Page 13 of Nearly Roadkill: Queer Love on the Run
NARRATIVE ENTRY, JABBATHEHUT
The roach slowly makes its way across Wally Budge’s desktop, looking for all the world like a miniaturized Jules Verne battle contraption. Budge shakes his head in disgust, causing the roach to stop its forward motion and neatly blend in with the coffee stain on which it hovers.
If I ignore it, it’ll go away , he thinks to himself, returning to his latest memo.
To: FBCS Investigations
From: Undersec’y LaBouchere
Subj: Cough Up
Wally,
I think you’ll agree I’ve given you more than enough time to test out your theories about Reg vaders. Well? Do you have any leads? I have the secretary himself breathing down my neck. I need names. Give me what you’ve got, and I’ll keep the dogs away from your door.
L.
Raising his hand slowly, Budge makes to swat the invader from his domain, but with that inexplicable fore-sense they seem to possess as a species, the roach dashes for cover down the back of his desk.
Rich, dark phrases of disgust escape Budge’s lips as he stabs three digits into his desk phone.
“Yeah?” comes the smoky, familiar voice into his ear.
“Shelly, I got me an infestation up here.”
“You talkin’ about your office or your brain, Wally?”
“Har-de-har-har, Shel. I got me some roaches.”
“Yeah, well everyone’s got roaches, Walls. They’ll die.”
“Huh?”
“They’ll die. My guys put out a poison last week, great stuff.
Roaches eat it, carry the poison in their bellies back to their nest, and there they die.
Cannibals that they are, the other roaches eat the dead one, and they die.
So don’t sweat it. If you saw one roach, you saw Typhoid Mary heading back to wipe out her nest.”
“Typhoid Mary….”
“She was the woman who—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know who she was. Shelly, you are an amazing woman, and if the girls and boys down in programming can build it for me, I owe you a steak dinner.”
“Build you what, Walls?”
But Budge just chuckles as he hangs up. Rapidly, he types:
To: Development
Via: Records, Assets, Materiel
From: FBCS Investigations
Subj: Not So Common Cold
Booker: Remember you were explaining computer viruses to me the other day? And you said they can search stuff out on the Net? Do me a favor: Put your head together with Shelly Dunlap, ask her to describe Typhoid Mary to you. Then see if you can come up with a little virus for yours truly?
—Budge
He presses SEND, and it’s not five minutes later that he receives:
To: FBCS Investigations
From: P_Booker
Cc: S_Dunlap
Subj: Your wish is my… etc, etc.
Shel and I have been talking about this for weeks. I have a prototype, but you’ll need some new hardware to accommodate it. Shel’s arranging.
By the way… you’re still using your generic department account? Haven’t you Registered yet? You’ll need a private account in order to work this thing I’ll be sending you.
—Booker
Register, huh? Soon.
To: Undersec’y LaBouchere
From: FBCS Investigations
Subj: Coughing
Ma’am,
I’ve got two fish I’m playing real gentle here. They’re using black market bypass codes. I traced the acquisition of the bypasses to the same distributor. No name there yet, but I’m closing in.
Looks to me like we’ve got an honest-to-God conspiracy going here, ma’am… that or first-class stupidity. I need some time to figure out which, and I don’t want to scare these folks off.
—W.
Wally Budge is putting it all together. His favorite task.
What had Shelly called him? A garbage hound?
Yeah, and two of his wives had been only slightly kinder with “pack rat.” Collect, think, catalogue, muse, compare, review, and ta-da: useful information.
He loses himself happily for the next few minutes or so.
It’s a shock when he hears a voice behind him, and the clock says it’s five hours later.
“Lieutenant Wallace Budge?”
Budge’s bloodshot eyes swivel themselves onto the workman standing in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“This stuff is for you; where do ya want it?” The workman wheels in a dolly loaded with sleek dove-gray boxes, a huge monitor, and a keyboard from the future.
Budge narrows his eyes. “Whassat?”
The workman shrugs. “New workstation. Merry Christmas, I guess.”
“Hold on, hold on, lemme check this out first.”
The man eyes Budge’s archaic desktop computer. “Sure thing, Boss. You fond of antiques or somethin’?”
Ignoring him, Budge punches numbers into his phone.
“Yeah, Walls?”
“Shel! What’s with the new computer?”
A husky laugh. Then, “It’s for Mary.”
“Huh?”
“Typhoid Mary… hell of a sophisticated search engine for the Net.”
“Huh?”
That chuckle. “Your virus, Wally. She’s got a graphic interface, so she won’t live in your old Unix box.
She needs Windows at least, and a Mac at best. So I got ya an Apple PowerBook Duo, fastest machine this side of the Berlin Wall.
