277 lines
17 KiB
Plaintext
277 lines
17 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... Some Form of Success
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by WeaselBoy
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10/31/1997-#343
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__///////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\\__
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\\\\\\\/ Everything You Need Since 1986 \///////
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___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___
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|___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons___|
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David stared at the ceiling from his bed, as he had many nights
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before. His house, a small cottage in the middle of Colma, wasn't his
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idea of anywhere he wanted to be. He had hoped to have made something of
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himself by this time in his life. He was twenty two years old, and he
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had been slow on the uptake in juvenile hall.
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Life hadn't been unkind, to be sure. He'd inherited this shack
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from his father, who'd died during a bank heist. Sure, the life of the
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criminal class was dangerous, but it held a certain mystique that most
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of the normals couldn't comprehend. All he'd ever wanted to do in life
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was get into a good jail, some cushy federal prison where he would never
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have to worry about money or drugs or cigarettes ever again.
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That was what it was all about, these days. How to get into one
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of the better prisons was a way of life for most Americans. It had all
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started in the early 21st century. David lived in the prison slum of
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Colma, but he wanted to move on to one of the better places like
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Virginia or maybe even the District of Columbia itself. People were
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literally killing each other to get into these places, but they hadn't
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caught on to the basic fact that David had discovered as a teenager --
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the violent and dangerous criminals were all sent to the slums, because
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there were just so many of them. David wasn't a violent person, no
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matter how much his father had beaten him or spit on him. He owed a lot
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to his father. He'd left him his prison cell, after all.
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The shack was a small dingy white structure on the outskirts of
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a cemetery. It was a standard prison shack, with no phone and lockdown
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capabilities. If something was up, all the houses in an area would be
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locked down with the flick of a switch, steel shutters slamming tight
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over the doors and windows. This was mostly to quell riots, but it
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hadn't been activated in almost a year. Things had been quiet lately.
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They'd relocated the poor of San Francisco south in the late
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20th century, and built a wall between the two cultures. Now, only
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normal law abiding citizens lived in San Francisco, placated by the
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marijuana shipped in from the growers in Colma. Only people in Colma
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grew it, because it was still illegal to grow the stuff, but not to
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possess it. It was all very weird.
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David swung his legs over the side of his metal futon cot that
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served as his bed and couch, and stared at the yellowing carpet. Too
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many different stains from different bodies and bodily fluids spotted
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the carpet. If David thought hard enough, he could recall how each of
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the stains got there -- a spot of blood from a beating by his father
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here, a semen stain from his rape of a neighbor over there. The stains
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took on life sometimes and threatened to engulf his dreams, but he
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always awoke from the nightmares. He looked at the mildew covered walls
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and sat up, pulling on a pair of government issued sweat pants lying on
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the disgusting carpet.
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He smelled his armpits and decided he wasn't whiff enough yet to
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take a shower, but he desperately wanted one. With this in mind, he
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decided to plan out his day and its special place in his newly
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determined attempt at success.
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David had made friends with his neighbor, a bizarre man with a
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computer talent. Evidently, the man had been put away for some sort of
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computer crime and had only moved there after the inmate next door had
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been executed last month. It was surely some sort of mistake, but David
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saw the man as his ticket out of the slums of Colma. The guy had a lot
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of equipment in his house that he'd stolen from some kids who'd knocked
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off a Fed Ex truck in Silicon Valley, and his state of the art Sun
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computers were an easy way to make extra dough. But this guy Brian was
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all weird, thought David. All he ever thought about was going back to
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San Francisco and the hated normal society there, to blend in and be
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lost. David hated the thought, but Brian was even now trying to crack
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some computer at the DMV or something to get himself a new driver's
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license. This would allow him to travel through the proscribed zones and
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back to San Francisco.
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David had other ideas.
