Mobile Fiction
Parachute no limit
I Write Like says I wrote this story in Kurt Vonnegut’s style. It’s included in a free collection Password Incorrect.
The director of an international airport was hanging from the ropes and checking their color in the sun, which graciously shone from between fiercely looking storm clouds. The ropes were suspended by carabiners from the hooks in the ceiling, which following the airport’s motto (“sky is no limit”) was located at the height exceeding the limits of innerspatial imagination of public use buildings. Thanks to that, the director’s office, which wasn’t small to begin with, according to the airport’s second maxim (“space is no limit”), appeared to be a huge penthouse of at least 300 square meters. In reality, it was only 250 and the director, from the height accorded by the length of the parachute ropes, was lamenting about it:
“I told them to take over half of the cafeteria, but they wouldn’t listen, and now, look at what I have to be cooped up with.”
He was cooped up with two parachute guys, and two guys dealing with exclusive materials. And more precisely, they were copped up on a small, two-seater sofa. They’d been cooped up there for over two hours, because the director was known for his pedantic qualities and now with his every comment, he confirmed a rumor about him that was circulating at the airport.
The issue was indeed weighty and it weighed at least as much as the representative parachute. Even if this type of parachute hadn’t existed before, now we were witnessing its birth and everything was depending on the color of those unfortunate ropes.
One kind of rope was too stiff, but the color was nice – Button-down Shirt Blue “Dark Day on Wall Street.” Unfortunately, that kind could damage the impeccably chosen suit jacket fabric (yes, the director was wearing a suit jacket, because he wanted everything to match nicely). Other, softer types of rope were simply dream-made for the sort of managerial snob like this director of a paralyzed international airport. The ropes were made using the new revolutionary SkySafe technology, whatever that meant, but which had one major fault – their colors were fine for beginners parachuting from jump towers, and the director had already completed his first real jump. Well with a bodyguard really, but a bodyguard was just a bodyguard and didn’t count, anyway.
“What are you giving me here: pink, bright green, bright orange, bright turquoise. Don’t you have something for more serious guys like me?”
“Sir,” he was interrupted by the voice of his secretary coming from the intercom, “Sir, the spokesmen for the striking workers informed that the departures terminal had been blocked.”
“I’m in a meeting you tell them,” the director replied kicking his legs slightly with frustration.
“OK gentlemen, I am getting annoyed by those ropes, and we still have the fabric for the canopy and the protective material to discuss. I brought you here to prepare the best ever under the sun representative parachute, if I’m going to have a photo session with it for “Aircraft Industry”. The photographer is flying in on Friday and I want to have everything fixed and ready to roll by then. And it needs work too, you know, in case I have to jump out with this parachute from my lil’ blue sports plane for real.”
“I can suggest having the ropes made to order. Soft SkySafe in Button-down Shirt Blue.”
“Just what I wanted to hear. Now the canopy. Can someone get me unhooked? How can I check the canopy if I’m hanging here. Gentlemen, more initiative, please. I didn’t hire you, so you could sleep here on the sofa for twenty thousand.”
Five men jumped up to get him unhooked. They put him on a ladder where he spent another two hours examining the canopy’s fabric. This was not easy. Not this color, not that that “texture”, not that intensity of light reflection.
“S… sir, the strikers have blocked the arrivals. In the main hall, about three thousand people are currently camping out, and violence is breaking o… out,” the secretary stuttered, and her voice, coming from six speakers, was full of panic.
“I am busy. OK gentlemen, do you have other samples? Because what you’ve offered me so far, I must regretfully say is acceptable for a not-so-bright manager of a field airstrip in Asswhack. At my airport, we live by the motto “imagination is no limit.” I’m expecting your suggestions, now.”
“There are swatches of course, sir, but if you prefer to take care of the strikers, we can wait, no problem. As I understand, this might be a more pressing matter than the canopy.”
“You think?” There was a moment of deep thought on the seventh step of the titanium ladder.
“Sir, excuse me,” the terrified, quadrophonic voice of the secretary could be heard again.
“Yes, talk to me!” The manager yelled back.
“Sir, Mr. van Hookjes is here. He says he brought the proposal for professional parachute helmets with an air-bag system.”
“Ah, yes, tell him to come in, of course. Gentlemen, do something. I can’t stand here on this ladder all day long. I have helmets to look at.”
Ul Fas Spe Rea Course
Blanka and Edmundo inhaled books by the truckload and even that was not enough. So they participated in an ultra-fast speed-reading course based on the Hi-Re method.
After three days of intensive training they completed the course with honors.
As a special prize, they received the longest novel published in the last three years, which had as much as 24 pages – “In Search of a Lost Parenthesis” by the R-syndicate writing quartet.
Blanka read ultra-fast:
“Bro po giv flo . By ass ass fuc kwa dop – No, . , con is a pro rod ban trans rap bit Ove! … — ? If kle bio hon Ja where ha ye whe grog or. . R kli rot e ter. ,”
Edmund read ultra-fast:
“.Ass – ;fuc gav fas no I will fu fuc fu her he wen fa, ha! Ha! Thes pon – fu co soo sa by fro. Sle in sla Eas the my you pen. One con ex bla . No!!! Wha?”
