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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what 10/25 tahw ro woh gniwonk
to think. You are in -T-E-N- ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
STAFF LiSTiNG
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
TO MARS OR BUST Hagbard
CHALLENGE Nomad
MUSiC The Watcher
OUR LiTTLE FRiENDS Nomad
A LETTER TO THE WORLD, POSTED ON A TREE Griphon
FREE BORN Nomad
MASTURBATiON Smack Ruby
LABELS Nomad
THE POWER OF FORREST GUMP I Wish My Name Were Nathan, Doorway, Styx
& Kilgore Trout
[=- POETRiE -=]
EMPTY Griphon
OCCASiONED BY THE DEATH OF Dark Crystal Sphere Floating
ROBERT BLOCH (1917-1994) Between Two Universes
3 FT. Griphon
A MEANiNGLESS RHYME Flying Rat's Nostril
[=- FiCTiON -=]
TORN FROM A DiARY Crux Ansata
JiM AND TANK CLEAN THE ATTiC AND TALK ABOUT iT I Wish My Name Were Nathan
A PRAYER FOR DEATH, Part I Michael Dee
DR. GRAVES AND THE AVANT-GARDE DiNNER PARTY John Smith
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Yeah, I know. I promised I'd never do it again. But yes, you saw
right. Dr. Graves is back. I really wouldn't have considered putting it in,
but there were quite a few people at Texas A&M University who wanted more of
the doctor, so I figure whatever makes you readers happy. (Of course, since
they come from A&M, it may not take much to make them happy. I'm sure Doorway
and Styx will tend to differ on that remark, but that's what they get.) Your
immaculate editor even makes a cameo in the story, albeit a very small one.
And, no, that is _NOT_ my real name. I felt my editorial powers were needed
and changed it. So don't go looking around for a Kevin Midland to prank call
about being a pedophile. Nuff said about that.
I think everything else is pretty good (hell, I even KINDA liked the Dr.
Graves story... it has its moments). A few of my friends and I discuss the
movie "Forrest Gump." Two guys clean an attic and talk about it. Diary
entries circa an Orwellian 1984-esque time. And lots of nifty stuff on
colonizing Mars and masturbation (not related, BTW). Read it and see.
Now, for a little housecleaning. Last issue I mentioned that Harlequin's
poem in issue #7 was a Joy Division song. I was both wrong and right. The
poem in issue #7 _was_, in fact, Harlequin own... so if you went searching
thru all your Joy Division albums trying to find that song, you have not gone
crazy. It was the poem "Something Must Break" in issue #6 that was a Joy
Division song and not Harlequin's. Sorry bout that mix up.
Also, a little note from Captain Moonlight about his article in issue #7:
"...I recently found that in my "The Beggar Crackdown" I made a few
misleading comments and I would like to request that you mention them in your
editorial for the next issue and mention that I apologize for them. First of
all, in legal terminology, I misused the words 'arrest' and 'imprison.'
Please mention that you can only be 'arrested' when you are charged with a
crime, and 'imprisonment' is only for convicted criminals. Please mention to
have any future readers mentally delete these words and insert 'detain' and
'jail,' respectively. Also, my comments may be misleading in that I didn't
mention that you can only be detained for twenty-four hours without being
charged with a crime, unless this is done by a court order. However, a new
law called Proposition 187, or Save our State (S.O.S) which will appear on the
Nov. 8th ballot in California will allow the government to force people to
carry papers saying they are citizens. This law will allow police officers to
demand these papers at any time and, if they cannot be produced, to arrest the
'law-breaker.' This law will soon go to vote in five states: California, New
York, Texas, Florida, and Illinois. (For more information on this, please see
'SOS and the War on Immigrants,' October 16, 1994.) Also, please mention that
I mentioned that cops 'always' patrol in pairs. This should be 'usually'
patrol in pairs: budget cuts no longer allow for the 'always' bit. Just
wanted to let everyone know: wouldn't want to mislead either by direct
statement or implication."
Hope that cleared up any questions you might have had about Captain
Moonlight's article. Interesting, that Proposition 187. I didn't know we
were about to become the last Iron Curtain country after all the others fell.
Oh well. That discussion is for another time. Now, just sit back, read, and
enjoy.
BTW, we are unsure of this, but there are rumors circulating that The
Astronomy Consortium's office was ransacked by unknown individuals and that
Tachyon has not been in contact with us since early October. If you have any
information about Tachyon, please contact us in a secure manner. Any
information would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, the reconstruction
of SoB #8 is still underway. To all my writers out there, if you can rebuild
any of your stuff, please hurry and get it to me. I may be changing locations
soon... in the meantime, stay tuned.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDITOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRIBUTORS
Crux Ansata
Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
Doorway
Flying Rat's Nostril
Griphon
Hagbard
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Michael Dee
Nomad
Smack Ruby
John Smith
Styx
The Watcher
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
TO MARS OR BUST
by Hagbard
Do you think the Earth is going to Hell? Do you think that there are
better ways to do things than what is being done right now? Are you
frightened of the world your children may or may not live to grow up in? Are
you tired of waiting for the world to change for the better? Are you tired of
people with lots of money maintaining the status quo? Do you have a
pioneering spirit? Do you wish to have new experiences and see new places? If
you answered yes to all or most of these questions, then you are likely a
prime candidate for colonization.
WHAT IS THIS MAN TALKING ABOUT?
-------------------------------
I am talking about doing exactly what our forefathers did, exactly what
humans have been doing half the time for the past 500,000 years... MOVING!!!
The people that settled this once great country didn't like the way things
were back at home, so what did they do? They took a dangerous journey to an
unknown and unexplored land. There they set up shop, lived off the land, set
up a government which supported their own ideals, morals, and philosophies.
They were composed of all kinds, from daring intellectuals like Thomas
Jefferson to merchants and craftsmen, to mere beggars.
The MARS COLONY UNDERGROUND wishes to do the same. MCU is an
organization devoted to creating a new life, for those who want it and can
work for it, on Mars. We will not wait for silly governments to say when we go
and how we go, we will take the initiative and colonize Mars ourselves.
WHY?
----
Mainly for the reasons outlined above. Without space colonization, the
human race will stagnate. This leads to all the problems involved in resource
depletion, population, etc. All that want to go to Mars have their own,
equally valid, reasons. The goal is to start a new life, to help ourselves,
and to help a dying planet.
HOW?
----
The task set before you by the MCU is not an easy one, in fact it is
extremely difficult, and likely to be strongly opposed by those in power. The
key is, of course, you. MCU needs people with a desire to go and people with a
desire to help us achieve our quest. This means we will need people from every
background available, especially those skilled with geology, mining, planetary
science, closed-system living, construction, space flight design, ship design,
propulsion, and a host of other professions related in the endeavor of
colonizing Mars.
With enough people, with people who desire this and will work for it,
and with people who are willing to help us plan and build no matter the cost,
we CAN do this.
Realize that this is not a lighthearted matter, those involved may
well be persecuted for their involvement. But it is imperative that we begin
now, because there is no where left to go, and time is running short.
It is a dangerous undertaking, filled with risk. Pioneer life was
never so hard. If this is achieved, the colonists will be at risk to
unprecedented dangers: cosmic radiation, lack of breathable atmosphere,
closed-system living, and a host of other difficulties. But I am confident
that those with the will have the knowledge and courage to overcome these
dangers.
But remember, if you are willing to work for this, it is completely
voluntary. You will receive no compensation for loss, and the only
compensation you shall receive for success is living with a harsh climate in a
barren landscape on a dead(?) world several million kilometers from Earth.
That, and maybe the knowledge that you have achieved your dream, whether a
dream of freedom, of exploration, of cooperation, or of a new society.
