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Twilight Zone Volume 3 Issue 3
= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 3 Issue 3 (May 20th 1995) =========================
You can do anything with this magazine as long as it remains intact. All
stories in it are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or
character and similarity is coincidental.
This magazine is for free. Get it as cheaply as possible!
Please refer to the end of this file for further information.
= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================
EDITORIAL
by Richard Karsmakers
MASTER AND SLAVE
by Roy Stead
LOST IN A WORLD OF DREAMS
by Stefan Posthuma
OH YEAH - THE SEQUEL
by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers
RODNEY'S RAYGUN REVENGE
by David Henniker
THE MAO-KAO HOLY WARS
by Roy Stead
SPEEDBALL II
by Richard Karsmakers
= EDITORIAL =================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
Another jam-packed issue of "Twilight World" is ready and willing to be read
by you, dear reader. Some absurdity is prevalent in this particular issue,
but I'd advise you all to hold your hopes high for it looks like the next
issue will be a lot better even.
Enough of this worthless ego-boosting. As per usual, I hope you'll like
reading it. Remember to spread the word - and the file! And...er...I do hope
more people will write in the near future. As it is, I am running out of
"ready to use" material somewhere within the next year...
Richard Karsmakers
(Editor)
P.S. If you no longer want to receive "Twilight World", *please*
unsubscribe; don't let me wait for the messages to bounce instead,
totally flooding my email box! This especially goes for people on
AOL, about 1 out of every 5 direct subscribers.
P.P.S. This wasn't much of an editorial, was it? Well...all the more reason
to continue with the real stuff then.
= MASTER AND SLAVE ==========================================================
by Roy Stead
The day was drawing to a close and the light was failing. As the glow of the
night lamp receded, Jenny was filled with a terrible sense of dread as she
realised that it would return to plague her again that night, attacking her
with its awful visions once more as it attempted to swamp her senses and
confuse her mind long enough to take it over as it had all those years
before, when she was eight years old.
That time, she had only the words of other people to tell her what had
happened, the three days being blanked from her own memory. Apparently, her
younger body had killed two people. Two ordinary, innocent people had died
because Jenny had been unable to resist the advances of the thing which, she
now knew without any doubt, was to return to plague her this night.
Jenny's parents were dead. It had killed them, using her body as its weapon.
She had no idea what it was, or where it had come from, but she somehow had
the knowledge that it wanted to kill again, this time making use of her older
form for its purposes. Jenny began to sweat.
Three hours later, it struck. Jenny was reaching across to her bedside table
for another mug of coffee to help her remain awake, when she felt its
presence. The five senses heard, saw, felt, tasted and smelt nothing, but
some more primitive ability *knew* that it had arrived. The coffee. piping
hot and still in its flask, wafted its scent to her nose, but that sense was
ignored for the moment. She turned her head slowly to the left, away from the
flask, and it was there that she saw it.
The room had faded, not into blackness but into non-existence. Her blind
spot had expanded to fill her entire field of view. To find your own blind
spot, put two dots close together on a blank sheet of paper and hold it at
arms length. Focus on one dot, then move the paper slowly toward your eyes
and, at one point, the other dot will seem to vanish. This is your blind
spot. Now try to imagine that blind spot growing until it is all you can see
- or, rather, not see.
Jenny stared at it. Not because she wanted to, but because she could see
nothing else. Her mind simply refused to see anything outside of the
creature's form. If she moved her head, it still filled her entire view.
Either its form was very distorted, or the blind spot was simply absorbing
her vision and stretching what little she could see - the creature - to fill
in the blanks which her mind refused to see. In either case, what Jenny saw
was an oddly proportioned cat. The Cheshire Cat's grin would have been
positively comforting beside that face.
"Hello again," it grinned, "Are you ready to play again?" The words were not
spoken. Neither did they echo in her mind. Rather, the grin somehow conveyed
*something* to her. The thing did not bother with speech, or even telepathy.
It seemed to think that such activities were beneath it, preferring to rely
on this more direct form of communication instead.
"No." The force behind this single syllable astonished Jenny at first,
shocking her that her hatred of the cat-like form before her could be so
vehemently and graphically expressed in a single word.
The thing (Jenny could not bring herself to call it anything else - to give
it a name would be to accept its existence, and she wanted nothing more than
for it not to *be*) grinned at her. No message this time, it simply grinned.
I hate to abuse an old cliche, but this grin *was* Evil. With a capital 'E.'
It seemed to be unsurprised at the woman's defiance. Perhaps it had known
that she was expecting it, and ready and willing to fight. That grin
disquieted Jenny: it seemed to know the future, and burned into her mind as a
hot poker into net curtain. The message spread like wildfire in Jenny's
brain: "Give up. You cannot win."
Jenny stared at it - not that she had a choice - and glared defiance at its
mind with all her power. Did it flinch? It seemed to. Though perhaps it was
her imagination. There - that was no imagination. The thing recoiled from
her, as though stung by her mind. Quickly rallying, however, it attempted to
leap toward her. Not toward her bed, which she could not feel or see, nor
toward her body. But, rather, toward the very *her* of her. That part of her
which religious people might call her 'soul'.
Jenny's mind stayed, unflinching, against the onslaught. The last thing she
saw before unconsciousness claimed her was its grin fading into disbelief,
then the entire cat vanishing with a surprised expression on its face...
"Yes, but does it *work*?"
"We can't be sure, nurse, but it certainly appears to. Not a single patient
given this treatment has showed any symptoms of mental disorder again. You
are familiar with the theory?" A nod from the nurse, but an encouraging nod -
perhaps he would ask if she was doing anything that night. "Well, we
hypnotise the patient, and encourage him or her to personify their disorder.
Then, there is a showdown between the conscious mind and the - in this case,
paranoid - mentality. The conscious wins, and expels the illness. Simple, but
effective. The patient sleeps for a day or two, then returns to society
cured."
"But, doctor, what happens if the illness *wins*?"
"I can't win. The conscious mind always has more power." A puzzled frown,
creeping across his forehead, the doctor turned to the one-way mirror to look
at the sleeping Jenny. "It *can't* win," he repeated, as if to reassure
himself, "Yet, there *was* something odd about this one..."
Jenny woke up, screaming. Darkness lay about her, and - somewhere Out There
- she could sense the thing, gloating. Its grinning visage swam into view,
filling her heart with dread. The grin was saying, "Now who is master and who
is slave?"
Written April 18th 1990.
= LOST IN A WORLD OF DREAMS =================================================
by Stefan Posthuma
A story inspired by the heavy fog that surrounded my flat one lost Autumn
weekend. Also, the legendary kingdom of Avalon comes to mind...
That morning the strange light coming through my bedroom drapes revealed to
me the fact that the fog had come at night. I opened the curtains and beheld
the sight that I love so much; the fog lying over the land like a thick
blanket, lazily swirling in the soft breeze. It was powerful that day, lying
in thick layers, shutting out the sun that was already bleak in late Autumn.
Yes, Autumn. It was already fading into Winter and the trees had shed all
but a few leaves, forming thick layers of dead leaves on the ground,
preparing it for the coming spring to provide nutrition for life that was to
spawn from it after Winter has gone. The dazzling colours were muted by the
mists, like a faded painting of old. Some of the leaves that still clung to
the branches stirred in the breeze, and one by one they would submit and fall
to the ground, disappearing into the haze, swallowed by the fog.
I kept the torch next to my door on all day, its light casting a hazy glow
on the trees outside my window, making them look like gnarled giants, looming
shadows in a world of mystery.
During that day, I would sometimes stand in front of the window and gaze
into the mists, wondering what lay beyond the veil of shadows and whispering
sounds that were carried from far through the fogs. I went through the day
dreaming, the furnace alive with burning logs so I felt warm and secure
inside my house while the fog rested upon it.
In the afternoon I felt it for the first time. I looked up from the book of
magick I was reading and walked over to the window, the smoke of incense
swirling around my form. I stared out the window and into the woods that lay
beyond, shrouded by the mists. The feeling was strange and eerie, like there
was something inside the woods, concealed by the trees and the heavy mists,
that was beckoning me to come, almost to join it in its unspoken purpose. For
a long time I stood there, motionless, staring, waiting. The cloaked and
huddled forms of travellers passed in the distance, mere shadows on the trail
that wound itself past my little cottage, hurrying towards their
destinations, eager to free themselves from the grip that the fog seemed to
have on them.
The day passed unnoticed, like time slipped away noiselessly into the fog,
and in the evening it became even darker. The air that was laden with
moisture all day finally became satiated and a slow, lazy drizzle began to
fall. Soon the windows were streaked with water, blurring the visions from
the outside. I was preparing a beef and vegetable stew when I felt it again,
stronger this time. I dropped the wooden spoon in the pot and quickly walked
over to the window and looked out, expectantly, eager to see what was so
tempting, to discover the source of these strange beckonings. But nothing was
revealed to me; the trees were the same, black forms standing there in silent
resignation. The little clearing in front of my house was empty, the
torchlight glistening off the small table I used to sit at during the warmer
times of summer. But I felt it still and I wheeled around, went for the door
and ran outside, stopping in the middle of the clearing, looking around.
Then I saw it, a faint movement just beyond the line of the trees, a hint of
long, black hair that blended into the darkness, seemed to float in the
mists. It was there only for a split second, and then it was gone. I started
after it, but I was already beginning to get cold and I could feel the
dampness starting to creep into my clothes. So I turned around and went back
in the house, feeling foolish, as if I had missed something important.
Back inside the house I sat down in the large stuffed chair next to the fire
and picked up my book again. But the words meant nothing to me. I could only
think of the apparition I just saw, a presence in the woods around my house.
Curiosity haunted my mind; what could it be that lived in these mists? Why
had it come to me and what was I to do with it? The magick had long gone from
the lands and I quickly dismissed the strange thoughts that welled up in me.
It was probably nothing - visions induced by the fascination and perhaps even
silent fears I had for this fog. I should give it a rest, and divert my
attention to the things that mattered.
I had devoted my live to the study of the history of the lands, a task that
was both huge and troublesome as much had happened in the past. I would often
travel to one of the large cities and spend time in the libraries there,
reading the books of old, the chronicles of the ancient kings, I wanted to
know how the land turned out to be what it was today. Sometimes my questions
were left unanswered and I had to go out by myself to find them. I had
travelled a lot, and my knowledge was respected amongst the wise that ruled
the courts of the kings. Sometimes they would come to me and ask my advise,
to ask my opinion on things that were not well known amongst them.
Some months ago I stumbled upon a small collection of books hidden in the
Shadow Moors a few days south of here. Local legends and stories told of them
and I finally decided to seek them out and succeeded. The quest was not easy
since the moors were hardly ever travelled. There was only one guide
available and I had to be extremely persuasive to get him to lead me across
the swamps and desolate plains that form the Shadow Moors.
The books were books of magick, whose purpose was not yet known to me. I
always took great care when it came to this kind of thing, because I knew
there was a lot of dormant magick hidden in these lands. True, only very few
people possessed magick and they used it with great care. They dwelled in the
old lands far beyond the borders known to most people because they knew they
didn't fit in here. I had visited one of them a long time ago and she taught
me how to read books of magick, how to interpret their meaning and how to
reveal their purpose. But she also warned me that magick was nothing to play
with, it was not there to be used by those that were ignorant and unworthy,
for the powers of magick were almost unlimited, enough to destroy any mortal
man if not used correctly.
The food and wine I had with my dinner made me drowsy, and soon I felt
myself slipping away, thoughts scattering, sleep taking over my mind. But I
wanted to finish a particularly interesting part of the the book, so I did
not go to bed yet, and I defied the sleep that was trying so hard to claim
me.
