Dr. Murda could no longer sleep, he spent weeks playing at avalon doped ice, then went into paranoia, destroying what he had to hand (in most cases expensive equipment serving his evil plan) until it slumped to the ground exhausted, pale and dirty, his hands bleeding from the fury. An integrated circuit
had pierced the skin, the folds had Pluggo bearing his palm, they remained attached to the flesh, a trickle of red dripped from the legs of the chip, half expecting an electrical impulse, that bit of energy just to make a cycle.
An expanse of semiconductors and transistors made from his bed for what would have been a long, deep sleep, rest platform, a continuous dream of Boolean variables.
