Another cypherpunked day at the city

posted by Jonathan Logan on 2011.03.06, under Blog, Maybe Art, Writings
06:

Shite, some customers really have it. Two hours talk about decision making algorithms, and all that while Smuggler waits for his cracker to pierce into the next store of loot. Finally he had come free from the meeting and quickly walked down the street. Damn hot day, again. But clouds started crowding the sky, promising some air cleaning.

Better to get a fucking roof to hide under – since it wasn’t really advisable to be soaked by the downpour of H2O and all the airborne shite – nanobots, viruses, bacteria. This week the newest in the collection of microscopic bastards was looking for new victims. The body count already above 50, EHEC was the scare of the day. Until someone deemed the common flue as the end of humans again.

Not that Smuggler cared, he simply hated to run around in soaked clothes. But he had already spotted a free seat at the noodle shop cross the street, hurrying there before any of those fat, old sex tourists could squat it.

Now sitting there, watching the crowd stroll by. A collection of failures – those in suits that had never thought about anything beyond their paycheck, women in current fashion all looking as if they were of the same clone meat he rammed into his mouth. And then those that slipped by at the edges of society – the hooker that financed the drugs for her brother, the hustlers running some contraband, the weird Izaats-Suicide-Cult guys with their three letter tattoos on the forehead.

Working the chopsticks with his right hand he used the left on his mobile deck to check the status of his cracker, and to sync with his partners in crime. Five grand of Bitcoin waiting to be moved from the Izaats-accounts to the pockets of the rebels. Risky business, but they would get away with it – if they stayed careful. Only problem was, that the Izaats had by now infiltrated most of society and worked hard to drag anyone into collective societal genocide. Not a second did Smugglers conscience complain – to the contrary. Five thousand Bitcoin less to pay spooks and torturers – five thousand Bitcoin more for the rebels to work on their hangovers. Five thousand shiny little Bitcoins, each of them enough to buy each of the wares offered behind the glittering neon signs that covered the small storefronts around him.

The fat old tourists next to him went on commenting on the flesh walking by, staring at long legs and modeled boobs – too scared to finally go through the door to the sex-haven that cramped between the noodle shop and money changers. He had no inclination waiting for them to get fucked and screwed. The cracker was almost done – time to rush home and set the money laundering bot into motion.

Tugging his deck into one of the hidden pockets within his bullet-proof west, Smuggler was about to step down the stairs to the subway labyrinth when he heard the sirens approaching – not just one police unit was on its way, it sounded like the whole bluecoat crew had woken up from their collective slumber. Shite – they probably traced his cracker and his deck, fuck… what did he overlook? Disappearing into the crowd, and slipping into a small shop for not-so-legal pharms, then shutting down the deck. The fucking cracker was out of reach. Hope they couldn’t trace it to his hideout.

There they were, fifteen bluecoats, up to their asses equipped with outdated but deadly projectile weapons. It was a rare sight to see them actually rushing to get somewhere, down the stairs to the subway. Just seconds later a few shots fired. Make-work for the med crews that were just arriving. So it was a hit. They weren’t after him. Damn paranoia, he should calm down. The subway would probably be closed until all the blood and the witnesses had been disappeared, so he slipped on the Metrorail that departed from the other platform. Damn Izaats fucks, going round messing with lives and keeping him from taking the cheap route home. But even if it wasn’t about him, Smuggler picked the network ID card from his deck and placed it on the seat next ot him. Those fucking bluecoats were probably already tracing all the devices that had been around their latest bloodsport arena, and he wasn’t eager to have them waiting at his home for some friendly interrogation. Some lowlife would have the find of the day, a network ID without traces. Illegal, but effective.

When the train arrived at the arcology station, Smuggler slowly stepped off, making sure that no one was following him while pretending that he was interested in those medical experiment adds: “Take these experimental drugs and get paid 100 BTC a month! (*payment for fully completed study participation)”. Yeah, right. They wouldn’t want to pay dead bodies that couldn’t sue anymore. Not that they did pay many participants.

On his way home he quickly checked the sensors in the elevators, stairs and doors. His place had been quiet and unattended for the whole day. Good news, the cracker was on his way back with a pile of bitcoin. Another good day in cypherpunk Berlin 2011.

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