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True Cyberpunk 4
From zzbartonr@acad.winthrop.edu Sun Dec 12 08:57:18 1993
Date: Sat, 11 Dec 1993 14:28:31 -0500
From: Sinergy <zzbartonr@acad.winthrop.edu>
To: fetherow@lurch.winthrop.edu, eudaleyt@lurch.winthrop.edu,
clund@delphi.com, npc@tenet.edu, falcor@agora.rain.com,
trond.Buland@ifim.sintef.no, chris@rigel.efd.lth.se,
jonb@isltd.insignia.com, polekat@well.sf.ca.us.com,
acc00ltr@unccvm.uncc.edu, slootsky@cu53.crl.aecl.ca,
ugu00010@vm.uoguelph.ca, pnet01!psilo@crash.cts.com, mariusw@ifi.uio.no,
kendall@mps.ohio-state.edu, kc5@cu.nih.gov, davet@wv.mentorg.com,
p30tmr1@niu.bitnet
Subject: Issue Number Four - Winter 1993
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. . . . . ______________________
. .. .. . ... . . ... ... ...
. . . . . . .... .. ...
. .: :. . ... . ../ |.. . \
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.... .... .... . . .. . . .
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: :. .: : .. .... . .. . .
.: :: :: :.
.::::::.:. .:.::::::.
.:::' ' ':::.
:. .:
. .:::::. .
.. . . true cyberpunk vol i iss. iv
winter 1993
. ..... .
. ::::::: .
::::::::: WE HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE AND
::::::: WE ARE IT!!!
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JA K IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK: JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T-------------------------------
TRUE CYBERPUNKS JACK IN - BUT THEY WON'T JACK OUT!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
WINTER 1993 + LAST ISS OF THE YEAR! + RAZORS WITH SALT ARE TASTY
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
POISED SALMON SCARE + EVIL ALIEN CAR GANGS + VIOLENCE, SEX, AND MTV
NATIONAL PRIDE + I DIDNT TELL YOU, YOU DIDNT ASK ME
and
YOU CAN'T DO THAT IN CYBERSPACE
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|| | | ||
|| | BUT - First! | ||
|| | | ||
|| | What the hell happened to the cover for issue #3!????????? | ||
|| | Well it is STILL being processed, I mailed it to this guy to | ||
|| | be HI-RES and COLOR scanned! REALLY cool , eh? Anywayz I'll | ||
|| | UUENCODE it and ship it out as soon as I have it so... cool. | ||
|| | The cover for this issue WILL be shipped within the next week. | ||
|| | It is a start on an entry for New Voices,New Visions! For nfo | ||
|| | on the contest just mail INFOBOT@WIRED.COM with the msg, | ||
|| | VISIONS. | ||
|| | | ||
|| | |\ /| | ||
|| | | \ / | | ||
|| | | | | | | ||
| |__| | | |__| |
|______| |______|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Janie looked up to her Father, repressing the sorrow that she always
held so tight inside of her. "Father, tell me a story". "Okay", says
he, grabbing an old fax from the floor and slipping on his decrypt-tek
glasses. "Be very quiet". Janie smiled on the inside, she'd been waiting
a long time for this.
"Okay", says he again. "This is how it goes..."
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:. /\ | |-- --| \ |--
:::::::::::::::::. / \ | | | \ |_____
:::::::::::::::::' / \ | | | \ |
:' / \ |____ |-- --| \ |--
A story by Michael Cote'
"Rain, rain," thought Chung, "It's always been this
infernal rain." He scuttled up the street towards his
building. A hidden sun failed to reflect light off long
dead neon tubes in the windows of abandoned stores. His
building loomed among a mass of rubble and muck in the
deserted part of the city. Narrow paths lead up to it's
crumbling front door, their gutters running over with water
from the television colored sky. He arrived at the front
door. Soaked with rain he typed in his building access
code. A synthetic voice with female overtones spoke,
"Welcome, Mr. Johnson." Chung looked up, smoothing his wet
hair back from his face, "Rack off, and open the door."
Bits of trash littered the hall ways of Chungs
building, occasionally barricading the path. Small metallic
creaking noises echoed throughout the hollow emptiness of
the building as Chung climbed a set of ancient steel stairs.
