99 lines
6.2 KiB
Plaintext
99 lines
6.2 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Easy Rider II
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by Erik Radmall
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>>> a cDc publication.......1993 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____
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|____digital_media____digital_culture____digital_media____digital_culture____|
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Yes, I remember the day she came rolling into town on her '54 panhead.
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The staccato of the bluish exhaust pipes piercing an otherwise tranquil
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morning. Much like the brass rings piercing her exposed nipples, which poked
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defiantly through her patent leather halter. I couldn't help but notice,
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though, that she had a very strange-looking passenger on the back. It was
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large and purple, and had a long tail that hung limply on the bike's rear
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fender, like some bloated dinosaur-thing. It had a large mouth with rows of
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gleaming white teeth, and kept singing one ridiculous childhood song after
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another: "B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-O."
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She was not a momma's girl, but that made me need her all the more. I
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swore that before dawn the next morning she would be mine. But first, I had to
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get rid of that damn purple thing riding around on the back of her bike, which
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had its smallish front talons strung lazily through the rings in her perky
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nipples.
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She pulled into the Circle-K and stopped in front of the pump. I waited
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until she lowered the kick-stand and leaned the bike over on it. She swung her
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bare, sinuous leg over the gas tank as she dismounted. Her passenger, though,
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sat there singing those idiotic songs: "Old McDonald had a farm, e-i-e-i-oh,
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and on...." She started walking toward the store. I approached the bike,
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walking casually, being careful not to betray my intentions. "And on this
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farm he had a dog, e-i-e-i-o. With a...," it sang. I watched her as she
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walked into the store, her delicious buttocks facing me in her cutoff jeans
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without any back pockets. I came still closer to the hideous source of that
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noise. When I was within five feet of it I drew my long, serrated hunting
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knife from its sheath, careful to hide it behind my back. I approached it
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deliberately from behind. "And on this farm he had a duck, e-i-e-i-o. With a
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quack-quack here...." I reached out quickly and slashed the blade along its
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exposed jugular (or where the jugular might have been). At that moment, a
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torrent of thick, warm blood squirted out, covering the fuel pump with its
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sticky ooze. I reached around its chest and heaved the blade deep into its
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soft, exposed abdomen, yanking firmly upward in a single clean jerk. It
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gurgled, still singing its song: "Agndng oggn thgis fgarm hge hgagd...." I
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felt its warm intestines slide out of the gaping cavity in its stomach.
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Sliding on to the seat in front, its little talons waving furiously and
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aimlessly in the air in front of it.
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Next, I pulled out my .454 6-shot magnum revolver and pointed it directly
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at its left knee. I pulled the trigger, sending an explosion of cartilage,
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bone, and flesh all over the side of the bike. Still, it continued its pained
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singing. I pointed it at the thing's flabby buttocks, cocked the hammer, and
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fired. The hollowpoint caused the fatty tissue to spray out in a thick, misty
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cloud: "Gl aglnd ogln thglis flgarm hglee hgglaggld aggl plglig, eegle-i
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e-iglggl oggl...." I reholstered the gun and pulled a bush machete from my
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knapsack. I swung it over my head and down. Down on its right shoulder,
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severing its little arm in one clean motion. The smallish arm fell with a
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satisfying <*plonk*> onto the cement. I wound up again, and with a swift,
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sideways swing, sinking the edge of the machete into the weak neck, cutting
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through flesh and bone, lopped off that grinning head, and finally, completely,
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utterly, and permanently silenced the singing. Its limp body slowly crumpled
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and slid off the bike and onto the cement.
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The late afternoon sun reflected off the glass door as it swung open. She
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was carrying a six-pack of beer and lighting a cigarette as she walked to me.
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She glanced down at the heap of purple flesh at the side of her bike, nodding
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in approval at the carnage. "I was just admiring your work, big boy," she
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said. I nodded knowingly in return as I wiped the blood off my machete with a
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washrag. It was going to be a good night, after all.
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_______ __________________________________________________________________
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/ _ _ \|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.....806/794-1842|
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((___)) |Cool Beans!..........510/THE-COOL|Polka AE {PW:KILL}..806/794-4362|
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[ x x ] |Metalland Southwest..713/468-5802|Moody Loners w/Guns.415/221-8608|
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\ / |The Works............617/861-8976|The Body Electric...916/673-8412|
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(' ') |ftp - zero.cypher.com in pub/cdc |ftp - ftp.eff.org in pub/cud/cdc|
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(U) |==================================================================|
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.ooM |1993 cDc communications by Erik Radmall 07/01/93-#236|
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\_______/|Seven SUPER-CALI-FRAGIL-ISTIC-EXPI-ALI-DOCIOUS years of cDc. K! |
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