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