Blanka said:
“I have to say, this is an incredible book. It keeps you in suspense, the characters are so vivid, dialogs – precise, and the narration – first class.”
Edmund said:
“I totally agree. This must be probably the most fascinating book of this summer, and not even probably. Totally.”
Soup a priori
Wow, I Write Like gets really bizarre – this story was analyzed as Leo Tolstoy style. Get it for free with Password Incorrect collection.
A certain unemployed mathematician from Afroasia worked out the Ligadul’s Law, based on which, and after considering a maximum number of variation, one could calculate the so-called near future (counted in days, or at the very most in weeks, from the date of calculation).
A certain unemployed inventor from Osmiogród created the Futurobot – a device, which applied the Ligadul’s Law to the person in its closest vicinity.
“Listen! It worked!” Martyna chirped into the phone. “You know, I turned it on, entered all the data, and it said that Robi would come home drunk and start throwing the furniture out the window, so I hadn’t even bothered to clean.”
“So…” Bożena asked half-bored, because Robi, Martyna’s second husband didn’t interest her in the least bit. The wrong Robi.
“So, he came home, started screaming, and the place was like after a tornado. And I can tell you, my dear, it made me feel better. Would have been a different thing, if I had been cleaning all day, you know. This Futurobot is super. I can sell you one, cuz I got me several, for friends, you know.”
At first Bożena didn’t want one, and then she did. Right after she watched on the Kitchen Annex TV channel a repeat of the “Robi’s Appetizers” show.
Robi Appetizer. The country loved him. So sensitive and so sweet at the same time. Handsome. Appetizing. Just like a spring onion. It was a matter of honor for all self-respecting housewives and house husbands to prepare a Robi’s recipe for Friday night dinner or Saturday lunch. For Bożena, too. And she almost always succeeded. Except for the turkeyducky soup. It seemed so simple, but her soup wasn’t as clear as Robi’s, and besides that, it was inedible.
She bought a Futurobot and already after turning it on, she knew it was a good purchase. When she entered the target data (soup) and references (Robi Appetizer) the device spoke to her in that beloved voice of the Polish cuisine’s most famous:
“So, let’s get cooking, and chin up, everything will be great.”
The cooking went fabulously and she felt great. Like never before. And it went fast, too. In comparison to the seven hours of inputting the data, the two hours spent stirring over a small flame went by in the blink of an eye. It had to turn out great – Franek invited his friends from the embassy over for dinner and they wanted to try something truly Polish.
After two hours, the Futurobot breathed a sigh of relief and said tenderly:
“My dear, time to taste it!”
She tasted and almost vomited. Again, inedible, or even worse. She didn’t understand how that could have happened, because according to the development of the situation, the robot adjusted and introduced new ingredients, for example, she had to add another carrot and take out two grains of allspice.
“How did this happen?” Bożena asked reproachfully.
The robot was silent.
“C’mon, tell me what happened with you.”
Nothing.
“I trusted you, and now nothing? How could you?”
Nothing.
“Not even ‘I’m sorry’?”
Instead of “I’m sorry” the Futurobot printed out the following message:
***Soup a priori failure confirmed***
Analysis:
Too much direct sunlight – 1%
Meat too soft – 7%
Water too hard – 9%
Other factors – 83%
Abnormales
“He is normally abnormal!” Clarisse (name on ID: Paul) said while biting into an unidentified piece of seafood hors d’oeuvre.
“Who’s that?” Jonofi (name on ID: John) asked.
“That Robert. Can you believe that he’s never in his life done amnesa?”
“No! The dude is really wack. How you know him?” Onardo (name on ID: Leon) wanted to know.
“Unfortunately we work together, he in stocks, me in funds. The dude admitted that he tried weed once back in school. And that’s all.”
“Who are you hanging out with, Clarisette?” Onardo groaned.
“My sympathy,” Jonofi added and just for practice took a shot of amnesa from the cheese-and-drugs board.
And Kudupi (name on ID: Kudupi) just sat, smoked plimon and said nothing. He was like that – he wanted to have the big moment all for himself.
They ordered a round of Just Another Reason to Get Hard Drugs (whisky with ice). The evening at the Stop Deviation restaurant was promising to be a hot one.
“But you know what, this is nothing. Recently I met a guy at a party over at San Barenakedino’s.”
“Oh yeah? San Barenakedino? How’s he?” Clarisse and Onardo both asked.
“Normal. Crashed his car, and is banging Lora in Drojeda. But not about him, only about this one sackless Jacek. Posing as a normales, too, that asstard.’
“How?” Kudupi asked and everyone suddenly noticed.
“Yo Kud, wassup? You’re talking?” Clarissesetto said.