Then, suddenly, I found myself standing at the window, staring outside
again. The torch had almost died, its remains faintly glowing, casting a soft
red haze in the mists that coiled endlessly around the house. I felt it
again, this time the urge to go outside was uncontrollable and I quickly
fetched my thick winter cloak and a lantern from the cupboard in the little
hallway of my house.
Wrapped in my cloak I went outside, and started down the trail that led
towards a larger path that wound itself south through the Barren Hills, and
into the Shadow Moors. A few moments passed and already I found myself
completely surrounded by the peristent fog. My lantern wasn't of much use.
Its light, normally enough to light most of the trail before me and the trees
around, now barely enabled me to see the ground. The light coming from it
seemed to be absorbed by the white veil that was draped over the land. When I
passed the tree line, my disorientation became complete, and I concentrated
on following the path. Where I was going I did not know, nor did I know why I
was doing it. But I walked with a silent determination; something or somebody
was guiding me towards my obscure goal.
Sometimes as I glanced around and saw the ghastly shadows of trees, I could
hear the dripping sounds all around me. The mists condensated on the leaves
and droplets of water fell down, pattering on other leaves or the ground
below. A steady downpour streamed down on my cloaked figure and I was glad I
was wearing my cloak that the smith at the village had made waterproof just a
couple of days ago, using animal fats. The sound was almost hypnotising, and
combined with the eldritch glow of the lantern on the wet branches that
loomed out of the mists in front of me, it completed the illusion of
wandering through a world of dreams, a shadow-filled reign of haunting
shadows and twisted images of leaveless trees frozen in the endless fog.
Then I saw it, a huddled form a bit further down the path, probably a man,
standing there, watching me. I froze and strained my eyes trying to make out
what it was exactly. Cautiously, I approached and a faint smile formed on my
lips when I discovered that it was but a gnarled tree stump, its surface
slick with green mosses. It was rotten to its core, and a large piece came
right off as I as I tentatively pulled at it. My mind, tired by the constant
stream of hazy images thrown at it, was getting confused and I started seeing
things. I squatted down next to the stump and rested a while, trying to
straighten out my thoughts.
I nearly dozed off when I was startled by the distant cry of a forest
animal, a cry sounding muffled and twisted by the fog. I straightened myself
and continued down the trail.
I don't know how long I walked there, following the trail that coiled
through the woods. The familiar trail that I had travelled so much, I knew
every landmark from the Kings Oak (legends have it that one of the old Kings
was slain there and in the same spot, a mighty oak had sprouted from the
earth, it had been there as long as people could remember) to the Silver
Spring Falls. But none of these I had noticed yet, I realized with a start. I
stopped and squatted again, this time to examine the trail I had been
following for the last hour or so. It was still there, but nothing more than
a faint mark on the forest ground. The trail I knew was broader than this,
and a silent fear crept into my heart. A lot of smaller trails branched off
the main trail, some of them leading to the secluded houses of wood workers,
some to the various springs and wells to be found in these woods, and some
disappeared into the woods, leading to unknown destinations. I knew I had
wandered off onto one of these and that I would have to be very, very careful
not to get lost now. These tiny trails were hard to follow at daytime, and
hardly possible to keep to under these circumstances.
For a while I considered going back, trying to find the main trail and head
back home, to the warmth of my house, to find shelter under the soft blankets
of my bed. But the feeling was still there, more a premonition of things to
happen, a whisper in my mind that I was still on the right track so I
continued. The trees around me became more dense, and more often I stumbled
into low branches, their wooden fingers grappling at my face, scratching it.
I drew my cloak tight around me, my hair wet with the air's dampness, but it
was thick and warm enough to ward off the chill of that cold, wet night.
After a while I heard the soft sound of water lapping against a shore, and I
stopped. I had to be a lake of some kind, or maybe one of the many pools to
be found around here. I continued towards the source of the sounds, and soon
I found myself standing at the shore of a lake. There was no way to tell how
large it was, since the shores at all sides quickly disappeared into the
haze, but the curve of the shore around me told me that it had to be quite
large.
I searched my mind for any lakes in the vicinity, I tried to recollect
images of the maps that I had collected for so long. But I failed to find any
reference to this lake; the nearest waters of this size were to be found deep
in the Shadow Moors. I stood there for a while, trying to think of what to do
next. The trail ended here. I searched the area around me, but it seemed to
run off right into the lake. I glanced into the lantern; the stout candle in
it was burned down halfway, indicating that I had been walking for some three
hours. So what next? Turn back and go home? I failed to see the purpose of
all this. Worse still, the feeling was gone. I no longer felt anything, and a
despair came over me. I sat down heavily and drew my knees up to my chest and
laid back against a tree. The soft sound of the waters calmed me down a
little and the everlasting fog closed around me, cushioning my thoughts,
penetrating my mind. I breathed deeply the cold, crisp air and watched my
breath blend into the haze as I exhaled. The waters rippled subtlely in the
soft breeze and the everlasting drizzle softly tapped on the hood of my
cloak. Sitting there in the soft grass I felt completely at peace, utterly
isolated in the deep woods, next to this mysterious lake. I felt good about
coming here, yet the its purpose still puzzled me. What did the strange
feeling mean and why was it gone now? It had guided me all along the strange
trail and now... I must have reached my destination! Somehow, this lake was
the place where I had been guided to! But what was to happen here? I stood
up, feeling excited. Something was definitely going to happen but what and
when? I sat down again, extinguished the candle of the lantern and decided to
wait.
I awoke with a start, the echoes of a strange sound sounding in my head. I
listened intently for a few moments, and heard it again. A soft, barely
audible creaking of wood somewhere around me. The fog made it hard to
pinpoint the source of the sound and I wondered how a noise this faint had
managed to wake me up. I heard it again and this time I was sure where it
came from - the lake. I stood up, quickly lit the lantern again and peered
into the mists curling above the lake. I was prepared but startled anyway
when the dark shape appeared out of the mists. For the first time I felt
frightened since I wandered out into the ethereal fog, and I wished I had
brought some kind of weapon to defend myself against what was coming out of
the mists. It came steadily closer and I was amazed to see an empty boat
glide towards the shore, out of the mists. It drifted towards the shore at a
slow but steady pace and came to a halt when it slided up the shore. Slowly,
I started towards it and had a closer look. It was an ordinary boat, made out
of wood and painted pitch black. It had no oars or other means of moving it
yet I had seen it move across the silent waters. It was obvious what I had to
do, enter the boat and try to get to wherever it came from. Maybe there I
would find the answers to the questions that haunted my mind. Determined now,
I entered the boat, fastened the lantern to its stern and pushed myself from
the shore.
Immediately, I felt a force tugging at the boat, like an invisible hand,
pushing it towards its destination. I should have been alarmed by what was
happening, but I just laid back and stared out into the mists, trying to see
beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern. But I saw nothing but dark
waters looming from the mists. The shore had long since disappeared when I
could heard the faint tolling of bells, carried across the surface of the
lake. But these sounds faded and after a while land appeared out of the fog
in front of me, and I knew that I was close to where I was meant to go.
Moments later, the boat hit the shore and I got off, glancing around me while
I unfastened the lantern. The fog seemed even more intense here and I felt
strange, like I had entered a place forbidden, trod on holy grounds.
The ground sloped softly upwards, and after a while I reached the top of
what seemed to be a small hill. I peered into the mists, but saw nothing of
the lands that lay beyond. They were obscured from sight by the mists, and I
wondered what to do next. I did not know these lands and I was afraid to get
lost, separated from the boat, the only link between the world I knew and
this strange, eerie place. So I sat down again, placing the lantern in front
of me and decided to wait once more, to let whoever brought me here reveal
their purpose.
The darkness and quiet around me soon affected me and I started drifting off
once more. Strange feelings haunted my mind, my thoughts becoming a frenzy of
images, excerpts of things I experienced before, faces of people I knew. I
closed my eyes and drifted off into a world beyond this one, the realm of
dreamers. I could feel my spirit detach itself from my body and I slowly
drifted upwards, the air crystal clear, no sign of the mists. I stared at my
crouched body in wonder when, quite suddenly, I saw her.
I awoke, scrambling back at what I saw in front of me. A shape suspended in
the air just above me. It was a girl, dressed in long flowing robes that were
raven black, fading into the mists like whisps of smoke. Her hair was thick,
black and streaming around her head, blending into the fog. Her face was
stunningly beautiful, pale white like the full moon on a cloudless night,
delicately formed. She looked at me with deep, dark eyes that seemed to glow
in the night. I sat there, spellbound and gasping for breath as I beheld the
frail form of this wondrous girl sway softly before me in the air. The
expression on her face was kind and loving; I felt no fear for her, just
curiosity and a strange fascination for this beautiful creature. I started to
speak but she brought a finger to her lips before I could utter my questions.
She beckoned me to follow her and I stood up, following her as she moved away
from me, into the mists.
I do not know for how long I hurried after her fleeting form, across a
landscape that was completely unknown to me, like I was venturing into a maze
I never was able to get out of. Trees appeared suddenly from the haze and I
had to be careful not to stumble over the many rocks and boulders that lay
cluttered on the hills I crossed.
Then I realized she was gone and I stopped, exhausted, confused. What to do
now? I was hopelessly lost, shadows all around me, the world a place I felt
alien in, like I was never meant to tread on these grounds. I walked around
aimlessly, not knowing what to do next, desperate. Where had she gone? Why
was I alone in these mists that numbed the very meaning of my existence?
A sense of relief came over me when I discovered the entrance to the temple
that lay partially hidden behind the long streaming branches of gnarled
willows. I prudently ventured through the portal, awed by the ambience that
enveloped me. I approached the altar that was in the middle of the small
confinement of the temple, partially lit by the eerie moonlight filtering
through the mists and the cracks in the ceiling of the small structure.
When I saw her again, the recollection of sweet memories of times I once had
was almost too strong to handle. Why I hadn't recognized her earlier I did
not know, but she was there now, solid, present, the girl I had known so
well, loved all these years.
I had many questions to ask but I could not speak as I gazed into her eyes
that told me the stories of long ago, and also told me of what befell her
after our parting. The loss, the longing, the loneliness. The pain I felt
that moment was agonizing, my eyes grew hot with tears when I remembered the
nights alone, longing for her presence, the soft breathing beside me, the
pain relieved.
Then I realized what I had to do.
A soft glimmer of metal caught my attention and I looked up, our eyes met
one more time and it looked like she beckoned me. I took the dagger in my
hand and all the fear I had once had for Death was taken away from me. With
one swift stroke I sliced my left wrist, the blade changed hands and I cut my
right wrist also.
I staggered, sank to my knees and looked up into her brilliant smile. I
realised then I had done the right thing.
Blood spilled on the floor and I closed my eyes to the onrushing darkness; I
knew we would be together again, forever...
Written somewhere in autumn 1990, most probably. Ever so slightly rehashed
May 1995.
= OH YEAH - THE SEQUEL ======================================================
by Stefan Posthuma and Richard Karsmakers
With thanks to Craig Shaw-Gardner and, of course, *Gard*, for a lot of
inspiration.
Cronos Warchild stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down. What he saw
was depth. The kind of depth that could make your head spin, the kind of
depth that seemed to call at you, building up an urge to hurl down little
stones and count the seconds that would pass until they would hit the ground
below with a soft, barely audible 'thud'.
For a moment the sheer depth of the whole thing baffled him. Of course, not
much was needed to baffle the mercenary annex hired gun. Only earlier that
day, for example, he had been rather baffled at the changing of the colours
of a traffic light.
