The Cracked Earth
“A long line of women snaked away down the block under a banner: YOUR FAVORITE SOAP HUNK SIGNS YOUR BRA. A woman at the head of the line fled, squealing happily, and a fortyish matron stepped forward to a card table on the sidewalk and tugged a sweater up to reveal a thick white bra. A young man in a muscle shirt leaned forward with a Magic Marker to ask something and then write on her breast. Two other young men stood beside him, all with the dark chiseled sort of looks you saw in Esquire ads, signing away as women unbuttoned their blouses and bent forward with no apparent reticence. We’re back to the postmodern, he thought.
“MUMBLE!”
“Mumble frotz!”
The two programmers exchanged something like a high-five, though Admiral Wicks couldn’t reach very high out of his lightweight wheelchair.
“Gloat on. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Gloat off,” Michael Chen exulted. “We did it, Liffey-san. Well, we did segment one.”
“Smile, man. You are looking very thirty years ago. Especially with that big goose eg...g on your cheek.”MoreLess
“MUMBLE!”
“Mumble frotz!”
The two programmers exchanged something like a high-five, though Admiral Wicks couldn’t reach very high out of his lightweight wheelchair.
“Gloat on. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Gloat off,” Michael Chen exulted. “We did it, Liffey-san. Well, we did segment one.”
“Smile, man. You are looking very thirty years ago. Especially with that big goose eg...g on your cheek.”MoreLess
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