Internet gone, thisispost/allthat. Pure data breathed, inhaled, absorbed, look ma, no wires, no PC. Ultimate brainstream through your nose.
Slamerican citizens taking in info about inanities at a normal dose just by walking around; restaurant recos, Facebook, MySpace up the nose.
Fantasy sports, YouTube, hardc9re p9rn, close your eyes, baby, it's all in your head, no iPhone required. K Tate hailed as the Liberator.
Not for him to feel a twinge of remorse about the daily reports of heavyusers overdosing on data by snorting pure info like it's cocaine.
K Tate shouldered through the irondoors of a barn, used to be Slamerica's biggest producer of hogs, now retrofitted with spinning turbines.
The noise could be heard in St. Louis across flatlands abandoned all the way from Iowa. Turbines pushingdata at lightspeed, motes of matter.
K Tate was immune, his system inoculated from the din on a DNA level, reflector genes. He saw a shape, nebulous, hunched over a bluepanel.
Dick Overtone, who else? Master of the Vortex. Oh, not the actual DickO, he was dead. But DickO reincarnated in a grand holographic rebirth.
There were dozens of seethrough DickO's here, enslaved, working 24/7, tweaking knobs and turning rods and pulling sliders. Pushing buttons.
That was K Tate's doing. It was the only way this could work, this turbinefarm pumping out data with so much force, code was chipping Mars.
The vast canyons of the red planet being reshaped on a finescale by bits of data carving postInternet visagery, Mount Rushmore for the ages.
Abe Lincoln and his buddies, seen through the Hubble, carved into a redmountain on a scale dwarfing earthly Rushmore by a factor of 1000.
Satisfied that his epicproject was proceeding apace, K Tate hotwired a Chevy truck, doorspierced by a neatrow of bulletholes, and drove off.
K Tate thrummed his fingers on the steeringwheel as he jounced over ruts and ridges in the highway, grass growing over the centerline uncut.
Words crackled in his brainpan, ever since his brainstream. Funny, he thought he'd feel the deepessence of Phil Kindred, daddy-o. But no.
He felt... creative. That was the word for it. He felt like he should be writing something, a novel, maybe. An ubermanifesto for the masses.
He even had a title for it, for his magnum opus. "Joy Motel". He wanted to describe the place DickO started this whole thing, the Internet.
DickO's turbines had spun the zeros 'n ones in neat binary patterns, lining them up just so, forcing them through the wires and phone lines.
K Tate, ever since the brainstream the red balloon the white room the surly attendant, had felt like he was a new man, a writer, unhinged.
He felt like writing speculative imaginative stories of common men in uncommon situations, future omniscient, raging on like Philip K Dick.
CLICK TO READ NEXT CHAPTER
A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
No comments:
Post a Comment