Conway Jack

If it wasn’t for the Robian Fractal Generator that I had jacked into my head a few hours ago, I wouldn’t be having any fun at all.

The Robian, unlike other fractal generators, isn’t just a painter of pretty pictures on your mind. Three years ago Professor Carl Robian found a way to plot, map and apply the process of fractilization to the human thought process. A thought . . . any thought, then becomes the colors which are painted upon the thought about that thought and the next one to follow. It’s pretty intense. It becomes even more intense when one attempts to function within a normal situation while a Robi plays a full symphony of color in your head.

I have always prided myself on being able to clean out my competitors at the table while blazing away in Robi-land.

Some things just come naturally.

I am an adrenaline junky. It’s not the only drug I use, but it’s my favorite. I am also a gambler by profession.

These two things are on opposite ends of the pole; diametrically opposed; completely incompatible and more. Dichotomy is my favorite vegetable served with a thick slice of Irony on the side. My name is Josiah, but not even my friends call me that.

Enough about me, let’s talk about the game, the party and the Night of the Conway Jack.

It was a party alright. A manufactured party. This was a group purposely brought together by someone offering something enticing and in demand.

That something could be company, money, sex, drugs or almost anything else. However this wasn't like any group I had ever seen collected between 12 walls. They were diverse to the point of incompatibility.

There was money here alright, and a look of crazed madness leaning toward orgasm. The purple décor throughout the house didn't help at all. Draped from every gangway and trellis were the remains of old military parachutes; tie-dyed in various shades of purple. The one closest to my face actually hurt my eyes.

It was a tenet of this type of gathering that purple was a conducer. Conducers were things that made an environment conducive to the glide. Purple was the color of the gate to the glide.

Want to confirm it? Close your eyes. Hard! Tighten your face muscles and clamp down your eyelids. That color; purple for most ; is the gate you must pass through to leave your mind and join the glide.

Don't believe it? That's okay; neither do I. But for enough cash I'll sing any song that makes you happy.

The bright flash in the corner caught my attention, and I looked over just in time to see some well-dressed gulper putting out the flames on his arm. After all these years we still haven't found a way to make ether less volatile. Oh well; it does keep the population of stupid gulpers at a minimum . . . deep-fried and smilin'.

Thrilocaine had started the gulping craze about three years ago. It was currently a social necessity to be able to "Do The Gulp" with your friends, and no social climbing amoebae would think about passing the tube without partaking. What would the neighbors say?

It was a fairly involved process using a strange and dangerous combination of liquid ether, evaporation tubes, open flame and drugs. Dangerous to do while in complete control of your faculties, it was positively suicidal when the drug kicked in. The stories of Gulper Flameouts were legion.