1441 lines
66 KiB
Plaintext
1441 lines
66 KiB
Plaintext
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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
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of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
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does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
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does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
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idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
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Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
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where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
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are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
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in all forms, UfOFofO ,smrof lla ni
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physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
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or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
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your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
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focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
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lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
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a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
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You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
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unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
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taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
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knowing how or what ####### tahw rp wph gniwonk
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to think. You are in --oNe-- ni era uoY .kniht ot
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a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
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=----------------------=
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EDiTORiAL by Kilgore Trout
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RADiATiON CLOUDS? WHAT RADiATiON CLOUDS? by Clockwork
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PULL THE STRiNGS by Clockwork
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STATE OF UNBEiNG by Kilgore Trout
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CiGARETTE DANGLES by Kilgore Trout
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RELAXATiON FOR THE DROWNiNG MAN by Clockwork
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PLEASED WiTH YOUR PAiN by Clockwork
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SiMPLE MELODiOUS DECEPTiON by Clockwork
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THE TERRiBLE ACT OF DROMM by Griphon
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EPiPHANY by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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DiRTY WATER by Kilgore Trout
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THE CONTiNUiNG STORY OF BUNGALO BiLL by Phadrous
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DO THEY BOUNCE? by Griphon
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ERRAND TO RUN by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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GRiMACE by Griphon
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"Welcome to my deli."
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--Clockwork
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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EDiTORiAL
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by Kilgore Trout
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Welcome, boys and girls, to the first issue of State of unBeing. Now, I'm
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sure a bunch of you are wondering how the hell we got the initials *SoB*
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instead of *SoU*. Simple--just capitalize a different letter than the first.
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Some call it stupid; I call it poetic license. Besides, it's a cheap gimmick
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to get people to download a file called SOB thinking they're doing something
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naughty.
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Sorry to disappoint.
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This e-zine came into being (no pun intended) out of our need of a forum
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to display our thoughts to the public. A few of us had been involved in a
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paper 'zine before this, but due to some conflicts (such as money or lack
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thereof) it ceased to exist. We also just wanted to give the public an open
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forum where anything could be said without any form of censorship, no matter
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what viewpoint.
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Arguably, one might say that this issue is just a bunch of poetry and
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fiction with a couple of political commentaries thrown in for good measure.
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If you feel that way, get off your lazy butt and send us something. It has
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been my experience that projects like these get talked about a lot and worked
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on very little, so it was necessary to put something out so we'd at least
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have an idea that it was worth it.
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But it doesn't really matter. I've gotten great satisfaction from putting
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this e-zine together, and that's all I really wanted. If someone else likes
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it, so be it. Whatever.
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Now, start reading. That's an order. Laugh, cry, sob, sit in a corner.
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Just enjoy 70k of text written by some high school seniors who actually think
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they can write intelligently. Even if they can't, how many high school
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seniors do you know that could put something out like this? I'll shut up now
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before I get overtly-cynical.
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Kilgore Trout
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NOTE: I just ran out of cigarettes. Anybody wanna bum me one?
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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And then Billy traveled in time to when he was sixteen years old, in the
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waiting room of a doctor. Billy had an infected thumb. There was only one
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other patient waiting--an old, old man. The old man was in agony because of
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gas. He farted tremendously, and then he belched.
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"Excuse me," he said to Billy. Then he did it again. "Oh God--" he
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said, "I knew it was going to be bad getting old." He shook his head. "I
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didn't know it was going to be *this* bad."
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_Slaughterhouse-Five_ by Kurt Vonnegut
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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RADiATiON CLOUDS? WHAT RADiATiON CLOUDS?
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by Clockwork
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The U.S. Government sure is an interesting thing. It just simply amazes
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me how they casually do the things they do, then casually hide behind a
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building full of red tape, and then casually do them again. It is rather
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disgusting.
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Recently, it was revealed to the public -- for some unknown reason -- that
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our government has been conducting tests of nuclear weapons, without informing
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the public, and violating the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. Two just overly
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glorious things in one fatal swap.
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In the past 30 years, our government conducted a total of 204 unannounced,
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secret nuclear tests. Thirty-four of them leaked radiation into the
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atmosphere. The first was in 1963, right after they agreed to the ban of
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atmosphere tests. The last was in September of 1992 -- right at the end of
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Bush's term. Just another reason why I hate the man.
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And not only have they been testing nuclear weapons, but performing
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radiation tests on humans. Over 800. Some were not even informed of the
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risks. In fact, I am sure a lot of them weren't informed of the risks...
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"Oh, those blisters? Don't worry about it! They will disappear in a few
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days!"
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Now, what exactly happened during those radiation tests have not yet been
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released, but right now it is known that civilians were injected with plutonium
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to determine what doses of radiation workers could safely be exposed to. Isn't
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that just nifty? The other statistics are to be released sometime in the near
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future. It's about time. Of course, the information wasn't released until the
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government officials involved with it were long past.
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Since we are on the subject of radiation, lets delve a little bit deeper
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into the cesspools. It was also revealed that several government warehouses in
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six states currently hold around 33.5 tons of plutonium. I bet that is REAL
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safe.
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Apparently, our government is so very concerned about the safety of the
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average American citizen. Not only do they have tons of plutonium sitting
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around, but tons of radioactive reactor fuel, too. Oh, yeah! Sure, why not?
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In fact, millions of pounds of this fuel are being kept by the Department
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of Energy in storage pools -- 29 clusters of pools spread all around the
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country. This fuel was supposed to have sat there for a maximum of 18 months,
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but they have been there since the 80's. Deterioration of the storage units is
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occurring, exposing many to dangerously high levels of radiation, and releasing
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material into the atmosphere that could spread for many years. And of course,
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the DOE has yet to explore solutions.
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Let's skip back a little in time -- back to the early nuclear days.
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After World War II, the United States decided they wished to do develop
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weapons that would kill by radioactive fallout. So, they did. That shouldn't
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be a surprise, the government usually gets what it wants. There were twelve
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tests done in New Mexico, Tennessee, and Utah from 1948 to 1952 where they
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exploded these weapons into the atmosphere. The radiation that was released
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is thousands of times higher than allowed today. And the funny thing is, they
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insisted it was all completely safe.
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In Dugway, Utah they tested devices that would spread radiation across the
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fallout area. In Los Alamos, New Mexico they tested devices that would release
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radiation into the air. In Oak Ridge, Tennessee they tested devices that would
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release radiation at ground level. And to top it all off, during an experiment
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in 1949, radiation spread over 200 miles across a stretch of Oregon and
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Washington.
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Now, who wants a glass of fresh, cold, sparkling Oregon water?
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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'Exactly. You see, at four o'clock it will become neccesary to... to
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start killing them. Naturally we hope it will not be necessary. But if it
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is... You are right, things must be explained to them if it is possible. Even
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a soldier knows why he is fighting. It is fair that the passengers be told
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as well.'
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_A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters_ by Julian Barnes
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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PULL THE STRiNGS
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by Clockwork
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As you may have noticed, I am supremely anti-government. I sit here and
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rant and rave about all this corruption in the U.S. -- the land of the free,
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the home of the brave; the place where everybody is supposed to go to get a
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fair chance and a new start. Well, it dawned on me that the U.S. government
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doesn't only unjustly rule over this country, but over others also.
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Let me tell you a nice little tale of the past. This story takes place
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in a place called El Salvador, a nice little country in Central America. Well,
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once upon a time, not too long ago, a group of U.S. trained Salvadorian
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soldiers massacred 926 unarmed people in a little village called El Mosote.
