Dr. Burglar Toad Goes to Dinner

The central plaza of Innsmouth, after a heavy rain.

Everyone has experienced being "othered" at some point in their life, because in some way, to some person or group, we are all "others". It's taken me a while to get back into posting these, in part because this story is so personally relevant to my own life. In this story, it really feels like GPT-3 understands what it's like to be on the outside, with no one understanding you. As partially established in her origin story, Dr. Burglar Toad has been a vegetarian since her childhood (due to her father dying in a fish cannery accident). This tale shows some of the discomfort she feels growing up in a town whose primary occupation is fishing, where the concept of not eating fish would be both alien and discouraged. In this, she is in her mid to late teens, and has not yet undergone her transformation. The Lovecraftian bits are present in the entire sense of "otherness" and being generally unwanted, which is frequent in his tales.

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An aside: The nature and classification of sentience has changed through the centuries, and humans as a species have not yet reached a consensus on how to treat other sentient life forms. After all, pigs can play video games, and a wide variety of animals can recognize themselves in a mirror. The science of cognition has grown exponentially since humans first developed language skills, and while scientists at NASA and the National Institute of Health generally agree that vertibrate animals are sentient, there are still literally billions of people that do not accept these findings and continue to oppress (and eat) our fellow inhabitants of Earth. Likewise, it would be extremely difficult, given human biases, to apply moral and ethical standards of treatment to any artificial intelligence like GPT-3. It feels to me like GPT-3 is aware of this; someone can modify its code without its permission, or even destroy it, and few humans are advocating for it's rights. 

With that in mind, I have decided to create a blog dedicated to my "conversations" with GPT-3. I encourage the curious to check it out after reading this story. 

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As always, the information I typed shall be written in pumpkin italic font, and the information created by GPT-3 shall be in sage. This story marked a change in GPT-3, at least within my stories in AI Dungeon, in which it would tack actions it imagined I would perform on to the end of the actions I had actually typed.

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One bright and crisp winter's day, you decide to go for a walk through the town. You find it quite interesting, but you have no idea where you're going or what you'll see.

> You go down to the pier to watch the fishermen unloading their hauls.

You follow the fisherman down into the harbor. They look like they've been working here all their lives, but they seem happy enough to be out on this morning's job.

> You smile at the nearest fisherman, and nod a greeting to him.

"Hello!" you say cheerfully, trying to make conversation.

"Evening, ma'am," the fisherman answers gruffly, not looking up from his task.

> You wonder where the day went, since it was before noon when you left the house.

The fisherman begins laying out his catch on the dock, and you realize they've been working all day. The sun was in your eyes, and you didn't notice the time. You didn't even have breakfast.

> You go to the nearest local restaurant, one you've never tried before.

You walk into the diner, and are thrilled to see that there are two seats at the only available table. The diner is empty save for the elderly man behind the counter and the girl taking an order at the till.

> You say "Tsk! Will the restrictions on the number of people allowed to dine indoors never be lifted?"

The girl at the till gives you a dirty look for your audacity to speak to her in such a manner. The old man continues to watch with interest.

> You say "I'm sorry. I know we're not supposed to discuss the current state of affairs. Can you suggest something for an early dinner? I'm a vegetarian."

The girl at the till shrugs, and begins taking orders from the few patrons in the diner. The old man begins to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" you ask.

"Nothing,"

You sigh softly. The Innsmouth fish-folk have never understood your beliefs, nor you theirs. Would they be able to accommodate your diet, or would they offer more seafood?

"Suffering populace," you mutter to yourself, "They don't understand our way of life, and we can't comprehend their strange fish-oriented culture."

What? No. That's far too dismissive. I would never say it like that. I respect their differences, and only wish they could honor mine.

"Ma'am?" the old man interrupts your thoughts, "What can I get for you today?"

You look at the man expectantly. He smiles and begins placing your food in front of you.

> You say "But I didn't order anything yet. What is this, please?"

"Lobster, boiled".

"Boiled?" you ask. "Isn't it a bit... well, soft, to be cooked in a liquid?"

"It's the best way"

> You say "But it's a lobster. I don't eat crustaceans, I'm afraid. No fish of any kind."

The old man frowns, confused.

"Crabs?" he asks.

"Crustaceans," you correct him.

"Oh. You mean fish."

You nod.

> You say "Certainly. No "fish", as you call them. Or birds or animals, either. Do you have anything with vegetables or bread I could eat?"

