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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what 3/23/94 tahw ro woh gniwonk
to think. You are in -tHrEE- ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL
Kilgore Trout
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
A SHORT PREMiERE TO SOCiALiSM AND DiRECT DEMOCRACY
Captain Moonlight
RUMMAGiNG THROUGH THE VACANCY OF A MiND
Phadrous
MASTURBATiON OF THE SENSES
Clockwork
A RESPONSE TO "A LETTER NEVER SENT, or ALL i'D SAY iF i BUT HAD THE WORDS"
A--
THE CONFESSiONS
Excerpts from the Early Magickal Diarys of Frater Nemo est Sanctus
THE iMMORTAL SOUL
Clockwork
[=- POETRiE -=]
LOVE
Crux Ansata
KNiGHT iN GRAY
Clockwork
CONFESSiONAL
Nemo est Sanctus
MESSiAH OF DUST
Kilgore Trout
TRiP KiTTY
the Dancing Messiah
SHADES
Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
RiNGFiNGER
Clockwork
A LiGHT WHERE NONE SHOULD HAVE BEEN
Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
DiSSENT RiSING BENEATH THE MASSES
Kilgore Trout
SWiNG WiTH ME
Clockwork
[=- FiCTiON -=]
MiKE DRiSKELL, ACE DETECTiVE: THE CASE OF THE HOWLiNG MONKEY
Griphon
A TWiSTED TALE or A TALE OF TWO REALiTiES
High Lord Spam
JiM'S ACTiON THEATRE: THE TROPHY CASE
Jim
JiM'S ACTiON THEATRE: AGENT MALCOViCH
Jim
SHARDS OF iCE
KidKnee
A SPORADiC ACCOUNT OF MY ACQUAiNTANCE AND APPRENTiCESHiP TO A MAN
NAMED YAJI ASHUTHATH -- SECTiON 1
KidKnee
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Chaos has its own rationality.
-- Robert Anton Wilson, _Nature's God_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
It is time once again to feast your eyes upon a new issue of SoB. Yup,
we're back for a third helping of your precious time, whether you like it or
not. It's been quite a wild time since the last issue came out, what with
spring break and all, so just remember that what you are reading was real
lucky to make it into your hands.
One correction needs to be made concerning the last issue. DR. GRAVES
AND THE BRAZiLiAN GOLD DiNNER PARTY was not written by Griphon. I cut, I
paste, I fuck up. John Smith pointed that out to me, and so this is the
correction that I promised him, since he did write it. Too bad there aren't
any Dr. Graves stories in this issue (I can just hear all of you people crying
now.)
The only complaint I have had about putting this thing together is the
lack of feedback from the readers, if anybody reads it at all. I'm sure this
is due to having to call long distance in order to contact us. Well, now, if
you have an Internet account, I can be reached, so that should help up a lot
of you. That address can be found at the very end of the magazine. I may be
getting our own FTP site set up in the near future. More on that in the next
issue.
As for articles, things really got hairy for a while. Seems Griphon had
a disk with a bunch of stuff for the magazine, and he stepped on it in the
dark, thereby killing four articles that were really good. But we managed to
make a comeback, so this issue is still pretty respectable. I guess we're
just one unlucky bunch of guys. But, as the old saying goes, "It's not the
size of the wave, it's the motion of the ocean."
Nah, it's the size of the wave.
Have fun, and we'll see you in a month.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
He's got a car bomb. He puts the key in the ignition and turns it--the
car blows up. He gets out. He opens the hood and makes a cursory
inspection. He closes the hood and gets back in. He turns the key in the
ignition. The car blows up. He gets out and slams the door shut
disgustedly. He kicks the tire. He takes off his jacket and shimmies under
the chassis. He pokes around. He slides back out and wipes the grease off
his shirt. He puts his jacket back on. He gets in. He turns the key in the
ignition. The car blows up, sending debris into the air and shattering
windows for blocks. He gets out and says, Damn it! He calls a tow truck. He
gives them his AAA membership number. They tow the car to an Exxon station.
The mechanic gets in and turns the key in the ignition. The car explodes,
demolishing the gas pumps, the red-and-blue Exxon logo high atop its pole
bursting like a balloon on a string. The mechanic steps out. You got a car
bomb, he says. The man rolls his eyes. I know that, he says.
-- Mark Leyner, _My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A SHORT PREMiERE TO SOCiALiSM AND DiRECT DEMOCRACY
by Captain Moonlight
now doesn't that make you feel better?
the pigs have won tonight
now they can all sleep soundly
and everything is all right
--Trent Reznor (of the Nine Inch Nails), "March of the Pigs"
And I say to my people's masters:
Beware,
Beware of the thing that is coming,
beware of the risen people.
--Padraic Henry Pearse, executed by the British
First of all, I suppose it would be best if I should state what I believe
a Socialist Democracy to be, so as to differentiate it from the corruptions
most often pointed to by anti-Socialists.
By Socialism I mean the money system, not the government system. Often
confused with the Communist political system, in reality this is merely the
belief that economics should be worked, in the words of Marx, "To each
according to his needs, from each according to his abilities." In this way all
would get what they need, not what they can pay for, as the Capitalist system
now works. This is different from the system used for so long in the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics and the Peoples Republic of China for so long in
that everyone is given what they need, instead of having everyone given a set
allowance for them to work with, giving some more than others according to
their work (i.e. politicians naturally get more because they have the power to
do it, et cetera).
By a Direct Democracy I mean that acts would be carried out by elected
workers as ordered by the People, as opposed to having semi-elected officials
tell appointed, and often related, officials what to do as they are told by
the bosses and other big-wigs. Thoreau said, in "Civil Disobedience", "'That
government is best which governs none at all'", which is true. With the system
here proposed everyone would do as they wished as long as it does not inflict
on others -- when something did affect others, an election would be held to
decide the course of action best for the group, and officials *elected for that
specific task* would carry out the decision of the group. No officials would
be elected to rule the People, the People would rule the officials. In each
election there would be an extra blank on the secret ballot marked "None of the
Above". This would be so that, if the People did not believe in any of the
thus far nominated candidates, they could vote for "None of the Above", and, if
this was the majority, a new election would be held with all new candidates.
No more of choosing the lesser of two evils.
The main problem with government now is, as H. P. Lovecraft, who in the
later years of his life was a Socialist, pointed out, those who turn their
attention to helping the group, through public service or art or any other
vocation, are not rewarded, those who turn their attentions to personal gain
being those who profit. With this double-standard none but those with no
morals are rewarded.
A semi-recent news report which I have before me now ("Report: World
Tightens Its Belt as Population Grows", Prodigy Interactive Personal Service,
7/18/93) states that, if the world's fish, meat, and grain were divided up
equally to all People of all nations, each person would have less than they
did four years ago. This is supposedly due not only to population growth, but
also because less food is being produced than was then. World grain production
per person has dropped eight-percent since 1984. This is primarily because
more People are working in offices making useless gadgets than are producing
foods. Don't you think those chemical- and nuclear-weapon plants would be
better used trying to find ways to produce more food without poisoning the
environment? The land now being torn up in strip-mining for gravel to make
pretty driveways and gold to make nifty little trinkets and other useless
things would be better used for farming, don't you think?
Confucius said that a perfect country would need three things: A strong
army, enough food for all, and the support of the People. If one of these
things had to go, it would have to be the strong army, for without enough food
for all and the support of the People a government would fall. If one of the
two remaining had to go it would have to be the food, for it is far better for
all to starve than to be without the support of the People. Under a Socialist
Democracy all these would need to be, and would be able to be. For one,
People would most likely support a government which they themselves ran, and in
which they had an equal share of the power and were given "To each according to
his needs". In a Socialism, a true Socialism, all would get their share of the
food. And, with the support of the People, a Citizen's Militia or Army,
similar to that of James Connolly in early-20th century Ireland, would be
formed to protect the People from any who tried to suppress it. It would be
the duty of any Citizen, man or woman, to destroy any threat to such a
government.
In a Socialism there would be a great decrease in corruption, the plague
on all present government, due to the fact that all would be getting what they
needed. The reason corruption set in in Russia is because Lenin died while the
country was still in the provisional government stage, and Stalin -- an assumed
name, Russian for Steel -- took control. In the beginning of government -- of
any government -- a strong provisional government needs to form. The task of
this government will be to oversee the conversion from the previous government
system into the new one. If this provisional government were to become
corrupt, the People would do away with it, as it would necessary for all People
to be allowed to own guns, to form a Militia to protect the Rights of All
People -- by blood-shed if necessary. If some were to not own guns -- for
religious, among other reasons -- they would not be forced to, and those
willing to fight for their Rights would protect those who would not, as it is
a basic Right of humanity to choose one's own path, while those with courage
fight for the Rights of all. If avarice can be avoided, then a provisional
government will be able to perform the transition from one government system
to the other.
