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.* * \ /\
.* O . . .. ..O .. 370 02 Jun 2001 ) ( ')
.* O O* o o o o o o o ( / )
* ***O O O O O O O O O \( _)|
* O o o.*..o.*..o.*..o. .net "Back to the Geek Future, *
* O Part II" *
*. o |\ _,,,---,,_ *
* /,`.-'`' -. ;-;;,_ *
* |,4- ) )-,_..;\ ( `'-' by Pavement *
* '---''(_/--' `-'\_) *mE0w* o
*. .......................................*
'Anada is cat-friendly..o*`
I yawn and force myself to sit up in bed. The morning light is just
starting to rise above Diamondhead Mountain and peek its way into my
bedroom. I light up the first cigarette of the day, and just sit there,
thinking. That was quite a dream I had last night. I dreamed I
met one of my heroes, The Blade. He was a great t-file writer from the
mid-'80s, and a member of the legendary "Neon Knights." But here's the
strangest thing of all: the whole dream was framed in some sort of 'Back to
the Future' world. That's what I love about dreams -- you always find
yourself in the most improbable of situations.
I roll out of bed, still groggy. I think I'll walk down to the 7-11
on the corner and buy some coffee. I throw my shorts and sandals on and
grab a dirty t-shirt from the floor. I stumble outside. Oh shit.
It wasn't a dream.
Parked in my driveway is the gleaming black Delorean. I stand
frozen, mouth agape, too shocked for words. A bus full of people goes past
on Metcalf St. The passengers stare in awe at the car parked in my
driveway. This can't be real. Maybe I'm still dreaming.
"Okay," I say to myself. "I'm going down to 7-11 for that coffee,
and I'm sure that Delorean will have disappeared by the time I get back."
I walk in, fill a styrofoam cup with coffee, and say hi to Gavin, the
7-11 attendant.
"Hey, bro, you live up there on Nakiu Place, right?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"Is that YOUR car parked up there? The sweet looking Delorean?"
"You saw it too?!"
"Oh yeah, bro. Everyone that's come in the store this morning has
mentioned it."
I can't believe this.
"Yeah, I guess you could say it was mine."
"Well, right on! You must have some rich parents, huh?"
"No, not really."
"Then how could you afford a Delorean?"
"I don't know. I just --"
I stumble out of 7-11. The cup falls from my hands, and coffee
spills all over the tile floor. I'm going crazy. I must be.
Two minutes later, I find myself walking up my driveway on Nakiu
Place. The Delorean is still parked there. But it appears I also have some
unexpected visitors. I see two police cars parked next to the Delorean.
Two police officers are circling the vehicle, furiously scribbling onto
notepads.
"Um, what seems to be the trouble, officer?"
"My name is George Nakamura and this is my partner, Linda Matsumoto.
We're from the Honolulu Police Department. We've had reports of a black
Delorean making deep skid marks on an extended stretch of Kalakaua Ave.
yesterday. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"No, officer. This Delorean just appeared in my driveway this
morning; it's not even mine. I've been trying to figure out what it's doing
here since I woke up. I'm glad you're here; now it can be returned to its
rightful owner."
Officers Nakamura and Matsumoto give each other a brief glance, then,
as if on cue, pull their guns and aim them directly at my head.
"We don't believe you, son. Governor Cayetano himself has asked us
to bring you in. I don't know why, but you're in big trouble. You're
going down to the station for questioning, and then, from there, to
O'ahu Correctional Center. You got that? So you just put your hands
behind your head and get on the ground. We can do this my way or we
can do it the hard way. Your choice."
"Officer Nakamura, have you ever seen the interior of a Delorean
before?" I ask.
"No, I haven't. Now get on the ground."
"Would you LIKE to see one? 'Cause if it's hauled in as evidence,
you sure aren't gonna be the one to examine it. Besides the one parked
here, how many Deloreans do you think are on this island? How many
Deloreans do you think will EVER be on O'ahu? One, maybe? Two, if you're
lucky. What are the chances you'll ever see them? Are you a car buff, Mr.
Nakamura? Go ahead and take a look inside. I won't tell anyone."
Officer Nakamura, his weapon still extended, glances nervously at his
partner. She gives no sign of approval or disapproval.
"Alright, son. I don't know why you're doing this, but, yes, I AM a
car buff and I'd love to see the interior. You promise you won't move
while I look inside?"
"Certainly, officer. I'll be right here with my hands on my head,
patiently waiting for you to arrest me."
