230 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
230 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
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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... Painted Stranger
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by Weasel Boy
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01/01/1997-#324
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__//////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\__
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Est. 1984 \\\\\\/ xXx BOW to the COW xXx \////// Est. 1984
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__ _ _ __ _ _ __ _ _ __ _ _ __
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|__heal_the_sick__raise_the_dead__cleanse_the_lepers__cast_out_demons__|
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The cold harsh light of a California dawn crept over the town of Buena
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Verde as Carin left the cemetery. Her eyes were heavy as she pulled herself
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home. Another wasted night, waiting for him.
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She had first seen him when she was seven, just after her mother had
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died. Over the years, as her knowledge grew greater, she recognized his
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manner of dress and his ways of speaking. Now as she approached her
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thirtieth birthday, she longed for another glimpse of him.
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She had spent the last ten years trying to remember what he looked like.
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She painted myriad pictures, always depicting the same man. Dressed in
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Victorian finery, with eye fob and top hat, he looked very pale and drawn on
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the canvas. Every picture she painted seemed to lack some spark, but she
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knew it to be an accurate representation.
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Many times she thought him to be some sort of vampire, and she said as
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much to the people around her. She soon learned to stop sharing her thoughts
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as most people rejected them. Still, a few people listened and soon her
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circle of friends carried word of the strange man to other people who were
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interested.
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This worked to Carin's advantage. She had countless paintings of him,
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and whenever a visitor would come to ask her about him she would sell them a
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painting. She refused to take much money for it, only a little more than the
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cost of paints and materials. Some people insisted that she take more, for
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her paintings were exceptionally fine and detailed. When she refused to take
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their money, there would invariably be an envelope under her door the next
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morning with no return address and cash inside.
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One day, about the time of her twentieth birthday, he stopped appearing
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to her. At this point, she had a hard time keeping up with the demand for
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paintings of this mysterious figure. Her work was becoming known throughout
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California, and many people confessed to her that they had seen the exact
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same man at various times. A fashion revolution even occurred at one point,
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when a famous designer bought one of the paintings and churned out a line of
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clothing that made half the people in southern California walk around in long
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Victorian trench coats. Carin was always startled when she saw a group of
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these people but the fantasy never lasted long. She knew them to be absolute
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and utter fakes, pale heroin-induced visions of her original spectre. The
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designer even thought to send Carin a royalty check, but she didn't care.
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Her vision was gone.
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She did a very good job of remembering what he looked like, and
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continued to paint him. She never saw him, but she knew he was around.
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Hushed whispers in her ear about a friend of a friend who saw him in the
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cemetery told her that he was alive and well. She started waiting for him in
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the cemetery, painting pictures that overlooked the sea framed against the
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bleak outlines of the cemetery. Her life was consumed with her wait on the
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cliff. She slowly realized what had happened to him. He had found life and
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haunted other peoples dreams now. He didn't need to bother her any longer,
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much as she wished that he would.
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Carin's tired eyes were nearly closed that morning, and she walked full
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into his billowing black trench coat. At first, she thought he was another
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one of the many victims of her fan the fashion designer, but after ten years
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of deprivation, she recognized his voice.
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"Hello there, mon cherie," he said in a voice that managed to be loving
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and yet mocking at the same time.
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"You," said Carin in a harsh whisper. In her shock, this was all the
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reply she could manage.
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"Surely you have not forgotten me?" His voice was even more mocking
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than before, and made her a little nervous.
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"No. I haven't forgotten you," Carin's voice came back, and she
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gathered her wits about her. This stranger, if he was the one she
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remembered, was very tricky to talk to.
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"Ah good! I was beginning to think that we might have to reacquaint
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ourselves! Sit down and talk to me!"
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The stranger patted a tomb off the path of the cemetery, beckoning Carin
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to sit beside him. She moved, as if drawn to the motion of his hand.
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"You've done well, cherie. You've made me a very famous man.
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Everywhere I look, people imitate my coat and hat. I am known by more people
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in this world than ever."
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"What do you mean, known?" asked Carin. This phrase struck her as
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rather odd.
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"Known. More people believe in me. Do you mean to say, my sweet Carin,
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that you aren't aware of the nature of the beast before you?" He laughed.
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"My goodness! I shall have to explain to you!"
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Carin wanted to say something to interrupt him, anything. She could
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not.
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"I have always existed. Back in some prehistoric cave on the plains of
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Africa, a small naked ape crouched in fear of my coming. Of course, they
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didn't have top hats back then." One of his eyes winked at her. "I wasn't
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really there, at first. But the caveman thought of me. In thinking of me,
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he brought me to life. I am nothing but an idea."
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"You may wonder why I came to be. Do not worry yourself with trivial
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matters. You may as well ask the same question of your existence. I wasn't
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well known, before you. Sometimes, I cropped up in history books. But I
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existed mostly in the minds of your ancestors. I waited patiently for an
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outlet."
