Sunday, October 9, 2016

Unfinished Stories


Unfinished Stories


~Spaceman Tom~


    Tom Haggard was a space man. Derelict in the word like all the now functionless garbage orbiting the planet. Driven by the occult forces that tempt droves of humans into committing mass suicide, indoctrinated by the delusion of the masses, shilled dreams of exploiting the riches and abundance of the lifeless vacuum that surround the lonely blue orb that swallowed his pride and gorged itself upon the dreams of the meek and gullible people.
    The bustle of the drone’s stirred restlessness in the wanderer, accustomed to such tonal dissonance only from the delirium induced by the torturous isolation which had warped his mind over the final decades of the society that once blossomed in the abyssal void. The humans that pass by his meager frame draped over a bench drifted across his gaze as the palpable phantoms haunting the lifeless world he is damned to. To Haggard, this world has never existed. The world of encapsulated vessels replicating all life as if the womb of an omnipotent goddess, the only world he knows, has long since consumed itself.
    Peacetime in it’s torturous irony had wrought the most torturous deaths, the pilgrims of the final frontier had largely been abandoned by their hosts, and slowly withered into disrepair as the weight of emigration and the subsequent disrepair turned the massive metal biomes into deserts lacking the people to sustain their life-giving systems. The negligible issues slowly summated into the critical failures that led to the deaths of thousands. Circulation systems left without repairs led to their inevitable demise, and the slow suffocation over the course of hours of the eighty four people still remaining on the 147th Grand Vessel of the Flotilla, most of them too poor or too proud to abandon their fated coffin.
    Tom had a simple job as a customs officer, preventing smuggling and unauthorized transfer of goods, people, or otherwise in-between Vessels. This type of work had become necessary to counter the problems brought about when the economic boon of these ships had faltered, and hard times caused people to resort to rather unsavory methods of furnishing their hedonistic desires.
    The merit of these human infested canisters floating at arbitrary points within the Stellar Sea was simple. They exist to provide a grounds to process and store goods transferred between the colonial planets, largely Mars, and Earth. Rather than resort to paying the burdensome taxes that plague the societies of Earth, businessmen established their own manufactory in space to avoid such fees. This supple revelation of Rockefeller bore plentiful fruit, just as it had in the 19th Century, and thus people flocked towards this industry of extra-planetary outsourcing being tempted by prospects of higher wages, lower taxes, and job security.
    As with every boon tasted by man, the temptations of vice soon followed, and the stories of the wild debauchery and careless lifestyles of the spacers brought the immigrants en masse, each one tired of the humdrum and wage slavery endeared by the ruling parties of Earth. These were the good times, and for decades,  life was but a party on a yacht for those in the trades of vice. Be it pimping, pushing, or prostitution, all roads seemed to yield success, even the everyman could live large on the weekends without breaking his back.
    To those seeking entry into the illicit heavens, Tom was Saint Peter at the Gates. With no authority over that of God, in this case, the nephew of a rich business man, Tom would take a portion of whatever came through the docking bay if it suited the fancy of his superiors. Money, guns, drugs, women, and children were all but the bounty to be reaped by the Lord’s Proprietor. Tom was esteemed by the elite for his taste in all fields of delectability, and thus held this position with rightful airs.
    Rising from the ranks of a lowly club owner, renown for emulating the traditional tribute paid to the Proprietor, seeing himself in a way as the king of his own little castle. The grass was always greener in Tom’s club, and as his popularity soared amongst the plebeians of space, as did the quality of leisure at his disposal, and thus his power over the people enthralled by their vices. It was this pursuit of the finer things in life which ushered Mr. Haggard through the ranks and ultimately to his nearly divine power over the constituents of this heaven.
    This once legendary man now stared blankly at the grey walls of the urban blight, his palate and persona now useless to the stoicism of the heartless society mass produced like bacterial cultures to create the ideal working man, free from temptation and immune to pleasure, conditioned to work mindlessly like ants. The man who never knew pleasure would not think to seek it out, and these were men that bustled past the listless Tom, laughing cynically in a mix of spite and delirium. These men knew laughter only as the symptom of the insane and delirious, scurrying past Tom as if his sickness were contagious.

