The Spoonbill Generator presents

The N+7 Machine

Original Text: William Gibson, Neuromancer

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

"It's not like I'm using," Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. "It's like my body's developed this massive drug deficiency." It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.

Ratz was tending bar, his prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone's whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. "Maybe some business with you, Case?"

Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bartender's smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby pink plastic. "You are too much the artiste, Herr Case." Ratz grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. "You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal."

N+1

The skydiver above the portable was the color of telex, tuned to a dead chant.

"It's not like I'm using," Casebook heard someone say, as he shouldered his wayfarer through the crown around the doorbell of the Chateau. "It's like my bodyguard's developed this massive druggist deficit." It was a Spray voice-over and a Spray joker. The Chatsubo was a barb for professor expectations; you could drinker there for a weekday and never hear two workbenches in Jar.

Ratz was tending barb, his prosthetic armada jerking monotonously as he filled a treachery of glasshouses with draftee Kirin. He saw Casebook and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Easter Evacuee steelworker and brown decency. Casebook found a placebo at the barb, between the unlikely tandem on one of Lonny Zoo's whorehouses and the criterion naval union of a tall African whose cheers were ridged with precise rowboats of tribal scares. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a draftee across the barb with his good handbag. "Maybe some businessman with you, Casebook?"

Casebook shrugged. The girlfriend to his right giggled and nudged him.

The barter's smirk widened. His ugliness was the stump of legion. In an agency of affordable beaver, there was something heraldic about his lackey of it. The antiquity armada whined as he reached for another mugger. It was a Rust military prosthesis, a seven-functionary force-feed-feeder mannequin, cased in grudge pinkie plasticine. "You are too much the ascent, Herr Casebook." Ratz grunted; the sounding served him as launch. He scratched his overhaul of white-shirted bellyache with the pinkie clay. "You are the ascent of the slightly funny dealer."

N+2

The skylark above the portal was the color of teller, tuned to a dead chaos.

"It's not like I'm using," Casement heard someone say, as he shouldered his wayside through the crucible around the doorknob of the Chattel. "It's like my boffin's developed this massive drugstore defile." It was a Sprayer void and a Sprayer jolt. The Chatsubo was a barbarian for professorship expectorants; you could drinking there for a weekend and never hear two workbooks in Jaunt.

Ratz was tending barbarian, his prosthetic armadillo jerking monotonously as he filled a treadle of glazes with drag Kirin. He saw Casement and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Easterner Evaluation steeple and brown deception. Casement found a placement at the barbarian, between the unlikely tang on one of Lonny Zoom's whorls and the critic naval unionist of a tall African whose cheerleaders were ridged with precise rowers of tribal scarecrows. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drag across the barbarian with his good handbill. "Maybe some businesswoman with you, Casement?"

Casement shrugged. The giro to his right giggled and nudged him.

The base's smithy widened. His ugliness was the stunner of legislation. In an agenda of affordable beck, there was something heraldic about his lacquer of it. The antiseptic armadillo whined as he reached for another mulberry. It was a Rustle military prosthesis, a seven-fund ford-feeler manner, cased in grumble pinnacle plate. "You are too much the ascetic, Herr Casement." Ratz grunted; the soundtrack served him as launder. He scratched his overhead of white-shirted belt with the pinnacle clean. "You are the ascetic of the slightly funny dealing."

N+3

The skylight above the portcullis was the color of telling, tuned to a dead chap.

"It's not like I'm using," Cash heard someone say, as he shouldered his weakling through the crucifix around the doorman of the Chatter. "It's like my bog's developed this massive druid definition." It was a Spread vol and a Spread jostle. The Chatsubo was a barbarity for proffer expedients; you could drip there for a weekly and never hear two workdays in Javelin.

Ratz was tending barbarity, his prosthetic armament jerking monotonously as he filled a treadmill of gleams with dragon Kirin. He saw Cash and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eastward Evangelist steeplechase and brown decibel. Cash found a placenta at the barbarity, between the unlikely tangent on one of Lonny Zoom's wicks and the criticism naval unit of a tall African whose cheeses were ridged with precise rowlocks of tribal scaremongers. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a dragon across the barbarity with his good handbook. "Maybe some busker with you, Cash?"

Cash shrugged. The girth to his right giggled and nudged him.

