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 3/23/94 tahw ro woh gniwonk to think. You are in -tHrEE- ni era uoY .kniht ot a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
It is time once again to feast your eyes upon a new issue of SoB. Yup, we're back for a third helping of your precious time, whether you like it or not. It's been quite a wild time since the last issue came out, what with spring break and all, so just remember that what you are reading was real lucky to make it into your hands.
One correction needs to be made concerning the last issue. DR. GRAVES AND THE BRAZiLiAN GOLD DiNNER PARTY was not written by Griphon. I cut, I paste, I fuck up. John Smith pointed that out to me, and so this is the correction that I promised him, since he did write it. Too bad there aren't any Dr. Graves stories in this issue (I can just hear all of you people crying now.)
The only complaint I have had about putting this thing together is the lack of feedback from the readers, if anybody reads it at all. I'm sure this is due to having to call long distance in order to contact us. Well, now, if you have an Internet account, I can be reached, so that should help up a lot of you. That address can be found at the very end of the magazine. I may be getting our own FTP site set up in the near future. More on that in the next issue.
As for articles, things really got hairy for a while. Seems Griphon had a disk with a bunch of stuff for the magazine, and he stepped on it in the dark, thereby killing four articles that were really good. But we managed to make a comeback, so this issue is still pretty respectable. I guess we're just one unlucky bunch of guys. But, as the old saying goes, "It's not the size of the wave, it's the motion of the ocean."
Nah, it's the size of the wave.
Have fun, and we'll see you in a month.
the Dancing Messiah
Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
High Lord Spam
Nemo Est Sanctus
now doesn't that make you feel better?
the pigs have won tonight
now they can all sleep soundly
and everything is all right
And I say to my people's masters:
Beware of the thing that is coming,
beware of the risen people.
First of all, I suppose it would be best if I should state what I believe a Socialist Democracy to be, so as to differentiate it from the corruptions most often pointed to by anti-Socialists.
By Socialism I mean the money system, not the government system. Often confused with the Communist political system, in reality this is merely the belief that economics should be worked, in the words of Marx, "To each according to his needs, from each according to his abilities." In this way all would get what they need, not what they can pay for, as the Capitalist system now works. This is different from the system used for so long in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Peoples Republic of China for so long in that everyone is given what they need, instead of having everyone given a set allowance for them to work with, giving some more than others according to their work (i.e. politicians naturally get more because they have the power to do it, et cetera).
By a Direct Democracy I mean that acts would be carried out by elected workers as ordered by the People, as opposed to having semi-elected officials tell appointed, and often related, officials what to do as they are told by the bosses and other big-wigs. Thoreau said, in "Civil Disobedience", "'That government is best which governs none at all'", which is true. With the system here proposed everyone would do as they wished as long as it does not inflict on others -- when something did affect others, an election would be held to decide the course of action best for the group, and officials elected for that specific task would carry out the decision of the group. No officials would be elected to rule the People, the People would rule the officials. In each election there would be an extra blank on the secret ballot marked "None of the Above". This would be so that, if the People did not believe in any of the thus far nominated candidates, they could vote for "None of the Above", and, if this was the majority, a new election would be held with all new candidates. No more of choosing the lesser of two evils.
The main problem with government now is, as H. P. Lovecraft, who in the later years of his life was a Socialist, pointed out, those who turn their attention to helping the group, through public service or art or any other vocation, are not rewarded, those who turn their attentions to personal gain being those who profit. With this double-standard none but those with no morals are rewarded.
A semi-recent news report which I have before me now ("Report: World Tightens Its Belt as Population Grows", Prodigy Interactive Personal Service, 7/18/93) states that, if the world's fish, meat, and grain were divided up equally to all People of all nations, each person would have less than they did four years ago. This is supposedly due not only to population growth, but also because less food is being produced than was then. World grain production per person has dropped eight-percent since 1984. This is primarily because more People are working in offices making useless gadgets than are producing foods. Don't you think those chemical- and nuclear-weapon plants would be better used trying to find ways to produce more food without poisoning the environment? The land now being torn up in strip-mining for gravel to make pretty driveways and gold to make nifty little trinkets and other useless things would be better used for farming, don't you think?
Confucius said that a perfect country would need three things: A strong army, enough food for all, and the support of the People. If one of these things had to go, it would have to be the strong army, for without enough food for all and the support of the People a government would fall. If one of the two remaining had to go it would have to be the food, for it is far better for all to starve than to be without the support of the People. Under a Socialist Democracy all these would need to be, and would be able to be. For one, People would most likely support a government which they themselves ran, and in which they had an equal share of the power and were given "To each according to his needs". In a Socialism, a true Socialism, all would get their share of the food. And, with the support of the People, a Citizen's Militia or Army, similar to that of James Connolly in early-20th century Ireland, would be formed to protect the People from any who tried to suppress it. It would be the duty of any Citizen, man or woman, to destroy any threat to such a government.
In a Socialism there would be a great decrease in corruption, the plague on all present government, due to the fact that all would be getting what they needed. The reason corruption set in in Russia is because Lenin died while the country was still in the provisional government stage, and Stalin -- an assumed name, Russian for Steel -- took control. In the beginning of government -- of any government -- a strong provisional government needs to form. The task of this government will be to oversee the conversion from the previous government system into the new one. If this provisional government were to become corrupt, the People would do away with it, as it would necessary for all People to be allowed to own guns, to form a Militia to protect the Rights of All People -- by blood-shed if necessary. If some were to not own guns -- for religious, among other reasons -- they would not be forced to, and those willing to fight for their Rights would protect those who would not, as it is a basic Right of humanity to choose one's own path, while those with courage fight for the Rights of all. If avarice can be avoided, then a provisional government will be able to perform the transition from one government system to the other.
In short, what the world needs most is a push in the right direction. Such a push was recently given in Mexico with the peasant uprising, which forced the government to pay attention for once. But the governments are slow, and several even bigger pushes are needed. Thomas Paine said, in The Rights of Man, "When it becomes necessary to do a thing, the whole heart and soul should go into the measure, or not attempt it." This is true. A blood sacrifice is needed for Liberty. A few brave men and women in arms, ready to give their lives for those of others, need to step forward and give the government its medicine. The most patriotic thing a person can do is strive to do away with an oppressive government, one that exploits its own People and the People of other nations. As Padraic Pearse said, at the funeral of the Fenian Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, "Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations."
Another damned clean sheet of paper. I hate clean sheets of paper. They have no personality, so the first thing you have to do is write some stupid cal like this at the top just so you're brain will work. It's impossible to think for blank space. Sometimes I so despise the idea of a new sheet that I'll cram one piece till it's illegible. That's what this is, actually. This article. It's the compilation of some lame brainstorming I've had that's all been put down on scraps of pages that I fold up and keep in me back pocket. (So what you're reading came freshly from my ass.)
The best thing to write on, of course, is a manilla folder. Use only pencil. That way everything rubs off as you throw the folder around, and you just re-darken the stuff you like. Yeah, manilla folders are great for writing on. They can't hold paper worth a damn, but they're a wonderful medium. Of course, you can't fold one up small enough to put in your back pocket (unless you want people to think you've got boils on your left buttock), but you can't have it all, you stupid bastard. [Ed. note--notice the sly reference to my story in Issue 2. I didn't think anybody would read the thing.]