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He had learned a bit about computers in juvenile hall, and his
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main thoughts on the matter were that they were nothing but a key to a
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cushy Federal prison. In Federal prisons, they had steak and potatoes
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for dinner, swimming pools, and tennis courts. Not that David had ever
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played tennis, but it sounded way cool. He'd have full cable and access
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to email if he wanted. All he had to do was get caught doing a big
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enough cracking job. This was sort of a hard thing to do these days --
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this had only happened during the last century and hacking wasn't really
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looked on as a crime anymore. Many people got paid to hack, and there
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was only one way to get thrown in jail for it these days. This was to
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get caught with some sort of sensitive data like weapons plans or
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corporate secrets, and have the means to sell them. David had planned it
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all out -- he knew what company he had to hit, and he even had a buyer
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lined up for the data. His buyers were agents of the Federal government,
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posing as Russian mobsters. Of course, he knew they were Federal agents,
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having done his homework. He'd need them to bust him good so he'd get
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into the cushy Federal Pen in Washington.
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He got his shoes on and headed for the door, out into the
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blazing sunlight, curling scraps of fog from the hills, and the
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reassuring sound of automatic weapons fire.
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Brian was inside working on something when he rang. He punched
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the door intercom and announced himself.
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"Hey Brian? It's David, from next door."
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"I'll be right there. Can you give me fifteen minutes?"
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"Sure thing."
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David sat on the stoop, watching an Apache gunship hovering a
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few miles away. They had one of those huge loudspeakers on the gunship
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and it was screaming something at someone, but from this distance it
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didn't make any sense. He looked down at the neatly manicured garden and
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noticed something white partially sticking out of the dirt underneath.
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Probably a house arrest monitoring device, David decided. He was about
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to kick it with his shoe when the door opened, and a freshly showered
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Brian appeared at the door.
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"Ready for today's lesson?" he asked.
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"Sure!" said David, excitedly.
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Brian's shack was sort of spooky, and David didn't like being in
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it very much. It smelled like rotting food, something David had gotten
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accustomed to during a brief stint he'd had as a black marketeer for the
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meager food supplies the government dropped in. After you had the food
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stored for a month or so, it would begin to rot and he'd known a lot of
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people he sold it to that died from some disease it carried. He had
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always been worried about food poisoning, and the smell reminded him of
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that fear. He swallowed his fear, and moved through the dingy foyer into
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the computer room.
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Brian was a clean cut man, in his early twenties. He didn't look
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much like the inbred criminals that usually inhabited Colma -- he was
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blond with blue eyes, and very muscular. He smelled faintly of the
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glycerin government issued soap everyone used, and his teeth were very
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perfect. In other words, he appeared to have grown up with everything
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David hadn't gotten as a kid, and this made him envious. He could easily
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see Brian as being at home in a business suit if they hadn't caught him
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hacking. David had never asked much about what had put him in this
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position, but he assumed it must have been minor. Usually, hacking was a
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federal charge and Brian must have pissed off the state to get sent
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here. Only a federal job would get you into a federal prison, and that
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meant you had to do something across state lines.
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The computer room smelled differently, and this was a little
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more welcome. The familiar smells of stale piss and blood permeated
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everything, and dirty dishes were everywhere. Brian slept in this room,
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a sign of a true hacker. Dirty clothes littered the floor, all stamped
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with the familiar state prison logos. One workbench on the side was set
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up with old radio equipment that Brian had set up. He was something of
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an electronics whiz, or so David thought. David saw that Brian had set
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up two chairs in front of the now familiar Sun SparcBurst computer, and
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there was a three dimensional fractal on the screen saver.
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David sat down at the seat, and waited for Brian to join him.
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"Wait a minute," said Brian. "I have to do something."
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Without sitting down, he pressed a key and moved away.
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"What's up?" asked David.
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"Nothing," said Brian. "Just watch that counter and tell me when
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it gets to zero. Call out -- I've got to get something from the other
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room."
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Brian left the room.
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David watched the counter as it sped towards zero. He looked
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around nervously. He knew that Brian had tapped into the Internet
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through a satellite connection he'd established somehow. He'd gotten one
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of those small satellite dishes and altered it to broadcast in some
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microwave range that David thought sounded like voodoo, but he felt
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confident he could explain it to the pigs well enough to get himself put
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away. Policemen were nothing but really stupid normals anyway, and it
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wouldn't take much to fool them. If he pled guilty to whatever they
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charged him with, he wouldn't have to explain it any further. He watched
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the numbers go by and listened to the squawking radios as the counter
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approached zero.
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"Hey Brian! It's at zero now!"
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There was no answer. In the background, one of the radios
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squawked out an address, and David heard gunfire outside the shack as
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the steel shutters slammed down on the windows and doors.
