712 lines
38 KiB
Plaintext
712 lines
38 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Silent Applause
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Part 1 of 2 by The Pusher
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>>> a cDc publication.......1991 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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______________________________________________________________________________
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J.S. Bach wrote Invention No. 4 a very long time ago, but I was playing it
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right now. Invention No. 4, in the key of D minor, is relatively simple. I
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had totally mastered the first third of it and the last third, but the middle
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third was tripping me up. Many notes were sharped, and I was not playing them
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sharped. Frustration set in and I eventually smashed my guitar. (Well, it's
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an expensive guitar, so I only pretended to smash it.) Wait a second...
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guitar?! I thought you only played that classical junk on the piano or the
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violin, or some other uncool instrument? I played it on guitar, and I'm a
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better man (and guitar player) because of it. Take fifty average high-school
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kids who consider themselves guitar players. How many of them can play
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"Stairway To Heaven"? Forty-eight out of fifty? How many know the difference
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between the Ionian mode and the Aeolian mode? Three out of fifty? Those other
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forty-seven just don't have the desire to dig deeper into music, to explore.
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Everyone is limited by God-given musical ability. Whether your maker is the
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wrathful, bearded jerkoff from the New Testament who nailed his kid to a tree
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two thousand years ago, or the twelve-armed warrior of the Baghavad-Gita who
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instructs his followers to hassle people in airports, you're stuck with a
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certain aptitude for music. Even if you're born "tone deaf" that doesn't
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exclude you from the magical world of music.
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You just have to dig deeper into the mystery.
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Have you ever seen a whole bunch of balloons released? Hundreds of
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balloons in all different colors, floating up and away... wouldn't it be funny
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to see someone at the end of the balloons, holding on for dear life, also
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floating up and away? Funny to us maybe, but not to them. They thought it
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would be amusing to grab onto the balloons, but they didn't expect to be
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carried away. They're in shock the first few seconds when they still have a
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chance to jump and survive. Before you know it, they're high in the sky,
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hoping a helicopter will come and rescue them. Eventually the balloons pop and
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they fall to the ground and die.
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And you just have to learn to let go.
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And I'll let you in on a little secret. There are plenty of people who
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dig into the mystery, but you know something? Not all of them let go.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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When it comes to the video rental of pornographic movies, things get
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interesting. So many different types of individuals rent them, using so many
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different methods. The permutations are endless. Let's say you've got three
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people in the store. Person A, Person B, Person C. Let's go over them.
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Person A is a sixteen year old male. He promised his friends some hot XXX
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action. He's got to deliver the goods. Person A knows that in this particular
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store you have to be eighteen to rent the pornos. He's only sixteen, but the
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kid working the store is his age, and Person A figures he can talk the kid into
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renting him the porno. He walks into the porno section, and calmly selects his
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choice. He's seen groups of underage kids acting immaturely in the porno
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section before. Saying crude and explicit sexual statements, dropping the
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boxes, and making the standard sounds of hyper-kinetic teen lust. The store
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employees always refuse to rent these groups the pornos. Pornographic movies
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are for adults, and adults should select pornographic movies in an adult
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manner. Knowing all this, Person A makes his choice in an adult manner, and he
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brings up the box to the desk in an adult manner.
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"Ok, could I have your name and phone number?"
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Person A gives his name and number in an adult manner.
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"Ok, could I see your driver's license?"
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"Uh... I don't have one."
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"Well than I can't rent you this movie."
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Person A resorts to his back up plan - begging.
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"I'm sorry, but I can't rent this to you unless you show me you're
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eighteen."
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"C'mon man, the video store near my house lets me rent them."
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"Good. So go there. I'm not going to get in trouble so you can get your
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jollies from this 'movie' which demeans and exploits women."
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"You won't get in trouble... don't be a jerk... I need to get this."
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"You don't need this. You think you need this. What exactly does the
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word 'need' mean? If you need this movie, it means you urgently must possess
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this video, because it is essential to your life. I wonder if your mom thinks
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this film is essential to your life. Is it intrinsic to all our fundamental
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existence? Is 'Anal Intruder 6' the saintly goal of our perpetual being? If
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it isn't the holy grail of subsistence, then what is it?"
