1971 lines
87 KiB
Plaintext
1971 lines
87 KiB
Plaintext
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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
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of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
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does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
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does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
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idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
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Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
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where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
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are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
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in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
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physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
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or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
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your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
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focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
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lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
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a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
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You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
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unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
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taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
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knowing how or what 1225.94 tahw ro woh gniwonk
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to think. You are in TWELVE. ni era uoY .kniht ot
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a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
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=----------------------=
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EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
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STAFF LiSTiNGS
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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ON AN iDEALiSTiC MODEL OF BEAUTY Nemo est Sanctus
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CHRiSTMAS, 1994 Captain Moonlight
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MEMOiRS OF BOREDOM Phadrous
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ON THE STANDiNG OVATiON Nemo est Sanctus
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[=- POETRiE -=]
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DEATH OF NOTHiNG Morrigan
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LIVING IN DOUBT Thunder
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BLOOD KidKnee
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ALWAYS THE WRONG SEASON Morrigan
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PLASTiC DOLL Ivy Carson
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APART Morrigan
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i'M DEAD KidKnee
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[=- FiCTiON -=]
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DEAR DiARY Dirk Russell
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SEVEN TALES OF SPAM, VOLUME III Flying Rat's Nostril
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LOVE IS THE LAW Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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EDiTORiAL
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by Kilgore Trout
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Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho. Peace on Earth, and goodwill to men. Yeah.
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Now that the merriments are out of that way, let's drop the idea of
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Christmas for awhile. I'm sure today, you are sitting at home, wanting to
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play your new little Atari Jaguar or go ride in the car your rich daddy bought
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for you. Well let me tell you something. WHY THE HELL ARE YOU DOWNLOADiNG
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THiS PiECE OF CRAP WHEN YOU COULD BE DOiNG SOMETHiNG FUN? Okay. This can be
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fun, but it's a different sort of fun. Kinda like "if-they-don't-find-me-and-
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use-hidden-cameras-to-incriminate-me" sort of fun. Get the picture? This
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zine can wait. Go play.
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[pause. sips cup o' joe. waits. taps desk nervously.]
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Okay, now that all of the losers have gone to play with their Atair
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Jaguars or go joyriding in their new cars, we can have some fun. Did you
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really think I was serious when I said this zine was a piece of crap? Don't
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you know that your whole life should revolve around it (and indeed, in at
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least one high school, informants tell me that people have taken to quoting
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from the Tales of Spam and have taken its message to heart)? So, if your
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life DOES center on SoB, you may be wondering where the hell were we two days
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ago when you scoured our distro sites and found nothing. Well, as you know,
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SoB #8 was supposed to be released today. We are pushing that back into
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January sometime due to a few authors not getting their stuff back to us. I
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believe the Christmas postal rush had something to do with it (Griphon, you
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bastard, get a computer. Ugh.) Also, we were waiting on Tachyon for some
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information and I didn't receive anything until late last night. I cannot
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reprint his letter due to some of its foreshadowing about the articles
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upcoming in SoB #8, but he has set up a new base of operations and will be
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giving us a full report to be released with SoB #8.
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Anyways, we figured you'd want something on Christmas Day, so we just
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pushed this back two days and now here it is. Herein lies stuff you'd expect
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and some that you wouldn't. We've got the long-awaited third volume of the
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Seven Tales of Spam, and Phadrous joins us once again with his stream-of-
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consciousness ramblings that somehow make sense even though he says they
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don't. Nemo est Sanctus also comes back with a few essays, and I'll leave the
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rest of 'em for you to read. Don't want to give away the surprise ending, eh?
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Oh, we'd also like to welcome to new writers, Morrigan and Dirk Russell. I'm
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sure you'll find their writing a pleasure to read.
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Also, you should find the new State of unBeing FAQ that Crux Ansata made
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in the same place you found this file. If not, it's available at the
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distribution sites listed at the end of the zine. If you are a writer, send
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us a little background on yourself (true or not) and Crux Ansata will include
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it in the next revision. And if you ever find yourself frequently asking
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questions about SoB, let us know so we can answer them.
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Well, that about does it for my editorial this time around. If you are
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still wanting to send in new headers for the next issue, please get those to
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me as soon as possible. If all goes well, next month will see the release of
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two issues. If not, well, hell... you've waited this long, what's another
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month? Heh.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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STAFF LiSTiNG
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EDITOR
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Kilgore Trout
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CONTRIBUTORS
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Captain Moonlight
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Ivy Carson
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Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
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Flying Rat's Nostril
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KidKnee
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Morrigan
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Nemo est Sanctus
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Phadrous
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Dirk Russell
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Thunder
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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ON AN iDEALiSTiC MODEL OF BEAUTY
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by Nemo est Sanctus
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Consider the human female. The most beautiful walk like a grasshopper,
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if you study the gait closely. Why? Why. Elaine Morgan says it is because
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women have not yet evolved into a fully bipedal form. It is, though, not
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important. The important thing is that it is beautiful.
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What is beauty? Often considered, our society seems to have no clear
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philosophy on beauty. This is because beauty is an art, and like all arts, it
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cannot be appreciated by the masses. Today, we see art torn apart by market
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forces, as "art" -- and "beauty" -- must be packaged and mass produced so as
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to make money so the artist can survive. Because of this, we have seen a
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marked shift in what is considered "beautiful".
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Consider the skin. In the days that beauty was appreciated, we saw the
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image of the "alabaster maiden". The pale was seen as beautiful. Today, the
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obscene and plebeian concept that a burnt skin is "beautiful" dominates the
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media. A tanned skin has become the view of "beauty". But why? A tanned
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skin is plebeian. A tanned skin denoted, in happier days, the skin of those
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who toiled in the fields. The uneducated, the lower class. When these proles
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gained money, the "artists" stroked their ego by redefining "beauty" to in-
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clude them.
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But why was the pale beautiful? Because the pale was unnatural. The
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pale denoted someone who had worked on appearance by avoiding exposure.
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Because the pale was artificial.
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Consider cosmetics. Women do not wear lipstick to show, to reveal.
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There is nothing there that they seek to show better. Rather, they wear it to
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hide, to conceal. It is worn to hide the stains of defiling kisses already
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spoiling the beauty of the lips, or it is worn by foolish innocents to hide
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their purity and attract beasts in human form. Why does this attract? Be-
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cause it is evil, and evil is so much more beautiful than good. But more than
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this, it is artificial. Although lipstick is now appropriated as the domain
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of everywoman, it is still a vestige of the artificial.
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One current trend in cosmetics is to look "natural". The point of make-
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up it to appear as if one is wearing no make-up. Why? Because the masses
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cannot appreciate the artificial. When beauty was appreciated there was an
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artificial ideal to which cosmetics were used. To-day, cosmetics are not worn
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to show. They are not a creative, vital, revolutionary tool for the creation
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of beauty. They have fallen into the hands of the plebeians, and are now
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concealing, dead, reactionary tools used not to show beauty but to conceal
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faults.
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There is, of course, a deeper trend here. Beauty is no longer appreciat-
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ed because the masses have not the culture to appreciate the subtilties of
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beauty. Although the masses do not admit it to themselves, they realize full
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well their ugliness. They try to hide their ugliness through concealing
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cosmetics, they try to deceive themselves by redefining beauty to include the
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plebeian. They try to be exactly the same.
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They no longer have an ideal of beauty, so they try to make it appear
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that they are not as ugly as their fellow.
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Today's world has lost ideal. Beauty, to today's person, is something
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which one wants to appear as. This, gentle reader, is not beauty. Not every
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person can truly look beautiful, for to look beautiful is to attain perfec-
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tion. Beauty is an ideal to which one attains, not something so easily
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achieved.
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It is not "natural" -- dare I say not "normal" -- to be an "alabaster
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maiden". It is not "natural" to be painted to look beautiful. It is artifi-
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cial, and it is an ideal. It is an otherworldly pursuit.
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Having lost the ideal, however, today's woman tries to hide the ugliness
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of the real world and look "natural". This is an action of defeat, and indi-
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cates that today's woman does not have anything to strive towards, only ugli-
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ness to hide from.
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Consider cosmetics once again. Can one believe that slight differences
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can make significant differences in appearance? It is not simply the make-up.
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Consider the walk. The total self-absorption of a beautiful woman is beauti-
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ful in itself. This is not the beauty of "self-confidence". This is the
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beauty of self-absorption. This is the beauty of the self-absorption that
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comes from being conscious that a beautiful woman is the process of trying to
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achieve an ideal. A beautiful woman is a work in progress.
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True beauty is in the hot-house orchid. True beauty is in the carefully
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cultivated, the unnatural, the artificial. True beauty is the pursuit of the
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unattainable, the action of attaining towards perfection. A truly beautiful
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woman is in the action of trying to be God. Today's base version of "beauty"
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is simply in the process of trying to forget she is a human.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"Power is what men seek, and any group that gets it will abuse it. It is the
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same old story."
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--Lincoln Steffens
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CHRiSTMAS, 1994
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by Captain Moonlight
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This being Christmas time, you may well ask, "Captain Moonlight, what do
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you want for Christmas?" (Actually you probably don't give a flying rat's
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nostril, but play along with me on this one.) To which I would answer: "Peace
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on Earth and good will towards men.
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"Or a gun."
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"Or a gun!" you may well fume, "Or a gun! How can you make such con-
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flicting requests?!"
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Actually, these are not really conflicting at all. Any peace which is
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unjust is evil, and, this being Christ's Mass, it is a time when evils must be
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overthrown. As Irish President Patrick Henry Pearse said in his famous "Peace
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and the Gael",
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War is a terrible thing, but war is not an evil thing. It is the
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things that make war necessary that are evil. The tyrannies that
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wars break, the lying formulae that wars overthrow, the hypocrisies
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that wars strip naked, are evil.
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Pearse was executed by the British for helping lead the Irish Easter Rising of
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1916.
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As long as there are oppressed living in America, or whatever country you
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live in, you must be willing to fight to end that injustice. As William Allen
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White said, "Peace without justice is tyranny." If we have peace on Earth,
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but without goodwill towards men, we must all be prepared to march, gun in
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hand, to the nearest place of government. "The only thing necessary for the
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triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing," said Edmund Burke (1729-1797),
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and the attitude that "It's not my problem" will be the death of us all.
