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hwrnmnbsolMy kids were playing slugbug in the car yesterday. Stupid game.
It’s Game Day in the Plex and izza fine day to be alive. Me and the Johnnies are loose in the HallMall, not purchasing wares (as we rarely do), not robbing the SNtials (as is more our wont), but simply dangling about, making troublesome talk with by-passers, sporting the most RADICAL of ward-robe, and keeping ye eyestalks canted for the Rubber Bills, with whom a violent engagement would not be found unwelcome.
Mostly of all, how and ever, we is at large and lucid because it is Game Day! No schooling for the Johnnies (though we rarely go anyhow) nor workaday labors (HAR HAR!) but simply a day of sporting good times. The Plex provides it all for free: foodstuffs, non-nasty for once; drinkstuffs, both of the high-making and low-making varietals; entertainments such as dancing hotness and musicalities and sporty games of prize-winning and WOT and WOT and WOT. Good times for all on Game Day, that’s the word. Natch the Johnnies would be in the HallMall, loud and proud and beetle-browed, despite the danger.
And that’s the catchiness about Game Day, lovely. There’s risks to be had too; plenty a Johnny will go prone and pulse-free on Game Day. Not talking about the Rubber Bills either, who couldn’t hurt a fly with a fly-axe-murderer, unless they gots a pulser or summat. Naw, it’s the bugs to be wakeful wary about, the colorful bugs, roaring about here and there on Game Day, listeny with electric ears, listeny for the non-SN’s wot ain’t quicklike on the draw.
Gots to be awake on Game Day. Gots to be alert at all times. Johnnies are tight, mates thick and unthick, but when a bug comes along, it’s every nonSNtial for hisself.
We is lolling, is what we is doing, all casual slumps with legs a-dangle over the HallMall L9 rail, just next to Liply’s Sugar Proxy. Liply sez Johnnies cut into his biz, on account of scaring away SNtial custom. Me and the Johnnies has a well-reasoned response, to wit: shut yer gob. So by Liply’s we stay, from which vantage we has eyeballs on Egress 4 and 11 both, and we looks out over the Atrium. A perfect platform for bugspotting. Noisome Don flicks my earlobe hard.
“Oi,” sez Don, pointy pointing. “Coppertop.”
O scuzz. Now whyfor must the coppertops be prowling on Game Day, fun-spoiling? Ain’t we got troubles enough, wot with the bugs and Rubber Bills? Coppers waste little love on Johnnies. They pick us up and haul us away, throw us into clinkstink, would leave us all there too except it so CROWDED. So they let Johnnies go after a cycle or two, but sometimes that Johnny ain’t seen again lifelike. Sometimes he float up in Waste Reclamation, and coppers deny DENY deny, but they does it. They does it regular. One crap fer each coppertop, inna mouth.
Coppertop rumbles up, smacking bangstick in hand. He look down at Johnnies but don’t say nuffin. Smart Johnnies don’t say nuffin either. Me ain’t so smart a Johnny.
“Hullo hullo, offizer!” sez me, all smiley WOT. “Is it not a beautimous Game Day? Me and the lads are all waity giddiness for a cycle of nice, clean funnsies. Hey, howza squeeze and brats then?”
“Shut up,” he sez all quietly. “Shut up, you human rats. This may be your last few moments in the Plex. With any luck, you’ll all be dead before the cycle’s out.”
“Och, tish now,” goes me, all scoldy with the waggly pointer finger. “Here we is, me and my abiding-of-the-law mateys, merely having a sit-about and a bit of chat, and now it’s all rousty and rage? Shameful are the times, boys!” The Johnnies gives me a good hoot and HAR HAR, with many a hand gesture of the friggety sort.
“You all think you’re safe. So smart, your parents thought they were, birthing you without a Serial Number,” growls Coppertop. “Off the grid you are, now, filling up the Plex like the refuse you are. Plex was only designed to hold twenty million, you know! But with you non-SN parasites we’re now closer to forty!”
“Uh….lotsa big words there, friendly neighborhood copper-man,” replies me. “But me ain’t no tapeworm! Me performs a vital social function, sir; me holds up this railing!” Me lifts my seraponcho, shows copper that me gots pants down and my buttox is jammed inna railing. There’s a full moon wot shines down onna Atrium. Lads gives with the laffs yet again, bless ‘em.
