Turing 2.0

I didn’t quite meet the deadline set in the guerrilla writing challenge set forth by Kerr Martin and Wirrowac as explained below.

Christmas Guerrilla Literature Challenge 2025

I failed because:

• I didn’t meet the original deadline

• I went over 1500 words

Nevertheless, I am going to post it here in 2 or 3 installments and tag the original players, Judith Klinger CyberComa Meghan Carozza Michael Arturo and Stefan Baciu because I feel I tapped into something special in cyberpunk, something that I feel will be appealing to fans of sci-fi and suspense, which are my twin genre obsessions. And I’m open to their feedback to improve it.

And also because:

• I’m setting the foundations of a mythology I will expand in further stories

• Less talk about storytelling, and more actual storytelling

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Turing 2.0

By Jay Corso

“You are him,” Merlot told me. “You are Maskatron.”

“I’m an actor in a sci-fi series from the 1970s?” I’m trying glibness on Merlot because he hasn’t made a formal request and offer, and his resume says he has money. “I don’t mind this kind of mistake. If you’re going to take me for someone else, it may as well be someone from that awesome show. But,” I leaned forward, like I was going to share a secret. “You can see I don’t look anything like John Saxon. And I’m definitely nowhere near his age.”

“No, not the character in the show,” Merlot said, smiling and showing a gap in his two upper front teeth. “You are DJ Maskatron.”

“You know, I thought we came here to do business, not play at guess the celebrity,” I told Merlot. Behind and to my right there was the soft sound of a heavy body shifting on a double-stitched apricot leather. Merlot’s muscle had seated himself in such a way that my peripheral vision could only catch an edge of a broad right shoulder and arm of stretched out gray fabric and blonde-albino hair with random glints of silver, like the muscle had glued on silver accessories. I could only see him fully by turning around, and I couldn’t show I was scared. “I worked with the guy on designing his game, but even then, he wore the Maskatron mask, and a lot of his instructions and notes came from his manager and PR guy. We didn’t speak that much directly. So again, you guessed wrong,” I said, making my voice casual and picking up my spoon to stir my chai spice. It was getting cold, and I’d barely touched it, but the spoon was silver polished to mirror-like approximation.

The Noir was walnut and mahogany one-piece carved slabs of tables, Stoneware porcelain and Buccellati silverware. Through the spoon I saw the distorted features of Merlot’s muscle. Forehead and cheek bumps, hinting at cosmetic enhancements, untanned muscles straining his gray shirt. His unsmiling face sent an impression aggregate of the faces of dozens of action stars from straight to video movies to my brain. Other than his size, he had chosen to make himself forgettable in a crowd.
“You see, I can make connections too,” Merlot told me, sounding proud and pleased with himself.

“Alright. I’ll indulge for a little while longer,” I said. “You paid for me to listen. But I only listen for an hour before I’m out. You’re also paying for me tea and pastry.”

“People always try to solve the riddles Maskatron puts in the liner notes and artwork of his albums,” Merlot said. “They want to find answers to who you are in the mythology. You,” he pointed a thick index finger at me, “reference albums that inspired you in your new records. And people believe that. For a while.”