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443 lines
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #89 |
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- This Week in Job Interviews -
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by Arifel
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[MONDAY]
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Company: don't know. mike (flatmate) mentioned they were looking
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for someone computer-literate.
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Position: don't know. in fact, i didn't even send in a formal
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application; i just got the address from mike and caught
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the tram down there one morning. no appointment or
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anything.
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this is one of those huge glass towers in Queen's Parade. monstrous building.
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in the lobby, i noted that the entire building was owned by the one company.
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they must be worth a lot.
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i walked right past the guys at the security desk. one of them called out to
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me; i got out the woodsman's knife that marian had given me and waved it at
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them. `it's all right, i don't have a gun.' i shouted, and took another swig
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from the bottle of vodka. in the elevator on the way up, i saw how the
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pinhead mask looked - it's great in the smoky dimness of a goth club, but it
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looks a bit funny in daylight. i slipped it off, but kept it in one hand.
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the elevator stops at the twenty-third floor; i wander around and locate a
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secretary.
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`i'm applying for that job.' i mention vaguely. she seems to know what i'm
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talking about, which is a surprise.
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`one moment, i'll see if Mr. Grainger is available.' while she's gone, i
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scoot around behind her desk and fiddle with the screen-colours in Windows.
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red and blue chequered backdrop. lovely, although if they use Windows a lot,
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i may insist that they install 486es throughout - they reboot faster.
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she comes back and ushers me into this guy's office. he's in his late
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forties, typical manager-type look, greying hair, suit, tie, cocksucker's
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moustache and all. he's running Windows, too. jesus. haven't these people
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ever heard of Desqview?
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`i can see i'm gonna have to make a few changes around here.' i say sternly,
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pointing at his machine. i sit down in the chair before his desk, put one
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motorcycle-booted foot up on his nameplate and have a long swig of
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stolichnaya. i offer him some, but he politely refuses. `so. what have you
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got to offer me?'
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`salary starts at fifty-five thousand a year; four hours a day, four days a
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week for a one-hundred-and-fifty day period; rest of the year is paid
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holiday, company car - '
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`it's not one of those huge Ford monstrosities, is it?' he looks
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embarrassed, but confesses that it is.
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`we're thinking of replacing it with something a little more, uh...'
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`useable? how about a hearse? you can fit lots of equipment in the back.'
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his expression brightens at this, and he makes a note on a pad. this is a
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worry; if i'm not careful, this asswipe is going to employ me. `now, what
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exactly is it i'd be doing?' he smiles.
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`well, as you may have seen, we use Windows quite a lot, and every so often,
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one of the secretaries will be fiddling with the screen preferences, and
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she'll do something silly like set the borders, text and background to the
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same colour. we need someone here to fix this.' i sit there, waiting for him
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to go on. `that's it.'
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`that's it?' this has to be some kind of scam. `i should mention, i'm a
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pagan. that means i have to have the solstices off, you know, Midwinter,
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Midsummer, also the odd weekday when the rest of the coven get together.' he
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nods. fine. `i'll also want to redecorate my office - you've seen the
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HellRaiser films?'
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`no, but that shouldn't be a problem.'
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`black stone walls, lit from the lower edges, chains hanging from the
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ceiling, floor coated in blood?'
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`fine.'
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`loud industrial music playing most of the time?'
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`no problem.' i'm going to have to do better than this.
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`how about an attractive female secretary that i can nail to my desk every
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lunchtime?' he grins, closes his eyes in mute agreement, as if that's what
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he does. `oh, hang on, i mean REALLY nail to the desk. with nails.'
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`i think we can accomodate that.' sigh.
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`tell you what. put a copy of the job description on a disk, let me take it
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home and fiddle with it until i've got it the way i like it, then i'll get
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back to you.' his eyes gleam at this; now i KNOW it's a scam. while he's off
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getting his secretary to do a text dump of the WinWord file, i steal a few
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sheets of letterhead from his desk, slip them into my folder.
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Mr Manager comes back, hands me a disk, shakes my hand as if i'd signed up
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already, and ushers me out of the door. i can't figure this out. i haven't
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shaved for a week, my hair's the same length as those guys from ZZ Top, i'm
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drunk and i'm wearing a t-shirt with glow-in-the-dark copulating skeletons
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drawn all over it.
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in the elevator on the way down, i look at the letterhead:
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BUREAU OF SABOTAGE
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oh.
