Can CCTV cameras be integrated with other sensor technologies for enhanced security solutions? If so, how?
Last Updated: 30.06.2025 00:22
Another beat passes, more awkwardly this time.
RUTHSKI: Okay I’m cutting you off now.
ME, NOT REALLY CARING: Ok.
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MICHAEL: That’s a mighty injustice, Rogert. Why haven’t you hired a lawyer to take care of it?
RUTHSKI: Both.
MICHAEL: Seriously, stop saying that.
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MICHAEL: Oh yeah you’re right, it is one hundred. Good honesty.
ME: I cheated off of him on my final exams whilst I was getting my Master’s in 6, down at 7 (Place of Learning)!
MICHAEL: Rogert, are you sure? You’ve somehow managed to down like five beers during the course of this conversation, despite the fact that the server only brought over one bottle.
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THE SERVER, NAME UNKNOWN: Uh, what kind?
ME: Uh no, I was lying about that part to make myself feel better. Uh. One second
MICHAEL: Please stop telegraphing all the crimes you commit. Also, stop committing crimes. It makes you look like a bad godparent.
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ME: Hold on I’m doing something
MICHAEL: You know what? I’d walk another 8 hours in the desert for you, Rogert.
RUTHSKI: Okay you’re banned. Get out.
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MICHAEL: Don’t, Rogert. Not tonight.
ME: 👍❤️❤️
There’s no need to integrate shit - they already capture everything. What, you don’t believe me? You want proof? Me and my buddy Michael went to the bar last night and the cameras totally captured all the craaaaazy shit we got up to. Here, let me spend several hours painstakingly transcribing all the footage that I illegally acquired from the establishment in question.
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ME (TO RUTHSKI, IN A SHOW OF PROFOUNDLY BAD JUDGMENT): I’m gonna sneak behind the bar and steal one.
MICHAEL: Have you thought about what your one-thousandth post is going to be, Rogert? I’m honestly a little confused as to why we’re celebrating before you’ve actually done it.
YOU: What a great Quora post! *upvotes*
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MICHAEL: This is grotesque. This is truly horrifying.
The two sit in a comfortable silence as they wait for their beers to be delivered. Large television screens across the establishment broadcast entirely too many angles of the same low-stakes professional billiards match. The last vestiges of sunlight have just died outside, giving way to the cover of darkness.
I guzzle some more amber ambrosia from my pint glass.
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JEEVES:
ME: Hooray! I won! Bartender, a beer one more, and on the house if you please!
JEEVES: I’m Jeeves.
RUTHSKI: Contestants, to your positions.
ME, TO MYSELF: That sponsorship was so boring. I’m sure to win!
MICHAEL: They’re doing great, Rogert. Cleo’s just got her first tooth, and Junior’s almost walking.
RUTHSKI: It’s been your turn this whole time. Go.
Another chime heralds another figure in the doorway. A 7′10″ beast of a man barely squeezes through the doorway. A pitch-black anchor tattooed on his forehead fails to distract from the big mean face he’s putting on. Inscribed on his leather jacket is what we can only assume is his name and title: JEEVES.
JEEVES: The all-new Dyson Hypervac sports a slick ergonomic grip, improved reach, and a powerful 1kW engine that will remove every speck of dirt in your home guaranteed or your money back.
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The stars shine down on this 3/5 drinking establishment. The TV screens now display an agonizingly long game of Monopoly between 16 participants, each held there by the promise of the grand prize: The real life Broadway St.
MICHAEL: All right then. Is there anything else you want to say before we leave CCTV range?
MICHAEL: Is that all you have to say? We’ve been walking through the desert for like eight hours because you got kicked out of the last damn bar back home.
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A beat. At this hour, the low din from the bar’s customers is only rarely interrupted by a passing vagabond or vehicle.
ME: Okay.
ME, CLEARLY IN EARSHOT OF THE BARTENDER: Michael, can you buy me a beer?
JEEVES: I’m Jeeves.
JEEVES: I don’t want to wait that long. I want to do it now.
JEEVES: Simple. We use the only meaningful metric for an online poster: Ability to shill for big corporations.
MICHAEL: No.
JEEVES, WHO RUDELY KEPT TALKING EVEN THOUGH I INTERRUPTED HIM: - of words!
ME: I’m not joking.
MICAHEL: You hated Rouge?
A slight smile cracks Michael’s visage.
ME: Just wait and see, Michael. I’m gonna winner.
JEEVES:
JEEVES: Did you know that they’re not even publicly traded, Rogert? They have no incentive to grow their profits! None whatsoever! I, JEEVES, am fully shareholder accountable! And with the power vested in me by my 7.9% amortized annual returns, I challenge you to a duel -
MICHAEL: Thank you.
