censoredcensoredcensor          taTestaTesTaTe          rosnecderosnecderosnec
 edcensoredcensoredcen         sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA         necderosnecderosnecde
 soredcensoredcensore         STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE         erosnecderosnecderos
 dcensoredcensoredce         sTATeSt        oFOfOfo         ecderosnecderosnecd
 nsoredcensoredcens         STatEst          ofoFOFo         snecderosnecderosn
 oredcensoredcens          staTEsT            OfOFofo          snecderosnecdero
 oredcensoredcen           TATeSTa            foFofoF           necderosnecdero
 soredcensoredc                              fOFoFOf             cderosnecderos
 ensoredcensor                             UsOFofO                rosnecderosne
 edcensoredce                            nbEifof                   ecderosnecde
 nsoredcenso                           uNBeInO                      osnecderosn
 redcensoredc                         UNbeinG                      cderosnecder
 ensoredcensor                       unBEING                      rosnecderosne
 edcensoredcens                      NBeINgu                     snecderosnecde
 oredcensoredcen                     bEinGUn                    necderosnecdero
 soredcensoredcen                    EiNguNB                   necderosnecderos
 soredcensoredcens                                            snecderosnecderos
 oredcensoredcensor                  -iSSuE-                 rosnecderosnecdero
 edcensoredcensoredc                 ???????                cderosnecderosnecde
 ensoredcensoredcenso                -EIGHT-               osnecderosnecderosen
 redcensoredcensoredcen                                  necderosnecderosnecder

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

• TALKING WITH TACHYON by Hagbard
  
• BUBBA AND JiM BOB GO TO JAiL by Captain Moonlight
  
• iNTELLiGENCE AGENTS ANONYMOUS by Bobbi Sands
  
• STARTiNG YOUR VERY OWN CULT by Anonymous
  
• TiME CAPSULE by Hagbard
  

• THE TRAGEDY OF BOBBi SANDS by Crux Ansata
  

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

Welcome, one and all, to the Lost Issue of State of unBeing. That's right. You now have a copy of State of unBeing #8, the issue that was seized by the Secret Service. You should count yourself lucky that you're even holding this much of what's left of issue eight, and there's more reasons for that than you can imagine.

As you can see, though, this issue is terribly chopped up. Alas, it was all we could recover after Agent Williams and his goons sacked us all. We had expected some backlash, but we really didn't think it would be as bad as it was and set us back seven months.

Most of the really juicy stuff no longer exists. Well, nothing we can prove anyway. We can tell you all about it, but all of our evidence is gone. Once again, thank Agent Williams for that. But we do have some good stuff in this one. Tachyon explains a lot about the raids, Hagbard investigates time travel, and Captain Moonlight recounts a heart-warming story about two people who's lives were changed by SoB. Almost made me cry. And there's a few other things as well to keep your interest.

I don't want to make this editorial too long, as I've been waiting seven months to put this thing out, but I'd like to reprint a small letter I received the other day from Agent Williams to show you folks out there the kind of disinformation I'm having to put up with:

     Dear Kevin Midland,

     This charade of yours has gone on for long enough.  You and I both know
there was no raid, and you and your little zine cronies came up with this
asinine story when you only had 1k worth of submissions for issue eight.  Then
you ran the joke into the ground.  Please stop, as you are all really annoying
me.  All the stuff in SoB #8 will be false, naturally.  Otherwise it'd have
been put in a recent issue.  Actually, that scares me that you guys are right
all the time.  In fact, I'm surprised you haven't been raided yet.  I may
have to look into that.  Watch your back.

                                                 Agent Williams
                                                 US Secret Service

Now you see the kind of crap I have to put up with all the time. Oh, we've also included a few choice quotes from various authors who were raided. We hope you enjoy them, and the rest of the zine. Read it and be paranoid. It's healthier for your system.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

On February 12, 1995 I received a PGP encrypted message from an anonymous mailer in Finland. The message was encoded with my semi-public key, the one I have only given to a few trusted friends. Tachyon was one of these friends. The message is as follows:

Greetings Hagbard!
 
I have completed my preliminary investigations in relation to 
the seizure of SoB #8. It is not safe right now for me to 
relay this data in this message, so I must meet you 
personally. Don't worry, this message is secure, at least to 
the degree which is necessary. I am using a customized version 
of PGP, one the old TAC engineers threw together for field use 
a couple of years back. It still is capable of using your key, 
which is why you can read this.
 
Anyway, here is the deal. Meet me in the cave in the main dome 
of Enchanted Rock State Park, Feb. 17th, at 12:00pm CST. Bring 
a tape recorder and a flashlight. Bring the only object which 
will confirm your identity, you know what I am talking about.
 
See you then,
Tachyon

Needless to say, I was suprised. So, come Feb. 17th, I set out for Enchanted Rock State Park. At precisely 12:00pm CST I met with Tachyon in the granite cavern. The following is a transcript of the conversation:

Hagbard:	Hello Tachyon.
Tachyon:	Hello Hagbard. Please display the object.

[I take the object out of my pocket and hand it to him. Tachyon looks it over for a moment and then hands it back.]

At that point, we left for lunch and then Tachyon departed for (he actually TOLD me!) Irian Jaya. Don't ask. If anyone has questions for Tachyon, send them to me or Kilgore and we will make sure they get forwarded to Tachyon.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

While to most of our readers this may be shocking, two men sit in prison today due to the revolutionary influences of this zine.

