Generation Y is a science fiction novel, first volume of a trilogy. It tells parallel stories of three intertwined characters, a tabloid journalist, a soldier returning from war in Iran and a young girl trapped in a curious, as unnatural, terra incognita. It 'a book in direct: the first volume rattles off the minute the lives of the protagonists, with a postmodern Cagliari in the background, during the first six hours of 21/12/2012 ... that could be the last day of human history.
E 'written in a style mutant, whimsical and aggressive: it can not be called a real novel, but perhaps a ONE (Subject Narrative unidentified definition of Wu Ming), for the way in which narrative blends songs , streams of consciousness, newspaper articles and editorials, subjective points of view and choral ... and so on, in a whirl of narrative whose center is the Apocalypse. Or maybe the media. Or both: after all, we know that "this Eschaton will be televised."
Among the machinations of dark government cabal, the mud tabloid, the temples of the Holy Virgin of Space, the terrorist cells technofreak Club Extropia and the dawn of the first artificial intelligence run the final hours of humanity torn by consumption, in which the only reliable truth seems to be encapsulated in the motto Eschaton mad prophet BOB Junior: "Panic is Necessary .
The book has 440 pages and is looking for a publishing house.
Preview - Incipit Generation Y
signal Aborted
The morning light filters through the blinds of toxic, lighting strip plasma screens and broken bottles of Vicodin. The walls are covered with patches of organic material indefinitely and wallpaper LCD projecting hypnotic fractals. The owner gave new tricks to old wheels: the answering machine is connected to the operating system of the apartment, the walls turn into a display of luck and it spreads over a digital avatar slender, dark face and a mane of sinuous liquid metal. Medusa 2.0, in the imagination of the author. Characters heaving paint on the wall - incoming call: user HERA - and the entire surface is tinged with trills, skulls and black clouds. Avatar tapping your fingers on the wall, like a glass barrier.
KNOCK KNOCK. The band
of his fedora, a queen of diamonds in plastic with the words: BOSS. Her words: "You're despicable absent for a week, sycophant. SEVEN days. Flocks of barbarians target the mail with my angry instances. Demand their daily ration of guano: get nervous if their idols do not crawl in the dirt in tears. They yearn to identify activities in their hieratic groin. Gloating in the judge and feel superior in their revolting banality. And you signed a contract. Translated from legalese, is configured to: SLAVE. To continue the analogy, help your CO status. PRO., Which is greek for dung. Ponder this polysemy and repent of your sins. I want your ass and calibrated ready to rot than deep in videotabloid lunchtime. Television does not compromise. She loves television. Signed, your mistress. "
back perfect silence, broken only by grunts slobbering man wrapped in blankets. Dreams of snakes. He hates snakes. Be similar. First thought of the day, muttered in hypnagogic trance: "You bastard ..."
started and Mr. Sweets emerges from sleep. You see white noise, environmental and electromagnetic waves in cosmic microwave pattern indistinct. He feels his face in terror. Sleep has stolen his sight. Morpheus took his dreams and his vision, greek damn hippies. Will observe the lives of random energy fluctuations, as a TV screen broken.
"Bastardifottuti ..."
Well, after all, had not made much use of it that way. The same tool that was used by Michelangelo to create the Last Judgement, wasted all that pornography and advertising with ladies from the eyes of sapphire, or the Mexicans drunk in the terrible night of the ball by Pan. Years ago he happened to hear a lecture by cognitive psychology and was impressed with the complexity with which Mother Nature had calibrated gaze direct and peripheral: the first, a thief of information in technicolor for our voyeuristic pleasure, the second, a sensitive radar low frequency that sweeps the edges of vision in search of danger. Mainly used for non- hitting the light poles and dodge the Damned Nazis who inhabit the city traffic, with mixed results. It 'so lonely. Maybe should stop with amphetamines.
"Yummi yummi ..."
fingers chubby cheeks of Mr. Sweets travel and meet interesting architecture of a truncated cone, a smooth surface. Curious. Exotic. The crosses with the tip of the finger and vibrates with pleasure.
