textfiles/bbs/MINDVOX/DOCUMENTS/shell
2021-04-15 13:31:59 -05:00

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the Super Nintendo Cereal System is proud to Present:
/\(=:=)/\
<(( MindVox ))>
\/(=:=)\/
"Uhm . . . like, well, it fell out of my mind one day ok?"
in conjunction with Barbie Merchandising
Documentation by: the Power Computer Toolkit
--------------------------------------------
You are [HERE]
Walking along the banks of a majestic riverbank, you come upon an old man
sitting atop a rock wearing headphones and smoking a bong. He looks down at
you and says, "Hey, do YOU know where Broadway Hacker is right now...?"
Unsure, you take a step back and fall down an endlessly spiraling hole in
the earth, where walls of TV's drag their imagery across the retina of your
mind's eye.
Landing with a splat in a pool of lime jello Traci Lords walks towards you
and presents a laminated menu with stains of unknown origin marring its
cracking acrylic surface. Chewing gum and looking down at you she
proclaims;
"Well like, ok, there's like a lot of. . . uhmmm STUFF around like
you know?" Looking at the ceiling and searching for the perfect words she
continues, "well just read it ok, I have things to do and a life to lead and
ummm acting classes to go to ok" Reaching out and extending her hand you
notice impossibly long red fingernails moving towards your face as the sheet
is dropped in your hands.
Reading, it proclaims
-=/[:::::::repeNt:HarleqUin:said:the:tick:tocK;maN:::::::::]/=-
Welcome to MindRocks, as a uber-privledged SHELL user you
have access to a startlingly large array of totally incompatible
programs all of which do pretty much the same thing 50 different ways.
If you don't understand something, don't hesitate to go to your nearest
bookstore and buy lots of books about Eunuchs.
For rendering those fleeting thoughts and hammering life into their
stillborn shapes and transforming them into legible ASCII we have:
Emacs - God's own editor. Every 8 meg execution comes with Richard
Stallman's aura, and gives you 23 karmic points to be used
at your discretion.
For lesser mortals, we also offer:
vi, pico, ae, joe, jove, and elvis, who lives under the inodes and runs an
underground ice cream stand accessible only through UDP.
-=/[:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]/=-
Traci moans and dissolves in a shower of something white and sticky, as for
a brief moment the figure exists without time nor space, an as-yet unformed
collection of patterns upon patterns in the endless stream of possibility.
The laws of physics recoil and then take another hit and stop worrying about
it.
As the resonance of his old existence is snuffed out, the pattern he is
to become coalesces, takes shape, and a door in the wall opens behind him as
he pours himself through the mail slot.
A freezing wind whips the voluminous folds of his black cloak around
his tall gaunt frame as a black hole opens above his head and blocks of
black ice begin raining down. Taking long, calm, manly strides the figure
walks towards the bar, his heavy black leather boots echoing in the vast,
crowded space, as acid rain pelts down upon his hooded visage and cliches
bounce harmlessly from his headspace, deflected with a deft flicker of
oblivious brilliance so natural it would make an idiot-savant jealous.
Motioning for the bartender the figure speaks, the voice deep, melodic,
rich, creamy yet lacking nougat, here and over there, high yet low, speaking
volumes in a Reader's Digest condensed version it says, "lighter fluid,
straight up" as he lights a black bong with a black match, bringing the
hookah to his black lips and taking a long, slow toke of black smoke, into
his black lungs, as his black thoughts begin to be tinged with pink and gold
and his awareness slides back through the corridors of time to the tentative
first steps that began this long journey.
The stark terror and emptiness of his existence etched out upon the
perpetually changing and morphing canvass of the glowing box, the slow
dawning, the realizations that THEY were following him, sifting through his
inner being, his garbage, his notebooks, attaching DNR's to his shoelaces as
they prepared to monitor his line quality; even as THEY canceled all his
favorite programs leaving a bleak nothingness where the vivid, warm colors
of He-Man and Three's Company used to cast their bright light across the
shadows of his soul.
Sighing, his fingers lightly caressing the BANCS terminal sunk into the
counter's battered surface, idly toying with the keys and processing change
of service orders from the BIG BLACK SHITLIST OF PEOPLE in his head.
Glancing up and noticing the bartender looking at him and wincing; the
figure straightens up, draws a loaded knife and motions at the barkeep while
speaking with a threatening, yet cool, tone of subdued but obvious, icy
menace, "Doan fuck with me mahn," he begins, each word carefully chosen,
falling from his lips with an off-hand clumsy grace "I've seen what William
Gibson used to submit to New Worlds in the 70's, so just don't EVEN think
about it motherfucker or I'll read you some of my poetry or talk about the
true meaning of theatre." Shadows on either side of the figure waver for a
moment and then pull away, fleeing to the darkness in terror, as the
bartender moves swiftly back, crossing to the other side of the bar, visibly
shaken, a sheen of cold sweat, crunchy peanut butter and cherry gummy bears,
coating his face.
Turning to face you the figure looks into your eyes and speaks:
"I have 0 day old wareZ, Do u want to trade? 212 only (baud not area code)"
[%][> Phantom Access / 7.62X / (c)reated by: Arnold Hesnod III <][%]
G C
:hesnod LOD MOD
D D
You are in $hell d00d
If you don't know how to kill this msg, mahn are you in the wrong place...