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Free Word Press Volume One - Issue Five

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THE FREE WORD PRESS
Volume One - Issue Five
October 1999

fwp@freewordpress.com / http://www.freewordpress.com
Also available in www and pdf flavors

PRECURSOR!

II.

Blank pages inside are sometimes born
or hatched to fill the need
for emptiness or
simply lack of will; a aquired heart
can't replace the pump that was lost
during the Great War
but the empty places laught quietly
as if to say, `this was expected'
with the raising of the storm jib.

An inquiry into the nature of anger
was thrown on canvas like vomit,
its parts dissected, the theories written:
fear of the unknown, the unthought-of.
Birds unknown
were brought down by so many heated guns
set up to wipe out the tresspassers
who questioned tomes of experience;
feathers rained down for hours
as the hunters grinned,
congradulated each others bravery,
their divine skill.

Creation is an act of destruction
of integration
of silence: moments when the dancer trips,
fall on her face (nose is now unfunctional)
but dances on despite
red lines that paint highways
from lips to muscled ankles,
the audiecne disturbed and silent
as are we
disturbed and
silent: singers from the world's dawn,
from unwrapped bows, hovering tears.

excerpt from "Threshold" - by Alex Starr

This issue ...

I - GAINSAY: Punk Dualism - culture with a kapital k
II - The Unbound : A montly proclamation of the bermensch in all of us. This month - The Corridor
III- Liber Poetae : Greg Usher and Lacey Volk
IV - A Solution to the problem of violence, by the Reverend Bag
V - Section Three of Sun Set South - an evolutionary epic for the elevation of the soul.
VI - This week, The Spider's Web caught the Attack of the Springer People. Michael Hugen.
VII - Billy & Howard : an epic of twisted overkill and excess, part one, by Prince Slicer
VIII - Overheard... [in alt.atheism.satire]
IX - Literary Regurgitations : MOONSHINE by Alan Brunton
X - Closing Notes

The FWP Are:

Amanda B. Rekondwith
Amon Fredrick
Michael Hugen
Markus
Greg Usher
Lacey Volk
Alex Starr
Renan McFarland
Elliot Cole

Editor, photographer, layout designer, secretary: Elliot Cole
Web design: Renan McFarland

GAINSAY: Punk Dualism

Amon Fredrick

Its 1999, 15 years after I was born in 1984. In 1948 Orson Wells projected that I was to be born in an age of the most vicious tyranny, in a world where lies had torn out the most basic roots of humanity. Deceit and fear were the means to the ultimate end of total slavery. The world was dismal, the people were unshod wretches wildly paranoid, not without reason, and incapable of knowing anything for sure, even something as trivial as the year: the government could announce that it was 1964, and everyone was 20 years younger, and it would be so.

Instead I was born in one of the more liberal cities in one of the most liberal nations, during the tail end of a recession, and into the beginning of technology's rocketing exponential growth curve. Things were looking up.

My parents, both artists at heart, drove their day jobs hard enough to squeeze out a grade A education for me, and we slowly drifted into the suburbs. What were we looking for? Trees, safe streets, and a community - at least a group of neighbors we were friendly with.

Well, we found the first two: trees just barely block the lights from the mall, and the streets are so sterile you can walk for half an hour before seeing another human. But I'm slowly grasping the sad reality that, culturally, we'd have been much better of staying in the city than in this sterile prison we call home. I don't know who said it, but "if you want to be totally safe, lock yourself in a cement box with no windows, and throw away the key." But if you want life to have any bit of meaning, you must first compromise your own comfort and safety.

In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury predicts a world in which sensitive minorities censored their opposition to such a great extent that all opinions are banned, and all books are burned. It is all true: sensitive people are destroying the freedoms we were supposed to inherit. Our "rights" have been diluted down to one: the right to sue your opponents - not a far cry, I emphasize, from the right to burn heretics. Unfortunately for humanity, the only things with any value or substance are judgments. Ayn Rand, in The Fountainhead, posits man's ability to judge values as his soul.

The world - America at least - has, to avoid angering anyone, relinquished its desire to judge, relinquished its soul.

And that is where I, and many others like and not-so-like me, live: in soulless, sterile planned developments, in cement boxes to stay safe in cowardice. Perhaps it is not so painful to others: there are occasional block parties and some nights I see the group of my 'peers' out walking, but I would need to lower my standards considerably before surviving such a pseudo-cultural gathering of social cowards. And it is not my self-righteous, conceited aloofness that stands in my way: it is a truly psychosomatic physical illness contracted from a pile of books.

My long list of schools has dispersed my friends fairly evenly throughout this city's 500,000. I rarely see any of them. There used to be a time when friends got together often, people did things. That was when you could name everyone on your block. That was also when kids scraped their knees and fell out of trees, and since minor injuries are no longer acceptable, neither are any of the other good things that slightly perilous life can bring. We've receded into our cement boxes - why? Is it because (A), the world was become just too dangerous? Or (B), is it just because we can't stand to have a bruise blemish our bikini figure? If you chose answer A, stop reading this magazine and go play golf.

