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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
E L E C T R O Z I N E
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 11/29/94 Vol.2: Issue 3-1
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ==============
Steven Peterson STU388801940 Managing Editor, Writer
Russell Hutchinson STU524636420 Writer, Subscriptions
David Trosty STU069540593 Writer, Poetry Editor
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
Others TBA All addresses @WSC.COLORADO.EDU
_________________________________________
/=========================================\
| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
| technology changes it." |
\ - D.B. Smith /
\***************************************/
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
| See the end of this issue for submission information. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
| Included in the table of contents are some |
| generic symbols to help you in making a decision |
| as to whether an article or story may express |
| ideas or use language that may be offensive. |
| S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language |
| V = Violence O = Opinions |
|____________________________________________________|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word -- By Steven Peterson: More thoughts on the 'Net, |
| Zine production, and the evolution of the "Woodstock Nation". |
| 2) The Fate of Ethnic Diversity -- A poem by David Trosty. |
| 3) WorldNet Tour Guide: The Infopro Gopher -- Another review/ |
| description of a gopher site. By Staff. |
| 4) A Question of Balance -- A Short Story by David Trosty: |
| Fragmentary sketch depicting the archetypical responses |
| of literate guys and dolls in search of Love. [AL] |
| 5) Unneeded Technology -- A poem by Andrew DeSplinter. |
| 6) WalMart -- A Short Story by Vance Geiger: A searing journey |
| into the dark orbit of American Consumer Consciousness; |
| Told from an unusual perspective--NOT for the Queasy. [AL,V] |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 7) The Human Experience: Haiku poetry by Robert Fromme |
| 8) New Prejudices: By Steven Peterson. An analysis of the |
| holiday info-tech television advertising campaigns. [O] |
| 9) From Dreams: Poetry by Joe West. [V,AL] |
| 10) Regretted Repression: Poetry by David Trosty. |
| 11) Rite of Fire, Part Three: By Russell Hutchinson. The third, |
| and last, part of a techno-industrial espionage tale. [AL,V] |
| 12) Last Word: by Steven Peterson. Email addresses for the staff |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
################################################################################
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
+------------------+
| First Word \
| By Steven Peterson \
+---------------------+
The other night, the ICS staff members were hanging out and shooting
the breeze, wondering aloud at the amazing lack of interest in 'Net publishing
on our campus. Our local recruiting efforts and submission drives have been
less than successful lately, so I've devoted some time to pondering the
ineffable mystery of "why aren't our local writers beating a path to our
door?" Theoretically, ICS represents an opportunity which young writers of
previous generations could only dream of - instant, free access to a world-
wide audience - so far, only a scant handful of students have shown any
interest in pursuing the theory to the point of realizing a concrete
experience.
As ICS attempts to surface from obscurity and take a place in the
recognized curricular milieu of Western State College, I notice a set of
stock reactions to the entire notion of the 'Net as an educational and
communication tool. Initially, students listen to me as if I'm reporting
from a fantasy-world - they are vaguely interested, but it doesn't strike
them as something they can actually do. If they sustain interest past that
first stage, I can usually penetrate the "technophobic" second stage and show
them how accessible the medium is. Once I've opened the world of the 'Net for
someone to explore, I've set them on a collision course with an intellectual,
ethical, and spiritual "krisis": the fundamental premise of college as they
know it is profoundly threatened by free access to the stored knowledge of
academe and ultimately, the world.
Western State is something of an "elite" institution - the admissions
are open, but due to its location and local economy, there aren't many students
from low- or lower middle-class families. High rents and four-dollar-an-hour
jobs are pretty effective mechanisms for insuring a student body culled from
the wealthier segments of the state's population; by and large, these kids are
pretty committed to maintaining the status quo - and the idea of free access
to knowledge which could be used to compete against *them* in the workplace
shakes their faith in the sacred status of college credentials in our society.
Obviously, if you view the degree as a life-preserver between yourself and a
fast slide down the economic ladder, you're not going to be interested in
exchanging your asset (knowledge) around the world with non-credentialed
people. It's that old fear of a true meritocracy displacing the children
of the privileged class, I guess.
While 'Net usage is growing overall on our campus, the activity is
mostly one-way: many are taking knowledge from the global pool, but few are
willing to put something original back in. Now, I'm all for maximum exploit-
ation of the resource in question, but the general pattern of use on our
campus seems to violate the spirit which drives the 'Net. Call me anachronistic,
but I like to think of the 'Net as an technological extension of what Abbie
Hoffman defined as the "Woodstock Nation" - a sense of belonging to a trans-
cultural "nation dedicated to cooperation versus competition, to the idea that
people should have better means of exchange than property or money, that there
should be some other basis for human interactions". The 'Net, as it exists,
offers that other basis for interaction; however, instead of embracing the
implicit change, my fellow students are rushing to find ways to transform
the "free" and nebulous cyberspace they confront into a merchandised
property for one-way consumption.
Invariably, the students who have chosen to participate in producing
ICS have been devoted to (or at least sympathetic to) the concept of
cooperative interaction - we have to be, it's the only practical way to
learn how to use the VAX (the mainframe we use to compose and send ICS).
We "train" each other, student-to-student, and offer the only comprehensive
'Net literacy program on campus. Because we are somewhat marginal (and way
out ahead of the institution), we are left to fend for ourselves when it
comes to promotion and recruiting; until the revolution arrives, we will
do our best to find those lone voices ....
[A Sad Note: This morning, I heard Jerry Rubin passed away--hit by a car
in the mean streets of Los Angeles while jaywalking. You may remember
him as the co-founder of the Yippie movement in the late 60s (America).
With Abbie Hoffman, Rubin played a large part in raising the consciousness
of a generation: his efforts provoked thought and incited reflection, if
not action. Directing the March on the Pentagon in '67 is perhaps his
masterpiece of activism--the protest brought together some of the major
players of the anti-war effort (Noam Chomsky, Dr. Spock, Paul Goodman)
as well as about 50,000 individuals who demanded that their government
listen to them [see _Armies of the Night_ by Norman Mailer for a full
account of the March]. Considering the stellar array of powerful people
who wanted Rubin to "go away", there is a cosmic irony at work in the
absurd tragedy of his death: after facing charges of conspiracy and
lesser forms of treason, Rubin paid the ultimate price for jaywalking.
I try to cushion the blow of death when my cultural heroes pass away.
If there is an afterlife, I like to think that Abbie was waitin' for him,
busting a gut laughing at the awful joke, welcoming him to the free
state of transcendence. Folks, it's up to us to carry on the vision.]
