Piss-Soaked Hell World. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
Beast of burden.
The fat hacker girl crumbled beneath the gravity of Joshi’s punch of cold steel.
Fat fatty fat fat, what a fucking whale. There’s nothing wrong with being really gross and fat and having gigantic empowered thighs that are like unstable snowy mountains shifting around. it’s just a little strange that you’d let this happen to yourself, it’s not like it happens overnight. Someone this dumb, who doesn’t think ahead? (THINK, THINK AHEAD, YOU GODDAMN IDIOT!) Nah. Someone this dumb, this dumb and fat, who doesn’t think ahead could never hope to come out on top against Joshi the Hacker King.
Joshi’s Hackernet Rating was a solid 9.8 and he’d hacked some of the top banks in the UN without even using a keyboard. With his eyes closed. Because he wasn’t just a hack-maestero but also a Social Hack-King. That involved tight body control, being able to snap a punch like a whip being cracked or a rattlesnake making a lightning-fast strike at someone’s throat, so they can’t even stop the spread of the poison without choking themselves. And so he demonstrated his physical control to this dumb idiot with a hard jab into her fat nose. He had no choice. Free will is a meme.
She actually thought she had a chance in Hell of stealing Joshi’s passcodes and secret web-phrases and data banks? Must be out of her mind. She’s definitely out of her mind now. Who sent her my position? Who else wants what she got? That’s the real question.
I should call her an ambulance. Joshi thought kindly. Old, blind chivalry encoded into Man’s DNA is a problem Joshi hadn’t yet hacked out of himself. Not because he couldn’t, there wasn’t anything on blue planet that this cyber-punk lord couldn’t hack. He’d get to it eventually. Just gotta dig through the old Sys32 files in his mind’s OS. Hopefully it wouldn’t cause him any problems until then. In fact, he made a note of it. He’d get to it later today. This would be the last fat woman he’d call an ambulance for after clobbering her. The eighth and the last. He’d remember her like all the others and learn from her. How could I have better moved my hips to make my fist fly faster and harder into her teeth? These are the questions that Joshi asks himself. These are the questions that make him the King.
He reached into her tight jean pants pocket, which she overflowed from, and with some effort yanked out a MiniMicro phone-credit which he inserted into her chubby tele-arm. He wasn’t familiar with this creature’s arm-keyboard, but he figured it was set to the default US ikeyboard. A dumb fat bitch like this wouldn’t bother changing anything default settings (LAZY! LAZY PIG!), so say she were to be knocked out, someone like Joshi could just use her arm to make any calls that he wanted with zero effort. Dumb broad. Dumb fat broad. Joshi’s arm-keyboard was so randomized no-one but him could possibly figure out how to utilize it. No-one could ever break into his physical hard drive, even if they managed to catch him.
Hacking in this timezone(Eastern) wasn’t just a hobby, it was a lifestyle. And if you couldn’t parkour around coppo-cars as skillfully as you could enter a competitor’s mainframe, you might as well punch yourself, or someone like Joshi would be there to do it for you, fat.
The woman shifted in her gross sleep and Joshi gave her a swift stomp in her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and guaranteeing himself another 5 minutes at least.
“Don’t wake up until I’m gone, I don’t want to hear what your frog voice sounds like you gross cow.”
Joshi was wrapping up his contract-hack when he felt a gun poking into his back.
“You shouldn’t have underestimated me, punk,” the fat hackerchick growled triumphantly and her jowls vibrated with killing intent.
But she didn’t know that it was she who had underestimated Joshi, not the other way around. Joshi hadn’t estimated her at all, he had in fact calculated her with perfect precision. And when she had stepped into the building after him, her ocular-augments had fallen victim to the Genjutsu-virus he’d laid in the building’s wifi. She was pointing her gun at her own head.
Still, Joshi didn’t want her to die thinking she was going to be the hero who took down the Hacker Punk King of Neo-York City. She didn’t deserve that sweet delusion, she had more than enough sweets. He locked her limbs with a 128-bit encrypted passphrase and refreshed her cyber-eyes for her so she could see the predicament she’d landed herself in. The look of fat terror on her face was delicious. It was all the sustenance Joshi needed, and that was why he was the way he was instead of the way she was.
“I’ve got some questions for you,” he said. But he didn’t need a response from her. He was already digging through her head via wifi and collecting everything he needed, walking through all her security like it was nothing. It was all so amateur it disgusted him more than usual, and that’s when he realized. For the first time, he bothered to inspect the pig-woman’s face and noted her goggles. She wasn’t a cyberpunk at all. She was a steampunk. A poseur. A sacrificial chub pawn, in a game of chess. And whoever was playing her knew that Joshi liked to engage in close-quarters combat. CQC. Get his hands dirty while his mind stayed minty fresh. Ice cold. She wasn’t just sent here as a fat assassin, she was sent here as a fat kamikaze. The second she died, it’d no-doubt trigger a fistful of explosives hiding in her voluptuous empowered real-woman guts.
He knew exactly what he had to do as surely as a calculator knows 1+1.
Demonstrating some more of that tight body control, Joshi landed a flying jump-kick into her sternum, knocking her out the 3rd-story window so she could safely fucking die on the ground below. The explosion, as expected, did not reach Joshi and he laughed for just a split second before he caught himself. Can’t get cocky. Can’t get satisfied. Satisfaction leads to satis-fat-tion.
The 25-minute Pomodoro timer went off in Joshi’s head. Everything went perfectly. This time. But what about next time? Who’s after me?