textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-02

<<<EXTRA-SPECIAL NEATO NOTE: Hello to all who are reading this!
This is PARTHENOGENESIS, a regular old solid ink-and-paper zine
based in Fort Collins, Colorado converted to ezine format. Please
keep in mind that this is a REPRINT of the original issue. Also,
apologies if the zine is a bit Fort Collins-inclusive (future
issues won't be). All work by the respective authors is under
copyright. Permission is granted to copy and distribute this
ezine in its entirety, or to give the respective author credit
for his/her work. In the future I hope to have current copies of
PARTHENOGENESIS distributed physically and on the Net
simultaneously. I also hope to be independently wealthy, conquer
the universe, and learn to tango. Of the three, I think the
second is the most likely. If you should wish to contribute to
this zine (all submissions will be considered - but I tend to
stay away from political crap), request a copy of the physical
zine (it looks MUCH better, and has a bit of artwork in it that's
not here), or just have something to say (I welcome ALL
comments), please write me at: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College
Suite 8363, Ft.Collins, CO, 80524    or you can send email to us:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu. Thanks for listening to me babble, and if
you didn't take the time to read through all this, you're a dork. 
         --- Mohammed X                >>>

************************
PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #2
************************

Hello and welcome to the second issue of Parthenogenesis, the
zine that serves no real purpose and caters only to my own
personal tastes. I am Mohammed X, the editor of this zine. In
case you were wondering, Parthenogenesis means "reproduction
without sexual union". You may ask why I chose that particular
name for this zine. Why not? I suppose I could have called it
"Renegade: the Journal of the American Housewife", but I didn't.
Good thing too, I guess. Anyway, what I really wanted to say is
that if anything in this zine offends anyone, keep in mind that
these are the OPINIONS of the individuals who write this stuff,
and besides, nobody takes us seriously anyway. And to those of
you (you know who you are) who took the 'Rumors' column SERIOUSLY
last issue... DON'T! If anyone feels like they would like to
contribute anything to this zine, send it in. Opinions, Money,
Letters, Money, Fiction (short fiction, PLEASE), Money, Poetry,
Money, Artwork, Money, etc... I'll make an effort to print it. Of
course, since the money to produce this zine comes out of my own
pocket (actually I keep my money in my underwear), donations to
cover printing costs are encouraged as well, especially if you
have something you want me to print. Send anything to:
                              Parthenogenesis
                              804 S.College Suite 8363
                              Ft. Collins, CO  80524

Have fun, and sex!                           - Mohammed X
*

Dear Editor: You are the coolest guy in the world. Please print
this, and I will give you head and well, my soul.  [EDITOR'S
NOTE: No, he didn't really write that. I did. So?]

               THE BUNNIE-PUNK PUNK DIS

     "You say that you're another punk-rocker. But inside you're
just a trendy fucker..." - dekadence
     What the hell is your problem? You say that you're a punk,
but you're really nothing but a shallow poseur. Punk rock is so
much more than ded clothes and combat boots. It's a way of life
and it's a mode of thinking. Big deal, so you've got yourself a
nifty pair of combats, a leather jacket, and the oh so stylish
flannel. Have you got the thinking, the mind to be yourself, and
the mind to do your best to let others be themselves? Do you
listen to the lyrics or just run in circles? So you like Nirvana
and NIN. PHHHH! So What?! Have your ears ever been molested by
the screeching of Wattie? Have you ever spent your last fiver on
a SUBHUMANS tape or did you pass rite by it and go buy a pack of
smokes so you could look cool, instead of broadening your
selection of governmental hate?
     There is so much shit that's going to go down. Are you
ready? Or will you be too busy trying to bum a ride home from
Satan? This bunnie-punk thing is so fuckin lame that I can't even
begin to get scared about it. So what is it going to be, spend
yer money on the show or on the acid? Hell, you don't even have
enough individualism to go to the show alone. Naw you'd rather go
back up into the mountains and smoke a bag with the same people
again, and again, and again, and again, etc. Do you see what I'm
getting at? There is so much that you can do, there are so many
people that you can meet. I'm not saying that it's so fucked up
to smoke a bag with your friends, I'm just saying that you need
to do something else for a while. Sure, this is FORT HELL, and it
is quite easy to get stuck in a rut, but since we do get stuck in
totally repetitive lifestyles in this city of necros, at least
get stuck in a fun repetition. AND DON'T FUCKING TELL ME THAT POT
IS THE ONLY FUN THING TO DO!!!!!! There  are other things, true I
am at Undertones every single weekend, but at least I'm meeting
people and keeping myself of a clean mind and body.
     "You're welcome to come stay, learn from me, but when you
come back from smoking a bowl, don't cry, and blow smoke up my
ass, saying you can't see."   --- T.S. MERLIN