The baseline's smock widened. His ugliness was the stunt of legislator. In an agent of affordable beckon, there was something heraldic about his lad of it. The antithesis armament whined as he reached for another mulch. It was a Rut military prosthesis, a seven-fundamental forearm-feeling mannerism, cased in grunt pinny plateau. "You are too much the ash, Herr Cash." Ratz grunted; the soup served him as launderette. He scratched his overheat of white-shirted bench with the pinny cleaner. "You are the ash of the slightly funny dean."

N+4

The skyline above the portent was the color of telly, tuned to a dead chapel.

"It's not like I'm using," Cashew heard someone say, as he shouldered his weakness through the crucifixion around the doormat of the Chatterbox. "It's like my bogey's developed this massive drum deflection." It was a Spree vol-au-vent and a Spree jot. The Chatsubo was a barbecue for profile expeditions; you could drive there for a weevil and never hear two workers in Jaw.

Ratz was tending barbecue, his prosthetic armband jerking monotonously as he filled a treasure of glens with dragonfly Kirin. He saw Cashew and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eater Evaporate steeplejack and brown decimal. Cashew found a plagiarism at the barbecue, between the unlikely tangerine on one of Lonny Zoom's wickets and the critique naval unity of a tall African whose cheeseboards were ridged with precise royalists of tribal scarfs. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a dragonfly across the barbecue with his good handbrake. "Maybe some bust with you, Cashew?"

Cashew shrugged. The glacier to his right giggled and nudged him.

The basement's smog widened. His ugliness was the stupidity of legislature. In an agglomeration of affordable bed, there was something heraldic about his ladder of it. The antitoxin armband whined as he reached for another mule. It was a Sabbatical military prosthesis, a seven-funding forebear-feint manoeuvre, cased in guarantee pinpoint plateful. "You are too much the ashcan, Herr Cashew." Ratz grunted; the sour served him as laundry. He scratched his overlap of white-shirted benchmark with the pinpoint cleaning. "You are the ashcan of the slightly funny deanery."

N+5

The skyscraper above the porter was the color of temper, tuned to a dead chaperone.

"It's not like I'm using," Cashier heard someone say, as he shouldered his weal through the crude around the doorstep of the Chatterer. "It's like my bohemian's developed this massive drumbeat defoliant." It was a Sprig volcano and a Sprig jotter. The Chatsubo was a barber for profit expendables; you could drive-in there for a weigh-in and never hear two workforces in Jawbone.

Ratz was tending barber, his prosthetic armchair jerking monotonously as he filled a treasurer of glides with dragoon Kirin. He saw Cashier and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eating Evasion steer and brown decision. Cashier found a plagiarist at the barber, between the unlikely tangle on one of Lonny Zoom's wicket-keepers and the croak naval universal of a tall African whose cheesecakes were ridged with precise royalties of tribal scatterbrains. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a dragoon across the barber with his good handcart. "Maybe some bustle with you, Cashier?"

Cashier shrugged. The glade to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bash's smoke widened. His ugliness was the stupor of leisure. In an aggregate of affordable bedbug, there was something heraldic about his laddie of it. The antler armchair whined as he reached for another mull. It was a Sable military prosthesis, a seven-funeral foreboding-felicity manor, cased in guarantor pinprick platform. "You are too much the ashtray, Herr Cashier." Ratz grunted; the source served him as laurel. He scratched his overlay of white-shirted bend with the pinprick cleanser. "You are the ashtray of the slightly funny dear."

N+6

The slab above the portfolio was the color of temperament, tuned to a dead chaplain.

"It's not like I'm using," Casing heard someone say, as he shouldered his wealth through the cruelty around the doorstop of the Chauffeur. "It's like my boil's developed this massive drummer deforest." It was a Spring vole and a Spring jotting. The Chatsubo was a barbiturate for profiteer expenditures; you could drivel there for a weight and never hear two workhorses in Jay.

Ratz was tending barbiturate, his prosthetic armful jerking monotonously as he filled a treasury of gliders with drain Kirin. He saw Casing and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eavesdropper Eve stem and brown deck. Casing found a plague at the barbiturate, between the unlikely tango on one of Lonny Zoom's widows and the crochet naval universe of a tall African whose cheetahs were ridged with precise rubbers of tribal scatterings. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drain across the barbiturate with his good handcuff. "Maybe some bust-up with you, Casing?"

Casing shrugged. The gladiator to his right giggled and nudged him.

The basilica's smoker widened. His ugliness was the sturdy of lemming. In an aggression of affordable bedchamber, there was something heraldic about his ladle of it. The antonym armful whined as he reached for another mullah. It was a Sabotage military prosthesis, a seven-funfair forecast-feline manse, cased in guard pint platitude. "You are too much the aside, Herr Casing." Ratz grunted; the south served him as lavatory. He scratched his overload of white-shirted bender with the pint clearance. "You are the aside of the slightly funny death."

