<nettime> Gashgirl, Flight Capital

["gashgirl@sysx.apana.org.au" <gashgirl@basis.Desk.nl>]

Flight Capital

GashGirl


*** Connected ***

You yawn, rub your eyes, and officially wake up.

Swarm Spore Procurement Centre, Endless Arsenal A sub-ground warren of war
rooms, communication facilities and personnel quarters - an uneventful
interpretation of a 60s vision of a germ-free adolescent future. An acrid
pherenomal white noise of amyl, sweat and semen echoes through the
refiltered air, although the corridors are free of zealous young gene
carriers. You notice a door on the far western wall and approach it
cautiously. A sign reads 'STEALTH DESIGNS MENTOR/PROTG REC ROOM'. 

open door

Patriot Gains (Interference and Deception Unit) A spacious rest room
comprising nine toilet cubicles, two standard sick bay bunks, four
non-standard bunks, three hand basins, a communal shower alcove with nine
faucets and two imposing vitrines containing questionably acquired Mayan
artifacts. A doorway labeled 'G8' stands to the right of the cubicles. 

Contract Specialist J763-99-DY-S009 and RentBoy(he's finally legal!) are
standing in front of the vitrines. RentBoy admires his reflection in the
glass, tucking his street-wear camouflage net t-shirt into his too tight
regulation strides. 

J763-99-DY-S009 growls, "The Infestation Teams are getting restless.
They've had it with your sustainable pulsing bullshit, your Art of War
drivel. I want that skanky little fucker brought into compliance *NOW*." 

RentBoy ceases his preening, saying, "It was agreed to focus
parametrically across various expandability issues to see how they
affected the time required to expand our forces. The imperative was to
check the first-order logic of our mobilisation and reconstitution
capabilities." 

J763-99-DY-S009 yawns. 

RentBoy states, "Employment of tactical decentralisation coupled with
strategic assessment will generate an unsurpassed advantage across the
full spectrum of conflict potentials, from high to low intensity
situations, including the proliferation of networked non-aligned
insurgency forces." 

J763-99-DY-S009 appears slightly nonplussed. "And...?" 

RentBoy continues, his eyes glazed over with either lust or early
glaucoma. 

"And... the Warrior Preparedness Unit is seeking information to address
the requirement for new delivery systems of precision-guided munitions
based on advanced designs for automated and infrastructure warfare." 

J763-99-DY-S009 responds impatiently, "Yeah, yeah. Tell me something new." 

RentBoy drones, "It is imperative we equip ourselves to converge
undetected upon an enemy, either through direct fire-power, opportunistic
manouevres or psychological operations." 

J763-99-DY-S009 shrugs her shoulders. "Like I really care. What's your
actual point?" 

RentBoy suddenly focuses his gaze on UB40-99-DY-S009, unzips his fly,
reaches down deep and pulls out an impressively swollen prick. 

"Let's see if our loser 'friend' can comply with *this* AP weapon," he
murmurs, one hand squeezing his leaking knob, the other languorously
rubbing his waxy balls. 

J763-99-DY-S009 considers RentBoy's suggestion, running her fingers over
his oozing cock, then shoving them down his throat. 

"Copy that. Get jiggy wit it and requisition his sorry ass at 0600. Give
me a damage report when you're done. In the meantime . . . I think you'll
be interested in my latest procurement." 

Clearly wanting to beat his meat rather than continue the discussion,
RentBoy mutters with some difficulty, "Would that be that major snore-fest
tactical engagement simulation system instrumentation you've been waiting
on?" 

J763-99-DY-S009 shakes her head, sending a gentle flurry of protein
deficiency dandruff onto her epaulettes. 

"No way. I'm talking about something exponentially more useful than your
average TacSim. Bug-free, fully functional in rugged terrain, Remote Area
Mobility to die for, easily concealed, etc, etc. Basically more features
than you can poke a joystick at," she replies, giving his dick a saucy
slap. 

J763-99-DY-S009 pushes RentBoy into the nearest cubicle and slams the
door. You hear a slightly muffled order, perhaps the words 'bend over,
nigga', but you can't be sure. The responding groan, then a series of
grunts segueing into gasps, is unambiguous. 

Suddenly the stink of futility threatens to overwhelm you and you quickly
leave by the 'G8' door. 

*** Disconnected ***



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