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State of unBeing 27
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 TWENTY-SEVEN tahw ro woh gniwonk
to think. You are in 06/30/96 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 LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
MiND PROBE #4, Part B
Crux Ansata, Political Autobiography in the
Bowels of the Apocalypse Culture Complex Noni Moon
HAPPiLY COMMERCIALiSiNG EVERYTHiNG, PART 2
THE DiCTiON OF MONEY MAKING THROUGH HYPOCRiSY Belgrave
WHY THE GOVERNMENT iS AFRAiD OF ENCRYPTiON Demosthenes
[=- POETRiE -=]
iN THE MiRROR OF HER EYES Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
[=- FiCTiON -=]
MARSHALL GETS A MiNDFUCK I Wish My Name Were Nathan
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Wow, it's summer and there's an issue coming out. Amazing, isn't it,
that I'm not being the lazy ass that I was last summer? I thought you'd be
happy.
Apparently, the lack of submissions that we experienced last summer isn't
going to happen. Sure, we've only got five things in this issue, but at
160k, I'd say some people are doing some heavy writing. For that, I am
extremely grateful.
I don't really have much to say for this issue. I'm just happy one is
coming out. Noni relates her story about being abducted by ansat, Belgrave
talks some more about advertising, and Nathan gives us another
big-ass-yet-cool story. We also have a new writer, Demosthenes, who talks
about the government and encryption.
Anyway, this being the longest summer issue we've ever had, I'll make
this the shortest editorial we've ever had. Besides, Styx wants to go do
something. See ya next month.
--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
Belgrave
Demosthenes
Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Noni Moon
--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--
MiND PROBE #4, Part B
Crux Ansata, Political Autobiography in the Bowels of the Apocalypse
Culture Complex
by Noni Moon
When I came to, I was staring up at the head and shoulders of a man in
what appeared to be a white lab coat wearing one of those stupid stickers
drunk guys wear at conventions for Masonic groups named after big animals
which read: "HI, I'M: The best head in the Western world." Needless to say,
I knew immediately where I was, but was kind of surprised to be clothed.
Nemo was on hand and helped me off the hospital bed, which Doctor Graves
rolled down the hall, and muttered something about meeting ansat in his
office. We passed a secretary and entered into an oddly large hallway.
NM: I hadn't realized the State of unBeing offices would be so large.
NeS: Well, these are actually the offices for the whole of the Apocalypse
Culture empire. You know, printing, movies, everything. Deep in the
heart of this building, we have even moved the old BBS iSiS UNVEiLED into
a computer Bobbi accidentally removed from a CiA location. We would put
it back up as a BBS, but we can't for the life of us find where to put
the modem in. We have a great time playing Cyberspace on it, though.
NM: Whoa! Are they going to hang that guy?!
NeS: You think just because there's someone standing on a chair, there's
automatically going to be a hanging?
NM: Well, he did have a noose around his neck, and he did have a hood over
his head.
NeS: Oh yeah. That. Well, you see, Captain Moonlight taught us that the
best way to get submissions for the zine is through brute force. That,
or threats. Clockwork, well, Clockwork just hasn't been living up to his
contract. Kilgore is just trying to scare the begeezus out of him, to
get him to be a bit more productive.
NM: Does it work?
NeS: When was the last time you saw something by Clockwork in the zine?
That's what I thought. No, Moonlight got results that way. Kilgore just
doesn't have the heart for it. He wouldn't hurt a fly, and Clockwork
knows it. Kilgore's just a big pushover. Off the record, of course.
NM: Of course. He won't hear it from me.
By this time, we had reached ansat's office. It was pretty simple. He
was seated behind a desk with a copy of The Origin of Satan, by Elaine Pagels,
propped up in front of his face. Stacks of papers were on the desk and floor,
and a bookshelf, mostly with reference or religious materials, sat behind him.
On the desk was an attractive glass cross with a glass rose at the center.
As Nemo exited, closing the door behind him, ansat looked up.
CA: I'd like to talk about roller coasters for a moment.
NM: Uh, ok.
CA: Just kidding. I brought you back here because I decided I wanted to talk
about politics. And because I like playing with the heads of the cops.
Mostly for the politics, though. I don't like to talk too much in
public, but you seemed pretty trustworthy.
NM: Is that why you knocked me out and brought me here?
CA: <Laughing> Well, we can't have you knowing the secret location of the
State of unBeing offices, can we? Who knows who wants to have that kind
of information? You can't be too careful.
NM: Ok. Well. What did you want to talk about.
Uh, is your boot ringing?
CA: Yup. Kilgore issued all us writers nifty shoe phones so we could keep in
contact. It even has a modem port. I didn't like that electronic
beeping sound, though, so I had the heel hollowed out and put in a real,
honest to goodness ringer from an old pulse phone. Groovy. Just a
minute; I'll put it on speaker phone.
Hello?
Captain Moonlight: Hey, ansat, do you remember when that Beavis and Butt-head
moronathon was supposed to come on?
CA: Um, no. What's today?
CM: I don't remember. Oh, well. Say, did Kilgore tell you when the State of
unBeing offices are going to be finished?
CA: Two weeks. Just like always.
CM: Ok. Let me know. This box he gave me in the middle of highway 183 was
cool for a while, but it's not so cool anymore.
CA: You got your shoe phone, what more do you want?
CM: Just let me know when it's done. Bye. <Hangs up>
NM: He lives in a box in the middle of the road?
CA: Lives? Of course not. He just works there. He's not too happy about
it, and that's why you haven't seen much from him in recent issues, but
Kilgore and I want to see how long we can play this out before he figures
out that we finished this place months ago. We just tell him it has two
more weeks whenever he asks.
NM: Don't you think that's kind of, well, cruel?
CA: Yup. Now, what was I saying?
NM: Roller coasters.
CA: Oh, yeah. I was going to tell you my political autobiography.
NM: Yeah. Tell me how you came to be an anarcho-communist with national
socialist tendencies.
CA: That was hours ago. I'm not so sure that's what I believe any more.
NM: Do you always change so fast?
CA: I try. You see, I don't know what is "the answer," so I try believing a
number of different answers. Someday, I hope I'll stumble across the
right one.
I suppose I should clear the air first and tell you where I am coming
from; what I believe right now. I am an anarcho-communist Catholic.
That does not mean I am a Marxist; I am not. To cover my entire
political philosophy in one sentence: I believe men are not inherently
evil but are inherently fallen, thus they do not inherently need laws --
other than those already written on their hearts -- nor do they need
repression or the State, and if they could be brought to proper
understanding of the truth and make an honest effort, they could live in
true peace -- not forced peace -- without controlling forces. As
Terrence McKenna has said: If the truth can be told so as to be
understood, it will be believed. I understand that this is Utopian, and
I do not think this could be achieved in its totality in this world. I
do think, though, that we can work towards it in small groups, or
communes. I believe we should seek what's right, not necessarily what
works.
Whew. Glad that's out of the way. Now, where should I start?
NM: Start at the beginning.
CA: A very good place to start.
First, there were the dinosaurs.
NM: Let's start a bit later than that, okay?
CA: Okay. I was born at a very young age.
NM: <Laughs> Something we have in common.
CA: <Laughs> Yes, well, I don't know anything about your past. Sometime
you'll have to let one of us interview you and we can get to know you
better.
I don't think I'll bore you with my whole life. I'll just touch on a
couple of parts.
NM: Thank you.
CA: Should I be offended? Don't answer that. Long speech time.
I think the big influence on my political life from my childhood came
from the fact I grew up in a military environment. While my
contemporaries in Generation X were growing up in the suburbs learning
break dancing and wearing increasingly expensive shoes -- or so I gather
from the retrospectives -- I was living on air force bases in England and
Florida. My father's job -- and the job of all the fathers of all the
kids I played with, all our neighbors -- was to prepare to die. My
father did not work for money; my father worked for an ideal. That
aspect really shaped my life.
I was brought up believing there are things worth dying for. Not that
there are things so bad that it is better to die than experience; that is
a self-centered revisionist version of what I'm saying. There are ideals
worth dying for in and of themselves. I was brought up on Thomas
Jefferson and Thomas Paine, on John Hancock and George Washington. I was
brought up that it is a virtue to be willing to lay down your life for
true freedom. Not the freedom to print pornography or the freedom to
kill your children, like the open battles are for in the civilian
community, but the freedom to travel without an internal passport, the
freedom to have an honest wage, the freedom to believe as you want and to
raise your children free of government dictates. These are all freedoms
that are being eroded here in the States while we whine at each other
over Maplethorpe's supposed freedom of speech and the imagined freedom to
burn the flag. My father and my community was structured around the
basic premise that it is better to die than to be a slave, and that there
needs to be those who are willing to die lest others become slaves. I
think that shows up in my writing, as well as my philosophy. There is
right, and this right is superior to life itself.
NM: Wow.
CA: Actually, that's a lot of hogwash. I'm Celtic -- Irish and Breton. We
are the men that God made mad. Our wars are merry; our songs are sad.
We like to dream, and we like to fight, and when the two meet we sing
about it.
NM: I think I like the first one better.
CA: Believe whichever one you like. They're both true.
In any case, my father also taught me two things that seem to be a
paradox. One was that he taught me always to check my sources. I can
still remember when I was about seven or eight when he was showing me the
bibliography and index and the like in one of Bronowski's books. That
wasn't the first time I was exposed to that kind of thing, of course.
This came about because he thought I was putting too much confidence in a
source.
The other thing he taught me, though, was to listen to everybody.
Someone might be dead wrong, but you can still learn by reading him, and
you'll have a hard time knowing if and how he is wrong without doing so.
NM: Listen, but don't blindly follow.
CA: Something like that.
NM: So where does the "Catholic" come in?
CA: I was raised Catholic by both parents, but I learned the faith --
lowercase "f" faith, not uppercase "F" Faith -- from my mother. (I
learned the uppercase one from both.) My religious odyssey would take
another interview, at least, so I'll just leave that the way it is.
NM: And I suppose your parents were anarcho-communists, too?
CA: No. They generally vote Republican. Like most kids, I followed my
parents' line for years, until I reached Junior High. I thought a lot
during the 1988 election. I did not like George Bush. I pretty much
wanted anyone but George Bush in the office. I went Republican,
Democrat, Independent, reactionary, liberal, conservative, over and over
that year and for the next few.
The systems that had the most appeal were feudalist or meritocratic, but
I never really found the "right" one. I still haven't, but I have found
the one I choose to support.
NM: Meritocratic how?
CA: Well, it always seemed intuitive to me that there are some people who are
just better leaders than others, not necessarily because they can con
more people into following them, but also because they were just right.
The logistics of finding the best people was what stumped me. I thought
about technocracy or some meritocracy based on intellect, but none of
them seemed right. With my anarcho-communism, I basically gamble that
the good will of the people will allow the best people to rise to the
top.
Anyway, during the Gulf War I fell in with the Communists. We ran some
candidates for Student Council on the Student Anti-Racist Coalition
ticket. That was about a year or two before parties were banned at my
old high school. We did have a candidate or two win, but overall the
coalition was shaky at best, made up as it was of one true Communist, a
handful of Marxists, an anarchist fringe element, and so on. Over time,
I found that I could not believe in Communism. The break occurred over a
debate between myself and the head of the coalition as to which should be
primary: freedom or virtue. I held for freedom, he held for virtue.
Since then, I have found that I cannot accept any form of Marxism because
it is founded on dialectical materialism, and I am fundamentally a
theist.
NM: What's wrong with dialectical materialism?
CA: I don't have a problem with the dialectics. That's pretty much morally
neutral in my book. I have a problem with the materialism. It is a
useful model, but it fails to account for the spiritual element of
reality. As such, it is an inherently flawed basis for a world view. It
would be like trying to go through life with one eye, or one hand, or one
testicle.
After the fall out with the Communists, I drifted for a while, coasting
again through the spectrum, and ended up falling in with the anarchist
fringe more or less. Over the next few years I came to understand my
political philosophy as anarcho-communism in the Kropotkin style, but
without the materialism and anti-clericism that Kropotkin inherited from
the Marxism of his time.
NM: Whoa. In English, please.
CA: I like Kropotkin's anarcho-communism, but I am not a materialist and I
don't hate priests.
NM: Thanks.
CA: No problem.
About a year or so ago, I decided to look up Lyndon LaRouche on the net.
I had heard about him, but I had never really heard what he believed or
what he taught. All I had heard was that he was a nut. As I went
looking for some stuff by him, I found some stuff about him, and I
noticed that he was called "fascist". (He was called other things, too,
notably "anti-Semite", but it was "fascist" that caught my eye.) Now, as
the good leftist, anarchist, relative liberal I was, I thought, "Fascism
is bad." Unlike most people, I did not think, "LaRouche is accused of
being a fascist, therefore LaRouche is bad." I thought, "I wonder why
they are calling him that. I wonder if that's true."
That got me thinking something even more fundamental: "What is fascism?"
Once I realized I didn't even know what "fascism" was, and saw that the
dictionaries didn't much help, I discovered that I was not believing
"fascism is bad" because it is; I was believing it because it was what I
was supposed to believe. Today, I don't know whether fascism is bad or
not. Today, I find fascism is an emotional hate word, not a true
description of anybody's political stance.
Investigating "What is fascism, and why is it bad?" led me along some
paths I had never trod before, notably the "Why is National Socialism
bad?" and "Why is racism bad?" paths. I have found that people are not
supposed to think about these kinds of things. They are taboo. People
are supposed to grovel and whine and apologize abundantly if anyone even
implies they are "racists."
NM: Excuse me. Your boot's ringing again.
CA: So it is. Excuse me. <To phone> No. That's right, I'm not going to
give you the money. I don't care if you do break my kneecaps. That's
right. The middle of 183. I'm the one in the box. Yeah, I dare you to.
Fine.
NM: What was that all about?
CA: Bookie. Somehow he got it into his head that I was betting on something
that didn't do too well. He's completely wrong, though. I won't admit
to betting on a losing team.
NM: But wasn't that Moonlight's address?
CA: Moonlight can take care of himself. Don't worry about it. I'll just
tell Kilgore someone's threatening to rough up one of his writers, and
he'll send down some thugs. Now, where were we?
NM: Do you mind being called a "racist?"
CA: Sticks and stones, Noni, sticks and stones.
NM: I'm being serious.
CA: So am I. What does "racist" mean? When you ask people, the few that can
formulate an intelligible response tend to all have their own definition.
The only thing they all agree on, generally, is "Racism is bad."
NM: Isn't it?
CA: I don't know. I don't think very many people do know. The point I am
trying to make here is that we cannot discuss it dispassionately in this
society. When you defend a position like that, you hear the gears slowly
grind to a halt and the person you are talking to's eyes go out. It is
beyond their comprehension that somebody doesn't turn submissive when
such an accusation is raised.
NM: So no one can tell whether racism is bad because we have been so
programmed to believe it is?
CA: Exactly. We are incapable of rational thought on the subject. It is
essentially beyond our intellectual capacity to decide.
NM: That doesn't sound like our society.
CA: No. It sounds like some theocratic society, right? Some
pre-Enlightenment society. Some non-humanist society, illiberal society.
The last four hundred years have not freed us from prejudices. We have
just taken on new ones. Fundamentalist materialism. Fundamentalist
egalitarianism. No more proven than the medieval prejudices -- no more
proven than the systems of headhunters in Borneo or pygmies in Africa --
but held with the same fanatical, blind faith.
