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Flodis Issue 26
happy pre-halloween, it's a flodis spectacular, starring trilobyte
and oregano and mr. zafferect
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flowers of disruption #2x -- 28.10.99 -- by trilobyte
== the zine for tasha & anjee ==
"with deepest regret i announce the end of one of our lousiest friends, one
mister Rangle Gnosh. would you like to please step up, mr. Gnosh?"
mr. gnosh approached the podium and removed his hat, which he then held to
his heart.
"I am sorry," he said, as he began to weep into the microphone. the
audience became very sad. "Don't ever forget what I've done for all of
you."
Mr. Gnosh removed his pants and threw them into a bucket to his left. the
announcer threw a lit match into the bucket and it began to fire with
flames.
his shoes came off, then his shirt, his underwear. an attendant shaved his
head. and then he fell backwards onto a spike, which drove into his back
and out of his front, in a motion that usually causes death and didn't
disappoint this time.
the announcer returned to the podium to see the entire audience in tears.
it had been a beautiful day in the park, the chairs had been setup in rows
on the fresh green grass under a wide blue sky. the trees seemed to be
enjoying the day by darkening the underside of their leaves. the women
wore bonnets and the men brought canes.
all in all, Rangle Gnosh could not have asked for a better day for a
self-execution. and certainly not for a better audience! one could not
have been had at the trial of martha and mitch hookum, caught copulating in
a parked car next to a catholic church.
what's worse, is that both mitch and martha were illegitimate children of
the priest who caught them. they didn't know it, and neither did he, but
when martha and mitch were executed and went to see their catholic god's
gatekeeper, they were immediately allowed entrance.
the priest, on the other hand, after being killed by numerous people, was
sent back to earth, where his spirit grew from the ground as an evil totem
monster. the post stared at children from a park in the worst part of new
york's harlem district, with a head that shook left to right, mouth open,
teeth gnarling outward, hair ranging from scalp to ground, wiry and gray,
and he did nothing but SCREAM AND SCREAM. they say he had a strange
healing power, though, in that any person high on narcotics who should
happen to come near him was instantly clean for the rest of their lives.
some of them had heart attacks.
once word went around of his mysterious gift of curing drug addicts, he
became quite legendary. a news team once went to do a feature on him. it
was the first time the television channel had sent a news team to harlem in
decades. they parked their van out in front of the totem priest's park,
and as they approached him with their cameras and boom mics, his head began
to grow to enormous size and spin endlessly. his hair sent wind blowing
for miles, and his scream: I AM A PRIEST.
the newscrew died, the park blew up, nearby buildings went up in flame,
children walked through fire to escape unscathed, horrible mutating
jalopies sent from hospitals were bounced off the earth into space.
but somewhere else, something else was happening.
-------------------------------------
oregano wrote this following story, which is the second and final chapter in
his Library of Horror series. just in time for halloween, fruit darlings!
(be sure to read the first, too!)
The Haunted Date Stamper
Tashgee was working the main circulation desk at the Edmonton
Public Library when her date-stamper broke. She had been
stamping the return dates for all the books being checked out and
the dang-blamed thing jammed.
Saturday was the busiest time of the week and Tashgee had to
think fast or all the people in line would have nothing to read
over the cold October weekend.
Tashgee looked through all the drawers, searching for another
date stamper. She pulled on every handle and found nothing.
Then she pulled on the handle of a drawer that was always locked.
This time it opened with no problem and there inside was an
ancient date stamper.
Tashgee looked it over and saw that it could be set for the
correct date. She flipped the numbers and set it for October 31,
1999, one month away.
Then she stamped all the books, like normal, and got through the
rest of the day.
When it was time for her to leave, the next library worker
came and took up her post at the circulation desk and found no
date stamper. That person asked Tashgee where the date stamper
was and they both looked around, but the old date stamper was
gone. The drawer that Tashgee got it from was locked again.
They were forced to call the grumpy head librarian who they knew
would yell at them, she being so old and all.
The head librarian unjammed the first date stamper with a
pocketknife and handed it to the girl who was going to staff the
circulation desk. When the head librarian heard about the date
stamper that Tashgee had found in the locked drawer, the color
ran from her face, she looked like she was going to pass out.
"That drawer never opens. We are not really sure what is in
there, but you are best to keep out," the head librarian said.
The next week the head librarian came up to Tashgee and said,
"Look at all these people returning books due a hundred years
ago! I can charge them $3,000 per book in late fees."
Tashgee saw that those were books that she had date stamped
the week before, but the stamper did not stamp October 31, 1999,
but October 31, 1899!
It was as if the books were stamped from beyond the grave.
The end.
)%#@)(%#@)(%#@)(%#@)(%#@)(%#@()%#@)(
i am a decorative maiden. i float about the room like a feathery flake of
leather, i expose my love handles and stick sparklies 'neath my eyes. i am
like a rose in a garden of rotting shish-ka-bob, a half-open door to a room
that has no purpose. and your rested arm stands beside me, asking me to
pay for the drinks. but you're absolutely demented, and WHOOPS we've been
executed.
here is a submission from ron, AKA ZAFF and sweeney erect.