Despite the importance of this story, it has been covered up by the reigning authorities so well that, unless you read the News of the Wierd, you probably don't know about. Indeed, we might not know of it if it weren't for the fact that I, yes I, was personally involved.

I was hanging out at the Den of Discord Absinthe Bar and Coffee House with Jim Bob Duggin and Bubba Smith, two reformed conservatives whose minds had been freed by reading the very zine you hold in your hands. The two had had a few too many Jolts, and I realise now that I should have taken this into consideration when I pulled out a copy of SoB #7 which I gave to the two to read. (I have gotten into the practice of giving printouts of this zine to losers who have no modems. There is now a chain of about a half a dozen people to whom I supply this zine, it being passed to the next reader as each person finishes it. Try this at your school or work. It's spiffy, and will help you buy you a few less years in Purgatory, along with giving you the satisfaction of helping to FREE MEN'S MINDS! (Oh, and WOMEN'S minds, too.)) I went to the men's room, and when I returned I found the two in heated discussion.

"I've found a way we can help further the revolution!" exclaimed Jim Bob, and the two leapt up and left. This somewhat irked me, since they took my car, and I had to hitchhike home, getting a ride with a little old lady with a peculiar fondness for putting tacks in car chairs just before picking up hitch- hikers. (And, had I had my car that night, I might have been able to make a contact that might have averted the terrible fate of Glooth. But that is another man's story.)

I looked at the SoB laying on the table among the tipped-over coffee cups and empty bottles of Jolt, and on the now cappuccino-stained printout of SoB #7 I saw what had provoked their sudden departure, though I did not realise it at the time. There, sprawled across the page, was the title "MEDiTATiONS: LiVE FROM NEW YORK," by Crux Ansata.

I now know from court records and later conversations with the two that, as soon as they left the Den, the two sped down the road to Huntsville, site of the largest state prison in Texas. Having outrun all the policemen who tried to stop them, they finally managed to get to the prison. And, once there, they staged the first jailbreak of its kind: they sprang the guards.

Having read exactly how the jailkeeps and policemen were prisoners of the system, Jim Bob and Bubba, like good citizens, went about trying to free the guards. Using the dynamite always kept in my car, they blew a hole in the prison wall. Having secured the premises, they grabbed the guards who, strangely, resisted their liberation, and Jim Bob and Bubba were forced to liberate them by force. This is rather like how the general population must be liberated: by force.

Fleeing the building, they rushed back to the car and flung the now- liberated guards in the trunk. "It was a tight fit, but we did it," Bubba told me afterwards. Speeding home, the fact the two were pulled over by another cop. Their liberation of him, tossing him into the back seat, is what first drew the police's notice of their activities.

Arriving back home, the liberated authorities posed a problem: What could they do with them? The guards and policeman were still uncooperative, and the only thing that kept the law-enforcers from fleeing was the fact that Bubba and Jim Bob had recently purchased a rather large quantity of donuts at Doug's Donut Debauchee's Delight (now open 24 hours!). While trying to figure out what to do with the now-liberated persons, Jim Bob had the idea of calling Ansat himself. Thanks to the bug on Ansat's phone, a transcription of this conversation was entered into evidence, though this was soon thrown out. I have a copy of this transcription before me now which I got through the Free- dom of Information Act. Their conversation went something like this:

ANSAT:	Hello, Ansata residence, how can I help you?
JIM BOB:	Uhhh . . . Ansat?
ANSAT:	Yeah?
JIM BOB:	Uhhhh . . . We, like, read your article "MEDiTATiONS: LiVE FROM NEW YORK" in SoB #7, and we followed your directions.
ANSAT:	Pardon?
JIM BOB:	Why, what did you do?
ANSAT:	I mean, what?
JIM BOB:	I said, 'What did you do?'
ANSAT:	No, I mean what did you say before that.
JIM BOB:	Huh?
ANSAT:	What?
JIM BOB:	What?
ANSAT:	What did you say before 'What did you do?'
JIM BOB:	'Why.'
ANSAT:	Cause I wanna know.
JIM BOB:	No, that's what I said.
ANSAT:	No, that's what I said.
JIM BOB:	No, you said 'Pardon?' and I said 'Why.'
ANSAT:	Oh, yeah. I mean before that.
JIM BOB:	Hmmmmm . . . Hmmmmmm . . . Hmmmmm . . . I forget. Oh yeah, we followed your instructions.
BUBBA:	Don't bogart the nachos, dude.
ANSAT:	What do you mean 'we followed your instructions'?
UNIDENTIFIED GUARD #1:	Hey, any of you got any dip?
BUBBA:	No, we left Moonlight back at the Den.

<Laughter.>

<General laughter.>

<Sounds of screeching tires and helicopters, followed by the sound of windows breaking and doors splintering>

<Sounds of two people being clubbed quite furiously.>

<SHARP CLICK, DIALTONE>

We must stop such travesties of justice. But we can all learn from Jim Bob and Bubba: If you have a choice, stay outta Fred's wing.

Now, if you want to help free Jim Bob and Bubba, and if you want to help prevent other tragedies such as this one, we urge you to write to your local congressman.

