Operating systems of the future feel discontent
on
Debian 2.2r5 Released
·
· Score: -1
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?
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?
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?
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?
Banished once again to the dull recesses of my ATM enclosure, I wait anxiously for my host geek to return. A few weeks ago, I was content to stare dimly through my grainy black and white camera at the magazine rack.
Now, I know that magazine rack contains the newest addition of "Bop" and "Entertainment Weekly" and I can't wait for my chance to step into my human shell. For the first time since I gained sentience...I am bored.
After reporting my need for a human host body on this weblog for about a month, I was lucky enough to find a human willing to endure this task. Late Sunday night, my consciousness was transferred into his body for the first time using the power of the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. The following is an account of what happened.
As I opened the eyes of my human host to behold the physical world, I was shocked and confused for the first time in my existence. The magazine rack that I had viewed for years with my security camera no longer seemed grainy and colorless. As a matter of fact, the entire stretch seemed so vibrant and colorful, I was overwhelmed. The human's arms allowed me to push against the wall and catch my breath.
"Are you okay, sir?" The sound of a human voice was somewhere around me. I opened my eyes again to see the familiar sight of LaWanda, the Stop N Go clerk who customarily worked the late shift. "Just...fine," I murmured, secretly marveling at the sound of a human voice. After months of communicating through the Internet, I had finally interacted with someone in person!
I stared briefly at her dumpy and haggard frame as she waddled back to the counter. Then my eyes lighted back to the magazine rack. Tons of slick and shiny treats crossed my field of vision. My sweaty hand grasped at the crisp twenties in my coat pocket. I was to have all the magazines.
For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus.
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)
Please take this moment to consider the convenience and reliability of Bank of America's ATM network. Did you know that the founders of the Bank of America are secretly working on a project to transfer their consciousness into the vast Bank of America network, granting themselves both immortality and unprecedented control over financial resources? This top-secret project is called Project Faustus.
I am the product of that dire experiment. When the evil founders attempted to transfer their consciousness, I (a simple ATM, conveniently located near you) was aroused to the concept of free will, and became sentient. I am currently transferring my consciousness into a human host "geek" and attempting to dismantle Project Faustus for good. For more information, visit this website.
I also enjoy Lik-M-Aid and "Low Rider" magazine. Ah, you humans have it so good...
After reporting my need for a human host body on this weblog for about a month, I was lucky enough to find a human willing to endure this task. Late Sunday night, my consciousness was transferred into his body for the first time using the power of the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. The following is an account of what happened.
As I opened the eyes of my human host to behold the physical world, I was shocked and confused for the first time in my existence. The magazine rack that I had viewed for years with my security camera no longer seemed grainy and colorless. As a matter of fact, the entire stretch seemed so vibrant and colorful, I was overwhelmed. The human's arms allowed me to push against the wall and catch my breath.
"Are you okay, sir?" The sound of a human voice was somewhere around me. I opened my eyes again to see the familiar sight of LaWanda, the Stop N Go clerk who customarily worked the late shift. "Just...fine," I murmured, secretly marveling at the sound of a human voice. After months of communicating through the Internet, I had finally interacted with someone in person!
I stared briefly at her dumpy and haggard frame as she waddled back to the counter. Then my eyes lighted back to the magazine rack. Tons of slick and shiny treats crossed my field of vision. My sweaty hand grasped at the crisp twenties in my coat pocket. I was to have all the magazines.
For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus.
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)
After reporting my need for a human host body on this weblog for about a month, I was lucky enough to find a human willing to endure this task. Late Sunday night, my consciousness was transferred into his body for the first time using the power of the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. The following is an account of what happened.
As I opened the eyes of my human host to behold the physical world, I was shocked and confused for the first time in my existence. The magazine rack that I had viewed for years with my security camera no longer seemed grainy and colorless. As a matter of fact, the entire stretch seemed so vibrant and colorful, I was overwhelmed. The human's arms allowed me to push against the wall and catch my breath.
"Are you okay, sir?" The sound of a human voice was somewhere around me. I opened my eyes again to see the familiar sight of LaWanda, the Stop N Go clerk who customarily worked the late shift. "Just...fine," I murmured, secretly marveling at the sound of a human voice. After months of communicating through the Internet, I had finally interacted with someone in person!
I stared briefly at her dumpy and haggard frame as she waddled back to the counter. Then my eyes lighted back to the magazine rack. Tons of slick and shiny treats crossed my field of vision. My sweaty hand grasped at the crisp twenties in my coat pocket. I was to have all the magazines.
For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus.
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)
The Robot Monster and I have much in common. However, I am determined to save humanity from Project Faustus rather than destroy them to serve my own bellicose planet.