Coppertop steps in and gives me the bangstick. OO-ee, it makes the lights go off inside my skullbox, do it not. Copper’s got me giblets in a copper-squeeze and his phizz in my phizz. He gives us a nice smile too.
“Watch for bugs, punk,” he sez, even more quietly than before. “Watch real careful. Because only the quickest can win the game. The rest of the herd gets thinned.” Then me giblets gets a copper-kick and off he strolls, all whistly-innocent, tra la, eh WOT. Me onna floor, Johnnies makes with the hand signals at coppertop’s back, utter a few coarse rejoinders, play-act a boot inna backside. Then he gone, gone like the dawn.
“Scrod,” sez me. “Must’ve soiled myself over the railing.” And then there’s more HAR HAR.
**
Later the Big Sod spots him some Rubber Bills. They down a level and cross of the Atrium, playing romeo-like with the SNtial hotness. Silly Rubber Bills, hotness does not dig the latex pantsuits. Johnnies now commence the alloing and the kitty-calling and the ululating and WOT and WOT, and Rubber Bills call back with the hi-hi and the gitcha-gitcha and the invites for dances. Natch no Johnny sez no to a dance, not with Rubber Bills, as they’re all wanker-like yobs. After a bit of this they decides they’ll come dance wivvus, not vicely and versa, so rumble-tumble up comes the ‘Bills up the gravlift. And we is ready; me wif my drivechain wot me use for a belt, and all t’other Johnnies going SNIKT and CHAKK and RZZZZ.
So’s the gravlift goes DING and doors go SSSK and it’s time for bloody Game Day disco when there’s a RR-RR and HULLO LADS here’s the bugs! Round the corner tears a Red One; it’s got a domed body on four wheels, sensors frontlike, and a great bloody pulser onnatop.
“Red One!” yells me.
“Red One!” yells Noisome Don.
“Red One!” yells some Rubber Bill whose name enters not inna this story, as later me kills him.
“Red…” starts some other Rubber Bill but he is JUST TOO SLOW. Like me tell it, you gotta be alert on Game Day. You gotta say “Red One” right SUPER quick or that’s it. That’s the Game of Game Day. We callit Fragbug. Rubber Bill’s too slow; he only sez “Red…” when the Red One’s pulser targets him, and ZZA-ZZA-ZZAT! he is a wet splat, and that is the concludings of the story of that latex wank. Then: RR! The Red One is by and past, looking for more sport, some other nonSNtial spazzer to mistify.
“Crappers,” sez Big Sod. Where there’s one bug there’s always lots.
“Close ranks and dance later, yeh?” sez some Rubber Bill. Dunno which; me can’tly be telling of ‘em apart.
“Yeh, dance later, you great gassy crapperlight.” Me go back to back with a ‘Bill, and all Johnnies and Bills mix and eyeball the mallways, ascan for bugs, the game being afoot.
There’s blur of blue ‘round the corner of Liply’s Sugar Proxy, with screeching and revving, and BAM! there’s a Blue One running down Noisome Don. Treads go right over his face, and he’s smearing the mallway terrazzo even before the pulser comes out. Fekk!
“Blue One!” sez Big Sod.
“Blue One!” sez me.
“Blue…” Me puts my elbowjoint right inna gut of the Rubber Bill wot me earlierly had referenced, and his wind goes right out. Technically he hasn’t said ‘Blue One’, which is just too bad for Rubber Bills, as the bugs is all abouts the technicals and the details. ZZA-ZZA-ZZAT! ‘Bill’s latex smells like a shoe inna trashcan fire when it scorches.
Bugs is coming out the plaswork now, shots here, shots there. Never at the SNtials. They got a SN chip, bugs can sense it. They not in the game. They out of bounds. Johnnies not out of bounds. Johnnies worth points.
Big Sod grabs me ear. “Gravlift,” sez he, and we runs for it. We hears a revving as me mash the button for Atrium floor, but the door close before we sees what color of bug it is.
Down, down goes the Gravlift. We running from the other Johnnies, yes, but all nonSNtials was getting pulsed up there. Not casual. Not tee-rif. Not inna spirit of Game Day.
Gravlift car drops to Atrium floor. Door dings and starts to open. As it cracks, we hear the RR-RR-RR! of a bug. It idling just outside the door. It waiting for Johnnies what’s smart enough to run.
“Me guess Yellow One!” sez me. Big Sod’s eyes open wide. The door SSKs open.
