Mad Worlds Collide (4 page)

"I’m gonna manage Jack Shit! I haven’t told Gill yet, but I’m quitting.  I’m tired of all this corporate crap. I’m going to quit early and buy a house in the country somewhere, make wine or something."

"So you don’t care? You’re going to sell out and leave us? We’ll be stuck fixing the master of all computers and you’ll be making cheap wine."

"Not cheap, Jimmy,
good
wine, and not before its time."

"
Heh
, you dumb fucker.  I’ll be stuck with Gill by my lonesome…you really going to leave?

Robert nodded.

" I’m jealous, you shit! Shit!" Jimmy shook his head,  "And I’ll have work directly with that ass, Gill."

"Hey, Gill’s an ass, and he’s one hell of a dumb ass, but he’s probably the best we’re going to get—probably best in the world."

"Maybe the richest—well, at least until today.  Did you hear that Guilianni Labs went up thirty-five percent today?"

"Holy shit, I own some of that stock! What happened?"

"Seems they have a confirmed side effect to their famous barnacle remover."

"Really?  Never knew that would move the stock up.   What’s the effect?"

"Seems like if you drink the shit for a few months, your dick grows or something."

"Oh cut it out!"

"No, really.  Gill’s going to blow a fuse when he hears that one.  It was in the news today." Jim continued, "And they other news is that Japan is
pissed
. And get this---a fucking Japanese gambling group called Pachinko Japan is suing the US and Japanese government, and won’t install AD—I hear they’re all mob guys. You know while you were gone they sent over a new Big Blue server and it’s fucked."

"What? He was supposed to wait for me to get back. Every time I take a vacation he does this shit and then tries to get me to fix it."  Robert wiped his face.

Jim shrugged, "Well things got a little more than fucked.  I read his self-flattering, or should I say self-flatulating
,
Applebee Confidential Reporttoday.  Have you read it?"

"Naw, it’s in my e-mail.  I walked Buddy this morning, haven’t had a chance.  By the way Shakespeare
,
self-flatulating isn’t a word, only flatulence and flatulency."

"Where the fuck did you go to school?" asked Jim.

"Yale and Carnegie Melon, and I’m telling you there ain’t no such word as self-flatulating."

"Well, Jesus Christ! You talk like a hick lost in the West Virginia coal mines. I went to Rutgers and I know people make up words all the time, Einstein, and I like the word self-flatulating.  If I use it long enough—who knows, maybe it will make Webster’s and I’ll be a big smart guy like you and grow wine."

"Right... grow wine.  So what did the Gillman’s report say?"

Jim smiled, "That your self-flatulating ass is going to Japan to fix up a fubar."

"What the fuck?  Are you sure, are you kidding? "

Jim nodded his head no.

"Gill can’t send me to Japan.  Are you really sure?" asked Robert.

"That’s what it said.  There were problems with the installation while you were on vacation---hey, maybe you can make sushi wine? Or maybe sake…"

"Fuck you Jimmy!  This is terrible!  In two months I‘m quitting…I need to prepare."

"I’m just a low working coal miner," Jim said. "You’re the big shot who went to Yale with Gill. Check out your e-mail."

"Fuck!"

Robert looked at his orange juice and wondered if anyone had made orange wine before. Robert’s brain had constant motion; the wine business would be relaxing. Robert assured himself that MicroIntel and Robert Davichi were finished.  In two months, bye-bye.

Robert wanted to talk to Gill Applebee like he wanted talk to his dentist: only in times of pain and with
lots
of Novocaine.

Robert knew Gill well; the good, bad and the horse dung.  Robert built things and Gill sold things.  Gill sold so well that even when MicroIntel didn’t have the product, they still had it—in beta, or some lab, or just in Gill’s head. Robert made it to the top because he made the shit Gill promised, but now the fun was gone.  Someone had pulled off Santa’s beard and nothing Santa could say would put it on straight again.

Robert was one of a handful who had Gill’s Global Positioning System Pager (GPSP) code. Robert could pinpoint Gill to within 5 meters anywhere in the world and page him for emergencies, anytime.

That afternoon Robert sent the emergency page. Gill replied shortly: " OK-MO-2:30-10 min," which meantOK, Meet me at My Office at 2:30, you have 10 minutes of my time.   