The substantiality of an idea, or a conversation, or a newspaper, or a sentence, is reduced to nil if it doesn't take a stand for anything, and it doesn't stand for anything unless it contradicts and opposes someone else's idea. To apply to the matter at hand: our inability to withstand bruises and our subsequent refusal to allow any rough edges or sharp points has reduced our society and culture to unadultured meaningless. No wonder kiddos entering adulthood, my generation, my peers, are so drawn to rebellion. No wonder Maralyn Manson's childish antics make him so immensely successful. No wonder gangs are drawing new recruits so quickly. No wonder kids are so attracted to creating their own socially objectionable personas: they all offer a more meaningful and culturally substantial existence than what they see in their parents - inactive, narrow minded, and cowardly. No wonder violence, danger, and anger are so alluring to teens. Why? Because they are the only source of soul - the desire to stand against something - in an otherwise empty world. Because they see the safe, secure life like it is: a prison cell. Because they only know how to give meaning and energy to their lives by causing friction. Because all youth cultures, from gang to goth, offers the lore and customs we, as Homo Sapiens, secretly require. Because they see how little their parents amounted to, no matter 'successful' they became, in their harmless, invisible lifestyles. And they're right.

What they are wrong about, however, is the idea that they are accomplishing anything by causing social friction. All valuable ideas create hostility, but not all hostility is the result of valuable ideas. What they don't realize is that their rebel-without-a-cause mentality is just as meaningless as the followers-without-a-cause they oppose.

And that is what makes up society today. One faction, generally older, generally more wealthy, generally optimistically naive, are the blind followers of God and State. These are the people who pulled themselves into cement boxes to avoid being hit by 'other' ideas. Then, on the other side of the same coin, generally younger, poorer, and just as naive with a pessimistic bent, are the blind rebels. The touchy-feely reluctance to oppose anybody has deprived America of a rich and meaningful culture, forcing the youth, and the childish adults, to run find it elsewhere - and they rarely find it. Instead they are sucked into the cheap substitutes: drugs, gangs, MTV. The less offensive, more PC, more sensitive the majority becomes, more prevalent become the cheap substitutes for culture. The problems will only decrease when people start finding things to believe in and they stop having to worry about the petty consequences that follow holding on to those beliefs. Only then will society be viable soil in which a culture will grow - and then it will. Nature abhors us for our vacuum.

THE UNBOUND

by Amanda B. Rekondwith

The Corridor

As I drank from the moon an intense weariness came over me, as if a lead weight was attatched to my heart, pulling me to sleep, to dream

I was walking down a long corridor, narrow and straight, sloping slightly downward, which I knew terminated at a stout oaken door, far off. There was no ceiling, only stars, bright, thick, and painfully out of reach.

Flickering lanterns illuminated the gnarled brown vines and dried leaves that choaked the walls. A trickle of water led my attention to the floor, where a thin trough snaked between the flagstones. My feet fell with disturbingly loud clops which resounded down the hall. Frightened, I tried to quiet my steps - I knew I shouldn't be there - but in vain. I tried to quicken my pace to reach the door, but, though I was certainly travelling, the door nevertheless remained distant.

I eventually came to a window in the wall, and I saw more close by.

Liber Poetae

Early Morning Noel

Just after five and the grey light seeps through sleepy Sydney's silent streets.
I've cruised the - loop Oxford, Elizabeth, Central, Hay.
Coming back, lights red, I wait - -
a voice calls softly from the gloom " Hey mate!"
I glance right across the road and see -
a brown clad figure sprawled loosely on the steps,
a spark of life in an abandoned shop - derelict - both.

He makes a signal, circling with his hand. I pause and think : 'Will I ? Can he pay ?
Ah heck It'll be the 'early opener', that's for sure. Maybe no fare, but -
-
what the hell. It's cold out there, he doesn't look too well'
So, gun up Wentworth, make the loop at Goulburn, then come back and stop....

He tries hard to struggle to his feet, I come across and help him to his feet, take his cane and get him settled in the seat.
He's all wet down one side, I think 'Gor blimey, he's pissed himself - ah stink!'
I turn the heater up as he seems chilled. He gives a grin and says:
" Thanks mate, The Subway, just up the road a spell.
Nah, hang on - blacks and fights, no way! Just - take me out to The Botany Bay."

" Ya know, you're alright mate, not many blokes 'd pick me up, can't walk too well - had a stroke.
Name's Noel - and yours ? " - " Greg. " We shake.
" I'm an alky " he says and sits erect, not stooped.
He's named himself, established who he is, not just a derro, not flotsam but a name and membership of that select, sad group.

We chat awhile and then he fills me in - on bits and pieces of his life and where he's been.
I drop him off at where he wants to go, help him out again.
He pays ! with a soggy note from his wrinkled sock.

Strange you know, for the rest of that shift, I whistle, sing, wear a grin and have this cheerful lift. I pause - and think about that name again - Noel ? - Christmas ? - and - goodwill to men.

This poem is a record of true event which occurred while I was driving cabs part-time to try and pay for development of a new type of computer chair, an invention I have been working on for some years and am now selling on the net.(www.kneelsit.com) I tried to record as accurately as possible the atmosphere at the time and the strange but wonderful emotions engendered by the meeting. By trusting, when the normal reaction would be to pass him by, I was rewarded by this warm inner glow and something more, hence the final line.

Greg Usher. B.Ec., Dip.Ed., F.A.I.I., M.Psych.

