Modempunk

*EEEEE-EEEEE-EEEEE-EEEEE-KKKKKKSHHHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEEEE-SHHHHHHHHHHH-VRRRRRRRRR-SHHHH*

Monty leaned in, his face reflecting in the murky gray screen, the characters bathing his features in monochromatic green. The IIE purred underneath the monitor as the light flickered, all 110 ks of data crossing over at a speed he wouldn't have even dreamed of five years ago. He spun his chair around and checked the television monitor. Someone had Astley'd him - Monty kicked back and watched the flickering rendition, feet tapping along to the approximated midi beat.

Someone knocked on his door. Monty turned down the volume dial on the television and spun around. "Who is it?"

"It's Christie!" a female voice yelled from the other side. "Open up, asshole!"

Monty smirked and propelled his chair backward, rolling the short distance across the cramped room to grab the door handle and twist it open. Suddenly she was inside - five foot nine inches, with hair that took it up another three and spread out like a corona around her head. Loud and vital with the ripped neck of her white RELAX shirt down almost to her elbow. A modified Walkman was strapped to her thigh like a pistolero's prized revolver.

She slammed the door, kicking up the paper taped to the inside. A dot matrix rendition of Mary Lou Retton with the caption NOT! fluttered and settled back down.

"They fucking passed it! This is so fucking not cool." She tossed the box of disks in her hand onto his lap and leaned over him to tap out a cybersite code. His nostrils were infused with the scent of L.A. Looks. "Stare hard, retard," she murmured hoarsely, the fabric of her t-shirt stretching as she pressed into him.

The cursor blinked for a few seconds before the screen flooded with letters, as a four-color image of the Big Cheese filled in the top right corner.

"So what's on the disks?" Monty asked, leaning back to read over the side of Christie's hair. On the screen, the characters spelled out the end of the free world. Everything in this room was now punishable by fines, jail time, forcible service, or exportation to one of the corporate colonies overseas to spend a few years plugging code at gunpoint. The Man had finally come down on what the kids had been up to in the last decade or so, ever since the grad students at MIT and their home tape readers.

"Birthday present," she said, stretching back up. "I want a smoke. Let's go outside."

Monty glanced at her as she moved toward the door, then to the box, now slightly tilted on his lap, before picking it up and setting it on the desk. He tapped out an exit command as Christie bent down to relace her boot. The computer honked at him and he glanced back at the screen, retyping the command.

QUIT EVERYTHING?

Y/N

Out on the street, Monty slouched along past nearly-naked mannequins and giant screens blaring ads. The scrolling lines on the screens made his brain ache. The press of traffic on the sidewalk buffeted him from side to side as Christie strode next to him, oblivious to the people that parted around her. She took a drag and blew an acrid cloud into the face of a streetside laserdisk vendor that tried to stop her, driving him back cursing, the copy of Moonwalker slipping to the ground.

The giant screens on the Panasonic building were showing loops of smiles and handshakes. Twenty feet in front of him, a pair of thugs in riot gear pummeled a couple of afro-headed kids while a third smashed open their plastic case, sending floppy discs fluttering to the ground. The wind caught some and sent them cartwheeling into traffic. The sheep knotted up as they approached, crossing in two neat single-file lines, eyes straight ahead. Monty caught a blip of a garbled protest from one of the kids through a mouthful of blood.

The street was mostly empty - the ones that could afford to drive around didn't do it during the daytime around here, where they were as likely to be carjacked as have their tires slashed at an intersection. Monty tried to remember the last time that he had ridden in a car. His parents had owned one, back before the Arabs started pinching off the oil.

It had come at a bad time - poor people that would have spent their meager earnings on immediate gratifications could get their entertainment for free if they knew how. The technology was already out there, and people had the incentive to learn. The entertainment industry was drying up, and as more people turned to pirated information, the cycle was what?

Exponential?

Monty didn't know.