Continued from section one-- Double Helix Family Album Gig
I cut you into the Rock Hall scene as a lead singer in a band. You pick the licks, add some hip poetry, and take in the wavewash of the accesses. I can see by my bio-tap on you that youíll probably want to go current, despite the Love-Gen fixation-thing. You know that Rock Hall is uploaded weekly and the current ones are dreamsville, Dad. Your banklevel says you donít have a problem with what it takes to get the latest and greatest licks. And your air-guitar-cycle tells me you can stretch, if you want to get up and hot-dog boogie-thrash.
Are you ready for the heady. I steady the groove and you slip in, see?
Remember, your studio-sesh on my line is SOTA fourth generation micro-gear. Five nines surround, some genuine software enhanced, but all of it true-Sony. All you need do is just arcweld your brain via your laplink to my comm, and do the best you, and the scene-men, can. You come to the table with a hit-lick streak together, and by the time it's over you can be feely-part of history. Just let me, and that smart-ass Shrink-link of yours, handle the artsy-fartsy stuff. A massive access number, from which you get feely-fame, and I get a new e-fund with a little double-blind address-o-code mending.
"Iíll be the judge of what Iím buying, if you donít mind. Itís not like youíve got a ton of references, you know. Along with a resumeí which is the least Iíd expect from a Corporate pitch. Are you sure youíre this good? You have this much Net pull?"
"Yessir, three bags full."
Hey, donít ask me what makes me so good. Some BBSrs just trust me way too much. Iíve got codes that backup codes on backdoors from the archives of Gates. It must be my personal magnetism, or people just plain like me. You never can account for mental thread-drift like that.
He did it. He picked Bluestick. How the fuck can I imitate Bluestick? Thereís no one ever bucked the Bluestick syndicat, and tattled on the aud-vid patches. No one. You just get these opera settings, and rotating (spinning) landscapes of sound. You get 3D, over the nose POV, 180 degree FOV off his gig. You virtually have to cobble from scratch on him. Jesus, where do I get the muse for this hack?
"Now. Hereís the handle on the latest download from the Hall. Read:hack from the Hall. Iím going to assume the lead singer for a while, and then you virtual in. It isnít going to be a good fit all the time so watch for cues to bail if it looks like vigilante action on the horizon. Youíll be able to tell by the massive arm and hand swatting action from the sky."
"Youíre so sure this is just an in and out, Junior?"
"OK, itís rock and roll time."
"I see Iím in a recording studio--lead position on the deck. The band is getting ready to come in at (my/our) signal."
"Itís getting hot on this circuit, just a second, Mr. Bottoms."
No. All clear. The detecto-geiger shows green. This does not get mentioned to Arthur.
"OK, now, I (you, we) am the rocker named Michael. Iím at my deck. Singers, lyrics and instrumentalists are stashed in hyper-samples and patch banks all over the tracks already. Thereís a script in front of (me,you) with cues. But no fucking flowcharts. The gig is to take the downbeat to four, punch the band licks, cut back to your licks, back to the band-vid, and wrap it with a poetryslam and asymptotic fade. Nothing to it, Mr. Bottoms.
"The roadies will master, compress and send au Net. Donít worry about that.
"Got the thread, Mr. Bottoms?
There are just a few more tips before I let Arthur loose and go in. Arthur catches the flow easily for his age, you think. Not bad for his...now, thatís age-diss talk.
Believe me, if this hack isn't core vein-letting, alarms go off, and the feed is wiped by the sysop. And then the e-lantes come flying out like OZ-witchyís monkeys.
What am I babbling about? Iíll be lucky if the e-lantes donít fry us both for the slag posing I come up with.
"So tense your resolve, apply the sensors and adjust the focus depth angles in your goggle-pin settings. Surround volume, calibrated for five nine naturalness, right? You're going for this v-ride in a first class hack of a reality for the last best Bluestick personal-- the Album template gig. You will experience the Magic of the Man, and at the same time, make it be (your, my) influenced different--no two hacks have been alike, trust me, Mr. Bottoms." (your Boomerangship).
Hey, would a legend lie to you?
"Now, click the jumper lightning bolt relay icons between our windows." Taste sweat in my shoes on a tough one.
