265 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
265 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #94 |
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- Squick -
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by Eponymous Bosch
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this story is entirely ficticious. any resemblance to characters
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living, dead or imaginary is entirely coincidental and should not
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be viewed as legally actionable, because it isn't. besides, the
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nasty bits all take place in Simulation. Virtual reality, you dig?
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so, the issue of consensuality doesn't even arise. besides, it's
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only a story, right? it's not as if i have fantasies about going
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around brain-fucking people. really. come on, okay, agreed, i
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read alt.sex.bestiality, i'm sick, but i'm not as sick as some of
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-you- sikfux. really, i think you people need serious psychiatric
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attention. besides, i -know- that you are all out to get me,
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aren't you? bastards.
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- eponymous bosch
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-----------------------------------------------------------------
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The door ground open on poorly-lubricated tracks; Beran and Dava
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frog-marched their captive over to the dentist's chair which had been
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crudely mounted in the middle of the room, directly below Scanner's
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cameras. He was wrapped, from his shoulders down to his knees, in a
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sheath of tight black plastic. This didn't appear to be necessary,
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however, as the captive was not resisting at all; in fact, he was the
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very picture of slack mindless stupidity, as if he had been sedated
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or brainwiped. Selby, who had been sitting at the Cable-TV monitor,
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got up to examine the captive. Dava proudly gestured to him;
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`Here he is, fresh from the Zurich State Correction Centre: Jules
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Sangria. He was in for Aggravated Assault, Resisting Arrest, Child
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Abuse, Illegal Systems Entry, Mis-Use of Unix Systems and for
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traveling the Subway without a ticket. He only cost us fifty
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credits.' Selby raised his bushy eyebrows.
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`Mmmn. Admirably, suitably admirable,' he said, turning the
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criminal's head to one side and examining the contours of his
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cranium. `He was scheduled for termination?' Beran nodded. `So we
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can do pretty much what we want with him, and with a clear
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conscience.'
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`In fact,' Dava put in, `I think his ex-wife would probably pay
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quite a bit for an advance copy of the video... if we are going to
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make the sort of video that I _think_ we're going to make.' Selby
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grinned mirthlessly.
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`We are. And, she doesn't have to pay for it... she can tape it
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off the air, like everyone else, when Enzian plays it on his show.'
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Beran put in,
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`I've been thinking... since most of this is going to be simulated,
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why not make the active male lead a video analogue of Enzian himself?
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I'm sure he'd appreciate the joke...' Selby nodded approvingly, then
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started stripping the black plastic from their captive.
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`Okay, let's get to work here. Scanner?'
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YES SIR?
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`I have a new model for you. I want real-time three-D emulation of
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the upper quarter of its torso, and full stereo audio-sampling of the
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procedure I will be demonstrating.' Two of Scanner's cameras,
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mounted on spider-like arms which depended from the ceiling, slowly
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moved into place. They aimed their lines of sight to a point at the
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centre of Jules' skull.
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IS THE MODEL CURRENTLY SITTING IN THE CHAIR? I HAVE TARGETED THE
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SITE YOU HAVE INDICATED. IT APPEARS TO BE COVERED IN MANY LONG, THIN
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BROWN OBJECTS.
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`That's his hair. We'll be shaving some of it off, but you don't
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have to scan that.' Selby muttered aside to Dava, `We can do that
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part from stock footage/montage/simulation.' He cast about for the
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clippers, to begin shaving; Beran held up his trusty butane-powered
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soldering-iron and, with the open flame, scorched a strip from the
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top of Jules' head down the back of his neck. They all wrinkled
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their noses at the stench of burning hair; Beran brushed away charred
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fibers with a damp towel, exposing a slightly reddened strip of skin
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which reached from Jules' shoulders up to the top of his head. While
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Dava scattered old newspapers about on the floor around the dentist's
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chair, Selby hefted a large drill fitted with a tubular bit about
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five centimetres across mounted on the end; with a tap of his toe,
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the chair reclined, bringing Jules to lie parallel to the floor. Was
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that a flicker of consciousness he saw in the captive's eyes?
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Clutching a thirty-centimetre black rubber dildo in his other hand,
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Selby brought the drill up towards the top of Jules' head...