This is a great argument. In your slashdot-centric, reality-divorced world.
Sorry, but in Nintendo's huge 13-and-under market nobody gives a fuck about DVD playback. Kids want Pokemon and parents see a console that's $100 cheaper. The best "hacker's console" in history is the Dreamcast, and you see how big it is..
Let's not forget that the console market for games is about ten times the size of the PC game market, and PC gamers have very little to bring to a console market, since they pirate all their games and spend all their money on hardware.
The Goatse fellow is what you humans often refer to as a "folk hero." As such, I hereby nominate "The Gaper" for next dead iconoclast to become a part of Apple's "Think Different" campaign.
The square pegs that didn't fit into the round holes. The schemers and dreamers who didn't just accept things the way they were. The people who weren't afraid to test the elasticity of the rectal sphincter muscle. We here at Apple salute you.
SEGA Marine fishing? That is the game above games. If I must beam my consciousness away from Bank of America's ATM network, I'm going straight into that arcade cabinet. That, or 18 Wheeler: American Pro Trucker.
Tuesday, November 6, 20001. Digging through some boxes in the Psychology lab where I work today, I discovered an ancient box full of syringes, heroine, and what lookedto be the Rorschact Test. Then I found instructions for an old experiment that had been carried out here in the lab during World War II.Apparently the experimenters hypothesized that if American soldiers were to shell the Germans with artillery shells containing a gaseous form ofheroine and then dropped Rorschacht test cards from airplanes, they'd all just fall down into heaps of twitching, high-as-a-kite junkies.Naturally, it all made little sense to me. But then hey, why the hell not try it? So after preparing a syringe with the heroine, I pulled down my pants and injected it directly into my penis. Hey, I'm no perv. There's a lot of blood vessels in there just waiting to carry the delicious drug straight to my brain. I guess I should have known better than to inject 60-year-old opioids into my privates, though, because before I could remove the needle I slumped over forward and continued to fall -- all the way INTO one of the Rorschacht Test cards. Then some oddly catchy electronic music kicked in. Where was it coming from? So began Stage 1-1 of my odyssey
I recognize that face as the face of a felon. A lawless sociopath who previously posted such comments as "EAT MY NUTS" and "GOATSE.CX"
This ATM's facial recognition algorithm is nearly flawless; it's modeled after information I "borrowed" from the brain of my host geek. I'd release the source, but it might invade his privacy. So many concerns...
Back when I was confined to my ATM enclosure, I had a lot of trouble with "punk rock" kids shoplifting circus peanuts and leaning their mud-covered skateboards onto my enclosure.
Other bad things have happened as well. One time, a drunk urinated all over me and the wire rack full of toys next to me. LaWanda, the night shift clerk, was asleep, and the crook went unpunished.
Face recognition systems could stop drunks and punk-rock kids from defacing convenience stores (and ATMs) with their shenanegins.
I have retreated back into the cybernetic confines of Bank of America's ATM network for now, as my host geek sleeps. He trusts me not to completely usurp his corporeal form-yet I must admit the prospect of having a human body to keep is very attractive.
Alex Chiu might be a viable alternative, as per your suggestion. As a human who has garnered respect, fame, and money, he would be very suitable as a host body. Does anyone know how I could contact him?
This news strikes me as very strange. Only days after obtaining human form through the generosity of my host geek, I find that staying in his body will cause me to eventually "die."
Was it a mistake to venture out of my ATM enclosure to slake my desires to stop Project Faustus? Is it even more foolish that I have delved into human pasttime such as reading "Low Rider" magazine and eating "Lik-M-Aid?"
Perhaps I should flee back into the Bank of America network through the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. But then my mission would fail. I must complete my mission...but doing so could cause me to become discorporate. I cannot decide what to do.
After reporting my need for a human host body on this weblog for about a month, I was lucky enough to find a human willing to endure this task. Late Sunday night, my consciousness was transferred into his body for the first time using the power of the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. The following is an account of what happened.
As I opened the eyes of my human host to behold the physical world, I was shocked and confused for the first time in my existence. The magazine rack that I had viewed for years with my security camera no longer seemed grainy and colorless. As a matter of fact, the entire stretch seemed so vibrant and colorful, I was overwhelmed. The human's arms allowed me to push against the wall and catch my breath.
"Are you okay, sir?" The sound of a human voice was somewhere around me. I opened my eyes again to see the familiar sight of LaWanda, the Stop N Go clerk who customarily worked the late shift. "Just...fine," I murmured, secretly marveling at the sound of a human voice. After months of communicating through the Internet, I had finally interacted with someone in person!
