307 lines
17 KiB
Plaintext
307 lines
17 KiB
Plaintext
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"Karabekian's drink was a Beefeater's dry martini with a twist of lemon
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peel, so Bonnie said to him, 'Breakfast of Champions.'
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'That's what you said when you brought me my first martini,' said
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Karabekian."
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PHido PHreaks PResents...
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Maiden Taiwan
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By the Silver Ghost
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procedure InitHeading (head: integer);
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uses MemTypes, QuickDraw, OSIntf, ToolIntf, Turtle;
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var i, group, groupstart, angle: integer;
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begin
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North := 0;
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group := trunc(log2(theTree.Orient+1));
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groupstart := round(1 shl group-1);
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if theTree.Orient > 0 then begin
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angle := round (360 / (1 shl group));
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for i := groupstart to theTree.Orient do
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if i = groupstart + 1 then North := North + angle div 2;
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else North := North + angle;
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end;
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North := ((North mod 360) + 360) mod 360;
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end;
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You just have to know how to read 'em.
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-:-
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"Come here, Frank," she said.
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Luci shrugged her shoulders, and her dress fell off. She batted her eyes
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at me. I looked at her brown breasts for a while. She only smiled.
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I kissed her and removed all our clothes, then laid her down. We
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struggled for a few seconds, and I entered her. We had sex for slightly
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under four minutes before I came.
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She grunted with me, but she was faking it. I could tell. I can always
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tell. I can always tell.
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-:-
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The next morning:
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I woke up later than she, as usual. She cannot sleep late, she says, and
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always adds something about how it's in her blood. I believe her.
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Breakfast was omelettes, as it always is Sunday morning. My tolerance for
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omelettes is wearing thin, but not thin enough to bring the subject up. Not
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yet. Maybe in a few weeks. It's not worth mentioning now; there would
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probably be a fight. Besides, a large spot of grease had spat from the pan
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onto her soft, tawny skin, turning it from light-chocolate to a soft pink,
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and it looked as if it were painful. Pain brings out the self-righteousness
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in people; self-righteousness brings out intolerance and shortens tempers.
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The omelettes were delicious though; Luci always cooks well. Sometimes I
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wish there were times when she burnt something. Continually delicious
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omelettes can't be good for me. Can they?
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Little conversation. I feel sweaty. Later, we make it again.
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-:-
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We walk along the beach for a while. An old man, hobbling along for
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exercise, throws a Frisbee to his young dog. The throws are always the same,
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or else they vary. The dog always catches them, unless he doesn't, in which
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case he misses. The dog usually returns the Frisbee to the man, but there
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are times in which it carries it away, laughing, and doesn't return until
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later...
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Absurd picture: Dog swims off into the Atlantic with the Frisbee in its
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mouth, never to be seen again.
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"Just a second, love," I say, and whistle for the dog. It comes to me. A
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German shepherd, a few years old, with puppy fat and lolling tongue. It's
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not afraid of me. Nothing ever is.
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I feel his belly until I find the catch, then pull it open. The
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auto-deselect feature stops the dog in its tracks. The lid opens and I roll
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the dog over to better access it. The alligator clips fit nicely onto its
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(somewhat corroded) access prongs. My portable reprogammer, to which the
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alligator clips are attached, loads in the dog's data.
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The old man stands, dejected, Frisbeeless, a stone's throw away. He looks
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resigned. Of course he looks resigned. They always look resigned. Why
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can't they learn to accept?
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I give the dog an affinity for swimming and water, and a hatred for its
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master, and a lust for Frisbees. I disconnect its tiring-nerves. I align
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its magnetic center with due east, and close up. Operation's over. Very
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simple.
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I close the (somewhat corroded) hatch, clip it on, and the anti-deselect
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feature restores life to the beast. It twists itself up on its front paws,
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then stands. It blinks and shakes its head (they always do don't they?).
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then it gives one last
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(hate-filled)
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look at its master, clamps the Frisbee
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in its jaws, and runs for the surf.
