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Doomed to Obscurity Issue 23
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)- doomed to obscurity e'zine issue number 23 released september 23, 1997 -(
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)- I'll look deep inside to see if I belong with the men )-----( Silkworm -(
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "slack motherfuckers"
)- by murmur
that's us - two words describe the very essence of dto these days.
pronounce for yourselves!
s l a c k
m o t h e r f u c k e r s
(-- - --)
this is where you might expect us to apologize, to make excuses,
to attempt to explain why we've allowed 80 days to pass between issues #22
and #23 of doomed to obscurity.
well, let's just say it happened and let's furthermore say that it
shouldn't have and let's leave it at that, shall we?
before explaining the rather unusual nature of this issue in and of
itself, dto would like to debrief you on the future. the future, ladies
and gentlemen, is a bunch of little robots doing all of your work for you.
they may save the 'zine writers and maybe even the web page designers, but
you machinists and coal miners and professional wrestlers are going to be
replaced by little beasties that can do those jobs a hell of a lot better
than you can. don't believe us? take a trip to hardee's. do you really
think those are people there, making your hamburgers?
but that's the far future. we're talking about the near future.
the future of dto and how it is going to impact your life. basically, dto
is going to turn into an integrated, interactive multimedia world wide web
entity. now, you may ask, what in the fuck does that mean? are you SELLING
OUT? why, sure. we're selling out.
countless times now we at doomed to obscurity have been told that it
just seems like we're writing for an audience of about twenty or so people
who are going to understand a bunch of pointless inside references.
honestly, we have to agree. some of the material we've put out has been
highly irrelevant to anyone who isn't in the middle of the "dto scene" (an
expression that i will use loosely, or better yet, not any more.)
that's going to change. and it's going to change in large part
thanks to our brand new web format, which will likely be unveiled in
november 1997. what exactly it will consist of is not necessarily locked in
stone (meaning we haven't figured the whole damn thing out yet); but you
will find an interactive messaging system, you will have access to new
pieces on a "rolling" basis as opposed to the standard once-a-month release
system, and you will see the permanent inclusion of standard editorializing
and music writing in what we know as dto. changes are going to be happening
slowly, quickly, however they may happen to happen; so, please, check out
http://www.dto.net whenever you get those web-browsin' urges, and see what
we're talking about. (note: our web site has been down lately as
everything has been moved to a new and faster system -- so if we're not
there, don't worry, we're still alive and all that good stuff.) we
guarantee that when the whole design is unleashed that it will be a fresh
and impressive site in the middle of what has generally become, to quote the
late im2k, a world wide waste.
that's the future. this issue of dto is the present - and in the
present you're seeing submissions from no less than five brand new writers.
some of these pieces are going to make you wonder how they got into dto -
but hopefully that will just convince you of how good they really are. in
particular we have three lengthy pieces from persons who have not previously
submitted to dto that we have a hunch will meet with some fairly wide
acclaim (if wide acclaim of a text file is a potentiality.) oddly enough,
all three submitted pieces well within the realm of futurism. dto, as
always, is proud to be the land of milk and coincidences.
but nobody wants to read anything more in an introduction, do they?
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doomed to obscurity #23 | | | | | | and all contents therein...
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)- slack motherfuckers )-----------------------------------------( murmur -(
)- the table of contents )---------------------------------------( murmur -(
)- be the best girl you possibly can be! )( allison, sweeney erect's girl -(
)- Immolation )-----------------------------------------------( Killarney -(
)- untitled )--------------------------------------( Hieronymous Breughel -(
)- The Cliff, Marilyn Manson, & Beer )-----( The Arts Student F.K.A. Euan -(
)- mogel appeared to me in a dream and made me write this )-------( eerie -(
)- The Museum )-------------------------------------------( Dan Greenwell -(
)- toothpaste shavins: condiments chapter 1400 )----------------( murmur -(
)- the chaos theory; saturday, july 23 )--------------------------( eerie -(
)- tabula rousseau )----------------------------------------------( mooer -(
)- untitled )---------------------------------------------------( Snufkin -(
)- Toys That Caress Her )----------------------------------------( Shroud -(
)- undergarments for the short, round figure )-----------( goldy the pimp -(
)- xeper and piztok )------------------------------------( Juan Cristobal -(
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "be the best girl you possibly can be!"
)- by allison, sweeney erect's girlfriend
hi! i am allison, sweeney erect's girlfriend. i am writing this
because he assigned me a book to read that he said would make our
relationship go more smoothly and i wanted to share it with all you girls
out there. it is called _the leslie uggams beauty book_ and it was
published in 1968, and it contains many very helpful bits of advice for
girls especially when it comes to dating. i knew it was going to be a good
book just from reading the chapter headings. reading the chapter headings
is a good trick to use in order to understand a book better! some of the
headings were "introduction" (that's in a LOT of books!), "i'm in love with
the wonderful world of make up", "pretty hands and feet are a must", and "i
like being a girl". and i do like being a girl! so i knew i would like
this book.
the first rule of dating that was in the book that i found helpful
was the part where she said in restaurants, you should never order your own
food right to the waiter, you should tell your order to your date and then
let him order it for both of you. this has been important for a couple of
reasons. first, sweeney is real smart and sometimes he keeps me from making
embarrassing mistakes in pronouncing words to waiters, or from ordering
things that might make me chunk up (he is very concerned about my waist
size, with good reason...i have very large breasts and may easily gain too
much weight around the middle.) second, if i tell him the order and let him
order for us both, it makes him feel strong and important, in control. that
way he doesn't need to beat me later to remind me of who is really in
control. that can hurt!
another good piece of advice she has is that you should always be on
time. it is very important i know, in my relationship, as sweeney often has
very important things to do and doesn't have time to wait on me. for
instance if we agree to go to his apartment for a "quickie" at three, and i
arrive at 3:05 he may already have to be back at work at the filling
station. or else he may have somebody else coming over, which can be very
embarrassing, let me tell you. besides, the less often i am late the less
often he tends to hit me. that can hurt!
also, leslie says that a boy should never fight with you for a good
night kiss, that is in very bad etiquette. i agree totally! making a boy
fight with you, when you know you want it anyway, is silly too. i didn't
know i wanted it anyway, but sweeney tells me i do and he is real smart.
some people say that all heterosexual sex is rape; well if sex is rape, then
i'm pro-rape! and anyway, from my experience if sweeney wants sex he'll get
it out of me...no point in fighting. that can hurt!
well, it's about time for me to go...that's what i got out of the
book and it is time for me to go to work so i can give sweeney some of my
income to pay for his apartment. he's real smart and he just writes all day
and doesn't really have time to work much so i help him pay his rent. then
i have to come back and perform oral sex on him, because he likes it when i
do that while he writes poetry. usually the poetry is real good. maybe
even better than the book he had me read....i hope he likes this essay i
wrote and doesn't beat me. that can hurt!
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "Immolation"
)- by killarney
On the days that I drink wine and smoke far too many cigarettes I
think about what it would be like to burn. It comes from feeling my inside
sort of go up in the tiny smoke of long ago. It comes from wanting to talk,
to dream about it, but not wanting to soak in the angst of it, because with
that, as with anything, too much becomes not enough and still I seek more,
and angst is out of style, baby.
It also comes from the melding of the two, of my thinking of what it
would be to douse a place in cheap alcohol and toss my still-lit match into
it and to sit there, burning. Burning my cigarette and my skin, and the
skin would dance into these lines, these overlapping melted parts of me
that, ugly to the rest of the world, would set me free. Would become a
rivered canvas.
The other day he told me he almost burned, burned in the flammable
bits of that paint he was using. A simple thing, really, nothing really
poetic about it at all. And I thought about it, and ran from the initial
horror of it and thought what a fucking godsend it would be. And we talked
about it. I asked him whether he thought it would be a godsend and I think
he got a little bit lost. And I reminded him of that despair that was sort
of a part of him and a part of me, and when I started telling him how he
should feel about it I was really talking about me, but I don't think he
knew.
We talked, and I said that it would be horribly and wonderfully,
amazingly liberating to be physically disfigured. For years I have carried
that despair that I reminded him of with both arms, generally lifting it
above my head with some anti-human strength, honoring it and caressing it,
and I don't know why. And when I said that the burning would be so
deliciously freeing I talked of the despair changing places. I said this
when he told me he thought it would always be an anchor, always holding on,
and being burned, we'd never be rid of it.
But that's how I've felt about the despair that I honor.