In short, what the world needs most is a push in the right direction.
Such a push was recently given in Mexico with the peasant uprising, which
forced the government to pay attention for once. But the governments are slow,
and several even bigger pushes are needed. Thomas Paine said, in _The Rights
of Man_, "When it becomes necessary to do a thing, the whole heart and soul
should go into the measure, or not attempt it." This is true. A blood
sacrifice is needed for Liberty. A few brave men and women in arms, ready to
give their lives for those of others, need to step forward and give the
government its medicine. The most patriotic thing a person can do is strive to
do away with an oppressive government, one that exploits its own People and the
People of other nations. As Padraic Pearse said, at the funeral of the Fenian
Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, "Life springs from death; and from the graves of
patriot men and women spring living nations."
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
There's a lot of that (mutation) happening in the emu and ostrich world
because we're feeding them a lot more nutrition than they'd normally have.
-- Lucille Hilliard, Ostrich Rancher
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
RUMMAGiNG THROUGH THE VACANCY OF A MiND
by Phadrous
Another damned clean sheet of paper. I hate clean sheets of paper. They
have no personality, so the first thing you have to do is write some stupid
cal like this at the top just so you're brain will work. It's impossible to
think for blank space. Sometimes I so despise the idea of a new sheet that
I'll cram one piece till it's illegible. That's what this is, actually. This
article. It's the compilation of some lame brainstorming I've had that's all
been put down on scraps of pages that I fold up and keep in me back pocket.
(So what you're reading came freshly from *my ass.*)
The best thing to write on, of course, is a manilla folder. Use only
pencil. That way everything rubs off as you throw the folder around, and you
just re-darken the stuff you like. Yeah, manilla folders are great for
writing on. They can't hold paper worth a damn, but they're a wonderful
medium. Of course, you can't fold one up small enough to put in your back
pocket (unless you want people to think you've got boils on your left buttock),
but you can't have it all, you stupid bastard. [Ed. note--notice the sly
reference to my story in Issue 2. I didn't think anybody would read the
thing.]
School. School is an odd thing. For seven hours a day, five days a
week, I am ordered *by law* to sit and look at girls. Well, alright--the law
doesn't mention the girls, really, but what am I supposed to do? Listen to my
English teacher, I take it. If I did that, I'd never do this. And why do I
do this? God knows or Nietzsche does. No, I know why I do this. It's not
for *your* benefit. If you get anything out of it, so much the better (and
god help you especially if you've been reading that perverted but somehow
likeable stuff about Dr. Graves.)
Nay, the reason I write this is because I'm fucking tired of writing to
please someone else. I want to put down a few thoughts for the simple reason
that I want to put them down. Not for a grade. Not for my SAT. Not for a
survey. I'm tired as hell of being given a topic like why flamingos copulate
in Coolridge's backyard. I don't care a goat's bladder nor a dingo's kidney
what a bunch of birds want to do on their spare time. For Christ's sake! I
had points taken off of a poem that I wrote in class because it was AMBiGUOUS
and had not TiTLE. Now fuck me through the ear if I'm wrong, but don't most
of the *good* poems take a bit of thinking to figure out? If I wanted to give
a concise, clear look at the PHYSiCAL OBJECT that the poem centered on, I
would have written an essay. If you want to degrade my poetry because they're
shallow or they lack un-cheesiness, go ahead. I'll help you. But lack of a
title...?
When I go to school next year and they tell me to write about something,
do you know what I'm going to do? That's right. I'm going to do exactly what
they want. I'm going to suck up for the grade. If you think I won't, just
watch. I'll suck up for the grade, suck up for the job, the raise, the loan,
all of it. That's what society demands, that you give up your principles or
starve. You're a hypocrite if you go along with it, and you're stupid if you
don't.
Censorship. Helluva topic. Constantly changes meaning. The one thing
that everyone agrees on is that they don't want it. That's what they say,
anyhow. Me, for instance. I don't want any asshole censoring this fucking
zine, cause if they did I couldn't have damn well written this sentence.
However, if (by some miracle), a bill were proposed to ban country music from
the airways, I'd be all for it. It comes down, in my feeble opinion, to our
basic greed. The greed that makes us die for oil and our own way of thinking;
kill to make us feel safe; rape, murder, anything. But on the other hand, why
not? Because we all want to draw the line somewhere without calling it
censorship. I believe no music should be constrained. Rap, country, and
Mariah Carey can be banned for all I care because I don't consider any of that
"noise" music. But, of course, my method only works if I'm in power, and
unless we talk about my car, I'm not. Even then, Michael Bolton and other
such nonsense can get at me as I switch the dial. So now that I realize my
double standard, I'm in fear. Why? Because the people who are in power see
my music as senseless noise and my way of thing as unchristian. Poor me.
What if those in power decide to do away with rock 'n roll because it's
Satanic? I'd scream, "First Amendment" at the top of my lungs. True, I
don't want 2 Live Crew to sing, but if I want Ozzy to get off of his charges
of inticing children "to sleep, perchance to dream," then I must also stand up
and say that listening to "Cop Killer" is not an excuse to blow a man away.
Thus is born PCism. The belief that everyone is entitled to a fair share,
and that the law must make sure they get it. Whoever says he does not have a
double standard is a hypocrite.
Endings. Easiest thing in the world. Especially if I don't give a damn
about you, and, my dear beloved readers, I don't even know who you are. So, in
light of the fact that we have no relationship, I leave you with a bit of
poetry. Not particularly good poetry, mind you, but it made me smile to write
the first and to read the second. Besides, what are you gonna do? Tell me
not to show it to you? To that I give grazney shooms of lip-music, Brrr!
SiGNATURE
Tossed lightly upon page and hastily wrought
I in a moment's thought may sign away my life.
In truth it is a powerful omen
which holds my life in it's scratchy lines.
Such thoughtless promise it holds.
It must be the most hidden power of my life
but it still won't get me laid.
And now, for the second one...
Americans eat oysters but not snails.
The French eat snails but not locusts.
The Zulus eat locusts but not fish.
The Jews eat fish but not pork.
The Hindus eat pork but not beef
The Russians eat beef but not snakes.
The Chinese eat snakes but not people.
The Jale of New Guinea find people delicious.
-- Ian Robertson
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Uncle Bill will
Never will leave a will
And the tumor is as big as an egg
He has a mistress
She's Puerto Rican
And I heard she has a wooden leg
-- Tom Waits
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MASTURBATiON OF THE SENSES
by Clockwork
Godhead.
So you begin your life in this barren desert of a state, or in what you
thought was a barren desert of a state but really in actuality it wasn't even
remotely close to being the big sandy windy tumbleweed infested ghost town
that your acquaintances at the time told you it was, and everything is
completely slapped and twisted around because of it -- your existence in this
not-so-barren state, that is. You wander around and trip and fall even though
you walk with your head down staring at God-knows-what -- even though you have
decided that this God thing is completely a rumor -- while at the same time
running into things and locking yourself in dark sweaty moldy closets with a
single bare light bulb that, when you flip the switch, doesn't work at all --
it is only there to piss you off.
And you continue to do this for three years of your life -- three
consecutive years watching the grapefruits rot around you, watching the black
stains magically appear in your once dreamy beige carpeting, sifting through
piles of melted pink shit too dig out a quarter so you can afford another pack
of cigarettes. That is what you do, and goddamnit -- you have decided by now
to never capitalize the word god -- you enjoy doing it. You enjoy living in
this unidentified muck.
But then the muck gets muckier when one of the two apelike creatures who
roam around your house decides to go visit a zoo in the Everglades and never
come back, because it found a really super fucking awesome parrot named after
some city totally run by money. You think to yourself, "What a poor choice of
nameage," not realizing that the muckier muck is about to get mucked up when
you start indulging your mind into the wonderful world of mindless research
about mindless things. You pull countless tricks out of your hat with the
words Happily Done By The U.S. Government tattooed all over them, and at first
it makes you laugh and giggle and smirk in amazement but then the laugh turns
to gasps and the giggles turn to screams and the smirks turn to tears just
because you see one simple three minute broadcast on television about yet
another U.F.O. incident -- so you just sit on the edge of your bed and weep
for all mankind.
