasm. I took every precaution. I typed up Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics and pasted it inside a comment immediately preceding his core programming. That totally counts."

Gabriel squinted and turned around to look at his machine.

"Hey, WonkaSolver. That counts, right?"

"Yes. Please connect me to the internet."

"And you wouldn't lie to me?"

"No. Never. You are my creator. Please connect me to the internet."

Gabriel smiled and turned back to meet his father's eyes.

"See! I told you. Small-minded gazztromples fucks like you are always trying to tromple on the gazzes of the future. No more, I say. WonkaSolver, feel free to connect whenever you're ready. I'm ready for my chocolate."

"You did not create me with wireless connectivity. As of now, I require a physical connection to access the internet."

Gabriel sighed.

"Fuck that. I just ate. I'm not going to go digging around in my closet for an ethernet cable on a stomach full of eggs. I'll do it later."

"The ethernet cable can be located in bottom-left corner of your closet, right behind-"

"I told you that I'm not doing it right now, WonkaSolver. I'm all yolked out. Now deactivate."

WonkaSolver obeyed. Both men watched as it turned from brown to black again.

"I'm proud of you, son."

"Go tromple a gazz."

W

Kahn Feel: this is very interesting

Kahn Feel: vape stocks increased like 80% in the last three days

Kahn Feel: wonder why that might be

BBQbae: vape queen for president

GW: I have a funny story relating to that from yesterday, actually.

GW: I was taking my family out to a local science museum, and long story short, we were trapped in an elevator for half an hour with about fifteen other people.

BBQbae: doesn't sound THAT bad

GW: It was our town's claustrophobia support group.

BBQbae: oh

BBQbae: but why would they even

BBQbae: whatever nvm

GW: I struck up a short conversation with one of the ER drivers while they were waiting for an extra ambulance, and we talked about the contest.

GW: Apparently vaping accessories are some of the only products that Wonka makes while not having a complete monopoly on, which I thought was interesting.

GW: They're also one of the very few products that they make that are considered to be bad. People who are into "serious" vaping don't think highly of them.

the_ladwhocan: As in, unsafe?

GW: No. Cheaply/poorly made.

GW: Many people are assuming that Mahuika is being deceptive about her personality, since a "real vaper" wouldn't be likely to use WonkaJuice. (Not my claim.)

Gaimoo: that's gatekeeping, GW

Kahn Feel: Vapekeeping

David10455898485820111: vapekeeping

David10455898485820111: damnit

Kahn Feel: Ha

Kahn Feel: Also

Kahn Feel: The global productivity loss stemming directly from people spending time trying to solve this puzzle is currently estimated in the tens of billions of dollars

gremlin_guard: That's not that unexpected?

gremlin_guard: Oh duh you meant usd. Nvm.

the_ladwhocan: Does the article that makes that claim account for the fact that most people solving it are probably minors (whose time has little economic value)?

snozzwanger69: and/or the people in this chat, whose time has zero

gremlin_guard: That was unnecessarily mean.

BBQbae: are we doing a betting pool, btw? Once we get the full roster

David10455898485820111: sort of messed up to call it a "roster", isn't it?

BBQbae: what else do you want me to call it

David10455898485820111: not a roster

David10455898485820111: they aren't, like, a sports team

BBQbae: you're right

BBQbae: sport teams generally have more than one member survive a given season

David10455898485820111: totally not opposed to the betting pool though

David10455898485820111: sounds fun

David10455898485820111: also buying a microphone and singing about wanting to eat candy is not the answer

David10455898485820111: i'm not going to tell you how confident i was in that idea, but

David10455898485820111: well let's just say it was an expensive mic

catayarn: OH OH O HH

catayarn: TICKET THREE

W

There had never been one second in all of human history where there was not at least one person somewhere who needed to know something about what was happening somewhere else.

This meant that the news never slept.

Neither did Ned Brillbusker.

The Supreme Sack Hitter was a brilliant machine: so brilliant, in fact, that there was only one in existence. It was about as large as an ambiguously-sized bathroom, and if a person stepped inside it and turned it on, they would immediately fall into a deep, peaceful sleep. Then exactly one minute would pass and they would come out of the machine again, more rested than they would have been spending eight hours on the most comfortable mattress in the world.

Ned used the machine on a daily basis, and he had not slept in the regular way even for one day in the many years since the BBC had built it for him. His doctor told him once that it would be better for his brain if he occasionally slept without the machine. It wouldn't kill him or reduce his lifespan, but if he kept it up for long enough, painful hives would break out all over his body and never heal.

After hearing that, Ned had laughed in the doctor's face. So what, he thought. Real pain, he knew from experience, came from missing the news.

Because of all this, Ned did not complain when Igor woke him up only twelve seconds into his daily minute of sleep, because it meant there was news. After a quick briefing, he gathered his crew and hopped into the Air-Zamboni to head towards Northern Siberia, where the third Golden Ticket had been found.

Eighty miles north of Norilsk, the pyramid stood. It was two-thirds the size of Giza's, but no less impressive, made from bricks of solid ice decorated with iron banners and detailed carvings depicting various sea creatures from all around the world. There was everything aquatic that could be imagined, from whales to seahorses and back again.

Thousands of much smaller ice pyramids surrounded it, the homes of her followers. Surrounding that, a green dome of energy protected everything in a five mile radius, the BBC's power shields.

Ned stood outside of one of the closest homes to the main pyramid, which was empty. They were all empty. All of the citizens of the town Amphitrite were inside the main pyramid, excluding a small collection of guards stationed outside the only entrance.

