(The return of cyber-punk?..sorry about this…a bit juvenile, I know, but I was bored).
I am sitting in a crappy bar on the outskirts of New Sydney. I feel a little tired from spending the night with the I-CAD drafter I met the night before. Where did he learn to do these things? I have always disliked the gymnastic types; it all seems just a little theatrical. Luckily, I didn’t give him my implanted IP address; I got enough hassle from that Esteem salesman I met in New New York.
I ordered another psychotropic from the little number behind the bar. A sexy Parochial, he hands me a glass with a thick dollop of Empathy on the top. I have been hitting the Empathy pretty hard lately, a lack of Judgement; pity you can’t buy Judgement anymore, ever since the American network police pulled the plug on the Parochial.
I gulp a large mouthful. My first for the day is only 1600 beats, and I must send that code to my editor in 150 beats. Josh is a shit; last time I was four days late, he pulled my Pay-Pal, couldn’t even get a cab in Bangkok, couldn’t even get my IP up to send it. He and his fucking network discipline such a Protestant-Network dick-wit; sometimes I wish that I was born into a religious network or even born one of these pathetic Parochials.
I take another mouthful, and the Parochial behind the bar looks even better. I wonder what squalor this creature lives in? He doesn’t have an IP; thankfully, he can’t follow me like the Rhizomes. A quick fuck in some dorm squalid room around the corner, and then I’m out of here. These creatures always fall in love quickly, but he can’t pursue me because he couldn’t get more than three blocks before the network police would pick him up. I suppose that someone has to do all the parochial work, like serving psychotropics, and I expect that after The Realignment, it was a good idea that the Americans didn’t give them IPs. These rats would form networks that spread like the plague, going from server to server. Then, who would do all the parochial work? They ran the show for nearly two centuries, so let them wallow in their past victories. Shit, this Empathy doesn’t seem to be working. A sharp beam of light pierces the sanctity of the bar, and a well-dressed Rhizome works in. He looks like one of those middle management types, a network conductor who couldn’t write code to save his arse and moves around the world like some Mahatma on a long march, plugging the world into the ancient curatorial networks of the Bourgeois. He looks through the Parochial behind the bar as though he doesn’t exist and orders juice. The Parochial swipes his IP and then hands him the drink. He sips on it and then glances my way with his great unfocused walrus eyes typical of his network and says, ‘Where’s the discourse?’.
I hesitate. Do I want to play Frogger with this guy? What can he offer me? All they seem to do is wander around looking for the following sizzling discourse, jumping from one ascending dissertation to the other, not staying too long in case their internationalism is exposed as a mere superficial daily conversation more in tune with the everyday bowel movements of the Parochial masses, than with the libido and thrust of knowledge that is more than just missionary. I tell him to fuck off and then order another drink. The Parochial looks at me suspiciously, then puts an extra dollop of Empathy on my drink. I gulp it back, place the glass on the bar, and then take a long, hard drag on my Hash cigarette. Thank god for the Dutch, I think. All those years were spent seducing the designers to design the revolution whilst the information dikes broke around them, and their country disappeared. And all the Hash dealers went international and formed the global Hash network. Like the ancient British Commonwealth, I smirk; all that is left of their empire is Cricket.
The Rhizome walks out without finishing his orange juice. By this time, the Parochial is looking good. I ask him how many beats until he finishes work, and he says in 200 seconds. I think it’s significant enough to write this code for that prick Josh and send it to New York. I have to get this history of that server in Taiwan done in time for the next big upload in the Protestant Network, but I can’t find any contextual links for 1996. In hating the two-dimensional Rhizomes of the past, they have yet to think about the third dimension of contextual time and place. So much knowledge and effort was wasted by this generation who believed they lived at the end of history. This was before the Realignment, and they suffered greatly in their dark age.
I reach over the bar, lightly grab the Parochial by the left shoulder, and pull him toward me. We kiss, our tongues meet, and the networks undress around me. I hear the door open behind me, and again, a piercing light shatters the dank refuge of the bar. I turn, and I at once recognise a member of the American network police
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