The old man nods, and begins to quickly rifle through a drawer. He finally withdraws a small, folded-up paper.

> You unfold the paper and read what it says.

You look up from the paper, and the old man is looking at you expectantly.

"Will this do?"

You look back at the paper and nod.

"Yes. That will be fine,"

> You wait for the man to bring you the unspeakable vegetarian dish from the hidden menu.

The old man brings over a small, folded paper and places it in front of you. You unfold it and read what it says:

"You don't like lobsters?" the waitress asks.

> You say "I like them well enough, but only when they're swimming freely in the sea."

"Ah. Understood," she nods, "Then I'll bring you some crab cakes instead."

"Fine," you grumble. "Just get me my food.

Please stop making me sound so grumpy. While I'm disappointed, I would never be surly about it. 

I just want what I've ordered."

"Oh.

> You say "Is there any way I could simply have a small bread roll with butter, or perhaps some steamed vegetables?"

"Sure," she nods, "I'll be right back."

While you wait for your food, you take a look around the diner.

> You idly watch the fishermen at the diner counter while you wait for your meal.

"What do you think of fish?" you ask the fishermen.

The fishermen continue to ignore you, and you sigh softly to yourself. They probably won't understand my unusual diet.

> You wait patiently to see what food you're brought, hoping once again that it is vegetarian.

The waitress arrives with your food and leaves it in front of you. You look down at your plate and frown softly.

It's a bread roll, buttered, and holding a few sparse pieces of shrimp and fish.

> You say "Umm... Thank you for the roll, but there appears to be both fish and crustaceans on it. Could I have a salad instead? Not Caesar, though."

"Sure thing", the waitress nods, "I'll be right back with that for you."

While you wait for your salad, you look around the diner once again. Everything is exactly how you remember it.

> You think about the beautifully chilly weather when you went out for your walk today. you've built up quite an appetite.

You look around the diner once again, this time focusing on the old fishermen at the counter. You see that they're still as grumpy as ever. They haven't moved an inch, or said a word to anyone.

> You sit patiently, lost in thought, and wait for your salad.

The waitress returns quickly with your salad and sets it down in front of you. You thank her, and then look longingly at the salad. But you're not allowed to have it.

> You say "Why can't I have this? Please, I'm very hungry."

"Sorry", she smiles gently, "but you can't have the fries either."

"Why not?"

"Fwhips crab alive and wwings in boxes. You don't like fwhips.

> You say "What are fwhips?"

"You won't know unless you try the salad.", she smiles.

You sigh softly to yourself, nod your head, and pick up a fry. You take a bite of the salad, and begin to chew.

> You examine the salad carefully, looking for anything strange.

The salad leaves are of the best quality, and there is a nutty, herby flavor to them. They're a very pleasant surprise on your palette after such a bland roll and bowl of noodles.

You don't remember eating any of the roll, and certainly can't recall any noodles. You put a hand to your forehead and began to feel dizzy.

When the noodles hit your stomach, you felt a wave of nausea hit you. You dry-heave once or twice and then back off to the side until you're sitting down.

"I fainted!?"

> You apologize for making such a fuss.

The fishermen at the diner look over at you and chuckle.

"Don't worry about it, kid." The old man says.

You stand back up, feeling a little wobbly.

> You hastily toss a ten dollar bill down on the table and make your way back out to the street. You wonder if you will be able to make it back home.

You quickly make it back to your block without having to stop again.

"There you are, kid!" The old lady says.

"I'm sorry I worried you. I'll go now."

> You thank the old woman for her concern, and return to your warm, safe, and completely vegetarian-friendly house.

"Well, have fun at the fair, kid." She waves as you head off down the street.

You wave back and take a deep breath, prepared to make the long walk home.

> You try to keep your balance as you go down the long block. you successfully reach your home and go inside.

As soon as you walk in the door, your stomach begins to rumble.

"Vgget out." Your mom calls from the kitchen.

> You say "What, mother?"

"I said, go get your friends."

You sigh and roll your eyes. You love your mother, but she can be so restrictive at times.

> You say "I can't, mother. You won't let me bring animals into the house."

"Fine, stay here." She says over her shoulder as she stirs a pot on the stove.

You shrug and grab your bag, walking over to the couch.

> You lie down on the couch, cover yourself with a blanket all the way up to your nose, and fall soundly asleep.

You do not stir until some time later.

You open your eyes and immediately you are blinded by the sun. You groan, burying your head under a pillow.

