108 lines
5.5 KiB
Plaintext
108 lines
5.5 KiB
Plaintext
_____________________________________________________________________________
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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
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------04.07.96-----------------------------------------------------#048------
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Poetboy Versus the Grain Silo
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by Snarfblat
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It was Christmas morning. 5:00am. Poetboy hadn't slept all night - he'd
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been too excited, thinking about all the amazing toys and candy that were
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waiting under the Christmas tree. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer.
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He jumped out of bed, put on his Power Rangers slippers, and ran downstairs.
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To his surprise, there was nothing under the christmas tree. Nothing, that
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is, except a single envelope. With a tear running down each cheek, poetboy
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picked up the envelope and opened it.
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The note read:
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Dear Poetboy,
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Since you've written so many good
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poems this year, I brought you a gift
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too big to fit inside your house. Look
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outside in your backyard.
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-Santa Claus
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Poetboy's tears of sadness turned to tears of joy! He took off his slippers
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and put on his glow-in-the-dark Spiderman Hightops, and ran outside into 4
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foot deep snow. Barely able to fight his way through the snow, Poetboy made
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it into his back yard. There, he saw the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.
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It was a grain silo! It was so tall he couldn't see the top, cylindrical,
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metal, and, he knew intuitively, filled from bottom to top with the purest
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grain he had ever tasted.
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The grain silo had a ladder on the outside, so Poetboy began to climb up. He
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climbed for what felt like hundreds of years. When he got to the top, he
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opened the small door and found himself into the grain silo for the first
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time. He was on a wooden platform which ran around the circumference of the
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silo at the top, like a balcony around the sea of yummy grain that lay below.
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A note scrawled on the wall in blood caught Poetboy's eye.
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"Poetboy: By the time you read this, we will be dead. Please heed this
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warning and get as far away from this grain silo as you can. Keep going
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until you have left the silo far behind you, until you can no longer see our
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house. Run, Poetboy! Run until you've forgotten what town you live in. If
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you stay here, you will live the rest of your life under the horrible curse
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of this grain silo. RUN! Now! Run until your wimpy poet legs break, until
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the soles of your Doc's are worn through and your feet begin to bleed, run
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until your pathetic Poet constitution gives out and you collapse. Only then
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will you escape this grain silo's evil influence.
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Love, Mom & Dad."
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Poetboy got out his notepad and pen and began to write a poem:
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"The grain of the caustic winter night...
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leaps into my cloistered coffin.
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crusty nutsy dusty rusty
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nails dig into the establishment..."
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He'd only written the first few lines when the grain below him started to
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spin, like a 1000 foot deep whirlpool made out of grain, spinning. As it
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spun, he could see further and deeper into the grain silo until, at the
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bottom, he saw the dead bodies of his parents lying in cracked,
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body-shaped indentations in the concrete floor. They were bloated from
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gorging themselves on grain. Their grotesquely fat bodies were bursting
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out of their skin; their hands and feet had already exploded and were now
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formless piles of human gore and grain. Their inflated stomachs
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threatened to break open any minute and cover their bodies with
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half-digested grain. As Poetboy watched, this did in fact happen. First
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his dad, then his mom shook slightly, then their chests ripped open with a
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sound like a sheet being torn in half. Their bodies were covered with
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their stomach acid, which worked away at other areas of their skin. This
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in turn caused grain-saturated blood to erupt from their eye sockets and
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lower intestines, until the silo echoed with the popcorn-like sounds of
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rapidly exploding bodies, and Poetboy's wails of agony at the loss of his
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parents.
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Poetboy reached down and scooped up a handful of grain, and brought it to his
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mouth. As soon as the grain touched his lips, he lost control of his
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muscles. No matter how hard he tried to stop, he found that his arms were
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intent on grabbing all the grain he could find and shoving it down his
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throat, or sometimes into his eyes.
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The grain silo began to shake in its foundation and echo with evil laughter.
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A disembodied voice in Poetboy's mind spoke to him.
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"Poetboy, ever since you could talk, you filled the world with your feeble
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attempts at poetry. It was either predictable cries against man's inhumanity
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to man, or some random "modern art", freeform garbage. You are utterly evil,
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stupid, retarded and weird. You have no right to continue."
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As the demonic grain silo uttered its last sentence, Poetboy felt his muscles
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tighten for one last time. He involuntarily climbed over the walkway's
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railing, balanced for a moment, then plunged headfirst down into the depths
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of the silo.
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Nobody on the block liked the Poet family. Nobody missed them.
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==============================================================================
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IBFT: No matter how hard you laugh with or at it, you'll NEVER get it.
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http://www.amherst.edu/~mcspinks/ibft/ibfthome.html
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email: mcspinks@unix.amherst.edu
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ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/IBFT The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
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==============================================================================
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