textfiles/magazines/TAMERSHREW/tshrew5.txt

                      T A M e R  S H R e W ... vol. 5

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                      ¿¿¿   ..edited, compiled, preliminarily perused       
                      ¿¿¿     felt up, jostled and spell checked by,
                                              Mount


     For entertainment, enrichment only.  All rights retained by the authors.



      ===================>-WorDs--To---------<====================
      ===================>----------Be-HaD---<====================

       1>Pain, as related by my left foot     ...Black Sabbath
       2>Awoke                                ...Ailehs    
       3>SC400                                ...Stretch  
       4>Snuff the Bitch                      ...Christopher Bickerstaff    
       5>Cosmic Whore                         ...Brandon Awbrey 
       6>Average                              ...Stretch 
       7>The Vampyre's Tale                   ...Anthony Most 
       8>Memories                             ...Chuck U. Farley 
       9>flowers, a puppy                     ...Black Sabbath 
       10>Wise words                          ...Christopher Bickerstaff 
       11>Passion                             ...Xann  
       12>Czardu Street Beacon                ...Fortunate Hazel
       13>SSN-SS-NSSN; an end of an era       ...Anthony Most 
       14>Disillusion                         ...Black Sabbath  
       15>Excerpt from the Novel; BROKEN WIND  ...Brandon Awbrey  

      ===================>-------------------<====================
      ===================>-------------------<====================









-Pain, as Related By My Right Foot ... Black Sabbath


shadowboxing
in my native form

treading upon
devious surface
so reassuring
yet all too wrong

left
right
left
imagined foe goes down

primal instinct
feral right
the mighty hunter strikes his prey

left 
right
left
victory bout

left again
right once more
but tentative, as
righthand foot grips, 
only to seize air;
reassurance asserts its hidden countenance
and the mighty hunter slips on his bathroom floor

searing pain
envelopes the toe
enmeshes collagen and cells
within its tangled howls

brain anguishes 
by its presence
unseen fangs
strain through broken flesh

predator's predator
iridescent poison
hidden in subconscious
fear is in its toxin

and so the misty serpent
teaches him not to shadowbox too close
to sneaky puddles on his bathroom floor

and the hunter slips on his bathroom floor
... kjl


Awoke   ... by Ailehs

Never,
Never have I awoke.
Never.
Never until today.
How strange.
How strange to see
What has never been seen.
Eyes open, but no reality seen.
Blind there, somewhere, not here,
Here where I am now.
Now, I see today.
Today, I see reality.
Reality. fun, loving reality.

          --you asked me once what I meant
          when I told you, "I woke up today."
          My thoughts here, hopefully express
          how I have never felt the beauty,
          warmth, and sincerity that you have
          now given to me.  I'm aware (awaken)
          of an unfamiliar, special relationship
          that I have never experienced.
          In this new land I want only to
          learn, live, love, and thrive
          for all eternity.



SC400    ...Stretch

Almost died tonight...
that close, right there,
airborne SC400, big one *above*
me man ... ABOVE me.

And a little guy driving...

And me wondering at my 
heart beating through 
my chest...and him promising
me riches to whisk him away
from the cops and the EMS
and the wreckers and the lights.

Why the fuck did he have to
ask me for my name?

"Help me, help me, help me .. Joel .. I'll make it worth your while ...
I've had a bit to drink, you see ... help me, help me, help me."

A crowd of 25 around this
fuck...
Little drunken fuck almost killed.
 
me...

He picks me .. to help, help, help.  
Over and over ... 5000.00 if he stays,
1000.00 if he goes.  Relax.  Gotta
hang a while.  You almost killed me
you little Lexus driving piece of shit.

Almost died tonight...
that close, right there,
airborne SC400, big one *above*
me man ... ABOVE me.

[*]

(fuck .. I almost died *again* ...)