"Good. And don't forget that Officer Matsumoto has her gun trained
on you, so I advise you not to try any funny movements."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Don't worry about it, officer."
Officer Nakamura's eye light up like a kid on Christmas morning. He
yanks open the driver's side door and gets into the Delorean.
"Oh, wow! Isn't she a beauty! Look at that wood grain paneling!
It's a real shame we're gonna have to haul her in as evidence! Those
leather seats! Oh my God, look at..."
Officer Matsumoto rolls her eyes and mumbles something about "stupid
men and their toys."
Officer Nakamura looks at me from inside in the car and asks "Say,
son, what's THIS switch do?"
"Oh, let me show you, officer."
I have no idea which switch he's referring to, but I enter the
Delorean by the passenger door.
"See, if you press it, this great thing happens to the driver's
mirror. Why don't you take a look?"
Officer Nakamura turns his head away from me to look. Mustering as
much strength as possible, I give a forceful shove that ejects him through
the still open door. I jump in the driver's seat, slam the door, and press
the autolock button, locking all the doors. I hear both of the officers
screaming.
"Son, you get your punk ass out of that vehicle, right now! Don't
make this harder on yourself than it needs to be!"
I start the engine. The cops start something, too -- firing their
guns, straight at the window. Their shots make little cracks in the window,
but nothing more. It must be bulletproof glass.
I peel out of the driveway. Six seconds later, I'm going 170 MPH
down Metcalf St. I see the cops in their cars, a few blocks behind me,
sirens blaring. Holy shit, I can't believe this.
The temporary high of driving so fast soon fades, and I realize I've
got to figure a way out of this. But where? I'm on an island! There's
nowhere for me to go. Shit!
I'm going almost 200 MPH now. I head down Nimitz Hwy., towards Pearl
Harbor. I don't know why. It's just as good as anywhere, I guess. I
arrive in about 1/10th the time it normally takes to get there. The cops
are nowhere to be seen. They must be miles back.
Well, now I'm fucked. I'm at the Pacific Ocean, and can't go any
further. Frantically, I flip every last switch in the car until, all of a
sudden, I feel myself violentally thrown back to the seat. The cabin of the
vehicle starts to pressurize. The Delorean's engine stutters, and then the
car starts to rise off the ground. What's going on here? I'm scared.
Really scared.
Before I know it, I'm above the clouds. This is unreal. Doc's voice
comes out of nowhere.
"Pavement!"
"Doc, is that you?! Where's your voice coming from?"
"Nevermind that! Didn't you get my message on your answering machine
-- you should not have gotten in that Delorean!"
"No, I didn't get your message, Doc! What are you talking about?!" I
yell.
"My calculations were wrong! By meeting The Blade yesterday and
telling him about the future of computers, you've changed history! He
is now the CEO of NeonSoft, the most powerful company in the world. He used
the knowledge you gave him to foresee all the computer trends of our time,
almost 10 years ago. In 1992, he took a small amount of money, and
copyrighted the concept of the Internet. There was no opposition; in fact,
big business scoffed at his "error". So, now, every time someone makes a
connection to the internet, he or she has to pay NeonSoft a fee. This has
made The Blade, or should I say, Franklin J. Mattson III, the richest man in
the world."
"Well, someone has to be the richest person in the world, right?"
"Yes, but you don't understand, Pavement. Do you remember all those
text files he wrote back in the '80s? 'The Devil Files,' 'What Assholes
Do,' so on and so on?"
"Yeah."
"Well, that was just a phase he was going through."
"I know, he started to cry about it when I met him."
"Shortly after he bought the rights to the internet, The Blade became
a Fundamentalist Christian. There is no such thing as free speech on the
internet, in this alternate future we're in now. If you want to publish
anything online, you need to either sell something The Blade and his cronies
approve of, or preach the Word of Jesus."
"But what about all those text files he and the rest of the Neon
Knights wrote? Aren't those on the internet, at least?"
"No, of course not. Those t-files are subversive, and NeonSoft
doesn't like that. The Blade denies ever writing them. He doesn't call
himself 'The Blade' anymore, either. Those few people out there who have
even heard of 'The Blade' don't make any connection between him and Franklin
J. Mattson, but they are the same person."
"Well, Doc, that's too bad about the internet, but what would you
like me to do about it? I mean, it's not the end of the world. So, the
internet sucks -- so what?"
