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235 lines
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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... Spontaneous Combustion and the Aryan Parade
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by FLaMinG SeVeReD
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HeaD
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>>> a cDc publication.......1994 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____
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|____digital_media____digital_culture____digital_media____digital_culture____|
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As Thryxen's primer-painted 1967 Camaro splashed its testosteronic shock
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down State Road 101, I cranked myself forward from the front passenger seat and
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shook my head free from the Demerol-induced spin it had been caught in. One of
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my numbed, blurred fingers reached for the Alpine and pushed the awaiting
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cassette into action. After a "click," and a few silent ingestive seconds,
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Primus unfolded itself from the speakers and began its torturous spree of
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unorthodox Funkiness. The slapping twang of Les Claypool's Six Stringed Carl
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Thompson took ill effect immediately; I plunged back into semi-catatonia and
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Thryxen began mumbling insensibly as the lid on reality loosened and toppled.
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I cautiously watched the leather-wrapped steering wheel try to shake itself
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free of Thryxen's grip as the Camaro quickly thundered over the asphalt that
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cracked and seemed to shatter under its thick black tires.
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One hour ago we had strapped ourselves into a chemical dead-lock and set
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off along the thick cautious edge of Rural America on a voyage to the house of
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Big Teddy, a snakebreeder who was Thryxen's cousin (or something) who had
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promised us two dozen live white mice. Once ours, we would torture them with
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needles and electricity.
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We had journeyed a good part of the way, when my mind, in pursuit of a
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reflectful lapse to shorten the boredom, wandered my eyes into the legwell and
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rested them upon the black travel bag that had traditionally held our
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narcotics. I reached between my Military Issue Stomper Boots and retrieved it.
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Thryxen, now sweating above his lip and brow, still mumbled incoherently as he
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watched me unzip the vinyl flap.
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Inside was the usual host of ingestable illegalities, as well as a
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toothpaste tube, some cheap "Western" cologne, two speed loaders, and a .38
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caliber snubnose with a pink anarchy symbol on its grip. I immediately
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prescribed Thryxen two loose Flexeril tablets to help him get resettled, while
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I ingested two 40mg Ritalin tablets and then retired my head upon the window to
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await the inevitable swing of energy.
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Outside my window lurked a piney hunk of America smearing past my eyes
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like a parade in slow motion. Other vehicles accelerated and decelerated
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sporadically into my view, and I observed that most of these were occupied by
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healthy-looking families seemingly on their way to the many glorious tourist
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traps that speckled the locality. Presently, a Dodge minivan was slowly
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slipping past us, the backseats dense with active children; the frontseats
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occupied by a stern looking father and mother. I imagined myself being sucked
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under their front wheels, screaming as the bones in my body crunched under the
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fresh bright tires. The father, ever-silent, offered only the slightest of
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grins as I was snapped, broken, and wedged into his wheelwells. Nothing would
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delay his pilgrimage.
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Given to this vision, my mind suddenly flooded itself with other grim
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images. No longer in control of my mind, I had become only a witness, chained
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to the background as my brain cascaded into the powerful currents of
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Sociopathia. A choir of sledgehammers split open a row of human heads like so
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many Christmas presents. Flesh was peeled from a forearm by a powerful
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cornhusking machine. White hot piano wire skewered a pair of testicles as a
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welder's torch set a pyramid of eyesockets to boiling. A string of eyeballs
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trailed from the anus of a tremendous horse, human from his neck up, wielding a
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great silver sabre in his gloved human fist. I watched all this spill
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uncontrollably over the lids of my now-closed eyes, mesmerized, pinned down,
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and enslaved by the beautifully gruesome content, like an artist and his
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canvas. The beauty of illusion had captured me. These hallucination spells
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were not the by-products of substance abuse, nor were they a new event. I had
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been experiencing them for awhile, and over the course of time, I had learned
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to integrate them into reality, allowing me to at least function semi-normally
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during their episodes. Presently, the visions were already subsiding and I
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felt the whirling inertia of reality come trickling back into my senses,
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lagging down upon my fantastics.
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I had been pulled from the spell's potency by a sudden jerk of the earth
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and a piercing banshee shriek. I found myself in a Camaro skidding toward a
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column of white-robed and hooded monks which were marching across the road.
