I never should have moved into this duplex. I’m the only woman here, surrounded by men. Holding down two jobs after being promoted to produce manager at the grocery store, I work double shifts at Wendys on the weekends. Every Friday evening, I check on my sick mother, who lives twenty miles away. Since Saturday is trash day and my neighbors expect me to bag their garbage and haul it to the dumpster, I haul their trash and mine at night after visiting my mother. If I don’t, the flies, the maggots, the rats, the mice, the stray cats, and the raccoons take over the duplex’s shared porch.

I missed it this week. I got tired and just couldn’t, and now it’s piled up so high that I just can’t even think about doing it again.

As the trash creeps outside the duplex and more animals arrive after sundown, it’s like Wild Kingdom outside my windows. I’ve started to enjoy the free show, since my TV broke, and I can’t afford a new one. Raccoons collect pizza slices, moldy bagels, and soggy donuts with their tiny, muscular hands. A sitting possum holds a giant cookie, nibbling casually as its babies collect the crumbs.

I trip over the trash piled outside my door and crash into a takeout bag that explodes with ripe stenches and a maggot mass. Holding my nose, I refrain from inhaling deeply and opt to agitate my neighbors by screaming, “You’re a bunch of filthy creeps!”

Even though their door is open, they ignore the insult. They only speak to each other:

I need more life. I’m dead. Give me the cheat code.

No way. No. No, no! Douchie Pooh, no!

Douchie Pooh, please! Please, Douchie Pooh!

Who is Douchie Pooh? The skinny one is called Bigeye. His fake twin is called Wakie-Wakie. There’s a guy named Slutpox who shows up, along with a childlike dude nicknamed Cunt Machine, who looks like a kid from a distance but is a small, skinny man with removable metal dentures. It took me a while to realize Cunt Machine takes off his dentures in politeness the way old-fashioned gentlemen take off their hats in the presence of a lady. Cunt Machine’s politeness was touching once I got past the horror of seeing his metal teeth in his hand.

Even though I know better, I can’t resist looking in, standing near the open door. Flies buzz. Pizza boxes and empty soda cups litter the crusted carpet. Big Gulps topple and leak sticky substances that stick to bare feet, toes twitching to flick off the flies.

Wakie-Wakie yells at Slutpox, sitting next to a new guy called BoxChina.

Keyboard player! Cheater. Keyboard player.

These are different dragons. Did they change my dragons? Why? They won’t be able to fight the griffin king.

Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me! The griffin king is wack.

I’m dead. I’m dead. No, wait. Please don’t kill me.

I walk into their open door and find my neighbors in sweatpants with messy beards lounging on stained furniture. The one called BoxChina is urinating into a mason jar, his eyes glued to the big screen. “Are you okay?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything is right. Very, very right, my dear,” Cunt Machine says, removing his dentures. “We got the news.”

“What?”

“We never have to work again.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll have time to take out the trash now?”

“You’re funny. Who are you?” the big, tattooed guy asks before motioning to BoxChina for the mason jar.

“Callie,” I say. “Remember? We’ve spoken before. I live right next to you. On the other side of this wall.”

“Oh, nice to meet you! I’m Douche Puppet.”

“Well, Douche Puppet,” I say. “Could you please explain why you play video games all day and night?”

“It’s the one game. Okay?” says Douche Puppet. “For months, we’ve been playing it. We’re going to break the record.”

“How?”

“We need to keep playing without leaving the room. Despite having generators hooked up in case of a power outage, things like drinking, eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom hinder us. We’re coming up with strategies to overcome it.”

“It?” I ask.

“He’s explaining,” says Cunt Machine, “that Quota Monkey can’t take a dump for you.”

“One of these days,” says Douche Puppet, “someone will invent a Quota Monkey that can use the bathroom for you. Until then, we must deal with our own business.”

“We have to beat Mother Nature with a Quota Monkey,” SlutPox says. “Until then, I’m a slave to my body. This gorgeous body.”

“Great,” I say. “Are you on government assistance?”

“I wish.” Douche Puppet laughs and explains a dead man’s promotion and work history after dying has provided publicity for their invention, Quota Monkey, which comes in several options and types, including the Bootlicker, the Fawner, and the Lackey. Known as “friend makers,” they often produce unexpected results that create lifetime friendships, even romance and marriages, among online communicators.

“Why haven’t I heard of this Quota Monkey, if it’s so great?” I ask.

