The Flinkwater Factor Read Online Free Page B

screech that came out of him when he looked at the Brazen Bull.
    The screech punched through the static on my headset like a positronium gamma-ray laser through a tar paper shack. It sounded like—well, let me just say that for one endless moment I thought the DHS had nuked us all.
    In the same instant Barney executed a vertical leap that took him within inches of the ceiling as I—and my chair—performed a backward somersault terminating in a perfect two-point landing, those two points being my knees and my face.
    Painful? Yes. But as soon as I regained my senses, I realized that Barney—who had teleportedout of my room the way cats will do—had given me a clue.
    The Brazen Bull had done whatever it was that the Brazen Bull did, but I remained unbonked, no doubt due to the protective measures I had taken, i.e., the greased-up glasses and staticky headset. I blacked the screen and saved the recording I had been making.
    You see how clever I can be? I had set up the computer to record every instant of Brazen Bull bouncing, and now had a record of the exact moment when it did its cat-freaking people-bonking thing. All I had to do then was play it back, very, very slowly, with my now-proven protective gear in place.

    Back in the 1950s there was this guy who claimed that movie theater owners could get people to buy more popcorn if they flashed momentary images of popcorn on the movie screen. He called it “subliminal messaging.” The idea was that the moviegoers would not consciously notice the one-twentieth-of-a-second image, but their sub conscious would see that tub of delicious popcorn swimming in butter and tell their stomachs to head for the concession stand. Since then lots of sneaky people have tried to get other people to do stuff by using these so-called subliminal messages.
    But it doesn’t work. Turns out it’s one of thosethings like perpetual motion. People want so much to believe in it they keep trying and failing.
    Only here’s the thing: When I played back the Brazen Bull animation, I discovered that someone had succeeded.

    What I found, looking at the Brazen Bull in super slow motion, was a high-rez image of Johnston George, aka J.G., wearing a tutu and high heels, his hair in pigtails, sucking on a baby’s pacifier, holding a sign reading I AM PATHETIC . In real time the image appeared for only .008 seconds—less time than it takes to blink. That image was followed up 1.66 seconds later by a photo of J.G. with his finger up his nose, then another photo of him squeezing a zit, and several other highly personal and unflattering images I flat out refuse to describe. It was impossible to tell which photos had been doctored and which were real. All of them had a real-time duration of less than one hundredth of a second.
    It was a brilliant and horrific collection, and I knew at once who was responsible: my future husband, Billy George.

9

    Billy George
    Thirteen might seem too young for a girl to begin planning her wedding, but as my mother is fond of pointing out, I am quite precocious. And I do like to plan ahead.
    Billy George, my intended, was also precocious, though he was still quite immature—even younger than me, by a full six months. And somewhat short. Which wasn’t a big problem, but it would be convenient to have a husband who could reach things on high shelves. My biggest problem was that Billy George was J.G.’s younger brother. I was not looking forward to having a psychotic monster for a brother-in-law, but even that would not deter me. I was in major crush mode with Billy. There, I said it. Right brain talks to left brain. My corpus callosum works just fine, thank you.
    Of course, Billy had no idea that we weredestined to be married—a minor detail. Like most boys, he was blissfully unaware of the outside world 99 percent of the time. Including me, for example. Which was unfortunate. But I didn’t hold it against him, because with