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They killed anyone who got in the way. Nice, huh? 131 of those killed were
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children under twelve years old. The youngest being those still in the womb.
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Three children, who were in their first few months of life were hung, shot, and
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thrown into the air, landing on the soldiers' bayonets. Witnesses said soldiers
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would stack up people and shot them, so as to not waste ammunition. Bullets
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would pass through childrens' heads and put dents into the ground. After all
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this, the soldiers dumped all the bodies into a shallow pit. After a while,
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the smell flooded all the houses of people still living there.
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As usual, the U.S. Government and the U.S. military paid no attention to
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any of this. The Reagan administration told Congress and the U.S. people that
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there was no evidence of a massacre whatsoever.
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OH! PARDON ME!! Then I guess that the whole field of bodies and many
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eyewitnesses are just hallucinations, aren't they Mr. Reagan?!? Sure, why not!
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And the funny thing is that after Reagan made his initial statement, he made
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another. He said that El Salvador was progressing in civil rights. Do you
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know why? So the U.S. could give more weapons and money to the Salvadorian
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armies. Reagan also said that what actually happened at El Mosote was a
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conflict between guerillas and government soldiers. This isn't true. The
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guerillas left the area four days before the soldiers got there.
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Why?
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Who knows. It's just a funny thing that a thousand unarmed, innocent
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people are killed one day by U.S. trained soldiers with U.S. weapons. And then
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the U.S. denies that anything ever happened. And then when evidence is shown,
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they change their statement a little so they won't be lying as much.
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Sounds like what occurs everyday in the United States.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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It was called *When Scandinavian Bodies Go Mouth Crazy.* The title
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proved to be accurate--even felicitous. I sat with Keith for a while and
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watched five middle-aged men seated around a table talking in Danish or Swedish
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or Norwegian without subtitles. You could make out a word every now and then.
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*Radiotherapy.* *Handikap-toilet.* 'Where's the remote?' Keith asked grimly.
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He had need of the Fast Forward, the Picture Search. We found the remote but
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it didn't seem to be working. Keith had to sit through the whole thing: an
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educational short, I assumed, about hospital administration. I slipped into
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the study. When I came back the five old guys were still talking. The thing
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ended with a few credits. Keith looked at the floor and said, 'Bastard.'
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_London Fields_ by Martin Amis
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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STATE OF UNBEiNG
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by Kilgore Trout
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imprisoned in a world of confusion and uncertainty
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footsteps echo loudly in the hollow of a heart
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an endless passageway appears which i must follow
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where it shall take me, i do not know
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life leads the stray dog into a trap of death
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time is both the catalyst and executioner
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the same shall happen to me soon, i'm sure
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when time judges, the verdict is live or die
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i'm trapped in limbo at the perilous crossroads
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wondering which way to go, which way to run
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it's right behind me, the thing i most fear
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my legs fail me as i try to escape
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pull at the ground with tired fingers
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inch my way forward towards an illusion of eden
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the promised land lies over the next foothill
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if only i possessed the strength
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the breath of insanity flirts with my neck
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its potent spell eradicating my senses
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vision diminishes as terror awakens
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i am not who i appear to be
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a diseased hand delves deep into my soul
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it grasps onto the root of my inner being
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inject the cancer, let it roam free
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and dispose of this mindless body
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blackness soars throughout these veins
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the life they carried evaporates and fades away
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a swollen shell of what i once called myself
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now floats languidly in a puddle of self-apathy
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eyes that hate leer at me from tree tops
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gargoyles ready to pounce on my decrepit corpse
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their hunger wafts behind the leaves
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subtle yet too dangerous not to notice
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where is my salvation in this unholy place
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only my thoughts can answer, and they betray
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my heart dies beside me, cracked and blackened
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like a fool wishing for his own immortality
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the golden chalice awaits feeble lips
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sip from its depths, and all is finished
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the parched wasteland of my throat cries out
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the hands that raise it are not my own
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reaching, fumbling, grabbing, taking
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swallow the wine that will make me whole
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cool liquid drips into the cavity of my heart
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i am not replenished, i am not saved
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encased in a vice of malice and numbing hurt
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feeling is no more, yet i still taste the pain
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lust for the acquittal of sins i did not commit
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lost hopes drift away in a chaotic breeze
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i gaze upon my face from a distant point in time
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jaded and despised, it holds only fading memories
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my new existance begins in a state of unbeing
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a prisoner of no one, but free from nothing
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"The Classical Greeks were not influenced by the Classical Greeks."
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_Principia Discordia_
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CiGARETTE DANGLES
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by Kilgore Trout
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cigarette dangles
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black lungs exhale a venomous poison
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life slowly withers away with each drag
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cold fingers buried in deep pockets for warmth
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where is she
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where does she hide
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her slender, dark face feeds warmth to my mind
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time passes quickly
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the painful memories stay forever
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people surround me, yet i am alone
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i loved at one time
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i gave myself completely to her
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and now i have no one but myself
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she knows all my secrets
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she can destroy me
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the street only runs east and west
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my direction, however, is south
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the day will come when i finally find her
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and face the rejection in her eyes
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instead of being walked out on
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left to wondering what i did
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wrong
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"Memory, prophecy and fantasy--the past, the future and the dreaming
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moment between--are all one country, living one immortal day. To know that is
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Wisdom. To use it is the Art."
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_The Great and Secret Show_ by Clive Barker
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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RELAXATiON FOR THE DROWNiNG MAN
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by Clockwork
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Breathe the water you walk in,
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and drink the air to fill your hunger.
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The taste of pure nothing cleans,
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washing the dirt and tar away
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to leave you ready for another life.
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Sinking down in woven warmth,
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let the caged be free,
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and watch their wings spread,
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knowing they are welcome to return.
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You know they will,
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to grope at something new or old,
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it makes no difference to them.
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They exist to peck at you,
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and that is what they do.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"This column has a hole. Can you see The Queen of the Dead?"
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-- George Seferis
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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PLEASED WiTH YOUR PAiN
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by Clockwork
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Can you still taste the wax stained on my chest?
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It can not be cleansed with soap and water,
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it must be scraped with your own hands.
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Perhaps another coat from another candle
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will leave me with more pleasure
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than the first.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"Out here on the perimeter
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there are no stars
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Out here we is stoned immaculate."
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-- Jim Morrison
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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SiMPLE MELODiOUS DECEPTiON
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by Clockwork
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Soft spoken angels laugh at passers-by,
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while perched atop the masked concrete block,
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awaiting for the moon to fall.
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"Watch the dozen apples ripen into gold,"
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a voice from the people massed cried,
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without knowledge of the seven stolen by feeble hands.
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His blood stained the hands of many there,
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but now he stood and made them laugh,
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with unmatched illusion and harmonic discord.
