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 2/14/94 tahw ro woh gniwonk to think. You are in --tWo-- ni era uoY .kniht ot a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
Well, here I sit on Valentine's Day, putting together the second issue of SoB. I'm quite surprised I made it this far, since the past weekend has involved numerous mishaps, a recording session, and a drunk bum who wanted to start a "plaid gang." But anyways, we still got the damn thing released on time... kinda. Anyway, Clockwork promised me about three more articles, but he has disappeared for the moment, and I've got a deadline to keep, so if you miss some of Clockwork's work, get on his ass and tell him to move it next time.
As you have probably already noticed, we have a bunch of new writers. Some of you might think that's great. After you read the e-zine, then you'll know exactly what you think. To be warned, a few of the stories herein contain scenes of a graphic nature. I'll be the first to admit that some of it is pretty sick, but hey--I thought it was funny, in a twisted sort of way.
We've also finally nailed down distribution sites. Thanks to the SysOps of those two BBSs for all their support. Their numbers are at the end of this file.
Now, on to the zine. The material is pretty diverse, from talking about the art of writing to the homosexual adventures of Dr. Graves to more poetry to teenage pregnancy and abortion. Enjoy the zine. Trust me, you'll make it through. I'd like to thank the Constitution for the First Amendment, cause otherwise we'd all be hunted like witches. Actually, that already happened once, but that's a whole nuther story. See you in March.
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
The Reverand Toad
"There is also this attraction to blood. When you're on top of a body it tends to purge blood out of its mouth, while you're making passionate love... You'd have to be there, I guess."
To sit in a room filled with dense clouds of smoke produced by yourself, staring at a tall empty glass of what was once a refreshing drink, listening to the wind outside, hoping the power won't go out, while attempting to write an amusing piece of literature is not exactly an easy task. It is an art.
It is not as simple as turning on that nifty technological computer thing your father got you for college, loading up a store-bought word processing package, closing your eyes as you press a key, and waiting for the computer to do that cyber voodoo to mystically make words appear on your screen. You can't just set out a bottle of 1837 scotch whiskey and a pack of German tobacco, caress the side of your typewriter, whisper sweet nothings onto the keys, and hope the Literary Gods will answer your prayers. It is as art.
I am not saying people -- writers -- do not go through rituals before, during, or after they ink their pages. Of course they do. Someone out there has to have the ceiling fan on a low speed, the room illuminated by a green light bulb purchased in Tuscon, Beethoven's Fifth playing loudly around them, a lit filterless cigarette in front of them at all times, while the television is on mute, the window is open to let the traffic noise filter in, and the red bandana his ex-girlfriend gave him tied around his head before he could type a word. Some get drunk before they write, some get drunk after. Some smoke before they write, some after. Some drop acid before they write, some after. But it is not the ritual that creates the art. The art is already there; it all comes from the same place. It is all in their head. The ritual may provide a pathway for it to be let out, but it still was born, raised, and bred in your head. And that is an art in itself.
I envy the soul who can just come home from a long day at the nuclear power plant, waltz into his bedroom while stripping the tie from his neck, sit down at his jet black typewriter purchased from an antique store 13 years ago for no reason at all, and instantly begin pounding out a piece of work, his mind and hands working at the same speed so one does not have to pause to catch up with the other, until a period marks the end of his role as a writer for the day. I await the day when that is possible.
But then again, the whole joy of it would be hindered if that was possible. That is the fun of it; that is why you dress in a loincloth and put on tribal rhythms for several hours each evening. It is part of the art.
And then, there is an art within the art. The art of composing your writing within your writing, where your arrange the words with a fine, endangered species hair, keeping the art of inspiration and meaning only to yourself, so that you and only you know why you composed the art in the manner you did. But the sweetness of that art is, you really don't know why.
It is all just part of the art.
Every Artist has his medium. I suppose that you--actress, singer, athlete --can use your entire form and voice as your medium, hence you can be graceful and beautiful in real-time, yet without the plated gaudiness that coats yet flakes off those who make themselves appealing as manipulation. Your purity, honesty extends the same to your beauty, and amplifies it beyond expression. You bear the mark of the true Artist, the creature that exists simultaneously as creator and creation, a work and a worker of art, in that I can see a new expression of your beauty every time I am around you. I may never exhaust the variety of your media.
My medium is the word; and not even the spoken word is mine, but only the written. Therefore, there is much I can say in print that I could never tell anyone face to face. There are many secrets told only between I and my pages that would be public save that I never had the courage to feel and tell.
But every writer is a coward. It is axiomatic. The luxury of being able to weigh and reject every word, every brushstroke in our two toned canvas increases our capacity for consideration, but likewise our inability to retract the word that an alleged Artist in the textual world has released fills us with an almost paranoid dread of releasing the imperfect. We must release the perfect or nothing at all, and err on the side of nothing. A literary Artist will be sullen and silent before he will admit to that which he cannot retract. If this letter gets to you, it means only that my fear of telling you finally, truly how deeply I feel has in the end been surpassed by my fear of what can happen if I keep it inside.
I regret that I brought up the subject of loss when last we spoke; the concept that every start must have an end, as I said, weighs upon me constantly. I am a perfectionist, and so, to my chagrin, I can admit that I am not perfect. This realization shows me that, one day, you must find one more perfect than I. When that occurs, I expect no less than for you to leave for the more perfect person. You deserve no less.
Oscar Wilde put my feelings best when he wrote:
"Their strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their plenitude."
Only the shallow emotion can live on, for all emotion needs fuel to burn. A low passion can smolder in the breast of the average man indefinitely, as does so frequently rage, hate, discontent, or lust for vengeance. It is that shallow smolder by which the respectability of marriage and the passive passions of daily life are fueled.
A strong emotion, however, burns fiercely in my breast. It must either burn itself out, collapsing the heart and with it any hope of a future love, or burn out the person, destroying him, me, utterly. It is this that destroys the great artists. It is this that creates the great artists.
What I feel for you, however, burns too deeply within me to simply extinguish itself. I know full well that I will lose you someday, and I know that when I do I will continue to burn the same as I burn now, until I have burned away.
But what is the other option? To have you, as a wife or a lover, a permanent fixture in my life or my home? Such an anticlimax would be no better, maybe worse, than to have lost you. Love can be killed as truly with respectability as it can with callousness or passion. A love in a sealed fireplace will be smothered utterly.
You tell me you fantasize about me; if I may be so bold, I'll share one that I have known of you. Hardly a day goes by that I don't catch myself in daydreams about how life would be if we were to live together. I know it would be almost heaven to fall asleep in your arms and wake again to your beautiful face gazing down into mine. As Faulkner says, a sinner cannot reach heaven, but if I may never know heaven in death I may at least be permitted to pursue a life of paradise regained.
But I must confess: These fantasies do afford me no small share of fear. Indeed, these fantasies strike greater fear in me than marriage ever did. If I were to endeavor to possess you as my wife, I would know with every fiber of my being that I had sold out any faith I had in love and permitted it instead to become relegated to government control. My love would have become a commodity rather than the miracle I know now. But if I were to live with you, attempting to extend the orgasm of your presence to permanence, it would be a death sentence. We would live distracted by our bliss until the time when our relationship slid across the subtle but definitive border: The point where our relationship is no longer noted by our joy at our partner's presence, but rather annoyance at his absence.
No, I would rather you left me with my love still virile than sell love into the slavery of marriage or the slow asphyxiation of cohabitation.
