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I missed my subway stop on the way to work today. You know the feeling, when you're reading the paper or checking out the head barbals of the girl next to you and just catch a glimpse of Osgoode Station slipping past. It's such a pain in the ass getting off at the next station and turning around, every since they started using that Moebious link technology to spread out public transportation costs over several cities.
Today was Thursday, so the stop after Osgoode was prospect Chernyshevskogo. The problem with St Petersburg subway stations is that they're full of the new Cult of Rasputin adapts, waving their surgically enhanced thirteen inch long penises at thw crowds and guzzling strycnine and Pepsi mixes between gutteral sermons. A crush of Ukranian business women and Tatar shock units pile on, their boots sticky with semen.
Getting back is such a pain on a system designed for rapid rotations through the planer sphere, twisting space to rabbit hole between systems. At least it wasn't the GO greater area commuter traffic systems, which bore through the Fugue and run connections between parralell dimensions. You miss your stop there and the probability debt will end up seeing you trying to explain to your boss three weeks prior.
The Bandra-Kurla corridor rushs up next, and fifteen thousand fucking Indians with their animals pile in. When the scheme was first proposed, there had been assurances that international health regulations would be observed. The Bombay stations ignored it, and these stops always reeked of chicken shit and rotting curry. My buddy Phil once got off here while drunk, mistaking the smell for his normal stop in Brighton and was found five days later, facedown in a Punjabi brothal with no body hair and a rubber glove half out of his ass. He drives these days.
Finally, back through the links, a neat cross connection on the hyperspeed Kurita line that accelerates the train to nearly mach 7, fourteen thousand times faster than the speed of a bullet, which has the added benefit of accumulating enough kinetic debt to send us past the Pacific depot hops and directly into a MARTA stop at Ashby. A pair of Bantu wagers, with their newly fashionable Whiteberry indentured assistants scuttling behind (looks like the Swedish models, which must have cost a fortune if they're pre-plague) trade brokerage stories and insider tips between their rough clicking language and the psychoreactive flourescent tribal scarring on their faces.
From Atlanta hits back into my circut. I can grab a probability synch from the front and hit Osgoode using a sideslip ether fracture, but St Andrew is close enough that I decided at that point just to fucking walk.
See http://www.livejournal.com/users/crisper/26562.html for explanation
Today was Thursday, so the stop after Osgoode was prospect Chernyshevskogo. The problem with St Petersburg subway stations is that they're full of the new Cult of Rasputin adapts, waving their surgically enhanced thirteen inch long penises at thw crowds and guzzling strycnine and Pepsi mixes between gutteral sermons. A crush of Ukranian business women and Tatar shock units pile on, their boots sticky with semen.
Getting back is such a pain on a system designed for rapid rotations through the planer sphere, twisting space to rabbit hole between systems. At least it wasn't the GO greater area commuter traffic systems, which bore through the Fugue and run connections between parralell dimensions. You miss your stop there and the probability debt will end up seeing you trying to explain to your boss three weeks prior.
The Bandra-Kurla corridor rushs up next, and fifteen thousand fucking Indians with their animals pile in. When the scheme was first proposed, there had been assurances that international health regulations would be observed. The Bombay stations ignored it, and these stops always reeked of chicken shit and rotting curry. My buddy Phil once got off here while drunk, mistaking the smell for his normal stop in Brighton and was found five days later, facedown in a Punjabi brothal with no body hair and a rubber glove half out of his ass. He drives these days.
Finally, back through the links, a neat cross connection on the hyperspeed Kurita line that accelerates the train to nearly mach 7, fourteen thousand times faster than the speed of a bullet, which has the added benefit of accumulating enough kinetic debt to send us past the Pacific depot hops and directly into a MARTA stop at Ashby. A pair of Bantu wagers, with their newly fashionable Whiteberry indentured assistants scuttling behind (looks like the Swedish models, which must have cost a fortune if they're pre-plague) trade brokerage stories and insider tips between their rough clicking language and the psychoreactive flourescent tribal scarring on their faces.
From Atlanta hits back into my circut. I can grab a probability synch from the front and hit Osgoode using a sideslip ether fracture, but St Andrew is close enough that I decided at that point just to fucking walk.
See http://www.livejournal.com/users/crisper/26562.html for explanation
