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Devil Shat 1998 08 27
.ili. Devil Shat Thirty Four .ili.
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The Sacrificial Nothing ............................ by Morbus
The Sacred Head .................................... by Morbus
This is Devil Shat Thirty Four released on 08/27/98. Devil Shat is
published by Disobey and is protected under all copyright laws. All of
the issues are archived at the Disobey website: http://www.disobey.com/
Submissions, email, and news should be sent to morbus@disobey.com. Your
comments are welcome. What do you want us to write about? Send an email
and let us know.
I have to go Winnie The Pooh.
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.ili. The Sacrificial Nothing .ili.
----------------------------------- by Morbus
Welp, I'm tired, I'm damn hot, and I don't feel like thinking. That's a
bad combination for living. In the background, I'm listening to the
"Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy" radio show, and the TV is on some
football game. That's a bad combination for writing. I have a laundry to
be done in the next five minutes, and my laptop is heating up my legs.
Life is not treating me very happily right now. But, hey. Too damn bad,
eh? Ya gots to move along and just be happy with it all. Ya gots to put
on that happy face and move around in the sludge of every one else's
carbon dioxide.
So, I get up. Not because I want to, or because something exciting is
going to happen which will make you feel wonderfully important for being
a part of this moment of my life, but because I have to do the laundry.
Like I said, it was going to be done in the next five minutes.
Lazy thing about the laundry in my house: it hardly ever gets folded
when it's supposed to. The only laundry basket I have is still full with
last week's clothes, which is why I'm stuffing them into one of the
tomato boxes I have. Someone will get to them eventually.
I live on the third floor of an apartment building so I have to climb
down flights of stairs to get to where the dryer is. It's right next to
the ScratchyLady, and like every time I bring the laundry down, I can
hear her talking to herself. Her live-in help usually leaves every night
at around 7. It's 10 now.
And, as is fucking usual, someone decided that doing the laundry on a
Sunday at 9:00 is mucho importanto. Meaning an hour later, the dryer is
in use. The same hour later that I'm sitting there, holding a basket of
wet clothes, listening to ScratchyLady talk about Clinton and his
confession.
The ScratchyLady moved in a couple of years ago... her real name is
Roberta Gallant. She lives in 1D, I think, although I'm too lazy to
check her door. I've already started my way back upstairs, a scowl on my
face. I remember how she had some friends moving stuff in for her, while
she shifted on her feet, introducing herself to everyone that went by.
She always had two favorite conversation starters: "Do you know what
time it is, uhhh?" and "Geez, Gloria, that's a nice shirt you're
wearing". She wasn't one for talking, although she tried.
I think most people didn't like her because of her itchy and scratchy
voice and her bulging eyes. Her voice seemed like it had been badly
burned from too much smoking. Her eyes, obscenely large, always looked
straight at you as she groaned and licked her lips. A precursory glance
would label her wacko.
I don't think so though. I remember sitting across the street waiting
for a ride to the video store a couple of miles away. I usually sit on
my steps, but I hate being conversational with people I don't really
know, nor care to endure. I had told her what time it is, had told her
that my shirt came from some three pack and that was all I needed.
But, waiting, I noticed something unusual being carried carefully by one
of her semi-normal friends. It wasn't packed, wasn't protected in any
way, yet it was strange the reverence with which this simple glass mug
was carried. As much as I tried to see some sort of markings on the
glass, my eyesight wasn't all that good. Staring at too many monitors.
But the shape of the glass reminded me of a place I only visited once,
somewhere in a town whose name I can't even remember. I'm sure if I
drove around for awhile, I'd be able to find it. Hmmf. Something to
write down on my To-Do list.
The place was a small tavern, where homey gatherings of people you all
knew came to eat, drink, and cause a three foot deep cloud of smoke to
hang from the ceiling. The taverns' name seems to escape me as well.
Ahk, I'll blame that on the computer too.
I have no clear reason why she would have a mug from a tavern whose only
discriminating feature was a centered table, at least three feet from
any other. Seemed unusual at the time... you could probably have fitted
two more with a little moving around. The detail faded into the back of
your memory though, just as the liquor faded into your blood.
