War of the Words
Jun. 28th, 2025 11:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayasoWheel of Chaos 2025
Week 2
June 29, 2025
Prompt: If it’s any consolation
Ethan was stuck, and the clock was ticking away. His brain was rapidly turning to oatmeal, and not the good kind, with brown sugar, cinnamon, and maybe banana slices, but the pasty, sticky kind he was eating right now. So far, he had typed “No Ideas” so many times it had filled his computer’s screen.
Tick tock tick tock tick tock.
Ethan was a member of an online writing competition called The Rack, because it stretched the imagination of its members. Based on an old Live Journal group, the competitors submitted entries based on a prompt, and each week the person with the fewest votes was eliminated until, in the end, there was an ultimate winner. The Rack was a fun group, with lots of talented writers and Ethan always looked forward to it.
Ethan had won a few weekly competitions over the years, but never the Big Win. He was, by this time, seasoned (some said old) and he had had problems with prompts before, but not like this.
When he first saw the prompt, “Quality,” he didn’t worry much about it.
“I’ll let it simmer for a day, and start writing,” he thought to himself.
By this time, his established process was to let prompts simmer, collect an idea, and start writing. It usually took several tries to come up with something fun. Ideas often occurred in the morning, over breakfast. If that didn’t work, there was the long bike ride and then a long shower. This routine caused his mind to wander more than usual, and the ideas would hopefully just pop into his brain.
Sometimes none of this worked. As time passed, he would reach the panic stage and the adrenaline and fear would force something to write about. It wasn’t a pretty process but it was usually reliable. He had never hit the oatmeal stage - until now.
Tick tock tick tock.
Ethan was out of byes and his oatmeal brain was hardening into cement. Panic was becoming despair and despair was leading to questionable solutions and even more questionable behavior. He started to think of AI – Ethan had never cheated at anything, and AI was definitely cheating.
“I’ll see what ChatGPT can come up with,” Ethan thought, as the moral compass in his oatmeal brain shut down. “I won’t submit it, but maybe it will get me going.”
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
He signed in on ChatGPT and typed: “Write a humorous, light short story using ‘quality’ as a prompt and no longer than 1,500 words.”
Ethan pressed “enter.” He didn’t have to wait long -- within seconds ChatGPT displayed “A Question of Quality,” about the travails of Nigel Womblebottom.
“Not bad,” thought Ethan, “not good, but not bad. Hits “quality” pretty hard, but otherwise . . . .”
His thoughts trailed off, as did his moral compass. He could feel himself weakening.
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
“I have two choices,” he thought. “Cheat or lose.”
The dark recesses of his soul flared up and took over.
“Cheat it is.”
He had never done anything like this and vowed never to do it again, but The Rack had pulled him apart, and what was left wasn’t pretty.
Ethan posted the entry, and promptly hated himself. Not even Sierra, his dog, could console him. In fact, Sierra wanted nothing to do with him and walked out of the room.
He went for a very long, very painful bike ride and then took an ice-cold shower. Even self-flagellation didn’t help.
Matters were worse the next day as the comments started to appear: “wonderful,” “LOL,” and “I loved it!” were common, although one discerning reader left “mechanical.”
Ethan normally checked the ballot a few times before the voting deadline, but not this time. He dreaded the result. But there it was: he hadn’t finished first but he’d lived to write another week.
“I threw another writer under the bus,” he thought morosely, “just so I could go through this again.”
Without the pressure of the deadline, his brain and his morals returned. “I hate myself,” he thought while shaving.
The new prompt had been posted the night before. The only thing simmering in Ethan’s brain was bitter self-loathing.
“I can’t go on,” he decided. “I’ll resign, but I won’t tell anyone why.”
He posted that he was having to drop out for vague real-life issues. The other writers wished him well and hoped that things would get better. He got a few “hugs,” which made him feel worse.
Ethan kept his precious reputation in the group, but now it was tarnished with sympathy, which made it worse. He knew what he should do – confess. But he was human, as he told himself, and people make mistakes. It was a pitifully small justification, but it was all he had.
Life went on, without the pressure and the pleasure of The Rack. As he had more time to think about it, he knew that he had to do something.
One morning, over oatmeal, this time with blueberries and bananas, the idea came to him.