His mind was filled with a name; the name that represented everything
beautiful, all the flowers in the world, gorgeous red roses fragrant with
love, dew-covered spring mornings, the soft scent of green grass below her
dancing feet. That name, of course, was Klarine.
The name brought an instant feeling of a thousand megaleeches sucking their
way through his abdomen. He sighed a profoundly deep sigh.
Her name had been written in delicate handwriting on the name tag that he
had managed to glance at in the fraction of a millisecond he had seen her. It
had been located strategically on top of her left breast, and for two seconds
afterwards it had utterly taken his breath away.
Of course, like with so many true loves, he had never seen her again. All he
had seen of her was a tiniest glimpse when her oncoming space craft had
flashed by his at half the speed of light.
At that instant he had forgotten all about Loucynda and the rusty lock
between her legs with which she still roamed somewhere in the universe. He
had even forgotten all about Penelope Sunflower, the one woman who had gotten
him engaged in something else than the obliteration of sentient life forms.
Klarine Appledoor had been her full name. Her eyes had been blue, her hair
long and blonde, the movement of her hands resting on the steering wheel
exciting and utterly on-turning. Her lips had been cherry-coloured, her ears
had had the perfect shapes for nibbling and sucking.
All this had been seen by his highly trained senses within that utterly
small bit of a fraction of time.
Once again, Cronos had found himself deeply and wholeheartedly in love,
something he had previously considered a no longer attainable state of mind.
Now the depth of the abyss gaped at him, luring, inviting, as if its bottom
was filled with luscious nymphs beckoning for him to join in an orgy even
Hugh Heffner would never even have dared dream of.
His life had no further cause without her, without the woman he had but seen
for a figment of a nanosecond, without the woman he knew would be the True
One for him for the rest of his current life. During that short but
meaningful pseudo-encounter, he seemed to recall, she could conveivably have
winked her eye at him, or blowed him a fleeting kiss. He firmly believed
this. He believed that she loved him, too. Passionately - just like he needed
it. Women had never as much as *looked* at him, let alone bother blinking
their eyes when passing him by a half the speed of light.
This was true love; love at first peek.
He looked down the chasm again, not quite knowing whether or not he could
actually muster the courage to step forward and *do* it. Life had no contents
for him any more, that was obvious. But why did he find it so difficult to
*do* so?
So he took one hesitant step towards the egde, causing a few small stones
and some dirt to plummet towards the ground below. Then a small movement
besides his ear caught his attention. He swung his head to the left and was
baffled once more by a small version of himself sitting on his shoulder. It
was dressed in a small white robe, with tiny sandals on its feet. It was idly
plucking the strings of a minute harp and its feathered wings quivered
slightly in the breeze.
"Hi", it exclaimed when it noticed the gaze that was cast upon it, "I am thy
guardian angel and I am here to stop thee from making a serious mistake."
"Huh?", Cronos said.
"I know what thou art up to, thou wants to end it all, right? I mean thou
art planning to jump into this fissure in order to end thy life or am I
wrong?"
"Errr...", Cronos muttered, displaying more than usual his eloquence.
"Yes, admit it, thy wert actually intending to commit an act of suicide!",
the little angel smirked.
"So what?", Cronos said, "what's it to you?"
"Well, I am supposed to make sure thou dost not die or anything. I've been
pretty busy lately, I can tell. Anyways, I strongly suggest abandoning these
silly girl-thoughts and get back to normal, wouldst thou?"
"Err...but Klarine is my true love, and I will never see her again and
that's why I want to die. Life has no meaning without her presence, I mean I
haven't even ever made foot-love to her! I love her, she is everything, I
love her, I love her...I..."
"Now, now, if thou startst crying I will have to take some drastic measures.
Please think about this. Thou hast only caught a glimpse of this child. What
makes thee think that thou art in love with her? And why art thou so sure
that she is in love with thee? This is madness!"
Cronos swallowed and thought about what the angel just said. True, he had
only seen her for a very, very short while. He wasn't even really sure that
she had seen him. But her face, her eyes...
"Yes, what about her face, and what about her eyes?", the angel yelled, "I
dare say that they were very, very ordinary and that you have no reason
whatsoever to be so hung up on this female."
Cronos was confused. Now it is not difficult to confuse good ol' Cronos, we
all know that, but now he was confused quite astoundingly.
The angel did have a point, Klarine's face wasn't *that* special and he
really didn't know her at all. She might have silicon breasts or she might
even be a 92 year-old transvestite with an equal number of face-lifts and the
breath of a hung-over desert-lizard. Hell, she might even be a reincarnation
of Betty Ford.
Cronos' mind started to clear.
Suddenly, the abyss seemed threatening. He took a step back, gasping for
breath, swaying his arms, trying to regain his balance.
"What in the name of the armpits of Miss Fragilia Franatica, the second
Princess of the Zantogian Empire, am I doing here?", he asked himself, "What
is this strange obsession I have gotten so hung up with? What strange female
can make me this hysterical about things?"
A puff of smoke arose next to his right ear.
"Yo...hey, hold it right there, just wait a minute here. What's all this
jive about not taking the big plunge?"
Cronos looked at his other shoulder and there was yet another version of
himself. This time it was wearing a shiny nylon jogging suit with enormous
white Nike Airs on its feet. On top of its red, horned head it had a Public
Enemy cap and it had an enormous gold chain around its neck, to which a
chronometer was attached.
"Yo Warpchild my main honcho, what's up my brother?", it inquired.
Cronos was totally unable to speak due to severe bafflement. Then again, it
didn't take that much to baffle our dear anti-hero as we know by now.
"So I hear you've gotten stuck on some bitch you saw while you was cruisin'
thru space."
"Er...yeah, I saw this really nice girl. Her name is Klarine."
"Cool. So you love the sister right?"
"Erm..."
The *good* angel on Cronos' other shoulder was getting noticeably upset.
"Say, my dear man," it interrupted, "I am in the middle of a heatly
discussion with my protege here. Wouldst thou mind removing thyself from the
scene? Get back to the dark realms of thy wicked master, the Dark One. I
repell thee, foul spirit!"
"Yo, get real dude," the little evil thing retorted, "what's with the mumbo-
jumbo here? You tripping or sumthin'? Popped a few pills or *what*?"
"Cronos, please do not pay attention to this rude gentleman. He is nothing
but a nuisance. Now about Klarine...."
"Hey Warchasm. Tell me about the bitch. She got good tits?"
The most delicate of curves drifted back into the somewhat limited space of
Cronos' brain. Slowly, the camera panned up, to her more than lucious lips
that were moist and red like the most voluptuous cherries growing on the soft
sloping hills of sun-clad California.
"Cronos? Cronos! Get a hold on thyself my dear man!"
"Shut up, yer white-assed shithead. I'm talking to the dude now. Why don't
you take a hike, huh?", the devil interjected. Addressing Warchild, it
continued, "Think about it man. She was the finest. Think of her face, think
of the body below it. Wouldn't you like to share a hot tub with *that*?"
Cronos slowly relapsed into a state of love-sickness that made him take a
step forward towards the gaping chasm that appeared to form the sole answer
to all his troubles. Protruding spikes of rock at the bottom seemed to call
him, offering salvation and a soothing cradle of comfort in which he could
mend the frayed ends of his sanity that had endured so many ruptures after
that fateful encounter with the Lady Klarine.
The little angel seemed to get really agitated now.
"CRONOS!", it yelled with all the force it could muster in its fragile
throat that normally only uttered soft prayers and muttered hails to the One
Above, his True Master. Cronos, however, did not harken the small figure on
his left shoulder. He could only gaze down, towards the bottom of the plummet
that seemed to lead to the very core of Lucifer's dwelling place itself.
"Yeah right. Face it man, you lost. Now scram before I kick a mudhole in
your venerable ass," the little devil advised the angel.
"OK, I can recognise defeat when I see it," the angel mused, beaten, "Well,
I have other souls to salvage. Better be off then. Cheerio. Amen."
A small puff of heavenly smoke signalled the departure of the pious angel.
"Right", the little devil chuckled, lovingly stroking his own barbed tail.
"Let's get down to some serious business here."
Cronos had ignored all of this for he was totally occupied with staring at
the shimmering apparition of his true love that seemed to be draped across a
large boulder at the very end of the drop.
"Yo, Charwild my man, how would you like to meet the ol' reaper himself? I
heard he is quite a wild dude, bound to get you some action. Just do it man,
step across the razor egde and feel what it's like to be in *my* hood. You
will get to meet all the people you greased in this life - they're all down
there waiting to party with you man. Do it man, forget about that silly
bitch, she ain't worth shit."
Cronos made up his mind. No more of this. He would end it right here and
now. No more hesitation.
He jumped, faintly hearing the evil angel mentioning something about them
all floating down there...
The feeling of the air rushing past his body as he plummeted downward made
him feel giddy for a moment. The freshness cooled him down. He felt young
again, and virile. He was willing to accept death.
The bottom closed in on him. It looked strangely beautiful; soil with a
faint picture of his greatest of loves projected across it.
"Yo!" he yelled, his powerful voice echoing off the crevice.
He fainted before he hit the ground with a 'thud' that made someone else,
far away, look up with a befuddled expression on his face. This particular
someone adjusted a cap with a ridiculously erect thingy on top of it, lifted
off the ground the loaf of bread that he had dropped, and plodded on.
Everything turned around Warchild. Colours he had never known existed came
at him, as did scents he had never hoped ever to smell. Unrecognizable
figures reached out at him, offering drinks and food. Music drifted through
the air, but it did not have the power to please him. Beats shuddered his
being.
And then everything he saw was her, HER.
This was not what he had wanted. He had wanted to die and disappear. He had
not wanted to go to some place where her vision would be burned on the back
of his eyes perpetually, haunting him like a rabid tax collector. He did not
want to be where he was. He gazed into the image of her eyes, drowning in
their depths like he had drowned in the depth of the chasm but moments
before.
Or had they been minutes? Or hours? This was all getting really crazy and he
wanted to get out. He cried for help but his voice produced no sound. He
tried to swim away, or fly away, or whatever. He succeeded in neither. He
wanted to turn around - but whatever he did the world seemed to turn with
him. All he could see was the portrait of Klarine, and it was getting bigger.
Bigger and immensely more beautiful. Lovely. Sensual. Just, well...*Klarine*.
This obsession had to stop. He already felt little crawly things ascending
his legs. Ants. He smelled something familiar. A large glass thing, a jar or
something, was taking up the place of his Great Love's portrait. He had
thought it would make him feel better when it happen. But now it happened and
it didn't make him feel better at all. It made him feel miserable, lonely,
battered.
Then he disappeared completely into a thick, yellow, sticky fluid together
with about five hundred ants that, oddly, all considered it necessary to say
"eep".
"Gross!"
The voice that had uttered these words echoed through his brain. He opened
his eyes and saw nothing but yellow. He rubbed his eyes, succeeding in
removing most of it. As soon as he looked again, he decided he had probably
been better off with the goo still in his eyes.
He looked into two terrifically huge facet eyes that must have belonged to
an insect the size of a somewhat sizable freighter. They did *not* radiate
hospitality. Cronos' brain cell instantly knew this mean beastie was not one
that would like to be friends.
"There's a human in my meal!" the gigantic ant thundered.
Indeed, it did not take long for Warchild to realise that the human the
large ant talked about with disgust was, as a matter of fact, himself. This
thought discomforted him somewhat.
An enormous, extremely hairy paw stretched out to him. The end of the paw
was occupied by things that looked like toilet plungers. They connected
themselves to his head and chest, lifting him out of the swampy, yellow stuff
rather inconsiderately.