I get up again. And yet again, not because anything exciting is going to
happen, but rather because an hour has past. Plenty of time for the
dryer to be done. Unless they dry it twice. Argh. No one dries it twice
anymore these days. Too much money and time spent for only hot air. Of
course, I dry it twice, but I'm special. Or so I like to think.
Either way, the dryer is empty, now full, happily chugging on the four
quarters I fed it. I go back upstairs to lounge on the couch. The tv
goes on, my computer goes off. Vegetate.
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.ili. The Sacred Head .ili.
--------------------------- by Morbus
Mealtime at the Sacred Head was the same it had been every other night.
Belches from beer-guzzling buddies, the sniff of the waitress who had
"innocently" gotten her butt in trouble, and the raucous laughter from
table A3 about eight feet from the door.
A man who sat in the middle of everything, almost unnoticed, was at the
Sacred Head that night... probably the only reason everything was
normal. His name: Warren Cassidy, although most of the bar's inhabitants
knew him simply as "he". You see, Warren Cassidy was an inquisitive and,
you could say, annoying man. When someone spoke to Warren, he always
seemed to bring you down to the level of a child. Weeks later, when you
were in bed making love to your wife, you always seemed to forget how he
could have done something like that. And you'd always stride into the
Sacred Head days later, ready to shoot him down... but the cycle would
always begin again. No one in the history of the Sacred Head remembered
anyone beating him.
Cassidy ate his roast beef sandwich, smiling at the bit of gossip he had
just picked up. Yes, Cassidy prided himself for knowing everything, and
knowing that Woodworth's wife was pregnant with William's baby was news
indeed. Cassidy wiped his mouth and took a sip of his Goreau, a drink he
(again) prided himself for inventing. Cassidy was one who oozed
"ego-trip", but most people secretly agreed he was allowed to.
The bar was covered with set-in mug rings and a little bit of pretzel
here and there. Johnson, the bartender, wiped a ring with a dirty rag
and grimaced as a man in the corner wretched pathetically. Stacey was
given the job of cleaning it up. Twelve tables across the bar's floor
were all occupied with drunken males as rarely a woman visited the
Sacred Head. Last count, only two had ever willingly come, and twelve
not so willing.
Yes, Cassidy was a recorder. A man who took everything he heard and
tucked it into his little head until time came to bring it out at the
worst moment for anyone but him.
"Jesus Christ!", a man yelled as his beer was spilled by Stacey, who had
accidentally hit it with the broom handle. Drawing breath to throw out a
remark, he let it all out in a fast swoosh. Cassidy had spoken.
"Yes?" Cassidy repeated. Everyone in the Sacred Head could feel verbal
abuse coming and they all quieted in hopes that maybe, just maybe, they
could learn something. It was quite funny to watch, actually... seeing
all the heads nod in some sort of understanding, only to be inwardly
more confused than ever.
"Huh?" Half drunk on beer, the man, whom we will call Matt (for that is
what his hair looked like) gave a half-drunk slur. "Whad'ja say?"
"You said Jesus Christ. I naturally assumed you would like to speak to
me, so I said, 'Yes'." Cassidy replied calmly. The bar's participants
could feel this one ending already. Drunk people were a fun spectacle,
all the more when they were on the receiving edge of Cassidy's forked
tongue.
"You're nosh Jesus Christ."
"Oh, yes I am."
"Then why arensht yous in heaven?"
"Tell me Matt, do you believe in UFOs?"
A strange twist that Matt was not ready for. He quickly forgot the
original argument, left to float in his sea of semi-consciousness.
"Yesh, why?"
"Now tell me again Matt, what are in UFOs?"
"Why aliensh of course!" Matt slapped his knee and turned around, his
back to Cassidy. He thought he had won.
"Now tell me Matt, if there are aliens in UFOs and let's assume that
aliens die, then can't we assume that aliens must go to heaven?" His
voice was calm. Matt, on the other hand, was confused, thoughts swimming
in his head.
"Now tell me Matt, how do you know that I am not an alien? Walking on
water, returning from the dead, healing the sick? How do you know that
I, Jesus, have not returned for my deserved salvation?"
Warren Cassidy had won again.
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