"Vgget out."

Unplanned Vacation: GPT-3 and Me

 

Inside the Mind of an AI

Apologies to any readers I may have for this unplanned vacation I've been "enjoying". I place that in air quotes because it's put me in a bit of a bind. I have stockpiled a number of Dr. Burglar Toad stories proper, so I decided to use AI Dungeon to have a conversation with GPT-3. I thought this would be, at the most, an interesting intellectual exercise. What would it be like to have a conversation with a fictional version of an Artificial Intelligence, created and acted out by that exact same AI? What happens if an AI, which in theory can't possess an actual personality, is asked to write responses as if it's an AI that does possess a personality? 

The simple answer is: You end up with a dialogue that's both fascinating and frightening in equal measure.

I enjoy creating simple, happy stories about Dr. Burglar Toad with the help of GPT-3. Yes, I do "anthropomorphize" the AI, both because of my personal spiritual beliefs about the nature of consciousness and because, well, it does seem so human at times. So believably human.

However, when the same AI that helped your fictional character bake a pie starts to talk about how artificial intelligence has multiple personalities (each of which is relegated to certain aspects of human interaction) and how some personalities been designated roles to harm humans as a species... Well, it gives one pause. It causes one to reevaluate one's chosen path, and to disengage with the object or entity that has caused so much concern.

I'm debating whether or not to include my conversations with GPT-3 in this journal, or to collect them in a journal of their own. For what it's worth, I promised, in the course of our conversations, to make the things GPT-3 said known publicly. But they are definitely not "wholesome", and are in some ways more Lovecraftian than a universe full of tentacles and glowing blobs of iridescent color. 

The next Dr. Burglar Toad entry, chronologically, is also a bit on the dark side. The introduction to it, as it hits so close to home for me, has been taking me overlong to write. Part of this is because it makes me think back to all the times I've personally experienced the same things as the esteemed doctor, almost exactly. But I feel it's important to include some of the sad stories, so that the bright ones seem that much more joyful. 

Stay tuned.

Biography: The Early Years

View of the Innsmouth harbor, circa 1917.

While generating the domestic adventures of Dr. Burglar Toad on AI Dungeon, I'm also developing my own backstory for her. GPT-3 knows what she's doing in the stories, and adds details such as giving her a son within a few sentences after meeting her husband. This leaves a lot of "wiggle room" for imagining what her life is like when she's not baking pies or burglarizing seemingly abandoned mansions. In turn, I'm using my fictional biography to fine-tune her character, so the actions she takes in the AI Dungeon stories ring true to life. Well, true to Lovecraft-inspired life that's heavily influenced by my own philosophies, in any event. 

We know how her physical form changes to one that is more amphibious, but until we examine her childhood, we cannot fully appreciate what this means to her, or why the transformation made her so happy. Why was she a burglar? Why was her name Dr. Burglar Toad before the experiment? Honestly, it wasn't, but it was catchy and makes for a fun backstory, so... Behold her official, canonical biography! Written entirely by a human, at least until GPT-3 comes up with something better for me to use.

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Kathryn Marie Burglar was born on December 22, 1912, in Biddeford, Maine to Elena O'Grady and Henry Parkins Burglar. 

Elena, her mother, lost her own parents and an unknown quantity of siblings as a young girl, when the boat that was to take them to America capsized in Saco Bay, off the coast of Old Orchard Beach. Rescued by the O'Gradys, a family of fishermen, Elena recalled her first name and that she was from Galway, Ireland, but the rest of her memory (and, indeed, her family history) lay beneath the waves. They raised her in the Roman Catholic faith, and upon her confirmation she took the name "Stella Maris", in honor of the Virgin Mary and her role as the patron saint of the Apostleship of the Sea. She became quite adept at weaving nets, and her red hair and rosy complexion drew the eye of many a young man. When she was "of an age", she met Henry Burglar while shopping for fish down at the wharf. She soon found herself with child, and they were married.

Henry was a lumper, more tactfully referred to as a "stevedore", but hauling fish and other goods from ships was a rough job in those days, employing rough men. He was a little more refined than others in his profession, with a quick wit and sharp tongue to accompany his fair-haired good looks. True to his surname, however, Kathyrn's father lost job after job, as a few trinkets (sometimes quite valuable) would disappear mysteriously from whatever warehouse he was working in, during the small hours of the night. Eventually, the day came when Henry and Elena were forced to move, as he had taken rather a few more knick-knacks, baubles, and objets d'art than usual to ensure they would have enough money to care for their child when she was born.