--Ed.
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
The Fate of Ethnic Diversity
Bit by bit,
one person at a time,
my heritage is being diluted
by my own generation.
The stories that we were taught
are being neglected
and forgotten.
What will the next generation know of its past?
What lessons will they learn,
and where will they come from?
We have all fought too hard
against blood-thirsty foes
too let ourselves dissolve
into humanity at large
until the sweetness
of our ancestors' philosophies
is too watered-down to taste.
Will the children of the future
benefit or suffer
from the breakdown of barriers
that have long stood
like great pinnacles in the desert,
slowly eroding
until they can no longer
support their own weight
and they crumble
into a pile of rubble.
I have heard them crashing
to the ground.
It is not too late
for us to pick up the pieces
and re-examine them
and tell our children
what we have learned.
--David Trosty, 1994.
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----------------------------------------------------------------------
_________________________________________________
/ W o r l d N e t \
\____________ Tour Guide ____________/
\_______________________/
| InfoPro |
\ Gopher /
\---------------/
WorldNet Tour Guide is a periodic feature which appears in ICS.
The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet
to the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects
of WorldNet (programs) to reviews of places we find on the WorldNet (content).
Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.
If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section,
please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:
ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
-------
This time around, we visit the InfoPro gopher site; it's a classic
site, menus chocked full of good, basic reference type material. Logon
to this site by typing: gopher oss.net 70 from your system prompt.
From the first menu, choose "InfoPro Resources": from the next
menu, choose from three pages of choices which offer info and access
to 50, count 'em, 50 different areas of interest including:
* The Legal Domain Network (courts, bbs, etc.)
* Congressional Quarterly gopher
* A Dictionary of Internet terminology (!)
* Disclosure gopher and Edgar SEC Filings
* FEDWORLD (U.S. Government bbs)
* Internet Guides and Resources
* Journalism info + Usenet searches
* National Trade Databank
* TV News abstracts (?)
* VOA News Wire Service
There are, of course, many more ... I like to send 'Net neophytes to
this site--the menu system isn't threatening or difficult, and most
people can find something of interest and/or use fairly quickly.
Many of the files are "gateways", or directions which serve as pretty
good "yellow pages" for those first reckless tromps across the 'Net.
The folks at InfoPro also maintain a listserv for professional Info
Brokers and Investigative types--from the application, it seems to be
fairly restricted--choose #1, "About Infopro/" for the files with all
the pertinent data.
(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)
=====================================================================
___ ___
A Question of Balance \ _o_ /
By David Trosty |---|---|
I could tell she was unlike the other women that I had met in
this dusty little town from the first time I saw her talking to a friend
of mine. Right then I knew that I had to do whatever it took to meet her,
anything that was necessary. Consequently, I knew that the best thing to do
was nothing. I tried to play it cool; I looked at her demurely while she
glanced nervously back and forth between my friend and I under the pink
and azure shadows of the neon beer signs that decorated the walls of the
dusky bar. I couldn't quite discern what she was about: a shy little girl
was my first impression. She stood in the dimly lit country-western bar,
the haven I called my home for those stretches of time when my desire to
drink in public overcame my need to sit at home and smoke with my solitude
and a good book as companionship.
So there I was, drinking English ale, listening to country music on
the jukebox and watching testosterone-induced idiocy being perpetrated by the
sex-starved locals. Their behavior sent any women who possessed even a little
decency or sense into deep hiding. Yet here was an unusual woman, seemingly
unfazed by the heavy virile vibe that was permeating the unsavory atmosphere
of this smokey bar. We started talking about assorted inconsequential matters:
the kind of trivial conversation that I often have with the average college
attending cutie that I might run into while drinking and not worrying about
discovering new female companionship. It seems that when I'm not the least
bit worried about such carnal matters, the opportunity arises in a most
unlikely manner for a stimulating exchange with a stunningly uncommon woman
and tonight was no exception.
Trite conversation soon turned into serious discussion about the
finer points of poetry and literature in general. My mind was reeling and
I reveled in her voice and the content within it--for I know few women
(if any) in this small western community who have a firm control of their
mind and the confidence necessary for such discourse with someone, especially
a strange man in an even stranger bar. But she was here, tangible and right
in front of me, smelling pleasantly womanly and giving me her opnion about the
merits of iambic pentameter verses free verse. My elated heart furiously
pumped beer-laden blood through my amazed body, causing strange and excited
thoughts to course through my head and out through my slightly drunk mouth.
"Thompson, do you like him?" I asked, eager to hear her interpretation.
"Who?"
"Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing, Generation of Swine?"
"I've heard of him, I think."
"Oh God, you've got to read Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas, It's
hilarious. Kinda reminds me of myself. How 'bout Southern, ever read him?"
"Who?"
"Terry Southern, he wrote the screenplay for Dr. Strangelove
and Easy Rider."
"No, I've never heard of him."
"Oh man, you must read Red Dirt Marijuana. Great short stories
with realistic dialogue and wonderfully absurd plots. It's cool stuff.
O.K., You must know Keruac."
"I've heard of him."
"You have? Check him out sometime. The man _sees_ things."
(uncomfortable silence)
"What _do_ you read?"
"I love the great romance writers: Shakespeare, Keats, Shelly and
Byron, authors like that. I guess I'm not really interested in modern
literature. I like poetry that rhymes and flows, with meter. I don't like
suprises. Poetry should have a definite structure."
"Poetry with rhyme and structure? I don't read too much of that kind
of poetry anymore."
"I guess we just like to read different things."
These words of disagreement were unwelcomed by my ears and I made
a vain attempt to block such disheartening comments from reaching the inner,
more logical, rational regions of my slightly pickled mind. I failed to do
so, at least completely, and questions of doubt began to simmer within my
cranium. Soon it became clear that we were both enamored with completely
different writers from different time periods. No problem, I thought, we can
learn from each other by exposing each other to our different tastes and that
would be hip and things would always be interesting. My mouth was on auto-
pilot, lips moving but all that I could hear were my own thoughts about whether
this fabulous woman and I could possibly be compatable together for longer
than a fleeting moment or two before the novelty wore off and we were simply
annoying each other like little children do when they share the same sandbox
for too long.
Everything was slowly going downhill when my obnoxious collegiate
buddies began to unnerve me and my new-found friend with a barrage of jeers
referring to my ulterior motives which were all too obvious to those who
know me, even as an aquaintance. She was unnerved by the displays of bad
taste by my inconsiderate friends. As it was, all the heckling was under-
mining my attempts at making good at this cerebrally and otherwise
well-endowed woman. The good-natured abuse was too much for her and she made
little haste in leaving, once her only drink was finished.
