text: TW: terrorism Many might say I have lost my way but it is those who say that, who have lost their way. Our city neighborhood is changing because of them . Because they lost their way. My journal entries are my place of happiness. I write the good old days long before Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. The time when we were all safe. The only millionaires were sawmill operators, one named Henry Yesler. He was one of the pioneers of the city and built what became the city’s first steam-powered sawmill. People looked up to him and made him the city’s 7th and 15th mayor. He was truly an inspirational individual, not in the likes of any crazy aliens. I describe these days in detail and take into account everyone’s lifestyle. This is how life should be. We need to go back to the good old days. Walking through the streets through the heavy rain, I silently observe the people. Our home is known to be one of the fastest-growing cities in the United States. I write how it’s imperative that we return back to our old ways to stay safe. Our city has been misconceived to be dull and dreary yet if anything, New York, Houston, Boston, and Atlanta are drearier than ever. Clouds are harmless. I write how my first stop will be Pivotal Comware. The military has no need for such AI networks. Our manned militias got the job down. I describe how infuriating it is to read about such terrible innovations. Are these people signing the document for our demise? To even imagine the thought of those terrible machines serving us tea only to point a gun at our heads. A shudder passes through my body as I pull out the light brown package from my backpack. Carefully, I place the package behind Pivotal Comware and continue walking. I describe how the streets were relatively empty. The rain kept everyone indoors. It would only be a matter of time. “Pivotal Comware has just received a package with a bomb. Luckily, only one person was inside the building and brought what seems to be a harmless brown package inside the building. We are still searching for other victims but the company reports that nobody else was inside. That’s it for now, back to you, Bartel,” announced the TV reporter. The TV screen was filled with red flames licking the sides of the building. All that was left of the Pivotal Comware logo was black charr. I write how now it will only be one of humans’ mistakes from the past. I wait for Pivotal Comware’s story to calm down before heading out again. The sky was overcast with light gray clouds. This time I take a longer route and pass by the glass-blowing studios. The colorful beautiful shapes hang from the ceiling and walls. The local library sits across the studios. The entrance is filled with crowds of people, holding bags full of books. We are a smart bunch and our city is known for such amazing innovations. As such an elite group, we can’t risk our safety with these killer machines. Quantcast sits a few blocks further. Their terrible founders use AI I blend in the crowd and place the package into the mail truck right across. Within minutes, I’m half a mile away from Quantcast. I write about how it will be the last time anyone will see it. I realize the killer machines are not far away therefore I must speed up my game. I run back to my house and pick up a few more bombs. The police couldn’t find any direct trail from the bombs at both Quantcast and Pivotal Comware. God must be on my side, not the police’s side or the police would have found me a long time ago. I am doing what’s right. God supports me. Once I left my direct neighborhood, I slowed down to a normal pace. Attracting unnecessary attention would blow my cover. On the right, I approached Bertha. I describe how Bertha is a giant drill trying to dig its way under the city. God must have deemed the project bad because Bertha got stuck after completing 10 percent of her 1.7-mile journey for the new underground tunnel. The construction workers are working on removing the cutter head but they haven’t learned from their mistake or God’s hate. They plan on resuming drilling in a few months. Bertha isn’t alone under the bridge. A giant, car-crushing troll lives under the bridge too. I write about how I relate to the troll. I feel its fury in wanting to kill certain humans who have lost their way. Prifender’s office sits on the cross-section of three roads. I describe the bustling activity inside the building and how they are all killing humanity one click at a time. My legs feel energized and carry me to the back door. I’m careful to wear gloves and always cover my tracks. Quietly, I drop the package near the doorstep and head in the other direction. I walk past the Cascadia fault line. Seismologists warn us about there being an 80 percent chance of a 6.8-magnitude earthquake hitting within years. An earthquake is so small in comparison to what all these AI companies are building. Why can’t anyone else see that? Killer robots are going to invade our homes and hold a gun to our heads the second we turn around. How come nobody is doing anything? I look up at the sky and see the gray clouds. At least God is on my side. I was put on Earth to put everyone else back on track. Suddenly, I encounter a large crowd and traffic. The pro football team must be playing at the stadium. A smile creeps onto my face. Perfect distraction. God really is on my side today. Suplari sits across from City Light, the public-owned utility that powers most of the city with hydroelectricity. Humanity has some hope left. I describe the environment. The streets are quiet with the crowd cheering in the background. Suplari is known for helping companies with marketing through AI. Again, those machines are only here to take over human jobs and ruin humanity for all. I describe how I set the package inside an employee’s car. Right outside the car garage, are a few old pinball machines for sale. Ever since I was a young boy, my dad had taken me to the pinball machines. I describe how happy I felt reminiscing about those good old times. I didn’t have to worry about the machines then. Now, I won’t allow any young boys to worry about them anymore. My next stop passes by the water. A shipyard marks one side of the lake. World War II was the cause of that. The founders of the Boeing company left our town. I write how they must agree with me and realize how the people of our city have lost their way. Houseboats float on the other side of the water. Our neighborhood has the most houseboats for miles. I describe the different colors, sizes, and shapes of the houseboats. The number of houseboats rivals the number of dogs in our neighborhood. I too had a dog when I was younger. A Daenary. It fell victim to the terrible AI. My dad couldn’t save it. I write how sad I felt. A tear stain marks that page. Veritone sits at the intersection just twenty feet ahead of me. My feet start to pick up the pace and I run all the way there. If I attract attention, I attract attention. People need to realize I’m the one doing the right thing. Veritone is analyzing all their audio and camera feed. Those robots will know more about us than we know about ourselves. Quickly, I drop another brown package at the doorstep and run in the other direction. The street is empty as the clouds have darkened. I describe the dreary feeling of the atmosphere but the happiness that emerges inside of me the second I let go of the package. I write about how at that moment I realized I could not evade the police forever. At best, I could fulfill my mission first. The Space Needle stands tall, looming over the buildings. I write about how I sat in awe as a young child. My dad had told me all about it. The brainchild artist Edward Carlson, who sketched the tower design. The construction workers had also been superhuman and built the tower in 400 days to withstand high wind speeds and earthquakes. The iconic Pike Place Market sits just below with its overpriced onions. It was the joke of the town. Our neighborhood holds such promise. I’m here to put everyone back on the path. Casualties are inevitable and only happen to those who deserve them. Utrip sits right in front of me. The tall glass windows looming over me. I spit on it and throw my last package on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see blaring sirens and black cars. Quickly, I kick the box and set off the bomb. I won’t go down without finishing my mission. They will realize later. I’ll become Phoenix Jones, the real-life superhero. Everyone will sit at my tombstone in awe. They’ll be proud of what I accomplished and follow my journals. I write the last sentence. “I’m the superhero who saved humanity from those machines by God’s will. I saved Seattle.”