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"I do not remember who it was that taught you about me. But I suspect
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that you do." The stranger moved his face very close to Carin's, and she
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could smell the funereal smell of new flowers on his clothes. He smelled
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like lilies.
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The scent brought a flood of memories crashing back to Carin. The sight
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of her mother, laid out in her coffin, haunted thoughts of mortician's wax
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and fine veins along the backs of her crossed hands. The feeling of not
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being alone in the funeral parlor was pervasive.
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"Starting to see the light now, eh cherie? You and I had our start in
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that room. Your mother told you stories of how a prince would come, no?
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Look at your prince, Carin."
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Carin looked at his face. It wasn't a fixed kind of face. It jumped
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all over, as if defying any one structure. It seemed to Carin that his face
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was a melting pot of all the faces she'd ever seen in her life, male and
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female made androgynous and spliced one on top of the other in a sped up
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movie. If she concentrated hard enough, he would start to look more like one
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person. But who was that?
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"Trying to find out the real roots, eh now?" He grabbed her wrist,
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shocking her with how cold his grasp was. It was the way he was holding her
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that triggered another persistence of memory.
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Flashes of insight flew at her from all directions. She had an intense
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memory of frantic and passionate lovemaking in a bed she felt at home in.
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She allowed herself to be washed in the memory. She felt the harsh hands
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feel the soft crevices of her young body, and felt an impassioned tongue
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tickle her nipple. She started to feel warm and felt the rough hands cup her
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smooth and silky teenaged hips. She was obviously remembering an intense
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experience, but she never remembered the loving attentions of any teenaged
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boy being so masterful. She shuddered as the memory of orgasm after orgasm
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being coaxed by experienced hands from her young body wracked her thoughts,
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and she longed to remember who this mystery lover was. She remembered
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feeling his sex enter her, and soon she found the unmistakable rhythm too
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powerful to ignore. She moaned softly and laid back against the tomb.
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The stranger's hands had not changed a bit since she was seventeen.
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They made love in the gathering dew of the morning for what seemed like
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an eternity. Carin lost herself in absolute pleasure as she realized that
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she had never had anything as good as this. The realization came at a cost.
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In that instant, she realized the lover in her bed during her teenaged
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years. She remembered it all with perfect clarity, even the first few times
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after her mother had died. The person who was her lover was no stranger to
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her. She was confronted by the face of her father, looming above her and how
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she adored him in the ways that all little girls do. She remembered wanting
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to make love to her father, and of pleasing him after her mother had died.
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She remembered the drunken nights on which he would cry himself to sleep, and
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of how she crawled into bed to perform loving ministrations on his wounded
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soul. She had forgotten all of it, and now she remembered with such forceful
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horror that she screamed. As the terror welled inside of her, so did the
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physical steam of passion come to a head. She screamed herself hoarse as she
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felt his burning member inside of her, and the pleasures of the flesh mixed
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thoroughly with the pains of the heart.
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"Do you not know who I am yet?" he mocked. "I will tell you. I am the
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image of your own death, and tonight I will bring you to your sweet reward.
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You created me from the fragments of death and despair in your life, and you
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offered me up to shield you from the cruelties of the outside world. Well,
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I've come to take you home now."
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The last thing Carin ever remembered was the sweet pain of that final
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orgasm, as the stranger's black trench coat enveloped her and she felt
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herself falling towards the sound of crashing waves.
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Her nude body was found the next day by a local fisherman. After her
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clothes were found on the crypt, it was surmised that she had committed
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suicide and the case was closed. There were no signs of foul play on her
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body. The whole town had seen her as something of an eccentric, and expected
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this sort of thing to happen. As the police cleared away the crime scene
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tape from the cemetery, one of the officers noted the clothing of the
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deceased with wry amusement. Even to the end, she'd clung to her insane
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ramblings about a mysterious figure. Everyone in the town had heard it. The
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lone officer poked at the easel and paints left haphazardly on the ground.
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The unfinished canvas was obviously a painting of this man, he surmised.
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Using his watchful policeman's eye, he decided that the top hat next to the
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painting would have been the model for her final touches on the work of art.
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What a waste, he thought.
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.-. _ _ .-.
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/ \ .-. ((___)) .-. / \
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/.ooM \ / \ .-. [ x x ] .-. / \ /.ooM \
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-/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\ /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\-
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/lucky 13\ / \ / `-(' ')-' \ / \ /lucky 13\
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\ / `-' (U) `-' \ /
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`-' the original e-zine `-' _
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Oooo eastside westside / ) __
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/)(\ ( \ WORLDWIDE / ( / \
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\__/ ) / Copyright (c) 1997 cDc communications and the author. \ ) \)(/
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(_/ Award-winning CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a trademark of oooO
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cDc communications, PO Box 53011, Lubbock, TX, 79453, USA. _
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oooO All rights reserved. Edited by Swamp Ratte'. __ ( \
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/ ) /)(\ / \ ) \
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\ ( \__/ Save yourself! Go outside! Do something! \)(/ ( /
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\_) "THE COW WALKS AMONGST US" Oooo
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