"Paul Di Filippo - The Emperor of Gondwanaland" - читать интересную книгу автора (Di Filippo Paul)

With the advent of the internet, the number of micronations had exploded.
There were now dozens of imaginary online countries predicated on different
philosophies, exemplifying scores of different governmental systems, each of them
more or less seriously arguing that they were totally within their rights to issue
passports, currency and stamps, and to designate ministers, nobility and
bureaucratic minions.

Mutt had always enjoyed fantasy sports in college. Imaginary leagues,
imaginary rosters, imaginary games—Something about being totally in charge of a
small universe had appealed to him, as an antidote to his lack of control over the
important factors and forces that batted his own life around. He had spent a lot of
time playing Sims too. The concept of cybernations seemed like a logical extension
of those pursuits, an appealing refuge from the harsh realities of career and
relationships.

The site Mutt had ended up on was a gateway to a whole host of online
countries. The Aerican Empire, the Kingdom of Talossa, the Global State of
Waveland, the Kingdom of Redonda, Lizbekistan—

And Gondwanaland.

Memories of an introductory geoscience course came back to Mutt.
Gondwanaland was the super-continent that had existed hundreds of millions of
years ago, before splitting and drifting apart into the configuration of separate
continental landforms familiar today.

Mutt clicked on the Gondwanaland button.

The page built itself rapidly on his screen. The animated image of a spinning
globe dominated. Sure enough, the globe featured only a single huge continent,
marked with interior divisions into states and featuring the weird names of cities.

Mutt was about to scan some of the text on the page when his eye fell on the
blinking time readout in the corner of the screen.

Holy shit! Nine-thirty! He’d be here till midnight unless he busted his ass.
 Reluctantly abandoning the Gondwanaland page and its impossible globe,
Mutt returned to his work.

Which still sucked.

Maybe worse.

****
The next day Mutt was almost as tired as if he had gone out with Gifford and
the gang. But at least his head wasn’t throbbing and his mouth didn’t taste as if he
had french-kissed a hyena. Proofing the advertorial section had taken until
eleven-forty-five, and by the time he had ridden the subway home, eaten some
leftover General Gao’s chicken, watched Letterman’s Top Ten and fallen asleep, it