heeeeheheh
: >eheheheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!...Pollllecat......irony........dydydyd
: >dydddyssssstt...........heheheeeeeeeeeeeeeeheeheheheheheee!!!!!"
"You're right, Ed; Source was eating that action for breakfast until
recently. None of what he's mentioning could account all by itself
for that hard a reaction, not even all of it in the aggregate.
What's the fix?"
"Put a Junior Mint under his tongue and slip out the window."
Ed sneaks out the window with Gene onto the porch, the two of them
moving around ninja-style minus the violent intent.
: Poly's seldem seen Sourcerer in this bad a state. His leather tunic and
: leggings and boots are all spattered, and his long silver hair is wild
: and standing on end. He looks like a lion back from the kill, except
: that he's obviously over-indulged.
:
: >"Urmm...ahem...very nice place you've got here...yes...yes, indeedy."
"Indulgence would be pleasant compared to what he's going through,"
whispers Ed. "Bandwidth depletion superficially resembles
intoxication, with none of the more relaxing side effects."
: >"Just breathe deep and slow, dear...there...isn't that better?"
: >
: >"Yes. Yes it is, thank you...uh...could I have a sandwich, please?"
: >
: >Sweet Poly looks at him skeptically, and glances around...there's nobody
: >in sight who might get him roused, so she feels it safe.
:
: She doesn't even want to *think* about what will happen if the punks find
: him there. His sword is on the porch at his feet, and Sweet Poly worries
: about the white wicker furniture and Gene's hammock in the event of more
: fighting. Maybe she can get them to take it out to the cow pasture...
After Source and Poly head back inside, Gene throws himself off the
porch, hastily wraps the hammock around two polycarbon rods, runs up
Poly's driveway in a frenzy of excitement. The project at hand
demands a certain over-reaching. He wishes (not for the last time)
that Nesta were here to provide suggestions and warnings.
At the beginning of Poly's driveway, the entrance to her land, he
proceeds a stone's throw down the road to the south and prepares for
action. He sets up the polycarbon rods and stretches the hammock
between them, lays back easily to plan the first phase of the scam.
It is indeed time for a little biz. Oldest game of all: a moment to
learn, a lifetime to master -- but only a matter of days to whip into
shape if the bandwidth around Poly's porch is gonna dilate back to the
proper flow.
Gene pulls a Swiss Army knife from the pocket of his tunic, flips out
the longest of the blades, waits until he sees two boys walking down
the road with fishing poles slung over their shoulders and a fine
catch of wide-mouth bass flopping about in a wicker creel. He salutes
them with a lazy smile.
"Afternoon, young gentlemen. Could I perhaps interest you in a game
of mumbly-peg?"
Country boys have a whole different set of instincts from
city-dwellers. Neither kid shows the least alarm at the drawn knife.
Fella looks harmless, kinda thrashed actually, and he's wearing a
*brown bag down to his knees*. Geez! 'Sides, the older one went to
St. Crispin's grade school, had a math teacher dressed just like this
yahoo in the hammock, and *that* guy couldn't find his butt with both
hands and a flashlight. Must be more of the same.
Gene preys on such mis-readings.
He lifts himself out of the hammock, hands the knife, handle first, to
the first boy after they agree to a rather steep wager. The amount
does not matter, 'cause he's not interested in cash at all. It's all
in the fine art of horse tradin'. The kid smiles, confident, knows
he's gonna take home a little extra this afternoon.
Gene's grandfather taught him well. Taking turns, he executes all 20
levels of knife-play before the kid has made it past #9. "That's
really more cash than you can afford to lose all at once, isn't it,
friend?" he asks softly. The boy allows, red-faced, that this is so.
"I purely understand," sez Gene, "and will be happy to make a trade."
Visibly relieved, the boys offer their fish and poles in place of the
much steeper original bet.
Gene wipes his knife off, settles back in the hammock, waits the
arrival of bigger and fancier game. From fishing poles he trades to
pool cues (Ed throws the fish into the magnetic bottle, serves up a
fine supper to the now ravenous critters), from pool cues to car stereo
speakers. He does the odd "I Will Work For Food" gig, pulling out his
recently won hatchet and splitting up recently won logs as proof that
he's good for the sweat. Somehow he comes out of these deals with
quite a bit more than a sandwich.
It is only a matter of time, he hopes, before someone will trade with
him for a 'punk's Dream Upgrade: a dedicated T-1 connect direct to
Poly's Porch: a wide ocean of bandwidth, primo silk-smooth access in
which they can all float relaxed and content. And LOUD.
He leans back in the comfortable hammock on the road to Poly's Porch,
napping in his "spot" at last. Ed rocks the polycarbon rods to a
gentle rhythm, hums a glorious melody mortal ears have never overheard
while he plots new tracks through uncharted and unrouted C-hyperspace.
He promises to check in on Source, to scope out Poly's pie recipes, to
look out for Gene's pets and for the arrival of new prospects. He
enjoys a good scam as much as anybody else.
__
Gene OCD + "But it's so hard to get serious
ToastMaster, Sunday + about anything."
Twilight Breakfast Club + -- *Snow Crash*
[Next appendix] | [Return to index for Appendix A5] | [Return to index for Appendix A]