The End of Human Evolution
by Daniel Beadle - Thursday, September 6, 2007
Dylan sits at the head of the table, a shadow cast over his face as he broods. The board members present numbers, discuss business opportunities, and make inquiries into ventures that haven’t made returns on their initial investments. But the banter dies down, and Mr. Thorne makes his final remarks. Votes are taken, resolutions are reached, and the men shake hands and begin to part ways.Dylan stays behind, furrowing his brow in a look of distressed concentration. “Mr. Gainey, if I may have a word?”
Mr. Gainey is a fifty-year-old man with a paunchy figure, and an overabundance of moles dotting his body. His eyebrows are furry, and unkempt, and a thick sprout of hair grows between them. His hair is wispy, and covers only the sides and back of his scalp. “Of course, Mr. Thorne,” he responds, with only a vague sense of respect for his boss, ten years his minor.
Dylan nods at the blonde secretary, who closes the conference room doors behind the final departing guests. “What was your take on the Peterson Accounts? Was the error a result of our negligence, would you say… or some outside interference?”
“Well, it’s hard to pinpoint at this time…”
“Arnie, don’t give me that. What’s your opinion?”
Mr. Gainey sighs. “The new accounting staff needs to get their act together, especially if we’ll be taking on these kinds of accounts next quarter.”
“There it is. See now, we agree on something.” Dylan chuckles.
“Was that all, sir?”
Dylan pauses as his laugh fades. “Why don’t you take a seat, Arnie.”
Mr. Gainey obliges, and then nervously takes stock of his situation. A one-on-one conversation with his boss in a closed-door conference is never a good sign.
Dylan shakes his head, “You know, I really just… can’t stand negligence. I guess it’s the old ‘human error.’” Dylan looks out the window at his city skyline. “You know, there was this fellow, maybe you’ve heard of him, by the name of Charles Darwin…” Dylan looks at the floor as he paces the room. “Now he laid out this entire theory called ‘survival of the fittest.’ He basically explained the concept of evolution and how it works: Those genetic variants that are best suited for survival reproduce, and those that aren’t… well…” He pauses. “They die. No one ever hears from them again.
“Now, the human race…” he continues, “has been around for, oh, let’s say 130,000 years. Ballpark figures here. It seems we evolved from apes. And gradually, those freak apes that stood upright seemed to be a good fit for evolutionary development, and here we are.
“But now we have civilization. Modern science. Technology. If a part of our bodies stop working, we can grow new parts and have them put in. If a part of us gets damaged, we can go to a hospital and get it repaired. Close to half of the population has bad eyesight. We have remote technologies, and fast foods encouraging obesity. One in three Americans are obese. Did you know that, Mr. Gainey?”
“I—”
“Siblings are marrying, creating genetically retarded children. The moral fiber of society is virtually non-existent. Let me tell you something, Mr. Gainey: Humans are no longer evolving. We have made it possible for the weakest members of our civilization to continue living, and worse, we allow them to reproduce and infect future generations with their inferiority.”
“Yes, Mr. Thorne, but even if I agree with you, what does that have to do with anything?”
“Very little. It’s just my way of saying that you are inferior, and that you needn’t blame others for your own shortcomings. It occurs to me that your parents had no business having sex with one another, given that you are the result of that congress. And I can’t tell you how many times, every day, that I see people who are an embarrassment to the human race, and to the entire concept of evolution.”
Dylan produces a Kel-Tec P-11 pocket pistol, immediately putting a 9mm bullet in Mr. Gainey's forehead. Dylan smirks. “Consider that my contribution to the human race.”
