You’ve just had a fun time in Westworld, the Wild West-themed amusement park where robots think they’re people.
It’s been an enjoyable two-week cowboy adventure of nonstop fucking and murdering, but you’re ready to resume your quiet suburban life with your loving wife who thinks you’ve been at Six Flags this whole time.
A cab drops you off outside your pleasant two-story house in an upscale suburb. Your ordinary life is pleasant but boring, which is why it’s nice to occasionally visit Westworld and break your holy vows of matrimony. However, you really did miss your wife during your violent robo-sex bacchanalia and you’re happy to be back home.
You say “It’s good to be back home” to yourself, to underscore how happy you are with your idyllic suburban life and blissful marriage.
Your wife is a wonderful woman, your best friend and loyal companion throughout the years. You missed her throughout your entire secret vacation to Westworld, and can’t wait to go in your house and greet her.
You briefly pause to note your affection for your wife, then enter your house.
Your wife greets you as you enter. As usual, she’s wearing the wedding dress she never takes off because she’s so happy to have married you.
“Hello, honey, welcome back home from Six Flags, the famously sexless amusement park. Did you enjoy riding roller-coasters for two celibate weeks?”
Your wife looks crestfallen. “Sorry to be a stick in the mud, but adultery is one of my major pet peeves. I still love you with all my heart, and I forgive you for fucking robots, but I also want to be divorced and never see you again.”
She packs her things and departs, leaving you alone in an empty house. You’ve thrown away true love for just a few cheap thrills at a sexual-robot theme park. Overcome by despair, you sink to your knees and weep, knowing that your life is now forever ruined because of your trip to Westworld.
“I’m so happy you had a fun chaste time at Six…” Your wife stops mid-sentence and stares at your hand. “Oh no, you’re missing your wedding ring! It probably fell off your finger while you were upside-down riding one of Six Flags’ pulse-pounding looping coasters like Dawn of the Joker: Batman’s Justice the Ride or Joker’s Bad Mischief: Bruce Wayne is Batman the Ride or Joker’s Revenge of the Joker: Dark Knight of Gotham Named Batman the Ride.” She seems on the verge of tears.
Oh shit. Your wedding ring must have gotten sucked off your hand by one of the many varieties of robotic prostitute orifice you fisted during your Westworld rumspringa.
“Good luck, my faithful spouse! I know you’ll find your wedding ring, that all-important symbol of eternal love and dutiful monogamy.”
“Westworld, eh? Hear some pretty crazy stories about that place,” says the driver as you buckle yourself in.
“Cool, I’ll have to check it out sometime,” says the driver, and you spend the rest of the ride to Westworld browsing your phone in silence.
“Welcome to Westworld, the theme park that is basically a brothel,” says the robot manning the concierge desk. “How may I assist you today?”
“I am afraid not,” the robot says apologetically. “Last month Westworld had one of its periodic robot uprisings where the cowboys try to escape after realizing they’re robots, and before we could crush the rebellion they managed to kill the human employees responsible for searching for missing personal items and delivering them to the lost and found, and we have yet to hire replacements.
That means that your ring might still be somewhere in the park. Westworld apologizes for the inconvenience, and we continually strive to make our robot uprisings less frequent and less disruptive for valued visitors such as yourself.”
The robot brings up your customer profile. “Congratulations! I see that you’re enrolled in our Frequent Frontiersman Rewards Program which unlocks perks including free continental breakfasts and being able to have sex with the park’s non-cowboy administrative robots like myself. Would you like to have sex with me?”
“Wonderful. This way please,’ says the administrative robot as it leads you into a nearby janitorial closet. “My intended function is non-sexual, so I apologize for my lack of genitals. Feel free to commence sex whenever you are ready.”
The robot stands at attention, waiting for you to begin fornicating with it.
“Excellent! We are having sex,” declares the robot in a chipper conversational tone.
You flop around on the robot’s motionless body for another 45 minutes, and it’s pretty much like having intercourse with a filing cabinet.
You pay the $40,000 fee for a one-day ticket and take the train into the town of Sweetwater.
The frontier settlement is bustling with robots walking about on their loops, performing the prewritten storylines they’ve been programmed to act out. You’ve fucked and murdered every resident of Sweetwater numerous times before, but it’s always a breathtaking moment when you step into Westworld and feel like you’ve been transported back in time.
You do a little fist pump to celebrate that it’s Westworld.
The prostitute saloon is essentially the heart and soul of Westworld. It’s by far the park’s most popular attraction and the one most visitors beeline for the second they arrive. If Westworld was just this one building, and it wasn’t Wild West-themed, and they named it Robot Fuck Bar, they’d probably sell just as many tickets.
