739 lines
34 KiB
Plaintext
739 lines
34 KiB
Plaintext
From zzbartonr@acad.winthrop.edu Sun Dec 12 08:57:18 1993
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Date: Sat, 11 Dec 1993 14:28:31 -0500
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From: Sinergy <zzbartonr@acad.winthrop.edu>
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To: fetherow@lurch.winthrop.edu, eudaleyt@lurch.winthrop.edu,
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clund@delphi.com, npc@tenet.edu, falcor@agora.rain.com,
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trond.Buland@ifim.sintef.no, chris@rigel.efd.lth.se,
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jonb@isltd.insignia.com, polekat@well.sf.ca.us.com,
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acc00ltr@unccvm.uncc.edu, slootsky@cu53.crl.aecl.ca,
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ugu00010@vm.uoguelph.ca, pnet01!psilo@crash.cts.com, mariusw@ifi.uio.no,
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kendall@mps.ohio-state.edu, kc5@cu.nih.gov, davet@wv.mentorg.com,
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p30tmr1@niu.bitnet
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Subject: Issue Number Four - Winter 1993
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.... ::::::: .... :::: :::: : : ::::
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. . ''''' . . :: :..: : : :-
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. . . . :: : :. :::: ::::
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. . . . . ______________________
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. .. .. . ... . . ... ... ...
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. . . . . . .... .. ...
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. .: :. . ... . ../ |.. . \
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. .: :. .
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.... .... .... . . .. . . .
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.... . . . .. ...
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: :. .: : .. .... . .. . .
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.: :: :: :.
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.::::::.:. .:.::::::.
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.:::' ' ':::.
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:. .:
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. .:::::. .
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.. . . true cyberpunk vol i iss. iv
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winter 1993
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. ..... .
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. ::::::: .
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::::::::: WE HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE AND
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::::::: WE ARE IT!!!
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JA K IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK: JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E--
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C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k--
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JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN--
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-------------------------------------------------------------------------
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---------------------------I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T-------------------------------
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TRUE CYBERPUNKS JACK IN - BUT THEY WON'T JACK OUT!
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-------------------------------------------------------------------------
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WINTER 1993 + LAST ISS OF THE YEAR! + RAZORS WITH SALT ARE TASTY
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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POISED SALMON SCARE + EVIL ALIEN CAR GANGS + VIOLENCE, SEX, AND MTV
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NATIONAL PRIDE + I DIDNT TELL YOU, YOU DIDNT ASK ME
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and
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YOU CAN'T DO THAT IN CYBERSPACE
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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|| | | ||
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|| | BUT - First! | ||
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|| | What the hell happened to the cover for issue #3!????????? | ||
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|| | Well it is STILL being processed, I mailed it to this guy to | ||
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|| | be HI-RES and COLOR scanned! REALLY cool , eh? Anywayz I'll | ||
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|| | UUENCODE it and ship it out as soon as I have it so... cool. | ||
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|| | The cover for this issue WILL be shipped within the next week. | ||
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|| | It is a start on an entry for New Voices,New Visions! For nfo | ||
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|| | on the contest just mail INFOBOT@WIRED.COM with the msg, | ||
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|| | VISIONS. | ||
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|| | |\ /| | ||
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|| | | \ / | | ||
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|| | | | | | | ||
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| |__| | | |__| |
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|______| |______|
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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Janie looked up to her Father, repressing the sorrow that she always
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held so tight inside of her. "Father, tell me a story". "Okay", says
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he, grabbing an old fax from the floor and slipping on his decrypt-tek
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glasses. "Be very quiet". Janie smiled on the inside, she'd been waiting
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a long time for this.
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"Okay", says he again. "This is how it goes..."
