"Punk as fuck."
Kurt grinned and ducked his head. "Stop it," he said. "Flatterer."
"Get in the truck," Alan said.
Kurt drummed his fingers nervously on his palms the whole way to Bell
offices. Alan grabbed his hand and stilled it. "Stop worrying," he
said. "This is going to go great."
"I still don't understand why we're doing this," Kurt said. "They're the
phone company. They hate us, we hate them. Can't we just leave it that
way?"
"Don't worry, we'll still all hate each other when we get done."
"So why bother?" He sounded petulant and groggy, and Alan reached under
his seat for the thermos he'd had filled at the Greek's before heading
to Kurt's place. "Coffee," he said, and handed it to Kurt, who groaned
and swigged and stopped bitching.
"Why bother is this," Alan said. "We're going to get a lot of publicity
for doing this." Kurt snorted into the thermos. "It's going to be a big
deal. You know how big a deal this can be. We're going to communicate
that to the press, who will communicate it to the public, and then there
will be a shitstorm. Radio cops, telco people, whatever -- they're going
to try to discredit us. I want to know what they're liable to say."
"Christ, you're dragging me out for that? I can tell you what they'll
say. They'll drag out the Four Horsemen of the Infocalypse: kiddie porn,
terrorists, pirates, and the mafia.
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