"Well Alex, it was an interesting conversation. Maybe I'll see
you around campus."
"Yes, Suzie, it was most certainly my pleasure. I'll see you around."
She walked away and I understood what was contained within the realms
of her mind ... I shuddered with delight. Perhaps I would not get this one,
but meeting her renewed my faith that someday I may find a woman that can be
seductively intellectual in this remote little town.
Last call came and went. I finished my brew and went outside alone
and cold, watching frosty tumbleweeds blow by, anticipating getting home to
the next chapters of Visions of Cody and trying to imagine a bright young
woman settling into the comfort of a warm bed and a romantic soliloquy.
{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}{^}
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unneeded Technology
-----------------
-----------------
Brought to a place too soon
temptation
It creates a home for itself
desire
Soon, the people will want it
compulsion
Those with the money take it
envy
Those who are poor steal it
crime
Luxury has a price to be paid
sin
--Andrew DeSplinter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
A Submission from Vance Geiger:
<vance@ufcc.ufl.edu>
------------------------------
+---------+
| Walmart |
+---------+
So, you're walking out of Walmart. You got your stuff in a bag,
the stuff you bought, your little contribution to consumer capitalism.
Stuff, some little do-hickeys that just couldn't be done without, or maybe
some stuff that someone else just couldn't do without. A gift. Stuff to
give someone else that says you care enough to buy it. Markers on the road
to a good and lasting relationship. Conversation pieces for conversations
that go something like...
"Hey, Doris, you remember when I gave you that whatsit, whatchama-
callit, do-floppy, gizmo on your birthday? I don't see it, man. You break it
already? Or, man, maybe you didn't like it so much, eh? Yeah, yeah, I know,
it's the thoughts what counts."
If you got kids, good American kids. Kids that know more about
consumer capitalism than anybody else, then you probably got even more stuff.
Kids know that they wouldn't make all of this stuff if their parents weren't
supposed to buy it. You've heard it before..."C'mon, dad, Aw, mom, I ain't
got one of THOSE, yet." Older kids, post-mystification kids, kids who have
gotten past the mysterious production problem of Santa Claus, the Easter
Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. Kids who maybe don't know where all this stuff
comes from but they damn sure know it wasn't made by half-pint elves in a
slave labor camp north of the Siberian.
"Hey, mom, what's in that truck?"
"What truck?"
"That one over there." Little pudgy fingers pointing. "That one
with To-y-s...Toys, Rrrrrr, Uhhsssss, hey! Toys-R-Us! Look dad, Toys-R-Us,
does it got toys in it, mom, huh?!! Mom, does that truck got toys in it,
huh, huh, mom?!!"
So much for the flying fat guy in the red suit with those cute
little reindeer you used to be able to lay all the blame on for your failure
to get the kid that one and only thing you either forgot or couldn't afford.
That one thing that will destroy the kid's youth and leave it with that
psychologically debilitating nagging nit of doubt about its self-worth
into adulthood so it can blame you when it flunks out of law school and
have a good excuse to dump you in an old age home instead of building another
wing onto the family mansion for you to dodder around in.
Just as well. After all, it was about time anyway. Especially
after last Christmas Eve when you caught the little jerk in the back yard
with its model Star Wars-SDI ABM radar guided laser zapper, with real laser
and fast focus radar.
"Hey, kid, whatcha doing out here?"
"I'm waitin' for Santa Claus, mom."
"Waitin' for Santa Claus? With that thing?" You chuckle.
"Hoping to guide him in, eh?"
"No way, mom. I'm gonna shoot 'em down."
"What the hhheee eehhhhh...you're gonna what?!"
"Shoot 'em down, mom. Get all that stuff, ya know."
So, you're walking out of Walmart with a lot of stuff. You've
done your part to keep the orders for durable goods up. You watch the news,
right? You know that orders for durable goods gotta go up if the economy is
to pull out of the slump, right? Hey, those plastic flowers, the ones you got
to put on top of the TV, that would look so nice there, that would add just a
dash of color if they could compete with the high definition photon flood
that gushes out the front of the box, those plastic flowers are durable,
right? You got them to last. Don't have to water them, they don't need
sunlight, they're perfect, they're durable.
And of course you went to Walmart so you could "buy American",
right? So the plastic flowers must be American durable goods plastic flowers.
Hot damn, patriotic and tasteful all in one consumeristic spasm. Maybe you're
in a good mood having done all you're supposed to as a good consumer. Maybe
you're in a bad mood with the clucks of that damn revolving chicken stationed
just outside the door to Walmart echoing in your ears. That chicken that
sucks up your change, all your laundry quarters, and throws out those plastic
eggs with little plastic toys the squalling brats just gotta have so they can
leave them all over the house in ambush for the vacuum cleaner and clog it up.
Just Walmart trying to be public spirited, eh.
Good mood, bad mood, either way you don't need what's coming.
What's coming is some raggedy ass kind of person. Some guy in raggedy jeans,
shoes with the seams ripped and holes. Some guy in some nondescript shirt,
maybe with an old denim jacket on, a jacket so old and dirty and wrinkled,
it looks like a wadded up paper towel. The jeans, the shirt, the jacket,
even the shoes are so dirty they're greasy with bodily exudates. The guy is
scraggly, his face is scraggly, unshaven with scraggly hair on his face,
scraggly eyebrows, scraggly nose hairs peeking out. The guy has those
bleary eyes, those what the fuck?! eyes. But there's something else about
those eyes. They're more than bleary, they're also beady. The guy's got
beady eyes, pointing and probing out from all that mucus leaking out around
them. The guys got eyes like a damn mosquito, pointed and needle-like with
all kinds of infectious saliva-like goo oozing out of them.
Shit, goddamn parking lot lurker. And you've been spotted.
And he's headed your way. Shit. You've got bags, they gotta go in the
trunk. You got kids, they gotta go in the front seat, or the back seat,
or they gotta argue about who goes where and you gotta arbitrate. Shit,
shit, shit! All that shit takes time and all you want to do is get in the
goddamn car and get the hell out of there. No such luck.
The guy is shambling along, coming closer. He knows he's got you
on the run. He knows the only thing you want is for him to go away and he
knows that that is the key to getting what he wants, money. A little money,
and he'll go away. Hey, he's just an animate consumer product, something to
be bought. Kind of a service provider, if you will. The service, his absence,
the removal of his intrusive, noxious self, is available, for a fee.
