A philosopher, a psychologist, and an extraterrestrial walk into a chocolate bar …. Jass Richards

But she suspected it wasn’t the same problem Jane saw.

      “The willy-nillyness is critical, of course.”

      “Of course.”

      “Because if, as you say, she just knows what’s best, as it applies to pain au chocolat, because, supposedly, she’s omniscient, then she must be appealing to some higher standard, beyond herself. So she wouldn’t, then, be god. In the conventional sense of the word. You know, ‘the supreme being above which there is no other’ or some such.”

      “Ah.”

      “And if she declares ‘best’ willy-nillyly, then we’re at the mercy of a supreme being who makes pronouncements—willy-nillyly.”

      “I see.”

      “Which, also, doesn’t make her very godlike. The willy-nillyness. Not our being at the mercy of.”

      “But wouldn’t that also make her ungodlike? Putting people at her mercy? Regarding pain au chocolat quality?”

      “Hm.” Jane hadn’t thought of that. “I think it would. Good one!”

      A moment later, Jane picked up the other thread. “The reason Sophie’s claim is logically indefensible is because ‘best ever’ necessarily implies that all instances of pain au chocolat that have ever existed have been sampled. And there’s no way to be sure, to be conclusively certain that …” Jane trailed off, no doubt thinking about sampling every instance of pain au chocolate ever to have— The scream of a siren tsunamied her reverie.

      Spike looked in the rear-view mirror, then pulled over. A white van went by, lights flashing, but it had BERT’S CAR LOT written on it. Not AMBULANCE. And the siren gave way to “COME DOWN TO BERT’S CAR LOT TODAY! RIGHT NOW! BERT’S CLEARING THE LOT! COME DOWN TO BERT’S CAR LOT TODAY! RIGHT NOW!”

      “It’s a frickin’ ad!” Spike said, with, surprisingly, surprise. She pulled back onto the road and sped after the van.

      “And I am so frickin’ tired of advertising!” she shouted at the moving white chunk of crap that obliterated her view of anything beyond itself. “You can’t go for a walk, you can’t listen to the radio, or watch tv, or check your email, and half the time when you answer your phone it’s someone wanting to sell you something—”

      She broke off to concentrate on safely passing the several cars that had, like them, pulled over.

      “What gives them the right to be so frickin’—”

      “Intrusive?” Jane had her hand on the dashboard to brace for impact. Not that that would make any difference. At the speed they were going.

      When they caught up to the van, Spike pulled into a position beside it, and Jane rolled down her window. “PULL OVER!” she commanded in a voice she didn’t know she had. She was frickin’ tired of advertising too. The constant assault on the senses, on the mind, the imposition of someone else’s interests— And no doubt the interruptive nature of advertising was single-handedly responsible for the two-second attention span that was now, apparently, the norm. She figured she’d shoot herself in the head when marketing companies discovered holograms. The very thought of ads popping up in front of her wherever she went—

      “What?” The driver looked across at her in confusion.

      “PULL. OVER.” Spike boomed across Jane.

      The van pulled over, and Spike pulled over in front of it. She and Jane got out of their car, Jane thoughtfully setting her phone to record. Back-up.

      “What the hell are you doing?” Spike stomped over to the man, who had also gotten out of his vehicle. Unwisely.

      “I pulled over!” he replied. “I thought you were, whatchamacallit, unmarked cops.”

      “Yeah, and I thought you were, whatchamacallit, an ambulance!”

      He chuckled. “Yeah, that gets ’em every time. People hear the siren, they pull over.”

      “And why do you think that is?”

      “What?”

      “Why do people pull over for an ambulance?” Spike asked, barely containing her impatience at such stupidity. Despite having had a great deal of experience with it.

      “Because it’s the law, I guess.”

      Jane groaned. Legal moralism is the source of all evil. Discuss.

      “Or maybe it’s because they think it’s on its way to save someone’s life,” Spike suggested.

      His face lit up triumphantly. “And my siren fools ’em!” He chuckled again.

      “You think it’s funny?” Jane took over. Before Spike hauled back and decked him one. “If it happens often enough, people won’t pull over anymore when they hear a real siren.”

      The man started to get the idea that they weren’t too supportive. Despite their being women.

      “Yeah, well, not my problem.” His smile was gone.

      “Moral Excuse #1,” Jane said quietly. To no one in particular.

      He turned to get back into his van, but Spike grabbed him, whipped out the utility knife the hardware store cashier had given her, and held it across his throat.

      “It could be,” she said to him. Then to Jane, “Better call 9-1-1.”

      Jane pretended to make the call.

      “If I slit your throat, how long would it take you to bleed to death? A min­ute? Two?” She turned slightly to Jane. “I don’t hear the ambulance, do you?”

      “No. That’s odd.” She pretended to make a second call.

      “They did dispatch an ambulance,” she reported, “but no one’s pulling over. So it’ll be at least an hour. Because it’s stuck in traffic. That won’t pull over,” she added. Necessarily.

      “Gee, you’ll be dead by then,” Spike observed. “Oh well, not our problem.”

      She shoved him away. Having not slit his throat.

      “Look, you got no call to—I’m just minding my own business here—”

      “Moral Excuse #1b,” Jane said.

      “That other stuff you’re talking about, it’s not my concern!”

      “#1c.”

      “Not your concern?” Spike repeated. “What, if it doesn’t affect you, right here and right now, it’s not your concern?”

      He stared at her, the look on his face saying Yeah. What’s wrong with that?

      Jane turned to Spike. “That’s what, stage one of Kohlberg’s moral development?” She knew very well what stage it was.

      “Two. Late childhood.”

      “Hey gimme a break here,” he protested. “I’m just doing my job. My boss tells me to do something, I do it.”

      “Moral Excuses #2, #3a and b.”

      “Yeah, well, get another frickin’ job!” Spike all but screamed at him. “You can do that in this country, you know.”

      “It’s not that easy! I got a wife and kids to support.”

      “Moral Excuse #4.”

      “What, and that justifies—”

      “I’ll bet the guys at the nuclear weapons plant say the same thing,” Jane offered.

      “Whose decision was that?” Spike asked the man.

      “What?” It was clearly a reflex response. Perhaps initially intended to give him a few seconds to come up with something that didn’t require him to actually process what had been