October 28th, 2004


Autobiographical meanderings...

Weak coffee and a chocolate bar; suddenly I’m flashing back a decade.

Cold, humid morning, temp agency sends me back to the apartment complex in Research Triangle Park. Another week of goofing off with Chris, changing air filters, cleaning out garbage disposals, driving around on golf carts. Another week of hiding from the main office, Big Gulps of coffee to wash down my Twix.

2436-B keeps complaining about pot smoke coming out of her airconditioner. It’s actually the Pakistani family downstairs burning incense, but she won’t believe us. We go down to ask if they could burn less. And to remind them that the drain can’t handle leftover rice soaking in cold water overnight.

Lunchtime, we grab our prepackaged ham and cheese and caramel flavored caffeine and crash at Chris’s to watch MTV. He gets discounted rent in return for being on call 24-7. Otherwise he couldn’t afford to live within miles of this place.

Back to the golf carts, racing the mud path along the pond, down the jogging trail and through the tunnel between units. We have very little in common, but we fill the hours with the Adventures of Maintenance Man and Temp Boy.

If we need to go Home Depot, we’ll sit in the parking lot for a while first, interrupting the employees with our walkies.
“Steve?” “Yeah?” “Steve, bring an empty pallet up to the front right away.” “OK”
We walk in, passing Steve dragging around his pallet, wondering who had called him.

These radios are fun at McDonald’s too. “Yes, I’d like a ***SWAARRRRRKKKKKK*** and small fries.”

Sorry, kind of pointless... the coffee and music moved me, but not very far...
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Cyberpunk FlashFiction Generator Story, courtesy of drsmax, via jjgalahad

What’s he building in there?

OK, bang from 1. You had been floating for a 24 when the voice called?

Right, and past time, too. Space makes a great subzero, but riding herd on those tripe-cicles was getting old. I was anxious to grab a joe.

And the voice?

He calls himself Toff. We’ve never actually met. He voxes me the job and paypals from a blind Venusian account.

Toph? Good, we’ve heard of Toph und Sons.

I don’t know about any sons. I only talked to Toff.

They all call themselves Toph. They all are Toph.

Close family, huh? Anyway, Toffy calls me up, tells me where to pick up a donor, when to deliver. It’s up to me to keep them cool until he’s ready for them.

And you never question the condition of these “donors”?

Nope. I’m just a bodyguard. I pick up a body, I guard it. Resuscitation is not my problem.

Here’s your problem. Toph doesn’t exist. So you are facing multiple murder charges, as well as grand theft organ.

Doesn’t exist?

Toph und Sons are a rogue medical program, originally run by some lunar Mafioso to keep the Dons alive. Toph has expanded his scope and operates independently now. However, we can’t prosecute a program.

Program? I’ve been working for a program?

One of the best. An neuro-network distributed with every computer virus in the solar system. Also the largest dealer in black market biologicals in known space.


There’s another nasty twist. Toph markets antiRej, but it doesn’t work. Organ rejection sets in after 6 months, which keep him in repeat customers.

Once you go blackmarket, you never go back.

Any legitimate doctor would report them and they never get another transplant. And with their personal awareness of computer virii, very few billionaires will risk cybernetics these days. No one wants a lung to crash.
Now, please thumb your confession here at the bottom.

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