Chung looked upwards, towards the ceiling of the building
into seemingly infinite darkness of abysmal loneliness. A
drop of water fell from a hole above, striking Chung on the
face, causing him to real backwards and wipe away the horrid
moisture.
The building was utterly quiet except for Chung,
"Alone," Chung said aloud tapping in his pass code at his
door. "Welcome home Mr. Johnson," said the house computer.
Chung threw down his coat on a near by couch, "Lights," the
room came to life with a hologen glow. "What's for dinner,"
Chung asked himself, advancing upon his small kitchen and
the refrigeration unit that it sheltered. A small slab of
brown bean curd sat by it's self on the middle shelf of the
unit. It had once been surrounded by a diversity of food,
but now, after the other food had been eaten, it was the
only item that gave the refrigeration unit warmth. "Gatta
go to the market tomorrow, but I need some money for that
black-market food," he grabbed at the little chunk of curd.
A little "wurrrr" sound erupted from the microwave, Chung
waited for the tell-tale bing, then went into the living
room. He began his nightly ritual of watching Channel 34
news, and gnawing away at his lump of tofu. "Looks like
tomorrow's' forecast is more rain, with a ten percent chance
of sunshine," the weather man said.
"What! More Rain! More Rain!," Chung threw his dinner
at the TV, tofu and sauce ran down the screen, plopping onto
the carpet. He signed, rubbed the anger from his eyes, and
went to the kitchen to get a towel. The floor creaked under
his weight. Towel in hand, he dabbed at the carpet, then
rubbed the screen. "Tired of daily rain?," Chung looked up
at the TV, "Want an escape form the solitude of your boring
earth life?"
"That'd be grand, how much?," Chung spoke aloud in
the voice of a transfixed person bathed in he glow of a
god, unable to move.
"For only 5,000 dollars, you can fly away to the
tranquillity of the Mars Colonies, surrounded by old and
modern luxuries," the commercial seemed to reply directly to
Chung, "So come along with TransWorld." A trail of music
followed the commercial. Chung starred past the now drying
smudged of curd and sauce, into the beauty of the Mars
Colony fields. Thoughts of hills of green grass with people
crossed his mind. The phrase "5,000 dollars" cast a shadow
over his thoughts, he looked down at the carpet, starring
into the pool of sauce. He rubbed at his face, fighting the
agony of reality and life. "Next year, next year you'll
have enough. Then you can get off this crappy planet, go to
mars and be somebody, with somebody."
He finished mopping up his dinner from the floor,
and threw the towel onto the cleaning machine. He sat back
down. The news ended with an aerial view of the city, and
Chung sleeping in the chair.
The clocks green digits read "5:45," Chung
scrambled to the bath room, and lifted up the seat. With
his free hand he rubbed the haze of sleep from his face, and
looked out the window. Lights filled the city at night, but
they were far away, downtown. He flushed down his waste,
started starring at the swirling water, seeming to divine
the untold secrets of the ages from the swirling mass of
water in his toilet bowl. He shuffled into the bedroom.
He sat on the edge of his bed, bent over a pillow.
"Back to work," he put on his overalls. They were a drab
brown color only cut by the glow of a Federal Express
hologram logo. Coffee was pre brewed by the house computer,
not too hot, just warm enough to bring out the flavor of the
bean. Chung wrapped his lips round the edge of the coffee
cup, sucked in a small amount, the breathed out warm coffee
breath. The computer locked the door behind him, he dragged
him self down the stairs to his car. After thirty minutes
of driving in silence and solitude, he arrived at the
warehouse, his second home. He drove up to the window,
"Take this package to thirty five Marshall Street, give it
to the butler," a woman with frayed hair gave him package.
"Hi, Marge, how's your..," the package distributor closed
the window before he could start talking to her.
Chung pushed a red button with a grimmy wrinkled
thumb. "Where to sir, " the car spoke aloud. "Thirty five
Marshall street," he closed his eyes and put his hands
behind his head as the car drove off. The car beeped at
him. "All drivers are to have both hands on the steering
wheel during auto pilot." Chungs wrinkled hands, the trade
mark of Earth life, grabbed at the wheel and closed his
eyes. An abrupt stop caused the package to fall face down
on the floor. Chung grabbed at the box, lifting it up. A
bundle of dollars fell out , the top had been broken in the
fall. "Stop!," he yelled out. The car swerved to the side
of the street and parked. He scanned over the money, then
looked about for other people, "Silly, there won't be
anybody. There must be, wow," he stopped and thought, "What
is the description for package, uh, " he looked at the bar
code of the box, "nine-five-zero-three?" The car spoke,
"Five comic books, insured for 5,015 and 23 cents."