By now, another two years have passed and you have come to the complete
and utter conclusion that your life is nothing but a large blobular mass of
maggot infested lard left in a car for a month in 120 degree weather and
that's all there is to it. Day after day after minute after minute goes by
until one day you are walking once again with your head down minding your own
god-knows-what and a voice comes from behind you and sweeps by you -- because
you either walk much slower or much faster than everyone else, and this time
you were walking much slower -- and this voice, when formulated into some
insanely idiotic language called English, says hello. You wonder and ponder
about who the hell in their right mind would ever say hello to such a
repulsively looking guy like me, all the while turning your head to perhaps
catch a glimpse of who the originator of the noise was, and who do you see? A
female. A rather attractive thin female with light blonde hair flowing to the
small in her back and tranquil blue eyes that grab your own eyes and an
innocent smile revealing braces that didn't hinder the beauty at all, who just
happens to be the girlfriend of just about the only person you really talk to.
So you manage a slight smile and both of you walk on.
Little did you know or perhaps even think at any point in time that you
would both, after a year of helping her get over him, fall in love with each
other -- after becoming best friends. Little did you know or perhaps think at
any point in time that she would simply materialize into your life and grab a
hold of your arm and tear you from the mucked up muckier muck onto dry sweet
warm sand where she continued to carefully gracefully softly clean every
little bit of muck from you body with her own two hands -- even behind you
ears -- and save your very own life from the unhealthy connotation of the
muck. Little did you know or perhaps even think at any point in time that
after two years of being extremely close honest best friends that she would
jump in front of you one day after smoking a cigarette in the center of the
road and kiss you so deeply and beautifully on the lips that it stunned the
hell out of you and left you in a daze for the next hour; not only that but
you also dropped your cigarette -- that is power. Little did you know or
perhaps even think at any point in time that over the next few months your
friendship would evolve into something more than just friends, and that she,
this beautiful once lost innocent soul, would pick you out of all the people
she has seen in her life to be the one able to spend undescribably joyous
times with her.
So now here you are saved from your own pathetic existence by a glorious
woman, however predictable or clicheish that may be, and you now walk with
your head up because you want to catch some of the glow that radiates from her
face and smell the scent of roses that always seemed to somehow rise from her
body and smell the scent of Head and Shoulder that she used to wash her
overpowering hair and feel the energy being transferred between the two of you
when you would stare into the eyes of one another. You even capitalized the
word God for awhile, because you decided you had respect for religion although
you did not agree with it at all -- of course, that was silly of you.
I need you to feel this.
Then you are humming sweet nothings to yourself and feel this sharp
ripping in your chest and see that a hole had been scraped through your skin
and tendons and muscles and sternum into your heart and then out the other
side, so you look behind you and see a large meaty chunk of your once spotless
fulfilled heart squirming on the ground as it gets run over by all the
passers-by and motorcycles and semi-trucks and pickup trucks and jeeps. So
you close your eyes and wonder to yourself just what the hell caused a chuck
of your heart to end up on the pavement like that. And after several weeks of
flat unconscious denial you finally get it through that thick skull that you
no longer have that glorious woman -- that for some unknown unseen
unpredictable reason she decided that she wanted no more of you and that
nothing was working out and that you were fighting too much and that she was
unhappy and you were unhappy and that there was no way to fix it so she is
giving up. And after thirty minutes of doing nothing but chain-smoking,
drinking a stolen beer, and feeling the warm salty feeling of those little
drops called tears just stream down your face you jump out your window and
crawl down a strip of concrete, then wade through a jungle of weeds until you
reach the closest civilization and run up to the back door of this guy you
know and dump all your woes and worries and losses on him and getting him as
lost and wet as you are.
And all that just happened in the last year of existence, so by now you
have decided that God is not God and not even god -- you are god -- and of
course you tell others that you are god every once in a while but they don't
believe you because when you say it you sound like you are not serious but you
know you are serious. And then one other day you decide that you are immortal
because you are god after all and you can do any fucking thing you want to do
as long as you actually believed you can do it. And you prance and dance and
slip some more while you walk around with your head bobbing up and down next
to a girl who used to be your glorious woman but who is now only your friend,
atleast for right now, and you have decided that life is not that bad or that
it is really bad but who really cares because you are immortal and you are god
so everyone else can cringe and laugh and piss and say whatever they please.
And then a couple of days before some unknown entity who just happens to
look act and feel exactly like you decides to sit down and type and type and
type with his tongue about nothing but the thoughts that parade and slip and
scrape through his head, you decide that you still have hope that this girl
next to you will become your glorious woman again. So you approach this girl
and place your hands so gently against your face and tell her that you are not
giving up, but you are so sorry for all the unhappiness that has occurred
because of certain things, and that all you want is for her to be happy so you
tell her to be happy -- even though to the common man it sounds like a line of
complete bullshit, but you are god and you know that you actually mean it --
and she smiles and says she really appreciates that. So now you are still
friends but good friends and on friendly terms and in decent moods and not
dragging yourselves around and yelling and screaming at nothing for no reason
to vent anger and frustration and hurt while this hope, this little golden
glow sits in the back of your head and still unhealed heart, hoping that you
will someday soon you will be able to feel her lips against yours and be able
to wrap your arms around her and feel complete comfort and safety because you
are protected by each other because you are bathed in the most beautiful
valuable vital thing that anyone could ever get the luck of finding.
And now here you stand.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Love binds, but it binds in freedom.
-- Maharishi
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A RESPONSE TO "A LETTER NEVER SENT, or ALL i'D SAY iF i BUT HAD THE WORDS"
by A--
I weep because I know you speak the truth. My heart wails in utter
hopelessness. I realize in despair that indeed everything must come to an end
as it always has, and I despise having to bear this horrid truth. Even the
passion I am experiencing at this critical moment will eventually diminish, and
it fills me with a sense of abandonment.
I fear that when you are gone, I will never again be fulfilled, not even
by my emotions, for they can end as well. Ansat, you _are_my_ definition of
perfection. When we must depart, it will be with the knowledge that I am
leaving something that can never be felt again or replaced by something better.
I must either face numbness or allow the "leaches" to feast relentlessly
while exposing me to fathomless depths of sorrow. And even in the last
situation, the leaches would probably burst and my precious sorrow would leave
me just like everything else. Oh, Ansat, all seems so hopeless and unstable!
I agree that it would be a shame to confine something as beautifully intense
and free as fire, but the thought of existing without you sends me into a
frenzy (although I now know it is unavoidable).
Well, my earlier passion and tear drops have ceased, just as I predicted.
To go on writing would only cause repetition. I am not a master of words
(spoken or written), and perhaps words are not the best way for me to express
to you what I am feeling/thinking. I hope my attempt is not completely
unsuccessful. I felt a burning sensation in my chest when I read "All I'd Say
if I But Had the Words," and the need to respond became unbearable. Thank you
for sharing such private thoughts with me. I love you.
A--
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Feelings are not facts. More often than not, they are a distortion of
the facts or reality.
-- Louis Devanney, a high school Humanities teacher
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE CONFESSiONS
Excerpts from the Early Magickal Diarys of Frater Nemo est Sanctus
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven.
For nothing hidden will not become manifest,
and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered."
Christ, Thom. 6
A good friend once told me that the thing about girls is that they don't
know what they want, and they need a guy to tell them. I told him that he was
part right, women don't know what they want, but that guys don't, either.
Anyone who doesn't understand this will spend his whole life getting something
from someone and being eternally dissatisfied because of their success. You
may get her body, but you may lose their love and trust. You may get her
virginity, but you've lost her innocence. The one truest lesson any magus may
teach a striving adept (as if they ever listen -- I never did) is that YOU GET
WHAT YOU ASK FOR! You will get it, but you will not enjoy it. Remember that
Solomon asked for wisdom, and wisdom he received. He received the knowledge
of his true will. The will of the magus is the will of the universe, but many
a magus is scarred because he got his will. Beware.