But to fall in love is to be infused with, even to invite, a mass of leaches, all clamped deep into the tender, yielding flesh of the heart. Once they have entered their grip and are draining away the life of their victim they will undoubtedly destroy the man unless they are stopped. They may be starved, the tapeworm technique, by bottling one's lifeblood away to unresponsiveness, and run the risk of deoxygenating your heart and shriveling into an unfeeling creature. Or you can salt the parasites, shriveling and killing them, yet forever poisoning your heart as truly as the carcass of Carthage. Or you can simply and directly lay hold of the worm and rip it out, or your lady can withdraw her affections and rend it free herself, but then you will either bleed to death, your life force flowing crimson in a plaintive stream towards your love, or scar over, next time to be more protected and less capable of being hurt. Or of feeling pleasure.
I could never summon the will to cause such damage, though. I will happily allow my force to run out until I die, or does my love's love.
Let me start out by saying I'm not as anti-government as my peers here, and I don't tend to rant and rave about how unfair the system in which we live is. Face it, we are not in control, so of course everything is not going to work out. There is no system of government anywhere, except for true communism, that is good for everyone. Ours is the same way. I'm not an advocate for Stalinism in any way, but the principle for communism, total cooperation and ownership of everything, is the only possible utopian way of government. The reason why it doesn't work is greed. No one can have more nor want more than their neighbor. But, everyone wants power and because humanity cannot survive as individuals (Nature can still beat the shit out of us, no matter how smart we think we are), we have no choice but to try to work together. There lies your basic problem. A government is only as good as the people in control. Want to change the system? Then put better people in office.
Now, here's the thing about democracy. We don't have one. We have an oligarchy. A democracy, a true democracy, would allow the people (majority of course) to totally change the entire structure of the government if it wasn't working. We, as a majority, cannot do so. Surprised? Well, it does keep order for the most part. We the people can be effective if we learn about our government and what it is doing. Yes, I'll admit that doing something decent is not as attractive as cold, hard cash, but we can put a few good guys in office. Right now, corruption is the biggest thing to deal with. Federalism, though, wants people to be corrupt. It trains you for it. Who can get the most shit for the least amount of work. It's all quite simple.
How, then, do you beat the system? Move to Canada, marry a nice girl, buy a farm with an uncontaminatable water source and a few trees, grow your own food, and tell everyone to stay the fuck away from you. That's it. If you want to do it any other way, there is a lot of work ahead. Personally, I don't have the patience or the time to deal with it. But I don't hate the government. It can be fixed. You can fix it. If you do, call me. I'll be in Canada.
6969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969 HOUSE OF APOSTLES OF ERIS Vol. 529/green.%% OLLAVE/OPHILIA CABAL OFFICIAL DOCUMENT ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [X]Official Business Today's Date: SweetMorn, Chaos 41, 3160 ACG [ ]Monkey Business Yesterday's Date: e^(1/2) [ ]Profitable Business CC: House of Apostles of Eris [ ]Questionable Business DC: Marie Osmond [ ]Unknown fnord
The essence of the Grid Ideology is that all is chaos. Everything in the Universe, in fact the Universe itself, is chaos. All humans interpret the chaos through a grid at any given time. The interpretation of the grid is what is defined for us as reality. The grid is different for different people. No grid is any more True than any other grid, neither is it more False than any other grid (Sri Sydasti).
This philosophy is the basis for all existence, science, religion, and any other mindset. Only now is it manifesting itself directly in the physical world. For instance, a computer operating system is the grid for interpreting the binary response of the computer. In the future, cyberdecks will have a grid which interprets the chaos into a visual virtual reality. This, in fact, is what the human brain has done for a hundred thousand years. But be careful, do not confuse the software with the hardware. Our five senses do not compose the grid, they are the hardware. It is that which interprets the data that is the grid, the software.
Anything in the Universe may be understood, given the right grid to filter the chaos. Western philosophy has always concentrated on searching for that One Holy Grid which will show us the Truth. As noted above, this is a quest which will ultimately fail. It is the Eastern method, the method of adapting one's grid or changing it entirely to fit any given situation, which should be mastered. Some grids will work for most things encountered in everyday life. Unfortunately, this leads to people becoming lazy and using only one static grid, which is also known as close-mindedness. This is also why older people are less creative and less receptive to new ideas, they have grown use to their grid.
If one learns early on to modify their grid, then they will forever have a much greater chance of being creative, individualistic, mentally free, and will always be able to adapt quickly to a new situation, both mentally and physically. You will also become much more receptive to the Holy Teachings of our Goddess Eris, and this will make you very happy.
Adaptivity will become increasingly important as time goes on, for as technology increases in complexity exponentially, society will require people who can adapt to learn how to use it, and responsibly. Adaptability is the survival trait of human beings. The ability to induce a maleable grid is necessary for our species to continue existing, so start hammering out your head into weird shapes now! We do not need neophytes, we need neophiles.
Now, you might be asking "Hagbard, if no grid is more true than any other, than how can any of this philosophy upon which you have so richly elaborated be any more true than...say....fascism?" Well to answer that, as the High Reverend Toad wisely informed me, you must be able to accept that all things are "true in some sense, false in some sense, meaningless in some sense, true and false in some sense, true and meaningless in some sense, false and meaningless in some sense, and true, false, and meaningless in some sense." Once you can accept that, you are well on your way to having and adaptable grid.
"God does not play dice."
"No, but Goddess does...so PTHPPPPPPTTTTT!!!!!"
Safeguard this document, it may be of some importance. DO NOT USE AS TISSUE PAPER, ESPECIALLY IF IT REMAINS ON YOUR SCREEN
If you would like more information on this subject, the Ollave/Ophilia Cabal, or would like to join our Discordian Cabal, please fill out the following:
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[ ]YES! I want to be a Member of the Ollave/Ophilia Cabal of the Church of Eris! I will send five dollars to the address below in order to get a nice little pamphlet about all the neat things OOC is doing with my money. [ ]YES! I want to be a Member of the Ollave/Ophila Cabal of the Church of Eris! I won't send any money at all, in which case I won't get a nice illuminating pamphlet about what OOC is doing with other people's money. [ ]NO! I think you are full of shit! But I will send all of my cash to you anyway. [ ]NO! I think you are full of shit and I don't give a damn what you do with the money that lots of fools send you! Name: ______________________________________________________________ Address: ______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________ Species: ______________________________________________________________Make out all checks to The Astronomy Consortium (our front organization). Send this, along with your dough, to:
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"Well," said Digger, "liberation can be painful. But what are you going to do?"
"Generally speaking, doing new things is dangerous. The first person to explore new territory is most likely the first to die. But if the human race did not constantly adapt to new situations it would be extinct. So society produces crazies, I don't know how. We do dangerous things that most people think are crazy. That's how society makes progress."
When the going gets weird, the weird go pro.
If you notice something, and look again, it's your imagination, which is another manifold altogether. If you are looking for something and you find it there's no way of knowing if it was there or if it was created by the process of looking. Am I not correct?
WHAT HAPPENED TO MY HEART?
Well I guess that I owe you a formal Intro first
"What happened to the punctuation"
I M getting to that I M SuRgiO and I hate grammatical rules so forget it This all seems familiar to me YET I don T know why.......... Ok well enough introduction How about my first SOB article... I was going to be in the first issue but missed my dead line................