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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:. /\ | |-- --| \ |--
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:::::::::::::::::. / \ | | | \ |_____
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:::::::::::::::::' / \ | | | \ |
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:' / \ |____ |-- --| \ |--
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A story by Michael Cote'
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"Rain, rain," thought Chung, "It's always been this
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infernal rain." He scuttled up the street towards his
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building. A hidden sun failed to reflect light off long
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dead neon tubes in the windows of abandoned stores. His
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building loomed among a mass of rubble and muck in the
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deserted part of the city. Narrow paths lead up to it's
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crumbling front door, their gutters running over with water
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from the television colored sky. He arrived at the front
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door. Soaked with rain he typed in his building access
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code. A synthetic voice with female overtones spoke,
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"Welcome, Mr. Johnson." Chung looked up, smoothing his wet
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hair back from his face, "Rack off, and open the door."
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Bits of trash littered the hall ways of Chungs
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building, occasionally barricading the path. Small metallic
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creaking noises echoed throughout the hollow emptiness of
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the building as Chung climbed a set of ancient steel stairs.
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Chung looked upwards, towards the ceiling of the building
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into seemingly infinite darkness of abysmal loneliness. A
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drop of water fell from a hole above, striking Chung on the
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face, causing him to real backwards and wipe away the horrid
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moisture.
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The building was utterly quiet except for Chung,
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"Alone," Chung said aloud tapping in his pass code at his
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door. "Welcome home Mr. Johnson," said the house computer.
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Chung threw down his coat on a near by couch, "Lights," the
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room came to life with a hologen glow. "What's for dinner,"
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Chung asked himself, advancing upon his small kitchen and
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the refrigeration unit that it sheltered. A small slab of
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brown bean curd sat by it's self on the middle shelf of the
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unit. It had once been surrounded by a diversity of food,
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but now, after the other food had been eaten, it was the
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only item that gave the refrigeration unit warmth. "Gatta
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go to the market tomorrow, but I need some money for that
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black-market food," he grabbed at the little chunk of curd.
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A little "wurrrr" sound erupted from the microwave, Chung
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waited for the tell-tale bing, then went into the living
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room. He began his nightly ritual of watching Channel 34
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news, and gnawing away at his lump of tofu. "Looks like
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tomorrow's' forecast is more rain, with a ten percent chance
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of sunshine," the weather man said.
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"What! More Rain! More Rain!," Chung threw his dinner
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at the TV, tofu and sauce ran down the screen, plopping onto
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the carpet. He signed, rubbed the anger from his eyes, and
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went to the kitchen to get a towel. The floor creaked under
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his weight. Towel in hand, he dabbed at the carpet, then
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rubbed the screen. "Tired of daily rain?," Chung looked up
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at the TV, "Want an escape form the solitude of your boring
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earth life?"
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"That'd be grand, how much?," Chung spoke aloud in
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the voice of a transfixed person bathed in he glow of a
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god, unable to move.
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"For only 5,000 dollars, you can fly away to the
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tranquillity of the Mars Colonies, surrounded by old and
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modern luxuries," the commercial seemed to reply directly to
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Chung, "So come along with TransWorld." A trail of music
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followed the commercial. Chung starred past the now drying
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smudged of curd and sauce, into the beauty of the Mars
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Colony fields. Thoughts of hills of green grass with people
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crossed his mind. The phrase "5,000 dollars" cast a shadow
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over his thoughts, he looked down at the carpet, starring
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into the pool of sauce. He rubbed at his face, fighting the
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agony of reality and life. "Next year, next year you'll
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have enough. Then you can get off this crappy planet, go to
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mars and be somebody, with somebody."
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He finished mopping up his dinner from the floor,
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and threw the towel onto the cleaning machine. He sat back
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down. The news ended with an aerial view of the city, and
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Chung sleeping in the chair.
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The clocks green digits read "5:45," Chung
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scrambled to the bath room, and lifted up the seat. With
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his free hand he rubbed the haze of sleep from his face, and
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looked out the window. Lights filled the city at night, but
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they were far away, downtown. He flushed down his waste,
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started starring at the swirling water, seeming to divine
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the untold secrets of the ages from the swirling mass of
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water in his toilet bowl. He shuffled into the bedroom.
