Nigel No Mates

The wish it was true maybe someday story of Nigel No Mates

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-mind-atlas-peter-liam/1150184226https://books.apple.com/au/audiobook/the-mind-atlas-compelling-short-stories/id6769707768https://open.spotify.com/show/0qaqT21Dpl9bSJ3suLIYtA?s

https://peterliam.hearnow.com/mary-janeMake sure you add Mary Jane to your playlist 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 1:03

Nigel no mates. Growing up in the neon faded haze of the late 80s, Nigel didn't have a crew. He had a Commodore 64 and a profound, echoing silence where a social life should be. While other kids were outside kicking footballs, Nigel was hunched over a glowing CRT monitor, mastering assembly language and poke commands. He wandered the neighborhood alone, a permanent target for the local bullies. The nickname stuck to him like cheap static cling, Nigel No Mates. Years passed, but the name followed him into adulthood. Even when he grabbed a quiet pint at the Rusty Anchor, the local tavern, the whispers would drift across the smoky room. Look, it's Nigel No Mates. Still talking to his computer, mate. Nigel never argued. He just took a sip of his beer, stared at his lap, and smiled a secret, brilliant smile. Because they had no idea what he had been up to in his garage. The gang in the garage. Nigel hadn't just stayed good at coding, he had become a master of retrotech cybernetics. He had managed to acquire four high-end, military-grade humanoids decommissioned from a nearby tech firm. Stripping out their bloated modern operating systems, he airlocked their logic cores, rewiring them to run entirely on heavily modified, lightning fast C64 machine code. To the untrained eye, they were just junk. To Nigel, they were blank canvases. The upgrades, he spent months programming every known MMA submission, strike, and counter-move into their 8-bit memory banks. The wheels, he didn't just want bodyguards, he wanted a crew. He bought five vintage motorcycles, modifying four of them so his humanoid gang could ride with perfect, synchronized precision. They didn't judge him. They didn't call him names. They just waited for his command. The return to the rusty anchor. On a crisp Friday night, the patronizing hum of the rusty anchor was shattered by the thunderous roar of five choppers pulling into the gravel lot. The tavern doors swung open. In walked Nigel, wearing a leather jacket, looking calmer than he ever had in his life. Behind him stepped four massive, stoic figures in matching helmets and dark visors. The bar went dead silent, then erupted into excited, nervous whispers. Nigel no mates had returned, and he brought a gang. But the awe didn't last long. Before Nigel could even order a drink, the heavy wooden doors were kicked off their hinges. A notorious local outlaw motorcycle gang stormed inside, looking to shake down the bartender and crack some heads. The leader stepped up, slamming a crowbar onto the counter. The patrons cowered. The bartender froze. Nigel just looked at his four human nodes and tapped a small, custom-built C64 keypad on his wrist. Run. Load Combat Underscore Mode 8-1. Searching for targets. Loading. Ready. Run. What followed was a masterclass in 8-bit destruction. The four human nodes moved with terrifying, fluid efficiency. The outlaw gang lunged with chains and broken bottles, but Nigel's crew executed flawless spinning back kicks, double-leg takedowns, and perfect armbars. Bones snapped, table shattered, and within three minutes, the entire outlaw gang was fleeing out the door, leaving nothing but dust and dented pride behind them. A new legend is born. The tavern erupted into cheers. The regulars who had spent a decade mocking Nigel were suddenly hoisting him onto their shoulders. The bartender slid a pristine pitcher of beer down the counter. The local kingpin walked up to Nigel, clapping him on the back. Nigel, man, we owe you everything, he boomed. We want an alliance. From now on, you get free weed, free beer, and as many women as your heart desires. Name your price, legend. Nigel gently stepped down, wiping a stray drop of beer from his jacket. He looked at the crowd, then back at his bikes outside. Appreciate the offer, Nigel said, his voice steady and cool. But I'll pass on the women. I already built my own. From the back of the motorcycle line, a fifth figure stepped into the dim light of the tavern doorway. She was a beautifully crafted humanoid, her eyes glowing with a soft, warm amber light, running on the ultimate custom romantic operating system Nigel had spent a year perfecting. The aftermath. The rusty anchor was never the same after that night. The old crowd moved on, and a new era began. Today, the bar is a thriving, neon-lit hub, always half-filled with humans and half-filled with sophisticated humanoids who appreciate a good, old fashioned watering hole. And right there on the main stage, under the spotlight, Nigel's self built companion works as the resident entertainer, singing flawlessly pitched retro tunes to a crowd that finally respects her creator. Nobody calls him Nigel no mates anymore. Now, he's just the king of the anchor.