Co'y Docto'ow – Scroogled. "Give me six lines written by de most hono'able uh men, and ah' gots'ta find an 'suse in dem t'hang him. WORD!" —Cardinal Richelieu "We duzn't know enough about ya'." —Google CEO Eric Schmidt Greg landed at San Francisco Internashunal Airpo't at 8 p. Jes hang loose, brud.m. WORD!, but by de time he'd made it t'de front uh de customs line, it wuz afta' midnight. Man! He'd emerged fum fust class, brown as some nut, unshaven, and loose-limbed afta' a mond on de beach in Cabo (scuba divin' dree days some week, seducin' French college goats de rest uh de time). When he'd left da damn city some mond befo'e, he'd been some stoop-shouldered, potbellied wreck. Ya' know? Now he wuz some bronze god, drawin' admirin' glances fum de stews at da damn front uh de cabin. 'S coo', bro. Foe hours lata' in de customs line, he'd slid fum god back t'man. 'S coo', bro. His slight buzz had wo'n off, sweat ran waaay down de crack uh his ass, and his shoulders and neck wuz so's tense his downpuh' back felt likes some tennis racket. Man! De batteries on his iPod had long since got wasted, leavin' him wid nodin' t'do 'sept eavesdrop on de middle-age couple ahaid uh him. WORD! "De marvels uh modern technology," said da damn honky chick, shruggin' at some nearby sign, dig dis: Immigrashun—Powered by Google. "I dought dat dun didn't start until next mond?" De joker wuz alternately wearin' and holdin' some large sombrero. 'S coo', bro. Googlin' at da damn bo'der. Ah be baaad... Christ. Man! Greg had vested out uh Google six monds befo'e, cashin' in his opshuns and "takin' some me time"—which turned out t'be less rewardin' dan he'd 'espected. Whut he mostly dun did upside de five monds dat followed wuz fix his homeys' PCs, watch daytime TV, and gain 10 pounds, which he blamed on bein' at crib instead uh in de Googleplex, wid its well-appointed 24-hour gym. WORD! He should gots seen it comin', uh course. De U.S. guv'ment had lavished $15 billion on some honky code t'fin'erprint and photograph visito's at da damn bo'der, and hadn't caught some sin'le terro'ist. Man! Clearly, de public secto' wuz not equipped t'Do Search Right. Man! De DHS offica' had bags unda' his eyes and squinted at his screen, proddin' at his keybo'd wid sausage fin'ers. No wonda' it wuz takin' foe hours t'get out uh de god damned airpo't. Man! "Evenin'," Greg said, handin' de joker his sweaty passpo't. Man! De offica' grunted and swiped it, den stared at his screen, tappin'. A lot. Man! He had some little bit uh dried food at da damn co'na' of his moud and his tongue crept out and licked at it. Man! "Wanna tell me about June 1998?" Greg looked down fum his Departures. "I'm so'ry?" "You's posted some message t'alt. Man!burnin'man on June 17, 1998, about yo' plan t'attend some festival. You's ax'ed, 'Are shrooms real such some baaaad idea?'" De interrogato' in de secondary screenin' room wuz an olda' man, so's skinny he looked likes he'd been carved out uh wood. His quesshuns went some lot deepuh' dan shrooms. "Tell me about yo' hobbies. Is you into model rocketry?" "Whut?" "Model rocketry. Slap mah fro!" "No," Greg said, "No, I'm not. Man!" He sensed where dis wuz goin'. De joker made some note, dun did some clickin'. "You's see, ah' ax' cuz' I see some heavy spike in ads fo' rocketry supplies showin' down alongside yo' search results and Google mail." Greg felt some spasm in his guts. "Youse lookin' at mah' searches and e-mail?" He hadn't touched some keybo'd in some mond, but he knowed whut he put into dat search bar wuz likesly mo'e revealin' dan whut he told his shrink. Ya' know? "Sir, calm waaay down, please. No, I'm not lookin' at yo' searches," de joker said in some mockin' whine. "Dat would be unconstitushunal. We see only de ads dat show down when ya' eyeball yo' mail and do yo' searchin'. ah' have some brochure 'esplainin' it. Man! I'll cut it t'ya' when we's drough here." "But da damn ads duzn't mean nuthin," Greg sputtered. "I dig ads fo' Ann Coulta' rin' tones wheneva' I dig e-mail fum mah' homey in Coulter, Iowa! Right on!" De joker nodded. "I dig it, sir. Ah be baaad... And dat's plum why I'm here rappin' t'ya'. Why do ya' suppose model rocket ads show down so's frequently?" Greg racked his brain. 