You heard there was money in tech. You never cared about technology. You are an entryist piece of shit. But you won’t leave willingly. Give it all away to everyone for free. Then you’ll have no reason to be here.

In my old age I’ve mostly given up trying to convince anyone of anything. Most people do not care to find the truth, they care about what pumps their bags. Some people go as far as to believe that perception is reality and that truth is a construction. I hope there’s a special place in hell for those people. It’s why the world wasted $10B+ on self driving car companies that obviously made no sense. There’s a much bigger market for truths that pump bags vs truths that don’t. So here’s your new truth that there’s no market for. Do you believe a compiler can code? If so, then go right on believing that AI can code. But if you don’t, then AI is no better than a compiler, and arguably in its current form, worse. The best model of a programming AI is a compiler. You give it a prompt, which is “the code”, and it outputs a compiled version of that code. Sometimes you’ll use it interactively, giving updates to the prompt after it has returned code, but you find that, like most IDEs, this doesn’t work all that well and you are often better off adjusting the original prompt and “recompiling”. While noobs and managers are excited that the input language to this compiler is English, English is a poor language choice for many reasons. It’s not precise in specifying things. The only reason it works for many common programming workflows is because they are common. The minute you try to do new things, you need to be as verbose as the underlying language. AI workflows are, in practice, highly non-deterministic. While different versions of a compiler might give different outputs, they all promise to obey the spec of the language, and if they don’t, there’s a bug in the compiler. English has no similar spec. Prompts are highly non local, changes made in one part of the prompt can affect the entire output. tl;dr, you think AI coding is good because compilers, languages, and libraries are bad. This isn’t to say “AI” technology won’t lead to some extremely good tools. But I argue this comes from increased amounts of search and optimization and patterns to crib from, not from any magic “the AI is doing the coding”. You are still doing the coding, you are just using a different programming language. That anyone uses LLMs to code is a testament to just how bad tooling and languages are. And that LLMs can replace developers at companies is a testament to how bad that company’s codebase and hiring bar is. AI will eventually replace programming jobs in the same way compilers replaced programming jobs. In the same way spreadsheets replaced accounting jobs. But the sooner we start thinking about it as a tool in a workflow and a compiler—through a lens where tons of careful thought has been put in—the better. I can’t believe anyone bought those vibe coding crap things for billions. Many people in self driving accused me of just being upset that I didn’t get the billions, and I’m sure it’s the same thoughts this time. Is your way of thinking so fucking broken that you can’t believe anyone cares more about the actual truth than make believe dollars? From this study, AI makes you feel 20% more productive but in reality makes you 19% slower. How many more billions are we going to waste on this? Or we could, you know, do the hard work and build better programming languages, compilers, and libraries. But that can’t be hyped up for billions.

“Why are you here on a Sunday?” “John’s in town,” I said. “And he knows I’m looking for him.” I’ve carried this case for five years. When Operant moved its compute out to Long Island—cheaper power, easier permits—it landed in my world by accident. Detective James Reese, Nassau County Police. Since then, every time I think I’ve got a straight line, the story bends. People call it “mind control.” That’s the wrong phrase. You hear that and you start hunting for sci-fi. What you should be hunting for is timing. There are the clean facts. It started with a private investigator caught at night inside Jane Street’s office. He was there to plant a device. Not a camera, not a mic. A flat plastic square the size of a drop ceiling tile, featureless, no lens, no obvious grill. If you tapped it with a knuckle it sounded dead, like dense foam. The FBI took the evidence, said as little as possible, and then Trump dissolved the Bureau and the chain of custody with it. The PI pled to B&E, did eighteen months, swore a friend offered him ten grand and a location. The friend never existed long enough for us to find. While the tile vanished, Operant didn’t. They grew. They put their name on the Ducks’ ballpark, donated to everyone they should, and pushed eight percent of Long Island’s power through their meter. Every time I asked questions, a lawyer answered them. I still have a job mostly because I don’t stick my questions in microphones. But the corporate espionage wasn’t the hook. The hook’s name was Tom Park. Young, gifted, on Operant’s “research” payroll. He died off the roof of their building. We asked for the CCTV. They delayed until the delay became its own story, and when the files came they were grainy enough you could convince yourself resolution had gone out of style. We couldn’t prove a cut. We couldn’t prove a lie. We could see a silhouette on the roof with a phone in his hand, see him put it away, and watch him walk forward like