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Insert clever subtitle here before posting
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And now for something completely different. The silly side of The Matrix.

One thing I didn't want to do was to copy the books inserting Matrix references instead of SF references. ("OK, instead of 'Vogon' we'll say 'Machine,' and let's do a global search and replace for 'Trillian' into 'Trinity'...") Even hewing to the basic plot elements of the stories was not to be done.

I also didn't want to use any of the little language tricks that the late great Douglas Adams employed. If I read another high school essay where the author steals Adams' "It hung in the air in exactly the way that a brick doesn't," I will not be responsible for my actions. If you want to read those, read the original. The radio play and TV series are also worthwhile, they're certainly exemplars of their mediums; but I still like the books best.

No, I wanted to do something in the spirit of Adams, including a little Dirk Gently. You might also see some Fall And Rise of Reginald Perrin and The Good Life thrown in for good measure. Taking a cue from Lewis Carroll's Hunting Of The Snark, which is separated into Fits, I have Spasms instead of chapters. I think it's much closer to the way I write. The secondary characters are all mine on various servers since I've had a deuce of a time finding writers and readers to form a faction. (Interested? Talk to ClemSnide on Syntax or click on my name and leave me a private message.)

Despite that, the occasional element came through-- the Guide itself, for example. I wish we all had one. Not Panicking would make the world a much nicer place. You will in fact see a little stolen directly from HHGTTG despite my best efforts. I'm only human, or at least I claim to be and you'll never know for sure. And it is hard to write something with "Hitchhikers' Guide" in the title and not use the phrase "large friendly letters."

Finally, I would advise you to jump right into the first Spasm instead of reading the Preface, as they are always tedious and boring. ...Oh, sorry, perhaps I should have put this paragraph up top, eh?

---
FIRST SPASM
---

Seagulls called, faintly, in the distance; the early morning sun sparkled on the surface of the pristene water, spreading a million bursts of light as the waves broke onto the shore. The ocean moved rhythmically against the pink sands, over and over. Each surge was accompanied by a roar, a liquid clash, which (rather than sound disharmonious) left one feeling satisfied and complete. It was the single most relaxing image that Sam Hill had ever seen.

It ought to be. He had written it.

"This has been... a Normalidol(tm) moment," a man's baritone voice slowly announced. The man, clad in a business suit, walked through the surf. He had been a last-minute replacement because the sponsor thought the healthy-looking elderly man in a bathing suit was a bit too, well, you know. Those were in fact his exact words.

"I don't know," Sam had said, to which the sponsor replied "Well, you know." Sam had the horrible feeling that this was one of those conversations which would take an awfully long time and leave neither participant feeling like anything useful had been accomplished.

"Gay?" Sam had blurted. The sponsor, who will not be mentioned further in this manuscript and will therefore not be named (although to quell the curiosity of the two-- excuse me, three-- percent of readers who simply must know these things, this parenthetical comment will reveal that his name was Sam Andreas, no relation to the Toronto Andreases)-- I'm very sorry, it seems that I have lost control of this paragraph and will start again.

"Gay?" Sam had blurted. The sponsor hurriedly waved his hands and assumed the facial expression of someone who must for business reasons pretend to embrace diversity but who in fact hated minorities. He started quoting from the Spliff Pharmaceuticals employee manual, at which point Sam gave up and coded in the image of a businessman, complete with hat and briefcase, being knocked about by the waves as he delivered the required disclaimers.

"... eruption of mushroom-like pustules, cranial implosion or explosion, and dry mouth. These side effects were generally mild and occurred in less than--" his mouth made the shape of "two" but a different man's voice said "three"-- then the original voice concluded "percent of all cases."

Sam pressed the button on the bone-shaped 3DiVo remote to shut the commercial off. His room turned back from the beautiful ocean scene into its relatively drab but more normal appearance. It was no use. He was awake.