::
Bart Kussman was unsure what he was doing with his
life, he only knew it was abysmally horribly wrong.
Few areas of his life were more wrong than his
dealings with girls. His constant worry over his
dealings with girls made other areas of his life also
increasingly wrong, and the more wrong his life went
the more difficult it was to deal with girls.
Increasingly it seemed the only way out would be
suicide or winning the lottery. But he didn't play
the lottery, and he couldn't afford a gun, so both
options were immediately out of the question.
Instead, he dated, which was a little like a
combination of playing the lottery and suicide-a
severely self-destructive losing endeavor.
One Thursday night, he was sitting at a Bennigann's
style restaurant with a girl about his own age whom he
had met at a bar the weekend before. They had been
among the last two people in the bar, and the last two
attractive people in the bar (Bart was a fairly
attractive boy) and so they had left together, kissed
a little, and agreed to get together the next week.
Bart was one of those boys who always called a girl
when he said he would, and whose phone calls were
always somehow an intrusion when they did come. Other
boys' calls were welcomed but never came at all. Bart
always openly wished he could be one of the latter
sorts of boys and tried to figure out how to become
one. He couldn't, of course. Those boys are
different from the womb, set out by their pretty hair
and smooth mannerisms and arrogantly sculpted faces
and sub-simian IQ's.
So Bart and the girl, Sandra, had arranged for a
date. Sandra was not excited about it but was not
dreading it either, and Bart was excited by it but
dreading it at the same time, and they found
themselves sitting at a table at a local rip-off of
Bennigan's, sipping water and waiting on appetizers.
They were seated right beneath an AC vent on a low
ceiling in the non-smoking section (Bart refused to
smoke and Sandra, like many of her sex, 'only smoked
when drunk' or when the only way to approach a more
attractive boy than Bart seemed to be to ask him for a
cigarette) and Bart felt a drop of water hit the back
of his neck.
It was nothing.
"So," he was saying, "you are a personal assistant to
an executive at an insurance company?"
Drip.
"Yeah-it's more fun than you'd think. I work with a
really great bunch of girls."
They sit around cackling like hags and talking about
guys' bodies, thought Bart. "Sounds fun," he said.
"I'm working on a novel."
Drip.
And working the night shift at Kinko's in the
meantime, Sandra thought. "Interesting. I always
wish I could write." She giggled.
That such doublespeak takes place is not news, it's
the substance of every conversation a man and a woman
who are not yet sure how they stand in relation to
each other have ever had. Even once a relationship
has been established, even if that relationship is
some sort of commitment, the lying generally
continues.
Maybe, Bart thought, they lie because they have no
phallus, and in deceiving us they make up for this
incompleteness. The lies make them whole.
Outward, Bart was all grins and giggles. She was
pretty, even if her voice did grate a bit. Her shoes
were sexy. Her make-up was unintentionally slutty. A
whore can't help being a whore when it comes to
putting on make-up, his dad had always said. No
matter how respectable a woman tries to make herself,
if she is a slut at heart and she wears make up at
all, she will make herself out like a slut. 'Never
date a woman who doesn't wear make-up,' he remembered
his father saying 'you can't tell what she is really
like. But no matter how dull a girl in slutty make-up
seems, remember, she is a slut at heart and therefore
good for a turn or two.' Bart's father had been a
wise if crass man.
So yes, this one seemed good for a roll.
Drip.
And she moved and curled her mouth when she spoke
like she liked to be on top.
Drip.
The water was hitting Bart more rapidly now, and he
was getting annoyed. She was talking about how she
didn't care at all about money, and then in the next
breath talking about how her dad had taken her to
California the summer before and what fun it had been.
And she talked more about not caring about money, and
then about how much she loved her car that her dad had
bought her the year before when she graduated the
expensive private school her mom and dad had put her
through. And then there were inane stories about an
ex-boyfriend she felt bad about cheating on and
utterly screwing over years before, but how she was
sure everything had worked out for the best for
everybody really, even him, although she wasn't sure
what had happened to him exactly. And then there were
movies she wanted to see, because even though she had
a middle-class job she still liked independent movies.
And books. Sweet Jesus the books and there was the
water dripping dripping
"GOOD LORD YOU ARE FUCKING CONTEMPTIBLE. I CAN'T
STAND THIS!" yelled Bart and he ran out screaming and
pulling at his hair.
Sandra was confused but she smiled pleasantly at some
people, and eventually another boy left his table to
come over and talk to her and they became fast friends
and she kissed him later in the night.
Bart often thought back on that night as the one
truly successful date of his life.