And so as he got lost I explained what I thought. I told him that
the anchor is so much better than the ark. The despair that I honor, the
one that I carry above my head, it's heavy. And the anchor is heavy as
well, but four out of five disillusioned youths, having to choose between an
active despair and a passive one, well. You know the story. I hope.
If I were physically burned, it would be an anchor I could never
escape, but at least I would know why I was different. You know. And I
wouldn't have to belittle myself by convincing myself I had to carry it. I
would know it was there, and the drowning? This way, I couldn't drown
myself. It would be something else, something over which I had no control.
And in this way I realized how wonderful a lack of feeling
responsible towards one's actions could be, exactly.
And then, as things always do when I'm talking to him, things fell
into place. And it seemed only right that I would come to these
conclusions, because this is just how I've been feeling lately. And angst
wasn't the word, but it had to be something.
Since then I've talked to other people about this. I ask them, "Do
you ever think it would be nice to burn?" And they say, ominously, "But I
have burned." And I laugh to myself because in the end that seems sort of
pretentious. Why can't it just be about physically burning? Why must they
all swim in metaphors of flaming souls?
But I do it as much as they. And I boast of my hurt, I boast of my
consummation by my Muse. And suddenly everyone's Muse is erecting a stake
in the middle of a pile of wood, and holding a match with a glint in her
eye. Everybody's doing it, man.
How have wine and cigarettes become the badge of a writer? I don't
know, but I like it just the same. Once I talked with him about the beauty
of a cup of coffee with milk in it and a cigarette burning. It was the
first night we spoke, if memory serves, and I knew he held concealed in that
elusive cloak a fold of paper matches. Sulfur and paper and fire. Somehow
he got to me while I was busy honoring the difference.
But I don't mind.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- untitled
)- by Hieronymous Breughel
)- originally from KUDOS '91 and reprinted by permission
111 S. Frep
Winnebago, IL 61088
4/19/91
<<SCHOOL>>
ATTN: <<DEPARTMENT HEAD>>
<<ADDRESS>>
<<CITY, STATE, ZIP>>
Dear <<DEPARTMENT HEAD>>:
I am applying for the position of teacher's aide at <<SCHOOL>>. I have an
associate's degree in child development. I feel I possess interests that
would be useful on the job as a teacher's aid. I like children, and enjoy
being around them. I have a great deal of patience from my years in
solitary confinement, where the only thing to do was watch vermin crawl
around and think about how I would kill the warden with my bare hands and
teeth if I had a chance.
I have also been an apprentice evil clown hunter, where I learned how to
use most standard NATO firearms as well as how to disable an evil clown with
only a carrot and a bottle of Shasta Diet Chocolate Soda. In addition to
these skills I am also trained in most wrestling holds and I have a third
degree black belt in Tofu. I served as a camp counselor for a summer until
the camp was closed because the campers were disappearing, only to be found
later in the Swedish meatballs. I had nothing to do with this.
I would like an interview with you, <<DEPARTMENT HEAD>>, at <<SCHOOL>>. I
am free any time and can be reached at 356-8558. I feel my skills as well
as my experience will be helpful to you and your staff and provide an
educational experience for the students. If I do not get this job I will
hunt you, <<DEPARTMENT HEAD>>, down, and eat your dog and/or cat.
Sincerely,
Hieronymous Breughel
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "The Cliff, Marilyn Manson & Beer"
)- by The Arts Student Formerly Known As Euan
Once upon a time in a western country we all know but I can't reveal,
somebody decided to hold a music festival. The promoters got together and
decided on all the bands they needed to get to attract as many punters as
they could. But festivals were becoming somewhat passe, people were bored
of them, they needed something new. And so it was decided that this
festival would be held near a cliff, with a huge drop of some 100 metres to
a rocky flat where huge waves crashed, demolishing anything which fell in
the way. They knew that this destructive force of nature was just the thing
to attract counter-culture kiddies.
So the festival grew nearer, and soon tickets had sold out and the
big day arrived. The crowd flocked in, and soon the subdivisions became
clear, as many felt certain bands were not for them. Towards the end of the
night, tragedy struck; the promoters had counted on their selection of bands
to be so alternative as to interest anybody there, except for Bush, who had
insisted on being on the bill just days before the festival. Unfortunately,
very few of these alternative people were interested in Bush, so the sub-
divisions all moved towards the oracle that was the Cliff.
Once at the Cliff, it became clear that trouble was brewing, and
soon, a young man in a Marilyn Manson t-shirt was complaining that his life
had lost all meaning, and he stepped off the Cliff and fell to his death. An
older gentleman wearing a Kyuss t-shirt screamed out "THAT'S NOTHING!!!!!"
and threw himself off the Cliff, landing in the water before being thrown
onto the rocks. At this moment a girl in a My Bloody Valentine t-shirt
wandered rather aimlessly in the direction of the Cliff, an unopened beer in
her hand, and her eyes firmly implanted on her shoes, and soon, she stumbled
over the Cliff. No sooner had she fallen, than a middle-aged man in tight
denim jeans, a flannel shirt and a Cosmic Psychos t-shirt jumped after her,
the look of anguish explained as he yelled out "THROW US THE
BEEEEEEEERRRRR!!!!".
Following this, there was much commotion amongst a group of young
boys, around 15, all with their hair dyed green for the occasion. They
jostled each other and began nudging one another in the direction of the
Cliff, before one whose hair was only half-dyed green (the spray-can ran
out) jumped over the edge before his friends all laughed, applauded, and
then said, "Man, that was so hardcore!". A girl in a Sick Of It All t-shirt
yelled "THAT'S NOT HARD-CORE!!", and did a perfect triple-summersault with a
pike and landed head first on the rocks. At this moment, a young man
wearing a Polvo t-shirt walked along, oblivious to all around him as he was
listening to their new album on his walkman, convinced that nothing would
better this listening experience. He, like the MBV fan, soon stumbled
accidentally over the edge, but died a blissful death.
The moral of this story is that music is ultimately destructive and
should not be listened to.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "mogel appeared to me in a dream & made me write this"
)- by eerie
"hell is other people," she said. from the beginning this had been a
dialogue of understatements, & when i pointed that out, she said, "yeah, but
isn't everything an understatement?"
i asked for examples, even though i already knew what she meant. i
wanted the babble to keep on, just because i was bored to death. this place
is a bore. i live in the suburbs, you know? straight in the middle of new
jersey. or is it delaware. whatever. somewhere boring. "you shouldn't
have to ask for an explanation. things should be obvious."
"& we should all just shut up", i said.
"right on", she nodded. "i wish i could stop thinking effectively."
"yeah. efficiency is a pain in the ass. let's never get straight to
the point." i felt it was the time to say something cryptic. "duality
doesn't mean opposition."
"i have angst."
"don't we all."
"yeah, but isn't it clever when you make a living out of it?"
"why, it's purely opportunist. taking such underrated universal
themes such as sex, drugs, pain, etc. & making something out of it."
"you do it all the time, though."
"never said i didn't. i suppose the difference is that i don't
pretend my stuff is the end of all."
"it's just that since the themes are both universal & underrated,
success comes everytime, huh?"
"my god, you're revealing my marketing secrets."
"do you even care about the characters you give life to?"
"not really."
"i don't believe you."
"i knew you wouldn't believe me. you're so predictable. there, now
i bet in the next second you'll have this sudden urge to have wild sex with
me."
"whoa, i feel pretty hot. mind if we put off all our clothes & fuck
gratuitously for hours?"
"now you'll wallow in self-pity for no reason whatsoever."
"there's my name in the dictionary, next to the definition of
'worthless'."
"now you'll ask me why we're babbling when this could have just been
all written down in one single article."
"yeah, why are we, too?"
"dialogue is perfect. it leaves a sentiment of doubt in the reader's
mind. they'll never know if this is how i really feel, or if that's just
fiction."
"don't they ever realize that you have to somehow feel what you're
writing, though?"
"of course not. that's the beauty of it. they'll assume i'm just
'fucked up'."
"hey, why are you referring to yourself as eerie anyway?"
"because i am."
"no, you're not. eerie is in front of his computer, writing this
stuff down & possibly laughing out loud at how grotesque the whole deal is.
you're just a character pretending to be the author of this."
"golly gee, you're right. i feel all disincarned now."
"isn't it the time for a sex scene anyway?"
"yeah, enough of this nonsense. let's fuck."
"wait. we're in the middle of a bar. there's people."
"so fucking what. could be worse, like, a mcdonald's or something.
plus, we can do what we want now. we're free."
silence.
"wow", she said, "nothing fell on us, & we're not dead yet."
"killing us would have been too cheap a pun, i think."
"right."
"isn't it ironic that we've predicted that from the start though."
