198 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
198 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
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Underground eXperts United
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Presents...
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[ Marauder ] [ By The GNN ]
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____________________________________________________________________
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____________________________________________________________________
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MARAUDER
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by THE GNN/DualCrew-Shining/uXu
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In a way, this is a true story.
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Alone in his cramped little apartment, Mr. Crax worked on his first (and, as
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it would turn out later, last) book. According to himself, it was a
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magnificent piece of story telling, a complete hermeneutic reading of the
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only truth, obviously a Nobel-prize winning artwork on the subject of
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revolutionary warfare'. Or for short, as Mr. Crax himself would prefer to put
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it: 'the best book ever written'.
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Sweat poured down from the forehead of Mr. Crax, his fingers typed faster
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and faster, the white pages were filled with letters. Soon, he thought to
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himself, soon the book will be ready. It will hit the streets like a bomb.
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Everyone will read this book. Everyone will understand the truth! Smoke began
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to rise from the typewriter. Then flames. Mr. Crax did not care; he had just
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a few words left to nail down.
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The typewriter exploded. Pieces of metal and plastic were spread across
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the room. But Mr. Crax did not mind. He was on his knees, kissing the last
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page of the book. He cried in joy, licked the paper, before he carefully
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placed it under the stack of papers that were his wonderful and completed
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book.
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Then he made love to the stack. This could be regarded as quite a weird
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behavior, but after considering the fact that Mr. Crax was insane, the
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pumping and the grunting could perhaps be excused. After Mr. Crax had zipped
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his fly, he decided it was time to proofread the book.
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Mutilating Officers of The Law, Molesting Innocent Little Children
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and Killing Oppressed Black Women, In Theory and Practice.
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by Lord Henry Crax
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Mr. Crax admired the title for several hours. Then he decided that he did
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not need read the rest of the book. In fact, he had already wasted too much
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time. It was time to do what any writer, and especially such a good writer as
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him, sooner or later must do: sell the book; tell the world the truth; give
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the masses their well-deserved bread, food for thought. Society would never
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be the same after the release of this book was the plan.
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With the stack of papers under his right arm and a little pistol in his
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back pocket, Mr. Crax quickly made his way through the crowded streets. His
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goal was the nearest publisher. And he found one just a few blocks away,
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namely House of Drain.
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John Lester Drain studied the stack of papers very closely. He held it far
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away from his face, as if it had been a load of excrements. Mr. Crax stood in
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front of the huge mahogany desk, holding his hat close to his heart, trying
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to find a sign of appreciation in the face of Mr. Drain. But the skilled
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publisher's face was as stiff as a stone.
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"Well," began Mr. Drain, "This is surely... special."
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"Special? As in... 'good'?"
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"No."
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"Wonderful?"
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"Certainly not."
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"Innovative?"
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"Well..."
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"Oh, you really think so?" said Mr. Crax. "That's great. You see, I've got
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a lot of new ideas, after this book I'll write a new one that'll be much much
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better and..."
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Mr. Drain removed his reading glasses.
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"Shut up, Crax," he said. "The concept 'special' means, in this context,
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something else. It could be translated into 'the worst piece of garbage I've
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ever had the misfortune to read'. Do I make myself clear?"
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A painful silence engulfed the room. Mr. Drain looked at Mr. Crax with a
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couple of eyes that revealed nothing but indifference.
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"I see," began Mr. Crax, "I see, well, uh... could you tell me exactly
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which part of the book you didn't fancy?"
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Mr. Drain's face suddenly erupted. It opened up, turned red and began to
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yell: "Which part? Which part?! Are you trying to be funny? Every page, every
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single letter, is worthless! Let me give you a brief example of your own
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writing! (Misspelling and grammatical errors excluded, we don't want to make
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this fiasco any worse, do we, Mr. Crax?)"
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Mr. Drain put his glasses on the nose, cleared his throat, pulled out a
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random page from the stack and began to read:
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"This is a question about GOOD and evil, RIGHT or wrong. For the
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sake of humanity, we need to join forces and KILL ALL COPS! Yes,
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indeed. We need to open up their bodies to that extent that their
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INNER ORGANS leave their respective places. ALL cops are guilty of
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crimes far worse than Hitler/Mussolini/Stalin could ever produce. Cops
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are state paid gangsters, licensed to maim people on public streets.
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BUT THIS IS NOT 'NUF! All around us, we also find little children,
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screaming and demanding PROFIT. Toys, toys, toys! All day long!