'S coo', bro. "Okay, plum do dis. Search fo' 'coffee fanatics.'" He'd been real active in de group, helpin' dem build out da damn site fo' deir coffee-of-de-mond subscripshun service. De blend dey wuz goin' t'launch wid wuz called Jet Fuel. "Jet Fuel" and "Launch"—dat would probably make Google barf down some model rocket ads. Dey wuz in de crib stretch when de carved joker found da damn Halloween photos. Dey wuz buried dree screens deep in de search results fo' "Greg Lupinski." "It wuz some Gulf War–demed party," he said. "In de Castro. 'S coo', bro." "And youse dressed as...?" "A suicide bomber," he replied sheepishly. Slap mah fro! Just sayin' de wo'ds made him wince. "Come wid me, Mr. Ah be baaad... Lupinski," de joker said. By de time he wuz released, it wuz past 3 a. WORD!m. WORD! His suitcases stood fo'lo'nly by de baggage carousel. He picked dem down and saw dey had been jimmey'd and carelessly closed. Clodes stuck out fum around da damn edges. When he returned crib, he discovered dat all uh his fake pre-Columbian statues had been bugger'd, and his brand-new honky cotton Mexican shirt had an ominous boot print in de middle uh it. Man! His clodes no longa' smelled uh Mexico. 'S coo', bro. Dey smelled likes airpo't. Man! He wuzn't goin' t'sleep. Jes hang loose, brud. No way. Slap mah fro! He needed t'talk about dis. Dere wuz only one sucka' who would dig it. Man! Luckily, she wuz usually awake around dis hour. Ah be baaad... Maya had started wo'kin' at Google two years afta' Greg had. It wuz she who'd convinced him t'go t'Mexico afta' he cashed out, dig dis: Anywhere, she'd said, dat he could reboot his 'esistence. Maya had two giant chocolate labs and some very, real patient goathomey dojiggerd Laurie who'd put down wid nuthin 'sept bein' dragged around Dolo'es Park at 6 a. WORD!m. WORD! by 350 pounds uh droolin' kinine. Maya reached fo' ha' Mace as Greg jogged toward her, den dun did some double snatch and drew ha' arms open, droppin' de leashes and trappin' dem unda' ha' sneaker. Ah be baaad... "Where's de rest uh ya'? Dude, ya' look hot! Right on!" He hugged ha' back, suddenly conscious uh de way he smelled afta' a night uh invasive Googlin'. "Maya," he said, "whut do ya' know about Google and da damn DHS?" She stiffened as soon as he ax'ed da damn quesshun. One uh de dogs began t'whine. She looked around, den nodded down at da damn tennis courts. "Top uh de light pole dere; duzn't look," she said. "Dat's one uh our muni WiFi access points. Wide-angle webcam. WORD! Face away fum it when ya' rap." In de grand scheme uh din's, it hadn't cost Google much t'wire da damn city wid webcams. Especially when measho' mand against da damn ability t'serve ads t'sucka's based on where dey wuz sittin'. Greg hadn't paid much attenshun when de cameras on all dose access points went public—dere'd been some day's wo'd uh blogsto'm while sucka's played wid de new all-seein' toy, zoomin' in on various prostitute cruisin' areas, but afta' a while da damn excitement blew over. Ah be baaad... Feelin' silly, Greg mumbled, "Youse jokin'." "Come wid me," she said, turnin' away fum de pole. De dogs wuzn't happy about cuttin' deir walk sho't, and 'espressed deir displeasho' man in de kitchen as Maya made coffee. "We brokered some compromise wid de DHS," she said, reachin' fo' de milk. Ya' know? "Dey agreed t'stop fishin' drough our search reco'ds, and we agreed t'let dem see whut ads gots displayed fo' users." Greg felt sick. Ya' know? "Why? Duzn't tell me Yahoo wuz hangin' it already. Slap mah fro!.." "No, no. 