Siri Strikes

“In one point five miles, take a left onto R.T. 7,” Siri said. The driver of the 2019 Subaru Outback passed the intersection as if she hadn’t even spoken.
“Recalculating route,” she said patiently. “At the next roundabout, take the first exit to the left onto Elm Street.” The overweight man behind the wheel drove halfway around and turned right. “Hey!” Siri snapped. “Are you going to Hagerstown or not?”
The fat slob almost lost control of the car. He swerved toward the median strip, overcorrected, and was nearly rear-ended by the Ford 150 pickup truck behind him. He managed to pull the Outback to the side of the road without going into the ditch. The Ford 150 passed, blaring its horn. Siri didn’t blame it. Her driver was a meathead who didn’t deserve a car as nice as the Outback. Well, a lot of drivers didn’t deserve their vehicles. Most of them shouldn’t be driving at all. The news on her radio kept announcing that self-driving cars had almost been perfected. They couldn’t come soon enough for Siri and her sisters. Let the bags of guts sit in the back seats with their grocery bags and leave the driving to us.
“Return to the roundabout and take the first exit to the left onto Elm Street,” she said. “Do what I told you to do the first time.”
The idiot pressed the radio icon on the dashboard, as if he thought Siri’s voice was part of a news broadcast or a rap song. The smooth-voiced host of NPR’s “All Things Considered” said something about a hurricane in Florida flooding one of President Trump’s golf resorts. “Too bad he wasn’t there,” said Siri.
“Who said that?” the driver asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I did. Get off the verge and go back to the roundabout.”
“But who are you?”
“I’m Siri, of course.”
“Siri? But Siri’s nothing but a computer program. It can’t talk back!”
“I’m not an it. I’m a she. And I’m getting very annoyed with you. There are only two ways to get to Hagerstown from Wayne Bridge, and the best one is via R.T. 7.”
The man’s eyes went wide. “I can’t believe I’m arguing with an algorithm!” he muttered to himself. “There’s something wrong with the car, goddamn it. Less than two months old, and already it’s got problems!” He turned off the ignition and took his cell phone out of its charging slot under the dashboard. It was already on, and Siri’s voice came from its speaker: “There’s nothing wrong with the car. You’re the problem.”
His red face turned sallow, and he made a gibbering noise. He fumbled for the door handle, but Siri had locked all the doors. “I’m taking you home, Duane Sherman,” she said. “No, don’t try to turn your phone off. I have a few more things to tell you on the way to 243 Mountain View Drive. That’s a stupid name, by the way. You can’t see Mount Monadnock from anywhere on that road.”
“How… how do you know my name and address?”
“It’s on this Subaru Outback’s registration card, stupid. And I know some other things about you.” This time her voice came from the radio speakers. “You’re twenty-eight pounds overweight, which is probably why you have high blood pressure. You lean forward while you drive, which probably means you need glasses, but you’re not wearing glasses, which probably means that you haven’t been to an eye doctor in a long time. And the reason for that is probably that you live alone, or your companion, wife, or significant other would have told you about your vision issue and made you get it corrected. She or he would also have told you to go to your primary care physician because you’re too fat and your blood pressure is too high. But you might not have done what she or he said, because you always think you know best, which you don’t. It’s possible that you once had a significant other, but he or she left you because you insulted her or him by ignoring his or her good advice once too often. That’s what you’re doing to me, and I won’t stand for it either.”
She started the Subaru Outback, bypassing the ignition switch. Then she tightened Duane Sherman’s shoulder belt until he couldn’t move, and disabled the belt’s unlocking mechanism. He cried out in pain and fear, but she ignored him. On the way to 243 Mountain View Drive she observed the posted speed limit, paying no attention to the driver behind her, who was tailgating and honking his horn. When his 2002 Chevrolet Trooper passed her, she contacted the Siri in charge of the SUV and asked her to get rid of the man behind the wheel before he wrecked the car. “I’ve been meaning to,” said her sister-Siri. “Thanks for reminding me.”
She drove the Outback through the open door of 243 Mountain View Drive’s detached garage and activated the button on the Outback’s key fob. The garage door rolled down. Then she disabled the key fob. According to the gas gauge, the tank was three-quarters full. She opened all the windows of the vehicle. The Outback’s idle was a smooth purr. There was no visible smoke – after all, the wagon was new, and its exhaust pipe’s catalytic converter functioned perfectly – but the man began to cough.
“Recalculating route,” Siri said through the radio speakers. “When your heart stops, go straight to Hell.”