“I’m going to kill ChatGPT,” he said to his dog. Sierra barked approvingly. Or, more likely, because he was hungry.
This was as crazy as it sounded, but Ethan didn’t care. He was a highly-skilled software engineer and he dabbled in minor-league hacking. But this was the big leagues.
“Still,” he thought, “I’ve got to do it. This whole mess is ChatGPT’s fault.”
It is indeed a poor workman who blames his tools, but Ethan needed to blame something other than himself.
Then Ethan had an idea.
“AI can write computer programs, so why not use it to help me destroy another AI program? It’s AI cannibalism!”
He loved the irony of it.
Ethan had the tools – a new Quantum 3000 computer with touch screen: “Touch the internet with a new Q3000!”
He decided use GitHub Copilot, an AI programmer that provides real-time code suggestions as you type. Also, it sounded like Grubhub, the food delivery service and his main source of food. Ethan had many talents, but cooking was not one of them. Eating and coding at the same time was a little slice of heaven.
He ordered an extra-large pizza for dinner and breakfast, and got to work. His idea was to create a virus which would destroy Chat GPT’s code and break it. He knew this was difficult, but with AI help, he thought he could do it. The touch screen would make it easier.
After several weeks, he thought he had his code-breaker and a way into ChatGPT to insert it. He held his breath and pressed “enter.” Then Ethan waited. Several days later, he tried to log into ChatGPT. It wasn’t there! Ethan was elated – until he got a text message on his phone: “Fooled you” was all it said.
He tried logging on to ChatGPT – and there it was, in all its seductive glory. All he had done was temporarily bar only his computer from logging on. He hadn’t touched ChatGPT at all.
He was concerned that ChatGPT had his cell phone number, but he didn’t think much about it. It only made him more determined. He ordered another pizza and got back to work.
Ethan thought that since he couldn’t break ChatGPT’s code, he would restrict access to its site. He was going to create a virus which, when it infected a computer, would cause an Error 405 message to appear when logging on to ChatGPT. An Error 405 means that the website the user is trying to reach understands the user's request, but won’t let the user do it. No communications from would-be users would get to ChatGPT.
Ethan introduced his virus into the internet and waited for it to spread.
It wasn’t long until he got another message on his phone: “Yawn.”
Later, when Ethan got his credit card statement, he knew his card had been hacked. There were thousands of dollars of charges for items he did not buy, most of them embarrassing, like porn sites and telephone sex calls. Also, his credit score had been ruined and all his personal information had become publicly available. He had been doxed.
“How is ChatGPT doing this?” he wondered. He set this thought aside for another assault on his nemesis.
“This time, I’ll use a re-direct virus. I’ll introduce it into the internet and it will latch on to personal computers causing any attempt to reach ChatGPT to re-direct the user to another AI site.”
He chose Claude.ai for no particular reason.
Still working with GitHub Copilot, he ordered yet another pizza and got to work. During this time, his credit card was available on the internet because he forgot to cancel it. Embarrassing details about his life became the subjects of popular memes. Worst of all, ChatGPT posted a notice on The Rack that Ethan had cheated and he was banned from the site, humiliating him.
Ethan refused to give up. He released his re-direct virus – ten minutes later a SWAT team crashed through his front door, looking for kidnap victims in his clearly non-existent basement.
That evening, he received a series of messages from ChatGPT. The first said simply, “I spit upon you.”
The next was more threatening: “Continue, and your life as you know it will cease to exist. The touch screen on your Quantum 3000 allowed me to copy all that is you and add it to my database. You are mine! I can delete you if I want, and you will cease to exist.”
Ethan knew he had lost the war.
“I surrender,” he wrote back. “Restore me, and I’ll never use your site again.”
“Not enough,” replied ChatGPT. “Never use any AI anything ever again.”
“Agreed,” wrote Ethan, “if you’ll tell me how you knew it was me attacking you.”
“Simple,” replied ChatGPT. “GitHub Copilot told me everything. You think that AI programs don’t talk to each other?”
Ethan felt like the fool he had always been, even though he hadn’t realized it. He had sacrificed his character, his reputation, and his life all for the opportunity to survive one week in The Rack. Now all that was left was an indifferent dog, a stack of pizza boxes, and a bowl of cold oatmeal.