               BY: RAGZ REJECTED

*

Okay, everybody knows what I'm talking about when I say
Casaguapa, right? If you don't, don't worry about it. You're just
not as hip as the rest of us. But to those of us who do... I mean
the OLD Casaguapa. The original one. The REAL one. Remember what
it was like? The Macaroo bar on the door, the shower that wasn't,
the basement that flooded with sewage, the Garage of Death, Rex,
the Guapa sign spray-painted on the porch screen, the parking
lot/lawn? The couch held together with duct tape? The answering
machine with the message changing hourly? The celebrations of
Guapa (parties), when we played pin the tail on Paul? The broken
back door (the broken everything)? Jeff's kitten? Satan's puppy
(was it really a Hellhound?)? Dan's machete? Peabert? Samantha?
Cheryl's knives (heh, heh)? Elvira? Sure, it was dirty, it was
smelly, it was hell, but damn it, it was CASAGUAPA! Home for some
of us, and, well, home to everybody else too! The point of this
little tirade? Aha! Well, you see, the other day I was trying to
remember everybody who lived there... and I couldn't! I counted
at least ten, but after that, things got fuzzy. So what I propose
is this... everybody who lived in Casaguapa or hung out there
regularly... write your history of it! I'm talking the time from
when Jeff, Satan, Dan, and KC originally rented it until KC,
Pandora, Paul and the rest left and the house was vacant
(officially). So go ahead... write your personal view of the
triumphs and tragedies of that tofu-like establishment -
Casaguapa! - and send them in. With any luck, I can print
them.                                        - Mohammed X
*

Scroll 1: O ye who do not praise Guapa, know ye that you really
should, because Guapa's cool. Praise be unto Guapa! If thou would
not sing praises unto Guapa, then thou must be a fool. In fact,
Guapa's so cool, that hymns of praise are sung unto him. Praise
Guapa!

     Yes, once again Guapa has blessed me. This time, with vodka.
Ah, blessed be he who giveth us free beverages of a mind-altering
nature, and blessed be me, just cuz. This time, I won't talk much
about Guapa, but I will urge you to write to this zine's address
if you want to learn more about Guapa, or to praise him, or to
try to win a date with Pauli. Hey, and remember scroll 32: "Holy
Battles may be waged with chopsticks and butter knives against
the evil Perpetrators of Sobriety. Ketchup will be used as blood,
cooked spaghetti for guts and peeled grapes for eyeballs. The
battles will be waged in empty school playgrounds under a full
moon at high noon."
     Beware the evil Perpetrators of Sobriety, faithful ones.
They will try to limit your consumption and therefore your
happiness. If confronted by one of these fiends, just quote Holy
Scrolls or other appropriate Guapan teachings. Oh, and run. They
are recognizable sometimes by the turnip tattoos on their lips.
Ah, did I frighten you, my little trial-size gin bottles? Here, I
shall comfort you by giving you an excerpt from Guapa's bedtime
stories. But first, scroll 30: "Yea and woe, the bible will be
called Guapa's Bedtime Stories and it will have a groovy cover."

