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Propaganda Unlimited Volume 2 Issue 1
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Propaganda Unlimited
====================================================================
Volume TWO, Issue One!
February 4th, 1995
(Endorsed by the American Evangelical Council:
Preaching the Word since 1994)
====================================================================
CONTENTS
--------
1) Introduction
by Midget Caesar
2) Rancor (Prequel)
by Nyarlathotep
3) Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part 10
by Constantine
4) Stylus - The Beginning
by Zaphod
5) Dystropia, chapter Six part Two
by Midget Caesar
6) Why The Media is Evil
by Newt
7) House of Meats - A Morality Play
by Dr. Fig
8) Coming Attractions, Distribution, and Rampant Materialism
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STAFF
-----
Constantine..........Captain, Editor-In-Chief
Midget Caesar........First Officer, Executive Editor
Oregano..............Security Officer, Evanston Correspondant
Newt.................The Real Brains Around Here, Head Writer
Dr. Fig..............Ship's (fruit) Doctor, Theatre Correspondant
Zaphod...............Improbability Drive, Staff Writer
Nyarlathotep.........Chief Engineer, Staff Writer
Comrade Slash........Chief Mysterious Person, Staff Writer
Malakai..............Token Alien HitchHiker, Staff Writer
Psychotic Ambition...Communications, Head Poet
Aquarius.............Lost In Space, Staff Question Mark
and....
Two Fish.............All-Powerful Cosmic Entity,
Arbiter of All That Is Cool, Tasty, True,
and In Stock.
=====================================================================
Introduction
------------
Who'd have thought that PU could actually release three issues in
under five weeks?
We didn't, that's for sure.
As far as schedules go, I'm aiming for a new issue once a month at
least, possibly quicker depending on when we have enough material
(and time) for a new issue. I'm officially a Second Semester Senior
in high school, though, so I should have plenty of time.....
Anyways, I'm on my second issue as Editor, and none of our three
fans who live in the backwoods of Idaho have lynched me yet. (It's
the small victories that count, really) Corollary to that, Newt
Gingrich hasn't blown anything up yet. hurrah!
The ever-changing distribution list changed again (surprise!). We
lost all contact with MicroInformation Systems out in California, and
so we wish them good luck and farewell. Due to <censored>, we have
also had to end our association with our former hub, Frontal
Lobotomy. But we still have a few loyal sites and our blue suede
shoes, and that's all that matters.
This is the first issue of Volume Two, to silence all doubters who
thought we wouldn't make it this far (as well as to make our
numbering system a bit more confusing). Volume Three by the end of
this millenia or bust!
[Side Note: Many thanks to all of you who sent letters of sympathy
over last issue's Plea for Help. I haven't heard anything
from Sergeant Weikert since writing it, and I'd like to
send my gratitude to whatever made that possible.]
A few new things happen this issue: a prose piece from Zaphod
entitled "Stylus", a new morality play from Dr. Fig, and the prequel
to the long-awaited (by us, at least) new series from Nyarlathotep,
"Rancor". For our literate readers, enjoy! For our illiterate
readers, we're still working on the ASCII-Illustrated version of
Propaganda Unlimited. Have patience! On the subject of patience, the
Propaganda Unlimited FAQ should hopefully be ready next issue.
Constantine is in the middle of moving to a new apartment, and didn't
have time to get it finished.
February is a High Righteousness Month here at the PU offices, as
the birthdays of the entire PU editorial staff are this month:
Constantine on the 5th, and myself on the 19th. Please wish us well,
and lay off the protest marches/fire bombs outside our offices just
this month as a birthday present, okay? Thanks!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Rancor: Prequel
-----------------
by Nyarlathotep
Crunch went the bones in the legs of the men. Crunch went the
bones in their arms. It wasn't enough to merely kill them, but
instead, their bodies had to be crushed to a pulp of a smooth
consistency. I believe I am getting a little ahead of myself here
however.
The Mad God Talgrok lives in a castle in the sky. Well, he's not
really a god, and his castle in the sky isn't really in the sky. Its
just on a large hill. And it can barely be called a castle, but it
does have a wall. From this fortress Talgrok rules the surrounding
countryside with an iron fist. He tolerates nothing, and kills all
that displease him. He is fond of torture, and his finest men keep
trying to create new ways to kill these unfortunate prisoners.