Robert walked in circles around the MicroIntel Campus mulling over options.  Keep it simple, he thought.  Don’t let him talk you into working anything. And don’t go to Japan.  You’ll never get back.

Robert paced, repeating his lines.  As he passed a recently planted flowerbed of purple tulips, he envisioned a wonderful vineyard of succulent purple grapes in a sunny California valley. He saw oak barrels holding his special Davichi Wine label. The picture vaporized as Robert entered into Gill’s office suite.  He smiled at Gill’s personal secretary, Betty,a blonde dressed in cheap designer clothes.

"I have a 2:30 with Gill," said Robert.

"I know, he’s been waiting—please go in," said Betty, not looking up from her computer.

Robert opened the overly large redwood doors. Gill stood, gazing out a window overlooking the wooded MicroIntel Campus. He turned as Robert entered.

"Hi Rob.  Take a seat, and before you say anything please hear me out." "I’m listening."  Robert sat on a black leather couch, and picked up a chocolate from a tray.

"First---you did a killer job with AD.  Man did we get some press coverage!   We’re hot!"

A large black crow landed in a tree near the window. The bird stared at Gill.  Gill stared back.  It shit, and Gill watched the excrement drop to the ground, missing an employee by a foot or so.

Gill frowned. "Gotta get rid of these damn birds, all they do is shit.  Anyhow, when Japan goes online and we prove it works, the Pentagon and US will install it too.  But first, and please don’t forget this Rob, first  Japan has got to go smooooothly.  Got it?  Smoooooothly."

Robert puckered up his lips after swallowing the chocolate.  "It’s not going smoooothly, no not smoooothly, because you guys did some fucked up shit while I was on vacation. You sent over the Big Blue plans without my permission."

"Oh come on Rob, we’re buddies, right?"

"Yeah we’re buddies but I’m fucking burnt.  I’m not going to go this time."

"Now Robert…it’s not that bad.  You just came back from a two-week vacation."

"First time in four years," Robert sat up straight, "and every time I go, the

company does fucked up shit.  I can’t even leave for a long weekend."

"We need you to go.  We’re fucked without you.  Just one last time."

"I am not going." 

"Robert, we’ve been pals for twenty years. The board would vote to fire you.  They need this."

Robert raised his eyebrows. "No they don’t--- you do. And it doesn’t really matter, I’m going to quit MicroIntel anyhow and start a vineyard and make wine."

"You’re going to what?"

"You heard, I want to quit, like leave, do something different.  It happens all the time for most folks at MicroIntel."

Gill looked stupefied.  "Jeez, I didn’t know it was that bad!"

"It’s that bad. You keep selling shit to people that I have to fix, and this time you sent Tokyo the AD plans without my knowledge.  You even sent the Big Blue server too!"

"You were away on vacation, and I made this deal with HeiwaZuki I had to keep things moving."

"HeiwaZuki? Who the hell is that? That’s a park name. Never heard of him at MicroIntel Japan."

"He’s their emperor.  Didn’t you read the news?"

The news report that Robert had not read said Japanese Emperor HeiwaZuki had signed a countrywide software license. By the stroke of an aging Emperor’s pen, all software on the Japan Net was to be from MicroIntel.  Translated correctly the Japanese headline read: "Japan Sold Out!"

Some charitable pundits called the deal questionable. Others contended that the Emperor was senile and had trouble finding his glasses at the signing. One trendy magazine that sported young sexy teenaged girls said the Emperor had lost his marbles. They claimed they had the pictures to prove it(the cover had  a fuzzy picture of the Emperor wearing a Hawaiian shirt hugging two girls at an undisclosed drinking club. The Imperial Palace called the picture an undignified hoax and threatened to sue the magazine.)

"No Gill, I didn’t know anything," Robert said.  "What’s going on?"

Gill smiled proudly. "I sold them a whole country license for the AD 2100, and even sold them a copy of the Big Blue Server."  He then meekly continued,  "though we’ve got a little problem that needs to be fixed."

"Aw fuck Gill.  Stop selling shit before we make it." Robert picked out another chocolate.

"I’m sorry Robert.  But really, we’re screwed. They screwed up Big Blue in Tokyo.  We’ve got a DNA neuron problem."

"You mean CDNA.  Jesus Christ!  We make it with CDNA.  You and Jimmy keep confusing the system!"

