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censoredcensoredcensor taTestaTesTaTe rosnecderosnecderosnec
edcensoredcensoredcen sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA necderosnecderosnecde
soredcensoredcensore STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE erosnecderosnecderos
dcensoredcensoredce sTATeSt oFOfOfo ecderosnecderosnecd
nsoredcensoredcens STatEst ofoFOFo snecderosnecderosn
oredcensoredcens staTEsT OfOFofo snecderosnecdero
oredcensoredcen TATeSTa foFofoF necderosnecdero
soredcensoredc fOFoFOf cderosnecderos
ensoredcensor UsOFofO rosnecderosne
edcensoredce nbEifof ecderosnecde
nsoredcenso uNBeInO osnecderosn
redcensoredc UNbeinG cderosnecder
ensoredcensor unBEING rosnecderosne
edcensoredcens NBeINgu snecderosnecde
oredcensoredcen bEinGUn necderosnecdero
soredcensoredcen EiNguNB necderosnecderos
soredcensoredcens snecderosnecderos
oredcensoredcensor -iSSuE- rosnecderosnecdero
edcensoredcensoredc ??????? cderosnecderosnecde
ensoredcensoredcenso -EiGHT- osnecderosnecderosen
redcensoredcensoredcen necderosnecderosnecder
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
STAFF LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
TALKING WITH TACHYON Hagbard
BUBBA AND JiM BOB GO TO JAiL Captain Moonlight
iNTELLiGENCE AGENTS ANONYMOUS Bobbi Sands
STARTiNG YOUR VERY OWN CULT Anonymous
TiME CAPSULE Hagbard
[=- FiCTiON -=]
THE TRAGEDY OF BOBBi SANDS Crux Ansata
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Welcome, one and all, to the Lost Issue of State of unBeing. That's
right. You now have a copy of State of unBeing #8, the issue that was seized
by the Secret Service. You should count yourself lucky that you're even
holding this much of what's left of issue eight, and there's more reasons for
that than you can imagine.
As you can see, though, this issue is terribly chopped up. Alas, it was
all we could recover after Agent Williams and his goons sacked us all. We
had expected some backlash, but we really didn't think it would be as bad as
it was and set us back seven months.
Most of the really juicy stuff no longer exists. Well, nothing we can
prove anyway. We can tell you all about it, but all of our evidence is gone.
Once again, thank Agent Williams for that. But we do have some good stuff in
this one. Tachyon explains a lot about the raids, Hagbard investigates time
travel, and Captain Moonlight recounts a heart-warming story about two people
who's lives were changed by SoB. Almost made me cry. And there's a few other
things as well to keep your interest.
I don't want to make this editorial too long, as I've been waiting seven
months to put this thing out, but I'd like to reprint a small letter I received
the other day from Agent Williams to show you folks out there the kind of
disinformation I'm having to put up with:
Dear Kevin Midland,
This charade of yours has gone on for long enough. You and I both know
there was no raid, and you and your little zine cronies came up with this
asinine story when you only had 1k worth of submissions for issue eight. Then
you ran the joke into the ground. Please stop, as you are all really annoying
me. All the stuff in SoB #8 will be false, naturally. Otherwise it'd have
been put in a recent issue. Actually, that scares me that you guys are right
all the time. In fact, I'm surprised you haven't been raided yet. I may
have to look into that. Watch your back.
Agent Williams
US Secret Service
Now you see the kind of crap I have to put up with all the time. Oh,
we've also included a few choice quotes from various authors who were raided.
We hope you enjoy them, and the rest of the zine. Read it and be paranoid.
It's healthier for your system.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDITOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRIBUTORS
Anonymous
Bobbi Sands
Captain Moonlight
Crux Ansata
Hagbard
PEOPLE WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN CONTRiBUTORS HAD THE GOVERNMENT ABiDED BY THAT
SiLLY LiTTLE THiNG CALLED THE CONSTiTUTiON
Azagoth
Clockwork
Griphon
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Monty Python
Paradigm
Phadrous
EViL GUESSED STARS
Agent Williams
The Secret Service
SPECiAL THANKS TO
Tachyon
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
TALKING WITH TACHYON
by Hagbard
On February 12, 1995 I received a PGP encrypted message from an anonymous
mailer in Finland. The message was encoded with my semi-public key, the one I
have only given to a few trusted friends. Tachyon was one of these friends.
The message is as follows:
+++
Greetings Hagbard!
I have completed my preliminary investigations in relation to
the seizure of SoB #8. It is not safe right now for me to
relay this data in this message, so I must meet you
personally. Don't worry, this message is secure, at least to
the degree which is necessary. I am using a customized version
of PGP, one the old TAC engineers threw together for field use
a couple of years back. It still is capable of using your key,
which is why you can read this.
Anyway, here is the deal. Meet me in the cave in the main dome
of Enchanted Rock State Park, Feb. 17th, at 12:00pm CST. Bring
a tape recorder and a flashlight. Bring the only object which
will confirm your identity, you know what I am talking about.
See you then,
Tachyon
+++
Needless to say, I was surprised. So, come Feb. 17th, I set out for
Enchanted Rock State Park. At precisely 12:00pm CST I met with Tachyon in the
granite cavern. The following is a transcript of the conversation:
Hagbard: Hello Tachyon.
Tachyon: Hello Hagbard. Please display the object.
[I take the object out of my pocket and hand it to him.
Tachyon looks it over for a moment and then hands it back.]
T: So, how have you been?
H: Oh, not too bad. UT is trying to kill me in several subtle ways. However,
I'm sure that the SoB readership is much more interested in you....
T: [Laughs] Well, ok. Lets see.... where to begin? Well, how about I simply
tell the story the way I saw it?
H: Tell it however you want to.
T: Very well... a little background on myself. I have been employed as an
intelligence analyst for The Astronomy Consortium for several years now.
What is TAC? Well, it is many things. It has been around for a long time
as an international organization. It has it's hand in everything from
cosmological theory to undersea mining operations. I know you created a
little club under the same name a few years ago, I just wanted to point out
to the readers that they are not the same organization.
H: Yes, I named the group such as a joke, a little conspiracy every once in a
while never hurts.
T: Indeed. Now, where was I? ... Oh yes... one of our informants at Capitol
Hill got word of something going down over at NSA, seems that they were
worried about a turncoat from the National Reconnaissance Office blurting
all sorts of super secrets to a few people at an obscure underground zine.
I thought it was nonsense, and so did my superiors, so we ignored it until
we got a call from another informant over at the US Secret Service. He
told us that word just came down THAT DAY from an MIB [Note: Tachyon is
referring to Man In Black, what he calls a government spook of unknown
origin.], probably from NSA or NRO for the USSS to take care of this
particular zine. We still didn't quite believe it... and then the real
shocker dropped on us. It was a zine which several of us at the office
routinely read since *I* knew some of the authors. We were really surprised
that the spooks wanted State of unBeing stomped out.
Somewhere up in that sick hierarchy, the decision was made to simply chop
the issue with all of the secret and subversive data. That was a good
thing, I thought for sure they would lock away all the authors and forget
them forever.