School. School is an odd thing. For seven hours a day, five days a week, I am ordered by law to sit and look at girls. Well, alright--the law doesn't mention the girls, really, but what am I supposed to do? Listen to my English teacher, I take it. If I did that, I'd never do this. And why do I do this? God knows or Nietzsche does. No, I know why I do this. It's not for your benefit. If you get anything out of it, so much the better (and god help you especially if you've been reading that perverted but somehow likeable stuff about Dr. Graves.)
Nay, the reason I write this is because I'm fucking tired of writing to please someone else. I want to put down a few thoughts for the simple reason that I want to put them down. Not for a grade. Not for my SAT. Not for a survey. I'm tired as hell of being given a topic like why flamingos copulate in Coolridge's backyard. I don't care a goat's bladder nor a dingo's kidney what a bunch of birds want to do on their spare time. For Christ's sake! I had points taken off of a poem that I wrote in class because it was AMBiGUOUS and had not TiTLE. Now fuck me through the ear if I'm wrong, but don't most of the good poems take a bit of thinking to figure out? If I wanted to give a concise, clear look at the PHYSiCAL OBJECT that the poem centered on, I would have written an essay. If you want to degrade my poetry because they're shallow or they lack un-cheesiness, go ahead. I'll help you. But lack of a title...?
When I go to school next year and they tell me to write about something, do you know what I'm going to do? That's right. I'm going to do exactly what they want. I'm going to suck up for the grade. If you think I won't, just watch. I'll suck up for the grade, suck up for the job, the raise, the loan, all of it. That's what society demands, that you give up your principles or starve. You're a hypocrite if you go along with it, and you're stupid if you don't.
Censorship. Helluva topic. Constantly changes meaning. The one thing that everyone agrees on is that they don't want it. That's what they say, anyhow. Me, for instance. I don't want any asshole censoring this fucking zine, cause if they did I couldn't have damn well written this sentence. However, if (by some miracle), a bill were proposed to ban country music from the airways, I'd be all for it. It comes down, in my feeble opinion, to our basic greed. The greed that makes us die for oil and our own way of thinking; kill to make us feel safe; rape, murder, anything. But on the other hand, why not? Because we all want to draw the line somewhere without calling it censorship. I believe no music should be constrained. Rap, country, and Mariah Carey can be banned for all I care because I don't consider any of that "noise" music. But, of course, my method only works if I'm in power, and unless we talk about my car, I'm not. Even then, Michael Bolton and other such nonsense can get at me as I switch the dial. So now that I realize my double standard, I'm in fear. Why? Because the people who are in power see my music as senseless noise and my way of thing as unchristian. Poor me. What if those in power decide to do away with rock 'n roll because it's Satanic? I'd scream, "First Amendment" at the top of my lungs. True, I don't want 2 Live Crew to sing, but if I want Ozzy to get off of his charges of inticing children "to sleep, perchance to dream," then I must also stand up and say that listening to "Cop Killer" is not an excuse to blow a man away.
Thus is born PCism. The belief that everyone is entitled to a fair share, and that the law must make sure they get it. Whoever says he does not have a double standard is a hypocrite.
Endings. Easiest thing in the world. Especially if I don't give a damn about you, and, my dear beloved readers, I don't even know who you are. So, in light of the fact that we have no relationship, I leave you with a bit of poetry. Not particularly good poetry, mind you, but it made me smile to write the first and to read the second. Besides, what are you gonna do? Tell me not to show it to you? To that I give grazney shooms of lip-music, Brrr!
Tossed lightly upon page and hastily wrought
I in a moment's thought may sign away my life.
In truth it is a powerful omen
which holds my life in it's scratchy lines.
Such thoughtless promise it holds.
It must be the most hidden power of my life
but it still won't get me laid.
And now, for the second one...
Americans eat oysters but not snails.
The French eat snails but not locusts.
The Zulus eat locusts but not fish.
The Jews eat fish but not pork.
The Hindus eat pork but not beef
The Russians eat beef but not snakes.
The Chinese eat snakes but not people.
The Jale of New Guinea find people delicious.
So you begin your life in this barren desert of a state, or in what you thought was a barren desert of a state but really in actuality it wasn't even remotely close to being the big sandy windy tumbleweed infested ghost town that your acquaintances at the time told you it was, and everything is completely slapped and twisted around because of it -- your existence in this not-so-barren state, that is. You wander around and trip and fall even though you walk with your head down staring at God-knows-what -- even though you have decided that this God thing is completely a rumor -- while at the same time running into things and locking yourself in dark sweaty moldy closets with a single bare light bulb that, when you flip the switch, doesn't work at all -- it is only there to piss you off.
And you continue to do this for three years of your life -- three consecutive years watching the grapefruits rot around you, watching the black stains magically appear in your once dreamy beige carpeting, sifting through piles of melted pink shit too dig out a quarter so you can afford another pack of cigarettes. That is what you do, and goddamnit -- you have decided by now to never capitalize the word god -- you enjoy doing it. You enjoy living in this unidentified muck.
But then the muck gets muckier when one of the two apelike creatures who roam around your house decides to go visit a zoo in the Everglades and never come back, because it found a really super fucking awesome parrot named after some city totally run by money. You think to yourself, "What a poor choice of nameage," not realizing that the muckier muck is about to get mucked up when you start indulging your mind into the wonderful world of mindless research about mindless things. You pull countless tricks out of your hat with the words Happily Done By The U.S. Government tattooed all over them, and at first it makes you laugh and giggle and smirk in amazement but then the laugh turns to gasps and the giggles turn to screams and the smirks turn to tears just because you see one simple three minute broadcast on television about yet another U.F.O. incident -- so you just sit on the edge of your bed and weep for all mankind.
By now, another two years have passed and you have come to the complete and utter conclusion that your life is nothing but a large blobular mass of maggot infested lard left in a car for a month in 120 degree weather and that's all there is to it. Day after day after minute after minute goes by until one day you are walking once again with your head down minding your own god-knows-what and a voice comes from behind you and sweeps by you -- because you either walk much slower or much faster than everyone else, and this time you were walking much slower -- and this voice, when formulated into some insanely idiotic language called English, says hello. You wonder and ponder about who the hell in their right mind would ever say hello to such a repulsively looking guy like me, all the while turning your head to perhaps catch a glimpse of who the originator of the noise was, and who do you see? A female. A rather attractive thin female with light blonde hair flowing to the small in her back and tranquil blue eyes that grab your own eyes and an innocent smile revealing braces that didn't hinder the beauty at all, who just happens to be the girlfriend of just about the only person you really talk to.
So you manage a slight smile and both of you walk on.
Little did you know or perhaps even think at any point in time that you would both, after a year of helping her get over him, fall in love with each other -- after becoming best friends. Little did you know or perhaps think at any point in time that she would simply materialize into your life and grab a hold of your arm and tear you from the mucked up muckier muck onto dry sweet warm sand where she continued to carefully gracefully softly clean every little bit of muck from you body with her own two hands -- even behind you ears -- and save your very own life from the unhealthy connotation of the muck. Little did you know or perhaps even think at any point in time that after two years of being extremely close honest best friends that she would jump in front of you one day after smoking a cigarette in the center of the road and kiss you so deeply and beautifully on the lips that it stunned the hell out of you and left you in a daze for the next hour; not only that but you also dropped your cigarette -- that is power. Little did you know or perhaps even think at any point in time that over the next few months your friendship would evolve into something more than just friends, and that she, this beautiful once lost innocent soul, would pick you out of all the people she has seen in her life to be the one able to spend undescribably joyous times with her.
