Dock of Aggression, a man from tin No. 2
From its Solitude Fortress, located deep beneath the three-penny shop in Newark, New Jersey, Doc Aggressive, this supreme intellect, whose brain, this infernal combustion engine with mechanical imagination and freshly perfected Dupen logical thinking, works on an elixir of chewing wax teeth and effervescent drinks, a man of tin, with a dull copper-colored skin, elastic as a tin around a cylinder of boiled beans, having survived numerous adventures in his mission to rid the world of evil by means of bumpy muscle and consisting of torn shirts and pants worn wardrobe, whose widow is like a spiky haircut skullcap from scraps cropped gray-haired broom and whose firm grimace seemed to be forever frozen in the act of defecation bucks cry summons unparalleled command of their bizarre components: Kulaka-Hams, a guy with a fist representing a large Easter ham, able to serve twenty people at once, who thrashes the bad guys up to complete humility and shakes his friends oi slices of their smoked and fatty qualities; The solicitor, a world-famous lawyer and inveterate guardian of accident victims, who repeatedly pulled Dokov a tin legal ass out of unpleasant processes, such as the case when Aggressive went a little too far with one harmless eccentric old man, mistakenly mistaken for Cruel Byvach, one knocking the last brains out of the old fool and raining down on him Tin Crash; John Nuthatch, the most creeping guy in the world, crawling villains much more often than they themselves are able to crawl Nuthatch;Elastic Willy, a specialist in rubber appendages, encircling bandits with a final hug, whose methods of working with female intruders have become legendary, who advises Doc on heart matters, breaking down for his employer what birds and little bees have and melting the intricacies of romantic relationships into Tin language;and, finally, the Dead Eye, which is in charge of all kinds of guns, shotguns, rifles, derringers, revolvers, machine guns, dowels and staple guns, as well as long distance killings, so that no one has to worry too much or get their hands dirty - collecting in this way the five of his comrades-in-arms in the intention of making a sortie with them to the Toshny Reef in order to enter the battle with the Immortal Morgolup, the malicious ancient Neanderthal with the brains of Isaac Newton, and fight him under the red sun, brought downwailing a hurricane of insanely bats at him, showering him with a shower of machine gun bursts, strangling him with a squeeze of tin biceps, beating a hail of sweat that looks like balls of mercury, intending to seize a double-troglodyte, thereby giving Doc the opportunity to properly beat his buttocks and properly damage him in his name Law and Justice.
Eugene byrne
Attributed
Call me stupid - I deserve it - but when the Phillies urged me to join what she called the “movement," I actually thought she liked me. I did not understand how insidious she was - until it was too late.
And no, we never went too far. She followed that up.
They came for us at dawn on Sunday - a super-day for news, especially considering the general elections that were supposed to take place next Thursday. I saw a piece of the program on the Kings for You channel in Yalta.
I and several others were handcuffed to the handrails of a strong “anti-vandal” machine with Coca-Cola in the lobby, while this oil bastard, the Minister of the Interior, broadcast from the screen that a large terrorist group had been captured and that it was a great day for Law and Order, vote for us on Thursday, thank you for your attention and good night.
One could swear that the “Border” is the “Sword of Allah”, “The Brigades of Wrath”, SNLA and the “Society for the Protection of the Deep Forest”, taken together. Those of us who were not too preoccupied with bowel problems even managed to squeeze out an ironic laugh.
I knew that it didn't smell like a proper legal procedure, because we were immediately dragged one by one into a small room tiled with white tiles with a strong chair and some kind of ominous installation in the middle. It was like a dental office equipped in a public restroom - only there was more blood on the walls.
We were attributed before we were brought to trial.
My turn has come. Two mountain-like hired cops screwed me to a chair, while the doctor, lighting a cigarette, explained to me that it was better not to twitch, because it would be even more painful. He was at least seventy, and he did not offer me general anesthesia - but in order to sense how Tajik tape was carrying him, this was not required. I got a local one at the base of the neck, and another one at the finger.
I already heard that Phyllis was tapping on us. I did not blame her: one of the guys said that they threatened to solder the real imprisonment, and maybe even a mental hospital. So she sang. I would do the same. And you?
A man in a white coat removed most of the nail on my left index finger. I closed my eyes tightly, trying not to scream. I could not get.
Somewhere nearby, several of our guys sang a funeral song about how they would “win once” [53]. Meanwhile, some provincial Kilderian [54] on a beggarly salary crippled me in the name of the law.
The Phillies handed out leaflets on the corner. Judging by her words, she was a hot revolutionary girl - and she liked me!
That's why I went to the rally "Water Frontiers."
Someone said that this name once dreamed of Iron John, who was most like a leader in this fundamentally non-hierarchical organization. I heard that he had in mind watermarks, which are on high-quality writing paper - but I do not believe in it. The railway was, I believe, somewhere near fifty, it was a veteran of countless environmental and anti-capitalist campaigns, he spent too much free time with his head in his pharmaceutical locker, so he was hardly able to cope with such a sixteen megabyte concept.