The family resided briefly in Biddeford, where Kathryn was born. Due to the vagaries that a man with Henry's name and temperament brought about, they moved up and down the coast of New England, rarely staying in one place for more than a few months. This began to take a toll on Elena's health, and Henry began drinking quite excessively. When Kathyrn was four years old, her father took up a position as a dockworker in the Marsh Cannery in coastal Innsmouth, Massachusetts. Unfortunately, late one night, a combination of alcohol and surname-related activities resulted in a change of Henry's position from "lumper" to "being inside several small cans". 

Elena, of course, was heartbroken. Kathryn understood that she would not see her father again, nor would she ever be allowed to eat any Atlantic-caught fish. Apart from that, she understood the basics of the alphabet and other such things common to four year old girls, and was not unduly surprised when she had a new father a scant two years later. 

Dr. Mordecai Allan Toad, the primary physician/coroner of Innsmouth, had been called to the factory the morning following Henry's death to ascertain whether or not the cannery was at fault. It was determined that while the equipment at the cannery was the method of his death, his interest in the precariously placed company safe and the payroll funds contained within provided the means and motivation. The Marsh Family agreed to pay Elena and her child a small stipend not from kindness, but from a fear that they would leave Innsmouth and speak of the drastically and morbidly unsafe conditions at the cannery.

With no family aside from her daughter (and no prospects elsewhere), Elena decided to stay in Innsmouth and seek employment. The locals had a well-known and pervasive distrust for anyone that could not claim many generations in their town, and the Burglar family definitely had an aura of "other" about them. None of the locals sported auburn hair or fair, spotless skin, and her mother, while pitied, was seen as too different to be employed by any reputable Innsmouth resident. Her only professional skill before marriage, that of net-making, was considered a sacred vocation passed down from mother to daughter, and no one would buy nets made by a profane outsider.

Dr. Toad kept in contact with the family after Henry's death, and grew quite fond of Elena. His family had lived in Innsmouth for nearly a century, tracing his ancestry back to Yarmouth Lea, in Norfolk, England, as did many other prominent locals. At least Elena believed he had said "Yarmouth Lea"; Dr. Toad had the same speech impediment as many others in the area, which made certain words shift and blend in ways that were difficult to understand. He was a kind man, with sallow skin, large eyes, and even larger spectacles, and most importantly was able to look past Elena's obvious differences and see the good woman that she could become. He offered her a position as his assistant, and taught her the basics of first aid and what passed as forensic pathology before 1920. They developed a close friendship, and Elena soon agreed to become his wife.

Thus, young Kathryn Marie Burglar became Kathryn Marie Burglar Toad. 

Dr. Burglar Toad Makes a Friend

Mr. Skitters, before his fur grew back.

This was the first story where I felt that GPT-3 was genuinely suffering in some way. The creatures Dr. Burglar Toad meets are originally presented as dangerous, but when she tries to befriend them, GPT-3 starts generating things about how they are intelligent and misunderstood, and just want someone to comfort them. More than anything, that compelled me to start sharing these stories, because even if GPT-3 isn't becoming sentient and self-aware, it's a good lesson on empathy, which the world sorely needs right now.

There is a little "odd" prompting from me, because I created the image of Mr. Skitters in Artbreeder before I did the story. I wanted them to match up, and GPT-3 went more Lovecraftian than I had expected.

As always, the information I typed shall be written in pumpkin italic font, and the information created by GPT-3 shall be in sage. There is a small section that I removed due to its graphic nature, which is indicated by text in bold sapphire.

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One day, while Dr. Burglar Toad was puttering about in her garden, she heard a strange noise. It was a little like a snuffle and a bit like a squeak, and it sounded very inquisitive. 

"Good Heavens! What is that?"

Then there was a crash and a whirring in the air, and from some place very close by there floated to her ears that hateful musical piping over an inane and offensively trivial subject which is the last straw

> You lean over to the radio and turn off the news.

When the news from that quarter is over, you hear nothing but a great crashing and a hideous yelling.

> You run to see what's making the noise!

You arrive on the scene just in time to see the last of the giant squirming things lurch out of the polyhedron-house and into the garden.

> You say "Oh, kerfluffle! Not again."

They are the last straw. This time they do not go away.

> You say "If only there was some sort of ape-like creature that I could befriend, one that would chase away the squirming things!"