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You see, dear reader, my statement was not at all contradictory. Peace
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without justice, and goodwill, is an evil peace, the Devil's peace, and it
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cannot be left to stand. It has been the apathetic attitude that it's easier
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to let someone else take care of it that has dug our graves, and now, unless
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we are prepared to fight, we must lie in them.
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This being the end of the old year, it is a good time to ask one's self,
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"Exactly what have I done this year?" I recently read a public message on
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Scum Net, a local BBS network carried by Isis Unveiled, in which a man calling
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himself The Godfather made a statement which impressed me, saying that all of
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us, at least once a year, must look at ourselves and look at our morals, and
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think "Is this really what I believe? Is this really what I should be doing?"
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I suggest that we all do just this, and look again at our morals and our
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actions, and see if they coincide. We must all decide if we really believe in
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what we are doing, and if we don't, decide how to change it. And if armed
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revolution is the only way to fix the government's corruption today, then so
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be it.
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The moral is, if we are to continue living with each other, we must do
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away with tyrannies both personal and societal, and I believe that the anni-
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versary of the birth of Christ is as good a time as any to reiterate this. We
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all must be willing to kill and die for our beliefs. If your morals and your
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beliefs are not important enough to you to die for, then you need different
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beliefs. To quote Pearse,
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It is because peace is so precious a boon that war is so sacred a
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duty. . . . Christ's peace is lovely in its coming, beautiful are
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its feet on the mountains. But it is heralded by terrific messen-
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gers; seraphim and cherubim blow trumpets of war before it. We must
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not flinch when we are passing through that uproar; we must not
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faint at the sight of blood. Winning through it, we (or those of us
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who survive) shall come unto great joy.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"Our differences are politics. Our agreements, principles.
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--William McKinley
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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MEMOiRS OF BOREDOM
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by Phadrous
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I awoke once more and found that I had lost my lust for rest. Too much
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time had been spent meandering through mind in this limbotic fashion. How
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many days had I slept? Two? Three? No, no days though it felt like it. I
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picked up my journal from beside my chair, rubbed most of the crap out of my
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eyes and began writing. What I wrote made no sense so I turned on the lamp
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behind me and started over.
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"Proposition: I am a stupid ass."
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I stopped and thought about this. "Why am I a stupid ass?" Then I picked
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lint from my navel and my eyes glassed over. "Why?"
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"Because," I continued on the paper, "when I 'fall in love' I always sit
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around whining on paper about how I don't know what to say and 'isn't the world
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crap?' If God is love, then he's also a sadist. But maybe there's love and
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not just libido-reduced feeling.
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I set down my pen and paper, picked up a guitar and sat playing and
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thinking about my future. Something I recommend for anyone in too good a
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state of mind. I wondered what I'd do, where I'd be. I thought of Doris Day
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signing "Kay Sera" (sic) to the questions of life and wanted to brain the
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stupid bitch. Where had I always dreamed of? England. Europe. Couldn't
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happen, could it? Would I not die from claustrophobia? Just a few states
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north and the horizon begins to disappear along with the sun. I wasn't sure
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if I could handle that. I was used to the wide open spaces. Right? Not
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exactly. Put me in Iowa, even with the sun and I'd feel the same. I feared
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anything different. Well, if I was up to that then I must do something odd
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just to spite illogical thinking. What did I want? Love? Maybe. I wanted
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pace of mind but who doesn't?
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I became confused and so made up a new chord that didn't sound half bad.
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Didn't sound half good either. My cat groaned in defiance of my non-
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conformist guitar style. I stopped.
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"Fuck Plato," murmured a voice escaping from a dream.
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"Fuck yourself," I said, answering my overstuffed brain. What did I want
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*right this moment?*
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Fame and fortune. Twenty thousand screaming girls to want me. Yeah.
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That's what I wanted. I wanted everyone to like me, every guy to be jealous
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of me and fear my wrath but be my friend, every woman to want me, and one girl
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to love me. What else *could* a person want? So, to gain this respect, I did
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the same thing that every asshole worth his title does. I sat very still in a
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large country chair moving as slowly through space and therefore as quickly
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through time as I could. I sat as one man put it "completely surrounded by
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*no* beer." But moving that slowly, a beer would have just caused me to sleep
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and its pretty lazy to sleep all day long. If there's one thing I learned
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from my cousin it's not to sleep past 12:00pm. Only lazy bums do that.
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So I ate jello to keep myself awake and got the runs cause that green
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bastard food is too thick to piss and just too slimy to come out solid.
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Ahhhh.... those where the days....
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Kilgore wants an ending to this bit o' shit. Well... sorry. I think
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that's as close as I'm coming to it. If you want to know how this story ends
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you must be a boring son of a bitch cause *I* don't care and I *wrote* the
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goddamn thing. Good night, ya fuckers.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"You may think it's funny, but it isn't."
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-- A cheerleader, on seeing a man struck
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in the chest with a chicken
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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ON THE STANDiNG OVATiON
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by Nemo est Sanctus
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A play I went to see recently was given a standing ovation. Did it
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deserve it? Who could say. I cannot recall a single play recently that did
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not receive one.
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The typical modern audience will applaud at anything. And it does.
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Applause does not occur at intermission and end, as it should. To a certain
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extent, this can be attributed to the lack of theater etiquette taught today.
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The advent of film and television has disassociated the interaction of audi-
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ence and actor from the minds of most people. To a very real extent, though,
|
|
it is a lack of value.
|
|
|
|
In certain instances, it is understood to applaud during an act. In very
|
|
rare cases, a standing ovation is proper. A standing ovation is supposed to
|
|
mean that a play was excellent, that a play was somehow greatly superior to
|
|
the standard expectations of the audience.
|
|
|
|
To-day, it is considered an insult to withhold a standing ovation. What
|
|
can a standing ovation possibly mean, what satisfaction can an actor receive
|
|
from a standing ovation, when a standing ovation is expected?
|
|
|
|
This is a symptom that occurs in many forms in to-day's society. To-day,
|
|
it is considered an insult to withhold a tip. A tip is considered the norm,
|
|
and to withhold one a slight. Why? If a tip were standard, it would no
|
|
longer be a tip. What benefit can a tip imply if it is expected? If someone
|
|
is paid to be a waiter, why is a tip expected? A tip is -- or should be --
|
|
expected as the result of extraordinary service. It no longer is.
|
|
|
|
In the hands of the modern audience, the standing ovation has become
|
|
cheapened, just as all the modern audience touches does. The modern world has
|
|
lost the concept of the better, that which attains towards the perfect, and
|
|
instead expects that it be given that which pleases it. The modern audience
|
|
does not approach a play, a work of art, with the intent of seeing beauty.
|
|
The modern audience expects to be amused.
|
|
|
|
The modern audience expects to be pleased, and in so doing, is oblivious
|
|
to the fact that the purpose of a play, the purpose of any work of art, is to
|
|
create beauty. The modern audience has no concept of beauty, and so is
|
|
slighted if it is not amused. Being unable to appreciate the purpose of art,
|
|
it cheapens this art.
|
|
|
|
As long as art is produced for the satisfaction of the masses, no beauty
|
|
will result. Only when art is returned for art's sake, and the audience can
|
|
be made to realize that their part in a play is as the worshiper at an alter,
|
|
as one permitted to see the mysteries and expected to be in awe of that which
|
|
is presented, can beauty be produced once again. Only when the ego of the
|
|
plebeian can be overcome can the beauty of the Muses be revered once again.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- POETRiE -=]
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
DEATH OF NOTHiNG
|
|
by Morrigan
|
|
|
|
Black as the night I hear you scream
|
|
from the darkness of an abandoned dream
|
|
of which you are nothing
|
|
you are dead but still
|
|
alive from the abandonment of your insignificant life
|
|
you run from fire of the lion's sun
|
|
that is carried by the evil one
|
|
you shriek with fear of the loss of life
|
|
as you run you are crying
|
|
and yelling for help
|
|
but nothing happens
|
|
all of a sudden you stop and bend down to pray
|
|
pray to the goddess from your dreams
|
|
you don't know what's happening
|
|
you only know you're being taken over by a spirit
|
|
after you pray you look
|
|
and see nothing but light rays
|
|
with blue and purple and white
|
|
nothing is there.
|
|
you look down at your feet
|
|
you see nothing but
|
|
miles and miles of light rays
|
|
you think you're dead but realize
|
|
you're still alive
|
|
in the darkness
|
|
of all surrounding life
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Go; for thou stay, not free, absents thee more."
|
|
-- Milton, _Paradise Lost_
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
LIVING IN DOUBT
|
|
by Thunder
|
|
|
|
Help me
|
|
I'm lost
|
|
I must get out
|
|
I must get free
|
|
Where am I
|
|
How did I get here
|
|
What did I do
|
|
How did this happen
|
|
My mind is foggy
|
|
I can't remember
|
|
What was it like
|
|
On the outside
|
|
Maybe I didn't like it
|
|
I have my doubts
|
|
I live with doubt
|
|
I live here
|
|
I will never leave
|
|
Never
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"To speak of the natural death of the village communities in virtue of economic
|
|
laws is as grim a joke as to speak of the natural death of soldiers slaugh-
|
|
tered on a battlefield."
|
|
-- Peter Kropotkin, _Mutual Aid_
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
BLOOD
|
|
by KidKnee
|
|
|
|
THE HUNGER
|
|
|
|
as she tears at her wrist,
|
|
so does she tear at my heart.
|
|
|
|
i watch that tender flesh tear away so easily,
|
|
so delicately.
|
|
and the crimson drops flow so naturally,
|
|
so lovingly.
|
|
like tiny caresses down her arm i watch them flow.
|
|
her skin as pale as death,
|
|
her skin as white as snow.
|
|
her blood as red as life,
|
|
her blood burning through my soul.
|
|
|
|
her head cocks back in a silent moan.
|
|
as i can only writhe in desire,
|
|
wanting that which i cannot have.