    Tom was a rather feeble man, being reared by and accustomed to synthetic gravity induced by the iron plates in the clothing spacers wore and the magnetized floors of the Vessel. Alms were unheard of amongst the Earth-dwellers, but in light of the tragedy that befell the colonists of space, Tom was able to survive as a refugee. Expected to work, yet largely disinterested, he used his age as a scapegoat and lived off of rations. He often slept in train stations, where the passers by would presume he was waiting for somebody and thus paid him no mind.
    Much of his life, Tom simply had to wait for pleasure, and it would come to him. Now he waits for pleasure once again, but the only foreseeable pleasure would be to slip away into the darkness of death, the thought he found most comforting, as it seems to him like returning to his boyhood home in the cold blackness of space.
    Dreams of staring into the perpetual starlight peeking through a large window in a dark lounge upon the Vessel. Learned in the simple things enough to seek his own way, Tom’s beginnings as the son of a Civility Patrolman and a seamstress, would soon leave their humble roots. The Civility Patrol was the name of the civilian group entrusted to beat rowdy drunkards and remove any sort of nuisance from an otherwise “civil” place. Law was not a tangible reality upon Tom’s native vessel, instead the sentiments of the people would govern what was appropriate, and the Civility Patrol were civil enough to respect them.
    Those that truly were uncivil were usually greeted with death, as the Vessel had no system to provide adjudication, and instead people were entrusted to resolve their own issues. Execution was the punishment for irreparable wrongdoings such as murder, but for more trivial matters, there was often a less violent resolution, which was often enslavement. These folk, known as impudent chattel, were expected to earn enough money to repay the debt they had caused, and these sorts of arrangements could last for generations if the perpetrator had done such wrong that would justify these things. The population of the Vessel was there to make money, they had no interest in pleasing God or any other ghost that might be tickled by morality.



 (I was not sticky writing this one)

~ Asia Book ~

(I was a little sticky writing this one…)