Lacey Volk

"a farewell"

the moon cast velour shadows on the ground around her feet.
she wore her smile like a delicate tiara,
careful not to tilt her head so that it would fall away
and shatter (a million shrapnel teardrops).
she left no footprints in the dust as she floated away,
faking the walk.
she writes long letters and loses them in the mail,
invites me over when i have to work late.
she only calls when she knows
that i won't be home to take the call-
i should buy a cellular.

"untitled 9/10/99"

there are naked animals outside
fighting ancestral duels in the alleyway
under the dark of the new moon.
shiny man practices the bass
with his amp so loud I imagine
it vibrating across the floor,
exploding in slow-mo on low E.
yellow red black- what color
is your transparent love?

starlight, starbright,
first fluorescent light I see tonight:
whose cloud is this I'm floating on?
I precipitate. Let's go down, down·
we'll wake wrapped in daises
and the ants will think us gods.
"I am awake," says the dreamer
yet he's acting the lead part
in my nightmare.

A Solution

Reverend Bag

If anyone has been monitoring the television for the past few weeks the've probably been wondering: Who are these people that feel it's their God-given right to take on some idiot name like the "Trench Coat Mafia," and march into school shooting people? Worst of all, isn't this the fourth time it's happened in less than a decade?

I have been looking into some of the solutions offered by "intellectuals," and am happy to announce they are all well worth considering.

One idea I have heard frequently, is to make it a felony to own a gun. This would be a smashing idea had our beloved constitution not allowed us the right to bear arms. This means every half-wit, with two teeth and a grudge, can buy a projectile weapon capable of liquefying the skull of a charging African bull elephant at 300 yards.

I have been told that in our country alone, we have enough weapons to arm nearly all the men, women and children in the world. This is frightening. Just think, at any given moment you could be driving through a quiet neighborhood, minding your own business, and have over two thousand cold black steel barrels leveled at your unconcerned, pointed little head.

An other solution being tossed around is, instead of wresting guns from students, allow teachers and faculty to carry their own concealed weapons. A brilliant solution! A mandatory increase of munitions in schools would make us all feel much safer. I can just picture Ms. Krackenburg pinned behind her desk, trying to lay down a barrage of cover fire, so the rest of fourth period can leap, single-file, out of a second story window in room #203. All this because Jake Gretson couldn't get another mini-carton of chocolate milk to go with his pizza-wheel at lunch.

It's because of ideas like these that I feel it is my duty as a citizen, and a periodic taxpayer, to offer up my two cents concerning the issue. I have thought long and hard, and finally come up with what I believe is the only solution to this national crisis: What is the one thing that every living person needs to stay alive? Food. Yes folks food-- and with only a few simple changes in our overall perception regarding caloric intake, we could all live to wittiness a saner, safer world.

The trick is to require all children, starting at the age of three, to eat large quantities of fast food several times a day. Have you ever seen a person who consumes over twenty pounds of McDonalds cheese burgers in a twenty four hour period? They're corpulent. They can't move. This is the solution to all of America's problems: Obesity.

With this method I guarantee that 95% of violence in America will end. Feed your kids so damn much sludge they can't walk without tripping on the distended rolls of fat swinging from their chins. That way, their fingers will be so pudgy they won't be able to squeeze past a trigger guard. So if Johny Fergerson decides to off a room full of kids, it'll have to go down like some Costco size sumo battle. In fact, the way the worlds going people would even pay money to see it on pay-per-view.

The networks would make millions. All the disgruntled student would have to do is call some 10-10-321 number and request a taping of the event. Then family and friends could place bets as to weather the rage Lil' Tommy feels after being called a "stupid head" in math class, will allow him to knock Danny Hoffmister off the lunch table in the allotted sixty five seconds. The crime rate would drip to almost zero, and violence would become nothing more than two people accidentally sloshing into each other at the grocery store.

Yes, using my solution the world will be a saner, safer place. You eat a lot, you laugh a lot-- and you die a young, happy, fat, violence free person.

III.

X: Temporal ties twisting

WHY: The lazy god gave the bell a listless ring

X: I say sing

WHY: Ten Bodies spinning

X: Meanwhile, on Body Four...

WHY: Charlotte and her amor, O! amid the eyesore structures in postwar rancor windows linger over who they adore tracing contour after contour it was then they foreswore to ignore all else they stepped inside and gave a toast to themselves

X: OR ELSE

WHY: It was at this time that Charlotte (daughter of O's godmother) traveled to Kingsbridge with a shade of umbrage to rummage through familial roughage to salvage the wreckage of her marriage to a minor Lord at least that was her pretext

X: Indeed! she bent down over his dead body bearing cleavage one last time turning down the voltage after poisoning with porridge she served him at teatime

WHY: She placed his rigormortis in storage and swiftly turned to go pay homage to her O!

X: Can the sighs mean so much?

WHY: Yes...yes...

X: O, meanwhile (having sorted out his caloric excretions in a labratory maintained by the eminent Kikitaqaw) {{x*(-1)+N/P}-1/2}=(insert coffee at this end) Left his Masterpiece out of reach in the library of Bali on a shelf: for she was to retreive it upon her return

WHY: A rote task

X: Unfortunately, for our brilliant Charlotte Rote caught her eye like a fly buzzing like O's Experiment never could have done but she was devoted, so off she went

WHY: Take care!

X: And so she did.

WHY: Roundaday!

X: Hooray!

WHY: SUNSETWEST!

