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It’s a good life. Lola club, left on fourth, two blocks straight up to The Happy Clam, knock at the back door, tell Deborah the password (usually vulgar) and you’re in. No cops, no rules, no fire code, totally off the radar.
This is where we fix our machines. They’re pink and bulky but designed to look harmless like an Ipod or a non-stick toaster. The carapaces are easily removed. Revealed, deep inside, is the sinister reality of the warp cores. The glittering no-light they throw on the walls create dancing shadows of people that aren’t there. The rays are shuffled in time. It’s a creepy effect.
We have screwdrivers and belt loops for hammer handles. We have goggles and memorized manuals. We’re experienced technicians putting our babies together and customizing the shit out of them.
These are the world changers. We all live in Santa Barbara. The machines are handed down family lines or sometimes passed laterally to good friends.
Very rarely, a stranger is brought into the mix if there are no trustworthy or living people mentioned in the underground will and testament.
The last time a stranger was brought it was when they brought in me. Red Rebecca. They liked the cut of my jib, they said, and my cherry-red road hog. It’s not like I had anything better to do.
And to own my own world-changer? I snapped at the opportunity. Faked death, changed identity, and Robert was indeed my father’s brother. On paper, at least.
Now here we were in what we called The Lunchroom, loud sixties rock coming out of the old stereo on a milk crate in the corner. We sat at stolen picnic tables and worked hard. We smoked cigarettes and drank bourbon.
And concentrated. Underneath the music was the ratchet of ratchets and the wrenching of wrenches. Tools were traded and parameters were upgraded.
Adding the ideas came last. The warp core’s shell was unscrewed and the unending wormhole was left without a shield for six minutes while we focused our will on the glittering purple brilliance.
The ideas were funneled into the broadcasters. The machines were tricked out and packed up. They were stuffed back into purses, backpacks, and saddlebags.
We meet every week. We put the ideas out there. Whether they take root or not isn’t up to us but we’re doing the best we can.
tags
This is where we fix our machines. They’re pink and bulky but designed to look harmless like an Ipod or a non-stick toaster. The carapaces are easily removed. Revealed, deep inside, is the sinister reality of the warp cores. The glittering no-light they throw on the walls create dancing shadows of people that aren’t there. The rays are shuffled in time. It’s a creepy effect.
We have screwdrivers and belt loops for hammer handles. We have goggles and memorized manuals. We’re experienced technicians putting our babies together and customizing the shit out of them.
These are the world changers. We all live in Santa Barbara. The machines are handed down family lines or sometimes passed laterally to good friends.
Very rarely, a stranger is brought into the mix if there are no trustworthy or living people mentioned in the underground will and testament.
The last time a stranger was brought it was when they brought in me. Red Rebecca. They liked the cut of my jib, they said, and my cherry-red road hog. It’s not like I had anything better to do.
And to own my own world-changer? I snapped at the opportunity. Faked death, changed identity, and Robert was indeed my father’s brother. On paper, at least.
Now here we were in what we called The Lunchroom, loud sixties rock coming out of the old stereo on a milk crate in the corner. We sat at stolen picnic tables and worked hard. We smoked cigarettes and drank bourbon.
And concentrated. Underneath the music was the ratchet of ratchets and the wrenching of wrenches. Tools were traded and parameters were upgraded.
Adding the ideas came last. The warp core’s shell was unscrewed and the unending wormhole was left without a shield for six minutes while we focused our will on the glittering purple brilliance.
The ideas were funneled into the broadcasters. The machines were tricked out and packed up. They were stuffed back into purses, backpacks, and saddlebags.
We meet every week. We put the ideas out there. Whether they take root or not isn’t up to us but we’re doing the best we can.
tags