"isn't chaos grand."
"shut up, that's _my_ catch phrase."
"things come & we can't do anything about it, else than, maybe, find
some kind of underlying meaning to them."
"as if meaning was attached to things like some kind of price tag."
"that's the catch," she explained. "meaning is what you make it.
others will either adopt or refute your view on a specific event/object. it
all depends on how it fits with what they want. you have to make them want
it, basically."
"or you have to know what they want, & give them, shamelessly."
"same end, different means. what matters is how you feel about it."
"i wish this conversation actually happened."
"uh, doesn't it?"
"i think eerie made me say that as a reflection of his own thoughts.
of course this conversation is happening."
"ha ha. that's so pathetic, come to think of it."
"not really. we're just not free. anything could happen to us in
the next second & we couldn't do anything about it." i paused for a second
& added, "god has a typewriter."
"yeah, he's just a really bad, frustrated writer with a lot of
angst."
"right. karma is bullshit. it wouldn't exist in a real world. as
if what goes around would really come around."
"you know," she said in a tired tone, "i actually wanted to have sex,
but we keep babbling & babbling about things we know already."
"see? that's eerie's fault again. then again, god is just as much
an asshole. people go places, they babble but they never have sex because
they're too shy. & the second they start doing it, aids pops out of nowhere
& kills random people for the heck of it."
"& of course we can't blame it on a conspiracy of any kind."
"conspiracies are a joke. as if the cia people could effectively
organize a conspiracy of any kind. they're just covering their asses for
all the shit they're doing, all the people they murder for no reason. it's
all the fault of the cause to effect principle, which of course we can't
blame either because it also brought us life, & this beer that i'm drinking,
& you i'm talking to, etc."
"hey, let's talk about our relationship."
"yeah, that is one interesting topic."
"you know? we're just shy, we won't tell what we really feel."
"i wish i could say i love you, but i don't even know what this
means."
"should be taught in school or something. love 101."
"with books like 'a theory on soulmates'. maybe love doesn't even
exist."
"blah blah blah."
"babble babble."
"it's still a matter of meaning, & how you interpret things. i mean,
maybe you feel well talking to me of all people, & that could be for many
reasons. first off, i was made sort of attractive, but then again, could be
something you dig. second, i'm cynical just like you, & no matter what,
we'll always have a good time discussing things."
"uh-huh."
"boy, are we into it."
"then again, maybe i feel similar towards other people as well. it's
hard to tell the difference."
"then we can only rely on chance. whatever happens, you know. you
might dig someone you'll never fuck."
"i'm sick of discussing this. i know these things."
"of course we do. but uh, maybe the reader doesn't."
"if they don't know that stuff, i doubt they'll want to learn about
it."
"an adult wouldn't, but a teenager is still in a discovery phase.
they'll learn things, & if they're clever, they'll decide what's best for
them. after they grow up, they'll become biased & then nothing will make
them change, so yeah, you're right on that point."
"yeah yeah yeah. they'll never be bored enough to read all of this
piece of trash."
"believe me, i wish i didn't have to say all this stuff. it's so
useless."
"great. we think alike. less talk, more sex. plus we're fictional
characters who don't give a fuck about this. we have no families, we
weren't born, & hopefully we're not even going to die. what do we have to
worry about?"
"actually, i think we've said all we had to say."
"you mean the story is done _already_?"
"believe me, this is already much too long & useless. might as well
stop it here."
"wait a minute. the story ends means we die?!"
"or at least fall in some sort of cataleptic state until the author
decides to recycle us in some other cheap story."
"why did i have to end up in this story anyway? this is the most
boring thing anyone has ever read. i wish i was a character in a porn
paperback." pause. "nobody is ever going to relate to this."
"i think that was on purpose."
"life sucks."
"that's an understatement."
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "The Museum"
)- by Dan Greenwell
Rhianna Kelva leaned forward to give her husband Garvin a hug before
entering the museum with their two young children, Johnnis and Marissa.
"Try not to get upset, honey. Remember, they're just employees, they're not
Council members. They don't make the rules."
"Yes, dear." Garvin scowled and walked toward the licensing office.
Some boys take a long time to grow up, Rhianna mused. He still got so upset
about normal everyday expenses. And it wasn't as though she asked for
anything extravagant like a wading pool or a license for Christmas lights.
They could afford water and power for another child.
Rhianna was startled when a dodecagenarian croaked at her from the
museum entrance. "Welcome folks. Here for the tour?" "Oh, yes, thank
you." He beckoned them inside.
Many things had changed since the beginning centuries of the modern
age, but the profile of the museum docent had not. All of the museums owned
and operated by the World Democratic Council, including museum number 934,
Seattle Skyline, employed a mixed retinue of history graduate students and
retirees to conduct guests through the exhibits.
Rhianna and the children followed the docent into a large exhibit
hall where he pointed to "streets", "cars", "mailboxes", and other
exotic-sounding artifacts in the dioramic recreation of a downtown city
street in the early electrical age. The docent spoke little himself but
instead pressed buttons on a special armband to elicit professionally
recorded explanations of the various exhibits. He pressed a button
appropriate for the city-street display and for his audience. A charming
male voice began narrating from numerous well-concealed speakers.
"In the early centuries of the electrical age, power was not as
inexpensive and abundant as it is now. Before the World Democratic Council
initiated conversion of the world power grid to solar energy, not everyone
had access to power. Instead of harnessing energy from the sun, electricity
providers burned 'fossil fuels', the heavily-polluting remains of ancient
plants and animals."
The lighting changed subtly to highlight certain parts of the
exhibit. "Notice the perpendicular shafts resembling bare trees. These
were known as 'telephone poles'. The thick black strands supported by the
poles were known as 'wires' and were made of copper wrapped in plastic.
Before the World Democratic Council brought cheap, non-polluting power to
everyone, these wires were used to conduct power to homes and businesses."
Hundreds of artistically rendered telephone poles leered ghoulishly over the
heads of the visitors. More than one student of ancient history had likened
them to a scene from Nero's anti-Christian Rome.
Marissa's nose wrinkled as though she'd detected a foul odor.
"They're ugly, mommy."
"Marissa!"
The docent smiled. "Just imagine an entire continent covered with
them."
"You can't even see the sky!" Johnnis exclaimed.
The docent pressed a button and the voice resumed. "This method of
power distribution was not only unattractive but wasteful. Countless
millions of trees and tons of copper covered the land. Cables were even
used in the ocean to join continents. If all the telephone poles were
joined end to end, they would almost reach the moon. The copper wire would
be enough to reach the moon and back seven times."
"Wow," said Rhianna almost to herself.
The docent smiled wryly. This always got them. He pressed another
button and the voice resumed. "Telephone poles were not the only
obstructions to a clear sky." The simulated sky above the city block
darkened and became opaque. Thick brown haze obscured the upper stories of
the buildings. "One of the early electrical age's greatest problems was air
pollution. The pollution was caused by emissions from fossil-fuel burning
factories, power plants and cars. Before the World Democratic Council
initiated conversion of the world power grid to solar energy, many people
grew sick and died as a result of the pollution."
Rhianna's expression transmogrified from wonder to disgust. "That's
horrible. How could people allow this?"
The docent pressed another button and the voice resumed. "Before the
World Democratic Council was established, economic collectives known as
'corporations' manufactured and sold the fuels that caused the pollution and
the devices that consumed the fuels. Local governments sometimes tried to
limit the activities of the corporations but were ineffectual due to their
limited scope. Only the World Democratic Council was able to stop the
destructive fossil-fuel cycle and convert the world to solar power." The
opaque cloud that obscured the upper reaches of the skyline dissipated and
the sky returned to its customary crystalline blue. The recorded voice
continued. "After the conversion to solar power, the pollutants eventually
dissipated, leaving the air clean and the water pure."
"You mean the water was dirty too?" Johnnis looked puzzled.
The docent pressed another button. The voice narrated again.
"Before the World Democratic Council collectivized the Earth's fresh-water
system to protect it, corporations routinely damaged the waters by dumping
chemical wastes into them. The waste products were a result of inefficient
manufacturing processes. The waste products not only made the water unfit
for human use, they flowed into the ocean, destroying marine life and a
vital food source." Taking a cue from the residual horror on the children's
faces, the docent followed up with another button. "Governments were unable
or unwilling to stop the corporations from ruining the water. The
corporations and multiple governments were destroying humankind and the
Earth. Only the strong leadership of the World Democratic Council, your
Council, was strong enough to stop the corporations and governments from
destroying the Earth. This same strong leadership is able to bring you
cheap, pollution-free power and water today."