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Shit, thought David. What the fuck? Riot outside? He decided to
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search for Brian and wandered out of the computer room towards the
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bathroom, which was near the back of the house. He had gone towards the
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open door when he saw the body.
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There was a young boy in the bathtub. Actually, he wasn't in it
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so much as arched over the side, with his head in the tub, and his feet
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on the floor. He was on his back and then David saw that he wasn't
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really a complete body either. His head was sitting on the sink and most
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of his skin had been peeled away, exposing the abdominal cavity that
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glistened with moisture. The contents of that cavity were beside the
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carcass on the floor, lying in a moist pile that steamed slightly.
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Several knives, arranged in a neat surgical pattern, laid on the floor
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beside the body. Some of them, like the box cutter there, were stained
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crimson.
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David had seen all this before and it really didn't bother him.
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What bothered him more was the fact that Brian was still in the house
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somewhere, maybe, and he had totally been lied to. Brian didn't know
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dick about computers, he was a damned maniacal killer same as everyone
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else out here. David felt cheated somehow. He grabbed a large knife,
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commonly known as an Arkansas toothpick, and ran back to the computer
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room to find Brian.
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Nope. Not in there.
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As David ran into the room, a radio squawked even louder. It was
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a 406 alert, the code the police used for all available officers meet at
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this area. Of course, this interested him and he was only distracted by
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the computer playing some sort of video in a loop.
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The video loop was of Brian and several still shots of him
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standing over gutted bodies. Laughter echoed from the speakers, and the
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whole loop ended with a full motion video that had evidently only been
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done moments before -- it was of Brian in the bathroom totally naked
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with the corpse he had just seen. He was slitting open the belly of the
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boy, washing down the blood with a hose, and laughing maniacally as the
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soundtrack wore on. Brian had the hugest erection David had ever seen,
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and he was taking the huge pile of intestines, stomach, liver, spleen,
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kidneys and rubbing it all over his body. He stuck his tongue out at the
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camera, and laid down on top of the body with the head. David felt a bit
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of disgust at what happened next -- he'd heard about such things, but
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he'd never seen them.
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Brian was fucking the stump of the head's neck. He shoved his
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member through the bloody esophageal opening and jeered at the camera and
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he grabbed the ears and worked it up and down the shaft of his erect
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member. Blood and broken teeth flew out as the head of Brian's dick
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pushed through the dead man's mouth several times.
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Brian shuddered on the video, and the camera lens was covered
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with ejaculate. Then the video looped again.
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David felt dizzy. He saw black spots in front of his eyes, and
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felt his body going slack. How much worse could this get, he thought?
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All of his hopes and dreams were dashed in an instant, and he felt very
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bitter. Then again, he might be mistaken for an accomplice and get sent
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to a nice mental institution. That's what they did to serial killers
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and their friends these days, he thought. The radio was still squawking,
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and he swung around to listen to the 406 he was certain was convening on
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his location.
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"All units, be advised. Subject is Brian Floyd McAuliffe, age
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twenty six, height six feet. Subject is currently believed to be locked
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down in a house at 1260 Grove Street. Occupant of the house is believed
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to be dead, and McAuliffe is widebanding a broadcast from that location.
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Subject is believed to have been involved in at least seventy five known
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homicides fitting his M.O., and should be considered armed and extremely
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dangerous. This subject has never been incarcerated and is believed to
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have false identification allowing him to travel between states and
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borders. Suspect is wanted in connection with murders in over twenty
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five states, but today's orders are shoot to kill, repeat, shoot to kill.
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The Prison System of the state of California has determined that this
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subject should be terminated with extreme prejudice. The house is being
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flooded with tear gas now -- lockdown will be released and units will
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converge upon signal from headquarters.
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David frantically looked around at the vents in the room,
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spewing thick white gas. He ran for the door, beating on it and
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screaming for Brian as he started to pass out from the fumes.
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Oh well, he thought. Guess I should have been more careful. The
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world's a dangerous place.
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The End.
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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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(_/ CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered 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 Grandmaster Ratte'. __ ( \
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/ ) /)(\ / \ ) \
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\ ( \__/ Save yourself! Go outside! Do something! \)(/ ( /
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\_) xXx BOW to the COW xXx Oooo
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