Сергей Огольцов – The Algorithm of Chaos (страница 6)

True, instead of a hefty six-shooter, the old woman kept a can of lachrymator in the lace pocket of her apron. Such armament turned the traditional baseball bat under the bar into a relic, ridiculous comically outdated.

(According to a survey by Fyrbes magazine, in the Half-Wild West, bartenders working for the Russian mafia favored gorodki bats in their under-the-bar arsenal.)

The use of tear gas aerosols eliminated the bouncer's job on the establishment's payroll.

With a mixture of emphatic grunts and rattling clicks of her tongue, this old viper disgustedly grabbed the tamed hooligan by the ear with two fingers, and personally led him out the door to point her victim the direction of the nearest water pump.

Like, she's all so soft and fluffy a dandelion. And like, the poor wretch could see a thing through the streams of tears and snot smeared all over his face.

Then she would crawl into the kitchen, this underhanded cobra, as if to get her hands washed, for hygiene's sake, but in reality – collect her usual share of fawning compliments from her subordinates…

During the day, Uncle Tom's Cabin was a cozy dining room to match the hint of family in its sign, but in the evening it transformed into a restaurant with a well-deserved reputation, because Madame Harriet kept excellent cooks and chefs.

(Without going into racist, sordid details – we're not hack writers for the Black Hundred’s fanatics – let's just briefly note that, yes, of course, the chef's skin color was appropriate ‘cause, after all, it was Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Excellent food, coupled with the enveloping, pleasant atmosphere of an old-world Southern manor: Virginia, Alabama, Georgia, which is Georgia on my mind…

However, not along with Ray Charles's enraged roar, but in the classic version of this twice-winning song of the year (1930 and 1953), as performed by the lead singer in the band of the gypsy virtuoso Django, aka Sultan, well, you know what I mean…

So, if you get the chance, visit the place, even though that bitch with her pocket sprays doesn't pay me a dime for advertising and/or word of mouth.

She might treat you for your PR efforts to tea once every six months, no oftener. And even then, no sugar to it, the stingy little gastropod!..

. . .

Taking a seat in the corner compartment, Vit leaned back against the thick upholstery, promising everyone who leaned against it the peace and serenity of a pleasant rest. And if not right now, when you’re too uptight to get the hint, then someday, but it definitely would. At least, that's the kind of thoughts inspired in anyone by it, this upholstery.

His hand stretched casually along the top of the backrest, stroking with his fingertips the leather of the color of… well, the leather in the upholstery perfectly matched the spirit of the interior.

Fortunately for those who’s too quick to get tired with following the casual flow of thoughts on any subject whatsoever, in the manner which they had flowed in during the opening passage, Lex's plump figure appeared thru the entrance. Good timing…

The awe-inspiring asset of ‘Mr. Ears of the Year’ left no place for doubts… However, enough of friendly teasing, the guy had other features too.

His double chin bulged languidly over the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. His jacket, removed, was thrown over, or rather hung from his left shoulder, draping the left side of his slowly approaching torso.

One might say it was hanging over provocatively – without a lunge or any support, even though Lex's rounded shoulder had no hooks to catch a hold. Not every jacket would dare strike such a relaxed, yet at the same time, risky pose.

On the other hand, hanging from that extremely unorthodox point gave the garment an air of dashing recklessness, if viewed from the side. Hanging like this, the jacket imparted to Lex's ample bulk a hint of the possibility of standing upright at full height, if need be to hide his stoop… if need be.

Overall, Vit's buddy looked dashing, reminiscent of a hussar from the Tsarist army in the dress uniform, into which the shock troops could only slip one arm through one sleeve, the other had to hang loose. (Can you visualize? The entire personnel of this branch of the military, every single one of them, wearing their uniform the same way, even the lefties… And what the hell could you do? These are elite troops in the service of the Emperor Magesty, dammit, and violating dress code is unacceptable.

And that half-put-on piece of crap was called ‘mentik’ (apologies to the undersize police officers in Russia, but the term wasn’t invented by me).