The funny thing is, most of those articles in SoB #8 were conspiracy
fiction, or were intended as such. Problem was, at least one was almost
completely factual and several others unknowingly hit very close to the
mark on their subjects.
After all the data was seized from the computers of the various authors,
well... not all [big grin], I decided to take on the casual position of
journalist for TAC and made a few phone calls, the most interesting was
published in SoB #9.
At around this time, it became obvious that the spooks over at NSA knew
something was up. TAC had a professional relationship with them, but they
felt we were snooping in their affairs. So they tried to eliminate us.
C'est la vie. We went into hiding after they destroyed 10% of our global
communication systems with tapeworms and virii. That was a very nasty four
weeks.
Since that time I have been in about forty different countries on seven [!]
continents.
The data on the Mars Face article really scared me, and I don't scare
easily. Every attempt to find "Jane" met with failure. She is probably
dead.
[Long pause.]
The good news, I guess, is that we confirmed her story. A week after our
conversation, I contacted some trusted friends over at SETI (we aren't The
Astronomy Consortium for nothing), and gave them the story, I asked if we
could "borrow" the Very Large Baseline Array and search for any signals
coming from the Mars Observer. Well, they found it, transmitting data
about Mars I presume. Never would have guessed NASA or JPL had encryption
algorithms that strong, but then they usually aren't backed by the NSA or
the DOD. Our parallels still haven't cracked the code, seems to be some
sort of quantum uncertainty encryption... so they tell me.
Apparently the Mars Face, along with several pyramid-like structures and
crypts nearby, are very real. They appear to have been constructed about
40,000 years ago. The current theory of some of the people I talked to at
TAC is that it was a sign created by a spacefaring civilization for us when
we were technologically mature enough to see it. The best place to put a
message for a species of a certain technical level is obviously in the
place where they need a certain technology to see it, that being space
travel in this case.
The scary part is why the government is so damn interested in it. Seen the
movie "Stargate" yet? Well don't you doubt it for a moment.
H: Do you have any comments on the other articles that were to be published
originally?
T: [Laughs] Well, some of them were a stretch, but a few were interesting.
Most of them were wiped to hell by the spooks; they are really good at
destruction. I think the article on time travel got through. That one was
incredible, but only about 75% true. The ice cream stuff, it was
discovered, was not to be taken literally. Those future folks were using
a code which they thought we knew. Ironic thing is that the code would not
have been invented for seven more months by a kindergarten teacher in
Omaha... still will be, but we had the historical references to infer
enough to break it before it was invented; I'd like to see the NSA try
that!
I am afraid I cannot go into what the decoded message said, since it truly
is a matter of *global security*. I will say that we are in no danger from
ice cream and that everyone better be looking for an escape hatch. Want
one nearby? Dig 49.58657825 meters beneath the Great Pyramid.
The Mars Face data, mentioned above, did not make it.
The "Second Gunman" article was very interesting, but the crucial piece of
evidence which would have proved it was captured along with the article.
Ironically, that piece of evidence also showed who killed Nicole Simpson.
It's a weird world.
The author who wrote the article on antigrav came to work for TAC R&D. He
has decided to hold off publishing until he has completed his experiments.
H: Yeah, I met him. Really interesting stuff, he gave me design plans.
T: Yeah, some antigrav designs are already patented. All we need now is
someone with money, brains, and guts to revolutionize the world.
So... now we are ready to release what little is left of SoB #8. TAC has
worked hard to keep it hush-hush, but still allow authors to communicate
freely with each other. You would not believe how hard it is to completely
duplicate iSiS UNVEiLED word for word and then hack the phones to route the
tracers and spies over to that.
All of that is really a formality though. The spooks know we are going to
reprint SoB #8, they just don't know how much. They probably are just
cocky.
H: That was quite a story.
T: And only the tip of the tip of the iceberg. I can only say so much. I'll
probably be able to find time to send in an interesting article for SoB
every now and then. This won't be the last you hear from me.
At that point, we left for lunch and then Tachyon departed for (he
actually TOLD me!) Irian Jaya. Don't ask. If anyone has questions for
Tachyon, send them to me or Kilgore and we will make sure they get forwarded
to Tachyon.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"When they got me, they were dressed up as mimes, so I was caught totally off
guard. One minute they're trying to get out of an imaginary box, the next
they've got guns leveled at my head telling me to give them the disks. I've
always hated mimes, but this just put me over the edge. Every time I see one
now I wonder if he's got a hidden agenda. Mime's are no laughing matter."
--Captain Moonlight, recounting his experience
in Austin's Zilker Park when he was taken down
by Secret Service agents last summer
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
BUBBA AND JiM BOB GO TO JAiL
by Captain Moonlight
While to most of our readers this may be shocking, two men sit in prison
today due to the revolutionary influences of this zine.
Despite the importance of this story, it has been covered up by the
reigning authorities so well that, unless you read the News of the Weird, you
probably don't know about. Indeed, we might not know of it if it weren't for
the fact that I, yes I, was personally involved.
I was hanging out at the Den of Discord Absinthe Bar and Coffee House
with Jim Bob Duggin and Bubba Smith, two reformed conservatives whose minds
had been freed by reading the very zine you hold in your hands. The two had
had a few too many Jolts, and I realize now that I should have taken this
into consideration when I pulled out a copy of SoB #7 which I gave to the two
to read. (I have gotten into the practice of giving printouts of this zine
to losers who have no modems. There is now a chain of about a half a dozen
people to whom I supply this zine, it being passed to the next reader as each
person finishes it. Try this at your school or work. It's spiffy, and will
help you buy you a few less years in Purgatory, along with giving you the
satisfaction of helping to FREE MEN'S MINDS! (Oh, and WOMEN'S minds, too.))
I went to the men's room, and when I returned I found the two in heated
discussion.
"I've found a way we can help further the revolution!" exclaimed Jim Bob,
and the two leapt up and left. This somewhat irked me, since they took my
car, and I had to hitchhike home, getting a ride with a little old lady with a
peculiar fondness for putting tacks in car chairs just before picking up hitch-
hikers. (And, had I had my car that night, I might have been able to make a
contact that might have averted the terrible fate of Glooth. But that is
another man's story.)
I looked at the SoB laying on the table among the tipped-over coffee cups
and empty bottles of Jolt, and on the now cappuccino-stained printout of SoB
#7 I saw what had provoked their sudden departure, though I did not realize it
at the time. There, sprawled across the page, was the title "MEDiTATiONS:
LiVE FROM NEW YORK," by Crux Ansata.
I now know from court records and later conversations with the two that,
as soon as they left the Den, the two sped down the road to Huntsville, site
of the largest state prison in Texas. Having outrun all the policemen who
tried to stop them, they finally managed to get to the prison. And, once
there, they staged the first jailbreak of its kind: they sprang the guards.