As I have grown up I have met people who have left lasting impressions upon my life some good others well bad worse or really bad... I got to the point where I just stopped caring about people in general I became null to everything that was common... family friends and lost/future loves... I began to accept the pain and heartache as the way it was supposed to be... Hoping it would one day come to an end... Through DEATH or being struck by a car and turned into a vegetable... Things were like this over some four odd years... I began to feel hopeless and repressed all of my feelings things seemed ok that is I accepted them as natural... Then during the summer I got this call from a girl I was flattered no one ever called me before... In any event I was going through some serious family troubles and needed someone to talk to... Yes I was using her to unload my trouble on NOt the nicest thing in the world but true... It turned out... I was once again used to have the troubles of this person unloaded on me... Reverse Psychology... I guess I got what I had coming... So I retreated to my state of repression and acceptance... I did not really care... at least I helped someone who needed it... Then school started Again... I still talked to this person but I tried not to... I just wanted to move away from the subject... I told her I felt that way and we have not talked since thank god... At school I was in this class that really sucked... That is until I met the girl who sat across from me... It seemed at first like we were from two totally different worlds... That was until I got to know her... Damn I began to feel strange...I became incredibly moody... somewhat depressed... extremely confused... I once again was beginning to have emotions for someone... Something I had not done in years... Five months later... It is too bad she didn't feel the same way... Now I M beginning to deal with my feelings all over again towards everything... having to try and talk to her... Tell her how I feel without scaring her off... This is hard... I wish I could become involved with her... But I guess friendship is better than nothing... Then who knows I don't think fate hates me... Why would it show me love only to laugh in my face... She is the greatest thing in the world... I have gotten a lot of advice I think I need it... I know she knows how I feel... Take care all... I wish you luck in your lives...
BACK TO SQUARE ONE
Here I sit alone again... Slowly mixing the two poisons... Maybe a little wiser this time... Then again not... No one can help me I M alone... The doctor lied to you... Sorry man everything is not going to be ok... Not yet anyway... They say the last bit of pain feels the best... Rejection and feelings of regret are more full than this cup... Slowly I lift my chalice of everlasting pain... I take a sip and think of you... please don't be hurt my love It I was... My eyes are closed the chalice dropped and my heart stopped... Don't forget me or my love... In my heart you will always mean everything...
EATiNG OUT CAN BE FUN!
Well the last two were sort of ah... Deep Depressing... So... Lets have some fun... here are some tips for eating out at fast food restaurants... So for you perverts out there sorry...
1. When ordering at the drive through act normal but when the annoying voice of the food god comes back to try and sell you an apple pie or some crap say "oh yah and don't spit on any of that ok"
2. Have you taken a foreign language do you know anyone who has Well then this next one ought to be funny Go in speaking your local foreign language (don't try this in a place where they know you) Begin to order if they can find someone who speaks this language order things that are not on the menu This is especially funny if you make up the language and someone who is proud to admit ignorance pretends that they know your NATiVE language
3. Last of all but still just as funny enter your restaurant of choice order just like normal but when they give you your total say somewhat to yourself "Lets see thats my shoes my pants and my socks" remove these clothing items and offer them to the clerk in exchange for the food Remember to stay somewhat dressed so you are not arrested for indecent exposure...
Have fun eat well and play safe.
wine glasses clink in social graces
the crowded room reeks of society's elite
tuxedos and evening gowns mingle with each other
they speak of things unknown to me
i stand in the atrium, gazing out the window
the manicured lawn seems so peaceful, so serene
water shoots out from the stone boy's lips
peacefully landing in the pool below
outside the world revolves in utter harmony
in these hallowed halls, Eris consumes my essence
i do not belong here in this palace of wealth
their eyes perceive me as an outsider
dressing as one of them cannot hide that fact
"plebian," whispers the plush carpet upon which i step
your face shines as you float towards the guests
our eyes meet, but there is no recognition
the man that was such an important figure in your past
stares at the one that has forgotten
there will be no final attempt at acceptance
time stands still as you fade away
part of me dies here as i descend into the abyss
back into the cold, frail arms of discord
Questions unansweredand still I know no more
Rain poundingon the rooms ofI hear you scream.
and I don't seem to care
Follow the road
I no longer care.
I drink blood
I taste your body
your tears are in my brain.
Seems like you like this
but there's too much pain
Still I no longer care.
You can go to hell alone.
here i await
those simple pleasures
that evolve out
of my own
i look at her.
in a world
has no meaning.
she pulls away
with the tide.
with the moon.
and she cries.
i cannot hold onto her
she is slipping away.
i cannot touch her
she is dead to me.
that i loved.
that i needed
and will simply vanish
in the cold dawn
of my waking reality.
the night air envelopes me in a sheath of black cold and wretched life takes a sinister turn madness animosity deceit betrayal apathy devils, you are visions come--i foresee the apocalypse all shall find their fate my destiny lies inbetween seize me now cure my hungry mind... if you can examine that which fuels my unnatural behavior hold down your foul bile i am the last
"Death comes to those who wait, Billy-Boy. It does, it does. And you seem to me to be a pretty patient fellow. Oh, yes you do. I'd look on out if I were on your side of the fence. Seems that it's just around the corner for you, what?"
"Don't say, 'What,'" I said.
"I don't follow you, old Billy old boy old fella. What's up your skirt?"
"I said, 'Don't say "What."' You are not Eric Idle. It doesn't fit."
"Eh, what?" Not Eric Idle? Eh? Nudge nudge. Don't quite follow. Do you follow what I'm gettin' at? Eh? What? Nudge nudge! Nudge nudge! Eh?"
"SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU STUPiD ASS! YOU'RE NOT SAYiNG iT RiGHT!"
"Eh, what...?" Dominic continued... and continued while I stared deep into my Coke which, if you've not tried it, happens to be very shallow. I hated Dominic in the same way one despises one's dick for being a hormone-driven bastard and not ever thinking a fly's shit about her personality--like eating Jello. No matter how much you get, you could still munch down one more of those funky little cubes.
I looked at Frank and Bishop across the table from me, hoping that I could draw one or both of them into the conversation so that Dom would not concentrate all his juicy irritation on me. Unfortunately, Frank was busy making a tower of cigarettes on top of my book, and Bishop was watching this intently. I tried anyway.
"Hey, Frank," said I. "That's really cool how you stack those while they're burning."
"Yeah. Really-illy-neato, frankly speaking," Dom said in a singing type of voice.
"Hey, Bishop?" Frank mumbled.
"Shut him up or I'm going to kill him." Frank said as he didn't take his eyes off the smoking tower.
Bishop handed Frank some more of his cigarette butts. "Hey, Dom," he said, turning his eyes up to the fat, sweaty, stinking tub of lard that Frank was about to murder. "Shut up or Frank's gonna kill you."
"Okey dokey, my little Bishoptic bud. If you insistiwist, but I doubt if ol' Frank the Hank-sank could even"--Frank lept from his chair--"hurt"-- stretched out his arm--"Ugh!"--and sank his fingers into Dominic's flabby neck.
Both by this time were standing beside the table. Dom's weight, a very considerable one, was help up almost entirely by Frank: his legs twitched, his face was red, and his eyes were just millimeters from bugging completely out of his head. All this caused Bishop to grin widely.
"Hey, Frank, I was just..."
"Shut up, Dom." He did. "Dom," Frank tightened his grip some and I thought, "This is what it would look like to see an eagle strange an infant." Frank's fingers so very much resembled steel cables. "I want you to be very quiet. If you're not, I... will... kill... you." I couldn't imagine that Dom could even be thinking loudly with such a quiet, calm voice speaking. "Do you understand?" Dom began to speak but then thought twice about it and simply nodded his head.
"Thank you, Dom." Frank set down his victim, pulled his talons free, and sat down to his work once more.
"Hey, Billy-boy," Dominic whispered.
"FOR CRiSSAKE, YOU STUPiD iDiOT!" Bishop was screaming a lung out in a really raspy sort of way that let out more air than sound. "HE JUST... oh shit. Twenty-three! That is the 23rd time that book has burst into flames!" Dom was forgotten for a moment.
"Books tend to do that when you leave smoldering cylinders on them," I said.
"That's just rationalization! Your book is cursed and you know it!" Bishop demanded.
"It is not," I said, stamping my foot on the book and feeling very silly for not taking it off the table first. "It's just unlucky."
"Unlucky?!! How many times has that book been shot?"
"Three, but it saved my life on one of those three times."
"The only reason you were shot at was because your damned book is cursed."
"I said," I said, "'You're rasping.' You ought to stop smoking."