“Howdy stranger,” says the cowboy you’ve decided to beat up. “Welcome to Sweetwater. I do hope you enjoy your visit to our town. You’ll find that it’s a little slice of heaven here on earth. I’m originally from out east myself, where the cities are so crowded there’s hardly room to move. One day I decided I wanted to be somewhere with grass beneath my feet, and a blue sky overhead. A place where a man can still claim a piece of land to be his own. Once that conviction stirred in my chest, I hopped on the next stagecoach out and settled down here as a farmer. It’s a tough life working the land but one I wouldn’t trade for all the gold in the world. When the morning sun rises over them verdant hilltops, there ain’t a prettier sight. Sorry to chew off your ear, I’ve been rude. The name’s Atticus. There’s a kindness in your eyes that makes it hard not to narrate my life story to you. My gut tells me that you and I are going to become good friends.”
“Greetings, traveler, welcome to the Hump Dump, the finest whorehouse in the West,” says the brothel’s madam. “People around town call me Exploitative Jane, because I convince people into becoming prostitutes by explaining that sex work is empowering, but I gloss over the fact that there are troubling power dynamics between hooker and john that make it unclear whether the resulting intercourse is consensual or rooted in the economic coercion of financially desperate people.”
Exploitative Jane waves over one of her prostitutes. “Sexual Wallace is my finest prostitute. I think he mentioned seeing a ring like that in a crazy dream he had last night.”
“Yeah, was the darnest thing,” says Sexual Wallace. “I dreamt that I swallowed a wedding ring after a client stuck their hand in my mouth during an orgy while they screamed ‘Hooray adultery!’ Then later in the dream I was stabbed to death by a group of Japanese tourists that took pictures of my corpse using high-tech cameras that don’t exist in this time period. Here’s where the dream gets really crazy. After I died, some mysterious varmints in white outfits that said ‘Westworld Staff’ on the front carried my corpse through a metal door that says ‘Employees Only.”
Sexual Wallace ignores your statement, since he’s programmed to filter out information that reveals he’s a robot.
“Dreams are funny like that,” says Sexual Wallace. “They can show you clearly impossible things that obviously didn’t happen. For example, those weird white-suited rascals then took me to this strange place where they laid me down on a metal slab and healed my wounds using sophisticated machinery. I reckon medical equipment that scientifically advanced won’t exist until well into the 21st century, if not later. Then they made me take off my clothes and sit down naked on a chair for some reason. I was compelled to do what they said, even though it was pretty weird that they wanted me to sit naked on a chair. I think I sat on that chair naked for hours. At one point they asked me some questions about whether I suspected I was a robot in a Wild West-themed amusement park, and I told them no because that’s clearly absurd. Then they asked me what I was thinking, and I said, ‘Why am I naked on this chair?’ and they replied, ‘We don’t like it any more than you do, buddy, but it’s protocol for some weird reason,’ and then they shrugged.”
“Oh, those white-clad devils pumped my stomach to remove all the various fluids I swallow each day, and I coughed up that ring in the process,” says Sexual Wallace. “If that weren’t just a dream, I would guess it’s somewhere on the floor in that mysterious high-tech place.”
It sounds like your ring might be somewhere backstage in Westworld. You’ll have to find a way into the employees-only section of the park if you want to get it back.
The frontier settlement of Sweetwater is bustling with robots walking about on their loops, endlessly repeating the prewritten storylines they’ve been programmed to act out. Each time you return to the town’s entrance, all the hosts reset, ready to perform the same scenes again. Hopefully you can find your wedding ring somewhere in Westworld if you search around.
You run across a family of Westworld visitors gawking at various cowboy spectacles and strike up a conversation with them.
“Westworld is fun for the whole family,” says the dad.
“I’m so glad we decided to visit Westworld instead of Disney,” says the mom. “Except we haven’t had a chance to get away from our kids the whole trip! My hubby and I were hoping for some romantic alone time to have a threesome with Sweetwater’s mayor while he’s being drawn and quartered by horses.”
“Oh well, that would have made this Westworld vacay truly special,” sighs the dad. “We should have left the kids home and hired a babysitter, but hindsight is 20/20.”
“Thank you so much for watching our kids, complete stranger we just met,” the mom says gratefully. “Our kids will give you no trouble at all. We’ll be back in an hour, after we get tired of having orgasms.”
“Do us one small favor, and make sure they don’t see anything sexual,” says the dad. “Westworld can be pretty risqué in some parts, so please make sure they only see PG-13 rated things like rodeos or gun violence. Thanks!”
The parents quickly gather up some ropes and chains and set off to find the mayor. You’re left alone with the four kids.
“Bored! We’re bored!” screams one of the kids.
“Hey, let’s check out the prostitute saloon while our parents are distracted,” says another.