[ Excerpt from Sun Set South, an epic for an Era yet to come - not as a defining work, but a transitory, a bridge, our duty now to the future. Amen. ]

Spider's Web

I couldn't sleep. Feeling safe in my own house in the middle of the night, I turned on the Idiot Box. I was assaulted in my own living room, by the Attack of the Springer People.

I knew Jerry Springer was a hot talk show. I also knew he was famous (or infamous) for the fights on his show. I should have changed the channel, listened to music, read a book or just stared into space and admired the stars. Instead, like train wrecks and natural disasters, I watched.

"I Did My Own Sex Change Operation." This was the title of the show. I missed the guy who actually did it. So I get to see the second set. A woman who wants her husband to cut it off. Her litany throughout was "If he loves me, he'll do it."

As the story unfolds, hubby has managed to convince his darling wife to allow another woman in for a threesome. Now hubby is upset that wifie seems to enjoy it too much and he can barely get in on the fun. She's decided, after four years and two kids, that she prefers women, so if he'll only cut it off, she won't have to leave him and can keep their family together.

Oh, the suffering this poor woman must have endured! Hubby, the insensitive jerk, reveals that he plans to keep his penis, thank you very much. He allows that he plans to keep the kids too. Wifie states on national TV that she doesn't care. If he doesn't love her enough for this simple request then she'll go find a woman and he can have the kids. He replies he loves "it" more than her. Buh bye!

Where do they *get* these people?!? My reasonably well-informed sources assure me the people appearing on these shows are for real. At least they've been able to convince the bookers they're real.

Why would *anyone* go on national TV to air their dirty laundry? As I see it, the entire issue boils down to respect. Respect for others, and respect for one's self. America seems to be losing both.

Let me clue you to a few facts of Real Life. As unfair as it may seem, there are just a few things human beings do not do to one another. You do not steal your sister's husband, even if he's the hottest thing since the vibrator. You do not have sex with your wife's sister or her mother. Even if they dance naked for you while your wife's in the hospital. Why? Supposedly because you love your spouse and you have enough respect for them and yourself to say "no."

I realize there's an entire section of people called the "Me Generation" but c'mon, people! Didn't your parents ever tell you the difference between right and wrong? I can hear you now. "Who are you to determine right and wrong for *me?"*

Despite what mommy told you, you are *not* the most important person in the world. Whether you are happy is not the prime concern in how to live your life. Get over it. Because, if you think road rage is bad, wait until you run up against me, or the millions like me. We've already about had it with self-indulgent little twits who have never met or understood responsibility.

We're the ones who, when you break into our homes to steal and rape, kill you without a second thought. Then we stand up in court and proclaim that we did it and we'd do it again. If we go to jail, we go knowing our mothers, wives and daughters had one less indignity thrust on them by those who care only for themselves. If you think robbing me is okay, because you really, really, need gas money, drugs, a new stereo, whatever, pay attention. I'm about to save your life.

Rambo and countless others like him existed. These nameless people were taught to kill and kill efficiently. So while you may be thinking that "old dude" is a prime target to mug, keep in mind that when you pull that knife or gun, the words of a drill sergeant are pounding in his ears. While you expect him to hand over his wallet, he's afraid for his life and is calmly considering which, of the 57 ways he knows, that he should use to protect himself and society by ending your miserable little existence. Sooner, or later, you *will* meet this guy. And you will die. If you don't care, neither will he.

Do you think going from Springer People to thugs and delinquents is a major stretch? Here's a flash. Springer People care only about themselves and their pleasure of the moment. They raise their kids (if you can call it that) the same way. They have never heard of Personal Accountability. It's not a new religion. It's you, taking responsibility for what you did, instead of blaming everyone from your parents to the government. You'll never see a pop psychologist yak about it or write a book about it. It would put them out of business, if it caught on.

"I did it. I was wrong. I'm sorry. How can I fix it?" Three definitive statements and one question that might just have more meaning than all the self-help books ever written.

Chapter 1

By Billy

It was my third day out on the Chicago streets, and I was tired and hungry. Being a street kid may sound glamorous and cool at first, but after a while it starts to suck. No one will help you if you're ten years old and running away (despite what movies tell you!), except the cops who will just come and take you to an orphanage or something. That's why I didn't run away from them this time, like I did so many times before. Even if an orphanage has rules and stuff, it can't be as bad as grubbing for food and getting away from weirdoes. I felt like a refugee or something.

This time, I just walked up to the nearest cop and looked at him. He knew who I was immediately; my face has been everywhere. I'm hard to catch when I want to be- he thought I was just going to run like I did so many times before, and slip into the nearest crowd or sewer. Forget that. Even though you are an oinker, piggy boy, I'm going to get a bed and some real food tonight.

He didn't use the handcuffs or the gun like I thought he was going to. He just put me in the back of the car and talked into his radio. I only heard one side of the conversation though.

"Hey, guess what. I found that kid, that Billy Bohecker. No.. I didn't have to catch him. He walked right up to me. Any paperwork.. done already? Heh, I'm not surprised one has a spot open for him." He then reached back where I was, messed up my hair (I really hate that) and said that if the crooks were like me, his job would be a lot harder. He drove me right over to the "temporary home". I knew better than that, of course. For a lot of kids my age, it's a permanent residence for the retards and everyone who always keeps running away from their parents. I don't think I'd have any problems getting out though; everyone knows who I am.