Drowning in Water, flaying, burning alive, these are all too simple
for Talgrok's taste. Drowning in maggots, well thats something
that he could like.
For 35 years this Mad being had ruled the land of Entallor, ruled
it because he had the power of the Mantjor Staff, and for the fact
that no one else wanted to rule it. Which isn't to say that his
subjects didn't want a different ruler. He had aquired the Staff by
slitting the throat of its former owner, Jalron of Tiben, in his
sleep. At this time Talgrok was a petty sorcerer, and used his meak
spells to keep Jalron's guards busy. Now, with the aid of the Mantjor
Staff Talgrok's powers had increased 20 fold. He could effortlessly
fly, or cause the death of his enemy with a single word. But this was
not enough for him. The world he wanted. That was his greatest
aspiration. He was planning an attack on the neighboring Kingdom of
Apsertoo, an attack of great cunning, or so he thought. The attack
that he pondered, sitting on his bed, would never come into effect,
however.
Despite the power he possesed with the aid of the Mantjor Staff,
he still did not possess the wisdom to see the quarrel, nor to block
or dodge it as it sped towards his dark heart. He expired quickly,
blood running from his mouth, the bedchamber guards unaware of the
death of their master. The Master Thief Fendin grapped the Staff as
he left the room, as silently as he came, fading into the shadows.
--to be continued!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Ten:
A Boy and his (Mental) Fog
by Constantine
"It's... It's YOU!"
I couldn't have been more surprised to see the dark, broad-shouldered
man standing behind me, even if we weren't both hip-deep in muddy
water in the smoking crater that used to be my officebuilding.
"Yes," he said in a deep baratone, smiling as I groped in my pockets
for my instant digitizer. I raised the lens to take his picture, but
the water had scrambled its circuits beyond repair.
He handed me a pair of batteries and said, "Here. Use these. They
keep going, and going, and going."
James Earl Jones had come to Cyberspace.
And he was doing product endorsements.
"Before I go any further," he said, "I have to ask a question. Are
you--"
"Gay? No, but I could be."
"No. I'm looking for a private investigator, but I seem to have
gotten lost. Maybe I should have made a left turn back at Idaho
Falls. Are you--"
"Here we go again," I sighed, "Lemme save you some time. I'm not Gary
Shandling, I'm not Conan, I'm not Conan O' Brien (thank the Gods),
I'm not Ivanhoe, I'm not Metalhed (and neither is Time Warrior), I'm
not Ally Sheedy, I'm not Sherlock Holmes, I'm not Watson, I'm not
Meatloaf (but I'd do anything for love, I just won't do that), I'm
not 'Super Dave' Osborne, I'm not Barney, and I am not Gilbert
Gottfried."
"Are you Phillip Marlowe?"
I paused for a moment. I was talking to James Earl Jones, THE James
Earl Jones, and apparently he needed a private investigator. An
investigator with skill, preserverance, integrity and, most of all,
honesty.
"Yes," I said, grinning broadly, "Yes, I am."
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marlowe. Your reputation is top-notch.
I have a job of very sensitive importance. You see, my family jewels
have been stolen."
"Yeow! That IS sensitive!"
"These jewels have been passed down my family line for centuries, but
no longer. When I was in Rio last week, burglars invaded my home and
stole them. They went right for the hidden safe-- there's no doubt
that the thief, or thieves, was familiar with the layout of--"
"Wait a sec. What were you doing in Rio?"
"Looking suave."
"Okay. Go on."
"I have reason to believe that the thief, or thieves, was last headed
in this general direction. In fact, I'm certain that they traveled
to a local nightclub, a place called Evermore."
"How do you know?"
"One of them left a trail of reeses' pieces all the way here. I've
been walking for four days."
"Bummer. Can you describe these jewels?"
"There were eight of them, all about the size of a large egg and
flawlessly cut."
"Any super powers, mystical curses, anything like that?"
"No, but if you collect all eight, they can be redeemed at your local
Hardees for valuable cash prizes."
"I'm your man, Mr. Jones."
"I knew I could count on you," he said, shaking my hand, "If you
succeed, I trust an offer of ten million file points will be
sufficient?"
