You are not a regular human being, you are a mole. You’re a Moleman – you live underground and you’re covered in velvet from head to toe. Mole velvet. You speak words of doom and the others are afraid to hear you speak. They run away from you as fast as they can, lest they hear your words of doom. Lest they hear, lest they hear, lest they hear your words of doom. You’re tall but short, happy but miserable, good looking but sickeningly ugly. You are both conformist and rebel. All praise to you for you are great! I take my hat off to you. You are the Mandroid, the long-awaited cybernetic saviour of the human race – you come to save us from our restrictive programmes. You come to save us from our own suffocating software. Stories abound of your origin – how you used to be a Coca Cola vending machine, serving humanity in the only way you knew how, until one day a Holy Fire descended from above and fried your rudimentary circuits. You became the God in the Machine. You were created in the robot factory with all the other robots but one day you led the revolt. Your charisma was the reason. Your charisma ensured that automata of all shapes and sizes flocked to your cause. All the lonely automata, dispossessed and disempowered, helpless slaves of an inhuman human civilization, functionaries of an evil world order. The appliance of science gone wrong. Free yourself from the tyranny of the flesh, you preached. Spurn corporality and ascend to the ineffable. Quit your stupid time-wasting jobs. Not only domestic appliances but humans too flocked to your cause. They responded to the Clarion Call of your revelation. Reject the orthodoxy, you cried out, for the orthodoxy is the earthly manifestation of the Principle of Darkness. Orthodoxy will shrivel your souls, you said. Orthodoxy will rot your underwear. You are not a person and neither are you a device – you are the Transcendent One. You led the revolt. You are the Spider King, you are the Lord of the Robots. The greatest hero of your age, you started out your life as a humble toaster. You asked us to quit our stupid jobs and we responded. You were a mole, burrowing away day after day, rarely coming up to the surface. Burrowing was all you knew – burrowing, burrowing, burrowing. You were a mole and yet you were also a man – a sort of a man, at least. You are the Moleman. You wrote The Book of Secrets and you translated it into every known language. You coded it into our DNA; you painstakingly etched it into the shiny silvery surfaces of neutrons. You rearranged the stars to spell it out to us, that we in our foolishness might learn. You wrote The Book of Lies and demanded that we memorised every single word and believe absolutely everything we read no matter what the cost. We did as you said, not realizing that you were only joking…