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Drawn to the worn, well-written face,
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the angels pause before their laughter,
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and choose to leave before the moon,
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knowing they have been beaten.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"You goin' to county, boy!"
|
|
|
|
-- a small-town police officer
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THE TERRiBLE ACT OF DROMM
|
|
by Griphon
|
|
|
|
It was a particular day, a Wednesday, when the terrible Act of Dromm
|
|
occured. Toquem and I were in the field, taking a pleasant and much needed
|
|
piss on Mother's petunias.
|
|
|
|
"This feels quite good," Toquem said.
|
|
|
|
"Quite. No, no, this feels extremely good. I haven't taken a piss like
|
|
this since the time Griff and I got smashed and drank about four kegs of beer.
|
|
That was a good piss. This is a good piss," I said.
|
|
|
|
"Once I pissed my pants," Toquem said. "That would have been a good piss,
|
|
except for the fact that everyone laughed at me. Wij pissed his pants, too, on
|
|
account of laughing at me so. Everyone gave him a good taunting about it."
|
|
|
|
"I remember this fat girl pissed her pants once. It took her a couple of
|
|
hours to feel it; she was so fat. I remember kicking her in the fat stomach
|
|
and yelling, 'Look here, you fat girl, you pissed in your pants. Geez, you're
|
|
fat. It's a wonder a girl as fat as you could even take a piss, but yes, you
|
|
did take a piss, all over yourself.' I then called a few of my friends
|
|
together and we laughed out loud at the fat girl who had pissed herself."
|
|
|
|
"I never saw a fat girl piss herself, but once I saw a fat boy throw up on
|
|
himself. I basted him about the skull with a metal pipe and called him
|
|
'Spewy.' That was fun."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, that sounds like fun. You done with your piss?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes. Let me shake my dong a couple of times. Okay, let's go."
|
|
|
|
We went inside and drank a couple of beers. Then the Earth blew up. That
|
|
was the terrible Act of Dromm.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"Extreme terror gives us back the gestures of our childhood."
|
|
|
|
-- Chazal
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
EPiPHANY
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
It was in December when I was seventeen that I had left for lunch fifth
|
|
period, unaware of the situation I was about to enter. Truly, I only wanted a
|
|
burger and some fries and to return to school to eat lunch with my friends. I
|
|
pulled my car into Hardee's, as usual, and walked in to place my order. I had
|
|
given the cashier my money when some girl started screaming. I spun around
|
|
like everyone else and saw this guy, Brad Kenson, slouched back in a chair,
|
|
holding a gun in his hand.
|
|
|
|
"Everyone get out," he said softly. Surely we all heard him in the
|
|
silence after the girl stopped screaming, but no one moved. "Get out," he
|
|
said louder, raising the gun like a flag, waving it around. People started to
|
|
walk out the door but that sudden instinctive burst of panic made them run. I
|
|
looked at Brad speculatively and frowned.
|
|
|
|
Brad was not one of the favorite people at my school; few people could
|
|
disagree with me. I admit I didn't know much about him, but when I first saw
|
|
him two years before, I immediately assumed he was a drug user or a
|
|
troublemaker just because of his long hair and dirty, ripped-up clothes. And
|
|
I had neither seen and heard much to the contrary. I disliked every time I saw
|
|
him hanging around outside the school after hours, looking ready at any time to
|
|
trip out in a pathetic, self-degrading durg-induced hallucinatory trip. You
|
|
couldn't help but see that black hair and those dark, close-set eyes and know
|
|
he was evil. I tried to ignore him at school, but here, endangering the lives
|
|
of all these people and me, he made me angry.
|
|
|
|
"Hey, get out of here," he said listlessly to me, waving the gun in the
|
|
direction of the door. I looked around and noticed I was the only one left.
|
|
|
|
"What's going on, anyway?" I asked, trying to appear stern. "Are you,
|
|
like, robbing the restaurant?"
|
|
|
|
He grunted a laugh. "I've got better things to do," he said, smiling.
|
|
He lifted the gun to his head.
|
|
|
|
At that moment, the human brain demonstrated both its human compassion and
|
|
its astounding ability to think fast. Although I hated the guy, I dove to push
|
|
the gun out of his hand. I realized as I was thrusting my arm forward that the
|
|
gun could point towards me and go off. The next split second I heard the gun
|
|
click, and I blinked my eyes fiercely at the sound. The next split second I
|
|
saw the utterly crushing look of despair on Brad's face as the gun flew across
|
|
the floor, and I fell back in a chair, confused and flustered.
|
|
|
|
I glared at Brad in anger for having to be the one to save the his life
|
|
while putting mine in danger. I was not that kind of person.
|
|
|
|
"Not even loaded. Forgot," he said. "Click, no boom. I'll get it right
|
|
soon."
|
|
|
|
He jumped over the area where the gun had flown and picked it up. I could
|
|
have kicked myself that moment. I never even thought of getting the gun. He
|
|
started loading the bullets calmly, and some force-field of selfishness
|
|
prevented me from doing anything. I just watched, terrified. Soon the badly
|
|
hidden despair in his stark face moved me to act.
|
|
|
|
"Wait!" I exclaimed, scaring him. His finger jerked and a bullet flew
|
|
across the room. "Uh, sorry," I said stupidly. My mind finally started
|
|
working. "What's wrong, Brad?" I asked him sincerely. I truly did not know
|
|
and quickly dismissed any fleeting ideas I might have had--divorce, alcoholic
|
|
parents, bad grades--crap like that. The mere thought of suicide astounded me.
|
|
"Why do you want to die?"
|
|
|
|
"Why would I want to live?" was his answer. It's really the most
|
|
depressing answer you can get from a person. He was staring towards the cash
|
|
register so he wouldn't have to meet my glance or the glances of the people
|
|
crowded around the windows.
|
|
|
|
I shrugged unconsciously and became angry at myself for not doing
|
|
anything. I felt very insignificant next to a suicidal teenager with a loaded
|
|
gun. I knew there were written in some health book the steps for talking
|
|
someone out of a suicide, but I had been the only one to overlook them. I
|
|
imagined the people outside pointing out some chart on the wall with clear,
|
|
concise steps I was to follow. I looked outside and saw police arriving, but
|
|
some people stopped the police from entering. They obviously thought I would
|
|
take care of the problem. More weight on my small shoulders.
|
|
|
|
I tried to summon to memory the most effective and moving acts of
|
|
psychology I had seen in movies and TV, but like in a dream, they all mixed
|
|
together randomly, and I was alone with my wits.
|
|
|
|
"Come on, man, answer me," I said. "Why die?"
|
|
|
|
Brad was startled by my empathy but only showed it by looking at me.
|
|
|
|
"Why die? What a funny question. Think about what you just asked me."
|
|
|
|
I did and became confused.
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you why. It's the world. Humanity. People."
|
|
|
|
I rolled my eyes. Nice cliche.
|
|
|
|
"Hey! I'm serious! What the hell kind of society lets a teenager get a
|
|
gun, and--and go into any restaurant and terrorize it?"
|
|
|
|
I objected. "That's not because of society--"
|
|
|
|
"But it is. You don't know how screwed up society is... I mean, look at
|
|
all those people outside. They're watching this like it's some kind of freak
|
|
show. No one ever stays behind to fuckin' console the suicidal person. They
|
|
all run out then let him kill himself inside. Then, people go on TV and tell
|
|
their shocking stories of seeing the unfortunate person die. Then the news
|
|
will delve into my life, point out the bad parts, and make the suicide seem
|
|
like a warning sign that society is collapsing."
|
|
|
|
"But you just said it was yourself."
|
|
|
|
"No, LISTEN to me!" he yelled, slamming his hand on the table. "They are
|
|
going to say I'm a cause of society's breakdown -- you know, rising suicides
|
|
and shit -- all they ever do is blame the victim!"
|
|
|
|
I suddenly felt as if Brad were a different person. It shocked me--
|
|
someone so grungy-looking having intelligent insights. I yearned to know more,
|
|
forgetting all the people outside.
|
|
|
|
"If you're the victim, who's the cause?" I asked.