“A momentary lack of brain power,” Kudupi hissed quietly, took a shot of chrynine and washed it down with his drink, “So?”
“What so? So, this Jacek, he walks around and says he has only one woman.”
“No!”
“You kiddin’”
“No, I tell ya, and then he says who that woman is…”
“I can’t listen to this. Don’t! Stop!” Onardo snorted, because he liked to snort from time to time.
“But you know!”
“We know, we know. Don’t ruin the evening, Jonofi. Do they have kids already?” Kudupi asked a trick question.
“No, now I’m not playing! I wasn’t supposed to say, and you, Kudu, now you said it for real, so I’m not playing. This wasn’t supposed to be like this, why do you always have to bring everything back to a phallus, huh!”
“Either way, disgusting. How can these people have the balls to walk the streets? I dunno.”
“Totally cukoo,” Kudupi began and they all knew he was about to drop the bomb.
“Just be careful with the detonation range, cuz I just had a stuffed snout with gorgonzola,” Clarissesettessimo laughed. Everybody liked Kudupi’s stories. They were always the randiest and broke every taboo.
“So, c’mon Kudu! You started, you finish!” Jonofi was getting impatient.
“The dude’s name is Michal, and he’s a noob like I’ve never met before,” Kudu slowly drawled his words with care and precision, like “cision” in the word “precision”. The climax was inevitably coming soon, and the group at the table next to theirs was all ears, too, in the anticipation of a pathologically deviant story.
“?” Jonofi stared.
“??” Clarissesesettisimoprimo stared.
“?!” Onardo, supported by the fixated eyes from the table next to theirs, tried to force a quick answer.
“Do you know what time this doofus has breakfast?” Kudu began to build the suspense, aided by a gulp of tatamamina.
“At eight in the morning.”
It took both tables almost three sessions of medium sized cheese-and-drugs boards to collect themselves after hearing this.
Finally, the orchestra of trained zoo employees managed to clear the atmosphere full of feelings of disgust caused the pathology of living in a big city.
All-in-One EveryToy
A few days ago a new toy appeared in stores.
It was a doll, or rather a robot doll with exchangeable parts, similar in concept to Kolego blocks, but bigger, more ergonomic and resembling realistic organs, which allowed for better chances of creative playtime. On its head, under the helmetphone and Busy Bee antennae, with an option for four antennas in the Blebletubby style, there was a blond mop of hair a la Dark Powder. The wings, fully extendable into two laser-plasmatic Chronicle series cannons, had changeable colorful modules, which offered possibilities for a game similar to MasterBlind, and a crate on the chain-mail jacket allowed for an intellectual challenge characteristic of the Kubic cube.
The modular construction offered practically unlimited possible combinations in creating a new character, and several suggested on the back of the box gave a taste of this incredible action-figure adventure: Rambie 3, Winnie the Poohman, Donald Potter, or Atomic Ostrich.
Its changeable boots (there were seven pairs in the set, with a possibility to buy 23 more) presented yet another arena to show off young creative talents. They provided for the abilities of either Ninja Hurdles, or Puss in Boots, or even an M1 Abrams tank. Additionally, thanks to the built-in mini-engines, the toy could negotiate obstacles – depending on the boots – either by crawling, jumping, walking sideways, pirouetting, or in the down-up fashion. The built-in internal organs allowed for the development of care-giving skills (activities: peeing, internal absorption, indigestion, stomach-ache). A 2 GB memory mini-chip was sufficient to teach the toy the basics of one of four languages, including sign language, and the reset button hidden in the left armpit afforded multiple opportunities at developing verbal communication with the toy. To make the play possibilities even more interesting and unpredictable, under the left wrist, there was a built-in operational panel with a choice of setting levels of aggression, bravery, childishness, obedience, intelligence and the need to spend time with a child diagnosed with ADHD.
Mr. Emil Czyc was just shopping with his son at the mall.
“Bartus, look! EveryToy.”
“Eh, not for me.”
“Eh?”
The Language of Worldwide Communication
Professor Jeremi Przyrobacki from Poland and Professor Philippe Delaroussexemount la Rousse von Mount from Lotafranconia met at the 1st International Professors Congress in Vodafos dedicated to the dialog about the role of professors in the modern institutionalized, disorganized, miniaturized and softy restitutionalized world.
Przyrobacki ran into la Rousse in the hall of the main conference center, constructed specially with the congress in mind. They both had felt that this could be the beginning of a long and fruitful international scientific collaboration. There was only one, small problem of a rather human nature – Przyrobacki didn’t know Lotafrankish, von Mount didn’t know Polish, and neither one could speak a word of English.
But what do we have professors in this world for?
They decided, by using an improved and creatively embellished version of sign language, to create a whole new language altogether for the purpose of easy and comfortable communication in what they suspected would be an intensive and long-term exchange of scientific ideas.
The decision was made and a few key words were created right there and then.
“Gyna bodokalunia!” The Polish professor said to the Lotafrankish professor when they were parting.