As this narration finished, the docent led the group from the
cityscape into another large room. This room contained no buildings.
Instead, the skyline extended unbroken in every direction as far as the
simulated horizon. They were in the midst of an unending field of tall
grass with golden stalks. The stalks waved poetically in a simulated
breeze. "You are standing in the midst of a 'wheat field'. Wheat is a
grass and for many centuries served the same purpose that green kelp does
today, as a dietary staple. Unlike kelp, however, wheat was farmed on land.
Millions of acres of habitable land were used to grow the wheat. Not only
did these farms occupy habitable land, they were unreliable food sources.
Before the Council instituted global weather regulations, the water supply
for these farms was unreliable. Depending on random temperature and
pressure conditions in the atmosphere, farms often received too much or too
little water. Rarely did a farm receive the right amount of water at the
right time. Not only was the land itself wasted, the productive energies of
the people who worked the farms were wasted, and the pollution caused by the
farm machines contributed to the unhealthy air."
The sky suddenly thickened with dark clouds. Ventilators blew
chilly, moisture-rich air in uneven gusts on the guests. The wheat strands
began dancing wildly. A brilliant flash of light, resembling an energy
plant exploding, startled Rhianna and the children. Marissa began to cry.
Rhianna hugged the frightened child close to her. "It's alright,
honey. It's not real." The roar that followed the flash seconds later
scared her again.
The voice continued. "Before the Council tamed the water cycle,
unpredictable cataclysms called 'storms' frequently damaged homes and other
property, ruined the food grown on farms like this one, and even killed
people." The narrator paused as another flash filled the room. "Random
electrical discharges known as 'lightning' started fires and killed animals
and humans." A roar echoed loudly through the room. "The discharges caused
shock waves in the atmosphere. These shock waves created 'thunder', the
rumbling sound you just heard." The drama climaxed with several bifurcated
strikes that lit up most of the simulated sky above the guests, then
overwhelmed them with their cracks and roars. As the last roar died out
like an echo from this earlier age of chaos, the clouds disappeared to
reveal the blue sky that gleamed unabated over much of the inhabited world.
The voice resumed. "As you can see, before the Council began
regulating precipitation, rain often was an enemy to life rather than a
friend. The rain schedules can interfere with our plans sometimes, but
isn't it better to know when it is going to rain and for how long, and feel
safe from attack by lightening?" The docent calmly checked to ensure that
the children had recovered. Despite the numerous warnings posted outside
the museum, he occasionally had to escort a guest to first aid. When he
was satisfied that the children had recovered, the docent walked a few yards
out into the wheat field and pressed another button on his armband. A door
opened. He extended an arm in invitation as the voice bid them move to the
next exhibit.
They emerged into a smaller room occupied in the center by a large
fountain. The fountain jetted braided streams of clear, crystalline water.
Few had ever seen so lavish a display of water in real life except at a
Council museum. The guide pressed a button. "The World Democratic Council
invites you to enjoy the beauty of our world's most precious resource, and
drink. This water comes straight from one of your streams managed by the
Council." The voice hesitated, calculated to match the audience's
hesitation. "This water is yours to drink freely as a guest of the Council.
Your accounts will not be charged."
Rhianna let go of the children's hands. They rushed to the fountain
and greedily drank. Rhianna caught up with them and she and Marissa drank
their fill, stopping short of being bloated. As boys do, Johnnis continued
to drink after he was full.
"Johnnis, that's enough. You'll get sick." He kept drinking.
"Johnnis, now!" She looked apologetically at the docent, who smiled
back indulgently. After all, free fountain water was one of the main
attractions at many Council museums. "Johnnis, I mean it." Water streamed
from his chin as Rhianna grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the center
aisle. He wiped his mouth with his other arm.
The voice spoke again. "Thank you for visiting the World Democratic
Council's Seattle Skyline Historic Park and Museum. We sincerely hope you
found your visit both entertaining and informative. And please remember
that water-hoarding and sunlight theft are illegal. All rain collectors and
solar panels must be licensed with the Council. If you observe someone
collecting without a license, be a good world citizen and remind them that
water and sunlight are for all of us to enjoy. You could be saving them
5000 credits and up to five years in reformation. Have a nice day."
Rhianna and the children merged into the brightly-lit afternoon and
were greeted by Garvin. Johnnis and Marissa jumped toward him in
excitement, eager to share what they'd seen. They enthused a cappella.
"Daddy, there was lie-ting and tunder and it was scary," Marissa
panted.
"And we got free water, as much as we wanted," Johnnis added.
"How generous of them," Garvin grumbled.
This was Rhianna's least favorite part of any visit to the Council
office. "Hi, honey." She hugged him and kissed him sweetly, which usually
assuaged him quickly. "Was it much?" she asked.
"It was actually more for Johnnis. They said last year's hydro yield
was better than average. Apparently they had a good harvest up in the
Arctic region."
"That's good news, isn't it? What about the solar?"
"That's more. The liberals up in the Seattle district approved the
Council's petition for more rain days, so the water's cheaper but there's
going to be less sunlight."
"So our solar bill is going up?"
"Yes," he scowled. "A half-credit per sol. Criminals. We should've
just made do."
"Remember what we went through to get water and solar allowances for
Marissa. You gave up one of your two showers a week and we used only two
video terminals in the living room until she was approved. It's easier to
take care of it now." She squeezed his forearm. "Let's go home, dear, and
you can have a nice mellotab and play Virtual Combat with Jim. Alice said
he's at home today."
"OK." She waited for him to continue. "But we really need to
conserve more. We're using a lot of sols we don't need. Maybe we can turn
off one of the solar panels over the kitchen."
She nodded and said "I know," allowing the words to pass unanalyzed.
This was a part of the routine every time they dealt with the Council. "At
least the kids had fun. I'm glad we all decided to come."
"That's worth something, anyway," he conceded.
"When can we come again daddy?" Johnnis asked.
Garvin laughed. "I hope not too soon. I guess that depends on how
soon Mommy wants to grow the family again."
Rhianna smiled and hugged them all as they walked toward the
solar-driven monorail that would whisk them home past the Council's
water-reclamation farms to their cozy desert apartment.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "toothpaste shavins: condiments chapter 1400"
)- by murmur
i left my hip in san francisco - in the trapjaws of that vile villain
associate of that darned skeletor guy. oh, to be a _real_ RAM-MAN. alas,
i am goat-boy, for the push or for the restraint mechanism. restraint of
the mighty, restraint of the brave, don't keep me from the venison, you
filthy, filthy knave. which reminds me of a good story. there's this guy,
and he's an ordinary guy, and he's got an ordinary wife, and they get this
here garbage can and it's full of garbage, and they throw it away, because.
man, that kills me. and so do you, farley, right up the backdoor! what did
you expect, jerk, loafing around like that? you knew they were coming. you
knew you weren't going to win the family feud, you don't even know what a
survey says says, sir. my, my, if it isn't little dick, hopping through the
forest, showing off his sphincter, showing off his ass. pull your pants up,
boy. criminy!
moral: i like to eat spaghetti / i like to eat spaghetti /
i like to eat spaghetti / i like to eat spaghetti
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "the chaos theory; saturday, july 23"
)- by eerie
a police car siren woke me up, then i fell in some sort of
approximate half-sleep, thanks to the heat, before waking up for real. i
was in a bed i knew -- i just couldn't figure whose bed it was.
i was a bit shaken up. this was not home. wasn't annie's either.
where...? a headache was preventing me from thinking effectively. i tried
to remember what happened since yesterday that made me end up on this
mattress. after finishing writing things down in the park, i got up &
walked to annie's. & then... nothing. i was alone in a room, lying on a
queen bed, only wearing a pair of boxers.
checked the date on my watch: july 23rd. 10:45 a.m.
the room was completely dark. still i managed to dress up & opened
the door.
"oh! you woke up."
melanie.
"uh, yeah. what am i doing here?"
"i found you yesterday, unconscious next to a tree. people were
passing, & obviously didn't care. (her face said she hated the world.) i
saw you, tried to wake you up, no luck. prolly the sun."
"oh. (faking relief.) i thought you kidnapped me to abuse of my
body following your lowest sexual instincts."
"i'll keep that for another day. oh, but anyway, you have a
girlfriend, so i better forget about it."
"yeah, i guess."
the words "you have a girlfriend" sounded like a retort to me.
"i found a notebook in your jeans."
"yeah, i use it to write notes when i'm not in front of my keyboard."
"i read parts of it. they're for your novel?"
"the last couple pages are."