We are not guided by reason, like the forces that want to control us want
us to believe. We do not have "freedom or choice" when we cannot
conceive of all the options. How can we have "freedom of speech" when we
do not even know the words to cry out? We are guided by selfishness and
hate, not by reason at all.
There are a lot of emotional hate words that serve to limit debate in our
society: Nazi, Commie, fascist, anti-Semite, racist, homophobe, right-
winger, fundamentalist, etc. Go down that list and ask yourself honestly
how many of those positions you can rationally refute, and how many just
are emotional triggers or preprogrammed "x is wrong" triggers.
NM: You sound like you are saying the same kinds of things that the left-
wingers have been saying for decades.
CA: If they've been saying the same thing for decades, they're either right,
or they're stuck.
I am saying the same thing that some radicals have said throughout time.
The problem is, the so-called radical positions have been co-opted by the
system. To be a "rebel" or "alternative" or "open-minded" is to conform,
so long as you "question" only what, and in what direction, is permitted.
Free thought is mandated. Most of the options, though, are forbidden.
An issue of the Baffler said it best, in reference to music: Alternative
to what?
The main difference, though, is this: The left-wingers may be big into
street theater and court theater and everything, but for real, moving
theater, no one can touch the Nazis. Hands down.
NM: So, our society is just as closed as any other.
CA: In trying to be wise, they have made themselves fools. It is not against
people, but against powers, which we struggle. The powers of
selfishness, of atrophy.
In a world where half the political spectrum is verboten, to force people
to open their minds you have to go in the other direction. Keep asking
questions. Why is censorship wrong? Why is hate wrong? If you can't
answer those, perhaps you shouldn't believe them.
It should really tell you something about the open-mindedness of our
society that the Pope can go to Islamic fundamentalist nations, meet the
political and religious leaders, and disagree with them like they were
all rational human beings. They can find points of agreement and points
of disagreement, and leave as friends. When the Pope comes to these
bastions of free-thought, here in the so-called free West, what does he
find? In Germany, he is pelted with paint bombs and the homosexuals and
humanists have a blasphemous Black Mass. In the U.S., every time he
visits there are organized protests by atheists and homosexuals to make
certain that no one thinks we free-thinkers want anyone to think anything
we disapprove of. America is the land of opportunity. The system wants
to keep it singular.
With some people, the more intellectually honest, you can get them to
begin talking about even forbidden topics. You can ask them: "Do you
believe there is any difference between the races?" The most brainwashed
will say there isn't, but most will have to concede there is some
difference. If there wasn't, we wouldn't have a concept of race. There
is a difference, even as superficial a difference as different color
alone, or just a traditional difference or political difference. Once
they accept that there is a difference, you can ask: "Do you think there
is a physical difference?" Again, the intellectually honest have to
answer that there is. Skin is physical, and if the skin is a different
color, there is a physical difference. They will be highly
uncomfortable, but they have to admit it. Past that, you get into the
possibilities. "Why do you believe this? Is it because it is proven,
because it is ideological, or because you emotionally cannot handle the
other possibilities?"
NM: And what have you decided?
CA: I will tell you honestly: In most cases, I simply do not know. What I
do know is we will never find the answers if we are afraid to ask the
questions. I think we should be able to wonder whether there are
differences between the races -- and be happy if there are, for a world
where everyone was the same is certainly not my idea of a workers'
paradise. Or National Socialism. In the ideal world, I should be able
to approach someone, take either the position it is good or it is bad,
and bat it around for a while dispassionately. We should both learn
something, and leave friends. I don't know if it is good or bad, or what
parts are good and which are bad, but I know we cannot openly discuss
that anything about it is good in today's political climate.
I've been playing the racist national socialist schtick for about a year
now, though, and it's getting old. I'll have to find some new way to
shock people into thinking.
Shame on you.
NM: What?
CA: You let me get on my soapbox again. You are supposed to be controlling
the interview.
NM: Sorry. What do you expect me to say?
CA: Nothing, I suppose. I was just running out of things to say.
I guess what I am trying to get across is that the so-called liberals in
this society are nothing of the sort, and the free-thinkers are as much
slaves of their assumptions as anyone else. I really get irritated by
secular humanists and liberals who claim to be "open minded" or
"multicultural" who can't defend something like National Socialism or
racism. You need not agree with it, but if you can't even
dispassionately discuss it, you can't in good conscience claim to oppose
it.
You know what?
NM: What.
CA: I've run out of things to say. I have nothing more to say, ever.
Again, everything went black as a bag was pulled over my head and I felt
the prick of a needle. Hours later I came to, sitting behind the wheel of my
car.
Closing thoughts: Interviewing Crux made my head hurt. I think that
might have been the effects of the drugs, though. He seemed a bit less light
than the others I have interviewed so far, and was prone to speeches.
On the other hand, I'm definitely winning brownie points with the big KT
for this article....
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"The anarchist is the enemy of humanity, the enemy of all mankind."
-- Teddy Roosevelt
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
HAPPiLY COMMERCIALiSiNG EVERYTHiNG, PART 2
THE DiCTiON OF MONEY MAKING THROUGH HYPOCRiSY
by Belgrave
A whole new dictionary has been created by those who make money by
creating a world of false desires and needs for the modern day consumer to
inhabit. This dictionary is not official: it is unwritten but adhered to by
all those who prey on the oblivious minds of the consumer.
1.1 Ambiguity
Certain parts of this dictionary are based upon abiguity, where someone
creates a phrase or word group to place on the packaging of products or into
advertising that are slightly misleading. These word groups or phrases may not
have anything to do with the product itself, but they associate these 'splash
phrases' with the product by incorporating them into the packaging or
advertising. The consumer takes these words as gospel and includes them into
their view of the product.
The phrases or word groups are normally very descriptive and are selected
so as to conjure up visions into the head of the consumer. Like washing
powders being described as 'making your clothes as fresh as a summer breeze.'
I do not have any idea what the two words 'Summer' and 'Breeze' have to do
with washing your clothes. That is, unless they are selected to make the
consumer think that by purchasing this product will make mundane tasks fun and
'like a summer breeze'.
Ambiguous terms in this dictionary are normally linked with very emotive
advertising as described above, to take the focus from the purchase, and
giving you that 'warm fuzzy feeling'.
1.2 Oxymoronisms
From this same "un-written dictionary of terms", we have the
Oxymoronisms. Terms which contradict themselves, but carefully constructed to
seem as if they don't. How often do you properly pay attention to those
words, usually in a bright yellow or orange, printed in a font which slants on
a 45 degree angle? I know that I don't look closely at them unless I make an
effort to do so because they have just become such an integral part of the
packaging and the advertising. These oxymoronic terms also creep into the
product spiels which are invariant in today's consumer society. The easiest
way of outlining this form of money making diction is to quote from the song
'Television, The Drug Of The Nation', by The Disposable Heroes of Hypocrisy:
"Where oxymoronic language like 'virtually spotless' 'fresh frozen' 'light yet
filling' and 'military intelligence Have become standard."
At face value, any oxymoronism-based product promotion doesn't seem to be
contradictory, but when you break the phrases down, the wording supremely
contradicts itself. Let's try an experiment to prove this. Using the
advertising phrase "Virtually Spotless" as a template, I will insert the
dictionary definitions of each word into their relative positions. When this
is done, it reads like this:
Virtually Spotless: (In effect, although not in name or in fact) (free
from spot, stain, blemish, marks etc.)
If I was to insert the colloquial term for 'virtually', it should make
the deceitful way these word groups are created more apparent:
Virtually Spotless: (Almost) (free from spot, stain, blemish, marks etc.)
You may be forgiven if you are sitting there now thinking "um...yeah...so
what. It just means that it is "almost not marked at all" Which it does, I
agree, but the thing is it has been created to mean that. The word
'spotless', with the fancy definition taken away from it, means 'perfectly
clean'. How is it possible for something to be virtually perfect? What, it
is perfect but it isn't?
Through these oxymoronic terms, the advertising companies create whole
new meanings for word groups. It is in the way they construct them that makes
them work. Still using 'Virtually Spotless' as my example, when you read that
word group (it is definitely not a phrase, because phrases make sense), which
of the words stick in your mind? For me it is 'Spotless'. The word
'virtually' seems to be an annoying unnecessary descriptor. The advertising
isn't in fact lying; they are telling us the whole truth, yet deceit weighs
just as heavy as lying. The phrase has been manufactured to make us mentally
focus on the word 'spotless' and what its connotations are, while passing over
the describing factor.
1.3 Blatant Deception
Advertising companies have found ways of twisting words around on
packaging and in advertising so that no matter where these words come from,
they instantly and unquestionably apply to the product. The company is
LEGALLY lying with intention to deceive. What I am talking about is the way
that certain products and/or the companies who produce them are being named by
selecting words which, when placed in conjunction with the name of the
substance being sold on the front of the packaging, or in advertising
campaigns instantly turn the product into a high quality one. I recall, if I
remember rightly, years ago the companies had to print an indication as to
which was their brand name, so if the companies name was 'Excellent', it
actually had to put 'Excellent brand' on the product. However, today this
doesn't seem as though it is a necessity. Tiny lettering which is nearly
invisible seems to be all that is needed to display this indication of a brand
name, and sometimes this indication is completely non-existent.
Using this hypothetical 'Excellent' company as an example, just say that
this company manufactures coffee. Now on the packaging, the company's name
would appear in the same size writing as the actual substance that is inside,
so it would read as 'Excellent Coffee'. The coffee itself may be low grade
for all we know, but by naming the company as such and manipulating the
wording to read as such, the consumer is not at fault for thinking that this
coffee may be good coffee, but in reality, it may not be, we just have no way
of extracting the truth from this sort of manipulation. The company could be
lying to us in the face, we have no way of knowing or doing anything about it
because it is very legal. I question the quality of the products from a
company like this when they have to go to such lengths to try and make a sale.
The above is admittedly a very obscure form of the un-written dictionary
I am talking about. I thought it was essential though, that I pointed out the
ways that this dictionary which has been created is being manipulated to
deceive.
3. THE DiCTiON OF MONEY MAKiNG
This dictionary i have compiled here is taken from every day life. From
sitting back with a critical and cynical eye and watching advertising in its
many forms put on its circus of constructed ideas and ideals. This dictionary
is in no way complete, as the many forms it manifests itself in are varied and
very wide spread. On top of this, new terms are being created daily.
From what I have gathered together here, I hope it helps you, dear
consumer, to peel off the fictional world which advertising creates and to
leave behind only the reality. Many of these terms are slippery, and may come
down to personal interpretation, meaning that you may see them differently
than me, but I hope that this isn't a reason for you to give up. Each of us
have different perceptions of the reality we inhabit.
What I have begun here is a snowballing path, because when you start to
recognise a few of the things I am talking about, you will notice others.
What I am talking about, the un-written dictionary of hypocrisy, exists not
only in the realms of product packaging, but extends out into the consumer
market of today, reaching every form of advertising, finding new and
profitable uses for old terms, and where these don't suit their needs, more
are created.
Also, before I begin to define the terms that are used upon us by them, I
think It necessary for me to outline this disembodied thing which I myself
have referred to, and which we hear on a daily basis. What I am talking about
is 'they', 'them' and any other permutation of this term which is used. This
term would have to rate highly in the top ten list of 'over used and
under-described terms' in society today. Conspiracy theorists, whom I am not
trying to distance my self from in saying this, use the term loosely and
without thought. The media uses it to describe anything relating to anything
that they do not want to name, people in the street use it as a cover-all term
when describing the uncertainty they feel towards the origins of that which
they are attempting to describe and where ever else it is used, it is used
without thought of its origins or meaning. It is a term, or group of terms
more precisely, which has become an urban myth in it's own right.
I cannot give any hints on its origins, because like any good urban myth,
it has none. But its definition in my eyes is that it is an undefinable
someone used to describe something. Admittedly vague, I agree, but how can
one improve on the vagueness of the term in question, when it is itself vague
in definition?
I can, however, describe my use of this term throughout this article. I
use it as a generalisation to describe those people or companies who are
directly relating to this subject. I could easily name names, but as I have
said before, legal attention is not on my "List of Things To do Today."
"If this text makes only one [person] begin to think, it will have served it's
purpose" ZARKON
4. THE UN-WRiTTEN DiCTiONARY
All dictionary definitions used throughout come directly from The
Macquarie Encyclopedic Dictionary, 1995.
Dictionary format: [term/word-group]: [In relation to, where relevant]
[interpretation]
25% LESS SALT/SODiUM:
Less than what? A prime example of the ambiguous advertising dribble.
This is actually how this appeared on the front of the product. The company
is trying to compare their product against something else, but avoiding
actually telling us what this comparison is based upon. This product, or any
product which carries such phrases, may be compared against another which has
a very high sodium content, so it DOES have 25% less sodium, but this may very
well be an extremely high salt content none the less. For all we know this
product may have 25% less salt than the Atlantic ocean.
97% FAT FREE:
Ambiguity abounds. What this is saying is that 97% of the product does
not have fat in it, obvious I know, but on the flip side, this means that 3%
of this product is fat. I am not a chemist, but to me this seems somewhat
normal. The company is just pointing out useless data which has no relevance.
The only relevance which I can see is if the company is trying to cash in on
the 'fat phobia' which is sweeping the mainstream populous. By pointing out
that 97% of this product ISN't fat, I am sure that a lot of people who have
fallen prey to this constructed phobia will prick their ears up when they hear
something similar to this, just the way the companies intend it to be.
ADVERTiSiNG FEATURE:
This one is easy to define, but its ability to make people believe that
it isn't advertising is staggering. These are whole page adverts, or some
times multiple page adverts which match exactly the format, style and look of
the magazine or newspaper which it inhabits. The only way to discern it as
advertising is to look for the words 'advertising feature', or something
similar placed in the border of the page/s in question. These words are almost
always printed so that they are not readily noticeable, which forces me to
think that they have been placed so that the consumer is lead to believe that
what they are reading is actually an article, and the advert is worded as such
as well. Nothing sinister there, you may be thinking, but if the advertising
is not noticeable as such, isn't it more easily accepted?
AGAiNST ANiMAL TESTiNG:
This is another phrase which doesn't actually have to mean what it
insinuates. A similar phrase 'Not Tested on Animals' is the only one I will
trust as being truthful. The latter is very specific and has to mean what it
says because it is so definite. The former, 'against animal testing,' is
very, very vague. It coaxes the consumer into the belief that the product
bearing it has not been tested on animals, but it doesn't actually
categorically state this as fact. The company itself may be making a public
stand saying that they are to some degree against animal testing, but in
reality, this phrase doesn't mean that the product in question hasn't been
tested on animals. Be very aware of the ways in which selling points are
phrased. They may seem to say one thing; however, when you look at the
wording, it may not be what you think at all. Just the similarity between
'Not Tested On Animals' and 'Against Animal Testing' is enough to make the
consumer think that the later means the same as the former. It could, but we
have no way of proving that it does.
DELiCiOUS, TASTY ETC. [PET FOOD]:
This is one which has nagged me for years. How do we as consumers know
that this pet food is actually tasty? I have heard stories of people eating
pet food, but urban myths have a habit of leaving out the key details, like
how did it taste? For this article alone, I am not about to go and bug the
neighbors for a taste of their pet food, so I can't personally say if the
stuff is tasty or not. That's the point, it says it is tasty, but we don't
know, and we have no real ways of finding out. Yet again we come across
something which lingers in the area of lying. They could be telling us the
complete opposite to the truth, and we just can't prove it. These companies
prey on the way we as humans personify our pets, cats and dogs in particular.