"The sender must have lied, "Chung said smiling,
"This would buy a nice apartment downtown. I'd have
neighbors, go to house warming parties, I'd talk to people!"
He looked at the money again, "Or, I could..." he dove into
the money, counted it three times. "Car, change course,
Airport."
He arrived to the bustling airport of the city.
It was infested with people traveling about the earth.
Middle management suck ups clung to corporation executives,
seeming to protect them from the earth and the rain.
Tourists looked for a cab with a worried expression on their
face. Bus boys scrambled about trying to make money carting
about bags and other pieces of luggage. Scanning the
offered ticket counters, he picked TransWorld, and walked up
to it. Once a human sold tickets to people, but now
automation provided more expedient service, and eliminated
the hassle of paying employees. A large drawer served as
the collection bin for money, a slot for credit chips.
Chung thrust carried the box up to the counter and thrust
the money into the drawer.
"Hello, sir, please enter Social Security Number,
" a computer terminal spoke to him, concurrently displaying
text on an inset screen. Chung hurriedly looked at the
label of the box, the number was there. Chung punched the
number into a keypad, his hand jittering with an the unknown
high of excitement and hope. "Please wait while your ticket
is processed and your money is counted," the terminal
paused, a faint sound of paper flicking could be heard,
"Enter Colony Plan number. Plane one is a..."
"I don't care, I just want to get away from this
hell," he randomly pushed button two. "I'm actually
leaving, I'm leaving!" Chung said attracting a bit of
attention from fellow airport patrons, and entered the
airport.
"I don't have any of my things, " he said stopping
in front of a baggage check robot, "Never mind that, I'll
not need my possessions in the sprawling colonies." He
hopped onto a pedestrian conveyor belt. The woman in front
of him held a small leather bag in her left hand. It's
bottom punched down by some sort of spherical object. She
looked back at Chung for a moment, her red lips were full,
her eyes highlighted by bluish eye shadow, then looked
forward again. Little waves of movement passed over the
back of her silken shirt as they went under an airduct.
They were nearing the mini mall section of the airport.
Large signs informed travelers of a last chance to purchase
duty free items, Chung steeped off the belt. Randomly he
picked out a shop, "All Things Scottish", the sign read,
surrounded by holograph array of plaid. A bagpipe noise
exploded from an unseen speaker when he opened the door,
finally fading into silence.
Tartan cloth and green shelves covered the walls
of the small store. Behind a desk, a little old man dressed
in full Scottish garb greeted him, "Welcome tou Aill Tins
Scoutish," a thick accent cut through his English, "where if
it's not Scottish, it's CRAP!," the last word came out with
a thundering boom, sending bits of spittle across the
counter as he bent down his head, "How ma' I 'elp eou?"
"Um, I'm just looking, thanks," Chung said. He
had fifteen dollars and twenty three cents left after buying
the ticket, "Do you have any of those, uh, skirts for men?"
"Ah think eou mean keilts, lad, " the man replied
sternly, "Ah've gote sume right over there," he pointed
towards a shelf. Chung walked over to the shelf, flipped
through the kilts. Green, red, black, blue, all arranged in
geometric patterns. He selected out a classic red and black
one, "I'll take this and whatever socks and sweaters go with
it."
After discarding his old clothes and stepping into
his new traditional Scottish clothing, he stepped back onto
the conniver belt, ten dollars poorer. Somewhat high on
excitement he rocked back and forth on his feet. The odd
feeling that the wool kilt produced caused Chung to scratch
at his legs. Large neon lights encircled the panel to the
space shuttle. No one else was waiting to enter the same
portal as Chung, which caused him to check his ticket for
the gate number again, "2H38, it's the same. Reassured he
stepped of the conveyor belt into the door to his flight.
His seat was a worn down brown cushioned chair.