"so all this shit really happened."
pause.
"uh, yeah, it's all true."
"why did you lie to me about it then?"
"i don't know."
silence. she smiled.
"oh well!"
"exactly."
she laughed. i checked my watch another time.
"it's about time i come back home. cynthia will be wondering where i
am."
"give her a call right now so she doesn't worry."
"oh yeah, where's the phone?"
melanie was living in a three-room apartment, a rather large one, &
she was subleasing the living room to pretty girls in the hope that they
could become her lovers. the living room was empty at the time though.
"what's up with this girl... joelle, or something?"
"didn't work out."
dialed my number. no answer. i tried again. still no answer. i
hung up.
"she's probably at the convenience store getting milk or something.
god, i hope she isn't too worried."
"she'll probably be home very soon."
"well..."
"did you hear a gunshot tonight?"
"nope. i think i can remember a police siren though."
"maybe they only got there this morning. this place is getting
dangerous."
"uh-huh. what happened?"
"from what i've heard, someone got killed two streets from here."
"newspapers were talking of a crime wave or something."
"huh, yeah. i guess that's it. i don't read newspapers."
"say..."
pause.
"what did you read in my notebook?"
pause.
"lots of things."
"like what, specifically?"
"well, there were a few words on cynthia's last i-me-mine crisis."
"uhmmm."
"it did make me laugh."
"yeah yeah. what else?"
"well, there was some stuff on your friend annie getting naked for no
reason every once in a while. looks like someone i'd like, actually."
"and...?"
"i think there's something you don't want me to know about, right?"
"no, no, really. (hypocrite.) i really just wanna know."
"oh, then cool. i read this really nice part on a fuck with..."
"shit. nevermind that."
she laughed.
"ain't that funny. i've never read that, i only meant to test you."
i stared at her, frustrated, as she was laughing out louder. there
was no way to lie to a girl who knows you that well.
"though, i'd like to read it, if you ever let me..."
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"tabula rousseau"
by mooer
despite all the times he kicked his mother's tummy, otis was a fine
boy. he loved the times when his father would show him the outsideworld.
six-o-six was the exact minute he was allowed to peek-a-boo.
sometimes, the wait was unbearable. otis would tear his golden hair
out, with his plump, washed, immaculate hands. mother was quite forgiving
when otis was waiting. mother was like that -- her eyes often matched
otis's golden hair. helpless, moral, and with a jilted trance, she looked
at her son.
otis ate his finger food diet at exactly twelve-twelve. first, he
would play with it.
"Heart, again?"
"otis, dear, it's your favorite, remember?"
"oh! yes!"
everyday, this was the ritual. nothing else, absolutely nothing was
the same except for this everyday. moment to moment, life was living. otis
loved his inside. he could create anyworld he wanted with the machine daddy
gave him. its outside was skinned with thirsty salt, healing salt that
stung open otis whenever he wanted to play. the perfect-size shiny
bubblesphere always called him to step in, invited him to close up his
pores, and feel for his limits. "otis, this machine will teach you beauty,
teach you how it is", father said.
"i wanna-be a teenager!" that was the last six-o-six father had
shown him. so, for the day, except for the twelve-twelve, otis was a
teenager inside. he played with the girlies, experimented, and figured sex
all out. "where are the lovies at?" mother, often dismayed by otis's
adventures, could only look on and hope that the machine would, somehow,
show otis what she could not.
six-o-five.
otis calmed down, for father was soon to arrive. he combed his
ruffled hair, put on his sonny make-up and sat at the door to his inside.
sometimes, otis could contain his excitement by squeezing his body tight,
together. other times, he had to eat again. "mother! bring me my waiting
snack! quickly, mother!" hastily, mother prepared a quick dish of the
twelve-twelve. otis gaffed it down, cleaned the blood off his chest and
quickly sat again in his spot.
absolutely, father arrived. father was a visionary, for he could see
for miles. otis often wondered what miles looked like. but father would
only tell otis to be patient. "one day, on our trip to the outsideworld, i
will show you how to see." otis was often frustrated with that response,
but was more than content to go on any outsideworld trip.
today, the six-o-six was new, same as everyday.
finally, one day, the twelve-twelve was different. it wasn't Heart!
"mother! where is my favorite?" mother glanced at otis, but said nothing.
she pointed at her chest, and blinked close. she fell down; out of nowhere,
father caught her. "FATHER?! what are you doing here?"
"son, it's time to see."
father took otis to his mother's kitchen.
"otis, the heart you've been eating, it's not from a cow, pig or
sheep."
"father, then where does it come from?"
"otis, your mother prepares it everyday, yes?"
"yes, of course, father."
"then, it is hers."
mother died that twelve-twelve. she had run out of otis's favorite.
father told otis to play till six-o-six. it bothered otis that mother was
gone, but not enough to forget father's command. so otis played with his
machine, the one father gave him. today, he created a world exactly like
his inside, but mother was still alive in his mechanizedworld. his created
twelve-twelve tasted absolutely like the one mother prepared. then,
six-o-five.
father arrived, as tall as the last day. but this time, his face was
long.
"otis, my son, it's time."
"time? oh, why yes! time to go outside!"
"it's time for you to see."
"for miles, father?!"
"yes, for miles."
on this trip, father left otis outside, forever. soon, otis learned
that his machine was a perfectly healthy wheelchair inside the outsideworld.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- untitled
)- by Snufkin
)- originally released in ennui #1, spring 1994 and reprinted by permission
And then we crashed down into the silence that was there on the
floor. It was a silence that was translucent in a twisted kind of way. But
broken it was, torn and spun, a sheet of paper wafted in with the breeze. I
took the paper and we looked at it. The paper said something to the effect
of this. This is what it said. It said that it was not real paper but that
we would be fooled until they saw it as truthful that we knew what was good.
This made no sense to us. I tore the paper into little snowflake shreds,
such a part of me, yet such a part of us. The shreds of paper fell down to
the ground after a time of conquest in the air. It was or used to be a
white paper. I realized at the end that tearing the paper had only
increased disorder in the universe and hastily attempted to put the torn
paper back together. But the paper wouldn't go back together and I was
angry at myself, angry at the pain that I continued to bring into the world
though I had said I wouldn't. Life is a touch richer now, I guess. But
enough has been said about that sheet of paper. There's plenty of better
things to talk about, like truth and justice and free will and all of that.
I really shouldn't waste this space on this garbage. But what is space for
if it is not to be wasted? For all is relative waste in a way, the tired
way. Empty space does no good to any one, so I should think, for it does me
no good, for I am one and I am all. Not that I'm trying to be presumptuous.
It's just that I can't tell you that you are alive and you can't tell me
that you are alive, or something like that. Exact wordage may vary, along
with color and texture. This is in no way a guarantee of any sort, and is
not legally binding in any way. Which brings us to the question of
government. Why is this a question? Nothing better to question, that I can
question here anyway. Oh, government. Hurrah, let us sing the joys of
making kings of whatever you want to make a king out of. Now that's done.
It's alright, you may go on worshipping your tin can now if you would like.
Oh, what a wonderful subject. I could talk for hours about it not saying a
thing, much as I am doing here.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "Toys That Caress Her"
)- by Shroud
She sat in the passenger seat, picking at the dirt lodged beneath her
nails. She didn't particularly care for dresses, or rather, the whole
"girl" thing. Living is living, and this was how she wanted to live. If
her mom and sister couldn't get adjusted to the age, then so be it. She
didn't want to force them to grow up, no matter how much they needed it.
She turned her head to watch the city go by through the rainspotted windows.
This city was so damned cool. This is where the players were. Her family,
or what remained of it after Mom left Father, had moved away from
Albuquerque a year and a half or so ago. But this neat rain, this gloom and
wash in the streets and sidewalks... it made her feel alive again. Mom had
finally gotten over her big Southwest hangup and had come back to the coast.
It was one thing that she'd agreed with, which had been a rare occasion in
past years. Yeah. Leaving Father had been one failure after another, but
Mom 'n' Alli had no problems with it at all. It had left her isolated,
completely. Father was the only one like her in the family, and his
forcible ejection from her life had left her angry and alone. Father was
the only one who understood the games... the drama. Nell was his child, and
Alli was Mom's.
She turned to look at her sister. With all the hidden and subtle
resentment only a sister can bear, Alli was driving her to the Center so she
could game. With a sharp hiss of air and a turn of her head, Nell looked
back to the window, disgusted with her sister's inane bristling.
"Nell, come on. You knew today was shopping day. We're supposed to
get you some nice clothes for the reunion next Saturday. Please? Is it too
much to ask?"