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It's never seen again.
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Luci seems sad. We walk, arm in arm, back to the suite. She doesn't
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mention what's bothering her. We never fight in public. Rarely.
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The old man walks home.
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-:-
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"Why?" she asks.
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"Why not?" I say.
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"But why?" she asks.
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"Because," she says, "you hurt the old man's feelings."
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"I suppose I did," I say.
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She turns her back. "You're so damn insensitive," she says. "I just
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don't understand why--"
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"Because I felt like it," I say.
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"But why--"
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"Because I felt like it," I say.
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-:-
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Last year:
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"What seems to be the problem?" I said.
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"I'm feeling so damn low," he said. "Like my stomach just drops out every
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time I see a pretty girl, one I can't have, you know? I just want to rip my
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fuckin' guts out...just want to fuck my head against the damn wall...so damn
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frustrating...aw hell..." he said, and started to cry.
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"How often does this happen?" I said.
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"Every fucking hour of every fucking day," he said.
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"Let's take a look inside you," I said.
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I reduced his jealousy and anger functions, while increasing his love and
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admirations to compensate. I raised his general self-esteem and his general
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happiness by a large amount.
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"Wow, thanks," he said. "Hey I feel a lot better already. Thanks."
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"No problem," I said. "I couldn't do anything about your face; that's not
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my department." I proferred a business card of a plastic surgeon friend of
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mine. "Dr. Smith may be able to--"
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He refused it. "That's okay. It doesn't matter. I'll be back here if I
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need him."
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I never saw him again.
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"I feel great. Thanks again."
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They all felt great. He was one of four dozen men and women I saw that
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day.
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-:-
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Luci, angered by the dog episode, refuses to have sex with me. I don't
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operate on her. I don't feel like it.
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We go out to eat, mostly, for the next few days, and eat in silence. It
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is as if I've promised myself that I will not operate on her, and I find
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myself wanting to but not allowing myself to. I feel
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(torn)
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she's different
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than all the rest, the riff-raff others, that somehow she deserves to be kept
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virginal. Virginal. Yeah great: if
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(when)
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I decide to open her up, the
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last thing my young Taiwanese princess will hear before her auto-deselect
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feature shuts her down will be the words "fuck it." And she won't even
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understand it. Somewhat of a pity.
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-:-
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ASIDE: THE PLASTIC SURGEON'S--DOCTOR SMITH'S--NAME WAS NOT CHOSEN AT
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RANDOM. SYMBOLICALLY, HE IS A BLACKSMITH, A GOLDSMITH, A SILVERSMITH, BUT
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NOT A FLESHSMITH OR A BLOODSMITH. OTHER SYMBOLISM IN THIS WORK IS LEFT AS
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AN EXERCISE FOR THE READER.
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-:-
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Author's mistake: the Turbo Pascal procedure listed, due to the log
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functions, also requires the Standard Apple Numeric Exchange unit. Sorry for
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the inconvenience.
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Fuckin' newlyweds...
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-:-
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It was four days later, over dinner, that we began talking again. She
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seemed somewhat relieved that the silence was over, though she was the one
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imposing it on us both. She's strange that way sometimes.
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We were in Thornapple's, which is a restaurant supposedly named after a
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comic strip character; in reality the owner chose the name because he liked
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the way it sounded. I know this sort of thing. We had just ordered
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martinis, and it would probably only be a few minutes until the waiter
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arrived to take our orders. I had just decided on a New York Strip Steak
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when she said the first nontrivial words she'd said since four days before.
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"I think we should talk," she said.
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"I agree," I said. "Can it wait until after we order? I believe the
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waiter is coming now." He was behind her, so I could see him and she could
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not.
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"Okay," she said, miffed. She was probably miffed because the
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conversation was flowing so smoothly, when I was supposed to be feeling
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awkward. She's strange that way sometimes. The waiter walked past us, to
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the table next to us, and took their order. We sat uncomfortably. Then he
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turned to us and took out his notepad and expensive pen.