he’d decided to walk forward an hour ago. We pulled his phone records. The carrier said the device never left his parents’ house that night. The family’s router logs said the same thing—MAC associated all evening, steady signal, Netflix on the downstairs TV. At the time of death the rooftop access point didn’t record a roam. No one found a phone with the body. If you’re generous, you call that “inconsistency.” If you’ve been around long enough, you call it “choreography.” I didn’t see the tile again, but I kept a copy of the photos and I stared at the connector pads until I’d memorized the geometry. Four edge pads, power bus shape. Months later, a fire inspection at an Operant satellite site flagged “non-listed luminaires with integrated driver boards.” That’s code for “custom lights.” The brand on the sticker didn’t exist in any registry. It matched nothing you could buy. What does a ceiling tile do if it isn’t a ceiling tile? You can guess: a planar array under plastic, phaseable, a clock inside that doesn’t drift. You don’t need to read thoughts. You need to make the room keep time. We ran a small experiment in our squad room. Nothing that requires approval. We set up a tapping game on a laptop—left or right as quickly as you can when a cue appears. We added a desk lamp we could modulate in the last hundred milliseconds before the cue—no visible flicker, just PWM phase changes—and a piezo disc under the mouse pad that could make a vibration too soft to notice unless you were trying to notice. We told the script to wait until the model thought the subject was likely to pick left, then line up the lamp phase and the tick so “left” felt a hair earlier. The hit rate shifted eight points. The officers said it felt like the computer was “on it” that round. No one said they felt pushed. That’s the thing about timing: when it works, it feels like you were going to do it anyway. I went back to Tom. We subpoenaed what we could: badge swipes, elevator logs, building automation schedules for lights and HVAC. The elevator cabin he rode at 23:41 ran a “door nudge” cycle at floor 35—exact term in the manual. Not a stop, a shove. At the same minute the east conference rooms above ran a luminance ramp—35 to 50 percent and back down—logged as a “pattern test.” Two minutes later the air handlers kicked a “night purge,” unscheduled. The lobby mic’s spectrogram shows the change as a clean band sliding up. None of those facts make a person move. Together they draw a rhythm line through a building. We never found what Tom had in his hand, his “not a phone,” but a year after his death, one of their contractors quit and dumped an issue tracker on a public repo by accident. It was up for an hour before it vanished, but the internet is full of raccoons, and one of them sent me a ZIP. Half the issues were boring—install scripts, driver mismatches, bad GPIO pull-ups. The other half had words like “phase,” “latency,” “confidence gate,” “avoid visible artifacts,” “EEG-free,” and the tag “ROOM.” There was a set of comments on a bug titled “End Token Misfires.” The engineers were arguing about whether printing the full predicted sequence at the start of a session biased the subject into making it true. One person said that was the point. Another said if your only wins are the ones you can cause you aren’t measuring prediction anymore, you’re measuring control. The thread ends with a “resolved—won’t fix.” Mind control isn’t the right term. It makes people look for sci-fi. The right term is “nudge,” the one the elevator manuals use. You put your thumb on the timing. You don’t push the person; you lean on the moment. Tom stood on a roof with a clock in his pocket that belonged to the room, and a room that belonged to the company, and a company that had learned you can make a person look like a prediction if you take away all the moments where they would have surprised you. Sometimes I think the real trick isn’t the tile or the lights. It’s the bookkeeping. You arrange your systems so that there’s nothing to subpoena. The carrier shows a phone at home. The Wi-Fi shows a phone at home. The building shows a test pattern and a purge cycle and a polite door. Nothing is illegal in a log file. I keep a copy of that ZIP on a USB stick in my desk. There’s a folder called “SAFE_GATES” with a README someone wrote in plain English. “Do not schedule interventions if subject arousal > threshold. Do not schedule end token if subject mentions self-harm. Cooldown after consecutive errors.” Half the rules are commented out. The most recent commit message is just a shrug emoji. The worst part is how ordinary it all is. The elevator nudge. The lamp nudge. The HVAC tone. The not-a-phone. If you want to find the devil, you don’t go looking for horns. You go looking for clock edges. I told my sergeant I was taking the rest of the day. I stopped by a hardware store and bought a dimmer I knew I could open, and a roll of white tape. Back at the office I put a strip of tape on the lamp in interview room two, covering the LED that the supplier put there to indicate “smart mode.” We don’t use smart mode. We don’t use anything with a mode. When I left, the room looked like every other room. That’s the point. You only notice the timing when it slips. On the way home I drove past the Ducks ballpark. Operant’s name on the sign looked like every other naming deal. Families walking in, kids with foam fingers, warm light over the field. If you didn’t know to look, you’d think it was all just baseball.