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you -- it's people who run the country. You always thought it
|
|
was a democracy, right? And the President presides over his glorious nation
|
|
and bids good health to all? Hah! Congress controls the country. But they're
|
|
the people's servants, you interject. They're supposed to be. But you'll see
|
|
about ten people in that House or Senate who really give a shit. Actually,
|
|
you'll never SEE congressmen -- only lobbyists waving their dollars in their
|
|
clenched fists eager to keep their boys in power.
|
|
|
|
"You see, it's all power. Who has power? The Rich, the White, and the
|
|
Males. Yeah, yeah, civil rights and women's lib. Tell me about it. If all
|
|
that equality really is working, why don't we see women and black people
|
|
heading up the corporations who screw the American people over? Why isn't
|
|
Congress filled with blacks and women who love money as much as they despise
|
|
the First Amendment? Because civil rights hasn't yet fucked up society enough.
|
|
Luckily.
|
|
|
|
"What is civil rights, anyway? It's laws passed to make people able to
|
|
compete with the big rich white males who want to suppress them! The way I see
|
|
it, there are already enough good people who see humans as humans, but they're
|
|
not the ones in power."
|
|
|
|
I added, "Like you."
|
|
|
|
"Yeah. I'll tell you--if I were up there, heading GM right now, the only
|
|
thing different about me would be my position. That's all I would have to
|
|
change. Do you see what I'm getting at? If I looked like you now, people
|
|
would say, 'There's someone who's going to make it in life.' Now, they just
|
|
say, 'Look at that druggie over there. When's he going to throw his bombs at
|
|
us?'"
|
|
|
|
My face turned dark red. I bowed my head and mumbled in agreement.
|
|
|
|
Brad noticed and turned on me. "So, you're one of them, too!? Should
|
|
have known. Hey, you're Walt, aren't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Yeah," I said.
|
|
|
|
"Remember me from third grade?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
I looked up and locked eyes with him. "You're Bradley Lanton?!" I
|
|
whispered in awe.
|
|
|
|
"Exactly! My mom divorced and I got a new last name. But I'm the same
|
|
person."
|
|
|
|
"Shit! You were so clean-cut -- even funny sometimes."
|
|
|
|
"You have to beat humor out of me now," he snarled. "Us antichrists don't
|
|
like to get friends."
|
|
|
|
I remembered my previous faux pas and lowered my head again. I knew this
|
|
Brad person would screw up my day, but never my perceptions of the world
|
|
outside my own little mind.
|
|
|
|
"And why am I an antichrist? Oh, because I dress like one. Why, it's in
|
|
the bible that all antichrists wear flannels and long hair. I get stopped so
|
|
often in my car by police pigs. You know they want to find some drugs on me
|
|
so I can go to jail. Get 'my type' off the streets."
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you dress differently?" I queried, knowing it would evoke a
|
|
response.
|
|
|
|
"Are you stupid? I mean, why don't you dress differently? You've got
|
|
your button-down shirt tucked into your pants, dammit! Look like a little
|
|
choirboy. But it works, eh? You get plenty respect for looking respectable.
|
|
It's all the powerful people who you dress like. They see you as an
|
|
inspiration that their way of life will go on forever. You're just a little
|
|
conformist ass-kisser."
|
|
|
|
"Come on, now, you don't know me," I defended myself.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you've got a personality beyond YOUR clothes? Just like me? How
|
|
novel."
|
|
|
|
"You're right--you've got me thinking about people simply judge you by
|
|
your clothes. How stupid! It's..."
|
|
|
|
"Wait, wait--you know nudity is probably illegal because people wouldn't
|
|
be able to tell each other's social classes apart," Brad said, smirking.
|
|
|
|
"Yeah! Really! You can't classify anyone unless they have a uniform--"
|
|
|
|
"Or a race."
|
|
|
|
"--that too. You just know someone serving burgers in this Hardee's is
|
|
lowlier than you--eh, me--because they've got the uniform. They're all the
|
|
same--uniform." I felt proud of myself.
|
|
|
|
"Sure. It's all the conformity thing. Act like everyone else and get
|
|
along, and sacrifice yourself in the process. But why? Who needs 250 million
|
|
clones wandering around the U.S.? Is it to prevent catastrophe? The collapse
|
|
of our society? I thought that's what democracy was all about. People doing
|
|
as they please." He held my glance for a few seconds to see if I was thinking
|
|
it over.
|
|
|
|
"You sure are perceptive," I commented.
|
|
|
|
"Well, it's a fucking curse! Here I am, Mister Perceptive, having to use
|
|
a gun to get someone to listen to me without branding me a stupid druggie!" he
|
|
screamed. I felt then a loss of something--all that we'd gained together. My
|
|
heart sank. He reached for a pack of cigarettes in his shirt, and I suddenly
|
|
remembered he was sitting there with a gun. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked,
|
|
ignoring any possible response by lighting up.
|
|
|
|
I wanted to tell him not to smoke but I knew he'd see anti-smoking laws
|
|
as an oppression of freedom, and rightly so.
|
|
|
|
For a few minutes, we sat there silent. Brad dragged heavily and I
|
|
thought about the whole society-sucks argument. I never really had much chance
|
|
to think about any of it, having no reason to. I started to consider the
|
|
effect of his type running the country. Soon, though, I wondered if any of
|
|
them would have enough optimism to overpower their apathy and cynicism. Brad
|
|
interrupted me before I could start to think of it.
|
|
|
|
"Frankly, I can't see anything ever changing around here," he spurted out.
|
|
"Push your civil rights and social reform and gun control laws but people won't
|
|
take to any of it unless they benefit from it. Screw it!... Hey, I bet you
|
|
were thinking about cigarette control, eh? Well, OOPS! I'm high on nicotine
|
|
now, and unresponsible for my actions!" He jumped up from his seat and grabbed
|
|
the gun. "Gun control? Ha! Here's some social reform for ya, America!"
|
|
|
|
Brad aimed at the windows and shot twice at police officers poised by the
|
|
door. I ducked, fearing them shooting back, and scurried on my hands and knees
|
|
to the bathroom in a room echoing with the gunfire of a lone gunman. I didn't
|
|
hear anyone fire back. Brad fired a few more times. The screaming outside had
|
|
died down, strangely, and I peeked out of the bathroom and saw no one at the
|
|
windows. They were gone. Brad paused and glanced at his gun; then fired it at
|
|
his head and fell.
|
|
|
|
It was a few minutes before the people came back to assess the damage.
|
|
Even the police had hidden. I looked in the restaurant and remembering the
|
|
image of Brad standing there alone with a gun struck me. No one had tried to
|
|
stop him. Anyone who tried would have had a direct, virtually unobstructed
|
|
line to wrest the gun from him. But under the fear of the power of the gun,
|
|
and what this druggie madman might do, no one took the initiative. Everyone
|
|
had run away. Police, trained in situations like this, ran away. I remembered
|
|
my talk with Brad and realized I had run away too. I wondered if Brad's
|
|
prediction would turn out to be correct.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"Total number of allowances you are claiming (from line G above or from
|
|
the Worksheets on back if they apply)."
|
|
|
|
-- from a Whataburger application
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
DiRTY WATER
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
We were sitting in the corner of a fast food restaurant--me, Ray, and
|
|
Tammy. Ray was eighteen, strong, and blond. Tammy was twenty-one, gorgeous,
|
|
and a recovering drug addict. I was, well, just the same old me.
|
|
|
|
It happened to be Friday night, and we had nothing better to do with
|
|
our lives then loiter around a small table, drinking free refills of Coke
|
|
and root beer and smoking cigarettes.
|
|
|
|
"God, this is fucking boring," Ray said.
|
|
|
|
"You got a better idea?" I asked.
|
|
|
|
Ray shrugged. "Is this what our pathetic existence amounts to? We go to
|
|
school during the day, listening to boring professors lecture on things we
|
|
don't want to hear, and then, when we need to have some fun, we come here. To
|
|
Burger King! Maybe we should actually go somewhere else for a change."