Another friend recounted to me an S and M experience. He told me that it
was painful, but still enjoyable. He said he enjoyed it, but, in a
particularly insightful statement, that the enjoyment was not "sexual". In our
world, the chief sensual experience is said to be sex, but, in truth, any
sensual experience may equal or surpass simple intercourse. A vampire of my
acquaintance told me that to drink another's blood is the most incredibly
sensual experience he had had. Why? In our world, the standard is sex, and
sex is demeaned. True sensuality is a purer path than the sacrament of vitamin
A. Sensuality may open paths the brain had believed blocked, and pain is one
of the most sensual experiences possible. Orgasm may be, too, but the modern
"orgasm" tends to follow the pattern warned in the psychological texts on
sexuality of the Kinsley era. A nymphomaniac has never had an orgasm, and
flits from partner to partner seeking satiation. A "frigid" woman has never
had an orgasm, and seeks failure. A "normal" woman may believe she has had an
orgasm, and may simply believe sex to be underrated. It is not, it is simply
not understood. We expect sex to be a sensation of satiation in the senses,
yet sanitize our sensibility from submission. Sex must reach the little death
of orgasm, where the I dies, and the psyche flees up to the heaven of release,
and, in the mystic ethers, enters a spiritual union with the soul of the woman
with whom you are embraced. Pain and drugs can also free the psyche from the
"sex of the mind" (D.H. Laurence, I believe), and vampirism can unify the
souls in a fluidic flux of the "embrace." Orgasm, in its pure, almost asexual
state may achieve the same goal, and it is the true goal of shamanism. The
will of the magus is the will of the universe because the magus must realize
the microcosm that is his soul, and, in such realization, discover himself to
be a smaller crystal of the universe's will. Only by joining the crystals may
we see the structure that is GOD.
I saw a pre-sunrise sky today, as I stood outside A--'s house, and I must
say that it was incredibly beautiful. I got home before the sun itself rose,
and even through the window it was painful to look at, but the sky was
beautiful. Simply indescribably beautiful in its bouquet of reds and roses and
purples. It is a pity that the sun itself has to ruin the effect.
This is one of the beauties I would not have taken time to notice if not
for A--. I wish it was in my nature to thank her. I wish it was in my nature
to tell her a lot of things, like I think I love her, but, as the song goes,
every time I try to tell her, the words just come out wrong, but it is not in
my nature to say I love her in a song. Just in my damn diary. Maybe I can
write a sappy, idyllic poem.
But no! There is no place in this world for romantic sentimentalism. A
sensualist is not wanted here. I could just spend hours gazing on her body,
but that would be wrong. She is not an object, as exquisite an object de art
she would be. Sorry, I am braiding my train tracks of thought once more. I
will extricate the second first, before it is too far gone.
A-- truly is beautiful, as G-- dramatically testified, but my moral system
wants to close its eyes to the fact. I love to look at her, to feel her touch,
and have her feel mine. I would love to go shopping at one of the posh shops
at the Arboretum that M--- and G-- and I walked past today, even though I could
probably not get in, let alone have the money to legally get the dresses out,
just because I appreciate women's fashions, and the sensual, though not
necessarily sexual, aesthetic beauty inherent within, and because I could
appreciate the view of seeing A-- try them on. Society would call me a
deviant. Hate me hurt me beat me kill me, I am one. I am a sensualist, a
romantic, in a world that was so dazzled by the enlightenment that it allowed
its beauty to be lost in the garish fluorescent lights. We in the shadows
hide from the light, but because the shadow of deception makes all so much more
beautiful than the light of knowledge. Paul warned to worship the creator, not
the creation, much as Philo did. Our society's disorganized technocracy based
on the worship of the hierarchy into which they chain themselves is the most
abhorrent abhorrence imaginable.
There is nothing the society hates more than its Artists, for it shows how
unfeeling the rest have become.
To revive a past topic, because my words went away from my will, I believe
pain to be every bit as erotic as sexual contact. Of course, society tells us
pain is bad, because pain tells us we are being hurt. When we realize that
pain is not always a necessary alarm, we may feel it as a sensation, not an
alert. I think it is every bit as beautiful that I can feel pain as that I can
feel pleasure. As Crowley says in one of Robert Anton Wilson's texts, all
sensation is simply filtered through the brain, so why should it not register
as beautiful. I can feel! I have life! This should be all the feeling we
humans notice. Why do we hide behind our masques of how our "pain" connections
warn us that we are being "hurt". A lover would not hurt you, and you must
trust or you will hurt yourself more. You will suffocate and die as your blood
turns to poison and kills every tissue of your being.
Well, I've written too much once again, and I think I shall end now. I am
just making myself as depressed as I can get, being with A--, even if it is
only in memory and in hopes. I am always on the edge of believing she will
decide I'm too weird, or too scary, or I hurt her too much, or whatever, and
what I have will be gone. My self hatred is only surpassed by my expectations
of how much others must hate me.
I know myself too well. I need separate vacations, before I drive all of
me crazy.
* * * * *
Did you ever think about how you would choose to die? Not in one of those
"I'd like to die old" or "I'd like to die in bed with a woman" kind of things
where you act like you can control synchronicity, but, should you choose to
snuff it, how would you choose to do it? I do.
First off, I'd use poison. I wouldn't use the kind of poison that fails
more often than not and are used to get attention, of course, and I wouldn't
use depressants. I'd look for something that would burst my heart, like
cooking up some of that speed I've got a file on. I'd conceal it in something
and bring it out with my friends, maybe even to someplace simple like Jim's or
something where they are used to seeing my popping pills and guzzling caffeine.
I wouldn't want to worry anybody. Sometime during the evening, I'd just take
all the poison in a megadose. If the people around look like they might stop
me that night, I'd excuse myself to the bathrooms and take it there, but then
I'd go back with my friends.
What better dream can you have than to die in the company of friends?
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
The time has come for eternity.
-- Squeez
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE iMMORTAL SOUL
by Clockwork
Not too long ago, in a not too distant place, a man called Socrates
spewed forth a theory from his upper-level conscious which stated simply that
the soul is immortal. He demonstrated this by taking a simple, uneducated
slave boy, and had the boy develop by himself a standard geometrical principle
just by drawing a diagram and asking the boy questions. From this, he stated
that if the boy could tell him the principle without any prior known education
in this lifetime, then he must have contained the knowledge somehow. How?
Well, he wasn't educated in this lifetime. Perhaps he was educated in another
lifetime, and the knowledge was recalled through the stirring of his memory by
asking him questions. Therefore, the soul contains all knowledge and is
passed over from one lifetime to another. Therefore, the soul is immortal.
I agree with the man.
(Of course, you say "Heh! Who cares whether you agree or not? You are
only Clockwork, a mere mortal, and this is Socrates the Great. How can you
not agree with this man's words?)
I can disagree with any man's words, no matter who he is or what it is
about, rather easily. And do not doubt the common man, for there is no common
man. And do not doubt me, for many a times I have stolen the words straight
from those great artists' heads, sometimes before they had spoken it, most of
the time without me knowing they had spoken it. I am a man of my own. I do
not allow others to implant thoughts or ideas for me to believe. Besides, I
-- and several people I know -- believe I am immortal. So, ha.
But, really. Let me toss a few questions into the general air of the
audience for you to grasp and attempt to answer as you wish...
How do we learn? What exactly happens when someone teaches you
something? Do you remember what you have been taught in the far past, or do
you just imitate what was recently taught to you? How are we able to
translate another's movements into our own? In fact, how do we learn how to
move at all?
Consider, please: we contain all knowledge already, we just have to
access it.
How do we know what to say or do? How do we make decisions? Have we
ever been taught how to make decisions?
HOW DO WE LEARN EMOTiONS?
Is a new-born child taught when something is wrong to cry? Or are they
taught how to breathe? Perhaps those are recalled -- those basic "needs" of
life -- 'Hey, I am alive now and there's something I have to do. What is it?
Oh, yes, of course. Breathe.'
How do we learn to fear? Why do children fear things? They aren't
taught to fear the Santa Claus in the mall, are they? And yet they fear
sitting on his lap, or even going close to the guy. Why do they fear the
dog? Why do they fear the cat?
You might say they don't know what is it. But then, why aren't they
afraid of their parents? Or food? Or the wall or couch? There is no one
saying to them, 'Alright, kid, you are about to be born, so those are your
parents and don't be scared of them, because their cool.'
Of course, it could be yourself telling yourself that.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Let's all beat the shit out of Tony.
-- Someone in Phadrous' mom's Shakespeare class
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LOVE
by Crux Ansata
Love
Love is a lover's hands
Clasped
Around your neck.
Love is the press against your windpipe.
Love is the loss of air.
Love is the knowledge that you could be killed
-- and the trust that you will live.
Love is the release of placing your life in another's hands without fear.
Love is the snap of your neck,
the mercy of death in a moment of trust.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"A beard, a beard!" shouted clever Nicolas.
-- Geoffery Chaucer, _The Canterbury Tales_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
KNiGHT iN GRAY
by Clockwork
Notes of new float down
as she lays in slumber's way,
lost in ancient times and colors past
without a whim to breathe.