    Snuff the Bitch    ...Christopher Bickerstaff

Night and day.  Day and night.
For seventeen and a half years,
I've had my parent's asses on my head.
No arms, no legs, just a little quadriplegic,
I lie wedged between their butt cheeks.
You can bet I hate it when they fart.
I try to roll out but I'm stuck too tight,
their asses clench.
No arms, no legs, not even a head, dammit!
If I try to extend them they are crushed.
There is only room enough for my tight, little shell.
I am suffocating, but they say I need no air.
I struggle, struggle, struggle to escape and they clench tighter.
Crack!
My shell breaks and I am squashed.
I run like diarrhea from them and
the shards of my shell stick them in their asses and
make them bleed.
Angry, they look down at the puddle of Me.
Oh!  So disgusting.
They call me ugly and gross.
"You made this," I cry but they just say,
"Get yourself together."
So I just flow around and barefoot people step in me and cry,
"Fuck!" or "Shit!" of "God damn it!" or
some other exclamatory curse word.
Flies upon my back, I go and I grow,
lowest of the low.

                             --Christopher Bickerstaff--
                                   (--Excuse Me--)


Cosmic Whore
from the novel INSTANT KARMIC SOUP
Copyright 1991 Brandon Awbrey


A gaze I heard.
(A gaze you heard?  How did you do that?)
I don't know, but I heard it, sure as hell.
As sure as a morning song, a mourning song, mourning
another day gone by.  Another day that went by without
showing me any acknowledgement.  Oh ho, so so, uh oh!
Here we go.............!

She was a chainsaw sister
Never seen a sun's blister
I sure wish that I had kissed her,
So that now I wouldn't miss her,
'Nother 'Ho'!

Not so!


She sighs she a-make-a-me cry oh no the sister is
strong.  How can the memory of a burnt book of 
pointless poems fit you so well?  How come you look
like you can wrap me around your little finger without
me even knowing it.  I know now.
So, ho.  So hip.

The vibe of that gaze I heard sounded ever clear,
Forget the Everclear, I see straight without...can't 
have none of that jam....So clear that I didn't even 
hear that gaze but for a split of a second.  But that
was, enough.
Yeah, you look like you could get really heavy into 
my pain, even cry for me, even try to make amends
for problems you didn't even cause, such a sweet thing,
haunting, daunting little girl with a laugh.
Run that tape again, but how do you record a gaze?
How come I heard it?  I saw it too, of course, but
what I saw was just a look and wink and smile of a 
girl not much more very really hip than me, uh huh.
Get a grip, you lost fool.  Get a grip.


Not much more than a single imprecise unaltered natural
chord, two peace frogs jumping to a different by
harmonic frequency miles away in a swamp in Georgia,
peaceful like, yeah.
So she winked and walked off, all sound gone, me 
tripping like, sorta just standing there, checking 
out the perimeters of a brand new reality, drop the
pen in my hand, it falls to the ground, yes, gravity
still exists.  Sure, sure.
And you think 'ho.'
Whore of space and time and beautiful sounds, she
sells it all and it's all in the sounds of her gaze,
sweet thing.
Knarly like.  Just Rad.
So in a time, a momentary crisis, I run out the door 
and watched her walk off and I think maybe, just maybe,
I should follow.  Very true, a thought like that.

No question of right or wrong, it was just a true 
thought.  Like when a little kid runs out in front
of your truck while you're haulin' ass at fifty or 
some shit and you stop, so as not to kill him so.
You don't think should I or should I not kill this
little human?  You just stop.  That's a true thought,
no decision involved.  So I follow the Cosmic Whore.
"Hey, you," I call, quite a miracle that I was able
to speak, being so mesmerized by such a magnificent
posterior.  She turned and looked back, saw it was
me, stopped, gaze and smiled------------SHOCK ME.
The magnificent sound.
MTV, sight and sound, extremely righteously.
A slightly quicker recovery I make, learning quickly.
"Yeah, dude?"
"Uh, well, uh well.  Well, I well, uh.  Uh-"
"Yes?"
Gaze, raised her eyebrows (a new twist) and smile.
Boom!  What a sound.
"Uh, uh.  Uh, I, uh, I, I---"
"You got somekind of speech problem?"
"No.  What I'm trying to say is that you walked out 
and I couldn't help but follow."
"Great.  Just what I need.  Another man controlled
by his dick."
"That's not it.  I love you."
"You love me, huh?"
"Yeah, you are a poem I wrote, long ago."
"That's a new one.  Pretty creative, dude!" she smiled.
BOOM! The gave I heard.
"So ask me out, dude.  Read me your poem.  Whatever.
Don't just stand there."
"You want to hear it?"
"Sure, dude.  Just don't take me anywhere cheap,"
she smiled again, BOOM.
Hot check time.