|
|
as her blood flows, so does mine boil with desire.
|
|
i yearn for but a taste of that crimson lust.
|
|
i will taste, i MUST!!!
|
|
|
|
OH GOD, iF THAT BE THY NAME, KNOW THAT i DESiRE ONLY THiS ONE
|
|
THiNG. THiS SiNGLE DROP. That single woman.
|
|
those unholy drops, those beckoning drips, they scream out to
|
|
my soul and make my teeth all gnashy.
|
|
this hunger tears at my ever fading sanity.
|
|
this blood tears at my brain.
|
|
|
|
as it drips from her arm to her thigh, my head cocks back in
|
|
a silent moan.
|
|
a scream of desire.
|
|
a scream of hunger.
|
|
oh do i lust for that hunger that tears at my insides to tear
|
|
at her insides, and get drunk of their life, and make it
|
|
mine.
|
|
as it trickles it tickles my every nerve.
|
|
a thousand caresses at my spine as i lurch forward and
|
|
forever take that which is not mine.
|
|
basking in her warmth.
|
|
suckling at her breast.
|
|
painting myself with her death.
|
|
|
|
damn that hunger.
|
|
it ever gnaws at my sanity.
|
|
it ever gnaws at me.
|
|
though filled with stolen life, i am forever empty.
|
|
the blood still screams for me.
|
|
the blood still moans for me.
|
|
the hunger still thinks for me.
|
|
|
|
her skin as pale as death,
|
|
her body as pure as snow.
|
|
her blood as red as life,
|
|
her death my tomorrow.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Inside every anarchist is a slave screaming to get out."
|
|
-- Nemo est Sanctus
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
ALWAYS THE WRONG SEASON
|
|
by Morrigan
|
|
|
|
it is coming
|
|
it is coming for me
|
|
the sun is breaking free
|
|
the light fills the sky
|
|
as the bird flies
|
|
over-head the wind
|
|
cries my name
|
|
it is coming for me now
|
|
it's always the wrong season
|
|
"can't you feel my pain
|
|
or are you sane?"
|
|
it is not my turn to fade away
|
|
as i lay
|
|
you can see inside my meaningless heart
|
|
with green and yellow it tears in two
|
|
there it goes
|
|
it is lost and can't be found
|
|
it will soon come again for me
|
|
but that will be the right season
|
|
to fade
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"My girl says she'll take no one else as a lover.
|
|
No one else -- she says -- even if Jove were to coax.
|
|
*Says!* but the words they say, these girls, to their panting lovers,
|
|
Write on the giddy wind. Write on the stream as it flows."
|
|
-- Catullus, LXX
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
PLASTiC DOLL
|
|
by Ivy Carson
|
|
|
|
My silly eyelashes bat at a newly found friend.
|
|
Beneath charming false blushes I smile,
|
|
beguile -- defile the moments I spend
|
|
whilst I whimsically chatter and wile.
|
|
|
|
Oh, I mustn't be thought of as two dimensional.
|
|
I'm considered deep among my peers,
|
|
and am called quite unconventional
|
|
by foppish fools who don't sense my fears.
|
|
|
|
Destruction occurs within my anguish laden breast
|
|
as the massive steel gadget is wound --
|
|
a knob resting on my plastic chest
|
|
ruthlessly whirling and twirling round.
|
|
|
|
Repetitive patterns fester in my pathetic mold.
|
|
I spin in a horridly cruel trap.
|
|
My being reflects the knob I hold.
|
|
Revolving, degrading -- a harsh slap.
|
|
|
|
I exist solely as an insipid little doll
|
|
greeting failures with a sulky pout
|
|
stagnant behind a circular wall,
|
|
a lost wind-up toy flitting about.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Let us abolish policemen who carry clubs and revolvers and put in a squad of
|
|
poets armed to the teeth with poems on Spring and Love."
|
|
--Mark Twain
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
APART
|
|
by Morrigan
|
|
|
|
I stand near them
|
|
but am far removed
|
|
my mind is where
|
|
their's are not
|
|
|
|
I send them letters
|
|
and receive replies
|
|
but the words
|
|
do not come from them
|
|
|
|
I give them gifts
|
|
and am given in return
|
|
but the heart of the materials
|
|
is lost in the packaging
|
|
|
|
where did they go
|
|
where did I go
|
|
why are they near
|
|
why am I far
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Knock, knock."
|
|
--the Angel of Death
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
i'M DEAD
|
|
by KidKnee
|
|
|
|
If i were dead.
|
|
|
|
Would you love me more if i were dead?
|
|
Is that what it takes to receive your love?
|
|
|
|
Do you toast me now,
|
|
Joe was a good guy you'd say...
|
|
Kinda strange but a helluva guy.
|
|
|
|
you might if i were dead.
|
|
|
|
Do you cry for me,
|
|
tears of sorrow spilled for me...
|
|
watering the flowers around my grave.
|
|
|
|
you might if i were dead.
|
|
|
|
Do you bring me flowers.
|
|
daisies, lilacs, honeysuckle, and rose.
|
|
showered down around the stone that marks my rotting skull.
|
|
|
|
you might if i were dead.
|
|
|
|
do you say i love you joe,
|
|
i know you can't hear me but i want you to know,
|
|
i'll miss you joe.
|
|
|
|
you might if i were dead.
|
|
|
|
i'll live without your love.
|
|
i'll live without your touch.
|
|
i don't need you love to live
|
|
|
|
though i might when i'm dead.
|
|
|
|
--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--
|
|
|
|
DEAR DiARY
|
|
by Dirk Russell
|
|
|
|
May 20, 1998
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
I can't believe I'm actually writing in a diary! If Tina, my 14 year old
|
|
sister hadn't given it to me, I probably wouldn't even have bothered with one.
|
|
But, since I graduated today, and it was a present, I figured what the hell.
|
|
Why not?
|
|
|
|
So how should I do this? "Dear Diary"?? No... not me at all!
|
|
|
|
Anyway. I graduated from the Police Academy today! I never thought I
|
|
would make it! Officer Greg Murphy. It's got a ring to it!
|
|
|
|
Dad was so damn proud! "I knew he'd carry on the family tradition!" he
|
|
told EVERYONE... Personally, I think he misses it. Oh, he *says* he likes
|
|
being retired... but I know him.
|
|
|
|
Mom says she's happy for me but I can see it in her eyes. She's worried.
|
|
7 cops have been murdered in the last 6 months and there aren't any suspects.
|
|
She's afraid I'm gonna be #8. I know she's thinking of Bobby, my older
|
|
brother. He was killed the first year in the war against Canada. But she
|
|
won't admit it. Well, I have 3 days before I have to report for my first day.
|
|
I'm so damn nervous... I wish I had to go in in the morning. 3 days is going
|
|
to drive me crazy.
|
|
|
|
Well. It's late. I suppose I better try and get some sleep...
|
|
|
|
|
|
May 23, 1998
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
Whew! First day is finally over! I don't know what I really expected but
|
|
I *never* expected anything like today.
|
|
|
|
Everything was ok at first. I was introduced around when I got to the PD
|
|
and then I was formally introduced at roll call. Kinda embarrassing. Oh well.
|
|
My training officer/partner is a woman. Her name is Carolyn Barns. She sure
|
|
seemed cold at first which made me kinda nervous. I finally asked her why.
|
|
|
|
"Look, kid," she says like I'm only 12 years old, "I don't have anything
|
|
against you personally. But I trained 2 of the cops that were killed and I
|
|
don't like it one fucking bit. It makes me wonder what I did wrong. I don't
|
|
like second guessing myself. So you listen close and do exactly what I tell
|
|
you. Understand?"
|
|
|
|
"Yeah," I told her. It was quiet most of the time after that.
|
|
|
|
Other than that the whole day was pretty much boring. We drove around
|
|
a lot and she wrote a few traffic tickets while I watched. The worst part was
|
|
the paper work... And I did most of it.
|
|
|
|
Maybe tomorrow will be better... except I think the paper work will be a
|
|
never ending stream...
|
|
|
|
|
|
May 24, 1998
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
God... I feel sick. I worked my first auto accident today. 6 vehicles I
|
|
never saw anyone dead before. Except at funerals but that isn't the same. So
|
|
much blood. There was blood, glass and gasoline everywhere. I don't know how
|
|
I kept from losing my lunch. I don't think I'll ever forget that lady's face.
|
|
The terror was frozen on it like someone had sculpted it there. Her eyes were
|
|
green. I thought she was still alive when I reached her. I *know* I saw her
|
|
head turn as I ran up to what was left of her car. She must've died before I
|
|
got to her. I must've stood there looking into her lifeless eyes for a long
|
|
time. When I finally looked away I made the mistake of looking into the car.
|
|
That's when I noticed the child.... Oh God... I can't take this...
|
|
|
|
Carolyn says I'll get use to it. I can't imagine getting use to it. I
|
|
asked her if she remembered the first time she worked an accident. She got
|
|
that far away look in her eyes and walked off.
|
|
|
|
Everyone says I did a good job, especially since it was the first time I
|
|
worked an accident like that. All I know is the whole time I kept seeing those
|
|
green eyes...
|
|
|
|
I dread tomorrow...
|
|
|
|
|
|
May 28, 1998
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
Work has been slow last couple of days. Thanks God. I stood by while
|
|
Carolyn gave some guy a ticket for speeding. He acted like he was being
|
|
harassed. Told us we should be out catching *real* criminals. Carolyn told
|
|
him he was one and if he didn't cool his attitude he was going to jail. He
|
|
just stood there flapping his mouth like a fish out of water.
|
|
|
|
Bad news. They found another cop dead today. Shot in the back of the
|
|
head like all the others. His name was Joseph Balock. I only met him once.
|
|
Seemed like a nice guy. Carolyn must've known him pretty well. I don't think
|
|
I could've imagined her crying. I tried to get her to tell me about him but
|
|
she just yelled something incoherent at me and told me to "Shut the fuck up!"
|
|
|
|
I think she hates me.
|
|
|
|
There's a lot of talk around the station about finding whoever it is
|
|
that's killing cops. Some want to take him out somewhere and shoot him then
|
|
cut him up into tiny pieces and burn the pieces to ashes.