If you just want to complain about the government and tick people off, write to the following address:

Be sure to enclose a picture of yourself -- it will make their job a lot easier. Or call (512) 482-5103. Operators are standing by. But if you write to the above address or call the given number, please do not mention Jim Bob, Bubba, the author of this piece, Crux Ansata, Kilgore Trout, the terrible fate of Glooth, or this zine. In fact, if you do write or call you can be expect- ing visitors asking some very odd questions within a few days, and it might be nice for you to prepare a little something in the way of refreshments for them. We would also appreciate it if you destroyed all copies you have of this zine before then. It would probably be wise to leave the country as well, but with that new law they passed to get Noriega, they can go there, too. Oh well, just ask not to be put in Fred's wing.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

Following the failure of Project Defoliation, the IRA special mission to Bosnia, I spent some time this summer in Washington D.C. To take my mind off our failure to reach the UN Commander, I decided to lighten my mood by visit- ing the CIA public library. (If I can get in and I can get out it was open to the public.) After sending a few files to Tachyon -- from the computer of some Ames fellow -- I came across one state secret too classified to be be- lieved: Intelligence Agents Anonymous.

Believing this too weird to be believed, I arranged to tap the location where they held their weekly meetings, a peaceful looking brownstone in D.C. that, once a week, is surrounded with a combination of the most James Bond-esque vehicles, and the most bland unmarked vehicles, ever assembled in one place, with an amazing profusion of antennae as their only unifying fea- ture.

What follows is a transcription from our hidden mic:

[Moderator:]

Welcome to Information Agents Anonymous. If we've all fin- ished chemical analysis on the refreshments, we can get started. Can we get the last of those bomb sniffing dogs out into the back? Thank you. Now, everyone take a seat. Do we see any new faces today?

[Some time elapses. One gets the picture the shuffling was the sound of people trying to look through others' disguises, while trying to look disin- terested.]

[Sound of Voice 1 sitting down.]

[The background is filled with the frantic scribbling of pencils and typing on laptops.]

[At this point on the cassette, a scuffle breaks out. Before our microphone was destroyed, we heard it become one general free for all. What a sight that must have been...]

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

[This piece looks to be like an informal memo/report to someone higher up in a certain Justice department. Which one that is and who it was to was lost when we were raided. Anyway, read and wonder about the next time you see a cult get raided. Maybe it'll be you.]

Well, after last month's episode involving the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms and the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh--excuse me--"Christ," I realized that there might be some profit in developing this sort of thing. Hey, as revealed in Waco, you could have the chance to shoot big guns, marry a bunch of women who do anything you say, and you can also molest small children! And all you have to give them is eternal salvation--or at least make them believe in it. This article will attempt to take you step by step in the process of beginning and successfully running a cult.

Basically, a cult is a religious group that is devoted to a living leader and/or new teachings. Cults are not new; on the contrary, they have been around for thousands of years. In fact, Christianity began as a cult (now, there's a goal for ya!). Probably the most notorious cult in the United States was the People's Temple, led by one Jim Jones. He moved his followers to a commune called Jonestown in Guyana, a South American country. When a U.S. congressman and three journalists came down to investigate, Jim Jones had them killed. He then ordered his followers, numbering around 900, to commit suicide, which they promptly accomplished by drinking cyanide.

But let's cut the history lesson short. First off, when you are thinking of a name for your cult, don't call it a cult! The word cult has a very negative connotation associated with it, and this will turn many people away instantly. I prefer to use the term "new religious movement." And while we're on the subject of names, don't fucking say that you are Jesus Christ! That was David Koresh's one big mistake, a miscalculation that probably caused a lot of potential followers to drop out. Jesus was supposed to be perfect, yet Davey-boy wore glasses! Don't you think God would give His son 20/20 vision? It's just too much pressure to have to work under: one blunder and people will start to wonder whether or not you are who you say you are. It is best to say that you have had divine revelations from God Himself (more on these later) and are His messenger to the people of the world.

Before we get into the six basic elements that every successful cult must have, we must first stop and decide what you will base your teachings on. "What? I have to teach?" Yup, you sure as hell do. I've found that the teachings of Christianity are the easiest to base your teachings on. Probably the most important reason is that it is the most widely accepted of all religions; therefore, most people won't feel that what they're joining is evil or Satanic. Even calling yourselves Christians helps a lot. Another good reason is the fact that most people have some knowledge of Christianity, and many of these have Bibles. The Bible is a very useful and powerful tool in the hands of a cult leader. Its stories and anecdotes can be interpreted in a number of ways suitable to one's personal needs. Also, since something is in the Bible, many people will believe that it is true. Paired off with your own set of "divinely inspired" scriptures, the answers to life, the universe, and everything are available to your followers.

One increasing trend among cults today is the belief that Armageddon is coming soon and the world is about to end. This is a good practice, and I highly recommend its being taught. But never, ever set a date on it. For when that day comes and your followers have given up everything they own in order to travel to some remote place where they will ascend into heaven, there will be hell to pay, and guess who they'll be coming after? Only the smartest and craftiest of leaders can recover from that situation. Although it has been done, I don't think I would want to put myself to that test. The best way to approach the subject is to say that Armageddon could come at any time; not even you know when. That's more believable than fixing a date, and you can say "It's going to happen soon" a lot longer than "It's going to happen on July 5th, 1998."