Next to him sat the lady with the silken shirt, she clutched
the bulging bag in her lap. "That's a nice dress," she
said with a smirk. "What? Oh, it's kilt," he looked down at
it and tried to discreetly scratch his leg, "I got it and
this sweater and these socks, all for fifteen dollars."
"Isn't it great," she began, "going to a Mars
colony, peace of mind, no more constant rain."
"Ahhh, no rain. That'll be excellent, not to
sopping wet constantly. And meeting all those people! I'll
actually be someone, a neighbor to borrow sugar from!," he
looked over to the lady for a response, but she had put on a
pair of ear phones, looking in the opposite direction,
"Well, no one will ignore me any longer no mars."
The shuttle landed on Mars five hours later. An
exhausted Chung stood up, ready to exit. "Thank you for
flying TransWorld," said the shuttle as he exited. "Please
exit through the door marked with your colony site number,"
said a loud speaker in a digital voice. Chung looked at his
ticket, "Site 593A-65H", it read. He passed by several
doors, looking at the digital read outs on three panels
before he arrived at his door.
"Please insert you ticket," said the door.
Dumbfounded, Chung looked about for a slot, found it and
slid in his ticket. The door whisked open, "Thank you for
flying TransWorld. And please, enjoy your stay on colony
593A-65H."
Chung sat on another seat for several hours, this
time alone. The manmade landscape of mars whizzed by him,
visible through a window in the mini shuttle. Clouds
floated in a once barren sky, birds flew about where live
creatures had once never been. The shuttle stopped, a door
opened, "Thank you for choosing TransWorld, enjoy your new
home at site 593A-65H."
Chung walked up a path to a house, "This is odd,"
he thought, "Where are all the other houses?" He looked
about. His new house sat on a hill, surrounded by water as
far as the eye could see. He scrambled back to the landing
site, only a small dark circle remained at the site.
"Something must be wrong," he muttered," Where are all the
people?!?" He rabidity searched the island. A quaint
little hut rested on top of a small mountain. Cooking
implements and a refrigeration unit were the only
\ furnishings. Chung sat down in the hut. He picked up a
\ handful of sand. The sand shifted through his fingers,
\ leaving a single stone in his hand, "Alone."
\
\
\ /\
\ / \ /\
\ / \ / \ /\
\ / \ / \ / \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\_________ .
\ / \ / \/
\ / \/
\ /
\/
"WOW! - Only on the NET kids, yes siree. Only in CyberSpace can you
find such quality entertainment" - Joe Alphaperson
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Father looked at Janie, all snug in her bed. Thoughts crept into his
mind. He was full of those thoughts on the inside. Those dark thoughts.
Those thoughts that made him feel guilty sometimes. He knows there is
only one way to kill guilt. Janie laughed on the inside.
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|--------| |--------|
| | | | .:
|--------| |-------| |--------| .:::::::::::::;:::
| | | ':::::::::::::::::
| | --| | ':
| |-------| |
"This much is true"- Spandeau Ballet
So you think your E-Mail is private! Well, maybe it is. But
what about the person your sending it to. What about the numerous
possible between the two of you? That's why many user across the
globe have been enjoying the security of PGP. Unfortunatly the
Anal Retentive American Government to disapointed at their failure
to control their own countries REAL problems has lashed out at
Phil's Pretty Good Software. That's right! If you haven't heard yet
PGP v2.3 has been labeled as 'high-level encryption'. This means
you can not export it out of the country. Yulp- You probably guessed
it! The U.S. gov'ment is accusing Phil of intention to export 'cause
he put it on the net.
If you feel you need to express your views on this act send
some txt to the white-house or to Phil 'imself. (Addresses below).
[(For CyberSpace to be Real, Real People must X-Press their Real
Opinions in that CyberSpace)Paraphrase May'93 Lord Sterling]
The Pres --------------->PRESIDENT@WHITE-HOUSE.GOV
Phiilip Zimmerman ------>PRZ@ACM.ORG
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Father left the room and took off his glasses. They had succesfully
thwarted Janie's attempt to read his mind. That's what his insides say.
