(no subject)
30/1/04 04:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minervasoloWoah is Coventry ugly. And badly signposted. but nice hotel, adn teh university isn't too bad. Suspect I may have screwed up hte interview though.
I have 'Picture of Dorian Gray'. Wanted that book for ages. and 'stupid white men'.
Sunday Morning is the hottest chick in the city.
Sunday Morning is the most expensive chick in the city.
I knew her once. Skinny little albino stick of a thing, all legs and no breasts. Woolly hair and slightly-crossed eyes, as if fate hadn't already dealt her a bad enough hand. Lived in an old ambulance with the official stuff graffittied out by a friend, and she had a lot of friends, more than she had clients.
When you meet her now, the first thing you notice at those implant sunglasses, the kind you always read about in William Gibson novels. She designed and marketed them herself. Smart chick. These ones are real implants though, not that cheap glue shit, and they're opaque from the outside.
Secondly, there's the hair. Hairpiece, actually. Another one of her dreams, but she ain't selling this one. It's a huge tangle of fibre-glass tubes, fliched off one of those novelty lights you used to see. I don't know how she attaches it to her real hair, which still has pink tips from a bad idea and a dye job years ago. Still, the lights hang, sparkly tips, various lengths, so she looks like she's fallen into her own multicoloured galaxy.
There's not much else to notice. Rumour is she hasn't worn clothes in years. Certainly, no one's seen her dressed. Her figure's okay now, filled out a bit.
"New boobs," I laugh.
She squeezes them. "I wanted something realistic," she smiles. "Normal."
I glower at them then, because Sunday was never normal and I hated that she wanted to be. The rest of the world are trying to look like her these days. She follows my and a grins again, wiggling her shoulders. Perhaps she thinks I like them.
"And you told me scrweing around with revolutionaries was a waste of time," she stands up.
"I still say the same," I insist, though it's hollow in this palace of a penthouse. The ceiling's glass and hte walls mirrored, so we extend to infinty. I don't like it much, but the fish are a nice touch. In the floor, in the support struts, in the work tops, it's all one giant aquarium. Some of them look manmade.
"Why, because the little ol' You Ess of Aye hasn't caught up yet?" she pouts and giggles.
"It's weird," I falter. Well, it is. "You know, you're world famous," I add. "Even there. It's blackmarket stuff mostly, becuase they won't admit it, but anyone with a net connection and fast fingers can download you in minutes."
"That's what they wanted," she said. "What I wanted. My reward."
"I thought that must have been you. Could never imagine pretty little Sunday Morning killing a guy, but it was all that fit."
"It was just a bit of arsenic," she says dismissively.
"Like it was just a bit of lead in JFK?"
"Yeah, like that."
They love it when she plays the ditz. It sells well. Intelligence is valued in this new world, but not so highly that it displaces the other stuff. They don't want people to feel left out just because their spelling ain't so great, or three times two equals five. So she's there to show them that anyone cn make it, against any odds. She's there to remind them why censorship is over.
Yeah, about that... "Doesn't it bother you, some of the stuff these downloads can do?"
"Nothing I haven't done," she tells me, and it's almost sad, just for a moment.
"But anyone can get them. The White House is having fits because they've got kids downloading this snuff shit and nicking because they think you're dead."
"As if that's the worst of it," she laughs again, real bitter. "Looks, it's all labelled. It's like the 'net always was. You couldn't censor much on there, not really, but people labelled it and if you had any sense you'd just avoid what you didn't like."
"What do you know about the 'net?" I ask incredulously. "You never even had a telephone."
"I am the net, dahlink," she says in that fake German accent she uses when she wants to sound exotic and just a bit S&M because in those old films it was laways the German school teachers and nannies who were strict and authoritarian. She liked stereotypes; she could make them work for her.
And I'll have to leave that there for now, though of course I'll never start it again.