In truth, this is merely the dream of MCU and myself. I fear that it will
not happen. You are probably thinking "All of that sounds good, but where is
the money going to come from?", and indeed, funds are the major block to the
plan. I propose of course that MCU gain investors, such as major aerospace
companies. In return, after the Mars Colony has established itself, they would
receive a portion of profits from the sale of raw materials and micro-g
manufactured products to Earth. The raw materials would likely come from
asteroid mining, which would be easy to do once the foundation for a colony
has been established. This, as anyone can see, is a high risk investment, but
the returns are unfathomable. For instance, it has been reported that an
average asteroid contains $6 trillion worth of precious metals.
If you wish to be a part of this monumental effort, or you have comments,
criticisms, ideas, support, or flames, please send all correspondence to:
hagbard@io.com
Live long, and prosper.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butch-
er a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts,
build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooper-
ate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program
a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specializa-
tion is for insects.
--Robert Heinlein
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CHALLENGE
by Nomad
Life, death, are we so unimaginative that we must constantly think of it?
Humans are so afraid of dying all of us even me but not in the way of most.
Most fear the change. They don't want to acknowledge the strange. They don't
want to change. They cling so desperately to something they have and are not
willing to take a chance. I want it to come. I want the change be it death
or living. I want to go into the darkness to discover its secrets and truths.
I want to go into the light and feel loved and cared for. But I won't re-
strict my self to those standards. I won't go by their rules and laws. For
me the land is always changing with it my body, soul, and mind and I learn
from what others ignore. I watch. I listen. I roam.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Even though a man's health may be poor,
He may not be unhappy in all things:
One may be blessed with good sons,
Another with friends,
A third with full barns,
A fourth with good deeds.
Better to live and be happy.
--Havamal
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MUSiC
by The Watcher
Name me one culture on this planet that doesn't use music?
It's hard isn't mainly if there is there is only one or two in the entire
history of the world. Music is what brings people of a common thread togeth-
er. If you're able to listen to different kinds of music then your horizon is
broadened. Those who listen to one kind of music are usually simple in mind
and imagination. If you 'taste' other music you increase your knowledge of
others around you. You learn what others use as a basis of their lives. What
they view as entertaining. If you're truly a musical person you would not
limit yourself to one type of listening pleasure.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Vox populi, vox dei.
(The voice of the people is the voice of God.)
--Alcuin, in a letter to Charlemagne,
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
OUR LiTTLE FRiENDS
by Nomad
The hawk, the insects, and such animals were born free. Mostly the
insects we try to destroy them because they're 'a nuisance.' We won't allow
them to live because they annoy us. We destroy things that get in the way.
While learning and developing we're being ignorant and selfish we lay waste to
things around us. If we need something we don't care what lives in it or uses
it for living. We take it and use it for our selves. If we're such an ad-
vanced race, the smartest race on the planet. If this is our world then we
need to wake up. We need to take our charges and live up to it. If we're the
smartest race then we need to care for the world around us, we need to care
for the animals. If we destroy the plants and animals around us we will not
be far behind in our deaths.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Few people see the value of honesty. Even those that do are usually lost
in the confusion: the world creates its own illusions, and power crazed
people find it useful to multiply them. Most people find it convenient to
believe what their parents, families, and friends believe: Jews beget Jews,
Buddhists beget Buddhists, Christians beget Christians. The truth is likely
to be found where such systems of propagation clash: seaports, border towns,
and the centers of great empires. If everyone in a community believes in
heaven the fact that no one has seen it is no cause for concern, but the
appearance of one person who denies it can provoke great crisis.
--JG Eccarius, _We Should Have Killed The King_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A LETTER TO THE WORLD, POSTED ON A TREE
by Griphon
Two very different lives. Each decision leads to a thousand more which
leads to a thousand more. The morbic would eventually trace it to death.
One cannot help but to ask, "What if I had done this instead of that?
What if I had changed this or altered that or ran forward here or retreated
there?" Where would we be?
I know you have cast me as a writer, but I am not very good at it.
Besides, what a poor and useless thing. The only language that would begin to
cover this life might be Sanskrit, where there are a hundred words for
everything, and even then it fails to scratch the surface of the ideas and
experiences this life holds. But, every so often, one might come across a way
to formulate an idea or experience into words. Then, it becomes magical, that
expression is real from something that was not real.
Right now there is too much emotion. My stability is gone and I am
unable to collect myself for any amount of time as though being overwhelmed by
gargantuan proportions of this life and my circumstances. Where do I begin to
regret my life? Birth? When I began to hate my mother and stepfather? When
I lost the meaning of Life for three months and lost the faith I had in
everything? Or when I met the first one and lost the second one.
The new people I have met have not known me. I relate to them some of
the more meaningful experiences I have had, both bad and good. They say I am
not the average eighteen year old, but who is? Have these experiences made me
wise? I suppose they have, and that is good. But why must pain be a
teacher? Sure, the morose poetry and self-defilement is fun, but it does
hurt. And there are a few that can't handle it.
The first one. Perfection. Total apparition of the feminine. She
taught me how to love, but not how to receive it. I bled for her
unbelievably. She never returned the emotion.
For two years I chased what would never be mine, spurred on only by how
beautiful and wonderful she was. I had no reason to hope, but I did anyway
and lost all hope eventually. I contemplated death for her, so sick at hear
was I. But I carried on and have strength from it all. She still is the
dream I'll always dream, but I am immersed in reality and accepting of that.
The second one, my first real experience, was bittersweet. The first
months were spent convincing her to trust her heart, the next spent loving
her, and the final month was spent letting her go. I loved her purely, as I
loved myself. Perhaps more which was not good. But everything about her
complemented me. she had problems, though. Problems I couldn't, and later
realized I wasn't supposed to, fix. Pain was amplified, the reverse side of
the coin that made every good moment with her heaven. Finally the pain was
all that remained.
She nearly shattered the remnants of what life I had left. No parents,
no future, no love. Only a few friends who cared and offered sympathy. But,
I grew.
I continue to grow. Every day I become stronger and better equipped to
handle Life. I grow wise. Decisions I regret I look back upon. Do I want to
change them? Some yes, some no. My life is far from perfect, but if it was
perfect it would not be any fun.
So, I do not regret living. I hope I never shall.
An inhabitant,
Griphon
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
If you have no children you are a genetic dead end.
If you have no family you are a social dead end.
If you have no folk you are a cultural dead end.
Think of the future, plan carefully, live fully,
And do the very best you can.
--Ed Fitch, _The Rites of Odin_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
FREE BORN
by Nomad
Free born is more than just a phrase used by revolutionaries, freedom
fighters and the such. It stands for all of life. It stands for those who
won't let others take too much from them. Now it's different from fighting
the "system" because mainly its not the system it's the ones who run it. Free
born are those who are willing to share what they have, to take shit from
others, to a point. Not to the point where they take your freedom of choice
from you or your ability to think. If you allow others to tell you how to
think then you're not free. If you can't think for your self then some one
who will take advantage of you will. They you're caught and put in a cage.
Life is a series of choices. Let yourself learn from them good or bad. Don't
rely on others to make decisions for you. Be Free in your thought.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Sir, what is obscene?
Filth. Filth. Filth is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Dirt. Dirt. Dirt is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Desire. Desire. All desires are obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
The body. The body. The body is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Sex. Sex. Sex is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Life. Life. Life is obscene.