So Jack was back.  Come to me again, bleached and 
repainted appropriately to the colors of the 
environment.
What a fool I was.
 



Average ... Stretch

Average?
And what about the lines
your muscles draw along
your forearms, stretching
the skin ... showing the veins?
Those little hairs on the 
back of your neck ... nape,
it's called ... and those are
average?  Your smell ...
covered with clean clean
sweat .. hair wet from it ...
eyes lit with it ... everything
damp?  Your legs ... what
with the way you laugh and
all ... smile ... all of this average?
You are beauty.  The most.
And if average is the most 
beautiful, well then dear,
you are so very average.  



                      "The Vampyre's Tale"
                          Anthony Most
                                
Vampyre walks out the door
Doesn't say what he's got in store
Waxes his fangs, cleans his skin
Yells out to the world
     "Let the killings begin!"
Young lad Mary taking a walk
At the mid of night, in the dark
Vampyre breaks up the order
And puts his fangs next to her shoulder
Neck is bloody
Now she's dead
Follow the trail
Coloured deep, deep red
Vampyre leaves and looks for more
Bloody fangs show what he's got in store
All that night the same occurs
Some with boots, others wearing furs
Read the news in the morning paper
Cover story's on Jack the Raper
In a bed he hides
When daylight breaks
But by the dusk
Life is what he takes
He wishes it'd stop
He wishes it would end
But it's his honour and his life
That he must defend

                          Memories
                       Chuck U. Farley


     My Grandmother's freezer died recently.

     This wouldn't have been noteworthy except for the fact
that it contained The Blackberries, the blackberries that I
and my grandfather used to pick.  It was one of many things
we did together.  I still remember the warm days, the fun
times, and the barely contained obscenities we'd mutter when
we were stuck by thorns.  Even after my grandparents moved
to another house and left the bush behind he and I thought
about them fondly, my grandmother would refresh our memories
with terrific jams and jellies made from them.  Now that
they are gone, I don't really have much left physically to
remember him by.
     Excluding a burial flag, an honorable discharge, and
memories, everything I had left between us turned into mush
in a 35-year old freezer that died in it's sleep during an
extended vacation.
     I know that it is somewhat weird to get emotional over
frostbitten fruit, and old machines do break down; but
damnit, it was all I had and I didn't even realize it until
they were gone.  I know I should have done more when I had
the chance, but in my stupidity, and youth, I didn't even
try.  I can just barely remember what he looks like now!
At least I have memories, but I will miss the blackberries.
    



-flowers, a puppy ... Black Sabbath

a little lost puppy
alone in the fifth precinct
a little lost boy
searching
needing
his little lost soulmate

poor child
bereft of hope
tears streaming
and heart in hand
pleads to the man
behind the glass counter

walks away

walks away

with no more
than a few words,
little to quell
the pain welling inside

turns away
away from it all
his world shattered
all gone
all too futile
he loses his only friend

his last hope

his


he runs
thunder rolls in his ears
rubber soles against cement
through the jungle, the netherworld
he runs
toward his future

river of tears
coursing through his soul
around him
blurred images
slurred time
toward his future
toward his friend


runs
his heart bursts
mind engaged in a profusion of loss
onward
onward
through reality he escapes
beyond the horizon
beneath the heavens
he leaps
into the wind
sputtering cry
and with that
a final vision of flowers
muted agony
he collapses
onto the indifferent cement








    The Wise Words of the Wascally Wabbitt

Pigs can fly but their mommies tell them not to.
I was going to save the world but I somehow forgot to.
Reality is constant, but life is how you see it.
If we can preach perfection, how come we cannot be it?
Why are we so arrogant, to impose on others our own beliefs?
We all worship the shadow of truth, but very few the truth perceive.
Tolerate all but intolerance.
Become a paradox.
Search yourself, to see yourself.
Unlock your soul's hard locks.
Eat your words and then vomit them.
Defile and betray the dead.
We've all forgotten what it means and only the how now haunts our heads.

