The Afternoon Cyberspace Crashed

Fiction

by Graham Everett

WARM-BLOODED BLONDES DRIVE the vigilante regulators hot to wow the rocket traffic brutal as they vow to slow it down to a civilized one hundred. Those who want to become test cases talk on the company cells while their shaven heads do the bobble thing. With right arms stretched on the back of the passenger seat, they dare the registered police to stop and ticket them. The sun shines on the arrogant melanomacs in convertibles.

Another moment in another rush hour.
 
Jeannie thinks about Justice, how it isn't simply the revenge of law, but clearly a matter of separate powers leveling an ominous threat of swift, monetary cha-ching. Jeannie concludes that Justice is nothing without power. She refocuses on being one with millions trying to get home in the fallen ozone, trying to get out from under the sky before it falls in chunks on their heads.
 
Over the implanted cables comes this dose of info: 90 percent of household dust is human flesh, flaked nano-sized. At the DNA Labs, where the computerized subatomic dissemblers purr on twenty-three six and a half, the dust is classified into the more desirable human attributes: the right hair color, longer legs, a healthier heart.
 
Jeannie and her squad of regulators — more like a coven, actually — ride the western loop along the Big Bad Biotech Spill of Forty-Eight-O-One getting richer so they can get stinking polluted and nasty whenever they damn well please — except when on duty. Three days on, ten off. Jeannie remembers Bridgett saying, "Hey, you do your job, then you forget what your job is and do what you want. Let the bosses retrain you when you go back for another three-day stint."
 
Nonetheless, the maternal Traffic Regulators don't want anyone getting killed needlessly.
 
The week the Platonic Guardians cut the power lines — as it was clearly foretold in the Dystopic Classics (but who reads them these days, with all reduced to digital audio and visual with full creative torque and excellent mixing and editing tools) — there was no where to upload anything.

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