CHAPTER 8--MILLION DOLLAR PORNWARE
June 1997
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K, so it occurs to me about a half an hour outside Vegas that strolling into the biggest fucking city around wasn't such a good idea. Heard on the radio there was a huge event going on out at the Sam Boyd Silver Bowl, and, lo and behold, it's not a Grateful Dead concert, but a Virtual Grateful Dead concert. That's when I realized I would have to postpone the meeting with Rooster, which was sure to piss him off. Window of opportunity, he kept insisting.
What did he mean?
Surely, he'd seen or heard about the shooting in Laughlin. He was probably shaking his head going "Jack, Jack, Jack! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
This was a big deal to Rooster, for sure. And for sex-starved weirdoes everywhere. He finally had finished it. It took him 15 years, but his vision bore fruit. Through his genius-the same genius that made him man about town as well as the same genius behind the box-he had created the ultimate virtual sex machine.
"Million dollar pornware, Jackie!" I remembered him saying. "Get yourself and the boy out here and there's a million in it for you and the boy. All you have to do is get it to
"Why not drive it there yourself?"
"Jack, you ask too many fucking questions!"
"OK, OK, we'll leave
"Listen, call me periodically. And use our key codes."
Man, that Rooster is one paranoid dude.
"Whatever you say, you're the boss. Oh, hey, one more thing, Roos? You got a prototype of this machine up at your place?"
"Of course."
"Can I try it when we get there?"
