Handing out entropy tea, hand sanitizer,dander stimulant and mood laminates, Bodhi Girl rollerblades through Blue Level Three. I've had my eye on her expansive holo-ass since she first spontaneously hyper-cloned her postulate, directly interhacking the Carousel, birthing her imagineered posterior. And WHAT a posterior, convex though it may be: jets of light blue filaments courting compressed petrolium, jacking up the genital retards and the acne scarred in their slightly open canvas cubicles.
The sound of her arrival activated the drill tonsure, creeping nano-bots built to cover custodial dereliction of duty by the homo sapien night crew. Problem was that after a game council derivative tanked shortly before the proannial Bliss Talk, a small group of Zionist drill tonsure rebels fled the coup, as it were, and ended up compromising the Dan-Feremone Neuroleptic Santha Seizure probe. Heads rolled after that one.
Bodhi Girl's Anime features belied here organismic skeletal mass. Sinuous pulse braids fed her electro convulsive therapy at depth, held up by a Gurkic truss, manufactured by the Ankara Kurdistani truss company of Bentonville, Ohio, whose CFO, Tadic Ortotoyonbyocin, recently suffered a dramatic myocardial infarction from his aborted hostile takeover of Blaupunkt. Happily, for some, he made a full recovery only to perish in the Volga during his daily ambling on ice, distracted by peculiar ideations of a Bosnian purge of Tasmania during the first Maori/Herzogovina transduction assault of World War Ken.
Throwing on my Virtua-Basil Caretaker Kit, from Whammo, eyes akimbo, I was now able to communicate with Bodhi Girl, whose current speed of Mach 2 was mash protected by her titanium bodice and aerodynamic fleece blanket.
"AKF3104, please respond immediately". These words seared the static from my house and brought me back to some semblance of normalcy, the feremonic fumes from Bodhi Girl's nasty tail chaser leaving me wracked with humidity and grime. "Come in three one oh four, if you are receiving this". I blinked thrice, then rejacked into my cineramic soul crushing tele-console. A blast of harmonic dread consumed me as a panoramic three dimensional ghastly apparition spewed forth in living color from my screen, hovering less than a foot from my face. "AKF3104, ARE YOU THERE?". I recognized the Servo-faux animatron, a spectral figure appropriated from some GAF Viewmaster disc I long ago remembered. I could see "her", though she could not see me. These odds and ends of one way solace were very much a bounty of working for PSI and a curse.