State of unBeing -- Issue #10 -- Apocalypse Culture Productions

Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY unaware to events stneve ot erawanu taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat knowing how or what 10/25 tahw ro woh gniwonk to think. You are in -T-E-N- ni era uoY .kniht ot a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

Yeah, I know. I promised I'd never do it again. But yes, you saw right. Dr. Graves is back. I really wouldn't have considered putting it in, but there were quite a few people at Texas A&M University who wanted more of the doctor, so I figure whatever makes you readers happy. (Of course, since they come from A&M, it may not take much to make them happy. I'm sure Doorway and Styx will tend to differ on that remark, but that's what they get.) Your immaculate editor even makes a cameo in the story, albeit a very small one. And, no, that is NOT my real name. I felt my editorial powers were needed and changed it. So don't go looking around for a Kevin Midland to prank call about being a pedophile. Nuff said about that.

I think everything else is pretty good (hell, I even KINDA liked the Dr. Graves story... it has its moments). A few of my friends and I discuss the movie "Forrest Gump." Two guys clean an attic and talk about it. Diary entries circa an Orwellian 1984-esque time. And lots of nifty stuff on colonizing Mars and masturbation (not related, BTW). Read it and see.

Now, for a little housecleaning. Last issue I mentioned that Harlequin's poem in issue #7 was a Joy Division song. I was both wrong and right. The poem in issue #7 was, in fact, Harlequin own... so if you went searching thru all your Joy Division albums trying to find that song, you have not gone crazy. It was the poem "Something Must Break" in issue #6 that was a Joy Division song and not Harlequin's. Sorry bout that mix up.

BTW, we are unsure of this, but there are rumors circulating that The Astronomy Consortium's office was ransacked by unknown individuals and that Tachyon has not been in contact with us since early October. If you have any information about Tachyon, please contact us in a secure manner. Any information would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, the reconstruction of SoB #8 is still underway. To all my writers out there, if you can rebuild any of your stuff, please hurry and get it to me. I may be changing locations soon... in the meantime, stay tuned.

Do you think the Earth is going to Hell? Do you think that there are better ways to do things than what is being done right now? Are you frightened of the world your children may or may not live to grow up in? Are you tired of waiting for the world to change for the better? Are you tired of people with lots of money maintaining the status quo? Do you have a pioneering spirit? Do you wish to have new experiences and see new places? If you answered yes to all or most of these questions, then you are likely a prime candidate for colonization.

I am talking about doing exactly what our forefathers did, exactly what humans have been doing half the time for the past 500,000 years... MOVING!!! The people that settled this once great country didn't like the way things were back at home, so what did they do? They took a dangerous journey to an unknown and unexplored land. There they set up shop, lived off the land, set up a government which supported their own ideals, morals, and philosophies. They were composed of all kinds, from daring intellectuals like Thomas Jefferson to merchants and craftsmen, to mere beggars.

The MARS COLONY UNDERGROUND wishes to do the same. MCU is an organization devoted to creating a new life, for those who want it and can work for it, on Mars. We will not wait for silly governments to say when we go and how we go, we will take the initiative and colonize Mars ourselves.

Mainly for the reasons outlined above. Without space colonization, the human race will stagnate. This leads to all the problems involved in resource depletion, population, etc. All that want to go to Mars have their own, equally valid, reasons. The goal is to start a new life, to help ourselves, and to help a dying planet.

The task set before you by the MCU is not an easy one, in fact it is extremely difficult, and likely to be strongly opposed by those in power. The key is, of course, you. MCU needs people with a desire to go and people with a desire to help us achieve our quest. This means we will need people from every background available, especially those skilled with geology, mining, planetary science, closed-system living, construction, space flight design, ship design, propulsion, and a host of other professions related in the endeavor of colonizing Mars.

With enough people, with people who desire this and will work for it, and with people who are willing to help us plan and build no matter the cost, we CAN do this.

Realize that this is not a lighthearted matter, those involved may well be persecuted for their involvement. But it is imperative that we begin now, because there is no where left to go, and time is running short.

It is a dangerous undertaking, filled with risk. Pioneer life was never so hard. If this is achieved, the colonists will be at risk to unprecedented dangers: cosmic radiation, lack of breathable atmosphere, closed-system living, and a host of other difficulties. But I am confident that those with the will have the knowledge and courage to overcome these dangers.

But remember, if you are willing to work for this, it is completely voluntary. You will receive no compensation for loss, and the only compensation you shall receive for success is living with a harsh climate in a barren landscape on a dead(?) world several million kilometers from Earth. That, and maybe the knowledge that you have achieved your dream, whether a dream of freedom, of exploration, of cooperation, or of a new society.

In truth, this is merely the dream of MCU and myself. I fear that it will not happen. You are probably thinking "All of that sounds good, but where is the money going to come from?", and indeed, funds are the major block to the plan. I propose of course that MCU gain investors, such as major aerospace companies. In return, after the Mars Colony has established itself, they would receive a portion of profits from the sale of raw materials and micro-g manufactured products to Earth. The raw materials would likely come from asteroid mining, which would be easy to do once the foundation for a colony has been established. This, as anyone can see, is a high risk investment, but the returns are unfathomable. For instance, it has been reported that an average asteroid contains $6 trillion worth of precious metals.

If you wish to be a part of this monumental effort, or you have comments, criticisms, ideas, support, or flames, please send all correspondence to:

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

Life, death, are we so unimaginative that we must constantly think of it? Humans are so afraid of dying all of us even me but not in the way of most. Most fear the change. They don't want to acknowledge the strange. They don't want to change. They cling so desperately to something they have and are not willing to take a chance. I want it to come. I want the change be it death or living. I want to go into the darkness to discover its secrets and truths. I want to go into the light and feel loved and cared for. But I won't re- strict my self to those standards. I won't go by their rules and laws. For me the land is always changing with it my body, soul, and mind and I learn from what others ignore. I watch. I listen. I roam.

Even though a man's health may be poor,
He may not be unhappy in all things:
One may be blessed with good sons,
Another with friends,
A third with full barns,
A fourth with good deeds.
Better to live and be happy.