From a distance not too far
a lone shadow watches over her,
causing Harm to cringe and flee.
For with each look and soft sigh
is wielded a beauty
held only for the dreaming one.
And after that which crouches round her
is swept aside by him,
the watcher looks once more,
through eyes of teary gray,
at the soul he holds closest
to his own.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
They say love dies between two people. That's wrong. It doesn't die.
It just leaves you, goes away, if you are not good enough, worthy enough. It
doesn't die; you're the one that dies. It's like the ocean: if you're no good,
if you begin to make a bad smell in it, it just spews you up somewhere to die.
You die anyway, but I had rather drown in the ocean than be urped up on to a
strip of dead beach and be dried away by the sun into a foul smear with no name
to it, just _This Was_ for an epitaph.
-- William Faulkner, _The Wild Palms_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONFESSiONAL
by Nemo est Sanctus
I look down at her, a little rivulet of blood drips from her, a beautiful red
pierced flower.
I gently lap up some of the blood, another hot iron between us, my tongue
wandering across her immaculate flesh.
I guiltily feel a twinge at the bleeding hole -- my fault -- where none should
be. Not in one so young.
A confession -- told in all innocence.
A confession -- revealed in a moment of passion.
A confession -- taken so harshly.
-- why should it matter?
I place the barrel between my lips and gaze down at the rosette between her
breasts which it and I had opened.
I smell the acrid stench of powder, still wafting from the pistol and up to my
waiting mind.
I smell the acrid stench of burnt flesh as the barrel singes my lips, but I
accept its justice. She had not the choice.
What the hell.
What I loved was her innocence.
What I loved was already dead.
I could not be there for her at birth -- no one's fault.
I could not be there for her deflowering -- her fault.
Our blood shall run together in death.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Within every evolution, there must be revolution.
-- Dr. Immanuel Velikovsky, _Worlds in Collision_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MESSiAH OF DUST
by Kilgore Trout
Groundlings stumble
on the pavement
with cracking bones.
I shove my fist
into a pocket,
the keys metallic and cold.
Wrought with suffering,
their eyes reflect
the horrible loss of soul
that has stalked the black
hearts of mortals
since the invention of language.
My steps become uneven,
faltering along the
sidewalk. Who can save me?
She listlessly limps
towards my crouched body.
Rotting hands grasp at the lapels
on my jacket. "Do you
see the Queen of The Dead?"
Eyes of ivory betray.
The shell I inhabit
slowly withers away
and ceases to be.
They surround the lifeless
husk. I sense
their baneful presence.
I possess the knowledge
to replenish.
Cannot they accept their fate?
Metamorphosis occurs.
The sky's hue diminishes
into blindness.
Lips move in unison,
chanting the forbidden phrase
that harvests my existence.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
To know that you know what you know and that you do not know what you do
not know is the beginning of true knowledge.
-- Confucious
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
TRiP KiTTY
by the Dancing Messiah
TRIP KITTY
VIGO MAXIMUS
SAYS "Do moRe DrUgs!
Drugs Drugs Drugs Drugs,
Drugs DRuGs drugs DRUGS!
Drugs Drugs Drugs DRUGS
DRUGS Drugs DrUgs Drugs!
I LIKE 'EM!
I LUB EM!
YOU WaNt More UB 'EM!
TOKE 'EM UP UP UP
TOKE 'EM UP! Meow!
You're how old?!
Drop a Hit! Hit! hIT!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
ANYWAY!
Holy Shit! Shit! shit!
I'm A STONED IMACULAtE
KITty And Man Am I FuCkInG Stoned!"
Stoned Kitty!
Stoned Kitty!
Ra Ra Ra!
Toke'm Up!
Drop A Hit!
Trip A Bit!
Caw! Caw! Caw!
I'M A CROW, A CROW!
Cuz God Saiz SO!
Not A Kitty,
Tripping Pretty,
But A Bird Tripping Hard Core In A Kitty Cat Skin.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the
human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of
ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we
should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have
hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated
knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful
position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from
the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.
--H. P. Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulhu"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SHADES
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
Late at Night,
As I Walk those Ancient, Misty Streets,
They Watch me.
They do not reveal any trace that They are there,
Just a glimpse of Something as I turn sharply,
A Dark Shadow moving ever so slightly.
I have long since ceased to Fear Them,
As they have been my constant Companions these Dark, Lonely Nights.
They simply Watch and Wait,
For They Know The Time Will Come.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Some of those that work forces are the same that brought crosses.
-- Rage Against The Machine, "Killing in the Name"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
RiNGFiNGER
by Clockwork
This little piece of twisted metal,
bent several times into a clump with ends,
used to rest calmly on my fourth finger.
Now there is a naked hole where it once was.
What used to be the symbol for my heart
is now used to mindlessly scratch and scratch
the table top,
right after it scratched my hand.
Dreams and thoughts and feelings and smiles
have been bent and distorted,
and will soon be dropped beside the curb,
to rust and be washed away,
down that storm grate right over there.
But that naked hole --
that will stay.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
There are sacraments of evil as well as of good about us, and we live and move
to my belief in an unknown world, a place where there are caves and shadows and
dwellers in twilight. It is possible that man may sometimes return on the
track of evolution, and it is my belief that an awful lore is not yet dead.
--Arthur Machen, quoted in "The Horror at Red Hook", by H. P. Lovecraft
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A LiGHT WHERE NONE SHOULD HAVE BEEN
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
A Light where none should have been!
Amidst the bracken of that Poisoned Glen
I saw It, Burning with the Unhealthy Light of Aeons Undying --
A Light where none should have been!
Amongst the Trees through which no wind blows,
In that Valley which no sane eyes must look upon --
A Light where none should have been!
And of what Evils that lurk There I must not tell,
Such Evils which no man must know --
A Light where none should have been!
For such Things do exist at the Boarders of That Which Man Knows,
And in those Regions which are seen not but in Dream --
A Light where none should have been!
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
There comes a flash now and then in any book, shining so intensely on one
particular scene, that you know it must be something that he author actually
saw, and that the light is from sheer truth.
--Lord Dunsany, _Patches of Sunlight_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
DiSSENT RISING BENEATH THE MASSES
by Kilgore Trout
a new renaissance has arisen from the ashes of the old
the players toil in dank shadows
screaming voices fall on deaf ears
their words, raw and unfiltered
they aim to tell the blatant truth
no euphemisms, no political correctness
life is the topic of discussion
and anything in it is for public display
some condemn them for being too truthful
they say innocence should be revered, not discarded
these innovators of a new information age
perceive knowledge as being free and unbridled
from selfish interests and the minority who rules the majority
laboring under the scrutiny of searching eyes
pens concealed under heavy jackets like lethal weapons
hidden beneath the surface of mainstream culture
the cries for a new order are never heard
yet their effect reverberates in every circle
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"You want mustard?"
"This tastes funny," he says.
"How bout I cut off your hand, fry *it* up and slap it between two bread
slices. How would that taste?"
-- Philip Brooks, "Audubon"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SWiNG WiTH ME
by Clockwork
slide the knot around over under and through and swing swing up and down
around around down and up over the limbs and through the leaves to the
blue white painting painted with sweet breath that streaks through your
hair flopping and flapping with each up and down around around down and
up by the back and forth of your legs and feet and head and chest and
push and pull forward and back and touch the painting with your toes
down down and miss the ground and up up and touch the painting with your
back down and up and down and back and forward and back to where you
started from
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
I'd like to keep out hard-core pornography if at all possible, since I
don't want to be labeled as the next triple X king of cyberspace. Sex is okay,
as long as it's not JUST sex, see? Of course, if something is really, really
sick and disgusting, we might just take it. Up to us. Doesn't really matter.
I'm contradicting myself again, aren't I? STOP DiGRESSiNG, DAMMiT! Ok.
-- taken from Kilgore's brainstorming file to Clockwork about starting SoB
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MiKE DRiSKELL, ACE DETECTiVE: THE CASE OF THE HOWLiNG MONKEY
by Griphon
My name is Driskell. I'm a dick. A private dick, with few friends. Why
so few friends? Like I said, I'm a dick. Being a dick makes it hard to get
friends, especially when you're a real dick. I take being a dick very
seriously. I'm the best dick I know. Anyway, let me tell you about this case
I had the other day. I call it "The Case of the Howling Monkey."
* * * * *
This broad walked into my office sipping on a black cup of coffee and
swinging her buns this way and that.