you lady

your burn in, of your life into time

that time graph, 4 d bitch. you see that 4th line, that steady bitch, 100% chance to win, the line graph that plays like a record. you can’t afford the television to watch it 100%, who would have that many eyes, that multi view in terms of energy would be noticeable. Who pays that power bill, 100%. What % is that, of all things happening, in reality, or existence; well, 0% in existence, because things that fail to exist like infinity, being there. But reality was always a closed set, so there was a finite percent that functions at 100% correct what was happening, but sadly the infinite number of things that could happen in the future, on account of meaningless self creating reiteration robots, swarming after the collapse of the universe, that may not happen, and have an insignificant probability of actually surviving the collapse of ghosting of reality, but it could sadly happen, and this could last a very long time, but if it were homogenous, the counting of this would be accessible to this band of swarming, “i eat planets and shit babies, space locust robots, willing to shape the remaining dust into what could be another deathless machine, but in times of entertainment, these numberous harmonicas would sacrifice themselves into the recycling balls and sacrifice the needed resources, natural or otherwise, time, diligence, people, well these people, populous amalgamous  insignificant masslings into noticeable death planets, upon absolution of the technology or population, would be good to them and bring the good back, and the indifference to being alive would lead to massive populations being sacked into the stage of massive attraction, artificial and otherwise natural from the huge mass of the intergalactic graveyard, so tightly maintained as to achieve perfection into a single particle, so massive no other force in the universe could withstand to it’s magnificent power, so concentrated and amplified. Knowing by  Jesus it was possible to exploit the rotations in play of the fragments of the previous explosion, to gravitationally create harmonics, and take another by waving in in the rope form, like a Jacob’s Ladder and doing tricks with it, on too many levels, with harmonic chords, because you only care about the first one, because it was the strongest, if you had a problem, it was the major dynamic, the others were sound, and if you cared about the sound, like the sound was a person, that was ok. the first one was the gravity, and there were people living in it, or time, but ironically the sound dimension, where you see the old sound, and yes it was a dimension, a wave of exhaust; in predicting the future, or knowing all when this machine would idle until opportune in the vast darkness of the glimpse of space. \\In darkness, to whoever was too busy doing something else. was otherwise unharmed by this, obviously these same such machines, literally almost terminator, but they cannot time travel. This is the only thing making the terminator superior, and yet these things realized that they were not the terminator, yet wanted to either finally become terminator, or encounter one, were seeking the answer to the question of time travel themselves, finding themselves unable to answer the question, but still hoping, running out of the time of the days in the year of the counted 14 trillion days or so years of optimism, before the inevitable collapse of unpreserved matter. Kiting, literally fishing people out of the clouds of debris, coalescing like a slick spiderweb dripping people as if it were the moring dew on the local familiar spider, led like a young horse to a carrot, falling through the darkness, some kind of waves, those god damn machines fly around, but time, i would still throw that bitch on a line graph on your god damn time. It’s not a line segment, but it’s just a digital watch, but you call it the lifeline, because it’s got the time graph, right on the watch, even just a line on an analog watch, because you have the line, but the other t was adjacent to the dial of the watch, i’ve got 4d graphs, it’s right there, it doesn’t have any end or finish, because however convenient and binding time is, it is actually a fictitious element created by humans to measure things. Time may seem like a reality, but easily time and space-time are two different things, time exists without space. But still it doesn’t waver, but someone might want one with a box in the left hard, saying,  like [t ~ time], because some people don’t read too many graphs. t could be anything, someone might want a [p for pigeons, there’s the lifeline, with p for pigeons and your heartbeat. there’s the led time. it can hear all of the pigeons in an area, and tell your heartbeat, it’s time. with the analogue face, it’s only a a watch. It will always tell you the time, you could do any thing, but you can only talk to it, because you are not a computer like these machines, telepathic obviously through means similar to internet, and cellular phone communication. Even radar, or telescope style. The irony of the machine is that it was so perfect it took aeons to die, and had no objection to travel. Organization as slow as it may seem, would never seem to offend a machine, it may take years to travel