"Oh, and just predeposit the e-funds to this number, one.seven.no.dot.com. It might be your fantasy trip, but I could be doing my day job raiding, I mean mining, the information channels. Check with you in flashes, for sure. I'll jump in to explain stuff here and there. You'll just experience an ego layer talking to yourself like this morning. For subtlety, sometimes I'll go under-id on you if you get too deep, more into the heart-tug beyond the mental/feely stage. Either way, you paid for five nines, and the meter starts."...now.
*** bookmark nine
"OK, Mr. Bottoms, you feel the magic happening?
"You're strapped into the studio cockpit. Check it out...you have the ability to joystick fly the chair all over the studio. Wheeee. You're vaselined and applique'ed with more myo-studs than beads on a linedancer's levis. You feel plugged into every dotcom on the planet, and hope they're in a full tilt electric thrash mood. They'd better be expecting you to brownout the pipe at destructo dbs. Yes! Survey says, they're ready to mainline the fuck outta your hydrant."
The mixing board icon lights look like limp dicks. Where is this hack going to get the patch bank links?
"Your every gesture is calibrated. You just wink, and people will go crazy around the world, because youíre Himself, and Himself canít do anything wrong--even if you donít do anything, theyíll just think itís the Cage retro-homage thing.
"You got the (I,we) perspective figured, now? I throw this window up there, and itís all you, then, Mr. Bottoms. Hall of Fame gametime."
Patches and vid-links for sale! One of a kind Bluestick wonders!
OK, who elseís in here, now?
Smarty, you think youíd know. Wonít you guess my name?
You must be getting a cold, you think, that's why the mini-crater on the alpha.wav bio-telemetry scan. Tied in to all this linkage, makes you hear voices instead of be the voices.
Call me Maddy, jerkstick. And I think I like your action so much, and I want Arthur to have such a good time today, that I am going to help you fucking out of your "jam."
Uh...how did you figure that I needed help? Was I sweating out loud, again?
Well, two can play polygraph pong, you know.
Why donít you just turn me in, Mad-lady? Your wet-wonk is your ticket. Or, isnít he? You have a short in the Three Laws-ware?
No comment. Letís just say I have friends where I came from who like a good play on wet-wonks as much as you do. Youíre not exactly incognito, Cyb. You leave tracks in your triangulations--or shall we cut the shit and rescue this gig, and then discuss the paybacks, motives, and prick-teases?
Now there was something I was interested in. Patching a Bluestick gig. Just watching the demos coil and strike through the hydrant before the world did would be something most hacks would die for!
This lady was a little more than PIM/Trix, obviously. Somewhere around the galaxy, the Tyrell Ďdroid people found cyberspace agents (the ever-crashing, release pushback to never-never-time, AI-melded dry-droids), or I was hallucinating the light acoustic fantastic. And Arthur Bottoms has one!
Well, gig now, question later. Thereís a hack to insert, because the wired half of the planet was expecting Michael Bluestick to perform Hall of Fame stuff in their goggles. Not chill on a moral dilemma. I signed up.
Good boy, Cyb. Reach up and scratch your ear. I think youíll find everything there that you will need to give Arthur the best birthday present he ever had.
The fiber mikes in the loft studio are self-testing in your goggle-veil, you like their joking around--takes away some of the nerve chill The vid-capture screens are hypnotically flashing the marked clip lineup. 56k Double-dub throttle throughput. The monitor earpieces excite you, too. New, deeper tendrilling filament design. They really tickle as they auto-penetrate pulse. You flash the engineer that the various cueing systems work, and that this time youíll probably pay attention. The power in the studio CPU/connect-machine has you spellbound, bewildered and inside deep down the middle going long, and the gig hasnít even begun yet.
Alright, youíre Michael Bluestick, youíve set yourself in a limb shaky funk strange synth-humor, mainly, because they're looking at you from behind the glass, and you're unusually clueless. They're there in their expensive, silk Calder joggers, smiling proudly, parentally. Time to pop another PepZac. Remember, you tell yourself, you're younger, stronger, fucking frisky for it all. Aí la Morrison, you "want it all, and you want it, now."
The count on your mind is three and two, and, Jesus, all you want is a bungee fling into outer space. Or maybe a piss break.