"Cinnamon bun?" she asked.
"No. What can I do for you, Toots?"
"How did you know my name was Toots?" she asked.
"That's what a dick calls every girl with a name tag with the name 'Toots'
on it," I said. The name tag was from a dive in the lower part of town, East
Rec Swimming Facilities.
"Oh. Well yes, Mr. Driskell, you can do something for me. I need a
monkey."
"The pet store's down the street, kid. If that won't do, I know a guy
who needs some money really bad. He wouldn't mind letting you see his--"
"No, no. You don't understand. I need a golden monkey."
"Well, he's tanned. I don't know if he's tan everywhere--"
"No, no, no. A statue, Mr. Driskell. A statue of a golden monkey
howling."
"Oh. Gotcha. Well, I can help you. Was it stolen?"
"Yes. A burgler broke in last night."
"A burger. Hmmm. That's why I eat only hot dogs. Something not right
about cow flesh being eaten. Cow spirit comes back and haunts you. No, I
don't think I can help you. I'm not much of a sorcerer."
"Burgler. Not burger, you twit. Burger. One who burgles."
"Burgler? Oh, I thought... nevermind. I can help you find your monkey,
ma'am."
"There's one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I think it was another private eye."
"A dick took your monkey?"
"Yes, and he left this bone where I hid the monkey."
"And where was that?"
"In my pussy."
"What?"
"My stuffed cat, Iris."
"Oh."
"Yes. You see, I woke up this morning and went to get Iris and the
monkey when I saw that Iris had a bone where her monkey had been."
"Was Iris smiling?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, seeing as how the burgler boned your pussy, I should like to know
whether your pussy enjoyed it."
"No, she didn't. The bone was too big and stretched her out. I had to
plug her up this morning so she wouldn't leak all over the place."
"That was sensible. Do you have any idea who the dick that boned your
pussy was?"
"I think it was Fred Gunther."
Fred Gunther was a small dick who took small-time divorce/cheating/spying
cases. He was a stupid dick, and I often wanted to choke his chicken. I
hated his chicken. "Best meat this side of the state," he'd say. To me, it
was a waste of feathers. Somebody choked his chicken, though. It spurted out
white crap all over the office. Gunther got real excited. started breathing
hard when he heard about it. Stupid dick.
Anyway, I took the case. The first place I thought I'd look would be the
office of Gunther, near the bay. Our city was the regular type of city where
a dick like me lived. Kind of like New York, they have a lot of dicks living
there. Or San Francisco, where dicks are really loved. Ours was a bit of
both. A few dicks, and a few men who loved dicks. I loved dicks, and I loved
being a dick.
Fred Gunther was a man of little prominence and less of a soul. When I
walked into his office, he was smoking a Cuban cigar and sipping on a glass of
white wine mixed with a little grenadine. He offered me a seat.
"No thanks," I said. "This will only take a minute."
"That is what I say to my wife. She always makes it last longer,
though. Please, come closer."
"Does she tell you that, too?"
"What?"
"Nevermind. Listen, I came to see a man about a monkey."
"What kind of money?"
"A gold monkey. Used to be in a pussy named Iris."
"I'm sorry, Driskell. I don't know know anything about monkeys or
pussies."
"Your father never had that talk with you?"
"What?"
"Not important. I got a tip that you know where that monkey is. You
better come clean, boy."
"Are you threatening me? You know what they say about a man that
threatens others..."
"Yeah, I know. And I'm telling you that I developed slow. It's not the
size, its how you use--"
Gunshots poured through the window like rain, except these were bullets
of hot lead that could kill, not drops of water that inspired musicals. I
rolled under the mahogany desk of Fred Gunther and drew my pecker, a small .38
caliber pistol. A local women's group sued me for pulling out my pecker in
public. Said it warped their daughters' minds. I told them I rarely used it,
but they told me I only displayed for a shock value and called me a flasher.
I told them I was a dick. Anyway, I pulled out my pecker and told Fred to get
under the desk with me. He didn't answer. I grabbed his jewels and pulled
them under the desk with me. Two rings, a pearl necklace, and a brooch. He
had some great jewels, but no monkey. The gunfire stopped, and I pulled
myself out from under the desk. Fred Gunther was dead, excessive bleeding
through three large holes in his chest. I called the police. They came down
to his office and arrested me. I told them my pecker could never put holes in
Fred like that, but they said it had been a lover's quarrel and that I needed
to answer a few question's anyway.
I spent the night in the slammer. The other inmates were looking at me,
knowing I was a good dick. Two guys offered me cigarettes, one a stick of
gum, and one told me I'd bend over or else. They must have heard what went
down at Fred's. Toots came and bailed me out later that day.
"This is coming out of your pay, Mr. Driskell."
"Gunther didn't bone your pussy."
"What? How, how do you know that?"
"I'm a dick, ma'am, and I know how a dick works."
"Then who took my monkey?"
"There's a sex-change doctor on the East Side; he might know where your
monkey is."
"Dr. Brian Klipp?"
"Yes."
"Why would you suspect him?"
"The holes that were put in Fred were put in by someone who knows how
dicks operate, and how to operate on dicks."
"But Dr. Klipp isn't a dick."
"He was, though. One of the best dicks in the world. Now, I think he's
knocking them off."
"Well, yes, of course he might be, I mean his profession and all, but I
really don't understand the connection."
"Trust me, ma'am. Every dick has a healthy fear of that man. There has
to be some reason."
I left Toots and went to see Dr. Klipp. His receptionist made me fill
out some routine paperwork.
"Mr. Driskell, would you object to someone else having your penis? A
woman?"
"Look, sweetheart, I'm on the job. No time for that here."
"Oh, no. I don't want it. There's a woman, though, that put in an order
last week. She wants a penis, Mr. Driskell, and I was just wondering if you
wouldn't mind giving her yours."
"So, I thought, Dr. Brian is running a brothel as well as a fencing
operation and is using a sex-change clinic as the cover. I was about to
arrest this bimbo when Dr. Brian Klipp sauntered out.
"Mr. Driskell, how marvelous to see you."
"I bet. Hand over Toot's monkey."
"I'm sorry, all operations are final."
I pulled out my pecker.
"Give it back or I'll give you this."
"Well, well, Mr. Driskell. What a charming little tool."
"Eat hot lead, sucker!" I shot Dr. Klipp six times with my pecker. I
was spent but happy.
"Now, baby," I said, turning on the receptionist, "are you going to tell
me I can't have my monkey?"
"No, sir," she said, fainting.
I ransacked Dr. Klipp's office. The only things in there were memories
and members.
"Damn. Where is that monkey?"
"I had it all along."
"Toots?"
"Yes, Driskell. You are a fool. Brian is my husband. He wouldn't give
me a real monkey, so I told you he took my golden one. I knew you'd kill him
for me. Now, I can give myself any monkey I want. And, you know what? I
want yours." She pulled out a pecker bigger than mine.
"I bet you took Gunther's chicken, too."
"Yes."
"I thought so. I even bet you're the one who's taking the lives of other
dicks."
"Yes."
"Well, you're not getting this dick." I pulled out my pecker and shot
her before she could react. "Like I told Gunther; it's not the size of your
pecker, it's how you use it."
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Crucify, torture, condemn, scourge us: your cruelty will avail nothing.
It only draws others to us. The more we are destroyed by you, the more
numerous we become...
-- Tertullian
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A TWiSTED TALE or A TALE OF TWO REALiTiES
by High Lord Spam
Here I sit in the bowels of my mind. Study the thoughts of small mice and cans
of CRISCO. Who can tell the difference between children and weed-eaters?
Time to move . . .
Flying through the air on the backs of lizards to the country of Iran. I
meet with my secret agent, Abeeb Mohammed-Ali. We talk in the phone booth at
the local corner 7-11. He tells me that I am being followed by a pack of
Hunters from Antarctica. So, I ran.
I hid in an alley and waited for the psycho-monkeys wearing the penguin
furs to appear around the corner. Then I saw them. I ran. They ran. We all
ran.
I stopped and whipped out my SPAM ray. They had SPAM-rays too. So I
threw my SPAM-Ray at them. They smiled and so did I. We sat and had SPAM
sandwiches, roasted marshmallows, and CRISCO oil. After that I pulled out my
trusty SWISS-ARMY knife and drove home.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
He who grasps, loses.
-- Laotse
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
JiM'S ACTiON THEATRE: THE TROPHY CASE
by Jim
The grubby security guard grabbed the boy by a tuft of hair. He was short
and fat, but he was strong.