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By now Person A has left the video store, sans hot XXX action. He will
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live a wretched, vapid life for the next forty-seven years, before dying in a
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tragic water sprinkler accident.
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Ok, let's investigate Person B. He's in his mid thirties, rising to the
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top of some faceless corporation. He and his wife (also a rising star) are
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looking to add a little spice to their marriage. A hard day at work, plus the
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train ride home, leaves them exhausted at the end of a day. Exhausted yes, but
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not so fatigued that they can't stop in the video store for a little sexual
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"stimulant," eh?
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The wife is in the Audi (BMW soon to come?), hoping that none of their
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acquaintances see them at the video store. ("So dear... what movie did you and
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the lovely husband rent?) The husband is in the empty store making the
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selection. He does not like to do this. He feels dirty renting a pornographic
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movie. He wishes you could send out for porno movies. ("Hello, Pizza Hut
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Video? Give me a pan pizza and 'Between The Cheeks.' My address is...)" Not
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only does he have to go through the humiliating experience of picking out a
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porno, but a kid half his age has to rent it to him. The good husband is
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trying to act casual. He peruses the new releases section, which is
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conveniently located right next to the porno section. He looks at the new
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releases with much concentration, hoping that the store employee will think
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that he came into the store ONLY TO RENT A NEW RELEASE. Then, the good husband
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PRETENDS to catch the porno section out of the corner of his eye. He peeks in
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for a few seconds, and then jumps right in. By doing this, the husband is
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trying to CONVEY THE APPEARANCE to the store employee that this is the FIRST
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TIME he, the husband, has ever entered the porno section. ("Gee whiz, I never
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noticed this section before. I wonder what's in here?"). Of course, the store
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employee knows that it's not the husband's first time in the porno section.
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The husband KNOWS that the employee knows this. So why bother with the silly
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"Wowzers, I don't think I've ever been in here before!" act? Who knows? It's
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one of life's unanswerable conundrums. (Like why 7-11, open twenty-four hours
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a day, has locks on the doors.)
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OK, so the husband went through his act, and now he's in the porno
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section, making his choice. He's positive that the store employee is
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snickering at him. Little does he know that the store employee could not
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really care less. You might think that the husband would just grab the first
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box he saw and get the hell out of there, but no, the husband considers himself
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a knowledgeable consumer and he wants to make the best choice possible.
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Disaster strikes! Someone else walks into the store! The husband panics
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and runs out of the porno section! God forbid another human being, even a
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complete stranger, should witness him renting pornography! He starts to
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examine the new releases very closely again. This new person leaves, and the
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husband jumps back into the porno section.
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Oh my God! Yet another person walks into the store! This is Hell On
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Earth! The husband runs out of the porno section and checks out the new
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releases for the third time.
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Get the picture? This goes on for forty-five minutes. The husband, tired
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of running around, leaves the store without his "stimulant". The wife is
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displeased, she has a headache that night.
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A few years later, the wife will be shot nine times by the husband's
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vengeful ex-lover, a grade school teacher.
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Now onto Person C. He is slime, scum, trash, refuse, etc... Yet he is
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more noble than 99% of those renting pornography, because Person C is going to
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RENT A PORNO AND HE DOESN'T CARE WHAT ANYONE THINKS ABOUT IT! He doesn't waste
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time with any pansy games. He enters the video store and stampedes directly to
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the porno section. He doesn't care how many people are already in the porno
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section, he doesn't care how many people are in the whole store, he doesn't
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care if His Holiness is in the store, he doesn't care if his own mother is in
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the store, Person C is going to RENT A PORNO AND HE DOESN'T CARE WHAT ANYONE
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THINKS ABOUT IT! The video store employee likes Person C, because he's got
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guts and he picks out his porno like a man. Person C comes out of the porno
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section with four or five boxes, often he will just stand in the porno section
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and shout out his selections to the employee, not caring who happens to hear
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him.
