The Algorithm of Chaos - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

Сергей Огольцов

The Algorithm of Chaos

1

The viber buzzed its default “zn-zn” because V was not in the habit of tweaking apps. Vanilla settings, staple oatmeal, blonde cuties for him were fine to go on with, he did not run after frills in mainstream things of common usage.

He tapped his Samsung. The screen could barely contain the caller's plump map.

‘What's up, 2ic?’

‘Hey, V! Still trying to win those 100 bucks at proze.com? Typing tons of hooey to get the fuck?’

‘I don't give a fuck about no proses, shithead. Just using them as a whetstone to consolidate my skills. Their Monthly Challenge spurs you on all right when in the common writer's block, like, “Oh, my! What to write about?!” A freebie “Giddy up!”, sort of.’

‘Yea, bro, I do dig. Dough ain't the point, right? Moreover, a $100 bill won’t line your pockets for longer than another stray blonde.’

‘Cut your sermon out, padre.’

‘I'm doing you a friendly offer, V, which you can’t possibly reject. A gold mine, an oilfield as rich as to make BP and Shell scramble for the right to hummer lullabies on you 8 nights a week.’

‘What? Wanna them suck-dry me up with their pumps? Fuck you!’

‘Come on, man, I was purely metaphorical… The idea is, it's a chance you might meet but only once in your lifespan!’

‘Yeah, I see. You've sampled a nugget or a bucket from your metaphorical methamphetamine Bonanza, and got driveling high, up to the complete forgetfulness of my being straight.’

‘Since when?’

‘OK. Call me tomorrow or when you’re out from under the influence.’

‘Wait-wait-wait! I mean business!!’

‘Then talk it and don't act a pimp new to his trade.’

‘Look, there's a story… Some real story to glorify your name, V! It'll make you famous like Pynchon, Joyce, Hemingway!’

‘Who's the third guy?’

‘Hemingway? I dunno. Seen a book by him. My ex was regularly tear-drenching the paperback.’

‘A girl reading a live book? Come on! The mankind's past that phase… So you got jealous and remembered the name, huh?’

‘A farm girl from hinterland can keep a joker or two up her sleeve, believe me, bro. Anyway, I've got a file of some world-shatter stuff waiting for a guy to proofread, sign with his name, and become a celebrity overnight. How about that?’

‘OK. Just to prevent your bubbling fit from growing into OD, drop the file at my email.’

‘Forget it, handsome. I have nothing to do with no emails.’

And that's true. Since long 2ic got firmly fixed on the issues of personal data security. Anchored, as a matter of fact. Unbudgeably. It would take a bulldozer and a week of persuading before he agrees sending you a 2-liner with some link or stuff attached before he'd freak out the very last moment. Because of his employment at some obscure firm working for the government. A set of squat buildings behind the high mesh-fence, surveillance cams on every other post or pillar, grim rottweilers walking their surly breeders 3 times a day in the outside parking-lot.

The surest way to cut 2ic's rambling stream of talking and make him shut up gravely for no less than 10 minutes served the question how was his work today. He'll zip mum, gloomy, irresponsive.

Obviously, the story about the Jewish couple working for the government before they got fried up on the chair for leaking to the Soviets some scraps of know-how in A-bomb production impressed him deeply.

‘I was just kidding, 2ic, no need wetting your bed tonight. Easy, come down. What’s your message?’

'Uncle Tom's Cabin in two hours, sounds good?’

You can’t let down your buddy, a long-term bosom friend. The rule of some nymphomaniac slut of a Russian Empress was to keep enemies close to her chest. So that you feel and follow the weeniest budging in their souls and plots, said she. Bosh bullshit! It’s your bosom friends to be kept under your closest control. Your friends know your weak points better than you yourself. The most painful strike would be delivered by them. Surprisingly. Because they are your friends, they know when and how to get you. R.I.P., stupid asshole!

‘It’s OK with me,’ said V.

* * *

2

Surprisingly, there never was any Tom about the Cabin. Anyway, none of the trust-worthy old-timer patrons would recollect. Ma'am Harriet ran the establishment, an oldie but bitchy shrew with the response-time reflexes of a rattle snake. The venerable lady was damn well sprightly at wielding her lachrymator spray and for that reason in no need of keeping neither a baseball bat nor a bouncer about the premises.

By and large, in daytime The Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a family diner worthy of the name which at later hours turned into a restaurant of a well-deserved repute because Ma'am Harriet had a good cook (without stepping into minutiae of racially sensitive tinge, yes, you guessed right, it was The Uncle Tom's Cabin after all), delicious food upheld the lekker atmosphere…

V got seated in a corner stall and leaned back in calm relaxation. His left arm stretched along the double-seat back upholstered with skin the color… well… matching the interior.

Fortunately, burly frame of 2ic emerged in the doorway. Good timing indeed…

The double chin jutted imposingly from the unbuttoned white collar of his shirt. The jacket hanging loosely from the left shoulder draped the same side of his torso. A pretty precarious cloth-hanger it was, the 2ic's chubby shoulder was. It surely takes a brave jacket to risk assuming such a position.

On the other hand, the unorthodox spot chosen for the wear item conveyed a certain air of desperado-like nonchalance and a hint at possible erectility to the general aspect of 2ic's corpulent build.