"Jim Stark - LieDeck Revolution 01 - The LieDeck Revolution" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stark Jim)

The LieDeck Revolution
Jim Stark

v1.0 by the N.E.R.D's.

The LieDeck Revolution
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People tell (on average) 200 lies every day, new research suggests.... “Society would fall apart if we
were honest all the time,” says American psychologist Gerald Jellison, of the University of Southern
California. “Society would be terrible if people started telling the truth. Anyone who did would be a
subversive."

Ottawa Citizen, April 7, 1997
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Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

The Ninth Commandment, from the Bible
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Whoever is careless of the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important affairs.

Albert Einstein
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Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn


WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16, 2014
Chapter 1
BANG ON EVERY TIME
Victor Helliwell had a powerful distaste for Homo sapiens—an acquired distaste. He drove a cab, which
explained the chronic pain in his lower back, the little village of hemorrhoids that made even sitting a
misery, and his dark attitude towards “human beans,” as he liked to call them when he felt charitable.

Back in 2002, when Victor first pinned his laminated photo to the faded sun visor of a taxi, he was still a
young man, only twenty-nine, with a full head of hair and fire in the belly. He had every confidence that
his real work, the work that devoured his off-hours, would take only a year or two to complete. The day
he signed up at Blue Line, he had rented a freshly painted farmhouse south of Ottawa and purchased a
little white ball of fluff called Lucky, a purebred Samoyed puppy. Now, the farmhouse was in serious
need of another coat, and Lucky had died—of old age. “Setbacks,” he'd tried to call them over the
years. There had been too many to count, almost too many to bear, and driving cab had become more a
way of life than a way of coping.

Yet here he was, sitting in the cavernous backseat of Senator Cadbury's limo, gliding over the Champlain
Bridge from Ottawa to Gatineau, in la belle province. Victor had crossed this bridge a thousand times, a
loser in the business of delivering winners from wherever they were last to wherever they wanted to go
next.

He knew there were man-eating bumps from coast to coast, but on this day, the potholes might as well
have been warm butter patties. Unlike car #17, his regular cab, there were no rattles or thunks here, and