The Artist always used to laugh at the Determinist, to the point that it drove the Determinist to distraction. In fact it got to the Determinist so badly that finally one day he tied the Artist down, put all sorts of electrodes and control devices into the Artist, probed and manipulated till he had gained mastery over every last synapse, and finally reduced the Artist to a zombie-slave by attaching all the electrodes to a powerful computer.
After that, the Determinist felt confident that he had reduced the Artist’s will entirely, and that there would be no more of this awful laughing business. He was, finally, at ease.
One day, though, there again came that unnerving chuckle from the Artist’s corner. The Determinist, startled, looked up in time to hear the Artist say:
“Ah, my hapless friend! You never controlled me; I control you. For instance, I have been making you think you controlled me this entire time, with your devices, your theories! You have done my bidding very well. And now, dear boy, I will control you once again!”
A few days later, the Determinist was found washed up on a beach, three thousand miles from home. He was covered in starfish and his skin had turned a brilliant green. The face bore a curious smile, that verged on the indecent. Some doubted whether the body was really him, but in any case, no cause of death was ever determined.