"Crystal Pepsi is just Pepsi"
It's like this.
Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, and then two street scum decide to screw with you. Maybe they don't notice the drug harness — myself, I hide it under my cloak; I don't like to advertise — or maybe they are just high on something, or just plain crazy. They ask you for money, you tell them to go play with themselves, and one of them reaches for a gun or a vibro-blade.
That's when it starts to happen.
That little computer they built into you starts pumping chemicals into your bloodstream. The world slows down around you, and everything feels sharper, clearer, more real than anything you'll ever feel, before or after. You can count every hair in the young punk's face, you can smell his fear and anger, you are aware of everything around you. I guess that's how a god would feel.
You have all the time in the world. The punk's weapon is only halfway out of its holster, and you still have time to think of a battle plan, enjoy the scenery, and even think of a snappy joke, before you need to make your move.
Finally, you decide it's time to act. The punk is ten feet away. You close in. To the punk and his friends, it's like you just teleported. They are flies trying to swim through molasses, and you are a hawk soaring through the sky. What to do, what to do... You could draw your gun and drill the punk between his eyes, but you are feeling artistic, so you just wind-up and give him a good haymaker, powerful enough to dent ballistic armor. So the punk manages to clear his weapon, but you just batted his head clean off his shoulders. The other punks try to run. You can catch them — they'd need a car to get away from you — or you can let them go, enjoying the high while it lasts.
Finally, the danger is over, and you come down. Things stop being so clear and beautiful anymore. You may even get the nagging suspicion you are back to being a human. Sometimes, I need to remind myself I'm not, and I have to leap off a building just to get the rush going again.
You never feel so alive until you spit into the face of Death.
—From A Juicer's Diary,
by Crazy Lou, Juicer. Printed by Kingsdale Books.
Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, and then two street scum decide to screw with you. Maybe they don't notice the drug harness — myself, I hide it under my cloak; I don't like to advertise — or maybe they are just high on something, or just plain crazy. They ask you for money, you tell them to go play with themselves, and one of them reaches for a gun or a vibro-blade.
That's when it starts to happen.
That little computer they built into you starts pumping chemicals into your bloodstream. The world slows down around you, and everything feels sharper, clearer, more real than anything you'll ever feel, before or after. You can count every hair in the young punk's face, you can smell his fear and anger, you are aware of everything around you. I guess that's how a god would feel.
You have all the time in the world. The punk's weapon is only halfway out of its holster, and you still have time to think of a battle plan, enjoy the scenery, and even think of a snappy joke, before you need to make your move.
Finally, you decide it's time to act. The punk is ten feet away. You close in. To the punk and his friends, it's like you just teleported. They are flies trying to swim through molasses, and you are a hawk soaring through the sky. What to do, what to do... You could draw your gun and drill the punk between his eyes, but you are feeling artistic, so you just wind-up and give him a good haymaker, powerful enough to dent ballistic armor. So the punk manages to clear his weapon, but you just batted his head clean off his shoulders. The other punks try to run. You can catch them — they'd need a car to get away from you — or you can let them go, enjoying the high while it lasts.
Finally, the danger is over, and you come down. Things stop being so clear and beautiful anymore. You may even get the nagging suspicion you are back to being a human. Sometimes, I need to remind myself I'm not, and I have to leap off a building just to get the rush going again.
You never feel so alive until you spit into the face of Death.
—From A Juicer's Diary,
by Crazy Lou, Juicer. Printed by Kingsdale Books.
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