Having read exactly how the jailkeeps and policemen were prisoners of the
system, Jim Bob and Bubba, like good citizens, went about trying to free the
guards. Using the dynamite always kept in my car, they blew a hole in the
prison wall. Having secured the premises, they grabbed the guards who,
strangely, resisted their liberation, and Jim Bob and Bubba were forced to
liberate them by force. This is rather like how the general population must
be liberated: by force.
Fleeing the building, they rushed back to the car and flung the now-
liberated guards in the trunk. "It was a tight fit, but we did it," Bubba
told me afterwards. Speeding home, the fact the two were pulled over by
another cop. Their liberation of him, tossing him into the back seat, is what
first drew the police's notice of their activities.
Arriving back home, the liberated authorities posed a problem: What could
they do with them? The guards and policeman were still uncooperative, and the
only thing that kept the law-enforcers from fleeing was the fact that Bubba
and Jim Bob had recently purchased a rather large quantity of donuts at Doug's
Donut Debauchee's Delight (now open 24 hours!). While trying to figure out
what to do with the now-liberated persons, Jim Bob had the idea of calling
Ansat himself. Thanks to the bug on Ansat's phone, a transcription of this
conversation was entered into evidence, though this was soon thrown out. I
have a copy of this transcription before me now which I got through the Free-
dom of Information Act. Their conversation went something like this:
ANSAT: Hello, Ansata residence, how can I help you?
JIM BOB: Uhhh . . . Ansat?
ANSAT: Yeah?
JIM BOB: Uhhhh . . . We, like, read your article "MEDiTATiONS: LiVE
FROM NEW YORK" in SoB #7, and we followed your directions.
ANSAT: Pardon?
JIM BOB: Why, what did you do?
ANSAT: I mean, what?
JIM BOB: I said, 'What did you do?'
ANSAT: No, I mean what did you say before that.
JIM BOB: Huh?
ANSAT: What?
JIM BOB: What?
ANSAT: What did you say before 'What did you do?'
JIM BOB: 'Why.'
ANSAT: Cause I wanna know.
JIM BOB: No, that's what I said.
ANSAT: No, that's what *I* said.
JIM BOB: No, you said 'Pardon?' and I said 'Why.'
ANSAT: Oh, yeah. I mean before that.
JIM BOB: Hmmmmm . . . Hmmmmmm . . . Hmmmmm . . . I forget. Oh
yeah, we followed your instructions.
BUBBA: Don't bogart the nachos, dude.
ANSAT: What do you mean 'we followed your instructions'?
UNIDENTIFIED
GUARD #1: Hey, any of you got any dip?
BUBBA: No, we left Moonlight back at the Den.
<Laughter.>
JIM BOB: We liberated the guards.
UNIDENTIFIED
GUARD #2: No, we're hostages!
UNIDENTIFIED
GUARD #1: Yeah, and when we're done eating we're gonna toss you in
Fred's wing, and Fred does like little boys, don't you
Fred?
GUARD #3
(FRED): Heh he heh huh he heh huh . . .
BUBBA: Shut up, dude, you're free whether you like it or not!
ANSAT: You did WHAT?!
JIM BOB: We liberated the guards. You said they were prisoners,
too, so we liberated 'em. The problem is now, what do we
do with them? They're kinda uncooperative, and now what do
we do with 'em? We're almost outta donuts.
ANSAT: Is this the CIA again, or is it the SS? Agent Williams, I
thought I told you folks you weren't going to get me to say
anything incriminating.
JIM BOB: No, we're Moonlight's friends!
ANSAT: Moonlight has friends?!
<General laughter.>
JIM BOB: Yeah, anyway . . .
<Sounds of screeching tires and helicopters, followed
by the sound of windows breaking and doors splintering>
JIM BOB: Man, it's the SS! Maybe we should free them, too!
BUBBA: I dunno, they don't look too happy. In fact, they look
quite upset. Yes, I would say they are thoroughly ticked.
<Sounds of two people being clubbed quite furiously.>
AGENT
WILLIAMS: Whoever's on this phone is going to have one HELL of a
time dealing with me.
<SHARP CLICK, DIALTONE>
Well, there's the story. Jim Bob and Bubba were each given life sen-
tences in a court of law. Ansat did not get charged with anything, as he
really did not do anything illegal (well, nothing to do with this case, any-
way), though he is still weekly harassed by Agent Williams looking for a
charge that will stick. Due to the fact that my car was used in the little
escapade (I never did get it back, dag nammit) I was convicted of being an
accomplice. Due to the fact that the dynamite was, well, exploded, they
couldn't prove it was mine, so I got off on that charge. At my sentencing
however, apparently due to the efforts of two men-in-black who talked to the
judge just before my sentencing, I was released with a slap on the wrists.
With a ruler. Boy, that smarted. Anyway, I never did learn exactly who the
men-in-black were, and Jim Bob and Bubba still sit in prison (well, sometimes
they stand up, and then there are times when they lay down, well, they're in
prison anyway), in Fred's wing.
We must stop such travesties of justice. But we can all learn from Jim
Bob and Bubba: If you have a choice, stay outta Fred's wing.
Now, if you want to help free Jim Bob and Bubba, and if you want to help
prevent other tragedies such as this one, we urge you to write to your local
congressman.
If you just want to complain about the government and tick people off,
write to the following address:
SCREW THE GOVERNMENT
300 E. 8th St.
Austin, TX 78701 USA
Be sure to enclose a picture of yourself -- it will make their job a lot
easier. Or call (512) 482-5103. Operators are standing by. But if you write
to the above address or call the given number, please do not mention Jim Bob,
Bubba, the author of this piece, Crux Ansata, Kilgore Trout, the terrible fate
of Glooth, or this zine. In fact, if you do write or call you can be expect-
ing visitors asking some very odd questions within a few days, and it might be
nice for you to prepare a little something in the way of refreshments for
them. We would also appreciate it if you destroyed all copies you have of
this zine before then. It would probably be wise to leave the country as
well, but with that new law they passed to get Noriega, they can go there,
too. Oh well, just ask not to be put in Fred's wing.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"I'd probably say that Agent Williams is one of my least favorite people on
this earth. He's like that high school bully that would never leave you
alone, but you couldn't go to the principal cuz he was afraid of him too.
I bet he listens to M-1 Alternative. Crappy music for a crappy guy."
--Griphon, on the bigwig SS agent who
organized the now infamous SoB raids
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
iNTELLiGENCE AGENTS ANONYMOUS
by Bobbi Sands
Following the failure of Project Defoliation, the IRA special mission to
Bosnia, I spent some time this summer in Washington D.C. To take my mind off
our failure to reach the UN Commander, I decided to lighten my mood by visit-
ing the CIA public library. (If I can get in and I can get out it was open to
the public.) After sending a few files to Tachyon -- from the computer of
some Ames fellow -- I came across one state secret too classified to be be-
lieved: Intelligence Agents Anonymous.
Believing this too weird to be believed, I arranged to tap the location
where they held their weekly meetings, a peaceful looking brownstone in D.C.
that, once a week, is surrounded with a combination of the most James
Bond-esque vehicles, and the most bland unmarked vehicles, ever assembled in
one place, with an amazing profusion of antennae as their only unifying fea-
ture.
