Bill and his F.A.R.T.S. Machine
Bill Sparks builds a F.A.R.T.S machine…
It’s a fact, right? Like the ring road being a death trap or the sky being the colour of a wet pavement. If your name’s Bill and you’re a sparky or a computer fella, you’re cursed. Destined to live in a fog of blue smoke, apologising to the neighbours because their telly flickered right when Corrie was getting to the good bit, all ‘cause you were messing with a motherboard in the garage.
Bill Spark was as average as a lukewarm sausage roll from Greggs. Had that hair, didn’t he? Splayed out like he’d licked a battery. His garage was floor-to-ceiling with cardboard boxes, all scrawled with: IMPORTANT: OLD WIRES. DO NOT CHUCK.
Then he went and built it. The Futuristic Automated Reload Testing System.
—What’s it called, Bill? Lisa, his wife, asked, looking at the heap of scrap on the kitchen table.
—F.A.R.T.S., he says, dead proud.
—You’re joking.
—It’s an acronym, Mary. Technical.
—It’s a bypass, Bill. You’re sixty-odd years old.
The lad next door, Paul, thought it was a belter. Lisa just put the kettle on and prayed for the circuit breaker.
The idea hit him in the shower—right when a massive spider dropped on his head. If your Wi-Fi dropped out while you were trying to place a bet or watch the football, the F.A.R.T.S. would “reload” your packets. And your patience. And if that didn't work, it’d probably kick your laptop into next week.
Version One was a disaster. It fizzed, turned a nasty shade of purple, and died with a sound like a disappointed balloon. The cat ended up sleeping on it.
By Version Three, it looked like a chrome brick with a big red button. Bill stared at it. Optimism was for people who didn't live in Coventry. He pressed it anyway.
Whir. Whump. BANG.
A smell filled the kitchen. Like burnt lemon drizzle and batteries that had given up on life.
Two doors down, Sir Snuffles—a spaniel who’d turned sleeping into an Olympic sport—bolted upright. He didn’t know it, but he’d just patched into the Andromedan Data Exchange Committee. They’d been bored senseless for three eons and were dying for a chat, even if it was with a dog dreaming about Richmond sausages.
In Snuffles' head, it was mental. He was sprinting down fibre-optic cables, chasing pixelated squirrels who were whistling the Star Trek theme. Every time he let out a “wuff,” a bolt of data shot through Bill’s machine.
—Is it supposed to be barking, Bill? Lisa shouted from the lounge.
—It’s transmitting, Lisa! It’s binary!
For one glorious second, shorter than a blink, the Spark house hit 14.8 terabits per second. Faster than anything on earth, bar a confused trout in Norway and a volcano in Iceland trying to download a software update.
Then, pffft. A bit of smoke. Total silence.
Bill looked at the charred remains.
—Bug-free crash, he muttered. Professional.
He started wondering if the router would work better if he wired it into the fridge.
Up in Andromeda, the Committee finished their report on Earth: Top species: The ones with the floppy ears. Send more sausages. Evaluation over.