”Gyna bodokalunia, karnuk kilmadorni esdar!” The Lotafrankish man answered energetically. The Chinese delegates watching the whole scene deduced the exchange contained codes for the Future Reverse Combat Online game and began to clap their hands.
The professors went home feeling that history had been made.
Two months later they met again for a working session in the mountains of Clezmeron where they were supposed to develop the basis of grammar and word-formation. After the first two days, devoted to informal brain cell exercises, the results were better than good. During the creative process, which was moderated by la Rousse according to the patented 4-192.5-3 method, the words most frequently used in any language, that is vulgarisms, were devised and listed here as “regrod”, “hurcia”, “larnogha” and “dygil”. On the third day, the ambitions of both professors – their own, as well as patriotic and academic became apparent, as well as and their competition for the affections of a certain Polish-Lotafrankish speaking and very blond assistant at their disposal from the university in Laronne.
As a result, after a month-long session only the basics of grammar and the name of the language were decided upon. To honor its creators, it was to be called “Przyrolarouish”. Word-forming, which caused the most battles between the two scientific talents, was to be calmly discussed during a three-month-long follow-up meeting on the Tralmar Sea coast sponsored by the leading mobile phone companies of both countries. Przyrobacki and la Rousse agreed that this time the assistant should definitely be a brunette.
The next working session was a failure. The work progressed too slowly, and the dark-haired assistant additionally distracted their attention by her visibly non-existent bra. Both professors soon realized that creating a new language was not an easy task. And if the mobile phone companies wouldn’t object, further work on the fundamentals of Przyrolarouish would take several, or more, years.
There were four more working sessions and frequent tele-conferences, during which, after long negotiations it was decided that the word-forming of the new language would in 37% follow Polish rules, and in 63% Lotafrankish.
Nine years later at a formal press conference, the professors announced their progress in creating a new language – the language of world-wide communication – and with that declaration their enthusiasm ran out.
Przyrobacki returned from the press conference late, totally absorbed by the fractal construction of a cellular anti-stem theory, with which he was infected by an accidentally met professor from the same institute. Granddaughter Theorysia ran over to greet her grandpa:
“Pyla jagudja, grandpa!”
“Pyla jaguduja! What, you’re not in bed?”
“I can’t remember how to say ‘turn off the light’ in Przyrolarouish.”
“Oh honey, gramps hasn’t come up with that yet.”
Theorysia frowned, her brow puckering.
“Grandpa?”
“Aha, this is going to be one of those intelligent questions, right, sweetheart? I can feel it. Ask away my love but grandpa’s not sure if he knows the answer.”
“Tell me grandpa, why did you decide to make up this language? How did it happen?”
“Hahaha! That’s my granddaughter! My inquiring mind!”
“So, tell me how?”
“Ah, nothing special, love. Grandpa didn’t know where the toilets where. Now Theorysia, go to bed. My granddaughter, ha!”
Mini-Anti-Aggressor
Like many other inventors before him, professor Slawomir Suwak designed only the things he needed himself. He had several patents on his conscience already: an automatic cork opener for wine in the indicative state, a portable set of board games for solving personality problems, a wallet with a mini-device for the duplications of 100 zloty bills, and a piece of equipment “the day after” used to irretrievably eliminate from the time-space continuum days burdened with a hangover.
Now came the time for a mini-device preventing the development of symptoms of psycho-motor aggression.
The device was really simple. It weighed about a kilo and was the size of a bag of flour. It was to be worn on the right wrist. The fact it had to be the right wrist was very important. Otherwise, the invention didn’t work properly, or even worse, it produced results opposite to its intended effect.
Each day, its mini-containers had to be re-filled with substances promoting positive processes in the body leading to the return of good mood. There were three containers to re-fill, and the substances were not available on the local market and had to be imported using diplomatic channels from the USA. To operate the device, turning it on stand-by was enough. In that mode, it could be used continuously for one and a half hours. To recharge the batteries, you needed a charger, which was stored in a small suitcase. The device, when it was turned on, made a low murmur (or according to some – a loud growl) designed to keep the owner in a good mood.
Professor Suwak called his new baby “mini-anti-aggressor.”
The McPhilips corporation expressed its interest in the product early on, even when it was still at the drawing-board stage. The company partially financed the purchase of sub-assembly elements from its subsidiary specializing in the productions of components for technologically advanced products.
McPhilips also ordered the prototype of the device, which was to be formally presented for approval to the chief of its Europe, Africa and Israel division, who was known for being aggressive.
This was going to be a big day for Suwak. A Wednesday. The third Wednesday of the month. On days like that, at the end of the bio-weather cycle phi-alpha, the greatest number of people committed suicides and accidents of all kinds were at an all-time high. And it was exactly on such a day, as this carefully selected Wednesday (which blushed from this distinction), that the mini-anti-aggressor was going to make the biggest of impressions. Suwak was supposed to attend a press conference introducing this revolutionary invention and then meet with the McPhilips people to initial an agreement for the launch of the mini-anti-aggressor on the consumer market.