|
|
|
|
I'm not sure how I feel about it but I think I'm beginning to agree with
|
|
some of them.
|
|
|
|
|
|
June 4, 1998
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
Arrested my first person today. Some drunk weaving all over the road. He
|
|
got out of the car, slurs "Wha's th' prblemm, osferfs?" and passed out right
|
|
there in the street. He woke up long enough for me to read him his rights. I
|
|
don't think he even realized what was going on...
|
|
|
|
I finally got up the nerve to ask my partner why she hates me.
|
|
|
|
"I don't hate you, Murphy," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Bullshit. You've treated me like a red headed step child since day one,"
|
|
I snapped back. I was determined to let her know I was pissed.
|
|
|
|
She let the air out of my ego real quick.
|
|
|
|
"Look. I've trained a lot of rookies. A lot of 'em ended up quitting.
|
|
Some died because they made stupid mistakes. Trying to be fucking heroes." She
|
|
stopped for a second, to think, I guess. "At first, I tried to get to know the
|
|
new guy. After my first trainee got himself killed and the next two quit, I
|
|
thought it was me."
|
|
|
|
We stopped at a red light and her voice got soft. "I made the mistake of
|
|
getting emotionally involved with one rookie. He died saving some kid's life.
|
|
I swore after that I'd never get close to trainees ever again."
|
|
|
|
She looked me in the eye, a memory burning behind them. "It isn't you,
|
|
Murphy. It's just the way things are. If you make it through the next year
|
|
and stay with the Department, I have no doubt we'll be friends but right now
|
|
you're just another face."
|
|
|
|
So now, I'm determined to stay on. I like her. She doesn't mince words.
|
|
|
|
|
|
August 12, 1998
|
|
---------------
|
|
|
|
It's been 12 days. I haven't seen a soul in the entire city. I don't
|
|
know what happened. 12 days ago I woke up like any other day. I thought it
|
|
was kind of odd that there was nothing on the radio or TV. I didn't really
|
|
think much of it until I drove to work. It seemed like a normal day except
|
|
there wasn't anyone around. No cars. No people. It's like they all just
|
|
vanished.
|
|
|
|
I took a cruiser out the first day and drove around the city and yelled
|
|
for someone, anyone, over the P.A. Nothing.
|
|
|
|
The second day I dialed number after number in the phone book. I dialed
|
|
till my fingers hurt. No answer at any of them. Not even the Government
|
|
listings. I tried calling my grandparents in Dallas. Nothing.
|
|
|
|
Over the last 3 days I've been out to several of the surrounding towns.
|
|
There hasn't been any one.
|
|
|
|
Whatever happened only seems to have taken the people. There are still
|
|
birds and cows. I hear dogs barking at night and have seen a few cats.
|
|
|
|
Why am I the only person left? Maybe I'm dead and this is Hell.
|
|
|
|
At least the power is still on but I don't know for how long. I've got
|
|
to get a generator soon. Fuel is no problem. There are a lot of cars out
|
|
there that I can get gas from. Food is no problem either. All the stores are
|
|
full so I won't starve to death.
|
|
|
|
I still wear my uniform just in case someone is out there. Hopefully,
|
|
they won't think I'm trouble and will come to me like people have always done
|
|
when they need help and see a cop.
|
|
|
|
Tomorrow I'm going to San Antonio. I really don't think I'll find anyone
|
|
though. If this were just a local thing I'm pretty sure someone would have
|
|
come here to find out what happened.
|
|
|
|
I fear I am totally alone.
|
|
|
|
|
|
August 14, 1998
|
|
---------------
|
|
|
|
I've been in San Antonio for almost 2 full days now. Empty. Just like
|
|
everywhere else. I thought I heard someone today. Looked around for 2 or 3
|
|
hours and found nothing.
|
|
|
|
Damn! What is going on!?
|
|
|
|
I deliberately set off alarms in various places and waited for someone to
|
|
show up. Not one soul.
|
|
|
|
I'm still driving the cruiser around. Occasionally, I'll turn the siren
|
|
on and wait to see if anyone shows up. Fruitless, of course.
|
|
|
|
I've seen accidents since the first day while driving around. The first
|
|
one actually excited me. I guess even the hopes of finding even a dead body
|
|
would give me hope of finding living people. Nothing. The cars must've kept
|
|
going after their drivers vanished.
|
|
|
|
I'm becoming extremely paranoid. I feel like someone is watching me. At
|
|
first it was just a vague feeling. Now it's like every window is hiding a
|
|
face. Or several. Right now I'm sitting in some motel. I checked every
|
|
square inch of this place for hidden microphones and cameras. I tore apart
|
|
cardboard boxes and stapled them over this room's single window. I still don't
|
|
feel completely at ease though.
|
|
|
|
I feel like a kid left home alone getting into the liquor cabinet half
|
|
afraid mom and dad are gonna come home and catch me.
|
|
|
|
Is this what it feels like to lose your mind?
|
|
|
|
It's starting to rain. Sounds bad. Thunders every few seconds.
|
|
|
|
I just checked outside. The rain is coming down like God just opened the
|
|
flood gates. Lightning like a mad house! Going to be hard to sleep tonight.
|
|
Tomorrow I'm going back to Austin.
|
|
|
|
|
|
August 15, 1998
|
|
---------------
|
|
|
|
I'm sitting on the outskirts of San Antonio right now. The sky is lit up
|
|
like the early morning just as the sun comes over the horizon.
|
|
|
|
I woke up to the sound of the hotel room's smoke alarm. I panicked at
|
|
first. I had my weapon in hand and fired off the entire clip in those first
|
|
few seconds before I realized what was happening. The place was on fire. I
|
|
didn't even bother to dress. I just grabbed what I could carry and threw the
|
|
door open. I jumped into the cruiser and took off.
|
|
|
|
I figured a lightening strike had set the place on fire. Or maybe a fuse
|
|
blew somewhere. It wasn't until I was out of the parking lot that I realized
|
|
I was surrounded by walls of flame.
|
|
|
|
As I watch now, I can only guess that half the city is burning. Maybe
|
|
more. Well, if there was anyone there, I hope they got out in time. I wonder
|
|
how far it will spread? Maybe the rain will keep the damage to a minimum.
|
|
|
|
Well, I'm too keyed to sleep now. Time to go home.
|
|
|
|
|
|
August 19, 1998
|
|
---------------
|
|
|
|
I know for a fact now that I am losing my mind.
|
|
|
|
I keep hearing my name being called. And it always seems like a different
|
|
person. Sometimes Mom or Dad. Sometimes it's a voice I don't recognize.
|
|
Funny, I thought I heard my partner, Carolyn's voice once.
|
|
|
|
I walked through one of the malls today. Kind of strange to see the place
|
|
empty. I sat down at one point and just closed my eyes. I could almost hear
|
|
all the voices and the other sounds of people walking from store to store.
|
|
That's when I heard Mom call my name. I jumped up off the bench and looked
|
|
around. It sounded like she was right there next to me.
|
|
|
|
"Mom!" I shouted. My voice echoed back at me.
|
|
|
|
I heard my name again. This time behind me. I spun around only to see a
|
|
fake potted plant.
|
|
|
|
"HELLO!!!" I yelled as loud as I could.
|
|
|
|
Silence mocked me.
|
|
|
|
I ran all over the place. Yelling, screaming. Before I knew it I was
|
|
leaning against a wall crying like a baby wanting his mother.
|
|
|
|
I don't know how much longer I can take this. I know before long I'm
|
|
going to either go completely insane or put a bullet in my head. Either way,
|
|
I'll be alone. At least if I were crazy I probably wouldn't know it. Or care.
|
|
|
|
I think I'll go get a portable tape player tomorrow. The kind you can
|
|
wear on your belt and put headphones on. Maybe that'll stop the voices.
|
|
|
|
I doubt it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
January 25, 1999
|
|
----------------
|
|
|
|
Happy Birthday!
|
|
|
|
Today is my birthday. To celebrate, I got some cake mix and frosting in a
|
|
can from the store and made me a cake. Worst one I ever tasted! I mean it
|
|
was good but it lacked that flavor birthday cake has when you have real people
|
|
to share it with. These mannequins don't talk back or eat or anything.
|
|
|
|
I just had to have *someone* to talk to. So I grabbed a couple of store
|
|
mannequins and dressed them up. At least I have someone human looking to stare
|
|
at across the table. Or to watch TV with. Video tapes of course. At least I
|
|
don't have to worry about waiting for returns from the video stores. I'm
|
|
getting to watch all those movies I've been wanting to see but haven't had the
|
|
time.
|
|
|
|
The power is still on but I've already started using the generator
|
|
instead. Decided to get into the habit of using it for when the power does
|
|
finally go out.
|
|
|
|
I've given up looking for people. The dummies and the voices keep me
|
|
company now. I threw the tape player away. It seemed to make the voices
|
|
clearer and I couldn't handle it. Half heard mumblings were getting on my
|
|
nerves.
|
|
|
|
I'm starting to spend a lot of time at the library. I decided I better
|
|
start learning how to grow vegetables and hunt. I need fresh food. The canned
|
|
stuff can't last forever.
|
|
|
|
Deer and other animals are starting to come into the city. I read about
|
|
traps for small animals today. So tomorrow I'm going to either get one at a
|
|
hunting store or build one myself. Maybe I can catch a rabbit or something.
|
|
|
|
|
|
December 25, 1999
|
|
-----------------
|
|
|
|
It's Christmas Day. Almost a new century!
|
|
|
|
I went out and got me a new car today. A Porsche. Nice.
|
|
|
|
I got David a truck with a camper on back. Ungrateful bastard just sat
|
|
there and didn't say a thing. I knew I should have left him in the store.
|
|
|
|
For Darla, I got a diamond bracelet. She just loved it! She must not be
|
|
mad at me any more because she let me put it on her wrist.
|
|
|
|
I got Kathy a new book to read. She must have read that other one a
|
|
million times by now. I guess she likes it. She's sitting by the fireplace
|
|
reading it right now.