"Pavement, the internet is a much more powerful force in the present
then when you left. Conventional businesses have all but evaporated. Mom
and Pop stores don't exist anymore. Did you notice when you went in 7-11
that all of the customers were elderly?"
"Yeah, they were all VERY elderly."
"Exactly. NeonSoft keeps just a few physical stores open for those
too blind or too old to get on the internet and shop."
"NeonSoft owns 7-11?!"
"Yes. They own EVERYTHING; they are the only company on Earth, now."
"But, that's a monopoly! Can't the government do something about
it?"
"Those few members of the government that aren't NeonSoft employees
are paid off by NeonSoft. They conrol the government of United States, and
every other country as well. Anything Mattson wants done, happens. Paper
money doesn't exist anymore. Those without credit cards are homeless and
beg for their food."
"Oh my God."
"Oh, and one more thing, Pavement."
"What?!"
"NeonSoft wants you dead."
"But, why? I didn't do anything to them."
"Everyone involved with the Neon Knights in the 1980s either became
an officer of NeonSoft, was killed, or went into hiding. You are the only
one left that knew The Blade as he used to be. That makes you very
dangerous. If it was found out that he wrote subversive material in the
past, his empire would crumble. President Robertson and the rest of the US
government would cease to be his puppets, and Frankie's entire company would
mutiny."
"President Robertson?"
"Yes, President PAT Robertson."
"Oh, Jesus. Well, can't we just get on TV somehow and tell the world
about The Blade's past?"
"It's not that simple, my friend. Even if you found a way onto one
of the NeonVision stations, and that would be a miracle, no one would
believe you. They think of The Blade as their savior. There's an SUV
in every driveway, multiple computers in every home. These computers
serve as stereos, TV'S, radios, and sexual partners. No one ever
leaves his home anymore. Every one is rich, lazy and stupid."
"People have sex with their computers?! That's fucking disgusting!"
"I'm afraid so. That's one of the things that put NeonSoft on top.
They called it PleasureWare '98."
"Well, what can I do, then?"
"You, somehow, must either convice The Blade of the error of his ways
or kill him."
"I'll just have to do that. Tell me where he's at, Doc, and I'll fly
there in this Delorean right now to fix things!"
"That's the problem, Pavement. The NeonSoft Headquarters is the most
closely guarded area on Earth. You would never find a way in."
"So we're screwed, then?"
"Not exactly. There is someone who knows enough about breaking and
entering that he MIGHT be be able to accomplish what, for you and
everyone else, is impossible. But he exists in the past -- in 1991.
His t-files not only rivaled those of The Blade in quality, but often,
were better."
"What's his name, Doc?"
"The Video Vindicator."
"That guy?"
"Yes. You need to go back to the past and bring him to the present."
"What if I fail, like I did with The Blade?"
"Then there's no telling what might happen; the world will probably
be in even worse straights than it is now. Now, hurry, Pavement! There's
no other way."
"I'll try my best, Doc."
"Good. Now flip the dial in the Delorean to June 17th, 1991 and
press the 'travel' button. I won't be able to communicate with you there,
so you'll be on your own."
"Alright Doc. Well, here goes nothing!"
I press the 'travel' button. The familiar pain and sense of
nothingness nearly tears my body apart.
And then I'm in 1991.
Once again, the windows are all fogged up, the car and my lungs
filled with smoke. I open the door and immediately want to close it again.
I'm on an urban street. Let me rephrase that; "street" is a poor
description of what's in front of me. I'm looking at something akin to
hell, but much worse. At least half of the buildings I see are
condemned, and with good reason. Those that aren't condemned, have their
windows barred. There is grafitti wherever I look. This can't be the right
place.
I hold my nose, cough and get back in the Delorean to look at the
instrument panel. Bright green digital letters light up the dash board.
TIME: JUNE SEVENTH, 1991, 2:36 P.M.
PLACE: SOUTH LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, UNITED STATES
SPECIAL MESSAGE: THE REQUESTED HUMAN BEING KNOWN AS "THE VIDEO VINDICATOR"
IS PRESENTLY LOCATED IN THE 'LACH' HOUSING PROJECT,
APARTMENT 4537A
I slam the door and get out again. I see a sign that I must have
missed before. Under the grafitti, I can make out: "LACH: Los Angeles
Community Housing. All residents and visitors must present identification
to enter."