(   A Children's Rhyme:  Flight of the 32 Oodiks      )
(                                                     )
(Humility is lack of bias.                            )
(Don't lose your passions to be pious.                )
(This blind world fights for Mammon's flax.           )
(At the murder scene you'll find your own tracks.     )
(Satan is your own dark heart.                        )
(You'll never finish until you start.                 )

Your best friend is yourself and you are your own worst enemy.
Desires are what bind you.
Understanding lets you see.
Acceptance plants the seeds of peace, but love, love sets you free.


                             --Christopher Bickerstaff--


Inspired by The The, Robert Anton Wilson, and a midnight walk to a pear
tree.



****Watch Out for this guy.  He's behind it all.  Everything.
    M.M.
















--this is know place for a writer. ... Xann



i was there anyhow, taking the occasional picture of the occasional
person, passing the occasional judgement on the most worthy occasion
i've
seen in others thus far:

               passion.

passion.
lust for life and all its death. loathe for evil and all its good.
wince at doing what you should.
i'm writing it all down.


--no place for a philosopher, either.


still, each had its own religion, justification. one, a hi schooler,
plans
to destroy his fellows, if you will, merely by showing them the scores
from a standardized test hell soon be taking. he sits closer and closer
to
that girl each time i speak to her.

               passion.

passion!
just for strife and its shortness of breath. wont for good and the evil
ensuing. 
wince at doing what you should.
...i'm putting it into the small end of my cone.


--no place for a passionate head.

well, maybe. downriver dennys is a fair place to write, with as much
distraction as one might allow. a fair place to talk if the people are
right. a very volatile place, if the flame it sparks is for
egoenlargement. i'm told that anything good here, anything praying to
and
allowing itself to be preyed upon by writers, philosophers, poeticians,
and
the like, is bound for corporate glory. nothing sacred, nothing
underground. not for long.

--a good place for a dreamer, with hi hopes, hi aspirations, dreams to
match the farthest star. 
               a good place to play my guitar!

                         -|-

i work inna drugstore now.
i sell dope to poor people.
on lil pieces of paper
and lil foil cards.
theyre so easily ripped up
and put into the trash
and so very often that is JUST the result:
one might wonder why
anyone would buy it.
when they all know 
theres a one inna million chance
of a Good Trip.
but still they come.
and my face is friendly.
my ear, sympathetic.
my conscience, guilty as charged.
my smile, genial.
my heart, maddened.
my superior dopedealing officer was in the other day
with a fresh shipment.
said it all their own doing.
noone he said put a gun to a head
noone.
he is, of course, right.
and in my mind, in the night time.
when the northern cross is hi in the sky
and cassiopeia is neither here nor there
i see the beast:
upc, dont tread on me
rising from landfill junkheap
littered with newport ads
and budwiser
and football
and swimsuit issues
and norman schwartzkoph
and sylvester stallone
and ym, and sassy, cosmo, examiner, mens health
and of course usa today
and in his hand
the impoverished mann
who keeps coming back fo fix after fix
too busy working to dream of biting the hand
and on his flag baphomet sits
a wad of fifties in hand
smile on his face
disgrace to his race
a pillar of riches innan ocean of waste;
and on the chest of this demon
with the poor its hand
and the goat on his banner
there are three balls, protuding:
6 is mr x's number, and he plays it straight each night. one dollar, one
night of faith in his passion. noone has a gun to his head, the advisor
said.
6 is the number of mrs y, she got it out of the widows pick. she is
filled
with hope, i'm told. her hope dies each night, and is replenished each
day.
6 is the number of ms z, scraping change in misery, last dollar goes to
lottery. last dollar goes to state. last dollar. last dollar. last
dollar.
:and on this beastly face there sits a plastic brooding smile.
smiling all the while, all the way to the bank.
hes got the whole - world , in his hands
got the whole - world , in his hands
hes got the whole - world , in his hands
--got the hole world in his hands...
rat traps by his feet
made of lil pieces of paper
and foil cards
hold tiny impoverished masses
dreaming about winning numbers
and playing them straight
...o no, hes looking right at you now.
he looking...
hes moving his lips. it so hard to take tat evil grin away for long
enough
to speak.
and he speaks in a wealthy whipser:
     "i like america"
he says.
...he REALLY likes america.







MICHIGAN LOTTERY SUPPORTS EDUCATION.


MICHIGAN STATE DOES NOT.

[and in the town all had given up hope i tell you
it was suicide
--executions on the roadside celebrate
the laws of chance
and the lotteryticketline at the drug store well it stretches for ten
miles
blake n byron are off getting drunk inna bar, talking bout the death of
romance.] 