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"Give me 'Hung Guns,' 'Deep Throat 4,' 'Sodomy Hussein,' and 'Lust On the
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Orient Express,'" Person C shouts with pride.
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And while paying for the movies, Person C makes nauseating comments.
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"Yup, I'm gonna be up all night with these babies. It looks like I'm
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gonna have some fun tonight, my hand is in shape, let me tell you, I ain't
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watching these things for the plot."
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Person C later becomes a junk bond salesman, and after that, a state
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senator.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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I'm working the store. It's a Friday night, 7 p.m.... I'm a high school
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senior and I'm working on a Friday night, what gives? Well, I don't go for
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these parties. What's so cool about getting drunk if EVERYONE does it? The
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only thing I do on weekend nights is go see shows. I don't like the bands
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playing tonight, so I'm working the store. It's slow. There's an outlet for
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the world's largest video chain across the street. Most people go there. I
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really like my job. I get paid for watching movies. There're only a few
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rentals each hour. Sometimes a whole hour goes by without a rental. Who would
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want to come to this dinky store when you've got a super-duper jumbo
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Blockbuster store next door? No one. On Sundays, I work an eight-hour day. I
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usually can get through four movies. I make $5.25 an hour, but I like to think
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of it as getting paid $10.50 for each movie I watch. Anyway, it's a slow
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Friday night. I'm watching this cheezy women-in-prison flick from the '70s.
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It's pretty generic. This innocent young cherub takes the fall for her
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boyfriend and ends up in prison. She gets raped by the sadistic misogynic
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prison guards, she gets raped in the showers by the inmates, she gets raped by
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the lesbian warden. Then there's a big riot, and everyone kills everyone. The
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best chicks in chains movie is Jonathan Demme's _Caged Heat_ (1974), and you
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can quote me on that. Running a close second is Paul Nicholas' _Chained Heat_
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(1983). That one had a great cast: Linda Blair, Sybil Danning, Henry Silva,
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Edy Williams, John Vernon, Tamara Dobson. All B-movie legends.
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So like the movie is going on, and this woman walks into the store. She
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looks about forty-five, blonde, kinda Faye Dunaway-looking. Actually, she
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looks like she should be in the movie I'm watching. She could play the "Junky
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Queen of The Cellblock" part. I'd seen this Faye Dunaway-looking woman in the
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store before. She always came in on Friday nights. She always managed to
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completely rearrange the order of the boxes. On my own initiative, I
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alphabetized all the boxes in the store. The store owner didn't think it was
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important enough to do herself, and she didn't seem too pleased when I told her
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that I had alphabetized the boxes. Some people just don't like the whole A-B-C
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thing. I kept the boxes in alphabetical order. Once a week, I would go
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through the boxes and make sure they were in the right order. And once a week
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this Faye Dunaway-looking woman would come in and totally mess up the boxes.
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Currently, she was kneeling on the floor, going through the bottom of the
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horror section. She would always take five boxes out, look at each for three
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seconds, and then shove them back onto the rack. Of course, she would put them
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back in the wrong spot. Sometimes she'll drop a box on the floor and not even
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bother to pick it up. Ok, so I'm watching the women-in-prison movie with one
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eye, and with the other eye I'm watching the Faye Dunaway-looking woman make a
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colossal mess of the horror and action sections. I start analyzing her. She's
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pretty good looking, why isn't she married? Can't she get a date? Most of the
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people that rent movies by themselves on a Friday night are social lepers, but
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this Faye Dunaway-looking woman, there's no reason why she shouldn't be at some
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fancy party. I figure she's either a serial killer or she cheats at Monopoly.
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Ok, so she picks out this movie. It's _Eye Of The Tiger_ (1986). It's an
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awful revenge movie starring Gary "If I Don't Want To Wear A Helmet And Spill
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My Brains On The Sidewalk Then It's My Right To Do That" Busey. Actually,
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there's one good scene where the bad guys dig up Busey's dead wife and leave
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her coffin on his front lawn.
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"Have you seen this movie?" asked the Faye Dunaway-looking woman.
