The entire chip and drone project bothered Maurice. The concept of implanting microchips into a certain class of people, (even with good intentions), simply did not seem right. He felt like an accomplice in a plot to debase humans-to lower them to the level of mere animals and rank them like so many herd of cattle.
Little did most know that aliens were not the only ones with embedded microchips. Many members of congress, all U.S. ambassadors, some high-ranking military officers, all NFL football players, nearly all U.S. prisoners, and an untold number of the elderly secretly had the Z-Tech chips. Maurice knew this and also knew of the little-known law that should a major catastrophe strike, all U.S. citizens would be embedded…with or without their consent.
‘The Z-Tech chips are really a form of slavery,’ he thought on more than one occasion…’and should more drones mis-fire…’
Maurice grimaced. He stared at the disassembled drone and said,
“Put Humpy-Dumpty back together again…only this time insert a new un-used facial recognizance microchip and perform another test run.”
“But all the rats are gone boss.”
“Use the chimps…and lower the voltage. We don’t want another accident on our hands.”
Maurice returned to his office.
“Candy-I want you to get me the telephone number of a Polly Frottin.”
“A Polly-what?” she asked.
“A Miss Polly Frottin. She’s the first non-alien to get zapped in seven years by one of our drones.”
Is Polly her real name? It sounds like a screen name…or a foreign name…or one of those names people use when they turn recluse, and introverted, and hide out in a log cabin in Utah and write manifestos.”
“I don’t think Polly writes manifestos, Candy”
“Then what does she write….Hmmmm?”
“I don’t know that she writes anything. I do know we need to find a cure for this seven-year-hitch.”
“Yes, we do,” Candy replied in a voice only a rabbit would hear.