It's hard isn't mainly if there is there is only one or two in the entire history of the world. Music is what brings people of a common thread togeth- er. If you're able to listen to different kinds of music then your horizon is broadened. Those who listen to one kind of music are usually simple in mind and imagination. If you 'taste' other music you increase your knowledge of others around you. You learn what others use as a basis of their lives. What they view as entertaining. If you're truly a musical person you would not limit yourself to one type of listening pleasure.

The hawk, the insects, and such animals were born free. Mostly the insects we try to destroy them because they're 'a nuisance.' We won't allow them to live because they annoy us. We destroy things that get in the way. While learning and developing we're being ignorant and selfish we lay waste to things around us. If we need something we don't care what lives in it or uses it for living. We take it and use it for our selves. If we're such an advanced race, the smartest race on the planet. If this is our world then we need to wake up. We need to take our charges and live up to it. If we're the smartest race then we need to care for the world around us, we need to care for the animals. If we destroy the plants and animals around us we will not be far behind in our deaths.

Few people see the value of honesty. Even those that do are usually lost in the confusion: the world creates its own illusions, and power crazed people find it useful to multiply them. Most people find it convenient to believe what their parents, families, and friends believe: Jews beget Jews, Buddhists beget Buddhists, Christians beget Christians. The truth is likely to be found where such systems of propagation clash: seaports, border towns, and the centers of great empires. If everyone in a community believes in heaven the fact that no one has seen it is no cause for concern, but the appearance of one person who denies it can provoke great crisis.

Two very different lives. Each decision leads to a thousand more which leads to a thousand more. The morbic would eventually trace it to death.

One cannot help but to ask, "What if I had done this instead of that? What if I had changed this or altered that or ran forward here or retreated there?" Where would we be?

I know you have cast me as a writer, but I am not very good at it. Besides, what a poor and useless thing. The only language that would begin to cover this life might be Sanskrit, where there are a hundred words for everything, and even then it fails to scratch the surface of the ideas and experiences this life holds. But, every so often, one might come across a way to formulate an idea or experience into words. Then, it becomes magical, that expression is real from something that was not real.

Right now there is too much emotion. My stability is gone and I am unable to collect myself for any amount of time as though being overwhelmed by gargantuan proportions of this life and my circumstances. Where do I begin to regret my life? Birth? When I began to hate my mother and stepfather? When I lost the meaning of Life for three months and lost the faith I had in everything? Or when I met the first one and lost the second one.

The new people I have met have not known me. I relate to them some of the more meaningful experiences I have had, both bad and good. They say I am not the average eighteen year old, but who is? Have these experiences made me wise? I suppose they have, and that is good. But why must pain be a teacher? Sure, the morose poetry and self-defilement is fun, but it does hurt. And there are a few that can't handle it.

The first one. Perfection. Total apparition of the feminine. She taught me how to love, but not how to receive it. I bled for her unbelievably. She never returned the emotion.

For two years I chased what would never be mine, spurred on only by how beautiful and wonderful she was. I had no reason to hope, but I did anyway and lost all hope eventually. I contemplated death for her, so sick at hear was I. But I carried on and have strength from it all. She still is the dream I'll always dream, but I am immersed in reality and accepting of that.

The second one, my first real experience, was bittersweet. The first months were spent convincing her to trust her heart, the next spent loving her, and the final month was spent letting her go. I loved her purely, as I loved myself. Perhaps more which was not good. But everything about her complemented me. she had problems, though. Problems I couldn't, and later realized I wasn't supposed to, fix. Pain was amplified, the reverse side of the coin that made every good moment with her heaven. Finally the pain was all that remained.

She nearly shattered the remnants of what life I had left. No parents, no future, no love. Only a few friends who cared and offered sympathy. But, I grew.

I continue to grow. Every day I become stronger and better equipped to handle Life. I grow wise. Decisions I regret I look back upon. Do I want to change them? Some yes, some no. My life is far from perfect, but if it was perfect it would not be any fun.

If you have no children you are a genetic dead end.
If you have no family you are a social dead end.
If you have no folk you are a cultural dead end.
Think of the future, plan carefully, live fully,
And do the very best you can.

Free born is more than just a phrase used by revolutionaries, freedom fighters and the such. It stands for all of life. It stands for those who won't let others take too much from them. Now it's different from fighting the "system" because mainly its not the system it's the ones who run it. Free born are those who are willing to share what they have, to take shit from others, to a point. Not to the point where they take your freedom of choice from you or your ability to think. If you allow others to tell you how to think then you're not free. If you can't think for your self then some one who will take advantage of you will. They you're caught and put in a cage. Life is a series of choices. Let yourself learn from them good or bad. Don't rely on others to make decisions for you. Be Free in your thought.

Sir, what is obscene?
Filth. Filth. Filth is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Dirt. Dirt. Dirt is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Desire. Desire. All desires are obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
The body. The body. The body is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Sex. Sex. Sex is obscene.
Sir, what is obscene?
Life. Life. Life is obscene.

Why is it that the people who campaign most fervently for "decency" are often reluctant to call so many realities by their names: racism, napalm, sex, death?

When I was in sixth grade my friend lent me his Dad's Penthouse. Over the weekend I learned why so many people enjoyed reading or, excuse me, drooling over these magazines. It was the first time in my life I had ever reached orgasm. I usually would just stroke my penis a couple of times and be satisfied. But this time was different. I didn't stop I kept sliding my hand over and over my penis. Finally, I felt movement in my testicles. I was enthralled each stroke went faster and faster. My heartbeat was thumping anxiously, just as I was squeezing, and pumping. ONE more stoke would lead closer and closer. UNTiL it happened. My aunt came in the room. At first she just closed the door so she wouldn't see me. Then just as she reopened the door I climaxed. She ran out of the room again silently. I just laid back and enjoyed the postorgasm-shakes. She came in and handed me some tissues. Very firmly she said "I want you to clean up, take a shower, and then mister you are going to have some explaining to do."

