Swimmers

“Those fucking THOTS!” howled a Swimmer.

The den was a jungle of wires and cables. Silver strands and vines going from blocky computer towers. Swimmers made their nests with takeout cartons, drink cans and other unmentionables.

On each of their heads were butterfly-shaped helmets. Each cyberspaced Swimmer was plugged into the internet, drooling and howling with oblivious abandon. They were in the complete freedom of the internet.

Mari glanced around through the forest of cords and coral-stacks of circuit boards to find her partner.

She passed one Swimmer tapping invisible keys with nodes implanted in her fingers.

Another Swimmer was groping at invisible breasts. His naked body covered in sweat. His underwear wet with god-knows-what.

Mari hurried, trying to find him. She hadn’t heard from him in two days. She had tracked his last known location to this den. Mari was dizzy with the noise and anarchic faceless internet addicts. They shrieked, howled, moaned and cried with no conception of their own volume. Their voices and accents slurred by internet slang and energy modifiers.

“Fuck! That’s my loot!”

“ROTFLOL! NICE!”

“Come on! Show me!”

“The H33 Hds 144 is so last week.”

“Damn gigs make me FUCKING WANT TO SHOOT MYSELF”

“Money transferred. Pleasure doing business with you, dirty girl.”

“Post this, cunt!”

“Fuck, WEEB! My Server!”

“OMG! WTF!”

It was like putting your head inside a washing machine filled with bells.

Mari caught a familiar voice through the chaos. A familiar moan.

She circled back to the naked man in soiled underwear.

She recognized his moans.

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