I have an entire folder on my computer called 'beginnings'. Stories with plot, or characters, or style, but never all three. This would be character. I like Sunday morning, though she isn't turning out quite as planned yet. We need more.
I have 'Picture of Dorian Gray'. Wanted that book for ages. and 'stupid white men'.
Sunday Morning is the hottest chick in the city.
Sunday Morning is the most expensive chick in the city.
I knew her once. Skinny little albino stick of a thing, all legs and no breasts. Woolly hair and slightly-crossed eyes, as if fate hadn't already dealt her a bad enough hand. Lived in an old ambulance with the official stuff graffittied out by a friend, and she had a lot of friends, more than she had clients.
When you meet her now, the first thing you notice at those implant sunglasses, the kind you always read about in William Gibson novels. She designed and marketed them herself. Smart chick. These ones are real implants though, not that cheap glue shit, and they're opaque from the outside.
Secondly, there's the hair. Hairpiece, actually. Another one of her dreams, but she ain't selling this one. It's a huge tangle of fibre-glass tubes, fliched off one of those novelty lights you used to see. I don't know how she attaches it to her real hair, which still has pink tips from a bad idea and a dye job years ago. Still, the lights hang, sparkly tips, various lengths, so she looks like she's fallen into her own multicoloured galaxy.
There's not much else to notice. Rumour is she hasn't worn clothes in years. Certainly, no one's seen her dressed. Her figure's okay now, filled out a bit.
"New boobs," I laugh.
She squeezes them. "I wanted something realistic," she smiles. "Normal."
I glower at them then, because Sunday was never normal and I hated that she wanted to be. The rest of the world are trying to look like her these days. She follows my and a grins again, wiggling her shoulders. Perhaps she thinks I like them.
"And you told me scrweing around with revolutionaries was a waste of time," she stands up.
"I still say the same," I insist, though it's hollow in this palace of a penthouse. The ceiling's glass and hte walls mirrored, so we extend to infinty. I don't like it much, but the fish are a nice touch. In the floor, in the support struts, in the work tops, it's all one giant aquarium. Some of them look manmade.
"Why, because the little ol' You Ess of Aye hasn't caught up yet?" she pouts and giggles.
"It's weird," I falter. Well, it is. "You know, you're world famous," I add. "Even there. It's blackmarket stuff mostly, becuase they won't admit it, but anyone with a net connection and fast fingers can download you in minutes."
"That's what they wanted," she said. "What I wanted. My reward."
"I thought that must have been you. Could never imagine pretty little Sunday Morning killing a guy, but it was all that fit."
"It was just a bit of arsenic," she says dismissively.
"Like it was just a bit of lead in JFK?"
"Yeah, like that."
They love it when she plays the ditz. It sells well. Intelligence is valued in this new world, but not so highly that it displaces the other stuff. They don't want people to feel left out just because their spelling ain't so great, or three times two equals five. So she's there to show them that anyone cn make it, against any odds. She's there to remind them why censorship is over.
Yeah, about that... "Doesn't it bother you, some of the stuff these downloads can do?"
"Nothing I haven't done," she tells me, and it's almost sad, just for a moment.
"But anyone can get them. The White House is having fits because they've got kids downloading this snuff shit and nicking because they think you're dead."
"As if that's the worst of it," she laughs again, real bitter. "Looks, it's all labelled. It's like the 'net always was. You couldn't censor much on there, not really, but people labelled it and if you had any sense you'd just avoid what you didn't like."
"What do you know about the 'net?" I ask incredulously. "You never even had a telephone."
"I am the net, dahlink," she says in that fake German accent she uses when she wants to sound exotic and just a bit S&M because in those old films it was laways the German school teachers and nannies who were strict and authoritarian. She liked stereotypes; she could make them work for her.
And I'll have to leave that there for now, though of course I'll never start it again.
I have an entire folder on my computer called 'beginnings'. Stories with plot, or characters, or style, but never all three. This would be character. I like Sunday morning, though she isn't turning out quite as planned yet. We need more.