Typhoid Mary is gonna dance before your very eyes.
Speaking of which, we should go dancing sometime. Merry…”
“… Christmas, yeah yeah yeah. I like my old box, Shel!”
“Oh hush. This stuff is top of the line. Wait’ll you see what you can do with it! Full color, video. And you’d love to dance! I have to take you out more often. Trust me, you’ll thank me for this machine.”
“I trust you, Shel. I’ve just never trusted a computer that smiles at me when it starts up.”
“Get over it. Who knows, maybe you can download some dirty pictures and bring them over to my house some night, and we can check out the pixelation.”
Budge flushes despite himself. “Awright, awright.”
Another chuckle. Then, “Friday night. Put your cowboy boots on. Meantime, enjoy the new toy, Wally.”
Hanging up the phone, Wally looks up at the man still standing in the doorway. “Umm, I guess you can put it here, next to the old one.”
The man snorts. “Not a chance. That box of junk is headed for the dump. How could you stand looking into that green screen all day, anyway?”
“I like green,” sniffs Budge, pondering cowboy boots.
END JABBA NARRATIVE ENTRY
PERSONAL LOG, JABBATHEHUT
If I lacked character, I would idly scan the world’s computers.
While I do so enjoy playing detective, it’s time to turn my attention to other sources.
The only behavior that astounds me anymore about the human race is its continued gullibility.
The following is a memo about to be sent out to the general public.
I like to see these things before their official release date:
Dear Service Consumer:
Please note you are about to be given an extraordinary opportunity.
The members of Allied Consumer Industries have generously donated their time and expertise to a new Registration bonus which would allow you complete access to any area of the online world you desire.
Simply Register as you normally would, but be sure to select Special Options.
This will allow you special access and cost you nothing in additional fees.
—ACI etc.
This was sent to all computer users, not any special demographic as claimed. Your bennie is being assaulted with a billion digital mail-order catalogs. And just like that, you’re tracked. How about that for a special option?
END JABBA PERSONAL LOG
NARRATIVE ENTRY, JABBATHEHUT
Meanwhile, back in a certain green office:
Lt. Wally Budge is making his beefy paw guide a small plastic “mouse” that somehow attaches to the cursor on his computer screen. Now he’s supposed to be able to navigate through a shifting sea of endlessly cute Macintosh icons. He clicks on one, and on his screen appears:
Congratulations!
You are now ready to open your online account.
Please enter your name in the highlighted spaces.
Budge frowns and maneuvers the mouse, but it sends the arrow skittering to all corners of the monitor. The memo now repeating itself on his screen helps neither his mood nor his coordination.
Congratulations!
You are now ready to open your online account.
Please enter your name in the highlighted spaces.
“I heard ya the first four times,” Budge mutters darkly. “Is this what people go through every day just to use their computers? No wonder they try to be someone else online.”
Congratulations!
You are now ready to open your online account.
Please enter your name in the highlighted spaces.
Budge manages to land his mouse in the little glowing box, where he enters his name.
Thank you, now enter your age.
Grumbling, Budge enters 43.
What is your sex?
(M) or (F)
Budge laughs ruefully, trying to think back to the last time he got laid. He types “None,” receiving a disapproving beep.
Very funny.
What is your sex?
(M) or (F)
Budge laughs again, peers over his shoulder to make sure no one is looking, and types “Hopefully.”
Very funny.
What is your sex?
(M) or (F)
“Screw this,” he mutters under his breath, positioning his mouse to move on.
I’m sorry. Your sign-up sequence will fail to complete unless you fill out the form.
“What the hell do you need to know all this for, anyway?” says Budge aloud as he tries to maneuver his mouse to get the cursor back into the “Sex” box. Just as he lands in place, though, a roach peeks its armored head over the edge of the sleek, new dove-gray monitor.
His left hand moves slowly toward the roach, while his right hand fills in the sign-up motions indiscriminately. Left hand and right hand continue crazily until the dialogue box opens on his screen.
You have completed the sign-up process.
To use your new account right away, please click OK.
Budge’s index finger clicks OK at the same time his left hand crashes down, missing the roach by less than an inch.
“Dammit!”
Thank you, Ms. Budge, and welcome to your Online World.
Would you like to take the guided tour?
“Huh?”
The message repeats itself.
“Ms. Budge?” Sure enough, when he clicks his profile, “Female” is entered firmly in the “Sex” box.
“Damned roach,” he mutters, and makes to change the designation.
I’m sorry, Ms. Budge, you may not change any information in your master account. Would you like to set up a secondary account?
“Huh?”