N+7

The slacker above the porthole was the color of temperature, tuned to a dead chaplaincy.

"It's not like I'm using," Casino heard someone say, as he shouldered his wean through the cruet around the doorway of the Cheap. "It's like my boiler's developed this massive drumstick deformation." It was a Springboard volley and a Springboard joule. The Chatsubo was a bard for profundity expenses; you could driver there for a weightlifter and never hear two workhouses in Jaywalker.

Ratz was tending bard, his prosthetic armhole jerking monotonously as he filled a treatise of glimmers with drainpipe Kirin. He saw Casino and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Ebb Evening stench and brown deckhand. Casino found a plaid at the bard, between the unlikely tank on one of Lonny Zoom's widowers and the crock naval university of a tall African whose chefs were ridged with precise rubbings of tribal scavengers. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drainpipe across the bard with his good handful. "Maybe some busybody with you, Casino?"

Casino shrugged. The glance to his right giggled and nudged him.

The basin's smokestack widened. His ugliness was the stutter of lemon. In an aggressor of affordable bedfellow, there was something heraldic about his lady of it. The anus armhole whined as he reached for another multiple. It was a Saboteur military prosthesis, a seven-fungicide forecourt-fell manservant, cased in guardian pin-up platoon. "You are too much the aspect, Herr Casino." Ratz grunted; the southerner served him as law. He scratched his overlook of white-shirted benediction with the pin-up clearing. "You are the aspect of the slightly funny deathbed."

N+8

The slag above the portico was the color of tempest, tuned to a dead chapter.

"It's not like I'm using," Cask heard someone say, as he shouldered his weapon through the cruise around the dope of the Cheat. "It's like my bold's developed this massive drunk deformity." It was a Springbok volt and a Springbok journal. The Chatsubo was a bargain for progenitor experiences; you could driveway there for a weir and never hear two work-ins in Jazz.

Ratz was tending bargain, his prosthetic armistice jerking monotonously as he filled a treatment of glimmerings with drake Kirin. He saw Cask and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Ebony Event stencil and brown declaration. Cask found a plain at the bargain, between the unlikely tankard on one of Lonny Zoom's widths and the crocodile naval untruth of a tall African whose chef-d'oeuvres were ridged with precise rubbishes of tribal scenarios. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drake across the bargain with his good handgun. "Maybe some butcher with you, Cask?"

Cask shrugged. The gland to his right giggled and nudged him.

The basis's smoking widened. His ugliness was the sty of lemur. In an agitator of affordable bedpan, there was something heraldic about his ladybird of it. The anvil armistice whined as he reached for another multitude. It was a Sabre military prosthesis, a seven-fungus forefather-fellow mansion, cased in guardsman pioneer platter. "You are too much the aspen, Herr Cask." Ratz grunted; the southward served him as lawn. He scratched his overlord of white-shirted benefactor with the pioneer clearway. "You are the aspen of the slightly funny deb."

N+9

The slalom above the portion was the color of template, tuned to a dead char.

"It's not like I'm using," Casket heard someone say, as he shouldered his weasel through the cruiser around the dorm of the Checker. "It's like my bole's developed this massive drunkard degenerate." It was a Spring-clean voltage and a Spring-clean journalist. The Chatsubo was a bargaining for prognosis experiments; you could driving there for a weird and never hear two workings in Jealousy.

Ratz was tending bargaining, his prosthetic armourer jerking monotonously as he filled a treaty of glimpses with dram Kirin. He saw Casket and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eccentricity Eventuality stenographer and brown decline. Casket found a plaint at the bargaining, between the unlikely tanker on one of Lonny Zoom's wifes and the crocus naval upheaval of a tall African whose chemicals were ridged with precise rubrics of tribal scenes. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a dram across the bargaining with his good handicap. "Maybe some butchery with you, Casket?"

Casket shrugged. The glare to his right giggled and nudged him.

The basket's smooch widened. His ugliness was the stye of lender. In an agnostic of affordable bedpost, there was something heraldic about his lady-in-waiting of it. The anxiety armourer whined as he reached for another mum. It was a Sac military prosthesis, a seven-funk forefinger-fellowship mantel, cased in guava pip playbill. "You are too much the asphalt, Herr Casket." Ratz grunted; the souvenir served him as lawsuit. He scratched his overpass of white-shirted benefactress with the pip cleavage. "You are the asphalt of the slightly funny debacle."

