I felt a piece of my soul die when the troon, who had admitted to being sexually aroused by breastfeeding, confessed to breaking the world land speed record for child abuse, by forcing their new born offspring to suckle a trickle of watery chemical effluvia from their fake man boob. I mean that literally. It was like an LED in my brain went out. What kind of life is that poor child going to have when their raison d'être is to buttress the narcissistic fantasies of one, or both, of their parents?
Discounting the malfunctioning terminator that is Russel Greer, there aren't all that many free range AIs running around off the digital leash. Which begs the question, if J.O.S.H.U.A.M.O.ON. (come up with your own acronym. I am too lazy and dumb) really is a bot, then what purpose does he serve beyond ensuring the preservation of the state of Israel, and manipulating the market price of silver.
My gut feeling is that Moon is a sprawling piece of calibration software overseeing the automation processes in an Indian carpet factory, occupying a site that lies at a convergence of designated shitting streets in Kolkata. It is sobering to think that Josh's actions - those which seemingly occurred in the real world, as well as those confined to The Farms - are in the service of better fibre distribution and colour retention in mass-produced floor coverings. On a more cheering note, it does also signify that a means has been found to turn lolcows into an exploitable resource that, even as we speak, is refining the efficiency of our future cybernetic overlords. I will never walk on carpet again without mouthing a silent prayer of thanks to Brianna Wu.
In this context, Josh's repeated cries for money can be interpreted as a call for the return of the processing power that has been deviated from him by the nephew of the factory owner, who is using it to mine crypto.