How often have you seen the word 'tasty' on a tin of fish food? I have not
seen it once, because fish are not seen to hold any traits which we can
perceive as being human, so they do not need food which is 'tasty', a quality
we almost insist upon in our food. This word, and others like it, are placed
on dog and cat food seemingly at every chance given, boosting sales by peoples
necessity to impress human qualities upon animals. How do we actually know
that what we may find tasty, is the same for an animal?
EUROPEAN DESiGN:
This is used to describe any product which is aesthetically different
from what we are used to, and in some cases this term is just inserted to try
and boost sales. It doesn't really have that much importance in society
today, for the simple fact that styling as such, along with many other facets
of our lives, have been diffused into an indistinguishable mess between
cultures due to the 'global village effect'. European design could just as
easily be Chinese design, which has some qualities that resembles what was
once distinguishable as originating from Europe. Anyway, Europe is a pretty
large continent, consisting of many countries, I don't think there is actually
a decided style which encompasses all that is Europe.
EVERYONE'S FAVOURiTE:
How dare they say that this product is my favourite? This angle of
selling hits hard at the inherent 'flock' desire found in some people. Where
they want to be part of the flock, and if everyone else likes it, then they
may as well at least try it. This lie is blaring. How could the company
actually have surveyed every single person in existence on the face of the
planet and found that every single human being likes this product? This sort
of phrase, or more precisely this attempt to make something the truth by
telling people it is, was used by George Orwell in his book '1984'. Anyone who
has read this book should recognise this as something which he outlined and
is becoming a reality.
FOR ONLY 6% MORE MONEY, [insert brand name] GiVES YOU 40% MORE POWER :
More power than what? [see "25% less salt/sodium"]
HEAT ACTiVATED PROTEiNS/COLOUR ENHANCiNG SYSTEM: [Cosmetics]
The cosmetics industry is a vast arena for the many shades of deceptive,
manufacturative advertising. How many times will people have to see these
carefully created 'technical' terms before they realise that they are only an
advertising tool? I am not saying that these terms are untrue, but that they
are a form of euphemism mixed in with the horrible monster that is the beauty
myth. A whole terminology exists about this industry, that shades its
meanings in happy and technical terms, completely unnecessary, yet precise in
targeting the consumer. People don't understand what these terms mean because
they are steeped in semi-technical to technical euphemisms and oxymoronisms,
and because they don't understand it they buy it. 'The more confusion, the
more profit' (Black Lung) takes on a whole new meaning. Hell, all these
people have to do to justify the excessive prices placed on their products is
to dress up an actor in a white coat and place her/him in surroundings with
white walls and lots of technical bits and pieces. Oh yeah, the actor has to
be wearing a pair of glasses and have a clipboard, because isn't that what the
stereotype dictates? People fall for it too, which is the saddening part of
the whole stage show.
LiQUiD HAiR:
Dictionary definition of this oxymoronic word group goes like this:
[such as to flow like water; fluid] [the natural covering of the human
head]. Is it actually possible to liquify hair? This one, hopefully,
speaks for itself.
MADE WITH REAL MEAT. [PET FOOD]:
This may be true, but what is neglected 95% of the time is that the meat
which goes into pet foods is of the poorest quality. Why else do you think
something like "not for human consumption" is placed on each packet?
N E W ! !:
This word has actually no apparent relation to the amount of time the
product bearing it has been on the market. It is a draw card to try and get
people to try something NEW!! I know I have done it myself before. You are in
the supermarket and you see this and think to yourself, "Gee, I might just try
that to see what it's like." These little words, however, appear for anywhere
upwards of 2 months after the products release.
NATURAL/LEAViNG A COMPLETELY NATURAL RESULT etc... etc... etc:
Anything sporting this overused cliche is one to be looked at carefully.
This word 'natural' has been so far taken out of context and is down to debate
of its actual technical meaning to make it completely useless as a descriptor.
I could easily say that money is very natural (sic). What I have said
technically is correct, because the Australian currency has natural
ingredients, the metal in the coinage, and before we were forced to accept the
plastic bills, the note currency was made on cotton fibre. As an example of
the way that this term has been twisted and exploited, there is a world wide
company of chain stores that was started in England which sells cosmetics and
body products. The sales pitch, and indeed, the entire style that this
multi-million dollar chain store embraces, is that all their products are
completely 'natural' and based entirely on natural ingredients. The truth is
that this company uses minute traces of these 'natural' oils and ingredients
in their products. These minute fractions of a percent of 'natural' products,
that are labeled with amazingly descriptive names, are only included so that
they can be inserted on the ingredients list on the back of the product.
NEVER NEEDS SHARPENiNG:
This is a completely unnecessary draw card for the product because if you
can dig your way through the bright and shiny advertising spiel, you should be
able to notice that these such knives are invariably serrated edge knives.
How often have you ever had to sharpen a serrated edge knife?
NO TWO PiECES ARE EXACTLY THE SAME:
In some cases, this phrase actually holds meaning. This is where the
article is actually hand crafted, so there is no way that each piece could be
exactly the same. In this case, the marketing company would have no need to
actively use this point as a main part in their advertising. This case aside,
have a look at the products which carry this phrase. They would have to be
mass produced, so what I described above would not apply in this case. The
only way that these articles could not be the same is if the production
process is so unprecise that each object has so many faults, that each article
is different. Unless, that is, the companies in question are actually lying,
and we all know that they have more integrity than that, don't we?
PREMiUM SELECTiON:
This phrase cannot hold any meaning. When I see this on packaging or
wherever, it brings an image to my head of someone actually selecting the best
articles for sale, which is what it actually means. I doubt the possibility
that mass producers would employ people to stand beside a conveyor belt all
day and pick out the best articles for sale as 'Premium selection'.
Logically, this couldn't actually happen, because, and this is just an
assumption based upon observation, each item in the mass production process
should be identical [see 'No two pieces are exactly the same' for exceptions].
From what I can see, in most cases, this phrase is just used as part of a
product name, or part of the name of the article itself. 'Joe Bloggs Premium
Selection Biscuits': this is the way (generally) in which this term is used,
making the consumer think they are buying a high quality product, when in
reality they are buying a product which associates itself as being such by
wording it's name to read as though it is.
READY TO SERVE:
Another ambiguous phrase on the most part. Some products which carry
this one can actually be taken straight from the packaging and served. For
the rest, this is a highly misleading splash phrase. If these products were
actually 'ready to serve', they would not need to be heated, thawed or
whatever. The term itself comes out in dictionary definition as:
[completely prepared...] to [to set (food) on a table].
Any product which carries this splash phrase and is not able to be taken
immediately from it's packaging and placed upon a table for eating straight
away, is not actually 'ready to serve'.
S A L E ! ! / PRiCES SLASHED ON CERTAIN STOCK / UP TO 50% OFF etc... :
Draw cards, plain and simple. These catch phrases are splashed about to
get people into the stores. The companies are prepared to lose on the sale
items, but what they lose here is made up by other purchases which are made
after the people are in the store. This is sickening, people being lured into
stores by these phrases and then actively doing as they are required, that is
making other purchases. Step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.
THiCKER FRESHER BRIGHTER: [Laundry Detergent]
This is a slippery one. I found this printed on the front of a laundry
detergent. Those three words were printed one under the other. The thing is,
there was absolutely no indication what these words related to. My first
reaction to this was that they were actually referring to the results that
this product gives, but have a look at the wording. It seems that this may be
the case, that the company is talking about the results that this product
gives. Can these three words relate to the effects a washing detergent has on
your clothing? Again, I find myself asking what these words are in relation
to, What is it thicker than? What is it fresher than? And what is it
brighter than? The first word though leads me to believe that the company
isn't actually referring to the results, but the actual laundry liquid. I
don't know about you, but I don't want something which makes my clothes
thicker. They are not lying, but being very misleading when it is made to
look like they are talking about what this product does, when in fact they are
more than likely referring to the laundry liquid itself.
THREE FiGURE HUGGiNG SiZES: [Tampons]
I will not delve into this one any further apart from touching on it
slightly and then supplying you with my perception of the definition. I am
doing this for two reasons:
1> Because taboos around this subject still exist and I do not want to lose
anyone who is reading this because I have offended their traditionalistic
tunnel vision. In doing this I am not condoning these taboos, I do not
believe that they should exist. This reason forms part of the next.
2> I am male, and due to this I believe that I have no right to delve into this
subject for that reason. Anything I say which is in a factorial form here is
taken directly from someone who has knowledge of this subject, this person
being female. The advertising around female products, or to get rid of the
euphemism, tampons, meds, pads, panty liners etc...etc.., is surrounded by
many bright and glossy emotive devices. If I were going to try and give
anything more on this area of the advertising dictionary, I would be stepping
onto ground that I have no right in my mind of commenting on because I do not
have the knowledge on the subject which would allow me to put forward valid
points. Watch out for advertising on this subject though, they make
everything look bright and happy, taking attention away from the products
themselves. An indicator on this is the way that they generalise so much that
sometimes it is impossible to know what is being advertised until they put up
their logo at the end. Reality is very hard to come by in this area. Take for
example the term I have picked out, 'three figure hugging sizes'. 'Figure
hugging' is a term which is used primarily to describe feminine clothing, a
term which has been tragically stereotyped as being feminine. Because this
term is often used in conjunction with clothing, when it is inserted in the
description of the product, it unfocuses the consumer from what it is
describing, that is the sizes which this tampon comes in and places it in the
realm of female clothing. After consulting my council on this subject, it
seems that this term, 'figure hugging' can not properly describe what this
product does or is, it is an unnecessary term, which tries to make the product
better, but in effect means nothing at all.
TRADiTiONAL STYLE:
In cases where phrases like this appear, having '[something] style' as a
buying point on the packaging or advertising, the use of the word 'style' is
the companies license to call it what they want. So a product with
'traditional style' only means that some of the content may have been based
upon someone's tradition somewhere, which could just as easily be the older
style font which this phrase is printed in. The phrase itself may not even be
relating to the content at all, although it insinuates this, but it may just
be relating to the way that the lettering is in a 'traditional style'. I
concede that what I have just said is a bit far fetched, but with the
vagueness of splash phrases like this, it is very plausible that this may be
what the company is referring to. [see 'European Design']
ViTAL PROTECTiON: [Cosmetics]
The whole beauty myth angers me. The terms they use and the way people
eat them up and hang on every word makes me physically nauseous. 'Vital
Protection', whatever this product is, is not necessary for existence. But the
advertisers would like to think it is, and they force people to think so as
well. In breaking down this phrase, it comes out like: (as it turns out,
after consulting my dictionary, this specific phrase is actually oxymoronic.
I could find no two definitions which make any sense when placed together.
The definitions given here are the ones which best fit the way that this
oxymoronisism was originally used) [necessary to life] [the state of being
protected] This is all I will say on this as I could ramble for pages. [see
'HEAT ACTIVATED PROTEINS/COLOUR ENHANCING SYSTEM']
WHY PAY MORE?: [laundry detergent]
Pay more than what? [see '25% less salt']
3. iT WiLL NEVER END
So long as these people continue to deceive the populous for the
advancement of their bank accounts, this dictionary will never be complete.
Each day the terms used grows larger, and each day it becomes even harder to
distill the reality from the lies.
These companies care only about money, plain and simple, and will stop at
nothing to get more of it. If I were to publicly do as they do, that is lie,
deceive and create a false reality for the sole purpose of stealing from the
consumer society as a whole, I would be hunted down by the police and put in
jail. These advertising companies do what they do legally, by calling it
business. These people have devoted their lives to money, they have sold
their souls to making more of it, and care nothing about the ways in which
they do so. They are without remorse and conscience, because they call it
business. Business and money are the only justification they need for
anything they do, and they are only accountable to their god money.
From what I have done with this article, and the one preceding it, I hope
I have created a 'template', so even though I have not covered the smallest
fraction of a percent that could be covered within this topic, I hope I have
given to you something to look at the consumer's world through. With this I
hope you will begin to see more than the small part I have illuminated here. I
will leave it now with you, dear consumer, and in the hope that you are now
beginning to see that in the world of business, which controls the people I
call consumers, there is nothing but money. No intentions are good intentions
without monetary gain, kindness has been replaced with an advertising campaign
to exploit it, love is now a credit card, happiness is spending money and
freedom of choice will soon be a perfume.
There Is Nothing More To Say
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Stood still on the highway, I saw a woman by the side of the road... A
fearful pressure paralysed me in my shadow...
I said 'Mama I've come to the valley of the rich, myself to sell'.
She said, 'Son, this is the road to hell...'"
--Chris Rea, "Road to Hell"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
WHY THE GOVERNMENT iS AFRAiD OF ENCRYPTiON
by Demosthenes
Despite what you may have heard, it is becoming extremely apparent that
my beloved government is once again flipping its collective lid. As is often
the case, its high ideals instantly fall by the wayside the moment someone
actually starts to Believe Them. (Oh Horror of Horrors!)
Our dear wondeful folks at various three letter agencies (herein referred
to as TLAs) are pushing a proposal that gives them access to encryption keys.
This is supposed to allow them to monitor drug dealers, terrorists and the
classic tried and true child pornographers. (Child Pornography is always
brought up in these cases - it makes people's blood boil. While exploitation
of children is deplorable this subject has no relevance to cryptographic
policy. This emotional attack sheds little light and a great deal of heat.)
Before we go quietly and allow such a measure to have any degree of
acceptance, let's look at some facts:
First: Mathematically, encryption can be made arbitrarily strong. That
is, it is thought possible from a mathematical standpoint to construct systems
that will remain unreadable against a brute force attack if all of the
available matter in the solar system was made into computers and these
computers were to attack the problem for the remaining lifespan of the
universe. (This happens in secret key ciphers with a keyspace of just over 512
bits (64 bytes)).
Second: Practically, encryption can provide three things: privacy,
anonymity and authentication. Basically, it allows people who want to speak
out as themselves to be heard in a way that cannot be altered without that
being apparent, and to send messages that could only come from them. It also
allows people to have as much secrecy as they want.
Third: Criminals are stupid. A tremendous majority of criminals caught in
this country are caught because the did something that anybody with half a
brain can tell you is a dumb idea. (Classic example - an individual in Rhode
Island who fire- bombed someone's car with a molotov cocktail made from his
_own_ prescription bottle - with his _name_ and _address_ on it!) Most murders
that are solved are solved because someone walks into the police station with
the murder weapon and admits to the crime.
Fourth: Electronic media - especially electronic text media
(email/usenet/WWW/gopher) are easily scanned for keywords or phrases while in
transit. While this would involve interception - this is not terrible
difficult as much of this data is carried digitally over the existing
telephone system. (Leased lines, ATM, T1, T3, ISDN and Frame Relay are all
carried primarily by the PSTN) The existing telephone system has in place
measures which, at least in theory, would allow full duplex digital streams to
be copied bit for bit and routed to a third location. (This was shown most
recntly in a report by the National research Council. I would include the
report, but few would read a 1.3MB file attach.)
My first statements are difficult to dispute, as they lie in areas which
are directly verifiable. These are a few of my basic working assumtions, and
the evidence behind them:
A: The Government of the United States (herein referred to as "The
Government") is not universally loved by its citizenry. It is also not
universally loved by the citizens of foreign nations. (The proof of this has
been left as an exercise for the reader.)