I cleaned off the interesting new substance that had immersed from my genitals and took my shower. After I finished putting on my clothes I walked out and I knew I was expected in the living room.

When I went in my aunt asked me, "First of all where in the HELL did you get this magazine". I told her that some kid at school sold it to me. She yelled at me for about 5 minutes about the magazine. The she said "If I ever catch you masturbating ever again you will be sorry". That really didn't scare me because that's what she always threatened me with.

A week later after thousands of evil stares from my aunt and uncle they started sending me to counseling by a Baptist Preacher. He gave me a bunch of bullshit like that God lets us have choices and if we choose the right ones then we shall rise unto the kingdom of everlasting life. He said that if I didn't change my ways that I would have a meaningless life and I would basically fry in hell.

For months I believed that bastard. I mostly forgot what he had said after a year or so. I would still masturbate occasionally, but it was late at night so I never got caught.

I don't know why people don't like talking about or admitting about things that feel so damn good.

As I pull out my cock and start stroking it. One hand holding the base firm and the other moving simultaneously to my heartbeat. My whole life flashes before my eyes. With me masturbation isn't just jollies it is spiritual LiFE!

In this book it is spoken of the Sephiroth & the paths, of spirits & conjurations, of gods, spheres, planes & many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether they exist or not. By doing certain things certain results follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophical validity to any of them.

As I look at people run from here to there I notice that they all want to organize them selves into nice little groups like kickers, preps, freaks, stoners, skaters, dorks, nerds and other little groups. We are a race of dependents that so desperately want to feel wanted. But then they'll turn on those who are different than them. Me and my fellow distorters of reality have realized one thing. When you belittle some one only because of how they dress or act is a sin. To say that if some one doesn't believe in your reli- gion they'll go to hell.

Labels: If you talk to kickers they'll say the freaks and stoners are a bunch of long haired hippy satanists. If you talk to freaks or stoners you'll hear that kickers are a bunch of stupid, inbred, goat molesters. And the geeks and nerds think that all the others are bullies. I know, for I have friends in all these groups. It's hard at times but peace is such a hard thing. Each group has its decent people and their ignorant prejudice ass- holes. It's not the group or the labels, its how you view others and ignoring those stupid enough to use the labels.

My friends and I were sitting in a well-lit Whataburger one night discussing the sheer intellectual power of the movie "Forrest Gump." While some guys may be ashamed to admit it, I think this movie brought out something special in all of us -- a vibrant discussion. While I can only imitate the power of that night, I'll try to reprint the conversation here. Names are not necessary, that's how good it was.

"I mean, it was so symbolic and shit. Like, all the characters represented something."

"Hey, you know something? If Forrest had been less friendly in the movie -- and you know he was a very friendly, outgoing guy -- he woulda been 'Forrest Grump'."

"Oh! How astute! I understand your point. That would have changed the entire focus of the movie."

"Exactly! Did you not notice that Lieutenant Dan fit the last two alter-egos perfectly? That was him. That was Lieutenant Dan."

"Hmm! I didn't think of that. Those people who he ran across the country with might have supported that line of reasoning. I'd say more research is needed."

"That is a point. I think that would have focused on the social implications of the mentally retarded reproducing. Quite interesting discussions can be had with the geneticists on that one."

"I wonder if he'd wandered on stage with Eddie Van Halen if he'd be 'Forrest Jump!'."

"All the symbolic encounters with celebrities could have quite conceived such a notion. Unfortunately, Van Halen wasn't around back then. Excellent idea, though."

"Or if his penis were too small and he got help from the ads in the back of Playboy, if he'd be 'Forrest Pump'."

"I wonder if he would even be capable of self-conscious behavior like that. He seems too much like a tabula rasa, completely innocent, naive throughout life. But it is that naivete which so endears him to us."

"That would have been quite symbolic. Trump was a product of the 'me' decade, the 80's, which is such a stark contrast to that of the 60's and 70's when Gump was at his peak. That would have been interesting, the comparison."

"Hmmm... I don't really think he was the criminal type. That may have been plausible if the cynical attitudes of his compatriots even adversely affected him."

"And, when all the fans walk out of the movie theatre, they say, 'I really liked that movie called Forrest Gump'!"

"And if he had low self-esteem, his teachers'd always say to him, 'you're Forrest Sump-in' special!'"

"If he was really high up in the air and full of helium -- helium, right, 'cuz hydrogen explodes and shit -- yeah -- he'd be 'Forrest Blimp'!"

"And if he had been a militant protector of the tree, he'd be 'Deforestation Sucks'!"

The way things ended
No one could imagine
so much hatred...
frustrated rage.

Feel empty,
abandoned.
No one could stop her
Barely saw her go.

Feel empty.
Piecing together
everything
Try not to cut myself

Unanswered questions
of vainly spent tears
She didn't mean to hurt me.
She didn't mean to...

She wanted
something more than myself
I couldn't give her
fallen stars
I am empty.
I am empty.

I am the Faceless One,
My existence is limited to this page,
My lifetime is limited to the existence of this poem,
And your memory,
The great curse of authors and artists,
Poets and painters,
Is that their works mean more to their readers than they,
We are the Faceless Ones,
Who write for those we shall never know,
And shall be remembered only as words on a page

She stands thre feet from me,
A wall between us.
If I were omnipotent
I wouldn't get close to her.

She stands silent.
I stand silent.

Three feet between us.
Worlds of pain between.
So much hatred
So much pain
So much pain
In three feet.

Translated from Pig-Latin

Verse I
sung to the tune of "Oh Susanna"

I like to sit in a big tree,
And have some tea,
And think on great things
like Cthulhu's eyebrows.
He doesn't have any you know,
I noticed one night when I
Saw him sneaking out of my toilet.

Whoa! Totally mind blowing, man!

Verse II
To the tune of "Passecaglia"

"Uh, excuse me yung 'un, but how
do ya pass a Kaglia?"
I like to lie on my lawn,
while eating fish spawn,
And think on great things,
like Yog-Sothoth's bathroom.
And how he fits in,
being miles of bubbles might
make that hard.
However, I revised,
being a god might make
you exempt from
constipation.

