Ok. Fasten your seat belts. I am giving an online writing AI a test drive, using my free trial of a website called Sudowrite. I gave the AI a writing prompt from my crazy ideas file, a mere handful of words that I wrote down a very long time ago (I think in the ’90s) and never went back to. Here’s the writing prompt:
St. Louis Blues
“Take me to St. Louis,” said the cruise missle in the thick of the bramble patch.
Howie Hinkle blinked, and put down his machete. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Take me to St. Louis,” the missle repeated.
Howie howled. “Paw, dammit, there’s an old water tank in here and it’s talkin’ to me!”
It’s not a great deal to go on, but that was the idea. With a bare hint of a concept, what would Sudowrite do? I could have written some of it myself, or edited it, but I wanted to see what the damned thing could produce solo. 100% of the writing after the prompt was done by the AI. I had hoped to avoid the literary equivalent of Salvador Dali. Well, too bad. Hello Dali…
“Take me to St. Louis,” said the cruise missle in the thick of the bramble patch.
Howie Hinkle blinked, and put down his machete. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Take me to St. Louis,” the missle repeated.
Howie howled. “Paw, dammit, there’s an old water tank in here and it’s talkin‘ to me!”
His father, Howard Hinkle Jr., took him for a look. The old tank was rusty and damaged, with a huge gash in it. Penetrating the tank from inside was a cruise missle, with a single eye and a fin on top. A single missile launcher poked through the gash.
“Who the hell are you?” Howie Jr. asked. “Why do you have a cruise missle?”
“My name is Shiloh,” said the voice. “I am a cruise missle, and I will ask you one more time to take me to St. Louis.”
“I don’t know where St. Louis is,” said Howie Jr.
“I will find it,” said Shiloh. “I am a golem of the Mossad. If you do not help me, I will call my brethren. We will clear the bramble from the road, and from there, we will find you.”
“Y-you can’t do that!” Howie Jr. said.
“If you do not take me to St. Louis, I will call my brethren, and we will take your woman, and we will bring her back to Tel Aviv. We will use her to breed a generation of human-missle golems. You can raise them with your own spector. They will be of your tribe, and they will spread across the land.”
Howard Hinkle Jr. swallowed, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “If I take you to St. Louis, will you let us alone?” he asked.
“I will,” said Shiloh.
“Deal,” said Howie Jr. “Let’s go.”
Hours later, a police car rolled up, and several officers got out. One pulled Howie Jr. aside.
“Which way did he go?” he asked.
“Er- he went that way,” Howie Jr. said, pointing.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” said the officer.
“Say,” the officer said, “was that your grandma that was in the hotel room with you?”
“Uhh, she’s my wife,” said Howie Jr.
“Doesn’t look like a 43 year old woman, honey,” said the officer. “What’s your name?”
“Howie, honey,” Howie Jr. said.
“Yeah, that’s what he said,” the officer said.
A week later, on the steps of the White House, President Obama announced the success of the St. Louis negotiations. Behind him, an Israeli flag hung. Beneath it, a Mossad agent clapped.
“What a complete dick,” said the agent. “He really thought he got one over on us, didn’t he?”
Shiloh’s eye blinked, and his fin wiggled.
