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State of unBeing 09
From illuminati.io.com!news.tac.org!tachyon Thu Aug 25 12:15:58 1994
Path: illuminati.io.com!news.tac.org!tachyon
From: tachyon@news.tac.org (TACHYON)
Newsgroups: alt.world.news,alt.illuminati,news.answers,alt.answers
Subject: State of unBeing #8 Seizure
Followup-To: alt.world.news
Date: 25 Aug 1994 12:52 CDT
Organization: The Astronomy Consortium NewsWire- Austin, TX, USA
Lines: 160
Snder: tachyon@news.tac.org (TACHYON)
Approved: news-answers-request@MIT.Edu
Distribution: world
Expires Mon, 29 August 1994 00:00:0 GMT
Message-ID: <29AUG19941252823@news.tac.org>
ReplyTo: tachyon@news.tac.org
NNTP-Posing-Host: news.tac.org
Summary: This is a news article covering the seizure of SoB #8
by the US Government.
Keywords: Paranoia news worldevents thingstocome dangers
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.50
Xref:illuminati.io.com alt.world.news:84651 alt.illuminati:1027
news.answers:23138 alt.aswr:3106
State of unBeing #8 SEiZED BY UNiTED STATES SECRET SERVICE!!!!!
by Tachyon
The Astronomy Consortium NewsWire Service Wed Aug 24 1994
AUSTIN,TX-On Monday, August 22 1994, just prior to the release
of SoB #8 on the next day by editor Kilgore Trout, the United
States Secret Service entered the home of said editor and
immediately seized his computer system. They then proceeded
on-site examination of the files therein, whereupon they
copied any and all files related to SoB #8 and promptly wiped
them from the system.
After much persuading, Kilgore Trout finally agreed to
comment on the matter. Kilgore informed us that no one really
knows what is going on out there. He was told by the SS that
he must tell no one of this incident, and in fact to maintain
his earlier story that no material was received for SoB #8 and
that is why it would not be released. "I had previously told
people that so that I could get out what I think was our best
(and most lucrative) issue yet. I didn't want the Fedz to get
word of it, but somehow they did."
Several of the writers who actually had submitted
articles for issue #8 were also visited by the Secret Service,
whereupon their copies of their articles were also copied and
wiped. No charges have yet been filed by the Secret Service.
We visited one of the writers in his home, and this is what
Hagbard had to say:
"I have never been raided by the SS, I have always been too
careful... so it was a real surprise to me when they showed up
wanting to take my stuff. The purpose of SoB was to distribute
valuable information, AS WELL as literary trash. I guess I can
see why the SS got so fired up though. My article was
entitled "Miscellaneous Government Secrets I Have Uncovered".
It had most of the files on the UFO cover-ups, detailed plans
for neutrino bombs, biochemical warfare data, missile command
access codes, and Milnet dial-ins. In fact, they were not
completely successful in wiping my info... would you like to
see what I have left?"
We most certainly replied in the affirmative, and so
here is an excerpt from the issue most coveted by the US
Government:
il
net Dia2-in: 512)950Ð1288J6Login: uestPwKegÒes ûÝì
heSou-£w+ster çivis@onjfKNORAD#¬sä°©cated under the East
0all[át
Lt°sAcessrodesfoentrace a¿e¢9313#65-#34231705
áæ
bhereDexiÁtsa6und7rgÃounpcit7in souhe(nãNevaabuiQtduring
he Col²uØar whach i< stifl
in opÖrat
We won't interpret it for you, but there is still some
information locked in there somewhere.
The real question is what will come of this? Will the
writers be forgotten? Silenced? Terminated? Will these secrets
and others ever be printed again? Time will only tell. To get
a feel on exactly what was going on here, we decided to
contact the Secret Service themselves and ask them if the data
will ever be returned.
Tachyon: Hi, this is Tachyon from The Astronomy Consortium
NewsWire and I am calling in reference to a recent incident in
the Austin district where SS agents seized an electronic
magazine. Could I get some info on that?
Secret Service: Hold on, let me transfer you to that
department... what was your name again?
T: Tachyon.
SS: Ok... one moment.
[Several minutes of bad hold music.]
SS: Hello this is Agent Timothy Roberts, how can I help you?
T: Yes, I was wondering if I could ask some questions about
the electronic magazine State of unBeing which was recently
seized by the Secret Service.
AR: Ok.
T: Why was it seized?
AR: It was a document which published information
electronically which was illegal.
T: How is electronic publishing illegal?
AR: Well, it isn't, but the information was.
T: And how was it illegal?
AR: It was a threat to the National Security of the United
States.
T: Oh really. In what way?
AR: No comment.
T: How does the SS get jurisdiction over matters of National
Security?
AR: Well, we don't... not directly... but we do handle
computer crime.
T: Yes, but you said it was a matter of National Security, not
computer fraud. Under whose authority where you operating?
AR: I am not at liberty to say.
T: Was it the Office of the Director of the National Security
Agency?
AR: No comment.
T: Well can you transfer me to someone who can comment?
[Long pause]
AR: Er.. hold on for a second...
[Whispering in the background]
AR: Ok.. hold on...
[Dead silence for a minute then periodic clicking and beeps]
Unknown: The articles prepared for State of unBeing issue #8
were an obvious threat to the National Security of the United
States. The data will not be returned and no record of any
incidents involving said issue will be maintained or
acknowledged. Thank you and good day.
[Hang up]
The Astronomy Consortium Security Division traced the
call as far as Panama. When we asked our sources in Panama
about the incident or who it might be, the merely replied that
they knew of no such agency. Maybe there are some witnesses or
informants out there who will speak up, but until then we have
hit a brick wall.
If you have any information on this event, or you have
Top Secret Government Information you wish to see published,
send it to State of unBeing. DO NOT send it to The Astronomy
Consortium NewsWire. Our sources in Washington have informed
us that a shut down of our net is imminent and termination of
our organization is in the works. Keep up the fight.
Tachyon
Sri Lanka Aug 1994
Copyright (C) The Astronomy Consortium NewsWire 1994 All Rights Reserved
NewsWire is a Registered Trademark of The Astronomy Consortium
===============================================================================
Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what 9/24/94 tahw ro woh gniwonk
to think. You are in N-i-N-E ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
STAFF LiSTiNG
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
GENESiS, CHAPTER 2.3 The Reverand Toad
BABBLiNGS OF AN iNSOMNiAC I Wish My Name Were Nathan
REMEMBER THE UNiTED STEELWORKERS MARTYRS! Captain Moonlight
[=- POETRiE -=]
THE DARK MiSTRESS Dark Crystal Spheres Floating Between Two Universes
THE HOUSE OF LONG AGO Midnite Scholar
CANCEROUS LiFE Kilgore Trout
DONA NOBiS PACEM Captain Moonlight
SPiT: PART II Azagoth
THE iNEViTABLE Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
TORN Midnite Scholar
[=- FiCTiON -=]
SEVEN TALES OF SPAM, VOLUME II: FRUiTS OF A FEATHER Flying Rat's Nostril
NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND Crux Ansata
THE TWiST compiled by Gore BrainRot
THE GRAVE-SiDE POOL Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
We're back, folks. Yup. Just when you thought it was safe to go back
into the world of e-zines. So what's been going on in the month during which
our publication was absent? Oh, not much, just getting raided by the Secret
Service and having a hellish time dealing with it. As most of you know from
the newswire feed, the SS confiscated all copies of the e-zine. Luckily,
Griphon moved off to an undisclosed location in this country (for his own
safety, naturally) and had most of the articles with him. So, in the next
couple of months we'll be reconstructing articles and try to get out SoB #8
sometime around Christmas.