Bishop looked at me as if I were an imbecile. "Are you gonna rid yourself of that pestilent tool-of-Satan book or must I?"
"I need this book."
"YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT BOOK iS ABOUT! YOU CAN'T"--he heaved in a full lung of air--"EVEN READ THE DAMNED PAGES. THEY'RE BURNED!"
"I'm not throwing away this book. It belongs to the library."
Bishop was on his knees now in a vain attempt to make me see his warped logic. "Then turn it in."
"I don't know how to explain it to them yet... Hey, where are Frank 'n Dom?"
Dominic was dead. Frank had told us so. "Dom is dead, and I have killed him." Those were his exact words. Half an hour after we had noticed his and Dom's absence, Frank showed back up to tell us not to worry because it wasn't "technically murder" so we "needn't worry... much."
I was sitting again in my room, in my chair, in the dark, thinking about this. He had killed Dom. Killed him. Good God. I wondered how. Like everyone else, I've thought, oh passively, about shooting people or knocking' them off some how, but if it came right down to it, I wouldn't know where to aim the barrel. Head? Chest? And Frank hadn't even used a gun. He said he killed Dom with "the old broomstick method." I could not grasp that. All I knew was that (ha ha) I was glad he was dead! It was the happiest I had been in years.
I played a little tune on one of Stone's guitars for everyone in the room. It was a crappy little tune, but my entire audience wa asleep on my bed so they didn't care. When I realized that I had an easy room that was concerned with neither quality nor quantity, I sang a poem for them, too.
It was a touchy-feely little poem which I had written during one of my many bouts with heartache, and I played the crappy little tune as I sang. Combining the two thusly caused me almost to spit up from the excessive lack of artistic value. Luckily, I laughed and thereby cut the vomit off at the larynx.
I felt like getting some Jello. And I thought, "Perhaps I'll ask out the girl who works at the Jello shop." Then I figured, "Oh, what the hell," and kept on singing.
I sat up gasping for air. "Death comes for those who wait, Billy-boy... Guess I had the tongue for it, eh?" The voice trailed off, echoed around my head a couple times, grabbed a glazed doughnut off the table and flew away.
"What's the matter?" Bishop thought to me.
I was sitting at one of two gargantuan oak desks across from the skeleton of Bishop who lounged in the other. His bones were bleached white. They matched the sand, the mountains and the sky. The only color in the valley came from myself, the two desks, and Bishop's black top hat and cane.
"So why not have a lie down?"
I didn't answer. My attention was lost in the desert which was illuminated by a perfectly white sun. Mountains. A mile away at least in any direction. The valley wasn't a valley. It was a...
"Bowl!" said Bishop. "It's a bowl. Like if you poured milk in, it would fill up. Except... except that there's a top. See. The sky makes a lid and the edges are rough. Okay, so it's not a bowl. More of a massive hamster ball."
"Alright. I'm a living skeletal system. Have some Jello!"
"You're right," he said. "Not the time nor the place. Just one more." He picked a Jello cube out of his desk drawer with his boney little fingers and dropped it in his jaw. The cube fell promptly through his head, bounced off his ribs and splatted into his pelvis to join a pile of gelatin which the desk had been concealing. He stood. The Jello fell out of his pelvis and dripped down his femurs and shin bones onto his toes.
"Damn," he said. "That's what I have about my prick--no matter how many of those things I eat, there's always room for Jello."
I heard Dom's voice calling across the wasteland and began to swoon. "My dear, dear boy. Why on earth do you want a kitten, eh?" Quietly, I died an awesome death. "Till then, then," Dom's voice cooed.
Running through the corn, Tom felt as if his lungs were going to burst. And he was right. The mist finally caught up with him at the fifth row, and as he thought about what Mary became, the mist caused his lungs to expand to twelve times their normal size, effectively turning his torso into... a not torso.
Mary walked up to the remains. This was the man that she had once loved? Oh well. As the ground swallowed Tom, Mary walked back to the opening. At least she was wanted there. Maybe not loved, but definitely wanted. And fuck Tom for leaving her when he saw. She didn't ask him, nor did she want him to see. She always told him to knock first.
Raul slowly watched her(it) go back to her(its) room(cell). The first stage of the plan was complete. She(it) had broken all ties to her(its) past. The acquisition of her(its) old boyfriend had been a stroke of genius, even if they did have to waste some of the hallucinogen on him. It was worth it to enslave her(it) over to them. Hehehe.... cut missiles and tanks as much as they want. He knew, and those in charge knew, that the future of warfare was going to be played out by those who didn't even know what they were doing. Kind of like the congressmen funding him. He heard Carl walking up behind him.
"Well, we got it--"
"SHE you goddamned fool! We can't let her(..it..) forget her(..it..) identity!" Raul yelled at the underling.
"Fine. I got HER back to where she needs to be without any problem."
Carl looked out into the corn field. He thought for a minute about how proud he was to be shaping the future of the world. He looked at Raul, Raul looked at him, and they smiled. Then Carl drew his sidearm and calmly shot Raul right between his surprised little eyes. Turning back into the compound, Carl armed the explosives and stepped over the body of Mary to start the countdown. In five minutes the compound where he had spent most of his adult life would be slag. He then walked into the corn field to meet the chopper coming into view. As he waited to grab the ladder that Hagbard was lowering, he smiled and started humming to himself...
"The Illuminati... They're everywhere I go. The Illuminati... They're watching me I know... hmmm mmm mmmm"
And so dead Cthulu remains consigned to his house at Nyarlathotep, to continue dreaming of a Future in Boise, Idaho.
The short, fat retarded girl walked into 7-Eleven.
"Duh, gimme a Slurpee, please. Abbeb," she muttered to the frail Indonesian.
"Why does everyone call me Abeeb? My name's Fred you stinkin retard!" Fred hollered in his annoyingly nasal Middle Eastern voice.
"It's cuz you're a dune coon, you camel-jockey, and all dune coons have names with long e's. Now gimme that Slurpee!" the obese, gelatin-like child responded.
Fred grudgingly ripped a cup from the dispenser and crammed it into the roach-ridden Slurpee machine. He forced the button and a stream of half- melted sugar product began dripping out.
"Oooooo! Mmmmmm! Ahhhhh!" grunted Chelsea, the frozen fruit-lusting retard. "I can't wait!"
Fred finished filling the cup and slammed it on the counter directly under the huge jiggling vulture's beady eyes. The beast flung her chubby hands around the mutilated cup and pulled it greedily to her lips. Rivulets of the neon ice seeped through her dimples creating the illusion of a hot pink accident on the cold tile floor.
"Oh, NO!" exclaimed the monstrous retard directly into the cup. "I wouldn't want to lose any!"
With that, the retard fell to the floor, spreading her hulking mass over the extent of the aisle. The creature's jaw dropped slightly, subjecting the tile to its rough, slurping tongue.
"Mmmmmm! I got it," the girl grinned.
"That's disgusting!" shrieked Fred. "Get your gnappy lard-ridden butt outta my store!"
"Hmph! That's the last time I come here," muttered the retard as she turned around and waddled out.
She wallowed in glory as she barged out of the 7-Eleven.
"I sure told him," she mumbled. Her belly jiggled as she chuckled cheerfully to herself. "That sand nigger learned his lesson: never pick on a fat retard!" She jiggled some more.
All the while her freshly eaten slurpee dripped through her guts, and shortly, her fat-squeezed bladder was full and ready for bursting. The retard primed herself quickly and deftly let her bowels go. Her pants wet in perfect form. She wallowed away from the store.