through the slow ways of the machine, but still the tendency to congregate would compel the machine through the slow space of time, to be just a chair and still have the machine faith. The lack of impulse of the machine would simply idle the machine as the insect like autonomous robots could easily be ice dead in a second. Knowing how to communicate well, even if you had lasers, the persistence of searching for beams was quality and the native tongue of the robot. These things have no real intention other than to replicate and control the end of the physical universe. Almost like a farm, perhaps these machines wanted quality VHS to barter with on idle mind worlds, you may know everything in time machines, but when you only have present, thats the only time on the graph. Can a thing RNG the water boy, or joe dirt, to sell indefinitely, endlessly. Only through dead capitalization. The machine through insect eyes, could barter, life long opportunity to take in complete immersion in the alternate worlds of existence; complete immersion accomplished through cybernetic hybridization.  Proven success. No complaints about missing organs. 100% robot. May through unknown sciences, entangle particles, even read the gravity of an area, a wind compass for the wave. Still in short only hiving planets and self sustenance. The consumer creature had instilled the computers enchant able handiness to be hungry, to want to feed itself power, live. Feed me, I am your baby, even if I am still only a baby lizard, i am your pocket computer. I could use a drink from the homogenous taste of lizard sustenance. And such, allthewhile idling, nature of the machine. Failure. This graph was but a substance of a man who others may find like a ribbon across the sky, any point in past or present, rolling it into a film canister. To these machines of pure technology, the measurement of and recording of all aspects of reality was sufficient to comfort them from their innate overpowering fear of the terminator, ensured that the maximum possible effort will be set forth to resolve any issues were such an event to occur. Time manipulation may seem like wink and a smlle kind of thing, but the man who can open the door to x,y,z,t an take you to x2,y2,z2,t2, may well also take you through x2,yx2,z2, ? where time may not even exists, or he steals a boat of migrants to an empty world in another strip of time that can steal wireless internet through the proximity of the reality within the layers of the nearly overlapping parallel universe. Able to fashion themselves to sustain off of the internet, this machine has connections to alternate worlds, yet took 1000 years in this place over a blink of a second, to reimpliment the taken migrants all on a boat, in a matter of a second, an odd bit of static crisped through the air. The migrants left to themselves as their purpose had been accomplished, to indoctrinate this reality so thoughtfully tastefully temping these mindless drones to attempt to once again accomplish their intentions, for if these scallawags could take and implement such manipulation of time, still, these machinations could not see the future, nor manipulate it. This was only the influencing of, for time had not changed, the time on the wristwatch was still ticking on. The goal was resonant, to further the observation and recording in the quest of total omniscience in accordance with the prevention of the possible case of a terminator. The travel of something small like a person, is easy enough, for the thing that looked like a chair and a robot, but a bit flat, a triangle looking chair, with it’s hauntingly dextrous limbs, tenuous lifespan, and the ability to survive in space would not quite aid their quest for a peaceful reprise in their adventure. So in their place the humans were indoctrinated in the cause of to create such a scenario where inter-ribbon transport could be facilitated more easily, through preparation on both sides of the tasty-slide. The machines were as subtle as they were invisible in the darkness, and still the rotational collection of ribbons these artists had collected was massive, so planting such a reasonable accommodation itself become accommodated. The overlay had been prepared for through the Argonauts of the usual deadspace between the ribbon being displaced as their ballon of ribbons overlapped the three in perfect succession, the only opportunity these fellows would have at accomplishing the round trip time displacement in their entire possession of these two ribbons. Still as the chances were slim, they sent along this dog like creature with limited omniscience, it was merely to attempt to record what happens, itself being quite a small machine, the size of a small unknown species of bug. The hope-free 100% nonchalant cognition of the computer followed protocol and left one for diagnostics of probable failure.
    The 200 Asians being smuggled into the country illegally by the United States government. Now stood dumbfounded, yet vaguely aware of being remarkably different looking to each other, each identifying each other for the first time, conditioned to believe in this reality, regardless of failing to experience it. The time shock of going to a slower realm hitting them as a large wave did in a storm.

