Wrote this begining bit a couple of months ago. I was wondering if anyone had any comments. I don't think I'll ever finish it, but who knows. I may do something similiar. This ones s'bout a hitman type dude who gets screwed over by a coporate hacker dude and trouble ensuses.
I'm not terribly happy with this:
Pentiums and Desert Eagles
He had more passports than socks. ‘Twelve hours,’ he said, when they first asked him, ‘I could do it with a 286.’
Target was NovSom Technologies. Big ex-GE subsidiary. Made every other cellphone in the world. Owned a decent chunk of the electromagnetic-spectrum. Grossed more than Argentina. It only took him eight hours. Entire cell phone network of Frankfurt: shut down for twenty-two minutes. Devices failed. Ambulances couldn’t be called and people died. Deal-closing calls couldn’t be made and people were upset. Millions lost; liabilities, enough litigation to clog up the courts until 2012; lawsuit boom. NovSom took 300 million in losses in one day; their insurers ran off on them, through some golden loophole, some viable and obscure clause on some contract. NovSom stumbled. Market confidence was lost. Stocks tanked. Sharks bought it, inflated it, deflated it, wrote it off for tax purposes; 38,000 laid-off. Defaulted on all their pensions. No more NovSom.
He did it off the coast of Aruba, in international waters, beside me in a Bolivian go-fast smuggling boat that looked like a big black bannana.
Twenty-two. Black, short spiky hair. Scar on left buttock. Diabetic. Diabolical online. Timid offline. His alias is HacKing and he looks like a geek. A really rich geek who drives a red Lotus Elise with a bumper sticker that read ‘My other car’s a Porsche’ and he actually has four. Credit cards on demand. Any name, any amount, anytime. Legs like sticks. Arms like twigs. Awful with women. Spent more money than most of the world’s population makes in their lifetimes on cosmetic surgery for his face but he still had acne scars; his junior-high school biological legacy. Totally ignorant of fashion. He stutters sometimes. Brags constantly. Drinks Red Bull by the gallon and eats Doritos by the family-sized bag, a living stereotype. Arrogant prick.
‘ 'Wha-wha-what the fuck?’ he’d always say, when we planned it. ‘What the fuck you doing that for?’ Annoying high pitch whine voice that sounded just like the motion alarm on his cop-car stolen laptop. Always questioned me, all throughout the operation. Always thought he knew better, no matter the circumstance. ‘What the fuck?’ Tried to tell you he knew what he was doing; the acoustic sensor will be here, the camera will be there, the cleaning lady will be here -- don’t use a Taser use tear gas -- plant those there, use Lubcon Rapid GT graphite-spray, because it’s resistant to water ands good to -18 degrees, and so on, and on, and on. He’d never let up.
Graphite-spray my balls, fucking know-it-all. Fucking almost-know-it-all, you shouldn’t’ve done what you did. Fucking not-knowing-what’s-coming I’m going to kill you.
I’ve been shadowing him. Last week he was in New York. Went to Club Voize Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Exclusive place. Its eight stories underground and the feds don’t ever go there on-duty and they charge eighty bucks a beer and you need a fucking password to get in, like its some fucking tree house or something; the executives find it amusing. He danced with a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night Swedish escort named Zarah and did blow in the VIP bathroom; rubbed shoulders with celebrities. He tried to show Lindsay Lohan his new watch and she told him to get stuffed.
Then it was first-class to Venice. The Hilton. Four nights. Penthouse Eight. Didn’t leave the hotel. Spent most of his time by the pool. Drank a thousand variations of coffee. Read books and fiddled with his laptop. Played videogames. Ate lobsters and masturbated to porno, at night (got a clear line of sight to his window from my hotel room with the laser microphone and the reverb sounded like a gang-bang, the French dirty-talk that I could translate made me laugh as it gave me stiffy; on thermal vision: green fist-blob jerking red/orange cock-blob and then yellow -- )
That was last night. Today he’s in Thailand.
Bangkok. City’s too hot and too dirty, a giant anus. Asia’s anus.
Today will be his last day living.
I expect that I’m going to see his bones and organs and blood.
Know-it-all thinks he’s invisible. Bi-weekly hair-color changes. Never wears the same clothes twice. Never stays in the same country more than a month. No social security number. Birth records erased. He went to MIT last year, gave himself straight A’s, then dropped out and erased his transcript. Solid connections to solid counterfeiters and forgers, all over the world, fake you-name-its, everything. Not the kind of guy who collects Frequent Shopper Savings Cards. Not a suggestion of a digital trace anywhere – the Internet is his fucking backyard. He erased any record that ever had his real name.
But one chink in a suit of armor is all it takes. He calls his Mom every second Monday and I tapped her landline long ago. 6:00 o’clock, every time. Never forgets. Uses his fancy eight thousand dollar Gucci platinum-plated cell phone; it has GPS. Didn’t even need to triangulate. Thanks Byron. Even this old man can do a reverse number lookup.
Byron Adam Vannet. 5’9, 149 pounds. Brown eyes, black hair. Glasses. Born July 9th, 1983, in Pasadena. I’m going to kill him today in this dirty shit-hole of a city; I’m going to splatter his brains on the streets. RIP June 27, 2005, Bangkok.