There were about thirty of us scattered around London: punks, hippies, drevolyubov, Earth Mothers, elves, fairies, ravers, sociopaths, morons, dolphin adorers, as well as at least twenty-eight anarchists of various stripes. Plus me. Everyone wanted something different from the rest, and the only way they could avoid the long nights of barren ideological chatter was to focus on nonviolent action.
The actions were rather tough - at the very first meeting I attended, some flawed girl who didn't get out of a black woolen sweater that was fifteen times her size put forward the idea that some boy should launch an airplane through the ground subway platform - so that he fell on the power rail. So the wording of the manifesto was eventually changed to "relative non-violence."
However, there is nothing relative in the fact that all your property was confiscated (in my case, there's almost nothing to say, but the railway probably regretted the loss of the Velveteen Underground record), and they yourself implanted the chip. Babylon and the defenders of the free market do not know how to work with relativity.
Those of the "border guards" with whom I agreed wanted to show people that there is an alternative to garbage consumption, garbage entertainment and garbage religion. This meant: let the corporations bend by themselves, we must create viable communes, give an opportunity to all who want it, to live a real inner life - and so on and so forth, and all in the same spirit. You know all this talk.
It was not difficult for me to fit in there - but for that matter, I would never have joined them if it were not for the butch that Phyllis arranged in my pants. I seemed to be simply interested in their affairs; at the same time, I continued to work as a teacher from time to time, although school budgets became more modest every year. In addition, I sometimes managed to make some pretty good money by preparing a rich child for exams, or something like that. I had an almost decent room, which I rented together with another guy, and for a year and a half she was never robbed. No, the thing was simply that at that moment I didn't have a girl, and Phyllis came across and ...
- It will hurt now! - snapped the shorter of the two mordovorotov, bringing his nose two millimeters to mine.
In the back of the chair was a special contraption that stuck a chip. It was successful - if the fellow doctor began to do it with his own hands, everything would end for me with paralysis or death.
For one nanosecond, the pain was unb
earable. It started in my back, crossed into the head and then shot through the rest of the body.
And then, before I had time to think about how to scream, it was all over.
Then the doctor (I call him doctor, although perhaps he was kicked out of the medical school at some stage) appeared in front of me, holding a small brush for painting in one hand and tweezers in the other, in which my nail was clamped . Both of his hands were shaking. Painfully slowly, his trembling fingers brought the brush to his fingernail, applying a smear of magic slurry to it, which was supposed to hold him over the hole in my neck and prevent suppuration.
It is assumed that cutting off a large part of a nail in a person is humane: the chip is made very pressure sensitive to prevent attempts to remove it. Therefore, a nail is transplanted over it as protection. However, Sigmund Freud is not needed to realize that such self-mutilation is another way to capture in the minds of the wicked all the greatness of the law.
The hair on my nape stood up quietly when the nail went into its intended place; then a strip of adhesive tape was pasted over it.
(Another piece of information, brothers and sisters: in the old days, the state usually cracked down on dissenters, beating them insensitively, throwing them in jail or killing. Nowadays, instead of firearms, they have tasers and pistols with rubber bullets, or these sound the systems from which you squeeze your eggs ... The state no longer kills and does not suit any horrors. They now have technologies that make it possible to treat dissidents humanely. And therefore they are much more terrible. Okay, okay, I'm sorry, I'm shut up).
- Next one! Muttered my Finlay. Clutter arose on unfastening the belts and disconnecting the wires, then the thugs kicked me out of the chair. Only then did I notice that the doctor's hands were stratified into scales - he was all covered in eczema, like Siberia with stumps. And he didn't even put on gloves! He must have left a good quarter of his healing hands at the base of my brains.
I was placed with several other poor fellows (only men) in a bare cage where there was nothing but two buckets - one for water, the other for a bucket.
We exchanged impressions: how did they endure the operation, what will Babylon do next, how much will they solder to us, will Amnesty International save us [55]. However, after talking for a couple of hours, everyone gradually fell silent. Some tried to fall asleep, others resorted to various meditation techniques to calm themselves. Some just sat looking at the wall. I tried to sleep as much as possible - by this time I had already realized that the injection I had in my finger would not last forever, and terrible pain would come soon. I was not mistaken.
For two days we were fed once - some cute old man came with a big box of sandwiches from Tesco [56]. Many of them were with meat and fish, but although we were sick of hunger, we simply threw out all the animal food. Sandwiches were overdue for two to three days, they were supposed to be distributed to the homeless, poor and other inhabitants of the first quadrant as an act of charity. The Cops R Us manager must have complained to the Salvation Army that he does not have enough budget to feed us.