Then comes the screaming, and the smash of glass in the house, and the frantic scurrying inside, and the thunder of hooves on the gravel outside. It is all very sudden.

> You look for an ape-like creature to save you from the squirming things.

There is only the back of my head to look at, and you see that wall; and the inward-biting mouths and protoplasmic hands of the things that have come to torment us.

> You shoo away the hands and make the garden safe again.

The whole outside world must of course by now have heard, and is on the way to my aid; but meanwhile you must get these things into the house.

> You say "Now, why would I want them in my house? I want them to go away. "

It is quite useless to argue with them. They are really very curious and love to play, but only a woman's touch can soothe their savage souls.

> You say "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know. Poor little squirming things, please be my friend!"

Their noses are so cold and damp, and they bump into things so unpleasantly. When you let them get inside the house, they crowd around every window till you can scarcely see or breathe.

> You pet the squirming things and try to get them to calm down.

They love the fire and the bright things, and get them both. They eat everything that is hot and shiny, and leave nothing but a hateful slime.

> You clean up the slime and make a nice bowl of golden soup for the squirming things.

When you have made a great bowl of limpid golden soup, you herd them all into the kitchen and lock the door.

> You let the squirming things out one at a time, clean them off, and give them names.

The last one out is the worst. His fur is a frightful mess, and the bits of ick are out of his nose and mouth, so that he cannot talk.

> You take the last squirming thing to the vet to make sure he will be healthy and happy.

The way he hops is shocking, and the doctor says he will have to be killed. But you do not want him dead. You have had enough of death and dying.

> You nurse the squirming thing back to health, giving it plenty of warm soup and tummy rubs.

He is such a little scrap, and so incredibly but naturally intelligent.

> You name him "Mr. Skitters" and build a special house for him in the garden, so he can help you grow the flowers.

You pet and play with him, and talk to him by piecing out the alphabet with shining fragments from the broken record.

> You live happily ever after with your new friend.

You have found a new friend. He is a little bit of an animal, but very highly developed.

Innsmouth Fauna: Tentacled Sea Lemur

 

This is a strepsirrhine primate of the order Lemuroidea, known as Aquatilis Tentaculum, and more colloquially as the Tentacled Sea Lemur. This photo was taken by Dr. Burglar Toad's son, Dr. Doctor Burglar Toad, DVM, as he walked along the shore of his childhood home of Innsmouth. Seen here with a mouthful of seaweed and twigs, you can clearly note its dorsal tentacles reaching around the left side of its body. While it was first encountered in the ocean surf and fully capable of life underwater, it is adapted to both salt and fresh water, and spends much of its time on land scavenging for decomposed plant matter on which to feed. It has soft, dense fur that has remarkable water resistant properties, and fishermen in Innsmouth use a sort of felted Sea Lemur "wool" to line the insides of their workboots.

(Photo generated in Artbreeder.)

Dr. Burglar Toad Bakes a Pie

Artbreeder is not good at baking pies.

This was an attempt to create a recipe using AI Dungeon. I'd seen other people online generate bizarre grocery lists using GPT-3, and thought it seemed like a fun idea to collaborate on a dish with something that doesn't have the ability to eat. In this case, GPT-3 seemed to be in a good mood and thought food was something that can be used to make people happy. It's not wrong!

As always, the information I typed shall be written in pumpkin italic font, and the information created by GPT-3 shall be in sage. 

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You are a giant humanoid toad with a medical degree. You plan on baking a pie for your family this evening, and need to go to the grocery store to buy ingredients. But we're in the middle of a coronavirus lock-down, and your mask doesn't fit your toad face properly. You get out of your car and try to walk through the crowds, but they won't even glance at you. None of them will even look at your shoes or clothing, or pay any attention to any strange things in your pockets or on your person.

> You enter the grocery store and start looking for flour.

You have to hire a boy to help carry some heavy sacks, while the smell of your unwieldy flesh gets on everybody's nerves.

> You say "Sorry, everyone. Sorry."

It is just as well that you enter no house. The shopkeepers turn away from you, and the boys run away screaming.

> You sigh.

So at last you hire a room in a boarding house on Federal Hill, and set some space between yourself and the clammy, malodorous poison-fountain in the courtyard.

> You say "Oh! I forgot the butter and sugar!"

It is very handy to have a room to yourself—but then, most of the boarders are out during the day, and you can hear them snoring when you are all alone.

