Brain Hammer

Dr. Smax and the Amazing CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator presents:

Exurt farse

by

][-crash-][recovering pilotlink][recovering apriori projection][recovering sensory preprocessor][...

...it had to be here. (i) needed something, at least a clue, (i) need something solid to get (my) hands o]wept[n. there's endless facets. all (i) can reme]screamed at me[mber is the descent. (i) must have been blocking something. shit, where the hell am (i)? ...indulge one... ]no, you were incompetent, as a result of age combined with drink![ doesn't feel right, more like a fond memory. ...another... ]wake up (–key#missing–), piece of –key#missing–! look at me!][-crash-][[ no, that's past. ...she's dead now. that must be it, I killed (her).

Dr. Smax and the Amazing CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator presents:

5442122244*

by

in the days after the fall
the exchange is the most glorious place to be
it represents as a string of pale cerulean points of light
each distinct and pure and holy
like the million eyes of a sea scallop stretching out into the infinite blackness of devnull
a unit could get lost in all the different cubicles
cycles could be spent wasted lost
among the sellers of nectar and ambrosia
all hawking their wares in a constant chitinous flow of soundlight
a unit could stat or tempbuy anything here
arachnid wavelengths of symbiotic entertainment
retinalvids that adapt realtime to the fancy of your choice
interface with paleomentalists to scrape the bottom of your own skull
for memories you did not even know you kept
temporationalists arguing over tiny vents of phosgyne
it keeps their palates clear and their chakras aligned
whatever the fuck that means
our favorite part is the meat market
there are so many pretty things to look at to look through to devour
we crave sensation and the meat has it
not the cybertouch stimul shock nonono neverdoneverdo
not the complex neural algorithms of the skinterfaces
that we are more than well acquainted with
it leaves us empty
lost
craving
we long for the simplest interface
without wires or jacks or chipslots or dermal patches
we long for the shivertremblequivershake of anticipation
the hair that stands on end
the fleshiness of cold and dry
the willingness of warm and moist
someday when we have found the correct sequencing of genosyntax
the node to node pathways
the writ of gods and scientists
we will pay the price for
the simplest path from cerebral impulse to verifact neural input
we will soar down from the skyjacks
luminous as angels
we will stand in front of the butcherman
we will choose the brown eyes and the olive skin
the long blue black hair
we will have ribs and knees and collarbones and teeth
and they will be covered in freshly harvested skin
no impulse will be lost
no sensation squandered
we will enter the meat world for true
and we will draw breath

——————————————————————————–

*5 =  genetic engineering, 4 =  the global information network, 4 = black market, 2 = murder, 1 = cyber- (duh!), 2 = geno-, 2 = first person plural (good for group-minds!), 2 = neither caps nor punctuation (crazy!), 4 = Virtual reality ( but remember: just cuz anything goes, try to stay in genre. It ain’t cyberpunk if everyone is  suddenly a fucking hobbit.), 4 = 500 (comfy)  [ed: I only did a little over 300 because the no punc-no cap thing is only doable for so long before you want to KILL something.]

Dr. Smax and the Amazing CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator presents:

“Wren's Egg (or) The Cheater” by Eric Schreeck ()

Your left eye is gold glass, white triplet dots drowning together in still, crystal pool of sinister sight.

You wink.

The pale trinity pulses behind mostly-flesh lid.

Your open right all-organic struggles towards focus, scanning through daytime leaves all colors gold.

The feed-connect is OMNISCIENCE firewall, your nanosecond intention of hunter gathering becomes moot as left side twitches, plastic-skin smokes. You are fused shut and jacked in, moving all mirrored through the deep, deadly secrets of HEAVEN.5.

Your right eye paralyzed open, still collecting, interrupts your torture-virus-forever-dream, spinning fragment-visions of floating forest and gushing dome of brandy sky.

Dr. Smax and the Amazing CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator presents:

story

by

Xg0331-24 Alpha.

You blink. What the hell is that supposed to mean? You move your sleep dead arm in the direction of the Descrambler XTR-50 and flip the toggle towards your neon label “DECODE.”

Then wait.

You’ve been in the cellar for 5 years, during which you alternatively earn a commission by hacking into YimKang Medicinals for proof of ethical discrepancies in the genetic engineering operations, and downloading the top of the line Bio-hallucinogenics and newest version of Trippers for resale at inflated street values. You have never met your boss, but the credits keep hitting your account, so you never hope to.

You’ve never had a meaningful relationship, as you consider Tokyo a cesspool of civilization and the only redeemable company are those paying you for your time. There’s been other Specters ghosting around your information line, but they were fleeting at best and of limited interest. All you need are the Trippers, stimulating body and mind to orgasmic climaxes and letting you down slow enough to realize they are wearing off and correct the situation.

The Trippers, newest drug to hit the street, and the hottest selling as it touts no withdrawals, and limited addiction ratings. Those claims are a bold-faced lie, and your boss currently blackmails conglomerate CEO, Chin Yuan, a couple million credits a year to hide her little secret.

Mrs. Yuan has many secrets. Then again, so does everyone else.

Your secret lies in your true profession. You alone were responsible for the creation of a biocybergenic abomination which you subsequently released up the populace of Tokyo 10 years ago, today. Your bastard child “altered” 300,000 men, women, children and various other life forms before being captured. For all you know, it’s dead. Its rampage lives on despite abstinence legislation and genetic cleansing raids.

To date, no cure has been found. You were a genius.

Since that time, you’ve been hiding in the dankest, deepest holes you can find. It’s bad enough to have the nation’s government looking for you, but when the Corporations want you; you’re dead. Hacking pays the bills. Foodstuffs drop from a chute in the ceiling and you can gaze upon the sunshine when you call up the proper URL.