As for this issue, we've returned to our normal diet of, as Hagbard would
put it, "valuable information AND literary trash." Some very interesting
articles, good poetry, and some unique fiction, I must say. I think you'll
enjoy it, especially after two months without a new issue (oh, how could you
survive? <G>).
A few technical notes before I finish up. In issue #7, we stated that
"Times Like These" was a poem by Harlequin. Due to a transfer error, it was
actually a Joy Division song that was put on there by mistake, and I mistook
it for one of Harlequin's things. Also, on io.com, the submissions directory
has now been fixed, so you can actually put stuff for submissions in there now.
Well, I guess I'll let you get on with your reading. Remember folks,
today is a State of unBeing, where knowledge empowers us and absurdity keeps
us human.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDITOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRIBUTORS
Azagoth
Captain Moonlight
Crux Ansata
Dark Crystal Spheres Floating Between Two Universes
Flying Rat's Nostril
Gore BrainRot
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Midnite Scholar
The Reverand Toad
Tachyon
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
GENESiS, CHAPTER 2.3
by The Reverand Toad
1. When God created the heavens, and the earth, and all that is beneath the
earth, He saw fit to grant unto each of the beasts in the heavens, and the
earth, and beneath the earth, one gift, that they may better live, and
tell each other apart without a name tag.
2. For name tags are expensive, yea verily, and hard to keep track of.
3. So too did he see fit to grant a gift to all the birds of the air, and
fish of the sea, and politicians of the sewers.
4. So did the skunk get its smell.
5. And so did the slug get its slime.
6. And so did the airhead get that hair that stands up so tall.
7. And so did the lion get its claws.
8. And so did the zebra get its stripes.
9. And so did the tiger get its claws _and_ stripes.
10. (Package deal, saith the Lord.)
11. And when all the gifts save one had been distributed, the Lord calleth the
man, and asketh the man, What gift do you desire?
12. And the man looketh on all the denizens of the Garden sharpening their new
claws.
13. And quaketh he him.
14. And saith the man, God, some body armor would be groovy.
15. Tough, saith the Lord, yea, even and, shit.
16. And the Lord, in His wisdom, gave the man an opposable thumb.
17. And the Lord, in his mercy, gave the man a ten minute head start.
18. And the Lord crieth, Good luck, even as He ascended to drink martinis by
His cosmic pool.
19. And muttereth He, even under His breath, Punk.
20. And as the man went, even out to find stuff with which to smite the Lions,
and Tigers, and Bears, and Ghosts, and Oliphants, and Hyenas, and Stag
Beetles, and Cockroaches, and Herons, and other beasts, moveth he a
boulder.
21. And there, even where the boulder had once been, hid the Paranoid.
22. Oh! crieth the Paranoid.
23. And, Shit! addeth he him.
24. And the man, pleased even for this brief diversion, crieth out, Lord, You
forgot one.
25. Dammit, muttereth the Lord.
26. And the Paranoid, even with the accusation forming on his lips, crieth,
No! I know you are all going to conspire and curse me.
27. Dammit, repeateth the Lord.
28. And, Dammit, elaborateth the Lord.
29. And, Give peace a chance, sangeth Johnny, yea even Johnny Lennon.
30. And the animals, even in their confusion, thought only of finding the man.
31. And devouring they him.
32. And rending they him even unto little bitty strips of jerky.
33. And crieth they, Can we get this over with?
34. The Lord lamented, and moaned, and crieth, Dammit, several more times.
35. And muttereth He, But I'm out of blessings.
36. Smiteth the Unicorn, cried the monkeys, who always were a bit bastardly,
And giveth the Paranoid a big horn.
37. Shut up, crieth the Lord, And let me think.
38. (And this is why monkeys, even to this day, cannot speak, for their
cruelty to the unicorns.)
39. Nay, muttereth the Lord, We need the Unicorn.
40. Yea, reflecteth the Lord, We may yet have virgins, as America, the TV,
and Materialism have yet to be created.
41. Well, mentioneth the Blue Koala, timidly.
42. For Blue Koalas are wont to be thus.
43. (Have you ever seen one? interjecteth the Scribe.)
44. Why don't you, continueth the Blue Koala, Curse him, nicely.
45. There, crieth the Paranoid, I knew you were working together to curse me.
46. Cutteth it out, yea, even like now, screameth the Lord.
47. And the Lord gathered up Holy Anger, and pointeth He, yea, even with His
pointer finger, at the Paranoid.
48. Eeek, crieth the Paranoid.
49. May you, crieth the Lord, Get on everyone else's nerves as much as you get
on mine.
50. And, Dammit, added He a few timed, yea verily and even for good measure.
51. And to this day, the Paranoid irritates everyone, and everything, and all
and sundry giveth him wide berth.
52. And both are quite content.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
I myself did not want to sleep because I had been living for a long time with
the knowledge that if I ever shut my eyes in the dark and let myself go, my
soul would go out of my body.
-- Hemingway, "Now I Lay Me"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
BABBLiNGS OF AN iNSOMNiAC
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Ya know, people hardly ever talk about what they do when they can't get
to sleep. Yeah, yeah, there's the old "I got three hours of sleep because I
tossed and turned all night" line, but people who do that have relatively
little imagination. I'm sure a great percentage of people simply lie in bed
and, in the nearly-frantically-rested state of mind, explore the taboo.
Taboo? Yeah. Stuff we know we all think about but no one admits (unless
ya ask 'em, I suppose). In a country like ours where "regularity" and douches
are common T.V. commercial fare, it's strange that people don't talk about
their going-to-sleep worlds.
For instance, most of the stuff I think about is really self-centered and
perverse, but that's what makes it interesting. Sometimes, when I'm in a nice
suicidal mood, I wonder what my friends and family would think if I actually
did it. Since I know I prolly never will, it's a safe train of thought.
Like, how'd I do it? Get the hunting knife my brother gave me out of my
trunk, maybe. It's real sharp. I never used it for anything, because it
smells sharp steelish. My brother used a sharpening thing on it for weeks.
He was crazy about that knife. He got another one and gave me his. The knife
looks like it'd be good for skinning something. Hell, maybe me! But, I
despise pain. I really don't even know what it's like to bleed profusely, but
I think I could stand a nice open gash somewhere like my leg. Skinning myself
alive would take more effort than I care to conceive.
Anyway, I -- like? -- nah, fantasize about what my parents would do when
they came in the next day (after I "didn't wake up", hee hee). Prolly scream
and shit. I actually don't like thinking about that part too much. I do
sorta care for them. Still, they'd get over the way mourningous grief after a
few weeks or so. Then, when my friends'd call up asking for me, my folks'd
have to say, "He can't come to the phone right now, he's dead." I bet they
wouldn't be that creative. And now that most of my friends are out of town
for college, I suppose they wouldn't even get the chance to make such a witty
remark. Oh well.
What's stranger to me is to imagine my friends offing themselves. The
strangest part being that most of 'em I don't think'd have a reason to do it.
I guess that's good in a way; it makes me feel content that I'm one of few
people living in hell on earth. (But that's a different story altogether.) As
I imagine possible reasons, though, I realize I don't know them all very
well. I wonder if that's normal. I have concrete (well, sorta) images of
them in my mind, but only in the specific contexts in which I'd known them.
All this just serves to make me more progressively neurotic about how I'd have
to react if they did off themselves. Confusion? Crying? Maybe sarcastic
laughter? I can think of people who'd fit in all those categories. It's all
very sick.