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"Yes."
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"Is it any good?"
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What could I say?
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"Oh most definitely. Lotta action, funny lines, you'll love it," I said.
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"I guess I'll take it." She paused. "Am I any good?"
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"Excuse me?"
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"Will you love me?" she said.
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Now this was starting to become intriguing. A prudent person would end
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this conversation right now. But I decided to carry it out. At the very
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least, it'd make a good story.
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"Gee, I dunno. I'm pretty expensive. If you're willing to pay, you bet
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I'll love you."
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Of course I'm not a gigolo or anything, but that's what they'd say in the
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movies. I figured that'd be enough to scare her off.
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"Oh yes, I have plenty of cash. What time do you get off work?"
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"9 p.m.," I snapped back.
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"Perfect. I'll meet you out front. I have a Mercedes."
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"See you then, baby."
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She walked out swaying her hips. Our little exchange had definitely made
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her giddy. I put _Paths Of Glory_ (1957) into the VCR. I had just seen it
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last week. I usually don't like to watch movies more than once. However,
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tonight's weirdness warranted breaking that little personal rule. The movie
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went on, but I really wasn't concentrating. My eyes were focused on the
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screen, but the images and dialogue were drifting through my cerebrum. The
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pictures of asinine war had bypassed my cerebellum, and were now hanging on the
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wall behind me. The wall rejected these images and ejected them into
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interstellar space. A number of peaceful interstellar planetoids saw these
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images and were captivated by the visions of the WWI soldiers who refused to go
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on a suicidal mission at the request of insane generals. That caused me to
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recall my last visit to the dentist. I'm sitting in the chair. Like everyone
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else that goes to the dentist, I was afraid that poison gas would start to come
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out of hidden air ducts and knock me unconscious and I would wake up with all
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my teeth missing, now in the mouth of an underprivileged child who I could have
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easily supported for 79 cents a day, the price of a cup of a coffee. Except
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that didn't happen this time. No gas came out. But I was ready for it, I can
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assure you of that. So I'm checking out the wall, reading the diplomas. I
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can't read the diplomas though. I squint my eyes and try and decipher what I
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hope is authentic certification. Then I realize that my eyesight is fine, the
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diplomas are NOT IN ENGLISH! The letters are definitely oriental, probably
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Japanese. It wasn't exactly reassuring to see that my dentist was not
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practicing in the CONTINENT where he got his diploma. Had I stumbled onto a
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worldwide crime ring? Is Interpol on top of the situation? Before these
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questions could be answered, my dentist walked in.
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"Let me tell you a little story," he said flashing a devious smile.
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"I'm all ears." In the movies, the villain always divulged his plan
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before killing the good guy.
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"Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now mid-August, which meant
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he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months and all
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he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive
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long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to
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Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain
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fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would
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remain faithful. But lately, Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble
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sleeping at nights, and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at
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night tossing and turning, and beneath his pleated quilt protector, tears
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welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor
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and the smooth soothings of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final
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caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.
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Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual
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abandon permeated his thoughts, and the thing was, they wouldn't understand how
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she really was. He Waldo, alone, understood this. He had intuitively grasped
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every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him,
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and he wasn't there.
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The idea came to him on the Thursday before the parade was scheduled to
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appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Adelson's lawn for $1.50, and
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then checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha.
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There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of
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America inquiring into his awning needs. At least THEY cared enough to write.
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It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mail! Then it struck
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him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
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true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself
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parcel post special delivery.
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The next day, Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary
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equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun, and a medium-sized cardboard
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box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of
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jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few air holes, some water, some
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midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
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By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post
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office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package
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FRAGILE and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning
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he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness
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on Marsha's face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer,
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and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss
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him and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this
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before! Suddenly, rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne
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up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
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Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very
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rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice
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about it though. After it was over, he said he still respected her, and after
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all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no, he didn't love
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her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults.
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Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo. But that seemed many years ago. Sheila
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Klein, her very very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and
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entered the kitchen.