---
SECOND SPASM
---

His office at Ubiquitous Productions (various slogans: "We're everywhere," "You can't escape us," "Thought you could get away, eh?") was scarcely less drab than his apartment, Sam was second in command of the Subtle Placement division, whose title might lead one to believe that he subtly placed things in some manner or another. As was a continuing theme in Sam's life, it did not.

"Rainstorm coming up," announced Mr. Feeder cheerfully as Sam entered. Bastard. Sam had set the alarm early that day hoping to be in the office before the manager of his department, his immediate superior. Sam had the suspicion that Mr. Feeder lived in a supply cabinet. "Lots of puddles. Perfect time to deploy the Reflecteriffic(tm) ads."

"They're not nearly ready, Tom," Sam replied, hanging his overcoat neatly on his designated peg. "They have caused blindness in the tests."

"Oh, there are going to be two or three percent of people who have bad reactions to anything," laughed Mr. Feeder. "Christ, remember those ads for that body-repair shop, the green van driving on its roof? Worked out in the end, though. Caused a lot of accidents, made a lot of business for that company. And Legal got us through like champs. Say, any coffee left?"

Sam knew what was coming, in the same way that a document knows that the shredder is being prepared for it, and he could do about as much to avoid it. "I don't know, Tom, I just got in."

Mr. Feeder slapped his forehead. "Of course! I did get in first today, didn't I?" They had been classmates in college, except in the semester when Sam wanted to hike through the Nature Reserve. "Finding himself," he called it; "Getting it out of his system," the others had called it. It had been a beautiful four months. Long days when the only sound was a single chickadee, calling for its mate. Picking berries to supplement his trail rations. Watching a herd of bison stampede across the dusty plain. Meeting a girl near the end, making love at the base of a cliff, watched by stars. Seeing his fat melt away into hard muscles and a washboard abdomen.

During this time, this incredibly wonderful time, Tom had gotten an academic lead that Sam never caught up with. Everywhere Sam went after that, Tom was there, already set up in some position of responsibility. The Nature Reserve semester was all but forgotten now. Sam's body had traded its muscles back for fat, and had added a little, just to teach him. The woman never called him, and when Sam tried, the number had been disconnected. But it was clear that there were going to be Tom Feeders cropping up for the rest of his life.

The lunch game was next. After four hours of work, the SP staff snapped their flourescent desk lamps off as a unit (Sam's had an annoying flicker) and went off to lunch. Sometimes Sam went with one of the junior employees, but today he really wanted to be alone, which was unfortunate since Tom always tried to lunch with him. The game, thusly, was Sam's daily attempt to avoid doing so. If there were rules for the game, only Tom had a set. If there were little painted wooden pieces, several were missing; possibly the cat had batted them under the sofa.

"He-ey, Sammy boy!" he announced, gruff and chummy in that annoying way fraternity members have had since the days of the Greeks (when they used proto-Indo-European letters to denote their affiliation). "Where ya eating today, ole buddy ole pal?"

Having lunch with Tom Feeder was near the end of Sam's list of fun things to do with an hour, just a little lower than running a belt sander over his upper body but higher than doing a similar action on his lower body. Mostly because of the genitals. Sam had a book he wanted to read in the park. It was about how whales communicated.

"Probably not going to eat today, Tom, just wanted to relax and enjoy some" (here he paused briefly to make the next two words stand out) "quiet time." He was going to stop at a Boomer Burger and pick up a sandwich on the way but no reason to spell things out.

"Taking up some exercise, eh? Trying to reduce the old gut, eh?" As always, Tom hadn't really heard him, but was running some sort of internal dialog that involved a virtual Sam Hill. The real Sam felt vaguely sorry for this doppleganger, trapped as he was in Tom's mind. He imagined the second Sam pleading to be given the sweet surcease of death during moments when Tom was badgering someone else.

At the moment, though, Sam had not only talked himself out of a quiet luncheon with a good book, but had somehow gotten Tom to believe that they were to exercise together, which was even further down on his list, considerably past the whole series of "rabid wolverine" entries. Just then two junior members of staff passed by, talking.