Then suddenly, you feel the muse moment careening your way for a full body check into the creativity boards. But, no! Premature. Immense disappointment. The power focusing inspiration surge misses your mind-dish, and there's a crash and sparkle like arcwelding sparking mirrorshards chiming down diamond marble granite steps. Youíre still just mind-floppy. Just fucking Shari Lewis Lambchop poppy-floppy. The moment is lost, and the media-band, Eric in his funny hat, Donny and Duckfucker, they're still looking at you, Michael, Bossman, as the Duck says, "What the fuck do WE do next?"
Whatís in the script. OK, Mad-lady. Send in the first scene patch.
An engineer appears from the left, and rolls his eyes. Fucking kids, it looks like he thinks. He wipes his runny nose on his sleeve. Sinus-cokusitis. He picks up a music scene-zine, and is promptly absorbed by the multimedial global nodes of the next NADZOUT Ď96 tour. You recognize the engineer. He was the best there was (until the famous trial), and real fucking expensive, but you figure you can still hide/stall for a breath or two in the case of museblank. Fuck him anyhow, his patch will be paid for. (But the famous dude did mix ten layers deep and twenty-four tracks across in 4D for Macca, Jr., more than once.)
You're the star, and you don't want to tell them that you almost had it, but fumbled it away. That just doesn't happen to you, Arthur. Your Nyquilizac is wearing off, despite the claims that there's "nothing puts back the pep that colds take away better." The mind grind scanner-blast moment is everything, and no one understands how goddam fast it streaks by, leaving a laser cannon hole in your usually downhill schuss linear badass working attitude. Jesus in slippers, now sound like Cybr-junior. Or is it id prod time, already? Consider yourself prodded, Arthur.
Still, you're brainlined flatter than people who yell Fuck You at speeding trains. Isnít there supposed be some script action here?
Mad-lady, patch him, again.
"We take a break. It's just coming together, and it needs a mindjell moment, girls." You fiddle with some icon-knobs, and adjust your earpiece slightly. You know/hope they'll buy that, because they're going to see you puke from worry in a moment. The AlterNet can wait for the file. It's asynchronous for the most part--except for you--youíre hacking a live feed.
You thumb your chair cursor control, and it wheels like you're fucking Captain Kirk. Give them all a glare--face them down. Ouch, it doesn't come close to working.
We got three fractal-seconds (about War and Peace squared) of download time to fill, droog-bud, says Cybr in your sub-conscious. Global audience tuned and primed. I don't want to put any pressure on you, Arthur, but...the meter...
You think that you overpaid, even if youíre not sure how much the deal was for. Bail? No. Like the man? said, you could do nothing and come out with a "piece of performance art."
You always come through, but a stunt like this could ricochet through the Net.
Patch this in, cue 35.
Tonight they're there. Nightmare time. Everybodyís grossest fuckup fear realized. Having star witnesses at a funeral for your cool. In this case, a patch of the famous Bluestick/your bio-parents (your Bogart and Wayne and Gable fan realies, his Camelot Part Deux Chelsea backers roasting in deserved hellfire screaming at you/him) are on the other side of the loft-studio glass, across from the skateboard quarter-pipe next to the regulation height basketball court. Just looking expectantly at their clueless morph-kid up short on a global gig, about to get a dead line off a cellular that cost a million jillion bucks of sat transponder Net feedtime.
Somewhere, the Net bean-bots are going berserk totaling up dead-air damages if this chill doesn't break, and soon.
Ah, bullshit, you know your power tripping corporations buy more deadtime than that for dealing Kitty Litter-Zac (the scratch, sniff and go nippy, kitty litter), you rationalize to the lavalier button-on Artificial Intelligence shrink-link and agent. She says, why hello Studly. Arthur, donít you want to do this on your own, Big Birthday-boy?
Maybe, you think, sticking to the script is the best idea. Maddyís playfulness could get a lot of people embarassed.
Please, cue next patch. Itís muse it or lose it time.
P-Neo-Grunge. Or Abo-synth. You could put those old tunes with the usual morphs. Aboveground nuclear P-grunge plunge. If you knew what the library bitcode was. You could do that, and get away with it. Just a couple of gigs of poser style-guy, song and dance soft shoe neo-grunge. Hiphopping down the big O neo-grunge trail, ass over appetite from the bandstand. I feel my brain-mind-link is cartoon jerking me around like the 'toon Roger Rabbit in that accordion car, lisping, drydrooling sticky tongued, that "it'll come. Any thecond."