What follows is a transcription from our hidden mic:
[Moderator:] Welcome to Information Agents Anonymous. If we've all fin-
ished chemical analysis on the refreshments, we can get started. Can we get
the last of those bomb sniffing dogs out into the back? Thank you. Now,
everyone take a seat. Do we see any new faces today?
[Some time elapses. One gets the picture the shuffling was the sound of
people trying to look through others' disguises, while trying to look disin-
terested.]
[Moderator:] Well, then. Do we have anyone who wants to speak?
[Voice 1:] Uh, yes. Hello, my name's classified and I am suspected of
demonstrating an undisclosed psychological dependency.
[Moderator:] Now, now. You know better. You have to begin with at least
one statement with no classified statements.
[Sound of Voice 1 sitting down.]
[Voice 2:] Hello, I'm John Doe, and I'm a secrecy addict.
[The background is filled with the frantic scribbling of pencils and typing
on laptops.]
[Moderator:] Very good. Hi, John. We are just here to let you know you
are never alone; that someone, perhaps someone right here in this room, is
following you at all times. Anyone else?
[Voice 3:] Hello, I'm John Doe, and my people have surrounded this house
with a counter-insurgency force for the purpose of an all out assault.
[Moderator:] Hi, John. Would you like to tell us more about your friends,
the counter-insurgents?
[Voice 4:] Hello, I'm John Doe, and I believe he is spreading disinforma-
tion for the purpose of undermining our domestic tranquility.
[Moderator:] Very good, John. And --
[Voice 3:] Yeah? Well, your mother wears combat boots.
[Moderator:] Now, now. You know you --
[Voice 4:] Well your bomb sniffing dog is stupid!
[Moderator:] Please quiet down. We --
[Voice 3:] Yeah? And your cassette recorder is showing!
[Voice 4:] Why you...
[At this point on the cassette, a scuffle breaks out. Before our microphone
was destroyed, we heard it become one general free for all. What a sight that
must have been...]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"They took everything BUT the computer, which I thought was really strange.
Naturally, at the time, I didn't ask WHY they hadn't removed it, but when I
questioned them about why they were taking a tan derby I had, one of the
agents muttered, 'My wife's always wanted one of these for me.' I hope that
hat is too tight and gives him headaches. He deserves it."
--Kilgore Trout, known throughout the underground
for his wide assortment of hats and headwear
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STARTiNG YOUR VERY OWN CULT
by Anonymous
[This piece looks to be like an informal memo/report to someone higher up in
a certain Justice department. Which one that is and who it was to was lost
when we were raided. Anyway, read and wonder about the next time you see
a cult get raided. Maybe it'll be you.]
Well, after last month's episode involving the Bureau of Alcohol,
Tobacco, and Firearms and the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh--excuse
me--"Christ," I realized that there might be some profit in developing this
sort of thing. Hey, as revealed in Waco, you could have the chance to shoot
big guns, marry a bunch of women who do anything you say, and you can also
molest small children! And all you have to give them is eternal salvation--or
at least make them believe in it. This article will attempt to take you step
by step in the process of beginning and successfully running a cult.
Basically, a cult is a religious group that is devoted to a living leader
and/or new teachings. Cults are not new; on the contrary, they have been
around for thousands of years. In fact, Christianity began as a cult (now,
there's a goal for ya!). Probably the most notorious cult in the United
States was the People's Temple, led by one Jim Jones. He moved his followers
to a commune called Jonestown in Guyana, a South American country. When a
U.S. congressman and three journalists came down to investigate, Jim Jones had
them killed. He then ordered his followers, numbering around 900, to commit
suicide, which they promptly accomplished by drinking cyanide.
But let's cut the history lesson short. First off, when you are thinking
of a name for your cult, *don't call it a cult!* The word *cult* has a very
negative connotation associated with it, and this will turn many people away
instantly. I prefer to use the term "new religious movement." And while we're
on the subject of names, don't fucking say that you are Jesus Christ! That
was David Koresh's one big mistake, a miscalculation that probably caused a
lot of potential followers to drop out. Jesus was supposed to be perfect, yet
Davey-boy wore glasses! Don't you think God would give His son 20/20 vision?
It's just too much pressure to have to work under: one blunder and people
will start to wonder whether or not you are who you say you are. It is best
to say that you have had divine revelations from God Himself (more on these
later) and are His messenger to the people of the world.
Before we get into the six basic elements that every successful cult must
have, we must first stop and decide what you will base your teachings on.
"What? I have to teach?" Yup, you sure as hell do. I've found that the
teachings of Christianity are the easiest to base your teachings on. Probably
the most important reason is that it is the most widely accepted of all
religions; therefore, most people won't feel that what they're joining is evil
or Satanic. Even calling yourselves Christians helps a lot. Another good
reason is the fact that most people have some knowledge of Christianity, and
many of these have Bibles. The Bible is a very useful and powerful tool in
the hands of a cult leader. Its stories and anecdotes can be interpreted in a
number of ways suitable to one's personal needs. Also, since something is in
the Bible, many people will believe that it is true. Paired off with your own
set of "divinely inspired" scriptures, the answers to life, the universe, and
everything are available to your followers.
One increasing trend among cults today is the belief that Armageddon is
coming soon and the world is about to end. This is a good practice, and I
highly recommend its being taught. But never, ever set a date on it. For when
that day comes and your followers have given up everything they own in order
to travel to some remote place where they will ascend into heaven, there will
be hell to pay, and guess who they'll be coming after? Only the smartest and
craftiest of leaders can recover from that situation. Although it has been
done, I don't think I would want to put myself to that test. The best way to
approach the subject is to say that Armageddon could come at any time; not
even you know when. That's more believable than fixing a date, and you can
say "It's going to happen soon" a lot longer than "It's going to happen on
July 5th, 1998."
And now, after all of the preliminary shit is out of the way, we will
begin discussing the six elements that every successful cult must have. The
people who are coming to you are looking towards you to fill some sort of spiritual and/or emotional void in their lives, and that is precisely what you
must do. If you don't accomplish this, your followers will lose interest very
quickly and go looking somewhere else to find what they thought you had.
There are numerous ways to accomplish this. First of all, hold religious
ceremonies at least once a week. It doesn't really matter where you meet at
first, possibly in your own home. Later, when your cult grows in number and
*donations* start rolling in, you can build a church. But, as the old saying
goes, the people are what make a church, not the building. Also, to provide
that internal feeling of accomplishment, outline a plan of salvation for your
followers, and each time they accomplish a step in the plan, they move up in
the ranks of the church. Make the last reward something that everyone will
want, such as the promise of eternal life after death or to become one of the
chosen few that will be saved at the end of the world by "God's own merciful
hand." Steps to achieve salvation could be: faithfully attending religious
services; witnessing and spreading the cult message to friends, family, and
complete strangers; reading and understanding (with your help, of course) the
Bible and/or your own writings; memorizing passages; performing special acts
or rituals (nothing too strange, mind you); et cetera. There are an infinite
amount of things you can make your followers do, guaranteeing no two cults
will be alike!