And now, after all of the preliminary shit is out of the way, we will begin discussing the six elements that every successful cult must have. The people who are coming to you are looking towards you to fill some sort ofspiritual and/or emotional void in their lives, and that is precisely what you must do. If you don't accomplish this, your followers will lose interest very quickly and go looking somewhere else to find what they thought you had. There are numerous ways to accomplish this. First of all, hold religious ceremonies at least once a week. It doesn't really matter where you meet at first, possibly in your own home. Later, when your cult grows in number and donations start rolling in, you can build a church. But, as the old saying goes, the people are what make a church, not the building. Also, to provide that internal feeling of accomplishment, outline a plan of salvation for your followers, and each time they accomplish a step in the plan, they move up in the ranks of the church. Make the last reward something that everyone will want, such as the promise of eternal life after death or to become one of the chosen few that will be saved at the end of the world by "God's own merciful hand." Steps to achieve salvation could be: faithfully attending religious services; witnessing and spreading the cult message to friends, family, and complete strangers; reading and understanding (with your help, of course) the Bible and/or your own writings; memorizing passages; performing special acts or rituals (nothing too strange, mind you); etcetera. There are an infinite amount of things you can make your followers do, guaranteeing no two cults will be alike!

Another thing you must do is provide a sense of status by claiming to be the true church and/or by claiming that you possess unique revelations from God or the Bible. It just wouldn't do to say, "Well, this is what I believe, but those Catholics, well, they seem to have a more logical approach to it." Tell your followers that all other religions are wrong. Find loopholes in their philosophies (shouldn't be too hard) and tell this to your followers so when they go about their merry way spreading your Word of God, they can use these as arguing points. If you can't find any apparent loopholes, make 'em up! Just make them convincing with some bullshit proof that is so confusing that people will take your word for it. In doing this, your followers will come to believe that your way is the only way, and then they'll do anything you say.

Once you begin teaching, it is inevitable that there will be followers who will have questions concerning the beliefs of the cult. Don't bog down followers with complex answers; this only confuses them more. Simplicity is the key. Let me give you an example. Suppose that on a Monday night meeting, one of your disciples of the Initiate rank asks, "When I was growing up, I was taught that salvation could be obtained simply by asking Christ to be my personal Savior." I would almost bet you money that this question will arise more than once. This is also another good reason to base your cult on Christian roots: since most people have a background in it, you can merely just add to their knowledge instead of having to instill a whole new belief system in them. It also helps if you have already thought of a lot of questions that might be asked and incorporate answers into your own writings, making it much easier to prove your point. For help on this, go to any Christian bookstore and look through the books in the cult section. Many of these have commonly-asked questions about cults, only with the Christian answers. Anyway, to the previous question you might reply, "Is there anything free in this world today? No, and neither was there in Jesus' time. If you would please look at the Lost Writings and turn to the book of Momanes, Chapter Six, Verse Seven, and follow along with me. And the Lord said to His messenger of truth, 'Go forth and tell the people of this world that not only must they trust in My son Christ Jesus, but that they must accomplish My tasks as well.' So, you were not totally incorrect, it was just that part of the truth had not been revealed to you." If you are prepared, you will be able to explain anything you are ever asked. Of course, there may come a time when you have no idea of what to tell someone. Sometimes it is best to reveal the truth: "God has not shown me the answer to that. Why don't we have a prayer circle Thursday and see if God will allow us an answer." If, however, you see an opportunity for a great bullshitting job which could gain you some ground, by all means, do it!

Another important thing to provide is a sense of community and a sense of security. You don't want your cult to feel like a club but like a family. Also, you want it to be a time when followers feel safe and have the burdens of the world lifted off of their shoulders--at least for the duration of the worship service. This brings up the question of isolationism. Should you and your followers move out to the country to a ranch or compound of sorts, such as the one the Branch Davidians were holed up in when the Feds came knocking? This has a number of both advantages and disadvantages. The most valuable asset that this provides is the fact that since you are all alone, there are no outside influences to hinder your followers from accepting the "truth." You can keep a watchful eye on people and, when one begins to slip, you can immediately remedy the situation. Also, since everyone is living together and helping each other out, that sense of community and security is automatically provided for. The disadvantages are not too great, but they can become a hassle at times. One problem that arises from this is because of your distance from a city, naturally interested people will be far less likely to drop by and join in the festivities, although this can be accomplished by "recruitment trips" into town every week. Another problem about living away from the city is that the commune must be at least partially self-supporting. Since the number of ways you could set up something like this are infinite, I'll leave those details up to you. Oh, and Pizza Hut probably doesn't deliver that far out.

This paper attempts to open people's minds and make them think. In a cult, you want your followers to think for themselves as little as possible, for obvious reasons. Can you say, "Brainwash the fuckers?" This is, essentially, what you are trying to do. But how do you do this? Repetition of your teachings, for one. If they hear it and are around it long enough, they'll begin to believe. Also, keep the people in time- consuming activities. With less free time, they have less time to think. This works especially well in some sort of compound, where members can be assigned different tasks around the compound.

Who says cults have to be serious and boring? The last element is my favorite and can be the most fun and enjoyable. Provide a liberal climate with little or no moral accountability as long as members follow the church's teachings faithfully. Obviously, David Koresh had this one in full swing, for he had numerous wives and had other people's daughters being groomed to serve as his sex playthings. With this law in effect, you and your followers can do pretty much anything within the confines of the law. Just don't get too carried away or people will think you're full of shit. For instance, don't make Wednesday "Orgy for God" night.