Huh???

Verse III
No tune just in a dark scary voice

Dead puppies aren't
much fun.
But a lot depends on
the sauce.
I mean, the right sauce
can make a 5-day-old road
kill, taste like fresh.
But never use that A-1 Bold
that like sucks and stuff.

I dig man! I dig.

[Transcriber's note: The following pages were found in the diary of one Crux Ansata during a routine search of his papers at one of our new anti-drug roadblocks in Austin. They indicate a paranoid personality, and we cannot vouch for the accuracy of his statements. Particular attention should be paid to his belief that he can see things happening that most people don't notice. An obvious borderline psychotic with subversive tendencies. He has been, of course, detained in a prison camp. If he comes to trial, these papers will be used against him, and are to be presumed a confession. We recommend they be sealed as Secret and sent back to FBI main offices until the determination has been made whether to bring him to trial. Excerpts may be advisable for distribution to other field agents until the last of the subversive elements are apprehended. October 16]

A cold front came in today. The heat is finally leaving, I suppose. It seems to start to leave and then come back, though. I wish it would finally start to winter, and stop the heat. I'd rather be chilly than tepid.

Saw Bobbi today. Only had a couple of hours. She was locked out of her house, and we went for a walk in the dark. Sitting in the park, we heard the helicopter again. The black helicopter just hovered above us, rattling win- dows and teeth.

It's hard living under occupation. Especially when so few people realize it. Even the government isn't admitting it. "Military exercise ... invited members of allied nations ... peace keeping forces."

"I love you," she whispered. The helicopter probably picked that up. Even in a whisper. But who cares. Even under occupation we have to try to live. If we accept the invasion, if we accept the police state, they have won.

Recognized the type. It was the same type of helicopter they use in northern Ireland. The SAS use. The British equivalent of some kind of mass bastard child from the Delta Force, Green Berets, Navy Seals, and the LAPD, but with a worse attitude. They used them in Waco, too. During the Koresh incident. That ran in the British papers. Guess we in the States didn't need to know.

Seeing the helicopter again, hovering over our home town, reminds us how short our lives our; how something is fated to happen to one of us, or both of us. We are among the few who can accept that things are happening that we can't accept.

Friday today. Had a few classes, but nothing serious. Midterms are over, and most homework isn't due until midway through next week. Can relax for a while.

Sitting home tonight. All night. Bobbi at work; Quinn "disappeared" (could mean government or girlfriend; can never tell with his disappearances; just that damn weird voicemail message...); my brother out; the only phone call tonight from a friend who can't do anything this week-end due to an unfortunate incident with a welding torch and his hair. Going for the Michael Jackson look....

Watched the news. Still in Haiti. Training our armed forces to be police men. Some people say this isn't the military's mission. I say this isn't the issue.

Check this out: couple of years back, the ATF people botch a job in Waco, Texas, trying to bring down an armed cult. They call in the FBI, and lay siege. Lots of people die.

Later on, some of the facts begin to trickle out. Like, the fact the FBI was using tanks. Where'd they get them? They say they took them from the Texas National Guard. Sound illegal, they "suspected Koresh had a speed lab," and pulled some War on Drugs bureaucratic footwork. So we have U.S. military (the FBI nationalized the National Guard equipment, remember) to use against American citizens. So we had U.S. troops armed and ready to fire against U.S. citizens. This has only happened once before, during the L.A. Rebellion a couple of years back. Creepy.

Another fact: the U.S. called in the SAS from Britain. Why? Guess if they needed to storm the place, they needed people trained in "anti- terrorism." Of course, Delta Team was already there. Guess they had an odd number of people, and we dividing up for bridge. I know it always irritates me when we can't form a foursome.

But seriously, what is the SAS trained in? Besides "everything." Well, in northern Ireland they have been providing stormtroopers and surveillance for the British Army of Occupation. When they came over here, they brought along those nifty helicopters, the big black ones. What did the British papers say? "Can read the ingredients off a package of chips" -- no, it's British; they call them "crisps" -- "off a package of crisps at a half mile range, and can pick out a single voice from the crowd at a football game." They were talking about soccer, not American football, but either sport gives the same concept.

I suppose they could really use those in case of an anti-terrorist raid. Seriously, I suppose they had them on stand-by. Or I suppose that's what they would have admitted. The American papers didn't have them just watching, though. All the black helicopters were SAS, presuming we didn't invite a special regiment of Morrocans to take pot shots or whatever. And the papers said they flew low over the building and strafed it with machine guns, firing through the ceiling. I shudder to think who came up with that plan. Some- where in Washington, I can picture Janet Reno saying, "Well, they might be abusing children. Let's invite the British to blast massive holes in their ceiling with machine guns." "But that's illegal!" "It's okay. Koresh might have a speed lab."

I suppose it is not a justifiable assumption to assume that while these fellows, with a background in totalitarian occupation of a nation, were hang- ing out with the FBI and the Delta Force and the ATF and whoever else happened to be visiting Waco at that time, that they were training them.

So now we are in Haiti. What are we doing? Disarm the population and keep the peace. Patrol the streets. Kind of a field training exercise in case we ever decide to return the favor and help the SAS patrol northern Ireland. Or perhaps they were auditioning for a new job, since the peace process is well underway in Ireland.

She's dead. Bobbi's dead. It doesn't seem real, but she is. We were at the park again, just after nightfall, and they killed her. One of those black helicopters starts hovering overhead, so we go under a grove of trees, and this unmarked sedan pulls up across the street with more antenna than a cheap 'fifties movie spaceship, and some guy starts spraying with machine guns. We both dropped and rolled, of course. We're all learning to do things like that, those of us who can see what's going on. But we didn't go down fast enough, and they were aiming for her first.

I laid still. I thought she was, too. I could feel wet, but I thought it was from the rain, not blood. They drove away and we could here sirens coming to clean, or cover, up. I showed up home covered with blood; I haven't a clue how I got by the patrols without being searched.