He gets closer and you notice something surprising. You can't
smell him. Oh, maybe a little body odor, it's a hot day, but nothing like
the wall of odor you expect to hit you when he gets close enough. Gives you
a little surprise, a little micro-bit of a more positive perspective on this
guy. Also gives you time to get it up, the money that is, before you become
excessively intolerant. Smells are the strongest form of communication and
this guy ain't gonna get no money from someone puking on their shoes because
he smells so bad.
Now he's close enough to start the spiel, the rambling miserable,
pitiful, sad story. The car broke down, he was goin' to visit his brother
or his sister, or maybe even his dying mother, down in Miami, and he ran out
of gas and money. Maybe he had a job lined up somewhere, possibly taking you
for a good republican, and didn't quite make it...or maybe he'll claim he was
the one that got taken, conned or rolled by some other bum and now he ain't
got nuthin' but the shirt on his back. It's never the real story. The real
story is that he's from some other little town up North where they got sick of
panhandling bums and the local cops put him on a bus, "one way ticket, please,
as far South as 50 bucks will go", which just turned out to be...this Walmart
parking lot. Of course, the guy may have other motives than not having any
motivation. Maybe he's on the lam from the IRS, or maybe he's in the federal
witness protection program. Maybe he's got millions stashed away somewhere
and just likes the life, or maybe he was a good upstanding citizen somewhere
at sometime with a family, a house, kids, the lot, and lost his job, got laid
off, couldn't make the bills, got depressed and walked. Capitalism's walking
wounded. Whatever the spiel, whatever the truth, the pitch is usually the same.
"Could'ja spare some money, I ain't had nuthin ta eat all day,
I jes' wanna buy some food, ya know." The guy will look unhappy but not
pitiful. It's the hard luck, down on his luck approach, with just the
slightest, subtlest, hint of menace. After all, this is a confrontation,
like it or not.
You, you don't want this, you don't want to go through this,
that's all. This is one of those little bits of life that you'd just as
soon as trim off with the rest of the fat and throw it away, you just don't
need this. Furthermore, you couldn't give a shit what the story is.
You figure no matter what, the guy is just going to go buy booze, which
is probably his problem anyway, no matter what the story. But the guy says
he needs some money for what...for food! Yeah, sure. You want some food
mister...well...
"Hey! You want some money mister! Well it's like this, bud.
I done gave all my spare money to that damn spinning chicken thing, and
I got the little useless plastic eggs, and the little plastic insects they
put inside them for proof. Hey, you wanna see? Hey, kid...yeah you, give
me one of them chicken egg things." You take the plastic egg and shove it
in the guy's face. "See, see, this here egg, that's where my spare change
went and I ain't got no more!"
The guy backs up a little. Hey, what would you do? This was not
in the plan, right? But, he does not give up. After all...
"Hey! Do I look like a spinnin' chicken that pops out plastic eggs?!
I gotta eat! That's all I'm trying ta do, get a little bread to eat!"
Back in the car one of the kids is yelping. "My egg, I want my
egg back! Waaaaaaaah."
Back outside things are spinning out of control.
"You want food, eh!" You say, a little high in the tone, but
deliberate. "So it's food you want, is it." You look the guy straight
in his god awful fish eyes. This is it. This is the essential confrontation,
civilized society against the barbarians at the gate. This is going to be the
line in the sand, your Rubicon, the bridge over the River Kwai, the Presidential
Physical Fitness Test you failed in high school, the triumph over every bully
who ever bullied you, over every back stabbing girlfriend who ever stole your
date for Friday night on a Thursday afternoon when it was too late to line up
a new one, the man you didn't marry, his yacht, his pool, the man you did marry,
his La-Z-Boy rocker recliner, his golf clubs, his Pabst Blue Ribbon beer...
"Mom, I want my egg back! Waaaaaaaaah!"
...his kids.
You reach into the back seat where the grocery bag is sitting.
The guy takes a step back. Maybe thinking you got a gun or something.
But only one step back, maybe your purse is back there, you never know...
You grab the super bonus buy 5 pound cellophane wrapped lump of
ground beef, juicy minced cow that has been sitting in the hot car while
you made a quick stop at the Walmart on the way home. You lift it out of
the grocery bag. It's leaking, the juice is pooling at one end of the
styrofoam tray and the cellophane is pushing out like a beer gut. You rip
open the package, the juice splatters all over. The meat was for spaghetti
tonight. Ain't gonna be no spaghetti tonight. You grab a hunk of raw gooey
meat and heave it at the guy. You catch him right on the chest. It makes
a juicy SMACK when it hits, and starts oozing down his shirt front. You grab
another gob and heave again. This time you catch him right on the top of his
head as he is looking down at the mess on his shirt front. The guy lifts up
his head, takes a step back, "hey lady, what the...fuck?!! Pieces of meat
are falling off his head in little slabs, and running down his face, falling
on his shoulders. On his chest, a big piece of meat is peeling off, leaving
a big red, juicy, mess that looks like the footprint of a giant bloody amoeba.
You reach into the car again, into the grocery bag past all the
crap on top, to get to the denser stuff nearer the bottom. You grab a head
of lettuce and fling it at the guy, just to keep him on his toes, and then you
find what you're looking for. The long styrofoam tray, cello wrapped, with
the frozen porkchops. Another extra bonus buy, 16 porkchops, a full clip.
They're still mostly frozen, still pretty hard. You've got them out and
the package torn open. You set your throwing arm to full automatic.
The guy is still standing there peeling meat off of his shirt and
trying to scrape goo out of his hair. Cursing in a low voice, mumbling,
"shit, shit, shit." He looks up and sees you coming. He starts backing
up again. He stops. You got him pinned up against a dark blue Mercedes.
The top of his body is leaning back while his feet try shuffling to the side.
His mouth is open, but nothing is coming out.
The porkchops start flying. The first couple miss and go bouncing
and sliding across the Mercedes. The next one is a direct hit coming in
frisbee-like, with a spin, into the guy's left cheek. You can hear the solid
thump. The next one takes a glancing path off of his forehead and shoots up
into the air, coming down on the sun roof of the Mercedes with a smack. You
try to aim lower, the guy is still a little bent over backwards while he tries
to slide around the Mercedes, making a good target.
The first one you sling low cracks a tail light on the Mercedes.
The next one going low takes him on the thigh. He gets the idea and puts
his hands out in front, but too late. The next one goes in straight to the
pit of his stomach. The guy groans, but it's not the kind of groan you wanted
to hear.