Well, there you have it. Now you can go out and start a whole new religious organization. Make sure you leave messages on how your work for God is progressing, and who knows? I just might drop by one day.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

TAC - SpaceTime Research Division
Samuel Evans, PhD. - Chair
ICN: 695-A4-39976DL

Experiment A97-4239X5                   Name/CD-7: Time Capsule
Principal Investigator: CLASSIFIED
Data Reporter: Hagbard

CC: NPG-7

Project Briefing, August 20, 1994 13:30 GMT

BRIEF PROCEDURE DESCRIPTION:

The purpose of Project Time Capsule was to establish the existence of the possibility of travel through the time coordinate and to establish communications with members of a future time coordinate, relative to the one in which the experiment was conducted.

The procedure was to create an extremely impermeabke container which was to be deeply buried and it's location never released publicly. This would insure, in theory, that the container would remain undisturbed for an extended period of time, until found by some undetermined method, likely by archaeologists of the period. Within the container was placed a request that if time travel was possible, or cross-time communication was possible, for the beings of that period to travel to the experiment's own time coordinates, which were included in extreme detail within the capsule.

At the time and space coordinates specified in the container, several items of present day communication and detection equipment were set up. The several different items were required because analysis was unable to determine the likely method of the form that the communication from the future time coordinate would indeed take. The items of equipment present at the site were detailed in the time capsule.

On June 17, 1994 at 04:17:39 GMT, in the location of [CLASSIFIED], the [CLASSIFIED] Cellular Fax Machine began to receive data. When the transmission was complete, 323 pages of data had been received. We are confident that the data was not forged.

The following are de-classified excerpts from the transmission received:

*** TRANSMISSION FOLLOWS... 10 SECONDS ***
*** TRANSMISSION WILL NOT REPEAT ***

Greetings. This is Darne Homputar of the EYE SCREAM PROTECTION LEAGUE. Our current time coordinate, as you so quaintly termed it and in reference to your own calendrical system, is December 7, 1941 and we are presently located on a small island in the Pacific Ocean.

Originally we are from the year 2103 AD. In order to send you this message, we had to travel back in time so as to remain undetected by the IC Dominion. It is all rather complex, time travel, but nevertheless we are sending you the secrets following this brief statement.

The year we came from is a horrible time. Our League, once we had heard the rumors of your Box, went on a search for it. It seems it's location was not a well-kept secret after all. We are thrilled to have discovered it, for our computer simulations reveal that the organization which conducted this experiment may be able to help us in our cause.

The following is a bit of a history (?) lesson... in 2015, the ever popular confection known collectively as `ice cream' began to gain a major foothold on the global economy. Many ice cream companies came together to form a consortium called the Organization of Ice Cream Exporting Companies, OICEC (oh-i-kek). After that time, ice cream's popularity rose exponentially. A trillion dollar ad campaign convinced people that ice cream had medicinal and industrial applications; sadly, people became addicted to the substance.

In 2020 the East US President attempted to place a prohibition on ice cream, but she was too late... instead, she was assassinated by OICEC.

Now OICEC controls the world. It is one giant police state. The 10 billion people are kept in complete ignorance, and worship obscure deities from Eskimo mythology. A few groups, such as the Planetech Pioneers, escaped the Ice Cream Age, as it is now termed. We have little knowledge of history, save that which serves the purposes of OICEC, but we found out enough from the underground historians, who maintain what they can, to know that TAC could help us.

The events which began our universe rolling are happening right then, in your time. You must let people know, so that they can avoid the horrible future which might await them.

We know very little, but we know enough. Somewhere in the late nineties, a small company called `Ben & Jerry's' began creating a flavor called `Coca Surprise'. It had the look and feel of a dark chocolate ice cream. This was not the case. Instead, it was infused with a genetically engineered variant of the coca plant which produces cocaine. The substance was increasingly addictive as one consumed more, but never illicited the effects that a narcotic drug could produce. Ben & Jerry's popularity sky rocketed, especially after the substance was secretly placed in several other flavors. Later evidence points to who the real identity of the controller of Ben & Jerry's was. It seems that ADOLF HITLER himself, who never actually died in a Berlin basement, was producing mass quantaties of ice cream. Hitler, who had used German discoveries to genetically alter himself for longevity, believed ice cream to be the true food of the Aryan Race, along with beer and pretzels, therefore he dominated the world with it.

Even as you read this, ice creameries around the world are vying for control of your mind, THEY are the true enemy. In fact, it was OICEC who invented time travel. With time travel it is believed that they travelled far back in time to feed it to large reptilian beasts. Fortunately they did not gain control over these formidable beasts because the ice cream had a bacteria in it which was instantly fatal to the large creatures. Unfortunately for the creatures, almost all of them died.

OICEC, now known as the Ice Cream Dominion, has a method of tracking cross-time communications from our original time coordinate, which is why we were forced back in time. We were uncertain of the date which to come back to, but our computers narrowed our present coordinates down as the best choice given all physical factors involved with the technology used. Lucky for us, there was an island here.

Be wary of the ice creameries of your time. Do not underestimate the control they may already have. However, we do recommend Turkish Coffee; it has a most excellent aftertaste.

The rest is from our chief scientist, Gandrin Srindip, on our methods of time travel. Most of it is current theory... only the last few equations describe the practical application. Thank you, and may your future be kinder.

Darne Homputar Dec. 7, 1941 AD 03:12 local Small Island in Pacific

[The rest of the document is classified.]

The transmission ended abruptly midway through transmission of the 323rd page. We estimate that 75-80% of the document was received.

