Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donât realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom by Cory Doctorow (book series for 12 year olds .txt) đ
- Author: Cory Doctorow
Book online «Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom by Cory Doctorow (book series for 12 year olds .txt) đ». Author Cory Doctorow
âSo youâre a guest. From the queue to the unload zone, youâre being chased by these ghosts, these telepresence robots, and theyâre really scaryâIâve got Suneepâs concept artists going back to the drawing board, hitting basic research on stuff thatâll just scare the guests silly. When a ghost catches you, lays its hands on youâwham! Flash-bake! You get its whole grisly story in three seconds, across your frontal lobe. By the time youâve left, youâve had ten or more ghost-contacts, and the next time you come back, itâs all new ghosts with all new stories. The way that the Hallâs drawing âem, weâre bound to be a hit.â He put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, clearly proud of himself.
When Epcot Center first opened, long, long ago, thereâd been an ugly decade or so in ride design. Imagineering found a winning formula for Spaceship Earth, the flagship ride in the big golf ball, and, in their drive to establish thematic continuity, theyâd turned the formula into a cookie-cutter, stamping out half a dozen clones for each of the âthemedâ areas in the Future Showcase. It went like this: first, we were cavemen, then there was ancient Greece, then Rome burned (cue sulfur-odor FX), then there was the Great Depression, and, finally, we reached the modern age. Who knows what the future holds? We do! Weâll all have videophones and be living on the ocean floor. Once was cuteâcompelling and inspirational, evenâbut six times was embarrassing. Like everyone, once Imagineering got themselves a good hammer, everything started to resemble a nail. Even now, the Epcot ad-hocs were repeating the sins of their forebears, closing every ride with a scene of Bitchun utopia.
And Debra was repeating the classic mistake, tearing her way through the Magic Kingdom with her blaster set to flash-bake.
âTim,â I said, hearing the tremble in my voice. âI thought you said that you had no designs on the Mansion, that you and Debra wouldnât be trying to take it away from us. Didnât you say that?â
Tim rocked back as if Iâd slapped him and the blood drained from his face. âBut weâre not taking it away!â he said. âYou invited us to help.â
I shook my head, confused. âWe did?â I said.
âSure,â he said.
âYes,â Dan said. âKim and some of the other rehab cast went to Debra yesterday and asked her to do a design review of the current rehab and suggest any changes. She was good enough to agree, and theyâve come up with some great ideas.â I read between the lines: the newbies you invited in have gone over to the other side and weâre going to lose everything because of them. I felt like shit.
âWell, I stand corrected,â I said, carefully. Timâs grin came back and he clapped his hands together. He really loves the Mansion, I thought. He could have been on our side, if we had only played it all right.
Dan and I took to the utilidors and grabbed a pair of bicycles and sped towards Suneepâs lab, jangling our bells at the rushing castmembers. âThey donât have the authority to invite Debra in,â I panted as we pedaled.
âSays who?â Dan said.
âIt was part of the dealâthey knew that they were probationary members right from the start. They werenât even allowed into the design meetings.â
âLooks like they took themselves off probation,â he said.
Suneep gave us both a chilly look when we entered his lab. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hands shook with exhaustion. He seemed to be holding himself erect with nothing more than raw anger.
âSo much for building without interference,â he said. âWe agreed that this project wouldnât change midway through. Now it has, and Iâve got other commitments that Iâm going to have to cancel because this is going off-schedule.â
I made soothing apologetic gestures with my hands. âSuneep, believe me, Iâm just as upset about this as you are. We donât like this one little bit.â
He harrumphed. âWe had a deal, Julius,â he said, hotly. âI would do the rehab for you and you would keep the ad-hocs off my back. Iâve been holding up my end of the bargain, but where the hell have you been? If they replan the rehab now, Iâll have to go along with them. I canât just leave the Mansion half-doneâtheyâll murder me.â
The kernel of a plan formed in my mind. âSuneep, we donât like the new rehab plan, and weâre going to stop it. You can help. Just stonewall themâtell them theyâll have to find other Imagineering support if they want to go through with it, that youâre booked solid.â
Dan gave me one of his long, considering looks, then nodded a minute approval. âYeah,â he drawled. âThatâll help all right. Just tell âem that theyâre welcome to make any changes they want to the plan, if they can find someone else to execute them.â
Suneep looked unhappy. âFineâso then they go and find someone else to do it, and that person gets all the credit for the work my teamâs done so far. I just flush my time down the toilet.â
âIt wonât come to that,â I said quickly. âIf you can just keep saying no for a couple days, weâll do the rest.â
Suneep looked doubtful.
âI promise,â I said.
Suneep ran his stubby fingers through his already crazed hair. âAll right,â he said, morosely.
Dan slapped him on the back. âGood man,â he said.
It should have worked. It almost did.
I sat in the back of the Adventureland conference room while Dan exhorted.