According to Douche Puppet, they never advertise Quota Monkey. It has gone viral on social-media sites where certain former users claim to have gotten an attack of conscience after receiving raises and promotions—raises and promotions they never would have gotten if they had done the work themselves. Fellow employees were fired for not meeting quotas, despite thinking the Quota Monkey users were on their side.

Slutpox says, “Only yesterday the news broke about the man who had been promoted to the head of his bank branch, having received a significant pay raise for surpassing all quotas and overseeing over fifty online employees—two years after his funeral.”

“Testimonials from the dead,” says Douchie.

“Guys, I’m happy for you,” I say. “But I can hear everything through that wall.”

Douchie nods. Like the others, he’s immersed in the game and holding a controller while hooked up to a mic and earphone helmet, eyes glued to a big screen. The game moves through tunnels and highways of hidden gear and devious opponents jumping out behind buildings.

Bigeye screams bloody murder. These types of screams happen frequently, day and night. It got noisy during the pandemic when I assumed Quota Monkey was like a pet that they nurtured and taught new tricks. They continuously improved it, supplying customers with higher quality ass kissing if they paid for add-ons that could be downloaded for a higher percentage of their salary. The Bootlicker, the Brown-Noser, the Fawner, the Flatterer, the Flunky, the Groveler, and the Ass-Kisser could rarely complete with the results of the Lackey.

“Could you hand me that remote?” Slutpox says to me.

“That remote?” I ask. “It’s right in front of you. You can just reach out and grab it yourself, right?”

“Would you get it for me?”

I retrieve the remote and present it to him.

“Little closer,” he says.

I step closer so that our feet are touching, the remote pressing his fingers before he finally takes it from me.

Doco slumps down in his seat, his eyes rolling back into his head, his hair damp.

“Doco,” I say, “are you okay?”

He’s shivering and looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Water,” he says. “Water.”

“Is your water turned off?

“Water, please. Kitchen.”

In the grimy kitchen, no dishes are present, only plastic cups from gas stations. I turn on the water at the sink, and it runs clear. I clean up a cup and fill it with water and bring the cup to Doco. He grabs the cup and drinks the water in one gulp, coughing.

“Water. More water. Please,” he says.

I refill the cup with water and bring it to him. He gulps it. We repeat this seven times.

“Ahhhh. Thanks,” he says. “I’ve had nothing to drink for two days.”

“Why?”

“The game.”

The game is still going on the big screens. Enemies jump out from behind walls to attack at different locations displayed on the big screens in the living room. Every time there’s a split screen, it turns into a fight for survival. Timing is everything, and even getting up to drink water can get you killed.

“BoxChina?” I say. “How’s it going?”

He doesn’t answer me, but screams into the mouthpiece connected to his earphones.

I know better than to ask them, but I wonder how avoidant gamers who have little social interaction programmed kindness into software. If programming the warmth of genuine human kindness has made them wealthy, what they’re selling isn’t fake labor, it’s personality—the one thing they don’t have. Think mouse movers or mouse jigglers that add a touch of collegiality, a dash of humor, and tender compassion. The software organizes emails, writes personalized responses, and creates reports. It also makes friends. Essentially, the devices mimic active listening in email and produce smart, genuine responses. Users can program the levels of sweetness, gratitude, pep, and wit.

Above all, the Ass Kisser 3000 surpasses any human ass-kisser in its ability to kiss ass at a highly advanced level. While out ass kissing any ass kisser, it can also out work a work horse.

“Quota Monkeys are available on the black market under the names of another type of product marketed for another type of use,” says BoxChina. “Quota Monkeys retrofitted with the Ass Kisser 3000 come free to work-from-home applicants, who pay only if they get results. Payment is made as a lifetime percentage of their salary when work-from-home applicants achieve results such as raises, bonuses, promotions, and/or new upgraded positions.”

“Clever,” I say, realizing my neighbors rely on Quota Monkeys for various tasks like ordering food, paying rent, and dealing with issues like noise complaints, but Quota Monkeys can’t bag their garbage or haul it to the dumpster.

Today, the porch we share is blooming with flies, ripe with roaches in rotting fast food, and brimming with something that smells so terrible I’m afraid to imagine what it could be. On one corner of our shared porch, flies swarm masses of maggots in the trash pile.

“Listen, Callie,” Slutpox says to me in his nicest voice, which puts me on edge. Last time he spoke to me like this, he requested I purchase a plunger and then use it to unclog two revoltingly clogged toilets. I called an emergency plumber, and when the plumber saw the bathroom, he said he had to charge extra and wear protective gear because of the biohazard. He also had to use a liquid vacuum.

“Callie,” Slutpox says, “you’re really a nice person.”

