284 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
284 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
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[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #804
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "The Idiot Game"
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
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888 888 888 888 888 " by Mogel and Nybar
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 9/1/99
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
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It was 4:00 AM at The Gemini Diner, Manhattan. A night like any
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other. There was a booth in the back, with two customers... both with
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unassuming demeanors and unassuming looks on their unassumed faces. One of
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them men was slim, but muscular, with a tan and a mustache. The other, a
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more stocky old man with a small white beard and a lazy left eye. Their
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names were James and Dean. They ate 3-day-old shrimp. They did not
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complain. Except tonight.
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"How have you been?" asked James, fiddling with his mustache.
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"Oh, you know. It's always a vacation for me," Dean responded,
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almost instinctually.
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"Is that so..." James gulped some more shrimp. "If that's true,
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how can you possibly explain always having sand on your shoes and a tan?!"
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Awkward silence.
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"Cat got your tongue, DOES IT?"
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"If I'm silent, it's because I'm opposed to the American concept
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that one must speak before thinking."
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"...but then, you've always been an idiot."
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"What?"
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"Nothing."
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The two fell silent, eating their shrimp. It was Dean who broke
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the silence this time.
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"There's an old joke," he said, munching his shrimp. "In every
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generation someone is born who is identical to someone from the preceding
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generation."
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"Oh--" replied James, unfazed. "--that isn't a very funny joke."
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"It's an old joke, jokes didn't have to be funny in the olden days.
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Just quizzical."
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At this, the table fell into silence again. Eventually all the
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shrimp was consumed, even that shrimp which was 4 days old. Someone
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ordered coffee. Someone brought coffee. Once again it was Dean who broke
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the silence.
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"You know, if there are identicals in each generation, there should
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also be opposites. Doesn't the idea have a little bit of charm--old and
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senile versus young and lucid, strong versus weak... Perhaps the opposites,
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if they meet, must destroy each other."
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"Why would they destroy each other?"
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"Because they're naturally opposed, of course..."
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"But maybe they get juiced by their differences, boy."
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"I'm not juiced by the differences between us."
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They had been in the diner for almost 6 hours now. Manhattan is not
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France. A waiter approached. As he came closer, it became apparent that
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this waiter only had one leg. The two men found this peculiar.
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"Excuse me, sir. I couldn't help but notice you two arguing. I'd
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like to offer my services."
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"Services?"
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"Yes, you see, I'm not just a waiter. In fact, I'm a very
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successful armchair psychologist. I'd like to psychoanalyze you two."
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"Uhh... Okay, just give me more shrimp," Dean said. He then coughed.
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He coughed a lot.
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"Will you expect a better tip?" James asked, rather obnoxiously.
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"No, sir. This is my hobby."
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"SHRIMP!"
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"Right away!" The waiter hobbled off to get more shrimp and the
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two men gave each other strange look. A look of uncomfortability.
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Suddenly, they realized that the acoustics of the room--it was cleverly
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designed in such a way so that every word they uttered could be overheard
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standing at any other location in the diner.
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"This place was built by a genius!"
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"God, you're an idiot."
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"It takes one to know one!!"
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"I rest my case."
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"Why are you so abusive?"
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"Could you please be slightly less stupid?"
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Before this delightful exchange could continue its path, the waiter
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returned with his gratuitous hobble. He carried with him enormous
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amounts of 5-day-old shrimp. He prepared to limp back to the kitchen when
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Dean jovially entreated him.
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"Sit, sit. For somehow two forces of nature have met, and we're in
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opposition. A moderator such as yourself would be most welcome. Ah, how
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often does conflict on such an esoteric plane occur in these modern times?"
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The waiter began to sit when James' voice, especially acerbic in
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contrast with Dean's drawl, pierced him.
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"Get back to the kitchen, cripple. There's no conflict between the
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two of us, and we especially don't need to be psychoanalyzed, moderated, or
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anything! I've known this man for going on 15 years, since he was a teen.
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We meet in this diner once every year, and nothing bad has ever come of it!"
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Meanwhile, the waiter had politely but firmly sat down. The initial
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act of sitting was a reaction to the way James spit out 'cripple', but the
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reason he kept sitting was the intensely interesting (to his trained mind)
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fact he'd just heard.
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"So you say you've been meeting here once a year for fifteen
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years..." the waiter/psychoanalyst started, drawing neutral-affirmative
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responses from both parties who, willing or not, fell into the role of the
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psychoanalyzed. "...and nothing has ever come of it. Now, that's your
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problem right there."
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"Exactly!" shouted Dean.
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"James, your hostile, reactionary nature probably relates to your
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inability to have a single satisfying sexual relationship. This is just a
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guess."
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"What the fuck?"
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"I think he's right," Dean chirped.
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"Dean," the waiter said, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder, "You
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obviously have some serious abandonment issues."