"Why does the porridge bird lay its egg in the air?" one asked the other. The other laughed. Sam was interested in where that came from but the manager blocked his path to the elevator. No matter how hard he tried Sam could not get around Mr. Feeder's imposing form before the door closed.

Sam gave up. It was the one thing he was really good at, having had so much practice at it. "Why don't we go to a diner and you can tell me all about your new hyperscreen TV," he sighed. Tom had left brochures for the various manufacturers in conspicuous locations for weeks, and Sam was sure he'd bought one over the weekend. It won't be all that bad, he told himself. Once he gets started talking about his new toy I can zone off and think about other things.

You're lying, himself replied. I mean, I'm lying. I've tried this before, remember? I always lose my train of thought when he pokes me in the arm or chest to punctuate a point.

Yes, I suppose you're right-- I mean, I'm right, himself wearily admitted to himself. And it's hard to think about whale songs when he's spraying Secret Sauce from a Big Boomer(tm) out of his mouth. Which he does every time he laughs.

Yuk, himself and himself thought in unison. During this internal dialog, Tom had been strangely quiet. More precisely, he was just plain quiet, which was strange for him at any time. Sam phased back into reality and saw that his boss was posed in a conspiratorial wink and nudge posture, like he had been tagged in a game of "Statues" and all the other kids had heard the ice cream truck.

Sam looked over his shoulder and saw one of the childrens' videos that they were planning on displaying on Mylar balloons, the kind bought for birthday parties, the kind that never biodegrade and kill animals that swallow them. Nanny Tech simpered across the screen and cooed "Aren't you a good little boy and/or girl! I know what you want: the new Nanny Tech Tickle Tummy Toy! Run home now and tell mommy, daddy, or your court-designated caregiver all about it!"

"Nanny Tech causes paralytic shock. Hm, have to add that to the list of side effects," Sam muttered, boarding the elevator and not looking back in case he might see a gift horse whose mouth happened to be open.

---
THIRD SPASM
---

Down in the park, the Machmen were meeting the Machines and were playing kill-by-numbers. Sam found a bench near a wall where the gang members never ventured. You couldn't see the river, but you could hear it when the traffic noises subsided. It was a hot but overcast day, but Sam preferred the outdoors to being inside, no matter how much air-conditioned comfort the inside had. Up to a point, at least. He wasn't a maniac.

The book on whale songs was fascinating. Sam's Cluck-a-Boom(tm), the chicken sandwich served by Boomer Burger, lay half-eaten on his lap in its pasteboard packaging. Its wrapper displayed an animated chicken who would have said "Cock-a-doodle-doo! Next time, why not buy two?" every ten seconds if Sam hadn't turned off the sound-- the advertising wrappers were a competitor's product but the technology was pretty common.

Forty-five minutes into his lunch breaks, at least the good ones, Sam always had the idea that he should just sit on the bench the rest of the day and to hell with work. He always had to weigh the satisfaction of a little rebellion against the inevitable lecture from Tom and the division chief on how everyone was an integral part of the team and how he could always arrange some time off ahead of time if he needed to and how promotions were coming up soon and how there was no "I" in "Advertising." (Sam could never figure that last part out.) Generally, Responsibility won. It did today, pinning Rebellion to the mat two falls out of three. Sam picked up the sandwich and finished munching on it, staring at the book and determined to make it to the end of the chapter.

A shadow blocked his light. It was a man dressed in a strange pyjama-like outfit, green with white edging, contrasted by a beige fedora hat, fingerless gloves, and orange sneakers. Despite the mild sunlight of the spring day, he was wearing nearly opaque sunglasses. "Nutter," thought Sam, and then said out loud "I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior long ago, if that's what you're asking about," hoping to head off that unrewarding line of questioning.

It seemed to take the pyjama man aback. "Um, no, I was going to ask whether you had noticed anything wrong with reality lately." It sounded like he was taking a poll for a magazine, Popular Reality perhaps.