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'Oh God, it's absolutely mordant outside.'
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'Agh! I know what you mean. I feel all icky.'
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Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge.
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Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her
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finger, and made a face.
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'I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills but,' she wrinkled her nose,
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'they make me feel like throwing up.'
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Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on
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television.
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'God, don't even talk about that.'
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She got up from the table and went to the sink, where she picked up a
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bottle of pink and blue vitamins.
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'Waltman's supposed to be better than steak,' and then attempted to touch
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her knees. 'I don't think I'll EVER touch a daiquiri again.'
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She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported
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the telephone.
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'Maybe Bill will call,' she said to Sheila's glance.
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Sheila nibbled on a cuticle.
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'After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him.'
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'I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over
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the place," she gestured raising her arms upward in defense. 'The thing is,
|
|
after a while you get tired of fighting with him, y'know? And after all, I
|
|
didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday, so I kind of owed it to him.
|
|
You know what I mean.' She started to scratch.
|
|
|
|
Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth.
|
|
|
|
'I tell you, I felt the same way. And even after a while,' as she bent
|
|
forward in a whisper, 'I wanted to.' Now she was laughing very loudly.
|
|
|
|
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office
|
|
rang the doorbell of the large thicker-colored frame house. When Marsha
|
|
Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow
|
|
and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen-cent tip that
|
|
Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den.
|
|
|
|
'What do you think it is?' Sheila asked.
|
|
|
|
Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the
|
|
brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. 'I don't
|
|
know.'
|
|
|
|
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the
|
|
muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down
|
|
the center of the carton. 'Why don't you look at the return address and see
|
|
who it's from?'
|
|
|
|
Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It
|
|
would be soon.
|
|
|
|
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. 'Oh
|
|
God, it's from Waldo!'
|
|
|
|
'That schmuck,' said Sheila.
|
|
|
|
Waldo trembled with expectation.
|
|
|
|
'Well you might as well open it,' said Sheila and both of them tried to
|
|
lift the stapled flap. 'UHHHHH!,' said Marsha grunting, 'He must have nailed
|
|
it shut.'
|
|
|
|
They tugged on the flap again. 'My God, you'd need a power drill to get
|
|
this thing open.'
|
|
|
|
They pulled again. 'You can't get a grip!' They both stood still
|
|
breathing heavily.
|
|
|
|
'Why don't you get scissors,' said Sheila.
|
|
|
|
Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a pair of little
|
|
sewing scissors. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of
|
|
tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up she had a
|
|
large sheet-metal cutter in her hands. 'This is the best I could find.' She
|
|
was very out of breath. 'Here, you do it. Me, I'm going to die.' She sank
|
|
into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily.
|
|
|
|
Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the
|
|
cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room.
|
|
|
|
'God damn this thing,' she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,
|
|
'I got an idea.'
|
|
|
|
'What?' said Marsha.
|
|
|
|
'Just watch this,' said Sheila touching her finger to her head.
|
|
|
|
Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could
|
|
barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his
|
|
heart beating in his throat. It would be soon.
|
|
|
|
Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the
|
|
package. Then, she sank down to her knees grasped the cutter by both handles,
|
|
took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the
|
|
package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the
|
|
cushioning, and... right through the center of Waldo Jeffers' head, which split
|
|
slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the
|
|
morning sun."
|
|
|
|
Neither myself or the dentist made a motion for the next ten seconds.
|
|
|
|
"That's a nice story," I said, "but we both know that you ripped it off
|
|
word for word from an old Velvet Underground song."
|
|
|
|
He looked shocked for a second and then settled into a relaxed smile.
|
|
|
|
"Hee hee, I knew you were a sharp kid. Ok, so it's not an original story,
|
|
but the moral is still important."
|
|
|
|
"What's the moral of the story?" I said.
|
|
|
|
"When you get a big package... don't open it with a sheet metal cutter."
