The cyborgs launched their Blitzkrieg on the Big Apple, and Dunk Watergate had the Big Brother blues. Back on civvy street, demobbed after some Mickey Mouse snafu ended with his U-boat in a tailspin. Cheerio, punk. Back among the lumpenproletariat: the psychedelic hippy peaceniks, the hip-hop bling bling gangstas, the avant garde It-girls doing the Botox bossa nova with that beatbox sex buzz in their DNA and acid in the hem-lines of their miniskirts.
He was a non-U Generation X beatnik. He had no mobile phone, no URL, no byte of the applet. Some called him a wizard of kitsch, hip to be cool. Others said he hot-desked brainwashed through virtual reality, pissed off with the sacred cows of the realpolitik but doing naff all. Now it was ceasefire for the whizzo eggheads' axis of evil; an awesome sudden death. Ad-libbing the F-word, Dunk popped the Molotov cocktail.
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