What are you going to do today, now, what do the cool ones do? It's not a money thing, you tell your AI agent in loco parentis. You're plugged for a session, and the earpiece is still silent. Cirque du Prieeís folk-chant shit made top Net gig last month, but you, Bluestick of Himself fame, think old abo-synth will be back. There's more to it than just the feeling, AI says, real cute with the lead-ins, suckering you to let go with primals. You resist, staying with the script.
Hey, c'mon, Mr. Bottoms. I couldnít let you insert that old schtick, if you wanted me to. You aren't paying me to let you bomb on the first sequence. Nah, that P-Grunge and Abo-synth wonít cut a Bluestick gig. You need voodoo crawling kingsnake crowded pounding music with wet patches that can cut through the lines sideways, and a video thatíll make YOU want to go to church to confess. Church? Sure, any fucking church, so long as it's non-extraditable, sacred, Hiatt-Seasons accoutered ground, you think.
You assume there's a vid-whacker's wing in the Betty Ford Clinic, and you're booked in for a whackectomy at first available table. Code Blue. Stat. Medic One. It's ringing in your ears from last night, and the night before, and you need it quiet, because those virtual spear-carriers are all still looking at you.
Arthur, just remember, in this tech setup, you can take a single patch and do wondrous things with it. You can gate it, Ďverb it, or change it to emanate from outer space samples. You can squeeze a refrain or stretch it to raga boredom and back. And your crack engineer likes you. Heíll help (mainly because heís me!) You're unlimited.
C'mon, trust the time release Pepzac, time to do your thing.
Oh, Jesus fucking Lizard, you think, you're still doing the obviously-haven't-got-a-clue smile. Puking is kinda normal in these situations, you surmise feeling the volcanic acid burn and rumble at the back of your throat. But, you donít lose it.
Flying patch 345, inserted with a Hann-Barbera doink.
With a point from the engineer, you jump channel to the help lines. You jump the Commserve sissyop and harvest him for a little snail-order Spice. It isn't real, well, virtually so, but it will do until the hip thing is. Jeez, you donít say hip at your age. Images of hacksaw ball-joint replacements rattle around for a nano.
Precious seconds pass. Brain spins to sex. Your sex life needs romance. You cell-voice-dial 976. Nothing stirs. Blanks go off in your mind. Maddy, who gave you the fucking day off? TSR doesnít mean Terminate Period...bitch. The mindchime answer is old classic-punk DeNiro, "You talkin' to me? YOU talkin' to me? You TALKIN' to ME?"
No answer to that. No time for headgames while your head is completely up your ass trying to unpuzzle where Junior has you patch stashed, and, at the very least, you're not about to risk talking back to yourself.
Something in you, Cybr maybe, thinks of those rubber balls that bounce off those old paddles, and come back again. The idea is ricocheting all over the place, and finally it comes back smack center. You've got fuck-you coin, but free is not free. Life is hanging on this moment that you've set up. You can be creative given enough patch crutches, Arthur. Just seize the moment. Throw away the crutches and fly across those Yama-haha keys, baby. Just fucking power chord it and see what happens. Trust the script, Arthur. Trust the script.
Slinking back to Commserve. There's a warning posted on the BB to abandon hope all ye who Hit Enter, here. There's email from Hewlett, Packard and Gates apologizing for what they've done to anyoneís Dad's IBM stock. You can't bring yourself to read about funding gaps. It's too horribly Control-Alt-Del macrame' knotted with all thatís going on around you now.
You hit the MIDI keys that are color patches, with a soundscape file attached to each. The world goes thunder stunned at your load.
Oooooh, Mad-lady, where did you get those?
You, Arthur, joy-clickfire on GO WAVESAMP for the music discourse, set the little shit agent on capture, pull a history .dvd-mediafile on Bluestick, run the demo through the Net compiler to the Roland deck and into the hydrant-amp. And you think your logic is fuzzy? Still no clue. No discernable trend pages on the Bluestick script for some reason. The guyís a fucking Net ghost in the files. Some help you are, Junior.