Another thing you must do is provide a sense of status by claiming to be
the true church and/or by claiming that you possess unique revelations from
God or the Bible. It just wouldn't do to say, "Well, this is what I believe,
but those Catholics, well, they seem to have a more logical approach to it."
Tell your followers that all other religions are wrong. Find loopholes in
their philosophies (shouldn't be too hard) and tell this to your followers so
when they go about their merry way spreading your Word of God, they can use
these as arguing points. If you can't find any apparent loopholes, make 'em
up! Just make them convincing with some bullshit proof that is so confusing
that people will take your word for it. In doing this, your followers will
come to believe that your way is the only way, and then they'll do anything
you say.
Once you begin teaching, it is inevitable that there will be followers
who will have questions concerning the beliefs of the cult. Don't bog down
followers with complex answers; this only confuses them more. Simplicity is
the key. Let me give you an example. Suppose that on a Monday night meeting,
one of your disciples of the Initiate rank asks, "When I was growing up, I was
taught that salvation could be obtained simply by asking Christ to be my
personal Savior." I would almost bet you money that this question will arise
more than once. This is also another good reason to base your cult on
Christian roots: since most people have a background in it, you can merely
just add to their knowledge instead of having to instill a whole new belief
system in them. It also helps if you have already thought of a lot of
questions that might be asked and incorporate answers into your own writings,
making it much easier to prove your point. For help on this, go to any
Christian bookstore and look through the books in the cult section. Many of
these have commonly-asked questions about cults, only with the Christian
answers. Anyway, to the previous question you might reply, "Is there anything
free in this world today? No, and neither was there in Jesus' time. If you
would please look at the Lost Writings and turn to the book of Momanes,
Chapter Six, Verse Seven, and follow along with me. *And the Lord said to His
messenger of truth, 'Go forth and tell the people of this world that not only
must they trust in My son Christ Jesus, but that they must accomplish My tasks
as well.'* So, you were not totally incorrect, it was just that part of the
truth had not been revealed to you." If you are prepared, you will be able to
explain anything you are ever asked. Of course, there may come a time when
you have no idea of what to tell someone. Sometimes it is best to reveal the
truth: "God has not shown me the answer to that. Why don't we have a prayer
circle Thursday and see if God will allow us an answer." If, however, you see
an opportunity for a great bullshitting job which could gain you some ground,
by all means, do it!
Another important thing to provide is a sense of community and a sense of
security. You don't want your cult to feel like a club but like a family.
Also, you want it to be a time when followers feel safe and have the burdens
of the world lifted off of their shoulders--at least for the duration of the
worship service. This brings up the question of isolationism. Should you and
your followers move out to the country to a ranch or compound of sorts, such
as the one the Branch Davidians were holed up in when the Feds came knocking?
This has a number of both advantages and disadvantages. The most valuable
asset that this provides is the fact that since you are all alone, there are
no outside influences to hinder your followers from accepting the "truth."
You can keep a watchful eye on people and, when one begins to slip, you can
immediately remedy the situation. Also, since everyone is living together and
helping each other out, that sense of community and security is automatically
provided for. The disadvantages are not too great, but they can become a
hassle at times. One problem that arises from this is because of your distance
from a city, naturally interested people will be far less likely to drop by
and join in the festivities, although this can be accomplished by "recruitment
trips" into town every week. Another problem about living away from the city
is that the commune must be at least partially self-supporting. Since the
number of ways you could set up something like this are infinite, I'll leave
those details up to you. Oh, and Pizza Hut probably doesn't deliver that far
out.
This paper attempts to open people's minds and make them think. In a
cult, you want your followers to think for themselves as little as possible,
for obvious reasons. Can you say, "Brainwash the fuckers?" This is,
essentially, what you are trying to do. But how do you do this? Repetition of
your teachings, for one. If they hear it and are around it long enough,
they'll begin to believe. Also, keep the people in time- consuming
activities. With less free time, they have less time to think. This works
especially well in some sort of compound, where members can be assigned
different tasks around the compound.
Who says cults have to be serious and boring? The last element is my
favorite and can be the most fun and enjoyable. Provide a liberal climate
with little or no moral accountability as long as members follow the church's
teachings faithfully. Obviously, David Koresh had this one in full swing, for
he had numerous wives and had other people's daughters being groomed to serve
as his sex playthings. With this law in effect, you and your followers can do
pretty much anything *within the confines of the law.* Just don't get too
carried away or people will think you're full of shit. For instance, don't
make Wednesday "Orgy for God" night.
Well, there you have it. Now you can go out and start a whole new
religious organization. Make sure you leave messages on how your work for God
is progressing, and who knows? I just might drop by one day.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"What was my favorite part of the raid? Well, it'd have to be between the
seven hours of interrogation by Agent Williams and his witty use of the
English language or the strip search. I didn't like them using a Hummer to
break a hole in the wall of my house. Small arms fire is not something my
parents are particularly used to, at least not in the living room."
--Crux Ansata, when asked if he might have
actually enjoyed the raid just a tad
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
TiME CAPSULE
by Hagbard
TAC - SpaceTime Research Division
Samuel Evans, PhD. - Chair
ICN: 695-A4-39976DL
Experiment A97-4239X5 Name/CD-7: Time Capsule
Principal Investigator: CLASSIFIED
Data Reporter: Hagbard
CC: NPG-7
Project Briefing, August 20, 1994 13:30 GMT
BRIEF PROCEDURE DESCRIPTION:
The purpose of Project Time Capsule was to establish the existence of the
possibility of travel through the time coordinate and to establish
communications with members of a future time coordinate, relative to the one
in which the experiment was conducted.
The procedure was to create an extremely impermeable container which was to
be deeply buried and it's location never released publicly. This would
insure, in theory, that the container would remain undisturbed for an extended
period of time, until found by some undetermined method, likely by
archaeologists of the period. Within the container was placed a request that
if time travel was possible, or cross-time communication was possible, for the
beings of that period to travel to the experiment's own time coordinates,
which were included in extreme detail within the capsule.
At the time and space coordinates specified in the container, several items of
present day communication and detection equipment were set up. The several
different items were required because analysis was unable to determine the
likely method of the form that the communication from the future time
coordinate would indeed take. The items of equipment present at the site were
detailed in the time capsule.
On June 17, 1994 at 04:17:39 GMT, in the location of [CLASSIFIED], the
[CLASSIFIED] Cellular Fax Machine began to receive data. When the
transmission was complete, 323 pages of data had been received. We are
confident that the data was not forged.
The following are de-classified excerpts from the transmission received:
***** TRANSMISSION FOLLOWS... 10 SECONDS *****
***** TRANSMISSION WILL NOT REPEAT *****
Greetings. This is Darne Homputar of the EYE SCREAM PROTECTION
LEAGUE. Our current time coordinate, as you so quaintly termed
it and in reference to your own calendrical system, is
December 7, 1941 and we are presently located on a small
island in the Pacific Ocean.