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
It had been ninety minutes since she left, and only fifteen minutes until
|
|
our "date." Two hours ago, I was extremely nervous. Almost shaking. I had
|
|
hoped something would happen that would prevent me from meeting this woman, who
|
|
would probably slit my throat as soon as she got me alone. Now, however, with
|
|
time running out, I was calm and actually looking forward to going home with
|
|
this woman. We'd have fun and then she'd pay me. Not to mention all the
|
|
valuables I'd steal from her house. Yeah, this was going to be a very
|
|
financially successful evening.
|
|
|
|
So I'm about to close up. I'm watching the clock. It's 8:59 and you can
|
|
bet I'm going to be out of there at exactly 9:00. This old guy walks in the
|
|
store. This always happens. Someone ALWAYS comes in the very last minute. If
|
|
that wasn't bad enough they always have to say to you, "Gee, I thought you
|
|
would be closed by now." This last person also ALWAYS takes forever to get his
|
|
one movie, usually a porno. Except this old guy, he doesn't do that. He
|
|
doesn't even look at the movies. He walks right up to me. Looks me in the
|
|
eye. Speaks.
|
|
|
|
"Son, love me tender because I'm a hound dog trying to leave the
|
|
heartbreak hotel. I'm all shook up, and I can't help falling in love. Don't
|
|
be cruel or you'll end up in the jailhouse rock."
|
|
|
|
He has now left the building.
|
|
|
|
Normally, something like that would freak me out, but I've got other
|
|
things on my mind, if you know what I mean. Ok, count out the register, close
|
|
up, lock the door, and sitting there across the street is a Mercedes. The Faye
|
|
Dunaway-looking woman is standing in front of it. She yells across the street
|
|
to me.
|
|
|
|
"Let's go dear. I can't wait!"
|
|
|
|
"Uh... I'm going to take my own car."
|
|
|
|
"How come?"
|
|
|
|
"At night there's lots of kids roaming around here. They're not gonna
|
|
steal the car, but they'll probably break a window or rip off the antenna.
|
|
It's happened before, I'd like to avoid it tonight."
|
|
|
|
"Ok, so follow me."
|
|
|
|
I'm parked in front. I get in my car. She starts off. I follow her.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
The other day I was hanging out in this playground. I hang out there a
|
|
lot. I like to be with little kids. They're neat. I'm there so often that
|
|
the other parents have recorded my face in memory. They probably think I'm
|
|
watching my sister or something. I don't have a sister. At least not anymore.
|
|
So I'm watching these kids play. They're all doing Ninja Turtle karate moves
|
|
on each other and stuff. The girls play just like the boys. From behind it's
|
|
hard to tell who's male and who's female. In five years you'll be able to
|
|
tell. Why then and not now? Why ever? Ok, so I'm standing in front of the
|
|
swing set. The swings are my favorite. This eight year old kid is pushing his
|
|
older brother, who looks about ten. The older brother is unhappy with the
|
|
height he is getting. He wants more. The older brother is ordering the
|
|
younger one to push harder.
|
|
|
|
"I must kiss the heavens! Shove with all your might, spartan dog!" says
|
|
the older brother.
|
|
|
|
Ok, so like the little brother is pushing hard. The older brother is
|
|
really needling him. The older brother starts spitting at him and making
|
|
derogatory comments about his younger brother's Nintendo ability. The younger
|
|
brother is taking this abuse because that's what he's supposed to do. He's the
|
|
younger one, the second best one. Finally, the older brother farts on the
|
|
younger brother's head. The sets something off in the younger brother. He
|
|
starts pushing like he has the tenacity and vigor of Atlas. He's really
|
|
pounding into that swing. The older brother starts to get scared, now he's
|
|
really getting HIGH. He begs the younger brother to stop but his pleas fall on
|
|
deaf ears. Then, the inevitable happens. The older brother whips completely
|
|
OVER the top. At one point, he is facing directly down. If the older brother
|
|
held on, he would have gotten a tasty ride. But alas, he panics and lets go
|
|
of the swing. He bashes his head on the top of the swing set on the way down.