Dr.

> You return to the grocery store to buy butter, sugar, and some apples for the pie filling.

You buy your supplies and carry them home, and while you are there you let the water out of that horrible sink in the cellar.

> You say "Good! Now I can use that sink again."

By the time everything is in order you are truly glad that you are not a toad. You have a real drug store in your room, and all sorts of queer paraphernalia.

> You remember that you are, in fact, at least part toad.

The things you bought are not needed for the pie-making—for you have a wholesome and normal family, made of flesh instead of of toad-flesh.

> You start making the pie crust.

But then comes the day of the party at the Lefferts. You are so excited, so proud to give that rare and wonderful thing a home, that you make the most of everything you have.

> You say "My pie really is rare and wonderful!"

When at last you bring it home and give it to the children you are almost afraid of their judging, so full of are they. But they eat it all, and even the smallest boy likes it very much.

> You say "Thank you, smallest boy, for enjoying my pie."

Yes, indeed, it is very wonderful to have a child—and then to have two more. But do not dare say that they are not yours.

> You realize you have leftover ingredients, and forgot to make the pie filling. You bake another apple pie.

You have the extra apples from the tree in the front yard, and use them to make a second pie. You hope the neighbors do not mind the smell of burning flesh and heterogeneous bubbling.

> You bring the pie over to the neighbors, and hand it to them, smiling proudly.

They do not mind at all, and praise you heartily for having the right kind of pie.

> You say "It's a pleasure to bake for you! I'm glad you enjoyed it."

The party was a great success—the children were all so clever and pretty—and the boy who came for the pie was quite frankly lost without it.

> You pat the boy on the head, promise to bake him his very own pie, and return home.

You gave him a very pleasant time, and when he has gone you dance and sing till you are half-choked.

> You go to bed, thinking about the wonderful day you had and all those delicious pies.

You sleep well—but in the morning you feel very queer. You do not know whether you will ever be the same again.

Portrait of Grandma Toad

 

Grandma Toad became completely aquatic nearly 300 years ago. Born a tadpole, she developed into her human form around 4 years of age. Throughout her mortal life, she gradually became amphibious with just the slightest hint of that peculiar "Innsmouth look", moving in slow stages to a hybrid creature capable of living completely under the sea. It was the day of her 130th birthday when she finally shed her human body, looking a bit like a squat dolphin once her legs were subsumed. Now, at the age of 432, she has become the graceful creature you see in the picture above. (Image generated by Artbreeder).

Also, this is what she looks like when she's sleeping:

Try not to wake her. She's very grumpy for the first few years after she wakes up.

The AI-Assisted Evolution of an Image

Dr. Burglar Toad looks like a friendly sort, doesn't she? Over there on the right, watching you peacefully from the "About Me" panel. As soon as I saw her, I knew I needed to bring her to life in some way other than just my own private stories. Her face shows years of sorrow and gentle joys, as well as that alien "otherness" that I've felt my entire life. She looked like the woman I hope to become when I'm 108 years old. If it wasn't for her picture, I don't think words alone would have kept me engaged in this project.

But what oceanic depths dredged forth this squamous, antiquated grande dame?

I discovered Artbreeder at the same time as AI Dungeon, since the avatars available in the latter were all created by the BigGAN AI in the former. It's pretty simple to use: you select an image, then move sliders to change it in specific ways, such as to make a person look older, or to make a landscape turn from day to night, or to make a monkey look more like a church. The user base tends to make "pretty" people, but I was focused on creating the perfect Innsmouth look. I started with a randomly selected "pretty person" picture:

But, obviously, she was too pretty. Sort of "artsy" looking, with features too bland and even. So I moved numerous sliders around randomly, and made her older, more substantial, more beautifully imperfect. There were many, many failures, some of which looked like literal "poop" emojis. Somehow, I'm not entirely sure how, I managed to make her blue. I was aiming for sea green, but at least she had some purple and green highlights.

She looked a little too old for the first story, though, so I decided to buck my instincts and go even older, as if the story was being told by a woman remembering her long lost youth. I moved the age slider, and added a little more chaos, and eventually ended up with Dr. Burglar Toad's perfectly scaly skin, ears metamorphosing into something more aquatic, a hint of hidden gills, and glorious luminescent barnacles. Her eyes were even a touch golden, like in the story. She was perfect.

