How to find your way at Joy Motel

To READ Joy Motel from the beginning
then follow the link at the bottom of each chapter.

To JUMP to any chapter,
use the list of chapter titles in the panel on the right side of every page.

Or use the SEARCH box after each chapter to find what you're looking for.

64 Mars Rushmore

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.


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