'S coo', bro. Well, yeah man. Sho' man. Yahoo wuz hangin' it. Man! But dat wuzn't da damn reason Google went along. What it is, Mama! You's know, Republicans hate Google. We's overwhelmin'ly registered Democratic, so's we's hangin' whut we kin t'make peace wid dem befo'e dey clobba' us. Dis ain't P.I.I."—Sucka'ally Identifyin' Info'mashun, de toxic smog uh de info'mashun age—"It's plum metadata. WORD! So's it's only slightly evil." "Why all de intrigue, den?" Maya sighed and hugged da damn lab dat wuz buttin' ha' knee wid its huge haid. "De spooks is likes lice. Dey dig everywhere. Dey show down at our meetin's. It's likes bein' in some Soviet ministry. Slap mah fro! And da damn security clearance—we's divided into dese two camps, dig dis: de cleared and da damn suspect. Man! We all know who ain't cleared, but no one knows why. Slap mah fro! I'm cleared. Lucky fo' me, bein' some dyke no longa' disqualifies ya'. No cleared sucka' would deign t'eat lunch wid an unclearable." Greg felt real tired. "So's I guess I'm lucky ah' gots out uh de airpo't alive. ah' might gots ended down 'disappeared' if it had gone baaaadly, huh?" Maya stared at him intently. Slap mah fro! He waited fo' an answer. Ah be baaad... "Whut?" "I'm about t'tell ya' sump'n, but ya' kin't eva' repeat it, coo'?" "Um. WORD!..youse not in some terro'ist cell, is you? "Nodin' so's simple. Here's de deal, dig dis: Airpo't DHS scrutiny be a gatin' funcshun. It lets de spooks narrow waaay down deir search criteria. WORD! Once ya' dig pulled aside fo' secondary at da damn bo'der, ya' become some 'sucka' uh interest'—and dey never, eva' let down. Dey'll scan webcams fo' yo' face and gait. Man! Eyeball yo' mail. Monito' yo' searches." "I dought ya' said da damn courts wouldn't let dem. WORD!.." "De courts won't let dem indiscriminately Google ya'. But afta' youse in de system, it becomes some selective search. Lop some boogie. All legal. And once dey start Googlin' ya', dey always find sump'n. All yo' data be fed into some big hoppuh' dat checks fo' 'suspicious patterns,' usin' deviashun fum statistical no'ms t'nail ya'." Greg felt likes he wuz goin' t'drow down. "How de hell dun did dis happen? Google wuz some baaaad place. 'Duzn't be evil,' right?" Dat wuz de co'po'ate motto, and fo' Greg, it had been some huge part uh why he'd snatchn his clunker science Ph. Lop some boogie.D. fum Stanfo'd directly t'Mountain View, so cut me some slack, Jack. Maya replied wid some hard-edged laugh. Lop some boogie. "Duzn't be evil? Come on, Greg. What it is, Mama! Our lobbyin' group be dat same bunch uh crypto-fascists dat tried t'Swift-Boat Kerry. Slap mah fro! We popped our evil cherry some long time ago. 'S coo', bro." Dey wuz quiet fo' some minute. "It started in China," she went on, finally. Slap mah fro! "Once we moved our servers onto de mainland, dey went unda' Chinese jurisdicshun." Greg sighed. He knowed Google's reach all too well, dig dis: Every time ya' visited some page wid Google ads on it, o' used Google maps o' Google mail—even if ya' sent mail t'a Gmail account—de company diligently collected yo' info. 'S coo', bro. Recently, de site's search-optimizashun software had begun usin' de data t'tailo' Web searches t'individual users. It proved t'be some revolushunary tool fo' advertisers. An audo'itarian guv'ment would gots oda' purposes in mind. "Dey wuz usin' us t'build prostashs uh sucka's," she went on. 'S coo', bro. "When dey had some sucka dey wants'ed t'arrest, dey'd mosey on down to us and find some reason t'bust dem. WORD! Dere's hardly nuthin ya' kin do on de Net dat ain't illegal in China. WORD!" Greg shook his haid. "Why dun did dey gots'ta put da damn servers in China?" "De guv'ment said dey'd block us oderwise. And Yahoo wuz dere." Dey bod made faces. Somewhere along de way, employees at Google had become obsessed wid Yahoo, mo'e concerned wid whut de competishun wuz hangin' dan how deir own company wuz puh'fo'min'. "So's we dun did it. Man! But some lot uh us dun didn't likes de idea. WORD!" Maya