From: wendell.martin@matrix.sbs.com (Wendell Martin)
Subject: GIBSON 1
Date: 10 Jun 92 21:47:00 GMT

I wrote this after reading William Gibson's claim that "I really
wanted to work with a range of language that would make me feel
better about the critics who seem to think I'm a sort of Raymond
Chandler pastische artist, that I write terse, punchy cyberpunk
prose. Which I've always thought was horseshit anyway. I thought it
would be really nice if I could write a book in which I could use
absolutely the full range og my non-colloquial vocabulary, and to
demonstrate that it is rather large." -> from Nexus 24-15

Since he was referring to Difference Engine, and since it SUCKED
compared to his "primative" CP stuff:


NewRomancer

by Billy Bob "I can write better than this...really!" Gibson

SHEBA CITY BLUES

1

     The sky was the color of a television tuned to a channel
     broadcasting a picture of the sky.  Sase wandered down
     the street, his mind clouded by the Centrums he had just
     swallowed.  The beta carotene was a shock to his weakened
     system; he saw orange bunnies hopping in the corners of
     his vision.

     He stumbled into the Chat'n'bowl combination bar/bowling alley.
     Rat was tending bar, his myoelectric head jerking randomly.
     "Wedge was in here earlier <bzzz>. He have business with you
     <do-wheet>?"

     Sase had learned to ignore the random sounds produced by Rat's
     cheap vox unit.  His head was a surplus one from Bob's Big Boy,
     stuffed with ancient circuitry.  "You are too much the cendrier,
     Herr Sase <breedle>."  His Shoney's head tottered erratically.
     "You are the artist of the somewhat curdled deal <foop>."  He
     passed Sase his drink of choice, a Yoo-Hoo with a straw.

     "The Burmese," bellowed a drunken Montenegran, "they invented
     nerve splicing.  They can fix you up right!"

     "Now that," muttered Sase, blowing bubbles with the straw, "is
     so much donkey poop."

     The Japanese had already let their patents expire on more
     neurosurgery than any other inhabitants of the New Greater
     East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere had ever known.  The black
     clinics in Sheba City were cutting edge, and still they couldn't
     repair the damage he'd suffered in that Bedford Falls hotel.
     He'd made the classic mistake of stealing from his employers.
     He'd kept something for himself and tried to move it through a
     fence in Tblisi.  When he was caught, he'd expected to die, but
     they only smiled. He was welcome to keep the hot copy of Wing
     Commander XVI: The Really, Really Secret Missions, they explained,
     because he was never going to work again.

     They damaged his nervous system with a Serbian extract made from
     cheap Banquet TV dinners.  Strapped to the hotel bed, his talent
     burning out millipicometer by millipicometer, he belched for thirty

     hours.

     Sase realized he had finished his Yoo-Hoo by the loud slurping
     sounds he was making.  He looked up to see Wedge's face.  It
     was a tanned and forgettable mask; like that of the old
     television actor, David Hasselhof.  The eyes were vat-grown
     Minolta implants, one green, one red.  Wedge wore a suit of
     mauve with little magenta care bears printed on it.  He was
     flanked by his arnoldboys, nearly identical large men, their
     tiny heads perched on massive bodies bulging with muscle.

     (continued next message)





     (from last message)

     "Wie geht's, Herr Sase?"

     "Gentlemen, I want no trouble here <feep>," intoned Rat, his
     painted head suddenly menacing.  He directed their attention to
     his Vatican City waiter across the room.  The boy held a 200-mm
     automatic mortar launcher, its barrel wrapped in Saran Wrap and
     shoestrings.  The skeletal magazine revealed five water balloons,
     filled with cheap, mail-order perfume.

     Sase pulled out an X-Acto knife he had purchased from a street
     vendor.  "Somebody said you wanted to off me, Wedge."

     "Who?" asked Wedge.  "Lurah Lee, the gal you dropped weeks ago?
     Surely you didn't believe her?"

     "Err, no, um, of course not," mumbled Sase, not wanting to
     reveal that she was his source.  "What do I look, stupid?"
     Sase suddenly felt tired, the Centrums were wearing thin.
     He took the bottle out of his pocket and handed it to Wedge.
     "All I got.  Honey Dijon Ranch.  Should get you $1.97 if you
     sell it before the expiration date."

     "You okay, Sase?" Wedge asked, slipping the bottle down his
     pants.  "This'll square us, but you look bad.  You better go
     somewhere and sleep."

     "Go home, beignet <pfaltz>, "said Rat.

     "Yah, take a nap," rumbled the two arnoldboys in their thick
     Austrian accents.

     The bar crowd began chanting: "Go home, go home..."

     "I think I'll go home," Sase mumbled, staggering out the door.

     Sase made his way back to the Cheap Hotel and glanced up at its
     bright orange roof before going in.  He climbed several ladders
     and stumbled along the rickety catwalk until he stood before the
     plastic coffin that served as home.  When he fed his key into
     the slot, the hatch rose vertically with a groan of springs.
     Fluorescents came on as he crawled in.

     "Close the hatch real slow friend."

     She sat at the far end of the coffin.  She wore a black leather
     outfit and mirrored glasses; a can of Silly String was in her
     hand.  "I use this, you won't be able to comb your hair for
     weeks.  Close the hatch."

     Sase obeyed.  He realized the glasses were surgically inset,
     sealing her sockets.  "So what do you want?"

     "You, alive, brains intact.  My name's Molly.  Molly McButter.
     I'm collecting you for a man I work for.  Nobody wants to hurt
     you."

     "That's good," said Sase.  He looked relieved as she lowered
     the can.

     "Don't get any stupid ideas," she said raising her hand,
     showing her burgundy nails.  "Or else..."  She paused
     dramatically.  Nothing happened.  "Damn," she muttered,
     slamming her hand against the wall.  With a high-pitched
     squeak, three razor blades sprang from her nails, one
     only half-way.  "Or else I'll mess you up," she finished weakly.


Well, that's it so far.

Since this is a personal rant, you can't repro it.  If you want to,
let me know and I'll probably allow it.

Please direct any and all comments to wendell.martin@matrix.sbs.com.

Thanks much.