"TEN MILLION?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Marlowe. I didn't mean to insult you. Twenty
million?"
"TWEN-- um... That'll be fine, sir."
"Good! Let me know when you have the jewels-- you'll know how to
reach me. Now, please, avert your eyes."
I turned my head and covered my eyes. "Why, exactly, am I doing
this?"
"Because I like dramatic exits," he intoned, as a flash of light
crackled across the heavens. When I looked back, he was gone.
"Sure," I thought as I climbed out of the mud crater and shook myself
dry, "I've still got that missing-persons gig, but this kind of money
is just too good to pass up. Maybe things are starting to look up for
me, after all!"
****
And somewhere, far away, across the multiverse, an oddly-angled room
throbbed with evil laughter.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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Stylus - by Zaphod
Part One: It All Begins Here
From the distance, a shadowy figure could be seen walking
gracefully down the high-tide line of a nameless Chicago beach. His
booted feet barely escaping the water's tarnishing flow, as the wind
blew his long, beaten, coat behind him. He pulled a crushed pack of
Marlboro's from his inside breast pocket, carefully taking the last
cigarette from its beaten home and lighting it. He inhaled deeply the
first puff of smoke, feeling its warmth as it entered his lungs.
Quickly Stylus turned and stared his prey dead in the eyes. The
fool had no idea what he was in for. The man that had been following
Stylus pulled out a knife and began to speak. The only words he
managed to get out were, "Give me all of..." This predator, now
become prey froze in mid-sentence as Stylus' eyes began to glow
brightly, with anger and hunger; and as often happens to mortal men
when they realize death is upon them, the would be thief found that
he could not move, and tried, hopelessly, to scream; managing only a
meek whimper. Before he had time to think about anything, much less
the mistake he'd made in even thinking about robbing this man, the
hungry Stylus was upon him.
Split seconds later the thief lay at Stylus' feet, bleeding,
unconscious, ready to be drained of his soul and his foul memories.
The stench of evil was strong on the incapacitated feed-flesh and
Stylus knew he would hate the sting of the memories when he drained
the criminal of his thoughts; but he needed food badly. It was
becoming hard for him to remember the last time he had fed.
Stylus arched backwards, arms outstretched, as the meal's memories
and soul mixed with his own. A roaring, wordless cry of pain and
relief was released from his gaping mouth as he once again felt
alive. The warm coloring of man came back into his face as his first
meal in what seemed an eternity found its way into his body. It felt
wonderful to finally eat, even if it was a rapist and a murderer.
Stylus pushed the limp, drained, corpse into the icy water and
watched as the hollow body floated out into the lake. He crushed the
last of his cigarette lazily into the sand with the his scuffed boot.
The last of the sun was being soaked into the rainbow water at the
horizon, and the dark figure of the man-beast, Stylus, sank down onto
the sand, relaxed and relieved to be free of his hunger and the
burden of choosing his food, and fell into a dreamless slumber.
_____________________________________________________________
Part Two: Home again, home again...
The next day, Stylus awoke, dazed and disoriented, lying in a
smoothed patch of sand, no thoughts in his mind...it was the first
time in months he had slept so well; the first time he had slept the
whole night through without being awakened by a terrible fit of
hunger or a mind tearing dream. Fully rested, and clear headed, he
looked about to get his bearings and realized that he was still lying
in the sand. Standing up, he brushed the sand from the creases of his
coat and pants, shook more out of his hair and began his walk home.
Home to Stylus was a small, sparsely furnished, alley view
apartment in Chicago's Ravenswood community. He could hear and see
the "El" as it went by every so often, and the smell of the
restaurants below mixed horribly in the air he breathed. Chinese,
Mexican, and hot dogs, and aroma that could drive a cockroach to
suicide, but Stylus welcomed the variety, most of the time.
This however was not one of those times. The sensory overload of
the feed, the night before, was just too much to handle in
combination with the smell, and his stomach made sure the rest of his
body knew it. Upon opening the door, Stylus made a dead run for the
washroom and began his worship of the porcelain god. Thirty minutes,
and a shower later, he emerged from the washroom a new man, at least
on the insides.
_____________________________________________________________
Part Three: Too loud shadows
As the sky grew dark and the street lights came on, Stylus
awakened. Quickly grasping for the ringing alarm, he made contact and
there was silence. Through the near soundless Chicago night, a red
light and piercing siren flashed by outside his window.
