textfiles/magazines/VAS/vas0059.txt

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º                Vaginal and Anal Secretions Newsletter #0059                 º
ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ
º          Date Released : [07/14/92]       Author: FLaMinG SeVeReD HeaD      º
ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ
º                  Spontaneous Combustion And The Aryan Parade.               º
ÓÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĽ

(ED- This is actually a file intended for CdC Issue #200 - But we got
 permission to print it here first so here it is...)

        As Thryxen's primer painted 1967 Camaro splashed its
testosteronic shock down State Road 101, I cranked myself forward from
the front passenger seat and shook my head free of the Demerol induced
spin it had been caught in. One of my numbed, blurred fingers reached
for the Alpine and pushed the awaiting cassette into action. After a
"click", and a few silent ingestive seconds, Primus unfolded itself from
the speakers and began its torturous spree of unorthodox Funkiness. The
slapping twang of Les Claypool's Six Stringed Carl Thompson took ill
effect immediately; I plunged back into semi-catatonia and Thryxen began
mumbling insensibly as the lid on reality loosened and toppled. I
cautiously watched the leather-wrapped steering wheel try to shake
itselffree of Thryxen's grip as the Camaro quickly thundered over the
aspault that cracked and seemed to shatter under its thick black tires.
One hour ago we had strapped ourselves into a chemical dead-loc and set
off along the thick careful edge of Rural America on a voyage to the
house of Big Teddy, a snakebreeder who was Thryxen's cousin (or
something) and who had promised us two dozen live white mice. Once
ours,we would torture them with needles and electricity.


        We had journeyed a good part of the way, when my mind, in
pursuit of a reflectful lapse to shorten the boredom, wandered my eyes
into the legwell and rested them upon the black travel bag that had
traditionally held our narcotics. I reached between my Miltary Issue
Stomper Boots and retrieved it. Thyrxen, now sweating above his lip and
brow, still mumbled incoherently as he watched me unzip the vinyl flap.


        Inside was the usual host of ingestable illegalities, as well as
a toothpaste tube, some cheap "Western" cologne, two speed loaders, and
.38 caliber SnubNose with a pink anarchy symbol on its grip. I
immediately prescribed Thryxen two loose Flexeril tablets to help him
get resettled, while I ingested two 40mg Ritalin tablets and then
retired my head upon the window to await the enevitable swing of energy.


        Outside my window lurked a piney hunk of America smearing past
my eyes like a parade in slow motion. Other vehicles accelerated and
decelerated sporadically into my view, and I observed that most of these
were occupied by healthy-looking families seemingly on their way to the
many glorious Tourist traps that speckled the locality. Presently, a
Dodge MiniVan was slowly slipping past us, the backseats dense with
active children; the frontseats occupied by a stern looking Father and
mother. I imagined myself being sucked under their front wheels,
screaming as the bones in my body crunched under the fresh bright tires.
The father, ever-silent, offered only the slightest of grins as I was
snapped, broken, and wedged into his wheelwells. Nothing would delay his
pilgrimage.


        Given to this vision, my mind suddenly flooded itself with other
grim images. No longer in control of my mind, I had become only a
witness, chained to the background as my brain cascaded into the
powerful currents of Sociopathia. A choir of sledgehammers split open a
row of human heads like so many Chrsitmas presents. Flesh was peeled
from a forearm by a powerful cornhusking machine. White hot piano wire
skewered a pair of testicles as a welder's torch set a pyramid of
eyesockets to boiling. A string of eyeballs trailed from the anus of a
tremendous horse, human from his neck up, wielding a great silver sabre
in his gloved human fist. I watched all this spill uncontrolably over
the lids of my now closed eyes, mesmerized, pinned down, and enslaved by
the beautifully gruesome content, like an artist and his canvas. The
beauty of illusion had captured me. These hallucination spells were not
the by-products of substance abuse, nor were they a new occurance. I had
been experiencing them for awhile, and over the course of time, I had
learned to intergrate them into reality, allowing me to at least
function semi-normally during their episodes. Presently, the visions
were already subsiding and I felt the whirling inertia of reality come
trickling back into my senses, lagging down upon my fantastics.