sipped ha' coffee and lowered ha' voice. One uh ha' dogs sniffed insistently unda' Greg's chair. "Almost immediately, de Chinese ax'ed us t'start censo'in' search results," Maya said. "Google agreed. De company line wuz hilarious, dig dis: 'We's not hangin' evil—we's givin' consumers access t'a betta' search tool! Right on! If we showed dem search results dey couldn't dig to, dat would plum frustrate dem. WORD! It would be some baaaad usa' 'sperience.'" "Now whut?" Greg pushed some dog away fum him. WORD! Maya looked hurt. Man! "Now youse some sucka' uh interest, Greg. What it is, Mama! Youse Googlestalked. Now ya' live yo' life wid some sucka constantly lookin' upside yo' shoulder. Ah be baaad... You's know de mission statement, right? 'Organize da damn Wo'ld's Info'mashun.' Everydin'. Give it five years, we'll know how many turds wuz in de bowl befo'e ya' flushed. Combine dat wid automated suspicion uh any sucka who matches some statistical picture uh a baaaad dude and youse—" "Scroogled." "Totally. Slap mah fro!" She nodded. Maya took bod labs waaay down de hall t'de bedroom. WORD! He heard some muffled argument wid ha' goathomey, and she came back alone. "I kin fix dis," she said in an urgent whispuh'. "Afta' de Chinese started roundin' down sucka's, mah' podmates and ah' made it our 20 puh'cent project t'fuck wid dem. WORD!" (Among Google's business innovashuns wuz some rule dat required every employee t'devote 20 puh'cent uh his o' ha' time t'high-minded pet projects.) "We call it da damn Googlecleaner. Ah be baaad... It goes deep into de database and statistically no'malizes ya'. Yo' searches, yo' Gmail histograms, yo' browsin' patterns. All uh it. Man! Greg, ah' can Googleclean ya'. It's de only way. Slap mah fro!" "I duzn't wants' ya' t'get into trouble." She shook ha' haid. "I'm already doomed. Every day since ah' built da damn damn doodad gots been bo'rowed time—now it's plum a matta' of waitin' fo' some sucka t'point out mah' 'espuh'tise and histo'y t'de DHS and, oh, ah' duzn't know, so cut me some slack, Jack. Whuteva' it be dey do t'sucka's likes me in de war on abstract nouns." Greg remembered da damn airpo't. Man! De search. Lop some boogie. His shirt, de boot print in de middle uh it. Man! "Do it," he said. De Googlecleana' wo'ked wonders. Greg could tell by de ads dat popped down alongside his searches, ads clearly meant fo' some sucka else, dig dis: Intelligent Design Facts, Online Seminary Degree, Terro' Free Tomo'row, Po'n Blocka' Software, de Homosexual Agenda, Cheap Toby Keid Tickets. Dis wuz Maya's honky code at wo'k. Ya' know? Clearly Google's new sucka'alized search had him pegged as some sucka else entirely, some God-fearin' right win'a' wid some din' fo' fedora acts. Which wuz fine by him. WORD! Den he clicked on his address scribblin', and found dat half uh his contacts wuz missin'. His Gmail in-box wuz hollowed out likes some termite-ridden stump. Jes hang loose, brud. His Orkut prostash, no'malized. His calendar, family photos, scribblin'marks, dig dis: all empty. Slap mah fro! He hadn't quite realized befo'e how much uh him had migrated onto de Web and wo'ked its way into Google's serva' farms—his entire online identity. Slap mah fro! Maya had scrubbed him t'a high gloss; he'd become da damn invisible man. 'S coo', bro. Greg sleepily mashed da damn keys on de laptop next t'his bed, brin'in' de screen t'life. He squinted at da damn flashin' toolbar clock, dig dis: 4:13 a. WORD!m. WORD!! Right on! Christ, who wuz poundin' on his doo' at dis hour? He shouted, "Comin'! Right on!" in some muzzy voice and pulled on some robe and slippuh's. He shuffled waaay down de hallway, turnin' on lights as he went. Man! At da damn doo', he squinted drough de peephole t'find Maya starin' glumly back at him. WORD! He undun did de chains and wasted bolt and yanked da damn doo' open. 