Originally we are from the year 2103 AD. In order to send you
this message, we had to travel back in time so as to remain
undetected by the IC Dominion. It is all rather complex, time
travel, but nevertheless we are sending you the secrets
following this brief statement.
The year we came from is a horrible time. Our League, once we
had heard the rumors of your Box, went on a search for it. It
seems it's location was not a well-kept secret after all. We
are thrilled to have discovered it, for our computer
simulations reveal that the organization which conducted this
experiment may be able to help us in our cause.
The following is a bit of a history (?) lesson... in 2015, the
ever popular confection known collectively as `ice cream'
began to gain a major foothold on the global economy. Many ice
cream companies came together to form a consortium called the
Organization of Ice Cream Exporting Companies, OICEC
(oh-i-kek). After that time, ice cream's popularity rose
exponentially. A trillion dollar ad campaign convinced people
that ice cream had medicinal and industrial applications;
sadly, people became addicted to the substance.
In 2020 the East US President attempted to place a prohibition
on ice cream, but she was too late... instead, she was
assassinated by OICEC.
Now OICEC controls the world. It is one giant police state.
The 10 billion people are kept in complete ignorance, and
worship obscure deities from Eskimo mythology. A few groups,
such as the Planetech Pioneers, escaped the Ice Cream Age, as
it is now termed. We have little knowledge of history, save
that which serves the purposes of OICEC, but we found out
enough from the underground historians, who maintain what they
can, to know that TAC could help us.
The events which began our universe rolling are happening
right then, in your time. You must let people know, so that
they can avoid the horrible future which might await them.
We know very little, but we know enough. Somewhere in the late
nineties, a small company called `Ben & Jerry's' began
creating a flavor called `Coca Surprise'. It had the look and
feel of a dark chocolate ice cream. This was not the case.
Instead, it was infused with a genetically engineered variant
of the coca plant which produces cocaine. The substance was
increasingly addictive as one consumed more, but never
illicited the effects that a narcotic drug could produce. Ben
& Jerry's popularity sky rocketed, especially after the
substance was secretly placed in several other flavors. Later
evidence points to who the real identity of the controller of
Ben & Jerry's was. It seems that ADOLF HITLER himself, who
never actually died in a Berlin basement, was producing mass
quantaties of ice cream. Hitler, who had used German
discoveries to genetically alter himself for longevity,
believed ice cream to be the true food of the Aryan Race,
along with beer and pretzels, therefore he dominated the world
with it.
Even as you read this, ice creameries around the world are
vying for control of your mind, THEY are the true enemy. In
fact, it was OICEC who invented time travel. With time travel
it is believed that they travelled far back in time to feed it
to large reptilian beasts. Fortunately they did not gain
control over these formidable beasts because the ice cream had
a bacteria in it which was instantly fatal to the large
creatures. Unfortunately for the creatures, almost all of them
died.
OICEC, now known as the Ice Cream Dominion, has a method of
tracking cross-time communications from our original time
coordinate, which is why we were forced back in time. We were
uncertain of the date which to come back to, but our computers
narrowed our present coordinates down as the best choice given
all physical factors involved with the technology used. Lucky
for us, there was an island here.
Be wary of the ice creameries of your time. Do not
underestimate the control they may already have. However, we
do recommend Turkish Coffee; it has a most excellent aftertaste.
The rest is from our chief scientist, Gandrin Srindip, on our
methods of time travel. Most of it is current theory... only
the last few equations describe the practical application.
Thank you, and may your future be kinder.
Darne Homputar
Dec. 7, 1941 AD 03:12 local
Small Island in Pacific
[The rest of the document is classified.]
The transmission ended abruptly midway through transmission of the 323rd page.
We estimate that 75-80% of the document was received.
CONCLUSIONS
It is apparent that Darne Homputar and company perished or were forced to
retreat at the hands of the Japanese Imperial Navy. We are currently
searching for any evidence of their existence in the history of Pearl Harbor.
Based on the equations and data received in the report, we can only conclude
that Darne came from a possible future, but not an exact one. It seems that
travel between parallel universes is more likely to be the process than
actual time coordinate transference.
Meanwhile, we are taking steps to investigate his claims... hopefully we can
make the future free from tyrants who enslave all of us with ice cream. We
encourage people to look into this for themselves, and let no government
cover-up or media censorship block their true understanding.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE TRAGEDY OF BOBBi SANDS
by Crux Ansata
Belfast, The Late 'Nineties
The floor felt gritty beneath him. The oils of years of use and had
mixed with the dirt and sand, creating an obscene combination encased in a
decay that only bare cement floors seem to attract. He could feel the chill
of the concrete radiate through his brittle legs, as he sat in a way they
called "Indian Style," that is before the Anti-Defamation Laws were passed
throughout the Commonwealth, upon the floor. The song he sang was an ancient
one. 'Way back over a hundred years old, or so his sister said. She knew
everything.
"A knife and a fork, a bottle and a cork," chanted the children to the
rhythm of hands slapping knees and opposing hands alternately, the children
lost in ecstatic bliss only attainable by the very young, or the very "Intel-
lectually Challenged." "That's the way to spell New York."
He still felt the confusion when asking his mother what New York was. "A
city is an area of developed land, with lots of buildings close together."
Confusion stole across his young face.
"You know how we have parks, where there are no buildings, in the middle
of the 'Plex?" she tried again. "Imagine that, only the 'Plex is only in
those little areas, and the parks cover most of the country."
But sister said it was possible, and that was good enough for him.
Abruptly, time ground to a near halt. He clawed his little hands to his
throat, now ablaze with pain. He was already beginning to realize he could no
longer breathe through the shredded column that once was a throat when he felt
the deafening sound of each individual shard of glass shattering on the floor
as the window exploded inwards, followed by the deafening thunder of a sol-
dier/policeman's gun. As he began writhing from asphyxiation, his tiny body
was wracked with a pain so unbearable, his young nervous system was unable to
withstand it, and went numb. It was then that his oxygen starved brain no-
ticed the beautiful, arcing blood spurting periodically from between his
scrambling fingers.
His last seconds were spent trying to force air into his isolated lungs
and vainly hold his gushing blood in his neck.
He died in under a minute.
He was six.
His sister's name was Bobbi, and his last thought was that she was wrong.
They would not be safe. She would not always protect him.
* * * * *
An explosion. Shattering glass. An impact. Darkness.
* * * * *
Blackened vision was unable to block out the searing and nauseating smell
as the hot lead seared his flesh.
As Bobbi wrenched open her eyes, the sight of her brother squirming his
last death throes became etched into her memory as indelibly as the grease on
the deep stained floor. The fear in her belly turned to gall as the sounds of
laughter and back-slapping echoed in from the shattered window. Her loss and
the shock overcame her anger, however, and the darkness that followed was not
due to her eyelids.
* * * * *
Her first thought was that they were stabbing her to death. She certain-
ly had the blood to prove it, seeping stickily around where her dress had been
lifted, evidently to block her vision.
She achingly pried open her eyes, grudgingly wishing the bonds were
loosened so she could at least rub her throbbing head. She knew her collapse
could not have hurt her this bad. They had been none too kind in their han-
dling and binding.