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The AnarchArtists gathered around the large video screen in their
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Basel headquarters to watch that week's episode of their favourite
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television show, `Enzian's Surprise Hour'. The host, a tall, flint-
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edge-faced negro dressed in German military officer's regalia, sat
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behind his desk as he presented his latest offerings.
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The show was one of the most popular in the underground Cable
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network; it featured videos sent in by the audience, on any subject,
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usually illegal. Snuff videos were a favourite, and it was obvious
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that many of those were done with minimal special effects budgets.
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`Oberst Enzian' (who styled himself after a character from Thomas
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Pynchon's `Gravity's Rainbow') examined the videos before presenting
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them, so that only the particularly unusual or interesting were
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aired.
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`This week, friends and viewers, we have another offering from our
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Anarchist Artists in Basel, Switzerland. It's titled "squick", and
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I'm sure that you'll find it as deeply moving and involving as I
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did.' A sly smile here, gleaming white teeth in a dark, african
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face. `And remember: it's all done in Simulation - none of this ever
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happened in reality - so it's' (and here, the studio audience joined
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in, in what was obviously a time-honored tradition on this show)
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`ALL COMPLETELY LEGAL!' followed by much derisive laughter from the
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audience.
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The screen dimmed as the AnA's video started.
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(soundtrack: `Death of an Analogue', by Klaus Schulze, from
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the album `Dig It')
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(yellowed, off-white letters fade up from the darkness:
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SQUICK
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the AnarchArtist's logo appears below the letters; the
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divided circle within another (which looks innocent until
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the viewer realises that it's a stylised penis grasped by a
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hand, viewed from the front). the letters and the symbol
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both fade after five seconds, and a tiny spot far in the
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distance grows until it reveals itself; a gleaming leather-
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and-chrome dentist's chair, illuminated from some hidden
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source far above. the naked figure of a young man is
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strapped to the chair, reclining, his feet pointing off into
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the darkness, his head (secured to the chair with a
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bewildering array of leather belts) facing the camera. a
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strip of hair about seven centimetres wide has been shaved
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from his head in a sort of inverse Mohawk, and a bright red
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lipstick cross has been drawn, where the fontanelle is
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situated, on the top of his head. his steel-grey eyes
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flash, peering anxiously from left to right within the
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limits of his confines. from behind the camera's point of
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view appears the figure of a tall, lithe, naked negro:
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Enzian. the figures have a smooth, flowing quality,
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indicating that they are being realised within a computer
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simulation; the slightly halting movements and gestures
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which accompany real humanity, missing from standard
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computer simulations, are the mark of a master animator.
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from nowhere, an overly ornate mechanical drill appears,
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draped with pneumatic cables, switches and dials; the
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evilly-glittering drillbit is hollow, and as wide as a
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person's wrist. the drill swings through a dramatic arc,
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orienting on the subject's skull; Enzian moves smoothly
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behind the drill (which, while trailing cables, isn't
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actually connected to anything else in the simulation),
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squats down and grins, exposing his startlingly white teeth.
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he slides his hand along the shaft of the drill, flicks the
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chuck with its obscenely sharp bit, and the drill hums into
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motion. within seconds, the drillbit is a shining silver
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blur. the young man glances up nervously. Enzian steps back
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and the drill's body rotates dramatically through three
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hundred and sixty degrees, the end of the drill-bit coming
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to rest mere inches from the young man's skull. Enzian rests
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his hands on the drill casing and eases it forwards
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slowly... the camera view draws closer as the bit
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approaches... the bit touches the skin and plunges forwards,
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tatters of skin and blood flying in all directions (none of
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it spatters the camera lens because, of course, this is
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taking place in Simulation; there are no chunks of flying
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flesh, but merely digitally rendered objects in some