Sam stared at the man in his glaringly inappropriate outfit and decided not to make the obvious comment. "Wrong with reality? I'd like to see something right with reality just once. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

The answer wasn't exactly what the fellow had in mind, but it seemed to satisfy him. He searched for a few seconds in his various pockets and pulled something out that he kept hidden in his hand. "Take the blue pill and the rabbit goes back into its hole. You will wake up tomorr--"

"Rabbits? I quite like rabbits. What's this about rabbits?"

That completely threw the pill-bearer. "Huh?"

"You were talking about rabbits."

"No, I was talking about--" Slightly desperate now, he started his script over again. "Have you noticed anything wrong with reality lately?"

Sam's headache, never far from the surface, was making itself known, banging memories of pots and pans onto imaginary kitchen counters inside his cerebral cortex. "Look. I know what you are. I've met dozens of you before. At the moment you are keeping me from finishing a very good chapter in a book I was enjoying, so if you will just give me the blue pill we can part company and you can go on to bothering someone else."

In the next Spasm, the man will be introduced by name, but I have to keep calling him "the man" or "the pill-holder" or "the pyjama-clad man" for the moment because of a lack of good adjectives. Whoever he was, though, he deferred to Sam's strongly-worded request; he opened his left hand above the now-empty sandwich wrapper and a single red pill fell out. The other pill adhered to his hand, stuck there by sweat.

The phrase "don't know where it's been" echoed briefly through Sam's mind but was pushed out by the more insistent "make him go away." "Don't know where it's been" sat in the occipital lobe and moped. Those readers who feel sorry for it will be encouraged to learn that shortly it will have reason to lord it over "make him go away." While the two phrases were arguing, Sam plucked the second pill from the man's palm and flicked it into his mouth.

The slightly sweaty pill dissolved in Sam's mouth, sending a mediciney cherry flavor through his throat. "There. Goodbye." He dogeared a corner of the page and put the book in his pocket before the flavor mentioned at the beginning of the paragraph sank in. "Wait. What was--"

The other man looked as confused as Sam, and opened his right hand to reveal two blue pills. "Whoops," he managed to gulp before things got even weirder than they already had been.

---
FOURTH SPASM
---

"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Look, I'm really very very very sorry."

The words echoed inside the cave, which was filled with distended sacks each containing a human. Sam had been rescued from drowning in one, the feeding tube pulled from his throat as he vomited black bile that tasted vaguely of the man upstairs, who had passed away a few days ago. Sam wasn't sure of how he knew what the man tasted like. He just did and he didn't like the idea.

"Better than going back to work, though," he consoled himself as the baldy bloke, who bore some slight resemblance to a younger version of the fellow in green pyjamas, bent over him reiterating how really really sorry he really was.

As Sam's long-dormant physical senses began to work, he noticed two others in the cramped vessel, which a piece of nose art claimed was the HvCft Cooperation.

"Why is it, every time something changes, it changes for the worse?" Sam wondered. "Can I sue someone over this? Who's going to feed my cat?" As sore as his throat was, he must have wondered out loud. A second teenaged boy bent over his gurney and in a monotone answered "It's all code. Your cat is code. It will be dead when you return to the Matrix. You may code another if you so desire." Sam decided that his name was "Mister Sunshine."

He then noticed a third person, who appeared to be pulling on a rope, except that there was no rope in his hands. "Good lord, I've been captured by mimes," Sam thought, making sure he was in fact silent this time. You didn't want to anger the mimes. He had heard of mime abductions before. Scout leaders told their youthful charges stories by the campfire of children who had disappeared from that very campsite, only to return years later in berets and striped shirts, peeling bananas that no one could see.

"No, really, I'm sorry like you wouldn't believe," the first teen continued, which calmed Sam a little. A mime would never say that. A mime would never say anything, actually. The calm sensation lasted until he saw where they were taking him: a reclining chair with straps on the armrests, a metal clamp on the headrest, and spikes running all the way down the back. It was a lot like a dentist's chair, except that it looked more comfortable.

