Moxyland Read Online Free PDF Page B

watch-list for period of twenty-four   hours.
     
    Temporary disconnect.
     

    'Sorry, Ten,' Ashraf says, flicking his screen back to show me. The log is already live on SAPS.co.za, and this is what's so truly fucked up, that government inc. thinks this level of transparency automatically rules out repression. If it's all out in the open, it has to be above board.
       'But what did you expect?' Ash says, like this is the time to be griefing me.
       'Fuck!' He flinches as I slam my foot into a cold-drink can, sending it clattering down the street. At least it's not a Ghost can – that would have been too much. skyward* is going to be seriously pissed.
       The worst is confirmed when we get to the entrance to the D-line underway stop on Wale Street and my phone won't scan. Or, rather, it does scan and blocks me outright in response to the police tag on my SIM, to the tremendous amusement of the leisure-class kids overdressed in their ugly expensive clothes. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. I suck at my palm, which still stings, even if it's stopped bleeding. At least the fucker didn't mace me, else every biogen dog in the city would be trailing me like I was a bitch in heat.
       We cruise down Adderley towards the station, past the Grand Parade, and the blaring logos and adboards squatting on the façade of the old library like parasites. And what really grinds me is that it was supposed to be ours for Streets Back. We'd rounded up a bunch of kids from the Castle Street shelter with this plan to do graffiti murals. It was a way of letting them make a mark on the city that usually filters them out like spam. It was all legit. We had the permits and everything, with a small development grant Ash set up, from an Italian org complete with our own Italian liaisons. It all got fucked up, though. The Italians came out to make a documentary of the whole spiel, and then got all pissy when it wasn't happening. Like it's my fault we ran out of money.
       First up we had to pay for chatter flyers, because how else are you going to reach illiterate kids who can't read a poster? So the audio chips were crazy expensive, then the freebies we got from the paint company were all reject stock, broken nozzles, dried-out paint, two years past their expiry date. By the time we'd bought our own paint and masks and overalls and food for all the kids who showed up instead of just the ones who worked on the murals, our budget was gone. I tried to tell those Italian amigos that these kids had been let down so often, the one thing that would have a real positive impact on their lives would be an established routine and adults who stick by their promises. They were all, like, terribly sorry to hear about our troubles, very understanding, but we have to understand there are so many other projects just as worthy, all desperate for cash, and they have to support the ones that can show sustainability.
       I sent the hombres a real nasty email afterwards, telling them exactly what neo-colonial cocks they were, coming in here, raping our resources and fucking off again. I thought Ash would appreciate it, but he got in a real mood about him being the money guy, the business manager, and I should stick to being the passionate poster boy, and besides, 'hombres' is Spanish. Whatever. And if he could have handled it, then he should have fucking done it. Pricks. I hate it when people fake being on the level, all global village-ing when they're the ones raking in fat salaries, and we're the ones living hand-to-mouth with a soccer club and Emmie's baby on the way.
       Now Ash has this big plan all laid out with some corporate sell-out buddy, who says he can get the project into his company's CSI program, no problem. Like getting some big dick to sponsor the whole thing isn't a total violation of everything we do.
       We have no choice but to head up to the taxi rank, cos the minibuses aren't as regulated as the trains. You don't get the corporates