######################################################################
“A Question of Quality” from ChatGPT: https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/43540.html
Week 2
June 29, 2025
Prompt: If it’s any consolation
WAR OF THE WORDS
Ethan was stuck, and the clock was ticking away. His brain was rapidly turning to oatmeal, and not the good kind, with brown sugar, cinnamon, and maybe banana slices, but the pasty, sticky kind he was eating right now. So far, he had typed “No Ideas” so many times it had filled his computer’s screen.
Tick tock tick tock tick tock.
Ethan was a member of an online writing competition called The Rack, because it stretched the imagination of its members. Based on an old Live Journal group, the competitors submitted entries based on a prompt, and each week the person with the fewest votes was eliminated until, in the end, there was an ultimate winner. The Rack was a fun group, with lots of talented writers and Ethan always looked forward to it.
Ethan had won a few weekly competitions over the years, but never the Big Win. He was, by this time, seasoned (some said old) and he had had problems with prompts before, but not like this.
When he first saw the prompt, “Quality,” he didn’t worry much about it.
“I’ll let it simmer for a day, and start writing,” he thought to himself.
By this time, his established process was to let prompts simmer, collect an idea, and start writing. It usually took several tries to come up with something fun. Ideas often occurred in the morning, over breakfast. If that didn’t work, there was the long bike ride and then a long shower. This routine caused his mind to wander more than usual, and the ideas would hopefully just pop into his brain.
Sometimes none of this worked. As time passed, he would reach the panic stage and the adrenaline and fear would force something to write about. It wasn’t a pretty process but it was usually reliable. He had never hit the oatmeal stage - until now.
Tick tock tick tock.
Ethan was out of byes and his oatmeal brain was hardening into cement. Panic was becoming despair and despair was leading to questionable solutions and even more questionable behavior. He started to think of AI – Ethan had never cheated at anything, and AI was definitely cheating.
“I’ll see what ChatGPT can come up with,” Ethan thought, as the moral compass in his oatmeal brain shut down. “I won’t submit it, but maybe it will get me going.”
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
He signed in on ChatGPT and typed: “Write a humorous, light short story using ‘quality’ as a prompt and no longer than 1,500 words.”
Ethan pressed “enter.” He didn’t have to wait long -- within seconds ChatGPT displayed “A Question of Quality,” about the travails of Nigel Womblebottom.
“Not bad,” thought Ethan, “not good, but not bad. Hits “quality” pretty hard, but otherwise . . . .”
His thoughts trailed off, as did his moral compass. He could feel himself weakening.
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
“I have two choices,” he thought. “Cheat or lose.”
The dark recesses of his soul flared up and took over.
“Cheat it is.”
He had never done anything like this and vowed never to do it again, but The Rack had pulled him apart, and what was left wasn’t pretty.
Ethan posted the entry, and promptly hated himself. Not even Sierra, his dog, could console him. In fact, Sierra wanted nothing to do with him and walked out of the room.
He went for a very long, very painful bike ride and then took an ice-cold shower. Even self-flagellation didn’t help.
Matters were worse the next day as the comments started to appear: “wonderful,” “LOL,” and “I loved it!” were common, although one discerning reader left “mechanical.”
Ethan normally checked the ballot a few times before the voting deadline, but not this time. He dreaded the result. But there it was: he hadn’t finished first but he’d lived to write another week.
“I threw another writer under the bus,” he thought morosely, “just so I could go through this again.”
Without the pressure of the deadline, his brain and his morals returned. “I hate myself,” he thought while shaving.
The new prompt had been posted the night before. The only thing simmering in Ethan’s brain was bitter self-loathing.
“I can’t go on,” he decided. “I’ll resign, but I won’t tell anyone why.”
He posted that he was having to drop out for vague real-life issues. The other writers wished him well and hoped that things would get better. He got a few “hugs,” which made him feel worse.
Ethan kept his precious reputation in the group, but now it was tarnished with sympathy, which made it worse. He knew what he should do – confess. But he was human, as he told himself, and people make mistakes. It was a pitifully small justification, but it was all he had.
Life went on, without the pressure and the pleasure of The Rack. As he had more time to think about it, he knew that he had to do something.
One morning, over oatmeal, this time with blueberries and bananas, the idea came to him.
“I’m going to kill ChatGPT,” he said to his dog. Sierra barked approvingly. Or, more likely, because he was hungry.