Mr. Sweets is a infofile. The novelty excites and incites its neurotransmitters looking hungry for the Future. Mr. Sweets has vision and is a drunken comet that roams the city looking for something new to shoot via the Internet to feed an audience of degenerates and decerebration. Once a reporter would have called, but humanity that title was smeared with his incessant desire to fuck underage asphyxiated and endangered animals. Now, more properly, is called "scavafango.
sparks and short circuits in his head for a moment and realign the OptiCam recalls. He sold his eyes to an illegal clinic in Seville in return for a neural system for the blind: high resolution and wireless, vision in 16 million colors with interface to the Internet and all the gadgets that geeks consumerism may be desired. Tough stuff. No questions about the origin of the plant, to save a few extra nightmare and maintain the illusion of consciousness. But, for the honor that is given to ingenuity, could not not to notice that the piece of slime that had torn the plant had fried. Turning slowly, focusing rough and tons of adware on the burned transistor, courtesy of Chinese mafia. On the face, glasses similar to those of a welder, stolen for future technology. A bargain.
"Bastardifottuti !!!!»
OptiCam The buzz for a while and you start by replacing the background noise with the post-nuclear scenario of her room. Mr. Sweets comes to light. He rises from the water bed and struggles between the waste that has sown on the floor. He does not remember exactly how, or what happened that night. Unfortunately only a few of her memory faded and fill a void in the chest by a handful of pills of AnfetaLive. He had done no harm to people who probably did not deserve it, and was publicly humiliated. Routine: the dignity he had left earlier in the millennium, with the addition of his name to the list of scavafango STV. He cried, but his tear ducts were fiber optic pigtails.
"OptiCam, gimme INFORMATION, NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST in the background and a selection of videos on RAPES of war in Iran."
While awkwardly struts down the aisle, a cascade of images saturated its visual space. The walls sizzle of energy and atomic devastation, children incinerated and desolate lunar landscape: historical footage of the issuer, the daily dose of extinction of mankind. Mr. Sweets suffered a stiff primary education by the Sisters of Our Lady of space and, therefore, try a morbid fascination to the heat death of the solar system. The shadows burned on the walls of Hiroshima are the closest parallel to be able to find.
Meanwhile, two open windows on the edge of vision at the same time show him the latest developments of the election campaign of candidates for regional and a Grand Guignol of brutality on unarmed civilians: rate them, never did do a blow job, believes in family and has no relatives Negroid. Do not change horses mid-race!
He pauses a moment, annoyed by a creaking noise. Are his teeth, clamped in a vise.
"Odiofottuti ..."
It 's a morning like so many in the City. Mr. Sweets brushes his teeth, the mirror would spit in his face. His bald head is full of dangerous thoughts. And 'bad. Grasso. Tired. Painful. As stated in the I-Ching has always been sick, never dies.
Sitting on the toilet, giggles convulsively to the synchronicity: his latest creation sphincter is like a rain of napalm and appears to coincide with the governor's face flaccid sull'OptiCam.
Carl Jung warned: the coincidences are not coincidences. Is interpreted as "coincidence" the application of an incorrect theory. In reality, there is a secret plot events in the world and expresses acausal, for pure synchronicity. Everything is connected. Shamans had the insight and for this they created colorful orgiastic rituals with monstrous breasts and make them crazy in whirling choreography.
As a precaution, Mr. Sweets breaks the stream of consciousness before landing in the oceans more morbid. Mulling over mass graves quixotic drunken sodomite of supremacy, before breakfast: hmm, no bueno. I no longer able to distinguish his thoughts from the incessant bombardment computer that is the soundtrack to his life.
a mental note sitting by the psychiatrist holographic nell'OptiCam, with extreme urgency. But AnfetaLive gives the perversion of a child and mental clarity of a werewolf, and the adware continues to shoot flash mob pornography on the retina, ignoring his intentions.
Mr. Sweets is on the verge of hysterics. Trembles on the toilet seat, ready to explode. Hear a distinct DENG!, When his production suffered fecal reaches the sides of the water. His face turns into panic when she sees at the bottom of the toilet all'acquetta marsh, a bullet has nine.
"What caz-'
confused memories of the days leading up to the surface: how much is in that state? Remember to have injected heroin between the fingers of the hand because it amused him. He remembers a Jehovah's Witness beaten because he refused to marry him. Remember a stranger and his smile and his saliva.
Sift the house, frenetico, alla ricerca di una traccia del suo passaggio. Sul suolo o tra i cassetti, nelle pieghe del letto o le zone d'ombra dell'armadio. Niente. Rimangono solo spettri mnemonici, presenze che si sciolgono davanti all'occhio della memoria. Lei era diversa. Lei aveva importanza. Lei gli aveva detto qualcosa. Vaglia le ipotesi. L'immaginazione si fonde al suo passato. Non ricorda. Non riesce a respirare. Male/Violenza/Perdita. Mr. Sweets vuole scappare dalla sua testa. E' piena di veleni. Mr. Sweets odia la vita e vuole fuggire dalla Storia.