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He sat on the edge of his bed, bent over a pillow.
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"Back to work," he put on his overalls. They were a drab
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brown color only cut by the glow of a Federal Express
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hologram logo. Coffee was pre brewed by the house computer,
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not too hot, just warm enough to bring out the flavor of the
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bean. Chung wrapped his lips round the edge of the coffee
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cup, sucked in a small amount, the breathed out warm coffee
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breath. The computer locked the door behind him, he dragged
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him self down the stairs to his car. After thirty minutes
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of driving in silence and solitude, he arrived at the
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warehouse, his second home. He drove up to the window,
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"Take this package to thirty five Marshall Street, give it
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to the butler," a woman with frayed hair gave him package.
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"Hi, Marge, how's your..," the package distributor closed
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the window before he could start talking to her.
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Chung pushed a red button with a grimmy wrinkled
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thumb. "Where to sir, " the car spoke aloud. "Thirty five
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Marshall street," he closed his eyes and put his hands
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behind his head as the car drove off. The car beeped at
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him. "All drivers are to have both hands on the steering
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wheel during auto pilot." Chungs wrinkled hands, the trade
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mark of Earth life, grabbed at the wheel and closed his
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eyes. An abrupt stop caused the package to fall face down
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on the floor. Chung grabbed at the box, lifting it up. A
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bundle of dollars fell out , the top had been broken in the
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fall. "Stop!," he yelled out. The car swerved to the side
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of the street and parked. He scanned over the money, then
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looked about for other people, "Silly, there won't be
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anybody. There must be, wow," he stopped and thought, "What
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is the description for package, uh, " he looked at the bar
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code of the box, "nine-five-zero-three?" The car spoke,
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"Five comic books, insured for 5,015 and 23 cents."
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"The sender must have lied, "Chung said smiling,
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"This would buy a nice apartment downtown. I'd have
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neighbors, go to house warming parties, I'd talk to people!"
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He looked at the money again, "Or, I could..." he dove into
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the money, counted it three times. "Car, change course,
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Airport."
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He arrived to the bustling airport of the city.
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It was infested with people traveling about the earth.
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Middle management suck ups clung to corporation executives,
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seeming to protect them from the earth and the rain.
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Tourists looked for a cab with a worried expression on their
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face. Bus boys scrambled about trying to make money carting
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about bags and other pieces of luggage. Scanning the
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offered ticket counters, he picked TransWorld, and walked up
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to it. Once a human sold tickets to people, but now
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automation provided more expedient service, and eliminated
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the hassle of paying employees. A large drawer served as
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the collection bin for money, a slot for credit chips.
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Chung thrust carried the box up to the counter and thrust
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the money into the drawer.
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"Hello, sir, please enter Social Security Number,
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" a computer terminal spoke to him, concurrently displaying
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text on an inset screen. Chung hurriedly looked at the
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label of the box, the number was there. Chung punched the
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number into a keypad, his hand jittering with an the unknown
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high of excitement and hope. "Please wait while your ticket
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is processed and your money is counted," the terminal
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paused, a faint sound of paper flicking could be heard,
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"Enter Colony Plan number. Plane one is a..."
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"I don't care, I just want to get away from this
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hell," he randomly pushed button two. "I'm actually
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leaving, I'm leaving!" Chung said attracting a bit of
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attention from fellow airport patrons, and entered the
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airport.
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"I don't have any of my things, " he said stopping
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in front of a baggage check robot, "Never mind that, I'll
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not need my possessions in the sprawling colonies." He
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hopped onto a pedestrian conveyor belt. The woman in front
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of him held a small leather bag in her left hand. It's
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bottom punched down by some sort of spherical object. She
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looked back at Chung for a moment, her red lips were full,
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her eyes highlighted by bluish eye shadow, then looked
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forward again. Little waves of movement passed over the
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back of her silken shirt as they went under an airduct.
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They were nearing the mini mall section of the airport.