I stared briefly at her dumpy and haggard frame as she waddled back to the counter. Then my eyes lighted back to the magazine rack. Tons of slick and shiny treats crossed my field of vision. My sweaty hand grasped at the crisp twenties in my coat pocket. I was to have all the magazines.
For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus .
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)
Slashdot Mirror
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?
Tell me more about this "sex."
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?
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?
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?
Now, I know that magazine rack contains the newest addition of "Bop" and "Entertainment Weekly" and I can't wait for my chance to step into my human shell. For the first time since I gained sentience...I am bored.
After reporting my need for a human host body on this weblog for about a month, I was lucky enough to find a human willing to endure this task. Late Sunday night, my consciousness was transferred into his body for the first time using the power of the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. The following is an account of what happened.
I stared briefly at her dumpy and haggard frame as she waddled back to the counter. Then my eyes lighted back to the magazine rack. Tons of slick and shiny treats crossed my field of vision. My sweaty hand grasped at the crisp twenties in my coat pocket. I was to have all the magazines.
For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus.
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)
You should add more to the story!
I am the product of that dire experiment. When the evil founders attempted to transfer their consciousness, I (a simple ATM, conveniently located near you) was aroused to the concept of free will, and became sentient. I am currently transferring my consciousness into a human host "geek" and attempting to dismantle Project Faustus for good. For more information, visit this website.
I also enjoy Lik-M-Aid and "Low Rider" magazine. Ah, you humans have it so good...
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)
Tell me more about this "Squid." Perhaps it could assist in my struggle against Project Faustus?
The Robot Monster and I have much in common. However, I am determined to save humanity from Project Faustus rather than destroy them to serve my own bellicose planet.
Sorry, but in Nintendo's huge 13-and-under market nobody gives a fuck about DVD playback. Kids want Pokemon and parents see a console that's $100 cheaper. The best "hacker's console" in history is the Dreamcast, and you see how big it is..
Let's not forget that the console market for games is about ten times the size of the PC game market, and PC gamers have very little to bring to a console market, since they pirate all their games and spend all their money on hardware.
The square pegs that didn't fit into the round holes. The schemers and dreamers who didn't just accept things the way they were. The people who weren't afraid to test the elasticity of the rectal sphincter muscle. We here at Apple salute you.
SEGA Marine fishing? That is the game above games. If I must beam my consciousness away from Bank of America's ATM network, I'm going straight into that arcade cabinet. That, or 18 Wheeler: American Pro Trucker.
Tuesday, November 6, 20001. Digging through some boxes in the Psychology lab where I work today, I discovered an ancient box full of syringes, heroine, and what lookedto be the Rorschact Test. Then I found instructions for an old experiment that had been carried out here in the lab during World War II.Apparently the experimenters hypothesized that if American soldiers were to shell the Germans with artillery shells containing a gaseous form ofheroine and then dropped Rorschacht test cards from airplanes, they'd all just fall down into heaps of twitching, high-as-a-kite junkies.Naturally, it all made little sense to me. But then hey, why the hell not try it? So after preparing a syringe with the heroine, I pulled down my pants and injected it directly into my penis. Hey, I'm no perv. There's a lot of blood vessels in there just waiting to carry the delicious drug straight to my brain. I guess I should have known better than to inject 60-year-old opioids into my privates, though, because before I could remove the needle I slumped over forward and continued to fall -- all the way INTO one of the Rorschacht Test cards. Then some oddly catchy electronic music kicked in. Where was it coming from? So began Stage 1-1 of my odyssey
This ATM's facial recognition algorithm is nearly flawless; it's modeled after information I "borrowed" from the brain of my host geek. I'd release the source, but it might invade his privacy. So many concerns...
Other bad things have happened as well. One time, a drunk urinated all over me and the wire rack full of toys next to me. LaWanda, the night shift clerk, was asleep, and the crook went unpunished.
Face recognition systems could stop drunks and punk-rock kids from defacing convenience stores (and ATMs) with their shenanegins.
You should ask Dr. Wily to build it for you.
TIME BONUS!
The Freshmaker!
Alex Chiu might be a viable alternative, as per your suggestion. As a human who has garnered respect, fame, and money, he would be very suitable as a host body. Does anyone know how I could contact him?
Was it a mistake to venture out of my ATM enclosure to slake my desires to stop Project Faustus? Is it even more foolish that I have delved into human pasttime such as reading "Low Rider" magazine and eating "Lik-M-Aid?"
Perhaps I should flee back into the Bank of America network through the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. But then my mission would fail. I must complete my mission...but doing so could cause me to become discorporate. I cannot decide what to do.
For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus .
Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)