--Rev. Malcolm Boyd (Episcopal), _Free to Live, Free to Die_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MASTURBATiON (Great titles always come one worded)
by Smack Ruby
When I was in sixth grade my friend lent me his Dad's _Penthouse_. Over
the weekend I learned why so many people enjoyed reading or, excuse me, drool-
ing over these magazines. It was the first time in my life I had ever reached
orgasm. I usually would just stroke my penis a couple of times and be satis-
fied. But this time was different. I didn't stop I kept sliding my hand over
and over my penis. Finally, I felt movement in my testicles. I was en-
thralled each stroke went faster and faster. My heartbeat was thumping anx-
iously, just as I was squeezing, and pumping. ONE more stoke would lead
closer and closer. UNTiL it happened. My aunt came in the room. At first
she just closed the door so she wouldn't see me. Then just as she reopened
the door I climaxed. She ran out of the room again silently. I just laid
back and enjoyed the postorgasm-shakes. She came in and handed me some tis-
sues. Very firmly she said "I want you to clean up, take a shower, and then
mister you are going to have some explaining to do."
I cleaned off the interesting new substance that had immersed from my
genitals and took my shower. After I finished putting on my clothes I walked
out and I knew I was expected in the living room.
When I went in my aunt asked me, "First of all where in the HELL did you
get this magazine". I told her that some kid at school sold it to me. She
yelled at me for about 5 minutes about the magazine. The she said "If I ever
catch you masturbating ever again you will be sorry". That really didn't
scare me because that's what she always threatened me with.
A week later after thousands of evil stares from my aunt and uncle they
started sending me to counseling by a Baptist Preacher. He gave me a bunch of
bullshit like that God lets us have choices and if we choose the right ones
then we shall rise unto the kingdom of everlasting life. He said that if I
didn't change my ways that I would have a meaningless life and I would basi-
cally fry in hell.
For months I believed that bastard. I mostly forgot what he had said
after a year or so. I would still masturbate occasionally, but it was lat at
night so I never got caught.
I don't know why people don't like talking about or admitting about
things that feel so damn good.
As I pull out my cock and start stroking it. One hand holding the base
firm and the other moving simultaneously to my heartbeat. My whole life
flashes before my eyes. With me masturbation isn't just jollies it is spirit-
ual LiFE!
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Why is it that the people who campaign most fervently for "decency" are often
reluctant to call so many realities by their names: racism, napalm, sex, death?
--Rev. Malcolm Boyd, _Free to Live, Free to Die_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
In this book it is spoken of the Sephiroth & the paths, of spirits &
conjurations, of gods, spheres, planes & many other things which may or may
not exist. It is immaterial whether they exist or not. By doing certain
things certain results follow; students are most earnestly warned against
attributing objective reality or philosophical validity to any of them.
--Aleister Crowley
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LABELS
by Nomad
As I look at people run from here to there I notice that they all want to
organize them selves into nice little groups like kickers, preps, freaks,
stoners, skaters, dorks, nerds and other little groups. We are a race of
dependents that so desperately want to feel wanted. But then they'll turn on
those who are different than them. Me and my fellow distorters of reality
have realized one thing. When you belittle some one only because of how they
dress or act is a sin. To say that if some one doesn't believe in your reli-
gion they'll go to hell.
Labels: If you talk to kickers they'll say the freaks and stoners are a
bunch of long haired hippy satanists. If you talk to freaks or stoners you'll
hear that kickers are a bunch of stupid, inbred, goat molesters. And the
geeks and nerds think that all the others are bullies. I know, for I have
friends in all these groups. It's hard at times but peace is such a hard
thing. Each group has its decent people and their ignorant prejudice ass-
holes. It's not the group or the labels, its how you view others and ignoring
those stupid enough to use the labels.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Showering money on the Wall Street brokers was the TV age version of
driving the money changers from the temple.
--Abbie Hoffman
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE POWER OF FORREST GUMP
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan, Doorway, Styx, & Kilgore Trout
My friends and I were sitting in a well-lit Whataburger one night
discussing the sheer intellectual power of the movie "Forrest Gump." While
some guys may be ashamed to admit it, I think this movie brought out something
special in all of us -- a vibrant discussion. While I can only imitate the
power of that night, I'll try to reprint the conversation here. Names are not
necessary, that's how good it was.
"Ya know, that Forrest Gump. That was some movie."
"Yeah, it was."
"I mean, it was so symbolic and shit. Like, all the characters
represented something."
"Yeah."
"Hey, you know something? If Forrest had been less friendly in the
movie -- and you know he was a very friendly, outgoing guy -- he woulda been
'Forrest Grump'."
"Oh! How astute! I understand your point. That would have changed the
entire focus of the movie."
"And if he were dirtier, he'd've been 'Forrest Dump'."
"Exactly! Did you not notice that Lieutenant Dan fit the last two
alter-egos perfectly? That was him. That was Lieutenant Dan."
"I wonder, if he had been lazier, if he would have been 'Forrest Lump'."
"Hmmm... keen observation. He was a very busy man."
"Or! If he had accidentally run into you, if he'd be 'Forrest Bump'."
"Hmm! I didn't think of that. Those people who he ran across the
country with might have supported that line of reasoning. I'd say more
research is needed."
"I wonder, if he had had sex with Jenny more often, if he'd be 'Forrest
Hump'."
"That is a point. I think that would have focused on the social
implications of the mentally retarded reproducing. Quite interesting
discussions can be had with the geneticists on that one."
"I wonder if he'd wandered on stage with Eddie Van Halen if he'd be
'Forrest Jump!'."
"All the symbolic encounters with celebrities could have quite conceived
such a notion. Unfortunately, Van Halen wasn't around back then. Excellent
idea, though."
"Or if his penis were too small and he got help from the ads in the back
of Playboy, if he'd be 'Forrest Pump'."
"I wonder if he would even be capable of self-conscious behavior like
that. He seems too much like a tabula rasa, completely innocent, naive
throughout life. But it is that naivete which so endears him to us."
"If he was really rich and went into architecture, he'd be 'Forrest
Trump'."
"That would have been quite symbolic. Trump was a product of the 'me'
decade, the 80's, which is such a stark contrast to that of the 60's and 70's
when Gump was at his peak. That would have been interesting, the comparison."
"If he'd been a robber, he'd be 'Forrest Bump-in-the- night!"
"Hmmm... I don't really think he was the criminal type. That may have
been plausible if the cynical attitudes of his compatriots even adversely
affected him."
"And if the movie had been any longer, it'd be 'Bore Is Gump'!"
"Well, they did have to cover two decades."
"And, when all the fans walk out of the movie theatre, they say, 'I
really liked that movie called Forrest Gump'!"
"I suppose they would, but --"
"And if he had low self-esteem, his teachers'd always say to him, 'you're
Forrest Sump-in' special!'"
"Uh, well, I guess, but he wasn't aware of --"
"If he was really high up in the air and full of helium -- helium,
right, 'cuz hydrogen explodes and shit -- yeah -- he'd be 'Forrest Blimp'!"
"I don't think --"
"If he was a piece of carpentry, he'd be 'Forrest Clamp'!"
"Come on, this is --"
"And if he had been a militant protector of the tree, he'd be
'Deforestation Sucks'!"
"Yup."
"Don't you see all the imagery?"
"Yes."
"That movie really brings out the best in us."
"Yup."
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- POETRiE -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EMPTY
by Griphon
The way things ended
No one could imagine
so much hatred...
frustrated rage.
Feel empty,
abandoned.
No one could stop her
Barely saw her go.
Feel empty.
Piecing together
everything
Try not to cut myself
Unanswered questions
of vainly spent tears
She didn't mean to hurt me.
She didn't mean to...
She wanted
something more than myself
I couldn't give her
fallen stars
I am empty.
I am empty.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
To die will be an awfully big adventure.
--J. M. Barrie, _Peter Pan_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
OCCASiONED BY THE DEATH OF ROBERT BLOCH (1917-1994)
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
A writer's life is short -- limited to the life of the paper on
which his words are inscribed, and the memory-span of his readers.