He dressed quickly, knowing, that if the squad car or ambulance
were on its way to an accident, he may be able to find a quick snack.
He was a blur as he raced down the stairs and onto Chicago Avenue. As
he approached the corner, he realized that something wasn't quite
right; someone had just been there, waiting, and watching for him.
It was at this moment that he felt the blow and the street lights
above him swirled, and went black. When Stylus came to, he was
surrounded by silhouettes, moving about as if in a dance. Thinking he
was had not fully recovered from unconsciousness, he shook his head
and rubbed his eyes, hoping that the shadows would gain more
substance. His hopes proved worthless, and the shadows did not gain
more substance, they just continued to dance and occasionally look
towards him.
Propping himself up on both elbows, he realized that these were
definitely not humans, but, for lack of anything better to call them,
they were "living shadows". He yelled -Loudly- for the shadow men to
stop dancing (they were only confusing him and making and their
constant movement was not helping him think either). Fifteen
featureless, black faces stared back at him.
Slowly Stylus managed to utter, "W...w...what the hell are you?
And why am I here? For that matter, where is here?" The last
question was not meant to be heard, but came out anyway.
Apparently in response to his questions, the shadows shrugged
their shoulders in unison and began dancing again, this time it
appeared that there was some meaning to their movements. After the
third or fourth time through the same movements, Stylus realized that
the creatures were pantomiming his run from the apartment, and when
they got to the last moment he remembered before everything went
black, they pointed to him and around the room. The only clear
thought he could manage at this point, "A mime is a terrible thing to
waste", seemed extremely ridiculous and frustrating to him. Then,
more questions came pouring into his head. Did they not know how he
got here, or where here was, or were they just not showing him? Was
he supposed to know where he was? He managed to keep the questions to
himself this time and the shadow men went back to their dancing.
Stylus chose to ignore their foolishness and to try to find some
sign of where he was. Scanning the room, he saw nothing, but white
walls, broken only by corners and the "shadow people". No doors, no
windows, no way out or in. The questions came back even stronger and
finally he let loose and just screamed them at the creatures, much
the same way as one does when attempting to speak to someone that
doesn't understand the same language. Louder and louder until he
realized it was useless, they didn't know where he was or how he had
been brought to the room......
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Cry Havoc, And Let Slip The Small Woodland Creatures of War!
(part Two of chapter Six of the Dystropian Chronicles)
by Midget Caesar
Forgotten amidst the sands of time, long-closed eyes suddenly
opened. Vengeance burned within; vengeance that screamed for
satisfaction, that could no longer be ignored. Long ago the thing had
lost, had been buried here, but this time was different. The world
was going to know the thing's pain, the world was going to suffer.
The thing struggled to the surface, ready to carry out its grim
agenda of death. It stumbled forth, but unfortunately did not realize
that the geography of the land had changed a bit since it was last
free, and the entity fell off a cliff, slammed into the ground below,
trigged a minor earthquake, and was squished by the tons of falling
rocks. A little later, city developers arrived at the newly leveled
area, and proclaimed it the perfect place for the city's new
playground.
Silas wasn't happy about the earthquake. For many years, he had
plotted to increase tourist activity by diverting a nearby river to
create a waterfall above the cliff, and his plan had been ready to
come to fruition at the moment of the earthquake. 603 years of work
(Silas's ancestors had had the same plan) were now blown, and Silas
needed a new hobby. His long, white beard wrapped around his body by
the wind, he staggered forth towards the town, hoping to find
something new to do. After all, he had plenty of other plans waiting
to happen, didn't he? He assured himself that he did, and continued
his journey.
Dtjkrslvao arrived in Dystropia, overjoyed to be in what he hoped
was a land of great opportunity. In his native land, his name meant
"Boundless Adventure", and he considered the travel to Dystropia a
fulfillment of his name's legacy. The rest of his family laughed at
him when he said that he was going to Dystropia, but Dtjkrslvao
didn't know why, and paid them no heed. He was, however, alone, his
family having scoffed at the idea that they come with. Dtjkrslvao was
determined to prove them all wrong, and to return home triumphant
with his newfound riches. He entered the Dystropian Immigration
Centre excitedly, and wasn't surprised to see a very crowded room. He
got in line patiently, and listened eagerly to the proceedings going
on in front of him, barely able to wait for his turn. However,
Dtjkrslvao didn't speak Dystropian very well, and didn't understand
much of what was being said. As he got closer to the desk, he thought
it strange that the clerk didn't seem to care very much about what
was going on. The words were strange to Dtjkrslvao, but he listened
carefully to them so that he could remember them for when he did
understand their language.