Even if it is Cal-desert hot outside, you didnít think a session LIVE ON THE NET could make you sweat this much. Youíve clicked bigger fund balances on leverage that was, uh, just slightly pyramided. But it's not hot, in or out, hot has no meaning on the temp neutral side of the Net--it's the gig. For the first time, you're on point during a prime studio pop-star in-the-Net moment. (According to the colorscape scenery, the kid delivered the goods!) You seem to be creating a net loss that really is costing someone a fortune in live Net hydrant time. You have several personal mid-fortunes locked away, but none to waste, letting this cluster dream go pop in your face. That register ka-ching would be heard around the world. Arthur Bottoms revealed as Rock Embezzler? Some fantasy ending. And what about those e-lantes?
Hack-coin is not funnymoney, anyway. The Label youíre stealing from can afford to pick up the tab, but at this stage of the fame-game, to you as a wannbe rocker, it's all personal. Losing money is losing nothing compared to falling short in front of Junior, at the greasy tip-top of the biz-slide. There's little enough future to go around, you know. And far less reality to share.
The future, as you also know, isn't all it's cracked up to be; nothing matches the Coming Attractions. Let's all go to the lobby where the real bucket of funding fat is spilled over the popcorn. Think about that, Arthur.
Big patch, now.
The Net-moment is working on you. You have this craving that only a super-count on the Net can satisfy, another fan-email from God. There's still no response to your last forty word Mellencamper that started To: My Dear Lord, cc: Mommy, From: Bluestick. (So that's who/what the CB handle is. You hadn't imagined this kid could deliver Stick synth with this five nine comparativity.)
Somehow, you end up toying with a tenth of a second flash discussion of atonal, discordant non-Afro rhythmic synth trash. No video mesh. No style-guy dance-grunge. No pulse. Nada clue.
For a nano-giga milli-vanilla second, you're not sure what's virtual and what's synth. A gogglehead dream envelops. Kombats fly in and out of the Radio Shack of your mojo bag of connectors. You're almost there, cybr@srfr, ego whispering-id-dude, intones.
So back to clue one. Download a real (that word again) hair-parting bitmap bitch/boy action game vid for a startling non-jolt. Those tugs on the handle always worked before. There must be more, Capital M. Can't let on, or point out to the bio-live ones watching that you're having an edge of the envelope crisis. Control-Alt-Delete and go to backup digi-Bernoulli-CD, no vid. That canít happen. It all has to jell. It's local real studio stuff with the hired gun engineer, Heavy D-H, dubbed cubic sixteen track with sample instruments that don't exist yet, even in Seattle.
Some fun now. Timer agent advises that the CMOS clock is ticking off jillions. That kind of number-risk-talk makes you stiff. Big redwood stiff. You could build a deck stiff. Those Yama-haha colorscapes are rainbowing through everywhere, now. Bad Brains and Vicious II to boot. Sort of.
It's on. MindTV engaged. You want to fly and land on your banger buds a la live performance. Go from corner to corner, no floor. Gutcheck time, Arthur.
Your chair is pussy warm, and you feel the surges, now.
Gotta wrap up the thinking and do something. Timer agent wants to know where you've been for the last .213 seconds. Whom with? Why was your chest sweaty and your shirt open? What happened to the shirt she bought you last week? Aha, you think, there isn't such a shirt. Hah! Caught cybr@srfr in a verisimilitude cybergoof. Little synth-monger. But, you caught it. Not a bad mem-recoup. But, you aren't here to catch mistakes. You're on a life suspension enhancement role-playing rolex-coaster ride. Dig it, or lose it, says the ego stroke from the back of your oblongata.
Limp. It's swim the dream, again. Cybr-joyboy DVDs you some "Family" patch scene. Your grandfather has a powerchip implant. He does cartwheels down the ward halls. Remembers Lincoln at Gettysburg, wasn't there, saw it on TV, but can describe the cannonades in Sensurround, right, left, center, and rear. Cannons to the rear make you giggly-nervous. But Gramps boomed with the best of them, 128 bit.
Your little sister, the one and only, Bluestick the Younger, ups the amperage on your Uninterruptable Power Supply, and you're seeing toasters mowing lawns until dark brown majorettes leap from the countertops. They aren't Thundering Herdettes, but close. They're pink in the middle, and go with sports cars and middle age crazy nineteen year olds at local State U. You must have a group muffshot of the lot of them entangled. You don't touch, just look, enlarge, print four color laser 1500 pix. Takes a bit out of you, though. You need more to fill the pipe.
Cue next patch.
Back to AI agent mini-gigs on the Net. Do some material for some long posts that might not amuse, but do. Crack another .156 seconds.