The cop walked me right in, and I had a room and clothes in less than an hour. A whole lot of kids were waiting for me in the bunks. A couple wondered why I didn't keep running. A few others looked at me, and knew. I wasn't really harassed at the place like I thought I would be. I was just another easy-come, easy-go. I don't have the problems other kids in there do with their minds and bodies either- of course the majority of them are pretty fucked up.

I think I got too much attention. Two weeks into it, and I already had to choose between three sets of parents who I didn't even know- ordinarily, I know the orphanage does the choosing but in this case, they has no basis on which to decide- so I had to. On the first, the wannabe daddy's face might as well have had the word "DRUNKARD" stenciled across it. I even smelled his beer. The second was a couple of really old people who would be dead by the time I turned 18 if they were as old as they looked. The third looked like the traditional American couple, really neat, really nice, really pleasant. It was them that I worried the most about... there was something really creepy about them. I chose the second. They just smiled. The first couple got sorta mad and stalked out calling me a stupid brat; the third just sat there, shaking their heads at one another. I looked at the clock, looked at them, and they were GONE. I mean, vanished, into everfucking thin air. It was amazing, and I had to rub my eyes at that one. Oh well. I'll get new parents for my birthday. Maybe they'll even be nicer than Mom and Dad were.

That night, I was exhausted. The old people got annoyed when the orphanage said they had to keep me "one more night." I wonder why they gave me a private room for that; doesn't make sense. And I never heard of it happening to anyone else. I was up till about 2 AM, there was a hissing in the room, and I listened to it until I passed out. I wish I didn't.

When I woke up, it was still dark out, and four guys were holding on to each of my limbs. The fifth guy put something really weird over my mouth. I screamed and screamed and nothing happened. Soundproof, I thought, as they brought me out really quick to their van. No one said "Hey, stop that!" or "What's going on here?" There wasn't even any scuffling of feet. Four of them were still holding on to me painfully (they were strong as hell) when the fifth guy put some kinda thing over my head, and I heard another hissing from it, and went straight into blackness. I fell, screaming into nothingness, for what seemed to be a couple of seconds- then I finally landed...

Onto a nice, cool, clean, soft bed with unwrinkled white sheets. I relaxed. There was some sunlight and cool, rain-tasting air that was devoid of normal Chicago pollution. I relaxed in the comfort of... hold the fuck up.. what the hell happened?

Wait a sec- this isn't my room! I don't even have my own bed anymore! Where am I? I stopped a moment to check the place out. There was a closet full of various clothes, all looked to be about my size. The walls were made of a nonreflective metal. A large circular window was open near the top of the room, and it didn't seem to have anywhere to close it from. Some large computer system filled the far wall, and what looked to be drawers of some sort were etched into the other walls. The bed was bigger than the ones in the orphanage, and the room was like twice the size of even the big bunk rooms. I was wearing some loose-fitting grey pajamas I didn't even realize I put on (probably because you didn't, I told myself). The door was closed- I figured locked- until I opened it and could barely catch my breath.

The place is huge. This.. mansion (what else could it be?) is the biggest house I've ever seen. Bigger than Scrooge McDuck's, probably bigger than Richie Rich's. I looked over the big wood railing and saw myself opening presents for my tenth birthday- that's right, if it's Monday, it's my tenth birthday, I reminded myself- not just imagining it but actually seeing it, with my doppleganger stripping the wrapping off of more gifts than I ever got in my whole life. I never imagined myself being frustrated not being able to find something in the presents though. I started breathing harder than normal watching myself tear open presents Bill Gates would probably have to put on MasterCard- and some super high-tech shit I didn't recognize. He heard me, too.

"Billy?", he asked in the middle of his torn wrapping papers, with a big smile on his face. I was scared out of my shit, and I started stuttering and maybe even crying. How the hell did he know my name and look just like me? Was he my twin? Was he my.. replacement?! The events of the past few seconds (hours? days? How long was I out?) caught up to me. I was finally able to fit my tongue back into my mouth again and tell him the obvious.

"You- you're me!!", I exclaimed. No shit. But at least I'd maybe get a reply.

My other self laughed. "No," he said with some bemusement, "I'm not you. I'm the (something that sounded like Grand Eliminator), but you can call me Howard. Down there's Sarah." A thirteen year old girl wearing a really short purple blouse and apron waved at me. I was still freaking out. "Come on, Billy, sit down. I have some stuff to tell you." I went down and sat down on his big couch. Right after, I couldn't remember why I decided to. I started to get really shaky out of fear. Five mobsters brought me down here to talk to myself, and I don't even know why I'm doing things.

Sarah sat down right next to me and said in a pretty, high voice, "Don't worry. You'll get used to it. It's not that bad, really, and he is nice." What the heck isn't that bad?! Oh man. I really think I'm in for a deep load of shit. That's the last time I ever turn myself in to some pig again, if I ever get out of here.

"Used to WHAT?!", I screamed. I was really freaking out. It's not every day you get captured, cut in the head, and then brought to a big mansion with a nice girl and someone who looks like yourself. I felt like I was on that old show "Nowhere Man". Shit. I must have been dreaming, obviously. I jumped up, pinched myself and ran around the really big room dazedly, trying to get myself to wake up. I couldn't.

