magicaddict | Confessions Of A Certifiable Genius

I'd ask what you're looking at, but we both already know.

Yes, that's my name. Don't wear it out.

What you see before you you think you understand. I know you do. I heard you discussing me. You think me a fool - a jumped up prick who tries to look cool and insults everyone because I'm weak and pathetic underneath. You think me arrogant and rude because I dared to not fawn all over you when you walked in and started shooting your mouth off about how big a dick you have. You think me a coward and a waste of resources because I refuse to enter the building that you haven't secured yet. You think I am incompetent because I take the time before I jack in to get to know my dance partner for the evening.

Believe me, bitch tits - you have no fucking idea.

What I do on a regular basis would drop you like a stone. Yes, that's right - it may be hard to understand how I am more than you and your gun can ever hope to be, but don't worry, I can explain it to you in a way you might understand. Please, ram this jack lead into your eye socket and we'll begin the lesson. No? How about your inner ear? You'd like it. It's like getting licked by a ten thousand dollar whore...oh, no, you probably wouldn't know about them. They don't appear in your magazines. They're a little more exclusive - they demand that you aren't a fat, drooling retard for a start. Probably why you haven't seen one before. The skirt I dance with is feistier than you could handle.

Still finding it hard to understand? Am I moving to fast for you? How about you take your gun and give your brain some ventilation holes so it doesn't overheat?

Did you know I'm on first name terms with the Spirit of the Matrix? Well, I say first name terms - it sits up and begs when I call it 'bitch'. Obviously it likes it. I find there's something very special about someone who likes to be controlled. Don't you find that? I imagine you have first hand knowledge of it - I wonder, which way do you swing with your little band of armour boys? Do you spend a lot of time together? Do you get it out and play soggy biscuit with each other when it's cold and dark, and you huddle together in your tent?

Get out of my face. Your breath stinks.

I grow tired of you. I've given you a lot of my time. Yes, go ahead, keep hurling the abuse - you're both unoriginal and weak. You had an opportunity there to brief us and let us get on with it, but you chose to get your gun off, you unprofessional fuckstick. You'll be damn lucky if I don't take a little time out while I'm running the system and earning you your money to wipe your bank account out and cyber your sister. Now get out there, do your job, and ug ug shoot the ug ug bad guys before you ask me to go into that firefight again. You do your job, a way away and preferably downwind of me, and we'll be just fine.

You know what retards do? They treat their decker like crap.

I am all you will ever need in a computer operator. There is no system I can't understand, no host I can't sweet talk, and no firewall I can't sneak my way around. I am the ghost that other hackers think they detect, watching them while they run. Half the time it's my bitch the Spirit. The other half, it's me. It's fun to watch them scrabbling around on the floor, playing like children with overly simple lines of code. One day, they may learn to fly, but I don't hold out much hope. You have to be something different - something unique - to do that properly, and I don't see anything like that near here. Not unless you want to find me a mirror.

I am Timothy Jared Dyson.

You may commence believing the hype.