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Large signs informed travelers of a last chance to purchase
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duty free items, Chung steeped off the belt. Randomly he
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picked out a shop, "All Things Scottish", the sign read,
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surrounded by holograph array of plaid. A bagpipe noise
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exploded from an unseen speaker when he opened the door,
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finally fading into silence.
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Tartan cloth and green shelves covered the walls
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of the small store. Behind a desk, a little old man dressed
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in full Scottish garb greeted him, "Welcome tou Aill Tins
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Scoutish," a thick accent cut through his English, "where if
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it's not Scottish, it's CRAP!," the last word came out with
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a thundering boom, sending bits of spittle across the
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counter as he bent down his head, "How ma' I 'elp eou?"
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"Um, I'm just looking, thanks," Chung said. He
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had fifteen dollars and twenty three cents left after buying
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the ticket, "Do you have any of those, uh, skirts for men?"
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"Ah think eou mean keilts, lad, " the man replied
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sternly, "Ah've gote sume right over there," he pointed
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towards a shelf. Chung walked over to the shelf, flipped
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through the kilts. Green, red, black, blue, all arranged in
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geometric patterns. He selected out a classic red and black
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one, "I'll take this and whatever socks and sweaters go with
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it."
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After discarding his old clothes and stepping into
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his new traditional Scottish clothing, he stepped back onto
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the conniver belt, ten dollars poorer. Somewhat high on
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excitement he rocked back and forth on his feet. The odd
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feeling that the wool kilt produced caused Chung to scratch
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at his legs. Large neon lights encircled the panel to the
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space shuttle. No one else was waiting to enter the same
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portal as Chung, which caused him to check his ticket for
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the gate number again, "2H38, it's the same. Reassured he
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stepped of the conveyor belt into the door to his flight.
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His seat was a worn down brown cushioned chair.
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Next to him sat the lady with the silken shirt, she clutched
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the bulging bag in her lap. "That's a nice dress," she
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said with a smirk. "What? Oh, it's kilt," he looked down at
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it and tried to discreetly scratch his leg, "I got it and
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this sweater and these socks, all for fifteen dollars."
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"Isn't it great," she began, "going to a Mars
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colony, peace of mind, no more constant rain."
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"Ahhh, no rain. That'll be excellent, not to
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sopping wet constantly. And meeting all those people! I'll
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actually be someone, a neighbor to borrow sugar from!," he
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looked over to the lady for a response, but she had put on a
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pair of ear phones, looking in the opposite direction,
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"Well, no one will ignore me any longer no mars."
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The shuttle landed on Mars five hours later. An
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exhausted Chung stood up, ready to exit. "Thank you for
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flying TransWorld," said the shuttle as he exited. "Please
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exit through the door marked with your colony site number,"
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said a loud speaker in a digital voice. Chung looked at his
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ticket, "Site 593A-65H", it read. He passed by several
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doors, looking at the digital read outs on three panels
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before he arrived at his door.
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"Please insert you ticket," said the door.
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Dumbfounded, Chung looked about for a slot, found it and
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slid in his ticket. The door whisked open, "Thank you for
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flying TransWorld. And please, enjoy your stay on colony
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593A-65H."
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Chung sat on another seat for several hours, this
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time alone. The manmade landscape of mars whizzed by him,
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visible through a window in the mini shuttle. Clouds
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floated in a once barren sky, birds flew about where live
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creatures had once never been. The shuttle stopped, a door
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opened, "Thank you for choosing TransWorld, enjoy your new
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home at site 593A-65H."
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Chung walked up a path to a house, "This is odd,"
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he thought, "Where are all the other houses?" He looked
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about. His new house sat on a hill, surrounded by water as
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far as the eye could see. He scrambled back to the landing
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site, only a small dark circle remained at the site.
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"Something must be wrong," he muttered," Where are all the
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people?!?" He rabidity searched the island. A quaint
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little hut rested on top of a small mountain. Cooking
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implements and a refrigeration unit were the only
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\ furnishings. Chung sat down in the hut. He picked up a
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\ handful of sand. The sand shifted through his fingers,
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\ leaving a single stone in his hand, "Alone."