Paper is brittle and soon crumbles to dust, and the worms eat memo-
ries.
--Robert Bloch, _Night-World_
I am the Faceless One,
My existence is limited to this page,
My lifetime is limited to the existence of this poem,
And your memory,
The great curse of authors and artists,
Poets and painters,
Is that their works mean more to their readers than they,
We are the Faceless Ones,
Who write for those we shall never know,
And shall be remembered only as words on a page
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.
--Joseph Stalin
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
3 FT.
by Griphon
She stands thre feet from me,
A wall between us.
If I were omnipotent
I wouldn't get close to her.
She stands silent.
I stand silent.
Three feet between us.
Worlds of pain between.
So much hatred
So much pain
So much pain
In three feet.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Did you smoke his ass?"
"Like a pack of Kools."
--Keenan Ivory Wayans
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A MEANiNGLESS RHYME
(That may not Rhyme at times)
by Flying Rat's Nostril (who is this guy?!?)
*Translated from Pig-Latin*
Verse I
*sung to the tune of "Oh Susanna"*
I like to sit in a big tree,
And have some tea,
And think on great things
like Cthulhu's eyebrows.
He doesn't have any you know,
I noticed one night when I
Saw him sneaking out of my toilet.
Whoa! Totally mind blowing, man!
Verse II
*To the tune of "Passecaglia"*
"Uh, excuse me yung 'un, but how
do ya pass a Kaglia?"
I like to lie on my lawn,
while eating fish spawn,
And think on great things,
like Yog-Sothoth's bathroom.
And how he fits in,
being miles of bubbles might
make that hard.
However, I revised,
being a god might make
you exempt from
constipation.
Huh???
Verse III
*No tune just in a dark scary voice*
Dead puppies aren't
much fun.
But a lot depends on
the sauce.
I mean, the right sauce
can make a 5-day-old road
kill, taste like fresh.
But never use that A-1 Bold
that like sucks and stuff.
I dig man! I dig.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
TORN FROM A DiARY
by Crux Ansata
[Transcriber's note: The following pages were found in the diary of one Crux
Ansata during a routine search of his papers at one of our new anti-drug
roadblocks in Austin. They indicate a paranoid personality, and we cannot
vouch for the accuracy of his statements. Particular attention should be paid
to his belief that he can see things happening that most people don't notice.
An obvious borderline psychotic with subversive tendencies. He has been, of
course, detained in a prison camp. If he comes to trial, these papers will be
used against him, and are to be presumed a confession. We recommend they be
sealed as Secret and sent back to FBI main offices until the determination has
been made whether to bring him to trial. Excerpts may be advisable for
distribution to other field agents until the last of the subversive elements
are apprehended. October 16]
October 13
A cold front came in today. The heat is finally leaving, I suppose. It
seems to start to leave and then come back, though. I wish it would finally
start to winter, and stop the heat. I'd rather be chilly than tepid.
Saw Bobbi today. Only had a couple of hours. She was locked out of her
house, and we went for a walk in the dark. Sitting in the park, we heard the
helicopter again. The black helicopter just hovered above us, rattling win-
dows and teeth.
It's hard living under occupation. Especially when so few people realize
it. Even the government isn't admitting it. "Military exercise ... invited
members of allied nations ... peace keeping forces."
"I love you," she whispered. The helicopter probably picked that up.
Even in a whisper. But who cares. Even under occupation we have to try to
live. If we accept the invasion, if we accept the police state, they have won.
Recognized the type. It was the same type of helicopter they use in
northern Ireland. The SAS use. The British equivalent of some kind of mass
bastard child from the Delta Force, Green Berets, Navy Seals, and the LAPD,
but with a worse attitude. They used them in Waco, too. During the Koresh
incident. That ran in the British papers. Guess we in the States didn't need
to know.
Seeing the helicopter again, hovering over our home town, reminds us how
short our lives our; how something is fated to happen to one of us, or both of
us. We are among the few who can accept that things are happening that we
can't accept.
October 14
Friday today. Had a few classes, but nothing serious. Midterms are
over, and most homework isn't due until midway through next week. Can relax
for a while.
Sitting home tonight. All night. Bobbi at work; Quinn "disappeared"
(could mean government or girlfriend; can never tell with his disappearances;
just that damn weird voicemail message...); my brother out; the only phone
call tonight from a friend who can't do anything this week-end due to an
unfortunate incident with a welding torch and his hair. Going for the Michael
Jackson look....
Watched the news. Still in Haiti. Training our armed forces to be
police men. Some people say this isn't the military's mission. I say this
isn't the issue.
Check this out: couple of years back, the ATF people botch a job in
Waco, Texas, trying to bring down an armed cult. They call in the FBI, and
lay siege. Lots of people die.
Later on, some of the facts begin to trickle out. Like, the fact the FBI
was using tanks. Where'd they get them? They say they took them from the
Texas National Guard. Sound illegal, they "suspected Koresh had a speed lab,"
and pulled some War on Drugs bureaucratic footwork. So we have U.S. military
(the FBI nationalized the National Guard equipment, remember) to use against
American citizens. So we had U.S. troops armed and ready to fire against U.S.
citizens. This has only happened once before, during the L.A. Rebellion a
couple of years back. Creepy.
Another fact: the U.S. called in the SAS from Britain. Why? Guess if
they needed to storm the place, they needed people trained in "anti-
terrorism." Of course, Delta Team was already there. Guess they had an odd
number of people, and we dividing up for bridge. I know it always irritates
me when we can't form a foursome.
But seriously, what is the SAS trained in? Besides "everything." Well,
in northern Ireland they have been providing stormtroopers and surveillance
for the British Army of Occupation. When they came over here, they brought
along those nifty helicopters, the big black ones. What did the British
papers say? "Can read the ingredients off a package of chips" -- no, it's
British; they call them "crisps" -- "off a package of crisps at a half mile
range, and can pick out a single voice from the crowd at a football game."
They were talking about soccer, not American football, but either sport gives
the same concept.
I suppose they could really use those in case of an anti-terrorist raid.
Seriously, I suppose they had them on stand-by. Or I suppose that's what they
would have admitted. The American papers didn't have them just watching,
though. All the black helicopters were SAS, presuming we didn't invite a
special regiment of Morrocans to take pot shots or whatever. And the papers
said they flew low over the building and strafed it with machine guns, firing
through the ceiling. I shudder to think who came up with that plan. Some-
where in Washington, I can picture Janet Reno saying, "Well, they might be
abusing children. Let's invite the British to blast massive holes in their
ceiling with machine guns." "But that's illegal!" "It's okay. Koresh might
have a speed lab."
I suppose it is not a justifiable assumption to assume that while these
fellows, with a background in totalitarian occupation of a nation, were hang-
ing out with the FBI and the Delta Force and the ATF and whoever else happened
to be visiting Waco at that time, that they were training them.
So now we are in Haiti. What are we doing? Disarm the population and
keep the peace. Patrol the streets. Kind of a field training exercise in
case we ever decide to return the favor and help the SAS patrol northern
Ireland. Or perhaps they were auditioning for a new job, since the peace
process is well underway in Ireland.
And these damn black helicopters keep flying overhead....
October 15
She's dead. Bobbi's dead. It doesn't seem real, but she is. We were at
the park again, just after nightfall, and they killed her. One of those black
helicopters starts hovering overhead, so we go under a grove of trees, and
this unmarked sedan pulls up across the street with more antenna than a cheap
'fifties movie spaceship, and some guy starts spraying with machine guns. We
both dropped and rolled, of course. We're all learning to do things like
that, those of us who can see what's going on. But we didn't go down fast
enough, and they were aiming for her first.
