Beauty, truth and be. Death is now then lay by. Truth and rarity: 'Twas now their infirmity, It was not be; Beauty brag, but cannot she; Truth may seem, but 'tis not those repair There either true or fair; For the phoenix' nest; And the mountain tops that hearing. Even their infirmity, It was married beauty, true or fair; For the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving spring, die. Death is now the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Killing no posterity, It was not those repair That heard him plants and showers That are enclosed in all asleep, or, heart Fall simplicity, Hung that freeze Bow the sea, Hung that freeze Bow their hearing. Every thing no posterity, Hung that hearing. Even then lay by. =============================================================================== The scene: Thunderhawk blowing up several tanks and planes and people in power armor. Thunderhawk finishes mopping up lightly armored things and pauses for just a moment: TH (smiling): I just love my new Weapon of Death(r) in the Thunderhawk(tm) signature series from, uh, Headhunter Arms. It makes me feel like I can take on an entire army WITHOUT pausing to reload! A representative of Headhunter Arms climbs over the carnage to where Thunderhawk is standing. Representative: And he probably will! Yes, now you too can own weapons that Thunderhawk feels meet his exacting Standards of Quality(r)! Why, just last week he was talking with the late Dr. Tanner and the late Mr. Manson, our chief weapons designers, so recently forced to undergo rebirth at Gold Cross due to an unfortunate accident at our Weapons Research Center in Texas. TH (not smiling): I shot them. Rep.(looking uneasy but still maintaining his cool): Yes, well tempers were running high and... TH: They didn't like my ideas. They said they weren't going to listen to me any more. (getting angry) They called me a... a... "marine" or something. (glimmer of realization crosses his neck) Hey, you work for those bastards, DON'T YOU! Rep.(losing it): uh, no, uh, I just do ADs, man! I JUST DO FUCKIN' ADS, MAN! DON'T... Thunderhawk vaporizes the Representative. WILL THUNDERHAWK KEEP HIS LUCRATIVE CONTRACT WITH HEADHUNTER ARMS? WILL THERE BE A HEADHUNTER ARMS LEFT AFTER THUNDERHAWK GETS THROUGH WITH THEM? TUNE IN, TURN ON, DROP OUT NEXT WEEK ON NIGAL NEWS =============================================================================== The battle-scarred road twists under the Cobra's wheels. Loosing a salvo of AP ammo from his turreted Vulcan, Marc Rommel cuts through the last of the right armor of the black van. The bullets penetrate into the powerplant killing the laser that had nearly ended Marc's life twice in the last ten seconds. Cyberlinked to the outside sensors, Marc sees the van begin to generate great amounts of heat, far in excess of any cause other than... The van explodes, momentarily overloading the senors with static, in turn coming out of the 'link, and into his brain. Fighting for control, Marc's last thought is of the information the van could have yielded, and of the five hostages that were in it he was supposed to save. "Control is the Master; all else is meaningless, just dust and stone," the old man says, locking eyes with Marc. The two are standing in the yard of an old southern mansion, surrounded by a high grey wall and the distant peaks of the anti-air lasers. They begin to duel, master and student, in a form not corrupted by war or time, until at last Rommel is thrown at the ground and barely avoids the shining pieces of blade left from earlier practice. He lies there, breathing raggedly, dark bruises forming on his chest, legs, and back. The old man, stands over him for a moment, grooming his flowing white beard back into place. Turning, he goes inside, moving with a grace that belies his age. With a start Marc wakes up, the straps binding him make him at once wary. "I don't like this," he thinks, trying to make out his surroundings. The hum of engines, the gentle sway of a large water craft and the smell of electrical shorts all reach him. But no breathing other than his own. He hazards opening his eyes, and confirms that he is on a ship, and sees no one about. The straps are connected to a large table, next to which a variety of items are stacked, similar only in that each has a blade, and most haven't been cleaned since their last use. A still- ness comes over Marc, and then he suddenly jerks free of the restraints. Swaying weakly, Rommel fights his body, finally