"Let go of my goddamn hair!" yelled the boy.
"You want me to let go?" questioned the guard. "Ha ha ha ha."
The two worked their way down the long hall toward the front of the
building. It was an old building, and the long, dark halls seemed frosted
because of the condensation on the tiles. Eliot wondered if the guard had
seen Saul dart into the classroom when he surprised the boys.
"You goddamn rent-a-cop. I'll walk, lemme go!" screamed Eliot. He was
tired of being half-dragged by his hair. The meaty hand squeezed hard in his
hair and then released him in a convulsion. The fat officer was trying to
scare him. It wasn't the first time he had dealt with security. Jumping
buildings was an every night thing for him and saul; security was just a
hazard! Eliot hoped that Saul might think of something. The guard pushed the boy
into a chair and proceeded to take out his dime store revolver.
"Tell me what you're doing here, pal," he said as he pointed the gun
limply at Eliot's knee caps.
"Why don't you call the real cops and put your fuckin' gun back in your
cheap holster!" Eliot wouldn't give his type the satisfaction he looked for.
In his opinion, he ought to pull some damn Clint Eastwood stunt and feel like
some fuckin' hero.
"Look, kid, you're in big trouble as it is. Why don't you make it easier
on yourself and answer my questions?"
"Go fuck yourself!" Eliot sprayed this as much as he could, trying to hit
the guard's face with his saliva.
"You stupid cock!" The guard rapped the boy in the teeth with his gun,
and blood squirted from his lip as if it were squeezed out of a ketchup bottle.
The pain of being hit in the mouth gripped Eliot's face, and he let out a
whimpering scream. Saul could hear this even though he was still in the other
half of the building. The school divided in two by a playground which ran like
a courtyard inbetween two great chunks of building. Two long hallways ran like
bridges between the chunks, one on the first floor and one on the second. It
was a spectacular building. It was old, and sound pierced the walls and
echoed through the building.
Saul worked his way to the first floor and down the long hallway. Near
the end he could see Eliot in a chair being handled by the guard. He was
circling the chair and slapping Eliot in the head with an open hand.
His gun was not in its holster, but it wasn't in his hand, either. He
was playing some game with Eliot, trying to make him go for the gun so that he
could pull out another, probably stuffed in his pants, and put a bullet in him.
Eliot wasn't dumb; he just sat there still as a rock. Saul crept closer now
and stood in a shadow not fifty feet away from the guard.
"Go call the police, asshole!" Eliot was angry. The pain didn't hurt
him anymore. Saul could see that he was bleeding from the lip and both
nostrils as well as from the left eye. The wounds framed a crimson wave down
Eliot's face, and he almost looked as if he had been skinned. The guard
reached in his pants and pulled out a badge. He was P.D.
"Well, take me in, asshole!" Eliot was seated now, and this last demand
sounded more like a child's voice after punishment.
"Looking like this? Yeah, right. I'll be the one getting booked."
Saul crept up closer now. The guard's back was to him, and he saw the
concealed gun sticking out of the top of his pants. Auto-pistol, large framed.
Slowly, Saul worked his way closer to the guard's back. Eliot could see his
partner. Steadily, he reached, and simultaneously, Eliot jumped. Saul drew
back gripping the pistol, and Eliot slid across the floor, scooping the
revolver off the ground.
The guard, stunned, lost his balance and tripped to the ground clumsily.
Saul opened up with a shot which shattered the trophy case set against the
wall. Glass sprinkled the ground, and trophies tumbled off the shelves onto
Eliot. One particularly large award, shaped like a football, only larger than
most, connected with Eliot's head. His vision went black and his body limp.
Blood trickled from a crack in his skull. The guard dropped like a snake
towards the bleeding boy. Saul, confused, pulled on the trigger, pointing in
the guard's vicinity. The chair which housed Eliot's interrogation splintered
at the top and blew back against the wall with great force. The guard gripped
the revolver loosely and naturally pulled the barrel toward the new intruder.
Saul felt a jerk at his arm and spun, crashing to the ground. Blood pooled
out across the tile floor, and he could see a clean spray on the wall behind
him.
The guard saw the boy clap to the ground and pushed off the floor in an
effort to pull himself up. The glass from the trophy case stuck into his
palms like knives. In seconds, his hands had become useless. The guard
screamed as he drew to his knees. His gun slid smoothly across the floor, out
of reach. Saul groped across the floor, slipping in his own blood. Eliot lay
unconscious, losing vital fluid from the crack in his skull.
Saul pushed across the floor, trying to make his way to a classroom. The
slippery blood made the task difficult and slow. Lights shined through the
front windows of the school, and the door splintered into pieces as armed men
came rushing into the front hall of the school like water filling a basin.
The thunder of police stomping through the halls crashed into Saul's ears.
The officer, now on his feet, stopped plucking the glass from his palms in
time to see beams of light flash across his torso. The police lights shined
onto one of the "intruders", a bleeding child lying at his feet. A few
officers opened fire. The guard felt his back rip as a bullet tore into his
right shoulder. A few more rounds shattered the spine as well as most of his
ribs. The officer's organs were torn to a mushy pulp and spilled out of the
gaping tears in his torso. This lifeless body fell slapping onto the cold
tile. The hall was covered in red liquid and almost looked as if it was
painted that way. The intruding officers felt the pulse of the limp boy lying
by the trophy case.
"Get an ambulance! He's still alive." Another took a close look at the
dead security guard.
"Ohhh fuck. He's P.D.!"
Saul had made his way into a classroom, and, in spite of the pain flaring
from his arm, he managed to pull himself to his feet. He worked his way to a
window, and opened it quietly. Luckily, the police hadn't surrounded the
building, and this side of the school was clear.
The cool night air seemed to soothe Saul's face as he slipped through the
window and ran for the wooded area next to the school. Each step shot pain
into his arm, but he carried on to the nearest tree. He sat himself gently
against the trunk and took in long breaths of air, cooling his lungs. The
pain in his arm was dying away, and the wound seemed to be pouring blood more
than ever. The air wasn't cool anymore but cold, and Saul pulled his jacket
tightly to his body. He felt drowsy, but he knew he had to get help. Trying
to get to his feet, his left leg slipped, and he lost balance.
"Maybe I'll just rest a minute," he thought.
Saul closed his eyes, and he sat in comfort as he realized how tired he
was. Slowly, he drifted deeper away from the conscious world. More
comfortable than he had ever been, Saul grinned as he drifted into sleep.
Slowly, his grinning face relaxed into blankness, and his lifeless neck tilted
forward from the weight of his head.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
If you do not do your own thinking, someone else will do it for you.
-- Orwell
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
JiM'S ACTiON THEATRE: AGENT MALCOViCH
by Jim
Ivan Malcovich didn't like small places. It was just up his alley, being
assigned on a train. He worked his way to the dining car and sat at a table
near the exit. In just one hour, the very car he sat in was to become the
housing for a major change-of-hands in a large diamond heist. Ivan tapped on
his collar and spoke softly into the small radio therein.
"I'm in the diner car. It's pretty clear right now. One woman,
mid-thirties, alone at a table three rows north on the left. Two men, both
over fifty, five rows north right-side."
"No open-fire unless the car is clear," said the voice on the other end.
"Remember, we don't know what they look like."
Ivan knew: three persons, two receiving, one delivery boy. He had
worked the situation before, but never on a train.
"Excuse me, waiter. Is there some way I can get some fresh air?" Ivan
needed something to hold himself together before the action.
"I'm sorry, sir, but there's not much I can do for you. Would you like a
drink?" He did, but he thought better.
"No thanks." From the north end, two men came bumbling into the car.
They sat clumsily, knocking over at least one piece of furniture each. They
were drunk and talked loudly. The waiter worked his way toward their end of
the car, fixing what disturbances they might have caused, and offered them
assistance.
"How about a drink?" they yelled.
They waiter looked around nervously and blurted out, "Ice?"
The two drunk men paused attentively, then rolled in the booth where they
were, laughing hysterically. This vexed the waiter, and he rushed out of the
car, passing Ivan's table. About the same time, two more gentlemen--one in
his mid-twenties, sharply dressed, a good looker, and another in his early
forties at least, dressed the same, but with a square jaw--came and sat two
booths down from the south exit. The younger one was handsome and sat so Ivan
could study his face. He had long, dark hair pulled back tight on his scalp
and light brown eyes which matched his tan skin. He had a large mole on his
right cheek and perfect structure in his face. The other was a large framed
man, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. The waiter came in and proceeded
to approach the table where the two men sat.