"Would you mind getting rid of this, woman," the large ant thundered,
apparantly addressing another of his kind, "and give me another bowl of
honey?"
Next thing he knew, Warchild was being submitted to gravity above a large
cylindre that was filled with trash. It could very well be a trashcan.
As our friend was paid to fight instead of to think, he did not see the two
red eyes that gazed at him from aside the large cylinder - nor did he see the
several dozen of shiny white, pointed fangs that surrounded its black depth.
For a fraction of a split of a picosecond he saw a female smiling at him
from the depth - or at least he thought he did. Was that a wink of an eye?
The vision, however, ceased almost as quickly as it had manifested itself,
much to Cronos' sorrow.
All he now saw was a terrifyingly huge uvula that was dangling in what prey
generally considers to be quite a threatening way. The fangs radiated white
light, the pulsating red tongue licked in what its owner probably considered
to be an inviting fashion.
With a bit of a gulp, the mercenary annex hired gun disappeared down a long
and winding tunnel that was quite slippery to the touch. He didn't *want* to
touch it but the thing seemed to want to touch *him*. Powerful peristaltic
muscles squeezed him further and further down to a place of which the foul
stench was incomprehensible to any mortal being - even to Cronos himself, who
had once been the toilet cleaner of the Ambulor Eight Thai Boxing school!
Distinctly, it made him think of the many hangovers he had had, that had
resulted in laughing at carpets a lot.
With a splash, he suddenly lay still in a shallow pool of *some* sort of
repulsive liquid. Some hard bits ran into him as if directed by an invisible
force.
Then everything was utterly silent once more, though not for long.
Green light started to be emitted from the wall of the cavity he was in.
Large green drops of some substance were being excreted and started
submitting themselves to Newton's will.
Some of them attached themselves to Cronos' body. They clung to it and
seemed to start eating inwards. His skin started burning all over. He was
getting slightly aggravated now. His heart started to beat slightly quicker,
pumping blood to the muscles that needed it most. He did not like being
submitted to the decaying powers of gastric acids. He started to pound the
wall. It budged with each bang of his fist, but just retracted to its initial
position as soon as he would hit another spot. He started kicking as well.
His Industry Quality Army boots started to corrode whenever they came into
contact with the foul fluid.
He would not survive long if he didn't resort to some drastic measures.
However, he hadn't any killer gadgets on him and his killer fingernail had
been broken somewhere when the plungers had come into the story.
Damn! There was something touching him without prior written permission!
He looked around instinctively, seeing a bony hand resting on his schoulder.
He followed the bony hand and saw that it was connected to a corpse that
looked at him balefully. The lipless mouth seemed to form words mutely,
crying in agony about an untimely death.
He felt himself being drawn towards the skull. Some way or another he felt a
strange obsession for the left eye socket. It was oddly dark and inviting,
like an abyss.
For a moment he saw her again in the darkness of the socket. He forgot the
general severeness of the situation he was in and studied her face, the
cherry lips, the beautiful eyes, the long blonde hair that fell graciously
around her milky white face.
Then the light went out.
The green fluid seemed to disappear to somewhere and the walls of the cavity
he was in stopped pulsating for a moment. The next moment, havoc struck.
Warchild, the corpse and assorted other hard bits were being sucked down
rapidly, disappearing in what probably was the monster's gut. Darkness
enveloped him, now truly something palpable. He could *feel* the gut cover
crawl around him, pulsating, *probing*.
He landed in an enormous load of thin stuff that smelled quite awfully. He
had smelt that smell several times before, years ago, and it was this
particular smell that had caused him to resign at the aforementioned job at
the Thai Boxing school.
He was trapped inside the digestive system of a giant Mutant Maxi Mega
Monster of Multifizzic Omega!
He felt tugging at his legs. He was being pulled down even more, and
simultaneously the muscles above him started pushing. The monster's guts were
trying to get rid of him. He passed through various layers of foodstuff
untill finally he thought he could see light in the distance. There was a
small round thing there, like the diafragma of a camera. It was getting
closer quite quickly. He was sent towards it head first.
"Pop".
Fresh air enveloped his head.
Once upon a time there was a rather stupid mercenary annex hired gun who had
the misfortune of having landed in the feeding bowl of a giant ant, which
resulted in him consequently being fed to the ant's pet that turned out to be
a monster notorious for the intensity of the foul smells arising from its
anal excreta.
His name, of course, was Cronos Warchild. He knew that himself. What he
didn't know, however, was that he had ended up in the Eastern Forest and was
now the subject to the ruthless will of Mother Duck, real-time fairy tale
concoctress extraordinaire.
He found himself walking down towards a river. The river could not be waded
through, but someone had obviously found out about this fact and had decided
it wise to erect a bridge across it. That same someone had probably also
realised that people who wanted to stroll across that bridge might not
totally be against paying a modest fee.
That particular bridge erector had selected a somewhat broad looking warrior
to enforce the paying of said fee.
"Doom," the somewhat broad warrior intoned as Cronos drew closer.
The warrior was really awfully huge. Cronos was quite big, but he found the
toll enforcer towering above him as if he was but an infant held by the pope
himself, being frowned upon by said Holy Father after having farted during
baptism.
To add to the general threat of the whole situation, the huge warrior
carried an enchanted warclub. An idea leapt at Cronos' head that conveyed to
him that this was the dreaded Headbasher, reaper of memories. It bounced off.
"Doom," the warrior droned in a flat voice.
At that very moment a purple demon in chequered pants arrived on the scene,
momentarily surrounded by the proverbial puff of smoke.
"Doom," the warrior said, apparently surprised. He started moving the
dreaded Headbasher with a hint of nervousness, suspiciously eyeing the purple
demon.
"Might I interest you in a used weapon?" the purple salesdemon asked Cronos.
Our lovely anti-hero looked at him befuddled. Not much was needed to befuddle
Cronos, we know that. That very morning, as a matter of fact, he had been
zealously befuddled when a traffic light...but you know that already.
The salesdemon, trained to recognise hopeless cases of doing business
averted his attention to the toll enforcer now.
"Doom," the toll enforcer interjected.
Obviously, neither of the two potential customers were interested in
anything he had to offer. The purple salesdemon in the ridiculously chequered
outfit disappeared in another one of those proverbial puffs of smoke.
When the smoke had lifted, both people present were somewhat amazed at
beholding a large shoe that muttered "Indeed". Behind the large shoe stood a
girl with long hair who constantly attempted to kiss another fellow who stood
next to her. Behind them, a green being completely surrounded by robes seemed
to discuss something with a tiny person in brown clothes.
Cronos was losing control over the situation. Never before had his senses
been overkilled this much.
"I wish I was out of here," he sighed, more to himself than to someone else
in particular.
"Granted!" a little voice coming from the small person in brown piped.
Just before he completely disappeared from the scene, he thought he saw a
huge, green, ugly, dancing dragon with a top hat.
Next thing he knew, Cronos has a somewhat large microphone shoved under his
nose.
"Soooo... Mr. Warchild. What do you think of our new and improved 'Bubl'?
Did it manage to remove the stains that other detergents didn't get out of
your underwear at only 40 degrees?"
"And what do you think of our new formulae, ozone friendly and with
biologically decomposable thingies?"
Cronos, a bit unsteady on his feet, glared at the smooth, well-dressed
interviewer. He wondered how someone could look so silly.
"Now we all know you traded mark X against our brilliant product, just for
you to try for a week," the ad man continued, "please tell us all about the
results you have undoubtedly achieved. Tell me about the pizza stains on your
children's shirts that have so miraculously disappeared."
Cronos was once again totally baffled - and stupefied too, by the way. He
had fleeting visions of clowns dressed in bright colours, people floating
around in hot air balloons and little children spilling insane amounts of hot
cocoa and strawberry jam on their ludicrously white garments. He had smashing
figments of nature-loving phosphates.
Cronos, remembering all the times he had been very pissed off with his TV,
usually causing utter annihilation of the aforementioned household appliance,
sighed deeply and stared at his broken fingernail with sad eyes.
"Geez, I wish this guy would drop dead," he muttered.
"Granted!!!" squeaked a tiny voice from somewhere.
The air crackled in a sizzling way and a bolt of lightning struck the
interviewer in a rather non too subtle fashion, leaving only two smoking
shoes with bits of bone protruding from them.
"Holy shit," Cronos enthused.
This time the bafflement became too much for our poor, blundering hero. His
minute brain gave up reasoning and he fainted rather dramatically.
He had dreams of pillows, of the soft sloping hills of Wales, and of a
certain pizza-covered planet.
The next thing he knew he had an erect nipple thrust in his face.
"I like deep conversations with intelligent men," a female sighed down his
ear, "In fact, I have a degree in literature and have won several prestigious
literary prizes. I also play blind chess against several people at once when
I feel like it."
The girl removed another piece of cloth that seemed to cling to her
voluptous body.
She was posed on a couch, wearing very tiny pieces of clothing, squirming in
a way that seemed to him like she was in intense agony - or as if she was
being mind-fusioned by the Sagratean Zen-Dude of Phalletica VI of course.
Cronos, still being totally dumbfounded, stared at the writhing female, not
knowing he had materialized in the middle of a Playhouse photo-session of the
utmost erotic meaning.
A tall, thin man armed with an enormous photo camera was dancing around the
couch, making suggestive comments to the girl, uttering the odd little cry
now and then.
Cronos did not know what to think of this. The pinkness of the girl aroused
certain hormones in his body that he didn't really know of, he felt like an
American tourist in the Amsterdam red light district, seeing so many things
he hadn't even dreamt of in those dreams that made his sheets quite
uncomfortably moist.
Believe it or not, but in the highlight of his ecstasy, the girl assumed a
rather metallish color and slowly transformed herself into a blob of mercury-
like stuff that oozed off the couch like a T-1000 would squirm itself trough
a shotgun-blast-sized hole in an elevator ceiling.
The substance moved itself across the floor, clearly exciting the
photographer who dropped to his knees, wielding the camera like it was the
one item keeping his soul together. It moved towards Cronos, and when it
arrived at his feet, slowly started to upheave itself, assuming humanoid
shape. When it reached full height, it formed a rather eerie face and stared
at him in a sort of silent lucididty that Queensryche would be jealous of.
Cronos sighed deeply and considered the stupefaction that had taken over his
reasoning at that point. The urge to faint crossed his battered consiousness,
but he quickly set aside the idea as being a way of letting the authors
getting away with things too easily. The photographer had fainted already,
and the way this guy lay prostrate across the floor made Cronos feverishly
reject the idea of any fainting or whatever.
As his mind had no power over his body whatsoever, however, he fainted
anyway. Whatever.
After the usual twirling colors and strange sounds and smells and all other
sensations that accompany inter-dream travel, he suddenly materialised in
mid-air.
Normally, materialising in mid-air would mean the start of a very painful
sequence of events leading to a 'thud' of varying intensity, and painful
feelings directly proportional to the intensity of the aforementioned sound.
This time, it didn't and he was once more slightly baffled (...).
Then he noticed the fact that all his limbs were gone, and he felt not
entirely like he used to feel whenever he wasn't suspended in mid-air. He
then felt a slight tugging sensation just above his head, as if he was
dangling from something short and thin.
He looked around himself and noticed the large amount of enormous tree
leaves surrounding him. He also noticed the beautiful blue air, the soft
smells that usually permeate the air of scenic orchards, the gentle breeze
and his own, lovely, reddish color.
He also felt that his time had come. He felt like he was old enough for the
big fall, old enough to spread the seeds so to speak. Why he felt like this,
he couldn't explain. It wasn't a thought humans were supposed to have.