|
|
|
|
I had to throw Steven out of the house. He's been asking for it for a
|
|
couple days now. Just sits in the kitchen and doesn't do anything all day.
|
|
Not to mention he's been making nasty comments about Darla. The bastard had
|
|
the nerve to accuse me of drinking all the tea and not making any more. He's
|
|
sitting out in the front yard sulking right now. Let him.
|
|
|
|
John and Mitsy are suppose to come over tonight for dinner. I'm going to
|
|
cook some of the deer steaks and baked potatoes too. Kathy suggested stuffing
|
|
and gravy. So tonight we're going to really eat. John said he was going to
|
|
bring some scotch for afterwards. We'll probably end up getting shit-faced
|
|
again.
|
|
|
|
Having them around is nice. They're a quiet bunch most of the time.
|
|
Which is ok I suppose.
|
|
|
|
One other bad thing. I had a bad argument with Mark. I went to see him
|
|
to talk to him about the voices. I heard Mom again this morning and she was
|
|
crying.
|
|
|
|
Mark said, "Man, you're fucking crazy."
|
|
|
|
I asked him, "When did you become a fucking shrink? Who the hell do you
|
|
think you are, asshole?"
|
|
|
|
"Look," he said, "you live alone and hear voices that don't exist."
|
|
|
|
"Fuck you!" I told him, getting right in his face.
|
|
|
|
"NO! Fuck you!" he yelled back. "You got dummies in your house right now
|
|
and talk to 'em like they're fucking real! You got 'em set up all over town!"
|
|
|
|
"I ain't fucking crazy!" I yelled back at Mark. "Those are my friends
|
|
you're talking about so you better watch your mouth!"
|
|
|
|
"You're nuts, Greg!" he yells back. "Face it! You've gone completely over
|
|
the edge!"
|
|
|
|
That's when I hit him. I hit him so hard he fell over his coffee table
|
|
and his head fell off. I helped him into his favorite chair and put his head
|
|
back on. I sat there and apologized for several minutes but he just sat there.
|
|
I could tell he was really pissed off. I'll take him some steak and stuffing
|
|
tomorrow. Maybe he won't be as angry.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Spring 2000
|
|
-----------
|
|
|
|
I forgot what day it is. This is one of my clearer moments. It just
|
|
dawned on me that I have lost my mind.
|
|
|
|
It happened when I was talking to Kathy. No. That isn't right. I was
|
|
talking to a dummy I named Kathy. I've been piling books around her to read.
|
|
I was asking her how her current one was going and she didn't answer. I
|
|
figured she was really absorbed into it. So I got up to go to the kitchen and
|
|
stubbed my toe on the coffee table. I hit it so hard it split the nail down to
|
|
the skin. It brought tears to my eyes.
|
|
|
|
That's when I looked up and saw a mannequin sitting in my living room.
|
|
And the past few months came flooding back in a rush.
|
|
|
|
I've lost it. I've been living in a fantasy world and didn't even notice.
|
|
That, or I just ignored reality.
|
|
|
|
Even now, it's hard to separate what's real and what's not. I have this
|
|
incredible urge to go over to Mark's house and tell him there's a dummy in my
|
|
living room. Except he's one too. I think. No. I'm sure of it. Well,
|
|
almost sure.
|
|
|
|
I've been slipping in and out all day. I'd stop and talk to someone (?)
|
|
and it would suddenly hit me that I wasn't talking to anyone.
|
|
|
|
Damn... I can hear David now. Asking me if I want to go down to the video
|
|
store and get a couple of movies.
|
|
|
|
HE'S NOT REAL!!! DAMMiT!!!
|
|
|
|
Or is he? Maybe they're all real and I only think they're mannequins. I
|
|
can't tell any more.
|
|
|
|
I got to find out for sure. I swear Darla is asking me what I'm going to
|
|
make for dinner tonight. Is she really? Or am I just imagining it?
|
|
|
|
Damn... She wants chicken. Too bad. She's gonna have to deal with
|
|
whatever I decide to make.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Mid summer (June??)
|
|
-------------------
|
|
|
|
This is my last entry. I can't take this any more. I had to prove to
|
|
myself once and for all what was real and what wasn't. It was hard to do at
|
|
first. I took my shotgun into the living room and pointed it at Kathy. She
|
|
didn't even look up from her damn book. I yelled her name three or four times
|
|
and all she said was "What?" I think anyway.
|
|
|
|
So I pulled the trigger. Her head exploded. No blood or gore. Just
|
|
sawdust and fiberglass. I turned and shot Darla in the chest. She just fell
|
|
over with a dull thud on the carpet. She just lay there with an arm in the
|
|
air.
|
|
|
|
So I went and shot everyone I saw. No one came to stop me. No one ran.
|
|
I shot people until I had one shell left. Then I came back home.
|
|
|
|
Oh, God! Please forgive me for killing them!
|
|
|
|
No... they weren't real... were they??? damn....
|
|
|
|
i got one shell left. only one thing left to do.....
|
|
|
|
if anyone is reading this i just have one thing to say
|
|
|
|
WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU!?!?!?!?!?!?
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
Spam (spam) n. A trademark for spiced pork products. [SP(ICED) (H)AM.]
|
|
|
|
--_The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language_ (1976 Ed.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
7 TALES OF SPAM VOLUME III: KiNG BUBBA AND THE KNiGHTS OF THE NOT-QUiTE-
|
|
ROUND,-SORT-OF-OFF-CENTER-CiRCLE-WiTHOUT-BEiNG-ELLiPSOiD-COFFEE-TABLE,
|
|
PART I
|
|
by Flying Rat's Nostril
|
|
|
|
Prologue
|
|
|
|
This is the tale of mighty King Bubba and his not-quite-so-mighty-but-
|
|
certainly-hard-working knights of the not-quite-round,-sort-of-off-center-
|
|
circle-without-being-ellipsoid-coffee-table. You will hear (well, actually
|
|
you'll read about them, unless, of course, this is being read aloud) about how
|
|
he: became king, bought the not-quite-round,-sort-of-off-center-circle-with-
|
|
out-being-ellipsoid-coffee-table at the great yard sale of Nagi Nagi, how he
|
|
gathered his many knights to fill the director chairs surrounding said table,
|
|
how they defeated the great cheese monster of Ugh, and how, at age 36 1/2, he
|
|
finally learned to tie his laces. This being the tale of his early life and
|
|
reign, will end just before that fabled quest that brought about his untimely
|
|
(actually, it was very convenient) death. That will be told (written, really)
|
|
in a later edition. Namely:
|
|
|
|
7 Tales of Spam Volume IV:
|
|
King Bubba and the Knights of the Not-Quite-
|
|
Round,-Sort-of-Off-Center-Circle-Without-Being-Ellipsoid-Coffee-Table,
|
|
Part II
|
|
The Quest For the Very Holy and Prestigious, Not to Mention
|
|
Nifty, Keen, and Swell, Spam.
|
|
|
|
Chapter I
|
|
|
|
"The felling of an orangutan tree"
|
|
|
|
It was a peaceful day in Spamshire, the Westwood was full of those noises
|
|
that forests are usually full of. Squirrels chirped, birds sang, trees just
|
|
stood there coldly, abstaining from such pointless things, and, with a curse,
|
|
Pan tripped over another tree root, once again firmly embedding his pipes up
|
|
his nose.
|
|
|
|
The noisy silence of the forest was shattered by a solid thunk from deep
|
|
in the woods. On a side note, it is said that many innocent bystanders, who
|
|
had come to the forest collecting berries, were killed by falling pieces of
|
|
silence. The thunk that had broken the silence was repeated, this time fol-
|
|
lowed by several fearful hoots and screams. The thunk was repeated again, it
|
|
was almost a thump this time, but it was indeed a thunk. And again hoots and
|
|
screams filled the air. The thunk was the sound of an old wood axe thunking
|
|
solidly into the trunk of a tree. The axe was held in a hand that was at-
|
|
tached to an arm which ended in the shoulder of a young man named Bubba.
|
|
|
|
Bubba was the apprentice of the great porn-movie director Merlin. Be-
|
|
lieve it or not, Bubba had been sent to chop wood because he could not keep
|
|
his eyes on his work. You see, while he did enjoy participating in and draw-
|
|
ing the pictures for Merlin's great films, more than anything, Bubba wanted to
|
|
be a knight.
|
|
|
|
More accurately, Bubba wanted to carry weapons, not to mention using
|
|
them, and he saw knighthood as means to that goal.
|
|
|
|
The axe thunked into the tree again, sending up another chorus of hoots
|
|
and yells. By now, you must be wondering what is making all that noise. If
|
|
you're not, you obviously spent way too much time watching cats.
|
|
|
|
It seems, that the tree that Bubba chose to chop down happened to be an
|
|
orangutan tree. What, you may be asking, is an orangutan tree? Cob Webster's
|
|
Dictionary describes an orangutan tree as: "A tree from which orangutans
|
|
grow."
|
|
|
|
The orangutans were in full bloom and growing nicely. Their green fur
|
|
was the only indication that they were not ripe. On normal conditions, a ripe
|
|
orangutan is a quite fearsome creature. I once saw an Antarctic orangutan
|
|
wrestling an 80 lbs. squid for the body of an Amazonian tiger beetle.
|
|
|
|
These orangutans, being not ripe, still lacked a backbone, which grows
|
|
only after the vegetable has fallen.
|
|
|
|
As terrified as they were, food is never very far from their minds. You
|
|
may think this fact is totally irrelevant to the story, but it was included in
|
|
order to explain a following statement.
|
|
|
|
One of the green monkeys snatched up a bit of chaos and swallowed it in
|
|
one bite. It managed one, "Urmph!" before it exploded, showering the area
|
|
with frog bodies. This set off a chain reaction of complicated and confusing
|
|
events. You may wish to read the next sentences twice. The exploding orangu-
|
|
tan did so loudly startling Bubba, he began to scratch his head but decided
|
|
that this might not be a good idea while he was holding the axe, so he dropped
|
|
it. The axe fell from his open hand and landed on his toe, not only crushing
|
|
it, but making a horrible squishing noise as it did so. Bubba cursed and
|
|
jumped up on one foot, thinking he might be safer this way. He was wrong. He
|
|
lost his balance and fell against the tree; this was too much stress damaged
|
|
tree trunk to take. With one (actually several at once) last scream from the
|
|
orangutans, both he, the tree, and its orangutan passengers crashed to the
|
|
ground.