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[TUESDAY]
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ring, ring.
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ring, ring.
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ring, ring.
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(one more, and the answering machine will pick it up.)
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ring, ring.
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ring, ring.
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(damn!)
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ring, ring.
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(argh)
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`hello?'
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`hello? could i speak to nikolai kingsley?'
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(pause) `you're not from Encyclopedia Britannica, are you?'
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`no, i'm with Hewson Rubber Devices, incorporated. we make sexual aids, and
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we're looking for someone to work in our R&D department. a knowledge of
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AutoCad would be useful, but not essential, and you get to play with all
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manner of inflatible -'
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<click>
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[WEDNESDAY]
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this one wasn't actually advertised anywhere. one of my associates in HairNet
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got sick of me whining about being poor all the time, and sent me netmail,
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giving me an address and a time.
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it was out in Belgrave, somewhere; the Volkswagon was going and i had enough
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petrol to get there and back, so i looked it up in the Melways and set off on
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a rather overcast sunday afternoon, skidding around the steep, rain-slick
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mountain corners.
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the address seemed to be one huge block of heavily-wooded land; i had to
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drive up and down a few times before i found the drive-way. huge stone lions
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on either side. how did i miss them the first time past?
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the road up to the house was just as winding as the roads through
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hippy-riddled mountain Belgrave, and almost as long. the grounds were
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immaculately kept, and looked like the scenery at the start of Ken Russell's
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film, `Gothic'. the house was immense; a huge, sprawling mansion, its upper
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reaches shrouded in mist, its base clothed in vines and oddly-shaped topiary.
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an ancient, eroded pillar had a verdigris-stained plate set at chest level;
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if one looked closely, one could discern ornate lettering which read: WASTREL
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TOWERS.
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what the hell was a wastrel? something like a minstrel? the only association
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i had with that word was an old cartoon strip by Dori Seda in Crumb's WEIRDO
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magazine, the one where she was describing how she kept getting crabs from
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her bed-partners. from that, i gathered that a wastrel was a cross between a
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hippy, a New-Ager and a member of the Society of Creative Anacronism. i had
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an image of young female hippy nipples poking shyly through thin cotton
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shirts with gathered sleeves. this house, on the other hand, looked like the
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sort of place Penelope Keith would live in. i just hope they weren't after a
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gardener.
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just as i started up the dark grey stone steps, i caught a flicker of white
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out of the corner of my eye, off in the greenery nearby. i almost turned to
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look, but then i received another flash off to the other side. uh-huh. Sidhe.
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i paused, rummaged around in my pocket and found a small plastic bag with a
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pinch or two of white powder in the bottom. i went over to the pool-table
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textured lawn, kneeled down in the centre of a vaguely-defined circle of
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slightly darker grass and scattered the powder. `share and enjoy', i
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murmured. angel dust. how appropriate. i thought i heard faint giggles as i
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made my way up to the doors.
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i rang the doorbell and stood in the freezing drizzle for exactly six minutes
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before the doors creaked open. i expected the traditional decrepit
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ninety-year old retainer like Faithful Old Crumble in `The Last Remake of
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Beau Geste'; i certainly didn't expect the traditional sixteen-year-old
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schoolgirl, short blonde hair, grey pleated skirt, hockey stick and all.
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`ah. i'm here about the, ah - ' she smiled mysteriously and indicated that i
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should follow her.
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she led me down a dark corridor, expensive, dusty old carpets, vaguely pagan
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embroidery in foot-thick frames, into a large drawing- room. heavy furniture,
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masses of brown varnish and the scent of age. a table took up about a third
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of the room; it looked like the sort of thing elizabethan monarchs would sign
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declarations on. there was a Solburne S4000 workstation, a scattering of
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floppies, an Eizo monitor and a gordian knot of cables. seated in one of
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Morticia Addams' thrones was a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in what
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looked like a black lace funeral gown. her face was partly hidden by a veil,
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but she was beautiful. the warning signals that had been clanging in the back
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of my head ever since i'd seen the house suddenly jumped in volume. i sat on
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the carpet a few metres away, crossed my legs and smiled up at her.
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apparently, she was a writer, author of over a dozen successful Mills and
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Boone romances, and recently she'd been contacted by her publishers and asked
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if she'd like to move on to something racier.
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`i wasn't shocked at the idea of writing pornography,' she murmured.
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`erotica.' i suggested. she smiled.