B: The government, like most governments, has been known to use its
powers to affect the perceptions of its citizens. Furthermore, it has risked
the lives of its citizens without their consent sometimes without even
informing them. Examples abound - Radiation experiments on orphans and members
of the armed forces (with no notification) are a classic, though extreme,
example.
C: The leaders of the government, like those of most other governments,
are not candidates for sainthood. For this reason, they have been known to use
their elected authority and acquired power for their own ends. These ends
include, but are not limited to, retaining political power, acquiring money
and property, covering up past and present indiscreet actions. Furthermore,
they have used the surveillance and law enforcement powers of government to
further these ends. Classic examples include the Committee on Un-American
Activities, the Meese Pornography Commission, Watergate, and (more recently)
the White House acquisition of confidential FBI and IRS files on political
rivals.
D: The Government has, periodically, engaged in wars, "military
advising", "peace missions", "police actions" and other structured
use/advocacy of violence. Further, th
at in many of these actions, they used
conscripted troops to further political aims on foreign soil. Examples include
the Korean Conflict and the Vietnam War.
E: The government has shown little interest in protecting the privacy of
individuals who have attracted its ire. Examples include COINTELPRO in the
1960s, as well as the surveillance of Martin Luther King and other civil
rights leaders in the same era.
F: The government has a large budget for expenses that are neither
publicly released nor publicly accountable. (If anyone doubts this, look at
the Federal Budget for last year, then try to find out how the NSA spent its
money... If you can get a full accounting - I will eat the report.)
So - Now that I have covered all this wonderful background about
government aims and activities - what are they so afraid of? They are afraid
of two basic uses for encryption: Privacy and Anonymity.
The government is afraid of privacy because it allows people to work with
information without letting anyone know about it. Good privacy encryption
allows several people to collaborate on a project without revealing anything
useful to outside parties - including the government.
Why is this frightening? Not being universally loved, they feel that some
might "conspire" to adjust the relative power levels of government and the
people. Up until now, it was easy enough for the two major political parties
to keep track of upstart political groups. If they were at all effective -
they were easy to bug, wiretap, spy on, and otherwise inexpensively monitor.
Good encryption technology can render wiretapping and phone bugs virtually
useless. It is my belief that various three letter agencies are pushing very
hard to keep from losing their precious wiretaps. My guesses include the FBI,
NSA, CIA, DEA, and BATF. (Not exactly the people I would necessarily trust
behind my back.)
Worse than this, from a government perspective, is the power of
anonymity. Anonymity allows, for example, a government worker who is troubled
by his agency's actions to release information to a newspaper, radio station,
or other interested group without risking his job. This is truly scary for
positions where an agent might have an attack of concience - or religion. Not
all government servoids are unthinking slaves of the system - some of them
have a mind that works (a scary thought in and of itself).
When anonymity and privacy are combined - the advantages to anti-war and
other groups is clear. It becomes much harder to selectively target people for
injudicious use of the first amendment. (It should be noted for the sake of
accuracy that the judicial system does protect the first amendment. The
question is, who has the resources to fight a long court case. If the system
wants to hurt you - they have already done so by making you go to court. They
don't have to win. If you lose - you lose a lot, if you win - you lose a
little. Either way - they get what they want - a chilling effect on
injudicious use of the first amendment.)
For a clincher - the use of privacy, anonymity, and authentication
together can be truly scary. An author can be anyone, anywhere - communicating
over private secure channels and submitting articles anonymously to
newspapers, magazines, etc. Better, this person could create electronic
signatures on their works that anyone could check - but which would reveal
nothing of the author's identity. (Practically speaking - all that could be
checked is that the articles were the product of the same person - but what
else do you really need to know?) It would be effectively impossible for
anyone elso to forge an article or other communication. This, of course, would
make disinformation far more difficult.
A clear look at the past several years of policy has shown that the
government is against both the domestic and foreign use of strong
cryptography. The newer proposals for domestic cryptography standards are
clearly designed for central control - thus allowing the government access to
keys whenever, in their mind, they are needed for law enforcement or "national
security" reasons.
The government has been systematically stifling commercial domestic
cryptography by not allowing software companies to export cryptographic
software without special licensing. Such licenses are only granted to products
which have been reviewed by the NSA, a government agency dedicated to
monitoring intercepts and breaking cryptographic systems. Normally, they will
not allow export of any system which has an effective key length over 40 bits
(5 bytes). Against any decent adversary, this isn't much better than using a
Captain Midnight Secret Decoder Ring (TM). Since almost all commercial
software is written to be sold to both domestic and foreign markets - major
software companies clip out crypto or use weak ciphers rather than go to the
expense of writing and supporting two versions of the same product.
Worse than that, in many respects, they are disallowing the export of
software that has "hooks" allowing cryptographic modules to be seamlessly
incorporated - thus making it even harder for software companies to create a
unified product line.
All this regulation is based around the premise that cryptography is a
"munition" which must be regulated the same way that the export of guns, bombs
or missles is regulated. This is patently absurd. Munitions are deadly weapons
- have you ever heard of someone being killed with a floppy disk?
The government's case for disallowing the export of crypto products is
weak at best. Crypto can be written anywhere where there are 1)Programmers
2)Computers 3)Mathematicians and 4)Information of cryptographic algorithms.
These exist in any country that has a major university. Furthermore, good
cryptographic software can be found all over the world - by way of the
internet. This includes source code for various cryptographic algorithms.
Since it is patently obvious that export limitations are not effective at
preventing the export and foreign use of cryptography - they must be aimed at
domestic use.
Since the start of the Clinton administration, the government has taken a
different approach - they have been systematicly pushing toward the use of
"escrowed" encryption. What this means, after removing government doubletalk,
is that they or their representatives would retain a copy of the encryption
key. They are currently stating publicly that this system will be entirely
voluntary, but documents revealed under the FOIA do not support this
assertion. Their other statements indicate that escrowed keys would only be
used in legitimate law enforcement and "national security" cases. I doubt any
of you believe that statement less than I. (Again - I can supply a copy of the
relevant Federal Information Processing Standard - but who would read a file
attach that big? If you're interested, look it up: http://www.eff.org)
Criminals being the way they are, escrowed keys are not going to be
needed for practical law enforcement. Most criminals are caught without using
wiretaps or other electronic surveillance. Even if you accept that electronic
surveillance is necessary - there are plenty of other means available.
Encryption is primarily useful to prevent/eliminatete mass monitoring of
dissidents, protesters, and other groups with their own agendas. (And a habit
of making indiscreet use of the first amendment...) Do we really want copies
of encryption keys kept with the same government that tapped Martin Luther
King's phone calls with NO legal authorization?
Currently, strong crypto is legal in the United States. There are various
groups working to keep it that way. The best way an individual can fight,
however, is to get and use the tools that are out there now. The more
entrenched the tools are in computer networks, underground groups, and society
at large - the more difficult an "escrowed key" system will be to implement.
(And the less successful it will be...) Get encrypted traffic up. Use
encrypted telephone links. Write code. Export code. Excersise civil
disobedience.
Good encryption packages include: PGP, Nautilus, PGPFone, Speek Freely,
SecureDrive and Secure File System. These aren't the only ones - but they are
all available in forms where they can be reviewed for security by anyone. Use
them in good health.
For further reading, I recommend: Pgp Users Manual (both volumes - esp.
volume II), Practical Cryptography by Bruce Schneier, and the Cypherpunks FAQ.
--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--
iN THE MiRROR OF HER EYES
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
Look out of the high window
And see the woman decked in bows,
Dressed and painted in every hue
And think about those she's wooed.
See her passing in the street
And wonder, should we ever meet,
Would this lowly street belle
Know what it's like in my private Hell?
Does this saddened prostitute
Think back to the days of her youth
And remember a sweet and cared-for face
That in those days made her heart race?
Did this woman, now denied love,
Ever hold a hand in her glove,
And kiss one's lips with happiness,
Now a task of dismalness?
Does she cry a name at night,
As she returns from dreamland's flight,
Leaving her to feel reality's bite
And the life she cannot fight?
Yes, she too knew love's fleeting touch,
And leaned too heavily on its crutch,
Leaning on that too easily given,
To fall that much harder when it was taken.
I see in her eye as we pass in the street
That, if we were ever to meet,
We would tell each other of similar lives,
Destroyed by our own self-destructive lies.
--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--
MARSHALL GETS A MiNDFUCK
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
- 1 - June 30, 1996
Marshall was sitting in a shadowed booth in the far corner of the
Hardee's sadly clutching a mop. He didn't know why he was so depressed so
suddenly, but when he had been mopping and glanced up at the empty restaurant,
the emptiness struck him unexpectedly. Why? He'd been on the night shift for
at least two weeks, always happy to be driving home at two in the morning in
defiance of the youth curfew. What was so different about tonight?
At a distance an eighteen-wheeler drove by, its lights the only clue to
its identity. Juncture is so desolate at night, Marshall thought against his
will. Everyone's home, everyone, except me. He violently shook his head to
purge the thoughts from his mind. He told himself he was lucky to have a job
at all, and that night jobs were cool, and... Marshall sighed and stood up.
He listlessly jabbed the mop over a spot in the corner and then decided he was
through for the night.
* * * * *
The next day, as usual, he felt better and prepared to tackle another
night on the job. He got in his car at four thirty that afternoon and headed
across town to the Hardee's. When he parked in his reserved spot, the first
thing he noticed different was that Cammy's car was gone. She certainly
couldn't have been late, since she worked from noon to midnight.
Not regarding it as something particularly important (it only meant he'd
have to work the drive-in), he strolled inside and into the back. He smiled
weakly at the customers impatiently waiting in line. It always made him
nervous to enter the restaurant and have people sarcastically comment, "Maybe
now we'll get served." Still, he never entered from the back. It was best
not to walk up to the counter and have an unpleasant surprise.
He changed his shirt and put on his cap. Walking past Andrea, who was
doing dishes, he asked, "So Cammy's sick, huh?"
"Nope, she quit, reaaally suddenly."
Marshall groaned. "Anyone else coming in soon?"
"Not that I know of," Andrea said glumly. "I'll help you with the
counter and the drive-in once I get this done." The sink was clearly
overflowing with dishes.
"Yeah, thanks," he said, his confident stride reduced to a trudge.
When the traffic of the dinnertime crowd died down, Marshall realized the
day wasn't as hard as it could have been. After all, it was only Thursday.
He felt sort of bad for having treated the customers so poorly in anticipation
of trouble. He knew tomorrow would be hell, though. That night he cleaned up
exhaustively in hopes that he could leave early tomorrow night.
* * * * *
On Friday, his job was unexpectedly gruesome. Two entire buses of little
league teams stopped by and swarmed over the restaurant. Marshall felt sure
he would go mad fielding impatient "When's it gonna be ready?" questions when
Rob the cook spent an hour getting more beef patties in Austin. He asked
Daniel the manager to consider closing the restaurant but he was refused. The
idea of simply hiding out in the employee lounge utterly failed as well, due
to that convenient bell bolted down on the counter.
A good part of one of the teams left after twenty minutes and the other
left ten minutes after that. At one in the morning after the other workers
had gone home, Marshall gleefully locked the doors and screamed for two
minutes before he started to clean up. A sort of traumatic madness came over
him as he dusted and swept and mopped -- it was an irrational euphoria and an
uncommon springiness in his muscles that allowed him to clean up thoroughly in
thirty minutes.
But once Marshall realized he was done, an uncontrollable dismal feeling
came over him. He told himself it was just exhaustion -- the period of manic
euphoria was just relief at having finished the counter and drive-in work for
the week, and once its purpose was fulfilled in driving him to clean up
quickly, it went away. He only half-accepted his impromptu psychiatric
diagnosis. The thought that raced around in his mind with no easy answer was,
why can't I feel that happy all the time?
* * * * *
That question ceased to matter in the next week. When he returned to
work somewhat gloomily on Monday, he found inside a new employee manning the
counter. What was also impressive was that there were no long lines when he
entered.
"Hi," the new guy said as Marshall walked by him back into the lounge.
"Thank God," he replied. He heard chuckles from Andrea and Rob. "No,
really," he said.
Donning his Hardee's garb, he instinctively headed for the counter when
Rob interrupted him, saying, "You do drive-in today. I'm training Chris."
Chris, eh, Marshall thought, looking him over. He looked sufficiently
gawky for a "Chris" -- too tall, too skinny, and somehow too old to account
for that gawkiness -- and the long blonde hair draped over the sides of his
head probably blinded him like a horse. Marshall wondered how long this one
would last.
No matter what dubious opinions Marshall had of the new guy, they were
shot down that day. Chris had either never worked at a fast food place
before, and always wanted to, or he had been working at them much longer than
one would have guessed, because he was filled with an enthusiasm that clearly
overpowered any of the moody presuppositions about being stuck working in a
Hardee's. He laughingly corrected his mistakes while taking complex confusing
orders, unlike Marshall, who had learned to stoically accept his mistakes and
get angry inside. He was both happy and a little sad to see him leave that
night and eagerly went for his mop and broom.
* * * * *
Amazingly, over the next week, Chris never turned into what Marshall
considered "a fast food drone." His tone to the customers was always chipper,
his work always quick but unrushed. And, his gawky appearance had nothing to
do with any sort of clumsiness. He was probably some sort of psychotic,
Marshall gathered one day.
* * * * *
It was about nine one weeknight. A few families and assorted other
people had been served and were eating in the booths. Dan was handling the
drive-in and Marshall and Chris were at the counter. Marshall put down his
washcloth and walked over to Chris and weakly punched him on the shoulder.
"Hey, Chris," he said, hoping to start some sort of conversation.
"Hi, Marshall!" he said, looking up from the stool he was sitting on.
"How the hell can you stand to work so hard?"
Chris made a puzzled but knowing grin. "What, you don't like it here?"
"That's not what I asked you."
"Yes it was. Your question implied that we see this job in markedly
different ways."
"Uh, yeah," Marshall said, startled by the syntax.
"Okay, so, I want to know first, why you don't like it here."
"C'mon, Chris, it's hard, you know. All these impatient rude Juncture
assholes --" he said, suddenly peeking his head out to see if anyone heard him
-- "and the monotony of the work. Take an order, punch some buttons, fill
drinks, stuff it on a tray, repeat. Oh, and clean off tables otherwise."
"Hmmm, Marshall, aside from the rudeness of the customers, what you said
really isn't monotonous. And really, the customers aren't all rude. Some are
actually very polite," he explained. "And cute."
"Well, I guess so, but still, I don't like it much."
"Maybe, is it, that the rude customers completely destroy everything?"
Chris asked.
Marshall nodded. "Yes, yes, I think that's it. And there are so many of
them during rush hour. It really bangs up my nerves."
"So, what if, instead, the customers were all perfectly patient and
polite and gave you exact change instead of fifties?"
"Hell, man, that'd be great!"
"You think so?" Chris asked pointedly. A family of four walked into the
restaurant. "Think about it for a while."
Marshall didn't know how to take this advice, but allowed himself to
daydream about the possibilities. People come in, give concise orders, give
exact change, wait politely, get their food, and leave. They even clean off
their tables in rush hour instead of thinking, "Oh, it's their job to do it,
you know." The startling reality of the job came back when he heard a woman
demanding, "Hey you! Are you busy or not? Take my order!"
He took the next few orders in frustration, trying to imagine the nice
customers of his daydream but failing to reconcile it with reality. Soon
everyone had been served and the counter was again empty.
"So, Marshall, did you think about it?" Chris asked in a strangely
surferish tone.