The second most frightening thing was that, when I got home, my family informed me I am wanted for murdering her. Like I'd kill Bobbi! Of course, I can't endanger my family. I changed my clothes, but I took the bloody ones with me, so they can't prove my family knows anything. Then I grabbed my notebooks and left. I'll drop most of them off at Quinn's. They shouldn't have reason to search him, if I keep moving.

Oh, I almost forgot. The first most frightening thing was that she was wearing my beret and my jacket. She'd complained that she was cold, so I loaned her my jacket. In the darkness, they probably thought they were aiming for me.

And that helicopter made the mistake of flying low enough that I could see the uniforms of the people inside. The pilot was in camouflage with the raspberry beret of the SAS, and the other two were in normal American police uniforms.

Jim and Tank carefully turned the ladder up to the entrance of the attic. This entrance was to be found in the ceiling of a tiny hall closet, right above a wooden shelf under which hung a full rack of outdated clothing. After Jim shoved some slippery cloths out from under the ladder's feet, he ran his hand through his hair.

"It's damned hot right here," he said to Tank. "But I don't know if I can stand living with this stench much longer."

"I guess a few minutes of attic heat is a small sacrifice to make," Jim said, rubbing his hand across his t-shirt.

"Yeah, sure." Tank walked behind the ladder, ducking his head so it didn't hit the shelf above him. He grabbed the sides of the ladder in his hands and waited for Jim to go up.

Jim looked around and at his and Tank's hands and asked, "Uh, where's the bags?"

Tank rolled his eyes and muttered, "You were supposed to get it. I got the gloves, remember? Go get 'em now. I like standing here like this."

"Okay, okay," Jim said, walking away toward the kitchen, muttering "fuck you" under his breath. He knew specifically that Tank said he'd found the garbage bags, but of course, he had left them in the kitchen. Luckily they hadn't entered the attic and walked clear to the other side of the house before realizing it.

He stomped into the kitchen, darting his eyes around the room to see where dumbass Tank had left the bags sitting. Ah, right there in the open drawer. So fucking efficient he was. Jim snatched the whole box and started to head back toward the hall when he stopped and clenched his fists. He realized he was losing his temper and rolled his eyes and glared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, wiped back his sweaty hair, and went back.

"I found 'em," he tried to say cheerily, sounding rather emphatically sarcastic instead. He smiled at Tank to say no hard feelings. In response, Tank's eyes drew a path from the bottom of the ladder to the attic. "Yeah, cool!" Jim cheered, and thinking about Tank's grip on the ladder, decided to shut up. He threw the box of bags on the shelf and climbed up into the attic, banging his tailbone on the arch of the door in the process. "Watch the angle," he advised. Tank nodded.

Up in the attic, Jim stood over the entrance and waited for Tank to come up. Slowly but surely, he made it. He couldn't have been less than two hundred pounds. But he was taller than average, though not enough. Jim helped pull him through the tiny opening.

"Yeah, thanks," Tank said, ducking in the short crawlspace. "Uh, lemme see, it's back there I guess, right?"

"Wait, I got one on my pocketknife," Tank said, fishing for it in his pocket and handing it to Jim.

"I have those too, okay?" Tank said. "C'mon, let's do this, I can smell it from here already."

Jim sniffed the air and coughed. "Shit!" he cried, clutching his nose. "Well, we can't see it yet, so, bingo for us. Let's go," he said, walking on the beams toward the corner of the house, cutting the stale air with the weak beam of the tiny light.

"Tell me when to stop," Tank said, watching his feet and holding the box of bags and the gloves out in front of him for balance.

"No, guess not," Jim answered. Looking around, he noticed the crack of light where it must have come in from outside. "Oh, uh, stop. Need to turn left now."

"I'm following my nose," Tank gasped, breathing through his mouth. He heard and saw the flies swarming about. Fuck, what is it?" he cried out, standing behind Jim, waving his hand across his face.

"He, he, it's short for Gabriel, but we --" Jim started to explain, cutting off his words with a sigh. "He was the other one, alright? The one who isn't Faulkner, the one who isn't dead."

"It's okay," he said, bending down, holding his breath. He stood up again and gasped for air, peevishly waving the flies away. "His collar's all the fuck the way around his chest!" he cried. "Damned if we didn't search for the specific collar to --"

"Just look! It's like one leg got through, and then the other, and -- oh fuck! What the hell happened to his back leg?! Lookit that!" he cried, bending down in shock and banging into Tank. "Shit, move! It's like almost ripped off!" He coughed violently, searching for fresh air.

"Wait, wait, c'mon, Jim, ya gotta calm down. Mebbe it got hit by a car or something... I mean, I've seen worse."

Jim moaned. "Oh, God, and Gabby just ran all the way up here with like three legs. Shit! Shit! I see it now. She was crossing the street, and one of those FUCKS down the road --" he screamed, throwing the bags down and angrily trying to crush flies in his hands.

"Okay, okay, one of those not-very-considerate FUCKS down the road just smashes him -- I mean, look! The back leg! He was running like crazy! And, shit, those front legs... Gabby prolly fell down a few times, too. Geeeez." He sniffed and quickly regretted it. "Put on the gloves," he said, reaching for the bags.

Tank stood out of the way while Jim crawled into the tight corner of the attic and held open the garbage bag. He got a grip on Gabby's front legs and torso. When he pulled, the sound of the cat separating from the plaster was disgustingly audible. Jim groaned. Tank tossed Gabby in the bag. Jim twirled it shut and with a sullen nod prompted Tank to start leaving.

Jim returned from his shower. "Tanks for waiting, Tank," he jibed. Tank was slouched on the couch in the living room watching television. He sat up.

"Yeah, man! What's with the air-conditioning here?" Tank asked, fanning himself with his hand.

"Hey, I'm proud, okay?" Jim retorted, shoving the back screen door open. "Yeah, yeah, much better here." He headed for the patio table.

Jim bolted. "Fuck yeah! I was drinking out of the shower nozzle! Oh, since you're already up, just get something from the fridge. Get me a Coke too."