âLook, you donât have to roll over for Debra and her people! This is your garden, and youâve tended it responsibly for years. Sheâs got no right to move in on youâyouâve got all the Whuffie you need to defend the place, if you all work together.â
No castmember likes confrontation, and the Liberty Square bunch were tough to rouse to action. Dan had turned down the air conditioning an hour before the meeting and closed up all the windows, so that the room was a kiln for hard-firing irritation into rage. I stood meekly in the back, as far as possible from Dan. He was working his magic on my behalf, and I was content to let him do his thing.
When Lil had arrived, sheâd sized up the situation with a sour expression: sit in the front, near Dan, or in the back, near me. Sheâd chosen the middle, and to concentrate on Dan I had to tear my eyes away from the sweat glistening on her long, pale neck.
Dan stalked the aisles like a preacher, eyes blazing. âTheyâre stealing your future! Theyâre stealing your past! They claim theyâve got your support!â
He lowered his tone. âI donât think thatâs true.â He grabbed a castmember by her hand and looked into her eyes. âIs it true?â he said so low it was almost a whisper.
âNo,â the castmember said.
He dropped her hand and whirled to face another castmember. âIs it true?â he demanded, raising his voice, slightly.
âNo!â the castmember said, his voice unnaturally loud after the whispers. A nervous chuckle rippled through the crowd.
âIs it true?â he said, striding to the podium, shouting now.
âNo!â the crowd roared.
âNO!â he shouted back.
âYou donât have to roll over and take it! You can fight back, carry on with the plan, send them packing. Theyâre only taking over because youâre letting them. Are you going to let them?â
âNO!â
Bitchun wars are rare. Long before anyone tries a takeover of anything, theyâve done the arithmetic and ensured themselves that the ad-hoc theyâre displacing doesnât have a hope of fighting back.
For the defenders, itâs a simple decision: step down gracefully and salvage some reputation out of the thingâfighting back will surely burn away even that meager reward.
No one benefits from fighting backâleast of all the thing everyoneâs fighting over. For example:
It was the second year of my undergrad, taking a double-major in not making trouble for my profs and keeping my mouth shut. It was the early days of Bitchun, and most of us were still a little unclear on the concept.
Not all of us, though: a group of campus shit-disturbers, grad students in the Sociology Department, were on the bleeding edge of the revolution, and they knew what they wanted: control of the Department, oustering of the tyrannical, stodgy profs, a bully pulpit from which to preach the Bitchun gospel to a generation of impressionable undergrads who were too cowed by their workloads to realize what a load of shit they were being fed by the University.
At least, thatâs what the intense, heavyset woman who seized the mic at my Soc 200 course said, that sleepy morning mid-semester at Convocation Hall. Nineteen hundred students filled the hall, a capacity crowd of bleary, coffee-sipping time-markers, and they woke up in a hurry when the womanâs strident harangue burst over their heads.
I saw it happen from the very start. The prof was down there on the stage, a speck with a tie-mic, droning over his slides, and then there was a blur as half a dozen grad students rushed the stage. They were dressed in University poverty-chic, wrinkled slacks and tattered sports coats, and five of them formed a human wall in front of the prof while the sixth, the heavyset one with the dark hair and the prominent mole on her cheek, unclipped his mic and clipped it to her lapel.
âWakey wakey!â she called, and the reality of the moment hit home for me: this wasnât on the lesson-plan.
âCome on, heads up! This is not a drill. The University of Toronto Department of Sociology is under new management. If youâll set your handhelds to âreceive,â weâll be beaming out new lesson-plans momentarily. If youâve forgotten your handhelds, you can download the plans later on. Iâm going to run it down for you right now, anyway.
âBefore I start though, I have a prepared statement for you. Youâll probably hear this a couple times more today, in your other classes. Itâs worth repeating. Here goes:
âWe reject the stodgy, tyrannical rule of the profs at this Department. We demand bully pulpits from which to preach the Bitchun gospel. Effective immediately, the University of Toronto Ad-Hoc Sociology Department is in charge. We promise high-relevance curriculum with an emphasis on reputation economies, post-scarcity social dynamics, and the social theory of infinite life-extension. No more Durkheim, kids, just deadheading! This will be fun.â
She taught the course like a proâyou could tell sheâd been drilling her lecture for a while. Periodically, the human wall behind her shuddered as the prof made a break for it and was restrained.
At precisely 9:50 a.m. she dismissed the class, which had hung on her every word. Instead of trudging out and ambling to our next class, the whole nineteen hundred of us rose, and, as one, started buzzing to our neighbors, a roar of âCan you believe it?â that followed us out the door and to our next encounter with the Ad-Hoc Sociology Department.
It was cool, that day. I had another soc class, Constructing Social Deviance, and we got the same drill there, the same stirring propaganda, the same comical sight of a tenured prof battering himself against a human wall of ad-hocs.
Reporters pounced on us when we left the class, jabbing at us with mics and peppering us with questions. I gave them a big thumbs-up and said, âBitchun!â in classic undergrad eloquence.
The profs struck back the next morning. I got a heads-up from the newscast as I brushed my teeth: the Dean of the Department of Sociology told a reporter that the ad-hocsâ courses would not be credited, that they were a gang of thugs who were totally unqualified to teach. A counterpoint interview from a spokesperson for the ad-hocs established that all of the new lecturers had
Comments (0)