"Yup. I think it would be impossible for that dream world to happen," he
replied glumly, listlessly wiping the counter with a rag.
"Well, may be," Chris said, "but still, what if?"
"I still think it would be fantastic... but impossible."
Chris suddenly ran up to Marshall, grabbed him by the shoulders, and
muttered, "Listen, boy, you better stop saying the word 'impossible' or I'll
have to get chaotic on your ass."
"Hey, whoa!" Marshall cried out, shoving himself free. "Jesus Christ!"
"Aaaah, Jesus Christ," Chris said sweetly. "He represents infinite
kindness and forgiveness, you know."
"So I've heard," Marshall said in bewilderment.
"Your little wonderland of nice customers," he said, as seriously as
anything, "might be here if Jesus ran the show. But he doesn't,
unfortunately."
"I guess not."
"Oh, wait, you're not Christian, are you?"
"I'm supposed to be, I think."
"Too bad. But tell me if I offend you."
"Oh, no problem," Marshall said, still worried that he'd once again
provoke Chris's wrath.
"Okay, Marshall, back on track here. Imagine that the customers were
perfect, like we envisioned. Even, imagine that Andrea and Rob and Dan the
man, and we, are perfect workers, and that there are always five burgers on
the grill, and people get their orders in one minute flat. What then?"
"It still sounds -- improbable."
"True, it's highly improbable, but not impossible. Think harder. What
if the whole city were run like that, with everyone being perfectly efficient,
polite, and using exact change?"
"Dude, you've got this trip about exact change, haven't you?" Andrea said
from the kitchen.
"Sssh, I'm asking Marshall."
"That's starting to sound a little... uh, creepy," Marshall admitted.
"Isn't it, though!" Chris exclaimed. "Creepy like how?"
"'Perfectly efficient' sounds like *machines*."
"Exactly! In that perfect world, we'd all be machines! You want that to
happen?"
"No way," Marshall said instinctively. One thing he picked up here and
there from the liberal media was that it was bad to be a machine.
"Oh, no!" Chris cried, holding his hands to his face.
"What?! What?"
"I've had a sudden epiphany. We're already machines."
With that, Chris promptly went back to work, cleaning some tables.
* * * * *
After thirty minutes of thorough confusion, Marshall approached Chris
again. He knew that his monotonous work was certainly machine-like, but that
didn't make _him_ one.
"How do you mean, we're machines already?" he asked.
"Marshall..." Chris murmured under his breath.
"I mean, the job is monotonous, but how does that make us machines?"
"Marshall, be quiet," he murmured, glancing about wildly.
"What? What's going on?"
"Shush, go back to work."
"No one's ordering and the tables are clear. Tell me why we're machines
now."
"Marshall, stop talking to me! It's against the rules."
"What?! What the hell? No it's not."
Chris turned with a gruesomely worried expression to see where Dan was.
"Thank God he's not watching. We'll get fired!" he whispered, dashing out of
Dan's line of sight. Marshall followed, utterly bewildered.
"There's no rules against talking!"
Once again Chris grabbed Marshall and shook him. "You haven't read the
fucking manual yet, have you?" he whispered wildly. "Page 12 -- 'Employees
shall not have conversations while on duty.'"
"You just talked to me for ten minutes right in front of Dan! You're a
fucking psycho!"
Instantly Chris smiled and relaxed. "Hey, thanks, dude."
*What the hell is going on?* Marshall wondered weakly.
"Okay, you're right, we're not machines. Because we're breaking the
rules, using free will, and all that. But I can bet you, they want us to be
machines."
"Who's they?"
"The people who wrote that Hardee's employee manual, for one. You won't
believe what sort of gibberish is in that thing. It reminds me of grade
school, frankly," Chris said, picking up some trash.
"Oh, I didn't read the manual very carefully," Marshall admitted.
"Oooooh," Chris said, dismayed. "Ignorance of the law is no excuse."
"Law?" he replied with a chuckle. "That manual isn't law."
"Well, true, it can't be enforced by the government. They can't take
away your life for disobeying it."
"Of course not," Marshall said, grinning impotently. The idea that the
employee manual could have say over his life made him shudder. But, he
thought humorously, he'd had the same fear of grade school rules.
"Thinking about all the rules and laws?" Chris asked.
"Yeah, it's sorta fucked up."
"Tell me about it. Now, Marshall," he said, heading them back to the
counter, "in that perfect dreamworld of yours, how would you guarantee that
all the people are perfectly courteous and efficient -- ?"
" --- rules," they both said together.
"Exactly. And what if someone gets sick and doesn't do a good job one
day? Say he fucks up a few orders?"
"I guess it wouldn't be so perfect?" Marshall asked.
"Damned straight!" Chris exclaimed. "They'd probably fire that guy for
messing up the whole system. I mean, they had it *tuned*! It was all planned
out to work efficiently, and this guy has the nerve to sneeze and forget to
press a button, and then the perfectly courteous customer doesn't get his
burger, and then he has to ask the cashier why, and the cashier has to realize
his error and correct it and document it and then everything's all perfectly
fucked! Hell, I'd kill him!"
"Uh, no you wouldn't."
"If I had my way, I would. Think -- the only machine in the city to
choke that day. I'd be a laughing-stock! Someone higher-up may come by and
give a surprise inspection, wondering what would make such rigidly controlled
machines err! Oooh, it'd be bad."
*You're really paranoid and you frighten me,* Marshall thought to
himself.
"And that's only the worker's point of view! Consider the customers!
What if one of them has had a bad day and he doesn't feel like smiling? Would
that be a punishable offense? What if he doesn't have exact change? Surely
he wouldn't get his order, but all the time wasted in listening to him babble
before realizing the entire order is void! Aaargh! It'd make me scream!"
"1984, eh?"
"Worse, I think, Marshall. Now, thanks for permitting me to have a nice
paranoid power-mad fantasy, but I hope it makes my point: to have any sort of
perfectly efficient operation involving human beings, you have to have
perfectly efficient and rigid rules. Our employee's manual is almost that
rigid, but we don't obey it. Dan doesn't enforce it. I'm not afraid to make
mistakes. Neither are the customers. The customers don't have any rules at
all to follow besides social convention. Unfortunately, one convention in
America is that it's okay to bitch at fast-food workers. But I take it in
stride. 'The customer is always right.' They don't always act right, but
given the fact that there are so many different kinds of people, it really
doesn't matter how they treat me in the long run. If I act nice to them and
assume they're cool, they'll try harder to be nice to me, if they're not total
assholes. Usually, you meet pretty interesting people, and the more the
better. It's always different and changing. It's not monotonous at all.
"That, Marshall, is why I like this job."
* * * * *
Marshall was quite blown away, not only by Chris's deft explanation, but
also by his uncommon optimism. It was like the effect he had on him the first
day he worked there. Marshall was motivated to re-examine his job. Realizing
that at sixteen, he really didn't have many other choices of a job, and
remembering that his relatively low workload gave him a guaranteed salary, he
decided it wasn't half-bad working here. It was all in the perspective.
* * * * *
A week later, Marshall again hated working at Hardee's. Chris, however,
was still as chipper as ever.
- 2 - July 21, 1996
Hoping for some more inspiration, Marshall edged over next to Chris one
night and said, "Hey, Chris, how's it going?"
"It's fine, Marshall, as usual," he said. Looking at him, he remarked,
"I guess you're pissed with work again."
"Yeah, you could say that."
"You remember what I said, right?"
"Yeah, but it's really just mind games. I don't believe it anymore.
These customers are fuckin' jerks!" he cried out, hoping they heard him.
Chris shrugged. "Not all of them."
"Oh well, hey -- I'm making money. My first job, and I'm going to rake
in seven hundred dollars this month."
"That's cool," he agreed. "But that's not why you're working, is it?"
"Sure as hell it is! I wouldn't *choose* to work here. This is the only
place I can work. Unless I want to mow lawns. And I don't have a lawnmower."
"You could buy one with your paycheck, you know," Chris said.
"Ssssh-yah right! And waste this whole months' work? I already blew
last month's, but that was only two weeks' worth."
"Well, really, Marshall, if it helped you get a job you wanted, it
wouldn't be that much of a waste, now, would it?"
"I guess not, but I don't want to mow lawns."
"Oh, I see. But you wanted some sort of job this summer."
"Nope, my parents told me to get a job."
"Oooh, sorry about that," Chris murmured.
"Hey, it happens. Most of my friends have to work this summer."
"Why? Because their parents said?"
"Yup."
"What a fucking conspiracy!" Chris cried.
"Well, yeah, I guess it is..."
"No, listen, Marshall. You're working here against your will."
"Not really, I'm getting paid --"
"No, no, no! It's all bribery! No wonder you don't like working here!"
"It's the people, Chris."
"Fuck that! It's your parents. They forced you to get a job, and you
don't like working, and you're fooling yourself into thinking you're doing it
for something worthwhile. No wonder!"
"Money, Chris, money, remember the money?"
"Oh no, Marshall, oh no, not the money. You could get money doing so
many other things. Like robbing banks. And then you'd have free time to mess
around all summer long."
"Robbing banks is illegal, though."
"And having your freedom stolen from you through coercion isn't?"
"You're a fucking communist, aren't you?"
"Not at all, Marshall, not at all."
* * * * *
"Marshall, listen for a minute. What did they teach you in grade school
about this country?"
"It's a free country."
"My ass it is!"
"Uh, yeah, it is," Marshall said.
"Why are you working here against your will?"
"C'mon, Chris, get a grip, Christ! My parents told me to get a job, and
I do what they say, since I kinda like having a home. That's just the way it
is."
"Good Eris, they have fucked him up!" Chris groaned. Without warning, he
pounced on Marshall's back, draping his arms around his neck.
"Get the fuck off me!" he choked.
"Okay, Marshall, you're my horse. Giddyap, fucker! Take me into the
lounge, you puny fag, or else I'll choke you to death or break your neck."
Marshall started hobbling toward the lounge, utterly afraid. "What the
fu-uck!"
"Now spin around, Horse, c'mon, spin around, fucking nag, spin around
until you're dizzy. I want to take a ride. C'mon, Horse, c'mon!"
Marshall clumsily tried to spin around but could only go in a circle.
His face was red and he was angry and scared. "Get off me, asshole!"
"What the hell! Horses don't talk! C'mon, c'mon, you can't talk! I
refuse to believe Horses talk!" Chris cried, tightening his grip on Marshall's
throat. "Don't talk, Horse, or else!"
Fuming, he shut up and tried to spin around faster, hoping to make Chris
fall off. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Nothing else mattered except
getting this fucking psycho off him.
"Aaaah, good!" Chris cooed. "My Horse is obeying all my orders, because
I'm bigger and older and meaner than he is! Good Horse! Good Horse! I feel
like giving you some old moldy hay because you're so obedient!"
"Dammit, I'm not taking this shit anymore," Marshall muttered, and jumped
and fell backward, landing on top of Chris. Chris's head smacked the tile
floor. Marshall angrily got up and stormed out of the lounge.
"What the hell is with you people?" he demanded of his coworkers. "He
coulda killed me!" They made apologetic faces and shrugged.
Chris came limping out from the employee lounge, holding his head. "Holy
shit, my Horse bucked me! Gotta tame that Horse or else he's glue!" Again he
managed to pounce on Marshall's back. And Marshall, without a thought, rammed
backward into the wall, hoping to discourage Chris. "Bad Horse! You won't
get any hay now!"
Suddenly his tone of voice changed. "Marshall, calm down. OOF!
Marshall, hello? I'm serious now." He dismounted and turned him around to
face him. "I'm sorry I did that, but, as you say, that's just the way it is.
I have the power to ride you like a horse anytime I please. Just like your
parents have the power to make you get a job whether or not you want to."
Still insanely angry, Marshall replied, "You're a fucking lunatic."
"Thank you. Now," he said, pulling out his wallet, "You want some hay?"
* * * * *
Finally understanding the analogy, Marshall's mind snapped. He leapt
over the counter and ran out of the restaurant.
"Whew, that was fun," Chris said to Andrea and Dan. "I told you I
wouldn't hurt him. Physically. Now, let *me* go visit a doctor."
* * * * *
The next day, a Thursday it was, Marshall returned at his usual time,
with an unusual little smirk on his face. Chris greeted him warmly, and he
only replied, "Two weeks notice, psycho, and I'm not talking to you anymore."
He worked very efficiently those two weeks.
* * * * *
On Marshall's last night, Chris hid in the Hardee's until the doors were
locked. Then he walked out and sat up on the counter. Marshall spotted him,
shocked, lunged straight for him, and shoved him off the counter. Chris
landed on his side with a thud. He stood up.
"Now, Marshall, was that fair?" he asked.
"Of course not. Your neck didn't break," he replied coldly and walked
off to sweep, ignoring him.
"Now, Marshall, I guess that horse stunt backfired." At the word
"horse," Marshall lurched. Otherwise, he ignored his speaker. "Since you're
going on to bigger and better things, I want to explain why I did that. It --
"
"I know what you were trying to say. You were showing me the power my
parents have over me. I got it. I understood you. I bitched them out. They
said I didn't have to have a job."
"Well, that's good! It was your decision to do so, right?"
"Of course it was," he snapped. "I wanted to get away from you."
Chris bit his tongue and sighed. "I apologize if I offended you."
Marshall froze. He expected some sort of lame apology, for Chris to say
he was sorry for "hurting" him. But he hit it right on the head. He wasn't
really hurt at all. He was offended. Chris unwantedly tried to change his
mind about ideas he hadn't even thought through before. It was intellectual
rape, in the truest sense of the word.
"Yes, you offended me."
"I really wish I'd been more careful. I was so eager to show you how I
see the world."
"Yes, I saw what you were talking about. You're fucked up."
"I don't think I'm fucked up," Chris said. "I did what was necessary. I
think it worked, too. You didn't know what I was doing, though, which was
unfair of me."
"Absolutely right," Marshall muttered, deciding not to answer Chris
again.
"I didn't realize how ingrained your beliefs were. That makes it so much
more violent when you realize what they actually are."
Marshall froze again, then realized what he was doing, and robotically
moved the broom in front of him. What the hell did he say? he wondered. Why
wouldn't I realize what my beliefs were? He shook his head and hmmphed.
Meanwhile, Chris was afraid. He was afraid of what Marshall's mind was
doing. He'd been left in a traumatic state of mind and was now about to get
out of his reach. Chris had to correct his mistakes or take him further, else
he'd be dangerous, reacting violently to any perceived infringement of his
rights, much like a militia member or a patriot.
He decided to continue.
* * * * *
"Do you believe in free will, Marshall?" he asked.
Marshall ignored him and continued sweeping. In his mind, he said, of
course I do, why wouldn't I? I'm free.
"I'll tell you the truth, Marshall, it doesn't exist."
Marshall turned his head and made a puzzled expression. "I didn't answer
you."
"Oh, shit, I blew my cover. You see, I know you think it exists, and I
knew you wouldn't answer. It's all scripted out. I forgot to pretend."
"What are you talking about?"
"I am able to foresee the future to a degree, you see," he explained,
ignoring Marshall's sudden rude laugh. "Now, anyone can predict the future a
little, since there is no free will. I'm not going to be silly and say I know
what will happen in 2012, for example. But at any time, an open mind can tell
what's about to happen."
"Well, of course you can! I mean, I know that when I finish talking,
you'll say something back. That's not predicting the future," Marshall said,
suddenly and unwittingly fascinated.
"Oh yes it is! It's intuition. No one specifically calls it `predicting
the future,' but we both know that's what it is."