Howard said, in my voice again, "Billy, you're not dreaming." It's possible to have nightmares when you're awake? "Sit down and calm down and stay seated down and calmed down until I tell you you can get up." He didn't seriously expect me to.. and I sat down on the couch again and kinda slowed myself down. I tried- but didn't try- to stand up. I tried again. And again. My ass wasn't glued to the couch, so I tried again. My legs and my body stayed right where they were. The muscles didn't even contract. Oh shit I'm fucked. And why the hell is he so happy- that The Conspiracy finally managed to get me and bring me to him?

I started trying to say "what the hell did you do to me?!", "why do I have to do exactly what you say?!", and "how the hell did you do that?!" all at once. Chuck Norris, Charles Bronson, and James Bond never get into situations like this unless they can get out. And I'm none of those guys. I grabbed Howard's arm, hoping for answers fast.

"You won't hurt me, nor will you do anything to my possessions or leave the island without my permission.", he said as if he were reciting it from memory. I felt my grip loosen. I really began to panic- how do the movie (that's what this has gotta be..) heroes get out if they can't even kill the bad guy or leave the place? I realized I should have deftly slammed his nose into his brain when I had the chance. Oh shit shit shit shit... I eventually got a single sentence out of my mouth, filled with expletives as it needed to be.

"HOW THE FUCKING DAMN SHITTY HELL DO YOU MAKE ME DO THINGS?!", I exploded. I was at the point of tears. I felt like a five year old not understanding simple magic tricks. He just touched my forehead, and then I realized what had happened. They had done something to my mind. I felt like a lunatic too. "no.. nonono.. that's impossible.. has to be..", I said at the bottom of my voice. I was getting really shaky by now, and I couldn't even control myself.. that's because he controls me..!! Dude I'm screwed!!

"Forget it.", he said. "They're below the skull. Besides, I told you not to hurt my possessions; that includes you." I guess he really does control me, although I doubt even the slaves in 1800's Deep South had it like this. I didn't think mind control implants existed, except in old sci-fi stories. If I ever get out of here, I'm never returning to anything vaguely resembling "civilization". Oh man. I felt like an elephant was standing on top of me. I just froze up, like being shocked by 500 volts of DC- every muscle in your body contracts at once. I was barely able to look at Howard. He was exactly like me, only a lot happier. Self-control will never mean the same thing to me again.

Sarah held my hand just then, looked at me, and told me the most terrifying thing I could have possibly heard. "Billy, I really don't think he's going to hurt you. He's been waiting for you for a week and a half now, and I doubt he's going to do anything to you." He had me here for a purpose, then. Probably something really fucking diabolical too. She then looked past me at Howard, who was right next to me too, and chilled me further. "Why didn't he tell him?! It would have at least helped." Helped in WHAT?! And who the fuck is "he"? I started breathing better again, and I unfroze some. I didn't really want to do either. I kept wondering how the hell he was doing all this stuff to me.

I didn't say anything for a few minutes. Nothing made sense. "Shock" isn't strong enough, "Trauma" barely scratches the surface, and "Panic" isn't even close. Add all three of the words, then put twenty exclamation points on the end of them, and maybe you'll get the idea. I would have strangled him then right there if I could.

My thought process (if you can call it that) was interrupted by Howard's calm voice. "Billy, I'm sure you have a lot of questions. I'll try to answer them all." All right, doppleganger- here's the one you were expecting. An answer might have redoubled the nightmare; but I have to know this much, at least.

"Why have you brought me here?", I asked in the deepest, roughest, nastiest voice I could muster. If I'm going to be captured by the evil empire, I might as well act the part. Besides, my throat was clogging up anyway.

"Because it's my tenth birthday, silly! Didn't Daddy tell you anything at all?", he asked in my semi-euphoric voice. Consider the nightmare redoubled. I started talking to myself, something I occasionally do in my sleep. When I wake up, I'll be out of this damn mansion, and there will be only one Billy Bohecker...

He heard me. "Finish your sentences, at least.", he said, and I realized I fucked up again. I looked him square in the eye, and told him what I believed at the moment. "When I wake up, it will be my tenth birthday, I will be at the orphanage, and you won't exist."

"Of course I exist. I have to exist for the world to keep going on the way it is; at least that's what Daddy tells me. Now tell me what the last thing you remember before you got here is.", was his reply. God damn. Just how powerful IS this joker, anyway? And who the hell is 'Daddy'?

"I remember people in dark suits carrying me out of my bed, I remember them sticking something into my head, and then I woke up here, wherever here is.", my mouth said. Again, I was forced to say something I really didn't want to- how long before he makes me sing his praises, lick his boots, suck his... I pushed the thoughts from my mind. I'm going crazy enough as it is.

"You're on my island, about 100 miles off the coast of Oregon." HIS island? Dr. No didn't hold a candle to him. At least the super powerful bad guy was me. I felt a sick sense of pride. I put my hand on my head and groaned. "It's really big, about a hundred acres or so." Yeesh. That's one big privately-owned island. Great place to conduct science experiments... oh shit.

Well, not everything was completely screwy. He said it was his tenth birthday; that must make me some kind of present. And what better gift to a rajah than a new servant or hundred? I was finally calming down, despite my rising internal panic and some serious nausea. "All right... Howard? Why am I here for your tenth birthday?", I asked, looking him in my face.