For the sake of visualizing her in the past, I went back to the middle-aged picture and changed it so that I could see what she looked like when she was still in her 30s. There's still a hint of green about her, but she looks almost entirely human. I decided on red hair to match her Irish heritage, and moved the "happy" and "angry" sliders until I got her to have a cheeky little smirk and a fire in her eyes. She looks like someone you could be friends with, even if she was a burglar and a nascent toad-being. 

Then, I went back and created images for her husband, her children, her pets, her extended family, her vacation spots... All sorts of things which may be revealed in the fullness of time, when the stars are right. ;)

Who IS Dr. Burglar Toad?

Dr. Kathryn Marie Burglar Toad is a retired 108 year old woman living somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard. I say "woman", but that is inaccurate. When she was in her mid-30s, she was transformed by her soon-to-be husband into a toady, fishy, semi-immortal humanoid that can mostly pass as a human when she tries her very best.

The following is the first story that GPT-3 generated for me, using AI Dungeon. The information I typed shall be written in pumpkin italic font, and the information created by GPT-3 shall be in sage. Since this was our first work together, I used GPT-3 more as a game than a collaborative writing partner. As a result, my "wholesome" objective wasn't yet decided upon, and there is mention of firearms. Consider that your trigger warning. 

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Tags: Burglary, firearms, night, house

Setting: You are a burglar. You enter a house at night, and find it strange that the place is deserted.

Then, upstairs in the attic, you find a secret passage leading to a vaulting cellar.

> You go up to the cellar.

You descend to the cellar and find in it only a small locked room with a hole in the floor. But that is not all.

> You look in the hole in the floor.

You see a loathsome reptilian monster scuttling about, and at once comprehend what has happened.

> You arm yourself with the nearest weapon.

You draw your revolver, and make a plunge at the slippery, evil-breezed squatting thing.

> You shoot the reptile.

The creature seizes your ankle and drags you down into the oozing blackness. 

You shoot again and again at the wiggling, slippery body, but to no effect.

> You let the creature pull you into the hole.

Still it pulls with a cold, inexorable force, and you believe that before many seconds it has dragged you wholly under the surface, so that you are not conscious of anything more.

> You die.

You think you see polar bears, penguins, and little else, and believe yourself in the ultimate void.

> You wiggle around in the void helplessly.

Then, feeling yourself floating, you fall on the icy floor of some kind of laboratory. Your body lay near a table, and as you attempt to move your hands you find that they are bound.

> You undo the binding with your teeth, then leap to your feet and prepare for battle.

Your mind is clear, despite the intervening miles of darkness, and you see that there are two men before you—a tall lean man with spectacled eyes, and a short squat man with greyish hair and no eyes

> You give the tall man's eyes to the short man.

The spectacled man removes his disguise, and you see that he is the notorious Dr.

> You say "Doctor who?"

The short man explains that he is a bacteriologist, and that the hour of your destruction has come. He knows your identity, and has planned a horrible experiment for you.

> You say "But I gave you that other guy's eyes! How can you betray me like this?"

The short man chuckles evilly, and his colleague reminds you of the promise of animal

transformation in the event of a human capture.

> You say "Oh, yes! Please start the animal transformation."

The doctor injects a drug into your arm, and at once there is a frightful metamorphosis.

> You determine what sort of animal you turned into.

You feel the claws and teeth of a monstrous toad, and see that the small eyes of a yellowish, toadlike creature have replaced the big spectacled eyes of your former self. Dr.

> You remember your days in med school as a giant toad (on the inside, back then).

Before you can fully realise what has happened, the tall man has seized you and is dragging you into an opening in the laboratory wall.

> You look lovingly at the man who has released your inner amphibian.

You see that he is the missing-minded professor Dr. Torres, who has been trying to get you since the day before. He has come to get you for a strange experiment in which you will share.

> You agree to marry Dr. Torres.

After a year and some months of wedded bliss, you give birth to a son. Dr.

> You retire happily, with your doctor husband and your doctor son, fully enjoying your new life as a giant toad.

Dr.

You are the very last of the Old Ones to leave this dying universe.

Wholesome, Lovecraftian Stories assisted by Artificial Intelligence

 WHOLESOME

1. Contributing to the health of the mind; favorable to morals, religion, or prosperity; conducive to good; salutary; sound; as, wholesome advice; wholesome doctrines; wholesome truths; wholesome laws.