Oh, but the thing I think about a lot, which I know everyone thinks
about, is killing someone you don't like. You know, I wonder if this tendency
says anything about the nature of the human race. Hmmm, prolly not. Anyway,
I'd get out the hunting knife, all sharpened and stuff, and go somewhere
isolated. Like this one place, under a bridge near the suburbs. That'd be
great. I'd be sitting there, admiring the nature abounding around me,
watching the river go by, and then some dumb fuck with spraypaint would walk
in and be about to start adding some exceedingly witty retort to the
conversation going on on the concrete wall behind me: "Kickers suck! /
Preppies suck! / Life sucks! / <- that guy sucks, hard! / Kill the fags! /
Kill the preachers! / Kill the fucking fag-kicker-preppie-preacher bigots! /
Floaters rule! / ...", etc, etc, etc. So, the guy, upon seeing me there, may
actually find his conscience slowly creaking into action: "Duh, paint=fun.
Paint=wrong? Person=witness. *grind grind grind* Let person help me; blame
him? *flip-flop on the negatory* Act innocent and leave? *boing!*" So, it'd
be necessary to take decisive action to lull the person into victim stage:
"Hey, fuck-o! You do this stuff?" I'd ask, pointing at the wall.
"Uh, yeah, man... See there? I did that," he'd say, gesturing toward
the wall with his spraypaint can. "'Preppies suck!' 'Kill the fags!' 'Etc,
etc, etc!' Cool, huh?"
Of course, it would turn out that this'd be the one to kill. "Yeah! Way
cool. C'mon, put something else up there. I wanna be a witness to your
mastery."
"Huh, gee, thanks. Lemme see. Uh, whooda you hate?"
"Dumb fucks!" I'd cry out gleefully.
"Gawd, you know it. Dumb fucks are just so... er, dumb. Huh-huh!" Then
he'd reach his hand up to scrawl the letters amidst the garbledygook of
dumbfuck graffiti artists long since past. He's only a relative newcomer.
His words are much too large and faint; one needs to stand in the river to
admire his artistry. I'd wonder if it's really fair to kill him.
He misspells "fuck". I grab the can from his hand. "Hey, lemme put
something up there," I moan plaintively, so eager to deface the cement wall of
a bridge no one can see. Then, I'd grab the can upside-down, aim the nozzle
upwards and towards the guy's face, and smash him with it. In my dreamlike
imagination, the nozzle would puncture his lower lip, and paint would spray up
his nose and in his mouth and eyes.
"Hey, watch it," he'd say.
Then I'd whack him upside the head with the can. *bong!* He'd fall to
the ground. Then, it's knife time.
The details of that last part are much too varied and complicated to be
repeated here, but I'll let you know the end result -- 206 bones smashed with
rocks and a tasty protein-filled meal. Cool, huh?
After all this thinking is done, I'm usually really really tired. When I
glance at the clock, of course it's like 4:15am, and then I'm finally ready to
go to sleep. Man! Three hours of sleep! Can you believe it?!
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
I sit on a man's back, choking him and making him carry me, and yet assure
myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by all
possible means -- except by getting off his back.
--Leo Tolstoy, _What Then Must We Do?_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
REMEMBER THE UNiTED STEELWORKERS MARTYRS!
by Captain Moonlight
Remember the United Steelworkers Martyrs! Try crying that at the next
rally you attend; most likely the cry will soon be picked up by many of those
around you -- people who most likely don't know who the United Steelworkers
Martyrs might be, and, chances are, don't care. These people are the kind of
people who, if they claimed to be on the other side of the fence, would be the
ones to sing loudest the "Star Spangled Banner," and then run off and dodge
the draft. They merely do the Revolution lip-service, they do not really feel
for what they proclaim. They wish for the Revolution because of what it may
do for them, rather than how it would help the masses. These are the true
enemies; not the extreme Right, but the hypocrites, those who, in the words of
Ambrose Bierce, "professing virtues that he does not respect, secures the
advantage of seeming to be what he despises." If you truly feel for a cause,
go after it! If not, do not lie and bring your own misdeeds down on our heads.
September Seventh marks the one year anniversary of the murders of the
United Steelworkers Martyrs, who were killed while on strike outside a Nation-
al Standard plant in Columbiana, Alabama in 1993. Keith Cain, 22, an employee
at the plant for five years, and Walter Fleming, 53, a plant worker for 24
years, were killed by scab Larry Gray, Jr., when the latter ran through their
picket-line with his eighteen-wheeler after making a delivery at the strike-
stricken plant. According to Ray Wood, President of United Steelworker Local
15015, the Union leading the 186-person strike, claimed that Gray "stopped and
told a security guard that when he went out, he was going wide open and [would
get] anything and anybody in his way." After passing the security gate, the
truck accelerated and went about twelve feet wide. Three or four people ran
to get out of the way. Fleming was hit while running, while Cain never had a
chance: he was sitting with his back to the truck and didn't see it coming
until it was too late. Police had repeatedly ignored complaints that scab
drivers were running over tables and chairs at the sight and brushing people
with their trucks. So, what should the people do when the system fights them?
The people should fight the system!
This tragedy of a year since could have been averted had the police set
up a protection cordon, or had the security guard on duty held Gray and re-
ported the incident. Unfortunately, authority shall not protect those who
wish to change authority; those working within the system cannot change the
system for the very reason that the system was set up so as not to change.
When those who are supposed to "Serve and Protect" fail in their jobs, and
instead Intimidate and Threaten, they must be done away with and replaced.
In Ireland of 1913 conditions were very much like America of 1993 and
1994. But in Ireland, brave men and women rose to the aid of the weary and
the oppressed. What is needed in America today is very much like that which
was created in Dublin eighty years since. 1913 Dublin was beset by the Great
Lock-Out, caused by labour disputes between the Irish Transport and General
Workers' Union and the bosses led by William Martin Murphy. During this time,
due to sympathetic strikes, strikes where members of businesses owned by the
same people would strike to support those in another line of business. This
led to a general lock-out by the bosses of all workers who belonged to Unions.
Places left by the Union workers were filled by scabs and soldiers. During
the period which ensued, the police, who were under the control of the bosses
(some things never change), clubbed peaceful demonstrations. These baton-
charges claimed the lives of two men, with another dying from ill-treatment in
prison, and the life of a woman shot to death by a "free-worker" or scab hired
to replace the Union-workers. However, when the police and the bosses turned
to violence to put down the strikes, the people did not lie down as they do
today. When the bosses bit the hand that fed them, the hand that fed them hit
back. 1913 saw the birth of the Irish Citizen Army, raised from the oppressed
and led by Jim Larkin, President of the ITGWU, the Countess Constance Markie-
vicz, the British Protestant noblewoman recently converted to Socialism, and
the Mighty James Connolly, just arrived from Belfast.
The Irish Citizen Army did not lay down and take whatever the bosses
decided to dish out. Instead, they fought for the workers throughout their
existence until their merger with the Irish Republican Army in 1916. The
Irish Citizen Army, while underarmed, fought against the British soldiers and
police, not with the Nationalism of the Irish Volunteers, but with the Social-
ist International ideal and the general love of Freedom of those who lived in
the land. It is to this ideal which we must strive.
Were a militia of the Citizen Army calibre in existence in the United
States today, such tragedies as the United Steelworkers killings and the
invasions by American police into low-income homes such as is currently going
on in Chicago would be avoided. Where are the people's protectors? Every
group of protectors of the people, from the Black Panthers to the Weathermen,
have risen from the oppressed people, from those who truly feel for their
cause. Blind patriotism has never won a war, and surface-deep support for the
Cause will not move the Cause forward. The best way to remember the memory of
the Martyrs is to see that no more Innocents die, and that no more widows must
grieve at grave-sides rather than rejoice at new-found Freedom. If there are
to be more Martyrs, let us go down fighting for our beliefs and protecting
those to whom we have sworn our allegiance, rather than profaning the memories
of the dead with catchy slogans which mean nothing. The only way we shall
ever win the fight is with men and women devoted body and soul to the ideal of
Universal Brotherhood, not with those who merely go with whatever wind blows
strongest. Remember the Martyrs, for their life's-blood is the milk which
feeds the new-born Babe of Freedom.
