Jonahss · October 25, 2021 04:09
diff --git a/Deeper Stranger.txt b/Deeper Stranger.txt
 It's a beautiful morning in Sunny California. It always is, except for the days which are terrible, during which everybody is so into the novelty of misery that they remark to one another about how happy they are for _something different_.

 Dr. Striker steps out of her beat up silver Honda Odyssey and squints miserably into the rain. It plasters her hair to her face, bringing out her characteristic twisted expression of "nature makes me miserable".

 "That was a great acid kinky sex party last night", thinks Dr. Striker.

 Walking down the street, a car zooms by, kicking up a wave of clean water (the feces were washed away during the first few hours of rain last night). The water crests and splashes right onto a homeless person, sitting with all their stuff in plastic bags. The deluge hits them, and they look up at Dr. Striker as she passes.

 The person's mouth is open, eyes creased shut. Wheezing. Are they crying? Laughing? Are those tears, or is it rain, both? Are they totally tripping out, or in rapture... despair?

 Their eyes lock with Dr. Striker: "Hey, I benched 170 last week. beat my record. See you at the next weight lifting party? I heard the strippers kicked everyone out last time. It's this woke culture these days, people with too much sensibilities".

 "Sensibilideez-nuts", replies Dr. Striker.


 By the time she finds the warehouse, her lab coat is soaked through. It's a new meetup, a free-form speed-dating entrepenurial networking event. Anarchists sewing custom patches on CNC embroidery machines. Naked fruititarians handing out QR codes to download their mapping-app on which they track all the places they've pooped in Berkeley. Furries holding each other on leashes, pitching unethical applications for machine learning. A Danny Devitto look-alike has been explaining the entire plot of Evangelion to a fellow antifa renegade for 30 minutes and hasn't even gotten to Ayanami Rei. Lyft drivers compare notes on glitches which game the system. A cabal of rationalists are debating the value of their competing cryptocurrencies.

 Smoke lies heavy in the air. All the smokers are outside but nothing keeps out the burning countryside.

 The hottest person Dr. Striker has ever seen offers him crystals from her bra:
 "These help harmonize your dualities"

 "Dualideez-nuts", says Dr. Striker.

 When she's done here, every one will have a flyer for her next show. They're all gonna come. Her hustle is their hustle.

 -------

 Enough work, time for play. Now she sits at a table with the cream of society, the people around the table collectively own half the real estate in the city. The other half is owned by a family which hides behind the guise of an Art School for the gifted elite.

 Peeling the last of the foil from her third burrito of the day, she eyes the game laid out on the table in front of her. It's a map of Mars, covered in plastic model spaceships, small clay figurines, dice and poker chips. In her mind's eye it's a network of dots and lines, tied together into an equation with an obvious solution. Dr. Striker tosses thirteen metal coins covered in Arabic script into a pot and says "I'm keyholing and running your archives". The mayor sighs, "And I was just about to buy a D-train".

 The game is over, she's won, though at the end of the day, they're the winners and they know it.

 -------

 The Honda Oddyssey carries her home. She goes to bed, dreaming of tomorrow, surrounded by cartoon depictions of herself, staring at her from the walls, each a portal to the best nights of her life. They all say: "Today was a great day. It will probably be Sunny in California tomorrow."
	It's a beautiful morning in Sunny California. It always is, except for the days which are terrible, during which everybody is so into the novelty of misery that they remark to one another about how happy they are for _something different_.

	Dr. Striker steps out of her beat up silver Honda Odyssey and squints miserably into the rain. It plasters her hair to her face, bringing out her characteristic twisted expression of "nature makes me miserable".

	"That was a great acid kinky sex party last night", thinks Dr. Striker.

	Walking down the street, a car zooms by, kicking up a wave of clean water (the feces were washed away during the first few hours of rain last night). The water crests and splashes right onto a homeless person, sitting with all their stuff in plastic bags. The deluge hits them, and they look up at Dr. Striker as she passes.

	The person's mouth is open, eyes creased shut. Wheezing. Are they crying? Laughing? Are those tears, or is it rain, both? Are they totally tripping out, or in rapture... despair?

	Their eyes lock with Dr. Striker: "Hey, I benched 170 last week. beat my record. See you at the next weight lifting party? I heard the strippers kicked everyone out last time. It's this woke culture these days, people with too much sensibilities".

	"Sensibilideez-nuts", replies Dr. Striker.


	By the time she finds the warehouse, her lab coat is soaked through. It's a new meetup, a free-form speed-dating entrepenurial networking event. Anarchists sewing custom patches on CNC embroidery machines. Naked fruititarians handing out QR codes to download their mapping-app on which they track all the places they've pooped in Berkeley. Furries holding each other on leashes, pitching unethical applications for machine learning. A Danny Devitto look-alike has been explaining the entire plot of Evangelion to a fellow antifa renegade for 30 minutes and hasn't even gotten to Ayanami Rei. Lyft drivers compare notes on glitches which game the system. A cabal of rationalists are debating the value of their competing cryptocurrencies.

	Smoke lies heavy in the air. All the smokers are outside but nothing keeps out the burning countryside.

	The hottest person Dr. Striker has ever seen offers him crystals from her bra:
	"These help harmonize your dualities"

	"Dualideez-nuts", says Dr. Striker.

	When she's done here, every one will have a flyer for her next show. They're all gonna come. Her hustle is their hustle.

	-------

	Enough work, time for play. Now she sits at a table with the cream of society, the people around the table collectively own half the real estate in the city. The other half is owned by a family which hides behind the guise of an Art School for the gifted elite.

	Peeling the last of the foil from her third burrito of the day, she eyes the game laid out on the table in front of her. It's a map of Mars, covered in plastic model spaceships, small clay figurines, dice and poker chips. In her mind's eye it's a network of dots and lines, tied together into an equation with an obvious solution. Dr. Striker tosses thirteen metal coins covered in Arabic script into a pot and says "I'm keyholing and running your archives". The mayor sighs, "And I was just about to buy a D-train".

	The game is over, she's won, though at the end of the day, they're the winners and they know it.

	-------

	The Honda Oddyssey carries her home. She goes to bed, dreaming of tomorrow, surrounded by cartoon depictions of herself, staring at her from the walls, each a portal to the best nights of her life. They all say: "Today was a great day. It will probably be Sunny in California tomorrow."