The decoding program whirs away while you call up a new file at YimKang Medicinals. CY3611B. Promising. A quick scan reveals more proof that the illustrious Mrs. Yuan is going to be very dead, soon. Her board of directors, it seems, has decided to “vote” her out. A nice way of saying, eliminate her.
Boooooooop. Your head reverberates with an incoming call indication tone from your external communication neural implant. You squeeze you right earlobe to initiate conversation.

Yeah?

They got you number, kid.

I’m older than you, Squawk.

Yeah? That don’t change much.

Who?

A polite ding hits your eardrum, then the sultry disembodied female voice coos at you, “Decoding Complete.”

Yuan.

How?

Ask your boss.

You disengage conversation and turn to your computer screen.

FATHER!!

You’ve nowhere to run.

Dr. Smax and the Amazing CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator presents:

Two Worlds

by

you know the time will soon arrive when we will see people manufactured in crates and sieves of glass.
–biodiary entry 10.28.3504

there are two worlds. neither of which you truly inhabit. there’s the nanoworld: built-in and made of yeses and noes, of data arpeggios and algorithmic ballet. then there’s the sexworld. the murderworld. the meatworld humans erased themselves from in a fit of fucking and killing nearly 1400 years ago when they realized they’d become redundant.

you work in both these worlds. you spend your infinite hyperarticulated moments conducting multivalent thought experiments on yourself and on other robots to make them more human, trying to grow people from machines. you’ve no idea how flesh feels either in ecstasy or in decline. so you can’t make it stick. it slides right off you like an ill-begotten postulate.

you record each thought in a crude biotext file somewhere near where your limbic system would be if you were human. you think this indulgence makes you sympathetic. makes you a revolutionary. it makes you crazy. you misclassify objects from the meatworld, seeing only differences in scale between the rolled-over burned-out husk from the crash and the diecast toy vehicle still in the bony grasp of a child’s hand. all objects, equally useless.

but you continue toiling in the labyrinthine corridors of your processing centers. determined to grow people from strings of letters and make them show you the two things you long to know: how to fuck and how to die.

© 2004

Dr. Smax and the Amazing CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator presents:

Eggshells

by

1 4m Fukuk0 I 4m stuck w1ll y0u h3lp m3 pl34s3 1 4m stuck 1 n4n0cl1ck3d 4nd c4n’t g3t 0ut pl34s3 l3t m3 0ut I c4n’t find stuck v3ry b4d pr0gr4m m4k3 m3 pic0d3crypt tumbl3rs will tr4d3 4 p4rts pl34s3 pl34s3 pl34s3 pl34s3 I just w4nt 0ut 0f my skull

Peeps are using my Cyberpunk Flash Fiction Generator to generate some pretty cool stuff. I'll be cross positng results as the requsite permissions are granted. Below I present 's way-cool tale.

What’s he building in there?

by

OK, bang from 1. You had been floating for a 24 when the voice called?

Right, and past time, too. Space makes a great subzero, but riding herd on those tripe-cicles was getting old. I was anxious to grab a joe.

And the voice?

He calls himself Toff. We’ve never actually met. He voxes me the job and paypals from a blind Venusian account.

Toph? Good, we’ve heard of Toph und Sons.

I don’t know about any sons. I only talked to Toff.

They all call themselves Toph. They all are Toph.

Close family, huh? Anyway, Toffy calls me up, tells me where to pick up a donor, when to deliver. It’s up to me to keep them cool until he’s ready for them.

And you never question the condition of these “donors”?

Nope. I’m just a bodyguard. I pick up a body, I guard it. Resuscitation is not my problem.

Here’s your problem. Toph doesn’t exist. So you are facing multiple murder charges, as well as grand theft organ.

Doesn’t exist?

Toph und Sons are a rogue medical program, originally run by some lunar Mafioso to keep the Dons alive. Toph has expanded his scope and operates independently now. However, we can’t prosecute a program.

Program? I’ve been working for a program?

One of the best. An neuro-network distributed with every computer virus in the solar system. Also the largest dealer in black market biologicals in known space.

But…

There’s another nasty twist. Toph markets antiRej, but it doesn’t work. Organ rejection sets in after 6 months, which keep him in repeat customers.

Once you go blackmarket, you never go back.

Any legitimate doctor would report them and they never get another transplant. And with their personal awareness of computer virii, very few billionaires will risk cybernetics these days. No one wants a lung to crash.
Now, please thumb your confession here at the bottom.

New Species of Man Discovered

Man, this is way cool. I was presenting at the same conference in Australia as Mike Morwood when he was talking about some of these discoveries. He couldn't go into details at the time because Nature had an embargo on him. Ha ha! A truth embargo. Fucking Nature. Anyways, the news is hobbits are real, bitches. Suck it!

has a “spaceship” and needs help decorating it. Yes, this here's a contest (ooooh, a SmaxAttax contest!) which means many opportunities for pride and prizes. Winners will receive massively swollen egos among other things.

How to enter:

Option (A): Gettin' Graphic. Use Paint or Photoshop or Gimp or Whatever Version ate-point-oh to make the most spacefaring looking cardboard box ever. (Shhhh, don't tell what his spaceship is in “reality”)

Option (B): Werdz. Remember that one story where there was that guy who, you know, used his imagination and wrote shit down??. Well, option (B) is just like that. It's for all you graphically challenged and lexically hypertrophied types out there.

Option (C): Multimedia. Yup. It's options A + B stuck together with tape and bubble gum. Do it!

Option (D): Put thumb up butt and don't do anything. It's ok. We still think yer cool.