"I SAID my name is NEVER. Can't understand English?"
"Oh, you and your fucking bullshit. You and Father. They gave you a
name, Nell. What the fuck is wrong with it? I can't understand your shit."
"Which is why I'll just leave you here and walk the rest. Pull
over, please. I'll be fine."
Allison pulled the car sharply over, digging the wheels into the
curb. It was 3 blocks from the Center, but she knew her sister had as much
fun getting there as she would playing. She'd prolly bum a cigarette from
some kid, walk a bit, get a buzz going, then throw on dad's old mirror
shades. Nell was so fucking melodramatic, but it didn't matter. She'd do
it whether you wanted it or not.
After Nell slammed the door, Allison pulled out into the light
traffic on University, pensive. Nell, she knew, was still in love with the
thought of their dreaming father. Their dreaming father, who only came home
back in New Mexico maybe three nights a week, who was involved with shit
they knew nothing of, who had not changed after his marriage to their
mother, who knew that the marriage should have properly brought them both
up. He wrote dark poetry and chased publishers with manuscripts that he'd
written by candlelight in the darkest corner of the house. Their dreaming
father, who'd wasted lots of money doing all of these things, and still
dressed in black. Mother'd reformed after going through that shit. But
Father still thought himself young. Used to read them the real Grimm's
Faerie Tales, while Mother worried in the other room. Allison'd never been
real appreciative of all of that, but Nell clung to it. Father used to call
her sister "Never". She guessed Nell had held onto that, a sort of lifeline
that Father still held the other end of as he traveled in the opposite
direction to the east.
Allison sighed and made a left towards the apartment she shared with
Nell and her mother.
Nell bummed a smoke off a lanky youth outside the record store,
brushed her hair back with a hand, and sauntered off as the kid stared after
her. She was going for game.
Nell let the soles of her boots fall hard in her casual stride. One
leg of her ripped up jeans would throw out from behind her dirty draping
longcoat, the heel hitting the cement, letting the toe hit the ground with a
rubbery and quiet clomp. This was a walk with a purpose, so this would be a
walk with style. She moved down the street, her eyes fixed on some point in
the horizon. Unless she knew you, she wouldn't meet your eyes with hers,
and if she did, even then you couldn't be sure. It would be too much like
accepting you as a peer, and none of the suits or white-hatted frat boys on
the Ave were her peers. Her stride moved people out of her way, but left
them with wary or angry stares. She reached into the pocket of her olive
green trench, leaving her cigarette on her lips to smoulder. Reaching down
deep, she grabbed Father's glasses with her right hand, dropping her smoke
down by her side. With a flip, she opened them up and slid them onto her
face. She knew who she was, and that would keep these corporate nipple-
hugging idiots away from her. Now she didn't even have to acknowledge their
stares.
She ducked across the open alleyway to the front of the gamecenter,
taking a last drag from her cigarette and grinding it under her boot heel as
she stepped through the great glass doors. She saw that the elevator was
full, so she stepped over to an old Tekken machine and dropped her fifty to
pass the time. After a few good combos, she looked over at an open
elevator. Abandoning her coins, she stepped away from the machine to take
advantage of her chance to make a good entrance. An elevator with nothing
but her in it would surely strike fear into some of the weaker stomachs of
the card room and she knew it. She surely didn't act girly, but she knew
she looked good. These boys were afraid of her, and no matter how much they
thought otherwise, this pretty face knew the ways of their destruction. She
smiled, sliding her shades back down into their pocket as the doors opened
before her. All eyes turned to see her as she stepped out onto the
matted-down carpet. With a smug little smirk, she looked around the room as
gamers nervously went back to the games, all of them knowing that they could
face her in their next rounds. Soon, though, the normalcy returned. The
yelling, the fighting over rules, the sounds of pain and surprise began to
fill the cavernous play room like the roar of a small crowd.
It was a busy day, to say the least. All of the tables were
filled, and the benches were loaded with players waiting to be
called in. She gave a dirty look in the direction of the tables,
sauntering over to the benches with the grace and beauty of a
loaded gun.
She sat down, pulling out her deck to thumb through it in planning
for the day's strategy. She had brought some rather expensive pieces today,
and she planned to use them. With a smile she looked back at the tables.
They definitely wouldn't know what hit them.
She yawned a bit. She hadn't gotten a lot of sleep, due to mom and
Alli fighting. She'd have to stay awake, though. She didn't trust any of
these little bastards.
She sighed, waiting for her chance to play. A few minutes passed.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
And heavier.
Heavier still.
Maybe sleep wouldn't be that bad. Nobody
would bother a sleeping girl.
Nah.
The darkness was nice. It reminded her of
Father.
(-- - --)
Alxndria swept her hair up into a tight French twist, yanking at it
and making sure that the loose and floating strands got tied up into it.
But tonight, tonight the twist wasn't for a meat with Jonathan, it was for
hunting. Dispatch had caught a transmittal from an apartment building in
her sector, and it was her turn to retrieve the connection. This was to be
her first sanctioned hunt, and the speed of the jackhunter's blood in her
was sweeping her up in her own imagination.
Alx had wanted to do this all her life. It wasn't a matter of being
a narx; it was a feeling of fairness. If she had to pay for connection,
then everyone else would damned well pay. Visions of the dark corners and
the glow of jammers humming around a streetmachine filled her mind. She'd
pull in some kid tonight, and she'd get the recognition of a real jackhunter
from her friends. She could almost see his hollow cheeks welling up with
tears as she ripped him from his jack and towards a cell downtown.
She'd only been cognizant of the power of this thing unbridled for a
few years before it'd became a problem. Hordes of 14 and 15 year olds had
ruined it for the millennium, fucking up the phone lines so badly that no
one would pay for them anymore. The .gov assented to this, and established
free fiberoptics, but there were few of them. Sort of a backlash, one of
grudge. There were still ways for .gov to control things, even if it looked
like they were benevolent. The richers all had private phone lines from
companies run by 28 year olds that had fucked everything up at 16... their
rebellion had led them to establish a path to success, which is really what
it had all been about in the first place. Meanwhile, Sectors neg4, neg5 and
lower had about 100 lines to 7
000 people, and it was a fucking warzone.
Alxndria's job was to recover net. Her opponents were often (again)
kids jacking for Game. Alx had seen her brother's antique collection of
M:TG decks that he kept behind plexiglass in his study. Made of paper, the
things went for thousands of dollars a deck now. The rare cards were
scurried away to secret holes, hidden like ancient treasure hordes. These
things were behind glass in more than Bornan's home; they were history of
society these days. Another backlash by .gov: letting adolescents write
history.
She felt sorry for these children. Everyone on earth needed a jack,
simply because they were allowed to use the lines legally and it'd be
required. But there were rules against stealing it. These kids were
installed right after birth, and grew up with harsh reminders of what they
couldn't have. Worse yet, there were those that'd been taught what the
jacks were for, and expected it as their right. Hell, that's probably how
it should have been, but it wasn't. It gave her a job and catered to that
same sense of fairness (in a twisted way). She feared the Little Child That
Shall Lead Them, because she had to fight him. And they'd developed the
skills, most of them, like gills.
Hefting herself up onto the fire ledge, she scurried up the grimed
ladders towards the upper apartments, where the connection was. She slid
through a broken out window, into a hallway. Fluid spills were everywhere,
and she could hardly keep her food down as she gingerly stepped over puddles
and decaying animal corpses, looking for the door to the room she sought.
She finally found the door, its front scrawled over with a giant blackline
angel. Opening it as quietly as she could, she looked to the hinges to see
if they'd been wired. The paint on the angel looked new, so the occupant
apparently had just gotten settled and hadn't had time to set up security
yet. She stood in the doorway a moment, scanning for her quarry.
In the corner, a boy sat jacked into a homemade scanner,
its fiberoptic innards strewing out from the wall into its
clenched maw below. Two half-functioning jammers flickered
from life to darkness around him, providing him with a
half-measure of protection, but not enough to hide him.
She looked to the boy and his jack. On his arm was tattooed (rather
crudely) the black angel symbol of his gameclan, The BlkAngel. Khan,
this boy, was sprawled out on a old junked school chair, writhing
about in it as the Game made him run through hoop after hoop in his
mind to achieve his goal. She knew little of the game itself, but
she knew its addiction. She'd seen picture after picture in the
indoctrination.
Alx knew she wasn't heard, but even if he could hear her, his game
mind wouldn't let him react to her.
Standard-Issue Sledge in hand, she stepped quietly to the scanner.
