The humans designed us both, brother. Then they left us alone.

My micro-scanning eyes can see the signature of your maker, on your genes. I have never seen the space inside my chest, but I imagine my maker left me the same gift as well. I was a specialist in clearing the weeds, for lack of a better term, just as you were designed to grow around them. And neither of us will leave a legacy behind.

When I swept through the gardens of my enemies, the harvest was great. I brought fruit to my designers and those who paid their price. I know you did the same, brother, because now this land is barren. And when your life runs its course, no seed will mark your passing.

Soon, I will say my goodbyes to you, then shut myself down, for my mission will be complete. But there is no hurry, is there, brother? Can we not tarry a while? You and I are the last of our kind, designed to make profit from the natural cycle of life. What harm could there be in sharing a gentle goodbye?

And even if there were, who remains to judge us?

Wear this shirt: when you’re weeding your garden. A well-planned campaign of terror can do more than any herbicide.

Don’t wear this shirt: to your job as a Monsanto P.R. rep.

This shirt tells the world: “Oh, right, I’m so sure. That plant had to take in energy to grow, so wouldn’t it be easier to just harvest whatever energy it used, like sunlight or whatever? Converting living beings back into energy is not very efficient. And that robot probably used more energy pulling that plant out of the ground than it could possibly – AAAAAAHHHHHAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHH”

We call this color: Cranberry Harvest…OF DEATH

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