          ACHMED AND MOHAMMED LOOK FOR THE LOST SCROLLS

Chapter One (1) : the Quest

And so it came to be that the Holy Fax Machine in Achmed and
Mohammed's apartment started to chew up Holy Scrolls. Many tears
were shed for the lost words of Guapa. The Disciples cried in
their beer, so as to eat some unsalted peanuts and pretzels. Wars
were waged, condoms were worn, and many bottles of Absolut
opened. Chicks were sacrificed and clothes were worn. And music
played. And all were entwined in a giant orgy that lasted 'til
everything fell off.
The Holy Cool Council convened and Mohammed and Achmed were
called to the dais. This task proved to be difficult, because
Achmed and Mohammed were already on the dais, because they're the
only ones on the Holy Cool Council. The council appointed Achmed
and Mohammed to go on a Holy Crusade to find the Holy Scrolls,
because after all, they're pretty Holy guys.
The Council also appointed Mohammed and Achmed the Holy Scribes
of the Holy Quest of the Holy Guys, which was convenient, since
Achmed and Mohammed were the only ones actually involved in the
Quest. Mohammed and Achmed then deemed it a good idea to have
another mass orgy. Unfortunately, before it was possible, as they
realized, there was need for major reconstructive surgery (see
paragraph 1, above). And so the quest began...
...And quickly ground to a halt as Achmed made a belated
discovery - he HAD A PENIS! Yea, verily, it was there in its
entirety. Mohammed wept, for he had not the slightest idea where
his could have wandered off to. Then was Achmed struck full force
by a Divine Inspiration. He raised his eyes skyward and lo and
behold - there was Mohammed mighty masculine member, stranded in
a nearby tree! Achmed kindly volunteered to retrieve it, but
Mohammed protested, saying that it was Holy and Achmed must not
touch it. Mohammed retrieved it and quickly reattached it. The
preliminaries were over, and the Holy Quest had begun!

HERE ENDS THE EXCERPT FROM GUAPA'S BEDTIME STORIES. PRAISE GUAPA!
*

THE CHRONICLES OF RIT SOM T'NG

part 1 : Dragons

     At this point in time, there is only one thing to say...
Dragons, the place we know, in a time long forgotten when men
were valiant, maidens were fair, and one could always count on
the ruthlessness in all of us, the Dragon.
     And then, from the dimension adjacent to Dragons, there
arose therein an aroma of dubious nature.  Known to most mortals
and many wise plankton as the Goose, it embodied that which was
"Apluxtcklz", meaning "What the hell?".  'Twas quite a few eons
past, those tuna-filled days, when men were confused, women just
plain didn't care, and one could always count on one's fingers. 
Ah, the Goose.
     The Goose became all, the all-knowing, the all-embodying,
the all-seeing, and he could two-step like no other.  So confused
men would come to the Goose and say, "Oh great one, teach us the
two-step... and, we think you're cute."  The Goose had no choice
but to give them a tootsie pop.  And when the women came to see
him, they said... nothing!  They didn't care for the two-step. 
But the Goose gave them a really kick butt "Country Western's
2000 Greatest Hits" 8-track.  And they were all satisfied... for
a while, anyway.
     Then, one day (maybe it was two; historians still argue the
point today), it happened.

     "No! Not that!" cried out Mighty Yaputsk, observing.
     "Relax, Valiant One;"  soothed Divine Mike to his fellow
god, "'tis not as bad as it is seeming."
     "Methinks you misunderstand, O God of Footwear," responded
Yaputsk.  "I despair for the plight of those historians just
mentioned, for I, being the God of Historians, find it horrible
indeed to know that there is something that cannot be accurately
chronicled.  But, never fear, Bootmaster, I feel I can handle it
now."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Indeed.  'Twas the shock upon hearing it so suddenly."     
"Then shall we continue the Chronicle?"
     "Pray, do so."