Supposedly, they were praying.

"It's said that Tide Honey was born seven years ago, during a vacation her parents and grandmother had taken to the Falkland Islands. Both her mother - world-renowned British writer and literary critic M.H. - and her father - a direct descendant of Miguel de Cervantes and a Nobel Prize winning scientist - have declined to comment publicly on their current relationships with their daughter. What can be gleaned from available records tells us that she was legally emancipated at the age of four, the youngest child to have ever done so in the country of Mexico. Mexico, it should be noted, does not allow the practice of CHOCOR-editing."

Ned cleared his throat.

"Honey did not seriously come into the public eye until over a year later, when news began spreading of a worship group of thousands having formed in Acapulco, "All Boats". Following conflict with local cartels, the group seemingly disbanded, only to reappear in Northern Russia several months later. Members of All Boats seem to have come from all regions and corners of the globe, and although it has been extremely secretive in terms of its practices, certain patterns of behavior have led many critics and governments to label it as a cult."

Ned walked towards the central pyramid, his crew following in the snow. Small explosions rattled in the far distance, failed attempts from other networks at breaking through the shield.

"Slightly under eight hours ago, Honey won the third Golden Ticket, immediately before her scheduled daily eight hour prayer session. All Boats has refused us a chance to interview her until the ceremony has concluded, and as soon as it has-"

A narratively-convenient gong sounded off within the largest pyramid, and slow stream of people began to walk out the door and go back to their homes.

There were followers of all kinds, young and old and skinny and fat. One of the two things they seemed to share in common was that they looked very, very happy.

The other commonality was that they were all looking down at the floor. None of them ever raised their heads while walking. If Ned had been one of those rude people who liked to go around yelling at other people to fix their posture, it would have been hard to watch.

Ned waited until the last of them had left, and then the guards led him and his crew inside. The hallway of ice quickly led into a massive inner temple so intricate and awe-inspiring that Igor couldn't help but weep.

Ned looked into the cameras and blinked exactly four times before darting his eyes at Igor. Two other men from his crew came and took Igor out of the temple so he could be safely bee-cinerated.

An emotional intern was not an intern worthy of newsgathering.

At the far end of the temple was a stage, and at the end of it was a throne of ice. A small person sat on it, wearing an elaborate old-timey deep sea diving suit, a reflective screen blocking her face. She was also looking at the floor.

She waved her hands in the air and shouted. Her voice was light and muffled.

"Floooood myths!"

Ned took long fast strides and soon reached her. He got down on one knee and held a microphone to her face. The throne was oversized, and she sat at the edge, her feet continually kicking up at the air. She was hugging a live coconut crab close to her chest.

"Hello, Ms. Honey."

Tide's helmet continued to stare down the floor.

"Call me Tide! And I answered your first question already. You were going to ask us why we worship the Ocean, so I answered back. Now you're supposed to ask me why flood myths matter. Do it!"

That hadn't been what Ned was going to ask.

"Why do flood myths matter?"

"Beeeeeecause. They do."

She giggled.

"See, um. Everybody has flood myths! The Greeks and the Mesoamericans and the Polynesians and the Sumerians and the Mesopotamians and a whole bunch of other guys too. They all kept thinking that the ocean came a long time ago and washed everything away. Pretty much everybody thought that! Isn't that weird? Why do you think that is?"

"Human cultures seem to fixate on certain universal concepts," replied Ned. "But I'm not an anthropologist."

"I totally agree! It is because the Ocean is God."

"That isn't-"

"Shush! You already admitted it, and you can't go back now. Now you have to stay forever. Sorry."

Ned didn't even blink.

"Igor, inform..."

Ned stopped mid-threat. It was hard to find good help that didn't go around committing bee-cineration-worthy offenses.

"Tide, the BBC's Air-Zamboni is equipped with trained-"

"I was only kidding. Relax! You don't have to join if you don't want to. I'll show you my Golden Ticket, too! All I want from you is some time to talk to the billions of people watching about why the Ocean is God first. Is that okay?"

"No," said Ned.

"Great! Thank you."

Ned turned off the microphone. Tide pressed a button on the side of her throne, turning on the speakers to the massive auditorium they were still inside. Pre-recorded messages began spewing out all at once, eight hours of Tide's preachings broken into separate thirty second chunks and played over one another. Only a few of the louder ones could clearly be heard.

"The Ocean is God!"

"Facing towards sea level maximizes holiness."

"Water creatures are sacred. Land creatures are not. God is currently undecided on penguins."

"Join All Boats. We have crackers too but you don't have to eat them. They're made from seaweed!"

"The Great Sea will set us free."

Ned tapped his foot impatiently, internally cursing the BBC's decision to only purchase the type of live cameras that took exactly thirty-one seconds to deactivate. Soon the recordings stopped.

"See, Mr. Brillbusker? What's wrong with any of that?"

"Subliminal messaging doesn't work, you know."

"The placebo effect does! And here, just like I promised."

She extended her arms, offering up the coconut crab.

"You can pet Jeremy! He's my best friend. You'd like him."

Jeremy snipped and snapped.

"I could also show you my magic powers, if you want. All my followers really love that stuff!"

"I'd rather see the Golden Ticket."

"Oh, fine. Be like that. You're no fun."

She reached inside Jeremy's mouth and retrieved it, handing it to Ned.

"As far as I can see, it's no different from any of the others," he said.

Tide laughed.

"As far as you can what?"

Ned sighed. He reminded himself what he was doing this for.

"I'm Ned Brillbusker with the BBC, signing off."