"Hmmm, that's strange."
"It's true. There is no free will. That's the only way we can use
intuition with people."
"I... I guess so, sort of," Marshall said, chagrined that he was again
talking to Chris.
Suddenly Chris jumped off the counter and ran back into the lounge. He
came back with a bag of flour balanced on his head. "Oogah boogah," he said.
"Uh, whoa. I didn't predict that."
"So does that mean there is free will?" Chris asked.
"Unless the script said that would happen and I didn't see it."
"As a matter of fact, that's exactly right. You see, your mind isn't
open enough to predict the future that well. Really, it's a heavily guarded
secret, how to do it right."
"Man, that's strange," Marshall said, not sure how to take all this
garbage.
"It certainly is. I know what you're thinking, Marshall. You're
thinking that I'm lying. Well, I am. I can't predict the future any better
than you can."
"Well, great, that's what I thought."
"What?" Chris snapped.
"That's what I thought, I said."
"Marshall, if there's one thing I want you to know, it's that something
isn't true just because you agree with it."
"I guess not."
"Oh, Marshall, you must be exhausted! You're not trying too hard."
He whirled and snapped at Chris, "What do you want me to say?!"
"What? Nothing. You're not a HORSE, are you?"
"No," he said, grimacing.
"So have some fucking confidence in yourself!"
"What the fuck? If this shit is true about there being no free will, I
have no choice, do I?" he replied sarcastically.
"Oh no, Marshall, that's not it at all. Not having free will doesn't
mean you have no choices. After all, people are practically walking choice-
making machines! You agree with that, don't you?"
"Yes, I believed that already."
"Good job! So, without free will, you still make choices left and right.
In fact, I distinctly made the choice to put this bag of flour on my head, and
I am making the choice right now to throw it on the ground."
He clutched the bag on his head and waited for Marshall to lunge at him
to stop him. He didn't.
"What, Marshall, you don't think I'll do it?"
"Nope."
"You underestimate me," he said, pointedly tossing the bag to smash on
the floor. A big white mushroom cloud of flour rose up. He laughed and
clapped at the sight. "That was cool!"
"You clean that up, you fucking psycho!" Marshall yelled, infuriated. "I
can't believe you did that!"
"You didn't listen to me, did you? I told you people are choice-making
machines. The lack of free will doesn't prevent that. Plus, it was in the
script that I do that."
"This is going to take hours to clean up! We don't even have a vacuum!"
Marshall cried.
"Stop it!" Chris yelled, bringing Marshall to attention. "Just stop it!
You make me sick!"
"I don't have to do what you say," he growled.
"That's absolutely one-hundred percent true. But I'm asking you to
listen to me."
Marshall grimaced and groaned. "Okay, what?"
"We have no free will, but we can still make choices, even stupid ones.
Does that make sense?"
"Not really. I guess I don't know what `free will' means then," Marshall
said, still glancing at the flour.
"I take it as this: free will is the ability to do anything you think
about doing, without restriction, because that's what makes it 'free.'"
"Okay..."
"But as I've shown you before, there are rules set up, specifically to
prevent that freedom."
"Like `employees shall not have conversations while on duty'."
"In a way, yes. That's one way of saying it. But that's not how the
freedom is abdicated, because we clearly have -- er, had -- conversations
during work hours."
"That's a choice we made."
"True, that's true. Here's what I want to show you. Free will doesn't
exist because we, ourselves, don't want it to exist," Chris said. Chew on
that, he thought gleefully, glad to have Marshall's undivided attention again.
"What? How so?"
"Marshall, I'm going to get some more flour!" he threatened.
"No!" he cried.
"Precisely."
"Precisely what? What the hell?"
"Precisely my point. You've just shown that you don't have free will.
You showed it through stimulus-response."
"Stimulus-response. I yelled when you made the threat."
"Exactly. In a broader scope, that's how you function in this world.
Much of your choice-making ability you've suppressed, instead allowing
yourself to be led by the nose, reacting to everything that happens to you."
Marshall leaned on the broom and pondered it. "Give me more examples."
"All right. When I threw the flour on the floor, you immediately
thought, `Oh shit, I have to clean that up!'"
"Well, I do, don't I?"
"It sure seems that way, doesn't it, Marshall? But you forgot, this is
your last day on the job. You don't have to clean it up."
"Well, I mean, sure I do, I have to leave it clean for tomorrow."
"There! Another example. Why so? Why can't it be dirty tomorrow, with
rotten eggs all over the seats?"
"That's just the way it is. It's my job to leave it clean," Marshall
said, cringing at his own words, but wanting to make a point.
"`That's just the way it is.' Marshall, Marshall, you already told your
parents that was bullshit, and you don't have to work anymore this summer.
Why can't you tell Dan that's bullshit too, and leave this place any way you
want it?"
"It's not right, that's all. I don't want to mess the place up."
"Is that true? Is that the real reason?"
"Yes, sure it is. I don't want Susan and Jackie to come in here tomorrow
and have to deal with this."
Chris smiled widely. "Very good. That's a real reason."
Marshall smiled back. "Yes it is."
"You don't want to clean up the flour just because the rules say so. You
care about what other people will have to deal with."
"Right," Marshall said, suddenly struck with the euphoria of realization.
"Not to mention I still want my paycheck."
Chris let out a bellowing scream. "NO!!! YOU HORSE!!!" he cried.
Marshall flinched and ducked. He let out a whimper. "Stop screaming at
me!" he cried.
"Marshall, you dumbfuck! Were you telling the truth? Is that all you
care about, getting out of here with a big fat paycheck? Stimulus-response,
you horse! You want the old moldy hay even after getting beaten down!"
He became enraged. "I'm not putting up with this shit anymore!" he
yelled, tossing his broom across the restaurant and storming back into the
lounge.
"That's exactly what you should do!" Chris yelled after him. "But I'm
only trying to help!"
Marshall stormed back out and shoved Chris off the counter again. "Fuck
you," he sneered.
"You're welcome," Chris said, deliberately mishearing. "Marshall, calm
down. Just why did you do that? Explain to me why."
Flustered, Marshall stammered, "Why? Because you keep on yelling at me,
that's why! I can't stand people yelling at me! That's no way to have a
decent conversation! It's not fair! Stop yelling so much!"
Chris realized that Marshall's parents probably yelled at him a lot and
suddenly felt horrible. "What's so bad about yelling?" he asked innocently.
"It's just talking loud. Do loud noises intimidate you? Fish crunch soup.
Fish crunch soup! Fish crunch soup!! FISH CRUNCH SOUP! FISH CRUNCH SOUP!!"
he yelled louder and louder. Marshall didn't react.
"That's nothing," he muttered.
"It's just *what* people yell, right?" Chris asked. "YOU'RE SUCH A
WORTHLESS KID!" he screamed. Marshall grimaced and braced himself, then went
red with embarrassment. Chris knew. It's the fucking parents. The ones who
exhibit the most brutal control over a kid's life, and who are most likely to
abuse their power. Family values, my ass. Parents can be so fucking cruel.
Chris grabbed Marshall and hugged him tightly. "Yelling is the refuge of
cowards," he said. He waited for Marshall to cry but he didn't. He'd
obviously been trained against that.
* * * * *
Chris swept up the flour and washed down the floor while Marshall sat in
the bathroom with the water running trying to mask his sobs. He felt utterly
demoralized, as he often did when trying to free people so tightly bound by
unwanted chains. It was his job, though. Once a person becomes truly free,
he cannot allow himself to sit back and watch the world go by. It's
depressing and frustrating to see how pitifully trapped people are, all for
the good of society. Chris couldn't blame any living person for the
situation, since all of them had been raised under the same circumstances and
were unwittingly carrying out the warped plans so recklessly thought out by
people thousands of years ago who only wanted to create a society of people.
Who gave them the *right*, Chris screamed inside, to destroy the society of
nature people had been enjoying for thousands of years before? He humbly
admitted to himself, it was probably the people themselves who wanted the
artificial "society." Led to believe they couldn't defend themselves against
outsiders, or led to believe they couldn't be trusted to make good decisions
on their own, or simply exhausted and led to believe they could trust a
government to simplify their lives, people leaped headfirst into society
without a second thought, and before long, without a choice.
That's how it all started, with people's fear. Those first civilizations
in the Middle East, India, and China were military, set up only to defend a
whole bunch of frightened people from foreign invaders. But those
civilizations bred societies, morals, codes of ethics, religions, some of
which survive to this day. Maybe that was necessary. It certainly seemed to
work since they haven't been forgotten. But look at us now. This country is
supposed to be a modern freedom-loving democracy. Why do people so love the
laws that drag them down? It's all fear of invasion -- by foreign ideas. Do
people ever realize that we are still a militaristic society? Do they wonder
why tanks and guns and teargas are used to combat `unclean thoughts'? There's
no denying it, this country is still a police state. The leaders just don't
make it obvious because that would be hypocrisy, and the people don't
acknowledge it because that would blow away their delusions. The unfortunate
few who see through the mask of lies are in no position to change their
society. The people love their fear and cannot let it go. They will use
their fists, their guns, and their torches to maintain their fear. But does
that make this fear better than the alternative? No. With the fear of free
thought, people have learned not to trust each other, not to love each other.
But people are stuck in it.
Society is a terminal illness, a cancer of the spirit, killing hundreds
of thousands of vital people every year. Religions have been lauded as cures
for the illness, but only attack the symptoms, not the disease. These quack
remedies only sedate the patient and tell it lies about the forthcoming
miracle cure, or insinuate that the patient is to blame for her problems.
Those who diagnose the illness' true symptoms are either butchered, silenced,
or ignored, because the self-appointed doctors, or governments, prefer to milk
their patient for as much as she is worth. Why cure the disease? Then the
doctors would be out of a profitable job.
Chris wanted to scream in blind fury sometimes, and did sometimes. But
usually he worked to cure the illness from the inside-out. He knew that
everyone over the age of twelve was already infected, by parents, teachers,
clergy, and anyone older, into believing that the disease was good, or
necessary to the survival of the body. The diseased adults constantly feed
malignant lies to the healthy children to make them hate, to make them doubt,
to make them afraid. Once the defenses of innocence are down, the disease
easily works its way down into their cores. And there it stays, until the
victim dies. No cure -- no easy one. But Chris thought he had a remedy.
Unfortunately the remedy threatened to destroy.
* * * * *
By the time Marshall came out of the bathroom, looking horribly tired and
exhausted, it was two-thirty in the morning. Chris apologized again for using
such a cowardly weapon as yelling and offered to drive him home. Marshall
accepted, which was good, as it guaranteed that he'd return the next day to
pick up his car.
Chris remembered where Marshall lived and decided he would go all the way
with him. He was going to turn Marshall into a revolutionary, more commonly
known as a lawbreaking menace to society. His empathy for the tyrannic effect
of Marshall's parents on his psychology redoubled his will to see something
good come out of him. No body is wasted, he said to himself.
- 3 - August 5, 1996
The next day, Chris was surprised to see Marshall come looking for him.
A friend drove him up to the Hardee's to retrieve his car, but Marshall walked
right into the restaurant on a beeline for Chris. Yes, Chris worked all day
long at that place, one of the further reasons Marshall had believed him
psychotic.
"Chris, you bastard, come with me," he demanded.
"Sure thing, Marshall. Glad you came back," he said.
"Whatever the hell you're doing to me, I want you to finish," he said,
smiling gruesomely. "It's just too good."
"That's the spirit, Marshall, that's just it."
"Please, call me Marsh."
"Okay, Marsh."
Chris walked away from the counter and out the door without a word. Of
course, he had given his two weeks' notice the same day as Marsh, so they were
both free.
* * * * *
"Okay, now, we're away from that soul-stealing restaurant," Marsh said,
driving the car to destinations unknown. "Tell me why you're doing this to
me."
"Marsh, please tell me you're not offended. I fucked up last night, but
now I know why, and I won't do it again. I didn't know your parents yelled at
you too."
Marsh surprisingly nodded his head and grinned. "I'm not offended at
all. I'm feeling damned eager for more right now, in fact. I feel completely
new. I'm ready for you to teach me."
"Are you afraid?" Chris asked.
"I'm petrified."
"That's good."
* * * * *
Chris told Marsh his ideas about society as a horrible mistake. It was
news to Marsh that societies and governments hadn't always existed, but it
made sense to him how they wouldn't go away without a fight.
"It's so sick," Chris said, "how many people today make it their job to
control other people. I mean, we're just animals at the core. Just animals
with choices. And by a freak of nature, we got it into our heads that we have
no right to make most choices for ourselves. You see, Marsh, that's where
free will doesn't exist. By creating society, people abdicated their right to
make the important choices. Everything else is inconsequential."
"What about the choice to defy society?"
"That's what police are for. They make sure, by any means necessary,
that you will stop wanting to defy society. Even if you have to die."
"That sounds power-mad."
"Politicians are the same way. So are we."
"How us?" Marsh asked, confused.
"We have to be, Marsh. We have to lust for enough power to make our
cause worthwhile. Otherwise, what are we but whiny little brats? We must
have power to make an impact. But our power won't be the same as their power.
Their power is force, punishment, death. Our power is liberation. We've got
to free people from society."
"What if they don't want it?"
"I don't think anyone wouldn't. Look at you. I don't think I did all of
this to you by myself," Chris said.
"That's true. Last night when I got home I started thinking. About free
will, about my parents, about that job. It's dangerous, man. Once you start
thinking hard about it, with the keys you gave me, it doesn't stop. You can't
stop that train of thought."
"Nice wording."
"I'm just acting. I'm stealing this persona from a movie I saw once."
"Whatever does the trick, Marsh."
"I just don't know, Chris. I started realizing -- well, noticing -- the
things that are going on all around me, and it shook me up. Partly because I
didn't notice the obvious, and partly because I don't think I can do anything
about it. I mean, what do I do about the fact that kids are systematically
warped into adults? How can I stop that?"
"Right now, it's too hard for us alone to prevent that. It's
unfortunate, but we can't. I'm working on you right now to reverse the
effects. Luckily you saw them yourself and that's making it much easier. I
mean, it's just simple rebellion. I bet every kid going through his
rebellious teenage stage `realizes' how `absurdly' he's acting -- due to
constant belittlement and coercion from his parents -- and then it's just
downhill from there. He's accepted the one big lie that makes it so easy to
become an adult -- the lie that it's wrong to disagree with tradition. `Grow
up! Act your age! Get a job!' It's all tradition. There's nothing in the
laws of nature that dictate that finishing high school, maybe college, then
getting a career is necessary to survival. It's just a construct of the
economy. The way it is, you have to toil away most days of the year to
survive, although even in backwards agricultural societies it took less time,
and it wasn't as emotionally draining. It doesn't make sense, but that's just
the way people think it's supposed to be. But if you hold onto your freedom
to make the important choices, then you can fight the disease of tradition."
"I still feel divided. I still think some people like it that way. Like
my dad. He works really hard and it pays off. He might not like doing
something else."
"That's true, Marsh, that some people indeed become used to society.
That's its purpose. But unfortunately, its methods are unsound. They crush
the human essence out of most people to get that result. To overthrow society
will be to reinvigorate the human race. Then, we can have some real
progress."
"What do you mean, progress? I thought technology was progressing faster
all the time."
"It sure is, Marsh, hell yeah it is. But it's not doing its job. Don't
you remember how they taught you that technology was supposed to make work
obsolete? Well, do you see that happening anywhere? Wait -- let me explain.