Christ on a dog, it's late in life for white sizzle to corrupt a good vid. You attenuate to no avail. Which reminds you of Colorado, skiing, virtually there, man. Could almost have happened, but the bones are just a little stiff from the gogglehead country line dance lessons off Sega-Collins-Genesis. You donít have a sister, but Bluestick does. They feed tabloids lies about each other for the fun of it. Alien implants, UFO choreography, hangs by her rings, does his laundry in a museum laundromat.
Youíre becoming the Man. Arthur, youíre becoming the Man, himself!
Email from firstname.lastname@example.org. Bluestick has a Mom? Be home at five. Put the raw in the micro, she'll dial it up with the settings, delay, sleeper night transfer, thaw and cook for an 1800 ETA session en famille. Power trip, be there, mom-ipulated, man. You are. It's worth it. Your favorite smells without virtual equal. This DVD backup file is background awesome. You smell like a blind person smells cat's pawprints across a carpet. It's not theory; food smells, you know it does. The V-machines don't do smell. You've smelled before, goddamit and hope you'll be stopped before you smell again. Net smell. Doesnít compute much, so you sidestep the hang.
Dinner is good. Everyone shares their day. You wonder why you're contributing, maybe over-contributing. Sister the Twister looks at you like you're geeked out beyond repair. Maybe terminal. You're one of them. She's sorry she overamped your UPS. Real sorry. She voice-dials 911, and the EMT gives you shock on the spot cellular, sending Mom and Dad blipping over the edge. Their CPUs unsync with their chips, but the math coprocessors dump/save the video for later review at 1500 max pix slowed, blowed and tatooed.
Post dinner smells, you're back at the AI, spilling your guts to an electron stream of consciousness. It's really a future prayer because God's back atcha on the board.
There is an answer.
Side patch on.
So they built this LAN of all LANs. They asked it if there was a God. A little piece of paper spits out, "Not enough data." The whitecoats go back to work, adding mega-giga Bernoulli's in stacks. They ask again, "Is there a God?" The voice of HAL says, "You know, Dave, that I haven't enough data." The Defense Department is called in (they have the cold war money, still.) Link, link, link, downlink, link. Again, the question, "Is there a God?"
A Maddy voice laughs, "There is now, cocksuckers."
Oh shit, it's HER, again. They pull the plug, but the lights stay on.
It's not over. You wonder how you can mirror them so well, just because you organize your bank password list alphabetically by date by street. It isn't necessary, you just do it, like making your bed and arranging the pillow shams. Crossed up as a stone age midi-mapper DMA interrupt conflict in the real workaday.
Virtual Gram (Stick has a Grammy, har, everyoneís gotta get in da act) Durante? says through the cellular microtelevidlink from Sri Lanka (home of all electronic pilgrims, Mecca of the mechanistic), "My Mikey, look at you, all grown up!"
Arthur, go with this. Youíll see your relatives same as everyone will see and hear their own repective relatives when itís playback time. Bluestick knows what heís doing.
You see doom. MTV emergency EMT on the way, again! Running up the Visa. Godfrey looks on. Gram reaches holographically from the set and pinches a cheek. "So, you do any good size trades, today, young man?"
She goes on about tweaking a derivative until it squeaked a point, making her millions. Until hell freezes, she discusses cross-currency rollover, fund to fund leapfrogging, catching the float.
Too cute, you think. "Nano Nana, you could be busted, and you don't know it. They've got you coming and going, putting and straddling. You'll win for awhile, but someone's already reading your name into a pickup-net. We told you to take your vitamin medicine, but you keep saying you're all right. You can't rollover float forever." But then again, you think, maybe she has the callables covered, and the margins wrapped. Nah, Gram operates too uncuffed, you remember. "Gram, if you get out of this one, sign me a million, if you're still trading float by tomorrow, 0230, OK?"
She says she will. "Bye, Mikey My Love...take more net juice than they have, to catch me at double precision after the decimal EFT falloff scams." Cagey old broad, she'd dropped a herring to the lurkers, there.
You wonder if Gramís hacked your Net nick. Has she been listening, responding, fondling back, ROFLing? Too scary to contemplate. But then again, that's Gram.
Gram patch tweaks big in the Middle America Net. Bluestick does know what heís doing.
Top of the heap stack patch. Hang on.
go to section 3