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"Are you ready to order?" he asked, looking at each of us in turn.
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"I believe we are," I said. It was true.
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He turned to Luci first, since waiters by custom take females' orders
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first. Although she had made up her mind, she opened the menu anew and
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confirmed that her choice was still the same price. This annoyed me.
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"I'll have the vegetarian's plate please, and another martini, please,"
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she said. Although human beings are by nature omnivorous, some take it upon
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themselves to not eat meat, and these people are known as vegetarians. They
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do not try to save animals' lives--the animals would die anyway. It is not
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for their health--meat would give them more nutrition. And Luci doesn't need
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to lose any weight, which vegetarianism is also good for. I suspect she
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simply does not like the idea of eating meat. She usually gives me
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distasteful looks when I carnive in front of her, but in the last four days
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I'd given up my habit of nachos plates and salads. I didn't care if I upset
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her.
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Yet, as she ordered, I suddenly realized my choice might anger her just
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enough to cancel the conversation that looked forthcoming. I was in the mood
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for steak, but quickly decided to eat something else. I opened my menu a bit
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hastily and was still examining it when the waiter turned to me.
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"And for you, sir?"
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I felt harried, rushed, uncertain of everything suddenly. I had promised
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him that we had decided, and since I wasn't, I was now making my choice on
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his time, not mine. He was tapping his foot, looking at me down his nose,
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until I made my choice.
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"I'll have the plate of nachos. With no ground beef, please." I looked
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at him while I said it--he seemed so tall from my sitting position--and
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looked down again, suddenly shy. I handed my menu to him gratefully.
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"Thank you, sir, ma'am," he said, took our menus, and left.
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There was another pause. I realized how foolish I was being--it wasn't my
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fault, certainly. My heart was beating rather fast, not racing exactly, but
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out of rhythm, though it slowed quickly.
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"Honey?" Luci asked, shyly. It had been a long time since she had shown
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affection.
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"I know," she said, "you've been doing...what you did for a long time. I
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know it was very hard on you, and I know you feel you've been treated
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wrongly. Before."
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She had worked herself into a mode known as "delicacy," and in her
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eagerness to not anger me, she had decided to understate everything. She
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knew as well as I that the degree to which I had been wrongly treated was
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several magnitudes beyond Job's, and, therefore, that she should use a
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different expression than "treated wrongly." She didn't, though. She was in
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"delicacy" mode.
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"I'm not sure," she went on, "why you're still doing...it, why you are
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still opening people and animals up." The obscenity flowed hurriedly out of
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her mouth. I was surprised; she was still in "delicacy" mode, and delicate
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ladies aren't supposed to talk that way.
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"But it's wrong," she went on, "and either you don't know that, or don't
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care, and you do everything so...so apathetically, and coldly. As if you
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didn't have any recognition of others, as if you were a machine." Then she
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stopped, and looked embarrassed and angry at once, and her eyes left mine, as
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she realized what she had said and why it was incorrect. She paused for a
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second or two, giving tribute to the fact that I was right and she was wrong.
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"Frank..." she went on, and stopped. Then she put her hand over mine. "I
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just don't think we can get along well together any more. You're too..." she
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fished, "...animalistic. You're a kind, good man, but I can't ... see how we
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could go well together."
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"I'd prefer that you speak plainly," I said.
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She gave me a questioning look. Pleading. "Give me a break," it said,
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along with "what do you mean?" and "I'm not doing anything wrong."
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"If you mean you don't want to hang around me, I'd prefer that you said
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so," I elaborated. I wasn't angry, but I could feel my anger getting ready
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to prepare itself.
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"Frank..." she said helplessly, and took her hand off mine. She looked
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down, to the side, away from me. "Frank, it's just not working."
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My anger rose. "It's working out fine for ME."
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"I think we'd be better off if we were just friends," she said, and went
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on hurriedly. "It won't be hard. We've only been married three weeks, we
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can have it annulled, it won't--"
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"WE wouldn't be better off," I explained. "YOU would be better off."