For more information on the National Steelworkers Martyrs, please see Les
Bayless' article "Picket Line Deaths Spur S-55 Fight" in the Saturday, Septem-
ber 18, 1993 edition of the _People's Weekly World_ (Vol. 8, No. 16; pp. 1,
11), which is, incidentally, where I got my information from. If you cannot
find a copy of this, and can contact me, post me and I will relay a copy to you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- POETRiE -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE DARK MiSTRESS
by Dark Crystal Spheres Floating Between Two Universes
From her lips come promises unfulfilled.
From her eyes spring tears of a thousand miseries.
She wears a mantle of things come and things gone and things yet to be.
She kills men and civilizations.
She is a giver and a taker, a builder and a destroyer.
She is a killer of loves and hates.
She is the Death of all things.
And Time is her name.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
When I gave food to the poor, they called me a saint. When I asked why the
poor were hungry, they called me a communist.
--Dom Helder Camara, Brazilian Bishop & Nobel Peace Prize Nominee
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE HOUSE OF LONG AGO
by Midnite Scholar
the dying lawn
the rotting trees
the dusty path
the bleached, peeling paint
the creaking, cracking steps
the steps from plank to plank
the caution of a stalking cat
the heavy, solid door
the rusted knob
the scream of
the rusted hinge
the stench
the cold draft on
the cheek
the stagnant time
the ancient dust
the stone hearth
the eternity
the morbid beauty
the broken wing
the dying, porcelain angel
the clouded mirror
the murky reflection
the stranger
the child long forgotten
the cold, dead breeze
the house of long ago
dusty path
the bleached, peeling paint
the creaking, cracking
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
The Solar System has no anxiety about its reputation.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CANCEROUS LiFE
by Kilgore Trout
scribbled pain on a lying face,
he sits beneath a sycamore tree
oblivious to the demons that surround him.
the grass underneath the boy lies soft and flat,
cushioning his hardened heart. the sky,
clear and periwinkle, darkens as the day
draws nearer. what will he become?
still sprawled out under the sycamore tree,
thirty-one yellow teeth rest by his feet.
the squirrels now have new playthings.
a small, insignificant creature among
billions of others. he is beautiful,
yet unimportant in the scheme of things.
a rotting society awakens his fears.
bleeding gums gnaw at tree bark,
searching for some small amount of
nourishment. he starves and dies.
soon his memory will be nothing more
than a picture in a chest in an attic.
lost and decadent were his actions--
a strangled voice in a sea of imbeciles.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
The warriors arose together, together they met, together they attacked, with
single purpose; short were their lives, long the mourning left to their kins-
men... in the fight they made women widows, and many a mother with tears at
her eyelids...
--From the Gododdin (Seventh-Century Welsh text) attributed to Aneirin
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
DONA NOBiS PACEM
by Captain Moonlight
I pick my way among the corpses, blood trickling into my footsteps as I
pass by. Here and there a scream, a moan, a cry for help, a cry for Mother, a
prayer for Life, a prayer for Death. The Book of Dead Names grows thicker
today. I pause, contemplating the body lying at my feet. A large hole, from
which the man's life-blood now flows in scarlet streams, shows in his back.
Pale flesh shows through tears in the soiled uniform, chestnut-brown hair is
seen protruding from beneath the tortoise-shell of a helmet. The young man's
right hand is frozen grasping his rifle, his finger still on the trigger as if
fighting off the Demons left behind after the fight, the common enemy against
which all the Legions of the Dead must fight. My gaze drifts down his left
arm, stretched in front of him, which boasts a great scarlet gash from elbow
to hand. I watch as a slight sticky trickle of the now-coagulating blood
oozes down his hand and splashes the golden ring around his long pale finger,
and I think of the wife whom he would never again hold (a blonde? a brunette?
a red-head?), as tears escape my eyes. Was her name on his lips as he died,
his last words floating away like a Dove to the Heavens as his Soul was car-
ried away by the Valkyries to the great hall of Valhalla (or as it slipped
into the dark recesses of Oblivion) or, more likely, was his dying cry for his
Momma, thinking of her loving embrace and his infant protection? The sick
sensation and pain I have been feeling grows more intense, and I vomit upon
this hapless corpse as I think of my own part to this great name-writing for
the Book of Dead Names before some Divine Audience. My hand flies to the
wound in my stomach, not as superficial as I thought, as I stumble to the
ground and fall upon the man's body. Our blood mixes in some strange marriage
and, as my Earthly eyes fail I can hear Divine Hosts, crying, or laughing, at
Man's folly.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
My youngest son came home today
His friends marched with him all the way
The pipe and drum beat out the time
While in his box of polished pine
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray
My youngest son came home today
And this time he's here to stay
--Eric Bogle, from "My Youngest Son Came Home Today"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SPiT: PART II
by Azagoth
Milk white skin caresses book of pulp.
Breach of closure revealing mechanically-crafted falsehoods.
Bow-ing, squint-ing
concentration finds not its salvation!
Desperation permeates
from skin sunken.
Bone defined structure
gropes book ashen.
Fish-hook glance - evil in disguise
Shun the oversized sword, centered in disgust
Darken nimbus stains not the inherently impure air.
Tearing tranquility, the crackle of brittle shell.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
There are many animals in the world which are in human form.
--The Gospel of Philip
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE iNEViTABLE
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
Standing on the shore
Staring at the sea
Watching Them come in
They appear at the horizon
Oh, when the Angels are gone
The Demons play
The Old Ones shamble to shore
Humanity must not live
Does not deserve to live
So I, their agent, calmly stare
And as the Gulfs Between the Spheres Beckon
I Answer
The Things come in Human form
Unnoticeable to Their prey
Until, too late, they see the gleam in Their eyes
The Ancient Intelligence
The Incomprehensible
The Unnameable
The Angels have all run away
And left us with the Beast
Which reaches out Its tentacles
And takes part in the feast
The brave are the first to go
The cowards soon behind
The fools! They thought Man had a chance
To out-run the Divine
Lost, in the Darkness of Time
Man stumbles, falls, and dies
Mourned not even by the wind
Forgotten to all but Oblivion
And Humanity was arrogant enough to think it could win!
The Beast licks Its lips and laughs
And falls prey to the Other
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
It was kind of all wrinkled up like beef jerky.
--John Webber, on a human hand found in a
car at the auto-repair shop he manages
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
TORN
by Midnite Scholar
life
and
death
fight for my soul
love
and
hate
both try for my heart
light
and
dark
each want my mind
life and death
love and hate
light and dark
want control of my being
torn
i walk with Pain
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SEVEN TALES OF SPAM, VOLUME II: FRUiTS OF A FEATHER
by Flying Rat's Nostril
Author's note: If you are by chance wondering what happened to volume one, do
not be alarmed. Volume one does indeedly-doodly exist. It was, however,
printed under a different name, that being "Mindsweepings." If you don't know
what I'm talking about, _Do_Not_Panic_. Not having read the first story will
in no way effect your understanding of the present one.
PROLOGUE
or
"The Part Before the Actual Story Begins"
Long, long ago -- but not quite as long as the first story -- there were
two cavemen. Their names were Coconut and Banana; why they were called that
is a total mystery seeing that neither the Coconut nor the Banana had been
invented yet. Neither cavemen were bothered by this fact, however, for they
had both participated in many debates at P.N.A.U.F.A. (People Named After
Uninvented Fruit Anonymous) meetings, finally coming to the conclusion that
blue-tongued yaks tasted better than green-tongued yaks. Except, of course,
with white wine or Vaseline. That, however, is a story for another time.