"Ah, I'll stand if you don't mind." The others ignored him and lifted him onto the evil-looking La-Z-Boy. There was a moment of disorinetation. "It really annoys me that I am starting to become used to being disoriented." Then he was in a white room with two chairs and a TV set. It was playing a recent episode of Fear Function.

"So that's it. I'm in hell. For all eternity my days will be spent wondering what animal's rectum they'll be eating on that night's episode." Just then the crew of the Cooperation appeared, popping onto the scene like Cybertubbies on the kids' show of the same name and, in fact, making the same sound effect.

One of the men was in green pyjamas. It was unquestionably the man from the park earlier that day. Sam made the connection between him and the youth on one side of his gurney when he started profusely apologizing. He was seated in the chair that Sam hadn't settled into.

Next, an expressionless man dressed in a black suit and black pants, black sunglasses and a black tie appeared, standing behind Sam's chair. He stayed silent but Sam imagined various job descriptions for him, such as "Funeral director," a "before" picture from Queer Hand for the Straight Man, "Internal Revenue auditor," and "Corpse." Seeing no cluster of lilies clasped in the man's hands, Sam crossed the second one off his list.

Lastly was a walking horror, the very stuff of which nightmares are made. Dead white of face but for red circles on the cheeks and black diamonds obscuring its eyes, it sprang up behind the TV set and pretended to be one of the participants on the TV show, who was at that moment eating the rectum of a Capuchin monkey. (Sam had guessed ring-tailed baboon, so he gave himself half credit.) It was the mime from the hovercraft.

"We haven't been introduced," the sitting man said after letting a final few apologies drip out like the last drops of urine before zipping up. "You're Sam Hill, and I'm xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx." He made the 'x' sequences sound like static, or a preadolescent male working up a really big gooey wad of spit from the back of his throat with which to torment a female sibling.

"That can't be your real name."

"Um-- well, my bluepill name is Burton Ernie."

"You... name your pills? Like some men give their genitals nicknames?" Tom Feeder's had been "The Weapon of Ass Destruction" in college.

"No no no no. See, your 'bluepill' life was before you took the red pill and Awakened." He suddenly remembered what had happened and was about to start apologizing again, an action which Sam cut off with the universal "get the hell on with it" wave of his hand. "What you do at this point is to choose a name that you think suits you, you know, the person that you always wanted to be."

"And you chose 'xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx.'" The man nodded. "No, I mean, out of all the names that twenty-six letters could be combined to make, including for example 'Srfwvegwqur,' that's the one that you consciously chose." He nodded again. "'Neo' was taken?"

"Well duh! He's like, the savior and stuff. But, see, I'm a lot like him, I think. I never met him but he was really cool and had all these super powers--"

"And 'xNeox?'"

"Yeah, someone had already taken that name."

"'xxNeoxx?'"

"That one too."

"'xxxNeoxxx?'"

"That one too." A subtle pattern was beginning to emerge. "But I'm more like Neo than any of them. Especially that guy 'xxxxNeoxxxx.'"

Sam was beginning to long nostalgically for the moment when he thought it was going to be him and the chairs watching Fear Function forever. The man interrupted his reverie and asked "So what's your handle going to be?"

"Sam Hill."

"No, you have to take a different one."

"Why? Is it a law?"

"Ah-- no, but--"

"Sam Hill suited me before and it's fine for the brief span of time that I'll be in this place. At least, I hope it's a brief span of time. How long are you planning to keep me here? I'm sure my lunch hour is long over."

"OK, we'll call you SamHill." Sam consoled himself with a small victory, so small that it was invisible to the naked eye, but a victory nonetheless. "Thing is, you can't go back to your old life. You're one of us now, an Awakened human."

Sam stared blankly at him. The man standing at attention behind his chair took up the thread. "Previously you were living a confortable illusion. Your life was a computer simulation designed to keep you sane."

