Free Collective Mind by Vasily Klyukin Page B

replied.
    “Seriously?”
Isaac grinned.
    “Since
you want something from me, you’ll have to put up with it,” Bikie snapped and
plumped down on a chair. Compared with Bikie’s beefy frame, Isaac looked really
small.
    Not
off to a great start, Isaac gritted his teeth, said nothing and sat down beside
Bikie. No one had promised this was going to be easy, but Isaac’s enthusiasm
for the idea of telling Bikie about his plan kept melting away. The biker
seemed too drunk and offensive to deal with. It took all Isaac had not to just
slip away.
    Seeing
Isaac’s sour face, Bikie slapped him on the shoulder and added good-naturedly.
    “Okay,
won’t do it again. You started it, so I got wound up and enjoyed it. I like
taking the piss out of smart-asses and drunken superheroes. When all’s said and
done, everyone’s afraid of fucking with me anyway. In real life I’m the kindest
and sweetest bouncer in this hemisphere,” said Bikie, pointing to the right
side of his head and cracking up again. “I’ve never given anyone a genuine
mauling, though. By the way, this is my private table,” he added, casting a
proud glance at his companion.
    The
private table was small, but right in the very center. There was a large brass
plaque embossed with “Elvis and Steve Tyler can sit here without Bikie’s
permission.”
    Elvis
again. “Well now,” thought Isaac. “Sometimes you don’t remember a word or a
name for years, and suddenly it invades your daily life like a virus.
    “I
see you’re well-respected here.”
    “You
bet. I can do more than just make good use of my hands if need be. I once
crashed the bar’s site for seating a pair of freakin’ tourist suits at this
table.” Bikie checked himself for a moment and gave Isaac a cunning glance.
I’ll listen carefully to what you have to say, just as soon as you bring that
beer you promised, fella.”
    “I
brought a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whisky instead of the beer. I hope you
don’t mind that? Your friend…” – Isaac nodded in the direction of the other
barman – “won’t object because I brought my own liquor?”
    “What
the fuck’s going on here?” Bikie exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Now you’re
talking! How could I mind. Ain’t you from the Society for Encouragement of Good
Old Rock’n’Rollers?”
    “Almost,”
Isaac replied, pouring the whiskey into glasses. “I used to work as a barman
too. I quit the job last week. They gave me this in lieu of severance pay.”
    Closing
his eyes, Bikie breathed in the aroma of the whisky and smiled contentedly.
    “I’m
Isaac Leroy, but you can call me Isaac.”
    “I’m
Bikie. Well, you know that already.”
    They
drank to getting to know each other. Isaac told Bikie a bit about his bar and
Bikie told Isaac about his, as well as about his Harley, boasting about it and
gradually getting more and more drunk. Over the third glass of whisky Bikie
began a serious monologue.
    “Dude,
have you seen the latest Ducati? And the Honda? And the Harley? They’re all
almost identical now! Sure, they look real heavy, but they’re all the same
shit. The Goddamn creeps are repressing our freedom of choice! Where is my
choice? I want to make the fuckin’ choice myself! I don’t want to mount a
Ducati by mistake when I’m wasted! And the music? All the lousy DJs play the same
thing! I’d kill them all. How could they possibly fuck up their life so badly?
    Bikie
spent about ten minutes cursing UNICOMA and its standardized technologies. What
outraged him most of all was the almost complete loss of variety, even for the
most primitive things, there was no choice at all.
    “Those
who have downloaded their OE have it even worse. God forbid I should ever turn
into a Veggie” said Isaac.
    “Well,
even when they were alive the Veggies were all but stupid fucks,” Bikie snorted
    “No,
you’re wrong there. My friend sold his creativity for love.”
    That's like cutting your dick off for love ‘cause it didn't