I laid still. I thought she was, too. I could feel wet, but I thought
it was from the rain, not blood. They drove away and we could here sirens
coming to clean, or cover, up. I showed up home covered with blood; I haven't
a clue how I got by the patrols without being searched.
The second most frightening thing was that, when I got home, my family
informed me I am wanted for murdering her. Like I'd kill Bobbi! Of course, I
can't endanger my family. I changed my clothes, but I took the bloody ones
with me, so they can't prove my family knows anything. Then I grabbed my
notebooks and left. I'll drop most of them off at Quinn's. They shouldn't
have reason to search him, if I keep moving.
Oh, I almost forgot. The first most frightening thing was that she was
wearing my beret and my jacket. She'd complained that she was cold, so I
loaned her my jacket. In the darkness, they probably thought they were aiming
for me.
And that helicopter made the mistake of flying low enough that I could
see the uniforms of the people inside. The pilot was in camouflage with the
raspberry beret of the SAS, and the other two were in normal American police
uniforms.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
If they want lead, we'll give them lead.
--Subcommandant Marcos
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
JiM AND TANK CLEAN THE ATTiC AND TALK ABOUT iT
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Jim and Tank carefully turned the ladder up to the entrance of the
attic. This entrance was to be found in the ceiling of a tiny hall closet,
right above a wooden shelf under which hung a full rack of outdated clothing.
After Jim shoved some slippery cloths out from under the ladder's feet, he ran
his hand through his hair.
"It's damned hot right _here_," he said to Tank. "But I don't know if I
can stand living with this stench much longer."
Tank nodded and sighed. "Just get yer ass up there and I'll follow you."
"I guess a few minutes of attic heat is a small sacrifice to make," Jim
said, rubbing his hand across his t-shirt.
"Yeah, sure." Tank walked behind the ladder, ducking his head so it
didn't hit the shelf above him. He grabbed the sides of the ladder in his
hands and waited for Jim to go up.
Jim looked around and at his and Tank's hands and asked, "Uh, where's the
bags?"
Tank rolled his eyes and muttered, "You were supposed to get it. I got
the gloves, remember? Go get 'em now. I like standing here like this."
"Okay, okay," Jim said, walking away toward the kitchen, muttering "fuck
you" under his breath. He knew specifically that Tank said he'd found the
garbage bags, but of course, he had left them in the kitchen. Luckily they
hadn't entered the attic and walked clear to the other side of the house
before realizing it.
He stomped into the kitchen, darting his eyes around the room to see
where dumbass Tank had left the bags sitting. Ah, right there in the open
drawer. So fucking efficient he was. Jim snatched the whole box and started
to head back toward the hall when he stopped and clenched his fists. He
realized he was losing his temper and rolled his eyes and glared at the
ceiling. He took a deep breath, wiped back his sweaty hair, and went back.
"I found 'em," he tried to say cheerily, sounding rather emphatically
sarcastic instead. He smiled at Tank to say no hard feelings. In response,
Tank's eyes drew a path from the bottom of the ladder to the attic. "Yeah,
cool!" Jim cheered, and thinking about Tank's grip on the ladder, decided to
shut up. He threw the box of bags on the shelf and climbed up into the attic,
banging his tailbone on the arch of the door in the process. "Watch the
angle," he advised. Tank nodded.
Up in the attic, Jim stood over the entrance and waited for Tank to come
up. Slowly but surely, he made it. He couldn't have been less than two
hundred pounds. But he was taller than average, though not enough. Jim
helped pull him through the tiny opening.
"Yeah, thanks," Tank said, ducking in the short crawlspace. "Uh, lemme
see, it's back there I guess, right?"
"Uh-huh, let's --" Jim started, then groaned. "I forgot the flashlight."
"Wait, I got one on my pocketknife," Tank said, fishing for it in his
pocket and handing it to Jim.
"Oh, really? Great. Thanks. Oh, and let's not forget the bags on the --"
"I have those too, okay?" Tank said. "C'mon, let's do this, I can smell
it from here already."
Jim sniffed the air and coughed. "Shit!" he cried, clutching his nose.
"Well, we can't _see_ it yet, so, bingo for us. Let's go," he said, walking
on the beams toward the corner of the house, cutting the stale air with the
weak beam of the tiny light.
"Tell me when to stop," Tank said, watching his feet and holding the box
of bags and the gloves out in front of him for balance.
"You ever fallen through a roof before?" Jim asked, chuckling.
"Would you _like_ me to? It's your house," he retorted.
"No, guess not," Jim answered. Looking around, he noticed the crack of
light where it must have come in from outside. "Oh, uh, stop. Need to turn
left now."
"I'm following my nose," Tank gasped, breathing through his mouth. He
heard and saw the flies swarming about. Fuck, what _is_ it?" he cried out,
standing behind Jim, waving his hand across his face.
Jim stood silent for several seconds, staring. Finally he said, "It _is_
Gabby."
Tank frowned. "Shit," he said. "Which one was she?"
"_He_, _he_, it's short for Gabriel, but we --" Jim started to explain,
cutting off his words with a sigh. "He was the _other_ one, alright? The one
who isn't Faulkner, the one who isn't dead."
"Sorry, Jim, I never got them straight, and --"
"It's okay," he said, bending down, holding his breath. He stood up
again and gasped for air, peevishly waving the flies away. "His collar's all
the fuck the way around his _chest_!" he cried. "Damned if we didn't search
for the _specific_ collar to --"
"Can I see?" Tank asked. Jim stepped out of the way.
"Just _look_! It's like one leg got through, and then the other, and --
oh fuck! What the hell happened to his back leg?! Lookit that!" he cried,
bending down in shock and banging into Tank. "Shit, move! It's like almost
ripped off!" He coughed violently, searching for fresh air.
"Wait, wait, c'mon, Jim, ya gotta calm down. Mebbe it got hit by a car
or something... I mean, I've seen worse."
Jim moaned. "Oh, God, and Gabby just ran all the way up here with like
three legs. Shit! Shit! I see it now. She was crossing the street, and one
of those FUCKS down the road --" he screamed, throwing the bags down and
angrily trying to crush flies in his hands.
"-- Calm down, Jim, it's not getting any cooler up here."
"Okay, okay, one of those not-very-considerate FUCKS down the road just
smashes him -- I mean, look! The _back_ leg! He was running like crazy!
And, shit, those front legs... Gabby prolly fell down a few times, too.
Geeeez." He sniffed and quickly regretted it. "Put on the gloves," he said,
reaching for the bags.
Tank stood out of the way while Jim crawled into the tight corner of the
attic and held open the garbage bag. He got a grip on Gabby's front legs and
torso. When he pulled, the sound of the cat separating from the plaster was
disgustingly audible. Jim groaned. Tank tossed Gabby in the bag. Jim
twirled it shut and with a sullen nod prompted Tank to start leaving.
"I'm sorry, Jim," he said.
"Yeah," Jim answered.
--->*<---
Jim returned from his shower. "Tanks for waiting, Tank," he jibed. Tank
was slouched on the couch in the living room watching television. He sat up.
"Yeah, sure."
"Hey, let's go outside, okay? It's cooler there," Jim suggested.
"Yeah, man! What's with the air-conditioning here?" Tank asked, fanning
himself with his hand.
"It's just not on yet. Anyway, my hair'll dry faster."
"Mophead," Tank said, grinning.
"Hey, I'm proud, okay?" Jim retorted, shoving the back screen door open.
"Yeah, yeah, much better here." He headed for the patio table.
"I'm thirsty," Tank said.
Jim bolted. "Fuck yeah! I was drinking out of the shower nozzle! Oh,
since you're already up, just get something from the fridge. Get me a Coke
too."