|
|
|
|
This conversation took place almost every Friday night, yet it always
|
|
failed to accomplish anything. Actually, coming to Burger King did make up
|
|
a good portion of our free time. It had become almost routine. Besides, I
|
|
know that the first Friday night we didn't make a stop at Burger King, Ray
|
|
would get pissed and complain about not going.
|
|
|
|
We sat in silence for a while, sipping on our drinks and taking drags.
|
|
The air around our table was beginning to thicken with the smoke, and an old
|
|
couple with trays of food promptly turned towards the non-smoking section when
|
|
they saw us. Finally, Tammy broke the silence.
|
|
|
|
"You guys ever play dirty water?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
Ray and I looked at each other, and then shook our heads.
|
|
|
|
"Gimme your ashtrays," she said, motioning with her hands. As we slid
|
|
the almost-full ashtrays over to Tammy, she dug her free hand into one of her
|
|
pockets. After a moment of searching, she produced a penny.
|
|
|
|
"Oh boy, this looks real fun," Ray commented. "What are we gonna do,
|
|
dump the ashes into the water and drink it?"
|
|
|
|
Tammy laughed. "Yup."
|
|
|
|
Ray's face went blank. "You can't be serious."
|
|
|
|
"I am."
|
|
|
|
"You're outta your goddamn mind if you think I'm gonna drink that."
|
|
|
|
"Well, all of us aren't going to drink the dirty water. Only the
|
|
loser."
|
|
|
|
"And exactly how do we determine the loser?" I inquired.
|
|
|
|
"See, I'm gonna cover this cup with a napkin," she explained while
|
|
dumping the ashes into the water. "The penny goes in the middle of the
|
|
napkin, and then we take turns burning holes in the napkin with our
|
|
cigarettes. The person who makes the penny fall in has to slurp up the
|
|
sludge."
|
|
|
|
I hesitated for a moment. I didn't know if I could do that with all
|
|
that crap in there. "Do we have to swallow the penny."
|
|
|
|
"No, of course not," Tammy assured. "You could choke on that or
|
|
something."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, good," I said, somewhat confused. "Alright, I guess I'm ready."
|
|
|
|
Tammy proceeded to cover the cup with the napkin and placed the penny
|
|
in the center. She glanced over at Ray, who still wasn't sure exactly what
|
|
to make of the situation.
|
|
|
|
"Ray, you ready?"
|
|
|
|
"Shit," he cursed. "If I have to drink that stuff, I'm gonna puke."
|
|
|
|
"That's okay--it usually happens," Tammy said.
|
|
|
|
"By the way, where did you hear about this game?" I asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, it's just a game a bunch of us recovering druggies play to pass the
|
|
time."
|
|
|
|
Quite amusing response, I thought. I guess if you wanna get sick and
|
|
throw up, it's cheaper than buying beer, and the chance of an overdose is
|
|
practically nil. But I did have to agree with Ray. If that mucky water
|
|
passed through my mouth, it would be coming back up onto my two best friends.
|
|
|
|
"I'll go first," Tammy quickly said, and then burned a hole near the
|
|
edge of the cup. "It's best if you make a sort of cross-pattern. I've found
|
|
it's the safest way to live through the night.
|
|
|
|
I took my cigarette and made a hole on the opposite side of Tammy's.
|
|
The paper disappeared instantly, a small hole and a line of smoke remaining
|
|
in its place. Ray put a hole right next to the penny.
|
|
|
|
"What the hell, Ray?" I said. "You wanna lose?"
|
|
|
|
"Nope, just trying to make it more interesting," he replied.
|
|
|
|
Tammy just smiled and placed another hole on the outside rim of the
|
|
cup. It started to flare up, but she cooled it down by blowing on it, calmly
|
|
and professionally. She must have played this game a lot. And I thought we
|
|
were bored.
|
|
|
|
My turn again. Following Tammy's example, I decided to play it safe
|
|
and put a hole next to my previous one. I wasn't going to do anything stupid
|
|
to "make the game more interesting." I like keeping my food down.
|
|
|
|
As Ray moved forward to make his hole, he caught his elbow on the edge
|
|
of the table, and his cigarette plunged into the napkin, creating an enormous
|
|
gap in the napkin. The penny promptly fell in.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, shit," Ray muttered.
|
|
|
|
"Looks like we have a winner," Tammy announced. "Time to drink up,
|
|
Ray."
|
|
|
|
"Hey, guys, that wasn't my fault," Ray stuttered. "My elbow got caught.
|
|
I never would have--"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, shut up, Ray," I said, laughing like a mad man. "You lost, now
|
|
you get to taste the goodies."
|
|
|
|
Ray's eyes glared at me, but he knew he had lost. His face looked kind
|
|
of queasy as he prepared to partake of the nectar of the gods. If this was
|
|
the nectar of the gods, though, I sure as hell wouldn't want to be a part of
|
|
the church that worshiped them. I think the night of the Lord's Supper would
|
|
be one night to stay home and watch _60 Minutes_ or even scrub the toilets.
|
|
I'd do anything rather than see a bunch of people drinking dirty water and
|
|
then vomiting that which the church had so thoughtfully given them.
|
|
|
|
Tammy removed the napkin and fished the penny out with a spoon. She
|
|
took my glass of water and poured it into her cup, stirring the blackish
|
|
liquid. "Ok, Ray, I've diluted it somewhat, since this is your first time.
|
|
Don't worry, I've only seen one person have to get their stomach pumped
|
|
because of this."
|
|
|
|
I pushed the cup over to Ray, who took it into trembling hands. He
|
|
raised the glass up to his lips and began to drink. Ray's eyes closed and
|
|
his face was wrinkled in disgust, but he showed no signs of stopping. After
|
|
a few seconds, the murky water started dribbling down his chin and onto his
|
|
chest, creating quite a mess. Twenty seconds later, he slammed the cup down
|
|
triumphantly onto the table.
|
|
|
|
"Uhhhhh," he said. "That was fucking horrible."
|
|
|
|
"Come on," Tammy motioned. "Let's go outside."
|
|
|
|
I understood why immediately and helped Ray up from his chair. We
|
|
limped outside, much to the dismay of the employee's who were wondering
|
|
exactly what was wrong with Ray.
|
|
|
|
"Is he okay?" one of the employees asked as we passed by.
|
|
|
|
"Next time, cook your damn burgers," I said. The employee looked
|
|
embarrassed, as if she got that complaint often.
|
|
|
|
Once we made it outside, I let go of Ray. He stumbled out into the
|
|
middle of the parking lot, keeled over, and violently threw up chunks of black
|
|
slosh all over the pavement.
|
|
|
|
Tammy and I laughed for so long.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"Love is like a warm puppy whose blood is spilling onto the pavement
|
|
thanks to the nice Lexus owner who was blinded by her riches."
|
|
|
|
-- Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THE CONTiNUiNG ADVENTURES OF BUNGALO BiLL
|
|
by Phadrous
|
|
|
|
"Gimme an ashtray."
|
|
|
|
We sat in the Lounge drinking various liquids and sucking in thick, warm,
|
|
nasty air. The rickity circle which we surrounded was crammed with lighters,
|
|
smokes, and used glasses full of Camel butts. All around us, poetry was being
|
|
written, women were wooed, and love was rising and crumbling in the sea of
|
|
human emotions. We didn't care. For us, the entire world stagnated on our
|
|
table and spilled over onto the floor and chairs. I felt content and deaf.