Shit, too high, you think. He's got his hands up now and he's
turning to the left, slipping around the side of the Mercedes. You continue
the pursuit.
"You wanted food, man! Food is what you get! S'matter, man,
don't you like meat?! You a vegetarian or something?!!!" You scream.
You got a little crowd already but it ain't enough.
More porkchops on the fly. This time a little flurry of flying meat.
Thump, thump, thump, three on the back in quick succession. His back makes a
better target anyway. He ducks down behind the Mercedes and the rest of the
porkchops are just covering fire. You go back to your car and rummage in the
grocery bag again. Damn, all the cans are on the bottom. You come up with a
couple of cans and a package of hot dogs. You start in pursuit again.
Now just where is the little fucker, you wonder.
By now you've attracted quite a crowd. People are laughing and
pointing at the blobs of meat in the parking lot. Somebody in a suit is
coming out of the crowd and moving toward you.
"Uh, ma'am, may I have a word with you, please," he yells, holding
up his arm and pointing at you with his finger.
You're moving, your eyes are roving the parking lot. You look
over your shoulder, "no you may not," you say. He keeps coming.
"Ma'am, please, stop, please, just stop and listen to me will you."
He sounds insistent, a little too insistent. You hold a can of
creamed corn, hubby's favorite, and cock back your arm. The man in the suit
stops, his finger hovering.
You turn back and see that some of the people in the crowd are
pointing at something a couple of rows of cars away. Your quarry has been
spotted. You begin moving off toward where they are pointing. Ah Ha!
You see him trying to scurry around behind a big hulking car, probably a
Lincoln and you think what the fuck kind of Walmart is this anyway?
He sees you coming and starts walking faster, glances over his shoulder
at you and then at something behind you and starts walking even faster,
breaking into a run. You look behind you just in time to see the flashing
lights of the cop car coming across the parking lot. The car stops and a
cop gets out of the right hand side, slams the door and walks over to you
as the car takes off again after the guy you been throwing food at, who
is now running seriously. He knows what's coming, the next one-way
ticket will not be to somewhere warmer.
Who called the cops? Walmart did, that's who ... you're one big
distraction. You are taking people's minds off of the reason they came
there in the first place. People standing around in a parking lot watching
you chase a grubby guy around and throwing food at him are not inside the
Walmart spending money. Your behavior is an impediment to the proper conduct
of capitalism, and if there is one thing the cops are supposed to do it is
to ensure the proper conduct of capitalism.
The cop walks over to you. He's big and has to look down to see you.
You look up at him vaguely aware you ought to say something but you're too busy
trying to rip open the package of hot dogs with your bare teeth.
+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+
********************************************************************************
********************************************************************************
I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
E L E C T R O Z I N E
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 1/24/95 Vol.2: Issue 3-2
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
********************
THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE
********************
HAIKU NUMBER 745
IN THE MESQUITE BRUSH
I SIT ALONE, SIPPING TIME
SHOWING NO WISDOM
HAIKU NUMBER 669 (VOTING SKUNKS)
AT THE VOTING BOOTH
THE SCENT OF SKUNKS DRIFTS SLOWLY
THERE IS NO ONE ELSE
HAIKU NUMBER 991
OUT OF MY WINDOW
ASHES DRIFT BY ON THE WIND
THIS COLD AFTERNOON
HAIKU NUMBER 1037
BY THE OLD CROSSROADS
LAUGHTER FELL THREW MY POCKET
IN SAD PANTOMIME
HAIKU NUMBER 7
NO POCKET MONEY
WE OLD MEN GATHER TIN CANS
AS THE FOG ROLLS IN
HAIKU NUMBER 112
THE COLD WIND PICKS UP
LEAVES TUMBLE ACROSS THE ROAD
SEASICK SADDLE BUMS
HAIKU NUMBER 115
FREUDIAN FRAGMENT
SMALL BOYS RUN AFTER A HOOP
AND LIFE JUST GOES ON
HAIKU NUMBER 53
MOROSE MOSAIC
I THINK OF MY YOUTH LONG PAST
IN THE KILLING FIELD
HAIKU NUMBER 163
IN SOMEONE'S POEM
OLD WOMEN GATHER FLOWERS
VELVET VERBATUM
HAIKU NUMBER 568
MOOT MORTICIAN
AN OLD LADY READS MY PALM
LIFE IS VERY BIG
HAIKU NUMBER 870
TRANSIENT TRINKET
ANOTHER MILLENIUM
IN OUR GOD'S POCKET
HAIKU NUMBER 1088
FARTHER DOWN THE ROAD
OUR LIVES SPIN OUT OF CONTROL
THE THUNDER BOLT HITS
HAIKU NUMBER 25
MULTIMILLIONAIRE
AND TIME WILL FORGET HIS NAME
WHILE ICICLES DRIP
(c) Robert Fromme 1994 <rfromme@tenet.edu>
Please do not reprint in hard copy or redistribute these haiku without the
permission of the Robert Fromme.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
==============================================================================
+--------------------+
\ New Prejudices /
/ By Steven Peterson \
+=====================+
Upstarts and Rogues ... I find myself repeating this phrase every time
I see a commercial for one or another of the computer industry's services or
products. Amidst the thin gruel of network television programming offered
during the recent holiday shopping season, juicy little chunks of techno-
rhetoric kept surfacing in the one-sided discourse of mass-media advertising.
This rhetoric, for the most part, attempts to persuade us to base our computer
purchases on emotional or philosophical responses to technology, as opposed to
pragmatic or rational reasoning--it's a proven tactic in the American consumer
culture and usually indicates an attempt to preserve the "marginal
differentiation" associated with an industry which has swiftly expanded
and then entered a truly competitive phase.
On the surface, the recent television ad campaigns are designed to allow
the major players in the "info-tech" corporate world to stake a claim to our
pocketbooks and our loyalties; on a subterranean level, these ads reflect a
dark image of our uneasy relationship with technology and the rapid changes
it entails. Apple, IBM, and MicroSoft, the three major players in the personal
computer market, have mounted three very different marketing strategies in
their ads. Superficially, these ads offer the public various goods and services
which are touted as "multi-media *you* can use", "solutions for a small
planet", and a vehicle for getting "where you want to go today" (Apple, IBM,
and MicroSoft, respectively). Along with the catch-phrases, each advertising
team has constructed a series of images and messages which establish the
marginal differentiation which our consumer culture demands--we want to
"know" what makes one machine or operating system better than the other.
