"Richard Laymon - Dreambox Junkies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

PsyTri Pharmdiv's Crowning Glory hair-retention pills and had substituted placebos. Not only would that
mean lawsuits from disgruntled scalpsters, but lots and lots of Dreambox junkies getting nasty shocks.
For someone had disovered that one half-tab of Crowning Glory, when taken with a thousand-mg
Vitamin C capsule, protected youтАФmale or femaleтАФfrom boxmares, kept your dreams nice and sweet;
far more reliably, curiously enough, than antideps such as Prozac or Trizac. Now, with only a sugar pill as
insurance, all those box users would be open to the ugly side of themselves. Legally, the Institute was
only vulnerable on the baldness front. So far as the Dreambox thing went they were untouchable: all
packs carried prominent unauthorized use warnings. Crowning Glory couldn't be marketed as a
boxdream dethanatizer since drug-assisted box use was currently illegal right across the Union in the
wake of a rash of fatalities. Dreamboxes had only been on the market a matter of months, but neural
overkill risks had already raised questions in the House, set parents panicking, and contributed more
priceless darkside glam than any ad campaign could hope to evoke.

The CG/Vit C cocktail had a reputation as the most effective dethan gear available. Twice as much CG
had been shifted since the box junkies had got into using it, and the forecast was that box-related sales
would eventually outstrip hair-related. But now, with Crowning Glory proving untrustworthy, they would
be switching in droves to rival hair-retention tabs like McKeepit or ReMane.

Sesha had spent half the afternoon, prior to her return visit to the McClinic, doing interviews with news
people while suffering hell from her newly-implanted Mindseye. Without openly addressing box users,
and thereby flouting the drug & dream laws, she'd had to find away of reassuring both lots of customers,
the box freaks as well as the baldinis, that this was just an isolated case, one particular batch, that
Crowning Glory was still the number one tab for all your male pattern hair loss or boxdream
dethanatization problems.

On top of her spokesperson role, she had been one of those allotted the dreary job of co-ordinating
checks on stocks of Crowning Glory to make sure no more unpleasant surprises lay in store for
purchasers. But now she was being given something else, something ultimately more important, not to
mention far more interesting, and she was grateful as fruck.

тАЬNo, but listen, Sesh ... about Frances?тАЭ Ajit trotted out that tiresome catchphrase of his: тАЬI've seen the
script, and it ends on an up. So Sesh if you could...тАЭ At that point Ajit's image got puppeted by a random
gerontocidalist morphomercial. He took on the characteristic sneer. тАЬWhat do young people think about
old people? We think they're disgusting. Especially the ones who expected the State to look after them,
who stupidly made no provisions. The parasites. And ugly, so ugly, so ugly and old! You're a burden on
the young. We don't want you. Take your scrawny stinking chickenskins out of our sight.тАЭ Eyes blazing,
he screamed, тАЬDO US A FAVOUR AND DIE."

тАЬFruck off, crunt.тАЭ Sesha told the phony puppet Ajit. Incredibly, this twisted digiterrorism had proved
mildly successful in precipitating suicides among the elderly, particularly when more subtle viropirates
found their way into NeTV gardening ads and turned some nice old green-fingered Uncle Cardigan into a
face-the-facts proselytizer for self-immolation.

тАЬCrawl into your graves where you belong. Think we want you in our world? You think we want to see
our taxes pissed away on maintaining your decrepit old carcasses, stinkbreath chickenskins? END
YOUR LIFE. One simple way out is to swallow a whole bottle of...тАЭ The shitfilters finally shrugged off
the loathsome illegal interloper, and phony Ajit melded back into real Ajit. Grimly he asked, тАЬSo who
was it got me?"

тАЬGeros."