With a kind of morbid fascination, she looked down into the blazing
lights of the setting sun, dimmed only by the man silhouetted over her. Her
knowledge of anatomy was sufficient to tell her that a stab wound taken in the
belly, just below the waist, was a slow death wound. Being bound, and (al-
most) eight, she was a perfect candidate for such a lingering death. She had
a hard time believing that even the Britishers could be that cruel, but there
was no denying the uniforms as the man rolled off her, adjusting his pants.
Her next thought was that her first couldn't have been further from the
truth.
Soon, exhaustion once more blocked out her consciousness.
* * * * *
Her lips were the deepest red you've ever seen, glistening like blood on
her alabaster skin. After uncountable mornings, I swear I still don't know
whether the color is fake or a genetic miracle. The lips were soft, cushioned
and pliant, yet firm and aggressive. In a phrase, they could only be de-
scribed as eminently kissable. So much so that the intoxicating taste that
always accompanied such an action could be cosmetic, natural, or your brain's
natural endomorphic reaction to a sensual experience it previously imagined
constrained to heaven. Her ambrosial laughter would spontaneously part these
lips revealing a dual row of teeth of incomparable luster, glistening orna-
ments for an exquisite mouth.
While the mouth would get your attention, what would truly enslave your
will were her eyes. Her eyes were not aggressively beautiful, to hunt out
your attention. Rather, they were silent pools that waited to be discovered,
yet, once having done so, you would be doomed to live the life of Narcissus.
Only death can stop your mind from perceiving such beauty. Those eyes would
constantly hang before you, following into your dreams, and even the stupors
of most drugs. Having discovered those swirling green orbs, no man, indeed no
person, could ever refuse her any whim.
Her hair was cut boyishly short, but length was where all similarity
ended. The dark tresses hung around her head at three different lengths: mid
forehead at the bangs, cheekbone length from the corners of the eyes to mid
ear, and neck level around the back. The shade, while not ebon, was dark, and
the luster, while not glossy, was vibrant.
She was dressed, as ever, at the height of fashion, always seeming to get
into the newest garments even before they were available on the black market,
let alone the free one. On this particular night, she was dressed in simple
red and black. Some women need clothing to lend them the illusion of beauty.
She, however, had the kind of body that would complete a simple outfit.
Following in the tradition of our grandparent's megastars, like Madonna or
Cher, where not needed for function, her outer garments had atrophied. Her
skirt stopped just short of concealing her panties, and, in the half darkness,
they could be seen glowing beneath the black synth-leather of the skirt. Red
lacy garters and matching belt led the eye along her red stockings to red
stiletto heels. Traveling -- lingeringly -- in the other direction, she wore
a black lacy bustier, not so much to firm (her breasts were deliciously
shaped, and, like her lips, colored in a way almost too perfect...) as to
flaunt. The red felt-like jacket almost covering her breasts could not possi-
bly be taking even the sharper edge off the November air, but, just as her
almost unnatural lack of discomfort in the heat, her skin was never marred by
goosebumps, nor her composure by the faintest of shivers. Her ensemble was
capped off with her ever present black beret, affixed with the insignia of the
Provisional Irish Republican Army.
She was holding court, as I had been told she did every Thursday at this
time of evening, in the streetside patio of Kazmeyer, the local Brain Bar. On
that night, as I've done so many times since, I had to stop, enjoying the feel
of watching her. The muted light accented her beauty, magnifying it, if such
a thing is possible. She laughed lightly and easily, and, even from this dis-
tance, that ambrosia was particularly intoxicating. As always, she was sur-
rounded by a half dozen hanger's on, mid-level hackers, revolutionary wan-
nabes; perhaps skilled in their own right, at their own trades, but as a
freedom fighter among the phosphors, not one could hold a light to her. This
evening she had none of the heavyweights with her. Perhaps it was to soon to
trust me that much...
Breaking free of the spell, I advanced towards the table. At my ap-
proach, the laughter lessened, but only until she spotted the black sash above
my waist.
"Crux Ansata." The first time I heard her voice off-line, knowing her
only from her postings in cyberspace, and I still can hear the melody echo in
my mind. Most women come off as soft or cold. She, however, could be deci-
sive and sure without losing her desirability.
"Not so formal. Just call me Ansat." Perhaps it was too soon to trust
her, either. If life has taught me nothing else, never trust beauty, not at
first. "And you are Bobbi Sands."
"Bobbi." She moved as if to stand. I moved to her, gesturing for her to
stay seated, and took her hand. There was movement among the tagalongs, and I
found myself beside a miraculously open seat.
The pleasantries were quickly disposed of. "Thank you for permitting
this interview." "Always a pleasure to interview such an illustrious person-
ality." One rule of thumb for the journalists: always flatter the intervie-
wee. Either they are flattered, or they think you are a fawning imbecile.
Either way, they are inclined to speak more freely.
She ordered me a drink as I fired up my laptop, setting it to multitasked
annotated recorder. Then she told me the tale that turned a disgruntled
visionary, burned out and writing freelance for pennies for the local metro-
fax, into a reinspired freedom fighter.
* * * * *
"I never forgave the Britishers, any Britishers, for what they did to me
that night. The Goddamn British stormtroopers murder a child and rape anoth-
er, leaving her for dead, and the Brit media tells another horror story about
how our brave boys in uniform found their effing lives threatened by a mob of
stone-throwing delinquents. An effing mob of two children! The Provos saved
my life that day, and I'll never forget it," says this beautiful girl, hardly
the cold blooded terrorist archetype so often typified in the media. "That's
why I've devoted my life to them."
"And so that's why you decided to dedicate your life to combating tyranny
in the cyber frontier."
"No, that's what led me to combat tyranny. This is what exiled me to the
cyber frontier." She lifted her left arm for the first time above the table,
revealing to me the full extent of her handicap. Where a hand should have
been, there was nothing but a mass of wiring, computer input/output cabling.
"This is the story I want you to get published."
She saw my objection before it reached my lips.
"Try."
* * * * *
After my brother died, I really had no reason to live. With nothing to
lose, I began hanging around people I knew to be in the Provos -- the Provin-
cial Irish Republican Army. Those are the men and women fighting to regain
their freedom from the occupying army of the British. I would listen to
Republican music, hang around where young Provos tarried, attend rallies,
watch the firearms training in the woods just outside the city. Within two
years, they were already including me, and by the time I was twelve, I could
use an Armalite rifle as good as most boys half again my age.
Even in these enlightened days, though, women are restricted in Provo
operation participation. Even with my firearms practice, the closest I was
going to get was as a gunrunner. It was while I was discovering this that I
discovered something else: the power that a young girl with nothing to lose
can wield over a man in command. By using that amount of horizontal leverage
I worked my way into favor with the leaders of the Army. Finally, at fifteen,
I was going to go on an op.
Me and a couple of the guys, Brian Boru and James Connally, were to go on
a bombing raid. Brian would be gunning, like me, and James would be in charge
of the explosives. Only one catch -- we were going into an Ulster stronghold.