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`whatever. i wrote all of my other novels on an Underwood typewriter, but for
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this, i thought i needed something a bit more modern. the publishers sent me
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that,' gesturing at the workstation, `which they'd come into posession by way
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of a receivership move.' i got up, went over to examine the machine.
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bare-bones unix, no editor more advanced than vi. i wondered if matt dillon
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had a unix version of DME handy.
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the woman - Jeanette - followed me over and stood uncomfortably close. `i
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need technical support, someone to manage backups, to show me how to use this
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computer... a general amanuensis, even.' so, she was going to write erotica
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and test it on me.
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i heard a faint beat from somewhere on the first floor. cocking my head, i
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listened.
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`"Metal Church"; "Beyond the Black".' i guessed. she pursed her lips.
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`that's Althea. she showed you in.' uh-huh. Jeanette moved even closer and
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placed a lace-gloved hand over mine. `we have plenty of spare rooms here, if
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you needed somewhere to stay - it would save you the trouble of driving out
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from Hawthorn every day.' i stood there rigid as she put her arms around me
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from behind, but it was the unmistakeable scent of opium that gave me the
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impetus to escape from her clutches as politely as possible. i left her with
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the phone number of a friend who knew a bit more about unix than i did.
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as i backed the volkswagon around in the gravel parking area, i saw her
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looking at me from a high window. her expression was one of a calculating
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huntress who had seen her prey escape a trap.
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[THURSDAY]
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<beep> <rewind, rewind, rewind, beep>
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<hiss, beep>
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`This is mike's flat. nikolai lives here sometimes. we're not in at the
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moment, so please leave a message.'
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<beep>
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`hello? My name's Alan Watson, i'm with Playboy Australia, we'd like to speak
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to Mr kingsley about writing an S&M column for us. he can call me back on
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double-six three, one three double four. thanks.'
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<beep>
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`good morning, it's, (pause) quarter past eleven, thursday the fourteenth, my
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name is Claudia Miller from the State Library. i'd like to speak to nikolai
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about working in our Pnakotic Scripts department - a friend of mine mentioned
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his name in relation to the Greek translation of the Necronomicon. could he
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please call me on eight-two-oh, one oh double four? thank you.'
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<beep>
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`uh, hi guys, this is Loki, do you mind if i come over tomorrow and borrow
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your printer? i promise i'll buy a new stack of paper for it. thanks, guys.'
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<beep>
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`hello? hello? i guess there's no-one there... uh, my name is Joseph
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Morrisey, i'm the personnel manager at the Bank of Melbourne. we'd like Mr
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kingsley to contact us with regards to a position we have, disposing of
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slightly torn one-hundred dollar bills. the number here is six double-nine
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three triple-two. thank you.'
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<beep>
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`hello... hello... this is sean... hello... hello. oh. okay. goodbye.'
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<beep> <rewind, rewind, rewind>
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[FRIDAY]
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This time, i got a phone call from Germany. it was some guy called Peter
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Theander, speaking in heavily-accented english.
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`Yess, I em dze head of dze Colour Climax Corporation.' uh-huh. `Fee publish
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magazines off quality erotica.'
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`Yes, I'm familiar with your work - in fact, i have an almost complete
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collection of your excellent magazine "Anal Sex".' he laughed nervously,
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backpedalled.
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`I em gled fee undterstent each ozher. You see, viss dze recession in
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avstralia, fee can produce our magazines dzhere viss much more
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cost-effectifness. I fill be flying out dzere in a few days time, and fee
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would be interested in offering you a chob.' he hung up, and i was tempted
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to call telecom and have our number changed then and there, but i knew it
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wouldn't stop him.
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the bastard of it was, if i didn't at least go to the interviews, the
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Department of Social Security would think i wasn't seriously looking for
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gainful employment.
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one of his flunkies called later that day, arranged an interview in the city,
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in fact, just up the road from the department of defence where i'd once
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installed and bug-fixed a macintosh that was having trouble with its video
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frame-grabber for BCA (that was a simple problem; i just removed a few of the
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unneccessary INITS they were running). the offices were not what i'd
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expected, neat, sterile, efficient. i'd expected, somehow, semen-stained
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mattresses under bare light-bulbs. then again, they wouldn't have that sort
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of thing in their head-office, would they?
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Mr Theander was a completely normal-looking gent (for a pornography magnate),
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mid-to-late forties, neat charcoal-grey business suit, pale tie. his desk was
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amidst dozens of others which hummed with activity, all of it to do with
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stock, papers, orders, invoices, and the like. they could have been running
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Sports Illustrated for all i knew.