The press conference went just as the professor had dreamed it. At first, the journalists were somewhat irritated, but later, upon seeing Suwak’s phenomenally good mood, started to change their minds. During cocktails, several journalists tested the device and showed sincere, unadulterated enthusiasm. One decided to write three different articles (four columns each) for a modest contribution to cover the costs of a cousin’s son’s trip abroad.
The meeting at McPhilips went much worse. The businessmen were irritated and annoyed, and nothing could be done to improve their mood.
“Why is it so big?” One very important man asked.
“Yes, why exactly is it so big? And besides, the boss of the region died of a heart attack, and his replacement is a quiet, phlegmatic introvert. He won’t appreciate this,” another very important man added.
“Yes, the new one won’t need it. And if you bring us a device the size of a SIM card, then we can seriously talk about it.”
“Yes, then we can talk seriously. Good luck.”
“Yes, good luck and good bye.”
The professor did not explode with fury, because a large amount of substances imported through diplomatic channels from the USA entered his blood stream from three mini-containers located on his right wrist.
Before going into his apartment, Suwak turned the device off, even though the battery still had enough power for seven minutes of continuous use.
His wife greeted him cheerfully, but noticed that something was amiss. Suwak ate his dinner: the steak was too tough, and the pudding too runny. A new towel was hanging in the bathroom and a new bar of soap was sitting in the soap dish. On the newspaper rack, all the magazines were arranged chronologically with the most recent placed on top.
The professor was getting more and more angry. He ran to the closet.
“I got you now, you dumb shit,” he shouted infuriated pulling out a bundled pair of mismatched socks.
An argument of massive proportions, and not seen in the Suwaks home since the professor came back from the presentation of a portable set of board games for solving personality problems, took place.
In the morning, when his tired and still crying wife fell asleep in the locked bathroom, the exhausted professor sat down on the sofa, and said to himself:
“Now, that’s better.”
A man called Desk
I Write Like says I wrote this story in Cory Doctorow’s style. It’s included in a free collection Password Incorrect.
Christopher Warm had a sedentary job. On his keyboard he typed various letters and numbers, which would become computer programs. In his company he was known as Office Desk, because when he was working he always sat behind his well-used piece of conference table standing in a hard to notice corner in the software specialists’ room. Christopher wasn’t a wide person, and so his piece of conference table didn’t have to be too big either, which also practically solved office space problems in the 0-1 Computer firm.
It was Warm’s secret that the majority of his time outside of the company, he also spent behind a desk. On his keyboard he typed various letters and numbers, which would become computer programs for the 0-1 Computer Associates company.
While the Man Called Office Desk (MCOD, or simply Cod in an alternative version) was writing an intuitive program for the management of empty office desk space in software companies, a thing that nobody had ever expected to happen happened.
Warm became fused with the chair.
The staff at 0-1 Computer were disappointed, they had expected Cod to fuse with a desk. It would have been much more entertaining to watch, you could have laughed at him a little, and the nickname, given to him by the programmers’ boss would have gotten a whole new meaning. And right now, there wasn’t even much to talk about during cigarette breaks.
Warm did not hide the fact he would have preferred to fuse with a mouse, or a mouse pad. Right now, all he could do was to pretend he totally ignored the fact he was physically stuck to a chair. And he was doing just fine until it was time to go to his second shift at 1-0 Computer Associates, where he had been working on a program for the management of empty space in staff lockers in telecommunications companies.
What Christopher felt first was a major stress on his spine. A stress much greater than a weak body of a prime programmer (pri-pro in short) could withstand. When he stood up, it caused nasty comments from his next-desk neighbor, who called the whole company, or rather, whoever was still left there in the evening, into the room to watch Cod’s exit.
Warm was completely used to such behavior and with his head raised high, as well as with certain effort, he left the office sideways, followed by his colleagues’ jokes.
“ ‘A Man called Chair’. Sounds much worse and I don’t think it’ll stick,” Warm thought with certain satisfaction as he approached his car.
Only then did he realize how one chair could complicate his life. On one hand, he wouldn’t have to ask for a place to sit anywhere anymore, because he always carried his own. That was particularly important at 0-1, where you always had to fight for a desk and a chair. But there was one small problem with 0-1, as well – how could you get there by car, especially when you’re already late? This was just too much for Warm to grasp all at once, and he eventually resorted to hiring a moving van.
He quickly got used to other people looking at him with suspicion, or simply making fun of him. It wasn’t that much different, or worse, from the experiences in his youth when his face was covered with acne. Slowly he learned to manage his mobility problem – he worked out a monthly rate with the moving company. The situation was much worse when it came to his love life. Julia, his girlfriend, was already unhappy that his computer programs were more important to him than a woman, and now she couldn’t stand how the chair’s presence in bed made them a threesome.
The third took too much space, was pressing into the mattress and creaked with every turn. She couldn’t imagine making love to a guy stuck to a chair, and especially making love that would result in making a baby.