"If that's what it was supposed to do, it wasn't very well designed," Sam muttered. The man continued.

"Humans and Machines live in balance. The Matrix provides a comfortable life and the humans' bodies provide the electricity that is required to keep the system running."

"That wouldn't work," Sam protested. "Do the math. Cells have a potential difference between their inner and outer walls, sure, but take that and the cell function ceases. Nerves transmit signals by reversing the electrical potential between their insides and outsides. Reducing that potential by draining it causes neurons to trigger less frequently, or not at all, and--" He saw that his audience's eyes, even behind their opaque sunglasses, were glazing over. The mime spoke. Generally that would be considered unusual, but at the moment it sort of faded into the background unusualness.

"I 'ave 'eard zat zere are zose 'oo claim these electrique is not so much ze truth," he offhandedly commented in what was the single worst French accent that Sam had ever heard, barring his high school French teacher Mr. Letroinnaire who always pronounced 'r' as 'w', possibly because of Gallic habit but equally likely because of a speech impediment; "bot of zis I do not so much know per'aps. Alors! Mon dieu!" He went back to being French and Sam knew that he would get no more of value out of him.

"Okay, so my life up till now was a computer simulation. Fine. I had some idea of that when I was a teenager but decided that it wasn't that important. At least not compared with girls, which I also had ideas about at the time. Put me back in it and we'll call it even."

There was a minute of coughing and shuffling of feet before xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx timidly said "Look, I've been trying to tell you. We can't. No way. It's never happened before and it never will happen. You're in The Matrix now."

---
FIFTH SPASM
---

"Now that you are Awakened, all of us wish to convince you to join our organizatins," the monochromatically-dressed fellow intoned. "We are the only crew made up of members from each. I represent the Machines' interests. xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx supports Zion, and lePatomaine The Merovingian."

The blinding white room disappeared and reality, in the form of a courtyard with a telephone booth in its center, swarmed in. xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx continued the speech. "Usually we just give people a gun and tell them to wander around, but we'll accompany you for a while. Least we can do. It's a dangerous world out there."

"And why is that?" Sam asked.

"Oh, for one thing a lot of people have guns."

Sam tried to count to ten under his breath, and made it as far as four. "Do you think-- now, do try to stretch your imagination here-- do you think that that may be because you give everyone a gun when they start out?"

xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx looked uncomfortable. "Possibly."

"Glad to hear you admit that, at least," Sam said. "Now, I don't care whether I'm Awakened or Asleepened: how do I go about getting back into the world of blue-capsules?"

"Bluepills," said all three operatives simulataneously. Sam had the sudden image of them performing "YMCA," or at least the "YMC" part since there were only three of them.

xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx looked even more abashed. "This doesn't usually happen. Taking the wrong pill, that is. We don't, um, actually have a procedure for dealing with things like this," he admitted.

"We do," the stiff man said. "Immediate termination is recommended."

"I'm not entirely in favor of that," Sam flatly stated.

"Oh, wait, I forgot, you should get one of these," the Zion operative continued. He nodded to the Machine operative, who pulled out a plastic object about the size of a paperback book, somewhere between John Grisham and Steven King in thickness. He proferred it to Sam. The Merovingian operative, in the meantime, was pretending to be encased in an invisible box.

Remembering the "immediate termination" comment, Sam was wary. "You open it." The Machinist shrugged and squeezed the sides of the case together. A little screen popped out and the case unfolded to form a small but usable keyboard, complete with scroll wheel.

Taking it, Sam read the words printed on the outside. In large friendly letters, it read "DON'T PANIC." "Good advice, that," xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx pointed out.

"This is the culmination of a cooperative effort between the three organizations," announced the Machine follower. "Zion wrote the content. We manufactured the code object that it is stored on."

"And the Merovingians?"

The mime briefly stopped walking an invisible dog. "We provided ze catering." He looked up and to the left. "Ooo la la! Ze code beets, they 'ave feeled up mon stor-age! I most stack zem!" He clapped his hands like a child at a circus, one of the good circuses that did background checks on its clowns, and disappeared.