Should we be caught, the IRA knew nothing about us. We were obviously a
radical splinter group working at cross purposes to the will of the IRA.
A quick in and out should have been no problem. Our recon was extensive,
and a few well placed shots with silenced pistols should shut down the entire
guard network for enough time to penetrate, set the explosives, and evacuate
safely. And, indeed, getting in was almost too easy. We quickly penetrated,
and it seemed nothing could go wrong.
Let me tell you something. If your recon is extensive, and especially if
you get in without a hitch, one or more of your spies is a traitor, almost
guaranteed. Any target worth terrorist effort is not stupid, and if it is too
easy, be on guard. Unfortunately, we were green. No pun. And we didn't know
the warning signs. Either the leaders didn't know either, or they were com-
fortable with sending us into suicide, I don't know.
Anyway, I could feel his approach almost before I could hear it, but at
that point, that deep into the citadel, there is not much that a feeling can
do for you. Already sky high on endorphins, the extra burst of adrenaline the
fear provides only amplifies your feeling. Your caress on your Armalite's
trigger becomes slightly more urgent, your perceptions of all variations of
colour in the world become slightly more crisp, your awareness of the sensual
feel of every centimetre of your body becomes slightly more anxious.
At the sound of footsteps in the hall we knew we were apprehended. The
pervasive atmosphere shifted, and we all were aware that each had given the
entire group up for dead. This decided, we sought to provide us some Orangers
to row us across the Styx.
Brian swung around the doorjamb, low and tight, to point his Armalite in
the direction of the shod footsteps. As he squeezed off his first rounds, the
tip of a rifle lowered down the side of the doorway, stealthily positioned by
a concealed sniper taking full advantage of his compatriot's loud diversion.
My warning came too late. It's amazing; no matter how old they are, they
all go down with the same look of innocent shock my brother had.
The anger that came from my comrade's death slowed my reactions just
enough. My own Armalite dropped to position as I swung round to cover Brian's
back -- where I should have been a moment before -- just as the Ulster's rifle
discharged again. The bullet ripped open my jacket just below the right
shoulder. My entire body exploded in one great burst of pain. I heard James
yell and deflect my body as the concussion drove me towards where he was set-
ting up for his last stand. The entire world bled the deepest shade of red I
have ever seen, and then abruptly went black. I dropped with a smile on my
lips, hearing the explosion of our planted charges as I fell.
* * * * *
The look of almost beatific satisfaction was mirrored on her exquisite
face once again, in memory of the second worst day of her life. If pressed,
she would also admit, as would we all, that those worst days were really her
best as well, however.
She laid the drink on the table, and opened her eyes once more, satisfied
with the length of her dramatic pause, and continued her narrative.
* * * * *
Much to my amazement, I awoke once more. My hands were bound, right
behind me and left extended, and the stiffness in my joints informed me that I
had been standing like that for some time.
A stock of my surroundings exhibited an empty concrete room, save for a
couple of chairs, a rifle rack, the chair to which I was bound, and a crudely
painted target painted on the wall behind it.
Blood drenched my blouse, sticking it to my skin. It was impossible to
see the wound from my position, but I could see that much. Pain still emanat-
ed in strong pulses from my right chest, but I could still breathe, so it
hadn't ripped any internal organs. As best as I could tell, the round had
ripped into me, lodging in my ribcage. The blood was no longer gushing, but
had lapsed into a sickening oozing.
I had just had the time to evaluate this when I heard the door open.
Painfully, I looked up and twisted my head towards the door and saw two men in
the typical ragtag "uniform" of the Ulster militia, carrying rifles.
"Ah, I see our young Mick cunt is back with us, is she?" said one of
them, prodding my wound with the barrel of his rifle. They both laughed
cruelly as I writhed involuntarily with the pain, straining my wrists in a
losing battle with my bonds to escape the sharp, shooting flames of inflamed,
infected pain.
His companion walked up to me, held my chin and turned my face to look
upwards into his. I turned away my eyes. "Pretty thing. Pity she's on the
wrong side." They laughed again.
I gathered the last of my strength and said, "Ireland for the Irish --
Oro se do bheatha bhaile!" following by spitting in his face.
* * * * *
"'Our day will come', you know," she said, flashing me another of her
smiles.
* * * * *
"Impudent little bitch! You'll regret that." I braced myself against
his raised hand, only relaxing when his friend called him back.
"We can still have our fun, only not that way." He finished inspecting
his weapon and pointed it at the target.
At the first shot, I felt something give way, and my hand seemed to
explode into numbness. The second and third more than made up for it, howev-
er, causing my body to explode from the hand outwards in ever new flavors of
pain. Round after round splintered bone and penetrated flesh, blowing through
my left hand into the target on the wall.
The shots and laughter rang in my ears, compounding the emotional strain
I had been already under. My mind began to collapse, and I tasted the tears
as they streamed down my face.
In only seconds, the tears had blurred the world into darkness.
* * * * *
I floated back to consciousness once more, alerted by the sounds of com-
bat. The door to the cell I was bound in was kicked open and a pair of IRA
soldiers stepped forward, reaching for his knife. The world echoed with my
screams, and he had to calm me as he cut free my bonds. I reached over to rub
my left hand, to make the numbness of the bonds go away, but my right touched
only a bloody mass. Only somewhat aware of my surroundings, I followed him as
he half led, half dragged me to the flaming front of the building. I was
pushed outside onto the street where I was bundled towards a provo vehicle,
stumbling among the chaos and sporadic gunfire.
I turned to find my unknown benefactor, meaning to ask him how he found
me or some such, but he was lost, still searching for prisoners amidst the
flaming rubble of the High Street police station.
* * * * *
"...and so, just like Nialla of the Silver Hand, who couldn't be king of
Ireland after losing his hand in combat, with a missing hand, the Provos
wouldn't let me do anything but a Sinn Fein desk job. So I talked to my
superiors, and cashed in on my favors, and provided ... favors to those who
didn't owe me yet, and the Provos paid to ship me to Chiba and get retrofitted
with this piece of tech. That's why I'm fighting for freedom in cyberspace."
* * * * *
If this ever sees print, it will be posthumously. My body will not be
dead, leastwise, I don't intend it to be, but my life as a naive suburban
"intellectual" will be. Let this be a testament to why people become freedom
fighters in this technological tyranny I for so long called home, and let it
also be a rallying cry for all lovers of freedom to unite and bring about a
new state, and New World Order, where freedom and justice are in front, and
boundaries and law crawl far behind.
=>END OF TRANSMISSION<=
CARRIER LOST
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1995 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1995 by
the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated
without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete
and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be
freely used so long as due recognition is provided. State of unBeing is
available at the following places:
iSiS UNVEiLED 512.930.5259 14.4 (Home of SoB)
THE LiONS' DEN 512.259.9546 24oo
TEENAGE RiOt 418.833.4213 14.4 NUP: COSMIC_JOKE
MOGEL-LAND 215-732-3413 14.4
ftp to io.com /pub/SoB
World Wide Web http://io.com/~hagbard/sob.html
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>. Thank you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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