I journey the long walkway to the giant building, and open the
industrial-size doors. I step inside. The large room I enter is poorly
lit, empty and depressing. The carpet is ripped in several spots, and the
grafitti that covered the outside of the building is just as everpresent
here. A burning plastic odor hits my nostrils immediately -- it's the smell
of crack cocaine being smoked. I still don't see anyone, though. In front
of me is a variaton of the sign saw outside. "All residents and visitors
must present identification to doorman to enter LACH."
I look around, but see no doorman. There is, however, another door:
it's swinging back and forth on two of its hinges, wide open. I step
over broken bottles, crunching discarded glass crack pipes underfoot,
inside to the main section of LACH. There is a faded map nailed to the
wall. I find what I'm looking for: "Apartments 4500-4600, located on 22nd
floor."
Not daring to use the elevators, I start my long trek up the many
flights of stairs. Along the way, I'm accosted by quite a few individuals
screaming "hey, whitey!" Somehow, I manage to scramble to the 22nd floor
with my life intact. I walk down the roach-infested, filthy hallway, until
I reach apartment 4537A. I really hope the computer in the Delorean was
right. Because if it wasn't, the person who answers the door might be the
last one I ever see.
knock
knock
knock
The slit near the top of the door slides open, and I see a set of
shifty eyes looking out at me.
'What do you want, honky?"
"Uh..."
"I'm 'bout to come out there and smoke your ass if you don't tell me
why the hell you just knocked on my door."
"Okay, this might sound crazy. I'm looking for a guy who goes by the
name of 'The Video Vindicator,' but obviously, I have the wrong apartment,
so I'll just be on my way."
As I turn to leave, the door flies open. In front of me is a skinny
black guy with dreadlocks. He's wearing dark green parachute pants,
wire-rim glasses, and a white New York Knicks t-shirt. He stares at me for
a moment. I'm shaking, wondering if this is the end for me.
"How do you know that name?" he asks.
I'm too frightened not to give this guy the full truth.
"Well, there's this thing called the computer underground, and he
wrote what are known as 'text files' for it. His files came out later than
most of the classics, but were still some of the greatest. I'm here from 10
years in the future. In 2001, an evil corporation known as NeonSoft
controls the world. It was founded by a person known as 'The Blade,' who
wrote t-files about 7 years before the Video Vindicator. The Blade was part
of a group called --"
"I know who The Blade is, man. He was a member of the Neon Knights."
I gulp nervously and look at him.
"Uh, you know who the Blade is, Mr., um..."
"Mr. Video Vindicator."
"You're the Video Vindicator?!"
"That's me. Yo, man, what you been smokin'? Ain't nobody have no
time machines. And what the hell are you doing in a place like this,
anyhow? It's bad for anybody; but for a white boy -- shit. I guess I
gotta let you come inside for a few minutes, then. Just to chill your ass
out, ya know? You wanna be coherent when you run from the brothers to get
outta here, right?"
"Yes, thank you."
I feel somewhat relieved, but my blood presure is still off the
charts.
The Video Vindicator's dimly-lit apartment looks like a warzone. The
paint is peeling and cracked, and empty liquor bottles and Jack in the Box
hamburger wrappers litter the floor. A woman in a dirty bathrobe is sitting
on a dirty coach. She has dirty nails, which she is attending to with a
dirty fingernail file. Next to her on the coach are two dirty young
children, screaming and crying. The woman begins to yell at the Video
Vindicator.
"Marcus, why the fuck you bringin' some white boy up here? I always
knew you was an Uncle Tom, with your fucking computers and listening to that
industrial music, or whatever the hell that is. This shit is foul. I can't
believe I had these kids with your Oreo, no job-havin' ass. You a weak
ass --"
"Keisha, why don't you shut the fuck up and get on outta here?"
Keisha gets off the coach, pulls the two screaming kids into her arms
and gives the Video Vindicator a long, poisonous glare.
"C'mon Ree-Ree. C'mon Shantelle. We leavin' this jive-ass
motherfucker for good."
It's obvious who Keisha's words really are meant for.
"Bitch, why the fuck you still here? Ain't you 'leaving my
jive-ass'?"
"Can I get paid, motherfucker?! "
Marcus takes a wad of rubber-banded 20's out of his pocket and throws
it at Keisha.
"There. Now get your ugly ass the fuck out my apartment, and don't
be bringing them kids back neither."
Keisha gives a loud "hmmph" and storms out of the apartment with
Ree-Ree and Shantelle in tow. She slams the door behind her.
I look at the Video Vindicator. He plops down in front of the TV and
looks as if the most common thing in the world just happened. He must
be covering up his feelings. I try to console him.