Suffice it to say that their names were Coconut and Banana and that they
were satisfied.
This tale takes place shortly, to a God, after the first one. A mere
thousand years had past, Prometheus had just given man fire, and Hormel, who
turned out to be Prometheus' younger, transvestite sister, had just given man
Spam.
CHAPTER ONE
"The Nitty-Gritty of Cake Baking
or
Twelve Steps to Better Ice Fishing"
There was a steady, driving, cold, wet, chunky, loud, foul-smelling rain
outside the cave. It had come on suddenly, one moment it was clouded over,
but dry, the next minute it started to sprinkle, and within an hour it was as
if Lorg himself had flushed his toilet. Coconut sat sorrowfully by the door,
"Ung-blok-luf-doof-quasilegal-lok-Spam," he said sadly. Which would mean:
"Hissssss-Rattle-hiss-sss!" if translated into the language of the Highly-
intelligent-if-badly-adapted-Rattle-snake-people of the planet
Zxy!?*@PQMANZ157Quang-lek-neeth-Spam3. I have just been informed by Ali-
Jamima Jr. speaker of the 3 1/2 sacred tongues of Spam that many people do not
speak English, which coincidentally is the language of the Highly-intelli-
gent-if-poorly-adapted-Rattle-snake-people. For those poor, uneducated,
mortals who don't speak English, I will henceforth translate all conversation
into an English understandable to "those who eat Spam." That being the name
that the Highly-intelligent-if-poorly-adapted-Rattle-snake people have con-
veyed upon us. Now, beginning again:
"By Spam! but I hate the rain," he said sadly.
Banana looked up from his whittling, "It can't rain all the time!" he
said, laughing at his own joke. He returned to his carving, missing coconut's
baleful stare. And so the day past, Banana mutilating a block of particle
board, and Coconut cursing the rain with such common caveman phrases as: "By
the Bloody Spork," and "Blessed Jamima, Aunt of the sacred brothers."
The next day was much the same, the rain was there -- still; Coconut was
cursing at the before mentioned rain -- still; and Banana was still hacking on
his piece of wood.
Several things had changed: first, a shape -- a vaguely curved cylinder
with tapered ends -- was emerging from Banana's carving; and fifth, Coconut
was now busy losing a game of chess to a pet rock.
Now, you might be in the mind set that it would be quite impossible to
lose a game of chess to a pet rock, or that it would be testimony of a per-
son's stupidity. This is a common misconception, but as the name misconcep-
tion implies, it is false.
In that Era long past, pet rocks were not just small, painted stones that
some guy named Joe pasted googly eyes onto. Oh no! In fact, although they
tended to look like small, painted stones that some guy named Francine pasted
googly eyes onto, they actually belonged to an ancient and enlightened society
that had previously discovered the meaning of life, but had forgotten to write
it down.
After the fall of their vast and powerful empire, called "The Vast and
Powerful Empire of the Paete Qwress" (pronounced pet rocks), they spent most
of their time playing chess, and had gotten quite good at it. The Paete
Qwress moved a piece (as to how he did this without the use of arms is, quite
frankly, none of your business) and uttered a noise not unlike the sound a 1.4
pound piece of pumice would make if it were dropped approximately two feet
onto the head of an old man who had dozed off at the diner table.
The Paete Qwress' comment does not translate into anything English, but
we will just pretend that it meant, "Check and mate, you Spam-eating fool!"
Coconut knew he had lost the game, and although he did not know what his
opponent had said, he did not like the gloating quality in the rock's voice,
so he drop-kicked it onto a dusty, and unused shelf. By pure coincidence, the
Paete Qwress had been trying to get onto that shelf for several years, and was
very happy by this turn of events. Coconut would never know, however, and so
was very pleased with himself. The Paete Qwress made a sound not unlike that
made by a heavy piece of granite laced with marble falling a great distance
and landing on a cat. Similar to: "Meow? . . . Thump!" but not quite. The
pet rock's statement, if translated directly, means: "A dancing chicken never
wears lingerie in the rain." That, however, makes absolutely no sense at all,
so we will ignore its meaning and just pretend that he said, "Ha! you stupid
little man! you have made me happy!"
On the other side of the cave, Banana was still working furiously on his
particle board. He began to sing softly as he worked. He began on a low,
off-key note, "Duhhh." His voice raised and octave, "Duhhh." He raised one
more octave, "Duhhh Duhhh-Duhhh!" He dropped down low again, "Bum-Bum, Bum-
Bum, Bum-Bum!"
Coconut stumped over unhappily. "My Lorg, will the rain never stop!?"
As if on cue the rain stopped. Coconut cried out happily, ran outside,
and began to dance a jig. Just as he was finishing the dance, the clouds
burst, sending a torrent of rain down on top of him. Suddenly, a peal of
laughter came floating down the hill.
"Damn you to a Spamless hell!" Coconut screamed at the tribal rain danc-
er, "Lorg will punish you for that!"
Just then, a Paete Qwress came flying over the hill, striking the rain
dancer dead moments before the dancer came up with an ingenuously creative
comeback which would have saved the world from Glooth (don't worry, I'll
explain in a later story).
The rock in question had just beaten the chief of the tribe at chess and
said something that sounded like gloating. That particular rock later met
another rock who had always wondered what it would be like to kill a rain
dancer. In response the rock made a sound surprisingly similar to the one he
made striking the rain dancer. Something almost, but not quite like: "Oh
yeah! well, . . . Thump!"
In the language known to the Paete Qwress as cheese, this meant: "My
cat's breath smells like pu-pu."
That makes perfect sense if you think about it. Which is what the ques-
tioning Paete Qwress did, and walked away happy.
CHAPTER TWO
"The Immortal Frog Dancers"
The rain continued for the remainder of the week, which in those days was
twelve days instead of seven. Approximately ten years after this tale took
place, the population of the world went on strike, that is, they held their
breath, until Lorg gave in and shortened the week.
It is a well known fact that withholding oxygen from your brain can cause
brain damage and eventually death.
This fact was first discovered during the fight for a shorter week, in
which many protesters either died or committed unwitting self-lobotomies. This
does, however, explain the condition of many T.V. sports broadcasters.
On the dawn of the third day after the rain stopped, Coconut and Banana
were still asleep. By noon, however, they were both awake and contemplating
the age old question 'Why does a zebu walk at midnight?'
They never had a chance to determine the true answer, which happens to be
Spam cubed, on account of an ear splitting scream from outside the cave.
Both cavemen snapped back to reality, or a close facsimile of it anyway,
and ran like Hippies out of an FFA meeting to the source of the scream.
Outside, a treewoman -- women tended to believe that caves were dark and
smelly, which they were, and so they preferred to live in trees -- sat cring-
ing on the ground, surrounded by three imposing figures.
Without warning, the three men yelled "Uno . . . dos . . . tres!" and
dropped their crushed-bug-purple colored robes.
What they revealed was indeed a terrifying sight. Well, to some at
least, and for those of you who like that kind of thing, please keep silent.
All three men were naked, totaly, completely, disgustingly naked. Every inch
of their bodies, except their heads and a four inch square box that was
marked 'for office use only' (I'll let you guess where), was covered with
tattoos of small, pink bunnies. These were actually a species of bloodsucking
bunnies which were notorious for taking small children and leaving a quantity
of multi-colored eggs in their place.
The tattooed men began to dance lop-sidedly around the women, shaking
rattles made from human skulls filled with Spam. As to why it made a rattling
noise is a long lost secret. The woman screamed and bolted between the danc-
ers, disappearing over a ridge.
Banana and Coconut were not the only ones there, in fact most of the
village was there, staring with a kind of fearful awe.