             .Czardu Street Beacon    ... Fortunate Hazel
            unix script for dreaming

tsend trans, transport descent
decent letters trailing body, flailing arms and falling
tsend gravity notes, add-on gravity, rocks on strings
star dash star, all trans spent now, some successful
on galaxy-view, fallen-in sphere, network of words,
network earth, webbed with words, spun with sound,
spark crash spark, into other in the dark, satellite sounds
tsent trend, decent event, life, decent event,
when fallen in, fallen in with the trend: life, decent event

recent receive: trend, life decent event.
dropouts in ports-follow: x from x to end
please re-send x from x to end, friend satellite FHAN
we read string of omittances from x of x to end,
we repeat the reading until you send the edits,
ground trans will be missing digits and different-meaning
request tsend trans, transport descent corrections again.

local going: ground trans life decent event though no edits
following strings live, follow string allowing for live line
$star dusT (tsend era: message begins again)
$beings begin again!  sphere events must begin again!
$satellite map shows loss of path, streamlined lost path.
$cracks in map are cracks in tHe haT, (era: re-tsend)
$cracks in map are life cancers, chance encounter counters!
$count the tumors in areas concentrated, as follows:
$data-snowed over, estimated lake shores of data, err?
$data melted, sun showed on the snow, over.  human err.
$no data for human err, loss in eras x from x to present era
$i said star dust! (era: re-tsend)
$no error here!  i am no error! (era: re-tsend)
local going: trans life decent event shows errors

local going: manual wave data, hand fe(e)d event:
$i am no error! (no era: query?)
$i am no error there!  i am here and only error locally!
$hear me!  (checksh out- SH out ok)
$let discover me, i!  must say to the end! (checksh out OK)
$dropouts are part of the program, look out for dropouts!
$check sums of dropouts! (checksh out- SH dropouts ok)
$are we ok?  we are.  we are ok.
$we are star dust.  we are: pause: staRs uS (era: re-tsend) 
end trans, pause out: spark-life dies, no line. 

recent send:  distress sent about life decent event
areas stressed on surface:  circumference x, all of its x
areas lost in reference: star dust.  no knowledge of lost.
x/x areas request knowledge of lost reference: star dust
break to local going for recent receive:

$test again!  am i ok?  i never know (no era: SH out ok)
$tests again from age x to end of age, i test i again. 
$star dust!  we are this, you of the spheres and i
$orbital tracer, observed voice from the dark corners
$dropouts are ok!  we are, and all we are is stars st.
end trans: pause out: spark-life dies again.

(era: loss of thought, light shows off but i'm not!)
SPirit local ghoST!  I am THe LoCal ghost! (on are-era no)
specIAL messgae from loCAL ghost, mostly spaces.
$!lives in the dark corners, orBital tracers said:
$!"we ARE star dust!" and they said your id, life id.
$!sum-spirIts, numbered ones, chECked the sums
$!dropouts count and are all star dUst: (era: re-tsend)
LOCal ghOst is going!  (era: identify user ID)
$i am no ID, i am IDEA! (era: unknown ID)
enter ID: ti bon ange
(era: unknown ID, end trans)
$no conTrol...  (era: re-tsend)
oh no (e:re-tsen)
no

break for system check, self image lacks in order,
moments aren't in order, from x to x and older (era: self)
system checks.  one bug ticked off digits as follows:

showing flagged string via local node, bug ID unknown 
$LaSt show of locAl Ghost!!!  last know era: last snow
$last Snow from loCal *host (era: unknown)
$universe is a show!
$colors in a show, local satell-eyes for spy off-earth
$all travel is unknown, local area is from x to x at ever
$calling from ever, weather permitting no with-is 
(call for EVER:  era: unknown)
$last known snowflake: goes local ghost, who are the saints?
$none are saints but all are st. ardust  He is kNown
$all are star dust, wisdom lost in drOpOuts, stored in holes
$there is the ID of seasonal living, sphere rightous.
$casual ID of life decent event is ST. ARDUST IS OK, ALL ARE
WE AND WE ALL ARE OKAY, COUNTING THE DROPOUTS.
$:)
end flagged string

local going:  loop recent receive: life decent event lake
info:  recorded from day x to end of and again, showing:
snowing and closeups of holes in snow, ripples on lake
rips in the ripples and the sound ID:  life decent event.