|
|
|
|
Chapter II
|
|
|
|
"The makings of a squid . . . er, king"
|
|
|
|
It was about this time that snatches of a horribly butchered song came
|
|
drifting through the forest. The original version of this song is actually
|
|
quite melodious and is considered one of the most beautiful in the world.
|
|
|
|
That description could not be applied to the version that was heard this
|
|
day. If you were to record the sound of two cars, both traveling approximate-
|
|
ly 50 mph, in a head on collision, raise the recording by one octave and play
|
|
it at 1/10 the speed, it would sound nothing like the song. Really there are
|
|
very few things that sound like a two car collision.
|
|
|
|
There are no words to describe the horror of that song. Words such as:
|
|
evil, twisted, sick, gross, macabre, and politician don't even come close to
|
|
describing it. If you took all of these words and combined them, getting
|
|
Geltfaux, you would be getting close. Actually, you could have Geltfaux^2 or
|
|
even Geltfaux^3, getting even closer. The best way to describe it would be:
|
|
Geltfaux .87150 x 10^4, yet even that has a margin of error. The perpetrators
|
|
of that horrible blight on humanity turned out to be four youths. Four stupid
|
|
youths. Four drunken, stupid youths. It is hypothesized that if these youths
|
|
had not been so drunk and so stupid, either the song would never have been
|
|
sung, or if it had, the perpetrators would never have survived. Since they
|
|
were, after all, at ground zero.
|
|
|
|
Presently, they came upon Bubba, who was still sprawled on the ground
|
|
surrounded by green, hooting, orangutans.
|
|
|
|
"Hey, Bubba!" called one of the stupid, drunken youths, "ya hear the
|
|
great noose?!" Bubba didn't bother answering, for at that moment the stupid,
|
|
drunken youth who had spoken suddenly flopped onto the ground and died.
|
|
|
|
Another one of the stupid, drunken youths promptly sat down on the body,
|
|
"No stupid!" he said, kicking the body, "it's not good noose, its bad noose!"
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" asked Bubba jumping up, and landing on one of the orangu-
|
|
tans, not only killing it, but also dooming the world to the horrible fate of
|
|
Glooth (don't worry I'll explain in a later story).
|
|
|
|
"The king is dead!" they shouted gleefully and in unison (even the dead
|
|
one joined in). The three stupid, drunken youths burst into another verse of
|
|
their Geltfaux .87150 x 10^4 song. Bubba was not a very bright man, but not
|
|
only was he much smarter than the three youths, he was also very painfully
|
|
sober.
|
|
|
|
He screamed and dropped to the ground, twitching. The three stupid,
|
|
drunken youths sensed Bubba's distress and stopped singing.
|
|
|
|
"C'mon Bubba," said the dead, drunken, stupid youth, "come with us, we're
|
|
going to vote for the new king."
|
|
|
|
Bubba glanced around, he looked at the fallen orangutan tree, at the
|
|
three stupid, drunken youths, and finally at the poor orangutans, all of which
|
|
were dead except for one, who was having a brisk conversation with Richard
|
|
Nixon.
|
|
|
|
"Sure," he said, wiping the blood from his nose and ears, "why not?!"
|
|
|
|
Now you must understand that Spamshire is a very different than its
|
|
neighboring countries. There are many differences, but only one of these
|
|
should effect you. Unless, of course, you happened to be a giant sloth.
|
|
|
|
The main difference, but not the strangest, is that the people of Spam-
|
|
shire voted for their kings. This has gotten them into trouble a number of
|
|
times. I will explain shortly.
|
|
|
|
Many hours and many casualties later, due to that Geltfaux^4 song, Bubba
|
|
and the three drunken, stupid, youths arrived at the voting office.
|
|
|
|
The main clerk was out of the office, doing that thing with the sloths,
|
|
leaving only an inflatable copy of himself.
|
|
|
|
"Excuse me sir, but I would like to vote," said Bubba.
|
|
|
|
The clerk looked at him blankly.
|
|
|
|
"Hello? Are you listening to me?!"
|
|
|
|
The clerk did not respond.
|
|
|
|
"Hey, you! I have a Lorg given right to vote, and I intend to exercise
|
|
it!"
|
|
|
|
The clerk calmly took this tirade, but still did not respond.
|
|
|
|
It was at this precise moment that, in Newark, a pigeon died (thus doom-
|
|
ing the world to a horrible fate).
|
|
|
|
It was also at this precise moment that one of the stupid, drunken youths
|
|
burst into song. One of his companions, who had become sober over the few
|
|
minutes, realized that he had been singing that song for the past three days
|
|
and died screaming.
|
|
|
|
The inflatable dummy, who was inanimate and therefore did not have the
|
|
option of going insane or getting drunk, calmly deflated itself.
|
|
|
|
Bubba and the remaining stupid, drunken youths saw that the clerk was
|
|
going to take a nap, and so took it upon themselves to take a couple of voting
|
|
tickets.
|
|
|
|
Well, believe it or not, I was wrong. There is another custom of Spam-
|
|
shire that concerns you, even if you aren't a giant sloth.
|
|
|
|
The people of Spamshire have the nasty habit of naming stupid people
|
|
Bubba. Suffice it to say that all four of the stupid, drunken youths respon-
|
|
sible for that Lorg damned song, were named Bubba.
|
|
|
|
It is also a well known fact that many stupid people have the nasty habit
|
|
of writing their names in on the ballot when they don't know any of the candi-
|
|
dates. The Bubba's of Spamshire were no exception, so all over the kingdom
|
|
people were writing Bubba in on the ballot.
|
|
|
|
Now, as I said earlier, Bubba was not a very bright man. He was, howev-
|
|
er, much smarter than the average Bubba. While he did still write his own
|
|
name in on the ballot, he also included his address. He thought that if
|
|
someone was going to get his vote, even if it was himself, people had a right
|
|
to know where to find this person. Did I mention that a majority of the
|
|
Spamshire population had an I.Q. lower than a gopher's basement? Well they
|
|
did.
|
|
|
|
And so it was, that in the year of our Spam, 1058, Bubba was named king.
|
|
This was good for Bubba, because now he could behead people.
|
|
|
|
Historians note that the number of executions tripled in Bubba's reign.
|
|
It is also said that the general populace did not seem to mind, because he
|
|
only executed members of law enforcement. Indeed, this did not stop until the
|
|
police chief of Spamshire (the only law enforcement agent left) arrested
|
|
himself and threw himself in jail.
|
|
|
|
Unfortunately, there were no longer any guards and so he promptly es-
|
|
caped.
|
|
|
|
Chapter III
|
|
|
|
"The great yard sale of Nagi Nagi"
|
|
|
|
It is said that there are five great events in our past. The slaying of
|
|
Spam, the bringing of Spam to man, the great yard sale of Nagi Nagi, one event
|
|
I must keep secret for a future issue, and of course the horrible calamity of
|
|
Glooth.
|
|
|
|
There were only three times in history that the great yard sale of Nagi
|
|
Nagi existed. One of these times was shortly after Bubba had been cora . . .
|
|
coran . . . made king.
|
|
|
|
Bubba arrived at the sale on its third and final day of business. Appar-
|
|
ently, the former king had had a fetish of eating off the floor, and so did
|
|
not have a dining table. Bubba had used up all of his yearly budget on a
|
|
shiny, new, Spam encrusted guillotine. He first tried to use his "mad" money
|
|
to buy one, but he didn't have enough. He then dipped into his "stupid"
|
|
money, but he still did not have enough. He only had enough when he combined
|
|
his "mad", his "stupid", and his "worthless drunk" money.
|
|
|
|
He arrived at the sale accompanied only by Merlin, who he had made his
|
|
advisor, and a young page.
|
|
|
|
Right as they walked past the big banner declaring the event, a sales
|
|
representative of undetermined age approached.
|
|
|
|
"Greetings my king! I am Hor . . . er, Cormel and I will be your sales
|
|
rep. today!"
|
|
|
|
"Hello I am Bubba, and I will . . . "
|
|
|
|
"NO! Stop!" screamed Cormel, "do not say that! I hate that! I hate it!
|
|
I hate it! I hate it!"
|
|
|
|
"Oh . . . er," replied Bubba.
|
|
|
|
Cormel wiped the foam from his mouth and smiled, "Please forgive me sir,
|
|
you must realize that I am under a large amount of stress."
|
|
|
|
Bubba looked up, above Cormel's head, but saw nothing. "Er . . . um," he
|
|
said.
|
|
|
|
"How can I help you sir?" asked Cormel.
|
|
|
|
"I am looking for a dining table, a round one," responded Bubba.
|
|
|
|
Cormel raised one of his thirteen eyebrows, "I'm sorry sir, but we have
|
|
no bananas today."
|
|
|
|
"Er . . . Well, that's nice, but I asked about dining tables," said
|
|
Bubba.
|
|
|
|
Cormel's face attempted to look sorrowful, but could only pull off dis-
|
|
gruntled, "My deepest apologies sir, but we have no bananas. Would you like
|
|
an apple? We have some very nice apples."
|
|
|
|
Suddenly, Bubba had an idea. "How about a banana? I would like to buy a
|
|
banana."
|
|
|
|
A relieved look crossed Cormel's face, "Oh yes! We have some very nice
|
|
tables!"
|
|
|
|
They followed Cormel through a maze of carpet walls, into and through a
|
|
maze of fiberglass walls and finally through a maze of jars of squid jelly.
|
|
|
|
They came upon a large open space obviously designed to contain tables.
|
|
There was only one table left.
|
|
|
|
Cormel's face fell, "Oh dear," he said picking his face up off the
|
|
ground, "it appears we only have one Hubble space telescope left!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, let's take a look at that banana!" said Bubba, clapping his hands
|
|
together.
|
|
|
|
"Of course, sir. As you wish, sir."
