CHAPTER 4

The semester before the summer our school had to be blasted for "mold" problems, Rice, Socialite and I came through and hit the proverbial balls of academia with everything we had, sometimes to spectacular effect, sometimes just enough to get the guy at the back of the class to stop drooling and actually pay attention. In my more magnanimous moments, I like to think that we helped loosen the screws in some of the schools more hung up students, but mostly, and I figure this goes for all of us, I take pleasure in thinking we motivated them right the hell off the grid.

The recipe was simple. After a museum excursion where the main attraction was a blank canvas, the three of us were struck by the old adage that less is more. In fact, from that point on we categorically refused to submit any work at all. Our presentations consisted of silently trawling the classrooms, dressed in black, randomly selecting one student, and bullying them without purpose. There was the guy we battered with insults then gave a comforting hug. Huntarr actually cried that time.

The last work we did was developing a website built around a prototype machine we were building that would envelop the user in a special cocoon that would set a mold of their body, and spit out a wardrobe made of latex on the other side. We hadn't rigged up a system that would allow the user to breathe yet, but other than that it worked like a dream. However, seeing as how it was a work in progress, the site we built was a simple mock-up. Not functional as a web site, but laid out and ready to code. The design was deceptively simple, and beautiful. But one student took exception to the fact that he couldn't navigate the site.

"It doesn't work?"

"Sure it does, as a mock up. It'll work perfectly when it's coded."

"But it doesn't work right now."

"It's a mock up."

"So what. You guys are totally unprofessional. If the client was here..."

"It's a MOCK UP."

"If the CLIENT was here, what would you show him?"

"A MOCK UP."

Socialite pulled out his dictionary and started folding. The poor kid never had a chance.
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By now everything was being run from 2-cock towers. It doubled as a recycling centre, and Rice brought cash in to the operation by crushing used aluminum into hyper-dense, easily transportable cubes with his buttocks. He also financed the entire east wing with royalties from pantone, as he copyrighted and named the 20 most successful colors in printing history right under their noses. A couple of years later he'd actually run Pantone, and gleefully run it into the ground. Literally.

Socialite meanwhile had become something of a digital florist, using his scimitar to sculpt Bonzai trees into highly complex 1 and 0 combinations that would eventually overgrow into a flawless portrait of Yoda. He had a whole tourist industry going in the west wing nursery, mostly Japanese and highly grateful for the access. Sometimes they'd buy souvenir portable aluminum cubes on their way out.

But they'd always drop a wad on my 2 cocks, springing up to 50 bucks for a thirty second glimpse at their splendor and the feats they could perform. Only one person was ever able to stomach watching me use them to fight off a raccoon, and he got his money back and a hug from yours truly. Only Rice and Socialite could appreciate that sight otherwise, and I'd be damned if I was going to hug them.

To cap it off, we owned all Iranian rice. If you bought Iranian Rice anywhere in the world, we got a piece. If you tried to smuggle it in or out of anywhere, we knew about it. We'd catch you and force-feed you your entire shipment. If you farmed it, we'd know. If you ate it, we'd know. If you shat it out, we'd know. And if you didn't shit it out we'd know that too. All this after we whole-heatedly embraced the credo that a little knowledge goes a long way.

Huntarr, on the strength of one visit, gave us passing grades for the year, and automatic pass cards, valid for any course we'd eventually take with him. As he put it, we were C students, but "strong" C students. Rice was the only one concerned about his grades figuring that Iranian rice and flashy buttocks couldn't last forever. I assured him they could and every once in a while threw a clump of Rice in his mouth to whisk him off to whatever fucked up place it took his mind. "Ah. Ah! Virginia. Make me a sandwich Virginia. Do what I tell you Virginia!" From what I could tell, she did.

For my part, I was content to walk around naked all the time and ponder my future. Everything seemed possible at the time, with 2-cock towers at our disposal and all kinds of financing rolling in from world-wide satisfied clients, these were indeed the salad days. Socialite was starting to talk in more than mono-sylables, giving us a taste of just what that dictionary of his had taught him, and Rice... kept us in rice.

The year end party was held at 2-cock towers that year. From the numbers I saw, every student in the city came. Some of them even made it out. But most importantly our year's work came to fruition. We'd developed a sound system so powerful and focusable that it could liquefy matter. It took most of the city's power-grid to do it, but the important thing is it worked, and that meant we were looking at a new age of peace in the world.

And throughout the summer months, until the next semester, like the naive fools we were, we believed that.