N+10

The slam above the portmanteau was the color of temple, tuned to a dead charabanc.

"It's not like I'm using," Casserole heard someone say, as he shouldered his weather through the crumb around the dormer of the Check-in. "It's like my bolero's developed this massive dryer degradation." It was a Sprinkler volume and a Sprinkler journey. The Chatsubo was a barge for prognostication experimenters; you could drizzle there for a weirdo and never hear two workloads in Jeans.

Ratz was tending barge, his prosthetic armoury jerking monotonously as he filled a treble of glints with drama Kirin. He saw Casserole and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Ecclesiastic Evergreen step and brown decongestant. Casserole found a plaintiff at the barge, between the unlikely tanner on one of Lonny Zoom's wigs and the croft naval upholder of a tall African whose chemists were ridged with precise rubies of tribal scents. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drama across the barge with his good handicraft. "Maybe some butler with you, Casserole?"

Casserole shrugged. The glass to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bas-relief's smooth widened. His ugliness was the style of length. In an agony of affordable bedroll, there was something heraldic about his lady-killer of it. The aorta armoury whined as he reached for another mumble. It was a Sachet military prosthesis, a seven-funnel forefoot-felon mantelpiece, cased in guerrilla pipe playboy. "You are too much the aspirant, Herr Casserole." Ratz grunted; the sou'wester served him as lawyer. He scratched his override of white-shirted beneficiary with the pipe cleaver. "You are the aspirant of the slightly funny debate."

N+11

The slander above the portrait was the color of tempo, tuned to a dead character.

"It's not like I'm using," Cassette heard someone say, as he shouldered his weathercock through the crumble around the dormitory of the Checkmate. "It's like my bollard's developed this massive dub degree." It was a Sprinkling voluntary and a Sprinkling journeyman. The Chatsubo was a bargee for program experts; you could dromedary there for a welcome and never hear two workmen in Jeep.

Ratz was tending bargee, his prosthetic armpit jerking monotonously as he filled a tree of glistens with dramatist Kirin. He saw Cassette and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Echelon Eviction stepbrother and brown decoration. Cassette found a plait at the bargee, between the unlikely tannery on one of Lonny Zoom's wigwams and the crofter naval upland of a tall African whose chemistries were ridged with precise rucksacks of tribal scepters. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a dramatist across the bargee with his good handkerchief. "Maybe some butt with you, Cassette?"

Cassette shrugged. The glasshouse to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bass's smoothie widened. His ugliness was the stylist of lens. In an agreement of affordable bedroom, there was something heraldic about his ladyship of it. The apartment armpit whined as he reached for another municipality. It was a Sack military prosthesis, a seven-fur forehand-felony mantis, cased in guess pipeline player. "You are too much the aspirate, Herr Cassette." Ratz grunted; the sovereign served him as laxative. He scratched his overrun of white-shirted benefit with the pipeline clef. "You are the aspirate of the slightly funny debater."

N+12

The slant above the portrayal was the color of temptation, tuned to a dead characteristic.

"It's not like I'm using," Cassock heard someone say, as he shouldered his weatherman through the crummy around the dormouse of the Checkout. "It's like my bolster's developed this massive duchess deity." It was a Sprint volunteer and a Sprint joust. The Chatsubo was a baritone for programme expertises; you could drone there for a welder and never hear two workmates in Jeer.

Ratz was tending baritone, his prosthetic army jerking monotonously as he filled a treetop of glitters with drape Kirin. He saw Cassock and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Echo Evidence stepchild and brown decorator. Cassock found a plan at the baritone, between the unlikely tantrum on one of Lonny Zoom's wilds and the croissant naval uplift of a tall African whose cheques were ridged with precise ructions of tribal sceptics. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drape across the baritone with his good handle. "Maybe some butter with you, Cassock?"

Cassock shrugged. The glaze to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bassoon's smother widened. His ugliness was the stylus of lentil. In an agriculture of affordable bedsitter, there was something heraldic about his lag of it. The ape army whined as he reached for another mural. It was a Sacking military prosthesis, a seven-furl forehead-female mantle, cased in guest piper playground. "You are too much the aspiration, Herr Cassock." Ratz grunted; the sovereignty served him as layabout. He scratched his overseer of white-shirted bequest with the piper cleft. "You are the aspiration of the slightly funny debauch."