So now here you are saved from your own pathetic existence by a glorious woman, however predictable or clicheish that may be, and you now walk with your head up because you want to catch some of the glow that radiates from her face and smell the scent of roses that always seemed to somehow rise from her body and smell the scent of Head and Shoulder that she used to wash her overpowering hair and feel the energy being transferred between the two of you when you would stare into the eyes of one another. You even capitalized the word God for awhile, because you decided you had respect for religion although you did not agree with it at all -- of course, that was silly of you.
I need you to feel this.
Then you are humming sweet nothings to yourself and feel this sharp ripping in your chest and see that a hole had been scraped through your skin and tendons and muscles and sternum into your heart and then out the other side, so you look behind you and see a large meaty chunk of your once spotless fulfilled heart squirming on the ground as it gets run over by all the passers-by and motorcycles and semi-trucks and pickup trucks and jeeps. So you close your eyes and wonder to yourself just what the hell caused a chuck of your heart to end up on the pavement like that. And after several weeks of flat unconscious denial you finally get it through that thick skull that you no longer have that glorious woman -- that for some unknown unseen unpredictable reason she decided that she wanted no more of you and that nothing was working out and that you were fighting too much and that she was unhappy and you were unhappy and that there was no way to fix it so she is giving up. And after thirty minutes of doing nothing but chain-smoking, drinking a stolen beer, and feeling the warm salty feeling of those little drops called tears just stream down your face you jump out your window and crawl down a strip of concrete, then wade through a jungle of weeds until you reach the closest civilization and run up to the back door of this guy you know and dump all your woes and worries and losses on him and getting him as lost and wet as you are.
And all that just happened in the last year of existence, so by now you have decided that God is not God and not even god -- you are god -- and of course you tell others that you are god every once in a while but they don't believe you because when you say it you sound like you are not serious but you know you are serious. And then one other day you decide that you are immortal because you are god after all and you can do any fucking thing you want to do as long as you actually believed you can do it. And you prance and dance and slip some more while you walk around with your head bobbing up and down next to a girl who used to be your glorious woman but who is now only your friend, atleast for right now, and you have decided that life is not that bad or that it is really bad but who really cares because you are immortal and you are god so everyone else can cringe and laugh and piss and say whatever they please.
And then a couple of days before some unknown entity who just happens to look act and feel exactly like you decides to sit down and type and type and type with his tongue about nothing but the thoughts that parade and slip and scrape through his head, you decide that you still have hope that this girl next to you will become your glorious woman again. So you approach this girl and place your hands so gently against your face and tell her that you are not giving up, but you are so sorry for all the unhappiness that has occurred because of certain things, and that all you want is for her to be happy so you tell her to be happy -- even though to the common man it sounds like a line of complete bullshit, but you are god and you know that you actually mean it -- and she smiles and says she really appreciates that. So now you are still friends but good friends and on friendly terms and in decent moods and not dragging yourselves around and yelling and screaming at nothing for no reason to vent anger and frustration and hurt while this hope, this little golden glow sits in the back of your head and still unhealed heart, hoping that you will someday soon you will be able to feel her lips against yours and be able to wrap your arms around her and feel complete comfort and safety because you are protected by each other because you are bathed in the most beautiful valuable vital thing that anyone could ever get the luck of finding.
And now here you stand.
I weep because I know you speak the truth. My heart wails in utter hopelessness. I realize in despair that indeed everything must come to an end as it always has, and I despise having to bear this horrid truth. Even the passion I am experiencing at this critical moment will eventually diminish, and it fills me with a sense of abandonment.
I fear that when you are gone, I will never again be fulfilled, not even by my emotions, for they can end as well. Ansat, you are my definition of perfection. When we must depart, it will be with the knowledge that I am leaving something that can never be felt again or replaced by something better. I must either face numbness or allow the "leaches" to feast relentlessly while exposing me to fathomless depths of sorrow. And even in the last situation, the leaches would probably burst and my precious sorrow would leave me just like everything else. Oh, Ansat, all seems so hopeless and unstable! I agree that it would be a shame to confine something as beautifully intense and free as fire, but the thought of existing without you sends me into a frenzy (although I now know it is unavoidable).
Well, my earlier passion and tear drops have ceased, just as I predicted. To go on writing would only cause repetition. I am not a master of words (spoken or written), and perhaps words are not the best way for me to express to you what I am feeling/thinking. I hope my attempt is not completely unsuccessful. I felt a burning sensation in my chest when I read "All I'd Say if I But Had the Words," and the need to respond became unbearable. Thank you for sharing such private thoughts with me. I love you.
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven.
For nothing hidden will not become manifest,
and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered."
A good friend once told me that the thing about girls is that they don't know what they want, and they need a guy to tell them. I told him that he was part right, women don't know what they want, but that guys don't, either. Anyone who doesn't understand this will spend his whole life getting something from someone and being eternally dissatisfied because of their success. You may get her body, but you may lose their love and trust. You may get her virginity, but you've lost her innocence. The one truest lesson any magus may teach a striving adept (as if they ever listen -- I never did) is that YOU GET WHAT YOU ASK FOR! You will get it, but you will not enjoy it. Remember that Solomon asked for wisdom, and wisdom he received. He received the knowledge of his true will. The will of the magus is the will of the universe, but many a magus is scarred because he got his will. Beware.
Another friend recounted to me an S and M experience. He told me that it was painful, but still enjoyable. He said he enjoyed it, but, in a particularly insightful statement, that the enjoyment was not "sexual". In our world, the chief sensual experience is said to be sex, but, in truth, any sensual experience may equal or surpass simple intercourse. A vampire of my acquaintance told me that to drink another's blood is the most incredibly sensual experience he had had. Why? In our world, the standard is sex, and sex is demeaned. True sensuality is a purer path than the sacrament of vitamin A. Sensuality may open paths the brain had believed blocked, and pain is one of the most sensual experiences possible. Orgasm may be, too, but the modern "orgasm" tends to follow the pattern warned in the psychological texts on sexuality of the Kinsley era. A nymphomaniac has never had an orgasm, and flits from partner to partner seeking satiation. A "frigid" woman has never had an orgasm, and seeks failure. A "normal" woman may believe she has had an orgasm, and may simply believe sex to be underrated. It is not, it is simply not understood. We expect sex to be a sensation of satiation in the senses, yet sanitize our sensibility from submission. Sex must reach the little death of orgasm, where the I dies, and the psyche flees up to the heaven of release, and, in the mystic ethers, enters a spiritual union with the soul of the woman with whom you are embraced. Pain and drugs can also free the psyche from the "sex of the mind" (D.H. Laurence, I believe), and vampirism can unify the souls in a fluidic flux of the "embrace." Orgasm, in its pure, almost asexual state may achieve the same goal, and it is the true goal of shamanism. The will of the magus is the will of the universe because the magus must realize the microcosm that is his soul, and, in such realization, discover himself to be a smaller crystal of the universe's will. Only by joining the crystals may we see the structure that is GOD.