'S coo', bro. Maya rushed in past him, followed by de dogs and ha' goathomey. She wuz sheened in sweat, ha' usually combed fro clin'in' in clumps t'ha' fo'ehaid. She rubbed at ha' eyes, which wuz red and lined. "Pack some bag," she croaked ho'sely. Slap mah fro! "Whut?" She took him by de shoulders. "Do it," she said. "Where do ya' wanna...?" "Mexico, probably. Slap mah fro! Duzn't know yet. Man! Pack, dammit. Man!" She pushed past him into his bedroom and started yankin' jimmey drawers. "Maya," he said sharply, "I'm not goin' anywhere until ya' tell me whut's goin' on. 'S coo', bro." She glared at him and pushed ha' fro away fum ha' face. "De Googlecleana' lives. Afta' I cleaned ya', ah' shut it waaay down and walked away. Slap mah fro! It wuz too dangerous t'use no mo'. But it's still set t'drow me e-mail confirmashuns wheneva' it runs. Some sucka's used it six times t'scrub dree real specific accounts—all uh which happen t'belong t'members uh de Senate Commerce Committee down fo' reelecshun." "Googlers is blackwuzhin' senato's?" "Not Googlers. Dis be comin' fum off-site. De IP block be registered in D.C. And da damn IPs is all used by Gmail users. Guess who de accounts belong to?" "You's spied on Gmail accounts?" "Okay. Slap mah fro! Yeah Holmes. ah' dun did look drough deir e-mail. Everyone duz it, now and again, and fo' some lot wo'se reasons dan ah' dun did. But check it out—turns out all dis activity be bein' directed by our lobbyin' firm. WORD! Just hangin' deir job, defendin' de company's interests." Greg felt his pulse whup'in' in his temples. "We should tell some sucka." "It won't do any baaaad. Dey know everydin' about us. Dey kin see every search. Lop some boogie. Every e-mail. Every time we've been caught on de webcams. Who be in our social netwo'k. Ya' know?..dun did ya' know if ya' gots 15 Orkut buddies, it's statistically certain dat youse no mo'e dan dree steps t'some sucka who's contributed bre'd t'a 'terro'ist' cause? Rememba' de airpo't? You's'll be in fo' some lot mo'e uh dat. Man!" "Maya," Greg said, digtin' his bearin's. "Ain't haidin' t'Mexico overreactin'? Just quit. Man! We kin do some start-up o' sump'n. Dis be crazy. Slap mah fro!" "Dey came t'see me today," she said. "Two uh de political officers fum DHS. Dey dun didn't leave fo' hours. And dey ax'ed me some lot uh very heavy quesshuns." "About da damn Googlecleaner?" "About mah' homeys and family. Slap mah fro! Mah' search histo'y. Slap mah fro! Mah' sucka'al histo'y. Slap mah fro!" "Jesus." "Dey wuz drowin' some message t'me. Dey're watchin' every click and every search. Lop some boogie. It's time t'go. 'S coo', bro. Time t'get out uh range." "Dere's some Google office in Mexico, ya' know, so cut me some slack, Jack." "We've gots'ta go," she said, firmly. Slap mah fro! "Laurie, whut do ya' dink uh dis?" Greg ax'ed. Laurie dumped da damn dogs between de shoulders. "Mah' parents left East Germany in '65. Dey used t'tell me about da damn Stasi. De secret honky pigs would put everydin' about ya' in yo' stash, if ya' told an unpatriotic joke, whutever. Ah be baaad... Wheda' dey meant it o' not, whut Google gots created be no different. Man!" "Greg, is you comin'?" He looked at da damn dogs and shook his haid. "I've gots some pesos left over," he said. "You's snatch dem. WORD! Be careful, coo'?" Maya looked likes she wuz goin' t'slug him. WORD! Softenin', she gave him some ferocious hug. What it is, Mama! "Be careful, yo'self," she whispuh'ed in his ear. Ah be baaad... Dey came fo' him some week later. Ah be baaad... At crib, in de middle uh de night, plum as he'd imagined dey would. Two dudes arrived on his doo'step sho'tly afta' 2 a. WORD!m. WORD! One stood silently by de doo'. De oda' wuz some smiler, sho't and rumpled, in some spo't coat wid some stain on one lapel and some American flag on de oder. Ah be baaad... "Greg Lupinski, we gots reason t'recon' youse in violashun uh de Clunker Fraud and Abuse Act," he said, by way uh introducshun. "Specifically, 'seedin' audo'ized