"Gee, that retard can pee!" thought Fred, staring bug-eyed with beady eyes out the store windows at Chelsea. Fred figited crazily with a lotto number picker and shrugged to the empty store as his numbers came up:
The retard had left him dazed. Not only had he ever yelled at a retard so much, but he was left with a strange feeling in his stomach. Somewhere in his guts, he felt the fluttering of little feet. Nervously, the frail Indian lifted his shirt and peered at his rib-enhanced chest. It was dark tan, as usual, but something was different. Fred had never had little shrimp swimming out of his belly button. The tiny crustaceans floated lightly into the air and began gnawing at Fred's huge nose.
"That fat retard must've planted spores in me," whined the infuriated Arab.
Fred glanced out of the store. Chelsea stood beside the road waiting for a gap in the speeding traffic monster. Her head spun backwards, and she glared at the unblinking Indonesian. Fred pulled out his gun and shot the retard. She died--fat, red, stinking, and really messy.
"So, like, there was all this smoke coming out of my car, and she says, 'But, we're gonna be late,' and I say, 'Excuse me, but my car's on fire.'"
Has there ever been a time in your life when something extremely bad was happening to you but no one else noticed? Such was the case with my friend Lorne. He was small for a senior, being four feet tall. Actually, that's small for anybody, but that's beside the point. Lorne had a major problem, if you could call it that. Every single girl at the high school wanted to go out with him. Why, I do not know. The guy wasn't that bright, had a huge amount of boils on his left buttock (it was common knowledge--some doctor wrote an article in a medical journal which Lorne liked to show off), and he had the personality of a tree stump. I guess I just felt sorry for him.
There was this one girl, a cheerleader, who really wanted Lorne bad. Her name was Veronica, and she had the kind of body that made teenage boys go into epileptic in an effort to keep their hormones under control. One day Lorne and I were sitting in the cafeteria, snacking on chewy mashed potatoes, when Veronica came over and placed herself next to Lorne, who was leaning to the right on account of the pain from the boils.
"Hi there," Veronica said in an overly-exuberant nice, friendly voice. She was one of those people that you just wanted to vomit on because of their infinite positive attitudes. "How are we today?"
I thought she would make a great kindergarten teacher.
Lorne just sat there, pushing his fork in and out of his mashed potatoes. Trying to get the conversation rolling, I said, "I'm fine." She never even looked at me. Veronica took Lorne's silence as a sign that he was doing okay.
"Well, that's good," Veronica agreed to no one in particular. "Listen, Lorne, would you like to go out Friday night with me? This is the first Friday night I have free after football season, and I want to go do something wild."
Lorne pulled his fork out of the mashed potatoes. A big clod of the white, gooey food stuck to it.
"Wow, that's neat," exclaimed Veronica. "So, are we on for Friday?"
Lorne shrugged. He didn't really care whether or not he went out.
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven o'clock. See ya." Veronica got up and disappeared from the cafeteria.
One thing I forgot to mention about Lorne: he doesn't speak much. Usually, when he does talk, it's primarily in reference to the pain from his boils, such as, "My buttocks!" Of course, this isn't the only thing he says. Sometimes Lorne will say, "My rear end!" or "My ass!" The only word that I ever heard him utter was "salt." Lorne is obsessed with putting salt on everything he eats.
"So, Lorne, are you gonna go out with Veronica?" I asked.
"Man, I don't understand you. Most guys would give anything they owned for a decent shot at her, and you've got her crawling all over you. Don't you find her a little bit attractive?"
Lorne raised his hands in front of his face, palms outward, and squeezed.
"Ah, you like her big hooters," I confirmed. "So, I guess you're gonna go?"
Another shrug was followed by a hesitant nod.
"Wise choice. Otherwise I'd have to knock you back to your senses. Say, if things don't work out, could you put in a good word for me?"
Before Lorne could answer my question, the bell rang. As people began filing out of the cafeteria, someone cruelly pulled Lorne's chair out from under him. He landed with a thud on his left cheek.
"My buttocks!" he yelled, causing hysterical laughter to erupt from the male population in the cafeteria. As always, a massive hoard of girls rushed over to help him back to his feet.
Sure enough, Friday night rolled around at its usual time. I was over at Lorne's house, trying to get him excited about the date. Naturally, his expression never changed once. He was dressed in brown slacks and a tweed jacket. He even had a bow tie to complete his outfit. He looked like... well, he just looked like Lorne should if he was going out on a date.
Before we move on, there's something else I think ought to be mentioned about Lorne. He writes awful poetry. I don't know if this is a cause or effect of his personality, but it's definitely not a good trait. Now, some of you might be thinking that it can't be too bad, so I've decided to include a few samples to prove my point. Also, he only writes poems that are four lines longs and rhyme. Ugh:
To drink wine is to drink me.
To eat caviar is to eat me.
To smell old socks is to smell me.
To hear my voice is to hear myself (that's me!).
Or how about this one:
I loved her once when I was a child.
I loved her twice when I was riled.
I loved her thrice when I was defiled.
I killed her finally with a jar of Pace's mild.
The reason I brought this up is that as I walked into his room, he was sitting at his desk about to write some more of this infernal poetry, if it could be called that. I immediately grabbed the pen and paper from him.
"What the hell do you think you were doing, Lorne?" I loudly asked. "Do you want a nice evening or a girl who thinks you're a dork?"
He shrugged. Dammit, all of this shrugging was getting on my nerves. If Lorne would only raise his hands or even cross himself... the guy never could decide on anything himself.
"Okay, look. Lemme give you a few pointers so you might make some progress with Veronica. First off, none of your poetry. I hope you weren't planning on showing her some of your old stuff."
He lowered his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. When he removed them, they contained pieces of paper with writing on them.
"Put those away," I ordered. He obeyed.
"Listen, Lorne, I'm just trying to help here. I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but she just wouldn't go for that. And secondly, don't bring that goddamn medical journal with you. Nobody wants to hear about how your boils just keep growing back even after they've been lanced and how only a certain type of sheep that lives in some foreign country has ever had this problem besides you. It just won't do any good."
Lorne didn't move. His eyes roamed around the room trying to find something besides me to look at. Not to be fooled, I threw an arm out and reached inside his jacket, finding the medical magazine rolled up in the inner pocket. I took it out and threw it on the desk.
"C'mon, man. You don't need none of that stuff. Just be yourself."
Lorne's eyes grew wide, and he looked up and grinned unevenly at me.
"On second thought, take them with you. Just in case."
Call me nosy. Call me curious. Call me a pervert. So what if I followed Lorne and Veronica on their date? Does it make me such a bad person? Was it that wrong of a thing to do? I don't think so. Anyway, if I didn't, you would never have found out exactly what went on, and I know you are all dying to find out.
I left Lorne's house and hid in the bushes. Veronica drove up in her Plymouth Laser at exactly 7:00. She opened the driver's side door and stepped out, looking as beautiful and radiant as ever in a white blouse and black mini-skirt. Her walk to the front door was too graceful to be real, and it seemed as if she was floating.
Lorne was going to be devastated by the sight of her. I just knew he wouldn't be able to handle it. But hell, that was fine with me, cause if this date didn't pan out, maybe I'd actually get a chance with Veronica. You're probably thinking that I'm not a very nice person, plotting against Lorne to get his girlfriend and spying on him, but that's not true. If I was a truly evil person, I would interfere with their date and try to make it go belly up.
Lorne shyly opened the door when the doorbell rang. He did a double-take at Veronica's outfit and then grinned sheepishly. He raised a hand and pointed to the car.
"Oooh, I like a take-charge kind of guy," Veronica swooned. "Let's go."
Hand in hand, they walked out to the Laser. It was quite a sight, really, to see the stunning Veronica with the tweed-laden Lorne by her side. As they got into the car, I retreated from my hiding place and ran over to my car. I had a Plymouth, too--a Plymouth Fury III, otherwise known as "The Tank." My car could get hit by a tractor-trailer truck, and I wouldn't even know it.
Veronica turned on the engine and smooth pulled away. I did the same thing, except my movement caused a bunch of rattles and pops and other things that don't sound good if you are in a car.