"Next." said the clerk.
The person ahead of Dtjkrslvao stepped up.
"Name?"
"Anonymous."
"Alright, hold on while I check.....
...GOD DAMN IT, YOU DON'T EXIST EITHER!"
The person smirked and faded back into non-existence.
"THIS ISN'T FUNNY! EVERYONE WHO COMES TO THIS MISERABLE BUILDING
DOESN'T EXIST! I'M FED UP WITH THIS CRAP!"
The clerk swung his crazed attention to Dtjkrslvao.
"COME ON, FUNNY BOY! WHO ARE YOU? "UNKNOWN"? "FIRST M. LASTNAME"?
"UNIDENTIFIED"?
Dtjkrslvao looked at him nervously, and answered with the speech he
had prepared.
"M-My name is Dtjkrslvao and I would l-like very m-much to be in your
n-nice c-country of Dystropia."
All of the non-existent people in line behind him left in disgust.
The clerk gaped.
"You-you're real? Wow! Um, right this way, please, may I see some
ID?"
"My name is Dtjkrslvao and I would like very much to be in your nice
country of Dystropia."
The clerk whipped out a pen and completed several forms at record
speed, sadly not paying attention to the typos he had made.
"Here's your Dystropian Translation Guide, Welcome Guide, and a free
lollipop. Welcome to Dystropia!" said the clerk, and before
Dtjkrslvao knew it, he was being pushed through a door and out into
the sun.
Silas wandered through the countryside. It had been a long day,
and certainly not the best of his long life. Still, the rest of his
various plans scattered about the area were still moving according to
plan. Thanks to the rockslide, Silas had no home to return to, and
the mansion he spied up ahead seemed as good a place to stay as any,
so he made his way towards it.
Dtjkrslvao wasn't quite sure where to go. However, the city was so
full of new, wondrous things that there was always somewhere to go.
Dtjkrslvao let fate guide him, which was a mistake, as usual. As he
walked, he studied the material he had been given, and after not too
long he had a working grasp of the language. He had a new name as
well, a shortened version of his old one. Dtjkrslvao couldn't wait to
try it out on someone. After quite a bit of walking, he grew tired,
and it was night, and the sum of those two things necessitated that
he find a place to sleep for the night. He was still under the
impression that this was a golden, open land, so he picked the first
house he saw, which was a large, brooding mansion,and entered.
Finally, the time had arrived. Vernon was working the late night
shift, and it was time for his lunch break. NOW! Now, he was going to
make headway on his quest to be considered the greatest hunter in the
world! Vernon slipped excitedly to the back of the store, ready to
use his new equipment to help him track down his prey. Vernon used a
complex blend of physics, geography, geometry, trigonometry, and
astrology to track his prey, and he never failed. He eagerly set the
calculations in motion on the new computer, printed out the results,
and set out.
When Vernon arrived, he was right in front of a giant, dark
mansion, and there was no prey in sight. He couldn't understand it.
He had never failed before! Vernon kicked at the ground in disgust.
He was washed up, he knew it. After all, he had made the calculations
on the office's Pentium computer! Vernon stalked into the mansion in
disgust, looking for something to redeem himself....
The Entity smiled. Everyone was now in place, and the plot was
focusing squarely on him, not that damned show-stealer Milo. It was
time for the Entity to make its mark....
The entranceway was rather crowded. When things calmed down a bit,
everyone introduced themselves to each other for the sake of
character interaction.
"Hi, I'm Percy. I don't really care if the rest of you stay or not, I
just want to go to sleep."
"Greets, I'm Darius. I was the hottest lawyer in Dystropia and will
be again, 'cause this place smells of redemption (and chicken)."
"AND WE'RE HIS FOLLOWERS!" shouted a hundred or so similar looking
people. Darius silenced them with a glare.