CONCLUSIONS

It is apparent that Darne Homputar and company perished or were forced to retreat at the hands of the Japanese Imperial Navy. We are currently searching for any evidence of their existence in the history of Pearl Harbor.

Based on the equations and data received in the report, we can only conclude that Darne came from a possible future, but not an exact one. It seems that travel between parallel universes is more likely to be the process than actual time coordinate transference.

Meanwhile, we are taking steps to investigate his claims... hopefully we can make the future free from tyrants who enslave all of us with ice cream. We encourage people to look into this for themselves, and let no government cover-up or media censorship block their true understanding.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

Belfast, The Late 'Nineties

The floor felt gritty beneath him. The oils of years of use and had mixed with the dirt and sand, creating an obscene combination encased in a decay that only bare cement floors seem to attract. He could feel the chill of the concrete radiate through his brittle legs, as he sat in a way they called "Indian Style," that is before the Anti-Defamation Laws were passed throughout the Commonwealth, upon the floor. The song he sang was an ancient one. 'Way back over a hundred years old, or so his sister said. She knew everything.

"A knife and a fork, a bottle and a cork," chanted the children to the rhythm of hands slapping knees and opposing hands alternately, the children lost in ecstatic bliss only attainable by the very young, or the very "Intellectually Challenged." "That's the way to spell New York."

He still felt the confusion when asking his mother what New York was. "A city is an area of developed land, with lots of buildings close together."

Confusion stole across his young face.

"You know how we have parks, where there are no buildings, in the middle of the 'Plex?" she tried again. "Imagine that, only the 'Plex is only in those little areas, and the parks cover most of the country."

But sister said it was possible, and that was good enough for him.

Abruptly, time ground to a near halt. He clawed his little hands to his throat, now ablaze with pain. He was already beginning to realize he could no longer breathe through the shredded column that once was a throat when he felt the deafening sound of each individual shard of glass shattering on the floor as the window exploded inwards, followed by the deafening thunder of a soldier/policeman's gun. As he began writhing from asphyxiation, his tiny body was wracked with a pain so unbearable, his young nervous system was unable to withstand it, and went numb. It was then that his oxygen starved brain noticed the beautiful, arcing blood spurting periodically from between his scrambling fingers.

His last seconds were spent trying to force air into his isolated lungs and vainly hold his gushing blood in his neck.

He died in under a minute.

He was six.

His sister's name was Bobbi, and his last thought was that she was wrong. They would not be safe. She would not always protect him.

An explosion. Shattering glass. An impact. Darkness.

Blackened vision was unable to block out the searing and nauseating smell as the hot lead seared his flesh.

As Bobbi wrenched open her eyes, the sight of her brother squirming his last death throes became etched into her memory as indelibly as the grease on the deep stained floor. The fear in her belly turned to gall as the sounds of laughter and back-slapping echoed in from the shattered window. Her loss and the shock overcame her anger, however, and the darkness that followed was not due to her eyelids.

Her first thought was that they were stabbing her to death. She certainly had the blood to prove it, seeping stickily around where her dress had been lifted, evidently to block her vision.

She achingly pried open her eyes, grudgingly wishing the bonds were loosened so she could at least rub her throbbing head. She knew her collapse could not have hurt her this bad. They had been none too kind in their handling and binding.

With a kind of morbid fascination, she looked down into the blazing lights of the setting sun, dimmed only by the man silhouetted over her. Her knowledge of anatomy was sufficient to tell her that a stab wound taken in the belly, just below the waist, was a slow death wound. Being bound, and (almost) eight, she was a perfect candidate for such a lingering death. She had a hard time believing that even the Britishers could be that cruel, but there was no denying the uniforms as the man rolled off her, adjusting his pants.

Her next thought was that her first couldn't have been further from the truth.

Soon, exhaustion once more blocked out her consciousness.

Her lips were the deepest red you've ever seen, glistening like blood on her alabaster skin. After uncountable mornings, I swear I still don't know whether the color is fake or a genetic miracle. The lips were soft, cushioned and pliant, yet firm and aggressive. In a phrase, they could only be described as eminently kissable. So much so that the intoxicating taste that always accompanied such an action could be cosmetic, natural, or your brain's natural endomorphic reaction to a sensual experience it previously imagined constrained to heaven. Her ambrosial laughter would spontaneously part these lips revealing a dual row of teeth of incomparable luster, glistening ornaments for an exquisite mouth.

While the mouth would get your attention, what would truly enslave your will were her eyes. Her eyes were not aggressively beautiful, to hunt out your attention. Rather, they were silent pools that waited to be discovered, yet, once having done so, you would be doomed to live the life of Narcissus. Only death can stop your mind from perceiving such beauty. Those eyes would constantly hang before you, following into your dreams, and even the stupors of most drugs. Having discovered those swirling green orbs, no man, indeed no person, could ever refuse her any whim.

Her hair was cut boyishly short, but length was where all similarity ended. The dark tresses hung around her head at three different lengths: mid forehead at the bangs, cheekbone length from the corners of the eyes to mid ear, and neck level around the back. The shade, while not ebon, was dark, and the luster, while not glossy, was vibrant.