Except, of course, for Coconut. Oh, he was there, as you would know if
you were paying attention, but he stared with more of an interested awe than a
fearful one.
This irked the Frog dancers to no end. They could not abide anyone not
being afraid of them.
They immediately stopped dancing and closed in on Coconut.
Everyone backed away from Coconut, even Banana. The last person who had
interrupted an Immortal Frog dance had been Seemore Butts (ha, ha, you per-
verts). He ended up being Spammed, drowned in distilled Spam juice, for the
crime of celibacy. This was just a coincidence, but we hope you will drink
"OK" Soda anyway.
One of the Frog dancers was about to clobber Coconut with a zucchini,
when the Spam in his rattle suddenly gained a malicious intelligence and
devoured him. The others were not phased by this, things like that might not
happen every day, but something can happen quite often without happening every
day.
The remaining two Frog dancers had started toward Coconut, when one of
them suddenly exploded. This was quite shocking, for while that particular
had been known for his particularly strong flatulence, nothing like this had
happened to him before.
The last remaining Frog dancer dropped to his knees and yelled, "Oh,
please spare me great lord!"
This confused Coconut for he had nothing to do with what happened, but he
did know an opportunity when it kicked him in the butt, shaved his head, and
doused him in gasoline.
He looked down on the Immortal Frog dancer, summoned up all of his digni-
ty (which wasn't much) and said, "I will spare you on one condition!"
"Oh yes, great lord! anything!" exclaimed the Frog dancer, jumping to his
feet.
Coconut cleared his voice, "Why are you people called Immortal Frog
dancers if you've got tattoos of pink bunnies all over you?"
The Frog dancer jumped to his feet, outraged, "I cannot tell you that! It
is the sacred trust of we Immortal Frog dancers!"
In that subtle and crafty method that people you owe money to often use,
Coconut called the frog dancer's attention back to the reason he was in debt.
The Frog dancer glanced over to where the now maliciously intelligent
Spam had built a rocket out of tinker-toys and was beginning the count down
sequence. Sweat popped out on his forehead. He looked at his other companion
whose bowels were still burning with a foul, green, putrid, stinking, green
(oh wit, I mentioned that already) fire.
He made a small whimpering sound, and finally turned back to Coconut.
"All right, all right! I killed him! And I _enjoyed_ it!"
"What?!" asked Coconut perplexed.
"Oh! I mean, All right, all right! I never passed the final exam! I
don't know the answer!"
"How did you become an Immortal Frog dancer then?!" demanded Coconut
enraged. (Actually he was faking the anger, and pulling it off nicely.)
"Well . . . " said the Frog dancer meekly, whose name was Phill by the
way, "I bribed them."
"Really?" asked Coconut, "how much did that cost?"
"Well I got a great deal, it was $122.95 but I got it marked down to
$99.95."
"I guess I'll never know, will I?" Coconut asked glumly.
"Well actually," said the Frog dancer, "I can tell you how you can find
out.
"You must fix a can of Spam onto your head and run east," he said, point-
ing to the setting sun.
"If you come upon a turtle, you must tell it, 'I am a squid!' before
continuing on you way.
"After five days, you should come upon a forest. Go to the tallest tree
you can find and offer it a herring.
"After you have done this, a three foot tall man, who is a spitting image
of Fabio will appear. Ask him what two plus two is and he will say five, but
in a way that will make you understand."
"That's a lot of trouble just to find out why you people call yourselves
the Immortal Frog dancers," Coconut said worridly.
"Well, OK," the Frog dancer admitted, "there is another way. You must
think on this question until you know the answer. 'What would you rather
have, two tons of latex or two tons of squid legs?'"
EPiLOGUE
It is said that after many years, Coconut did know the answer, and became
the tribal medicine man. He was killed at age 32 1/2 when a giant were-
chicken attacked the zebu herd. This caused a stampede in which a butterfly
was crushed to death.
If the insect had lived, Coconut could have pulled off its wings and
boiled them to make an antidote for Spampox. A dreaded disease that he got
through a mail-order catalogue. Many historians believe that if he had lived,
he could have prevented the horrible fate of Glooth.
Author's note: It has occurred to me that not all of my readers know what a
zebu is. Well, if you care . . . look it up, any dictionary worth its Spam
will have it.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
The coffee's too hot out there.
--Richard Anglada, one of the Jurors who awarded $2.9 million to an
81-year-old given third degree burns by a cup of McDonald's coffee
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND
by Crux Ansata
Hello. My name is Ansat. No, I'm a Weather_Person_, a member of the
Weather Underground. We aren't 'Weathermen' anymore. Some idiot up the line
decided that to allow any women messed up enough to want to die beneath the
Pig's clubs alongside us was preferable to having the negative publicity of
being "sexist." We weren't "sexist;" let me tell you from experience, seeing
a sister crushed or bleeding in the street hurts a hell of a lot more than
seeing the same happen to a brother. But I digress.
I've come to speak here to dispel something. I've seen the Weather
Underground attacked by Left and Right alike as violent warmongers. Yes, it's
true we've gone to protests with clubs and chains. Yes, it's true we've been
known to provoke cops with such literary greats as "ONE TWO THREE FOUR WE
DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING WAR" or "PIGS EAT SHIT." Perhaps I should start with
myself.
I didn't join the Weathers because I like to hurt cops. I don't. Every
blow I land hurts, but it needs to get laid. They're humans too, man! Pris-
oners of the same system. I didn't join due to the ideology. I know people
who joined because they are willing to die for what they believe. In my own
way, I respect that. I just don't do it myself. I joined because of Bobbi.
Bobbi was perfect. I don't just mean her angel's face, or her body, or
how she was in bed. I don't just mean her personality, either, although there
was something to that. She was always the one helping whoever needed it. No,
the important part is her ideology. When her friends were reading Marx, she
was reading Gandhi, and really grokking it.
She was a pacifist. She opposed the war. She really loved people -- all
people. She was active opposing the war in the community and all, but when
she heard about Chicago, she thought they were on to something. She seemed
truly to think that if the world could be told what was wrong, they would stop
'Nam.
I don't know how she scraped together enough to make the trip. Hell, I
don't know how I pulled it off, and I had more Materialistic Kipple to liqui-
date. I'd never had any of those delusions about poverty being good. Anyway,
we got it together and went up. She was going to meet up with other pacifists
and they were going to set all right with the world. They would overcome. I
just wanted to be with her. No one expected Daley's welcoming party.
She met up with her group, and they started chanting. Most of them were
TMers, and the others were giving it a go. I guess they figured with the Phil
Ochs music and Yippies screwing in the woods there were enough good vibes to
meet Nirvana. Then they let the Pigs loose.
It's all chaos after that. There was a lot of running and screaming, and
the chanters were all across the park. Bobbi and most of here group just
stayed. Then the tear gas began. Protesters of all types were running past
by then, and the yellow cloud was chasing them like something out of a nuclear
apocalypse flick. The protesters went around the pacifists. The tear gas
went right into them. By this point half the group had fled. I was thinking
that wasn't so bad an idea, but I wasn't going to desert Bobbi.
'Bout that time I spotted that Concerned Clergymen group. They were
singing and praying and handing out water soaked napkins, some sort of low
cost chemical warfare defensive gear. I started taking some over to her group.
Needless to say, those napkins didn't work for long, and I was a one man
bucket brigade bridging the gap between the groups. That was the only reason
I didn't get there in time. I was on about the third or fourth returning
trip, about sixty feet from her, when the Pigs hit. And hit. And hit.