"Snap".
Also, he had severe trouble coping with the fact that he no longer seemed to
be suspended in air, but was actually travelling downwards at an ever
increasing and highly alarming speed.
He looked down at the rapidly approaching earth and saw a head of a young
man that had nice, curly hair covering it. He also found that this head was
approaching him at what he suddenly considered to be lethal speed.
"Thud."
To his surprise, he bounced off the head and landed in the grass at the
man's feet. A bit bruised in places, but still quite alive.
"Ouch!" a voice yelled.
"How most unpleasant, apples falling on your head like that", the voice
continued.
Cronos saw a very, very large young man rub the top of his head, looking
thoughtfully as if pondering over something very...er...serious.
The young man assumed various facial expressions indicating a complex train
of thoughts making its way through his conciousness.
Suddenly, this man jumped to his feet and looked very aroused, as if he had
just found the answer to all his problems.
"YES!" he exclaimed.
"YES! YES! YES!" he added.
"E=MC square," he completed.
The young man sat down again with a very content expression on his face.
A puff of smoke next to the young man failed to baffle Cronos this time for
he was already in such a state of befuddlement that any extra impulses of
confusion did not matter much.
A rather bewildered young man now appeared; he had unkempt gray hair, and a
rather intelligent look about him.
"Say, dear chap. I am afraid that you have discovered the wrong formulae.
The Relativity Theory will be invented by me - you are supposed to find out
about gravity."
The first young man looked at the second one just like Cronos would stare at
a traffic light that had just changed colour.
"I just thought it appropriate to point this out to you," the apparition of
the second young man added, "I mean it would severely upset the course of
science to come. So remember about gravity, it's very important."
Then it disappeared again in another puff of smoke, the likes of which we
know so well.
"Right", the young man said to himself, "gravity it is then."
After this, he reached for Cronos and studied him a bit.
"Hhhm.., looks OK to me," the young man mused, licking his lips, "I quite
fancy a refreshing apple, just from the tree."
Before Cronos had time to process these words, he was unceremoniously rubbed
against a sleeve of rather rough material. He was getting a bit worried now.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Then he felt a distinct motion again, and when he looked up he came to the
conclusion that he was about to be eaten by the young man.
The mouth opened, revealing a row of healthy, shiny white teeth that would
undoubtedly chew off a nice piece of his body. He was almost inside the mouth
now, and the sight of the glistening, saliva-covered tongue once again almost
succeeded in making our unfortunate hero panic.
Then the pain came. It was excruciating, as if someone was tearing him apart
with blunt equipment. The pain concentrated around his rear area. "Most
famous scientist eats rear end of mercenary annex hired gun in one fell
swoop." Now *that* would look odd on the young man's track record.
Cronos considered the time appropriate to give in to his brain cell, that
gently advised him to lose consciousness.
"KRAA!"
For a while, the uttering of this sound within the immediate proximity of
his right ear caused his entire aural apparatus to malfunction, resulting in
the sending of assorted pulses of white noise to his brain for some seconds
in sequence.
When he succeeded in turning around his head to face the source of the
temporal cacophonic mayhem, he found a male double-eyed fig-parrot
(Psittaculirostris diophthalma) sitting on his shoulder. Of course, he was
not aware of this precisely, and just reckoned it was a disgruntled
blackbird.
"KRAA!"
He had to do something about his reflexes. He had seen the bird opening its
bill but had neglected to avert his ear or cover it with something. This lack
of prophilactic measures resulted in assorted impulses of random noise being
sent to his brain for a prolonged time.
The bird looked around, as if gloating. It nodded its head up and down like
birds generally tend to do often.
Note:
The reason behind birds doing this has been cause for pangalactic scientific
debate. It is still quite unresolved, but there have been some interesting
theories. The one documented by Charles Loaca, himself a bird/lion halfling
residing at the second planet from the left in the Dinophthalma Milky Way, is
now commonly believed to be true - though not because of its logic but
because of Mr. Loaca's descent which gives him some authority.
His theory is based upon birds trying to listen to longwave radio
broadcasts, which requires them to bob their head up and down with the waves.
It is believed that this is the way birds learn to sing. Pigeons are even
thought to tune in to their favourite radio station to find the way home.
Most non-hibernating birds are believed to listen to Radio Free South Africa
on the way.
End of note (in case you wanted to know).
"Don't you *ever* do that again," he warned the parrot. He wielded his index
finger threateningly in front of the animal.
"Snap."
It took a while before Cronos had discovered the sudden absense of the
double-eyed bird from his shoulder. For a mom
ent he was relieved. The animal
was gone from the zone near his ear. He listened to the random noise in his
ears gently wearing off. Finally.
When he tried to poke in his nose, which resulted in a bird being inserted
in it, he had second thoughts about relief and other sensations along that
line.
Now Warchild's nostrils are quite big. As a matter of fact, his wide flaring
nostrils with the odd black hair sprouting forth from them had quite often
effectively reduced potential soulmates to get an interest in him.
The parrot, however, was large enough not quite to fit comfortably. It
started to try and get out. This resulted in most of our hero's senses being
switched off in favour for full priority to one particular nerve that ran
from his right nostril to a lesser brain cell labelled "sneezing, farting,
crapping, sweating, urinating, ejaculating, spitting, bleeding, coughing,
burping, crying, drooling and vomiting (i.e. excreting)".
Through an intricate process of ions and assorted little things that make
sure synapses work, a number of pulses from the right nasal cavity ended up
in the lesser brain cell. It started screaming hell and blood, not quite
being used to such signal intensity. It gathered all power its host's
metabolism would care to supply and used it to block the signals out.
It was a battle to which, on a synapsic scale, there had never been an equal
to - nor would there ever be. Minute particles with positive and negative
loads crashed into each other like a true clash of the Titans. Tissue was
torn, nerves were severed, and generally a lot went on that was quite
irregular.
Then the anti-particles started winning. They gradually began to gain
ground, pushing back the itch ions.
Warchild was relieved for a moment again, when not sensing anything in his
nose. Had the bird disappeared?
Then the anti-particles *really* started to gain ground. They coarsed
through the nerve, all but flying off at corners. With a speed close to the
speed of light, they ran and flew and scrambled, aimed directly at a powerful
muscle somewhere in the mercenary annex hired gun's body.
The muscle had been having a relaxed week. It was sitting in the sun,
smoking a cigarette and drinking Jack Daniels. It was about to have another
nicely soothing swig when it heard a bit of turmoil around the corner of the
left lung. It had heard this before, but couldn't quite recall when it had
been or what it had been for.
It quickly recalled when, for but a moment, it saw the rabid expression in
the glowing red eyes and the wrinkled mouths of the ions. They spelled horror
and death, for they spelled A.C.T.I.V.I.T.Y.
Before he could put down his Jack Daniels he had to contract. It was a
contraction any muscle would have been proud of; a contraction that Arnold
would have wanted to buy the licence to, a contraction that tore ligaments
and had the label "world record" attached to it.
Cronos felt the sensation of feeling returning to his nose, but it was
entirely different now. As a matter of fact, it seemed to move to his chest
at a speed that was, even to Warchild, close to frightening.
He breathed in.
It was a breath that would have made any pair of lungs proud; a breath that
would have caused them to get a ludicrously lucrative contract with the
makers of tropical cyclones, a breath that could split ribs.
For a moment an enormous amount of wind churled in his longs, rotating,
growing; the kind of wind that would have swept leaves, bent trees, moved
mountains and shipped continents if only any of these would have the
displeasure of being present in a certain mercenary annex hired gun's
breathing apparatus.
Then all muscles connected to his breathing-out mechanism started to work
overtime, red lights flashing, sirenes wailing, Civil Defence committees
gathering. Draining every milli-unit of nourishment, from the tips of fingers
to the utmost extremeties of toes, they contracted.
It was the kind of contraction that would cause all other contractions'
licences to be revoked; a contraction that could tear asunder the most
powerful bones, a contraction that could practically be certain of getting a
Nobel Prize and getting invited to Dame Edna's.
Air started flowing out of Cronos' wind pipe, exponentially gathering power
within a time that would have made the Super-Inter-Galactic Ferrari Sub-Etha
Turbo-Booster built in the below-the-nanosecond-across-the-universe-car-of-
the-future designers jealous.
Some lesser muscles opened Warchild mouth. There was no stopping it now. The
terrifying amount of compressed air could no longer be thwarted from
fulfilling its vile goal.
Cronos sneezed the Mother of all Sneezes.
His entire poor body was hurled back until it collided with the first
mountain it encountered, dozens of miles in the opposite direction. The
parrot, that happened to have been the last male of its kind, miraculously
survived but was deafened and consequently turned impotent for the arousing
mating calls of the females - resulting in the extinction of the species.
A hole 986.54 square miles in size appeared, barren eternally. The drifting
of the continents on this particular planet was set in motion. The dust that
arose from this whole thing sufficed to block out the sun for a decennium,
causing the global extinction of the dinosaur race.
Somewhere between the third and fourth mountain between which Cronos was
bounced, he once more gave in to his rather distressed main brain cell.
When he opened his eyes again he found a nurse making rhythmic movements on
top of him.
"Oh, er....." the nurse stuttered when noticing she was discovered, quickly
hopping off him and pulling up her panties, "er...excuse me, sir...er...I
though you was being unconscious or something. You know, coma and all. Not
waking up any more, vegetable, that sort of thing."
Cronos had a distinctly odd feeling around his lower abdomen.
"If you don't mind, sir," she added, uncomfortably, "I will go and attend to
another patient. Thank you."
She disappeared through the door that she closed carefully so as not to
discomfort the patient.
Nine months later, nurse Laverne Todd of the Ambulor Eight Hospital for the
Very Very Splattered was granted maternity leave. She gave birth to a healthy
son, whom she called Garp.
Original written February 8th-9th 1992. Slightly rehashed and frowned upon
May 12th 1995.
= RODNEY'S RAYGUN REVENGE ===================================================
A Technological Tale by David Henniker
It was over a month since Rodney had started his new job on the outskirts of
town. For years he'd worked as a Technical Salesman, driving anything up to
200 miles a day as he travelled from town to town. His employer was a
manufacturer of medical electronics equipment and Rodney had had a fairly
cushy number - as his company was virtually the only supplier to the various
Health Boards.
Over the years Rodney had made quite a few business friends but it was
unlikely he'd see them again. The job had become increasingly difficult due
to competition from the far east. 'Why is everything made in Taiwan?' he had
often wondered. His boss put more and more pressure on him to sell the
equipment, but although Rodney was a Technical Salesman he wasn't really very
technical. Also he was too honest to be a very good travelling salesman.
When the firm announced it wanted redundancy volunteers, Rodney decided he'd
had enough and put his name forward.
His new job was at an out-of-town garden centre, one of those 'mega'
complexes where they have everything from a kiddies' play area to a
computerised Landscape Design Centre. It was here that Rodney worked, mostly
behind a counter, selling expensive garden machinery such as lawnmowers that
you sit on and drive. He also operated the Apple Mac and Roland Plotter to
try and sell 'Complete Landscape Solutions' to the wealthier customers.
He didn't miss the driving at all, really. Once in a while he was allowed to
demonstrate the 'ride-on' lawnmowers. His new job paid less and no company
car was provided. He didn't mind as he was very contented here - and lucky to
find employment in his late thirties. He no longer had the hassle of
searching for a parking space near his flat in town. These days he got the
bus to work and now he'd had a week or two to get used to public transport,
it was OK, mostly. After an embarrassing first morning when he offered the
bus driver a ten pound note, holding up other passengers (and the following
traffic), he bought himself a season ticket. He caught the same bus every
morning and after a while began to recognise quite a few of his fellow
passengers.