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Dean's eyes became teary.
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"Do you believe this happy horse shit?" James blurted out.
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"You're obviously just projecting..." the waiter said.
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"Yeah, too true, too true," said Dean, again.
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"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE." Highly offended, the waiter stood up,
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wrote out their bill, and hobbled away.
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"Um.. why were you so rude? That man was trying to HELP us through
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our differences."
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"Don't worry," James said, stuffing his face full of shrimp,
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"There's a thin line between Thank You and Fuck You."
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This was the last straw. Dean threw the shrimp on the floor and
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jumped onto the table... and this was the last thing he'd remember, until
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the vertigo, and the vomiting, and the hospital, and that sweet nurse
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named Marcy whom he fucked in the bathroom. James's perspective on the
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events was a tad different, though. James clearly remembers someone
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getting tossed into the piranha tank. Chances are it was Dean, since it
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was he who ended up in the hospital.
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Several mornings later, Dean awoke.
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"Wake up...." said Marcy, with the cutest of smiles.
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"Why hello there!" he perked up.
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"How're you feeling this morning?"
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"Much better, thanks."
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"How did you end up in this hospital anyway?" she asked in total
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ernest.
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"Well, it has to do with a friend of mine named James. Me and him
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have a sort of love-hate relationship, I guess you could say."
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"Ah, strong emotions."
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"Yep."
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"That usually happens when you find a part of you in that person."
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"Heh. I'm sure there is *some* duality in us... but it's hard to
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tell."
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"How come?"
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"Well, basically... he's an idiot."
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"NO! YOU'RE THE IDIOT!!!!" James screamed, bursting into the room.
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Meanwhile--in a different, but related, story--there was what
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humans would describe as a 'bar', existing in a dimension beyond
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comprehension or description. Here, two post-material, (for they come
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_after_ all that we call matter and energy), entities play a game of chess,
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though they of course don't use a board, preferring a direct mental
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exchange.
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For those interested in chess, the opening was a very advanced
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form of the Caro-Kann defence, played completely perfectly, not from memory
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but via a method even more shocking. The beings are possessed of such raw
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processor power that they can perfectly solve chess from move one each time
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they play. A straight game between two experienced players in this dimension
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will always end in a draw, which is why measures have to be taken to spice
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things up. The standard 'spice' is multi-tasking.
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Today--(what a meaningless term "today" is in the context of what
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I am speaking about, but it will suffice)--, the two players are both
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mentally manipulating entire universes and dueling with the opposed
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dichotomies. From quark to supernova, nothing was left untouched in this
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all consuming war-game.
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The game is, at the moment, drawing to a head, with white playing
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very sharply and tactically and black acquiring small positional advantages
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as he meets all the threats.
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On a dark roadway, a traffic light switches from red to green.
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"FUCK YOU!" shouts Dean.
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"Okay, I will fuck you. As a matter of fact, you're already
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fucked," replies James with an evil smirk on his face. He pulls out a
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knife, terrifyingly sharp. "You're fucked good, son." James lunges at
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Dean with the knife!
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White has just made a brilliant tactical shot, effortlessly and
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fluidly switching his forces to the queenside, where he hopes to promote a
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passed pawn. Black must strive for equality; he does have the advantage of
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2 bishops going for him, though.
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Dean barely catches James's wrist with his right hand, in time to
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avert his own death, but a small ribbon of blood still runs down his
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throat. He punches James with all his might with his left hand, causing
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them both to go tumbling from the bed. They both lay here for a split
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second, dazed. James is the first to react, he plunges the knife into the
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nearest available spot in Dean's body, his stomach. Blood gushes out like
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wine.
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White is searching for a winning line, black will need a miracle
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to pull off a draw, but for some reason the entity laughs...
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Before expiring, Dean reaches under the bed. A shiny black gun,
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trigger pulled, and then both die as hospital attendants finally rush in...
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The game is over, another draw. 'Good Game' equivalents are
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exchanged, and drinks are ordered. If you're too evenly matched for a game
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to be fun sober, try getting drunk and then playing again, I always say.
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Realities are destroyed and re-created as the entities 'drink' deeply.
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[-----]
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Epilogue:
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In the middle of an african jungle, an intelligent monkey
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approaches a set of turntables. They are scratching up a phrase all by
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themselves. The monkey sits transfixed. "Ih-ih-ih-ih, -i-i-i-i-i, ih-ih,
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cah, cah, cahahaha, called, th-th-th--" after a long, very good scratch,
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the full, original phrase finally plays. "It's called RADIOACTIVE FLESH,
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the latest and the last."
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The monkey gibbers fearfully at this, and kicks the turn tables
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over. They break, and all existence ends.
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Meanwhile, on a dark roadway, a traffic light switches from green
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to red.
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[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #804 - BY: MOGEL AND NYBAR - 9/1/99 ]
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