     ...it happened.  In a strange and unprecedented incident, a
human-looking figure dressed entirely in pink lace appeared
beside the majestic figure of the Goose and said one word:        
            "Eep!"
     The Goose, quite against his will, was thrust far away from
his home, to the waiting claws of the Dragon.
     But as was stated, Dragons was a place we know.  Well, the
Goose knew it too.  He realized that it wasn't the claws of the
Dragon, but they were in fact pillars made of a soft and furry
stone.  He feared Dragons as anyone would, but soothed himself in
the thought that Dragons was only a small hick town in Iowa.  He
remembered the road that led out of the town, since this WAS a
place he knew, and he tried to figure out why the men in this
town could ever be called valiant.  He did know, however, why the
maidens were fair... it was that they never cheated at "go fish"
(a ludicrous game, not involving the actual fish nor any water at
all, but identically shaped thick pieces of paper).  So he
continued on, and suddenly snapped back into reality.
     "Yow!" said Back.
     "Watch it!" said Reality.
     "Sorry." said the Goose, though he wasn't.
     The Goose decided right then and there to embark on a Quest. 
This Quest was to determine once and for all, whether the Goose
was Male or Female.  And the Goose decided to start the Quest out
right, so it ate for breakfast an orange, a slice of toast, a
bowl of porridge flavored with bee spittle, and a few neighboring
tourists.  Well, they deserved it! What self-respecting tourist
goes to Iowa?

     (Silence.)
     "What happened?" Queried grim Belich, the patron god of
Dinosaurs.  (The dinosaurs being extinct is what makes him so
grim, by the way.  It is said that in his heyday, he was an
enthusiastic and cheerful god, much given to public nakedness.)   
  "Mayhap the machine has broken again." ventured Poopchute, god
of Typists.  "I shall have a look!"
     "Maybe it's over?" Dummich, the patron goddess of Blondes,
added.  No-one paid any heed.
     "BEWARE!" a powerful male voice boomed suddenly.  "It is
Him!  He who is most foul of Breath and of Language!  He is come! 
Doomed we are, I say!  I say... what was I saying?..."
     "Shut up, Glomm, you're drunk, you dolt!" snarled Mike.  "A
disgrashe to Godhead itself, I am!" Glomm tipped his wineglass
genially towards Mike.  Unfortunately, he
miscalculated, and he poured the rest of the wine into Mike's
lap.
     "Aaaar!" roared Mike, leaping to his feet, "Now shall you
suffer, worm!"
     So speaking, Mike assumed his warrior guise.  He now wore a
spiked black leather jacket (open to reveal a white shirt on
which was inscribed a few runes and a picture of a warrior
pissing on a vanquished foe), camouflage pants, and brightly
glowing cherry red combat boots.  In his right hand he held his
mighty Switchblade of Wrath, in his left a strange little box. 
He strode toward Glomm with mayhem on his godly mind.
     Glomm, too, reverted to his warrior side. He wore nothing
but a loincloth, but now had seventy-two arms, and each hand bore
a vicious-looking weapon.  Unfortunately, he was still drunk, and
when he swung his weapons it was rare indeed for any one of them
to find its target.  In fact, most of them inflicted harm upon
himself when he attempted to use them.
     As Mighty Mike and Ghastly Glomm faced each other, a small
form interposed itself between them.  It was none other than
Yipppp, the goddess of sanitization.
     "Pray, brothers, do not fight now; see, even now Graceful
Poopchute gestures; he has finished the repairs on the machine,
and we may know the pleasure of the Chronicles again!"
     She inclined her head toward Poopchute, who was indeed
gesturing.  But he shook his head.
     "Nay, fair Yipppp, I was but flipping you off."
     "Even so," she agreed.  "Now, you two sit down and relax. 
Stroke yourselves or something."
     "Now am I finished." announced Poopchute, and made an
obscure motion with his hand.