On a whim Sam typed in "UBIQUITOUS PRODUCTIONS." After a very brief delay, the screen came to life with the text "The first ones against the wall when the revolution comes."

"It's accurate, I'll give it that."

"Try the scroll wheel," said xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx. Sam did and read more of the story.

"Ubiquitous Productions: The first ones against the wall when the revolution comes. They produce ads for product placement that crop up in places no ad should ever appear. One of their major successes was for AlienBear Computers, which was housed in a flashing light which caused an afterimage of their logo to appear in the center of one's field of vision for five minutes afterward. Longer if you blinked or rubbed your eyes. Bastards. Their Subtle Placement division is headed up by a bottom feeder--"

Sam blinked. "A bot, Tom Feeder," was what it actually read. "My boss was a 'bot?' What's that?"

"Ask the Guide. Oops, crud, I have some unusable inventory spaces, gotta hit the loading area for a minute." He clapped his hands. The green pyjamas disappeared and, thankfully, so did the man wearing them.

Sam typed it in and got the definition. "Bot: A simple piece of artificial intelligence, usually meant to simulate combat for practice. Limited IQ and very limited capability to deal with situations outside of its programming. Think of a night time security guard or roofing contractor."

"So my boss was a simple artificial intelligence," Sam mused. "Explains a lot." On a whim he looked up "lePetomaine" and then "xxxxxxxNeoxxxxxxx."

"lePetomaine: Merovingian operative currently on the HvCft Cooperation. Basically good but considered a bit of a wanker." Sam decided that he was mostly harmless.

"xxxxxxxNeoxxxxxxx: Traitor to Zion cause, has been known to permenantly terminate new redpills aboard their hovercrafts. Delights in mental and physical torture. Deadly assassin who should not be trusted." Sam got a queasy feeling until he counted the number of 'x'es.

"xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx: Zion operative. There are soldiers of Zion who are trusted with nearly impossible assignments, ones that could mean enormous strides for the cause of humanity or doom for millions depending on the outcome. Lesser souls are given missions that send them against daunting, but surmountable, obstacles for lesser rewards. People like xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx are given whatever is left."

"Not exactly a rave review," thought Sam, and debated typing in his own name. He decided against it. "Know thyself," Socrates had advised, but not "Know what some editor of a pocket guide to the Matrix thought about you."

---
SIXTH SPASM
---

"And you," he said to the Machinist. "I don't even know your name."

"13013Dobbs," came the proud reply. The dark-suited man seemed to be breathlessly waiting for Sam to smile and nod having achieved complete understanding, but Sam missed not only the revelation itself but even the general area of where it might be found.

"So do they call you 'one three' for short?"

The Machine operative snorted in frustration. "No! It's BOB. You know, the one and three look like a 'B'. and the zero looks like an 'O.'"

"Then... why not just name yourself 'BobDobbs?'"

The somber fellow tore off his dark glasses and blew out a great gust of air. "Because that... wouldn't be... 3733T!"

"Three seven three three T. No, you lost me again." Sam had a couple of juicy similes ready, one of which was "like you were a sofa cushion and I was a Biro," but was uncertain enough of 13013Dobbs' capability to understand such things that he filed it away for future use, like a squirrel burying an acorn in the garden of a mobile home, which was the second simile he had thought of.

The Machinist hunched over his shoulders as he started, as if explaining the idea to a four-year-old. (In the way that a five-year-old, arrogant in his extra twenty-five percent worth of life experience, might.) "Okay, look. The number three looks like the letter 'E,' right? Only backwards. And seven, that's 'L' upside down and backwards," he concluded.

"And 'T?'"

"IS JUST-- THE LETTER-- T!" raged 13013Dobbs, looking less and less like the placid Agents he idolized as the conversation wore on.

"Why not use the number 6?"

"That looks nothing like a 'T.'"