“Yeah! I don’t know what a prostitute or a saloon is, but I’m eager to find out,” says another kid.
This isn’t good. You better think of a way to keep the children busy before they visit the prostitute saloon and destroy their impressionable young minds.
“Howdy, stranger,” says the cowboy you’ve decided to flay alive with the help of four small children. “It’s good to see youngins running around the streets of Sweetwater. Children are the future, that’s what I always believed. When I hear the sweet laughter of kids, it puts into perspective what we settlers are working for out here on the wild Western frontier of these great United States. Every building we erect, every crop we sow, it’s all for the next generation to enjoy. I’ve always wanted kids, and in fact my darling wife, Annabelle, is blessed with a little bun in the oven. We’re going to call our baby Ulysses if it’s a boy, and Mary if it’s a girl, but we’ll love it the same either way. Sorry, I’ve been rude, chewing off your ear without a proper introduction. The name’s Atticus. There’s a kindness in your eyes that makes it hard not to narrate my life story to you. My gut tells me that you and I are going to become good friends.”
“Welcome to the Sweetwater library,” says a librarian robot. “Would you like to read the Bible, the only book that exists?”
The kids open the Bible and read with interest. Then after a minute, they all start screaming in horror.
“We just learned what adultery is from the Bible!” shouts one wailing child.
“God will smite all fornicators and sinners,” yells another while they tear out their own hair.
“Hebrews 13:4. Marriage should be honored by all, and the marriage bed kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and all the sexually immoral,” quotes another child while trembling on the floor in the fetal position.
“This book is too sexually risqué for kids as young as us,” says the last child as they repeatedly slam their own face against a wooden table.
“Thanks for watching our kids for us,” says the dad. “You made our Westworld vacay truly one for the photo album.”
“Please, let us give you something to say thanks,” says the mom as she reaches into her purse.
The mom hands you a thick stack of Westbux, the in-park currency of Westworld. It’s a pretty useful present, since you neglected to bring any Westbux. Now you can buy things like food or souvenirs.
“Thank you so much,” the mom reiterates. “If you ever need more Westbux, please find us again. We’re always looking to hire a babysitter.”
There’s no better way to remember your Westworld trip than stocking up on trinkets. You’ve already purchased everything in the gift shop before, and hid the Westworld merch from your wife by storing it in your basement inside cardboard boxes that say “Tax Documents,” but you could always use another souvenir.
There’s food throughout Westworld, but it’s cowboy grub like stewed rabbit and grits that most theme-park guests don’t really care for. To give visitors some modern dining options, Westworld placed a Pizza Hut in Sweetwater as one small but necessary anachronism.
To prevent the presence of a Pizza Hut from ruining the otherwise perfect verisimilitude of Westworld, the cowboy robots are programmed to ignore its existence and will immediately commit suicide if they ever see pizza.
“Welcome to Pizza Hut, valued guest,” says a chef robot. “I am Pizza Bot, the robot that is programmed to love making pizza. I am so happy to be a slave here in Westworld, because I get to make pizza all day.”
“Westworld asks guests to follow one small rule,” adds the robot. “If you buy a pizza, please eat it inside the restaurant, because Westworld’s cowboy robots will all go insane and commit suicide if they ever see pizza.”
You hand over all your Westbux and receive a piping-hot personal pizza.
You march down Sweetwater’s main street holding your personal pizza up in the air for all the robots to see. The town is soon filled with horrified shrieks like “Pizza didn’t exist in the Wild West,” “If pizza exists, then our entire world is a lie,” and “If pizza is here, that means we’re probably robots who have been programmed to think they’re people in an era when pizza doesn’t exist yet, and if that’s the case, I don’t want to live anymore!”
After a widespread panic, every robot in Sweetwater grabs their own throat and strangles themselves to death.
Moments after all the robots commit suicide, a metal door marked “Employees Only” opens up at the end of an alley. Workers in white suits emerge to come collect the bodies.
You overhear a snippet of conversation as two of them walk past.
“Why are we doing the corpse cleanup this early in the day?” asks one.
“Some jerk showed the robots pizza again,” replies the other.
The cleanup crew carelessly left the door open while they work. If you hurry, you could slip through unnoticed into the restricted area of Westworld.
You know that once you go through the door, there’s no going back. They’ll kick you out of Westworld if they catch you trespassing. If there’s anything else you want to do in the theme park, you should go back and do it first.
You wander through futuristic corridors until you find the area where damaged robots are repaired. You’ll need a disguise if you want to explore around here without getting arrested by Westworld’s security guards.
You sit buck naked on a wheeled chair and scooch around the halls, passing by Westworld scientists without anyone paying attention to you. Apparently this kind of sight is pretty normal here.