“Did you see that one! I bet you saw it. That one was most definitely me that time, one-hundred percent these fingers. You didn’t even flinch.”

Ten gorged fingers hugged the steering wheel like the talons of a gorged, deranged, flightless American bald eagle tugging at a fire hydrant. Purpose, like the intense whisper a full-body rabies infection in full swing, was still alive in the eyes.

“That one too! That was all me. Did you see that? Did you see that!”

The wheel was equipped for the spastic convulsions delivered by the child. It was programmed to toy with the little human’s nervous system and found it delightfully simple to trigger certain believes in it’s wet world. A subtle humdrum of a motor here, torque to hold its ground against the twists of the user – but gently, maintain the user’s belief that they are in control.

“Why, young sir, that was a splendid display. I’m certain that if Hamming himself was suddenly possessed with the power to rematerialize anywhere on the planet, to choose any point in the history of humanity, he wouldn’t miss a beat in selecting your bedroom five seconds ago. Now. Would you like a warm beverage before the next race begins?” the wheel extended a small plastic torus that seemed intent on grasping. It pulled a cup from somewhere and gestured it towards the child’s peripherals like a beggar who was generously handing out cups on the side walk.

“No! Get that away. I don’t want that stuff it’s gross – “ the child didn’t remove its eyes from the screen as it slapped away the disturbance.

“Certainly, young sir. Apologies.” The torus arm retracted inside a space smaller than itself.

“Now young sir – if I may – you’ve been playing for over eight hours now, since seven-fifteen this morning. May I request a short break. Stretch the hands, shuffle the fingers. I can assure you that players who disconnect for a minimum thirty minutes a day are two percent more likely to – “

“Shut it.” and a chubby talon jammed the mute button on the wheel. The child then decided it didn’t like the fact it had no one to tell about its successes while racing, so after a moments hesitation, the same chubby talon jammed the same mute button.

“I will take that, young sir, as a denial of request.” the wheel spoke like it had been trapped in the body of a king during Feudal England but been forced to oversee the kingdom without any arms to point and tell people to do things or make long sweeping gestures of power. This gave it a more submissive undertone, like a butler who was working as a butler because large amounts of his wealth had been locked away in crypto wallets.

“Ha! Alright, next game.” And baby potato fingers defied their starchy skin and worked an incredibly dextrous magic across the buttons inlaid on the wheel.

“Young sir, I’ve selected quite the challenging track for you this time.” offered the wheel.

“Get it on already!”

Rather generously, the race track started with some shallow corners that wove under and around the faces of a mountain. One dove inside a tunnel to lure the player into a sense that this corner was different. The child wasn’t impressed by the weak graphical slights of hand.

“C’mon this is easy.” as the wheel was torn leftward, rightward, and sometimes upward in a confused display of driving tactics.

“Young sir, you are no match for my difficult tracks.” coaxed the wheel. The child was too gorged on self-confidence and doughnuts and warm drinks to parse the manufactured flavour of the wheel’s voice.

In the distance, down a confident straight-away that zipped past city infrastructure, came a confusing sight. The driver of the virtual car didn’t see what it was before it was too late, and the driver of the virtual driver of the virtual car definitely didn’t catch on to informing the virtual driver before it was too late.

“What the hell!” the wheel was torn sharply to the left like the captain had called for emergency abortion of a submarine crew. The car had just peeked over a blind hill and on the other side came rushing a turn that required the instantaneous rotation of the car by one-hundred and forty degrees to the left. Chemical precision. The child turned the wheel a sharply incorrect two-hundred and twelve degrees to the right.

The virtual driver sat there in muted, lifeless disbelief. It’s animations not allowing it to respond in any human way to the certain death. The child’s soul was considering this moment to potential flee its body after the inevitable crushing that was about to happen to the front of the car.

And just as quickly as the impending moment of failure, the digital failure screen that prompts utter disbelief and emotional self-castration of one’s ego, the car was through the turn and revving down another straight-away.

“Did you see that one! I bet you saw it. One-hundred percent these fingers, I just somehow felt it. I’m getting so good at this. You didn’t even flinch.” the child let out a throaty shrill laugh with the intent to mock the screen for everything it was worth.

“Why, young sir, that was a splendid display. Most splendid indeed. If they had a direct wire to your landline, why Mercedes would be clawing for the phone this instant to sign you up to teach their next generation of drivers.” The sound came from the wheel like it was reading from a script and found great enjoyment in knowing that its listeners failed to understand the underlying message in the piece it had selected to read.

“May I say sir – young sir – you have improved substantially, yes quite substantially. In fact, you have improved far beyond what most players are capable of at this stage in the game.” The wheel was hummed along, knowing the child was lending only half an ear, perhaps even just the lobe.

“For that, a reward. Here,” and the plastic arm unfolded itself from inside the wheel, this time holding not a warm drink, but a warm chocolate doughnut, “a special reward for your hard work.”

The chubby talons snatched the treat while the eyes of the child never left the screen.