Apple, the upstart of the bunch, entered the advertising fray with the
lowest market share and engaged in an open smear campaign to bolster their
holiday sales. The ads, which featured befuddled parents hacking away at the
"C:>" prompt while impatient children waited for results, openly implies that
the rival's products were "too difficult" or impractical for the average Joe
to operate; in case the point isn't clear, the ads close with the child
leaving the scene on his/her way to the neighbor's house, where "they have
a Mac". As with all negative campaigns, this one leaves the audience feeling
as if it is the one who has been smeared: apparently, my worth as a parent is
somehow tied to making machinery work for my children (especially during the
holidays) and my best bet is to purchase a computer which is pre-loaded,
pre-defined, and produced with a passive user approach in mind. Beneath
these obvious messages, Apple attempts to offer us a useful "screen" to
contain the changes technology has made in our communication habits--
email for the remote control set.
Meanwhile, the baby boomers seem to have pulled off a palace coup over
at IBM; that, or the water has been spiked with some sort of mind-altering
substance. I know I damn near had a flashback the first time I saw the O/S2
"Warp" ad featuring a long-haired dude sporting a big ol' pot leaf t-shirt
shucking and jiving about "surfin' the 'Net" and "true multi-tasking". Other
ads feature nuns and folks from other lands, speaking in native languages
about the relative merits of O/S2 (with subtitles for the intended audience),
the delays in the release of MicroSoft's new "Chicago" OS, and about how
they're "dying to surf the 'Net". Apparently, the staid, serious tradition of
the "Big Blue" has been abandoned in the fierce competition for our business.
It's weird, but I guess nothing is sacred in the fast-moving world of techno-
logical consumer capitalism. The foreign-language ads, while somewhat
precocious, do at least open our consciousness to the global aspect of
computer-mediated communication; unfortunately, they also imply that there
is a necessary element of corporate colonialism required to sustain the
"communications revolution". I was left pondering the ramifications of
technological dependence and colonial economics by these ads--IBM is a
substantial force behind efforts to globalize the economies of our nations,
and I'm not at all convinced that such an effort is a worthy "solution for
a small planet".
MicroSoft, sitting fat and happy with a huge market-share, took the high
road in their most recent ad campaign. The ads, which employ rapid editing,
a montage of images curiously devoid of machinery, and narration set in a
tantric sort of verse, focus on the potential of their product and those who
use it. The voice-over drones "*you* can do it ... *show* them how ... where
do you want to go today?" in a manner which vaguely suggests transcendence or
possibly religious conversion. At one level, MicroSoft is pitching for the
professional's loyalty; at another, deeper level, one can glimpse through the
window and find a sub-menu of global corporate interests--everyone wants to
control the common coins of the new realm, so to speak.
Two other players in the computer game have also contributed to the
emerging form of mass-marketing information technology: Compton's and
NetworkMCI. The Compton's ad for a CD-ROM based "Interactive Encyclopedia"
borders on the baroque: a happy scene involving a bemused Dad and his
technologically "hip" young daughter in front of a screen, the magic box
promising "No More Homework Hassles". The chilling simplicity of their premise
resists satirization--it's already ridiculous; nevertheless, there will be
desperate parents and even teachers who latch on to the black-box solution
for children's human learning needs.
NetworkMCI, on the other hand, has invested their advertising dollars
in a linked series of lengthy ads which present the story of a company
integrating computer-mediated communication into their daily operations.
The ads, presented in a dramatic form of sorts, give voice to the standard
set of reactions to innovation: at least a dozen points of view are
represented, and, in the happy world portrayed, everyone eventually comes
around and embraces change. Despite their contrived nature, these ads were
my favorite of the lot--they continue the process of providing an emotional
framework for adapting to this communication medium. And O.K., I like to
think Shakespeare would have used email ...
In order to make a significant purchasing decision, most of us require
some subjective or emotional content to enter the process; advertising
attempts to play on those needs, often creating or reinforcing stereotypes
in the effort. If, as consumers, we allow our decisions to be based on
stereotypes and other sub-rational advertising techniques, we concede a great
deal of our power to demand want we want and need from those who produce our
goods and services--use your head, your heart, and your wallet to demand
better. Better interfaces, better operating systems, better programs ...
things we want and need that they *can* actually provide. And please,
No More Homework Hassles ...
"We arrive at the truth,
not by the reason only,
but also by the heart."
- Pascal
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
<*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*>
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
From Dreams
Tired and weary,
a lone soul with no hope
but duty....love for the Way
takes the sacred staff and staggers on
in a body weakened by darkness
the burden is carried along
a trail of tears filled with
those still falling
Great Eagle swoops down....claws extended
to tear free his wings that he may fly....
purified in sacred fire, he joins the sky
hastening to the people....to their dreams
into the dreams goes the nightwalker....
a holy warrior....to staunch an endless flow of blood
Red Blood....flowing from the innocent walking wounded
he stops to sing, to pray, to love the earth
Realizing their relations....
from the womb of Mother Earth pours life
purifying....touching the soul....
sacred prayers are answered
phone rings....late at night
a shaking voice....trembling with excitement
body drenched, purified....
and hope is born.
>fini< 1/22/95
Joe West
10 Ridge Lane
Gunnison, Co. 81230
<stu000005012@wsc.colorado.edu>
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
Regretted Repression
A secret question
never asked, long forgotten, time has past,
words of wisdom, folklore
on the other end.
A quiet mind, the mental shadows
never mixes with blue water,
globules of oil stacking still
then coming back together.
The crimson running over ivory
carrying the hearts desire
sinew wrapping everything
together like a bow.
Finally the tides stop flowing
and the little lies stop growing
what was that important question
that I meant to ask before?
<*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*><*>
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
<------------------------>
| Rite of Fire |
| (Part III) |
| By Russell Hutchison |
>------------------------<
"Hurry up Doc! Our cover's compromised." Patch yelled.
"I'll work as fast as I can," he replied. His voice was soon replaced
by the scream of the power saw he had pulled from his duffel bag. Sparks flew
from the locks in the metal cabinet.
Patch started going over their options in his mind as Raze pulled a
radio out of her bag. He could hear her advising Gecko of their situation,
the conversation distracting his mental focus. Patch shook his head to clear
it. Their options were fairly limited. They needed to get to the roof to
escape and there were only two ways, the Stairs or the elevator. The security
station controlled the elevators and could get guards to this floor in less
than a minute, leaving the elevators.