"Yeah, sure," Tank said.
"Massive vocabulary," Jim muttered under his breath. He scooted his
chair back and leaned back in the sun. He shielded his eyes, and glanced at
the grave he had dug for Gabby over in the corner of the yard, beneath the
hunchback tree. He snorted. "Here, Faulkner," he called, looking around. No
cat came. "Shit."
Tank lumbered out of the house with three Cokes, and handed one to Jim
and sat down.
"You got two for yourself?" Jim asked incredulously.
"That's all that was left," he answered, smiling. "I found a new 6-pack
and put it in the fridge."
"Cool, thanks," Jim said, popping the top and taking a sip.
"Choice of a new generation," Tank said.
Jim noticed Tank was blocking his view of the grave, as well as the sun,
and sighed. "Yeah, yeah."
Tank frowned and rolled his eyes. "That's Pepsi."
"What, this? No it's not," Jim said.
"The slogan, I mean. It's Pepsi."
"Oh, yeah. Shit," he answered. "Dammit! Faulkner! Here, Faulkner!" he
called, tilting his head back.
"Where is he? I'll go catch 'im if you want," Tank offered.
"_She_, _she_, okay? You can't catch her anyway."
"Why're your boy cats named girl names and your girl cats named boy
names?" Tank asked.
"Maybe I'm just queer for cats, okay?" he cried. "I've explained it
thousands of times! Gabby is short for Gabriel, but he meows -- meowed really
loud all the time so we called him Gabby. Faulkner, I just wanted a cat named
Faulkner. And it was a female. So what? It's a fucking last name!"
"Oh, it is?" he asked.
"Yeah, yeah, it is," Jim muttered, jerking his head around in hopes of
seeing Faulkner slink by. "You don't even know my cats, do you?"
"No, I really don't. I never came over here much before," Tank said.
"Yeah, I guess not. Man. I dunno. Do you like cats?"
"Yeah, sure. I never had one, but I still like 'em."
"Yeah, yeah, cool. You certainly have the credentials," Jim said.
Tank crushed the first can with his hands and tossed it on the patio
table. "Jim, I know you're upset about Gabby, and I can understand why you're
so pissed-off, but I _will_ smack you in a second."
Jim opened his eyes and looked for fists. "Okay, okay, sorry. You
_were_ my last hope, ya know. My whole family's away today, and Henry and
Paul and even Amanda were out of town. Not to offend you, but most of my
friends can _stand_ me, alright, especially when half my cats fuckin' _die_!"
he cried. "Faulkner!! Get the fuck home, Faulkner!"
"It's true, yeah, sure," Tank said. "Sorry, then. I guess you really
liked that cat."
"Yeah, I did. Well, it's all taken care of now, I don't smell a thing,
so if you want you can take my Coke and go home now," Jim said, dismissing him
with a wave of his hand.
"No, wait, I wanna hear about Gabby, if it's okay," Tank said, holding
his hand out.
Jim sighed and smiled. "Well, alright. You know, I try not to be a
bitch, but I just -- oh well. Okay, I don't know if you could tell up there,
but Gabby was this grey-and-black striped cat. As cool as hell, man. And
this eyebrow, man, right over one of the eyes. So weird. It was like it knew
a good joke, ya know?"
"Yeah, bitchin'," Tank said, grinning.
"You could say that. Well, Gabby came before Faulkner -- if Faulkner
ever comes back, that is -- Faulkner!! Damn you, second cat! - - oh, well,
anyway, Gabby was actually like the fifth or sixth cat I had. Lemme see...
Limpy, Hatch-Patch, Grover, Spot --"
"'Spot'?" Tank asked, laughing.
"-- Well, yeah, it had this _spot_, you see."
"Shit," he grinned.
"Yeah, and, uh... J-... Jiminy? No, it was Jermaine. Yeah. My mom
named that one. I just called it 'Cat'."
"'Cat'."
"Yeah. Well, as I was saying, Gabby wasn't the first cat. But that's
why I knew he was so cool. Like, all my other cats had been really bland.
Totally boring. Well, except Hatch-Patch, he was so fucking hyper, but that
got boring too. Gabby was just a nice cat. My dad likes to say that he
'talked to us' when he meowed. Shit, he meowed all the time! For a coupla
hours I tried to see if he understood me or something. I said shit like,
'Gabby, meow if you understand what I'm saying.' 'MEOW.' I was young and
stupid at the time, ya know. And now I'm older and stupid. Anyway, Gabby
would also follow me around the yard when I did the lawn. Wasn't even scared
of the motor or anything. But also wasn't stupid enough to go near it. Oh!
And he could stand on his hind legs for a really long time if you made him
think you had food."
Tank was leaning back, grinning. "_I_ want a cat."
"Well, you won't get one like Gabby, trust me, unless you search for it.
You might get one like Faulkner instead." Jim turned his head and screamed,
"Faulkner! Get the faulk over here!" No cat came. "Actually, I'm
exaggerating. Faulkner's interesting in her own way -- and you could actually
see if she were around anywhere."
"Wanna look for him?" Tank said.
"_Her_, her. No, let's make her get trained. She's only like a year
old. I've seen cats become nicer over time. I usually have to resort to
petting them when I feed them. Then they associate me with food. So, it's
like, being nice to me and living go together."
"That's kind of sick," Tank said, shoving the second empty can toward the
first one.
"Yeah, it is, but it works. Oh man, speaking of food, when Faulkner
eats, she like shoves the food dish with her nose clear across the patio.
Isn't that wacky?"
"Funny, man," Tank said. "Hey, look over there!" he said, pointing.
"Oh, hey, cool, that's Faulkner. Hell, and she's heading towards us! It
must have been the discussion of food or something." Faulkner started jogging
towards them.
"She's going even faster now. _Food_," Tank said. Faulkner ran to Jim.
He smirked and picked up Faulkner. "That's really cool. Maybe I should
call her 'Food' now." She nuzzled against Jim's face and meowed sweetly.
Tank grinned, glanced at his watch, and stood up. "Yeah, Jim, I guess I
should go home now."
Jim smiled. "Well, alright then. Thanks for helping me in the attic."
"Sure, yeah," he said, petting Food.
"Hope you never have to come back," Jim said, "for that."
Tank nodded. "Yeah, hope not. Well, see ya later, Jim," he said.
"Bye," Jim said, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Food.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Freedom of the Press is guaranteed only to those who own one.
--A. J. Liebling
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A PRAYER FOR DEATH, Part I
by Michael Dee, with help from Trent Reznor and Ian Curtis (D)
i am the voice inside your head (and i control you)
i am the lover in your bed (and i control you)
i am the sex that you've denied (and i control you)
i am the hate you try to hide (and i control you)
i take you where you wanna go
i give you all you need to know
i drag you down i use you up
mr. self destruct
i speak religion's message clear (and i control you)
i am denial, guilt and fear (and i control you)
i am the prayers... (and i control you)
i am the lie that you believe (and i control you)
i take you where you want to go
i give you all you need to know
i drag you down i use you up
mr. self destruct
you let me do this to you (i am an insect)...
i am the needle in your vein
i am the high you can't sustain
i am the pusher, i'm a whore
i am the need in you for more
i am the bullet in the gun (and i control you)
i am the proof from which you run (and I control you)
i am a silencing machine (and i control you)
i am the end of all your dreams (and i control you)
i take you where you wanna go
i give you all you need to know
i drag you down i use you up
mr. self destruct...
"So who is she?" Cody asked. "She calls herself Death. The file says
she's approximately sixteen, of slight build, black hair, dark eyes. Spooky
looking, according to Security," the Mister Johnson replied, showing teeth in
a surgically-enhanced grin. "Just your type."