|
|
|
|
There was something wrong with the table. There was something off about
|
|
it. It was round. . . . Well, sort of. It was round in an off center way, as
|
|
if someone had held the center in place and had moved the sides. It was
|
|
almost elliptical, and yet it wasn't. Just looking at it twisted your vision.
|
|
|
|
Bubba's page suddenly screamed and passed out, his mind broken under the
|
|
strain.
|
|
|
|
Bubba and Merlin were both uneffected. They had both seen stranger
|
|
things in some of Merlin's films. Specifically the "Things you shouldn't do
|
|
in public" series. The most noted of which was "Things you shouldn't do in
|
|
public part IV: Giant Sloths."
|
|
|
|
"I'll take it!" said Bubba.
|
|
|
|
"Take what?" asked Cormel.
|
|
|
|
"The banana, of course, I want to buy it!" responded Bubba.
|
|
|
|
"Banana?" said Cormel with a hint of a smile, "We have no bananas today."
|
|
|
|
"What?! Then what do you call?!" he screamed pointing at the table.
|
|
|
|
"I call that a coffee table, sir," Cormel responded calmly.
|
|
|
|
Bubba drew his sword and charged at Cormel. At the precise moment that
|
|
he would have stabbed Cormel in the throat, Bubba slipped on a banana peel.
|
|
His sword flew from his hand and sailed over the great yard sale of Nagi Nagi,
|
|
landing in a field of flowers. The sword killed a grub that if it had been
|
|
eaten, would have saved the life of a starving bird. If that bird had lived,
|
|
it would have reproduced. One of its grandchildren would have been hit by a
|
|
car and jammed up into the engine. The body of the bird would have clogged up
|
|
the engine and the car would have stopped, just short of running over an
|
|
opossum. If that possum had lived it could have prevented the horrible calam-
|
|
ity of Glooth. Oh well.
|
|
|
|
Cormel helped Bubba to his feet, apparently not noticing that he was
|
|
almost run through by Bubba's sword.
|
|
|
|
"Well sir, will you be buying the table?" asked Cormel.
|
|
|
|
"Yes I will," said Bubba, "How much will it be?"
|
|
|
|
"The price is 2,000,000 Spam can tabs." Did I mention that they used
|
|
Spam can tabs for money? No? I didn't? Are you sure? Well, they did.
|
|
|
|
"What?!" shouted Bubba, outraged, "2,000,000 Spam can tabs for a not-
|
|
quite-round-sort-of-off-center-circle-without-being-ellipsoid-coffee-table!?!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, OK, you talked me into it, for you, 19.95 Spam can tabs plus
|
|
shipping and handling."
|
|
|
|
Chapter IV
|
|
|
|
"The story of the Knight Frog-tongue"
|
|
|
|
It is said that in all, King Bubba had over one hundred knights sit at
|
|
his not-quite-round-sort-of-off-center-circle-without-being-ellipsoid-coffee-
|
|
table. However, due to a breach in a union contract, only eight remained
|
|
there. Those being: Sir Frog-tongue, Sir Spamson, Sir Athlete's Foot, Sir
|
|
Asparagus, Sir Bladder Control Problem, Sir _____ the brave, Sir Sir, and of
|
|
course the mighty Sir Bob.
|
|
|
|
If I were to tell you the tale of each knight, I would be doing a lot of
|
|
writing. I don't have that much patience. I will only tell you one tale,
|
|
that of Sir Frog-tongue. He was not the bravest knight (Sir _____ the brave)
|
|
nor was he the mightiest knight (Sir Bob). He was not the tallest knight (Sir
|
|
Asparagus) nor was he the knight with the worst rust problem (Sir Bladder
|
|
Control Problem). In fact, he was the shortest, most cowardly, weakest, short
|
|
tempered knight Bubba had. He did, however, take very good care of his armor.
|
|
|
|
You might be wondering why I would choose the most lacking of all Bubba's
|
|
knights. Well, have you ever heard that saying 'a chain is only as strong as
|
|
its weakest link'? You have? Cool, isn't it.
|
|
|
|
It was a bright sunny day. Bubba was in his backyard, watching several
|
|
servants skin the cucumber (a large flightless bird) that he had just shot.
|
|
Merlin approached him and bowed formally. "Good day may king. I come bearing
|
|
news."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, hi there, Mer. Well, spill yer beans," responded the king cheerful-
|
|
ly.
|
|
|
|
Merlin ignored the king's unwitting insult, "I have finished interviewing
|
|
the candidates for knighthood."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that's great, lin! How many did you accept?"
|
|
|
|
"For knighthood, seven. For my next film, twenty nine."
|
|
|
|
"Which film would that be, ler?"
|
|
|
|
"The Sloth of No-sloth."
|
|
|
|
"Er . . . "
|
|
|
|
"Part 15."
|
|
|
|
"Ah, that's great, Min, but I have a problem."
|
|
|
|
"A problem, sire?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes a problem, I have eight chairs and seven knights."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I see. Well, what do you propose we do about it?"
|
|
|
|
"hmmmm."
|
|
|
|
"hmmmm?"
|
|
|
|
"Exactly! What a wonderful idea! We will leave at once!"
|
|
|
|
Now you might not have been able to understand this exchange.
|
|
|
|
If not, it is most likely because you don't understand the spoken lan-
|
|
guage of the humming bird. Before he became Merlin's apprentice, Bubba had
|
|
been raised by a family of birds. He occasionally lapsed into their native
|
|
language. For your better understanding, I will now translate the previous
|
|
conversation.
|
|
|
|
"Hmm mmm. hmmmm hm."
|
|
|
|
"Hmmmmmmm-mmh."
|
|
|
|
"Hmmm mmhm hmm?"
|
|
|
|
"Hmmm mm."
|
|
|
|
"Hmmmmhm. H mmm hhhm?"
|
|
|
|
"hhhhhm. mhhmmm."
|
|
|
|
"hmh . . . "
|
|
|
|
"hmmm mmmmmhhmmm."
|
|
|
|
"mmmh hmmm hmmmmmm."
|
|
|
|
"hmmmmmm?"
|
|
|
|
"hmmmm hmm mhm?"
|
|
|
|
"How about a quest to find one, Merlin? Ya know, wander among the peo-
|
|
ple, that kind of thing."
|
|
|
|
"Cheez Wiz, sire?"
|
|
|
|
Well you know the rest.
|
|
|
|
Several months later, Bubba had traveled across Spamshire and just en-
|
|
tered the land of Guacamole.
|
|
|
|
Guacamole, is widely thought to be an evil land.
|
|
|
|
This is not true. The land is very green (but not the green of growing
|
|
things it was the green of, well . . . guacamole) and mushy and foul-smelling,
|
|
and nothing wholesome grows on it, but it's not evil.
|
|
|
|
After wandering for three days in the lands of Guacamole, Bubba came upon
|
|
the town of Boot-leather-for-brains.
|
|
|
|
The town was a collection of ramshackle buildings that looked like they
|
|
had been constructed with an erector set. The sole reason they had this
|
|
appearance was that the building had, in fact, been constructed with an erec-
|
|
tor set.
|
|
|
|
Immediately after entering the town, Bubba was grabbed by a large, un-
|
|
washed mass, and herded to the town square.
|
|
|
|
The town square, which was actually octagonal, was located at the center
|
|
of town. For some Lorg-forsaken reason only half of the town had been built
|
|
on solid ground. The rest of the town, the half they had built over a dip
|
|
hole, had long since sunk taking all of the towns skilled craftsmen with it.
|
|
Bubba would never know this, however, for he was not a radish. That is yet
|
|
another story that you will never hear . . . er, read . . . oh whatever.
|
|
|
|
All he knew, or rather all he was concerned with at that moment (I mean,
|
|
you don't expect him to walk around actually forgetting everything he knows,
|
|
do you?), was that he was being herded by a large, unwashed, smelly, disgrun-
|
|
tled mass to a town octagon. The town octo . . . squa . . . town center was
|
|
dominated by a large platform which in turn was dominated by a throne on which
|
|
a figure sat. The figure was short of stature and large of cynical expres-
|
|
sion. He smoothed his hands over his crushed-bug-purple robe and stood.
|
|
|
|
"We've brought a victim!" shouted the crowd in unison. "Dance! Dance,
|
|
frog man, dance!" they began to cheer.
|
|
|
|
"Silence!" shouted the man atop the throne.
|
|
|
|
"I am Frog-tongue! Last of the immortal frog dancers! I demand
|
|
respect!"
|
|
|
|
Bubba was stunned. The last immortal frog dancer! He would make a great
|
|
knight!
|
|
|
|
Bubba cautiously climbed up onto the platform.
|
|
|
|
"Greetings sir, I am Bubba, king of Spamshire. I have a proposition for
|
|
you." Frog-tongue was busy throttling a small child. Consequentially, he
|
|
wasn't listening.
|
|
|
|
"You seem a fair and just 'man' -- " he continued.
|
|
|
|
"What do you want?!" Frog-tongue asked dropping the child.
|
|
|
|
"To make you a knight," responded Bubba.
|
|
|
|
"Why would I want to be a knight?"
|
|
|
|
Bubba glanced around.
|
|
|
|
"OK, that's one reason. What else?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, let me tell you what we knights do." Bubba thought about it.
|
|
|
|
"hmmm," he said unintentionally lapsing into his native tongue.
|
|
|
|
"Basically," he said finally, "we sit around and drink a lot."
|
|
|
|
"That's all?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, occasionally we kill people."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, really?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, really."
|
|
|
|
"Who do we kill?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, anybody I suppose."
|
|
|
|
"So I could kill anybody I wanted?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I might have to restrict that. I mean, I can't have you running
|
|
around killing all the help. Who would bring me my wine?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that's disappointing."
|
|
|
|
"Don't worry too much. There are plenty of peasants lying around.
|
|
Nobody would miss them."
|
|
|
|
And so it was that Frog-tongue became the eighth knight of the not-quite-
|
|
round-sort-of-off-center-circle-without-being-ellipsoid-coffee-table.
|
|
|
|
Epilogue
|
|
|
|
Normally, I would use this part of the story to do a follow-up of the
|
|
main characters. However, seeing that I have the entire next story to do just
|
|
that, I will use my following words to explain some things that I promised to
|
|
tell, but didn't.