The bus he got on was always mobbed with hordes of schoolkids. 'Precocious
young brats' Rodney would think to himself as they chatted loudly and
squirmed about in their seats. Thankfully they all got off two stops after
the one Rodney got on at. Rodney had reached that time in his life where he
felt threatened and insecure near young people, particularly adolescents.
He observed that all the schoolkids had designer-label clothes, bags and
trainers. 'Must cost their parents a fortune...' he mused. 'Probably all made
in Taiwan anyway...'
He never spoke to the other regulars on the bus, but he observed them slyly.
There was the businessman who always read the Telegraph and opened the paper
out wide, presumably to discourage fellow passengers from sitting next to
him. There were some rather attractive female office workers of different
ages, but they never sat next to Rodney, even if the bus was crowded. People
mostly kept themselves to themselves, looking glum and preoccupied.
Occasionally he was disturbed by someone with an 'impersonal stereo' as he
called them.
This morning, as Rodney's bus approached the stop where the schoolkids got
off, Darren was waiting to board the bus. Darren, like Rodney, had a job on
the edge of town. He was 19 years old, wore a black leather jacket with a
crudely painted logo across the back, and had one of those aggressively
short haircuts which Rodney used to associate with old cloth-capped men - the
'short back and sides' look as imposed by Rodney's parents when he was young.
Darren sported a personal stereo and played it at a level which blotted out
any risk of having to communicate with his fellow human beings.
As Darren came upstairs on the bus Rodney heard the dischordant 'TSSSH,
TSSSH' noise and glared pointedly at the perpetrator. Darren seemed oblivious
to the accusing stare and sat down two or three rows in front of Rodney. A
few stops further on, the bus became quite crowded but amazingly nobody
complained about the insistent 'TSSSH, TSSSH, TSSSSH!' emanating from the
earphones plugged into Darren's ears. The business types stared blankly ahead
into space and one or two others halfheartedly rubbed at the condensation on
the windows. 'How the hell can people put up with this?' Rodney asked
himself. He'd had rather a late night the previous night and wasn't feeling
very tolerant. He wished he was a more physically threatening figure, or knew
martial arts. He lacked the confidence to tap Darren on the shoulder and say
something like 'I say, would you mind awfully turning down your personal
stereo...?', or perhaps just plain 'Shut the fuck up!'.
By the time Rodney got to his stop, he was seething with rage but feeling
helpless. His journey to work had been ruined by this cretin. 'Noise
pollution is the worst form of pollution...' he muttered to himself as he got
off the bus at Q & B's Mega Garden World. 'You can shut your eyes or look
away, but you can't shut your ears!' He said out loud as he crossed the
footbridge over the bypass. By the time he'd had his second cup of coffee he
felt better. In the mail there was a letter of acceptance from Major
Ponsonby-Smythe with regard to the computerised landscape design tendered by
Rodney. Rodney stood to receive 1% commission on the sale - which meant !300
bonus on his next salary cheque.
Rodney smiled peacefully as he lunched in the staff canteen. The muzak which
played softly in the background actually soothed him as he ate. He had no
dessert but had a cup of tea, declining the alleged coffee and Diet Pepsi.
The muzak changed to Herb Alpert And His Tijuana Brass. Rodney hated the
tinny trumpet noise, made worse by the fact that the sound was distorted. It
was at times like this he wished he hadn't given up smoking. He couldn't half
do with a fag. He gulped his tea, burning his tongue in the process, and
left.
The afternoon at work was very quiet and Rodney had plenty of time to
daydream. He was fascinated by technical things but didn't have more than a
passing interest in how they worked. What they could achieve was much more
interesting. He liked to impress the customers with the Apple Mac and Roland
Plotter. For a while he'd bought electronics magazines and tried to build one
or two gadgets. After the incident with the soldering iron and the Persian
carpet he lost interest. He began to wonder if it would be possible to design
a 'personal stereo zapper'.
In the evening, after his meal, he dragged a cardboard box out from the back
of a cupboard and looked through the old electronics magazines he'd never
been able to bring himself to throw out. He paused briefly at an article in
Elektor which gave constructional details of an anti-parking ticket device.
This involved fitting magnetic sensors to the hinges of the windscreen
wipers. The idea was that when a traffic warden lifted a wiper blade to
attach a parking ticket, the sensor would detect this and trigger a circuit
to switch on the wipers at maximum speed in an attempt to frustrate the
forces of Law And Order.
Rodney then found a copy of Alternative Electronics, a USA publication
which had been banned for giving circuit designs for stun guns. These gave a
severe electric shock to the victim, powerful enough to paralyse the poor
unfortunate for minutes. He flipped over a page and found an article about
Kirlian photography whereby, it was claimed, it was possible to photograph
the 'aura' or electrostatic field round a person. He turned a few more pages
over and found an article entitled 'Focussed Electro-Magnetic Pulse - CIA
Secret Experiments (part two)'. He read on with interest. There had been
various magazine articles about 'EMP' a few years ago, Rodney remembered
vaguely. According to this it was possible to induce sound (undetectably) in
a loudspeaker from a distance of up to five yards, without any wiring
whatsoever, if you had the right equipment. 'Hmmm..' he pondered, 'maybe I
could zap personal stereos with this!'
Unfortunately Rodney didn't have part one of the two-part article. He was
rather sceptical of the reference to the power source for the gadget.
Dilithium crystals were, as far as Rodney knew, mere fiction. 'Trekkies', or
Star Trek freaks might think differently. Part two of the article did however
give details of a suggested circuit. A 200 watt car stereo booster amplifier
was 'utilized' (sic) for the driver for the output device. The left and right
channels were connected in a bridge configuration to double the strength of
the focussed magnetic pulse sent out. Rodney didn't really understand all
this but continued reading anyway. He poured himself another glass of
Southern Comfort and settled back in his easy chair.
The 200 Watt amplifier was greedy on electricity and a car battery was
obviously not portable. The amp was no problem, he had one spare, now that he
no longer drove a car. He found it in a cupboard and noticed it was made in
Taiwan. The magazine article referred quite seriously to dilithium crystals
but further information was in part one - and unavailable. Rodney put down
the magazine and looked on a bookshelf for scientific reference books. He sat
down, poured himself another Southern Comfort (it was his day off tomorrow,
after all) and thumbed over pages looking for mention of dilithium crystals.
His search was in vain; all he found was plain old lithium. 'Lithium - a
silvery white metal. Lightest of all metals.' was all it said.
He decided it was a waste of time pursuing this idea and instead browsed at
a copy of Computer Shopper he'd bought that morning. Amongst the ads for
peripherals and accessories he kept noticing ads for lithium batteries. Then
he remembered that his broken digital watch had a 7 year lithium battery.
Actually, the watch still worked but the black rubber strap had split apart
soon after he'd bought it. Rodney poured another drink and recalled that his
old Amstrad computer had a lithium battery in it, too. He robbed the computer
of its battery and sat down again, turning the battery over in one hand, as
he sipped his drink with the other.
Rodney was rather drunk by now and not thinking very clearly. He was
convinced there was a way of turning lithium into dilithium crystals, but he
had no idea how. He wandered unsteadily into the kitchen and wondered what
would happen if he put the lithium battery into the electric coffee grinder.
He dismissed such a notion as dangerous (he wasn't stupid, after all) and
instead put it in the microwave cooker. Not wearing his glasses, he misread
the digital display and set the timer to 11 minutes, rather than the minute
he'd intended. He pressed the 'cook' button and the microwave thumped into
life. The battery pirhouetted slowly as the turntable revolved and the
fluorescent display counted down.
Rodney suddenly realised that he'd been dying on a pee for ages and stormed
off to the bathroom. 'Aah, the relief!' He was zipping his fly when suddenly
a very loud bang rattled the bathroom door. 'HOLY SHIT!' he exclaimed when he
saw the shattered remains of the kitchen. The microwave had been completely
blown apart and shards of ragged metal hung over the worktop. Bits of metal
and plastic had embedded themselves in the walls and broken dishes lay
scattered on the floor. He decided he'd clear up the mess in the morning and
switched off the light. Then he noticed an unfamiliar green glow coming from
the centre of the former microwave cooker. What's more, the green glow was
pulsing slowly, getting bright and dim, bright and dim.
It was the remains of the lithium battery. The rush of adrenalin had sobered
Rodney up somewhat and he had the presence of mind to use a pair of tongs to
pick it up with. He put it on a saucer and carried it (somewhat shakily)
through to the living room. He filled up his glass, dimmed the lights and sat
staring at the eerie green glow, pulsing rhythmically. After about an hour,
when the bottle of Southern Comfort was empty, he finally went to bed.
Tomorrow he would go and visit his old chum Jack, the technical whizzkid.
Jack was a self-employed electronics engineer Rodney had known for years.
His workshop was a shed attached to his house, a sort of home extension.
'What's all this nonsense about dilithium crystals?' said Jack as Rodney sat
down on top of an enormous TV set.
'Here, take a look at this then!' replied Rodney as he handed him an old
tobacco tin.
Jack pulled off the lid and looked inside. Sure enough, the eerie green glow
continued to pulse and throb. Jack went to pour out two mugs of tea and
Rodney's gaze wandered round the interior of the workshop. There were TV's,
video recorders and audio components everywhere. Rodney was puzzled by a
home-made looking gadget with multi-coloured LED's. Jack came back and put
the hot mugs of tea on the Pacman arcade machine which served as a table.
'What's that?' asked Rodney, pointing at the home-made gadget.
'That's a dry joint simulator.' answered Jack.
'What's it for?' queried Rodney.
'It's for testing dry joint testers.' said Jack.
'Oh..., I see' said Rodney.
Jack studied the dilithium crystal closely, not touching it. He noticed that
the crystal was slightly different shades of green at opposite ends. He
reached over for his new Fluke digital multimeter, switched it to voltage and
carefully applied its probes to either end of the crystal. 'Hmmm, thirteen
point eight volts exactly...' he muttered. 'That's the same as you get from a
car battery. I wonder how much current this baby can deliver...' He dug
around and found an old car headlamp and wired it up to the crystal which
he'd fitted in a battery holder. The headlamp shone brightly. Impressed by
this, Jack got an old starter motor which still had its heavy cables
attached. The motor turned briskly. 'Good God!' gasped Jack, 'These things
take hundreds of amps!'
Rodney handed Jack the tattered copy of Alternative Electronics and said
'Could you make one of these ...?', pointing to the article. 'I want to be
able to zap those impersonal stereos on the bus.'
Jack said he'd give it a try and Rodney left. A week later he returned to
see if Jack had made any progress.
'It works.' Jack confirmed. 'I used the enamelled wire from this old
degaussing coil, and these S-correction capacitors to tune it to the right
frequency. See that loudspeaker over there; no wires connected. Now listen...
I'll just turn the power up slightly.'
Jack clicked the trigger switch and the speaker emitted a short sharp high-
pitched pulse of sound. 'That's a sine wave at about ten kilohertz' Jack
informed Rodney. Jack fitted the device into the body of an old Weller
soldering gun and presented it to Rodney. 'Just pull the trigger to activate
it, keep this knob turned well to the left. You won't need much power just to
make someone think their personal stereo is knackered.' advised Jack.
'Didn't you need the booster amp then?' asked Rodney.
'Just the output chips' said Jack. 'You don't want to carry a big box
around, do you? The crystal is in the handle. There's no need for heatsinks
as the power cuts off after a hundred milliseconds.'