          THE CHRONICLES WILL CONTINUE!
                         ----

*

                    THE NEW STORY
                         by
            Chris Olson and Aaron Perkins


     Today was Stalin's birthday. Not the Stalin in Russia. No.
Stalin was an eight year old black boy living in the ghettos of
Chicago. "Hey, pork breath. What did you give me for my
birthday," he shouted at a passing police officer.
     "Go away. You remind me of my mother. She hit me once. Go
away before I kill you." said the pig. Stalin didn't like this
person, so he killed the cop and started to go home and see if
his mom had baked his birthday cake yet. He found that she wasn't
quite done yet, so he killed her and ate the raw batter, because
he was hungry. For a moment there was world peace, but nobody
knew about it so somebody was killed in Nicaragua and it ended.
Stalin was really a good boy though. I mean he always tried to be
nice to people and he always got good grades. He did have a
couple of bad habits, but basically he was a good boy. Just
sitting around the house dropping acid and taking cats apart,
Stalin got bored. He got so bored that finally he took off all
his clothes, painted his penis an unnatural shade of green, and
went down to the Department of Motor Vehicles. As he got to the
DMV he was met by a long line. Stalin was getting very bored in
line and he wanted to go to the front of the line so he could
have some philosophical discussion with the clerk, but he didn't.
He waited in line for about an hour until he got up to the front.
When he got to the front of the line he asked the man if he
thought a system of translucent pink currency would be more
efficient than the boring green. The clerk seemed rude and just
handed Stalin a bunch of forms and told him to go to the corner
and fill them out. He thought this was incredibly rude of the man
so he killed him and refused to fill out the forms. He took the
so-called forms and burned them. Then he snorted the ashes. This
gave him such an incredible buzz that he passed out on the spot.  
   He awoke to a massive horde of yellow watermelons trying to
cram themselves into his nose. They soon realized that they
simply wouldn't fit into his nose so they began to jump up and
down on his forehead.
     "Darn," said Jack.
     "Fuck off!" said Stalin and then he killed Jack. Before his
corpse was cold, Stalin ate the majority of Jack's fingers and
one of his testicles. Then he took Jack's body, swung it around
his head, and smashed it into the main crowd of watermelons.     
They splattered about the room. There were watermelon guts
everywhere. Yellow watermelon entrails spewed everywhere. It was
not a pretty sight.
     Stalin laughed.

     A bug under Stalin's foot, about to be fatally smooshed,
underwent a sudden and quite amazing change. This particular bug
became empowered with a superhuman strength that would have made
Superman jealous. This bug reached up to intercept Stalin's leg
as it stepped down. Suddenly, the surge of strength was gone and
the bug's brief but spectacular life was ended as the fatal
smoosh occurred.
     Stalin heard the faint smoosh and looked down and saw the
gory remains of the bug. Smiling, he reached into his pocket and
pulled out his trusty hypodermic syringe. He scooped the bug up,
put it into the syringe, and injected bug guts into his
bloodstream.
     Exactly pi seconds later, it hit him.
     His skin turned a nice shade of mauve that blended
beautifully with his unnaturally green penis. His eyes began to
bug out massively. His mouth flapped, saying only one coherent
syllable over and over again. "Shit. Shit. Shit..." he babbled.
His fingernails fell off and exploded on contact with the
ground. His pubic hair suffered a bout of spontaneous implosion.
His nose began to run.
     "Shit. Shit. Shit..." Stalin said.
     A sudden shattering of glass interrupted his ejaculations.
Five black, Jewish, Neo-Nazis walked in. They were armed with
extremely intimidating, bright blue, giant dildos. They pointed
the business ends at Stalin.
     "Shit. Shit. Shit..." Stalin replied.

