91 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
91 lines
5.6 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... Shotgun
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by Swamp Ratte'
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>>> a cDc publication.......1994 <<<
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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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I'm sitting on my folks' couch in the living room. It's 8:00am but I've
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been up all night. Feverish, from the mono. The couch is covered in dog hair.
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It smells like dog, but I smell worse.
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I sit hunched in a ball, scratching my bare knee, my plaid flannel boxers
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riding up my butt. "Nothing. Nuttin'," I mutter. I mutter a lot. It
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doesn't matter what I'm saying. "No, see, there's like noooothing. None.
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None of that, no. Nope. Nuh-uh." I speak slowly, mouthing the words to no
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one in my transplanted O-hi-o/Texas trans-axis lazy drawl.
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I suddenly leap to my feet, waver a bit unsteadily as the blood rushes to
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and fro, spots getting their chance to show themselves in my head. Then
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they're chased off again as balances are made. "Gotta find it, check it out."
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I make my way to the "utility room" full of mingled cat-box stink and weird,
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exotic laundry chemicals beyond my Tide-level understanding of clothes washing.
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I am humbled.
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It's a simple old shotgun with a break-barrel. Single shot. Musta been
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made in the '50s at least, maybe earlier. It's old, but it works... I know
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that much. That's good enough. Look behind the dryer, the washer. Nope.
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I giggle to myself. Out on the driveway. Just hose it down, no problem.
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Funny, it used to be leaning against the wall behind the dryer, I swear. I'm
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getting frantic. I'm the biggest hypocrite in the world, talking about stupid
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this and stupid that, blah blah blah. I've gotta fix things, set things right.
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The box of shells was up here in the little cabinet above the washer. Gotta
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clean things up. It's a little green box with at least half-a-dozen shells in
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it. It was right here in the corner, by the Woolite. Gotta bring some justice
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to the world, Darwinism is a cool thing. I like it. I got no problems with
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that. Where're those damn shells? Sacrifices must be made for the greater
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good. It's not by my battered metal Peanuts lunchbox (2nd grade vintage, I
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think) or the old ice trays either. I AM DISCIPLINED, I AM IN CONTROL, AND I
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AM RESPONSIBLE. Maybe that lunchbox is worth something to a collector? Huh.
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There are those lame "pencil holders" I made for my parents for Christmas one
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year: orange juice concentrate cans covered with red construction paper.
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Buncha shit. Fuckin' pile of fuckin' WORTHLESS SHIT. I'm spitting, I'm
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foaming and I'm stomping around now, 'cause I'm the baddest motherfucker on the
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planet but I can't find the damn shotgun and I can't find the damn shells TO
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FUCKING FIX THINGS RIGHT, GODDAMNIT. AND NOTHING COULD POSSIBLY PISS ME OFF
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MORE THAN TO NOT BE ABLE TO FUCKING FIX THINGS RIGHT, GODDAMNIT.
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I storm back to the hairy couch and slump down, arms crossed. Grab the
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remote control, stab a button. _CHiPs_ is on. I sigh. My parents must have
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hidden it. Maybe I didn't blink enough as I stared at the television while
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Kurt Loder on MTV endlessly droned on about some rock star blowing his head
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off. Who cares about that? What's that got to do with anything, with me?
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Nothing at all. But that's not the point. Some people make a big deal out of
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everything.
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"They said on the news he was a heroin addict," Mom stated, disapproval
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in her voice. I don't do drugs, Mom. I'm a responsible, disciplined person.
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I just want to fix things right. Goddamnit. I clean up after myself. I clean
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up easy. Out on the driveway. With the hose.
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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!..........415/648-PUNK|Polka AE {PW:KILL}..806/794-4362|
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[ x x ] |Metalland Southwest..713/579-2276|ATDT East...........617/350-STIF|
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\ / |The Works............617/861-8976|Ripco ][............312/528-5020|
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(' ') | Save yourself! Go outside! DO SOMETHING! |
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(U) |==================================================================|
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.ooM |Copyright (c) 1994 cDc communications and Swamp Ratte'. |
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\_______/|All Rights Reserved. 11/01/1994-#287|
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