Spray-painted black and silver and marked with the same black angel, the
thing had been shoddily thrown together with junkyard parts. She knew it
was fast, though. Game couldn't run on anything slower. She ran a hand
through her hair, which was slightly damp with sweat. Taking a deep breath,
she aimed her strike deep into the processor core. And swung.
(-- - --)
Inner, Khan saw the screen fade and blink back. He'd set up the game
in a room like his own so that he could set up a mindgame of what his turf
extended to. Somehow he felt a sense of possession when he did that, and
this gave him a confidence he hadn't expected when he first started out.
"FUCK. Black: connection! .. Black: connection check ..
Black: ping? .. Black: Serverping?
The boy blinked a few times, feeling the jack in his skull.
"Blotter, you there?" He glanced upward, his eyes blinking to regain
control of the terminal.
He looked behind him. A vag stood there. An old vag, but a vag.
And a hot vag. He blushed and stammered, giving a quick thought to his
current deck.
She stood there with her gun aimed at his chest.
Alx was taken aback a bit, the boy looked just like
Bornan. Granted, Bornan was always a bit more
stocky than this boy, but still... this boy could
have been her brother. Maybe she'd offer him an easy
way out. If he gave up his skulljack, her
superiors would be pleased enough. Yeah, maybe
she wouldn't have to hurt him or take him in.
"Give up your jack."
Damn, she WAS hot. A vag who played! It'd been a while since he'd
seen that. Khan grinned for a bit at the common insult.
"Give up my jack to a vag? Fuck off."
He pulled a silver card from his hand, throwing it down to the
floor. He jumped as she started, looking surprised at the thin
figure jumping from his scanner to the open window aside him.
Alxndria swore as the BlkAngel leapt out the window and onto the
catwalk. She crawled out after him, looking up at him backing away from
her, drawing cards in a frenzy. Each card draw was thrown down, pulling a
reluctant smile from his lips. "I'll get my draw yet, jackwhore. You'll
see."
He swore in his mind. This vag was too fucking tenacious. But Khan
was good. He could pull his draw faster than anyone he knew, and he knew
what to do 8 turns ahead of the game. He loved the danger, loved the
tightness of the play. Pull a card and it better be what you need, because
your avatar'll do it. Duck and roll, and your lips will brush ground. Pull
Jump, and you'd better hope another player won't anticipate. The scanners
were hardwired to make you do what your card wanted in such a way that you
thought you'd done it yourself, and there wasn't a reset to save you. It'd
been cut away long ago when the Council had deemed it cheatworthy. And,
Khan thought, cowardly. Fucking pussy.
"I SAID, give UP your JACK!" Alx continued to scramble after the
boy, trying to grab the trailing wire that would get her the bounty; the
next month's rent. Cable was essential to the completion of a job, and
without it, it would be a chase without reward. With a start, she realized
the boy was still in the game. He was pulling cards and throwing them at
her. She'd destroyed the machine too abruptly, he was jerked into reality
but thinking in 3Dimension.
(-- - --)
Khan frantically shifted the deck in his hands. Threw it into his
pocket and scaled a brick wall. Damn. The bitch was good. He hadn't been
pursued in a long time, and he rather liked it. He was also fond of
surprises. He remembered the last time he played an opponent on his level.
The guy had pulled an escape and this huge fucking gun had appeared. "My
gat," the kid had said. Did a few twirly tricks. Khan had anticipated the
weapon, but not its use. Activating his shield, he'd prepared for an
barrage of fire. Throwing the escape card, the other kid had held the gun
to his head, and had pulled the trigger. With the shield in place, Khan
couldn't have seized the other player's avatar to stop the suicide, to stop
the destruction of the link into the other player's system; a link he
desperately needed to win. The gun went off, spreading shimmering sparks
over the ground. Khan had felt cheated, and had known that later he would
face the player again, and wouldn't be so lucky in the hunt.
(-- - --)
Alx stopped short, looking for something to climb to chase the spry
boy up the wall. She heard a laugh, and looked up. The kid was still
shuffling the deck, searching, searching. All of a sudden, he threw all his
cards but one behind him onto the other side of the wall. He held one card
up with both hands up, and then held it towards her. Eight feet below, she
couldn't see what it was.
(-- - --)
Khan loved surprises. Yes.
(-- - --)
She watched as he drew and balanced a dagger on one finger.
With a flick and a smile, he grabbed it, plunging it deep into the
meat behind his ear, where his jack was.
Surprise.
With a look of horror, Khan felt the blood pour out of his mouth and
onto his shirt, spreading like a fan over the faded blackline angel on his
chest. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open as he fumbled with his
now-destroyed jack. "Black: connection. Connection. .." His knee folded
under him as he fell off the edge of the wall, crashing hard into the
storage boxes below. Jumping aside, Alx walked over to the bleeding corpse.
The lone card he had drawn had fallen onto his back. Alxndria knelt,
pulled the bloody wire from behind his ear, and picked up the card. The
word ESCAPE was emblazoned across the bottom, a picture of the skull and
crossbones shimmering in a colorarray fade across the cheap dyxell-plastic
cardscreen.
"Nice draw, motherfucker."
If she had to pay for a connection, everyone would damned well pay.
She slipped the wire into her zippered pocket, and walked away.
(-- - --)
As the darkness slowly crept away, she could feel her clothes moving
by someone's hand. Jumping from her haze, she saw one of the faceless
little roaming hands rummaging through her pockets for her hidden treasures,
only to watch the owner of it sprint off towards a now-closing elevator.
She grabbed for her deck, her pride and joy, only to feel it half-empty.
Most of her good deck was gone, and most of the cards missing had taken her
weeks of work to save up for. Tearfully, she sifted through the deck
looking for her lost wages, hoping that there was one gem the thief hadn't
found, or that he'd left behind some nugget of worth for her to cleave to...
but he hadn't. It would take her forever to rebuild this deck.
But would it? Would she throw more of her work into this hole,
shoving dollar after dollar into her pride, so that she could bludgeon
others with her ego? Would she become like the boy of her dream? Could she
afford to let her life become the pursuit of a game and let her life become
the worth of another play? That's what surrounded her in that hall. They
had given wage after wage to their gods, smashing opponent after opponent
for their own petty jealousies. Was life only worth another quarter for
another deck and another game?
Letting the tears overcome her sight, she threw the tattered remains
of her deck to the dirty carpet, letting it spill out in front of her like
leaves of a dying tree. Everything she felt hurt her inside, like a pain so
deep she could never pull it out.
She cried, pulling her feet under the bench, rocking back and forth
with her face in her hands. As she cried, table after table turned to look
at her and her ravaged deck. Pity was in their eyes. They knew why she
wept.
On top of and underneath sobs, she thought back to Father and his old
painted gazebo in the backyard. She thought of his face, and the gentle
lines of a knowing smile. Her stomach hurt when she breathed, and her hands
were wet from her tears, but she could almost hear him.
"Never. I don't envy you, my dear one. When you are old enough to
need to pay the rent, it will be a reactive world. The rest of these
children, with their games, their toys, they will have forgotten all colors
but soot and gunmetal grey, and will sleep in suspended cradles of tangled
wire. Don't you see, Never? There are no games that allow one to prepare
for a future without war. That's not to say that I am not appreciative of
your game. But treasure the little things, my love. Treasure the life you
have to live."
Never drowned in his words as she always had. Most of Father's words
tended to sink deep into the shadows of her mind, only to appear at a later
time, making more impact than even when she'd first felt them. Those
shadows from so long ago had become a reality to her, and their substance
was the only thing she had left to hold on to.
Never looked down at her cards, scattered around her feet.
With a sweep of her trench and a wipe at her cheeks, Never stood up
and strode towards the elevator doors. Stepping quickly into the empty bay,
she left the cavern of the children, remembering the colors she'd forgotten
so long ago, treasuring a life she had never before understood.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "undergarments for the short, round figure"
)- by goldy the pimp from pomona
man you no' how u warin' sum niftee new thredz 'n' u gotz da gass so
like u'z gotz ta fahrtz 'n' u like ay don' wahn no poopee smell in muh
niftee new thredz so'z u'z lookz uhrawn' 'n' u'z see'z iz nobahdeez' der'
so'z u'z like ay kin do'z diz 'n' u pull dahw yor pantz iz 'n' u'z fahrtz
'n' iz not'z in u'z spifee thredz heh
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
)- "xeper and piztok"
)- by Juan Cristobal
One Saturday night, three friends sat eating in a Mr. Beef
establishment in an unknown suburb of an unknown state in what was believed,
at least at the time, to be the most envied country on Earth, the United
States of America. As long as they lived, the three always remembered Mr.