It's hard to be forewarned when you can't see for the gas and the tears
and you can't hear for the bullhorns and the screams of, and for, fallen
comrades. That, and she was in front. She said she wasn't afraid. She
couldn't see the cops going after people who were just chanting. The Yippies
or the SDS sure, she could see the police arresting a few of them, the leaders
and the agitators. But she was doing no wrong. But she was wrong.
Then, though, no one saw Chicago coming. America became a lot less
innocent then. The police and Mayor Daley took the Left's Virginity, and laid
us waste.
All that aside, though, it still seems in my fuddled memory almost as if
they purposely aimed for her. She was without a doubt one of the first to go
down. Most of the others were scrambling away, and most of the handful that
stayed I'm sure would have fled had they not been felled.
And you know what? No one was protecting them. The girl I loved was
lying bloody beneath Chicago's finest, and no one cared. Except the Weather-
men. I don't know why the pacifists just deserted her. I suppose if a thug
kills you you get good Karma and aren't resurrected as a cockroach or a pre-
cious Mao button to be distributed to the poor in the Region of Thud. Either
way, they let her go down. Then a Weather unit showed up.
This was before we were so armed. Or I should say "they"; I wasn't one
yet. They came out of the mists and put their bodies between the pigs and the
wounded, and they pushed back while the Concerned Clergymen dragged off the
bodies. I didn't care about their politics, only their actions. They were
fighting for the oppressed, against losing odds. They were doing right.
I know I should have stayed with her. I know I should have cradled her
head while she died. But I couldn't just kiss her goodbye, just watch her
bleed. I was up with the Weathermen, pushing back. We held them back long
enough that it took forever to find out where those priests had spirited her
off to. After we withdrew, one of the Underground helped me to find her.
So that's why I'm a Weather Person. I do not want to see another boy-
friend have to identify a bloody carcass that once was the most beautiful girl
to ever float across the ground in a makeshift morgue in an elementary school.
I don't want another person to have to notify distraught parents that their
Government had clubbed their little girl to death in a defense of their free-
dom to be drafted, their freedom to see their babies shipped halfway across
the world to kill another family's babies.
Think of that next time the news shows angry protesters battling the
police. If we are fighting the Pigs, its just because we hope to protect
someone who needs it. If we're chanting against the Kops, its so that they
beat us and not the pacifists. Not the priests. Not the angels.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE TWiST
compiled by Gore BrainRot
[Editor's note: This document has been left in its original format, since it
was originally a grouping of posts on a BBS to keep its raw feel.]
CHAPTER ONE
Unexpectedly the typewriter a
t Watson's right hand turned into a huge
roach with a talking anus for a mouth. "HOLMES!! The owls are not what they
seem" hissed the typewriter.
Watson started mooing likea bull in heat and ripped off a whore's face
and to everyone's surprise she was really Franz Kafka. William S. Bourroughs
walked into the room with a hand gun and proceeded to put a golden apple on
Holmes's head.
BLAM! Watson came out of his drug induced hallucination and realized that
two things, one was that when Holmes lights that special incense of his
strange things happened and secondly that Kafka was really Dr. Moriaty in
disguise. His first shot had missed Holmes because Moriaty had a bad crack
habit and was in need of a fix and thus his hands were shaking. Holmes still
thinking that Moriaty was Kafka says, "Interzone, Internet, Interfuck."
Watson stabs Moriaty in the heart with one of Holmes' empty syringes. The air
bubble in his heart killed him instantly. Suddenly there is a loud whirring
noise from outside the small English residence and the room began filling with
Cybermen.
Watson turns to jump out of the only window in the room but comes face to
face with Aeon flux standing there gun in hand, but its all right she is
already dead in this episode. She was impaled on a coat hook. Watson flies
through the side door onto the street and gets into his 1990 jaguar and drives
away. He then realizes that cars have not been invented and he is having an
opium flashback, and the entire time he thought he was driving away he was
standing in the living room making car sounds and hacking the hookers head off.
He then put the bloody axe in Sherlock's dead hands and said, "Solve this
one mother fucker!"
Immpossibly, just as those words left his mouth, Holmes jumped up and
raped Watson. Holmes screamed into Watson's ear, "SQUEAL LIKE A PIG! BOY,
SQUEAL LIKE UH PIG!"
Then Odorous awakens!
Odorous Urungus then came to and realized that dream was the strangest
jack off fantasy he had ever had! He felt so ashamed that he cut his penis
off, strange thing though, his girlfriend never noticed!
Virgo cried all night when Odorous told her the problem... She didn't cry
because he cut his dick off... but she cried because he never told her the
truth... and because this was one of the few times a year that he comes
over... Then Virgo recovered quickly and decided to seek out this strange
Sherlock Holmes that Odorous kept babbling about.
She put on her standard floppy hat, patchwork jacket and bell bottoms
headed out for the main street. The rain was cold and blew hard against her
shaking body and she trudged through garbage and mud puddles, her glasses were
useless and the rain filled them with droplets of blindness.
At once she saw a light.
Silacious Crumb and Peter Pendragon in the Awful Green Rice Rocket.
Having been to another raucous party and quite drunk, the two intrepid
adventures traveled down the road towards the lonely Virgo. As they rounded
the bend, there stood poor unfortunate Virgo, frozen stiff in the light like a
stunned opossum.
And then the drunken Peter Pendragon said, "Where the hell are we?"
With a confident smile Silacious turned him and said, "You wanna see
something scary?" As the two raced down the road at break neck speeds, our
heroin stands in the road stunned and contemplating.
Quickly she exclaims "Where's my compass? I need my compass!" North,
East, South, West. N)ever E)at S)hredded W)heat
She remembered the proper way of remembering directions, as taught by
JENNEr, just as Aeon flux pushes Virgo out of the way of the Awful Green Rice
Rocket at the last instant. But, much to her dismay, Aeon is smashed flat by
the Awful Green Rice Rocket. Her automatic resurrection device activates and
revives here there on the spot, but as soon as she stands up, a large Little
Debbie Snack Cakes van hits her from behind. The van ended up smashing her
flatter than before. She gets up again fully healed ( what would she do
without her resurrection device?) Little did she know, she had staggered next
to the railroad crossing. She was still slightly dazed from the double-
resurrection when a train ran off its tracks flies thorough the air, hurtling
directly through here upper abdominal area (a record Aeon Flux has died three
times in one episode.) And then the screen fades black and a picture of a
golden apple fills the screen and a hollow metallic voice says "Enter
Universal Access Number now!"
"Enter Universal access number now!" A hollow metallic voice repeated.
Virgo, in a frequent but small bout of mental incapacity, screamed into the
fog "Is JOHN LENNON THERE?"
By the time she thought about what she had said, and what made her
decide to say it, it was too late. Another metallic voice came to here from
the nothingness of her mind and said, calmly, but somehow unsure of itself,
"The Walrus was Paul"
By that time her small but frequent bout of mental incapacity (usually
called a brain fart) ended and she reentered into the faux- reality that was
her life.
She decided to ignore (as she always does) her mindless babbling and
continue on the search of this Holmes or Watson or Bobbitt guy, whoever had
removed (at least what Mr. U calls it) Won Eyed Willy the Wonder Worm (HEY
ROCKY! yes Bullwinkle? You wanna see me pull a one eyed purple headed worm
out of my pants? NOT AGAIN!), A.K.A. the Paynissssss of Odorous Urungus (NOT
THE GWAR GUY, that's the Cuttlefish of Cthulhu).
She crossed the thin line between the not-so-nice-side-of-town and the
not-quite-as-nice-as-the-not-so-nice-side-of-town and knew, where she was,
there was only one or two other places not-quite-as-nice as where she is so
she was relieved that she was not completely at the bottom.
