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Going Ape Shit Press MegaZine 004
Going Ape Shit Press the MegaZine Number Four
Welcome to yet another installment of the ZineScene's kickest ass
publication. This month we just bring you two pieces from Suicidal
Chicken, one is a short story and the other a poem of sorts.
(gasp)--------------------------------------------------------------+
Walking Left Around the Wheel in Section 13: The White Door
By Suicidal Chicken
They led Sam down a dimly lit hall that ran under the complex.
The tunnel was run down, but not in the way of something that was
once new or clean, and had fallen into disrepair. The tunnel
seemed that it must have been like this the day it was built, as if
it were old before it had even been designed, that the architect
had drawn on some submerged archetype for a modern cave rather than
originally designing an underground tunnel.
Sam was peculiar in that he was of immense size, and had the
strength to go with it. And though he wasn't a violent person, he
wasn't a "gentle giant"; he never shyed away from using his gifts.
He might have been able to take the two guards escorting him; on
the street he could have ripped them apart, but in here, with him
in his inmate clothes, them in their uniforms, they presented a
match. The uniforms of the guards for some reason made them
stronger, while the standard issue Sam wore was like some kind
energy drain or something. Funny the tricks the mind can play.
Whether it was confidence, who knows; all Sam knew was that it
could go either way. But then there were the hordes of other
guards that would come. And come. And they wouldn't stop coming
until they had done their job. Of course, if this were for real,
if it were on the outside, his people would come. But again those
uniforms. Or maybe it was the walls. The way some something, be
it the uniforms, or the walls, or the bad lunches, something kept
Sam docile, just as something kept the other inmates in line, even
though everyone--guard, inmate, civilian outside--knew that if it
were guards against inmates, the thin blue line would be a thin red
line. But then really, that would just be Sam and the guards on
the next level. Even if the inmates could take the institution,
more guards from other institutions would come. And they would
keep coming until they took back the institution, just like the
guards would keep coming and take back this corridor if Sam should
make a move.
But Sam didn't have to think this out. No one did. Some, like
Mickey did, some of the weird ones, and to be fair, Sam had done a
little thinking; most of the inmates would say that's why he ended
up here. The ordinary troublemakers were usually dealt with up
top; a couple of guards would come by, a truncheon here, a rifle
butt there, and it would be over. It was a game, really; it just
kept going on and on, and no one really minded. Sure, at the time
the inmate would be screaming bloody murder, and you could see the
guards never took anything lightly or casually; they always watched
their back. But, a day or so, and things would be back to normal.
It was the others, the ones who didn't cause much trouble along the
lines of gambling, drug trafficking, that kind of stuff, the ones
who talk. That's what most of the inmates would tell you. The
more you talked, the worse off you would be. Just do what you
gotta do, do your time, and get back out.
But most of the time the inmates didn't acknowledge these little
fact of life explicitly. Especially about what kept them docile.
It just seems imbedded in the inmates, this knowledge that the
walls were the least of their obstacles. What really kept them
here was the will of the outsiders. What kept them passive was
that they knew it.
So Sam kept moving down the tunnel. Finally they came to a break
in the white tile that extended halfway up the walls from the
concrete floor, to the white cinderblock separated from the white
tile by one line of thin black tiles. This break recessed a little
from the line of the wall, holding a thick white wood door with the
black letters "Inmate Correction" stenciled on it. They led him
in, one in back, one in front. As soon as they got past the
bottleneck of the doorway, the guards resumed their positions at
either side of Sam. They then sat him down on a cot to the right
side of the antechamber. A white door with smoked glass briefly
opened, and a nurse stuck out her head, motioning to the guards
that it would only be another minute or two. Sam was remarkably
composed, especially considering this was his first time here; but
Sam had always been pretty level, pretty clear headed. "No sense
worrying about what can't be helped." He muttered that to himself;
he used to say that, sometimes to Mickey when he would go on his
rants about things that couldn't be changed, which he did a lot.