|
|
The mother of the two brothers suddenly notices that her older son is laying in
|
|
the ground with blood gushing from his head while the younger brother is
|
|
basking in the glory of his achievement. Of course, she screams and runs over
|
|
just like they do in the movies. The blood coming from the older brother's
|
|
head looks like Kool-Aid. I've never tried Kool-Aid but it was a hot drink in
|
|
Jonestown, right? So I walk over to the unconscious older brother, deftly
|
|
skipping over the rapidly disseminating blood. I kneel down to check him out.
|
|
This dude is in bad shape. The mother starts screaming at me. Get away from
|
|
my son, I'll sue, you'll be in court, etc, etc. I try to explain that I'm just
|
|
trying to help out. By now, a little crowd of about eleven has formed around
|
|
the kid. A stray basketball bounces into the crowd and rebounds off the kid's
|
|
head. Luckily, the mother, now receding into shock, doesn't see it. I pick up
|
|
the basketball and stand up. There's a quartet of eight year olds standing on
|
|
the outskirts of the crowd. They're smirking and they obviously want the
|
|
basketball back. Did they throw it on purpose? I meekly toss the basketball
|
|
to them and go home.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
Ok, so I followed the Faye Dunaway-looking woman home, and we're like in
|
|
her house. We're in the bedroom.
|
|
|
|
"So you want to hear some music?" she asks.
|
|
|
|
"Yeah, put something on."
|
|
|
|
"How 'bout the new Slayer album?"
|
|
|
|
The fact that this forty-five year old woman listens to Slayer does not
|
|
seem odd to me.
|
|
|
|
"Well... I don't really like them."
|
|
|
|
"Ok. I've got all the Megadeth stuff here."
|
|
|
|
"That's great, but I don't really like them either," I said weakly.
|
|
|
|
"Testament? Suicidal Tendencies? Napalm Death? Carcass? Godflesh?
|
|
Biohazard?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't like that speed metal stuff."
|
|
|
|
It's true, I hate it.
|
|
|
|
"Jeez, you young kids today. No taste in music. Forget the music then.
|
|
You want some drugs? A little coke, perhaps? I've got some new crystal meth.
|
|
We could even do nitrous if you want."
|
|
|
|
A forty-five year old coke-head Slayer fan. Am I on one of those
|
|
practical joke shows?
|
|
|
|
"No thanks, but I don't do any of that stuff."
|
|
|
|
"I thought most young guys liked to party."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not most guys. You must know that by now."
|
|
|
|
"Ok, if you want to play it straight, we'll play it straight. I'll get
|
|
you a nice, refreshing, healthy glass of water."
|
|
|
|
So she leaves to get the water. I start to check out her bedroom. From
|
|
the pictures on the wall, I see that this woman has a thing for car accident
|
|
victims and vivisection. It's like the bedroom of brutality.
|
|
|
|
I'm checking out the room, looking at the pictures, trying to remain calm.
|
|
I should get out of there immediately, but I'm paralyzed with fear. Then I
|
|
start to hear music from above. I didn't see any second floor from outside. I
|
|
didn't see any stairs when I came in. Yet there're unmistakable sounds of
|
|
muffled music coming from the ceiling. It's hard to tell what it is. I hear a
|
|
lot of guitar feedback and the drummer is doing some sort of drum solo thing.
|
|
|
|
The Faye Dunaway-looking woman comes back with the water. I ask about the
|
|
music. She doesn't hear any music. I don't hear it anymore either. I start
|
|
drinking the water. It's cold and fresh. Nice 'n' tasty bottled water. Water
|
|
is the only thing I drink. I once had a water drinking contest with my
|
|
stepfather over a period of one week. At the end of the week, I was ahead
|
|
two hundred cups to fifty-nine cups. So we're sitting on the couch and she's
|
|
making small talk. Do you like school, favorite T.V show, blah blah. I'm
|
|
answering all these questions but I can't hear the words come out of my mouth.
|
|
I can't seem to get my vocal cords and mouth coordinated. Her expression
|
|
doesn't change so I assume that it's coming out but I can't hear my own voice.