)(*&%#@)(*&%#@)(*&@%#)(*&%#@)(*&%#@)(
trick or treat stories for the damned
by trilobyte
put on a costume of hate and contempt and walk up to someone's door,
knock or ring the door bell. when someone answers, punch them in the face.
no, tell them they are stupid, and suck, and then kick them in the groin.
no, i take that back, whoop them where it hurts, stand on their children,
pounce around like a tiger, ground up their bodies and serve them to
children in individually wrapped units.
next house: serving up liquor for houseguests is a recommended move for
extreme party fun, but beware of east coasters who try to take over the
entertainment : they do not know anything about having fun, and should be
put under furniture or rugs as fast as possible. if you can roll them up
in a blanket and lodge them in your chimney for the night, all the best of
luck to you!
and again: if your grandparents happen to be watching, do not
masturbate; onions roll down your chest but they may hit something that
causes them to be deflected and not land on your feet. unless your feet
are very long, and lay before you on the floor like planks on the seaboard
side of a ship on the sea. don't jump! you can propel yourself down hills
of snow on skiis, but you have not heard of the potential for sledding fun
this year. right now is not the best time. though it is october 31st,
hangings are not yet in vogue. wait until next year.
bang on another door: "hello! i would like some candy please." "you
have to say trick or treat!" "i am not able." "what's the matter,
kid?" "i'm not happy!" "i don't understand. who did you wrong?"
"oh, just everyone." "well that is too bad! here, why don't you come
in and sit down."
"ok."
"harvey! this nice little bandit is a tortured soul."
"ahh, nice."
"yes, here, why don't you sit on this couch here."
sit. talk. move in. burn down your parents' house. eat metal.
have love affairs, treat people like crap, reciprocate, backslash,
frontspiece, guardrail, overhang.
further away: knock knock. who's there? trick-or-treat. hold on.
inform the people in the house that the free market just can't handle this
free give-away of candy to small children, because it will cost the parents
that much more money in the long run, what with all the doctor and dentist
bills and what if the kid finds out that he's diabetic, just from eating
halloween candy? it would save him from a lot of very close calls down the
line, what with him getting to know his body chemistry early in life, but
still; can't the neighborhood be held responsible? where's our halloween
insurance? if somebody really wants to make money, they should just offer
protection plans from ourselves! after all, who else is there to worry
about?
whether goes the mary-bell, toodle hid the who? under the bench,
beneath my dress, the world is waiting for you. it wriggles on down the
arching spine, burning with lemon.
next house: <door opens>
"VALIANT! EN-GARDE!" <brandish weapon>
<occupant of house brandishes false mustache, brandishes hat with
feathre, brandishes sword>
"NAY, I SAY, OLD CHAP; THAT MIGHTY FINE WOODWORK ... IS THAT OF YOUR
OWN HANDS?"
<brandish swordfight>
"WHY YES, DEAR SIR; MY WIFE TENDED TO HATE THE STUFF. I TOLD HER 'NAY,
WOMAN, BEGONE; YOUR TASTE IN WOODWORK LEAVES MUCH TO BE DESIRED.'"
<brandish swordfight>
"I SHOULD HASTEN TO ADMIT I HAVE NOT ONCE SEEN ANYTHING QUITE AS
GLORIOUSLY BEAUTIFUL AS YOUR SKILL WITH THE LATHE."
<brandish swordfight>
"uh-WHOOPS! YOU SEEM TO HAVE REMOVED MY ARM THERE DEAR SIR."
<stop swordfight, admire blood>
"WHY YES THERE LOOK AT THAT. NO MORE WOODWORKING FOR YOU THEN, I SAY."
<cut off head, kill the man who owns the house, steal his wife, admire
her woodwork>
*** before approaching next house, remove your long hair and hat, don't show
your sword, and keep your Cool ***
"yo man i wan som ganja, doo"
"eh man, dat shit don' go down here, yo."
"oh, yeh, men, i kno yu thnk dis is sum sorta fake but yo, ths is da
reel thng, doo."
"aight, yo, man, why donchu come in and sit down for one minute."
** walk in side, sit on plush couch, listen to bob marley **
"goo thng i got this bag uh candy, doo, i gon be gettn hngry pret soon."
** big fat man returns, with a bag **
"YO DOO THS BAG FULL OF MORE JUS CANDY MAN"
"happy halloween, muh'fucka."
"shit, doo, i thoght i be gettin good shht tonight, yo."
damn.
garbage collection:
frenzy.
reoijerojierijoeroijreijoerijoreiojraej;fewiijoewfaifewaijgiohihrhgaiwgiriawfeiagwriwaier
oiwiewi hw oi;ew ofewoihweoi we oew ew oewa ;iewa ;oihewa iew iohijhew
foijhewaf.
turtle!
young adventurous
earth-bound scavenger!
limpel-ziv my compression routine!
whoodle wiv-why frump angle wuz neen!
--- and to tie it all together, the introduction of the zip-lock shoelace.
yellow and blue make green. yo, it doesn't get any easier than this!
ÕÕª .-.
»ÕÕÕº ª »ÕÕÕÕº Õª ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕª | | this was an
Õª ÕÕ | | honestly bad
»ÕÕÕº ÕÕÕÕÕ | | time-waster
»ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕº | | email-box
ÕÕÕÕÕª ÕÕª »»» | | filler
»º »ÕÕÕÕÕº »»ÕÕºÕº »ÕÕÕÕ»Õº »ÕÕº »»ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕº | | from
.----------------------------------------------------------| | trilobyte
`----------------------------------------------------------`-'
flodis / flowers of disruption #halloween / 28.10.99 /
trilobyte@hoe.nu
tell your friends to donate organs to flodis