«VOLUME! DAMMI MALEDETTO VOLUME!»
Il caos informatico dell'OptiCam impenna esponenzialmente, finché la cacofonia di rumore non lo fa barcollare e cadere al suolo svenuto. Due rivoli di sangue run through the cheeks.
It 's his last day on earth. Among one thousand minutes a little boogie dance to celebrate the Sixth Extinction.
signal Aborted
(Cagliari, Piazza Pascoli)
The morning light filters through the blinds of toxic, lighting strip plasma screens and broken bottles of Vicodin. The walls are covered with patches of organic material indefinitely and wallpaper LCD projecting hypnotic fractals. The owner gave new tricks to old wheels: the answering machine is connected to the operating system of the apartment, the walls turn into a display of luck and it spreads over a digital avatar slender, dark face and a mane of sinuous liquid metal. Medusa 2.0, in the imagination of the author. Characters heaving paint on the wall - incoming call: user HERA - and the entire surface is tinged with trills, skulls and black clouds. Avatar tapping your fingers on the wall, like a glass barrier.
KNOCK KNOCK. The band
of his fedora, a queen of diamonds in plastic with the words: BOSS. Her words: "You're despicable absent for a week, sycophant. SEVEN days. Flocks of barbarians target the mail with my angry instances. Demand their daily ration of guano: get nervous if their idols do not crawl in the dirt in tears. They yearn to identify activities in their hieratic groin. Gloating in the judge and feel superior in their revolting banality. And you signed a contract. Translated from legalese, is configured to: SLAVE. To continue the analogy, help your CO status. PRO., Which is greek for dung. Ponder this polysemy and repent of your sins. I want your ass and calibrated ready to rot than deep in videotabloid lunchtime. Television does not compromise. She loves television. Signed, your mistress. "
back perfect silence, broken only by grunts slobbering man wrapped in blankets. Dreams of snakes. He hates snakes. Be similar. First thought of the day, muttered in hypnagogic trance: "You bastard ..."
started and Mr. Sweets emerges from sleep. You see white noise, environmental and electromagnetic waves in cosmic microwave pattern indistinct. He feels his face in terror. Sleep has stolen his sight. Morpheus took his dreams and his vision, greek damn hippies. Will observe the lives of random energy fluctuations, as a TV screen broken.
"Bastardifottuti ..."
Well, after all, had not made much use of it that way. The same tool that was used by Michelangelo to create the Last Judgement, wasted all that pornography and advertising with ladies from the eyes of sapphire, or the Mexicans drunk in the terrible night of the ball by Pan. Years ago he happened to hear a lecture by cognitive psychology and was impressed with the complexity with which Mother Nature had calibrated gaze direct and peripheral: the first, a thief of information in technicolor for our voyeuristic pleasure, the second, a sensitive radar low frequency that sweeps the edges of vision in search of danger. Mainly used for non- hitting the light poles and dodge the Damned Nazis who inhabit the city traffic, with mixed results. It 'so lonely. Maybe should stop with amphetamines.
"Yummi yummi ..."
fingers chubby cheeks of Mr. Sweets travel and meet interesting architecture of a truncated cone, a smooth surface. Curious. Exotic. The crosses with the tip of the finger and vibrates with pleasure.
Mr. Sweets is a infofile. The novelty excites and incites its neurotransmitters looking hungry for the Future. Mr. Sweets has vision and is a drunken comet that roams the city looking for something new to shoot via the Internet to feed an audience of degenerates and decerebration. Once a reporter would have called, but humanity that title was smeared with his incessant desire to fuck underage asphyxiated and endangered animals. Now, more properly, is called "scavafango.
sparks and short circuits in his head for a moment and realign the OptiCam recalls. He sold his eyes to an illegal clinic in Seville in return for a neural system for the blind: high resolution and wireless, vision in 16 million colors with interface to the Internet and all the gadgets that geeks consumerism may be desired. Tough stuff. No questions about the origin of the plant, to save a few extra nightmare and maintain the illusion of consciousness. But, for the honor that is given to ingenuity, could not not to notice that the piece of slime that had torn the plant had fried. Turning slowly, focusing rough and tons of adware on the burned transistor, courtesy of Chinese mafia. On the face, glasses similar to those of a welder, stolen for future technology. A bargain.