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i sat down in the chair on the far side of Theander's desk, adjusted my
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Pinhead mask slightly, regarded the man over the nails that ran along the
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ridge just below my eyes. it didn't seem to put him off, and his accent had
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improved noticeably since we'd last spoken.
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`one of my assistants is something of a bulletin-board user, and she's seen
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quite a bit of your work in various places. we are always on the lookout for
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people to write for us - '
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`you mean, that text that goes with the pictures, in four languages?' he
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smiled.
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`yes. it can't have escaped your notice that some of our corporation's
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earlier efforts were... how should i say...'
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`lame?' i offered. he grinned tolerantly. i wondered if i should produce that
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syringe of water i had stashed in my pencil-box and shoot up here and now, or
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wait until he offered me obscene amounts of money.
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`you would be collaborating with the translators; you see, together, the four
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of you will devise scenarios, which we then shoot photos to go with; then,
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together, you four write the text which will accompany them.' he spoke into
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a phone in rapid-fire German, those twenty- syllable words that had given me
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so much trouble when i'd once tried to translate the text in those A3-format
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Editions C books of H.R. Giger's artwork. from somewhere behind me came three
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girls, each far too attractive to be models for Theander's magazines. he
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gestured to them.
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`this is Marie-Therese, the French translator,' a slim girl with long,
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dark-brown hair, a heart-shaped face and eyebrows that almost met, dressed in
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a double-layered black georgette bias-cut skirt with a wide corset-style
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waistband in leather (where the hell did that description come from? what i
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know about fashion, you could store in my modem's S-registers!); `Anya, our
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Danish translator,' a woman about my age, bowl-cut blonde hair, a floral
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dress, somewhat the way i imagined what's-her-name, the dutch woman in
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`Gravity's Rainbow' to be (why couldn't i remember her name? it can't have
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been that long since i read that book), `and Angela, our German translator.'
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there was no way on EARTH that this girl could have been old enough to work
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in this line; she was sixteen if she was a day, short black hair, loose baggy
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t-shirt with two small indentations where her breasts should have been, and -
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this is the first thing that tipped me off - black lycra bike-shorts
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underneath the t-shirt. argh. i resisted the temptation to gnaw my knuckles.
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besides, wearing this Pinhead mask didn't allow that action.
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Theander was talking about wages, working conditions, superannuation, health
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and dental funds; i was only listening with one-third of my concentration.
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one-third was exchanging meaningful glances with Angela. a phone call came in
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for Theander; Marie-Therese and Anya went off to discuss something between
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themselves, and i took the opportunity to ask Angela something that had been
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bugging me for years.
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`i once read, in one of Mr Theander's magazines, a german phrase: "Es war
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einfach sagenhaft"...' she smiled, closing her eyes demurely.
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`that would be "it was simply fabulous" or "it was simply incredible"...' she
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replied, her slight accent sounding somehow sensual, when in Theander it made
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him sound like an extra from `Hogan's Heroes'. i smiled back at her, before
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realising how close they'd come to trapping me. think, you fool, think.
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Theander finished his phone call. i stood up hurriedly, blurted the first
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thing that came into my head.
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`this sounds like wonderful work, and i'm sure i can, ah, perform the duties
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you've outlined, but i'll have to speak to a publisher in, uh, New Jersey.
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i'm under contract with them, and i'll have to make sure that i'll be allowed
|
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to write for your corporation.' i began backing away from the desk. `i don't
|
||
anticipate any problems... so, ah, i'll call you in a few day's time.' i
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||
made it to the elevators and escaped.
|
||
|
||
when i got back to the reassuring squalor of our flat, i changed the
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answering machine message.
|
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|
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||
<20> <20><> <20>
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||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20>
|
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Phoenix Modernz Systems: 908/830-TANJ
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> The Syndicate: 908/506-6892
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> VapourWare BBS: 61/3-429-8510
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Yellow Submarine: 404/552-5336
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<EFBFBD>۱<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Urban Discipline / VaS World HQ : 313/464-1470
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<EFBFBD>۱<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> RipCo ][: 312/528-5020
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> TANJ Mailing Address <20>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> PO Box 174 <20>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> Seaside Hts, NJ <20>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> 08751 <20>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>;
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> tanj@pms.metronj.org
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