I saw a pre-sunrise sky today, as I stood outside A--'s house, and I must say that it was incredibly beautiful. I got home before the sun itself rose, and even through the window it was painful to look at, but the sky was beautiful. Simply indescribably beautiful in its bouquet of reds and roses and purples. It is a pity that the sun itself has to ruin the effect.
This is one of the beauties I would not have taken time to notice if not for A--. I wish it was in my nature to thank her. I wish it was in my nature to tell her a lot of things, like I think I love her, but, as the song goes, every time I try to tell her, the words just come out wrong, but it is not in my nature to say I love her in a song. Just in my damn diary. Maybe I can write a sappy, idyllic poem.
But no! There is no place in this world for romantic sentimentalism. A sensualist is not wanted here. I could just spend hours gazing on her body, but that would be wrong. She is not an object, as exquisite an object de art she would be. Sorry, I am braiding my train tracks of thought once more. I will extricate the second first, before it is too far gone.
A-- truly is beautiful, as G-- dramatically testified, but my moral system wants to close its eyes to the fact. I love to look at her, to feel her touch, and have her feel mine. I would love to go shopping at one of the posh shops at the Arboretum that M--- and G-- and I walked past today, even though I could probably not get in, let alone have the money to legally get the dresses out, just because I appreciate women's fashions, and the sensual, though not necessarily sexual, aesthetic beauty inherent within, and because I could appreciate the view of seeing A-- try them on. Society would call me a deviant. Hate me hurt me beat me kill me, I am one. I am a sensualist, a romantic, in a world that was so dazzled by the enlightenment that it allowed its beauty to be lost in the garish fluorescent lights. We in the shadows hide from the light, but because the shadow of deception makes all so much more beautiful than the light of knowledge. Paul warned to worship the creator, not the creation, much as Philo did. Our society's disorganized technocracy based on the worship of the hierarchy into which they chain themselves is the most abhorrent abhorrence imaginable.
There is nothing the society hates more than its Artists, for it shows how unfeeling the rest have become.
To revive a past topic, because my words went away from my will, I believe pain to be every bit as erotic as sexual contact. Of course, society tells us pain is bad, because pain tells us we are being hurt. When we realize that pain is not always a necessary alarm, we may feel it as a sensation, not an alert. I think it is every bit as beautiful that I can feel pain as that I can feel pleasure. As Crowley says in one of Robert Anton Wilson's texts, all sensation is simply filtered through the brain, so why should it not register as beautiful. I can feel! I have life! This should be all the feeling we humans notice. Why do we hide behind our masques of how our "pain" connections warn us that we are being "hurt". A lover would not hurt you, and you must trust or you will hurt yourself more. You will suffocate and die as your blood turns to poison and kills every tissue of your being.
Well, I've written too much once again, and I think I shall end now. I am just making myself as depressed as I can get, being with A--, even if it is only in memory and in hopes. I am always on the edge of believing she will decide I'm too weird, or too scary, or I hurt her too much, or whatever, and what I have will be gone. My self hatred is only surpassed by my expectations of how much others must hate me.
I know myself too well. I need separate vacations, before I drive all of me crazy.
Did you ever think about how you would choose to die? Not in one of those "I'd like to die old" or "I'd like to die in bed with a woman" kind of things where you act like you can control synchronicity, but, should you choose to snuff it, how would you choose to do it? I do.
First off, I'd use poison. I wouldn't use the kind of poison that fails more often than not and are used to get attention, of course, and I wouldn't use depressants. I'd look for something that would burst my heart, like cooking up some of that speed I've got a file on. I'd conceal it in something and bring it out with my friends, maybe even to someplace simple like Jim's or something where they are used to seeing my popping pills and guzzling caffeine. I wouldn't want to worry anybody. Sometime during the evening, I'd just take all the poison in a megadose. If the people around look like they might stop me that night, I'd excuse myself to the bathrooms and take it there, but then I'd go back with my friends.
What better dream can you have than to die in the company of friends?
Not too long ago, in a not too distant place, a man called Socrates spewed forth a theory from his upper-level conscious which stated simply that the soul is immortal. He demonstrated this by taking a simple, uneducated slave boy, and had the boy develop by himself a standard geometrical principle just by drawing a diagram and asking the boy questions. From this, he stated that if the boy could tell him the principle without any prior known education in this lifetime, then he must have contained the knowledge somehow. How? Well, he wasn't educated in this lifetime. Perhaps he was educated in another lifetime, and the knowledge was recalled through the stirring of his memory by asking him questions. Therefore, the soul contains all knowledge and is passed over from one lifetime to another. Therefore, the soul is immortal.
I agree with the man.
(Of course, you say "Heh! Who cares whether you agree or not? You are only Clockwork, a mere mortal, and this is Socrates the Great. How can you not agree with this man's words?)
I can disagree with any man's words, no matter who he is or what it is about, rather easily. And do not doubt the common man, for there is no common man. And do not doubt me, for many a times I have stolen the words straight from those great artists' heads, sometimes before they had spoken it, most of the time without me knowing they had spoken it. I am a man of my own. I do not allow others to implant thoughts or ideas for me to believe. Besides, I -- and several people I know -- believe I am immortal. So, ha.
But, really. Let me toss a few questions into the general air of the audience for you to grasp and attempt to answer as you wish...
How do we learn? What exactly happens when someone teaches you something? Do you remember what you have been taught in the far past, or do you just imitate what was recently taught to you? How are we able to translate another's movements into our own? In fact, how do we learn how to move at all?
Consider, please: we contain all knowledge already, we just have to access it.
How do we know what to say or do? How do we make decisions? Have we ever been taught how to make decisions?
HOW DO WE LEARN EMOTiONS?
Is a new-born child taught when something is wrong to cry? Or are they taught how to breathe? Perhaps those are recalled -- those basic "needs" of life -- 'Hey, I am alive now and there's something I have to do. What is it? Oh, yes, of course. Breathe.'
How do we learn to fear? Why do children fear things? They aren't taught to fear the Santa Claus in the mall, are they? And yet they fear sitting on his lap, or even going close to the guy. Why do they fear the dog? Why do they fear the cat?
You might say they don't know what is it. But then, why aren't they afraid of their parents? Or food? Or the wall or couch? There is no one saying to them, 'Alright, kid, you are about to be born, so those are your parents and don't be scared of them, because their cool.'
Of course, it could be yourself telling yourself that.
Love is a lover's hands
Around your neck.
Love is the press against your windpipe.
Love is the loss of air.
Love is the knowledge that you could be killed
-- and the trust that you will live.
Love is the release of placing your life in another's hands without fear.
Love is the snap of your neck,
the mercy of death in a moment of trust.
Notes of new float down
as she lays in slumber's way,
lost in ancient times and colors past
without a whim to breathe.
From a distance not too far
a lone shadow watches over her,
causing Harm to cringe and flee.
For with each look and soft sigh
is wielded a beauty
held only for the dreaming one.
And after that which crouches round her
is swept aside by him,
the watcher looks once more,
through eyes of teary gray,
at the soul he holds closest
to his own.