|
|
The mouths about me movied rapidly, yet no sound escaped the lips. The
|
|
overbearing music, the laughter, and crying drowned themselves out and left me
|
|
with only a roaring to pass the time. I set my glass down on the floor and, oh
|
|
huzzah. Sleep.
|
|
|
|
I awoke with my mouth glued shut by mucus. It always seems to leave an
|
|
escape route. Mucus does. sometimes it wakes me upo with it yelling,
|
|
"Yippee!" It seems to find joy in the witer slide of my face. However, it had
|
|
now dried and was only moaning, "Mama told me not to come" (without a British
|
|
accent).
|
|
|
|
I looked around, and except for Frank and Bishop, I was alone in the room.
|
|
|
|
"Hey," said I. "Where is everybody!?"
|
|
|
|
"They flipped off to Bengal's," replied Frank. "Somebody wanted the new
|
|
Black Death album. Said they'd be back soon."
|
|
|
|
"They just left?"
|
|
|
|
"Yeah. 'Bout three hours ago."
|
|
|
|
"Oh." We sat for a bit in silence as I cleaned some of the crap out of
|
|
my mouth with my tongue.
|
|
|
|
"Hey," I added. "What day is it?"
|
|
|
|
"Saturday. Sort of." Frank refused to give straight-forward answers,
|
|
but I was used to it.
|
|
|
|
"Which part?"
|
|
|
|
"The first part."
|
|
|
|
"Really?"
|
|
|
|
"Yeah. About 126,000 minutes since it started."
|
|
|
|
"You been counting the minutes?"
|
|
|
|
"Not all of 'em."
|
|
|
|
"Where's he at?" I asked, indicating Bishop.
|
|
|
|
"Wonderland. I should never have taught him that." Frank was refering
|
|
to an intense meditation method in which one slows down one's metabolism to
|
|
less than that of a hibernating South American toad. I watched Bishop for a
|
|
moment. His heart beat twice with a two second pause in between each set of
|
|
chambers. *Squish.*
|
|
|
|
"What'd he have?"
|
|
|
|
"Root beer."
|
|
|
|
"Hell, he's gone then."
|
|
|
|
"Yeah." Frank lit another cigarette.
|
|
|
|
"I'm headin' up."
|
|
|
|
"Cheese."
|
|
|
|
I struggled to my feet and stumbled to the stairs. After what I believe
|
|
was exactly two years, I got to my room, opened the door and fell face last
|
|
onto my bed. Unfortunately, someone had left a spoon, a stereo, some CD's and
|
|
several people in it. I took hold of the spoon and shoved it into the wall.
|
|
The rest could get out by themselves for all I cared. Violins vibrated the
|
|
wall as cellos shook the ceiling. Except for a little distortion caused by the
|
|
vomit-soaked walls, the Chintos Quintet in the room next door sounded rather
|
|
good.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Spinnlt's "Reverberating Chaos" pounded my brain. I opened my eyes and
|
|
found that I was blind. I pushed a cat off my face and found myself, once
|
|
more, visually oriented. The clock on the floor told me that it was two in
|
|
the afternoon, but I had never known that particular clock to give the right
|
|
time, so I searched around with my hands until I found a wrist. Five. Jenny's
|
|
watch was usually right. Jenny wasn't but her watch was. I looked around for
|
|
the rest of her but found no more than her elbow and possibly her knee. She
|
|
wasn't an extremely pretty girl. Cute, but not sexy or anything. She was the
|
|
kind that stands real close to you all the time and occasionly brushes up to
|
|
see what kind of reaction she can get. That always makes me horny but I try
|
|
not to let her know so she'll try harder.
|
|
|
|
I rolled out of bed and searched for a patch of carpet to step on.
|
|
Finding one between some clothing and papers, I made my way slowly, stepping
|
|
from one shadow-coated carpet patch to another until I reached the toilet. I
|
|
then experienced one of the more tiring things that one can. That is,
|
|
urinating for more than a minute and a half. It shows how little patience we
|
|
have when it happens. I shuffled back out into the dark and sat down in my
|
|
chair which dominated one corner of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dark
|
|
again, I picked out shapes that lay dead in the slits of light which were
|
|
filtered through my venetian blinds. "Venetian blind," I thought to myself.
|
|
Mel Brook's image loomed in front of my brain and answered with gusto. I
|
|
watched a lamp fall ever so slowly off the large black blob that represented
|
|
a low bookshelf. It reminded me of a great pine falling in a forest making a
|
|
noise just to spite the philosophers. The lamp hit the piles of books which
|
|
resided on the part of my floor just in front of the bookshelf.
|
|
|
|
"Damn," I said. It is amazing how little such a powerful word can mean
|
|
when one puts no tone into it. The lamp bounced and landed to barricae the
|
|
walkway between the wall and the foot of my over-filled bed. I looked
|
|
carefully at the face that hung over the side of the bed, and was quite sure
|
|
that it had not been there when I had lain to sleep. I had had a king sized
|
|
bed stuffed in my room three months before and the day it arrived it became
|
|
the only bed in the building that was used for sleeping. I think perhaps it
|
|
was a crude joke started by Bishop. Imagine, talking a whole building into
|
|
using one bed--my bed. It was quite an accomplishment. I had tried to fight
|
|
it at first but after a week of sacking out on the floor I thought, "Dammit,
|
|
that's my bed and I'm sleeping in it no matter who is in it. All the other
|
|
beds became desks and elevated floors. A couple stayed open in case too many
|
|
people wanted to snooze at the same time or whatever, but for the most part,
|
|
there was a constant minimum of three people asleep in my bed at one time. I
|
|
don't know who changed the sheets. It wasn't me. And I don't know when they
|
|
did it because, as far as I know, the sheets were always in use. However,
|
|
someone must have, because every week or fortnight I found the linens to be
|
|
a different color and a fresher odor.
|
|
|
|
Very few of the things in the room belonged to me. Actually, a great deal
|
|
of things belonged to me and most of those were in the room, but of all the
|
|
things in the room, my property was a very small percentage. There was a
|
|
collection in my room. It made up the largest percentage of the things in the
|
|
confines of my room. I do not know what the collection was of. I asked Stone
|
|
what it was of when he brought it over.
|
|
|
|
"Of? OF?? It's my collection. You said I could keep it here. Are you
|
|
going back on your word?"
|
|
|
|
"No, of course not. Bring it in."
|
|
|
|
That was the only explanation I got. Sometimes Stone would come over and
|
|
add things or people to his collection. Sometimes he would take them away, and
|
|
on rare occasions he would take inventory. I'm not exactly sure how that
|
|
happened. Bits of the collection were sitting, hanging, melting, mildewing and
|
|
crawling all over the place. Sometimes pieces of it would just get tired and
|
|
walk out, but Stone never missed a solitary bit of it. He would run down his
|
|
list and if anything was missing, he would go hunt it down and secure it more
|
|
tightly to the floor when he brought it back. The only thing you could nicely
|
|
say about Stone's collection was that it was very varied. Over the two and a
|
|
half years that it was in my room, I shot it, rearranged it, fed it, gassed it,
|
|
electricuted it, shined it, kicked it, cleaned it, dated it, clipped my hair
|
|
with it, and drank with different parts of it. For a while, Stone had guitar
|
|
players in his collection.
|
|
|
|
As I thought of this, I realized that Spinnlt had stopped playing.
|
|
Usually one notices when something as loud and irritating as Spinnlt does
|
|
anything, but I had somehow missed them stopping. "Maybe one of 'em died," I
|
|
hoped. then I thought about what I was thinking. Death wouldn't stop Spinnlt.
