as the last emperor. His prosthetic left hand whined latinly. It was of Italian manufacture originally designed to open spaghetti pots. He used it to pick his nose obscenely.
“You think you got it in you? Become voodooman. A keyboard killer?”
“I know. Don't think. I cut my first tooth chewing a computer mouse.”
“Hard do.”
“You can do?”
“Nobody can do what Chandu can do. I teach.”
The prosthetic slurped with a sound like sucking spaghetti when he pointed to the leering console that almost filled the room.
“80386 CPU. 2 meg RAM. Math coprocessor. Pixel dedicated VDU.”
“Forget the basics.” He caressed the VDU obscenely. “This is mine. My VDU. I will be a voodooman. Slap the dermatrodes to my skull. Hook me into the circuit.”
“To skull? What you smoke? Surging currents from VDU surge your brain to fried mush. Need body to absorb surges. Far from brain. This is suppositrod.”
“Suppositrod!” his senses reeled. “You are not going to fix it to my temples? You are going to stick it up my ass?”
“You got it in one.”
Now he knew why there was a hole in the seat of the console chair.
But his physical body was forgotten as the current surged succinctly. He was one with the VDU, a voodooman. His senses hurtling through the bowels of the computer. All black, all white.
“Can't you afford color?”
“No believe propaganda,” the disembodied voice whispered into the core of his being. “Just for holo ads in subways. Get suckers sign up. All black and white. Needs less RAM.”
Cold whiteness of ice, hot redness of red slid from his memory and crashed into empty oblivion. Something loomed from the darkness, came closer, towering out of sight. A skyscraper-size filing cabinet. Made of wood. Covered with cobwebs.
“What gives?” he screamed into the blackshot darkness.
“Gives a filing cabinet. No better way represent computer functions. What you expect? Infinite blue space? Grid of pale blue neon? Color-coded spheres? Bullshit. Holofilm crap for kiddies. How can chemical speed operating human mind follow computer one-hundred thirty million operations a second? Can't. So program written follow what is happening. That program generate this image for slow human brain to follow. Is file cabinet. Open. More file cabinet inside. Open drawer. Find program, card. Go to subprogram. All boring.”
“All boring as buffalo chips!” His errant soul roared arrogantly into the susurrating darkness. There was no reply. Chandu had fallen asleep.
Cy learned. It took every buknik he had. And more. He wanted to be a keyboard killer. More than he wanted sex, drink, pot. Wanted it so bad he could taste it. It tasted lousy. He still didn't mind.
But more money was needed. And only one place to get that. In the Spunkk. The subcity below the city. A world aside. Never entered by authority who did not want to wade in the sewer that was the only entrance. Cy waded. Kicked free of the last curl of encoilingly oleaginous water and strode into El Mingatorio. Yellow light the color of a baby's bad dream washed over the clientele. Which was a good idea since most were pretty repulsive. Cy shouldered them aside and slammed his fist on the microscarred plastic of the bar.
“Ouch!” he said. There was broken glass there.
“We're all out of Ouch,” the bartender sneered through the sneer permanently painted on his lips. With indeliblepaint. “The usual?”
Cy nodded. Distractedly. He had forgotten what his usual was. The obscenely fat bloated walrus of a man draped across the bar to his left was drinking something that smoked of vile greenness. Not that.
The crapkicker on his right, every obscene spike of purple hair tipped with a tiny condom, was gagging over a glass of smoking purpleness. Not that either.
A glass cracked down before him. Chipping the plastic. “Yours.” There was no pity on the barman's lips when he spoke. “Ginger ale.”
Cy's sneer matched his as he raised it to his mouth.
“You think you got it in you? Become voodooman. A keyboard killer?”
“I know. Don't think. I cut my first tooth chewing a computer mouse.”
“Hard do.”
“You can do?”
“Nobody can do what Chandu can do. I teach.”
The prosthetic slurped with a sound like sucking spaghetti when he pointed to the leering console that almost filled the room.
“80386 CPU. 2 meg RAM. Math coprocessor. Pixel dedicated VDU.”
“Forget the basics.” He caressed the VDU obscenely. “This is mine. My VDU. I will be a voodooman. Slap the dermatrodes to my skull. Hook me into the circuit.”
“To skull? What you smoke? Surging currents from VDU surge your brain to fried mush. Need body to absorb surges. Far from brain. This is suppositrod.”
“Suppositrod!” his senses reeled. “You are not going to fix it to my temples? You are going to stick it up my ass?”
“You got it in one.”
Now he knew why there was a hole in the seat of the console chair.
But his physical body was forgotten as the current surged succinctly. He was one with the VDU, a voodooman. His senses hurtling through the bowels of the computer. All black, all white.
“Can't you afford color?”
“No believe propaganda,” the disembodied voice whispered into the core of his being. “Just for holo ads in subways. Get suckers sign up. All black and white. Needs less RAM.”
Cold whiteness of ice, hot redness of red slid from his memory and crashed into empty oblivion. Something loomed from the darkness, came closer, towering out of sight. A skyscraper-size filing cabinet. Made of wood. Covered with cobwebs.
“What gives?” he screamed into the blackshot darkness.
“Gives a filing cabinet. No better way represent computer functions. What you expect? Infinite blue space? Grid of pale blue neon? Color-coded spheres? Bullshit. Holofilm crap for kiddies. How can chemical speed operating human mind follow computer one-hundred thirty million operations a second? Can't. So program written follow what is happening. That program generate this image for slow human brain to follow. Is file cabinet. Open. More file cabinet inside. Open drawer. Find program, card. Go to subprogram. All boring.”
“All boring as buffalo chips!” His errant soul roared arrogantly into the susurrating darkness. There was no reply. Chandu had fallen asleep.
Cy learned. It took every buknik he had. And more. He wanted to be a keyboard killer. More than he wanted sex, drink, pot. Wanted it so bad he could taste it. It tasted lousy. He still didn't mind.
But more money was needed. And only one place to get that. In the Spunkk. The subcity below the city. A world aside. Never entered by authority who did not want to wade in the sewer that was the only entrance. Cy waded. Kicked free of the last curl of encoilingly oleaginous water and strode into El Mingatorio. Yellow light the color of a baby's bad dream washed over the clientele. Which was a good idea since most were pretty repulsive. Cy shouldered them aside and slammed his fist on the microscarred plastic of the bar.
“Ouch!” he said. There was broken glass there.
“We're all out of Ouch,” the bartender sneered through the sneer permanently painted on his lips. With indeliblepaint. “The usual?”
Cy nodded. Distractedly. He had forgotten what his usual was. The obscenely fat bloated walrus of a man draped across the bar to his left was drinking something that smoked of vile greenness. Not that.
The crapkicker on his right, every obscene spike of purple hair tipped with a tiny condom, was gagging over a glass of smoking purpleness. Not that either.
A glass cracked down before him. Chipping the plastic. “Yours.” There was no pity on the barman's lips when he spoke. “Ginger ale.”
Cy's sneer matched his as he raised it to his mouth.
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