        I had been pulled from the spell's potentcy by a sudden jerk of
the Earth and a piercing Banshee Shriek. I suddenly found myself in a
Camaro skidding towards a column of white robed and hooded Monks which
were marching across road. Instantly the sour stench of burning rubber
slashed through my nostrils as a great cloud of black smoke roared up
from behind and consumed our vehicle. Thryxen, wild with panic, had sent
the car into a dangerous skid. The Monks went into a state of dismay and
began zigzagging across the pavement to dodge our car as it lunged into
their grouping. Thryxen "X"ed his arms across his face and let out a
roar, completely surrendering control of the vehicle to the roll of
FaTe, as a Hooded Holy Man shot up the hood of our car and smashed into
the windshield. The banner he had been holding had curled around his
torso, and i managed to catch a glimpse of the red lettering across it
as he slid from the off the hood and painfully back on to the pavement.
It had read:"Aryan United".


The car rolled lazily to a stop.


        There were dozens of figures darting towards and around the car;
I tried to stop the surge of fear and bedazzlement by absorbing the
situation, but the drugs in me overpowered any hope of calmness. The
hooded faces and the bald heads that were gathering around the Camaro
granted me only one sickening realization; These were not HoLy Men, but
instead a collection of racist riffraff, and we had just smeared one of
their ranks all over the front grill of our drug-driven trash train.
Thryxen opened his door and quickly submerged into the ever-growing mass
of skinheads that were collecting around his car. I reached a nervous
hand into the vinyl bag and gripped the pistol, as the violence of
voices swooped upon me from the outside. Immediately they swooned upon
Thryxen who had begun taking quick, powerful swings at the crowd, and
had connected with quite a few before his 6'4" frame was heaved against
the hood by at least four of his opponents. As I was pulled through the
fractured windshield, i caught a glimpse of our victim who, though
bloodied somewhat, was still alive and writhing on the aspault. No one
was dead, at least at present time. And To that, I let out a silent sigh
of relief as I cracked the butt of the revlover into the face of the
snarling Skinner who had been dragging me out of the car. I prayed for
Zero Causulties.


        The Skin Reeled back on his heels, and instantly a red splash
erupted from his forehead as I recovered from my swing. The flood of
crimson soaked my face and white T-Shirt as my adversary dropped to his
knees and tried to plug his wound with his thick, flithy fingers. I dug
a foothold into the hot wet aspault, swinging randomly at the throng of
bald heads that were quickly dispersing around me, hoping for another
lucky crack before they made clear of my reach. The presence of the
handgun helped me keep a fair amount of nuetral ground and I had a
moment to snap a glance over to Thryxen who seemed to presently be
losing his leverage. Still pinned against the Camaro, he was now
receiving a vigorous abdominal workout from the fists of perhaps the
largest of the Aryans.


        Although in reality there were no more than a dozen of them
(including the original victim), their number seemed endless and
impenetrable from my drugged and paniced perspective. I felt my will
cave in. My head, burning white hot with adrenalin, flickered once or
twice and sent me spiraling into another hallucinigenic fit. i tried to
fight off the visions, hoping to postpone them until the situation was
under control, but, as usual, they triumphed.


        One of my adversaries loomed foward, and his eye sockets began
to spit forth spinning lengths of chains that wrapped around my limbs. I
felt their wieght upon my arms as I raised and fired the revolver in a
fit of deranged self-preservation. The bullet flared as it left the
barrel. Immediately, My eyesight began strobbing, replacing the normal
fluidity of motion with slow dripping snapshots of the situation around
me. Reality had twisted itself into a grotesque falsehood to satisfy the
Viscious chemicals that coursed in my blood. The thunder of the handgun
warped and lingered while the white cloaked figures around me dashed for
safety. The bullet had made them aware of the dangerous mental corner I
was painted into, and they reacted conservatively. I swung my head
slowly through the swamp of air that surrounded me and saw a half dozen
of them dodging and diving towards the tree clusters that fringed the
roadside. The other five or six that were near Thryxen leapt back from
the combat but stood their ground, attempting to measure my willingness
to fire the handgun again. Even Thryxen stood in a peaceful patient
accordance next to them, trying to guess my next action.