I followed them.
Dr. Stephen Graves side-stepped the disease-laden whore on his way to Silky Buloir's apartment in Harlem. Jonny Klipp, a nervous young buck who ejaculated early, whimpered quietly.
"Why, Johnny, I do believe you're scared." the good doctor said.
"Nay, Graves. I was remembering the time my neighbor contracted the rare strain of whooping gonorrhea. He went insane and shot himself while playing Tony Bennent records and wearing a pink chiffon dress with light blue feather ruffles. I was eight when he died. I remember playing 'Hide-the-Monkey' with my older brother's friend, Kevin, when fat Mr. Spidcock ran from behind his house waving his infected bald-headed buddy and spurting the chunky white at Kevin's naked bum. My father blew the infected tube-steak into the yard of Erma Sweeney, whose dog, Poochlovey, buried the sausage, never to be recovered."
"Poor boy," Graves said. "To see a tally-whacker used in a malicious way..." Graves paused, remembering the day Gary Comshin, a mechanic, threatened a little boy with his greasy dong for a piece of candy.
Graves was interrupted by a black man with a limp. He was a tall man, wearing velour and satin of burgundy, decorated with the cock feather of an ostrich.
"Silky!" exclaimed the good doctor. The two embraced. "What in heavens is wrong, Silky? You look like someone is trying to kill you."
"Stephen," Buloir said, noticing the gleam in Johnny's eye that suggested the power of a bull nestled firmly in the size 30 blue jeans of Johnny Klipp. "Stephen, I'm in trouble. Yesterday I received a shipment of 100 pounds of Brazillian Gold cocaine and a few tablets of LSD from a dealer in Florida. Juan Julio, do you know him? No? He is a flaminco dancer in the Cafe Blue Ball. Famous for subduing maddened boars with his darting penis.
"Anyway, I lost the shipment and am in to Juan for 1.5 million dollars. It's due at four o'clock this afternoon. Can you help me, Graves?"
Stephen Graves took the scared pimp into his arms.
"Yes, my turtle dove, I will help you. After all, you give the best head in the Western world."
"Thank you, Stephen. You shall get my 'Raspberry Lollipop' special." Johnny Klipp had an erection of stone, his pants nearly giving way to his massive wang inside.
"As for you, my young acquaintance," Silky Buloir said, running his hand down the chest of Johnny. "You might get a 'Dreamsicle Twirl' if you behave yourself."
"Silky," Graves interjected, placing his hand firmly on the rock monkey in Johnny's pants. "Where are you supposed to meet this Juan Julio?"
"In Denton--" Silky said, "Southside!"
"Quite," Graves said, noticing that Johnny's love muscle had jismed the cream-honey into his palm.
The two men left Silky to beat the shit out of the whore who Graves had side-stepped. In one of those funny coincidences, she was Silky's ho, and hadn't paid her usual eighty percent to fund Silky's cocaine habit. On top of it all, she had contracted herpes, and gave it to some kid for a nickle and three pennies. Silky beat the shit out of her, screaming "You dirty ho! You stinky ho!" and other phrases. Graves and Johnny began their journey to Denton--Southside! when they were accosted by two young dope sellers.
"Say, Puto, you want some acid? Only, for you, say, six dollar man."
"No, my lice-ridden young friend, I shall pass. You see, when I was in the Amazon with Professor Tea Barnstupple, he got so smashing drunk on rum that his semen-alcohol level was a 50-50 ratio. I massaged his purple-headed warrior until the smooth wiener juice flowed in my mouth. The rum reacted with the come to produce an effect that no hallucinogen has yet to recreate. Tea died in the morning, alcohol poisoning, but at least he died happy."
"You one sick bitch, man," the drug dealer said, pulling out a switchblade. "I think I'll kill you and take your wallet or something."
Stephen Graves lept back and using skilled doctor-like touch, began to rub the python sleeping in Johnny's pants. The mighty dong awoke, and with the graceful rubbing of Graves, issued a bundle of life onto the two men.
"Slide!" commanded Graves, and the two companions jumped onto their bellies and slid like sperm lugers past their assailants, knocking them into puddles of Johnny's spent dong milk. Dr. Stephen Graves and Johnny Klipp stood and hurried off into the direction of Juan Julio, the flaminco dancer.
"Was that true?" asked Klipp. "The semen and rum?"
"Yes," Graves said. "I was on fire that night. Demons burned in my soul, each one sticking a fiery prick up my bottom. My babboon nose sneezed its contents into Tea's ass, making him cry out in drunken agony. It was terrifying and wonderful."
Graves was unable to finish his story, for he was interrupted by the infamous Juan Julio. Julio was a stocky man, his girth belying the fact that he could dance like a three-legged Spanish whore. Graves approached cautiously. His extra-sensitive loop worm told him that a dangerous being lay within the silk panties that Julio wore.
"I am Dr. Stephen Graves, and this is my young companion Johnny Klipp. We are friends of Silky Buloir's."
Juan Julio pulled out a pistol and shot Johnny in his mammoth tusk. Johnny screamed in pain, slumping to the ground. Stephen bent over him. "I guess this means no 'Dreamsicle Twirl'" he said, expiring.
"Tell Silky I do the same thing to him," Juan said.
"No, my drug czar bastard! I will crush you now. You wasted a perfectly good ying-yang. That is intolerable!"
Juan Julio flung off his cape to reveal a dancing dress with lace, ruffles, and star nipple covers.
"Come then" he said. "We dance."
The two men circled each other, each one performing a series of Salsa moves and Chicano flurries. Yet Graves did not know that the panties Juan wore were crotchless, and that years of training on the homosexual isle of Tuwanda had given him the mystical power of elongating and controlling his one-eyed trouser snake. Graves was suddenly caught in the death grip of Juan Julio's magic wand.
"It would appear you've been beaten, you piece of excrement," the drug lord said.
"Nay," Graves said, hoarsely. Using his Transsexual Buddhist Golden Finger Rod Rub, Graves took Juan Julio to the fifth level of ecstasy. The man passed out, his dick recoiling into the three-inch form it had once been. Juan came, a small bead of the pearl-love rolling down his leg and mixing in a puddle of rain water.
"You are now sterile, you bug fucker," Graves sneered.
Later that day Graves was sitting among the leather couch enjoying a bit of marijuana and a "complementary" vial of the cocaine that Juan raised.
"You know, Silky, my cock feels like a mountain."
"Well, then, Graves," the homosexual pimp said. "let me lick that mountain clean.
Each of us has a heaven and a hell in him.
Their strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their plenitude.
The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us.
The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true.
The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
The small biplane skirted onto the runway with tremendous accuracy, which was a feat in itself, seeing as how Dr. Stephen Grave's lascivious dong had so enamored the stout, swarthy, dick-hungry pilot to turn his full attention to the cock only. Dr. Graves had never been to Moracco, and after the lackluster blowjob he had just received from the craft's captain, he questioned the notion of ever returning.
The French Riviera is alive at this time of year, and Graves marveled at the exorbitant amount of people that roamed the streets in this swelteringly smothering heat, as his taxi (such as it was) pulled up to the dormitory that would be his home for the next two weeks.
Dr. Graves, in keeping with the ancient Moraccan tradition of payment for cab fares, proceeded to jack off the driver. The temperature in the automobile rose five degrees before a sweat-laden Pierre de Toir reached a frustrated ejaculation. At which point, Dr. Graves retracted his hand from the dingy and now-stained britches of Mr. de Toir and smeared the warm puddle in his cupped hand onto the face of the cabbie, saying, "A tip for my new chum Pierre. Oh, and do look us up when you're in Southaby-on-Fenwich, old boy."