...credits ;local ghost; (unknown ID) 

NO CARRIER




                "SSN-SS-NSSN: the end of an era"
                          Anthony Most
      to be aired on Retnafry #5, Public Access Houston TV

                                I
                                
Am I looking at a reflection of light, the light bouncing from your
     soft dreams?  Is death a true source of life?
Formless.
Breaking into nothing but ideas, the most dangerous weapon of all
     time.
Having the soul fall from our backs.
What does it mean to have a life filled with nothing, to die
     because of nothing, to live because of nothing, to be
     conceived because of nothing?
In a free society, 90% of free speech is pornography.  10% is worth
     a damn.
In a free society, we are free to live as we choose, which is just
     another way of saying we are free to destroy ourselves.
Is there an answer, or does an artist has moral responsibility to
     society?  An artist merely expresses himself, thus an opinion
     by the artist.  Art has no morals.  Art is a vehicle.   
Ah, well, what does our existence matter?  You were hated by all
     the statements?  There are none.  
Is this how life is supposed to be, a big shell of unhappiness?

                               II

load the gun
roll the dice
load the gun
roll the dice
load the gun
roll the dice
load the gun
roll the dice
load load load load
roll roll roll roll
the gun the gun
the dice the dice

(but don't give them the satisfaction.)

                               III

think i was freaking
it was cool  cool  that's cool 
or the other way 
1 moose; moose  a s 
bs 
l k l 
j
don't rest your hands on the keyboard
don't eat the food 
you know 
i'll talk later when i'm 
alive
i've changed clothes in the car
cool  that's cool  or the other way 
think i was freaking
it was 
cool  you know 
i've changed clothes in the car
a s 
bs
l k l 
j
don't rest your hands 
on the 
keyboard
don't eat the 
food 
you know i'll talk later when i'm alive

                               IV

there must be a way
to show our emotions
w/o being so clouded

there must be a way
to show our emotions
w/o being so clouded

there must be a way
to show our emotions
w/o being so clouded

like a child
so free
like the children on the
beach
beach

like a child
so free
like the children on the
beach
beach

there must be a way
to show our emotions
w/o being so clouded

there must be a way
to show our emotions
w/o being so clouded

there must be a way
to show our emotions
w/o being so clouded

like a child
so free
like the children on the
beach
beach

like a child
so free
like the children on the
beach
beach of happiness

                                V

The end of meaning of words
turns into anarchy in linguistics & in society
when words means nothing, how do we communicate
how do we live
our spirit would not understand basic emotional functions
even something so simple as love would be void

unpublished (C) 1991-1994 Anthony Most




-disillusion ... Black Sabbath

A willow, a bower
of famished halves
shades the desolation
encirclement, alcove
of the near unliving

Tormented wailings
pain and bitterness
food without water
burning without end
ignorance without bliss
... all lost to this
the lake and its icy exterior
immersed in mist
deep in thought
too far in its misery
to notice the blight

The placid surface
gentle ice
benevolence betrayed
by the cold indifference
tempered by ages
eons of loneliness

alone

forever

rotting

once brilliant
once innocent
now
inner magnanimity gone instead
scars about its countenance
where people have once tread

bleached bones
at the scarred water's edge
soul that transcends all
battered
brooding
underneath the dull surface
eddies of pain
hope swirling through
and above
answered by hate
countered with lies

'Battered soul,'
spoke the willows once to the lake,
'worry not of the emptiness within.'
a glare, fierce but sad
answered the na‹ve grove

'Battered soul,'
cried out the willows once 
to the soul beneath the scarred water,
'the torment shall subside.'
undone by grief
ice within its heart
the pained lake but looked away

in its mist
agony ringing through its ears
the lake screamed out
none answered
the lone howl of the wind but mocked

tempestuous waters
beneath the surface
subdued with fear
of worse than death
the pain
never subsides
the twisted currents
stand witness
time immemorial sees
but none grieve for 
the plight of the lake
the lake of scarred water
of truth in its hurt
of the ice masking its tears 

... kjl









                                 
                  Excerpt from the novel; BROKEN WIND
                                  by
                        Brandon Awbrey (C) 1992