“Thanks, Slutpox,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Wakie-Wakie, “you’re the best.”

“Would you do us a favor, sweetheart?” says Slutpox. “We’ll pay you.”

“Yes,” says Bigeye, who has small eyes. “You know we would never ask, but we trust it might even be life or death.”

“What now?” I say.

“Would you mind changing Douchie’s diaper?” asks Cunt Machine.

I say, “What?”

“Douchie needs a diaper change.”

“He wears a diaper?” I ask, staring at Douchie, who is about 6’3” with prematurely graying hair and copious amounts of cartoonish tattoos. “Him?”

“We all do,” says Wakie-Wakie. “It’s not a big deal. Adult diapers are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, suddenly realizing what that smell is on the porch.

“We’ve been wearing them for the past year because that way we can keep playing the game when nature calls. It’s not that big of a deal, Callie, except Douchie is having issues.”

“Like what?” I realize this whole time, when everyone’s talking about his diaper, Douchie hasn’t once looked at any of us or even responded. He doesn’t seem embarrassed or uncomfortable. He doesn’t take his eyes off the game.

“Do you smell something?” asks Slutpox.

“Do I,” I say. “Is that Douchie?”

“I’m getting worried. When it gets this bad for so long, we develop nose blindness and can’t smell it.”

“Then why do you need me?”

“Because does it smell like a full diaper or like rotting flesh?”

“Both,” I say.

“It has been long enough that we’re worried he’s rotting in his diaper. Each diaper is industrial strength, special order, and can hold like twenty pounds. They last a while, but never this long.”

“Douchie?” I say, thinking about calling 911 or adult protective services.

“Listen, Callie,” Slutpox says. “I know this seems weird or even sexual, but it’s natural and normal and we’re used to it. We’ve all had to do it before, but we can’t deal with him today. We’ll pay you.”

“No way,” I say.

“Ten thousand dollars,” says BoxChina.

“What?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Seriously?”

“Okay, thirty thousand dollars.”

“Seriously?”

“The necessary items are over there,” Slutpox points to a dinette table in the corner of the eat-in kitchen. In grocery bags, I find a box of adult diapers, wet wipes, and sensitive-skin diaper rash cream for babies.

“Thirty thousand?” I say. “You better not be lying to me, Slutpox.”

“Hey, I never lie about money.”

“Okay,” I say. “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” I go to my duplex and locate rubber gloves. I tie back my hair with rubber hands and wrap my hair in a plastic bag. Finding a mask to cover my mouth and nose, I spray the mask with air freshener and put on goggles with the mask. After putting on my rubber gloves, I return to my neighbors and talk to Douchie in the slow, soothing voice I use with toddlers and animals. “Douchie,” I say. “Come here. Here, Douchie. Here, Douchie, this will just take a minute.”

Douchie keeps playing the game.

He has a Mensa level IQ. He’s a millionaire with degrees from MIT and Harvard. He is the designer for each unique Ass-Kisser add-on in the Quota Monkey’s limited edition. He has made a special contribution by limiting the number of unique downloads for sale, ensuring that the distinctive personalities of Ass Kissers Anonymous would not raise suspicion in the corporate world, healthcare, HR, and education sectors where they are widely used. Once he made his first million, he disassociated from the outside world and got deeper into the game. I suspect the diaper thing started after he had at least six million in the bank.

“He’s not going anywhere,” says Bigeye. “Don’t even try to move him.”

“How?” I say, realizing Douchie might be rotting like a corpse from the waist down, sitting in human soup for days.

“That’s what I’m paying you for,” says Slutpox. “Part of the job is figuring out how.”

“Okay.” I go back into my duplex and retrieve the kitchen shears.

Back in my neighbors’ duplex, where Douchie slumps in his oversized chair, I cover him in black plastic trash bags, which I also slip under his legs and bum. With the kitchen shears, I cut off his crusted sweatpants. The stench is unbearable as the cut diaper spills on the black plastic. Gagging, I grab a beach towel to wipe Douchie down, then I discard the towel, the black plastic, and Douchie’s cut sweatpants, which have melted into the diaper.

Outside, I grab the garden hose, turn it on low, and drag the hose into the neighbors’ duplex. I hose Douchie down as he sits in this chair, still playing the game as the dirty water drains into the air conditioner vents on the floor. After drying him off with another beach towel, I apply a new diaper.

“Okay,” I say. “When do I receive payment?”

Douchie Pooh screams: Why did you kill me? Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

Panicking, I run away and lock myself into my duplex.