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She looked at me, trapped, helpless, lips parted: "Yes."
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"WE wouldn't be better off," I exploded. "All you fucking care about is
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your own self, goddamn cover your own tracks, you don't LIKE me so just
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fucking get it fucking annulled." (I was getting extremely profane--sorry.)
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"What about you?" she wailed
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(bitch)
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and cried, "you don't care about me,
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you don't care what anyone thinks, you're so self-centered, I don't know why
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I married you," she cried. She stopped making sense after a while. Like I
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was watching from outside, I saw the other diners putting down their
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silverware and staring at us. I didn't even look at them. When they
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recognized me, they all went back to their dinner like nothing was happening,
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except glancing at us now and then. But meanwhile Luci wailed
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(bitch)
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her
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fucking head off. None of the other diners wanted to get involved, though.
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I had stood up and grabbed her wrist. "...don't know why I married you,"
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she finished, again, and looked at me.
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"I do," I said, very restrained.
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Her eyes widened and she tugged to get free. "Let me go," she said, and
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looked up at me, scared. I grinned. "It won't hurt," I said.
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She screamed, and lurched away, but I caught her first. I grabbed her
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blouse at the neck and pulled, hard, and it ripped, right down the middle,
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with her buttons popping everywhere, into someone's soup, I imagined. Her
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breasts, heaving, nipples erect, as she yelled and struck me, caught my eye--
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"--please!" she yelled, "don't, dear Cog, no." She was no longer
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coherent: she was completely, utterly, terrified, grasping at anything she
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could find to hold herself up, yet knowing as well as I did how it would end.
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"You've got a slipped g--"
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--but as I found the catch at her navel, and pulled, she exhaled and went
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limp. I dropped her and pulled the reprogrammer from my (expensive) suit
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coat inside pocket. The alligator clips fit nicely onto her access prongs,
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and I attack her with a frenzy born of hate and lust. Her love for me is at
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an all-time low: not anymore. Her libido, her self-esteem, her contentness,
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all flip ends of the spectrum. I blaze through her resource forks, raping
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her irreverently, smashing well-defined data structure into unrecognizable
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chaotic spikes and ribbons.
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And I change her memory of me, and her memory of this night, and her
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memory of the weeks before...
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And the diners around us stare at each other, at the ceiling fans, at
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their food, because I'm Frank, I'm a reprogrammer, I'm necessary, I am one of
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six in the world that have the privilege, and with the privilege comes
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responsibility, and with the responsibility comes cultural immunity, and no
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one cares what I do, because they are programmed not to care.
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Yet all of them seem to care nonetheless.
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Why?
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And why can't they learn to accept?
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-:-
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I wait to reactivate her until we arrive back in the suite. She wakes
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confused, bewildered, emotionally twisted, shaking her head trying to clear
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it. I am calmed, drained, empty.
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After ten minutes, her quantities stabilize themselves, and, lacking any
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surface self-contradictions, she accepts herself.
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I explain, and we have sex. And she seems sincere. And I seem sincere.
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-:-
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DESELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY:
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EXPANDING UNIVERSE: ROBERT HEINLEIN.
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BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS: KURT VONNEGUT, JR.
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DEATHBIRD TALES: HARLAN ELLISON.
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BRIDGE OF ASHES: ROGER ZELAZNY.
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-:-
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And I face myself in the mirror, and shave dead stubble off, and am
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conscious of my self. Luci--the old Luci--was right.
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I have a solipped gear.
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I am far too evil and perverse to continue as a reprogrammer--even as an
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ex-reprogrammer. Many of us end up this way. Fortunately, our programming
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allows us to care. Fortunately, our programming allows us not to accept.
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I wait until she leaves to shop, a several-hour trip.
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-:-
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And then I open myself up.
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Again.
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progressive underground dissidents (the PUD) == 313-433-3164 == 3/12/2400B
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20 Megs == plenty of textfiles == sysop: Mr. Pez == a happy place to be.
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