He knew that because he could still feel her happiness. She wouldn't be
so happy if she had known what he was thinking. He began to laugh on
the inside, as his meandering hands began to embrace him.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
:. ----| |--- | / |----| | . | |---
:::::::::::. | |__ |/ ___ |____| |__ | |__
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:' | |--- | \ | | | | | |---
ESD PRODUCT SERVICE SUPPORT
SUBJECT:NEW RETAIN TIP
Record number: H031944
Device: D/T8550
Model: M
Hit count: UHC00000
Success count: USC00000
Publication code: PC50
Tip key: 025
Date created: O89/02/14
Date last altered: A89/02/15
Owning B.U.: USA
Abstract: MOUSE BALLS NOW AVAILABLE AS FRU (Field Replacable Unit)
TEXT:
MOUSE BALLS ARE NOW AVAILABLE AS A FRU.
IF A MOUSE FAILS TO OPERATE, OR SHOULD PERFORM ERRATICALLY, IT MAY
BE IN NEED OF BALL REPLACEMENT. BECAUSE OF THE DELICATE NATURE OF
THIS PROCEDURE, REPLACEMENT OF MOUSE BALLS SHOULD BE ATTEMPTED BY
TRAINED PERSONNEL ONLY.
BEFORE ORDERING, DETERMINE TYPE OF MOUSE BALLS REQUIRED BY EXAMINING
THE UNDERSIDE OF EACH MOUSE. DOMESTIC BALLS WILL BE LARGER AND HARDER
THAN FOREIGN BALLS. BALL REMOVAL PROCEDURES DIFFER, DEPENDING UPON
MANUFACTURER OF THE MOUSE. FOREIGN BALLS CAN BE REPLACED USING THE
POP-OFF METHOD, AND DOMESTIC BALLS REPLACED USING THE TWIST-OFF METHOD
..
MOUSE BALLS ARE NOT USUALLY STATIC SENSITIVE, HOWEVER, EXCESSIVE
HANDLING CAN RESULT IN SUDDEN DISCHARGE.
UPON COMPLETION OF BALL REPLACEMENT, THE MOUSE MAY BE USED IMMEDIATELY
..
IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT EACH SERVICER HAVE A PAIR OF BALLS FOR
MAINTAINING OPTIMUM CUSTOMER SATISFACTION, AND THAT ANY CUSTOMER
MISSING HIS BALLS SHOULD SUSPECT LOCAL PERSONNEL OF REMOVING
THESE NECESSARY FUNCTIONAL ITEMS.
P/N 33F8462 -- DOMESTIC MOUSE BALLS
P/N 33F8461 -- FOREIGN MOUSE BALLS
USERID (RSSTEWART) NODEID (BCRVM1)
INT.ZIP 1225, DEPT 2AW, TL 443-4597 (407-443-4597)
ESD PRODUCT SERVICE SUPPORT, BOCA RATON, FL.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Father didn't mind the wet pants. Father didn't mind. He just stood in
the hallway. Thinking on the inside. Janie could see his insides, she
had been able to see there for about three months. Janie understood
what he had been doing to her. Making her forget the pain. Forget her
insides. He did it because of "love" he says. Janie knows this is no
love. Janie clings tightly to her security. Janie presses hard on the
H-Icon that floats in her mind. The Aura-Gaurd Soft v13.2b ware that
she linked to was active. Father didn't mind. He just stood in the
hallway. Janie laughed on the inside, she knew that 'they' had all
on tape somewhere, they would have prrof that her act was in 'defense'.
She had moved the T.V. into her room.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
FROM: (UNIMPORTANT)
DATE: (UNIMPORTANT)
In an effort to gain access to the homes of millions of Americans,
the FBI, CIA, and NSA have collaborated on a scheme which will
finally bring to fruition George Orwell's nightmare scenario.
American citizens will be the unwitting accomplices in this plan
as they purchase new televisions and bring them into their
livingrooms and *bedrooms*. I'm speaking of the CC decoders that
have secretly been mandated by law. These decoders supposedly
provide captions to TV shows for the hearing impaired, but in
fact they are also rebroadcasters which will allow the gov.
to spy on anyone they want.
The television already comes with everything necessary to be
a spying apparatus. Speakers are essentially no different than
microphones and therefore can be used to pick up sounds in the
room. The infrared eye which detects the remote control
signal also receives an infrared picture of the room, especially
detecting heat sources like people. Thus, all that is needed is
a way of gathering this information and relaying it to the government.