Rodney was very impressed and grateful and promised to buy a secondhand
microwave from Jack as soon as he got the bonus he was expecting. He caught
the bus home but there were no passengers with personal stereos.
Back in his flat he had a closer look at his new gadget. It felt and looked
rather like a ray gun. It was satisfyingly heavy and Rodney felt strangely
powerful holding it. He kept the power turned low and clicked the trigger. A
short piercing blast of noise came from the transistor radio at the other
side of the room. He increased the power and tried it again. The speaker made
the same noise but louder. He tried it on the TV set and somehow managed to
make a purple blob in the corner of the screen. It was later that day that
he found that his databank calculator's LCD display had turned black all
over. He thought he'd save the lithium batteries and when he turned it over
he saw a tiny label saying 'Made in Taiwan'. The next time he tried to
withdraw cash he would find that he had also erased the magnetic strip on his
Cashline card.
When Rodney got ready for work next day he put the gun in his coat pocket.
He left for work at the usual time but had to run for the bus as it was
early, probably because it was a school holiday. He went upstairs and chose a
seat near the back of the bus on the left. As the bus approached the next bus
stop, Rodney could see Darren getting on, wearing his personal stereo. 'TSSHH
- TSSHH - TSSSHHH!' it went as Darren sat down several rows in front of
Rodney.
Rodney looked around at the other passengers and found that they were all
apparently preoccupied. Confident that nobody would know what he was up to,
he pulled the zapper out of his pocket, aimed it it the back of Darren's head
and squeezed the trigger. Sure enough, Rodney plainly heard a short pulse of
high frequency sound. Simultaneously, Darren gasped and yanked the earphones
out of his ears. Rodney slid the zapper back into his coat pocket and tried
not to smirk as he stared down at his knees.
Darren was puzzled. He unplugged the earphone jack and plugged it in again.
He whacked the personal stereo violently then shook it. He re-inserted the
earphones in his ears but with the volume turned much lower. He blamed
'feedback' for the painful blast of noise; he'd heard feedback before with
rock groups.
Rodney was satisfied. He had punished the reprobate who had invaded his
privacy and was no longer disturbed by the noise of 'thrash metal' or
whatever that so-called music was.
Several days passed and Rodney's journeys to and from work remained
undisturbed. Meanwhile Darren was looking for a new personal stereo. His old
one still worked but he'd been talking to his mate Drew who had a much
fancier personal stereo. This one had light-action touch buttons, a radio
with a tuning memory and a very impressive LCD display. Darren looked through
his mother's new Argos catalogue and saw the one he wanted. It had all the
features of Drew's one but also had 'Mega Bass' and even a remote control
built into the earphone cord. It was made in Taiwan.
The following Monday Rodney observed Darren boarding the bus. 'TSSZZ! -
TSSZZ! - TSSZZ!' went the earphones as Darren sat down only two rows in front
of Rodney. Darren admired the LCD display. When the machine was switched on,
a flickery scrolling message appeared saying 'Conglations on owning this
Minimedia! Pelsonar Sterio'. He played with the sliders on the tiny remote
control and watched the bargraph display. Rodney noticed one of his fellow
commuters grimace in discomfort at the invasive noise.
'Right, here goes' thought Rodney. He slipped the zapper out of his coat
pocket and rested its business end on the back of the seat in front of him.
Failing to notice that the power control knob had somehow got turned right up
to maximum, he aimed at Darren and squeezed the trigger. A particularly loud
pulse of high frequency noise, followed instantly by a loud 'POP!'
reverberated round the upper deck of the bus. Darren wrenched the earphones
from his ears and smoke was plainly visible, curling out of his earringed
ears. He was in considerable pain and was furious to find that the LCD
display on his pride and joy had turned totally black. Furthermore, the
earphones had melted as their speech-coils had burned out.
He whipped around in his seat and noticed that one of the passengers was
smiling and looking across at Rodney. Darren turned further round in his seat
and saw a rather frightened-looking Rodney gazing unconvincingly out of the
window. Darren stared at Rodney for a moment then turned round again, facing
the front of the bus. Rodney's heart stopped pounding after a while and he
prayed that Darren didn't suspect him. When the bus approached Q & B's Mega
Garden World, Rodney didn't notice Darren getting off the bus behind him.
He was half way across the footbridge over the bypass when he felt a hand on
his shoulder. He was turned violently around to find himself face to face
with Darren. Rodney looked in vain for help from other pedestrians. There
was no-one else on the footbridge, and not likely to be until the next bus
came.
'You done that!' shouted Darren as he thrust the damaged stereo under
Rodney's nose, 'Didn't ya!'
'I beg your pardon...' responded Rodney.
'You fucked my Walkman, you yuppy bastard' rasped Darren.
'No I didn't' replied Rodney.
'You fucking-well did!' shouted Darren, simultaneously smashing Rodney in
the face with the Walkman and kneeing him in the groin. Rodney fell down
amongst the broken glass and litter on the footbridge, doubled up in pain.
Then he blacked out. He was only very vaguely aware that he was being bodily
lifted into the air. He thought it was a bad dream. When he felt weightless
he knew it was a bad dream; he'd had the same dream before - falling off a
cliff or a building and he knew he'd wake up, just before he hit the ground.
Only he never did hit the ground.
Darren had heaved Rodney's semi-conscious body over the bridge parapet,
seemingly intent on murder. By sheer chance one of Q & B's pickup trucks was
passing under the bridge and Rodney landed on it, cushioned to some extent by
the bags of peat on board. The driver turned into the garden centre unaware
of what had happened. Darren ran back along the bridge and disappeared.
Later that morning the pickup driver found Rodney's body lying comatose on
the peat bags in his truck. The ambulance driver confirmed he was still alive
(just) and raced off to the hospital, blue lights flashing and sirens
wailing. Rodney was wheeled into Intensive Care and put on a life support
machine. He was in a deep coma. Consultants and nurses came and went but
Rodney was unaware of all this.
Days passed and finally he began to approach consciousness. The
electroencephalograph indicated increased brain activity, and the heart
monitor showed a faster pulse. He felt awful as he awoke and very cautiously
opened his eyes a little. 'God, what a weird dream...' he thought. He thought
he must have dreamt about dilithium crystals and the exploding microwave. He
sat up a little and rubbed his eyes. He focussed blearily on the life support
machine, which he recognised as the type he once sold. Loss of memory had
made him forget that he no longer sold medical equipment. He was startled to
find that this particular machine was connected to his body by wires and
plastic tubes. Had he woken up yet? He wasn't sure... He had experienced this
feeling once before, dreams within dreams, when he'd been ill with gastric
flu. He flopped back onto his pillow and fell asleep again.
His activity had been enough to trigger an alarm, however. A nurse came into
his room, made a brief phone call and a consultant arrived. The nurse gave
him an injection and he woke up to see friendly concerned faces.
'How are you, Rodney?' asked the nurse.
'What happened?' asked Rodney.
'You had an accident' said the consultant.
'My microwave blew up' confirmed Rodney.
'Your microwave blew up?' said the nurse and consultant in unison.
'I was making dilithium crystals' explained Rodney. 'I sell these for a
living' he added, pointing to the life support machine.
The nurse and consultant withdrew to the corner of the room and conferred
before returning to Rodney's bedside.
'Actually, old chap' said the consultant, 'you were found in the back of one
of Q & B's pickup trucks. That's who you work for. The police think you were
thrown from the footbridge over the bypass.'
Rodney remembered none of this.
'OK, you'd better go back to sleep now' said the nurse and gave Rodney
another injection.
'Better keep him hooked up to the hardware' advised the consultant to the
nurse. 'He's not a well man.'
Rodney was alone when he woke up again. He felt confused but physically
stronger. He sat up on the edge of his bed, taking care not to disturb the
tubes and cables attaching him to the machine. Rodney had an amazing memory
for numbers and recognised the model number of the life support machine. He
pulled one end of the trolley supporting it and had a peek round the back of
the machine. He was slightly surprised to find that he had sold this actual
machine. He actually remembered the serial number - but still couldn't
remember much else, though.
He pressed a buzzer and the nurse returned with the consultant.
'We found this in your coat pocket' said the consultant.
'What is it? It looks like a soldering gun that's been modified.'
Rodney remembered. 'It's a personal stereo zapper' he replied.
'Really?' said the consultant. 'How does it work?'
'You just point it and pull the trigger' Rodney answered.
'Like this?' said the consultant, not really believing Rodney and pointing
it at the life support machine.
'No - Don't!' said Rodney, but it was too late. He saw sparks coming from
the life support machine, followed by a cloud of smoke and that was all he
saw. He passed out into a deep coma and dreamt more dreams within dreams.
Eventually he awoke again to see a shiny new life support machine. He didn't
recognise this one; it was a type he'd never seen before. In one corner he
saw a label. It said 'Made in Taiwan ROC'.
= THE MAO-KAO HOLY WARS =====================================================
by Roy Stead
The war raged on for many centuries, a tide of desolation engulfing the
ravaged plains of the Taims's home planet.
No single Taim was *quite* sure how the War had started, nor precisely *why*
the two religious factions - Mao and Kao - had found themselves locked into a
life-or-death struggle with each other. Each faction, after all, was equally
as holy as the other, and their religious and social beliefs were identical -
each revering the near-legendary Mother of their races, known only to them as
Homet, the Holy Mother.
But fight they did, and a bloody fight it was.
Our tale begins as the Mao sect all but faces extinction at the hands of the
Holy Kaos, and prepares for one last attempt to save their threatened race -
the leaders of the Mao are trying to contact their worshipful Mother, Homet.
"And *I* say that Mother Homet is best reached using the Rite of The Unborn
Calf!" shrieks the leader of the Taimish Mao sect, "So let us attempt the
ceremony."
Unconvinced, but with no better ideas, the Maoish priests gather into a huge
circle, better to perform the Rite of The Unborn Calf. The incantations
begin, a low chanting providing the backdrop to the bizarre actions performed
within the circle. Slowly, a blurred window appears in the circle, and a
wizened face comes into sharp focus within that window. The Holy Mother!
"Please, oh Mother of Our Race, come to aid us in our need," requests the
High Priest. All fall silent as the revered Mother speaks.
"This is Mother Homet. I'm afraid that I'm not in just now, but if you would
care to leave a message after the burst of heavenly music...*CLICK* Sorry
about that - Hello? This is Mother Homet, I'm afraid that I cannot be seen to
show any preferential treatment towards any of my children. However, if you
would care to visit me, then maybe we can work something out. Sorry - must
dash, I've left the iron on...*CLICK*"
The window disappears, the chanting ceases, all is quiet. The priests and
congregation turn to face their leader: "What are we to do?"
"Well," says the leader, "If Ma Homet won't come to the Mao Taims, then the
Mao Taims must go to Ma Homet..."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roy Stead is a major force in fourth world metaphysics research, holding -
as he does - a masters degree in Pan-dimensional psycho-dynamics. There is,
unfortunately, some debate as to whether such a degree exists, but - in the
words of a small, pink pussycat which Mr Stead encountered one day,
"Miaaaoooow..."
Mr Stead's solicitors have asked me to add that the small, pink pussycat,
mentioned above, could - no doubt - have written the story attributed to Mr
Stead, had the feline not had other, more pressing engagements.
= SPEEDBALL II ==============================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
His wet footsteps echoed slowly through the darkness of the night as if
subconsciously trying to fence off invisible threats. Slow and deliberate his
steps sounded, as if he was heading for somewhere specific where no person in
the world could talk him out of.
Little pairs of lights gleamed in various corners of the alley. Red ones,
green ones, purple ones, eyeing Warchild with attention as if waiting for the
grim certainty in the wet thuds to disappear, waiting for a moment of
hesitation so their owners could strike with lethal accuracy.
