The viber buzzed its default “zn-zn” because V was not in the habit of tweaking apps. Vanilla settings, staple oatmeal, blonde cuties for him were fine to go on with, he did not run after frills in mainstream things of common usage.
He tapped his Samsung. The screen could barely contain the caller's plump map.
‘What's up, 2ic?’
‘Hey, V! Still trying to win those 100 bucks at proze.com? Typing tons of hooey to get the fuck?’
‘I don't give a fuck about no proses, shithead. Just using them as a whetstone to consolidate my skills. Their Monthly Challenge spurs you on all right when in the common writer's block, like, “Oh, my! What to write about?!” A freebie “Giddy up!”, sort of.’
‘Yea, bro, I do dig. Dough ain't the point, right? Moreover, a $100 bill won’t line your pockets for longer than another stray blonde.’
‘Cut your sermon out, padre.’
‘I'm doing you a friendly offer, V, which you can’t possibly reject. A gold mine, an oilfield as rich as to make BP and Shell scramble for the right to hummer lullabies on you 8 nights a week.’
‘What? Wanna them suck-dry me up with their pumps? Fuck you!’
‘Come on, man, I was purely metaphorical… The idea is, it's a chance you might meet but only once in your lifespan!’
‘Yeah, I see. You've sampled a nugget or a bucket from your metaphorical methamphetamine Bonanza, and got driveling high, up to the complete forgetfulness of my being straight.’
‘Since when?’
‘OK. Call me tomorrow or when you’re out from under the influence.’
‘Wait-wait-wait! I mean business!!’
‘Then talk it and don't act a pimp new to his trade.’
‘Look, there's a story… Some real story to glorify your name, V! It'll make you famous like Pynchon, Joyce, Hemingway!’
‘Who's the third guy?’
‘Hemingway? I dunno. Seen a book by him. My ex was regularly tear-drenching the paperback.’
‘A girl reading a live book? Come on! The mankind's past that phase… So you got jealous and remembered the name, huh?’
‘A farm girl from hinterland can keep a joker or two up her sleeve, believe me, bro. Anyway, I've got a file of some world-shatter stuff waiting for a guy to proofread, sign with his name, and become a celebrity overnight. How about that?’
‘OK. Just to prevent your bubbling fit from growing into OD, drop the file at my email.’
‘Forget it, handsome. I have nothing to do with no emails.’
And that's true. Since long 2ic got firmly fixed on the issues of personal data security. Anchored, as a matter of fact. Unbudgeably. It would take a bulldozer and a week of persuading before he agrees sending you a 2-liner with some link or stuff attached before he'd freak out the very last moment. Because of his employment at some obscure firm working for the government. A set of squat buildings behind the high mesh-fence, surveillance cams on every other post or pillar, grim rottweilers walking their surly breeders 3 times a day in the outside parking-lot.