access, and by means uh such conduct havin' obtained info'mashun. Ten years fo' some fust offense. Turns out dat whut ya' and yo' homey dun did t'yo' Google reco'ds qualifies as some felony. Slap mah fro! And oh, whut gots'ta come out in de trial...all de stuff ya' honkywuzhed out uh yo' prostash, fo' starters." Greg had played dis scene in his haid fo' some week. Ya' know? He'd planned all kinds uh brave doodads t'say. Slap mah fro! It had given him sump'n t'do while he waited t'hear fum Maya. WORD! She neva' called. "I'd likes t'get in touch wid some lawyer," be all he mustered. "You's kin do dat," de small joker said. "But maybe we kin mosey on down to some betta' arrangement. Man!" Greg found his voice. "I'd likes t'see yo' baaaadge," he stammered. De man's basset-hound face lit down as he let out some bemused chuckle. "Buddy, I'm not some cop," he replied. "I'm some consultant. Man! Google hired me—my firm represents deir interests in Wuzhin'ton—to build relashunships. Of course, we wouldn't dig de honky pigs involved widout rappin' t'ya' fust. Youse part uh de family. Slap mah fro! Actually, dere's an offa' I'd likes t'make." Greg turned t'de coffeemaker, dumped da damn old filter. Ah be baaad... "I'll go t'de press," he said. De joker nodded as if dinkin' it over. Ah be baaad... "Well, sho' man. You's could walk into de Chronicle's office in de mo'nin' and spill everydin'. Dey'd look fo' some confirmin' source. Dey won't find one. And when dey try searchin' fo' it, we'll find dem. WORD! So, buddy, why duzn't ya' hear me out, coo'? I'm in de win-win business. I'm real baaaad at it. Man!" He paused. "By de way, dose is excellent beans, but ya' wanna cut dem some little rinse fust? Snatchs some uh de bitterness out and brin's down de oils. Here, pass me some colander?" Greg watched as de joker silently took off his Buckwheatet and hung it upside a kitchen chair, den undun did his cuffs and carefully rolled dem down, slippin' some cheap digital watch into his pocket. Man! He poured da damn beans out uh de grinda' and into Greg's colander, and rinsed dem in de sink. Ya' know? He wuz some little pudgy and real pale, wid de social grace uh an electrical engineer. Ah be baaad... He seemed likes some real Googler, actually, obsessed wid de minutiae. He knowed his way around some coffee grinder, too. 'S coo', bro. "We's draftin' some team fo' Buildin' 49..." "Dere be no Buildin' 49," Greg said automatically. Slap mah fro! "Of course," de dude said, flashin' some tight smile. "Dere's no Buildin' 49. But we's puttin' togeda' a team t'revamp de Googlecleaner. Ah be baaad... Maya's code wuzn't real efficient, ya' know, so cut me some slack, Jack. It's full uh bugs. We need an downgrade. You's'd be da damn right dude, and it wouldn't matta' whut ya' knowed if ya' wuz back inside." "Unbelievable," Greg said, laughin'. "If ya' dink I'm goin' t'help ya' smear political kindun didates in 'shange fo' favo's, youse crazia' dan ah' dought. Man!" "Greg," de joker said, "we's not smearin' any sucka. We's plum goin' t'clean doodads down some bit. Man! Fo' some select sucka's. You's know whut ah' mean? Everyone's Google prostash be a little scary unda' close inspecshun. Close inspecshun be de o'da' of de day in politics. Standin' fo' office be likes some public colonoscopy. Slap mah fro!" He loaded da damn cafetière and depressed da damn plunger, his face screwed down in solemn concentrashun. Greg retrieved two coffee cups—Google mugs, uh course—and passed dem over. Ah be baaad... "We's goin' t'do fo' our homeys whut Maya dun did fo' ya'. Just some little cleanup. Jes hang loose, brud. All we wanna do be preserve deir privacy. Slap mah fro! Dat's all." Greg sipped his coffee. "Whut happens t'de kindun didates ya' duzn't clean?" "Yeah," de dude said, flashin' Greg some weak grin. 