Black Catz

Chapter Twenty-One - "Fin"

I always believed in Darwinism and the natural selection for things and for how they evolve. Or at least I did when I first heard about it in school. But now, after all I've seen, being here, and going back to Black Catz, I don't know anymore. I don't know if natural selection knows how to naturally select at all, or if it naturally selects whatsoever. You see, if Darwinism was real and if his beliefs were true, I would understand why I would never be able to love and have a family—because of all my fucked up thoughts now, and how war and killings have changed me—and I get how some stupid people die before they are able to procreate, thankfully, but what about all those other millions of careless, heartless, stupid, fools who still get to recreate happily, like my mother and the Queen and so on; and how they then go on and give life to other mildness, obeying, drones like themselves. How could Darwin ever explain such a thing? How could he explain that? I mean, wasn't his theory supposed to kill off the bad before it could reproduce itself into more bad?

So why hasn't it here? How have we gotten this bad?

How have we gone hundreds of centuries after his discovery, only to get worse by the year, by the decade? Shouldn't that surely disproof his belief?

If each decade has only gotten worse since Charles Darwin first came up with Darwinism, doesn't the fog in the sky and the animals still alive eat up and fade-out, hiding, hiding-out, censoring, covering, ignoring all that is Darwinism?

Take for example, this story that we're in: how the fuck did we get this bad to the point of being in a store where robots sell you overpriced dresses that have overtaken the importance of necessities like food and water? How has Darwinism allowed these being to keep on existing? Therefore, keep on recreating the same bad habit; the same dumb habit?

"So the summer dress?" says the Queen, making it known to myself that I had answered for myself without wanting to actually answer for myself.

"You know—it is not all going to be fun and games," says my mother.

"Fun and games?" I answer back, actually taken a back she could actually call what we're about to get sent to go do as "fun and games".

"You know—Black Catz is still going to need some maintenance," announces the Queen. "You all will be running the organization for us, but you're running it—remember that."

"Which one do you like, sweetie?" asks my mother, to Úshka, denouncing what I once thought of them and putting in a new label...a daughter-like label.

The question in itself is loaded: there are many dresses, there are many dresses we can all choose from, that we can choose to dress in; there are many faces too, but it's up to us on the one we want to wear—and how we feel daily—and that chooses our daily dress for us to show to the world. Those are probably other dresses, however—the dresses that mask themselves even what you don't want to be masked.

Like my voice for example, the dress chooses me, instead of me choosing the dress, as a "summer it is" flies out of my mouth like the dresses did without me ever calling for them, or announcing a gesture to get them to approach me.

So the computer takes our measurements after we're done choosing—as you know, I go with a summer dress (brunch, as was the other name), and Úshka went for a fall, fighter dress, a more gothic-eighteenth-century-like look than the approach I had taken, woven, chosen.

Afterwards, one of the robots ordered me into a dressing room and another ordered Úshka into another dressing room.

The rooms were lit, all the way, with beaming lights—the glowing, laser-like type.