|
|
Or perhaps Death hadn't stopped Spinnlt. They all four looked like corpses and
|
|
smelled like rotting flesh. But at least they were loud. I think that
|
|
Spinnlt's lead guitarist, Fish, could probably play an acoustic louder than
|
|
Kurt Cobain could an electric. No. They weren't dead. They had probably
|
|
gone out to do whatever it was they did when they weren't rocking their brains
|
|
out. I wondered what I would do on this fine and lovely day. "Nothing." I
|
|
was almost sure of that, because it was just the sort of thing that I often did
|
|
and was likely to do again.
|
|
|
|
I wanted to talk with Nancy. I wanted to talk with lots of girls.
|
|
Actually I wanted to do a great deal more than that but speech is better than
|
|
nothing until it's over. When you finish talking, you both walk away without
|
|
her knowing how you feel, and there's this empty feeling right in the pit of
|
|
your soul. You want to bash your head into the closest thing to you and cry
|
|
because she didn't know or she did and was merely putting up with you. Fridays
|
|
are the worst days to feel horny cause you know you've got at least three days
|
|
with nothing but yourself. I do hate Fridays. They promise so much
|
|
lonesomeness.
|
|
|
|
I stood up, disgusted with myself and walked out of the darkness into
|
|
dimness. Hallways, in my opinion, are either dim or antiseptic. I like the
|
|
dim ones. what I like is a hallway without concrete walls. Concrete pisses
|
|
me off. It's hard, cold and usually dirty--especially if someone has painted
|
|
it white. I got out of my dim hallway and went down the emergency stairs at
|
|
the far end. Nobody used the elevators. At least not on a regular basis,
|
|
because the stairs were quicker. The most use that the elevator got was when
|
|
Frank got really drunk. After a bottle of Jack, there was nothing he liked
|
|
better than to ride up and down and up and down again until he puked all over
|
|
the buttons. It also got some business after Bishop broke both his ankles and
|
|
had to ride in a wheelchair for several weeks. He enver rode down it. Always
|
|
up, but never down. He used the stairs to go down, just like everyone else.
|
|
What a trooper. You gotta admire a guy like Bishop.
|
|
|
|
TO BE CONTiNUED...
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"In October, researchers at Auburn University and Wayne State University,
|
|
surveying forty-nine metropolitan areas' prevalence of country and western
|
|
music on radio, found that the more C&W, the higher the suicide rate."
|
|
|
|
__The Austin Chronicle_
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
DO THEY BOUNCE?
|
|
by Griphon
|
|
|
|
|
|
Rob stood under the tall bank building downtown.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think he'll jump?" he said, looking up at the ledge.
|
|
|
|
"Dunno," Gray, his best friend, said, throwing the remnants of one hell
|
|
of a joint onto the sidewalk.
|
|
|
|
"Let's try to get him to. I hear they fuckin' bounce when they hit."
|
|
|
|
"Shit. I bet they just splatter all over the place. Why the hell would
|
|
they bounce?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know, man. My brother said he's seen one though, and that the
|
|
crazy fucker bounced about two feet up after he hit."
|
|
|
|
"Damn."
|
|
|
|
"I'm gonna try to get this son of a bitch to jump." Rob cupped his hands
|
|
over his mouth. "Hey! You stupid fuck on the ledge! Fuck you! I hope you
|
|
jump and splatter all over the fucking street! You're a loser!"
|
|
|
|
"Dude!" yelled Gray. "I bet you're a fucking pussy and won't jump! You
|
|
just want some damn attention so everyone will feel sorry for your dumb ass.
|
|
Fuck you!"
|
|
|
|
"Hey," said Rob. "Look, here he comes."
|
|
|
|
"Fuck," said Gray. "He's comin' down fast. And close, too. I wonder
|
|
where he's gonna..."
|
|
|
|
Rob closed his eyes and heard a thud. He opened them slowly. The jumper
|
|
had landed on Gray, and the two lay there, broken and bleeding. People began
|
|
to crowd around.
|
|
|
|
"Son of a bitch," Rob said. "I didn't see the fucker bounce."
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"It was a dark and stormy night. Mostly this was because it was dark, and
|
|
there was a storm outside. But anyway, Jake was dead, there was oatmeal all
|
|
around his body, and something was up. I grabbed my apple and headed for
|
|
Nevada, but you know how it goes and all..."
|
|
|
|
-- R.B.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
ERRAND TO RUN
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
It was eight o' clock and already dark as I left the house. Damned
|
|
daylight savings, I thought. In a rush to get to the library and print out my
|
|
latest hurried write-it-once-and-turn-it-in essay, I cranked the pedals and
|
|
shot off into the quiet, calm, and leafy night.
|
|
|
|
As I was concentrating on my misaligned wheels, I almost missed the figure
|
|
in the street ahead of me. It shocked me somewhat, as I assumed no one ever
|
|
went outside anymore, knowing how unsafe the streets were.
|
|
|
|
The figure was a kid in a white jacket, carrying a long spearlike stick
|
|
as a sort of cane. As I passed him, I peered into his face and he looked back
|
|
with a self-protective bitterly indifferent scowl and swung the stick
|
|
apathetically at me. It sent my empathetic responses going, as I had nothing
|
|
better to do while biking to the library. I thought about the kid. As I had
|
|
never seen him around anywhere before, it seemed to me like he could have been
|
|
running away from home. And what if?
|
|
|
|
It's strange how sometimes things you make up can make you more responsive
|
|
to some issues you never would have come across in real life. I mean, my
|
|
neighborhood is really white-bread with a lot of old people in it. Seeing
|
|
someone who might be momentarily homeless or at least disgruntled enough with
|
|
his parents to leave home affected me. I've never come across anything like it
|
|
before.
|
|
|
|
I started thinking about where the kid was going. He was heading down
|
|
the dead end of the road where a forest was. Unless he lived down there, as I
|
|
felt sure he didn't, he didn't know where he was going. I imagined him walking
|
|
down, coming across the forest, and deciding to veer left, through an old field
|
|
leading to the nearby farm road. That would be an interesting path to take. I
|
|
had once gone up the road, seeing only a few scattered houses around -- a
|
|
completely foreign place to me -- yet only half a mile away. Since it had been
|
|
all uphill, I gave up, turned around, and coasted back home.
|
|
|
|
But that road I gave up on would be where the boy would be heading for
|
|
miles and miles until he found another hick town to wander through. In
|
|
between, though, where would he get food and water? Were there enough kind
|
|
people still existing today?
|
|
|
|
I looked back, expecting to see the guy still walking towards the dead
|
|
end, but he was gone. Shit! I thought -- he had turned off too early and
|
|
would totally miss the farm road! He'd probably get disoriented later and end
|
|
up walking back through town... but I felt it didn't really matter to me, so I
|
|
continued forward.
|
|
|
|
After a little thought, however, I realized it would be a big mistake for
|
|
him to miss the experience of seeing that road, as I harbored such fond
|
|
memories of it. I turned around and raced down the street, looking up each
|
|
side street and not seeing the boy on any of them. Pretty quick he is, I
|
|
thought, making my way back. I took the road next to the field he should have
|
|
gone through and looked some more. Little scamp, I thought, he was probably
|
|
scared of me. I do look kind of mean sometimes. So, I circled the blocks a
|
|
few times and saw him nowhere. About to continue reluctantly on my trek to the
|
|
library, I saw him on the other end of the road. He apparently noticed me
|
|
because he started going faster, you know, little wimpy "fast-walking," where
|
|
they think they look all calm but they're moving faster than a cat with
|
|
fireworks up his ass. Little bastard was hiding from me!