"Five minutes and our ride will be on the roof," Raze told Patch.
He nodded distractedly. Doc's saw ceased its screaming and he slammed the
flat planes of the door back with a crash and yell.
"Got it! ... Patch, the mainframe is bolted in."
"How long to cut it free?"
"About thirty seconds." The saws noise rekindled, preventing Doc
from hearing any response, but Patch had decided on a course of action and was
already in motion. Retrieving his twenty-pound extinguisher, Patch ran down
the hall to the reception area, tossing a casual "I'll go delay the guards,
help Doc" over his shoulder as he passed Raze.
Their situation wasn't hopeless. The guards didn't know whether they
would go up or down and there was a stairwell at each end of the main hall.
Also, most of the guards should be on the lower floors by now, after evacuating
the high priority businesses above this floor. And they didn't know about Gecko
and his chopper.
Both the reception area and the main hall were empty, a comforting
sight for Patch. He took his gloves off only long enough to find and light
his antique zippo lighter, then headed acorss to the elevators. Patch aimed
the wide, plastic nozzle at the row of doors and positioned the lighter flame
before it. He gripped the handle tightly, and, unlike Doc's extinguisher,
which still contained halon, the modified extinguishers gasoline/Kerosene mix
jetted forth. The massive cloud of flame quickly coated and stuck to the
doors, floor and ceiling. Patch was grateful for the fireman's gloves as some
of the scorching deluge eddied around the nozzle and lightly coated his hand.
The fire sprinklers turned themselves on, but did nothing to stop the flames.
The nozzle of the extinguisher had started to burn as well, dripping melted
plastic onto the floor. Patch put his zippo into a pocket of his firejacket,
pressing against it to smother the flames, then began running towards the
northern stairwell.
The plan called for Gecko to land on the southern helipad, so Patch
wanted to block the way up from the north. He knew that the elevators could
bypass all his effort, but he hoped that the guards had been dropped off below
and were trapped. He kicked the door open and flattened against the wall to
see if anyone shot through the opening. When no bullets came, he looked in ...
the stairwell was empty, but he could hear heavy foot-falls descending rapidly.
Patch pointed the burning flame-thrower through the door and blanketed the
stairs, above and below, in liquid fire.
Reversing his direction, Patch sprinted past the entrance to the GMC
offices just before Doc and Raze raced out, Doc cradling a gray box in both
arms, Raze with a gun in one hand and the real extinguisher in the other.
Their boots kicked up water as they splashed down the hall.
Patch started to push open the door to the south 'well, then he
noticed heavy black boots through the crack. He flung his weight to the
left and crashed to the wet floor as bullets punched fist-sized holes in
a random pattern through the door. Raze returned fire back through the wall
and door, hoping for a hit. Her shots knocked the door open into the
stairwell, so Patch took the opportunity to fill it with flame. Screams
of agony mixed with the roar of fire. Patch pulled his oxygen mask over
his face and motioned for the others to follow suit.
"Get ready to run! I'll lead!" Patch yelled.
They gathered close and Patch stuck the nozzle into the stairwell
again, making sure he had flamed both up and down the stairs before charging
into the inferno. He kept his hand clamped tight to the handle of the flame
thrower, casting the deadly yield ahead of him as he ran. It was hard to see
what was going on around him, but he could see the stairs, and that's all that
mattered.
Patch let up on the flame after the third flight. Doc was right
behind him, followed by Raze, and all of them had fire clinging to their
boots and small flames on various parts of their suits. A quick blast
from the halon extinguisher stole the oxygen from the fires, putting
them out...including the flame thrower.
Patch motioned to Raze, who took the lead with her gun and the three
wound their way up the last eight flights to the roof exit.
"Give me the extinguisher, and then check to make sure the roof is
clear," Patch haltingly ordered. Raze complied, pulling a second gun from
her bag and cautiously departing through the door. Biting cold washed in,
scraping at the exposed flesh around Patchs' mask. Patch pulled a roll of
duct tape from his melted-in-some-spots bag.
"What are you doing?" Doc demanded between gasps.
"Watch," was all Patch bothered to reply.
Raze returned in seconds. "Roof's clear."
"Let's go. We've got to hold 'til Gecko gets here." Patch taped
the handle of the extinguisher down and left it, stepping out into the gusting
wind and closing the door behind him. He knew that the halon gas would dis-
place the oxygen from the landing and the stairs below, making it nearly
impassable to anyone who didn't have an oxygen tank.
When Patch looked around he felt like he had stepped out into a
nightmarish abyss. The roof was so deeply buried in the clouds it gave him
the impression that he standing on a floating fragment of land, adrift in an
even gray void. The landing lights created an ambient glow in the cloudy
vapor, the brighest ones flashing blue and amber. Frigid wind pulled at his
clothes. Not a single other building was visible through the haze.
Patch jogged over to where Doc and Butch knelt by the south helipad.
He dropped crushing weight of his bag and flamethrower, followed quickly by
his helmet, oxygen tank, and jacket. The release of the suffocating body heat
inside the fireman's suit allowed the biting cold to rush in and flash-freeze
his skin. The icy wind gnawed, almost painfully, through his sweat soaked
T-shirt and into his face, smog vapor tingling through him as he inhaled.
Patch felt everything so vividly ... so alive.
But his immediate situation intruded into his mind, he knew he still
had work to do. He knelt by the others and stuffed his gear into his duffel
bag, then put his normal respirator and goggles on. Patch could hear the
faint sounds of a helicopter.
"Stay here," he yelled over the wind. "I'm going to light the
other stairwell on fire so they can't get to us!"
Patch fished his lighter out of his bag and grabed the flame
thrower, checking the preasure as he ran across the flashing roof. He hadn't
even used a quarter of the fuel yet. Reaching the access door, he knelt in
front of it. The structure provided no protection from the wind, so he placed
the flame thrower against the door frame, freeing his hand to shelter the
lighter. Fuel in the nozzle lit as soon as the flame touched it and plastic
from the twisted end of the 'thrower dripped and sizzled on the damp roof.
Patch watched to make sure the flame stayed lit before he put his lighter away
and reached for the doorknob.
A bullet torpedoed through the door near the lock, spinning Patch in
a half-circle and depositing him on his face. He felt like someone had kicked
him in his right shoulder. He could here gun shots tearing through the door
above him, receding in the distance. He rolled twice to his left to get out
from under the shadow of the door, pain stabbing through his shoulder with
each motion. His right arm refused to obey his commands, so Patch used his
left to pull his gun from its shoulder holster. He heard more gun shots on
the roof and saw Raze running in his direction, both guns pumping bullets
back through the door. She reached his side, dropped one gun, and used
that hand to pull Patch to his feet, shoving him in the direction of the
south helipad. Her propelling him into motion helped clear the numbness of
shock from his head.