A sudden flash, like some large metal thing catching the light of a great
sun for a moment, blinded the mercenary annex hired gun for a couple of
dangerous seconds. He rubbed his eyes in mute frustration. Damn! His built-in
reflexes were slowing down. His head ached. He must be getting old. Tired.
Battered. In other words, he was more likely to die. The little lights, the
gleaming eyes, gained on him.
Then followed the sound of thunder.
Warchild staggered, nearly fell. He took hold of his ears, trying to shut
them off from the rolling sound that seemed to echoe through his very body -
but too late.
He was sent reeling, staggering against a wet wall, slipping, falling. This
was what the eyes had been waiting for. They closed in on their prey.
It is believed that the future will see weather control.
Hardly so.
For years meteorologists from all over the world have tried to gain control
over rain and sun, clouds and winds. Apart from developing new ways of moving
their hands when forecasting the weather on TV they have not made much
progress.
When Warchild woke up he felt wet throughout. A sad, miserable drizzle
descended upon his head and the rest of his body. The rain echoed through the
streets, dripped off walls, fell in ever deepening puddles, made clogged
sewers burst.
When Cronos had stopped discovering the wetness that seemed to envelop his
body like a cold blanket, he started to notice that he was entirely (and
quite offensively) nude. He was starting to make a bad habit of getting
mugged all the time. This particular time it had reached an all-time high (or
low) by leaving him without any of his clothes - let alone his killer gadgets
and, indeed, his American Express Traveller's Cheques. The dark alley seemed
even darker than before. If its wet, dark walls could have laughed at the
ridiculity of the mercenary annex hired gun's situation at present, they
would no doubt have done so quite enthusiastically.
When Warchild stopped noticing his rather disgraceful nudity he saw a man
standing before him.
The man was eyeing him suspiciously, the expression in his face showing
doubt as to whether perhaps this offensive piece of human wastage he was
eyeing should be accordingly dealt with or perhaps not. The rather resolute
way in which this man eventually took a pair of handcuffs showed that he had
made up his mind. Cronos, who was desperately trying to hide some of the more
private parts of his anatomy, was roughly pulled off into a van that had blue
flashing lights strategically positioned on its roof.
The only good thing about the cell he found himself in after a rough half
hour of being transported and manhandled was the fact that it was dry. Fungi
stained the wall in colours he had never considered his eyes capable of ever
seeing. Assorted smells arising from an improvised chemical toilet invoked a
likewise experience on his nostrils. The rain pelted viciously against a
barred window.
He vouched to subject himself to another commando training when - if - he
would get out of this mess. Thank God one of the police officers had had the
decency to hand him an improvised set of clothes. Although he hated stripes,
it beat hell out of the sortof-pink-with-tufts-of-hair-here-'n'-there look.
Before he could start thinking further about his present situation, he heard
booted footsteps closing in through the corridor outside. The person halted
before Cronos' cell door. There was a short sound of keys and a couple of
clicks. The door was being opened and in stepped an officer with a pencil and
a piece of paper.
"Warchild? Cronos Jehannum Warchild?"
The mercenary annex hired gun considered it decent to nod, which he did.
"Come with me," the man said, "you have been selected." The voice seemed to
carry with it a tone of sympathy.
An eerie sense of deja vu struck him when he was handed a metallic uniform
and a helmet the likes of which he vaguely recalled having seen on some US
television network back on earth. He seemed constantly to get mugged, and
equally constantly he seemed to end up in some kind of underground game that
involved lots of aggression. Would he get out of this new ordeal unscathed?
After he had put on the padded uniform and helmet, a sturdy looking officer
led him into a van. In the van sat several people whom he first mistook for
himself. They were all fairly rugged looking, wearing that typical metallic
uniform and, indeed, the helmet that was obviously designed to supply the
face with some rudimentary protection against things the wearer of said
helmet would rather not think of.
He was the last one to get in the van. The door through which he had entered
was closed and locked. The van set itself into motion.
As soon as the van left the building in which Warchild had been held
prisoner, the clamour of a busy city surrounded him and the other convicts.
He peeked outside through the barred windows and saw sushi parlours, people
huddled in raincoats, cars flying to and fro through the air, huge Coca Cola
adverts illuminating entire office blocks. The rain did not seem to affect
dayly life of whatever city he was in - it seemed *part* of the city,
something without which it and its inhabitants would cease to be.
After about half an hour's drive, the van turned onto a long lane that
looked like the driveway to a huge, almost ill-matching arena as though
teleported directly from ancient Rome. Warchild saw the building's huge shape
at the horizon getting more immense as the van closed in on the structure
that lay silently, almost as if lurking, grotesque amongst its surroundings.
"That's it," one of his fellows in distress muttered, his voice carrying
awe, "the arena."
"Speedball," another man said, his voice shivering with fear.
"Death," yet another spoke solemnly.
There was a dramatic silence that lasted long seconds that crept by like
extremely ordinary and not very heroic turtles with a nourishment deficiency.
Cronos felt a most peculiar sensation. He felt as if he was waking up from a
long, detestingly boring sleep. Now he was enveloped by reality - reality of
life and death.
"*Certain* death," the man next to Cronos said, swallowing something.
"Horrible death. Slow and agonising. Excruciatingly painful," the man
closest to the locked door whispered, "a way to die I would not wish upon my
worst enemy."
"Sounds like heaps of fun," Cronos said, causing the others to look at him
in surprise, "as a matter of fact I believe this might very well be the best
day in my life ever since...since..."
The others were listening intently. What horrendous things had this obvious
barbarian been through, in heaven's name? This poor man should be pitied!
Another couple of seconds crept by, like dead tortoises.
"Well, I dunno, really," Cronos said finally. He had never been good at
memorising events. He *did* have a fleeting sensation of a crushing pain in
his groin for a moment. Luckily, it quickly disappeared like breath in the
wind.
When the van finally stopped at the arena's back entrance, about a dozen men
stepped out of it. All of them looked beaten, ill, sad, as if they expected
the scythe of death to take them there and then. All of them, that is, except
for one that strode proudly, his senses aware of everything around him,
adrenalin leaping through his veins. An almost insane smile lay frozen on his
lips.
In his mind he read next day's headlines.
Original written April and May 1992. Rehashes so little that you can't
really call it a rehash at all, May 12th 1995.
= SOON COMING ===============================================================
The next issue of "Twilight World", Volume 3 Issue 4, is to be released mid
July 1995. Please refer to the 'subscription' section, below, for details on
getting it automatically, in case you're interested.
Please refer to the section on 'submissions', below, for more details on
submitting your own material.
The next issue will probably contain the following items...
CRONOS WARCHILD VERSUS FAM
by Martijn Wiedijk
CRONOS IN WONDERLAND
by Richard Karsmakers (a story that will burst the seams of "Twilight World"
a bit)
AND MORE
= SOME GENERAL REMARKS ======================================================
DESCRIPTION
"Twilight World" is an on-line magazine aimed at everybody who is interested
in any sort of fiction - although it usually tends to concentrate on fantasy-
and science-fiction, often with a bit of humour thrown in.
Its main source is an Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk magazine by the name of "ST
NEWS" which publishes computer-related articles as well as fiction. "Twilight
World" mostly consists of fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so far, with added
stories submitted by "Twilight World" readers.
SUBMISSIONS
If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published
world-wide, you can mail it to me either electronically or by standard mail.
At all times do I reserve the right not to publish submissions. Do note that
submissions on disk will have to use the MS-DOS or Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk
format on 3.5" Double-or High-Density floppy disk. Provided sufficient IRCs
are supplied (see below), you will get your disk back with the issue of
"Twilight World" on it that features your fiction. Electronic submittees will
get an electronic subscription if so requested.
At all times, please submit straight ASCII texts without any special control
codes whatsoever, nor right justify or ASCII characters above 128. Please use
*asterisks* to emphasise text if needed, start each paragraph with one space,
don't include empty lines between each paragraph and use "-" instead of "--".
Also remember the difference between possessives and contractions, only use
multiple question marks when absolutely necessary (!!) and never use other
than one (.) or three (...) periods in sequence.
COPYRIGHT
Unless specified along with the individual stories, all "Twilight World"
stories are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread wholly or
separately to any place - and indeed into any other magazine - provided
credit is given both to the original author and "Twilight World".
CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS
I prefer electronic correspondence, but regular stuff (such as postcards!)
can be sent to my regular address. If you expect a reply please supply one
International Reply Coupon (available at your post office), *two* if you live
outside Europe. If you want your disk(s) returned, add 2 International Reply
Coupons per disk (and one extra if you live outside Europe). Correspondence
failing these guidelines will be read (and perused) but not replied to.
The address:
Richard Karsmakers
P.O. Box 67
NL-3500 AB Utrecht
The Netherlands
Email r.c.karsmakers@stud.let.ruu.nl
(This should be valid up to the summer of 1996)
SUBSCRIPTIONS
Subscriptions (electronic ones only!) can be requested by sending email to
the address mentioned above. "Twilight World" is only available as ASCII.
Subscription terminations should be directed to the same address.
About one week prior to each current issue being sent out you will get a
message to check if your email address is still valid. If a message bounces,
your subscription terminates.
Back issues of "Twilight World" may be FTP'd from atari.archive.umich.edu
and etext.archive.umich.edu. It is also posted to rec.arts.prose, alt.zines
and alt.prose and is on Gopher somewhere as well. Thanks to Gard for all
this!
PHILANTROPY
If you like "Twilight World", a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed at
the postal address mentioned above would be very much appreciated! Please
send cash only; any regular currency will do. Apart from keeping "Twilight
World" happily afloat, it will also help me to keep my head above water as a
student of English at Utrecht University. If donations reach sufficient
height they will secure the existence of "Twilight World" after my studies
have been concluded. If not...then all I can do is hope for the best.
Thanks!
DISCLAIMER
All authors are responsible for the views they express. Also, The individual
authors are the ones you should sue in case of copyright infringements!
OTHER ON-LINE MAGAZINES
INTERTEXT is an electronically-distributed fiction magazine which reaches
over a thousand readers on five continents. It publishes fiction from all
genres, from "mainstream" to Science Fiction, and everywhere in between.
It is published in both ASCII and PostScript (laser printer) formats. To
subscribe, send mail to jsnell@ocf.berkeley.edu. Back issues are available
via anonymous FTP at network.ucsd.edu.
CYBERSPACE VANGUARD: News and Views of the SciFi and Fantasy Universe is an
approximately bimonthly magazine of news, articles and interviews from
science fiction, fantasy, comics and animation (you get the idea).
Subscriptions are available from cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu.
Writers contact xx133@cleveland.freenet.edu. Back issues are availabe by FTP
from etext.archive.umich.edu.
THE UNIT CIRCLE is an original on-line and paper magazine of new art, music,
literature and alternative commentary. On-line issues are available via the
Unit Circle WWW home page: ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/unitcirc/unit_circle.html
You can also contact the Unit Circle via e-mail at zine@unitcircle.org.
Fantasy fans might want to read the first chapter of "FOOLS ERRANT", a
satirical picaresque -- a little like Gulliver meets Nasruddin, as related by
P.G. Wodehouse. Only available in Canada as yet. It's located at URL
http://www.ark.com/mhughes/fools_errant.html.
YOU WANT YOUR MAGAZINE BLURB HERE? Mail me a short description, no longer
than 6 lines with a length of 77 characters maximum. No logos please. In
exchange, please contain in your mag a "Twilight World" blurb (like the first
paragraph of "DESCRIPTION", above). Hail!
EOF