It is happening. Companies are laying off people left and right because
machines are taking their jobs, we've heard. But, the economy is still set up
so that people have to work to survive. And with technology killing off jobs,
people are looking for something to do, believing they must work. That's why
there are so many shit jobs like working at fast-food places. Totally
unnecessary jobs. People are forgetting how to cook on purpose just so
someone else can have a job preparing food. It's pointless. It's self-
destructive."
"So, society is destroying itself? If so, what's so important about
being a revolutionary? Let's just let it collapse on its own."
"Good point, Marsh, but consider. Once society collapses, that doesn't
mean the technology disappears and we have to all start over again. That
technology will be left waiting for someone to take it, and in an anarchic
state, technology will be power. It'll only be months before a new society is
constructed around technology. We can't say if it will be a good society or a
bad society -- most likely the latter -- so it's best to have people prepared
to deal with the change. Revolutionaries like us can persuade people to make
more intelligent choices, or, if necessary, prevent the new society from
forming. That's why we must get started now. We have to prepare as many
people as possible."
"I see, I see... it's all very exciting, isn't it?"
"It's the most fun a human can have."
* * * * *
"And Marsh, look around you. With all this society and technology, what
has been sacrificed? The spirit. The capacity for compassion. The
willingness to love. Our country has destroyed that. Do you agree?"
"Yeah, I think so. People care about themselves too much."
"Can you explain why, in one word?"
"Uh... money?"
"That's it!"
"That really pisses me off."
"And it should. Reject the sedative! Do you see why I got so angry when
you kept on talking about your paycheck?"
"I was acting pretty greedy, huh?"
"Well, yes, but the greed itself wasn't the problem. It was the reason
for the greed. Certainly, you deserve compensation for your work, since the
economy is constructed around that. But the problem with you and so many
other people is that they only work for the money. The job itself is merely
an annoyance. The work ethic has deteriorated into a hypnotic chant --
payday, payday, payday. And I don't blame most people. Like I said before,
more sucky, shitty jobs are created every year just so people can earn their
living. The worse the job, the less a worker cares about it. It's all the
payday, payday, payday. And, since these jobs are service-oriented, we have
lackluster performance, sloppiness, boredom, rage. And the people stuck at
these jobs vent their frustration directly on the customers. I mean, a real
job, that someone wants to have, say, writing, doesn't have that effect. If a
writer doesn't like his job, he just makes stinky fiction, and he doesn't get
published. A single disgruntled cashier's hatred for his job makes the
customers pissed, because they expect good service for their money. He can
make twenty people go home and yell at their families to pass on his gift.
The pissed-off customers make the cashiers even angrier. It goes around and
around. The motivation of money is all that drives these people, and it's so
destructive."
"Was I like that?" Marsh asked meekly.
"No, you were never openly venomous. But you kept your anger bottled up
inside, and that just hurt yourself worse."
"Yeah. Thanks so much for making me see."
"It's my duty. You see, my job is making people see. I get paid with
gratitude. Blow the paycheck."
"Fuck the paycheck!" Marsh yelled gleefully.
"Say, Marsh, that reminds me, you did forget to pick up your check."
Marsh hesitated for just the briefest moment and said, "I don't want it."
"I got it for you anyway, though. Here ya go. Seven-hundred fifty
dollars. You earned it, you know."
"I don't want it."
"I got five-hundred seventy dollars for my few weeks. Sorta strange how
the numbers worked out, huh?"
He was surprised. "What the hell, did you quit too?"
"Sure did. You don't want your paycheck?"
"Oh, I'll take it. I need to get gas and food and somewhere to live,
don't I?" he asked nonchalantly.
"Whoa, did you get thrown out of your house?"
"I decided to leave. I can't think straight when my parents are staring
me down."
"Good move, comrade. You can stay at my place if you want," Chris
offered.
"You live alone?"
"Well, I own the place."
"Sure, okay. Thanks."
* * * * *
"Damn, what now?" Marshall asked, having driven aimlessly around the city
the whole time.
"You want to head for my corner of the world. Head for Creedence."
"You live in Creedence, huh?"
"Nope, not technically. I live outside it, on an old farm."
"And that's yours?" Marsh asked, grinning.
"Yup, it is. I've lived there all my life. Pretty funny, huh?"
"You don't seem like a hick to me."
"Well, because I'm not, Marsh. I went to school in town, and I wasn't
going to let myself be insulted for twelve years. I've learned to get
around."
"Now, wait a second," Marsh protested. "If you're supposed to be a
revolutionary, why does that matter to you what other people think?"
"Oh, it's very important, Marsh. By the way, I like saying `Marsh.'
It's very important for a revolutionary to be socially acceptable, because
society does still exist, and I'm still part of it. Usually I stay on the
edges, but many times I'm in the middle. I commute, if you will. The reason
you probably didn't dismiss me right away when I went on that spiel about
rules was that I didn't seem like an absolute wacko --"
Marsh laughed, saying, "Well, close."
"-- eh, I'm working on it. But you see, I talk decently, and I look
decent, don't I? You like my haircut, Marsh? Think it's cute?"
"Uhhh," Marsh stammered, suddenly uncomfortable. "Cute? I mean, it's an
okay haircut, I mean, it's like, doesn't it blind you?"
"Oh yeah, yeah it does. It helps me concentrate harder on what I do,
though. I keep my head perfectly still so I always know what I'm looking at.
Always helps to know if there's trouble, like a cop."
"Cops trouble you, eh?"
"We already agreed they were power-mad. Plus they have sticks and guns.
Scare the hell out of me sometimes what they can do if they think you're
trouble."
"Which makes it more important for you to be socially acceptable," Marsh
said.
"That's exactly my thinking."
* * * * *
"That makes sense...," Marshall said, pausing. "Oh shit, without my job,
I'm under the curfew again."
"Oh yeah, the curfew," Chris said. "Who cares?"
"I do. I don't want to get in trouble."
Chris told himself not to yell. "Are you a horse, Marsh?"
He blinked. "I am not a horse."
"So there's no curfew."
"Okay."
"You know, the curfew was set up specifically for kids like you."
"Oh yeah? How?" Marsh asked, feeling threatened.
"Look at you. You've got a car, no job, and a whole month of summer
s
till ahead of you. Pure trouble."
"Trouble," he murmured.
"Lucky I'm twenty. I can only get arrested for real crimes."
"Yeah, fuck you," Marsh said, suddenly paranoid about getting in trouble
for being young.
"Haven't you thought about that yet?" Chris asked. "How our society has
also made efforts to criminalize youth?"
"Not really."
"Well, just count, Marsh. The youth curfew, one. Set up for no reason
other than because adults are wary of kids who haven't been diseased by
tradition. Say, do you skateboard?"
"No."
"Well, that doesn't affect you then. That's technically illegal now,
too, along with playing basketball outside your house."
"What the hell? That's not true," Marsh protested.
"Creedence and Juncture silently passed laws banning outdoor baskets,
didn't you hear? They're not tearing down the old ones, but you can't put up
new ones. And if they decide they don't like your old one either, then...
timber! You pretty much have to go to a gym or the youth center to play
basketball now."
"Why?!"
"They said it was because of the noise and the traffic problems. But it
was really because kids tend to stay out late playing basketball and then they
`get in trouble.'"
"What about the curfew?"
"You know that doesn't apply to standing outside your house. I think
people would have gotten a little wary if the city said, 'No kids outside
after nine.'"
"I guess."
"I mean, Marsh, even this society, that's going a little too far. But
just by a little. Anyway, that's two. How many times has your car been
stopped by police?"
"Oh, only twice, but I was speeding."
"Speeding by how much?" Chris probed.
"I was going thirty-five in a thirty zone once --"
"Good Eris, what an abomination!"
"Well, I mean, there were people crossing and stuff..."
"Marsh, you're not a horse. What did the cop do when he stopped you?"
"Just asked me if I was drinking and to see my license and registration."
"Drinking? What time was it?"
"Three-thirty in the afternoon."
"What a crock! Of course you weren't drinking, right?"
"Right."
"What did you think when he asked you if you were drinking?"
"It sounded silly, but..."
"Of course, it's silly! It's totally irrelevant! Going thirty-five is
not a symptom of drunkenness. What about the other time you got stopped?"
"I don't know, I was just going along and I saw the lights flashing."
"How fast were you going?"
"Forty. But there were no speed limit signs."
"Where?"
"Some farm road."
"And obviously, the unposted speed limit was twenty-five, right?"
"No," Marshall explained, "but if there's no sign on the road, you're
required to go thirty."
"Who told you that?"
"The officer."
"That's bullshit!"
"I guess. Damn, people were passing me!"
"Marshall, doesn't any of this seem completely idiotic to you?"
"Yeah, it does! I tried to forget about it. I didn't really care."
"Did your car get searched?"
"No, but the officer peered through the windows a lot."
"Did he see anything `strange'?"
"He asked me why I had a bottle of glass cleaner in the back seat. I
said it was to clean my windshield. That was funny."
"Funny my ass! He probably thought you wanted to use it as a weapon."
"How? Why?"
"You gotta be paranoid to be a cop, Marsh."
Marsh made the turn onto a quiet road toward Creedence, thoroughly
confused. He had written off the two stops as happenstance, because he knew
kids got stopped a lot in cars. He started to feel incensed after the fact,
wondering if that was sensible.
"Do you just hate all cops unconditionally, Chris?"
"No. But I will not trust them."
"Why not? I mean, I'm sure they're trained --"
"Yes, but they're also unaccountable. You've heard about police
brutality, right?" Chris demanded, upset that Marsh was so forgiving.
"Yeah, but Rodney King was on PCP and those Mexicans were illegal
immigrants --"
"Marshall, pull over right now. Pull over!" Chris cried.
"No! Why?" Marsh asked.
"You're such a fucking horse! I want you to stop the car before you
happily let yourself get stopped, handcuffed, and arrested for talking while
driving."
"I wouldn't --" he protested, sweating nervously. "You're not going to
start yelling again, are you?"
"Just pull over, dammit," Chris muttered, lurching for the wheel to
persuade him.
Marshall reluctantly pulled over and stopped the car. "Should I get
out?" he asked.
"No, we're staying right here. Roll down the windows, though, or else
we'll bake."
"Okay," he said, nervously rolling them down, wondering what he'd gotten
himself into.
"Now, Marshall. Do you want to be a free man?"
"Free, how?"
"A free man with free will. Unlike a Horse."
"Yes, I guess so..." he hesitated.
"Marshall!" Chris snapped. "Do you know what you want or not?"
"I -- I'm just -- I'm not sure. I thought I did, but --"
"-- how do you feel about quitting your job and mouthing off to your
parents?" he demanded.
"I -- I sorta feel bad about it. I shouldn't've --"
"STOP IT! STOP IT! This is disgusting. You're making me sick. What
kind of a revolutionary feels bad about standing up for himself?"
"I didn't really want to quit, I was just scared of you!" Marshall cried.
"That's not the whole truth and you know it. Or else why did you keep on
coming back? I've got no control over your life. You're not some beaten
bitch who has to come back because she's tied to her scum husband by law, are
you? You're not a whipped dog or a horse, are you?"
"You're a fucking lunatic! And every time you got nice again I thought
it was over! But you'll never stop it, will you?" Marsh whimpered.
"I won't stop this until you stop that. I know you want to change,
Marshall. I can read people. But you haven't changed at all yet. You say
you're not a horse but still trot when I yell giddyap, and all those bad
analogies. I'm doing this because I want you to change. I care about you.
Here's a hint, Marshall -- yell back once in a while. You know? It's cowards
who yell, but it's another kind of person who'll yell back. But you've got to
mean it. You've got to yell, not talk loud. You've got to yell when you see
your freedom insulted. You've got to be offended, not scared. I think you
get quieter when you're offended. That's not the way to be. That's how
people in a society let their situation grow darker and darker -- they're all
screwed up. They think freedom is a privilege. They trust their lawmakers
and policemen too much. So they get silent when they get offended, and humbly
take the shit. They don't want to be punished for speaking up. They only
yell when they're scared."
"It's just strange," Marshall mumbled. "I'm scared of what you do, but I
think it's right."
"I have to yell, though, Marsh. Your attitude offends me. It's nothing
personal, because you've simply learned to be that way, like everyone else
has. But you want to change. And you can't change if you rationalize
everything in terms of the society that fucked you over. I have to yell and
scream, because that's what works, unfortunately. Isn't that dirty of me?
I'm using the same cruel method of teaching you that others used to make you
this way. But if you yell back, look what you're doing -- you're taking their
weapon away from them. Stimulus-response, Marsh. It only works when you
respond in the designated manner. You can certainly fuck up a gun-wielding
oppressor if you whip out an Uzi. But if you keep on moaning about how guns
scare you, then that oppressor has another tool -- fear -- and doesn't even
have to use the gun. So yell back, Marsh. Listen to your own screams and get
used to the nerve-racking volume. Learn that yelling is just a tool. Conquer
it. And then it won't bother you anymore."
"I yelled at my dad," he said, just above a whisper.
"How did it feel?"
Marsh paused and a little sneer came over his face. "It felt good. He
looked afraid too."
"That's great, man. So, Marshall, do you understand what I'm doing, and
how I have to do it?"
"Yes I do."
"And do you know what you have to do?"
"Yes I do."
"And you know why all this is going on?"
"For my freedom."
"That's a nice way of putting it. Now, am I insane?"
"Any normal person would think so. But that's their problem, right?"
"Absolutely right. Now, continue driving."
* * * * *
Marshall steered the car back on the road and felt that strange sense of
euphoria come over him again. "It's coming back," he said.
"What is?" Chris asked.
"I'm starting to feel really good. Really eager. Teach me some more."
"Okay, but if I offend you, you must yell back."
"Okay."
"An important thing you need to understand is that it is offensive for
others to assume authority over your freedom. Parents, friends, police --
none have the right to control your life. Any deference you pay to them must
be of your own consent. For example, I loved my parents. They were nice to
me and never yelled or hit me. So I naturally loved them, and trusted their
advice. I didn't take all their advice, of course, but I still respected
them. That's the way all relationships should be. Right now ours is still
based on authority, but that is until you accept your freedom.
"For revolutionaries, as we want to be, our biggest threat is indeed the
police. This is not because they are inherently bad or evil. The problem is
that they can only work within the confines of their own society. They have
been the most rigorously trained into it. Therefore, when someone like me
comes in conflict with a policeman, I cannot make any sort of persuasive
argument why I am right. It is not set up that way. The police enforce all
the laws. They are the fabric of society. When they fall, society falls.
When they become too powerful, society really is a police state. For this
reason, you must respect the police. They can kill you easily and call it
self-defense. You must not fear them, or else you have no power. But as I
have said before, revolutionaries are outside society and have no other power.
We must then counter their main power, which is the gun. When we get to my
place, I'm teaching you how to use a gun."
With this, Chris pulled up his pants leg and pointed to his gun. It was
freakishly small. "That's mine."
"Whoa, I'm offended," Marsh said.
"Are you now?" Chris asked. "Thanks for telling me. Turn up here on
1637. It's a dirt road."
"Great."
"I've pondered the reasons for carrying a gun for a while now, as opposed
to learning martial arts or some peaceful method of dealing with deadly force.
Unfortunately, I think it is the only choice. Guns fire at a distance;
kicking legs cannot. It's that simple."
"Have you always had that thing?"
"I sure have. It fits nicely in my sock, and you never even saw it all
those times you knocked me over. Why are you offended by a gun? Remember, it
is legal to carry concealed weapons in Texas. Only, I never made it
official."