The little understood "Decoder" is the solution.
The congress has recently passed a Law (in virtual secrecy)
that requires all new TV's to have the "Decoder." This is
claimed to be for the benefit of deaf people but that is
obviously a smoke screen.
How we know the congressional law mandating the "Decoder" is not
for the deaf:
1) Legitimate CC decoders are already available for TV's.
2) The law doesn't cover other things, like telephones,
which are obviously in the same situation w.r.t. the deaf.
3) There is no law requiring that shows even be broadcast with
closed captions, only that the TV have the "Decoder".
Clearly we see that there is no real justification for mandating
decoders other than for gathering intelligence.
How to deal with the decoder: simply removing the decoder will not
be an option because it will undoubtedly be integrated in such a way
that the television will not function without it. Also, if you open
the TV to get at it, you will void the warranty and then when you
get it fixed, they will just replace the "Decoder" without telling.
The best way to avoid the "Decoder" is to avoid it by not buying any
new TV's. This will be made difficult by the predictable introduc-
tion of High Definition Television soon after the "Decoders" are
on line. In this way you will be forced to buy a new TV because the
old one will not get HDTV. When HDTV is made a standard by the govern-
ment, the old style signal will not be allowed to be broadcast on the
grounds that it interferes with the HDTV. This is all to force people
to buy new TV's with the "Decoder".
When you find yourself with a TV equipped with the "Decoder" there
are several things you can do to protect yourself. First, don't
put the TV in your bedroom, this is where the government is most
interested in spying. When not watching, push the antennas all the
way in or disconnected the cable. Unplugging the TV will not help
because the "Decoder" will use passive broadcasting to continue
sending its signal. Also turn the volume down when not watching.
When you watch the TV, place a candle or other heat source to confuse
the infrared EYE. Don't say anything secret or get undressed near
the TV. Don't be seen smoking near the TV.
I hope this post is not censored before reaching you because this
is very important to us all. Warn you families. I don't know
how much longer I will be allowed to keep my account after this.
Please do not keep copies of this article in your files unless you
delete the header.
End of File, Press RETURN to quit
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Father takes his hand out of his pants. He hasn't had enough. Janie
knows. She turns the TV up full blast by the remote. The audio
damping warez that she slipped Father simultaneously activate. The
brightness on the TV is all the way down. The room is dark, inside.
Father wants, inside. Janie fears inside. "They have to have their
damn evidence" says she, inside. Janie clings tigtly to her security.
Father slips the cable into her port. His warez activate, she masks
them. He comes inside, covers off. The TeeVee. is on. The TeeVee sees
all. The pain. The disease. The sickness. The blood. She'd been waiting
for this for a long time.
Janie sits up in bed. Father was nothing on the inside. Father was a
mess. As she stands to approach the TeeVee. Father slips out of her,
inside. Janie grabs a vial and rubs it's cold edge against her pain.
She caps it and places it on the bed. She calls security. She sits
and waits. "It feels good to have it out", says she.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
[-Inside- SINergy '93]
Special Thanks To:
The Winthropians --> Cote 4 the sub --> Black Sun --> The FBI
(for following up) <-- PWEI 4 Good Musak <-- Kyle 4 being there
A big howdy do joy joy hand shake too all abduction van
users, abuser, drivers, and riders. Hope to see you all on
YFN soon.
"Hey man I can't get my stuff published ANYWHERE! What Am I gonna
do?"
-- "Give it to TCP, they'll publish ANYTHING!"
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
TCP is a publication of "bull shit."
All rights reserved unless otherwise noted.
You are being noted otherwise, please don't confuse the two.
All syringes found inside this E-Zine should be considerd either a legitimate
conspiracy to introduce a deadly disease to all the world, or as we like to
think of them.. collectors edition bonus prizes!
Any names places or events are to be considered names places or events.
Any assumption otherwise was not intended or was intended.
Thank you for buying our bull shit.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
__________________________
/If you think love comes in\
|only one flavor that you \
|haven't been to Baskin-Robbins| ::
\_____________________________| __.::.__
|\___ / :: \___/|
\___| (O)__(O) |___/
| /00\ |
\__ |--| __/
___/ \__/ \____
\
/B| \
\ |S/
BullShit productions. 1993