"Massive vocabulary," Jim muttered under his breath. He scooted his chair back and leaned back in the sun. He shielded his eyes, and glanced at the grave he had dug for Gabby over in the corner of the yard, beneath the hunchback tree. He snorted. "Here, Faulkner," he called, looking around. No cat came. "Shit."

Tank lumbered out of the house with three Cokes, and handed one to Jim and sat down.

"That's all that was left," he answered, smiling. "I found a new 6-pack and put it in the fridge."

Jim noticed Tank was blocking his view of the grave, as well as the sun, and sighed. "Yeah, yeah."

"Oh, yeah. Shit," he answered. "Dammit! Faulkner! Here, Faulkner!" he called, tilting his head back.

"Why're your boy cats named girl names and your girl cats named boy names?" Tank asked.

"Maybe I'm just queer for cats, okay?" he cried. "I've explained it thousands of times! Gabby is short for Gabriel, but he meows -- meowed really loud all the time so we called him Gabby. Faulkner, I just wanted a cat named Faulkner. And it was a female. So what? It's a fucking last name!"

"Yeah, yeah, it is," Jim muttered, jerking his head around in hopes of seeing Faulkner slink by. "You don't even know my cats, do you?"

Tank crushed the first can with his hands and tossed it on the patio table. "Jim, I know you're upset about Gabby, and I can understand why you're so pissed-off, but I will smack you in a second."

Jim opened his eyes and looked for fists. "Okay, okay, sorry. You were my last hope, ya know. My whole family's away today, and Henry and Paul and even Amanda were out of town. Not to offend you, but most of my friends can stand me, alright, especially when half my cats fuckin' die!" he cried. "Faulkner!! Get the fuck home, Faulkner!"

"It's true, yeah, sure," Tank said. "Sorry, then. I guess you really liked that cat."

"Yeah, I did. Well, it's all taken care of now, I don't smell a thing, so if you want you can take my Coke and go home now," Jim said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

"No, wait, I wanna hear about Gabby, if it's okay," Tank said, holding his hand out.

Jim sighed and smiled. "Well, alright. You know, I try not to be a bitch, but I just -- oh well. Okay, I don't know if you could tell up there, but Gabby was this grey-and-black striped cat. As cool as hell, man. And this eyebrow, man, right over one of the eyes. So weird. It was like it knew a good joke, ya know?"

"You could say that. Well, Gabby came before Faulkner -- if Faulkner ever comes back, that is -- Faulkner!! Damn you, second cat! - - oh, well, anyway, Gabby was actually like the fifth or sixth cat I had. Lemme see... Limpy, Hatch-Patch, Grover, Spot --"

"Yeah, and, uh... J-... Jiminy? No, it was Jermaine. Yeah. My mom named that one. I just called it 'Cat'."

"Yeah. Well, as I was saying, Gabby wasn't the first cat. But that's why I knew he was so cool. Like, all my other cats had been really bland. Totally boring. Well, except Hatch-Patch, he was so fucking hyper, but that got boring too. Gabby was just a nice cat. My dad likes to say that he 'talked to us' when he meowed. Shit, he meowed all the time! For a coupla hours I tried to see if he understood me or something. I said shit like, 'Gabby, meow if you understand what I'm saying.' 'MEOW.' I was young and stupid at the time, ya know. And now I'm older and stupid. Anyway, Gabby would also follow me around the yard when I did the lawn. Wasn't even scared of the motor or anything. But also wasn't stupid enough to go near it. Oh! And he could stand on his hind legs for a really long time if you made him think you had food."

"Well, you won't get one like Gabby, trust me, unless you search for it. You might get one like Faulkner instead." Jim turned his head and screamed, "Faulkner! Get the faulk over here!" No cat came. "Actually, I'm exaggerating. Faulkner's interesting in her own way -- and you could actually see if she were around anywhere."

"Her, her. No, let's make her get trained. She's only like a year old. I've seen cats become nicer over time. I usually have to resort to petting them when I feed them. Then they associate me with food. So, it's like, being nice to me and living go together."

"That's kind of sick," Tank said, shoving the second empty can toward the first one.

"Yeah, it is, but it works. Oh man, speaking of food, when Faulkner eats, she like shoves the food dish with her nose clear across the patio. Isn't that wacky?"

"Oh, hey, cool, that's Faulkner. Hell, and she's heading towards us! It must have been the discussion of food or something." Faulkner started jogging towards them.

He smirked and picked up Faulkner. "That's really cool. Maybe I should call her 'Food' now." She nuzzled against Jim's face and meowed sweetly.

Tank grinned, glanced at his watch, and stood up. "Yeah, Jim, I guess I should go home now."

"So who is she?" Cody asked. "She calls herself Death. The file says she's approximately sixteen, of slight build, black hair, dark eyes. Spooky looking, according to Security," the Mister Johnson replied, showing teeth in a surgically-enhanced grin. "Just your type."

He handed Cody the glossies taken during an ill-fated raid. Cute, but typical teenage haute coture. Heavy eye makeup, chrome on black on black. "So what's the problem?"

"It seems no-one can get near her. She killed three of our guys with simple physical contact. It might be a high-voltage implant of some sort - all three died of heart attacks. Needless to say, we weren't able to retrieve the bodies for autopsies. What little information we do have came from the biomonitors the guys were carrying."

"Sounds strange. So what do you want, the basic retirement package?" Cody asked, taking a pull from his cigarette. "Yeah, nothing fancy. Make it look like some boostergang pumped her, something like that. The authorities won't blink an eye. Just something simple, okay?"

"Fine. I get fifty per up front, the rest when it's done," Cody sighed. A piece of cake.

Cody scanned the shitsheet the Mister had given him. Other than some nail razors and possible headware implants, she was clean - no weapons, at least none visible. She liked clubs and mingling with the other freaks of nature, so he adjusted his wardrobe and went hunting.