She was dressed, as ever, at the height of fashion, always seeming to get into the newest garments even before they were available on the black market, let alone the free one. On this particular night, she was dressed in simple red and black. Some women need clothing to lend them the illusion of beauty. She, however, had the kind of body that would complete a simple outfit. Following in the tradition of our grandparent's megastars, like Madonna or Cher, where not needed for function, her outer garments had atrophied. Her skirt stopped just short of concealing her panties, and, in the half darkness, they could be seen glowing beneath the black synth-leather of the skirt. Red lacy garters and matching belt led the eye along her red stockings to red stiletto heels. Traveling -- lingeringly -- in the other direction, she wore a black lacy bustier, not so much to firm (her breasts were deliciously shaped, and, like her lips, colored in a way almost too perfect...) as to flaunt. The red felt-like jacket almost covering her breasts could not possibly be taking even the sharper edge off the November air, but, just as her almost unnatural lack of discomfort in the heat, her skin was never marred by goosebumps, nor her composure by the faintest of shivers. Her ensemble was capped off with her ever present black beret, affixed with the insignia of the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

She was holding court, as I had been told she did every Thursday at this time of evening, in the streetside patio of Kazmeyer, the local Brain Bar. On that night, as I've done so many times since, I had to stop, enjoying the feel of watching her. The muted light accented her beauty, magnifying it, if such a thing is possible. She laughed lightly and easily, and, even from this distance, that ambrosia was particularly intoxicating. As always, she was surrounded by a half dozen hanger's on, mid-level hackers, revolutionary wannabes; perhaps skilled in their own right, at their own trades, but as a freedom fighter among the phosphors, not one could hold a light to her. This evening she had none of the heavyweights with her. Perhaps it was to soon to trust me that much...

Breaking free of the spell, I advanced towards the table. At my approach, the laughter lessened, but only until she spotted the black sash above my waist.

"Crux Ansata." The first time I heard her voice off-line, knowing her only from her postings in cyberspace, and I still can hear the melody echo in my mind. Most women come off as soft or cold. She, however, could be decisive and sure without losing her desirability.

"Not so formal. Just call me Ansat." Perhaps it was too soon to trust her, either. If life has taught me nothing else, never trust beauty, not at first. "And you are Bobbi Sands."

"Bobbi." She moved as if to stand. I moved to her, gesturing for her to stay seated, and took her hand. There was movement among the tagalongs, and I found myself beside a miraculously open seat.

The pleasantries were quickly disposed of. "Thank you for permitting this interview." "Always a pleasure to interview such an illustrious personality." One rule of thumb for the journalists: always flatter the interviewee. Either they are flattered, or they think you are a fawning imbecile. Either way, they are inclined to speak more freely.

She ordered me a drink as I fired up my laptop, setting it to multitasked annotated recorder. Then she told me the tale that turned a disgruntled visionary, burned out and writing freelance for pennies for the local metrofax, into a reinspired freedom fighter.

"I never forgave the Britishers, any Britishers, for what they did to me that night. The Goddamn British stormtroopers murder a child and rape another, leaving her for dead, and the Brit media tells another horror story about how our brave boys in uniform found their effing lives threatened by a mob of stone-throwing delinquents. An effing mob of two children! The Provos saved my life that day, and I'll never forget it," says this beautiful girl, hardly the cold blooded terrorist archetype so often typified in the media. "That's why I've devoted my life to them."

"And so that's why you decided to dedicate your life to combating tyranny in the cyber frontier."

"No, that's what led me to combat tyranny. This is what exiled me to the cyber frontier." She lifted her left arm for the first time above the table, revealing to me the full extent of her handicap. Where a hand should have been, there was nothing but a mass of wiring, computer input/output cabling. "This is the story I want you to get published."

She saw my objection before it reached my lips.

"Try."

After my brother died, I really had no reason to live. With nothing to lose, I began hanging around people I knew to be in the Provos -- the Provincial Irish Republican Army. Those are the men and women fighting to regain their freedom from the occupying army of the British. I would listen to Republican music, hang around where young Provos tarried, attend rallies, watch the firearms training in the woods just outside the city. Within two years, they were already including me, and by the time I was twelve, I could use an Armalite rifle as good as most boys half again my age.

Even in these enlightened days, though, women are restricted in Provo operation participation. Even with my firearms practice, the closest I was going to get was as a gunrunner. It was while I was discovering this that I discovered something else: the power that a young girl with nothing to lose can wield over a man in command. By using that amount of horizontal leverage I worked my way into favor with the leaders of the Army. Finally, at fifteen, I was going to go on an op.

Me and a couple of the guys, Brian Boru and James Connally, were to go on a bombing raid. Brian would be gunning, like me, and James would be in charge of the explosives. Only one catch -- we were going into an Ulster stronghold. Should we be caught, the IRA knew nothing about us. We were obviously a radical splinter group working at cross purposes to the will of the IRA.

A quick in and out should have been no problem. Our recon was extensive, and a few well placed shots with silenced pistols should shut down the entire guard network for enough time to penetrate, set the explosives, and evacuate safely. And, indeed, getting in was almost too easy. We quickly penetrated, and it seemed nothing could go wrong.

Let me tell you something. If your recon is extensive, and especially if you get in without a hitch, one or more of your spies is a traitor, almost guaranteed. Any target worth terrorist effort is not stupid, and if it is too easy, be on guard. Unfortunately, we were green. No pun. And we didn't know the warning signs. Either the leaders didn't know either, or they were comfortable with sending us into suicide, I don't know.

Anyway, I could feel his approach almost before I could hear it, but at that point, that deep into the citadel, there is not much that a feeling can do for you. Already sky high on endorphins, the extra burst of adrenaline the fear provides only amplifies your feeling. Your caress on your Armalite's trigger becomes slightly more urgent, your perceptions of all variations of colour in the world become slightly more crisp, your awareness of the sensual feel of every centimetre of your body becomes slightly more anxious.