|
|
I stop operating altogether, but she's still got the same expression on her
|
|
face. Smiling like she knows something no one else does. I try to smile back
|
|
but I'm too panic-stricken. I'm afraid that if I smile my face will fall
|
|
apart. A trip to the bathroom will clear things up so I stand up. I feel
|
|
giddy and lightheaded. The bedroom exit looks remote, like it's in
|
|
interstellar space. She's still looking at me with that same expression. I
|
|
take a step towards the door and my body totally caves in. I've got an inkling
|
|
that I've been poisoned. As my head strikes the floor I realize that I forgot
|
|
to program the VCR. Hitchcock's _Spellbound_ (1945) is on tonight. Ol' Hitch
|
|
would like what's happening right now.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
The next morning. I'm awake. I'm alive? There's a note resting on my
|
|
leg but I swipe it off. I just want to get out of there.
|
|
|
|
It's Monday morning. I'm driving to school. Instantly everything that
|
|
happened Friday night came back to me in a flood of confused memories. I know
|
|
whatever she put in that water only knocked me out for ten minutes. I remember
|
|
driving with her in a white BMW. We listened to disco music and I amused her
|
|
by closing my eyes while driving. She also liked my Andrew "Dice" Clay
|
|
impersonations. I know we stopped for ice-cream. We stopped at the video
|
|
store, but I lost the key to get in. At one point she made me stop at a house.
|
|
She got out and started throwing rocks at an upstairs window. A teenage girl
|
|
came downstairs and outside to us. The teenage girl and the Faye Dunaway-
|
|
looking woman had an argument. The Faye Dunaway-looking woman started throwing
|
|
rocks at the teenage girl, who ran screaming back into the house. In front of
|
|
this house was a big Santa Claus doll sitting in the middle of a rock garden.
|
|
We left in a hurry. I remember stopping at another house. This one was a
|
|
hovel. The windows were boarded, all the paint was peeling, and the grass was
|
|
dead. The house was number 72 but I didn't know the street name. The
|
|
surrounding homes were in the exact opposite condition. The Faye Dunaway-
|
|
looking woman knocked on the door. She kept pausing, like there was some
|
|
secret knock she was doing. Finally, the door opened and this Jerry Garcia-
|
|
looking guy let us in. He was hesitant about letting me, but the Faye Dunaway-
|
|
looking woman argued on my behalf, and I got in. I was instantly hit by a mass
|
|
of dense cigarette smoke. This was BAD. I could barely see three feet in
|
|
either direction. Loud music blasted from all four corners. The Faye Dunaway-
|
|
looking woman took hold of my hand and led us through a maze of rooms. We
|
|
ended up in a bathroom. The bathroom was revolting. There were needles and
|
|
what looked a large assortment of drugs. Not to mention a cardboard box
|
|
containing S&M gear resting on top of a toilet seat. There was a guy sitting
|
|
in the tub. He was naked and going through the motions of taking a bath. He
|
|
was scrubbing himself with soap. Except there was no water and no soap. I
|
|
don't remember what he looked like. The last thing I can remember is the Faye
|
|
Dunaway-looking woman getting a tattoo on her ankle. It definitely happened in
|
|
the bathroom, though I don't remember seeing any tattoo equipment when I walked
|
|
in.
|
|
|
|
I'm in front of my locker at school. My first class is in four minutes.
|
|
I open the locker. I see two things that were never there before.
|
|
|
|
1. Two Elvis CD's.
|
|
2. The decapitated head of the Faye Dunaway-looking woman.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
["Silent Applause" is concluded in file #167]
|
|
_ _ ____________________________________________________________________
|
|
/((___))\|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|NIHILISM..............517/546-0585|
|
|
[ x x ] |Paisley Pasture......916/673-8412|Ripco II..............312/528-5020|
|
|
\ / |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194|The Works.............617/861-8976|
|
|
(' ') |Lunatic Labs.........213/655-0691|Condemned Reality.....618/397-7702|
|
|
(U) |====================================================================|
|
|
.ooM |Copr. 1991 cDc communications by The Pusher 07/20/91-#166|
|
|
\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away. FIVE YEARS of cDc|
|
|
|