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HORRIBLE, MAN! They do constitute the biggest threat to mankind. They
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cannot even speak our language. They must be removed, with knives and
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guns. When children DIE, it is like TURNING OFF A RADIO. Whine,
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whine, whine, BOOM, end of story. Cutting up a child is like making
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a salad: completely free of any inherent or intrinsic values. And while
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we are still at it, let us make the world AN EVEN BETTER PLACE, by
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killing all those damn oppressed black women that rage through the
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streets at night like MAD DOGS, searching for white innocent males to
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kill for pleasure. All must die, since the rest of us must be given
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our deserved Lebensraum. This is the HOLY TRUTH of today, presented
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without mercy, endorsed by GOD!"
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"Need I read any further, or do you get the picture?"
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"Needless to say, I get the picture! I wrote the goddamn book!"
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Before Mr. Crax really had figured out what had happened, he found himself
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lying on the street outside House of Drain. The stack of papers that were his
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book came flying a couple of seconds later, and almost struck him unconscious
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as it crashed onto his head.
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"... in theory," mumbled Mr. Crax, "And now it's time to show the world
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how it's to be done in practice..."
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He got to his feet, feeling a little dizzy after the flight.
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"In practice, yes, oh yes," he mumbled while trying to find the gun he had
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packed, "Everyone will understand, even, yes, even that shit-box lowlife
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son-of-a-bitch John Lester Drain! Ha! Watch me dance. The revolution will not
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be televised, so stand up and fight like a man!"
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He eventually found the pistol in his back pocket. As he staggered further
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down the street, he cocked the gun and looked for a good target. Naturally, a
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good target had to be either a police man, a little innocent child, or some
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black oppressed woman. It was, however, rather hard to find anyone; his
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vision of the world was quite blurred, due to the rendezvous between the book
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and his head.
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After a while of searching, he finally found what he had looked for: two
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officers of the law. He aimed carefully and fired. Unfortunately, it was just
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one cop. The other one (which he had aimed for) was just a simple
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split-vision mirage, constructed by his own dizzy head. Before he had really
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got a grip of his failure, Mr. Crax had already been gunned down by the real
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cop.
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A few months later, Mr. Crax went to trial. The judge, a bit drunk but
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happy, informed him that his little deed was nothing to worry about.
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"I find no reason to sentence Henry Crax to more than five years in jail.
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After all, he was a bit confused during the shooting. It could happen to
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anyone. We all need to blow our steam, now and then."
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The crowd in the courtroom applauded.
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"Thankyou, Mr. Judge," said Mr. Crax. "I will spend those five years
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behind bars as a hardworking man..."
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"How nice..." said the judge and smiled with dreamy (glossy) eyes.
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"... dedicated to the construction of my new book."
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Everything turned silent. Very silent.
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"On your what?" the judge asked, his face was dead serious.
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Mr. Crax brought up the familiar stack of papers and held it up so
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everyone could see it. "Part two of this masterpiece!"
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The judge jumped over the desk and rushed down to Mr. Crax. He snatched
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the stack and began to flip through the pages. His eyes widened as he read
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the book of Mr. Crax.
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"My God..." the judge whispered to himself.
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Mr. Crax did, in his usual manner, manage to misunderstand the whole
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situation: "Yes. Divine, isn't it?"
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The judge did not answer. He kept on reading, and after a couple of
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minutes, he put down the stack and slowly returned to the desk.
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"Mr. Crax," he began after sitting down in his chair, "I now understand
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that you are a menace to society. Trying to kill officers of the law is one
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thing. Molesting little brats is one thing. Slaughtering black oppressed
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bitches is one thing. All that can be excused and forgiven, with the help of
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our fair legal system. But! Writing a book that includes all those ideas!
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Now, that's insane! I will not sentence you to five years. I will give you
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fifty! And your goddamn book will be burned!"
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"Burned? But it's not even published yet."
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"No, but it could have been. We, the state, are not merely punishers, we
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are into crime prevention too! Remember that, Mr. Crax, when you sit and rot
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in jail!"
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And that was it. Well, here the story about Lord Henry Crax ends, the
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marauder of writing. The rest is history. Even worse: contemporary history.
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//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
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Danish mercenary seeks work. HI RISK, HI PAID jobs only.
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Please call the ALLASOMJOBBARPAAFTONBLADETARHOROR-BBS!
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We're all gonna be just dirt in the ground.
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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uXu #377 Underground eXperts United 1997 uXu #377
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Call UNEARTHLY SHADOWS -> +1-303-683-1443
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