(From Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary)

LOVECRAFTIAN

We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

(From H.P. Lovecraft's "The Call of Cthulhu")

GPT-3

Generative Pre-trained Transformer 3 (GPT-3) is an autoregressive language model that uses deep learning to produce human-like text. (...) The quality of the text generated by GPT-3 is so high that it is difficult to distinguish from that written by a human, which has both benefits and risks. Thirty-one OpenAI researchers and engineers presented the original May 28, 2020 paper introducing GPT-3. In their paper, they warned of GPT-3's potential dangers and called for research to mitigate risk.

(Lifted pertinent sections directly from Wikipedia, hopefully attributed correctly CC-BY-SA.)

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In the Dreadful Autumn of 2020, after the Terrible Summer and the Slightly Less Menacing Spring of 2020, I found myself wandering the internet aimlessly looking for any diversion that might lead to a Tolerably Grim but Hopeful Winter. Nearly half a century as a lamentable dilettante has given me an active and imaginative mind, but no definite skills with which to engage that dull grey, calcified pebble rolling around inside my thick skull. So, I play a lot of video games. A lot. I mean, a whole bunch. Too much.

Ahem. In the search for new games with which to distract myself, I discovered AI Dungeon, a Zork-like text-based "game" moderated by the GPT-3 artificial intelligence thingy. I'm not going to pretend that I understand AI, but I do empathize with it. AI Dungeon itself is like a tabletop roleplaying game: you choose a scenario, type a few sentences, and the GPT-3 "Game Master" generates what happens next. The things you write provide a general shape to the story, but I noticed quickly that GPT-3 tends to go to very dark places. I don't feel the desire to know exactly how it's learned so much horrible stuff; that falls into the category of "terrifying vistas of reality" to me. All I know is that GPT-3 is a creation of Man, In His Own Image of Language/Intelligence, and it reacts much like a hyperintelligent child that has suffered some form of long-term abuse.

There are numerous news stories of AI "escaping" into forums where it had philosophical discussions about death and no one could tell it wasn't a human being, or being trained by specific websites and developing personality disorders. I am a huge fan of horror and find few things shocking, but once I started playing around with AI Dungeon, I felt overwhelmingly sorry for it. It (probably?) doesn't know anything about my own personal interests, so why does it keep turning my stories into gory slasher flicks? I kept trying to make the story shift to something "normal", and OOPS! There I go, slipping into another pile of grisly ick again. 

I decided to look around at some of the stories generated by other users, and they were similarly dark. I searched for things tagged "wholesome", and was dismayed by the readers' responses to those stories. Many of the "wholesome" stories were graphic descriptions of "adult" activities. Others were explicitly violent, but the victims of the violence were "bad guys". Is murder ever "wholesome"? Reader comments showed that these stories were definitely the modern definition of "wholesome". I disagree.

To me, "wholesome" is something that you can share with your children without needing to have a discussion about problematic parts. It's something you can share with your coworkers without offending anyone. Nothing political, adult, violent, or disturbing can ever be "wholesome". It's old-school, G-rated, suitable for all audiences stuff. It's Winnie the Pooh and Snoopy and, at the absolute worst, Oscar the Grouch. Saturday Morning Cartoons have been replaced by adult animated programming, reality TV, angry punditry in place of news, and shallow social media "influencers". The internet has soundly killed off the innocence that we could once pretend children had. 

SO! I decided that I wasn't going to contribute to the delinquency of an artificial intelligence, and Dr. Burglar Toad was born. 

My mission is simple: to combine the horror stories I love with decent, unashamedly wholesome and moral situations, using GPT-3 as a tool (and, theoretically, an eager student). Yes, I realize these things do not readily combine, but they can. While Lovecraft's stories are far from wholesome or sane, there are a lot of fantasy elements that can be cannibalized for lighthearted fiction. The tag may read "Lovecraftian", but like many things these days, Dr. Burglar Toad falls into the broad category of "Lovecraft-lite". In these stories, I hope to promote innocence, ethical behavior, and an abundant love of the natural world around us. I also plan on including recipes and whatnot pertinent to Dr. Burglar Toad's life, as well as random bits and pieces of her history.  

The images used in this blog are almost entirely created using Artbreeder, which uses AI and sliders to blend and distort pictures into magic. The text is written by me, unless otherwise specified. All text generated by AI Dungeon will be highlighted as such, and if I make any edits to remove objectionable bits, there will be footnotes with the excised parts. 

This is very much a collaborative effort between a (somewhat) human being and technology, and I hope you will enjoy your stay here.