|
|
|
|
First of all, the great cheese monster of Ugh, one of the many things
|
|
that Spamshire (other than what they did with sloths) was famous for was their
|
|
extraordinary cheese-making skill.
|
|
|
|
One day Lester (the cheese molester, as he was known to the neighborhood
|
|
kids) the greatest cheese maker in all of Spamshire made a batch of Limburger
|
|
cheese. As he was checking on the cheese, he caught a good whiff of it.
|
|
|
|
"Ugh, but that is a monster of a cheese!" he said, commenting on the
|
|
smell. Well, the editor of the local capitalist newspaper overheard this and
|
|
thought to himself, "Hmmm, I've got an idea."
|
|
|
|
On a side note: you ever wonder why they say 'thought to himself'? I
|
|
mean, who else would he think to? His neighbor? Well I suppose if he hap-
|
|
pened to be telepathic then it might be possible, but what purpose would it
|
|
serve? Wouldn't it be easier to just tell them? Of course, none of this is
|
|
relevant. Since he wasn't telepathic and he wasn't thinking to anybody else.
|
|
As it happened, the editor need an article for his front page. Now I said
|
|
that this was a capitalist newspaper and so he was preoccupied selling a lot
|
|
of newspapers. The fact that Limburger cheese smells is not new, unless you
|
|
lack a pinky nail. However, a story about the great cheese monster of Ugh is
|
|
a great story. When it reached Bubba that the great cheese monster of Ugh was
|
|
residing in his favorite cheese factory, he was fairly upset. He promptly
|
|
dispatched Sir Asparagus, his least favorite knight, to slay the monster. It
|
|
is needless to say that Sir Asparagus was fairly irked when he found that
|
|
there was no monster. I mean, not only did he have to ride all day to get
|
|
there but he also had a nasty (and I mean *nasty*!) ingrown toenail. He
|
|
satisfied himself by killing the cheese maker, his wife, kids, and dog, and
|
|
making up a grand story about his glory and skill. You know the truth. Lucky
|
|
you.
|
|
|
|
Finally, how King Bubba (at age 36 1/2) learned how to tie his shoe
|
|
laces. Actually, I lied, he never learned how to tie his laces. He paid
|
|
small, deformed children to do that kind of thing for him. Some (but not
|
|
many) believe that if he had tied his own laces he could have prevented his
|
|
own death and in doing so, prevented the horrible calamity of Glooth.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Did he ever tell you he hates generals more than watered down gin and
|
|
ear aches put together?"
|
|
|
|
"Yeah, so do I. I never met one who was worth his weight in Spam."
|
|
|
|
--overheard on an old episode of M*A*S*H
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
LOVE IS THE LAW
|
|
by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
|
|
|
|
"And in between the moon and you
|
|
the angels get a better view
|
|
of the crumbling difference
|
|
between wrong and right."
|
|
--Adam Duritz (of Counting Crows), "Round Here"
|
|
|
|
"Love is the Law," as Crowley wrote, and ignorance of the Law is no
|
|
excuse. He never should have gone after her, not when *I* Loved her. I tried
|
|
to warn him, as best I could, and so what transpired cannot be considered my
|
|
fault. And I know the Truth. He couldn't *really* have Loved her as I do,
|
|
for how can the Law stand when it is so divided? I saw through that window
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the eye and saw his Soul and the Truth. No tear clouded his eye when he spoke
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of her, and as Byron wrote,
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When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
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When Truth in a glance should appear,
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The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
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But the test of affection's a Tear.
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Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,
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To mask detestation or fear;
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Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
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Is dimmed for a time with a Tear. . . .
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He never could have felt that which he said. He always made a joke of the
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Love he supposedly felt, and that joke to hide a mockery, and that mockery a
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lie. *I* saw that, why couldn't *she*? If she had this dark thing could
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have been avoided.
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But I was right, wasn't I? Of course I was, and when the graves are
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thrown open the Four Living Creatures will testify on my behalf, and when
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Anubis weighs our hearts we shall see the Truth.
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I was merely an instrument of the Law and the Truth, I feel no guilt; I
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have nothing to feel guilty for. And when I talked to the Oracle of it, the
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Oracle felt the same way. The Oracle told the Will of God, and I answered.
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I met him in the alleyway that night as he returned from work, and he
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bade me follow him. We climbed the stairs to his flat and I could have done
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the work then, but I knew he must know the verdict and the reason for it. He
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poured gin and sherry and talked of meaningless things and meaningless events.
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He was elated, for this was the eve of what was to be their marriage, and I
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had not the heart to tell him just then that all of what he hoped and all that
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he dreamed would never come to pass; could never come to pass. Oh, he and she
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would live in a beautiful home! How gorgeous her dress would look! And how
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great it would be surrounded by friends with me as best man! At this last I
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felt the greatest pang of grief, and I sorrowfully passed onto him the ver-
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dict. But I Loved her Soul, so tell him I did. He tried to protest, but I
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knew I could not be swayed from the Truth. And I got to him before he got to
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the revolver in his desk.
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If only he hadn't fought; that would have made it much less painful for
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him and much easier for me. He fought, but I had Love, and hence the Law, on
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my side. I brought down his head again and again on the hardwood floor, until
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his Blood -- his Life -- spilled over his study floor. Finally his head gave
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like a melon, or rather like the Jack o' Lanterns we used to smash on the
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doorsteps of the avaricious those Hallowe'ens when we were still Innocent (or
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as Innocent as a child can be in these dark days!), and my job was done. I
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remembered the gloves and extra clothes, just as the Oracle told me, so the
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red stuff posed no problem, and after leisurely destroying the evidence I was
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still out by two, with plenty of time for sleep before what would have been
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his wedding.
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While looking into the mirror early that morning I noticed what both I
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and the Oracle had overlooked. (But the Oracle overlooks nothing, so it must
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have been merely my failing.) I had not thought of those windows to the Soul,
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my eyes, through which my deed shone like a beacon. Fortunately, despite my
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night-outing, I woke early, and had time to rush to a spectacles shop in the
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East End. I can't imagine why I was not stopped and questioned by every-one I
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passed that day! I felt as though every eye was boring into mine as I hurried
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through the underground tunnels and along the littered slum streets, but I was
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not noticed! The proprietor at the glazier's surely saw my secret, as his
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dark eyes looked into mine, with their piercing gaze, but I paid him more than
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even his inflated price, and he asked no questions. In this part of the slums
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he must see even foul murder in the eyes of others, and a mere enforcement of
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the Law went unnoticed.
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At what would have been their wedding, no-one knew what to do in his
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absence. At first, after it was beyond doubt that he was not simply running a
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few minutes behind, everyone assumed it was simply one of his 'jokes', and all
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carried on with their socialising, especially taking up the favourite role of
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teasing the best man about his new 'look'. But I put off their questions with
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the fact that my eyes had always been more susceptible than most to light, and
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that my doctor had suggested this as the best solution, so none suspected the
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Truth. At the toll of the first hour people began to worry, and after the
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second a party was formed of some of the more sober of his friends to go
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escort him to the wedding. I was to go with this group, but I fended off her
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desire to go, and thus saved her from the sight waiting at his flat.
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When we entered his rooms, I let them find his body in the study, neatly
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laid out as I had left it. The others knew I had always been gentle, or so
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they believed, so I fortunately did not have to pass by the body again, and
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avoided the possibility of his wounds bleeding again as I passed. The police
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were easy enough to deal with, for they were not officers of the True Law, and
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mere human laws did not apply in this case. And I was clever! I broke open
|
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his safe that night, and they assumed is was a fouled burglary, the fools! If
|
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they were only more seeing, what secrets they might have found! But the Truth
|
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was with me, and I feared nothing, for I knew the Truth would stand behind me.
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At the closed-casket funeral (the undertaker was not skilled enough in
|
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his art to repair the damage done to his head) I gave the oration, and what I
|
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said was indeed True. The tears which rolled down from behind my mirrored
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glasses were real, for he was a good man and I did Love him, and I bore no
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malice against him when I did what I did. And yet, I know he forgave what I
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did to him.
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Within three years of his death I had quietly worked my way into her
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heart, and within four we were married. I saw the Truth in her eyes the day
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we made our vows, as I know she saw the Truth in mine (I had perilously re-
|
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moved my glasses for this holy of ceremonies), as we both had eyes 'dimmed for
|
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a time with a Tear.' Before her alone can I now remove these blasted specta-
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cles, for I know that any others, including my children, are sure to see what
|
|
went into our affair. But it was for her that I did my deed, and I know that
|
|
she can bear no malice against me, even if she sees my deed in my eyes. But
|
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sometimes, as I look into my children's eyes as the sunlight sparkles within
|
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them and their Innocence shines out, I catch a glimpse of what they are the
|
|
product of, and the entire history of my wife's and my story are contained in
|
|
the screen of their eyes, for they are the living embodiment of the Law and
|
|
what I did to uphold it. And yet, if they have glimpsed the Truth, they do
|
|
not show any sign of it, for though that dark deed is forever ingrained in
|
|
their Souls, they are ignorant of it. If I have one regret for what has been
|
|
done it is what I have done to the children, for I have stained their purity
|
|
with my guilt!
|
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But I have her now, and she has me, and we have Love and thus the Law,
|
|
and mere human laws cannot bind us. Our Souls and our Love rise above such
|
|
human conventions. I know that wherever he must be he knows the Truth and
|
|
holds no malice towards me, and that she and I were meant to be with each
|
|
other. But damn it, when she speaks of him she speaks with a tear!
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
|
|
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
|
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and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 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
|
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freely used so long as due recognition is provided. State of unBeing is
|
|
available at the following places:
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iSiS UNVEiLED 512.930.5259 14.4 (Home of SoB)
|
|
THE LiONS' DEN 512.259.9546 24oo
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TEENAGE RiOt 418.833.4213 14.4 NUP: COSMIC_JOKE
|
|
MOGEL-LAND 215-732-3413 14.4
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ftp to io.com /pub/SoB
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Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>. Thank you.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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