I look down at her, a little rivulet of blood drips from her, a beautiful
I gently lap up some of the blood, another hot iron between us, my tongue
wandering across her immaculate flesh.
I guiltily feel a twinge at the bleeding hole -- my fault -- where none should
be. Not in one so young.
A confession -- told in all innocence.
A confession -- revealed in a moment of passion.
A confession -- taken so harshly.
-- why should it matter?
I place the barrel between my lips and gaze down at the rosette between her
breasts which it and I had opened.
I smell the acrid stench of powder, still wafting from the pistol and up to my
I smell the acrid stench of burnt flesh as the barrel singes my lips, but I
accept its justice. She had not the choice.
What the hell.
What I loved was her innocence.
What I loved was already dead.
I could not be there for her at birth -- no one's fault.
I could not be there for her deflowering -- her fault.
Our blood shall run together in death.
on the pavement
with cracking bones.
I shove my fist
into a pocket,
the keys metallic and cold.
Wrought with suffering,
their eyes reflect
the horrible loss of soul
that has stalked the black
hearts of mortals
since the invention of language.
My steps become uneven,
faltering along the
sidewalk. Who can save me?
She listlessly limps
towards my crouched body.
Rotting hands grasp at the lapels
on my jacket. "Do you
see the Queen of The Dead?"
Eyes of ivory betray.
The shell I inhabit
slowly withers away
and ceases to be.
They surround the lifeless
husk. I sense
their baneful presence.
I possess the knowledge
Cannot they accept their fate?
The sky's hue diminishes
Lips move in unison,
chanting the forbidden phrase
that harvests my existence.
SAYS "Do moRe DrUgs!
Drugs Drugs Drugs Drugs,
Drugs DRuGs drugs DRUGS!
Drugs Drugs Drugs DRUGS
DRUGS Drugs DrUgs Drugs!
I LIKE 'EM!
I LUB EM!
YOU WaNt More UB 'EM!
TOKE 'EM UP UP UP
TOKE 'EM UP! Meow!
You're how old?!
Drop a Hit! Hit! hIT!
Holy Shit! Shit! shit!
I'm A STONED IMACULAtE
KITty And Man Am I FuCkInG Stoned!"
Ra Ra Ra!
Drop A Hit!
Trip A Bit!
Caw! Caw! Caw!
I'M A CROW, A CROW!
Cuz God Saiz SO!
Not A Kitty,
But A Bird Tripping Hard Core In A Kitty Cat Skin.
Late at Night,
As I Walk those Ancient, Misty Streets,
They Watch me.
They do not reveal any trace that They are there,
Just a glimpse of Something as I turn sharply,
A Dark Shadow moving ever so slightly.
I have long since ceased to Fear Them,
As they have been my constant Companions these Dark, Lonely Nights.
They simply Watch and Wait,
For They Know The Time Will Come.
This little piece of twisted metal,
bent several times into a clump with ends,
used to rest calmly on my fourth finger.
Now there is a naked hole where it once was.
What used to be the symbol for my heart
is now used to mindlessly scratch and scratch
the table top,
right after it scratched my hand.
Dreams and thoughts and feelings and smiles
have been bent and distorted,
and will soon be dropped beside the curb,
to rust and be washed away,
down that storm grate right over there.
But that naked hole --
that will stay.
A Light where none should have been!
Amidst the bracken of that Poisoned Glen
I saw It, Burning with the Unhealthy Light of Aeons Undying --
A Light where none should have been!
Amongst the Trees through which no wind blows,
In that Valley which no sane eyes must look upon --
A Light where none should have been!
And of what Evils that lurk There I must not tell,
Such Evils which no man must know --
A Light where none should have been!
For such Things do exist at the Boarders of That Which Man Knows,
And in those Regions which are seen not but in Dream --
A Light where none should have been!
a new renaissance has arisen from the ashes of the old
the players toil in dank shadows
screaming voices fall on deaf ears
their words, raw and unfiltered
they aim to tell the blatant truth
no euphemisms, no political correctness
life is the topic of discussion
and anything in it is for public display
some condemn them for being too truthful
they say innocence should be revered, not discarded
these innovators of a new information age
perceive knowledge as being free and unbridled
from selfish interests and the minority who rules the majority
laboring under the scrutiny of searching eyes
pens concealed under heavy jackets like lethal weapons
hidden beneath the surface of mainstream culture
the cries for a new order are never heard
yet their effect reverberates in every circle
"This tastes funny," he says.
"How bout I cut off your hand, fry it up and slap it between two bread slices. How would that taste?"
slide the knot around over under and through and swing swing up and down around around down and up over the limbs and through the leaves to the blue white painting painted with sweet breath that streaks through your hair flopping and flapping with each up and down around around down and up by the back and forth of your legs and feet and head and chest and push and pull forward and back and touch the painting with your toes down down and miss the ground and up up and touch the painting with your back down and up and down and back and forward and back to where you started from
My name is Driskell. I'm a dick. A private dick, with few friends. Why so few friends? Like I said, I'm a dick. Being a dick makes it hard to get friends, especially when you're a real dick. I take being a dick very seriously. I'm the best dick I know. Anyway, let me tell you about this case I had the other day. I call it "The Case of the Howling Monkey."
This broad walked into my office sipping on a black cup of coffee and swinging her buns this way and that.
"Cinnamon bun?" she asked.
"No. What can I do for you, Toots?"
"How did you know my name was Toots?" she asked.
"That's what a dick calls every girl with a name tag with the name 'Toots' on it," I said. The name tag was from a dive in the lower part of town, East Rec Swimming Facilities.
"Oh. Well yes, Mr. Driskell, you can do something for me. I need a monkey."
"The pet store's down the street, kid. If that won't do, I know a guy who needs some money really bad. He wouldn't mind letting you see his--"
"No, no. You don't understand. I need a golden monkey."
"Well, he's tanned. I don't know if he's tan everywhere--"
"No, no, no. A statue, Mr. Driskell. A statue of a golden monkey howling."
"Oh. Gotcha. Well, I can help you. Was it stolen?"
"Yes. A burgler broke in last night."
"A burger. Hmmm. That's why I eat only hot dogs. Something not right about cow flesh being eaten. Cow spirit comes back and haunts you. No, I don't think I can help you. I'm not much of a sorcerer."
"Burgler. Not burger, you twit. Burger. One who burgles."
"Burgler? Oh, I thought... nevermind. I can help you find your monkey, ma'am."
"There's one more thing."
"I think it was another private eye."
"A dick took your monkey?"
"Yes, and he left this bone where I hid the monkey."
"And where was that?"
"In my pussy."
"My stuffed cat, Iris."
"Yes. You see, I woke up this morning and went to get Iris and the monkey when I saw that Iris had a bone where her monkey had been."
"Was Iris smiling?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, seeing as how the burgler boned your pussy, I should like to know whether your pussy enjoyed it."
"No, she didn't. The bone was too big and stretched her out. I had to plug her up this morning so she wouldn't leak all over the place."
"That was sensible. Do you have any idea who the dick that boned your pussy was?"
"I think it was Fred Gunther."
Fred Gunther was a small dick who took small-time divorce/cheating/spying cases. He was a stupid dick, and I often wanted to choke his chicken. I hated his chicken. "Best meat this side of the state," he'd say. To me, it was a waste of feathers. Somebody choked his chicken, though. It spurted out white crap all over the office. Gunther got real excited. started breathing hard when he heard about it. Stupid dick.