On the third day, before noon, we stood trial. Our lawyer was an energetic young woman with pearl earrings and a pinstriped suit. She told us: “Either you plead guilty, or you spend ten years under investigation,” that is, in prison. Plead guilty, she said, and in a few months you will be free.
The courtroom was empty, not counting a few hired cops and judges. Galleries for the press and for the public were empty. Since Babylon marketed this process under the guise of a great victory over terrorism and the destruction of family values, the security services did not allow representatives of the press, friends and relatives to attend the hearing. Even the most convincing defense on my part would not convince anyone. I pleaded guilty.
“Brian Harper,” said His Honor, referring to the display on his desk, “serious crimes in which you pleaded guilty are in no way diminished by an erroneous and, so to speak, intellectually shaky ideology, which you and yours adhere to co -defendants. However, taking into account your relative immaturity - after all ... let me ... only twenty-eight years old - and the fact that you are facing trial for the first time, I am ready to show leniency, in the hope that , after having completed your sentence, you you can still become a man ...
That sounded good.
“I sentenced you to three months of corrective custody for criminally causing damage, to three months of corrective custody for participating in a conspiracy to cause criminal damage, and to twelve months for complicity in breaking into the electronic communications system.” The sentences will be executed sequentially.
Eighteen months! One and half year! Ltd !!
“All crimes were committed in relation to the Southern Cable Company,” continued his refereeing. - Accordingly, she will carry out custody of all the defendants in this case ...
It might not be so bad. Victims often did not need their attributed, and then they were privatized. You could be sent to crush stones, twist chickens, collect chips ... Working for a cable television company could hardly be too dirty or dangerous. And besides, we will all be together.
The Border Guards began by tying themselves to trees at construction sites, painting constructions that aroused their dislike, painting appeals on suitable walls, adding blackthorn juice to frozen dinners in supermarkets and running around in traffic jams, stuffing Christmas pudding into the exhaust pipes cars running on gasoline.
Babylon knew this, but he did not care. Babylon also knew about the greatest good fortune of the Border. Some time before I joined them, they launched “Satan” (the creation of Iron John) into the distribution system of goods “Home World”. "Satan" turned all the numbers of lots into a unit - the number under which there was a gift edition of Jeffrey Archer's novels bound in leather [57]; it was exactly the thing that the average Englishwoman could put in her living room to show the guests that she was not without taste.
The Home World system worked in synchronous mode. Satan woke up on Sunday at two thirty in the afternoon, and at the same time all orders in all stores across the country - as well as in the Home World virtual store - were converted to reorders only for this book, automatically presenting to suppliers legally binding contract. The state of the late Lord Archer has grown quite a bit, and his publishers, whoever they are, have become very wealthy in this matter.
The "border guards" were not arrested for this event. The Home World system was not a sponsor of either of our two interchangeable ruling parties.
We were screwed up and attributed for another share, with cable TV. A pair of our wise men proposed a plan: the wires are very vulnerable to elves, goblins, and all kinds of long-legged evil spirits. And so they equipped a van with a generator and all their magic boxes. My role was minimal - I just had to rush through the landfills, picking up the scraps of the old coaxial cable. When everything was ready, at three o'clock in the morning they connected to all five of our porn channels, just putting a caption on top of the image: “NOW YOU DAZE”. The van went into the network from the wasteland a mile from the borders of the nearest municipal territory, while the rest of us watched what would happen in the house near the railway station.
It worked.
My hearing lasted four minutes. Some of the others took longer because they protested against this parody of the trial - but most immediately pleaded guilty. Only a few people were lacking in the premises for the arrested, when we were given a couple more of these used sandwiches, they gave us a sip of bottled water and stuffed us into the bus.
On the bus we met with our women. There were violent hugs, conversations and a certain sense of relief.
It turned out that: no one will go to jail (wonderful); we are sent somewhere together (good); they are going to transfer us to cable television companies (perhaps also not bad); and we are all being taken somewhere to the southwestern counties (there are worse places).
Mo sat next to me, smiling faintly at me. She was about my age and five with a small foot. Mo
wore short red hair and was wrapped in several layers of sloppy clothes.
- How are you? She asked.
I shrugged.
- How is your finger? I asked her.
- Nothing. Physical pain is fairly easy to control. It's really hard to handle all this shit.
“It could have been worse,” I blurted out stupidly.
The bus started. Mo and I began to chat. She was also given eighteen months, since she was not very much related to the cable campaign. Mo was not a fanatic, but still did not trust technology. "Male notions" - so she called it. Computers run on machine codes, she said. Binary thinking deals only with the concepts of “on” and “off”, “right” and “wrong”, “yes” and “no”. They bring the same thing to the screen: nothing can be done with a game villain or a virtual enemy, you can only kill him. There is no way to be kind with him, to change him. “Machine code has no options,” Moe said.
I wanted to argue that she was somewhat behind the times, but decided that it would be pointless. She would only begin to argue that no logical relativism in programming and no games that require compassion or negotiation skills change fundamental things.
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