Well, if life hands you lemons, you make lemonade, but what if life hands you a fistful of shit? Then what? I’ll be real with you, there’s not much you can do with a fistful of shit, except maybe a shit sandwich, and I’m really not a fan of those. I’m stuck on the Santa Monica Freeway outside Redondo Junction, seated in my air-conditioned Ford Bronco pickup truck that guzzles a gallon as soon as you turn the key. It’s okay, I can afford it. I’ve done all right for myself, I think. Four years in the service, one trip to Nam before getting the honorable discharge, started a construction company as a 22-year-old, and now, ten years later, in the glorious year of 1984, I’m a millionaire. Great, right? No, not really. Money tends to lose its significance when you find your girlfriend—soon-to-be wife—humping your best friend on the couch when you arrive early, planning a nice night out with the missus.

That detracts from the joy of money greatly, let me tell you.

And this goddamn traffic! What’s the point of five fucking lanes if they don’t move? I slammed the horn of my truck, making it bleat like the great beast it was. The guy in the car in front put his arm out and gave me the finger.

Bastard.

I leaned back in the creaky leather seat, trying to enjoy the cool air streaming at my face, thinking the bastard who flipped me off was baking in the autumn heat of downtown LA. Suits him right.

The huge billboard on my right showed a woman with purple lips, her face covered with a metallic visor. She held the tip of her fingers to her temple as if ready to press a button. The text below was in silver letters, slanting to the right:

The NeuroNexus 9000 – Nothing will ever be the same

I’ve tried to be cynical about that billboard, since it’s kept me company for the last five minutes, but I couldn’t. The commercials for the NeuroNexus 9000 were everywhere: on TV, in the cinemas, on the radio, and on the billboards. It was a videogame—they said. It would change everything—they said, and when you tried it, nothing would ever be the same again—they said.

I liked it.

Change is good, especially when you’re standing there with a fistful of shit you don’t know what to do with. Besides, I’m a sucker for video games. Once, I held the high score on Space Invaders at the Reseda Mall arcade, and I’ve played the hell out of my beloved Nintendo. Melinda always said I needed to grow up, to stop wasting time with video games. Well, she didn’t waste any time, did she? Okay, I’m not going back there… I’m too young to be a bitter old fart. That’ll come later, I’m sure, but if there’s one positive with this adultery business, it’s that I can play video games for as long as I want.

I’ve just been down to the building site at Marina del Rey, and Percy is ready to pour concrete for the condos. They won’t need me for a couple of weeks, and I have ample time to prepare the pitch for the Hawthorne gig.

Well, it’s decided then.

When the clogged-up highway started moving again, I took the first exit, and fifteen minutes later, I pulled up at a RadioShack and stepped out on the hot pavement. Two guys passed between me and the RadioShack, wearing jeans shorts and yellow tank tops, their muscles all oiled up and gleaming. One of them had a boombox on his shoulder, playing Billie Jean.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The shack was dim, and a bell plinked above the door when I entered. I followed the long glass counter to the register, where a scrawny boy sat on a stool, reading an X-Men comic. He lifted his head and pushed back his glasses when he saw me.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Well, I’m in the market for one of those NeuroNexus 9000s.”

“Are you on the list?” the boy asked, returning his gaze to the comic with its big-bosomed mutant ladies.

“What list?”

He looked back up, reluctantly, and licked his upper lip.

“The waiting list. There’s a three-month delivery time.”

“Three… months?”

“Yep, the first batch went like that,” the boy said, snapping his fingers. “They’re building the hype for Christmas. Won’t be getting any of those beauties before December, I'll tell you that.”

“That you do?” I said, swallowing down my disappointment.

“That I do.” He flipped a page and looked up at me. “Want me to put you on the list?”

I considered telling him to shove a big one, but in the end, I pursed my lips and nodded.

“Please do.”

I left the store and just stood on the sidewalk in the heat, feeling the sun burning my face. Nothing could go my way. Was that it? It was. It was me and ol’ Mustache Mario for another three months, then.

“Eyh, misser?”

I looked to my right. A bum in a soiled coat and a cap sitting askew on his head, one eye closed against the glaring sun.

“You’re looking for one of those Nexus machines, right? Heard you in there.”

Really? Did you. Must have hearing like Superman, then.

“Sure, and you have one?” I asked, not able to keep a slight hint of mockery out of my tone.

“Not me, misser. But I know folks that do, yes sirree.”

“Of course you do,” I said, rounding the hood of the Ford, eager to get back into the air-conditioned seat.

“Just wait here, misser. Ten minutes, a’right? Be right back with it. You wait? Right?”

There was something with the urgency of his voice that told me he wasn’t just trying a crapshoot for easy cash, and it wasn’t like I was planning to give him any money in advance. I could spare ten minutes.

“Sure. Ten minutes, but don’t bring back some stolen crap. I want to see a receipt if I’m going to buy it. We’re clear?”

“Yes, misser! Yes, indeed!”

I turned the key, the engine gurgled a gallon, and the cool air streamed over my face. I turned the radio knob to the rock channel and started to bob my head to Mötley Crüe’s Shout at the Devil. I had no expectations—or at least very low ones—but some seven minutes after stepping into the car, the man in the soiled coat came scurrying back up the street with a flat box in the crook of his arm.

Could it really…?

He thumped the window of the passenger side, smudging it with dirt, grinning like a child on Christmas.

“Got it for you, misser!” His voice came burbling through the door.

I pushed the door open, and he climbed in. With some difficulty, he handed the rather large box over. On the top of it was the same picture I’d seen for weeks now, the woman with the purple lips and the metal visor over her face.

The NeuroNexus 9000 – Nothing will ever be the same

I looked the box over. It didn’t look like it had been opened. I cut the plastic with my thumbnail and pulled the cardboard flap free before raising the lid.

Holy crap.

It really was the real thing—metal visor in a loose translucent bag and the unit itself, sleek and metallic, covering the whole space of the bottom part of the box. On top of it—I lifted the visor out—was, in white letters, NeuroNexus 9000.

I nodded, trying not to let my eagerness show.

“Looks legit. How much?”

I braced myself.

“Well, the guy wants 200 bucks for it. Won’t let it go for less.”

200? It was an eye-watering price, but the NeuroNexus 9000 retailed at 170, so it wasn’t as bad as I feared. I took out a roll of bills from the inside pocket of my baseball jacket, unwrapped the rubber band, and peeled off an even 200. Could’ve haggled, I guess, but I wasn’t in the mood for it. What I was in the mood for was to swing by Pizza Hut and stock up, go home, and plug in my NeuroNexus 9000 and have everything not ever be the same again.

Sorry, Mario.