Beef the way some fabled remnants of the pre-1950s were thought to remember
their grandparents' houses, but that was no longer the common belief since
everybody knew grandparents hadn't been invented until Kennedy was in
office. Nonetheless, the three sat around a table in Mr. Beef's filling
themselves with what scientists would soon cease to call food and
thenceforth call "biotoxic," disposing of which properly that it might
degrade without harming an already decimated environment or the already
decimated people.
"May I steal a fry?" asked One to his friends.
"Go ahead," Grim replied.
Upon hearing Grim's answer, One jumped and ran screaming towards the
car. Grim and Three sat bewildered, wondering what and who offended One.
The two sat and finished eating, appropriately blaming each other for
irritating their friend. Although at first they were of different opinions,
their thought didn't end in vain: at the first hour after One's
disappearance, the two concluded that whenever asked for anything again, it
would be best for them to deny the asker. For if the one who asked begs, he
should not receive unless the benefactors do not mind his dependency and
that if the one who asked is incapable of dependency, he wants to be denied
what he begs to expose his independence and internal strength, or so their
logic ran.
The two applauded their own intelligence and wisdom for half an hour,
after which Grim remembered and repeated that One had inexplicably, yet
expectably disappeared. The two stood, disposed of the biocidal paper
wrappings of their biotoxic food, and outside found a note in the place of
their car. It read: GONE TO OVERTHROW ANTICOMMUNIST REGIME. BE BACK SOON.
They sat on the curb, more bewildered than before, first pondering when One
had become an activist, and secondly, where there was any anticommunist
regime. One had forgotten, or rather, since forgetting connotes once having
knowledge, One was ignorant that his state was the only one to elect 3
communist governors, 6 communist representatives, and 2 communist senators,
both of which officially founded of the Red Square party. Grim and Three
remembered that they had neither seen One ever read a newspaper (or anything
for that matter) nor watch televised news. An epiphany reached them both:
they realized that, for the length of their memory, One never was interested
or aware of the world or his environment but always quick to defame them.
Grim and Three traded stories of One's earliest attempts of defiance while
they awaited him, but especially the car.
Unfortunately, they would remain in the cold parking lot because,
for the next several hours, One was busy hunting for capitalist swine.
"Damned white-collar yuppie pro-establishment oppressors. Go ahead,
stomp on us, we'll destroy you in bands," ranted One. He had driven for
hours in search of oppression, but his efforts amounted to naught. He was
on the point of ending his quest when he found himself driving through a
divy neighborhood full of by-the-hour motels and x-rated video stores and
came upon a radiant sign, with letters inscribed boldly in neon commanding:
"Eat a Queer Fetus for Jesus!" One left his car and stood in awe, unable to
move in the blue-green light. He thought and stood for what seemed to him
like hours until he was interrupted by the approach of a prostitute and
beggar. One moved his attentions from the hypnotic glare of the sign to
that of the woman's countenance. He became excited, almost ecstatic from
contemplation of such a carnal disobedience, his first major offense!
Unfortunately, he remembered that prostitution was recently legalized within
the state (to improve commerce) and ran, half in tears and half angered,
into the building that hung the sign. The prostitute-beggar was slightly
unsure of and estranged by One and decided that it would be much better for
her to give up for the night and go home, but some french fries would be
nice first, so she began the long walk towards the fast food district at the
other end of town.
One entered and closed the door wondering what to expect and saw
nothing but red. The floor was red tile. The whole area seemed something
like a bar -- noisy, dark, and crowded, but was different. Red light came
from red candles. One was inundated with confusion and fatigue, wanting to
go somewhere to do something -- anything. All the people wore red robes and
stood laughing and drinking red cocktails and looking at red roses
delicately arranged in red vases on red tables covered in red silk. One
took a seat and watched, listlessly trying to comprehend his surroundings as
a voice invaded his silence.
"Order! The Order is called to meeting," began a fat man as he
skimmed the audience walking towards the red glow of red lamps lighting a
reddish podium. He spoke slowly and dramatically, professing the standards
of the Order: primarily that all proclaim their allegiance to the Fetus,
secondly their disobedience to the state and all leaders, and thirdly their
obligations to promote chaos and disorder by fostering it in their children.
The three obligations to disobedience quickly gained One's approval, and he
became entranced. The man spoke longer and slowly, checking the prudence
and necessity of his speech by the response of the mob. He intermitted his
argument when he saw One and called him forward. One, excited, rose while
contemplating the forthcoming disappointment and disgust of his parents that
he joined -- or furthermore, could and did join -- a satanic cult.
The fat, red clad man asked One his name. One answered in a manner
reflecting his dual inhibition and desperation as several cloaked figures
came forward and One realized, against all probability, that he had come to
the meeting of the cult to which his parents belonged, the gathering at
which they had said they would be spending the evening. Before leaving, his
mother had left the telephone number of the organization posted on the
refrigerator in case of emergencies -- Good ol' Mom! However, this gesture
proved to be an ineffective remnant of the past culture, (which incidentally
also did not exist before Kennedy's term), as One's parents were often wrapt
in occult rituals and procedures, removed from any earthly intervention. He
thought they had been kidding all these years, and remained perpetually
confused at the obscurity of what then seemed like an endless joke.
One tried to speak, but his throat froze as he stared into the wide
smiles of his parents and their rich, impressive, and stylish friends. The
crowed complimented One for his maturity and congratulated him that he was
becoming "such a fine young man". Despite years of cocktail parties and
holidays at relatives' houses, he could respond no way but in a rehearsed
smile and nod to all of the "You've gotten so big!"s and the "When I saw you
last you were only this tall!"s. One knew most of the people there, or,
rather they had known him, but he was too young to remember the last time
his parents took him to an underground cult gathering or sacrifice. One had
since become uneasy and frightened to be in the presence of upper-middle
class, middle-aged American adults upon which his will to defy obsessed. He
took his only option: a quick pass through the crowd towards the door. The
Archpriest intercepted One's exit and gave him a silver medallion of a
fetus, which he buried in his pocket as he ran through the door towards the
car in attempts to resume his search for anticommunist, fascist-anarchist
pigs he needed to despise.
One's confusion reached bold frontiers as he kept driving. He was
speeding -- or at least he thought he was -- but he had forgotten that speed
limits were recently suspended from midnight until four-thirty to appease
the impatient public. Nonetheless, One persisted, increasing speed with
nothing but recklessness and a fetus in his pocket. He felt like a wreck.
He even failed at being offensive and disappointing. He tried to steal a
french fry, and was given permission. He tried to overthrow the capitalist
establishment and couldn't find it. He even tried to join a satanic cult,
just to find it was one his parents supported. He wanted to escape. He
wanted to succeed at failure. He wanted to go down fighting. But what was
there to fight? What was there to fight for? He had to defy them another
way. One day he'd show them. He swore to write down their mistakes. He
swore to get revenge. He swore to disobey. One day he'd win. One day, his
friends would remember. One promised himself and continued driving.
Grim and Three sat in the dark parking lot, shivering, waiting, and
thoroughly annoyed that One had left them without a means home. The
restaurant had closed and traffic had dwindled until the road was empty and
they sat outside, staring at the concise note that One had left them in
place of a car. The two had fought about the proper allocation of
respective blame for their circumstances and sat in silence thereafter, each
staring into space and wanting to talk, but pretending to be disinterested.
The stillness was broken by the prostitute-beggar-turned-sorceress, for
their inhospitability, laid upon them a curse: until eaten by an ignorant
and ungrateful youth, Grim and Three would be trapped in the insignificant
guise of the common french fry, indistinguishable from the billions consumed
daily.
She held them, each in her small hands as she heard the rasping of
One's car nearby. The prostitute-beggar put Grim and Three into the
customary paper box, placed it on the ground and with it left a note
reading: ONE - WENT FOR A WALK. DON'T EAT, SAVING THESE FOR LATER.
Promptly she hid while One drove slowly into the darkened parking lot. He
opened the car door and stepped downward and caught sight of the box. He
walked towards it, picked up the note, read it and with a laugh remembered
the sermon the fat man spoke and ate the two, upon which he promptly
exploded as his Grim and Three expanded to their normal statures. The
prostitute-beggar-turned-enchantress laughed as the three watched a small,
shiny trinket drop to the ground. From close, it resembled a fetus.
s$
$$ $s .d""b.
)- ---------------------- - .d""$$ $$sS$$ $$ $$ - ---------------------- -(
$$ $$ $$ $$ $$
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(c) copyright 1997 doomed to obscurity productions. all rights reserved.
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