"Bastardifottuti !!!!»
OptiCam The buzz for a while and you start by replacing the background noise with the post-nuclear scenario of her room. Mr. Sweets comes to light. He rises from the water bed and struggles between the waste that has sown on the floor. He does not remember exactly how, or what happened that night. Unfortunately only a few of her memory faded and fill a void in the chest by a handful of pills of AnfetaLive. He had done no harm to people who probably did not deserve it, and was publicly humiliated. Routine: the dignity he had left earlier in the millennium, with the addition of his name to the list of scavafango STV. He cried, but his tear ducts were fiber optic pigtails.
"OptiCam, gimme INFORMATION, NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST in the background and a selection of videos on RAPES of war in Iran."
While awkwardly struts down the aisle, a cascade of images saturated its visual space. The walls sizzle of energy and atomic devastation, children incinerated and desolate lunar landscape: historical footage of the issuer, the daily dose of extinction of mankind. Mr. Sweets suffered a stiff primary education by the Sisters of Our Lady of space and, therefore, try a morbid fascination to the heat death of the solar system. The shadows burned on the walls of Hiroshima are the closest parallel to be able to find.
Meanwhile, two open windows on the edge of vision at the same time show him the latest developments of the election campaign of candidates for regional and a Grand Guignol of brutality on unarmed civilians: rate them, never did do a blow job, believes in family and has no relatives Negroid. Do not change horses mid-race!
He pauses a moment, annoyed by a creaking noise. Are his teeth, clamped in a vise.
"Odiofottuti ..."
It 's a morning like so many in the City. Mr. Sweets brushes his teeth, the mirror would spit in his face. His bald head is full of dangerous thoughts. And 'bad. Grasso. Tired. Painful. As stated in the I-Ching has always been sick, never dies.
Sitting on the toilet, giggles convulsively to the synchronicity: his latest creation sphincter is like a rain of napalm and appears to coincide with the governor's face flaccid sull'OptiCam.
Carl Jung warned: the coincidences are not coincidences. Is interpreted as "coincidence" the application of an incorrect theory. In reality, there is a secret plot events in the world and expresses acausal, for pure synchronicity. Everything is connected. Shamans had the insight and for this they created colorful orgiastic rituals with monstrous breasts and make them crazy in whirling choreography.
As a precaution, Mr. Sweets breaks the stream of consciousness before landing in the oceans more morbid. Mulling over mass graves quixotic drunken sodomite of supremacy, before breakfast: hmm, no bueno. I no longer able to distinguish his thoughts from the incessant bombardment computer that is the soundtrack to his life.
a mental note sitting by the psychiatrist holographic nell'OptiCam, with extreme urgency. But AnfetaLive gives the perversion of a child and mental clarity of a werewolf, and the adware continues to shoot flash mob pornography on the retina, ignoring his intentions.
Mr. Sweets is on the verge of hysterics. Trembles on the toilet seat, ready to explode. Hear a distinct DENG!, When his production suffered fecal reaches the sides of the water. His face turns into panic when she sees at the bottom of the toilet all'acquetta marsh, a bullet has nine.
"What caz-'
confused memories of the days leading up to the surface: how much is in that state? Remember to have injected heroin between the fingers of the hand because it amused him. He remembers a Jehovah's Witness beaten because he refused to marry him. Remember a stranger and his smile and his saliva.
Sift the house, frenetico, alla ricerca di una traccia del suo passaggio. Sul suolo o tra i cassetti, nelle pieghe del letto o le zone d'ombra dell'armadio. Niente. Rimangono solo spettri mnemonici, presenze che si sciolgono davanti all'occhio della memoria. Lei era diversa. Lei aveva importanza. Lei gli aveva detto qualcosa. Vaglia le ipotesi. L'immaginazione si fonde al suo passato. Non ricorda. Non riesce a respirare. Male/Violenza/Perdita. Mr. Sweets vuole scappare dalla sua testa. E' piena di veleni. Mr. Sweets odia la vita e vuole fuggire dalla Storia.
«VOLUME! DAMMI MALEDETTO VOLUME!»
Il caos informatico dell'OptiCam impenna esponenzialmente, finché la cacofonia di rumore non lo fa barcollare e cadere al suolo svenuto. Due rivoli di sangue run through the cheeks.
It 's his last day on earth. Among one thousand minutes a little boogie dance to celebrate the Sixth Extinction.
0 comments:
Post a Comment