Anyway, I took the case. The first place I thought I'd look would be the office of Gunther, near the bay. Our city was the regular type of city where a dick like me lived. Kind of like New York, they have a lot of dicks living there. Or San Francisco, where dicks are really loved. Ours was a bit of both. A few dicks, and a few men who loved dicks. I loved dicks, and I loved being a dick.
Fred Gunther was a man of little prominence and less of a soul. When I walked into his office, he was smoking a Cuban cigar and sipping on a glass of white wine mixed with a little grenadine. He offered me a seat.
"No thanks," I said. "This will only take a minute."
"That is what I say to my wife. She always makes it last longer, though. Please, come closer."
"Does she tell you that, too?"
"Nevermind. Listen, I came to see a man about a monkey."
"What kind of money?"
"A gold monkey. Used to be in a pussy named Iris."
"I'm sorry, Driskell. I don't know know anything about monkeys or pussies."
"Your father never had that talk with you?"
"Not important. I got a tip that you know where that monkey is. You better come clean, boy."
"Are you threatening me? You know what they say about a man that threatens others..."
"Yeah, I know. And I'm telling you that I developed slow. It's not the size, its how you use--"
Gunshots poured through the window like rain, except these were bullets of hot lead that could kill, not drops of water that inspired musicals. I rolled under the mahogany desk of Fred Gunther and drew my pecker, a small .38 caliber pistol. A local women's group sued me for pulling out my pecker in public. Said it warped their daughters' minds. I told them I rarely used it, but they told me I only displayed for a shock value and called me a flasher. I told them I was a dick. Anyway, I pulled out my pecker and told Fred to get under the desk with me. He didn't answer. I grabbed his jewels and pulled them under the desk with me. Two rings, a pearl necklace, and a brooch. He had some great jewels, but no monkey. The gunfire stopped, and I pulled myself out from under the desk. Fred Gunther was dead, excessive bleeding through three large holes in his chest. I called the police. They came down to his office and arrested me. I told them my pecker could never put holes in Fred like that, but they said it had been a lover's quarrel and that I needed to answer a few question's anyway.
I spent the night in the slammer. The other inmates were looking at me, knowing I was a good dick. Two guys offered me cigarettes, one a stick of gum, and one told me I'd bend over or else. They must have heard what went down at Fred's. Toots came and bailed me out later that day.
"This is coming out of your pay, Mr. Driskell."
"Gunther didn't bone your pussy."
"What? How, how do you know that?"
"I'm a dick, ma'am, and I know how a dick works."
"Then who took my monkey?"
"There's a sex-change doctor on the East Side; he might know where your monkey is."
"Dr. Brian Klipp?"
"Why would you suspect him?"
"The holes that were put in Fred were put in by someone who knows how dicks operate, and how to operate on dicks."
"But Dr. Klipp isn't a dick."
"He was, though. One of the best dicks in the world. Now, I think he's knocking them off."
"Well, yes, of course he might be, I mean his profession and all, but I really don't understand the connection."
"Trust me, ma'am. Every dick has a healthy fear of that man. There has to be some reason."
I left Toots and went to see Dr. Klipp. His receptionist made me fill out some routine paperwork.
"Mr. Driskell, would you object to someone else having your penis? A woman?"
"Look, sweetheart, I'm on the job. No time for that here."
"Oh, no. I don't want it. There's a woman, though, that put in an order last week. She wants a penis, Mr. Driskell, and I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind giving her yours."
"So, I thought, Dr. Brian is running a brothel as well as a fencing operation and is using a sex-change clinic as the cover. I was about to arrest this bimbo when Dr. Brian Klipp sauntered out.
"Mr. Driskell, how marvelous to see you."
"I bet. Hand over Toot's monkey."
"I'm sorry, all operations are final."
I pulled out my pecker.
"Give it back or I'll give you this."
"Well, well, Mr. Driskell. What a charming little tool."
"Eat hot lead, sucker!" I shot Dr. Klipp six times with my pecker. I was spent but happy.
"Now, baby," I said, turning on the receptionist, "are you going to tell me I can't have my monkey?"
"No, sir," she said, fainting.
I ransacked Dr. Klipp's office. The only things in there were memories and members.
"Damn. Where is that monkey?"
"I had it all along."
"Yes, Driskell. You are a fool. Brian is my husband. He wouldn't give me a real monkey, so I told you he took my golden one. I knew you'd kill him for me. Now, I can give myself any monkey I want. And, you know what? I want yours." She pulled out a pecker bigger than mine.
"I bet you took Gunther's chicken, too."
"I thought so. I even bet you're the one who's taking the lives of other dicks."
"Well, you're not getting this dick." I pulled out my pecker and shot her before she could react. "Like I told Gunther; it's not the size of your pecker, it's how you use it."
Here I sit in the bowels of my mind. Study the thoughts of small mice and cans of CRISCO. Who can tell the difference between children and weed-eaters?
Time to move . . .
Flying through the air on the backs of lizards to the country of Iran. I meet with my secret agent, Abeeb Mohammed-Ali. We talk in the phone booth at the local corner 7-11. He tells me that I am being followed by a pack of Hunters from Antarctica. So, I ran.
I hid in an alley and waited for the psycho-monkeys wearing the penguin furs to appear around the corner. Then I saw them. I ran. They ran. We all ran.
I stopped and whipped out my SPAM ray. They had SPAM-rays too. So I threw my SPAM-Ray at them. They smiled and so did I. We sat and had SPAM sandwiches, roasted marshmallows, and CRISCO oil. After that I pulled out my trusty SWISS-ARMY knife and drove home.
The grubby security guard grabbed the boy by a tuft of hair. He was short and fat, but he was strong.
"Let go of my goddamn hair!" yelled the boy.
"You want me to let go?" questioned the guard. "Ha ha ha ha."
The two worked their way down the long hall toward the front of the building. It was an old building, and the long, dark halls seemed frosted because of the condensation on the tiles. Eliot wondered if the guard had seen Saul dart into the classroom when he surprised the boys.
"You goddamn rent-a-cop. I'll walk, lemme go!" screamed Eliot. He was tired of being half-dragged by his hair. The meaty hand squeezed hard in his hair and then released him in a convulsion. The fat officer was trying to scare him. It wasn't the first time he had dealt with security. Jumping buildings was an every night thing for him and saul; security was just a hazard! Eliot hoped that Saul might think of something. The guard pushed the boy into a chair and proceeded to take out his dime store revolver.
"Tell me what you're doing here, pal," he said as he pointed the gun limply at Eliot's knee caps.
"Why don't you call the real cops and put your fuckin' gun back in your cheap holster!" Eliot wouldn't give his type the satisfaction he looked for. In his opinion, he ought to pull some damn Clint Eastwood stunt and feel like some fuckin' hero.
"Look, kid, you're in big trouble as it is. Why don't you make it easier on yourself and answer my questions?"
"Go fuck yourself!" Eliot sprayed this as much as he could, trying to hit the guard's face with his saliva.
