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job interviews 2
Ahh, another gothic Melbourne afternoon. Grey skies, freezing cold drizzle, and a wind that strips every last BTU of heat from your body. I thought i'd go out for a walk, drop by the ATM and see if I had enough money to buy a potato. Dum de dum, select savings account, select account balance, wait, wait, clack clack clack pittoo - what the HELL? This HAD to be a mistake. I took the slip inside, and after the obligatory glances of disdain at my bare feet, the teller deigned to speak to me. "I think there might be something funny with my bank account - I didn't anticipate having this much money." She retrieved a list of recent transactions, and amongst ten-dollar withdrawals at Safeways and the pittance provided by the Department of Social Security every fortnight, there was one thing that stood out; someone calling themselves AnarchArtists, Inc, had deposited forty thousand dollars in my account just over two days ago. I got a taxi home. AnarchArtists, Inc, weren't in the phone book, and directory assistance hadn't heard of them ... Consumer Affairs didn't know them, but the sensual voice which answered the phone at the Registry of Small Businesses gave me an address, after I told her why. She also asked me out to dinner, but I said that I had a date with a can of spaghetti. I caught the tram to the city and found the building, a shabby-looking dump in Market Lane. The door hung open; there was a glass-covered directory with a few scattered plastic letters stuck to black velvet railings, like yellowed teeth in a corpse. The place was dark and dusty, my footsteps echoing eerily. the elevator - one of those ancient cage-like affairs - still worked, but the floor it took me to was even more run-down than the rest of the building. The doorway to the offices of AnarchArtists, Inc, didn't even have a door. Inside, a desk, some scattered papers, a bare light bulb hanging from a black plastic cord. The desk was set at an angle, as if the place had been vacated in a hurry; judging from the dust, this had taken place about ten years ago. I went through the desk, anyway; the first three drawers were empty. The fourth contained a brand-new walkman, glittering black and silver plastic. I picked it up, put on the headphones and pressed play. There was some faint tape hiss, then a pulsing bass note which started around low E and then fell rapidly. I was wondering if they were going to try for that twelve-hertz hypnotic sound when |
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