"Oh, man, that sucks that your girlfriend left you, man. I'm sorry."
"Fuck that bitch. She'll be back. I don't want her to, but she'll
come back anyway. She always fucking does."
"Oh."
I decide to stop while I'm ahead and not console any further, since
he obviously doesn't want or need it.
"Yo, can you grab me a forty of the refridgerator? And go 'head and
grab one for yourself, too."
I get up and open the refridgerator door. Much to my surprise, the
inside of the refrigerator is room temperture.
"Hey, Marcus, the power must be out or somethin', there's no --"
"Nah, there just ain't no electricity in here, never. Now grab them
40's."
"Okay, no problem."
I grab the two 40's, and hand one to the Video Vindicator, who drinks
about half the bottle in one giant gulp.
I ask him if I can sit down and he says I can.
"So, what's your name, man?"
"Evan. But my BBS handle is Pavement."
"Hmm... Pavement, huh?"
"Yeah."
Marcus takes out a pack of Newports, lights one, takes a deep drag,
exhales the smoke slowly, then starts asking me questions.
I relate the entire story: how I met Doc, how I traveled back in time
to meet The Blade, how that meeting changed the future of the world and how
he's the only one with the talent to break into NeonSoft headquarters in the
future.
Much to my surprise, the Video Vindicator believes me.
"Man, that's some straight up Star Trek shit! I'll go with you back
to the future. Ain't nothing for me here, now. Nothin' but sorrow and
misery. I've never been accepted, anyway."
"You haven't?"
"Nah, man. Always into computers and shit. All them crazy dudes in
LACH say that shit's for the whites. That's bullshit, man. They wrong,
that shit's for everybody. They don't like me because I listen to
industrial music, either. Man, when I pulled out a Skinny Puppy record at a
party one time, I nearly got my ass beat."
I feel selfish for saying it, but:
"Alright, cool! You wanna leave right now?"
"Yeah, let's roll."
We walk down the 22 flights of stairs. No one fucks with us. I get
the feeling that Marcus is hated, yet respected.
As we're about to go outside, Marcus asks me what kind of car the
time machine is.
"A Delorean."
"What?! You left a fuckin' DELOREAN parked outside the LACH?!"
Marcus starts laughing.
"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
"Your shit's gonna be gettin' STRIPPED, man, for real."
He's right. When we get outside, there's a group of about 12 kids
removing the tires from the Delorean. Marcus starts yelling at them.
"Yo! Get your asses outta here!"
"Oh, shit, it's Marcus, let's get outta here, ya'll!" one of the kids
yells.
The kids scamper off. Marcus and I spend about 30 minutes getting
the tires back on the Delorean, then we get in the car. I warn the Video
Vindicator about the unpleasant feeling one experiences while traveling
time. He tells me that he wants to be prepared, takes his pack of Newports
out of his pocket, opens it, and produces a fat joint.
"Yo, you got a lighter?"
"No, not on me. Look, we really need to be going. "
"The future can wait long enough for us to smoke this."
"Alright, man."
"Dope. This is some Alaskan Thunderfuck. I think you gonna like
it."
I push the Delorean's cigarette lighter in, and it pops back out
about 10 seconds later.
Marcus pulls the lighter out of the dashboard and lights up the
joint. He takes a huge hit, starts hacking and coughing, and hands it to
me. I take a tiny puff, not wanting to get too high. My head gets light.
I look in the rearview mirror. I guess a 'tiny puff' was all I needed. My
eyes are totally cashed.
We pass the joint back and forth for about 15 minutes, then I fumble
with the time device until it's set for the present day. I press 'travel.'
I feel the jolt and know that we're starting to travel through time, but it
doesn't feel so unpleasant now.
Then we're back in 2001.
I start to head for Punahou, the East Honolulu neighborhood I live
in. The Video Vindicator stops me before we touch down.
"Is you crazy, man? They tryin' to kill you, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then don't be foolish. We can't stay in Hawaii."
He has a good point.
After much discussion, we decide to go to the last place NeonSoft
would ever think of looking for us: the home of their headquarters, Trenton,
New Jersey.
We make the approximately 6,000 mile trip from Honolulu to Trenton,
in about two hours, then touch down in the countryside. I keep the Delorean
running at about 30 MPH, until we reach the city. We find a sleazy motel,
then retire for the night.
..................................................................
/\_/\ *
( o.o ) (c) Anada e'zine anada370 by Pavement o
> ^ < o
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