's intelligence gathering begin to coincide, with links between the neuro-linguistic viruses, a religious organization known as Reverend Wayne's Pearly Gates and a media magnate named L. Bob Rife beginning to emerge. You can look at the three-ring binder from CosaNostra Pizza University, cross-reference the citation for Mute button on the stereo. The cockpit lights go red. He also doesn't always know where he stands in life, or in relation to others. Better flip your burgers or debug your subroutines faster and better than your high school classmate two blocks down the strip is flipping or debugging, because we're in competition with those guys, and people notice these things. A row of orange lights burbles and churns across the front, where the grille would be if this were an air-breathing car. It makes the Deliverator breathe a little shallower just to think of the idea.But he wouldn’t drive for CosaNostra Pizza any other way. No sidewalks, no schools, no nothing. Each pizza glides into a slot like a circuit board into a computer, clicks into place as the smart box interfaces with the onboard system of the Deliverator’s car. They said that he had exposed them to liability.The Deliverator had to borrow some money to pay for it. That is good, that means high turnover for him, fast action, keep moving that ‘za. Those burger flippers might have a better life expectancy—but what kind of life is it anyway, you have to ask yourself. He knows that when he gets to the place on CSV-5 where the bottom corner of the billboard is obscured by the pseudo-Gothic stained-glass arches of the local Reverend Wayne’s Pearly Gates franchise, it’s time for him to get over into the right lanes where the retards and the bimbo boxes poke along, random, indecisive, looking at each passing franchise’s driveway like they don’t know if it’s a promise or a threat.He cuts off a bimbo box–a family minivan–veers past the Buy ‘n’ Fly that is next door, and pulls into CosaNostra Pizza #3569. So it was like being in a family. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. The Deliverator is proud to wear the uniform, proud to drive the car, proud to march up the front walks of innumerable Burbclave homes, a grim vision in ninja black, a pizza on his shoulder, red LED digits blazing proud numbers into the night: 12:32 or 15:15 or the occasional 20:43.The Deliverator is assigned to CosaNostra Pizza #3569 in the Valley.
Some punks in Gila Highlands, a fancy Burbclave, wanted themselves a delivery, and they didn't want to pay for it. Engineered from Rat Things were invented by Mr. Ng, of Ng Security Industries, who was severely handicapped after a helicopter accident in Vietnam. He is zeroing in on his home base, CosaNostra Pizza #3569, cranking up the left lane of CSV-5 at a hundred and twenty kilometers. Came in its doors unable to write an English sentence, from Abkhazia, Rwanda, Guanajuato, South Jersey, and came out knowing more about pizza than a Bedouin knows about sand.
You don’t work harder because you’re competing against some identical operation down the street.

He's got esprit up to here. Snow Crash NPR coverage of Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. Snow Crash: A Novel - Kindle edition by Stephenson, Neal. The address of the caller has already been inferred from his phone number and poured into the smart box’s built-in RAM. And by Part of it is his training. The Deliverator used to make software. He is red-faced, sweating, his eyes roll as he tries to think of the English words.The Deliverator says nothing. Uncle Enzo is standing there, not exactly smiling, an avuncular glint in his eye for sure, not posing like a model but standing there like your uncle would, and it saysThe billboard serves as the Deliverator’s polestar.

(short for Yours Truly), a young skateboard Kourier (The Mafia boss Uncle Enzo begins to take a paternal interest in Y.T. And how would you feel if you had to interrupt dinner with your family in order to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel for a late fucking pizza?

The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. Snow Crash (v2.3) Neal Stephenson, 1992 snow n. ... 2.a. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens. His hair is perfect, slicked back with something that never comes off, each strand cut off straight and square at the end by Uncle Enzo’s cousin, Art the Barber, who runs the second-largest chain of low-end haircutting establishments in the world. Which is a good thing, considering that his name is basically hero Yay. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. Other people–store clerks, burger flippers, software engineers, the whole vocabulary of meaningless jobs that make up Life in America–other people just reply on plain old competition.

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