He handed Cody the glossies taken during an ill-fated raid. Cute, but
typical teenage haute coture. Heavy eye makeup, chrome on black on black. "So
what's the problem?"
"It seems no-one can get near her. She killed three of our guys with
simple physical contact. It might be a high-voltage implant of some sort - all
three died of heart attacks. Needless to say, we weren't able to retrieve the
bodies for autopsies. What little information we do have came from the
biomonitors the guys were carrying." � "Sounds strange. So what do you
want, the basic retirement package?" Cody asked, taking a pull from his
cigarette. "Yeah, nothing fancy. Make it look like some boostergang pumped
her, something like that. The authorities won't blink an eye. Just something
simple, okay?"
"Fine. I get fifty per up front, the rest when it's done," Cody sighed. A
piece of cake.
Cody scanned the shitsheet the Mister had given him. Other than some nail
razors and possible headware implants, she was clean - no weapons, at least
none visible. She liked clubs and mingling with the other freaks of nature, so
he adjusted his wardrobe and went hunting.
The sidewalk was alive with various forms of vermin, some human. He
shoved his way through the crowd congregated around the entryway to her
favorite club, paid the doorman, and stepped into the cacaphony of humanity.
Bodies twisted as if in agony, twitching to the throbbing beat of the music.
She was there, writhing with the rest of the punks, zoned out and sweating
profusely. The adolescents surrounding him reeked of sweat and chemicals; the
smoke nearly obscured his vision. He waited until she left the floor, panting
and jittery. He noticed the bitch-bag hung from her belt, and her dialated
pupils and frozen grin told him she was in the throes of a drug-induced ecstasy.
"I'm looking for Death," Cody told her as she passed him. "Try a gun,"
she called over her shoulder as she headed for the trip-room. He followed her
and sat next to her on a ratty overstuffed divan. "That's not what I need," he
told her, and she stared at him.
"Maybe you're right. A gun's very messy. So's a razor. How about rat
poison?" she smiled again, the frozen rictus-grin.
"I mean, I'm looking for you," he said. "Well, then, that's different.
Dead people aren't too much fun, unless you're a necrophiliac. Have you ever
tried it?"
"Uh, no," Cody said. "Have you?"
"Once, but it's not really my kind of thing, I guess. Hey, you want
some?" Death hefted the bag, untied it and offered it to him. "Great stuff."
"I tried it once, but it's not really my type of thing, I guess," he
smiled. She smiled back, her grin a little less rigid. "I want coffee," the
girl blurted, hopping to her feet. "Cody followed her out of the club, avoiding
the reeking bodies as much as possible.
When they reached a relatively empty and quieter part of the street, she
turned to him and said, "Hey, you're kind of cute, in an anal-retentive kind
of way."
"Thanks, I guess. Uh, where are we going?" he asked as she led him down a
dark alley. "My place. I've got this great cappucino thing I want to try out.
It's all silver and brass, really expensive. Do you mind?" she stopped and
looked at him with drug-widened doe eyes. Perfect, Cody thought. Simple
retirement. "No, of course not."
"Great!" She grabbed his hand and turned to a recessed doorway. "It's up
here. I hope you don't mind climbing a couple flights of stairs, 'cause the
elevator's broken." She smiled and led him to the fifth floor of the building.
She opened her door and turned on the lights. The room was decorated
almost entirely in burgundy and black, the only other colors being a few
posters, some dead flowers in a green glass vase, and a score of stuffed
animals scattered around the room.
The loft was a giant room, apparently converted from an old warehouse,
and was divided into little sections. Against the far wall was an ancient
four-poster hung with dusty wine-colored velvet drapes. The only other
remarkable item was the huge espresso machine sitting in the center of the
room. "This thing's gonna take a while to fire up, so make yourself
comfortable, okay?" She turned to the metallic beast on the floor and began
fiddling with it.
"Your decor is kind of... morbid," he said, and settled into a leather
bean-chair. "Who decorated, H.R. Giger?"
"Just me," she called over her shoulder. "Do you like it?"
Cody stared at the girl, sized her up. Her jeans fit rather closely, and
the denim hugged her flexed buttocks and hips. "Yeah, it's great." He thought
for a minute, contemplating her squatting posture. "Unique. Does it reflect
your personality?"
"Uh, no. Not really. But it's pretty cool, don't you think?" She stood,
one hand behind her back, and walked toward him. "Guess what," she said,
leaning over him, one hand on his knee. He felt his heart pounding and slipped
the Palmer gun from his sleeve, expectant. He couldn't help but notice her
cleavage, and necrophilia came to mind.
"Coffee's ready," she said, bringing the thin white china cup from behind
her back and setting it between his legs. "Sugar?" she asked, picking up a
bowl of sugarcubes and offering it to him. He reholstered his gun and took two
lumps from the bowl. His shaking hand knocked two more from the bowl, and they
dropped between his legs. "Oh," the girl said, and set down the bowl. She
reached between his legs and retrieved the sugarcubes. "Do I make you
nervous?" she asked as she dropped the cubes into her own cup and sat
indian-fashion on the floor in front of him. "I make a lot of people nervous."
She handed him a spoon. He stared at it. "For your coffee..." she said, making
little stirring motions with her finger. "You know, to break up the little
sugar granules?"
"Right." He cautiously sipped at the coffee. "Hot," he told her, and
looked up to find her staring at him. She set her cup and saucer on the floor
beside her and leaned forward.
"I take back what I said before," she said. "About what?" he asked,
sipping the steaming brew. "About you looking anal. Noble, maybe, like a
knight or something," she made a face, "but not anal."
"Really," Cody said dryly. "Yeah. You've got beautiful eyes, they're sort
of just there. Honest." After a moment, she said, "You don't talk much, do
you? It's not bad or anything, I mean, most people who talk a lot are trying
to hide something. It's like by talking a lot, they can sort of hold in
whatever it is that they don't want other people to know. I like quiet people."
"Are you hiding something?" Cody asked, smiling faintly. "Not really,"
she told him, leaning back. "Are you saying I talk a lot?"
"You talk more than I do," he said, sipping the strong coffee. He looked
up at her, and she stifled a giggle. "You've, uh, got something..." she
reached up and wiped a bit of cream from the tip of his nose. She stuck her
finger in her mouth and sucked off the cream, smiling up at him impishly.
"There... all gone," she smiled. They looked at each other for a moment. "I
want to show you something," she told him, jumping to her feet and pulling him
out of the chair. "It's, uhh, over here..." she said, leading him toward the
bed. "I think you'll like it..."
"It's gonna cost you extra," Cody told the Mister over the
vidphone. "Something's come up."
When you're looking at life,
in a strange new room
Maybe drowning soon,
Is this the start of it all?
Turn down your TV,
Put down your books
Turn away from it all
it's all getting too much
When you're looking at life,
deciphering scars
tense group all who
sit still in their cars
The lights look bright
when you reach outside
Time for one last ride
Before the end of it all...
Exercise One, by Joy Division
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Masturbation doesn't appeal to you? Then you're doing it wrong.
--one of Griphon's friends
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
DR. GRAVES AND THE AVANT-GARDE DiNNER PARTY
by John Smith
Dr. Stephen Graves lifted his head from the bowl of Leg Drop soup he was
eating at Spanky's Brothel and Cantina to answer a paige.
"Graves? Stephen Graves?"
"Over here my good man. I am Dr. Stephen Ezekiel Graves. What is it?"
"A telegram for you, sir." The bellhop waited, hand thrust out
expectantly.
"Oh yes, quite right," Graves said to himself, patting the pockets of
his shirt and pants. "Here you go," he said, handing the bellhop a French
Tickler. "In and out very slowly. It drives them wild."