"The yellow sexwagon zipped away behind Dr. Graves as he read his name on the distinguished speaker board that announced his lecture to the masses that had descended upon the city for the annual Free-Enterprise Taxidermist and Star Trek Convention. Making his way toward the registration desk, Dr. Graves flexed his anal muscles quite readily, sending a ripple of adonic flesh about his trunk area.
When Dr. Graves had signed in, the matron of the dorms had given him several messages, which he now held in his left hand. The lock on his room turned compliantly, and he nudged open the door with his shin. Upon doing so, he burst in on two very old and confused elderly men in janitor uniforms giving each other sponge baths. Graves, half hoping to join in on the aged orgy, unzipped his fly and approached the prunes. The two geezers hoisted their tub in defiance and let in to Dr. Graves.
"Basil and I rarely see each other, what with his new state pension schedule. The state's got 'im on a three day work week now. I'd kindly thank you not to intrude any further on our elicit pecker pow-wows," said one of the skeletons. And, with that, they absconded with their washtub down the hall, their sagging, meatless frames wiggling at every step, bringing Dr. Stephen Graves that much closer to climaxing inside his airy drawers.
Graves turned his attention to the letters he held. Rifling past messages from old acquaintances who were also in town with one-night offers of cheap sex, he came across an unfamiliar handwriting. The note read:
Confirming his worst suspicions,
Graves threw open his attache, revealing at least thirty kilograms of the
drug. He closed the case and slid it under the bed, next to his life-size,
inflatable Ed McMahon doll with two sexual openings.
Dr. Stephen Ezekial Graves, you stupid. You
have taken our briefcase of highly-priced, pure Cantonese marijuana. Please
realize we will do anything within our means to recover it. Translation: you
Dick was tending the bar that night and noticed the name tag Dr. Graves had also received at the registration table.
"What can I do ya for, Doc?" he asked.
"I'd have had you ram your fuzzy love pistol up my ass, but I've just eaten," responded Dr. Graves.
"What does that mean?" questioned Dick puzzlingly as the smile ran away from his face.
"Oh, I dunno chum," said Graves. "What does anything mean anymore? What are we all but names in the little black books of prominent scientists and politicians? I've been used too many times: caught trouncing from bed to bed like a dried out, bagged-up piece of meat; selling myself and my profession short; degrading my family name and chipping away what little self-respect I have."
"Huh?" stammered Dick.
"I'll take a Harvey Wallbanger," answered Dr. Graves. He gulped it down almost before it left Dick's hands. Setting the glass on the counter with purpose, he felt the hard jab of a cold gun in his side.
"Better order another," said a voice. It was Gaylord Wauschman, the owner of Dr. Graves' "accidental inheritance."
"Better stop selling kids these goddamned drugs," said Graves sharply.
"It's all they got to look forward to these days, Graves. Besides, if you hadn't picked up the wrong case at the airport, we wouldn't be having this discussion, and I wouldn't have thrown up when I opened your briefcase and seven plastic dicks fell out," growled an angry Gaylord.
The elevator ride was inconceivably slow this time around.
"You know," said Dr. Graves, slipping his hand familiarly over the mound of cock that had developed in Wauschman's pants, "we needn't be so coarse toward each other."
Wauschman understood completely and slipped out of his pasties and G-string, exploding love juice in the face of a kneeling, waiting, horny Dr. Graves.
"Couldn't you even wait, old bean?" blustered Graves.
"Don't bitch," answered a now-limp Gaylord Wauschman.
The two were standing at the door to Dr. Graves dormitory. Graves eased the key into its proper receptacle, turned it swiftly, and made a "you-enter-first" motion, saying, "After you, good man."
Gaylord Wauschman bowed his head curtly and entered with great show. Dr. Graves shrunk back and cowered outside the door, listening intently.
A scream erupted inside as the two elderly chaps stormed Wauschman with their tub and coldcocked him. Wauschman fell to the floor, babbling something about saving his willy for science. The raisins again tramped down the hall, their mission again thwarted. Dr. Graves watched their shriveled bums disappear down the hall as he came on himself, comfortably resting in safety.
Police sergeant O'Tannen scratched his head, confused, and asked, "I understand how you subdued the cocksucker, but how'd you keep him tied up? He's an animal."
"Well," said Graves, patting his fervent dong, "we have our little secrets, don't we?"
"It's good for you," the man in black said.
"Doctors once thought genital warts were good for you, too. Said it increased one's sex drive. 'Till some bastards prick fell off in a pus-filled stump," I said. Who the hell wanted McDonald's ORANGE drink?
"Look, man, you've been cut by a little shithead kid and nearly smothered by a purple mass of doom. You need a refreshing pick-me-up."
"If this contains arsenic, I'm going to be very pissed off."
I drank very slowly. It tasted a hell of a lot better than I remembered. Something in it made it sustaining. My arm felt better, and my head cleared. I probably didn't have gonorrhea anymore either, because my dick felt great. It was the last time I ever slept with a Portuguese whore, but vodka makes a man do strange things... I felt a hell of a lot better.
"Good shit, huh?"
"Yeah, what's in it?"
"Of course. You see, the original proprietor of Mickey D's developed a nutritious beverage that had unbelievable healing properties. The secret ingredient was 150 proof Spanish rum. But when he was bought out, the drink was pumped full of additives that weakened a person's body. A low-level poison." The man in black pulled me to my feet.
"That's great and everything, but what the hell does that have to do with this shit that just happened?"
"The original founder of McDonald's was a man named Ray Kroc. Eleven months ago he died mysteriously.He was bought out for 2.2 billion dollars, but never was able to cash in the check. My theory is he was done in by the forces of evil. Now, the new owner of McDonald's, the Government of Venus, is out to take over the world."
"Excuse me? Venus owns McDonald's. You're as much a stupid fuck as my brother's friends. Get the hell away from me."
The head corporation for McDonald's was a building in Trenton, New Jersey. I caught the first available flight and arrived around two in the afternoon. My arm was a little sore, but otherwise felt fine. I hadn't slept either, but I felt more vibrant than ever, including the time Janet Greene fucked me for three hours straight. I took a cab.
There was a tour every half hour, so I waited until the 3:00 tour came by. The conductor was a long-legged strumpet with a set of melons that could make a grown man cry. I paid the fourteen bucks to go in and quickly ducked behind a corridor at the first available opportunity.
"Excuse me, sir, you can't be in here unsupervised." Some dumb-ass in a uniform was talking to me.
"Excuse please. I am Greece. Tell where bathroom please?" I said, pulling the shittiest foreign accent I could muster. I bet I sounded Hispanic.
"Oh, uh, yeah. Down this hall, SECOND door on the right," the guard said.
"Thanks please, dumb-ass," I said, running down the hall.
I got in the bathroom and pulled out a small thermos from my backpack. In it was a concoction of ORANGE drink and rum. I figured I was going to need the most energy I could get. I drank. My mental abilities suddenly became alert. The more I drank, the stronger and smarter I became. Now, I had to find the fuck behind Grimace.
I took an elevator to the top floor. Of course there was the matter of security once I got to the CEO's company, but I almost had a plan. The great thing about almost having a plan is that there is little need to worry about whether or not it is going to work, since it's not actually a tangible idea, and there's little need to worry about not having a plan, since you have one. Almost.
The elevator shot me up to the 23rd floor. Almost as soon as the doors opened, a large man accosted me.
"Excuse, please. I am Greece. Where is bathroom?"
"Fuck you, you little shit. I know who you are."
"What?" I said.
"I know who you are. Your little brother was killed a few days ago. You want to speak to Mr. Bredstein. Tough shit, kid."
"Fuck you," I said, throwing a left into the man's testicles. He gagged and passed out. I guess I hit him a little too hard, because the crotch of his pants were soaked with piss, blood, and sperm. I popped his balls.
