Half a dozen teenagers, boys and girls, were huddled together around the remains of a campfire. As Sokolov… — Neal Stephenson
Half a dozen teenagers, boys and girls, were huddled together around the remains of a campfire. As Sokolov approached, one of them rose and staggered down the beach until he felt he had gone far enough to fish out his penis and urinate without giving offense to any female members of his party who might be awake. Sokolov approved of this.
He was still pissing, with the enviable vigor of the young, as Sokolov approached within hailing distance.
“What is this place?” Sokolov asked him.
“This is Golden Gardens Park.”
“What is name of city, please?”
“Seattle.”
“Thanks. Have nice day.”
“You too. Take it easy, man.”
“Is not my objective. Nice thing to say though. Enjoy piss.”
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Silence, as none of the men knew how to cope with her tactical use of the word “doll.”
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“I notice you’re not referring to him as ‘the little fucker’ anymore,” said Corvallis.
“Okay, okay, he stopped being a little fucker when he raised an army of twelve hundred high-level characters and deployed them in battle array around his projected route of advance,” Richard admitted. “I have to admit I was wondering why he was taking so long to move away from that cave. I didn’t reckon that he was going to set the whole thing up like Sherman’s march to the sea.”
“Did you notice his leapfrogging cavalry screens?”
“Yes, I fucking noticed them.”
He had found an image of one of the big Western-style business hotels along the waterfront: one of those places where it was possible to be a white person without attracting one’s own personal Stonehenge of cataleptic, openmouthed gapers.