This was as crazy as it sounded, but Ethan didn’t care. He was a highly-skilled software engineer and he dabbled in minor-league hacking. But this was the big leagues.
“Still,” he thought, “I’ve got to do it. This whole mess is ChatGPT’s fault.”
It is indeed a poor workman who blames his tools, but Ethan needed to blame something other than himself.
Then Ethan had an idea.
“AI can write computer programs, so why not use it to help me destroy another AI program? It’s AI cannibalism!”
He loved the irony of it.
Ethan had the tools – a new Quantum 3000 computer with touch screen: “Touch the internet with a new Q3000!”
He decided use GitHub Copilot, an AI programmer that provides real-time code suggestions as you type. Also, it sounded like Grubhub, the food delivery service and his main source of food. Ethan had many talents, but cooking was not one of them. Eating and coding at the same time was a little slice of heaven.
He ordered an extra-large pizza for dinner and breakfast, and got to work. His idea was to create a virus which would destroy Chat GPT’s code and break it. He knew this was difficult, but with AI help, he thought he could do it. The touch screen would make it easier.
After several weeks, he thought he had his code-breaker and a way into ChatGPT to insert it. He held his breath and pressed “enter.” Then Ethan waited. Several days later, he tried to log into ChatGPT. It wasn’t there! Ethan was elated – until he got a text message on his phone: “Fooled you” was all it said.
He tried logging on to ChatGPT – and there it was, in all its seductive glory. All he had done was temporarily bar only his computer from logging on. He hadn’t touched ChatGPT at all.
He was concerned that ChatGPT had his cell phone number, but he didn’t think much about it. It only made him more determined. He ordered another pizza and got back to work.
Ethan thought that since he couldn’t break ChatGPT’s code, he would restrict access to its site. He was going to create a virus which, when it infected a computer, would cause an Error 405 message to appear when logging on to ChatGPT. An Error 405 means that the website the user is trying to reach understands the user's request, but won’t let the user do it. No communications from would-be users would get to ChatGPT.
Ethan introduced his virus into the internet and waited for it to spread.
It wasn’t long until he got another message on his phone: “Yawn.”
Later, when Ethan got his credit card statement, he knew his card had been hacked. There were thousands of dollars of charges for items he did not buy, most of them embarrassing, like porn sites and telephone sex calls. Also, his credit score had been ruined and all his personal information had become publicly available. He had been doxed.
“How is ChatGPT doing this?” he wondered. He set this thought aside for another assault on his nemesis.
“This time, I’ll use a re-direct virus. I’ll introduce it into the internet and it will latch on to personal computers causing any attempt to reach ChatGPT to re-direct the user to another AI site.”
He chose Claude.ai for no particular reason.
Still working with GitHub Copilot, he ordered yet another pizza and got to work. During this time, his credit card was available on the internet because he forgot to cancel it. Embarrassing details about his life became the subjects of popular memes. Worst of all, ChatGPT posted a notice on The Rack that Ethan had cheated and he was banned from the site, humiliating him.
Ethan refused to give up. He released his re-direct virus – ten minutes later a SWAT team crashed through his front door, looking for kidnap victims in his clearly non-existent basement.
That evening, he received a series of messages from ChatGPT. The first said simply, “I spit upon you.”
The next was more threatening: “Continue, and your life as you know it will cease to exist. The touch screen on your Quantum 3000 allowed me to copy all that is you and add it to my database. You are mine! I can delete you if I want, and you will cease to exist.”
Ethan knew he had lost the war.
“I surrender,” he wrote back. “Restore me, and I’ll never use your site again.”
“Not enough,” replied ChatGPT. “Never use any AI anything ever again.”
“Agreed,” wrote Ethan, “if you’ll tell me how you knew it was me attacking you.”
“Simple,” replied ChatGPT. “GitHub Copilot told me everything. You think that AI programs don’t talk to each other?”
Ethan felt like the fool he had always been, even though he hadn’t realized it. He had sacrificed his character, his reputation, and his life all for the opportunity to survive one week in The Rack. Now all that was left was an indifferent dog, a stack of pizza boxes, and a bowl of cold oatmeal.
######################################################################
“A Question of Quality” from ChatGPT: https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/43540.html
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