I took off down the corridor as fast as I could. People I passed began shouting things and I think a couple of them called security. I knew I had only a few minutes before I was arrested, and probably charged with First Degree Malicious Testicle Harm. I had to find the president of McDonald's. Suddenly, there it was. A big oak door with the golden arches on it. I burst inside.
The office was nice for an evil person. Solid mahogany desk, leather chairs. It was kind of dark, but I could make out two figures in the room. One was a man of sixty or so, sitting in his chair, behind his desk, drinking an expresso. The other was Grimace.
"Welcome. I am Emile Bredstein. I trust you know Grimace."
"What the fuck is all of this?"
"Come now. Vulgarity is uncouth. Please, won't you have a seat?"
"Well. I see that you are going to be a rude young man. Fine. Grimace, kill the little shit."
Grimace began to lumber towards me. I was still high on the orange and rum shit I had drank, so I felt pretty confident. But, there was something about the way he came towards me. Something unnerving. I ran towards him and threw all of my strength into a flying elbow on his purple head. We both fell down, Grimace dazed by the force of my blow. I threw fist after fist into his blob body, cracking ribs and bruising organs in the process. Finally, I ripped off his head.
There lay a man, or what was supposed to be a man. His skin was blotty and purple, almost melting off his face.
"What the fuck is this?"
"That, as you so eloquently put it, is Grimace. The original Grimace."
"Why? Why all the shit about Grimace?"
Bredstein pulled out a Smith and Wesson revolver and shot me in the side. I staggered to his desk. He pushed me down into a chair.
"Well, as you'll be dead in a moment, I'll tell you."
But I believe in peace I believe in peace Bitch I believe in peace
I want to kill this waitress I can't believe this violence in mind and is her power all in her club sandwich
I want to kill this killing wish they're too many stars and not enough sky Boys all think she's living kindness ask a fellow waitress ask a fellow waitress
Tom opened the door and the bitter night cold engulfed him. He didn't feel in the mood to debate his mother about going back in, after all, it was her idea. He walked out to the porch swing and sat down in it very calmly. It was a good disguise.
Tom's mother joined him on the swing, turning and giving him a friendly enough smile. She leaned back and breathed deeply until she coughed. After that, there was some silence. Tom looked out nervously into the dimly lit streets, imagining random other mothers and sons having a frank conversation. He calculated that this would be a good time to break the ice.
"So, what do you think about, uh, me smoking?" he asked, glancing only momentarily at her face. She seemed indifferent, maybe even a little content when he looked.
"Well, it's like this, Jack," she said, using the wrong name for no identifiable reason. "A few weeks ago in Ann Lander's column, a mother wrote in, asking about advice whether or not to let her daughter smoke. The daughter had admitted to doing so for a year when she asked her. The mother thought her honesty was good enough reason."
"So, you'll let me--" he interrupted with wild gleeful eyes.
"--And Ann Landers practically screamed and ranted and raved on paper! 'How dare you even think of making such a stupid decision, you crazy single-mother bitch!' -- like me, you see -- 'She'll get sick and die and all! Don't allow her to smoke, because at least when the little slutty smokestack dies, you won't be responsible!' Ooh, you could see her ramming the keyboard with her fists, leaving cartoon-like cussing sequences. $&@^*&*%*$*$^%#, you know."
"Oh,... so you don't want me to," Tom said forlornly.
"Let me tell you a story, okay?" she said. "But first, let's have some smokes together."
"Really?" he asked, feeling a little uneasy about the situation. He lifted the pack of cigarettes out of his grunge metal shirt pocket and the lighter from his pocket. Like a true gentleman, he held the pack out to his mother to let her have her pick. She bowed her head and took one, letting him light it. He felt like he should have been feeling cool, but he felt downright dirty -- lighting his mother's cigarette! It was unspeakable in public.
He fumbled to get a cigarette out the package; he had done easily it so many times before when he was with his friends. His fingers were shaking. He almost dropped the lighter on the ground.
"Are you cold, Jack?" she asked. "You're shivering."
"I'm okay, I'm okay."
She started, "Forty years ago, I hadn't been born yet. Then fifteen years later, I was fifteen. A lot had happened to me. My first time driving a car, my first shot of tequila, my first prom dress; hell, my first good look at an older boy's penis."
"And your first cigarette?" Tom asked.
"Nah, I'd been smoking for years -- it was encouraged in all the good families. No, that was my first pregnancy."
"Whoa. But you're forty. I'm only eighteen," he pointed out. Then he stopped.
"I didn't carry you to term the first time."
"Oh no, no need to be sorry. Lemme tell you what happened."
"Well, you had an abortion, right?"
"Kind of. It was December 10, a night like tonight, in fact. I was in my room, cozied up under the covers in the corner room of the house, where it's the coldest. A window was right behind me. When I was little I used to look out the window at the rest of the neighborhood. It sated my curiosity for hours on end to see people go by. Well, that night it was too overcast to see outside anyway. I was lying in bed, thinking about what I would do that weekend, you see, because I was starting to show. My parents didn't know about it, and of course, they'd never find out, because they were on vacation for a few weeks in Arizona and they left me alone in the house. I didn't want any of my friends to find out so I wanted to keep my pregnancy a secret for as long as possible.
"Soon I ran out of ideas so I decided to abort the thing. I tried jumping up and down on my bed, but it made me nauseated. So I went downstairs and drank a few beers in the kitchen to think it over. There was a lot of time so I drank a few more. After a couple of hours of that, I realized I might as well do the right thing and use a coat hanger. You know, the pop culture endorsed it and all. I went up to the bathroom and took off my clothes and found a hanger. I wasn't exactly sure how it went and I couldn't really get a good angle on the thing so I put one foot up on the counter and looked at myself in the mirror. You wouldn't believe the funny gestures and contortions my face was going through! I started giggling while I wiggled the hanger up my uterus, and soon, I was laughing uncontrollably. I fell backwards but the hanger caught on to the counter and lo and behold, my baby was out! You see, during this time, I saw all the blood dripping on the floor and that make me laugh some more. I walked all the way through the house, downstairs, through six rooms to find something to clean up the mess with, and when I, drunk as I was, got back with a broom in my hand, I lost it. I was cracking up so hard that the bathroom echoed my laughter non-stop. Oh, it was a gas! So, I tried to calm myself down and I did, eventually, after I got the mop and cleaned up the mess. The baby, when I picked it up, had all this crap and blood all over it. But it was the cutest thing! Little ears were forming, and I could make out individual webbed fingers. I went up to my room with it and cradled it in my arms. Before long, my boyfriend showed up at the door. Boy, was I excited! I called for him to come up the stairs and see a surprise. He walked in, all manly, you know, saying, 'What is it, my love? What's the big surprise?' I kept on saying, 'Oh, you'll see. Come on up.'
"He had gotten to the top of the stairs when I announced, 'The baby arrived! The baby arrived!' And of course, he said, 'What baby?' So I threw the thing at him, and it hit his face with a wet, sticky slap. He fell backwards down the stairs, screaming all the while. He was very excited too. Then, I caught him at the bottom as he was trying to crawl away and I shoved the baby in his mouth, holding his nose and yelling, 'Kiss the baby!' I say he was quite upset. He muscled his way out of my house, screaming, and he didn't come back to school anymore."
Tom moaned involuntarily, clutching the side of the swing, feeling ready at the slightest jolt to vomit. "Mom, what does that have to do with cigarette smoking?!"
"Hmmm? Oh, dear, did I tell you the baby story?"
"Yes!" he screamed, spitting out his cigarette weakly, leaving a trail of mucousy spittle on his lips. "And you called me Jack again."
"I never told you about that? Jack, that was my name for the baby. You remind me so much of it."
Tom found it impossible to smoke again.
--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 Purple Flower BBS [(512)327-8431] or The Lions' Den [(512)259-9546]. Thank you. --SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--