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\
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\
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\ /\
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\ / \ /\
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\ / \ / \ /\
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\ / \ / \ / \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\_________ .
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\ / \ / \/
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\ / \/
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\ /
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\/
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"WOW! - Only on the NET kids, yes siree. Only in CyberSpace can you
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find such quality entertainment" - Joe Alphaperson
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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Father looked at Janie, all snug in her bed. Thoughts crept into his
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mind. He was full of those thoughts on the inside. Those dark thoughts.
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Those thoughts that made him feel guilty sometimes. He knows there is
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only one way to kill guilt. Janie laughed on the inside.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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|--------| |--------|
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| | | | .:
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|--------| |-------| |--------| .:::::::::::::;:::
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| | | ':::::::::::::::::
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| | --| | ':
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| |-------| |
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"This much is true"- Spandeau Ballet
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So you think your E-Mail is private! Well, maybe it is. But
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what about the person your sending it to. What about the numerous
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possible between the two of you? That's why many user across the
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globe have been enjoying the security of PGP. Unfortunatly the
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Anal Retentive American Government to disapointed at their failure
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to control their own countries REAL problems has lashed out at
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Phil's Pretty Good Software. That's right! If you haven't heard yet
|
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PGP v2.3 has been labeled as 'high-level encryption'. This means
|
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you can not export it out of the country. Yulp- You probably guessed
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it! The U.S. gov'ment is accusing Phil of intention to export 'cause
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he put it on the net.
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If you feel you need to express your views on this act send
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some txt to the white-house or to Phil 'imself. (Addresses below).
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[(For CyberSpace to be Real, Real People must X-Press their Real
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Opinions in that CyberSpace)Paraphrase May'93 Lord Sterling]
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The Pres --------------->PRESIDENT@WHITE-HOUSE.GOV
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Phiilip Zimmerman ------>PRZ@ACM.ORG
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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Father left the room and took off his glasses. They had succesfully
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thwarted Janie's attempt to read his mind. That's what his insides say.
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He knew that because he could still feel her happiness. She wouldn't be
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so happy if she had known what he was thinking. He began to laugh on
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the inside, as his meandering hands began to embrace him.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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:. ----| |--- | / |----| | . | |---
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:::::::::::. | |__ |/ ___ |____| |__ | |__
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:::::::::::' | | |\ | | | | | |
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:' | |--- | \ | | | | | |---
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ESD PRODUCT SERVICE SUPPORT
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SUBJECT:NEW RETAIN TIP
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Record number: H031944
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Device: D/T8550
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Model: M
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Hit count: UHC00000
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Success count: USC00000
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Publication code: PC50
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Tip key: 025
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Date created: O89/02/14
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Date last altered: A89/02/15
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Owning B.U.: USA
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Abstract: MOUSE BALLS NOW AVAILABLE AS FRU (Field Replacable Unit)
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TEXT:
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MOUSE BALLS ARE NOW AVAILABLE AS A FRU.
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IF A MOUSE FAILS TO OPERATE, OR SHOULD PERFORM ERRATICALLY, IT MAY
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BE IN NEED OF BALL REPLACEMENT. BECAUSE OF THE DELICATE NATURE OF
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THIS PROCEDURE, REPLACEMENT OF MOUSE BALLS SHOULD BE ATTEMPTED BY
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TRAINED PERSONNEL ONLY.
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BEFORE ORDERING, DETERMINE TYPE OF MOUSE BALLS REQUIRED BY EXAMINING
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THE UNDERSIDE OF EACH MOUSE. DOMESTIC BALLS WILL BE LARGER AND HARDER
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THAN FOREIGN BALLS. BALL REMOVAL PROCEDURES DIFFER, DEPENDING UPON
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MANUFACTURER OF THE MOUSE. FOREIGN BALLS CAN BE REPLACED USING THE
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POP-OFF METHOD, AND DOMESTIC BALLS REPLACED USING THE TWIST-OFF METHOD
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..