Evenings with the three of them became more and more annoying, for her, for him and for the chair, which manifested its displeasure by loosening the telescopic lever for height adjustment. It reminded Julie of unpleasantly kinky bestiality, and after a few days and a few arguments, one evening after an exchange of angry looks, she left.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I won’t get stuck to it,” Julia remarked about the suitcase she was carrying.
Warm decided to do something about it, to solve this issue just like he always had solved problems of the inorganic computer matter. He got one idea and immediately started to work on it. Since it had started so promising, he finished a six-pack of beer and threw himself onto the bed to calmly think up new ideas. However, he forgot about the backrest and while he was making close contact with the blanket something popped in his spine.
He lay down for two days but didn’t improve.
“I can recommend physical therapy for your spine, but in your case, I don’t specialize in it, maybe you should ask at the hospital in Shpoolki,” an orthopedic specialist from the local health clinic said.
In Shpoolki, he talked with an orthopedic surgeon, a professor, supposedly the best in the country.
“Oh dear, of course something could be done, but I don’t have the time right now. And besides, it sure looks comfortable, you must admit, right? I wouldn’t do anything with it. Until it sticks, go out and enjoy life!” The professor said without even looking at the patient.
Eventually, Cod ended up with a private specialist of neutral medicine, who suggested him buttock tissue massage and antimaterialistic therapy, all preformed in his clinic, of course.
Warm rehabilitated himself for four months until one day, when he got up, he realized that his nemesis, like a scorn lover stayed in bed and even rolled over to the other side (or so it looked under the blankets).
He felt a pang of pity, and when he forgot he didn’t have anything to sit on, he felt down and broke his arm.
He continued to recuperate for another month.
During his chair recovery period, his duties were transferred to the programmers’ chief, the one who used to like to laugh at Cod. The chief had to work nights, because he wasn’t as skilled as his slight colleague from the far corner of the programmers’ room.
When Warm returned to work, everybody looked at him mysteriously. He went to his desk and saw his boss working on the computer. The boss didn’t even say hello. He didn’t look well either, as if he hadn’t left the place for quite a long time.
“What’s up with him?” Warm asked in the coffee room.
“Ah, nothing. Got stuck to the desk,” a receptionist quietly answered.
“It’s gonna happen to all of us, Chris,” his colleague from the programmers’ room added, a computer mouse stuck to his hand.
Christopher Warm had a sedentary job. On his keyboard he typed various letters and numbers, which would become computer programs. In his company he was known as Office Desk, because when he was working he always sat behind his well-used piece of conference table standing in a hard to notice corner in the software specialists’ room. Christopher wasn’t a wide person, and so his piece of conference table didn’t have to be too big either, which also practically solved office space problems in the 0-1 Computer firm.
It was Warm’s secret that the majority of his time outside of the company, he also spent behind a desk. On his keyboard he typed various letters and numbers, which would become computer programs for the 0-1 Computer Associates company.
While the Man Called Office Desk (MCOD, or simply Cod in an alternative version) was writing an intuitive program for the management of empty office desk space in software companies, a thing that nobody had ever expected to happen happened.
Warm became fused with the chair.
The staff at 0-1 Computer were disappointed, they had expected Cod to fuse with a desk. It would have been much more entertaining to watch, you could have laughed at him a little, and the nickname, given to him by the programmers’ boss would have gotten a whole new meaning. And right now, there wasn’t even much to talk about during cigarette breaks.
Warm did not hide the fact he would have preferred to fuse with a mouse, or a mouse pad. Right now, all he could do was to pretend he totally ignored the fact he was physically stuck to a chair. And he was doing just fine until it was time to go to his second shift at 1-0 Computer Associates, where he had been working on a program for the management of empty space in staff lockers in telecommunications companies.
What Christopher felt first was a major stress on his spine. A stress much greater than a weak body of a prime programmer (pri-pro in short) could withstand. When he stood up, it caused nasty comments from his next-desk neighbor, who called the whole company, or rather, whoever was still left there in the evening, into the room to watch Cod’s exit.
Warm was completely used to such behavior and with his head raised high, as well as with certain effort, he left the office sideways, followed by his colleagues’ jokes.
“ ‘A Man called Chair’. Sounds much worse and I don’t think it’ll stick,” Warm thought with certain satisfaction as he approached his car.
Only then did he realize how one chair could complicate his life. On one hand, he wouldn’t have to ask for a place to sit anywhere anymore, because he always carried his own. That was particularly important at 0-1, where you always had to fight for a desk and a chair. But there was one small problem with 0-1, as well – how could you get there by car, especially when you’re already late? This was just too much for Warm to grasp all at once, and he eventually resorted to hiring a moving van.
He quickly got used to other people looking at him with suspicion, or simply making fun of him. It wasn’t that much different, or worse, from the experiences in his youth when his face was covered with acne. Slowly he learned to manage his mobility problem – he worked out a monthly rate with the moving company. The situation was much worse when it came to his love life. Julia, his girlfriend, was already unhappy that his computer programs were more important to him than a woman, and now she couldn’t stand how the chair’s presence in bed made them a threesome.