Why the fuck did I ask that? He didn't command me to, either. "You're here because Daddy sent you here." Wait a second. If he owns an island.. what the hell does Daddy own, the planet? "Sooner or later, you're going to help me run things, you're going to be my new taskmaster when the workers get here, you're going to tell me all about your 'normal' view of the world, and you're going to do lots of things you've never even considered doing before." So he meant for me to whip people while he's whipping me. Sounds like some kind of sick S&M. And he sounds sheltered, he must be. No surprise there. "I'm going to play with you a lot too, it'll be fun." Somehow, I don't think he meant that in the 'friend' sense of the word.. more like the 'toy' or the 'pet' sense. Fuck. I thought of another question, but decided to shut up.

"What were you going to say, Billy?", he asked. How much do I have to hide from him so he won't know what I'm thinking? The same amount of hiding I'd have to do from myself, and I'm perceptive as hell. Great. Just great.

"Why.. did you bring me here.. for my tenth birthday?", I asked, wondering how my alter ego could do all this stuff to me. It would be interesting to hear his reply, at least.

"Coincidence, I guess.", was his nonchalant, still somewhat exhilirated reply. "Besides, I didn't bring you here. Daddy did. Daddy runs the Illuminati." He runs the WHAAAAAT?! Am I in an episode of 'Nowhere Man' or 'Gargoyles' here? "He can do anything he wants, even give me friends like you." I was ready to ask his definition of the word "friend" but I decided I REALLY didn't want the answer to that. It more than likely is something I really DON'T want to hear. Just then, I smelled something really good with a lot of sugar in it. Birthday cake, must be. And for his- not my- birthday.

"Oh, that's the cake. I think it's done.", said Sarah, who got up from the couch. So did Howard. I couldn't move from my sitting position.

"Is it ready now?", I heard Howard say. What was it? What were they putting in there? For a minute I was thinking me, but then I remembered he had other plans for this meat. Maybe he wants me to stir fresh chunks of dead baby with a seasoning of ground rat? Get a hold of yourself, I told myself, that's American birthday cake. It smells too good to be much else.

"Yes, Howard.", Sarah said in a voice more sugared than the cake. Either he makes her always answer him like that, or she's got some serious malevolent intent. I guessed the latter.

He told her to tell him what she was thinking. So he does it to her too.

Then I heard the words that would shatter my image of Howard as a demigod forever. "It's very ready for you, all four hundred degrees of it, you little numb fuck!", she replied. I broke into hysterics. It was so funny. He says all that shit about himself, he has so much control, he owns the island, his dad runs the biggest conspiracy in the world, and his ego is just as deflatable as anyone else's. I could almost hear the hot air rushing out.

"Billy, don't laugh at me ever again.", he said with some irritation, and I couldn't anymore. Saddam Hussein doesn't stand a chance in an evil dictator contest with my duplicate. I felt sorry for myself and some of that sick pride again.

I couldn't hear them too well after that. I took a look around the room. I was sitting on a big red plush couch with a huge video screen in front of me. There was a lot of paper everywhere, and I could read the names on some of the boxes of presents. "5 billion hertz working prototype" read one. "Useful Asskicking Stuff for High Levels" read another. What the fuck? God dammit Dad, why the hell didn't you ever get me anything like that for MY birthday? "Primary Formal Garment of the One Inheritor for his Double-hand Year's Presentment" was lettered fancily on the side of a box with a robe that was probably (exactly) my size. Of course, that was actually false- the Inheritor and I both have six fingers on both hands.

I also saw two small books placed carefully on the table. "Comprehensive List of Exactly Phrased Useful Commands that Cannot Be Misinterpreted" and an eye-in-triangle symbol was on the cover of a small black leather-bound one; "Guide to all rooms. Happy tenth birthday, Howard." read the paper covering another.

I would have gladly read them both if not for Howard's calling me to sit down near where he was. I went through the huge kitchen with all the signs of cake-baking in it, turned through the door, and came into the big dining room where he was sitting at the head of the table. I sat down next to him and looked at the biggest cake I've ever seen in my life. Watch him eat it for himself. That's crazy. This thing's big enough to feed India for a year. Even for someone like me- and I eat way more than anyone else, and I suppose he's the same- that'll take a fucking eternity to eat.

Sarah started to sing 'Happy Birthday' to Howard. Damn, it's my tenth birthday, and I'm forced to sit back and watch as all the presents and all the cake is given to someone else. I must be dead, and this is the tenth level of Hell. What did I do so wrong? Oh well. If this is eternity, might as well sit back and enjoy it.

"Ten.", he answered to the final "how old are you now?". Ten what? Ten centuries? He blew out the candles, and I wished to God to get me the hell out of here.. or out of Hell, whichever it is.

No. I'm not in Hell. In Hell, it's much more pleasant, and they only torture you with fire and stuff. God would never sentence anyone to this, and even Satan couldn't be this nasty. Also, Satan had more people in here than this. I got to thinking that maybe some obscure African religion had the truth, and all the Judeo-Christian stuff was just a lot of bullshit.

Sarah brought out a big knife (for me? Billy chops already?) and cut the cake into eighths. "Now what?", Howard said. Did this guy never have a birthday before, or was he only fucking around with me?

Sarah said uncertainly, "Well, in America, the birthday boy gets all the cake he wants." Okay, this might be near Oregon, but this sure as hell isn't American territory then. I should have figured that. It never is in the movies. "How much?", she said.