The sidewalk was alive with various forms of vermin, some human. He shoved his way through the crowd congregated around the entryway to her favorite club, paid the doorman, and stepped into the cacaphony of humanity. Bodies twisted as if in agony, twitching to the throbbing beat of the music. She was there, writhing with the rest of the punks, zoned out and sweating profusely. The adolescents surrounding him reeked of sweat and chemicals; the smoke nearly obscured his vision. He waited until she left the floor, panting and jittery. He noticed the bitch-bag hung from her belt, and her dialated pupils and frozen grin told him she was in the throes of a drug-induced ecstasy.

"I'm looking for Death," Cody told her as she passed him. "Try a gun," she called over her shoulder as she headed for the trip-room. He followed her and sat next to her on a ratty overstuffed divan. "That's not what I need," he told her, and she stared at him.

"Maybe you're right. A gun's very messy. So's a razor. How about rat poison?" she smiled again, the frozen rictus-grin.

"I mean, I'm looking for you," he said. "Well, then, that's different. Dead people aren't too much fun, unless you're a necrophiliac. Have you ever tried it?"

"Once, but it's not really my kind of thing, I guess. Hey, you want some?" Death hefted the bag, untied it and offered it to him. "Great stuff."

"I tried it once, but it's not really my type of thing, I guess," he smiled. She smiled back, her grin a little less rigid. "I want coffee," the girl blurted, hopping to her feet. "Cody followed her out of the club, avoiding the reeking bodies as much as possible.

When they reached a relatively empty and quieter part of the street, she turned to him and said, "Hey, you're kind of cute, in an anal-retentive kind of way."

"Thanks, I guess. Uh, where are we going?" he asked as she led him down a dark alley. "My place. I've got this great cappucino thing I want to try out. It's all silver and brass, really expensive. Do you mind?" she stopped and looked at him with drug-widened doe eyes. Perfect, Cody thought. Simple retirement. "No, of course not."

"Great!" She grabbed his hand and turned to a recessed doorway. "It's up here. I hope you don't mind climbing a couple flights of stairs, 'cause the elevator's broken." She smiled and led him to the fifth floor of the building.

She opened her door and turned on the lights. The room was decorated almost entirely in burgundy and black, the only other colors being a few posters, some dead flowers in a green glass vase, and a score of stuffed animals scattered around the room.

The loft was a giant room, apparently converted from an old warehouse, and was divided into little sections. Against the far wall was an ancient four-poster hung with dusty wine-colored velvet drapes. The only other remarkable item was the huge espresso machine sitting in the center of the room. "This thing's gonna take a while to fire up, so make yourself comfortable, okay?" She turned to the metallic beast on the floor and began fiddling with it.

"Your decor is kind of... morbid," he said, and settled into a leather bean-chair. "Who decorated, H.R. Giger?"

Cody stared at the girl, sized her up. Her jeans fit rather closely, and the denim hugged her flexed buttocks and hips. "Yeah, it's great." He thought for a minute, contemplating her squatting posture. "Unique. Does it reflect your personality?"

"Uh, no. Not really. But it's pretty cool, don't you think?" She stood, one hand behind her back, and walked toward him. "Guess what," she said, leaning over him, one hand on his knee. He felt his heart pounding and slipped the Palmer gun from his sleeve, expectant. He couldn't help but notice her cleavage, and necrophilia came to mind.

"Coffee's ready," she said, bringing the thin white china cup from behind her back and setting it between his legs. "Sugar?" she asked, picking up a bowl of sugarcubes and offering it to him. He reholstered his gun and took two lumps from the bowl. His shaking hand knocked two more from the bowl, and they dropped between his legs. "Oh," the girl said, and set down the bowl. She reached between his legs and retrieved the sugarcubes. "Do I make you nervous?" she asked as she dropped the cubes into her own cup and sat indian-fashion on the floor in front of him. "I make a lot of people nervous." She handed him a spoon. He stared at it. "For your coffee..." she said, making little stirring motions with her finger. "You know, to break up the little sugar granules?"

"Right." He cautiously sipped at the coffee. "Hot," he told her, and looked up to find her staring at him. She set her cup and saucer on the floor beside her and leaned forward.

"I take back what I said before," she said. "About what?" he asked, sipping the steaming brew. "About you looking anal. Noble, maybe, like a knight or something," she made a face, "but not anal."

"Really," Cody said dryly. "Yeah. You've got beautiful eyes, they're sort of just there. Honest." After a moment, she said, "You don't talk much, do you? It's not bad or anything, I mean, most people who talk a lot are trying to hide something. It's like by talking a lot, they can sort of hold in whatever it is that they don't want other people to know. I like quiet people."

"Are you hiding something?" Cody asked, smiling faintly. "Not really," she told him, leaning back. "Are you saying I talk a lot?"

"You talk more than I do," he said, sipping the strong coffee. He looked up at her, and she stifled a giggle. "You've, uh, got something..." she reached up and wiped a bit of cream from the tip of his nose. She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked off the cream, smiling up at him impishly. "There... all gone," she smiled. They looked at each other for a moment. "I want to show you something," she told him, jumping to her feet and pulling him out of the chair. "It's, uhh, over here..." she said, leading him toward the bed. "I think you'll like it..."

"It's gonna cost you extra," Cody told the Mister over the vidphone. "Something's come up."

Dr. Stephen Graves lifted his head from the bowl of Leg Drop soup he was eating at Spanky's Brothel and Cantina to answer a paige.

"Oh yes, quite right," Graves said to himself, patting the pockets of his shirt and pants. "Here you go," he said, handing the bellhop a French Tickler. "In and out very slowly. It drives them wild."

The bellhop stormed off in a rage. He remembered the last time someone had given him such a "tip." It was a hotel in Rio. And was it so long ago? Yes, nearly two years now. A saucy young flamenco dancer who was in the spotlight that night. She had every man's attention and every man's desire. But she chose him, the bellhop for the Rio Diablo Grande. She had been in the lobby, waiting for the famous prize fighter Lupe "Crazy-Eye" Juanero when he brought her the sad news that Lupe had been knocked silly in an upset bout against Myron Kickapoo, who, funny enough, had been trained by Stephen Graves to tolerate massive amounts of pain many years beforehand. She had wept on his shoulder, slipping a ribbed condom and her room number in his pocket. That night the bellhop arrived, awaiting a sexual experience that would rock the two and a half star hotel to its very foundation. Instead, he found a drunk Lupe, who took the bellhop's penis and sent it flying out the window to the street below, where it got eaten by a roaming dog.