CHAPTER ONE

WASHINGTON D.C.
January 21st

     On January 21st, the day after the presidential inauguration, Our
new president's first full day in office, a lone terrorist blew the
dome off of the United States Capitol.  None of the thousands of arm-
chair sleuths across America could fathom a conspiracy theory on that
afternoon.  The CIA was as surprised as anyone else, and the
metaphorical grassy knoll was occupied by Japanese tourists snapping
photographs of the entire event.  It wasn't more than ten minutes
after the disaster that one of those Japanese tourists, A Tokyo
contractor, was devising plans to make the reconstruction of America's
house of democracy a multi-national venture.
     It all started very calmly.  A red late model Ford F-150 pick-up
truck drove up Pennsylvania Avenue.  The truck had Iowa plates and
there was a Yahmaha dirt bike standing upright in its bed.  Nothing
odd about that.  Maybe, say, a tourist travelling cross country with
an aim to ride all of the dirt trails of the East Coast.
     It was just slightly past noon, and the streets of Washington
were filled with traffic.  Elected and appointed officials in limos
going out to posh restaurants at the tax-payer's expense.  Federal
employees rushing to the nearest McDonald's, scarfing Big Mac's and
then rushing back to work, trying to beat the boss back, hoping the
boss would be in a receptive mood for bureaucratic ass kissing,
dreaming of the day when they too would have access to public funds. 
Tourists thrived in and around the National mall, a new President
hence a new Washington.  Most of them came a day early if they wanted
to see a real change.  A day later the skyline of D.C. would more
accurately reflect the state of the nation. 
     The truck pulled over and parked illegally in front of the
Botanic Garden.  The driver got out and looked up and down the street. 
He was a tall man with an imposing figure and long straight black
hair.  He wore cowboy boots and a long woolen overcoat, a pair of
wayfarers that weren't need on the overcast winter day, and a pair of
leather gloves that were.
     He turned towards the Capitol, stuck his right arm out with his
thumb turned up, checking the angle and distance.  He then sprang into
the bed of the truck, and sighted with thumb again.  Satisfied, he
turned and kick started the dirt bike.  Then he removed the webbing
from the end of the bed that covered the place where the back flap had
been removed.
     A police car pulled up next to the truck, and the police officer
yelled through the window, "Hey, buddy, you gotta move!  That's a fire
zone."
     The driver of the truck turned to the officer and smiled.  He
then reached inside of his coat and pulled out a Colt .45 automatic
and shot the officer through the forehead.  The officer fell on his
steering wheel, and the horn of the police car sounded a dead tone, a
sorry but appropriate swan song for the beat cop only six days away
from retirement.
     The man then lifted a five foot long black metal tube from the
bed of the truck and hefted it onto his right shoulder.  He pulled a
trigger on the device and it sent a high-explosive anti-tank missile
flying towards the dome.  Three seconds later the dome of the Capitol
collapsed.  By that time, the man was already on the motor bike and
racing down the Mall towards the Potomac River.  At the Lincoln
Memorial he shot and killed a young woman waiting in traffic to cross
the river.  He threw her out onto the sidewalk and drove her car, a
Toyota Celica, across the bridge and into Arlington, Virginia.  The
car was found an hour later in a convenience store parking lot. 
Inside, the Arlington police found three more dead bodies.
     By two o'clock the F.B.I. was processing over a hundred photos of
the suspect.  By 2:30 they had a positive I.D. on the suspect.  The
suspect was Captain John Hollis Wind of the Army Special Forces,
Absent Without Leave from his training post in Japan.
     At three o'clock our new President declared the capture of John
Hollis Wind a national emergency.  He authorized the use of Military
Personnel in a man hunt that stretched from Georgia to New York.  He
temporarily suspended habeas corpus on the Interstates in Virginia,
West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania and Tennessee.
     A small private hanger in Vienna, Virginia was broken into
sometime that evening.  A single engined Cesna was missing when the
crime was discovered, three days later.



****that's it brothers and sisters.  Send in mo stuff for next time. 
Soon.  no wait.  just let me know if you want it edited or just
fondled.  Lots of weird spelling, grammar in this one.  If you meant
it, that's cool.  If you don't know no better, well, then, let me help
you along.
M.M.