Mom 12:37 – hey when are you getting home? Dave You set the disappearing message time to 3 hours hey you doing better lol yea i really didn't sleep much what's up u didn't set timeout for that yea is what Brian said true what did he say about how Tom worked at operant? yea why? you know that's where my dad worked and he kind of went crazy too do you know what he did there? not rly my mom gets real upset when i bring it up it was some math shit with magnets wanna come over and ask her lol I did not want to have a conversation with Dave’s mother. 12:55 – haha im good but im just chilling at home if you want to come by here The doorbell rang again. Resolving to be less of a pussy, I answered it. I was prepared to talk to the cops. Polite, short answers, step outside and lock the door, find out what they want. Not a pussy. Not a pussy. Not a pussy. It wasn’t the cops. It was my Mom’s friend Anne, and I told her she wasn’t here. It was always strange to me that that generation would just drop by. Like she didn’t text her first? She said she was in the neighborhood and had extra bagels she wanted to drop off. I thought about telling her that I hadn’t heard from my Mom since yesterday and that she didn’t reply to my text, but decided against it. I didn’t know the dynamic of my Mom’s friend group. Maybe she is out sleeping with Anne’s husband or something. I didn’t want to be a link in the chain of Anne finding out. I was vague but very polite. Anne left the bagels. I didn’t touch the bag. I went up the stairs to my Mom’s room. Did I mention how much I like true crime? It’s probably done bad things for me personality wise. I know that the people on there are out of the normal distribution of people, but those podcasts are one of my only exposures to the outside world. The world beyond this little slice of Brooklyn. So you kind of start thinking everyone is like that. I’d always just assumed my Dad was like, a Wall Street guy. Boring. Get money, fuck bitches. When I was little we had tons of money. We lived in a huge house in Cobble Hill. I flew first class to Europe when I was 7. We spent a week on a yacht in Monaco. My mom loved the luxury lifestyle, and would put up with a lot of my Dad’s eccentricities to keep it. When he left she didn’t seem that upset though. I think the money was still coming in from him, which was the main thing she cared about. It clearly wasn’t as much, we moved out to Sheepshead Bay and never went back to Europe. But she didn’t work and I always got good birthday presents, and she never said anything bad about my Dad, so I assume that’s where the money was coming from. The first drawer I opened had sex toys in it. I saw a vibrator and a butt plug before I quickly closed the drawer. The second drawer had socks. The third drawer had tons of scattered papers. My college rejections. Some essays from high school. A note written in crayon about how I wanted a Nintendo Switch for Christmas. I guess this was the “me” drawer. The fourth drawer was papers, but more organized. My parents marriage certificate. My mom’s birth certificate. My old passport. As far as I knew, they never got a divorce. He just left. Then, something I didn’t know. A document entitling one Jessica Baker to $10,000 per month, to be paid out on the first of every month by the Triangle Trust, for the rest of her natural life, or until the trust is dissolved. That was nice of my Dad. I went through the rest of the drawers, but didn’t find anything else interesting. I put everything back as carefully as I could. I considered that someone might dust for fingerprints. I wondered if I did anything illegal. I live here, right? I checked on the text message to my Mom and noticed that it hadn’t been delivered. This was really unlike her. Sometimes she’d go out drinking and meet a guy and stay out all night, but she’d always at least text me by the morning when she sobered up. 2:14 – are you okay? Not delivered. Maybe her phone died? Nah but it’s the afternoon she probably would have charged it by now. I tried calling. Straight to voicemail. I checked the Mercedes app to see where her car was. She’d let me take the car sometimes, so we were both on the app. It asked me to login. I copied the password from 1password. Incorrect Password Maybe she changed it? I tried to set her up on 1password but she didn’t get it. She’d just reset the passwords when she needed to login. Ugh, logging into stuff is the worst. I clicked the reset password and typed in the e-mail. There is no account with that e-mail Okay, that doesn’t make sense. My Mom and I shared an e-mail for this stuff, and she wouldn’t change it without telling me. I clicked forgot e-mail. It needed the VIN of the car. The title was in the fourth drawer with the other papers. I went and got it and typed in the VIN. The e-mail associated with your account is: skinner666@gmail.com A jolt of anxiety coarsed through my body. I’d never seen that e-mail address in my life.