I expect I’ll feel bad about it but he had it coming.
All I need now is some bullets.
One o’clock in the afternoon. Hmm.
I'm not terribly happy with this:
Pentiums and Desert Eagles
He had more passports than socks. ‘Twelve hours,’ he said, when they first asked him, ‘I could do it with a 286.’
Target was NovSom Technologies. Big ex-GE subsidiary. Made every other cellphone in the world. Owned a decent chunk of the electromagnetic-spectrum. Grossed more than Argentina. It only took him eight hours. Entire cell phone network of Frankfurt: shut down for twenty-two minutes. Devices failed. Ambulances couldn’t be called and people died. Deal-closing calls couldn’t be made and people were upset. Millions lost; liabilities, enough litigation to clog up the courts until 2012; lawsuit boom. NovSom took 300 million in losses in one day; their insurers ran off on them, through some golden loophole, some viable and obscure clause on some contract. NovSom stumbled. Market confidence was lost. Stocks tanked. Sharks bought it, inflated it, deflated it, wrote it off for tax purposes; 38,000 laid-off. Defaulted on all their pensions. No more NovSom.
He did it off the coast of Aruba, in international waters, beside me in a Bolivian go-fast smuggling boat that looked like a big black bannana.
Twenty-two. Black, short spiky hair. Scar on left buttock. Diabetic. Diabolical online. Timid offline. His alias is HacKing and he looks like a geek. A really rich geek who drives a red Lotus Elise with a bumper sticker that read ‘My other car’s a Porsche’ and he actually has four. Credit cards on demand. Any name, any amount, anytime. Legs like sticks. Arms like twigs. Awful with women. Spent more money than most of the world’s population makes in their lifetimes on cosmetic surgery for his face but he still had acne scars; his junior-high school biological legacy. Totally ignorant of fashion. He stutters sometimes. Brags constantly. Drinks Red Bull by the gallon and eats Doritos by the family-sized bag, a living stereotype. Arrogant prick.
‘ 'Wha-wha-what the fuck?’ he’d always say, when we planned it. ‘What the fuck you doing that for?’ Annoying high pitch whine voice that sounded just like the motion alarm on his cop-car stolen laptop. Always questioned me, all throughout the operation. Always thought he knew better, no matter the circumstance. ‘What the fuck?’ Tried to tell you he knew what he was doing; the acoustic sensor will be here, the camera will be there, the cleaning lady will be here -- don’t use a Taser use tear gas -- plant those there, use Lubcon Rapid GT graphite-spray, because it’s resistant to water ands good to -18 degrees, and so on, and on, and on. He’d never let up.
Graphite-spray my balls, fucking know-it-all. Fucking almost-know-it-all, you shouldn’t’ve done what you did. Fucking not-knowing-what’s-coming I’m going to kill you.
I’ve been shadowing him. Last week he was in New York. Went to Club Voize Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Exclusive place. Its eight stories underground and the feds don’t ever go there on-duty and they charge eighty bucks a beer and you need a fucking password to get in, like its some fucking tree house or something; the executives find it amusing. He danced with a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night Swedish escort named Zarah and did blow in the VIP bathroom; rubbed shoulders with celebrities. He tried to show Lindsay Lohan his new watch and she told him to get stuffed.
Then it was first-class to Venice. The Hilton. Four nights. Penthouse Eight. Didn’t leave the hotel. Spent most of his time by the pool. Drank a thousand variations of coffee. Read books and fiddled with his laptop. Played videogames. Ate lobsters and masturbated to porno, at night (got a clear line of sight to his window from my hotel room with the laser microphone and the reverb sounded like a gang-bang, the French dirty-talk that I could translate made me laugh as it gave me stiffy; on thermal vision: green fist-blob jerking red/orange cock-blob and then yellow -- )
That was last night. Today he’s in Thailand.
Bangkok. City’s too hot and too dirty, a giant anus. Asia’s anus.
Today will be his last day living.
I expect that I’m going to see his bones and organs and blood.
Know-it-all thinks he’s invisible. Bi-weekly hair-color changes. Never wears the same clothes twice. Never stays in the same country more than a month. No social security number. Birth records erased. He went to MIT last year, gave himself straight A’s, then dropped out and erased his transcript. Solid connections to solid counterfeiters and forgers, all over the world, fake you-name-its, everything. Not the kind of guy who collects Frequent Shopper Savings Cards. Not a suggestion of a digital trace anywhere – the Internet is his fucking backyard. He erased any record that ever had his real name.
But one chink in a suit of armor is all it takes. He calls his Mom every second Monday and I tapped her landline long ago. 6:00 o’clock, every time. Never forgets. Uses his fancy eight thousand dollar Gucci platinum-plated cell phone; it has GPS. Didn’t even need to triangulate. Thanks Byron. Even this old man can do a reverse number lookup.
Byron Adam Vannet. 5’9, 149 pounds. Brown eyes, black hair. Glasses. Born July 9th, 1983, in Pasadena. I’m going to kill him today in this dirty shit-hole of a city; I’m going to splatter his brains on the streets. RIP June 27, 2005, Bangkok.
I expect I’ll feel bad about it but he had it coming.
All I need now is some bullets.
One o’clock in the afternoon. Hmm.
