JК
Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
Страница: 3 из 156"
T Street -the big north-south boulevard wide as old Park Ave that was Television City's main crawl (it ran from 59th all the way to 72nd)-was packed with citizens and greenies, morphs and gullas, all looking for the heart of Saturday night, just like the old song by that growly chigger has it. The sparkle and glitter was all turned up to eleven, but TeeVeeCee looked kinda old to me that night, underneath its amber-red-green-blue neo-neon maquillage. The whole mini city on the banks of the Hudson was thirty years old now, after all, and though that was nothing compared to the rest of Nuevo York, it was starting to get on. I tried to imagine being nearly twice as old as I was now and figured I'd be kinda creaky myself by then.
All the scrawls laid down by the sets on any and every blank surface didn't help the city's looks any either. Fast as the cleanup crews sprayed the paint-eating bugs on the graffiti, the sets nozzled more. These were just a few that Casio and I passed:
PUT A CRICK IN YOUR DICK. STROBE YOUR LOBES. BOOT IT OR SHOOT IT. HOLLOW? SWALLOW. FOLLOW. SIN, ASP! SAID THE SYNAPSE. MATCH IT, BATCH IT, LATCH IT. BEAT THE BARRIER! SNAP THE GAP! AXE YOUR AXONS. KEEP YOUR RECEPTORS FILLED.
"Where we going, Dez?" asked Casio, snapping off one of his jelly-bracelets for me to munch on.
"Oh, noplace special," I said around a mouthful of sweat-metabolizing symbiote that tasted like strawberries. "We'll just wander around a bit and see what we can see."
All the time I was wondering if I even dared to go home to my scat, if I'd find Turbo and his set waiting there for me, with a word or two to say about me talking so big about his sleeve.
Well, we soon came upon a guy with his car pulled over to the curb with the hood up. He was poking at the ceramic fuel-cell with a screwdriver, like he hoped to fix it that way.
"That's a hundred-thirty-two horsepower Malaysian model, ain't it?" asked Casio.
"Yeah," the guy said morosely.
"I heard they're all worth bugshit."
The guy got mad then and started waving the screwdriver at us. "Get the hell out of here, you nosey punks!"
Casio slid a gold jelly-bracelet off his arm, tossed it at the guy, and said, "Run!"
We ran.
Around a corner, we stopped, panting.
"What was it?" I said.
"Nothing too nasty. Just rotten eggs and superstik."
We fell down laughing.
When we were walking again, we tried following a couple of gullas. We could tell by their government-issue suits that they were fresh out of one of the floating miclocean relocation camps, and we were hoping to diddle them for some eft. But they talked so funny that we didn't even know how to seam them.
T Street -the big north-south boulevard wide as old Park Ave that was Television City's main crawl (it ran from 59th all the way to 72nd)-was packed with citizens and greenies, morphs and gullas, all looking for the heart of Saturday night, just like the old song by that growly chigger has it. The sparkle and glitter was all turned up to eleven, but TeeVeeCee looked kinda old to me that night, underneath its amber-red-green-blue neo-neon maquillage. The whole mini city on the banks of the Hudson was thirty years old now, after all, and though that was nothing compared to the rest of Nuevo York, it was starting to get on. I tried to imagine being nearly twice as old as I was now and figured I'd be kinda creaky myself by then.
All the scrawls laid down by the sets on any and every blank surface didn't help the city's looks any either. Fast as the cleanup crews sprayed the paint-eating bugs on the graffiti, the sets nozzled more. These were just a few that Casio and I passed:
PUT A CRICK IN YOUR DICK. STROBE YOUR LOBES. BOOT IT OR SHOOT IT. HOLLOW? SWALLOW. FOLLOW. SIN, ASP! SAID THE SYNAPSE. MATCH IT, BATCH IT, LATCH IT. BEAT THE BARRIER! SNAP THE GAP! AXE YOUR AXONS. KEEP YOUR RECEPTORS FILLED.
"Where we going, Dez?" asked Casio, snapping off one of his jelly-bracelets for me to munch on.
"Oh, noplace special," I said around a mouthful of sweat-metabolizing symbiote that tasted like strawberries. "We'll just wander around a bit and see what we can see."
All the time I was wondering if I even dared to go home to my scat, if I'd find Turbo and his set waiting there for me, with a word or two to say about me talking so big about his sleeve.
Well, we soon came upon a guy with his car pulled over to the curb with the hood up. He was poking at the ceramic fuel-cell with a screwdriver, like he hoped to fix it that way.
"That's a hundred-thirty-two horsepower Malaysian model, ain't it?" asked Casio.
"Yeah," the guy said morosely.
"I heard they're all worth bugshit."
The guy got mad then and started waving the screwdriver at us. "Get the hell out of here, you nosey punks!"
Casio slid a gold jelly-bracelet off his arm, tossed it at the guy, and said, "Run!"
We ran.
Around a corner, we stopped, panting.
"What was it?" I said.
"Nothing too nasty. Just rotten eggs and superstik."
We fell down laughing.
When we were walking again, we tried following a couple of gullas. We could tell by their government-issue suits that they were fresh out of one of the floating miclocean relocation camps, and we were hoping to diddle them for some eft. But they talked so funny that we didn't even know how to seam them.