"I am Silas. I'm having a bad day."
"I'm Vernon. I'm here to kill you all."
Everyone nodded and turned to Dtjkrslvao. Dtjkrslvao decided that it
was time to shout out his new name, and did so, barely able to
contain his excitement:
"DITTO!"
Everyone (except Percy) screamed and ran, calling poor Ditto a
homicidal maniac. He didn't understand why everyone was so mad.
Fortunately, they had found a new thing to be scared about, courtesy
of Percy:
"Uh, guys, the door's locked."
The Entity cackled.....
[In Part Three:
-A Plot begins to Develop!
-The Entity Makes Messy!
-A Dramatic Arrival!
-That Rambler Spirit!
don't miss it!]
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Why the Media is almost as Evil as my namesake in Congress
by Newt
Today, home sick, instead of tackling my overdue calculus
homework, I did what any self-respecting student would do: lie
around and watch daytime television. However, just as I'd
settled comfortably and was happily watching Jerry Springer talk
about bisexual teenagers, my bliss was interrupted by a NBC
special report. Had Clinton died? Was there peace in Bosnia?
Had someone actually figured out the French political system?
No, Dan Rather just wanted to tell me that nothing new had
happened in the OJ Simpson trial. oh. I flipped through the
other network stations; sure enough, Peter Jennings was trying to
intelligently discuss Kato Kaelin's contradictory testimony.
No, it's not really the OJ Simpson trial I'm mad about: it's the
media that's perpetuating it. Think about it: who do you know
that REALLY cares about this trial? No one, I'd wager. And yet,
the press continues to thrust this media carnival at us, trying
to condition us to run to the TV set every time we hear the words
DNA testing.
See, right now, they think this story is hot: but when the
ratings go down, our lives will become saturated with yet another
pointless event until we become sick of it. When was the last
time you heard about Tonya Harding or Nancy Kerrigan? A mere
year ago we could recite the facts and even knew the name of
Tonya's bodyguard. What became of the flesh-eating bacteria,
Lorena Bobbitt, and Amy Fisher? Frankly, I don't care now
because I didn't care in the first place.
Watching the network news seems more like Hard Copy: they open
with OJ and get to the real stories halfway through the
broadcast. I guess they feel they have to cater to the so-called
MTV generation -- short sound bytes with lots of pretty pictures,
with superficial coverage of everything except the sensational
stories like Mr. Simpson. The media has trained us to be fickle,
to flit from one story to the next. What happened in Rwanda?
Didn't that story just kind of disappear? If there is harmony
and peace, what happened to the story detailing that? Oh yeah, a
special report on Marcia Clark's former lovers pre-empted it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
What you are about to read is a morality play, which was actually
performed once long ago. For those of you who don't know, a morality
play <assuming English professor pose> is a story in which characters
represent certain qualities, be they good or evil. It usually
illustrates some sort of moral point, in this case an extremely
cynical one. I wrote it when I was in one of those moods, not only
cynical but a tad maniacal. As my mental state was, well typical of
me, this story won't make much sense, but hey, this is Propaganda
Unlimited...
House of Meats
by Dr. Fig
It was a cheeseburger stand for it was a cheeseburger land. Sooner
or later, everybody came to the cheeseburger stand, because that was
where life was. Cheeseburgers, fries, chocolate shakes, for which
milktrucks were always present outside. This was the world. Coming in
and out of this world were people from the outside world, a place
where cheeseburgers did not rule completely, but competed with the
terrible forces of greed, hatred and cruelty. In opposition to these
forces were generosity, love and kindness, but they didn't rate much
in the grand scheme of things, however in the hearts and minds of one
small group of idealistic teenagers they were very important. The
world called them fools for believing this, and maybe you will too.
They were three in number always good and gracious righteous and
pure. Their names were Jenny Rossity, Lawrence Oglethorpe <L.O.> Ving
and Kindie Ness. They were always smiling and always friendly.
However, not everyone felt the same way. They had three "friends".
George Reed was a young man who was seldom seen without his suit and
tie, cool car and Rolex watch. He was usually known simply as "G" for
short as in "Whatup G?". With him was the voluptuous Lusty who ate
young boys whole. Also present was the most wicked of them all, the
vicious Carl "C" Rule.