The third took too much space, was pressing into the mattress and creaked with every turn. She couldn’t imagine making love to a guy stuck to a chair, and especially making love that would result in making a baby.
Evenings with the three of them became more and more annoying, for her, for him and for the chair, which manifested its displeasure by loosening the telescopic lever for height adjustment. It reminded Julie of unpleasantly kinky bestiality, and after a few days and a few arguments, one evening after an exchange of angry looks, she left.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I won’t get stuck to it,” Julia remarked about the suitcase she was carrying.
Warm decided to do something about it, to solve this issue just like he always had solved problems of the inorganic computer matter. He got one idea and immediately started to work on it. Since it had started so promising, he finished a six-pack of beer and threw himself onto the bed to calmly think up new ideas. However, he forgot about the backrest and while he was making close contact with the blanket something popped in his spine.
He lay down for two days but didn’t improve.
“I can recommend physical therapy for your spine, but in your case, I don’t specialize in it, maybe you should ask at the hospital in Shpoolki,” an orthopedic specialist from the local health clinic said.
In Shpoolki, he talked with an orthopedic surgeon, a professor, supposedly the best in the country.
“Oh dear, of course something could be done, but I don’t have the time right now. And besides, it sure looks comfortable, you must admit, right? I wouldn’t do anything with it. Until it sticks, go out and enjoy life!” The professor said without even looking at the patient.
Eventually, Cod ended up with a private specialist of neutral medicine, who suggested him buttock tissue massage and antimaterialistic therapy, all preformed in his clinic, of course.
Warm rehabilitated himself for four months until one day, when he got up, he realized that his nemesis, like a scorn lover stayed in bed and even rolled over to the other side (or so it looked under the blankets).
He felt a pang of pity, and when he forgot he didn’t have anything to sit on, he felt down and broke his arm.
He continued to recuperate for another month.
During his chair recovery period, his duties were transferred to the programmers’ chief, the one who used to like to laugh at Cod. The chief had to work nights, because he wasn’t as skilled as his slight colleague from the far corner of the programmers’ room.
When Warm returned to work, everybody looked at him mysteriously. He went to his desk and saw his boss working on the computer. The boss didn’t even say hello. He didn’t look well either, as if he hadn’t left the place for quite a long time.
“What’s up with him?” Warm asked in the coffee room.
“Ah, nothing. Got stuck to the desk,” a receptionist quietly answered.
“It’s gonna happen to all of us, Chris,” his colleague from the programmers’ room added, a computer mouse stuck to his hand.
Part-time evening elementary school
In September, a new and widely advertised school opened its doors in the capital city – the Part-time Evening Elementary School. You could read in its beautifully printed brochure that the school was designed to help all those “children of wealthy parents, who are too busy to learn during the day due to the time spent on the difficult task of maintaining our country’s high ranking in the very competitive field of computer games.”
In other words: when a parent wanted to have some peace and quiet, he or she would leave the kid at home in front of the computer with a bag of chips. When the kid had enough, which normally happened in the evening, he would go to school for about two hours.
The creator of PEES and its first principal was Krzycho Jedynak, a former junior high PE teacher in Potylica, a computer games fan and the winner of, as we could read in the beautifully printer brochure, “a local Amiga gaming championship”. Understanding exactly the needs of his future students, he planned to open classes of the following profiles: platform PSP (one group), platform PC (three groups), platform GB (one) and platform Mac (cancelled due to a lack of interest).
The school received an astonishing number of applications (four for each spot), which meant that many kids spent their days playing computer games and that many parents wanted time for themselves. To be accepted, young candidates had to demonstrate their social and psychological maturity and computer instincts, evaluated according to a patented method developed by Mr. Jedynak. The parents, on the other hand, had to pass an exam in using a joystick and provide a proof of income of at least 7000 zloty per month for a young family member.
During the registration process was so competitive, it ended in violence. A disappointed father of a child who didn’t get in, shouted that only VIP brats had been accepted, for which he got hit in the face by editor Furtok, in private – a father of a kid who got in to group B2/platform PC.
The school was fully prepared to cater to its very discriminating students. Each room was outfitted with a leather sofa and three fold-out beds for students exhausted after a full day of hard work. The rooms were also equipped with the newest four-processor multi-media computers – two per student, to teach him divided attention in a modern battle field simulation. The lessons were 25 minutes long, any longer and the kids wouldn’t be able to withstand the constant stress. During PE, the exercises were designed to practice joystick skills and stretch the spine. English lessons were considered to be the most important and were held every day to allow for quick mastery of games not yet translated into Polish.
In the group A1/PSP, together with the home-room teacher it was decided that each lesson will begin with a humming of the soundtrack theme from the newest version of the “Soldiers of Call of Duty in the Blitzkrieg Return to Castle Wolfenstein” game.