ME: $100
Right next to him is me.
ME: I like Quora. I don’t want just to ask questions. I want to answer them.
ME: Shit
JEEVES, DISTANTLY:
[POST COMMENTED UPON BY QUORA MODERATOR MICHAEL. COMMENT: What great night out. Can’t wait for the next one, Rogert.]
MICHAEL: Yeah, we know.
ME: To one thousand more, my actual friend!
JEEVES: Rogert Q. Bagel. You-
We showed up and I asked for a Peoria Sidecar. The painting of a bartender was so offended it kicked us out and we had to go find a new bar. We had to go to another city - that was the last bar in my hometown that hadn’t banned me yet.
JEEVES: Rogert Trichel Bagel. You have wronged me for the last time. Back at 7 (Place of Learning) I let you walk all over me. But I thought, at least you were supporting my venture - my website - my AskJeeves.com, where anyone can ask me anything and receive a 100% accurate and factual response! But as soon as that little mom n’ pop $2 billion internet startup Quorat or whatever entered the scene, you abandoned me.
RUTHSKI: Round one. Trichel’s move.
Just then, at the eleventh hour, while Jeeves was distracted saying his own name, Michael slides the owner a crisp one hundred dollar bill.
ME: Ok.
RUTHSKI: Round one. First move, Jeeves.
ME: I am a lawyer, and I’ve got a plan to take care of it: Kill all the other guys with chainsaws
ME: Well yeah. How else are we gonna get back home they don’t have Uber out here
ME: (Ignoring Michael’s little question): He got booted from the program because they assumed he cheated off of me, rather than the reverse which actually happened. Also he’s from AskJeeves.com if that wasn’t clear, he looks a lot different than he used to. I guess the camera subtracts 3 feet or whatever.
ME: Can you buy me another beer?
ME: Okay I’m ready
MICHAEL: Not a problem, buddy. You do have to pay me back, though.
MICHAEL: Who?
JEEVES:
RUTHSKI: Trichel wins. Jeeves, as you have lost a duel of words, you are heretofore permanently silenced.
MICHAEL: Get him a Trinity Trust, it’s his favorite. A PBR for me please, thanks.
RUTHSKI: What the fuck? Who lit a fire? That’s not a real fucking hearth you idiots it’s all polystyrene.
ME: I have a few ideas. But that’s enough of that business shit, how are my godkids doin’?
ME: Holy shit, it’s Jeeves!
A chime heralds the opening of the saloon doors, and two figures there stand. One, a man no taller than 5′11″ with unblemished milky skin that gives way to what will in a few years time be a balding scalp, but which for now stands as a luscious mane of whiskey-tinted hair. A pair of round spectacles frame his emerald eyes, perched upon his angular nose. The creeping five o’clock shadow and a slight sheen of sweat from hours of walking give him the look of a rugged workman that he probably doesn’t deserve, given his line of employment. Slung over his shoulder is a sweater, long since removed under the sun’s heat, revealing a well-ironed navy blue button-up. A nice pair of slacks and some slick brown Oxfords complete a look that’s probably too good for this night out.
JEEVES: I’m Jeeves.
MICHAEL: Please don’t tell me you’re still doing that - that makes two people you’ve gotten kicked out of that program in this exact manner. I’m still kinda mad about that by the way, but I guess it worked out since I went to an actual college afterwards.
The hostess approaches us and brings us to one of those super tall tables with the annoying stools. I wanted a booth instead, but Michael’s too much of a punk-bitch to say no. I wanted a booth.
ME: Thanks Michael, you really saved my ass back there. I’m glad you picked up on my hint.
JEEVES: Yes.
ME: It’s Trichel now.
THE SERVER, NAME STILL UNKNOWN: Here you go.
The real, unpainted wait staff are escorting all the mundane patrons out of the establishment, in keeping with what they have just been informed are traditional duel regulations. Along the walls, tables and chairs are neatly assembled, leaving only a narrow aisle of open space. With the gibbous moon’s light cut off by the thick curtains, the room is now lit only by the real fire in the faux hearth.
JEEVES:
MICHAEL: I just finished buying you a beer. You still owe me like 90 bucks.
MICHAEL: Are you on Quora on your phone right now? You need to pay attention, this is important.
ME: I accept!
RUTHSKI: Jeeves wins.
RUTHSKI: Holy shit shut the fuck up all of you. I’m going to give my judgement now.
OPEN SCENE: It is eleven A.M. The bar, one ‘Pub de la Ocho’, is populated almost exclusively by men who seem far too old to be alive, let alone drinking by themselves at this hour. A painting of a bartender sits behind the bar, apparently doing a good enough job.