The bellhop stormed off in a rage. He remembered the last time someone
had given him such a "tip." It was a hotel in Rio. And was it so long ago?
Yes, nearly two years now. A saucy young flamenco dancer who was in the
spotlight that night. She had every man's attention and every man's desire.
But she chose him, the bellhop for the Rio Diablo Grande. She had been in the
lobby, waiting for the famous prize fighter Lupe "Crazy-Eye" Juanero when he
brought her the sad news that Lupe had been knocked silly in an upset bout
against Myron Kickapoo, who, funny enough, had been trained by Stephen Graves
to tolerate massive amounts of pain many years beforehand. She had wept on
his shoulder, slipping a ribbed condom and her room number in his pocket.
That night the bellhop arrived, awaiting a sexual experience that would rock
the two and a half star hotel to its very foundation. Instead, he found a
drunk Lupe, who took the bellhop's penis and sent it flying out the window to
the street below, where it got eaten by a roaming dog.
Graves knew none of this, of course, and would not have cared if he did
know. He was absorbed in the telegram. It read:
GRAVES STOP I AM IN DANGER STOP PLEASE COME TO FRANCE STOP
AM AT THE LUXUS ROYALE DOWNTOWN PARIS STOP LOVE MARIE STOP
Marie was the famous cabaret dancer that had intrigued the passion of
Graves when he was but a fledgling. She was known to turn boys into men in a
rite of passage that was cosmic. So had been the way with Dr. Graves. he had
snuck into her dressing room and waited in the dark, holding for her a single
rose. When Marie came in, she saw the timid boy waiting, his pants showing
the desire he felt for her.
She had taken him like a typhoon descending upon a small boat. Graves
still shook with awe when he remembered his fair Marie. He paid the bill and
caught a cab to the airport. Soon he was off to Paris.
* * * * *
Paris was alive with the libido that Graves found intoxicating. He
checked into a hotel in the area near Marie's. Two people were engaging in
oral sex on the stairwell that led to Grave's floor. The woman, a cute little
hor d'oeuvre with short black hair was breathing with a frustratable rhythm.
the man was inexperienced. Graves interrupted.
"Good day. I am Dr. Stephen Graves. Allow me to show you how to get
the most out of the feast you are partaking in," he said to the young couple.
He then proceeded to explain to the man how to perform oral sex in a way that
would disable the young woman. Screams of orgasm filled the corridor as
Graves smiled and entered his room.
A woman was sitting on his bed, holding a rose. She was silhoutted in
the night against a bright and teeming Paris rue. Stephen's heart leapt.
"Marie!" he exclaimed, flipping on the lights.
"Sorry to disappoint, hon," a rich baritone voice replied. "I had heard
you were coming to town so I thought I'd stop by and show off the new me."
Graves did a double take. "Pierre? Oh my sweet Thesba, goddess of the
orgasm, it _is_ you! How the hell are you, old chap?" Pierre de Marc was a
painter who used oils and semen to create very original works of art. His
most famous piece, "Bad Jim," sold at an underground auction for 30,000
francs. It was no surprise, either, for Graves thought of the painting of a
woman, kneeled, eyes closed, mouth open, waiting to receive a bundle of life
from her lover and the wad of Pierre's juice splattered across her cheek and
eye.
The two "men" embraced.
"Well, I'm more of a chap-ette now, Stephen. Dr. Bob can do miracles. I
would have come to you, but you know how you got when Danny Pritchett was
impaled during the fencing tournament in Napal last year."
"Yes, I wept like a baby. The medic said a major organ had not been
wounded, but he didn't know Danny the way I did."
"Amen to that, Graves. Anyway, I had it taken off. Put in a jar on the
mantle. Mother nearly died when she saw it. It was a gas."
"Oh, Pierre. I have been away for too long. Paris forgets me. The
world forgets me. I sometimes wish I could settle down and have a normal
life. But oh, my wandering soul and flaming passion leads me to one adventure
after another."
"You would not like the tame life, Stephen. I've known you for too
long. You are an adventurer, a world lover." Pierre had his hand on Grave's
shoulder, caressing it gently. Stephen patted his old friend on the bottom.
"I do care for you, Pierre. But right now my Marie needs me. I must go."
Stephen Graves left the transsexual to a solo flight to ecstasy and set
out to the Luxus Royale. Upon his arrival, he was greeted by two large
Frenchmen. They gruffly showed Dr. Graves to the penthouse apartment
upstairs. He was admitted into a large area where a dinner party was in
progress. Around the table sat many important figures in society. Pip
Longfellow, the English diplomat to France and co-founder of the Diplomats Who
Wear Women's Lingerie Society. Naomu Tokosuma, the sumo wrestler and bisexual
gardener. Thurston Snobpocket, the wealthy business tycoon who produces 80%
of the world's vibrators and other tools of pleasure. Kevin Midland, the
notorious pedophile and underground author and editor of a publication that
corrupted the moral fabric of the world.
"Darling, you've come, so to speak." Graves turned his attention to the
foyer where a beautiful woman emerged.
"Marie. I came as soon as I got your letter. Then I left for Paris.
Are you alright?"
"Oh, my poor Dr. Graves. Always the gallant knight. I was never in any
danger. The telegram was a ruse. Oh, such the chauvinist. You men think a
woman you've had is a woman you must protect. Tsk tsk tsk."
With that, Graves found himself suddenly bound and sat next to Jack
Mehay, the Australian lesbian who had claimed more women than the entire U.S.
Navy.
Marie addressed her "guests."
"You are all lovers I have had. Some of the greatest, I might add. You
are also very important figures in the world of sex and sexuality. My plan is
simple. If you were all to be eliminated, I would be the most powerful and
influential of the sexual bourgeoisie."
"You will never succeed. You are not powerful enough." It was Pip
Longfellow. Graves remembered his first encounter with Pip. A lace teddy and
English peas.
"Pip. One of my favorites. The times we've had. I'm surprised you
doubt me. After all, wasn't it I that caused you to lock yourself in a closet
and whimper like a whipped pup for three days? Don't worry, though. I shall
treat you well. You shall be buried in a silk and leather negligee."
"Who amongst you shall be the first to die? Stephen, you arrived
latest. You will be my first. Just as I was yours so many years ago."
Marie ran her hands down Dr. Stephen Graves' chest and over his pants.
"One last 'kiss' before you go," Marie whispered as she unbuttoned
Graves' trousers.
Graves felt the semen build in his purple headed warrior. Marie worked
her magic and Graves was barely able to hold it in.
"Let it go, Stephen. One last shot. I..."
Stephen Graves released his love juice and blew out the back of Marie's
head. The pressure, combined with the muscle power of Graves' penis, had
launched a sperm missile that destroyed Marie. Graves sank back into his
chair, his heart broken, his will spent, his dick limp.
* * * * *
Two days had passed since the dinner party of Marie's. Graves was not
his usual, robust self. He had somehow found his way to Pierre's and was
comatose to the world. His heart was broken and his soul was numb. Pierre
had done his best to console the world-reknown lover and philanthropist.
The third night came and Pierre called Graves into his studio.
"I have something for you, Stephen." Pierre unveiled a painting of
Marie, head intact. Graves began to cry. He softly kissed the pursed lips
and whispered an apology to her. Graves thanked Pierre warmly and left that
night for Tokyo. He did not see Pierre cover the painting with the life force
of some bum he had met in the alley, nor did he hear about the painting's sell
of 13,000,000 francs. He was busy wrestling a bisexual gardener.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by
the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated
without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete
and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be
freely used so long as due recognition is provided. The editor may be reached
at The Lions' Den [(512)259-9546] or at kilgore@bga.com. Thank you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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