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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Race Condition  (MF MM cons anal)
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Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 19:10:01 -0500
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RACE CONDITION
by Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 2939
Copyright (c) 2004 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



"A *personal* computer? A *home* computer? What kind of an asshole do
you take me for?"

The regional sales manager guffawed in Theron's face. Positron
Semiconductor was too busy cranking out millions of CPU chips every month
to bother with a screwball like him. It was a damn shame. This was the
outfit that Theron had counted on to supply him with technical support
and, hopefully, enough venture capital to survive until orders started
rolling in.

It was the annual DOMEX, the Domestic Electronics Exhibition. All the
latest gee-whiz gadgetry and toys made their debut there. High-tech TVs,
hi-fi equipment, hand-held programmable calculators, and all that other
nifty stuff. From the looks of it, 1976 would be a great year for hi-tech
innovation, but maybe just not for microcomputers.

Theron Kerow had put together a detailed plan for an affordable home
computer. Sure, that wacky MITS outfit down in New Mexico had beaten
him to the punch by a few months, but *his* computer would be cheaper
and much more powerful. Damn it, it would sell! He knew it. He could
sell *hundreds* of these machines a year! If only he could get someone
to believe in him . . .

"Hi! I'm Kyra. Would you like some of our literature?"

What a radiant smile. And those dangerous curves! Damn, she was fine
looking. Even for a "booth bimbo," she was stacked.

"I'm interested in the P-8082 CPU that Positron has been working on. Do
you have anything on that?"

"Well, no, but we're almost to market with a talking calculator. These
brochures tell all about -- "

Theron missed the rest. He was too busy running his eyes down the lush
contours of what lay beneath the too-tight-fitting jumper she wore. Oh
my, that state-of-the-art ass . . .

"*Hello?* I don't believe you've been paying attention to what I've been
saying." Her smile had faded, and there was a nasty gleam in her eye.

"Excuse me. I've had a long day, your regional manager just finished
blowing me off, and now the best-looking woman on the exhibit floor is
making like I'm the world's biggest jerk. Maybe I'd better be on my way."

"Well, Jee-zus dude, whadya expect? Here you are undressing me with your
eyes as if I were your typical dumb blonde, and just how do you want
me to react? I've been in a foul mood all day since our resident booth
bimbo took sick and I had to sub for her. Me, a veep in Engineering,
can you believe that?"

"My humblest apologies, Miz Kyra. I admire brains even more than I do
finely-machined body contours, with all due respect. And your outfit --
I mean Positron, and not what you're wearing -- has a product that could
make or break me. The P-8082 should be the first single-chip 16-bit
processor on the market, and with that at the heart of the machine I've
designed, I could sell thousands -- "

"Stop right there, fellow. I've heard these loony schemes before. Nowadays
every still-wet-behind-the-ears kid fresh out of college with a
newly-minted technical degree thinks the Age of Personal Computing is
just around the bend. Yeah. As if your average civilian could even figure
out what to do with anything as complex as a computer. If you could come
up with an idea for using our hardware in a hi-fi system or a microwave,
then, sure, maybe I'd listen. But computers? Gimme a break."

"Right. Guess I'd better be on my way then. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Just a minute, bucko. I didn't say I wouldn't help you. It's just that
. . . it'll require a little, shall we say, social engineering, to get
the ball rolling."

"And why would you want to help me, Kyra?"

"Let's just say I'm more impressed by your determination than your
non-existent credentials. And, it could be that while you were busy
undressing me with your eyes, I might just have been doing the same
to you. I appreciate a man who keeps himself in shape, and it's been
. . . lonely."



Kyra was magnificent in the flesh. They had just finished sharing a bar of
soap. "But I'm all dirty and sweaty," he had responded to her suggestion
that he pop up to her hotel room for a nightcap. That had turned out not
to be a problem when she invited him into the shower stall with her. "Of
course," he had laughed, "save water, shower with a friend."

"Water conservation wasn't exactly what I had in mind," she'd said.

"Now, soap me up down there. Ooh, that tickles. Gently between my legs,
please."

When he stooped to do her down below, she grabbed his head and hugged
it tightly against her crotch. She was wet down there, and it wasn't
just from the shower spray.



"Well, now. Let's say we supply you with a dozen or so sample CPUs and
maybe a demo board or two. If you could come up with a viable design
and a prototype for a small computer, at that point we could talk about
technical and financial support. We'd have to get Jim aboard though,
to break loose any appreciable amount of funding."

"Jim?"

"Jim Carver. He's the head bean counter, and he has to sign off on any
large expenditures."

"Hey, slow down Kyra. You're wearing me out."

She was squatting astride him, leaning forward toward his face, and
riding him hard.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, Theron. But I forgive you 'cause
you're so damned cute."