Graves knew none of this, of course, and would not have cared if he did know. He was absorbed in the telegram. It read:

She had taken him like a typhoon descending upon a small boat. Graves still shook with awe when he remembered his fair Marie. He paid the bill and caught a cab to the airport. Soon he was off to Paris.

Paris was alive with the libido that Graves found intoxicating. He checked into a hotel in the area near Marie's. Two people were engaging in oral sex on the stairwell that led to Grave's floor. The woman, a cute little hor d'oeuvre with short black hair was breathing with a frustratable rhythm. the man was inexperienced. Graves interrupted.

"Good day. I am Dr. Stephen Graves. Allow me to show you how to get the most out of the feast you are partaking in," he said to the young couple. He then proceeded to explain to the man how to perform oral sex in a way that would disable the young woman. Screams of orgasm filled the corridor as Graves smiled and entered his room.

A woman was sitting on his bed, holding a rose. She was silhoutted in the night against a bright and teeming Paris rue. Stephen's heart leapt.

"Sorry to disappoint, hon," a rich baritone voice replied. "I had heard you were coming to town so I thought I'd stop by and show off the new me."

Graves did a double take. "Pierre? Oh my sweet Thesba, goddess of the orgasm, it is you! How the hell are you, old chap?" Pierre de Marc was a painter who used oils and semen to create very original works of art. His most famous piece, "Bad Jim," sold at an underground auction for 30,000 francs. It was no surprise, either, for Graves thought of the painting of a woman, kneeled, eyes closed, mouth open, waiting to receive a bundle of life from her lover and the wad of Pierre's juice splattered across her cheek and eye.

"Well, I'm more of a chap-ette now, Stephen. Dr. Bob can do miracles. I would have come to you, but you know how you got when Danny Pritchett was impaled during the fencing tournament in Napal last year."

"Yes, I wept like a baby. The medic said a major organ had not been wounded, but he didn't know Danny the way I did."

"Amen to that, Graves. Anyway, I had it taken off. Put in a jar on the mantle. Mother nearly died when she saw it. It was a gas."

"Oh, Pierre. I have been away for too long. Paris forgets me. The world forgets me. I sometimes wish I could settle down and have a normal life. But oh, my wandering soul and flaming passion leads me to one adventure after another."

"You would not like the tame life, Stephen. I've known you for too long. You are an adventurer, a world lover." Pierre had his hand on Grave's shoulder, caressing it gently. Stephen patted his old friend on the bottom.

Stephen Graves left the transsexual to a solo flight to ecstasy and set out to the Luxus Royale. Upon his arrival, he was greeted by two large Frenchmen. They gruffly showed Dr. Graves to the penthouse apartment upstairs. He was admitted into a large area where a dinner party was in progress. Around the table sat many important figures in society. Pip Longfellow, the English diplomat to France and co-founder of the Diplomats Who Wear Women's Lingerie Society. Naomu Tokosuma, the sumo wrestler and bisexual gardener. Thurston Snobpocket, the wealthy business tycoon who produces 80% of the world's vibrators and other tools of pleasure. Kevin Midland, the notorious pedophile and underground author and editor of a publication that corrupted the moral fabric of the world.

"Darling, you've come, so to speak." Graves turned his attention to the foyer where a beautiful woman emerged.

"Marie. I came as soon as I got your letter. Then I left for Paris. Are you alright?"

"Oh, my poor Dr. Graves. Always the gallant knight. I was never in any danger. The telegram was a ruse. Oh, such the chauvinist. You men think a woman you've had is a woman you must protect. Tsk tsk tsk."

With that, Graves found himself suddenly bound and sat next to Jack Mehay, the Australian lesbian who had claimed more women than the entire U.S. Navy.

"You are all lovers I have had. Some of the greatest, I might add. You are also very important figures in the world of sex and sexuality. My plan is simple. If you were all to be eliminated, I would be the most powerful and influential of the sexual bourgeoisie."

"You will never succeed. You are not powerful enough." It was Pip Longfellow. Graves remembered his first encounter with Pip. A lace teddy and English peas.

"Pip. One of my favorites. The times we've had. I'm surprised you doubt me. After all, wasn't it I that caused you to lock yourself in a closet and whimper like a whipped pup for three days? Don't worry, though. I shall treat you well. You shall be buried in a silk and leather negligee."

"Who amongst you shall be the first to die? Stephen, you arrived latest. You will be my first. Just as I was yours so many years ago."

"One last 'kiss' before you go," Marie whispered as she unbuttoned Graves' trousers.

Graves felt the semen build in his purple headed warrior. Marie worked her magic and Graves was barely able to hold it in.

Stephen Graves released his love juice and blew out the back of Marie's head. The pressure, combined with the muscle power of Graves' penis, had launched a sperm missile that destroyed Marie. Graves sank back into his chair, his heart broken, his will spent, his dick limp.

Two days had passed since the dinner party of Marie's. Graves was not his usual, robust self. He had somehow found his way to Pierre's and was comatose to the world. His heart was broken and his soul was numb. Pierre had done his best to console the world-reknown lover and philanthropist.

"I have something for you, Stephen." Pierre unveiled a painting of Marie, head intact. Graves began to cry. He softly kissed the pursed lips and whispered an apology to her. Graves thanked Pierre warmly and left that night for Tokyo. He did not see Pierre cover the painting with the life force of some bum he had met in the alley, nor did he hear about the painting's sell of 13,000,000 francs. He was busy wrestling a bisexual gardener.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-- State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials, and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided. The editor may be reached at The Lions' Den [(512)259-9546] or at kilgore@bga.com. Thank you. --SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

STAFF LiSTiNG