Azzit happens, me was right.
It’s Game Day in the Plex and izza fine day to be alive. Me and the Johnnies are loose in the HallMall, not purchasing wares (as we rarely do), not robbing the SNtials (as is more our wont), but simply dangling about, making troublesome talk with by-passers, sporting the most RADICAL of ward-robe, and keeping ye eyestalks canted for the Rubber Bills, with whom a violent engagement would not be found unwelcome.
Mostly of all, how and ever, we is at large and lucid because it is Game Day! No schooling for the Johnnies (though we rarely go anyhow) nor workaday labors (HAR HAR!) but simply a day of sporting good times. The Plex provides it all for free: foodstuffs, non-nasty for once; drinkstuffs, both of the high-making and low-making varietals; entertainments such as dancing hotness and musicalities and sporty games of prize-winning and WOT and WOT and WOT. Good times for all on Game Day, that’s the word. Natch the Johnnies would be in the HallMall, loud and proud and beetle-browed, despite the danger.
And that’s the catchiness about Game Day, lovely. There’s risks to be had too; plenty a Johnny will go prone and pulse-free on Game Day. Not talking about the Rubber Bills either, who couldn’t hurt a fly with a fly-axe-murderer, unless they gots a pulser or summat. Naw, it’s the bugs to be wakeful wary about, the colorful bugs, roaring about here and there on Game Day, listeny with electric ears, listeny for the non-SN’s wot ain’t quicklike on the draw.
Gots to be awake on Game Day. Gots to be alert at all times. Johnnies are tight, mates thick and unthick, but when a bug comes along, it’s every nonSNtial for hisself.
We is lolling, is what we is doing, all casual slumps with legs a-dangle over the HallMall L9 rail, just next to Liply’s Sugar Proxy. Liply sez Johnnies cut into his biz, on account of scaring away SNtial custom. Me and the Johnnies has a well-reasoned response, to wit: shut yer gob. So by Liply’s we stay, from which vantage we has eyeballs on Egress 4 and 11 both, and we looks out over the Atrium. A perfect platform for bugspotting. Noisome Don flicks my earlobe hard.
“Oi,” sez Don, pointy pointing. “Coppertop.”
O scuzz. Now whyfor must the coppertops be prowling on Game Day, fun-spoiling? Ain’t we got troubles enough, wot with the bugs and Rubber Bills? Coppers waste little love on Johnnies. They pick us up and haul us away, throw us into clinkstink, would leave us all there too except it so CROWDED. So they let Johnnies go after a cycle or two, but sometimes that Johnny ain’t seen again lifelike. Sometimes he float up in Waste Reclamation, and coppers deny DENY deny, but they does it. They does it regular. One crap fer each coppertop, inna mouth.
Coppertop rumbles up, smacking bangstick in hand. He look down at Johnnies but don’t say nuffin. Smart Johnnies don’t say nuffin either. Me ain’t so smart a Johnny.
“Hullo hullo, offizer!” sez me, all smiley WOT. “Is it not a beautimous Game Day? Me and the lads are all waity giddiness for a cycle of nice, clean funnsies. Hey, howza squeeze and brats then?”
“Shut up,” he sez all quietly. “Shut up, you human rats. This may be your last few moments in the Plex. With any luck, you’ll all be dead before the cycle’s out.”
“Och, tish now,” goes me, all scoldy with the waggly pointer finger. “Here we is, me and my abiding-of-the-law mateys, merely having a sit-about and a bit of chat, and now it’s all rousty and rage? Shameful are the times, boys!” The Johnnies gives me a good hoot and HAR HAR, with many a hand gesture of the friggety sort.
“You all think you’re safe. So smart, your parents thought they were, birthing you without a Serial Number,” growls Coppertop. “Off the grid you are, now, filling up the Plex like the refuse you are. Plex was only designed to hold twenty million, you know! But with you non-SN parasites we’re now closer to forty!”
“Uh….lotsa big words there, friendly neighborhood copper-man,” replies me. “But me ain’t no tapeworm! Me performs a vital social function, sir; me holds up this railing!” Me lifts my seraponcho, shows copper that me gots pants down and my buttox is jammed inna railing. There’s a full moon wot shines down onna Atrium. Lads gives with the laffs yet again, bless ‘em.