Usually if things had not gone well for Mickey that week, or
something like that. Granted most of the time he was pretty dead
on, but some of the stuff, it was just too out there. Like when he
used to complain about bones. Especially knees, about how they are
so easy to damage, and so hard to heal. See, it's not that Mickey
was stupid; he always made good points. Come to think of it, Sam
had to admit to himself that Mickey on a bad day had more
intelligent things to say, even about commonplace stuff, like bones
or luggage or hair brushes, than most people on their good days
talking about God or ethics or love.
Finally the door opened and two more guards appeared, with a limp
body suspended between them, gripped on either side of the elbow by
each guard, feet dragging along the ground. There was no blood,
just a lot of sweat. The door closed again, and quickly opened
again. This time a different nurse appeared, mid-twenties, bleach
blonde, pretty average.
Sam was led into a second room, where the nurse instructed the
guards to put him up on a gurney, and strap him down. After they
finished she dismissed them to the first room, and closed the door
behind them. Moving to a table on the other side of the room from
where Sam was, she unhooked a cabled pair of electric clippers.
"A shame to waste such beautiful hair" she said. Sam had very
long hair, a mane really, that he always wore down.
"I know, but what can I do about it now." he responded.
"What's your name" he inquired.
"D." she said.
"Dee?" he asked.
"No, just the letter, short and clipped. D."
"D." he mimicked.
With that she started the clippers. From underneath the gurney
she pulled out a contoured bowl and placed it under his head.
"So what exactly is this, this thing that I guess is in the other
room?"
"Well" she replied, as she expertly shaved his head, "it's sort
of a low level of electrocution. It hurts a lot, but you don't
have to worry about scars or infections or broken bones or any of
the side effects of more conventional forms of tort-, um,
correction. Something to do with the color blue, from what I
hear."
With that she finished, shut off the clippers, removed the bowl,
dumping his hair into bin, and went towards the door opposite the
one he came in and pushed a buzzer without looking at it, instead
quickly returning the bowl underneath the gurney and the clippers
to the table.
Out came two men in lab coats, doctors or maybe just technicians,
but they each took an end of the gurney and wheeled him into the
third room. They guided the gurney's wheels into tracks, and
applied some sort of clamp. Next they inserted a rubber tube,
which had a groove in it, and a disc of metal on the end.
"Bite down please, in the space." announced one of the
technicians.
After Sam did, he slipped a harness of sorts over Sam's head,
connecting the tube to the harness, and cinching the whole affair
tight.
The other technician, a bit more slender than the other,
especially in the face, looked expectantly on the whole thing.
When the other technician had finished, he received a nod and threw
the safety. The first technician then moved out of the way, and
the second proceeded to push a button, glancing down at his watch,
silently mouthing the seconds as they passed.
On account of his size, Sam's guards draped his arms over their
shoulders and carried him out that way. He managed to sort of
support himself, getting in a solid footstep or two, before a leg
would give out. But only from exhaustion, not from any injury to
his legs or something like that. Like the nurse said, no broken
bones or anything.
(gasp)---------------------------------------------------------------+
Prime or Choice?
by Suicidal Chicken
Instead of a harness bit in my mouth
they put in a boil and bite mouthpiece.
I clenched my jaws with all my might,
and it tugs at me like a bridle still.
They put a blocking sled in front of me
instead of a plow behind me.
They strapped a pair of shoulder pads on me
in lieu of a yokel or a harness.
It may just be my imagination
but after they finished with my blood pressure
and the rest of the physical,
they took off my socks and looked in my mouth.
I indentured myself to a college;
they even promised me the starting job.
Said I'd be in the pros someday;
they'll take interest in my body at the combine.
I blew out my knee my senior season.
I was retired to a factory.
They let me into games for free,
but they keep me away from new recruits.
(gasp)------------------------------------------------------------+
That's it for this installment... see you on the flip side.
duncan@alfheim.net - Pip the Angry Youth
dillonm@beast.trenton.edu - Suicidal Chicken
