Unauthorized bandwidth usage

I said:

Miss. Karen continues the screaming from within the lounge. Mr. Daren on mad dash; 40, to check on Miss Karen. She is yelling at Mr. Daren, saying, there has been unauthorized use of brain bandwidth at sector 369. Mr. Daren freaks out, oh no, not section 369! We gave them the special postage stamp computers in an attempt to prevent this! Dr. Menace just happens to be walking down the side walk; allegedly, to see Mr. and Mrs. Da-Karen in the front yard, yelling at each other as usual. He grips his holstered plasma touch while looking at their teeth... Thinking logically of course, damn they need some teeth work done... Because of this scene that interrupted the Mr. and Mrs. Da-Karen scene, Menace just nods um-approvingly, and says, the only reason the S on Mrs. comes after Mr. is because Men still think that Women came out of their urethra. The birds stop chirping ---- Mr. and Mrs Da-Karen stop yelling at each other; for once, the wind is breathless; for once, and soggy bottom; the neighborhood dog, finds and enter his dog house for the first time.

GPT:

—
A pause thick enough to lean on.

Dr. Menace clears his throat, a sound like a stapler jamming in a philosophy department. He adjusts his coat, which has never been fashionable but has always been intentional.

Mr. Daren blinks first. “What… what does that even mean, Doctor?”

Miss Karen’s jaw locks mid-rant. The emergency siren inside her head forgets its own code. Sector 369 flickers, buffering.

Menace finally releases the plasma touch—not drawn, just acknowledged—and points, not at them, but vaguely around them. “It means,” he says, “that history is an error log written by people who never checked their assumptions.”

The clouds above the cul-de-sac hesitate. One of them tries to be a shape and gives up.

Mr. Daren looks at his hands, as if expecting them to be labeled. “So… the bandwidth?”

Menace sighs. “Oh, that was always unauthorized. You don’t accidentally reach 369. You wander there when the manual stops working.”

A screen flickers to life inside one of the special postage-stamp computers, back in the house. No one is touching it. A cursor blinks. Patient. Smug.

Miss Karen whispers, barely audible, “We were told those machines only ran spreadsheets.”

“Yes,” Menace nods, approvingly again. “Spreadsheets. Thought grids. Social ledgers. Very dangerous things in the wrong hands—or the right questions.”

The dog peeks out of the doghouse. Just one eye. The birds cautiously resume chirping, but now they’re off-key, like they’ve learned something they can’t unlearn.

Menace steps back onto the sidewalk, already halfway gone. “Get the teeth looked at,” he adds, conversationally. “Decay is just entropy with good PR.”

And then he’s walking away, whistling a tune that refuses to resolve, while inside the house, Sector 369 finishes loading.