The six youths would go to the cheeseburger stand often, for
everyone eventually went to the cheeseburger stand. The cheeseburger
stand was home to all. One of the other regulars at the cheeseburger
stand, besides the youths, was a friendly but cynical old man who
would sit at a table there and eat cheeseburgers: A lot of
cheeseburgers, and we do mean a lot. He wanted what was best for the
children, but didn't interfere too much. He gave them wisdom when he
could and ate cheeseburgers the rest of the time.
The six young people came in one day to order their food. There
was a little collection box on the food counter to help lost souls.
Jenny Rossity contributed everything she had, excepting the money she
needed to buy a cheeseburger with of course. When he thought no one
was looking G Reed proceeded to smash the collection box and take
every cent contained therein. Jenny Rossity, upon seeing this vile
and despicable act of selfish larceny she was pushed over the edge.
She renounced her noble ways and proceeded to rush out of the
cheeseburger stand and steal G's car, vowing to destroy anyone she
saw engaging in acts of charity. At the same time, the gentle soul,
L.O. Ving was reading sentimental poetry while ordering his
cheeseburger. <"She walks in beauty, yes I'd like fries with that.">
At about the same time, Lusty approached him, and raped him from
behind his back, leaving him a broken and spiritually destitute man.
No one particularly noticed, since that sort of thing went on all the
time at this particular cheeseburger stand. When L.O. recovered he
would devote the rest of his life to lechery and hate.
Still untouched by the wickedness around him, Kindie Ness sat down
to converse with the gentle, if cynical old man. The old man told him
that once he too had been dedicated to goodness and niceness, but the
pressures of a sick and evil world around him lead him to give up on
saving it, and he wandered into the cheeseburger stand one day and
never came out. Thirty four years was a long time to spend in a
cheeseburger stand. Kindie Ness encouraged him to come out of his
shell, saying that evil did not completely rule yet, and that there
was still plenty of goodness in the world. The old man said that that
was a bunch of naive crap and that people were basically scum. But
Kindie didn't think so and remained true to goodness.
Just then an adorable little puppy came wandering into the
cheeseburger stand <Or maybe he was escaping from the butcher>.
Kindie hoped that this would melt the old man's hardened heart and it
almost did, but then C Rule came along, grabbed the puppy and
proceeded to inflict horrible pain upon it, making it squeal and
yelp. This almost led the old man to utter despair. Kindie chased C
Rule out of the cheeseburger stand, and C Rule ran him over with a
milktruck. This left the old man to reflect. Evil always conquered
good, the strong always conquered the weak, and no one ever lived
happily ever after.
The End
<OK, so maybe that's a little too sad. Hmm...>
A little girl went up to the old man and said in a sweet cute
little girl voice "Please Mr. Man, won't you be my valentine?"
And the old man's heart was warmed and everything was peachy.
=====================================================================
COMING ATTRACTIONS:
- Rancor: Unbound!
- The Propaganda Unlimited FAQ (hopefully)
- A new Fear and Loathing so shocking that Judge Ito wouldn't allow
it in court!
- A new Dystropia that no one in court was quite able to comprehend!
- What REALLY happened at the 1995 Illinois High School Theatre Fest!
- Return of the Poetry Corner!
- Yet another completely different Distribution List
and
- More Furious Madness From the Massed Gadgets of Auximines....
DISTRIBUTION LIST:
Club Evermore (312) 476-1508
Dimensional HQ, Worldwide Hub, Great Drinks
Legion of Cyberspace Users (708) 546-4605
New Name, Meet the New Boss, Same As the Old Boss
Munden's Bar (815) 455-9783
Underage Downloading Not Allowed Without ID
The Obloid Sphere (708) 965-3098
1.2 GiGS oF TeXT FiLeZ oNLiNe!!!!
MAIL:
To submit material for Propaganda Unlimited, to make your BBS a
PU Distribution Site, to let any PU Staff Member know that you're
stalking them, or just to send feedback on any PU issues,
email Midget Caesar on any of the above BBSes, or on the Internet:
PULETTERS@aol.com (official PU mailbox!)
or
mcfish@ripco.com (Midget Caesar direct)
Thank You, and Goodnight.
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(c) 1995 MangoJam Productions, all rights repressed
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