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MOUSE BALLS ARE NOT USUALLY STATIC SENSITIVE, HOWEVER, EXCESSIVE
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HANDLING CAN RESULT IN SUDDEN DISCHARGE.
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UPON COMPLETION OF BALL REPLACEMENT, THE MOUSE MAY BE USED IMMEDIATELY
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..
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IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT EACH SERVICER HAVE A PAIR OF BALLS FOR
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MAINTAINING OPTIMUM CUSTOMER SATISFACTION, AND THAT ANY CUSTOMER
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MISSING HIS BALLS SHOULD SUSPECT LOCAL PERSONNEL OF REMOVING
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THESE NECESSARY FUNCTIONAL ITEMS.
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P/N 33F8462 -- DOMESTIC MOUSE BALLS
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P/N 33F8461 -- FOREIGN MOUSE BALLS
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USERID (RSSTEWART) NODEID (BCRVM1)
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INT.ZIP 1225, DEPT 2AW, TL 443-4597 (407-443-4597)
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ESD PRODUCT SERVICE SUPPORT, BOCA RATON, FL.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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Father didn't mind the wet pants. Father didn't mind. He just stood in
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the hallway. Thinking on the inside. Janie could see his insides, she
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had been able to see there for about three months. Janie understood
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what he had been doing to her. Making her forget the pain. Forget her
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insides. He did it because of "love" he says. Janie knows this is no
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love. Janie clings tightly to her security. Janie presses hard on the
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H-Icon that floats in her mind. The Aura-Gaurd Soft v13.2b ware that
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she linked to was active. Father didn't mind. He just stood in the
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hallway. Janie laughed on the inside, she knew that 'they' had all
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on tape somewhere, they would have prrof that her act was in 'defense'.
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She had moved the T.V. into her room.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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FROM: (UNIMPORTANT)
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DATE: (UNIMPORTANT)
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In an effort to gain access to the homes of millions of Americans,
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the FBI, CIA, and NSA have collaborated on a scheme which will
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finally bring to fruition George Orwell's nightmare scenario.
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American citizens will be the unwitting accomplices in this plan
|
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as they purchase new televisions and bring them into their
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livingrooms and *bedrooms*. I'm speaking of the CC decoders that
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have secretly been mandated by law. These decoders supposedly
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provide captions to TV shows for the hearing impaired, but in
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fact they are also rebroadcasters which will allow the gov.
|
|
to spy on anyone they want.
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The television already comes with everything necessary to be
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a spying apparatus. Speakers are essentially no different than
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microphones and therefore can be used to pick up sounds in the
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room. The infrared eye which detects the remote control
|
|
signal also receives an infrared picture of the room, especially
|
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detecting heat sources like people. Thus, all that is needed is
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a way of gathering this information and relaying it to the government.
|
|
The little understood "Decoder" is the solution.
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The congress has recently passed a Law (in virtual secrecy)
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that requires all new TV's to have the "Decoder." This is
|
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claimed to be for the benefit of deaf people but that is
|
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obviously a smoke screen.
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How we know the congressional law mandating the "Decoder" is not
|
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for the deaf:
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1) Legitimate CC decoders are already available for TV's.
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2) The law doesn't cover other things, like telephones,
|
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which are obviously in the same situation w.r.t. the deaf.
|
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3) There is no law requiring that shows even be broadcast with
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closed captions, only that the TV have the "Decoder".
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Clearly we see that there is no real justification for mandating
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decoders other than for gathering intelligence.
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How to deal with the decoder: simply removing the decoder will not
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be an option because it will undoubtedly be integrated in such a way
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that the television will not function without it. Also, if you open
|
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the TV to get at it, you will void the warranty and then when you
|
|
get it fixed, they will just replace the "Decoder" without telling.