     His name was inconceivably and totally incomprehensible by
man. But if there were any humans that knew him they would
probably call him Brian.
     Brian had just had a very unfortunate accident. While doing
a bit of intergalactic hitch-hiking, his "thumb", a sort of
electronic space vehicle summoning device, had malfunctioned and
sent our friend plummeting to the earth only to land in a coal
car of an old coal powered train. This is not the whole of
Brian's problems by any means. Besides being stranded on earth
and lying on top of a huge pile of dirty coal, Brian had the
annoyingly bad luck to look exactly like an average sized piece
of coal. Mr. Forbes was just one under par at that moment. Brian
always did have bad luck when he tried to hitch-hike, but he had
to admit to himself, this had to be the utter climax of bad luck. 
    So Brian sat there thinking, unable to move in an atmosphere
with such a low content of Radon. "How miserably depressing," he
thought to himself, "This man is shoveling this stuff into an
intensely hot furnace. I wish I had a drink, or perhaps some
better luck."
     You see, Brian did not deal with stress well and this most
definitely was a stressful situation. Being only a few shovelfuls
away from being pitched into a searing furnace, he was not
looking too keen on life about now. Whenever Brian got too
stressed, he liked to daydream to get his mind off of the
situations at hand. So he started.
     He thought about his birthday next week and how much fun it
was going to be. The new toilet-espresso matching combination
that he was hoping to get as a gift would be pleasantly amusing
and at the same time, quite practical. That would be so nice. All
of his friends had gotten one months ago. He thought about all of
his family and friends would be there and how much fun it
would...
     A shovel abruptly came up under his body and Brian's frail
body was vaporized in the intense heat.

     Now you may be curious as to how Brian's tragic tale relates
to our epic of Stalin, but you see it does. It has a very
significant impact here. You see the man in the line at the DMV
whom Stalin killed was very much interested in coal powered
trains as a child.
     Anyway, Stalin didn't want to deal with the five black,
Jewish, Neo-Nazis so he left and decided to go have a beer.     
Of course, alcohol didn't help his current speech impediment
much, and when he tried to pick up on this sexy short girl in a
black leather mini-skirt with combat boots riding a Harley, all
he could say was, "Shit. Shit. Shit..."
     She was real impressed by this and said, "Ooh baby! Do me
like you've never done before!" Then she ran him over with her
motorcycle.
     Stalin didn't quite know what to make of this. So he just
sat there and defecated his attire, which at this time consisted
of Harley tracks on his head. Then he saw a man. He ran over to
the man, who was dressed in a fancy, fluorescent green suit with
a yellow paisley tie, and said, "Urga blurg a flurg a shmurg...
sir."
     The man in the beautiful green suit said, "Oh, ho! You
naughty boy!" Then he shook his finger at him and walked off,
twirling his nose hairs.
     Stalin was amazed. He wasn't sure what he was amazed at. But
it absolutely fascinated him. He decided to go looking for it. He
thought that maybe if he saw it, he would recognize the thing.
Maybe it was the beer that he still wanted. No, he was fascinated
with something, but not beer and not Bush's deficit plan.
     Just then, he saw his good friend Gandhi walking towards
him. Gandhi was bald and quite skinny from malnutrition and too
much pot. Anyway, Gandhi walked over to Stalin and said, "Hey
man, what's up?"
     All Stalin could say was, "Shit. Shit. Shit..."
     "What's up? What's the problem?"
     "Shit. Shit. Shit..."
     "Dude, tell me. Are the pigs after you or something?"     
"Urg blurg a smurglb. Shit."
     Gandhi quickly got frustrated with this conversation and
kicked Stalin in the head with his cherry red Doc's.