"And because I'm always ready to fill an empty hole," he said.

She grabbed a pillow and whacked him over the head with it. The sudden
movement tightened the grip down below on his encased member and this
pushed him completely over the edge. He shuddered as he released his
passion into her. Her pussy began rhythmically contracting and she yelped
as the pillow slipped from her hand, unnoticed.

She bent down to kiss him.

"Thank you for the act of love. A certain no-longer empty hole thanks
you also."

"Both you and the hole are most welcome. Now, what was that you were
saying about financing?"



The underside of the wire-wrapped circuit board looked like a rat's
nest. It was a jungle of multicolored strands -- some of them labeled
with masking-tape tags -- and shiny bronze posts, coiled-up test leads,
and undoubtedly some human hairs that Theron had torn out of his head
in despair. He'd never get this fucked-up CPU board working! Not with
the chinchy equipment he was forced to work with. Damn it, he needed help.

"Look, Kyra, I've tried everything. Traced the wiring, checked the clock
circuit, even replaced the memory . . . but there's still something that
causes these fucking intermittent failures."

"Wish I could do something with it, Theron, but debugging hardware's
just not my field. I deal with system software, and unfortunately don't
know one end of a soldering iron from another."

Theron knew a guy. Hank called himself a super-tech. He could find
faults in an electronic circuit by feel, just by placing his hands on
it with his eyes shut. He was obviously the one to call. But there were
complications. . . .

Hank had been a buddy of his for a while. A very close buddy. Too close,
as it turned out. That had been during his bisexual phase a couple of
years back. He had temporarily gone sour on women after being dumped
one time too many. Hank had been there for him to lean on. And one thing
had led to another.

"Hello, Hank?"

"What the fuck? Theron? Is that you?"

"None other. Listen, I've got a problem here I need help with. It's
important."

"I imagine it would be, if you're calling me after the things you said
that one night."



"It's a race condition. Two different on-board devices are competing
for access to the same memory locations simultaneously. (Think of it as
a race, of sorts, between the two of them for the same resource.) The
fix is easy enough, though. It's just a matter of timing, of locking
out access to one gizmo until the other has finished."

"Thanks, Hank."

"No prob, guy. Look, I would have helped you out even if we hadn't . . ."

"Hank, please take your hand off me. It gives me the weirds. You know
I still have feelings, strong feelings, but I'm sort of hooked up with
someone now and . . ."

"And what? You're telling me that all the wonderful times we had together
mean nothing? You've decided to go totally straight and give up those
special things you used to like so much?"

"It's not like that, Hank. I need her. She gives me emotional support. And
I need her support for this project."

"So, it's like that, huh? Well, go fuck yourself then."

"Hank! Wait."

It was like old times again. He was on hands and knees and Hank was
doing him from behind. Theron had always preferred playing the bottom,
simply because he couldn't get enough of the sensations of being filled --
of having a hard cock pumping into his ass. It was strange, though. As
soon as he came, most of the time just from anal stimulation, he wanted
nothing more than to be as far away as possible from the hairy, muscular
body that had just finished fucking him. In this case, Hank.

This was a "race condition", too. Both Kyra and Hank wanted access to
him. And he needed Kyra, and not just for the money and her contacts at
the company. Her soft body and her warm, comforting pussy were like a
drug to him. But he also craved being penetrated. Being ass-fucked. Not
to mention that he needed Hank for his troubleshooting skills. He was
torn in opposite directions, and, like the computer board, he suspected
that this might cause a nasty malfunction.

One thing at a time. "Hank. I enjoyed that. And I appreciate your tech
help, too."

"You need me, Theron. You've always needed me -- to help you go the last
mile on things you get pulled into. And, yes, to fill the empty hole in
your backside."

'Somehow, that has a familiar ring to it,' Theron was thinking.



"We need a name for the machine?"

"Of course we do, Theron. For marketing purposes, if nothing else. People
won't lay out a couple of thou for a mysterious piece of equipment
that just happens to do useful things. But they will for something they
can relate to on a personal level. A car is just a car, but a Chevy is
something you can get passionate about."

"Point taken, Kyra. Well, then, why don't we call it the Mindboggler I?"

"Speaking of mind boggling, would you mind terribly moving your mouth
a bit lower. That's right. And nibble a little on my clit, while you're
at it."

"You got it."



"We need *what*? Software for the computer? Whatever for?"

"So it can do something useful for the guys who shell out their
hard-earned money for it. You know, Theron, sometimes I think you have
your head up your ass."

"It's a bit too crowded down there for my head, Hank, seeing as you have
your cock there at the moment."



"Yeah, system and applications software, Kyra. It's an appliance we're
selling here, something that's useful, not just a toy for hobbyists."