Because the students were increasingly exhibiting symptoms of exhaustion and ADHD, Mr. Jedynak decided to open, sponsored by the companies where the kid’s parents worked, a fully equipped medical facility, along with a resuscitation unit, a repeated psychiatric intervention unit, and a unit for the prevention of premature sexual development.
The principal, during the meeting with the parents, had painted grand visions for the future – in two years he planned to open four more school in the city (one fully configured for gaming exclusively on Korean servers) and a school in every town where the computer user saturation level was above 23%.
In front of the entrance to the school, he planned a gigantic reconstruction of a battle field from level 3c of the cult game “Warriors of Battlefield 17” (map 4azurroknight. Pk3). And instead of a football field, which wasn’t necessary for spine stretching exercises anyway, there was going to be a replica of Omaha Beach for fans of the paintball version of “Closer Combat 4 – Ultimate Expulsion”.
Unfortunately, after three years the school was closed due to a lack of interest. The principal didn’t consider the rapid development of multi-player type games, where the users play with each other on the internet, mostly in the evening.
And some insiders even claimed that kids at PEES had surfed adult websites during classes.
Wishes shovel best
I Write Like says I wrote this story in David Foster Wallace’s style. It’s included in a free collection Password Incorrect.
On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new”. He didn’t know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn’t know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS (“All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb”) convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl – Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named “John of the Disc”. Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV – “Out With There Harm Out!” or “To Them Bag Away Now Now!”
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter.
One of the site’s first users and enthusiasts was Ramona Kestowicz from the popular girl band Fluffysteron. She didn’t feel like writing her own greetings, so she logged in to bestbestbest.pl and filled out a short form. In the field “Words You Want To Use” she put “egg” and “merry”, and in “Number of Additional Words” she wrote “3”. Two days later she began to receive phone calls from friends and acquaintances with praise for her incredibly creative wishes. And there was plenty to praise:
“Merry goat’s egg skull stink”
“Egg cattle merry wedged marvelous”
“Ammeter splashing merry Oligocene eggs”
“Incontinence merry before egg postmodernism”
Soon the service was hailed as “the most innovative internet achievement of the year” by the “Internet Sites Beginning With N” magazine. The exclusive triple click rate adjusted for median parallel traffic soon reached 34.98 and grew at an impressive pace. Czesiek created a special mode for Mother’s Day, which turned out to be a mega-hit – the weekly magazine “Let Pass” included the “Mother’s left sickly bingo” wishes in its “Quote of the Week” column. And that’s how the uncontrollable popularity of the service began. Mobile phone operators noticed a significant fall in earnings due to a drop in profits from SMS fees. However, the always far-sighted Slawek offered them a revenue sharing option in return for partial investment and access to new technologies.
Czesiek designed two additional modes: Name Day and Birthday, and then after a job well done, concentrated his time and effort on viewing sites specializing in kinky naked everything. The end result of which was – Slawek got merely to number 67 on the list of the richest Poles. And only the fact that he fired Czesiek shortly after, in a rather machiavellian manner at that – by sending an SMS “You work here not easy kaput finito”, allowed him to reach that 67th position at all. But this was thanks to only his and solely his sole and only hard work and merit. He wouldn’t even publicly thank his wife if he got the “Inzapbiz” Award for the Internet Site of the Year, an award on which he was still counting on and lobbied for.
To give luck a chance and to gain an even greater fame, Przekosniak sent, posing as “Admirer”, SMSs to editors of major, highly influential papers, known politicians, people in culture, show-business, science, healthy living gurus, authorities on potted plants, teachers of the self-defense dance qualadora, as well as semi-virtual tango, an acquaintance who was also a philosopher, and a lady from a shop selling imported cheese sticks.
Just as he expected, the reaction was spontaneous, euphoric and unequivocally positive. With just one exception. A politician connected with the home service of his parliamentary section’s boss, with the mobile phone number 0-609-3459812, and known for his lack of sense of humor, did not take too well to a message from “Admirer” – “Wishes shovel best”. The inquiry was turned over to the Inquiry Board and the Board of Inquiries.
Ten months went by. In his new pad, upstairs (here it meant the 9th floor), Przekosniak was trying on a new, titanium-kevlar threaded, quasi-black, self-adjusting suit. That night he was scheduled to accept the Award for the Site of the Year in a competition sponsored by “Przekobiz” (he didn’t have the patience to wait for “Inzapbiz”).
Number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles liked what he saw in the mirror. He practiced his smile and stride, checked if the paper with his acceptance speech was in his pocket, and smoothed down the mysterious tissue bulge on his belly. Thus pleased, he refilled his glass with the rest of the two-week ago opened Suwalki wine and glancing with admiration at his own imposing image, said:
“Cheers from afar throat through a bell”.
Exactly at the same time, black limousines from the Special Security Agency arrived in front of his house.
Recently updated Polish tech-absurdist and mobile fiction writer 3.0 beta. Addicted to ebooks and technology. Guest writer at 
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