Yet, look at Lex! This daredevil even outdid the hussars, leaving both sleeves hanging empty! Notwithstanding that he doesn't have a mustache, so dear to the hearts of true cavalrymen and pedestrians with bandit bent in their subconscious…

‘Tell me, my friend,’ Lex said, finally finishing his ceremonial parade and throwing his jacket over the back of the long two-seater seat opposite Vit, to plop down wearily next to it (the gutsy jacket, if you like).

‘Why are Messrs. Pretty Boys so predictable? Half a block before the Cabin, I knew you'd be sitting in the corner. It doesn't matter if it's right or left: a corner is a corner. But why?’

‘To give the rabble a chance to admire a truly cool guy, I guess,’ Vit suggested.

‘O, really? And here I thought you valued the corner as a vantage point, to immediately thwart the arrival of a new cool guy. Some upstart who showed up to conduct a timing exercise – are you really that quick to draw your gun? Could that be the reason?’

‘The question “why” opens the floodgates to at least two zettabytes of all sorts of assumptions, and each of them is perfectly acceptable,’ Vit replied gloomily, like a teacher tired of treading water for the idiots.

‘O, my! A nightmare! A good news, there’s no shooting on the premises… However, let's get back to the file I grabbed, a bit, abusing my official position. Essentially, the file is something like a receipt book…’

‘Shut up! Was there a brick landing on your head? Are you out of your mind? Or a barking mad of no return? You're smashed, my friend! Loaded to the brim, personal protection gone with the wind! What if I’m wired? A sensitive microphone in my pocket? For your information: anything you say can be used against you and your doomed ass!’

Lex shook his head contemptuously:

‘Forget that bullshit, dude, it's outdated. No records count anymore, not even the confessions of the scumbag. The world moves on. Thanks to the constant science progress, my lawyer will easily prove that you simply fell for my prank. After all, your clueing in is just empty words, and even with my authentic voice, you cannot prove the malicious intent.

Rise and shine, buddy! This is the age of two-factor authentication! No court will consider a case based on words, without well-documented thoughts where I plan to pull this off. Or thoughts popping up later, as the crime unfolds. No, my dear, mere actions – in absence of two-factor authentication thereof – are no longer evidence. Even when you’re caught with a smoking gun over a riddled body, or with your pants down in front of a kindergarten class. It doesn't matter. You were the victim of manipulation, framed through retroactively falsifying causality. Yes, sir. A mocking trick perpetrated by your own sister's great-grandchildren. In revenge for not giving that idiot, that sister, candy at the age of three. And she went and cried on a video which those buggers, her future descendants, will find in the attic of their great-grandmother's house. Now, what? Have you got the drift? A crime is only what's confirmed through 2FA; anything else eschews punishment.’

‘So, if they hack my email inbox with your proposal to assassinate the president, but there's no recording of your wild thought: "Why not sendimg this crap to Vit?", they can't find fault with you?’

‘Exactly! In that scenario, I'm as clean as a 22-year-old baby of a multinational corporation owner! And let the hackers fuck each other in your inbox. Pardon my Etruscan.’

‘So that's why you didn't send me the file?’

‘The file in your inbox, plus the recording of my thought, when I was sending it, will completely incriminate me. Is so hard to grasp what 1 + 1 is?

‘Recording thoughts? Do you ever get rid of a hangover, at least occasionally?’

‘Dude, that's exactly what I do at my job. Not about the hangover though, but in regard to the thought records. Ever heard of the noosphere?’

‘?’ Shrugged Vit’s shoulders.

‘As it turns out, besides the atmosphere and/or stratosphere, they've already dug up another one – the noosphere. The thing consists of the thoughts of everyone who can think. Any thoughts, even the most secret, float openly within it, like radio waves.

But the analogy is flawed, since radio signals tend to fade, while our thoughts become part of the noosphere forever. Inextinguishable, indelible, open. True, the technology isn't perfect yet, but the threshold has been passed over, and the rest is just a matter of time. Theoretically, you could tune in and read the thoughts of, say, Leonardo when he was painting his Mona Lisa.’