"Нейл Стефенсон. Snow Crash (Снежная лавина, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

public figure and spokesperson for CosaNostra Pizza and basically end his
private life as he knows it. He will come away from the whole thing feeling
that, somehow, be owes the Mafia a favor.
The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in
such cases, but he has heard some rumors. Most pizza deliveries happen in
the evening hours, which Uncle Enzo considers to be his private time. And
how would you feel if you bad to interrupt dinner with your family in order
to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel fora late fucking
pizza? Uncle Enzo has not put in fifty years serving his family and his
country so that, at the age when most are playing golf and bobbling their
granddaughters, he can get out of the bathtub dripping wet and lie down and
kiss the feet of some sixteen-year-old skate punk whose pepperoni was
thirty-one minutes in coming. Oh, God. It makes the Deliverator breathe a
little shallower just to think of the idea.
But he wouldn't drive for CosaNostra Pizza any other way.
You know why? Because there's something about having your life on the
line. It's like being a kamikaze pilot. Your mind is clear. Other
people-store clerks, burger flippers, software engineers, the whole
vocabulary of meaningless jobs that make up Life in America-other people
just rely on plain old competition. Better ifip your burgers or debug your
subroutines faster and better than your high school classmate two blocks
down the strip is flipping or debugging, because we're in competition with
those guys, and people notice these things.
What a fucking rat race that is. CosaNostra Pizza doesn't have any
competition. Competition goes against the Mafia ethic. You don't work harder
because you're competing against some identical operation down the street.
You work harder because everything is on the line. Your name, your honor,
your family, your life. Those burger flippers might have a better life
expectancy- but what kind of life is it anyway, you have to ask yourself.
That's why nobody, not even the Nipponese, can move pizzas faster than
CosaNostra. The Deliverator is proud to wear the uniform, proud to drive the
car, proud to march up the front walks of
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SNOW CRASH
innumerable Burbclave homes, a grim vision in ninja black, a pizza on
his shoulder, red LED digits blazing proud numbers into the night: 12:32 or
15:15 or the occasional 20:43.
The Deliverator is assigned to CosaNostra Pizza #3569 in the Valley.
Southern California doesn't know whether to bustle or just strangle itself
on the spot. Not enough roads for the number of people. Fairlanes, Inc. is
laying new ones all the time. Have to bulldoze lots of neighborhoods to do
it, but those seventies and eighties developments exist to be bulldozed,
right? No sidewalks, no schools, no nothing. Don't have their own police
force-no immigration control-undesirables can walk right in without being
frisked or even harassed. Now a Burbclave, that's the place to live. A
city-state with its own constitution, a border, laws, cops, everything.
The Deliverator was a corporal in the Farms of Merryvale State Security
Force for a while once. Cot himself fired for pulling a sword on an
acknowledged perp. Slid it right through the fabric of the perp's shirt,
gliding the flat of the blade along the base of his neck, and pinned him to