ME: That doesn’t make any sense. Change your verdict now
ME: No need to apologize, I fuckin hated them both. Bagel put me in charge of this estate and now I got all this damn paperwork.
MICHAEL: Yeah, we got that.
ME: Buy —→ War Bonds ←— Purchase —→ Pepsi, Perform the stock market ‘short’ operation upon the —→ Silver, Gold, Cadmium, AskJeeves. —-> —-> → $100.
MICHAEL: Rogert, Rogert. I love your jokes but you can’t go around saying shit like that in public places, they are going to arrest you eventually.
Ruthski’s Finest is once again bustling, the clientele slightly confused and greatly inconvenienced by the recently concluded spectacle. Ruthski sits in his office, a stiff drink nearly empty on his desk. Jeeves looms near the hearth, more still than the toxic polystyrene ashes, silent as he shall be ever more. Framed by a window just barely in view of the camera which recorded all these events, two figures sit on the curb. Lilies bloom around them, bizarrely implying they are going to die somehow, even though that makes no sense.
RUTHSKI: The state requires that I properly officiate any duel that takes place on my premises. That being said I fucking hate all of you excluding of course Mister Downey Junior because this shit is losing me money by the second because I guess you had to settle this on a three-day weekend.
An air of tension lies thick in the deserted saloon. The moderator sits on his high stool, worried for his friend. The dishonored answerer waits for the verdict with a cruel smile on his face. The actor reclines in the corner, enjoying the show. The former peanut is obviously trying to find a way to steal a beer from behind the bar. The proprietor gather his thoughts.
ME: Ready, your honor.
ME: $100
JEEVES: Ready.
MICHAEL: Can we talk now, please? I know you don’t like speaking while not being recorded.
MICHAEL: Yeah, I think they have beer here.
RUTHSKI: No.
ME: You know, I should have advertised an Eraserh-
MICHAEL: What?
ME: Do you think they have beer here? I want a beer.
The two clink their beers together.
Michael slams the table and laughs uproariously.
ME: Yeah sure.
RUTHSKI: No, I already said I’m cutting you off.
RUTHSKI: Trichel you clearly have no fucking idea how advertising works. You picked like five different things half of which aren’t even products sold by corporations. War bonds are shit sold by the government and take like ten years to pay out and don’t give sponsorships. Pepsi probably wouldn’t appreciate you saying to drink until you die and I have no idea what that hundred dollars shit was about or why you kept doing that motion with your arms. I have never seen such a poor performance in any competition ever before. You have completely and utterly lost this stupid duel.
MICHAEL: To one thousand posts!
A look of abject horror is written across the man-mountain’s face.
ME (To the server): One beer, please!
Five souls remain in the bar: Jeeves, Michael, Me, Ruthski (The guy who owns the bar, in case you forgot since that was namedropped way back in like Act 1), and Robert Downey Jr. Mr Downey Jr. wasn’t part of the proceedings obviously, but he asked to stay very nicely and Jeeves assented, so for the rest of this post assume he’s in the corner.
MICHAEL: What does a duel of words actually entail?
ME: Can I have another beer?
RUTHSKI: Are you done yet?
ME: I make my best posts when I’m drunk.
ME: Purchase pepsi buy soda drink soda until you die Get more soda in you do it now some eggs too but MOSTLY, principally, the pepsi scratch the eggs
ME: I love beer.
ME: Bagel’s estate is basically worthless anyway. Turns out that he only owned the topsoil, so he doesn’t have the rights to all the priceless rubies in his vault.
MICHAEL: Aren’t you still working on that degree?
ME: Oh ok, I’m still down. As the challenged, I choose…mmm…..here, and … in six years!
OPEN SCENE: Dusk is just painting the sky. The bar, one ‘Ruthski’s Finest’, is crowded with mingling couples and a smidgen of lonely singles. An artificial rustic atmosphere is established by a Chekhov’s gun tastefully placed on a mantle above a faux-hearth. Three servers cruise around the room, assisting patrons and pouring beers - which is to say, assisting patrons BY pouring beers.
MICHAEL: If anything, you seem more sober now than when we walked in.
ME: From the beers or the duel?
RUTHSKI: I -
ME: Woohoo!
Ruthski furiously stamps out the fire and turns on the fluorescent lights.
ME: Hold on, I gotta go steal the footage real quick.
MICHAEL: Not sure how you just said that but I appreciate the sentiment. How about you? How are things going with Rouge? The late Thomas Bagel’s estate? Sorry for your loss, by the way.
ME: I really like this beer.
Then Jeeves, quick as lightning, slaps me across the face with one of his leather biker gloves.