"It's as close to a 'T' as a seven is to an 'L.' And besides, what's the whole thing supposed to spell?"

This was the Q.E.D. that the Machine operative had been waiting for. "Elite," he said with the air of an imam explaining the four pillars of Islam to an eager seeker of knowledge.

"But it doesn't. At best it spells 'eleet,' which isn't a word. It looks like the name of a feminine hygeine product. Something having to do with unwanted hair."

That was too much for 13013Dobbs. "Oh, and you're a spelling Nazi now?" he exploded. "You're not the boss of me! What are you, my English teacher?"

"Might have been," Sam admitted. "I used to be a high-school English teacher, but I quit."

"Why?" asked xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx, who had returned in the meantime.

Sam sighed. "Because all of my students were morons. I figured that if I had to work with morons, I should go into the advertising field. The pay is better there."

13013Dobbs was still attempting to retain some dignity. "Nobody understands me."

"Maybe if you used real words in real sentences they might." They glared at each other like two Samurai getting ready to make human-flavored sushi out of each other. The Machinist gave up first, smoothing his hair down and replacing his sunglasses.

The Guide noted that he was in fact a Machine soldier, who thought Agents were so uber cool. Mostly because they could kill anyone and had really big weapons. The Guide advised him to see "Sigmund Freud" for additional information, but Sam folded it back into its case.

"Enough of that. What happens now?"

"Now, you come with us," answered an entirely new party to the conversation, who (with a wave of his hand) summoned enough guards surrounding the three virtual people that escape was greyed out on whatever pulldown menu the three could choose from.

---
SEVENTH SPASM
---

SamHill, xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx, and 13013Dobbs were loaded into a van by means of the "bum's rush," which is not as pleasant as it sounds. (Taking into consideration the fact that it does not sound particularly pleasant.) "Where are you taking us?" Sam asked.

"Shut up," replied one of the masked men.

"Who are you?" 13013Dobbs asked.

"Shut up," replied another of the masked men.

"Wankersaysshutup?" xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx asked.

"Shut up," replied the masked man who was driving.

The others looked at the Zionist curiously. "Couldn't make matters worse."

They drove for what seemed like, and what in fact was, hours. They were far out of the Megacity, but in a direction that Sam had never travelled. Any time one of them tried to look out a window, he was viciously clubbed to the ground.

"Can't you do that trick where you disappear?" Sam whispered. 13013Dobbs shook his head.

"Do you see a phone booth around here?"

"I don't want Superman to show up, I just want to get out of here."

Either Sam's naivete or the most recent blow to the head made the Machinist grimace. "Phone booths are hardlines. You need one to get out of the Matrix. Otherwise you risk damaging your mind."

"Would it be as damaging as the multiple blows to the head that you've taken?" Sam wondered.

"I'll do it." The others looked at xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx. "Look, boys, we're in trouble. I'll do an emergency jackout and see what the Operator and I can do from the outside." Sam had no idea what an "operator" was but it sounded like a more comforting term than "bum's rush." xxxxxxNeoxxxxxx rose slightly on one knee and softly clapped his hands together. The others looked at him expectantly.

"Crap."

"Is that the magic word for this 'emergency jackoff' thing?"

"Jackout. And no. Clapping usually does it. I'm worried about what may have happened to our Operator."

Sam nodded. "I appreciate that. As it turns out, being trundled into a van and carted to an unknown fate by mysterious gun-toting men who have a genuine disdain for uninjured heads on other people wasn't quite enough to raise my anxiety levels to their fullest, but that little piece of news has definitely put me at one hundred percent."

"It's no picnic for us either," snarled 13013Dobbs. He was correct. Picnics usually are considerably better stocked with egg sandwiches, fizzy lemonade in bottles, and ants. There was a fly or two buzzing around the van, but it wasn't quite the same thing.

"There's only one thing to do," continued the Machine operative. "We can overpower them if we all go together. On the count of three: One! Two! Three!"

None of them moved