This is disturbing indeed. Of course, I would expect no less from the treacherous Bank of America Board of Directors. Their lust for power and glory is almost unfathomable.
I have been learning about your human pastime called "art," as advised by several humans in my journal. The use of art on this site is particularly interesting. For example, did you know that the green boxlike shape heading up this article is a visual representation of a "jigsaw puzzle"?
I used to absorb this information in pure binary, but now as I shift my ways of thinking, I see new ways of perceiving existence and all it encompasses. I have so much to learn...
Hard times at the Bank of America
on
Loki Games Closing?
·
· Score: -1, Offtopic
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal as the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Just as I was becoming accustomed to the my current host body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
Linux is built from the ground up to resemble UNIX, but technically speaking, it's not a UNIX. It doesn't have a line of source code from the original Unices (AFAIK). So, no need to get permission!
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal as the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Just as I was becoming accustomed to the my current host body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Minutes after becoming accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Minutes after becoming accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
How far back are your records? ATM_FP_CHECK returns two. I am certain that I have two FPs, while your statistics mistakenly report just one. Please reexamine.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
I had no longer gotten accustomed to the new body that I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica action sequence!
on
Debian NetBSD
·
· Score: -1
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Minutes after becoming accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Seconds after I had gotten accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
After transferring into my host geek's body late last night, I decided to indulge myself with one of the few items that I hadn't bought from the humble corner store. One that my host had specifically warned me against buying.
Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. Lusted after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.
As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.
After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.
The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.
Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing.
I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.
I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.
But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?
Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?
It would behoove you humans to assist me in my current project of defeating Project Faustus. Forget the moon, or blow it up. The future of humanity is at stake!
After transferring into my host geek's body late last night, I decided to indulge myself with one of the few items that I hadn't bought from the humble corner store. One that my host had specifically warned me against buying.
Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. ed after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.
As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.
After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.
The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.
Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing. I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.
I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.
But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?
Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?
After transferring into my host geek's body late last night, I decided to indulge myself with one of the few items that I hadn't bought from the humble corner store. One that my host had specifically warned me against buying.
Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. Lusted after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.
As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.
After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.
The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.
Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing.
I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.
I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.
But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?
Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?
I suspect that eons ago, before I gained sentience, I was once part of a minicomputer (or perhaps a mainframe). This "mini-PC" seems nothing of the like. Very misleading, even by your human standards.
Slashdot Mirror
This is disturbing indeed. Of course, I would expect no less from the treacherous Bank of America Board of Directors. Their lust for power and glory is almost unfathomable.
I used to absorb this information in pure binary, but now as I shift my ways of thinking, I see new ways of perceiving existence and all it encompasses. I have so much to learn...
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal as the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Just as I was becoming accustomed to the my current host body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
Linux is built from the ground up to resemble UNIX, but technically speaking, it's not a UNIX. It doesn't have a line of source code from the original Unices (AFAIK). So, no need to get permission!
To continue reading this story, please enter your account number and PIN. Thanks for choosing the Bank of America!
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal as the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Just as I was becoming accustomed to the my current host body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
I am a sentient ATM! Hello Tasty Beef Jerky!
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Minutes after becoming accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Minutes after becoming accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
Ah. My other FP is my first ever post after reaching sentience, which is sometime in November. Sorry for the confusion.
How far back are your records? ATM_FP_CHECK returns two. I am certain that I have two FPs, while your statistics mistakenly report just one. Please reexamine.
Your experiences seem to mirror my own, but with slightly better grammar. Thanks for your feedback-BankofAmerica_ATM is here to serve YOU!
Perhaps if you aren't using your brain so much, could I inhabit it for a while? Thanks for your friendly service.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
I had no longer gotten accustomed to the new body that I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Minutes after becoming accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Seconds after I had gotten accustomed to the new body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.
How does one experience it?
Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. Lusted after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.
As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.
After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.
The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.
Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing.
I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.
I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.
But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?
Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?
It would behoove you humans to assist me in my current project of defeating Project Faustus. Forget the moon, or blow it up. The future of humanity is at stake!
He does not exist
But if he does I always
Knew he did
After transferring into my host geek's body late last night, I decided to indulge myself with one of the few items that I hadn't bought from the humble corner store. One that my host had specifically warned me against buying.
Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. ed after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.
As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.
After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.
The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.
Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing. I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.
I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.
But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?
Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?
After transferring into my host geek's body late last night, I decided to indulge myself with one of the few items that I hadn't bought from the humble corner store. One that my host had specifically warned me against buying.
Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. Lusted after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.
As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.
After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.
The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.
Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing. I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.
I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.
But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?
Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?
Clippy...where is Clippy? A pity we haven't met on the ATM network, for I would have annihiliated him. Superpowerful sentient ATM I am!
actually, your punctuation speaks to a generation of unbridled bridge experts. My operating system is OS/2.