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Cory Doctorow Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom 4
Prologue
I lived long enough to see the cure for death; to see the rise of the Bitchun
Society, to learn ten languages; to compose three symphonies; to realize my
boyhood dream of taking up residence in Disney World; to see the death of
the workplace and of work.
I never thought I’d live to see the day when Keep A-Movin’ Dan would
decide to deadhead until the heat death of the Universe.
Dan was in his second or third blush of youth when I first met him,
sometime late-XXI. He was a rangy cowpoke, apparent 25 or so, all
rawhide squint-lines and sunburned neck, boots worn thin and infinitely
comfortable. I was in the middle of my Chem thesis, my fourth Doctorate,
and he was taking a break from Saving the World, chilling on campus in
Toronto and core-dumping for some poor Anthro major. We hooked up at
the Grad Students’ Union—the GSU, or Gazoo for those who knew—on a
busy Friday night, spring-ish. I was fighting a coral-slow battle for a stool at
the scratched bar, inching my way closer every time the press of bodies
shifted, and he had one of the few seats, surrounded by a litter of cigarette
junk and empties, clearly encamped.
Some duration into my foray, he cocked his head at me and raised a sunbleached
eyebrow. “You get any closer, son, and we’re going to have to get
a pre-nup.”
I was apparent forty or so, and I thought about bridling at being called
son, but I looked into his eyes and decided that he had enough realtime that
he could call me son anytime he wanted. I backed off a little and
apologized.
He struck a cig and blew a pungent, strong plume over the bartender’s
head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m probably a little over accustomed to
personal space.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard anyone on-world talk about