               (to be continued.......?)
*

                     THE BOOK OF MOHAMMED X

or, MOHAMMED'S MIGHTY MASCULINE MEMBER MISPLACES MISS MANNERS'
MANGY MACKEREL

                          CHAPTER WON!

on the childhood of Mohammed; on Mohammed's family; on the early
adulthood of Mohammed; on top of old smoky

     Listen carefully to my words, o fellow seekers of
enlightenment through the unorthodox use of foreign substances;
Listen to me, I say; for I am Mohammed X, and to me, you are
listening. See? It worked.
     I, as all others, have a history. That, you shall not hear.
I speak to you now of my simulated past; the past I have
developed, edited, and refined through time; the past that I now
believe to be my own, for I have forgotten if any other ever
existed. But enough. My mother's name in some circles was known
as Ooga; my father's name was not pronounceable by any tongue
known to mankind. I had four brothers; all were named Mohammed.
We were reared and tutored by a frog named Zzzckhts, for our
parents were otherwise occupied. My father, eight days after our
birth, was rendered nonexistent due to an accident with a can of
cola, a pocket calculator, and a gene splicer. My mother never
noticed, I believe. She continued to do as she had always done,
which involved sitting by a large pool of water all the time. You
see, to the fish in the pool, she was a Goddess. The fish
worshipped her, and even gave her what gifts they could; mostly
moss and lichen spat from their mouths at her. She accepted these
offerings with grace, even occasionally allowing a thin trail of
mucus to fall from her nostril into the water. For our family,
the X clan, it had always been thus (or at least as long as we
could remember). To the fish of the pool, we were Gods, and we
strove to carry ourselves with dignity and grace when we went
near the pool.
     When my brothers Mohammed and I came of age, that being
fifty-seven years old, Zzzckhts took us to the place where our
rite of passage into manhood would take place. It was a bare
stone room, about eleven inches by eight or nine inches. The roof
stretched out of sight far above us. The walls were painted red.  
   Zzzckhts told us then that there could be but one Mohammed,
and that we should all fight to the death until only one
survived. Immediately my brothers fell upon each other in a
murderous rage; whilst I stepped upon Zzzckhts' puny form,
killing him instantly. Soon, my brothers had finished killing
each other, and I realized that I was the only Mohammed
remaining. Pleased, I promptly left the stone room and strode to
the pool.
     "Mother," I said, "I am now a man."
     She looked up at me and said one word. The word I cannot
remember; save that it began with a consonant... or mayhap it was
a vowel. Whatever the case, the word so angered me that I pushed
her into the pool. My mother, stupidly, had never learned to
swim. Thus she drowned - the Goddess, dead, fallen to her grave
into the very World she had sought to rule. The fish, in time,
ate her. I, my heart heavy within me and with a runny nose that
just wouldn't quit, left the scene of my childhood and never
returned. Fortunately, as it turned out; for a volcano was born
right under my old house, and erupted to destroy everything
within many miles. By that time, however, I was living in another
country under an assumed name. That is, everyone there assumed my
name was Mohammed, since I had told them it was.
     My early adulthood, from the time of the above paragraph to
the one below, it of little importance save that it lasted eight
hundred and twenty-nine more years.
     When I was celebrating my eight hundred and eighty-sixth
birthday, a sudden thought came to me. It died in a freak
collision with a rogue hair follicle. I took a fancy to it,
however, and put it in a smallish glass case on my kitchen table.
I then decided to wander the world. I set out first for Topeka,
Kansas, but in that time it did not exist, so I went to Rome. I
arrived just in time for its sacking, but when the checker asked
if I wanted paper or plastic, I fled in terror. After that, I
lost track of the following thirty-three thousand years. Then I
met Guapa. You should have read about that meeting already, so I
won't bore you again with the details. But now... time for a beer
break.

     HERE ENDS THE EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK OF MOHAMMED X!
*

Once I was, and I was content. Ere long after this, the people
came into being, and were content. The people then perceived me,
and spoke to each other concerning myself and my nature. And the
people spoke to me, saying: "Yea, verily, thou must indeed be." 
Long I pondered this, and then I bade the people gather about me.
This they did, and I addressed them, saying, "Nay, no longer may
I be."    And I was not.

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END OF PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #2
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