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Instantly the sour stench of burning rubber slashed through my nostrils as a
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great cloud of black smoke roared up from behind and consumed our vehicle.
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Thryxen, wild with panic, had sent the car into a dangerous skid. The monks
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went into a state of dismay and began zigzagging across the pavement to dodge
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our car as it lunged into their grouping. Thryxen "X"ed his arms across his
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face and let out a roar, completely surrendering control of the vehicle to the
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roll of Fate, as a hooded holy man shot up the hood of our car and smashed into
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the windshield. The banner he had been holding had curled around his torso,
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and I managed to catch a glimpse of the red lettering across it as he slid from
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the hood and painfully back onto the pavement. It read "Aryan United."
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The car rolled lazily to a stop.
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There were dozens of figures darting toward and around the car; I tried to
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stop the surge of fear and bedazzlement by absorbing the situation, but the
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drugs in me overpowered any hope of calmness. The hooded faces and the bald
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heads that were gathering around the Camaro granted me only one sickening
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realization; these were not holy men, but instead a collection of racist
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riffraff, and we had just smeared one of their ranks all over the front grill
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of our drug-driven trash train. Thryxen opened his door and quickly submerged
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into the ever-growing mass of skinheads that were collecting around his car. I
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reached a nervous hand into the vinyl bag and gripped the pistol, as the
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violence of voices swooped upon me from the outside. Immediately they swooned
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upon Thryxen who had begun taking quick, powerful swings at the crowd, and had
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connected with a few before his 6'4" frame was heaved against the hood by at
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least four of his opponents. As I was pulled through the fractured windshield,
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I caught a glimpse of our victim who, though bloodied somewhat, was still alive
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and writhing on the asphalt. No one was dead, at least at present time. And
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to that, I let out a silent sigh of relief as I cracked the butt of the
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revolver into the face of the snarling skinner who had been dragging me out of
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the car. I prayed for Zero Casualties.
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The skin reeled back on his heels, and instantly a red splash erupted from
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his forehead as I recovered from my swing. The flood of crimson soaked my face
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and white t-shirt as my adversary dropped to his knees and tried to plug his
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wound with his thick, filthy fingers. I dug a foothold into the hot wet
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asphalt, swinging randomly at the throng of bald heads that were quickly
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dispersing around me, hoping for another lucky crack before they made clear of
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my reach. The presence of the handgun helped me keep a fair amount of neutral
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ground and I had a moment to snap a glance to Thryxen who seemed to presently
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be losing his leverage. Still pinned against the Camaro, he was now receiving
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a vigorous abdominal workout from the fists of perhaps the largest of the
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Aryans.
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Although in reality there were no more than a dozen of them (including the
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original victim), their number seemed endless and impenetrable from my drugged
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and panicked perspective. I felt my will cave in. My head, burning white hot
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with adrenaline, flickered once or twice and sent me spiraling into another
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hallucinogenic fit. I tried to fight off the visions, hoping to postpone them
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until the situation was under control, but, as usual, they triumphed.
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One of my adversaries loomed forward, and his eye sockets began to spit
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forth spinning lengths of chains that wrapped around my limbs. I felt their
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weight upon my arms as I raised and fired the revolver in a fit of deranged
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self-preservation. The bullet flared as it left the barrel. Immediately, my
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eyesight began strobing, replacing the normal fluidity of motion with slow
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dripping snapshots of the situation around me. Reality had twisted itself into
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a grotesque falsehood to satisfy the vicious chemicals that coursed in my
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blood. The thunder of the handgun warped and lingered while the white cloaked
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figures around me dashed for safety. The bullet had made them aware of the
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dangerous mental corner I was painted into, and they reacted conservatively. I
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swung my head slowly through the swamp of air that surrounded me and saw a half
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dozen of them dodging and diving toward the tree clusters that fringed the
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roadside. The other five or six that were near Thryxen leapt back from the
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combat but stood their ground, trying to measure my willingness to fire the
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handgun again. Even Thryxen stood in a peaceful patient accordance next to
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them, trying to guess my next action.