Off in the distance she spots another light through the dark tunnel of
buildings and fog. She approaches it (for unlike certain Awful Green Rice
Rockets, this light was not hurtling towards her at warp speed) and she
discovered (much to her non-dismay) it was Theopholus's Milk Bar/Laundromat/
Convenience Store/Penis Relocation Detective Agency.
She cautiously opens the door and walks into a typical cinderblock
building that most junior food stores, cheap bars and crack houses are
constructed to resemble (all to the masters plan.) She politely walks up to
the girl behind the counter in her best Lisa Loeb walk, or shall I say glide,
and says "I am looking for a penis." in slightly confused manner.
The girl straightens the paper cap on her head on says, "Aren't we all
honey, but I think I know what you mean."
She gestures to the back room. She walks up to a large wooden door
marked private. Sauntering enter the room, her expression changed to the best
I have lost a penis and want to find it expression, to match her walk. She
sees a large room brightly lit with banks of computers and penis detection
equipment lining the walls. A well dressed man sitting behind a large antique
desk acknowledges her presence with a almost nonexistent nod. She notices the
autographed picture of Lorena Bobbit on the desk and a copy of 'Penis Finders
Today' on the desk open to page 25.
In an almost trance like state she says, "I am looking for a penis" She
decides that the man sitting behind the resembles "mother" form the avengers.
He says "How can I help you young lady?" Apparently not hearing her
previous statement.
Suddenly she feels her face flush and her temperature raise about 10
degrees. "The wall, the walls are...they are stretching and groaning and
bending and warping," she thinks outloud to "Mother" behind the desk," and
moving in towards me." Her voice was getting higher as she spoke.
She tries to focus on the man in front of her only to see his face is
also warping and distorting as if she is in a huge oven.
His warping face manages to make the words float to her, "Dontcha just
hate it when this happens! I always have to get my desk revarnished after
things like this!"
The woman who showed her in abruptly grabs the back of the chair and
Virgo realizes she is in a wheel chair. She is wheeled down a dark hall,
voices whisper to her out of the darkness. She hears a hysterical laugh
somewhere in the distance, and is comforted by these somehow familiar
surroundings.
Instantly all is black. She wakes up in a white room in a white bed very
peacefully, though feeling as if a train wreck had taken place in her head.
She starts to get up and leave when the covers fall back and reveal that
she is now the proud owner of Odorous......
Virgo for an instant slips into a parallel universe. Well it seemed like
an instant to the people from where she left but to her it was a lot longer.
How much longer she knows not, just that the events that happened there
changed her life and her perceptions of it for ever. She was in a room, a
bedroom with a four poster bed. The floor and bed was lined with silk, sheets
on the bed, pillows on the floor. Then Aeon Flux enters the room with a risk
game and they play for hours.
---
[Compiler's Note: All Copyrighted names appear without permission and are not
intended to mislead the reader that these names are licensed for use in the
story.
This story is made up of posts from the National Midget Resistance
(205)478-5152 and compiled by Gore BrainRot (sysop of the Erisian Liberation
Front (205)343-8335) @4120 WWIVnet
I would like to thank the following for allowing this story to be submitted:
Bacchus, JENNEr, S'pange, Baphomet (sysop NMR), Virgo, Silacious Crumb,
Gore Brainrot (me), Aeon Flux, Hardo, Yellow Pocket Change, >UNKNOWN<
Thanks to one and all.]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
If a God has made this world, I should hate to be that God, for the misery of
the world would break my heart.
--Arthur Schopenhauer
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE GRAVE-SiDE POOL
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless,
Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless;
Little white flowers will never awaken you,
Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you,
Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
Would they be angry if I thought of joining you,
Gloomy Sunday!
--From "Gloomy Sunday", by Laszlo Javor, Sam M. Lewis, and Rezso Seress
Catherine had just turned eighteen when Robert was killed. A "freak
accident" they called it, an "act of God", but were it an act of God it was an
act of a very cruel God indeed, for they were to have been married not a
fortnight after Robert died; now, instead of the Bride's white she would be
wearing the black of deep mourning, a colour reserved for those thrice her
age; instead of tossing a bouquet to her laughing friends she would be tossing
one on her fiancee's coffin.
For days after he was interred Catherine was hardly seen but in the
cemetery, either praying beside his grave or walking the path which runs the
dark pool in the grave-yard's centre, near-blinded by her tears. This pond
was an ancient one, fed by cold-water springs somewhere deep below the still
surface, existing even in Pagan times when this was rumoured to be a sacrifi-
cial spot, re-consecrated for more holy uses by the Christian missions who
founded the cemetery. Indeed, a child is said to have found a stone with
strange carvings etched by primitive hands while playing along the water's
edge, a stone which, when seen by the village Deacon while strolling in the
market square, was snatched and ground underfoot with such force so as to
frighten the child into fleeing from the kindly man for fear of life and Soul.
However, such strange legends and stranger facts are, so as to retain sanity,
usually ignored by the villagers in these parts; they who prefer to live the
guarded and sane lives lived by their ancestors before them.
On the Sunday after Robert's interring, as Catherine walked her path
along the pool's edge, Catherine stopped to gaze into the pool's depths, and
suddenly the still waters were disturbed by new-fallen tears for there, ges-
turing towards her, was Robert, imprisoned beneath the glass-like surface.
Upset by the hallucination, Catherine pressed her hands to her eyes until
sharp needles of pain went through them and yet, upon opening, there was
Robert, still just out of reach beneath the pools surface, crying out to her.
His wails, though urgent and insisting, fell silent on her ears, for upon
death ties of communication had been severed between them and, despite the
love between them, despite her longing to understand, nothing could make this
denizen of the Living understand the speech of the Dead.
Day after day she returned to the pool, where she stayed, pining with
grief, until it was too dark to see the Shade and his desperate pleading any-
more, and day after day she went home her face tear-streaked, her eyes red-
dened. As the days drew on, with the couple's futile attempts to communicate,
the villagers discussed among themselves the dilemma of Catherine's insanity
("Ever since that man o' her's died she's been over at that there pond acryin'
away -- 'tain't healthy"), and they mutually decided that, for her own safety,
she must be detained. So, on the Friday following Robert's first appearance,
Catherine's grieving parents arranged for a twenty-four hour watch on her
door. Thus Catherine was left to weep in her room and ponder the tearful
spectre's message.
At about one or two o'clock in the morning the Sunday following Robert's
appearance, Catherine entered into a purple shrouded dream, sent as if in
answer to her tearful ponderings. She dreamt that, as she walked along the
side of the pool peering into the depths, Robert suddenly joined her and,
*whispering into her ear that which she must do to be able to interpret that
which in all her vigils she could not and, upon awakening, she determined to
carry out that which she now knew she must do. Sneaking past the sleeping
guard, she hurried out to the cemetery where, upon making sure there were no
observers and no worry of "saving", she cast herself amid the waters of the
ancient pool, and never again saw the light of this World.
The following Sunday her bloated body was found by the sexton floating
gently upon the surface of the pool as he skimmed Autumnal leaves from the
dark surface. She was buried shortly thereafter in the plot beside Robert in
the old cemetery, her burial shortly being succeeded by that of the negligent
guard who awoke several nights after the finding of the body to the insistent
knockings of a masked mob upon his door, a mob carrying a stout hemp rope
which would be the last thing he would feel.
They are together now, living in a World of which waking men know noth-
ing, speaking in that language known only to Dreamers, Mystics, and Necromanc-
ers, as they are bound by ties which are stronger than marriage, which last
longer than "till death do us part."
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by
the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated
without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete
and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be
freely used so long as due recognition is provided. State of unBeing is
available at the following places:
iSiS UNVEiLED 512.930.5259 14.4 (Home of SoB)
THE LiONS' DEN 512.259.9546 24oo
ftp to io.com /pub/SoB
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>. Thank you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
