Monday, February 24, 2014


So during one of my more ambitious phases, I started a speculative fiction set roughly fifty years in the future. Writing it, I confined myself to scenes built out organically from thin loglines. Oh yeah, and I also decided to pull a Neal Stephenson or, well, attempt neologism. I'll throw this up here, see if there's any response to it. It's damn near impossible to write, since every other word involves close to two hours of linguistic projection and entirely too much research into modern, evolving dialects. TLDR: Hard to write, assessing value.


Hey there.  Glad you could stop by.  Hope you can stay awhile.  See, I’m a character in a pretty damn good novel, but I want to take a break and spit a line.  I’m not in this novel, I know you were thinking about it.  How biebery that’d be if I told you my story was a pretty damn good novel.  ‘Rish the thought, though, because like I dropped before, that’s not the case.  My clanner, Kalam, he’s the main ‘tar for this raid.  I’m just wearing a character tag, you know?  My real dent is as a mallspace photographer, but I avoid it as often as I can, which is pretty often when you friend a guy who can build bank tags faster than KFC can souse a chicken.  Still, tapping stories isn’t whedon-off from drawing them in a camera.  Enough of the exposition, time to assume the position and stop whistling. 
I met Kalam like nine or ten ball-drops ago.  He wasn’t lancing back then, but he had mad rep up for fixing sad mash jobs.   He could ding your cash back after having a cavity filled by blaming it on a black and decker.  So that was his main tag, fixing redit problems and working under the plan.   But he already knew he could tank harder eyel and maybe that meant detooing some other empire shit from happening.  Here, try this out, if you line it, you might cog it better.

                The hyperba was dimly lit by the lasing screens of the oscul monitors while ‘nic industrial oozed out of the woofers, the sound cut on the zor-edged metal screaming over the tech pulse.  Kalam was sitting slunk in his cline, a glass of vodul tipping like a congressman on the armrest. 
                “You have to understand, man, that tagging is more dangerous than you think.  It’s the future, sure, but really, I mean, have you specfic’d the idea yet, it rezzes out harder than Clu.  No way it buffies up when you put that much information out there in the space.  If you ask me, I wish they had never discovered it.”
                “I get it, dude, You think people are going to steal this tech—“
                “No, no—not the tech, it’s global now, free domain and bad Chinese dubs all.  It’s what happens with it.  Didn’t you ever watch classic whedon?”
                “Nobody did.”
                “Fuck off.  We tag ourselves, right, and then what happens?  What if somebody gets a hold of our tag?  Or we lose it.  That’s our souls, right there, floating around and somebody else can just plug us in and take our lives.”
                “Tagging isn’t like that.  It’s like vr, or something.  Matrix-shit.  Instant Jet-Li, just add virus-juice.”
                “If you can put something in, you can take something out,” he said, popping a slug of the vodul and spitting it at his friend for emphasis. 
                Reat me corner four if you want, but guy had high int even back then.  His cha was low, ob, still wasn’t buying the official retcon even if he couldn’t board any one with it.  I was walling for him that turn but he’d smith me later.  Course, he was neep in gibsonland and I couldn’t miller him out of it at that point.  Was sure everybody was going to get mindjacked as soon as the tory tags started up.  Ob, we didn’t, but he was right enough, when my flicker rep plussed enough, I got farmed for the AA30 serious altlife.  They did a partial, just a tweep scanback in the art mode, but I still felt like a character in a back alley etem.  Kept me off the slat for two cycles, and I’d been straussing something fierce for three or four drops at that point.
                I might be cashmanning my princeside about trying to stay frankout during this whole bay, but to know the story you have to ‘file the ‘tar, and ain’t nobody eyel or gamespace that knew Kalam like I did.  Take, to scout, his first snatchback.  He was so sixty after that he built me a tag just so I could feel his ding.  But enough of my nathing, line his side zero.
                “You gotta 404 offcloud now, cog?” the skyp tran blitzed and he delogge with the book already clasped and sacked up.  What the fonz was wahlberg?  He clicked into the apm and felt himself supermanning along the flagpoles.  His braincode was fried, the char card warped in the socket.  He ritchied it out and tossed it into the voidclutch nearby on the mover.  His bankvis screeched a warning when the autoticket read neg in balance.  A klaxed fired overhead and he barely managed to unchip before the restraints kinged him in.  The whole mover stopped, goonied up above the res distract and not close enough to grab the next ledge.  He couldn’t cloud out to another char, and he was strapped for teck not tank.  The swirling rotolights far below stapled his decision.  He slung his sack on his back and reached for the guideline, his left hand fumbling for a derez update to spin out the neg skillz and toggled in some ninja.  His movements were fluid on the vid, but his hands were tweaked a bit.  If he got out of this, he cursed, somebody was definitely get bombspammed with a honey pot rezzer in the adblock.  Damn right, he agreed with himself, taking a stallonehold and bale-ing out into the night.


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