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My instincts, ever-loyal to the chemicals within it, dragged my body into
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action without waiting for my mind to come to a reasonable decision. I leapt
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upon the hood of the Camaro, to look aggressive enough to chase the remaining
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skinheads away, but my feet slipped in a slick streak of Aryan blood which
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caused me to lose my balance. The handgun belched again as I battled gravity,
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and another bullet whizzed through the cluster of men. Thryxen and the Aryans
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instinctively crouched at the sound of the revolver and at the thought of a
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stray round possibly popping into their torso as I spilled over the hood and
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the gun skittered from my grip. We both wound up on the roadside, separated.
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A headfull of narcotics positively adds a factor of subjectivity into the
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equation of reality; it no doubt congests cognitive faculties with flaws and
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lies that wouldn't normally be permitted. Because of this, the events that
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followed my fall can only be speculated upon, and the only shine of truth that
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can be found from the matter comes from the fact that both Thryxen and I later
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admitted we had witnessed the same phenomenon. Whatever the case, it was
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surely strange, be it real or imagined.
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I remember my frantic actions to reach the revolver were joined by almost
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everyone present, and soon there were at least half dozen of us, including
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Thryxen and several skinheads, rushing across the pavement to swoop up the
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handgun and tip the scales of the battle into whomever's favor. In the split
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of a second, we had all converged upon the same five foot perimeter, clogged
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into a mass of writhing humanity as we wrestled and fought for possession of
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the weapon. The struggle was brief and I felt my heart sink to a new level of
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fear when the largest of the Aryans emerged from the pile with the revolver
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clinched in his fist. He stepped back from the mass of men and signaled his
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victory with a maniacal smile while waving the weapon above his head. All
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heads had turned to him and a slash of silence sliced across the battlefield.
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Things had begun to look ugly for us.
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Just then, as everyone regained their stances, he pointed the weapon at me
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and seemed to open his mouth to say something. Nothing came out, and suddenly
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his victorious smile dripped away and a curling frown of agony replaced it. He
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crumpled over and groaned. Thryxen and I backed away slowly as his friends
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formed a circle around him, asking what was wrong and whether he needed their
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aid. We were near to Thryxen's Camaro when we allowed ourselves to look back.
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The Aryan was again upright, standing firmly on his feet, but with a face that
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seemed in the throes of rage. He tore off his shirt, and his chest seemed to
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be bursting with unseen internal pressure. His neck shook and then violently
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ruptured, spewing torn hunks of bloodied flesh upon the white robes of the
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circle of men around him. A tired whistle spat from his mouth as his chest
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erupted, spilling its contents with such pressure it knocked the two skinheads
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in front of him right off their feet and covered them in a shower of gore. I
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blindly gripped for doorhandle, mesmerized by the spectacle I was witnessing.
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He twisted in place, and his circle of friends stepped back in surprise. As he
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spun around the flesh of his arms and legs split and dripped off the bone and a
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continuous crackle similar to popping corn began to fill the air. His eyes
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bubbled into liquid and drooled down his cheeks and his lips shattered and
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dropped from his face. He crumpled into a torn heap.
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I managed to open the door and slide into my seat.
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Thryxen turned the key and the Camaro roared into action. The tires
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shrieked as he cranked the wheel and shot across the median, steering the
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vehicle toward home. The Aryans, hypnotized into disbelief, didn't even seem
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to notice our departure. I looked over at Thryxen, who seemed to be smuggling
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a smile under his apathetic face. I took another look at the rapidly fading
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Aryan parade, and waited for side two of "Frizzle Fry" to click over.
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_______ __________________________________________________________________
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/ _ _ \|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.....806/794-1842|
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((___)) |Cool Beans!..........415/648-PUNK|Polka AE {PW:KILL}..806/794-4362|
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[ x x ] |Metalland Southwest..713/579-2276|ATDT East...........617/350-STIF|
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\ / |The Works............617/861-8976|Ripco ][............312/528-5020|
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(' ') | Save yourself! Go outside! DO SOMETHING! |
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(U) |==================================================================|
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.ooM |Copyright (c) 1994 cDc communications and FLaMinG SeVeReD HeaD. |
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\_______/|All Rights Reserved. 05/01/1994-#258|
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