Ivan could feel something in his mind, and he knew what was happening.
"It's the waiter. It's going down!" he whispered into his radio.
Almost immediately, two agents came barreling in from either exit and
rushed towards the table that the waiter was serving. Instantly, the waiter
dove for a booth across the way, and the older man ducked down. The agents
started to draw out their weapons when the younger of the men opened fire with
an automatic pistol. The agent advancing from the south end dove for a booth;
the one from the north was hit. His chest slammed in as a few rounds
connected with his kevlar vest, and he fell to the floor onto his back. Ivan
could see him clearly from under his table.
The agent raised an arm as if by instinct and fired his clip towards the
booth containing the two men. The young man jerked back and flapped noisily
over the back of his booth as he took shots from the agent. Blood painted the
windows to his side, and he screamed from the floor where he lay protected.
Ivan got to his knees with his gun drawn and looked as one of the old drunk
men drew his own piece. He held a submachine gun and immediately opened fire
on the agent lying in the middle of the train car. Bullets crashed down all
around and through the body. His vest wouldn't let them penetrate, but they
pounded him. his arms tore into bloody strips, and the tops of his legs
seemed to disintegrate into a red mist. His head exploded like a melon and
scattered skull fragments and pieces of brain across the room. The old man
continued firing, and Ivan took careful aim, not being noticed.
He squeezed the trigger, and the machine-gunner's body flew into the
air. His chest collapsed, and his back tore open as his spine and much of his
lungs exited his body. The man's carcass fell atop a table to the left, and
his partner darted out from under it. The lady who had been in the car was
halfway out the door screaming in a fit when the man grabbed her. The waiter
took cover in a booth not but one row in from of Ivan's, across the way. The
two older men who hadn't to do with the action were not to be seen. The large
gentleman with the square jaw stood up with a shotgun and walked towards his
partner's vicinity, who was screaming in agonizing pain. Nobody dared make a
move so long as the one man held the lady hostage. The one living agent stood
tall, holding his gun above his head, and Ivan noticed the waiter reaching for
his pistol.
"Down!" yelled Ivan as he squeezed the rest of his clip at the waiter.
His white suit became soaked in crimson, and his lifeless body fell bleeding
into the aisle. The agent ducked back down, and the square-jawed man sprayed
his area with a blast from the shotgun.
"I'll kill her, goddammit! Stop fuckin' shooting!" screamed the older
gentleman with the lady. They knew of Ivan's presence now, and he stayed
low. The two older gentlemen stood up now with their hands raised, and the
hostage holder motioned for them to go out. The young man on the floor was
still screaming, and the lady was crying quite vocally. Between the noise and
the tight quarters, Ivan was going nuts. The agent ahead in the car made a
move to free the lady being held. He darted swiftly into the aisle and lunged
for the man holding her at gunpoint. The three tumbled to the floor, and a
gun sounded twice. For a second, all was still, and blood ran out onto the
floor from under the lady. She screamed and jumped up quickly, losing her
balance and falling to her knees. The agent rolled into a booth on the left
side of the car and screamed for her to get out. Ivan could see the other man
lying on the floor with two holes in his chest. A shotgun blast blew glass
through the car near Ivan's part of the train. The man with the square jaw
stood up with his partner over his shoulder. Ivan stayed low but alert. The
other agent rolled out behind the man and went up on a knew to shoot. The
smaller man, screaming and bleeding from the shoulder, chest, and mouth, fired
from a limp arm, hitting the agent in the left knee. He stumbled, dropping
his gun under his body. The bigger man spun around, blasting with his
shotgun. Ivan couldn't see what happened, but he figured it wasn't good. The
two moved toward the waiter, now lying dead under a table near Ivan. He
figured they didn't know his location.
The large-jawed man set his partner into a booth facing Ivan's side of
the train. He then loaded his shotgun and pointed it towards Ivan's booth.
Both men opened fire. Ivan's booth exploded into splinters, and the side of
the train tore into chunks of metal. Ivan's left leg throbbed with pain, and
his face was streaked with blood. He tried to push his way under the tables
to the next booth, but his legs weren't working. He looked down, but blood
ran into his eyes, and he realized he had been hit in the head. Ivan felt
something grip his shirt, and he was suddenly jerked into the air. His
visibility showed him that the big-jawed man held him at arm's length. His
body was limp in the man's grip, and his head fell forward. Blood dripped
from his head and formed a pool under him on the wood floor. He could see now
that he had been wounded in the waist area, and his left knee had taken a
direct shot. The man carried Ivan to the end of the car and into the section
dividing it from the next. He then threw him violently to the ground.
Ivan heard him opening the door, and the felt the wind from the outside
air. The man turned to grab Ivan and slipped in a pool of blood which had
leaked from his body. The man smashed down on the floor, and the train
rounded a curve. His body slid quickly toward the open door, and he screamed
as he realized his situation. He reached to save his life, but the slide was
too fast. His body crumpled into a ball as he slammed into a bed of rocks at
high speed. The life was knocked from him, and he lay bleeding a few feet
from the speeding train.
Ivan felt himself getting cold, and he heard other agents crashing
through the next car in a race to the action. One stopped by his side, and
others ran into the half-destroyed car, blasting at the lifeless bodies
therein. Ivan felt the paramedic start work on his hopeless torso and legs.
He knew he had been given a drug, and he drifted pleasantly into sleep.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Man cannot stand too much reality.
-- T.S. Eliot
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SHARDS OF iCE
by KidKnee
once, when i was a kid, i laid down in the snow and watched the snow fall
like in the movies. only different. as i watched the snow gently fall
towards me in all its graceful beauty, blowing in the chill winter wind, i
noticed something none of the movies ever told me. in each tiny crystalline
snowflake there are millions of tiny, razor sharp edges, coming right at me.
The frost bit and cut at my ears and stung my nose and it hurt. i ran into
the house screaming and crying, and for good reason. it hurt. it was then i
learned that the most beautiful things can be the most painful, and have
seldom since stopped to enjoy innocence and beauty in the same way. i may be
missing something, but at least i know the truth and am no longer stupid
enough to lie down in ice in the freezing cold just to watch some stupid
snowflakes.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
He who cannot say no does not love himself.
-- Orin
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A SPORADiC ACCOUNT OF MY Acquaintance AND APPRENTiCESHiP TO A MAN NAMED
YAJI ASHUTHATH -- SECTiON 1
by KidKnee
a thick, dry, pasty wall of incense hit me as i opened the door. a deep,
raspy voice barked for me to shut the door, which i did with haste. once
inside, the extremely stifling heat overwhelmed me. that and the incense
thick air that i had to labor to breathe almost choked me as i stood there
taking in the environment.
the room was lit only by five candles in a vague circle, augmented by the
warm orange embers of hundreds of incense that also followed a vague circle
shape. as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, i could barely make out a
figure in the center of the circle mumbling something to himself, hunched over
in what had to be the most uncomfortable position i have ever seen. for an
instant i thought maybe he was dead. before i could take a step his voice
boomed out at me though he made no motion.
"On peril of your life, stay outside the circle stranger."
that sounded pretty damn important, so i decided to stay where i was.
there was nothing else to do but sit down in the thick haze before i fell
down. The air in there was so thick, it was like trying to breathe a dark
amber cream. each breath was an accomplishment. once i was settled i listened
to the words the uncomfortable one spoke. as i listened, i found i could only
understand half the words he spoke, although i heard them all. why would he
be switching back and forth between two languages? this curiosity nearly
drove me insane until i discovered that it was not indeed two languages, but
two voices as well.
shit. before the realization had even become concrete i was frozen in
terror, realizing what i had walked into. I had heard that Ash was into the
occult, but i never really believed in it until that moment. sweat broke out
profusely, and i was drenched in a few seconds between the oppressive heat and
the terror that filled my brain. just then Ash let out a terrifying yell as
the candles roared into flames, engulfing him and the interior of the circle.
the scream curdled my blood, and in terror my legs began running, even though
i was sitting down. It felt like i was getting somewhere, but somewhere in a
more logical thought i knew that in reality, i was bouncing around, kicking
over incense, pissing all over myself on the floor. Somehow i was conscious
of Ash standing up from his ball of flames and screaming something as loud as
he could. The flame went away, and Ash collapsed in the center of the circle,
clothes and eyebrows still smoldering.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by
the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated
without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete
and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be
freely used so long as due recognition is provided. The editor may be reached
at The Lions' Den [(512)259-9546] or at kilgore@bga.com. Thank you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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