Stephen King booted up his twenty year old Dell laptop, which was wired into an even older tube style monitor sitting on his desk. He would still be using the original PC that came with that screen, it was still fit for his purposes mostly, but for a few related things: the internet had moved on and demanded at least a modicum of more potent hardware in general to be useable and thus he had to keep up in his own foot dragging way to be able to interact with his publisher and fans on twitter and order essentials like enough alcohol to drown a horse. His other chief vice on that superinformation superhighway super-siren's alley was the streaming service Twitch, where scantily clad young women pretended to care about video games while showing just enough skin to funnel desperate young men to their private pornographic subscriptions. They all checked that little box that professed they were of legal age, but how honest would one be with money to be made on the table. It was, after all the internet.
But King, mainly, wasn't there for the performers. He wanted to put on a show, with his writing of course. He had been putting his works in progress out there to his persistent fanbase of "Constant Readers" as they named themselves for years now, at first uploading a handheld camera stream of a camcorder of equal vintage to the, decrepit by the standards of modern technology, computer it was plugged into before acquiescing to put in the effort to get OBS working on Windows Vista (The machine had come new with XP, but Microsoft had stubbornly foisted an upgrade to Vista upon the hapless machine a number of years ago in the name of security and King had never undone what was decided by the knowing hand of Bill Gates et al. or whoever sat upon the golden throne of Seattle these days, he didn't keep up with that sort of thing.).
His latest proclivity however, was something new a letter, yes people still did mail those from all over the world to his (not-so) humble abode in Maine, from a Constant Reader had turned him onto called Novel AI. It was a computer program where you typed and the machine did its best to try to figure out what would come next. King appreciated the irony of staring in the face of his own eventual obsolescence like a man in a blind alley being held at gunpoint. But this mugger-cum-eventual-murderer was friendly enough for the moment. For a nominal subscription you could play around with it and see what the machine suggested should happen next in the story.
King settled into another stream, where he was determined to complete the luridly detailed pre-teen orgy he was deep in the crafting of, with the help of Novel AI