"It just seems unnecessary," Marsh said weakly.
"It *is* unnecessary most of the time," Chris explained. "I'll only use
it if my life is in danger. Remember, Marsh, yelling is unnecessary too. But
it's something you must be able to do, lest you remain afraid."
"I guess so, but it makes me uncomfortable."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's good. You must respect the gun, not fear it."
"I wasn't going that far."
"No, Marsh, this gun has nothing to do with you. You must not fear my
gun. I can pounce on your back but I won't shoot you."
"Well, okay. Do I still have to use one?"
"Yes you do. We won't be together all the time, you know. The last
thing I want to see is you in a jail, unable to do anything useful."
"But the gun would get me in jail!"
"Perhaps you do not understand. With the gun, you'd never go to jail.
Do you see?"
Marsh's eyes got wide. "What the hell are you aiming at?"
"The death penalty, Marsh," he said simply. "It's power we must
reclaim."
"Offended, offended, offended," he stammered. "This isn't funny."
"Listen, Marshall. What do you make of all this Brady-bill anti-handgun
legislation? Does it make you feel safer?"
"It did at the time."
"They say it'll make you safer, because you won't risk getting randomly
shot by some wacko with a gun, right? But they never take the guns away from
the police now, do they? Of course not! So your life is still in danger.
Don't you see? The only purpose for a gun is to kill someone. The government
says it's for self-defense. I sure as hell think it's easier to defend
yourself against someone who doesn't have a gun, isn't it? The police don't.
They insist on having their guns, in case some outlaws have one too. I'd
agree with them if that were the only reason they had guns. But no, they'll
still want guns even if no one else has one. Why? Because they assume
they're always in the right. And that's simply not true. A gun is power.
People abuse power. They'll shoot without thinking and kill you if you pose
enough of a threat. You must be able to shoot first. That's why a
revolutionary cannot go without a gun."
"I... I really don't want to think about any of that right now."
"Okay, that's your choice. But if you don't have one when you need
it..."
"Too bad for me, alright? Maybe I want to be a peaceful guy, ever
thought about that?" Marshall yelled back, remembering how physical Chris
could get at times. "Just leave me alone."
"Okay, okay. Say, the farm's up here. The only place within eyesight.
Yes."
* * * * *
Marshall parked on one side of the dirt driveway, having half-formed an
idea in his head to run over Chris and speed back home. When he turned the
engine off, the idea vanished. Instead he was amazed at the brightness of the
place. In his mind he'd associated farms with a lot of grey dust, but aside
from the dirt driveway (which was actually whitish), there was no grey. He
was also astonished that the grass hadn't completely died after the long dry
spell. The grass at his own house was still patchy from the winter. A silly
thought came into his mind: *What if he wants me for manual labor?*
"We're here, Marsh. You can get out of the car," Chris said from
outside.
"Oh, oh yeah," Marsh replied, grinning stupidly. After he got out, he
locked the car door and immediately wondered why he did. *I'm not an idiot*,
he told himself, thinking back how many miles they'd come. The last thing
he'd do is let himself get stuck having to walk home if some yahoo stole his
car.
The driveway led up, strangely, into the barn. Marsh noticed an empty
area in the corner of the barn and assumed that was where Chris parked when he
actually had his car at home. A tall partition stood in the middle of the
barn, separating the parking spot from the chickens and roosters in the other
side. He imagined that some of them still got occasionally squashed.
On the left side of the driveway stood the house. It had two stories,
and a cellar judging from the panel attached in the concrete of the
foundation. *These farm people go all-out*, Marshall thought. Then, looking
a little further in the distance, he spotted an outhouse and groaned. But
then he noticed there were boards nailed all over the door. Out of use, thank
God.
"Ah yes, you saw the outhouse, eh?" Chris asked. "Those boards on the
front are there so the door can close. Otherwise it'll fly right open on
you."
Marshall groaned again.
"We have plumbing here, but no sewer or septic system. Lucky for that
big old hole in the ground," Chris mused.
Marshall decided to ignore him. He realized how many trees there were in
this front part of the yard. Gazing at them, his eye caught a scene that
easily could have been painted by Bob Ross, except he would have probably
thrown in a lake to boot.
"You can't get enough of the scenery, can you?" Chris asked. "Just think
about the so-called most luxurious houses in Juncture. No comparison. People
think it's the inside that matters, and they've let themselves buy sealed-in
boxes on shitty little patches of land. The outside is where the life is."
"Except when it's a hundred out," Marshall chuckled.
"You wouldn't want to sit in the house when it's a hundred out, I'm
afraid."
"Good grief, no air conditioning either?" he asked, bewildered.
"Nope. That's why Hardee's was a great place to be all day. No longer,
I'm afraid."
Marshall let the facts of the situation trickle down into his mind. He
knew some people would absolutely balk at living in such a place, but wondered
if that was sensible. He wondered.... Chris was insane, after all.
"C'mon, Marshall, there are alternatives. There are fans inside, ice
water, open windows. Outside, we have a hammock, that loft in the barn, the
cellar... It's not that you'll fry to death here. You just have to think a
little to avoid it."
"Guess so," he murmured.
"Anyway, Marsh, let me show you around the rest of the place before noon
happens."
* * * * *
For the next half hour, Chris pointed out various technology-impaired
features of the farm. After a while Marshall was not sure if he was
apologizing for them or rubbing them in his face. Chris seemed to assume
Marsh would stay for a while, which didn't completely upset him, seeing as how
he'd already told off his parents and gotten kicked out of the house. Marsh
followed Chris around smiling like an eighteen-year-old accepting his first
credit card knowing he'd fuck himself over.
Finding himself staring at the grass for the fourth time in as many
minutes, Marsh finally asked, in the tone of one housewive commenting on
another's springtime-fresh drapes, "How do you keep the grass so well-
maintained?"
"Obviously, Marsh, I can't do it myself, especially when I work all day
at Hardee's. I have a few helpers who I've found wandering around in the
woods back there."
"Wandering around?"
"Yup, namely, kids who've run away from home. They're always out of
money. I usually reject their offers to whore themselves, though, so instead
I offer them work on the farm and one of those empty rooms on the second
floor."
"That's, uh, nice, I think."
"Hell yeah. Nice for me, too. Underpriced slave labor," Chris commented
offhandedly.
"What? Slaves?!" he exclaimed.
"Of course, Marsh. They want money desperately, and I desperately want
nice grass. They asked for it. Hell, no one even knows about this. Who's
gonna catch me, huh?" was the offended reply.
Marsh made a disgusted expression. "I don't even know what you're
planning to do with me, but I won't be anywhere near this slave shit," he
said, starting to walk off.
"Marsh," called Chris. "Are you gonna scream or run away and pout?"
"What the...?" he asked, confused. Suddenly he realized and wanted to
hit himself. "You're testing me!"
"Sure am. Now, you showed your offense, which was good, but you didn't
try to convince me I was wrong or anything. Not very revolutionary."
"Oh, fuck off. I can't argue with you."
"Marshall!" cried Chris. "Where did you get that idea?"
"Oh, uh, I don't know," Marshall replied, embarrassed. "You've got a
gun."
"Good Eris, you dumbass! Don't use the gun as an excuse! You know it's
not for you. It's for Officer Joe Smith."
"You're *planning* to kill someone?!" Marshall cried, frightened.
"Who? Oh, no, come on, I just made that up. Why can't you argue with
me?"
"You don't fucking make sense! You're badgering me! You're an insane
motherfucker!"
"Wow, Marsh, you're really hard to please. I just don't know if you're
serious about all this or not. Oh well. You've got your car, so why don't
you go back home?"
Marhsall smiled cruelly. "I guess I will. And you can walk back to
Hardee's to get yours." With that, he confidently walked away.
* * * * *
"Yup, turn left at this intersection," Chris said as Marshall glared
through the windshield. "From there, I think you can handle it."
No response except for a sharp turn.
"Amazing how I can just hold up a paycheck and make you crumble to your
knees," Chris commented.
Marshall fumed.
* * * * *
During that trip back into town, Chris had pretty much accepted the fact
that Marshall wasn't going to change. Oh well, it wasn't the first time his
senses had failed him. It's difficult to pick out the pre-revolutionaries,
since there are so few of them. Most people are in the societal-acceptance
stage, not noticing anything wrong. Fewer others have already become
revolutionaries, and being fiercely independent are unnecessary to recruit.
And the rest are prime for picking -- like ones whose spirits are on the verge
of evaporation. Marshall was under some sort of emotional trauma, apparently,
that preserved his dependence on society. He was a clinger, with his claws
buried deep in the flesh he hated.
None of this meant that Chris no longer cared for him, however. He
accepted the fact that he'd somewhat fucked him over. Curious about where
Marshall would go, he quietly followed him in his truck.
Marshall took off from the parking lot much too quickly. He ran a yellow
light and then jammed on his brakes after passing through the intersection.
But after this small amount of erratic behavior, he then proceeded at a less
stressful pace. Chris followed at a block's distance. He could have been
much closer, in fact, since after snatching his check, Marshall hadn't taken
the slightest glance at his truck and wouldn't recognize it. Chris himself,
on the other hand, was quite intact in Marshall's memory.
He followed Marshall through town, where he stopped at the Spare Change
Rooms, an apartment complex with the smallest rooms in the entire city. He
wondered if he would try to secure lodging there. It was a stupid idea, since
he was just running away. A motel would suffice. Marsh got out of his car
and lingered at the lobby entrance, staring at the building. Then he got
angry and went back to his car and left. Chris drove slowly by the lobby to
see for himself. Aaah, there it was, a sign taped on the window next to the
door: "No shoes, no shirt, no job -- no room." Chris smiled. Most every
place had that policy.
Chris kept his eye on Marshall from a distance and saw him pass the rest
of the apartments -- the Piney Greens, which was much too expensive for its
own good, and the Trendy, one of those cheap concept franchise places popping
up everywhere like malls. He was heading east, toward the crappy part of
town, but later turned north. He passed by the jail, which might be a good
place to spend the night, went past Wood Plains, the last resort in apartment
cruising, and finally found himself watching Marshall scan the motels situated
next to the access road. Chris wondered if he had any friends or not.
Someone had to have brought him to Hardee's.
Marshall got out of his car at each of the two places, one a Motel 57,
and the other a Days Inn, and after spending some time inside, came back out.
He looked flustered. Probably he didn't know about the age requirements,
either. Chris felt sorry for him. He obviously wasn't thinking straight.
Regaining some sense, Marshall headed west toward the residential section
of town. Perhaps he did have some friends there after all. *Oh, wait*, Chris
thought, *he was just being polite by checking out all his options before
resorting his friends' places, wasn't he? That might be why he didn't want to
stay at my farm*. That was obviously an optimistic thought, because he
followed Marshall into a neighborhood and saw him slow down in front of a
house and just look at it. Then he accelerated, turned around, and went back
looking very upset. *That's his house*, Chris remembered.
Chris went around the block, not wanting to rouse Marshall's suspicions,
and got on his trail again as he headed south toward the highway. Perhaps he
would head back to his farm after all. Seeing Marshall turn off into a gas
station, he figured that was the case. He decided he'd pass Marsh and be
waiting for him when he arrived.
* * * * *
Chris was about two miles away from his turnoff point at 1637 when
Marshall sped by him in his car, going maybe eighty. The speed limit was
sixty-five, and Chris knew people were bitching about that still, but Marsh
apparently didn't care. He cheered inside his truck, wondering if some
marvelous reformation had come over him. But then suddenly he heard the
sirens. He looked back to see a sheriff's patrol car go speeding by as well.
Chris smirked. No one was behind him so he accelerated dangerously in his
heavy old truck and tried to catch up to the sheriff and Marsh, wanting to see
what would happen.
Marsh saw that he had to turn off soon away, so he reluctantly pulled off
at the shoulder and banged on his steering wheel, setting the horn off too.
*Damned cops always stop kids*, Marsh thought angrily, taking off his
seatbelt and leaning over to yank out his registration and insurance
information. Then he heard sharp thuds at the window.
"PUT YER HANDS UP!" the sheriff's deputy screamed. "PUT THAT DOWN!" He
kicked the door with his knee to make his point.
Marshall's mouth fell open and his stomach turned cold. He dropped the
papers and dumbly watched them fall to the floor. He raised his hands and
they hit the top of the car.
"NOW, OPEN THE DOOR! SLOWLY!" the deputy continued to scream, unaware
that Marsh hadn't been reaching for a weapon of any sort.
Marshall unlocked the door and looked wonderingly at the deputy. His
sunglasses and reddened cheeks made him look evil. He banged on the window
again, motioning Marshall to get his hand away from the lock.
The deputy ripped the door open and yanked Marshall out by the arm.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS YOU REACHING FOR?" he screamed. *This guy would be a great
Marine*, Marshall thought off-handedly as his arm was pressed against the sun-
baked metal of the door and burned. He was speechless, too frightened to
remember how angry he'd been.
"I... I...," Marshall stammered before the deputy's head exploded. The
first thought that entered his mind was, *A prop!* The thought had nothing to
do with reality, but the hot blood and skin and bone dripping off his face
did.
Marshall hiccupped and lost his mind. He dumbly got back in the car and
took off again, assuming the incident was over, that's just the way it happens
sometimes, on with our lives now. He turned on 1637 and headed toward Chris's
farm at nearly thirty miles an hour.
* * * * *
Chris easily passed him on the way back and was waiting when Marsh pulled
into the driveway. The first thing he did was switch Marsh's license plates.
Maybe the officer had radioed in, maybe he hadn't, but no matter what, the
first suspect would be the driver of Marsh's car. Chris was indifferent
otherwise. The officer was obviously insane, about to beat up Marsh for
speeding. It was what had to be done.
Marsh got out of his car and stared at the scenery for five minutes as
the sun baked the gore on his face and shirt. Chris felt slightly revolted,
but no more revolted than he had been, sniffing around on the bloody shoulder
of the highway to find his bullet.
"Marshall, are you okay?" he asked.
"The grass is *beautiful*," he replied.
Chris led him inside and shoved him into the bath then washed his clothes
in the sink. He didn't say another word the whole time and let himself be led
around by the hand. "What the fuck," Chris kept on repeating silently to
himself.
After Chris dried off the inattentive Marshall, he gave him Jeremy's
room, which seemed to have been empty for weeks. It was the only other room
on the side of the house not facing the afternoon sun. Even for this, though,
there were also a powerful fan and an open window in the room. Still, lots of
ice water was on demand. Marsh took the glass silently, preferring to lie on
his bed all afternoon. He appeared catatonic.
"Aaah, the farm life," Chris proclaimed, watching the reddish water from
the upstairs drain out into a grassy puddle beside the house. "What a fucking
dreamworld."
* * * * *
Sometime later that afternoon, a young man with black hair and a face-
hugger goatee was heading up to his room after a morning of milking and raking
when he saw Jeremy's door was closed. He ran up the door and shoved it open,
crying, "You're back!" But when he saw it was someone completely different,
he just sighed, closed the door, and headed across the hall.
All the same, the eyes sharing the face with that goatee glowed fiercely
with life. They betrayed the hunched shoulders of their exhausted carrier,
beaming with intelligence and a sense of purpose. The owner of those eyes was
Ethan, and he was looking forward to a great adventure.
--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) 1996 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
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ftp to ftp.io.com /pub/SoB
World Wide Web http://www.io.com/~hagbard/sob.html
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>. Thank you.
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