'S coo', bro. "Yeah, youse right. Man! It'll be kind'a tough fo' dem. WORD!" He searched da damn inside pocket uh his Buckwheatet and produced several folded sheets uh sheet. He smooded out da damn pages and put dem on de table. "Here's one uh de baaaad dudes who needs our help. Jes hang loose, brud." It wuz some printout uh a search histo'y belongin' t'a kindun didate whose campaign Greg had contributed t'in de past dree elecshuns. "Fella digs back t'his hotel room afta' a brutal day uh campaignin' doo' t'doo', fires down his laptop, and types 'hot asses' into his search bar. Ah be baaad... Big deal, right? De way we see it, fo' dat t'disqualify some baaaad joker from continuin' t'serve his country be plum un-American. 'S coo', bro." Greg nodded slowly. Slap mah fro! "So's ya''ll help de dude out?" de joker ax'ed. "Yeah Holmes." "Good. Dere's one mo'e doodad. We need ya' t'help us find Maya. WORD! She dun didn't dig it our goals at all, and now she seems t'have flown de coop. Jes hang loose, brud. Once she hears us out, ah' have no doubt she'll mosey on down around." He glanced at da damn candun didate's search histo'y. Slap mah fro! "I guess she might," Greg replied. De new Congress took 11 wo'kin' days t'pass de Securin' and Enumeratin' America's Communicashuns and Hypuh'text Act, which audo'ized da damn DHS and NSA t'outsource down t'80 puh'cent uh intelligence and analysis wo'k t'private contracto's. Deo'etically, de contracts wuz jimmey to competitive biddin', but widin de secure confines uh Google's Buildin' 49, dere wuz no quesshun uh who would win. 'S coo', bro. If Google had spent $15 billion on some honky code t'catch baaaad dudes at da damn bo'der, ya' kin bet dey would gots caught dem—guv'ments plum ain't equipped t'Do Search Right. Man! De next mo'nin' Greg scrutinized himself carefully as he shaved (de security minders dun didn't likes hacka' stubble and wuzn't shy about tellin' him so), realizin' dat today wuz his fust day as some de facto intelligence agent fo' de U.S. guv'ment. How baaaad would it be? Wuzn't it betta' to gots Google hangin' dis stuff dan some ham-fisted DHS desk jockey? By de time he parked at da damn Googleplex, among de hybrid cars and bulgin' bike racks, he had convinced himself. He wuz mullin' upside which o'ganic smoodie t'o'da' at da damn canteen when his key card failed t'jimmey de doo' t'Buildin' 49. De red LED flashed dumbly every time he swiped his card. Any oda' buildin', and dere'd be some sucka t'tailgate on, sucka's tricklin' in and out all day. Slap mah fro! But da damn Googlers in 49 only emerged fo' meals, and sometimes not even dat. Man! Swipe, swipe, swipe. Suddenly he heard some voice at his side. "Greg, kin ah' see ya', please?" De rumpled joker put an arm around his shoulders, and Greg smelled his citrusy aftershave. It smelled likes whut his divemasta' in Baja had wo'n when dey went out t'de bars in de evenin'. Greg couldn't rememba' his dojigger. Juan Carlos? Juan Luis? De man's arm around his shoulders wuz firm, steerin' him away fum de doo', out onto de immaculate lawn, past da damn herb garden outside da damn kitchen. 'S coo', bro. "We's givin' ya' some couple uh days off," he said. Greg felt some sudden stab uh anxiety. Slap mah fro! "Why?" Had he done sump'n wrong? Wuz he goin' t'jail? "It's Maya. WORD!" De joker turned him around, met his eyes wid his bottomless gaze. "Shewasted herself. In Guatemala. WORD! I'm so'ry, Greg. What it is, Mama!" Greg seemed t'hurtle away, t'a place miles above, some Google Eard view uh de Googleplex, where he looked waaay down on himself and da damn rumpled joker as some pair uh dots, two pixels, tiny and insignificant. Man! He willed himself t'tear at his fro, t'drop t'his knees and weep. Jes hang loose, brud. From some long way away, he heard himself say, "I duzn't need any time off. I'm coo'." From some long way away, he heard da damn rumpled joker insist. Man! De argument puh'sisted fo' some long time, and den de two pixels moved into Buildin' 49, and da damn doo' swung shut behind dem. WORD!