        My instincts, ever-loyal to the chemicals within it, dragged my
body into action without waiting for my mind to come to a reasonable
descision. I leapt upon the hood of the Camaro, in an effort to look
aggressive enough to chase the remaining Skinheads away, but my feet
slipped in a slick streak of Aryan blood which caused me to lose my
balance. The handgun belched again as I battled gravity, and another
bullet whizzed through the cluster of men.  Thryxen and the Aryans
instinctively crouched at the sound of the revolver and at the thought
of a stray round possibly popping into their torso as I spilled over the
hood and the gun skittered from my grip.  We both wound up on the
roadside, separated.


        A headful of narcotics certainly adds a factor of subjectivity
into the equation of reality; it no doubt congests cognitive faculties
with flaws and lies that wouldn't normally be permitted. Because of
this, the events that followed my fall can only be speculated upon, and
the only shine of truth that can be derived from the matter comes from
the fact that both Thryxen and I later admitted we had witnessed the
same phenomenon. Whatever the case, it was surely strange, be it real or
imagined.

        I remember my frantic actions to reach the revolver were joined
by almost everyone present, and soon there were at least half dozen of
us, including Thryxen and several of the Skinheads, rushing across the
pavement to swoop up the handgun and tip the scales of the battle into
whomever's favor. In the split of a second, we had all converged upon
the same five foot perimeter, clogged into a mass of writhing humanity
as we wrestled and fought for possession of the weapon.  The struggle
was brief and i felt my heart sink to a new level of fear when the
largest of the Aryans emerged from the pile with the revolver clinched
in his fist. He stepped back from the mass of men and signaled his
victory with a maniacal smile while waving the weapon above his head.
All heads had turned to him and a slash of silence sliced across the
battlefield. Things had begun to look ugly for us.


Just then, as everyone regained their stances, he pointed the
weapon at me and seemed to open his mouth to say something. Nothing came
out, and suddenly his victorious smile dripped away and a curling fown
of agony replaced it. He crumpled over and groaned. Thyrxen and i backed
away slowly as his friends formed a circle around him, inquiring what
was wrong and whether he needed thier aid. We were very near to

Thryxen's Camaro when we allowed ourselves to look back.  The Aryan was
again upright, standing firmly on his feet, but with a face that seemed
in the throughs of rage. He tore off his shirt, and his chest seemed to
be bursting with unseen internal pressure. His neck shook and then
violently ruptured, spewing torn hunks of bloodied flesh upon the white
robes of the circle of men around him. A tired whistle spat from his
mouth as his chest erupted, spilling its contents with such pressure it
knocked the two Skinheads in front of him right off their feet and
covered them in a shower of gore. I blindly gripped for doorhandle,
mesmerized by the spectacle i was witnessing. He twisted in place, and
his circle of friends stepped back in surprise. As he spun around the
flesh of his arms and legs split and dripped off the bone and a
continous crackle similar to popping corn began to fill the air. His
eyes bubbled into liquid and drooled down his cheeks and his lips
shattered and dropped from his face.  He crumpled into a torn heap.


I managed to open the door and slide into my seat.


Thryxen turned the key and the Camaro roared into action. The
tires shrieked as he cranked the wheel and shot across the median,
steering the vehicle towards home. The Aryans, hypnotized into
disbelief, didn't even seem to notice our departure.  I looked over at
Thryxen, who seemed to be smuggling a smile under his apathetic face. I
took one more look at the rapidly fading Aryan Parade, and waited for
side two of Frizzle Fry to click over.

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