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The best way to avoid the "Decoder" is to avoid it by not buying any
|
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new TV's. This will be made difficult by the predictable introduc-
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tion of High Definition Television soon after the "Decoders" are
|
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on line. In this way you will be forced to buy a new TV because the
|
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old one will not get HDTV. When HDTV is made a standard by the govern-
|
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ment, the old style signal will not be allowed to be broadcast on the
|
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grounds that it interferes with the HDTV. This is all to force people
|
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to buy new TV's with the "Decoder".
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When you find yourself with a TV equipped with the "Decoder" there
|
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are several things you can do to protect yourself. First, don't
|
|
put the TV in your bedroom, this is where the government is most
|
|
interested in spying. When not watching, push the antennas all the
|
|
way in or disconnected the cable. Unplugging the TV will not help
|
|
because the "Decoder" will use passive broadcasting to continue
|
|
sending its signal. Also turn the volume down when not watching.
|
|
When you watch the TV, place a candle or other heat source to confuse
|
|
the infrared EYE. Don't say anything secret or get undressed near
|
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the TV. Don't be seen smoking near the TV.
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I hope this post is not censored before reaching you because this
|
|
is very important to us all. Warn you families. I don't know
|
|
how much longer I will be allowed to keep my account after this.
|
|
Please do not keep copies of this article in your files unless you
|
|
delete the header.
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End of File, Press RETURN to quit
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
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Father takes his hand out of his pants. He hasn't had enough. Janie
|
|
knows. She turns the TV up full blast by the remote. The audio
|
|
damping warez that she slipped Father simultaneously activate. The
|
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brightness on the TV is all the way down. The room is dark, inside.
|
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Father wants, inside. Janie fears inside. "They have to have their
|
|
damn evidence" says she, inside. Janie clings tigtly to her security.
|
|
Father slips the cable into her port. His warez activate, she masks
|
|
them. He comes inside, covers off. The TeeVee. is on. The TeeVee sees
|
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all. The pain. The disease. The sickness. The blood. She'd been waiting
|
|
for this for a long time.
|
|
Janie sits up in bed. Father was nothing on the inside. Father was a
|
|
mess. As she stands to approach the TeeVee. Father slips out of her,
|
|
inside. Janie grabs a vial and rubs it's cold edge against her pain.
|
|
She caps it and places it on the bed. She calls security. She sits
|
|
and waits. "It feels good to have it out", says she.
|
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
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[-Inside- SINergy '93]
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Special Thanks To:
|
|
|
|
The Winthropians --> Cote 4 the sub --> Black Sun --> The FBI
|
|
(for following up) <-- PWEI 4 Good Musak <-- Kyle 4 being there
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|
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A big howdy do joy joy hand shake too all abduction van
|
|
users, abuser, drivers, and riders. Hope to see you all on
|
|
YFN soon.
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|
|
"Hey man I can't get my stuff published ANYWHERE! What Am I gonna
|
|
do?"
|
|
-- "Give it to TCP, they'll publish ANYTHING!"
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|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
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|
|
TCP is a publication of "bull shit."
|
|
All rights reserved unless otherwise noted.
|
|
You are being noted otherwise, please don't confuse the two.
|
|
|
|
All syringes found inside this E-Zine should be considerd either a legitimate
|
|
conspiracy to introduce a deadly disease to all the world, or as we like to
|
|
think of them.. collectors edition bonus prizes!
|
|
|
|
Any names places or events are to be considered names places or events.
|
|
Any assumption otherwise was not intended or was intended.
|
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|
|
Thank you for buying our bull shit.
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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__________________________
|
|
/If you think love comes in\
|
|
|only one flavor that you \
|
|
|haven't been to Baskin-Robbins| ::
|
|
\_____________________________| __.::.__
|
|
|\___ / :: \___/|
|
|
\___| (O)__(O) |___/
|
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| /00\ |
|
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\__ |--| __/
|
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___/ \__/ \____
|
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\
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/B| \
|
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\ |S/
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BullShit productions. 1993
|