Robert had grown tired of explaining technology to Gill.  Gill’s father was a Yale law professor and Gill did a dual Law and MBA at Yale. For a technology company president this was like filling your tank with water, gas and chicken shit: the shit backfired all over MicroIntel.

Gill shook his head. "No Robert, I know what I’m talking about, it’s real DNA.  You see we had a problem with the Japanese translation and you weren’t here and---"

"Are you telling me the Japs put in an actual DNA code?"

"Well yes, but we’re going to fix it."

"What the fuck is wrong with these people?  Using a sequence for human DNA is like going in your underwear and pulling out your balls!  They put some Jap engineer’s DNA into the system?  What’s wrong with these guys?"

"They didn’t use a Jap’s DNA."

"Whose did they use?"

"Robert, promise you won’t be pissed?"

"Pissed?  Please don’t tell me you sent over your DNA.  I mean---"

"No, not mine exactly.  Ah, yours."

Robert coughed from his balls. "What?How  Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Why in hell did you do that?"

"They asked."

"They asked?"

"We have employees’ DNA on file so I sent them a small blood sample.  You were on vacation.  I don’t know how this works, I thought they wanted it for the RSA code confirmation, look Robert…"

"Do you understand how we use the CDNA to make special neurons? Five thousand pounds of computer neurons for the Big Blue server?"

"Well, it’s just some memory shit, neurons---some special brain shit or something…"

"Yeah, it is—but now it’s got the same structure of the shit that’s in my fucking head, what am I to think?"

"You could consider Big Blue a big brother?"

"Fuck you Gill!"  This isn’t funny---it’s not even legal."

"Seems to be in Japan," said Gill, looking at another bird.

"Damn it!  Now I’ve got to go and fix this shit…again."

"There will be a big bonus…"

"I don’t want money!!  I want a fucking life!"

"Hey, life is good in Japan, people live long."

 "Japan is shit!  I got really sick there last time." Robert remembered the sushi food poisoning; five days in the toilet.

"Everybody gets sick in Japan, look.  President Bush’s Grandfather George got sick 30 years ago in Japan and look how great his family has done. It’s nothing. It’s a good omen."

"His sons snort cocaine Gill, and one got us into World War III!"

"No one proved that Bobby."

"What, that they snorted cocaine or got us into WWIII?"

Gill walked over to Robert. He picked up a sketch lying on his desk. It had a large chrysanthemum stamp on the upper right corner. Thesketch was a pencil drawing of a smiley face. It looked like the work of a ten-year-old.

"Do you know what this is Bobby?"

"No." Robert looked directly into Gill’s eyes.   "Is it something they had you draw in therapy?"

Gill examined his drawing. "No, it’s a picture of happiness. You can protect the AD project symbolized by the power of this little happy image.  I got this from Emperor HeiwaZuki. He said it had special power."

Robert looked at Gill to see if his head was still glued on.  "You’re both fucking nuts."

Gill chuckled. "Look Rob, I know I’m not an engineer like you.  We’re a team.  I promise the biggest bonus yet and  when you’re done you can work at any office in the world.  But we have a responsibility to an Emperor."

 "Bullshit. I’ll go to Japan and fix the shit this one last time and then I’m done, got it?"

 "Robert, what you do after this project is fine.  Please, just fix the system."

The phone on Gill’s desk buzzed.  It was Betty. Robert’s time was up, and with Gill, when time was up, it was up.                      

Gill stood up and patted Robert on the back. "You’re our best guy and my best friend."

"You don’t have any friends Gill." Robert meant it.

" Robert, if you really make wine someday…do you think I could invest a…"

"No ---Absolutely not!"

Robert felt like he’d left the dentist’s office after having three cavities filled without Novocaine.  No one had ever used real DNA in the special neural net system. It would work, possibly better than the CDNA but then the religious right would have a field day. Robert left Gill’s office pocketing three more chocolates.

Eddy Flint (as he called himself) worked all day and night using computer codes, protecting his world(or so he thought, and that’s all that mattered in Eddy’s life). The Crypto Codes allowed Eddy to hack away at computers all over the world.  With all the extra time he had on hand Eddy started to write poems to himself daily, trying to push his thinking on issues he’d found important.  Today’s poem was called "Freedom":

Freedom can’t be written just with a pen.

Freedom is a hard-bought thing

Freedoms in jail and needs the fight of men