Coppertop steps in and gives me the bangstick. OO-ee, it makes the lights go off inside my skullbox, do it not. Copper’s got me giblets in a copper-squeeze and his phizz in my phizz. He gives us a nice smile too.
“Watch for bugs, punk,” he sez, even more quietly than before. “Watch real careful. Because only the quickest can win the game. The rest of the herd gets thinned.” Then me giblets gets a copper-kick and off he strolls, all whistly-innocent, tra la, eh WOT. Me onna floor, Johnnies makes with the hand signals at coppertop’s back, utter a few coarse rejoinders, play-act a boot inna backside. Then he gone, gone like the dawn.
“Scrod,” sez me. “Must’ve soiled myself over the railing.” And then there’s more HAR HAR.
**
Later the Big Sod spots him some Rubber Bills. They down a level and cross of the Atrium, playing romeo-like with the SNtial hotness. Silly Rubber Bills, hotness does not dig the latex pantsuits. Johnnies now commence the alloing and the kitty-calling and the ululating and WOT and WOT, and Rubber Bills call back with the hi-hi and the gitcha-gitcha and the invites for dances. Natch no Johnny sez no to a dance, not with Rubber Bills, as they’re all wanker-like yobs. After a bit of this they decides they’ll come dance wivvus, not vicely and versa, so rumble-tumble up comes the ‘Bills up the gravlift. And we is ready; me wif my drivechain wot me use for a belt, and all t’other Johnnies going SNIKT and CHAKK and RZZZZ.
So’s the gravlift goes DING and doors go SSSK and it’s time for bloody Game Day disco when there’s a RR-RR and HULLO LADS here’s the bugs! Round the corner tears a Red One; it’s got a domed body on four wheels, sensors frontlike, and a great bloody pulser onnatop.
“Red One!” yells me.
“Red One!” yells Noisome Don.
“Red One!” yells some Rubber Bill whose name enters not inna this story, as later me kills him.
“Red…” starts some other Rubber Bill but he is JUST TOO SLOW. Like me tell it, you gotta be alert on Game Day. You gotta say “Red One” right SUPER quick or that’s it. That’s the Game of Game Day. We callit Fragbug. Rubber Bill’s too slow; he only sez “Red…” when the Red One’s pulser targets him, and ZZA-ZZA-ZZAT! he is a wet splat, and that is the concludings of the story of that latex wank. Then: RR! The Red One is by and past, looking for more sport, some other nonSNtial spazzer to mistify.
“Crappers,” sez Big Sod. Where there’s one bug there’s always lots.
“Close ranks and dance later, yeh?” sez some Rubber Bill. Dunno which; me can’tly be telling of ‘em apart.
“Yeh, dance later, you great gassy crapperlight.” Me go back to back with a ‘Bill, and all Johnnies and Bills mix and eyeball the mallways, ascan for bugs, the game being afoot.
There’s blur of blue ‘round the corner of Liply’s Sugar Proxy, with screeching and revving, and BAM! there’s a Blue One running down Noisome Don. Treads go right over his face, and he’s smearing the mallway terrazzo even before the pulser comes out. Fekk!
“Blue One!” sez Big Sod.
“Blue One!” sez me.
“Blue…” Me puts my elbowjoint right inna gut of the Rubber Bill wot me earlierly had referenced, and his wind goes right out. Technically he hasn’t said ‘Blue One’, which is just too bad for Rubber Bills, as the bugs is all abouts the technicals and the details. ZZA-ZZA-ZZAT! ‘Bill’s latex smells like a shoe inna trashcan fire when it scorches.
Bugs is coming out the plaswork now, shots here, shots there. Never at the SNtials. They got a SN chip, bugs can sense it. They not in the game. They out of bounds. Johnnies not out of bounds. Johnnies worth points.
Big Sod grabs me ear. “Gravlift,” sez he, and we runs for it. We hears a revving as me mash the button for Atrium floor, but the door close before we sees what color of bug it is.
Down, down goes the Gravlift. We running from the other Johnnies, yes, but all nonSNtials was getting pulsed up there. Not casual. Not tee-rif. Not inna spirit of Game Day.
Gravlift car drops to Atrium floor. Door dings and starts to open. As it cracks, we hear the RR-RR-RR! of a bug. It idling just outside the door. It waiting for Johnnies what’s smart enough to run.
“Me guess Yellow One!” sez me. Big Sod’s eyes open wide. The door SSKs open.
Azzit happens, me was right.