The pair began to back up at a trot towards the south helipad, Patch
emptying rounds into the door while Raze put in a new clip. Patch could see
Gecko's chopper dropping to the helipad while bullets continued to audibly cut
through the air around them. It set down with its tail pointed north, the
side door open. Doc heaved the mainframe inside, followed by the duffel bags.
"Let's just run for it!" Raze yelled. Patch nodded.
They sprinted the last half of the roof and were less then ten running
steps from the door. Doc leaned out of the chopper and yelled, but his message
was torn away by the sound of the whirling blades. He started to raise his gun.
Raze suddenly disappeared from the edge of Patch's vision with a grunt, then a
sream of pain. The airy sound of a bullet sped over his shoulder, catching
Doc in the forehead and snapping his head to the side. His body tumbled out of
the chopper while Patch spun and dropped to one knee. Two guards had exited
the access room, guns extended toward them, a third was stepping through.
The muzzle of one guard's gun flashed twice. One bullet cratered the ground
to the left of Patch, while the other plucked through the hair above his ear.
Patch answered with three measured shots. One. After. Another.
The first tore a chunk from the door frame, the second struck the shin
of the guard coming out of the door. The third pierced the metal skin of the
flame thrower standing next to the door. The compressed gas tore the canister
apart, rending the door, the guards, and most of the door frame to splinters.
Raze was clutching at her pulverized and torn knee, so Patch tossed
his gun into the chopper, took her by the hand and hauled her to the vehicle.
He helped her to her feet and she pulled herself inside. Together, they
managed to get Doc's body in the chopper.
"Go, go!" Patch yelled once he was in. Gecko directed the vehicle
skywards, pressing them down with the G-forces.
"Beautiful fucking plan." Raze said to Patch as she tied a tourniquet
above her knee, tears lining her pain-taught face.
Patch examined Doc's wound and tried to ignore her comment. The bullet
had entered his right eye socket, barely grazing the eye, and had dug out a
divot from his skull that encompassed most of the right temple region. Patch
did the best he could to keep Doc alive and to staunch the blood flow ... Doc
didn't die for five minutes while Patch listened to his distorted, animal-like
groans.
Gecko kept the chopper red-lining for speed all the way to the
mountains. No police helicoptor had a chance to catch up and radar became
useless once Gecko started to weave through the mountains. They dumped Doc's
body along the way. Soon they were on the ground of Geckos' secluded landing
pad.
Patch's shoulder had been hit at an upward angle just below the
collarbone, cracking it, and the bullet exited cleanly just above the shoulder
blade. It would heal well enough. Raze, however, was going to need recon-
structive surgery. It took the next two and a half hours to get their wounds
dressed, destroy the back ups, clean up the chopper, and drive back to town.
The whole time Patch kept replaying the day over in his mind, trying to see
where he could have been faster, or plan better. But he always came back to
the feeling of warm blood flowing through his fingers and sharp edges of bone
scraping his palm and fingers. And the groans.
It didn't take long to extract the files from the mainframe and
Gecko was off to the meet.
Patch and Raze stayed at the planning room and arranged for a back-
door operation for her knee. While they waited for Gecko to return,
Raze approached Patch.
"Rand, I want to apologize for coming down on you earlier. Any way
that I look at it we would have faced more problems without your plan. I was
just worked up. Doc should have kept his head inside the chopper."
"No, it was my fault. I shouldn't have stopped to take off my gear.
Otherwise, I could have had those stairs aflame before the guards got there.
I fucked up and he's dead."
"He knew the risks."
"Jesus!"
"Don't give me that! It sounds bad but it's true."
"It doesn't change anything."
"It should."
There was a short silence and Patch thought about what she had said.
He knew he couldn't change what had happened and he should stop kicking
himself. I wasn't the first time someone he knew had been killed when some
minor action would have prevented it. He wondered about the others who had
died today. People all around the nation would be hearing about this and
condemning his actions over breakfast ... even those who had hired him.
But when all was said and done he knew that he was the same in spirit as the
Grim Reaper. The thought pissed him off.
He would have been happy to have pulled it off without anyone getting
hurt and he responded with the force that seemed necessary, only using lethal
force when it was used against his team. It was too late, the stone had
already been cast, for him to not see the monster, or rather tool of a
monster, that he had become and try to find some virtue left in his life.
Or was it.
He had become a street operative in defiance of the cold hard world
of the corporation's construction. He had believed that you could either
live for this world vision, under its power, stamped into the mold it made
for you, or find your own freedom--which will be against it. And it will be
a fight for your life. But what was the difference between being paid to push
buttons or pull a trigger and steal? His escape from corporate power just
put him down, a pawn of its darker side. Where was this freedom he wanted?
In love of a woman or God, or do either of these last outside the church or
the lover's arms?
These were questions that he had no ready answer for. The problem
still remained-- he was hurt bad, his mind was filled with troubles. He
needed his time to rest, a sojourn away from everything he knew to find out
what he truly felt was a good way to live his life. Maybe being a killing
demon was the only way live and have even limited freedom. But his stomach
was full of it and he needed to at least try another way. Patch made his
decision.
"What's your name?" Patch asked.
"...Sabrina Easten. Why do you ask?"
"It's hard to ask a woman to run off to the tropics with you if
you don't know her name."
"Well, well. I thought you too professional to start a relationship
with a partner."
"I'm thinking of retiring with this score...at least for a while.
So I'm not breaking any personal codes."
"I'd love to go, Rand. Just tell me one thing. Is this going to
involve fire in any way?"
"What do you think?"
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+----------------+
| Last Word \
| By Steven Peterson \
+----------------------+
We're back ... and behind schedule. So sorry, faithful readers--
the holiday break took a larger toll than expected. Over the next
several months, you can expect a fresh fragment every three weeks or
so, depending on the creative flow, the tides, the moon, and whatever
else moves and shakes us. And hey, feel free to move and shake us with
your ideas, stories, letters and whatnot -- email is our life ....
Over the break, our sysop changed all the student account
numbers, sooo....it may take awhile for us to get all the new numbers
together on the masthead. Until then, all staff members can be reached
at the general org_zine address. The change was necessary, people were
objecting to sending their social security numbers out over the 'Net.
Live Well, People
-Ed.
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