“I can’t tell no slant eyes apart, but these eyes looking extra shifty, like one is about to jump. “ says a guard.

“You couldn’t fight off this golden horde here, hoss? Never noticed how there was only one Bruce Lee but so many damn chinamen? These here sway like a paper house, lord knows what would happen if it got wet. ” retorted the subjected crewman, tired, and thumbing through come Chinese fliers for various stores, the idle yeoman contented with his time spent in the Americanized East. “

You don’t think the chinks would try to pull a fast one?” the first questioned.

“The Japs tried that a while back and it didn’t go to well, now did it?” the authority said dismissively. He sat back with his fliers “I trust these Asians more than you, holding that fucking gun like  each one of these chinamen is Tonto and planning his escape .”

“You don’t just get suspicions and fail to shake them? You would be the one judo chopped by a ninja in the darkness, so at ease one chop kills you, sleep is the cousin of death. Just because he isn’t bruce lee doesn’t mean he won’t Ninja stealth his way into your throat with your head in the papers like that.”

“What, we don’t all like to look at a crowd of Asians for hours on end, what can I say, some people are just stray from the crowd, you act like it’s your passion and calling in life. I for one appreciate the asian business, these fellows probably went to college. You didn’t go to college Nigger.” says the authority.
    “At least i’m smart enough to know I’m not colored, hoss.” sassed the young soldier.
    “I’m not good with names, I just call everybody Nigger. I’m not your buddy, i’m not your friend, i ain’t no fella, you ain’t my brother, you sure as hell ain’t my man, and for damn certain are no Sir. I don’t see any name suitable for the rats they let crawl through the gates to eat, drink, and shoot guns for free. Peactime signups like you don’t know shit about the hard times. I can’t see how you don’t act like a rich man at a golf tournament, this is the live of privilege and you know nothing of the true colors of this style of negotiable relations.” The passive aggressive old man in the chair gruffed.
    The secretly amused chairman took what his chance to buddy up to the two. “Do you like Terminator?”
    “Terminator? It was a great movie. See, look at how American he is already.”
        “Do you think it is real?”
            “No, god damn it, it was a movie.” bickers the young gun.
                “Will you fight the terminator?” the asian continues
                    “What the fuck, what terminator?”the private barks
    “I’ll fight any god damn terminator. They’ll call me Ravaging Ronald when i’m through with them. I’ll auction their corpses like a gold miner who struck diamonds.” the authority remarks, bold and nonchalant and unshakably confident, yet not facetious enough to have any enthusiasm for his remarks.
    “Yes, that is good. Very good.” the asian says.
        “I am the terminator.” says the kid.
    “Oh no, very bad.” the asian man says with concern in his voice, face still incapable of expressing emotion. The eyes close slightly tighter, and the face more tense, the corners of the eyes seem to arch like a cat’s, ever so slightly.
    “He couldn’t terminate anything save for every possibility to raise in the ranks of the military, and he does that execution style without remorse. the old man scoffs.
    “I don’t like the terminator.” The asian man with the stern bold wisdom instilled through the centuries by asian mystics and their secret magical dancing and recantation of the lives  the most reserved and strict of asians through their folklore.
    “Good.” says the old man, humored by the asian.
    “What about the one good terminator?” intrigues youth sarcastically.
    “That man is The Governor now, you call him The Governor”
    “It is very small chance for good terminator, no reason.” the asian sighs pessimistically
    “But the good shall prevail, as always.” assures the authority
    “He’s the governor now. So i guess it does prevail.” the kid chimed in
    The asian looked hurt and confused, unknowing as to if these foreigners had indeed encountered and befriended a terminator. His upbringing was detached and entirely focused on his destiny as a replacement. Nobody had mentioned this to him in his years of training. He knew however that humans were aware of the terminator through a pirated copy of the film. The most that this knowledge could do is instill a deep fear inside of himself, triggering him to feel the need to live with utmost caution.
    Some of other the asians also appeared upset. There was some murmuring in their tongue, the subtle foreshadowing of commotion prompted the old staff sear gent. “Damn it, the terminator isn’t real, that is propaganda.”
    This reassured them, but still the moment of surprise and fear had pierced through them, some of them still bleeding with a faint tremble or the slightest glisten of sweat.
    The asians murmured amongst themselves, most fatigued from the journey, their fates known to their shepherds but not to them. A wise man once said “My office is a professional office, we work at a professional level, so we are instating an employee draft, just like the type that drives competition in the professional levels of other affairs.” This quickly turned into a chaotic market of selling rightless people and others buying themselves rights. Some chose to buy people and then refrain from giving them rights, such was the case of these draftees, who would be “entertaining” the professional world for a chance to stay in the American marketplace, and  be offered commitment offers should they prove themselves. These seldom end in citizenship, yet people often take them simply to funnel money into whatever endeavors may need it, this regardless of the well known fact that your fate is entirely out of your control and the government owns you in the form of a delicate mix between prisoner, slave, and employee. The asians didn’t seem to mind these things, often their governments were equally or more so oppressive, causing this opportunity to look amazing on the freedom ladder that every man must climb.
    The freedom ladder was well known to everyone, they say no man makes it to the top, each one a slave to those above him, each owns at least a part of anthers time, effort, energy, and commitment to being alive. So far as anyone could tell, the richest were so engulfed in the commitments of making money that they never truly were able to reach the top. The thought seldom crossed the mind of the Americans, but the asians could feel the terminator at the bottom. To think of this was to think of their own resolute extermination, this was the river that drown a small child’s sibling in their view, the ultimate force of nature itself, inevitable defeat of all extant intelligence in the current time. If slavery could liberate a man from his freedom, this freedom would universally eradicate the sufferings of existing.
    “You just wait till we get to California, you’ll all blend in like a fish in a pond. Some may even call your people an invasive species, but the wise remind them of the survival of the fittest.” the elder said as the asian smiled politely, blankly and at ease, understanding the important fragments of what was said. 
    The young gun laughed “Invasive? Ha, these are our pets.” as he tapped the talkative one on the face.” the asian embarrassed.
    “Until your dogs become wolves, then you are alone once again in the wilderness.” The authority says smoking his pipe, and staring boldly at the thought stricken novice zealot of freedom.
    The silence is a bit timid, frustrated and embarrassed, the sergeant still resonating in the booming wisdom he echoed of the wilds of his youth.
    “Yes.” the asian says after a bit of silence.
    The sergeant stares at him for a second, confused, yet indifferent to being confused. Bold, meaningless, secretly playful seriousness graced his eyes, “Yes…” the sergeant reaffirms. The private stares at his elder a bit speechless, looks at the ground, then gently pats the asian on the back as he softly says “Yes…”