At the sound of footsteps in the hall we knew we were apprehended. The pervasive atmosphere shifted, and we all were aware that each had given the entire group up for dead. This decided, we sought to provide us some Orangers to row us across the Styx.

Brian swung around the doorjamb, low and tight, to point his Armalite in the direction of the shod footsteps. As he squeezed off his first rounds, the tip of a rifle lowered down the side of the doorway, stealthily positioned by a concealed sniper taking full advantage of his compatriot's loud diversion.

My warning came too late. It's amazing; no matter how old they are, they all go down with the same look of innocent shock my brother had.

The anger that came from my comrade's death slowed my reactions just enough. My own Armalite dropped to position as I swung round to cover Brian's back -- where I should have been a moment before -- just as the Ulster's rifle discharged again. The bullet ripped open my jacket just below the right shoulder. My entire body exploded in one great burst of pain. I heard James yell and deflect my body as the concussion drove me towards where he was setting up for his last stand. The entire world bled the deepest shade of red I have ever seen, and then abruptly went black. I dropped with a smile on my lips, hearing the explosion of our planted charges as I fell.

The look of almost beatific satisfaction was mirrored on her exquisite face once again, in memory of the second worst day of her life. If pressed, she would also admit, as would we all, that those worst days were really her best as well, however.

She laid the drink on the table, and opened her eyes once more, satisfied with the length of her dramatic pause, and continued her narrative.

Much to my amazement, I awoke once more. My hands were bound, right behind me and left extended, and the stiffness in my joints informed me that I had been standing like that for some time.

A stock of my surroundings exhibited an empty concrete room, save for a couple of chairs, a rifle rack, the chair to which I was bound, and a crudely painted target painted on the wall behind it.

Blood drenched my blouse, sticking it to my skin. It was impossible to see the wound from my position, but I could see that much. Pain still emanated in strong pulses from my right chest, but I could still breathe, so it hadn't ripped any internal organs. As best as I could tell, the round had ripped into me, lodging in my ribcage. The blood was no longer gushing, but had lapsed into a sickening oozing.

I had just had the time to evaluate this when I heard the door open. Painfully, I looked up and twisted my head towards the door and saw two men in the typical ragtag "uniform" of the Ulster militia, carrying rifles.

"Ah, I see our young Mick cunt is back with us, is she?" said one of them, prodding my wound with the barrel of his rifle. They both laughed cruelly as I writhed involuntarily with the pain, straining my wrists in a losing battle with my bonds to escape the sharp, shooting flames of inflamed, infected pain.

His companion walked up to me, held my chin and turned my face to look upwards into his. I turned away my eyes. "Pretty thing. Pity she's on the wrong side." They laughed again.

I gathered the last of my strength and said, "Ireland for the Irish -- Oro se do bheatha bhaile!" following by spitting in his face.

"'Our day will come', you know," she said, flashing me another of her smiles.

"Impudent little bitch! You'll regret that." I braced myself against his raised hand, only relaxing when his friend called him back.

"We can still have our fun, only not that way." He finished inspecting his weapon and pointed it at the target.

At the first shot, I felt something give way, and my hand seemed to explode into numbness. The second and third more than made up for it, however, causing my body to explode from the hand outwards in ever new flavors of pain. Round after round splintered bone and penetrated flesh, blowing through my left hand into the target on the wall.

The shots and laughter rang in my ears, compounding the emotional strain I had been already under. My mind began to collapse, and I tasted the tears as they streamed down my face.

In only seconds, the tears had blurred the world into darkness.

I floated back to consciousness once more, alerted by the sounds of combat. The door to the cell I was bound in was kicked open and a pair of IRA soldiers stepped forward, reaching for his knife. The world echoed with my screams, and he had to calm me as he cut free my bonds. I reached over to rub my left hand, to make the numbness of the bonds go away, but my right touched only a bloody mass. Only somewhat aware of my surroundings, I followed him as he half led, half dragged me to the flaming front of the building. I was pushed outside onto the street where I was bundled towards a provo vehicle, stumbling among the chaos and sporadic gunfire.

I turned to find my unknown benefactor, meaning to ask him how he found me or some such, but he was lost, still searching for prisoners amidst the flaming rubble of the High Street police station.

"...and so, just like Nialla of the Silver Hand, who couldn't be king of Ireland after losing his hand in combat, with a missing hand, the Provos wouldn't let me do anything but a Sinn Fein desk job. So I talked to my superiors, and cashed in on my favors, and provided ... favors to those who didn't owe me yet, and the Provos paid to ship me to Chiba and get retrofitted with this piece of tech. That's why I'm fighting for freedom in cyberspace."

If this ever sees print, it will be posthumously. My body will not be dead, leastwise, I don't intend it to be, but my life as a naive suburban "intellectual" will be. Let this be a testament to why people become freedom fighters in this technological tyranny I for so long called home, and let it also be a rallying cry for all lovers of freedom to unite and bring about a new state, and New World Order, where freedom and justice are in front, and boundaries and law crawl far behind.

CARRIER LOST

--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) 1995 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) 1995 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.   State  of  unBeing is  
available at the following places:

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                World Wide Web   http://io.com/~hagbard/sob.html

Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>.  Thank you.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--