The answer, like most of the stuff I'd heard in the past 10 minutes, surprised me to no end. "Two. Give Billy one, too. I think he's really hungry. And eat one for yourself.", he said, still smiling and happy. I looked down, decided it wasn't rat poison, blew on it because it was oven fresh, and took a few bites. It was delicious and really rich. Wow. Nice place, too bad it's not mine. And Billy, too bad he's not mine anymore either. Cripes. Then I thought of something else I really wanted to know. "Howard?", I asked.

"Yeah, Billy?", he said, looking at me as if I were some rare specimen or something, still smiling.

"How long am I going to be here, anyway?"

"Well, forever. Until you die.", he said before he went back to his cake. I wasn't too surprised this time. Did Sean Connery ever get a simple 3 year sentence in his movies or something? Of course not.

"Figured.", I said, as I went back to the cake. I guess this is my surprise party- "Your life is now in the hands of your exact duplicate and you have to do whatever he says, surprise!! Welcome to HELL, Billy!!!" Memories of Bill and Ted's Bogus Adventure flashed back to me. Oh well. At least it's warm in here, and the birthday cake is tasty. My thinking started to slow down and stay straightforward right about now, and I finally, rationally, seriously wondered exactly what my location was and exactly how the hell do I get this.. this effect he has off me? I can't even begin to fight it. It's like doing what you're not doing. Still, Sarah was right. He is at least pretending to be nice, at least sometimes. That made it worse. Couldn't he at least do torture like a proper evil dictator?

[ The rest of the Billy and Howerd Epic by Prince Slicer can be found at : http://members.toast.net/ghengis/B&H.zip ]

Overheard...

[in alt.atheism.satire]

Otto Bahn wrote:

Well, my atheists friends, I must bid y'all a fond adieu and leave this newsgroup. I have found Jesus and let him into my heart. I can only hope you find him before it is too late.

Funny, I don't remember meeting YOU. I'm not sure WHAT you found, but it wasn't me.

Jesus

************************************************************ 
* The sun of god            *  "My house is my temple" * L * 
* Jesus@heaven.org          *  "Nail a carpenter!"     * O * 
* To love me is to know me. *  "I do NOT have a beard" * R * 
*      R E P E N T  T H E  E N D  I S  N E A R         * D * 
************************************************************

Found this on alt.recovery.religion, thought it might fit in here....

Dean Hovey <deanhovey@uswest.net> wrote in article

<lUfF3.5103$u83.213456@news.uswest.net>...
The Baptist Soul
"I was walking across a bridge one day, and i saw a man standing on the edge, about to jump off. So I ran over and said "stop! don't do it!"
"Why shouldn't I?" he said.
I said, "Well, there's so much to live for!"
He said, "Like what?"
I said, "Well...are you religious or atheist?"
He said, "Religious."
I said, "Me too! Are you christian or buddhist?"
He said, "Christian."
I said, "Me too! Are you catholic or protestant?"
He said, "Protestant."
I said, "Me too! Are you episcopalian or baptist?"
He said, "Baptist!"
I said, "Wow! Me too! Are you baptist church of god or baptist church of the lord?"
He said, "Baptist church of god!"
I said, "Me too! Are you original baptist church of god, or are you reformed baptist church of god?"
He said, "Reformed baptist church of god!"
I said, "Me too! Are you reformed baptist church of god, reformation of 1879, or reformed baptist church of god, reformation of 1915?"
He said, "Reformed baptist church of god, reformation of 1915!"
I said, "Die, heretic scum", and pushed him off."
[Emo Phillips]

Literary Regurgitations

Markus

There are two options. Either (a) Alan Brunton spent an enormous amount of creative effort on the symbolism and intrincity of his poetic epic MOONSHINE, or (b) he was on crack.

Having known Mr. Brunton, having watched him work, and having worked with him, I choose (a). But one must wonder - whats a stranger to think? The description on the back cover explains the premise: this is an epic poem surrounding Ernest Rutherford's work to split the atom. But only until the end looms close does Rutherford, in the book simply ER, make his appearance.

Enigmatic to say the least, pretentious and random to say the nay, delightful and insightful to tell the truth. However, the best way to describe this book is by presenting my reflection, and my reflection became an attempt to write in the author's style: capable of formality, yet rejecting all preconceptions.

Lingua Franca
Farewell, up goes my mentor max
Au revoir, ciao,auf nimmerwietersehn
a handshake and a tax cut, fair, well?
signed and marked
in burocratic*.* (triplicate)
as told by my ever endearing
Father Pater
repleat in wine as
his hair fell out
taking his leave as
an alma mater clout, pater noster
lighting his joint on the toaster
coils
to compete with SoCal, mea mal
and yes, the winner
Je suis un termoin!
f-f-f-fun? semper, si modo...
si modo, if only Zeus
had not
had not raped Ganymedes

Flying solo over the Nile
telephoto in tow
to take the time to
procure pictures of Pharaohs
and such

call me Isis, mentor Max
clamo, iam si modo...sed nihil est. tamen...
(Was ist ein "Nephilem"
in El Biblio?
Lingua Sacra
Litterae Dei?)
Per astra, ad aspera!
Huzzah!
Ecce Homo! Yo soy
Ich bin, sum,
Wanka Wanka, the so-called
Lingua _________

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