"I guess that means we'll have to license MycoSoft BASIC from Gil Bates
and his associates. It's become a sort of standard for small computers."

"Not if I can help it. Bates is a flake. Everyone who's ever done business
with him knows it. He and his gang would rip us off, too, if they got the
chance. I could tell you stories about how he dumpster-dived the code for
his BASIC when he was working summers at DCE. And how he and his buddies
were arrested on one of their midnight joyrides on state road equipment
out near Albuquerque last summer. Yeah, the guy's really a work of art."

"So, what other choices do we have?"

"We'll worry about that when the time comes. Meanwhile, let's stick with
the business at hand. Now, you were telling me that you were curious
about how it would feel up your ass . . ."

"Theron, the only way I'd let that be done to me would be to make a deep
commitment to a man I truly loved. And I think maybe I . . . I feel that
way about . . . you."

"And I about you. Listen, Ky, the secret is relaxation and plenty of
lube. Turn over on your left side and bring your knees up toward your
chest, like so. . . . "



"Well, we're finally at the point where we can think about shipping some
hardware. But I couldn't have done it without you, Hank."

"No prob, Theron. You're not just a friend; you're a partner and a lover.
There. I almost said it. Lover. As in 'love.' It's more than physical
attraction, more than just fucking you . . . it's something deep down.
Something that binds us together on a fundamental level. Yeah, I think
I'm starting to love . . . love you. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, Hank, unfortunately it does. But you see, there are complications.
It seems that I have another partner and lover. Another person I sort
of love. And she loves me."

"She? A WOMAN?"



"Look, Ky, I do love you, but there's someone else. And I guess . . .
I kind of love him, too."

"Him? A MAN?"



"Kyra, this is Hank. He helped debug the Mindboggler. He's also helped
me . . . "

She stood in stony silence, staring at the two of them.

"And Hank, this is Kyra, my business partner and my partner in . . . "

" . . . bed, I presume." Hank finished. He was white-faced and looked
to be on the verge of fainting.

"What a fucking mess I seem to have made of my life," Theron continued.
"I don't know if we can salvage anything out of the wreckage, but all
I'm sure of is that I love you, Kyra, and you, Hank, too. Maybe it would
simplify matters if I just walked out of here, out of your lives, and
disappeared into the far reaches of Mongolia."

Kyra walked over and gave him a roundhouse slap hard enough to rock him back
and make his ears ring. She did the same with her other hand. Then, she sank
slowly into the nearest chair with her head in her hands, and her body shook
with violent sobs.

"Now I know why I gave up on women," Hank mused. "They blow hot and cold,
and I don't rightly know which is worse. But, at least they're allowed
to express their feelings. I guess if I could just clout you a couple
of times in a melodramatic fit of fury, Theron, then break down and cry,
I'd feel a lot better, too."

Kyra looked up. "It's not enough that you're *fucking* his asshole? You've
got to act the part of a fucking asshole, too?"

"You really know how to hurt a guy." Hank shrugged, then he smiled.

Kyra smiled, too. "I could almost get to the point of tolerating you,
Hank, maybe even liking you. I'm not sure, though, that I could say the
same of Theron. Maybe he's the real asshole here. Or maybe you and I are
both assholes . . . for throwing our love away on an asshole like him."

"So, maybe we're all three of us assholes," Theron said. "It's something
we have in common, at least."

He went over to Kyra and tried to put his arms around her. She pushed
him away in disgust. Then he looked at Hank, who just shook his head.

Theron turned around, walked out the door, and didn't look back.



Theron sold his part of the rights to the Mindboggler I to a consortium
headed by the General Data Corporation for a hundred thousand shares of
common stock, plus an undisclosed sum of cash. He lives in a broken-down
beach house on a small island off the Venezuelan coast. His only visitors
are seagulls and an occasional snapping turtle. In the first years of
his exile he would sometimes dream of a might-have-been past in which he
had reconciled with Kyra and Hank and they lived happily ever after. He
has long since sworn off sex and doesn't even get the urge to masturbate
any more.

Kyra departed Positron to become a division head at MBI, where she was
instrumental in the development of the modern personal computer. She
subsequently left to start up her own software house, and raked in half
a billion as her personal share of the IPO at the height of the dot com
bubble. She has since retired from the computer biz to devote herself to
hobby ranching on a 100,000 acre spread near Van Horn, Texas. Somewhere
along the way she acquired a "trophy husband" half her age, who usually
fails to satisfy her sexually.

A fellow answering to the description of Hank is a shadowy figure in
Black Hat hacker circles. There are rumors that he has been providing
technical support to some of the larger and more successful spam gangs,
and reportedly there is a half million dollar bounty on his head.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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