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In the cluttered, wirey privacy of his workstation at ThoughtCorp, SUBLEV 6, teenaged ace technician Oskar Buttriguez grinned suddenly, his creamy eyelid skin crinkling mischievously at the corners of his old skool Toshiba X1 ocular implants, implants which now radiated a voracious light, filling the space six inches in front of his nose with crimson luminescence. He reread the name that scrolled across his clear panel AXS-Pad. His mouth fell open. He read it again.
"Puta madre. Mira a quien tenemos aqui!"
::IG497B Goldberg, I., Esq. 43M.
::Partial PDR. Cerebral Core Plumb. Dendrite Cleanse. Axon Scrub.
::Access 9 level codex required. PASSWORD [ ]
Coils of simusmoke spiraled off Oskar's Marlboro holorette and swirled in the glow of his eyes, the limpid whisps roiling with nefarious intent. He depressed the orange button with his fat, gritty thumb, sustaining a mouth-O as the thrum of motors and rumble of rubber belts conveyed Goldberg's portliness into position. A pallid dollop of excess, Goldberg jiggled to a hault like dessert, unconscious and prepped for the standard suite of head-tweaks popular among opulent 40-somethings in the year 2150.
Buttriguez couldn't believe his luck. Of all the work orders that come in, day after day, here was Ira Goldberg! Ira Goldberg, the dogbite attorney! Ira Goldberg, the same son of a bitch who coldly and successfully argued in '46 that a certain American Pit Bull Terrier named Nina be put down for biting fat-assed Leo Tecuente, even though fat-assed Leo Tecuente had PROVOKED Nina by repeatedly smacking her on the nose with a copy of Racing Forum. Yeah! Even though Leo Tecuente hated animals in the first place and had had it in for Nina in particular ever since she pissed that one time--as a PUPPY--on his snakeskin loafers, fucking Leo Tecuente PUTA FUCK! She was a PUPPY, ok? And in '44 an 11-year-old Oskar Buttriguez really was trying his very best to train her, ok? Because the only way he was going to be allowed to keep a dog was if he promised to "train her and walk her and care for her like a puppy really needs, ok papito? Do you promise?"
"I promise." Oskar caught himself speaking aloud, clapped a hand over his mouth and furtively darted his eyes around in the techie gloom.
You see, when Nina was destroyed in '46, Oskar had withdrawn from family and friends, spending more and more time at his home terminal, immersing himself in technology, and soon discovered a natural ease and acuity with advanced computing, robotics and cyberneuro interfacing. Sure, kids are more tech savvy than adults in general, but Oskar was a true wizard, unmatched. He could do things nobody else in the field could fathom. He was kind of a rock star, to tell you the truth. And now here he was, lowering the digicranial auger upon the reptilian, litigious turd who'd killed his beloved Nina.
Hmm. Maybe he'd work it so every time Goldberg heard the word Nina he'd punch himself in the dick. Maybe he'd wire it so, like, Goldberg would think his asshole was his mouth and vice versa. Yeah but, as much as Oskar liked the idea of Goldberg attempting to feed his ass a bagel, plunging his head into the bowl when he had to "make," etc., he just wasn't sure. He had to think about it. This was a real once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The prospects were dizzying.
But whatever. And in a day or two, if his supervisor came by asking what the fuck with the Goldberg foul up, he'd just blame it on the gear. That was the great thing about Management. They had no god damned clue how anything worked, so you could bullshit them pretty easy.
Date Written: May 12, 2004
Author: Dick Vomit
Average Vote: 3.6