    ~~~~
   
    “These asians are worth a lot of money, you make sure they look nice.” a man barked from the halls as he escorted the asians off of the boat. The draft had been predetermined, and the sales were final. Handfuls of buyers showed up, nonchalant, some in the commoners limousine, the faithful 15 passenger van. Eager to inspect their fare before finalizing on the agreements, doctors in sports coats looked around, eyes squinting into the distance, cautious as always, some fondled cufflinks as others combed their hair, a rather round man with a non remarkable track jacket ate indifferently on the hood of the car. Business is business and people were still remarkably good at being busy. Reputations seated this odd collection of doctors and their trusted chauffeurs 
    Some of the small buyers come alone, one man whistled audibly as the parade of people come off of the ship, he must have been pleased with what he saw. The gaggle of otherwise non remarkable people formed a spectrotroop of yellow and black, some asians darker than the others.
    A well dressed Asian man watching the workers says to a guard “They’re all Chinese.” He was surprised, the usual fare would often be taken from various places, many people of questionable background. Other ports would take in from other lands, but this lowly port in the northern nameless town in California handles all trafficking of this sorts.
    “Big money moving in the markets. People looking for more return on their investments.”
        “I can see that bitch paying off tenfold. You put her to work in film.”
            “I could get a lot more work out of her than that.
The crowd is pleased, the doctors strip them and pull the out the physical, others with less interest in the health, happy that the assured quality was delivered. An assortment of people interacted with the asians, businessmen who bought a peculiar few speaking largely in Chinese. Another strict professional looked them over habitually indifferently, telling them in Chinese “Get on the bus.”, he knew that phrase in many languages, and when he failed, waving the gun in a  polite manner would get the trick done.
    Of course the Government would take plenty them away in a few big rigs, at least the most of the imports, yet today there were only two, sparsely populated trucks with people herded into them today. Tired eyes from the man of the public reminded the private investors either high on cocaine or high on success, of the rumored failures of the governments trails. People presumed the government used many of the asians in experiments to create an even more successful asian, handling them like dogs, training them like dogs as if it were the breeder’s cup, keeping lineage of things like asian fighting mastery, intelligence, and craftiness, in order to selectively breed them, and often sell them to people, by facetious means of adoption or otherwise honest business dealings. The asians continue to dominate many areas of the private sector, but largely keep to themselves. The fear was that Asia would be able to advance the asian race themselves, in order to more methodically advance themselves above their fierce global competition.
    The port workers paid no mind, they had no options on immigration, few even knew what the concept was. Live in die in North California, these humble souls knew little but legends of the dock that pays well and employs uneducated people. There was little business around these areas, the drought had stricken the desert harshly and the people that could had fled to the livable areas, those that couldn’t lived in the rural setting of idle business for the dock town, itself of course taking small time import/export fair, but spreading little success locally, as most all of the products were destined for far away lands, some purpose or another to acquire the goods and services the public funding would offer. So satisfied with the purchase, the man threw a “Got it 4 Cheap” t-shirt at a dock man, deciding that one of his accompaniment should wear something sexier than the slacks and casual office attire that the asians would wear, but putting the woman’s dignity above a loose fitting t-shirt. Perhaps he was frustrated that he didn’t get it for cheap, but a free shirt is something, especially an import, as most sustenance these desert fellows had received comes from SoCo, the machine cult of the Social Company had replaced the asian manufacturing industry with a fully automated manufacturing industry, supporters arguing, that it beats the asians, and we lost those jobs a long time ago, we gain something for nothing, it’s a win win.
    Other than the occasional beating, arbitrary or otherwise deserved, to any sign of disobedience, the exchange ran without any peculiarity and the clientele were happily serviced with their taking. The asians were fairly selfless after living under the autonomy of their local State, knowing life and death is on the line when cooperating with forms of government, the asians simply had a larger crowd to corral, and thus had to do this with a heavier hand. It was a convenient mentality to those now fatefully blood pledged to the freedom of America, and they would surely die for this freedom, however free it may be, these asians understand the cost of freedom. Unlike some imports, these asians value that freedom. The relative peace of the exchange was what comforted the dock workers.
    “Someone always has got to be a menace, but i guess they caught that guy before they even got off the boat.” one says to another.
        “I’ve seen others get it worse, makes me kind of think they don’t even know what their in for.”
    “Makes you think of each wrangler’s heyday in itself. I’ve seen some bad motherfuckers come off of that boat. Kill a man with their bare hands.”
        “One if by land, and two if at sea.”
    “They must have figure out Brazilians are too crazy to tame, seldom do i see them requested much anymore.”
        “The asian is calm in times of strife, much easier to reason with.”
    “You think they’re all like the chinamen that work here?
        “Obedience is in their blood, for centuries. The group mentality, you can’t tell your cousin from one has no relation to. This sort of precaution drives the communal feel. They ride that one.”
    “These seem to ride whatever one they please.”
        “Sure do…” said the second man.

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