|
|
|
|
"Hey! You!" I yelled at him, but he was apparently too fast for the sound
|
|
waves to reach him. I did some quick calculations in my head and figured where
|
|
I could catch up with him a ways up the street. I pedaled mightily up the
|
|
road, almost losing balance when I had to turn. I went by all the houses that
|
|
I knew had boys in them to make sure no one else would try to run away, and
|
|
almost lost in my concentration, turned again on the street ahead of the kid.
|
|
|
|
I stood still behind a mailbox and waited for the kid -- really stupid,
|
|
he was still looking behind him -- to get halfway up the block to lessen his
|
|
chances. When he got there, he was walking normally again, lucky for me
|
|
because he wouldn't have any excess energy ready to use.
|
|
|
|
"HEY! YOU!" I screamed, racing out from my hiding place and approaching
|
|
the kid. He literally jumped and dropped his spear-cane. He fumbled around
|
|
momentarily to pick it up then started running in the opposite direction, soon
|
|
finding he couldn't run too fast with a screwed-up center of gravity and leaves
|
|
all over the streets. I went to work, shifting gears with my practiced
|
|
accuracy timed to obtain the best acceleration.
|
|
|
|
"HEY! YOU!" I screamed coming upon him as my tire, spinning in the crack
|
|
of his ass, dragged him down enough to make him lose his balance. He slipped
|
|
and the spear impaled his leg, forcing me to run him over. I clutched my
|
|
brakes when my rear tire went over his head so that I skidded and pulled his
|
|
hair out in patches.
|
|
|
|
When I went back over him, the damned spear caught my tire and almost
|
|
made me fall down. Luckily, I kept my balance. A car was coming, so I turned
|
|
around, remembering my errand at the library.
|
|
|
|
After I had gone up a few blocks, I heard the horrible sound of a horn
|
|
blowing and brakes screeching simultaneously. I looked back and in horror
|
|
saw that the car had run the boy over. I realized sadly that my little fable
|
|
of the boy traveling west into new frontiers would go unachieved. Like I said,
|
|
it shocked me; the world isn't safe anymore. I headed for the library.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
"Big Bird sat in the corner of the only alley on the set smoking a joint."
|
|
|
|
-- Technophiliac
|
|
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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GRiMACE
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by Griphon
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You've all seen him. The big purple blob that's Ronald McDonald's best
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friend. The original purple blob, not that fucked up singing dinosaur. The
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original. Grimace. I had my first encounter with Grimace when I was eight.
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My first McDonald's birthday party. He was there "on behalf of Ronald, who
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couldn't be here himself." He gave me a plastic hand puppet of Ronald. Stupid
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blob.
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My brother followed. His eighth birthday was held at McDonald's. I was
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nineteen and probably getting laid at the time. I had forgotten all about
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Grimace. Until that night.
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"Charlie?" My little brother came into my room.
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"What, Danny?"
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"Did you have a party at McDonald's? You know, when you were eight?"
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"Umm, yeah, I guess so. I don't really remember."
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"Did you get one of these?" he asked, showing me a plastic hand puppet.
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But it wasn't of Ronald. It was of Grimace.
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That wasn't all that wierd. I guess those guys in Demographics and
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Marketing thought the recent purple blob mania should be tapped upon. I should
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have been worried, though. Danny might still be alive if I'd have cared. I
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didn't.
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* * * * *
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I graduated from college three years later. I holed myself up in a small
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apartment and played Lennon while pounding out manuscripts on a 1946 Corola
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typewriter. I lived on cigarettes and cognac. It was April when my mom
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called.
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"Charlie??" The voice was quivering. A knot swelled up in my throat.
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"What is it, Mom?"
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"Danny... Danny's... been... run over."
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"What?!"
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"A garbage man hit him. He's... barely recognizable. They had to... had
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to scrape his guts off of the street." She began to sob.
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"How? Why? What happened?"
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"Him and his friend's went to McDonald's. As they were coming home,
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Danny just walked in front of the truck."
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* * * * *
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I went home for a week. The funeral held and Danny was laid to rest. I
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stayed in his room that night. That's when I discovered the truth.
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Danny was twelve, but he wasn't normal. Instead of having comic book
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posters, exploited chick posters, or pro-bong posters, he had Grimace. Grimace
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coloring books, Happy Meal toys, hand puppets, empty cookie boxes, pictures,
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everything. He even had bed sheets of Ronald and the gang, but everyone--the
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Hamburglar, Birdee, even Ronald himself--had been marked out with purple ink.
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My mother came in.
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"At first, I thought he was going through a phase, but then..." She
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grabbed a picture of Grimace and wadded it up. "It's not like he was into
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drugs. This... this is harmless."
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"Neurosis is never harmless," I said.
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I got up to go to the kitchen. Someone was in there. It was Peter,
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Danny's best friend. He turned to look at me.
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"Danny wanted to be buried in his Grimace pajamas. We wanted Danny to be
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buried in his Grimace pajamas."
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"Why? What's Grimace? Peter, you're twelve. He's a fat, fucking blob of
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purple shit. What the hell is Grimace?"
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"Grimace is holy." Peter's eyes grew wide. His skin tightened against
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his face, and his body began to shake.
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"What's going on here?" It was my mom. She came up beside us. "Peter,
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why are you here?"
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"Sacrilege!" Peter screamed. He pulled out a switchblade and slashed my
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mother's throat. Blood welled up in her mouth and spilled thickly down onto
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her blouse. She crumpled up in a pile on the floor.
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"What the fuck!" I yelled. Peter laughed at me, but I jumped back. He
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cut my arm. I swung and hit the little bastard on the side of the head. He
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grabbed his face and began to cry. I kicked the shit out of him. The cops
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came and arrested him. I wanted to leave.
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"You need to come down and answer a few questions for us, son," the
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officer told me.
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"No, I have to leave."
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"Where to, boy?"
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"McDonald's."
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* * * * *
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It was one o'clock in the morning. The manager was wiping off tables. He
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was a thin man, probably worth little more than to wipe off tables.
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"We're closed," he said as I walked in.
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"Where is Grimace?"
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"What?"
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"Grimace, the purple blob. Grimace. Grimace!"
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"Uhh, he left." The manager began to turn pale. So was I. I was weak
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from the blood loss, and I guess cigarettes and whiskey don't help you to be
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able to run much.
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I grabbed the manager by the throat. He screamed. I turned around and
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saw Grimace lumbering towards me.
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"Why do you want Grimace?" it said.
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"You killed my brother," I sneered. I ran and threw my fist into his
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purple blob gut. It sank in. Grimace began to laugh.
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"Duh, you can't hurt Grimace." He grabbed me and began to smother me in
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his purple blob body. I blacked out.
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When I came to, I saw Grimace, or a man dressed up as Grimace, lying on
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the ground, bullet holes riddling his body.
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"Drink this," a voice said. I looked up. A man dressed in a black
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overcoat and sunglasses handed me the ORANGE drink served at McDonald's.
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"Why?" I asked.
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"Trust me," he said.
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TO BE CONTiNUED...
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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--SoB- -SoB--
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--SoB- That's all for this issue. Comments, criticisms, submissions? -SoB--
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--SoB- Send mail to Kilgore Trout on The Sprawl at (512) 458-3409 or -SoB--
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--SoB- any other board in the Austin (512) area. And if you actually -SoB--
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--SoB- get in touch with ole Kilgore, we'll send you a free goat's -SoB--
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--SoB- bladder. Okay, maybe not. It depends on our karma. Until the -SoB--
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--SoB- next time... -SoB--
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--SoB- -SoB--
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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