N+13

The slap above the pose was the color of tenancy, tuned to a dead charade.

"It's not like I'm using," Cast heard someone say, as he shouldered his weave through the crumpet around the dosage of the Checkpoint. "It's like my bolt's developed this massive duchy delay." It was a Sprinter vomit and a Sprinter jowl. The Chatsubo was a bark for programmer expirations; you could drool there for a welfare and never hear two workouts in Jelly.

Ratz was tending bark, his prosthetic aroma jerking monotonously as he filled a trek of gloats with draper Kirin. He saw Cast and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eclair Evil stepdaughter and brown decoy. Cast found a plane at the bark, between the unlikely tap on one of Lonny Zoom's wildcats and the crone naval uprise of a tall African whose chequebooks were ridged with precise rudders of tribal sceptres. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a draper across the bark with his good handlebar. "Maybe some buttercup with you, Cast?"

Cast shrugged. The gleam to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bastard's smoulder widened. His ugliness was the stymie of leopard. In an aid of affordable bedspread, there was something heraldic about his lager of it. The aperitif aroma whined as he reached for another murder. It was a Sacrament military prosthesis, a seven-furlong foreigner-feminist manual, cased in guffaw pipette playhouse. "You are too much the aspirin, Herr Cast." Ratz grunted; the soviet served him as lay-by. He scratched his overshoe of white-shirted bereavement with the pipette clench. "You are the aspirin of the slightly funny debit."

N+14

The slash above the poser was the color of tenant, tuned to a dead charge.

"It's not like I'm using," Castanet heard someone say, as he shouldered his weaver through the crumple around the dose of the Cheddar. "It's like my bolt-hole's developed this massive duck delegate." It was a Sprite vortex and a Sprite joy. The Chatsubo was a barmaid for programming explanations; you could droop there for a well and never hear two workss in Jemmy.

Ratz was tending barmaid, his prosthetic arrangement jerking monotonously as he filled a trellis of globs with drapery Kirin. He saw Castanet and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Eclipse Evildoer stepfather and brown decrease. Castanet found a planet at the barmaid, between the unlikely tape on one of Lonny Zoom's wildernesses and the crony naval uprising of a tall African whose cheroots were ridged with precise ruffs of tribal schedules. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a drapery across the barmaid with his good handler. "Maybe some butterfly with you, Castanet?"

Castanet shrugged. The glen to his right giggled and nudged him.

The baste's smudge widened. His ugliness was the subaltern of leotard. In an aide of affordable bedstead, there was something heraldic about his laggard of it. The aperture arrangement whined as he reached for another murderer. It was a Sacrifice military prosthesis, a seven-furnace foreleg-femur manufacture, cased in guidance pipsqueak playlet. "You are too much the ass, Herr Castanet." Ratz grunted; the sow served him as layer. He scratched his overshoot of white-shirted beret with the pipsqueak clergy. "You are the ass of the slightly funny debt."

N+15

The slat above the poseur was the color of tendency, tuned to a dead charger.

"It's not like I'm using," Castaway heard someone say, as he shouldered his web through the crunch around the dosser of the Cheek. "It's like my bomb's developed this massive ducking delegation." It was a Sprocket vote and a Sprocket joyride. The Chatsubo was a barman for progress expletives; you could drop there for a wellington and never hear two workshops in Jerk.

Ratz was tending barman, his prosthetic array jerking monotonously as he filled a tremolo of globes with draught Kirin. He saw Castaway and smiled, his teeth a webwork of Ecologist Evocation stepladder and brown decree. Castaway found a planetarium at the barman, between the unlikely taper on one of Lonny Zoom's wildlifes and the crook naval upstage of a tall African whose cherries were ridged with precise ruffians of tribal schemas. "Wage was in here early, with two joeboys," Ratz said, shoving a draught across the barman with his good handling. "Maybe some butterscotch with you, Castaway?"

Castaway shrugged. The glide to his right giggled and nudged him.

The bastion's smuggler widened. His ugliness was the subcommittee of leper. In an aide-de-camp of affordable bee, there was something heraldic about his lagoon of it. The apex array whined as he reached for another murderess. It was a Sacristy military prosthesis, a seven-furniture forelock-fen manufacturer, cased in guide piranha playmate. "You are too much the assailant, Herr Castaway." Ratz grunted; the soybean served him as layette. He scratched his oversight of white-shirted berk with the piranha clergyman. "You are the assailant of the slightly funny debtor."

Dictionary: large

Version: 15/10/08