"You stupid cock!" The guard rapped the boy in the teeth with his gun, and blood squirted from his lip as if it were squeezed out of a ketchup bottle. The pain of being hit in the mouth gripped Eliot's face, and he let out a whimpering scream. Saul could hear this even though he was still in the other half of the building. The school divided in two by a playground which ran like a courtyard inbetween two great chunks of building. Two long hallways ran like bridges between the chunks, one on the first floor and one on the second. It was a spectacular building. It was old, and sound pierced the walls and echoed through the building.
Saul worked his way to the first floor and down the long hallway. Near the end he could see Eliot in a chair being handled by the guard. He was circling the chair and slapping Eliot in the head with an open hand.
His gun was not in its holster, but it wasn't in his hand, either. He was playing some game with Eliot, trying to make him go for the gun so that he could pull out another, probably stuffed in his pants, and put a bullet in him. Eliot wasn't dumb; he just sat there still as a rock. Saul crept closer now and stood in a shadow not fifty feet away from the guard.
"Go call the police, asshole!" Eliot was angry. The pain didn't hurt him anymore. Saul could see that he was bleeding from the lip and both nostrils as well as from the left eye. The wounds framed a crimson wave down Eliot's face, and he almost looked as if he had been skinned. The guard reached in his pants and pulled out a badge. He was P.D.
"Well, take me in, asshole!" Eliot was seated now, and this last demand sounded more like a child's voice after punishment.
"Looking like this? Yeah, right. I'll be the one getting booked."
Saul crept up closer now. The guard's back was to him, and he saw the concealed gun sticking out of the top of his pants. Auto-pistol, large framed. Slowly, Saul worked his way closer to the guard's back. Eliot could see his partner. Steadily, he reached, and simultaneously, Eliot jumped. Saul drew back gripping the pistol, and Eliot slid across the floor, scooping the revolver off the ground.
The guard, stunned, lost his balance and tripped to the ground clumsily. Saul opened up with a shot which shattered the trophy case set against the wall. Glass sprinkled the ground, and trophies tumbled off the shelves onto Eliot. One particularly large award, shaped like a football, only larger than most, connected with Eliot's head. His vision went black and his body limp. Blood trickled from a crack in his skull. The guard dropped like a snake towards the bleeding boy. Saul, confused, pulled on the trigger, pointing in the guard's vicinity. The chair which housed Eliot's interrogation splintered at the top and blew back against the wall with great force. The guard gripped the revolver loosely and naturally pulled the barrel toward the new intruder. Saul felt a jerk at his arm and spun, crashing to the ground. Blood pooled out across the tile floor, and he could see a clean spray on the wall behind him.
The guard saw the boy clap to the ground and pushed off the floor in an effort to pull himself up. The glass from the trophy case stuck into his palms like knives. In seconds, his hands had become useless. The guard screamed as he drew to his knees. His gun slid smoothly across the floor, out of reach. Saul groped across the floor, slipping in his own blood. Eliot lay unconscious, losing vital fluid from the crack in his skull.
Saul pushed across the floor, trying to make his way to a classroom. The slippery blood made the task difficult and slow. Lights shined through the front windows of the school, and the door splintered into pieces as armed men came rushing into the front hall of the school like water filling a basin. The thunder of police stomping through the halls crashed into Saul's ears. The officer, now on his feet, stopped plucking the glass from his palms in time to see beams of light flash across his torso. The police lights shined onto one of the "intruders", a bleeding child lying at his feet. A few officers opened fire. The guard felt his back rip as a bullet tore into his right shoulder. A few more rounds shattered the spine as well as most of his ribs. The officer's organs were torn to a mushy pulp and spilled out of the gaping tears in his torso. This lifeless body fell slapping onto the cold tile. The hall was covered in red liquid and almost looked as if it was painted that way. The intruding officers felt the pulse of the limp boy lying by the trophy case.
"Get an ambulance! He's still alive." Another took a close look at the dead security guard.
"Ohhh fuck. He's P.D.!"
Saul had made his way into a classroom, and, in spite of the pain flaring from his arm, he managed to pull himself to his feet. He worked his way to a window, and opened it quietly. Luckily, the police hadn't surrounded the building, and this side of the school was clear.
The cool night air seemed to soothe Saul's face as he slipped through the window and ran for the wooded area next to the school. Each step shot pain into his arm, but he carried on to the nearest tree. He sat himself gently against the trunk and took in long breaths of air, cooling his lungs. The pain in his arm was dying away, and the wound seemed to be pouring blood more than ever. The air wasn't cool anymore but cold, and Saul pulled his jacket tightly to his body. He felt drowsy, but he knew he had to get help. Trying to get to his feet, his left leg slipped, and he lost balance.
"Maybe I'll just rest a minute," he thought.
Saul closed his eyes, and he sat in comfort as he realized how tired he was. Slowly, he drifted deeper away from the conscious world. More comfortable than he had ever been, Saul grinned as he drifted into sleep. Slowly, his grinning face relaxed into blankness, and his lifeless neck tilted forward from the weight of his head.
Ivan Malcovich didn't like small places. It was just up his alley, being assigned on a train. He worked his way to the dining car and sat at a table near the exit. In just one hour, the very car he sat in was to become the housing for a major change-of-hands in a large diamond heist. Ivan tapped on his collar and spoke softly into the small radio therein.
"I'm in the diner car. It's pretty clear right now. One woman, mid-thirties, alone at a table three rows north on the left. Two men, both over fifty, five rows north right-side."
"No open-fire unless the car is clear," said the voice on the other end. "Remember, we don't know what they look like."
Ivan knew: three persons, two receiving, one delivery boy. He had worked the situation before, but never on a train.
"Excuse me, waiter. Is there some way I can get some fresh air?" Ivan needed something to hold himself together before the action.
"I'm sorry, sir, but there's not much I can do for you. Would you like a drink?" He did, but he thought better.
"No thanks." From the north end, two men came bumbling into the car. They sat clumsily, knocking over at least one piece of furniture each. They were drunk and talked loudly. The waiter worked his way toward their end of the car, fixing what disturbances they might have caused, and offered them assistance.
"How about a drink?" they yelled.
They waiter looked around nervously and blurted out, "Ice?"
The two drunk men paused attentively, then rolled in the booth where they were, laughing hysterically. This vexed the waiter, and he rushed out of the car, passing Ivan's table. About the same time, two more gentlemen--one in his mid-twenties, sharply dressed, a good looker, and another in his early forties at least, dressed the same, but with a square jaw--came and sat two booths down from the south exit. The younger one was handsome and sat so Ivan could study his face. He had long, dark hair pulled back tight on his scalp and light brown eyes which matched his tan skin. He had a large mole on his right cheek and perfect structure in his face. The other was a large framed man, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. The waiter came in and proceeded to approach the table where the two men sat.
Ivan could feel something in his mind, and he knew what was happening. "It's the waiter. It's going down!" he whispered into his radio.
Almost immediately, two agents came barreling in from either exit and rushed towards the table that the waiter was serving. Instantly, the waiter dove for a booth across the way, and the older man ducked down. The agents started to draw out their weapons when the younger of the men opened fire with an automatic pistol. The agent advancing from the south end dove for a booth; the one from the north was hit. His chest slammed in as a few rounds connected with his kevlar vest, and he fell to the floor onto his back. Ivan could see him clearly from under his table.