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mainframe's voxel-space). nonetheless, the young man screams
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and shudders, his head turning to the right slightly as the
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drill meets more resistance, digging into the bone of his
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skull; the drill whines as if in disappointment, changes
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gear and digs in harder. the tone drops an octave and
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Enzian presses it forward again; suddenly, as the drill
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penetrates the skull, the tone rises sharply. the automatic
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gears throttle back, and Enzian draws the drill away from
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the fist-sized hole which has been gouged in the young man's
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head. as blood streams from the edges of the wound, Enzian
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slides a lever up the shaft of the drill, which pokes the
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ragged red-grey disk of skin, skull and dural matter out of
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the hollow bit. it falls downward and vanishes, spinning, in
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the Simulation. the brain itself is exposed, grey-pink with
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red streaks, pulsing slightly. the table tips back a few
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more degrees, bringing the subject's head within range of
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Enzian's crotch. Enzian is standing, clutching two hand-
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grips which are mounted at the head of the chair; he pushes
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it back slightly and massages his erection with slow,
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assured motions. with one hand wrapped around the base, he
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squeezes, forcing blood into the head, making it swell
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almost to the size of a tennis-ball. a droplet of clear
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fluid at the very tip glints in the light from above. Enzian
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carefully draws the subject closer, bringing the swollen
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head of his penis towards the hole, aimed at the divide
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between the left and right hemispheres, and then suddenly
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plunges it in, with a wet, `squick!' sound. the subject
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shudders and gives voice to an inarticulate cry. Enzian
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slowly withdraws, accompanied by an obscenely moist sucking
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sound, and plunges in again, to the hilt. the subject's
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tongue protrudes slightly, and his eyes are pointing in two
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different directions as Enzian begins pumping slowly, then
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with increased vigor; tiny droplets of perspiration gleam on
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his chest. with each stroke, fresh rivulets of blood stream
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down the back of the subject's head, and at the height of
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each inward stroke, Enzian's balls slap into these trickles,
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spraying red droplets in all directions. the frequency of
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the strokes increases slowly, until Enzian is slamming his
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lean, dark body against the subject's firmly fixed head with
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impassioned fury, a ragged gasp accompanying each thrust.
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blood begins to trickle from the subject's nose, just as
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Enzian roars, grinds his hips against the chair and comes.
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He throws his arms out and floats backwards, as if in free-
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fall, trailing a glittering arc of pearly droplets. the
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subject's jaw flexes once, and the red fluid that now pours
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from his nostrils is mixed with threads of white.
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Selby patted Dava on the back companionably.
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`Bingo.'
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ú ùþ ú ú þù ú
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ÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜÜþÜÜÜÜ ú ù ú ú ù ú ÜÜÜÜþÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛ
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±±±±ÛÛÛßÛ²ÝÛÝÛÛÝþ Üú úÜ þÝÛÛÝÛݲÛßÛÛÛ±±±±
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±±±±²²²²²ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜþúÝ ù ù ÝúþÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ²²²²²±±±±
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±±²²²²ÛÛßßÛßÝÛÛÛÛÛÝÜúþ þúÜÝÛÛÛÛÛÝßÛßßÛÛ²²²²±±
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²²²²²Ûß þúßÞþßþþÜùþ þùÜþþßþÞßúþ ßÛ²²²²²
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²²²²Ûß ú ù ù ú ßÛ²²²²
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²²²ÛÝ ÝÛ²²²
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²²²ÛÜ Phoenix Modernz Systems: 908/830-TANJ ÜÛ²²²
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±²²²ÛÝ The Syndicate: 908/506-6892 ÝÛ²²²±
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ÛÛ±±±±±±²²²Û Urban Discipline / VaS World HQ : 313/464-1470 Û²²²±±±±±±ÛÛ
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ÛÛ±±±±±±²²²Û RipCo ][: 312/528-5020 Û²²²±±±±±±ÛÛ
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±±±²²²²²²ÛÜ ÜÛ²²²²²²±±±
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±±²²²ÛÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÛ²²²±±
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±²²²ÛÝ ÝÛ²²²±
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²²²ÛÜ ÜÛ²²²
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²²²ÛÝ ÕÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͸ ÝÛ²²²
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²²²²Ûß ú ù ³ TANJ Mailing Address ³ ù ú ßÛ²²²²
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²²²²²Ûß þúßÞþßþþÜùþ ³ PO Box 174 ³ þùÜþþßþÞßúþ ßÛ²²²²²
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±±²²²²ÛÛßßÛßÝÛÛÛÛÛÝÜúþ ³ Seaside Hts, NJ ³ þúÜÝÛÛÛÛÛÝßÛßßÛÛ²²²²±±
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±±±±²²²²²ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜþúÝ ù ³ 08751 ³ ù ÝúþÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ²²²²²±±±±
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ÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜÜþÜÜÜÜ ú ù ú tanj@pms.metronj.org ú ù ú ÜÜÜÜþÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛ
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