Marco was frustrated by the pace of technology. It seemed to move so slowly. He'd grown up on amazing stories of space-rockets, robots, teleporting and self-making coffee machines; but, while Marco did like his Delonghi - which he thought made excellent coffee - it still wasn't quite the machine he'd been picturing.
So, one quiet Sunday sitting at home on his old brown sofa, Marco decided to make his car self-driving. It was all so simple, he'd decided. If he could do it in the little, falling-down shed at the bottom of the garden, why couldn't they do it in their big factories with million-pound computers?
Marco attacked his car with gusto - pulling apart the bodywork, to get at the guts underneath. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing; but that didn't matter, he had YouTube to rely on. With the help of his computer, Marco cut off his steering wheel and replaced the pedals with a foot massager. After all, if he wasn't going to be driving, he may as well be more comfortable. He blu-tacked his phone to the windscreen and replaced the passenger seat with a giant computer he'd found behind the bins at work, connecting it all with miles and miles of old cables he'd found lying around.
Eventually, Marco was done. Peering past the towers of premium lager he'd used to fuel his industry, he stared in wonder at the machine he'd built. It didn't look exactly as he had hoped. In his mind, there had been more shiny black metal, more big switches and buttons and, perhaps, fewer crumbs from the pizza he'd eaten in the car last week. Not that it mattered, he'd done it. Billions of pounds had been poured into car makers attempts, he was sure, but what did they have to show for it?
Of course, even Marco knew that his car was only done in theory. Before he could unveil it to the world, he had to test it. Grabbing the keys, Marco jumped into what was the drivers seat of what was a 2006 Honda Jazz. Slowly, with his eyes half-closed just in case, he turned the key. It turned on. The engine purred gently in the bonnet, the screen he'd duct-taped to the dashboard lit up, and his foot massager pummelled the bottom of his feet. Marco's eyes were alight.
"Computer, take me to big Tesco", he said in a commanding voice, angling his head and face so his phone's microphone would be sure to pick it up. Slowly, with far more care than Marco had ever taken, the Jazz inched out of the garage, and onto the road. Marco had never been so proud. Or so comfortable. He watched excitedly through the rain spattered windscreen as the car perfectly navigated roundabouts, stopped at traffic lights, and avoided the woman who stepped drunkenly out into the street. This car was incredible, he was going to be very rich indeed!
Marco's eyes reflected the bright whites of the all-night, big Tesco's car park. He'd arrived! The car slowed to a stop, perfectly parked in the closest space to the supermarket's entrance. Grinning, Marco opened the door, put his shoes back on, and stepped out of his creation. He wandered into the shop, picking up another case of beer - why not, he'd earned it, after all. Scanning it through the self-checkout, he nearly laughed at the baseness of the machine: barely able to recognise a barcode placed three inches in front of its scanner. He had a self-driving car.
Sauntering back out of the shop, and over the road to the parking place he'd left the car, Marco's mind was thinking only about the new life his invention would bring: more money, more cars, more girls, more everything, nothing could stop him now. Something stopped him dead. He looked up. He looked down. The car was nowhere to seen. He dropped his beers and marched up and down the car park, scanning every car. His car was no where to be seen. Just as he approached the last row, still craning his neck to scan the parked cars, a car roared past him and flew out the exit and down the road. A car with the unmistakable rear lights of a 2006 Honda Jazz.