The agent raised an arm as if by instinct and fired his clip towards the booth containing the two men. The young man jerked back and flapped noisily over the back of his booth as he took shots from the agent. Blood painted the windows to his side, and he screamed from the floor where he lay protected. Ivan got to his knees with his gun drawn and looked as one of the old drunk men drew his own piece. He held a submachine gun and immediately opened fire on the agent lying in the middle of the train car. Bullets crashed down all around and through the body. His vest wouldn't let them penetrate, but they pounded him. his arms tore into bloody strips, and the tops of his legs seemed to disintegrate into a red mist. His head exploded like a melon and scattered skull fragments and pieces of brain across the room. The old man continued firing, and Ivan took careful aim, not being noticed.
He squeezed the trigger, and the machine-gunner's body flew into the air. His chest collapsed, and his back tore open as his spine and much of his lungs exited his body. The man's carcass fell atop a table to the left, and his partner darted out from under it. The lady who had been in the car was halfway out the door screaming in a fit when the man grabbed her. The waiter took cover in a booth not but one row in from of Ivan's, across the way. The two older men who hadn't to do with the action were not to be seen. The large gentleman with the square jaw stood up with a shotgun and walked towards his partner's vicinity, who was screaming in agonizing pain. Nobody dared make a move so long as the one man held the lady hostage. The one living agent stood tall, holding his gun above his head, and Ivan noticed the waiter reaching for his pistol.
"Down!" yelled Ivan as he squeezed the rest of his clip at the waiter. His white suit became soaked in crimson, and his lifeless body fell bleeding into the aisle. The agent ducked back down, and the square-jawed man sprayed his area with a blast from the shotgun.
"I'll kill her, goddammit! Stop fuckin' shooting!" screamed the older gentleman with the lady. They knew of Ivan's presence now, and he stayed low. The two older gentlemen stood up now with their hands raised, and the hostage holder motioned for them to go out. The young man on the floor was still screaming, and the lady was crying quite vocally. Between the noise and the tight quarters, Ivan was going nuts. The agent ahead in the car made a move to free the lady being held. He darted swiftly into the aisle and lunged for the man holding her at gunpoint. The three tumbled to the floor, and a gun sounded twice. For a second, all was still, and blood ran out onto the floor from under the lady. She screamed and jumped up quickly, losing her balance and falling to her knees. The agent rolled into a booth on the left side of the car and screamed for her to get out. Ivan could see the other man lying on the floor with two holes in his chest. A shotgun blast blew glass through the car near Ivan's part of the train. The man with the square jaw stood up with his partner over his shoulder. Ivan stayed low but alert. The other agent rolled out behind the man and went up on a knew to shoot. The smaller man, screaming and bleeding from the shoulder, chest, and mouth, fired from a limp arm, hitting the agent in the left knee. He stumbled, dropping his gun under his body. The bigger man spun around, blasting with his shotgun. Ivan couldn't see what happened, but he figured it wasn't good. The two moved toward the waiter, now lying dead under a table near Ivan. He figured they didn't know his location.
The large-jawed man set his partner into a booth facing Ivan's side of the train. He then loaded his shotgun and pointed it towards Ivan's booth. Both men opened fire. Ivan's booth exploded into splinters, and the side of the train tore into chunks of metal. Ivan's left leg throbbed with pain, and his face was streaked with blood. He tried to push his way under the tables to the next booth, but his legs weren't working. He looked down, but blood ran into his eyes, and he realized he had been hit in the head. Ivan felt something grip his shirt, and he was suddenly jerked into the air. His visibility showed him that the big-jawed man held him at arm's length. His body was limp in the man's grip, and his head fell forward. Blood dripped from his head and formed a pool under him on the wood floor. He could see now that he had been wounded in the waist area, and his left knee had taken a direct shot. The man carried Ivan to the end of the car and into the section dividing it from the next. He then threw him violently to the ground.
Ivan heard him opening the door, and the felt the wind from the outside air. The man turned to grab Ivan and slipped in a pool of blood which had leaked from his body. The man smashed down on the floor, and the train rounded a curve. His body slid quickly toward the open door, and he screamed as he realized his situation. He reached to save his life, but the slide was too fast. His body crumpled into a ball as he slammed into a bed of rocks at high speed. The life was knocked from him, and he lay bleeding a few feet from the speeding train.
Ivan felt himself getting cold, and he heard other agents crashing through the next car in a race to the action. One stopped by his side, and others ran into the half-destroyed car, blasting at the lifeless bodies therein. Ivan felt the paramedic start work on his hopeless torso and legs. He knew he had been given a drug, and he drifted pleasantly into sleep.
once, when i was a kid, i laid down in the snow and watched the snow fall like in the movies. only different. as i watched the snow gently fall towards me in all its graceful beauty, blowing in the chill winter wind, i noticed something none of the movies ever told me. in each tiny crystalline snowflake there are millions of tiny, razor sharp edges, coming right at me. The frost bit and cut at my ears and stung my nose and it hurt. i ran into the house screaming and crying, and for good reason. it hurt. it was then i learned that the most beautiful things can be the most painful, and have seldom since stopped to enjoy innocence and beauty in the same way. i may be missing something, but at least i know the truth and am no longer stupid enough to lie down in ice in the freezing cold just to watch some stupid snowflakes.
a thick, dry, pasty wall of incense hit me as i opened the door. a deep, raspy voice barked for me to shut the door, which i did with haste. once inside, the extremely stifling heat overwhelmed me. that and the incense thick air that i had to labor to breathe almost choked me as i stood there taking in the environment.
the room was lit only by five candles in a vague circle, augmented by the warm orange embers of hundreds of incense that also followed a vague circle shape. as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, i could barely make out a figure in the center of the circle mumbling something to himself, hunched over in what had to be the most uncomfortable position i have ever seen. for an instant i thought maybe he was dead. before i could take a step his voice boomed out at me though he made no motion.
"On peril of your life, stay outside the circle stranger."
that sounded pretty damn important, so i decided to stay where i was. there was nothing else to do but sit down in the thick haze before i fell down. The air in there was so thick, it was like trying to breathe a dark amber cream. each breath was an accomplishment. once i was settled i listened to the words the uncomfortable one spoke. as i listened, i found i could only understand half the words he spoke, although i heard them all. why would he be switching back and forth between two languages? this curiosity nearly drove me insane until i discovered that it was not indeed two languages, but two voices as well.
shit. before the realization had even become concrete i was frozen in terror, realizing what i had walked into. I had heard that Ash was into the occult, but i never really believed in it until that moment. sweat broke out profusely, and i was drenched in a few seconds between the oppressive heat and the terror that filled my brain. just then Ash let out a terrifying yell as the candles roared into flames, engulfing him and the interior of the circle. the scream curdled my blood, and in terror my legs began running, even though i was sitting down. It felt like i was getting somewhere, but somewhere in a more logical thought i knew that in reality, i was bouncing around, kicking over incense, pissing all over myself on the floor. Somehow i was conscious of Ash standing up from his ball of flames and screaming something as loud as he could. The flame went away, and Ash collapsed in the center of the circle, clothes and eyebrows still smoldering.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-- State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials, and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided. The editor may be reached at The Lions' Den [(512)259-9546] or at email@example.com. Thank you. --SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--