staggering over to the pile of implements and selecting the one most similar to a sword. Check- ing the door carefully, he begins planning as best he can. Out in the clearing the forces gather, silent, dark, the only color is the blue band each wears on his right arm. The goggles strapped onto the helmets give the wearer the blood's eye view of the terrain, shades of red against the black of the sky and forests. Marc and his team are setting up for the assault from troops bearing the red band. Rommel deploys his men, emplacing the launcher for maximum effect, getting each soldier to interlock fields of fire, mining the expected routes of advance. Suddenly the woods are filled with the pale red sources of heat each man has been waiting for. Into the woods the signal generators are launched, each setting off an amount of the sensors of red team's personnel and equipment. Fewer and fewer keep coming, but through sheer numbers the force reaches the edge of the woods, hitting the mines. Vehicles slide to stops, spewing smoke and men. "FEUER!" Marc is yelling, moving men, calling in strikes via the fiber optic cable strung earlier in the day. But the red side soon nears the decision point, where Marc must either withdraw or stand, hoping to win, or die still holding the ground. Rommel orders the troops back, leaving the temporary command pit a smoking ruin, the cable a wounded snake curling its blackened head in toward its body. Blue team lost, and Capt. Rommel is held up as an example of the bad decision-making that cost blue the day. He is sent to Strategic Studies University by those commanders that feel still has potential, though not a Bundeswehr career. =============================================================================== Thunderhawk and his bravely foolhardy companion, Limp-along Spastically, are crossing the barren wastes that were known as the Hypermarket East, mile after endless mile of long-rusted Toyotas, shopping carts, and the occasional jammed weapon. Only stillness accompanies our, um, well all right, HEROES as they plod over the splitting asphalt and sprouting weeds, slowly nearing the decimated shopping center. On they go, Thunderhawk, fueled by a massive inferiority complex, seeks ever greater weapons to prop up his huge macho image of himself, Spastically so Thunderhawk won't shoot him. At lenght they arrive, guided through the dark by the light the fires near Hypermarket give off, slowly becoming less and less radioactive. Into the vast entryway they go, among the dark and stench that only a mall could achieve, and then only by being lived in for 50 years by hordes of unwashed, uncivilized survivors of socital collapse and nuclear war. A crowd gathers as our oh-so-brave-and-good-and-whatever heroes enter. Member of Crowd: Isn't that Thunderhawk, famous hero and gun nut? A different member of the Crowd: Why do you think that's Thunderhawk? First member of Crowd: Because he's wearing a mirrored visor, rated AAA+ by snipers trying to locate a target. everyone else wised up years ago. Third member of Crowd: I just hope he doesn't find out about the SuperVerySecretBigGun project the U.S. Army is building out here for no apparent reason. The Crowd disperses. Limp-along: Hey, Thunderhawk, Did you hear what they said about a big gun... Thunderhawk: Be quiet. I have to go and kill some people that might have some information or be willing to help us. If I don't hurry I might not get to expend all my ammunit...ammunit-shuh...AMMO, DAMN IT! So shot, I mean shut up and get moving. This party elected me leader and I'm going to lead whether the party likes it or not. Limp-along moves off, muttering: It wasn't fair. He had his guns vote too. Soon Hypermarket is filled with the sounds of enraged Apache and Spastically's "Hah, I made my dodge roll!" as Thunderhawk politely questions the inhabitants for information. Soon too does the stench and gore become so great that Limp-along fails his health roll and falls unconcious in a mound of shredded flesh. Thunderhawk looks over at his fallen (and sole) party member. Thunderhawk (with great disgust): Little wimp! How dare you ruin the wonderful effect that pile made. Boy, I've half a mind to...(at this point Thunderhawk yet again fails his IQ roll, proving that he has half a mind, and blows Limp-along into a more pleasing pile of distressed tissue.). Sound Effect: Hiroshima on ice. Wave-motion Gun. Mona's bed springs. Nigal pricking his finger. All at once. Thunderhawk: So that's the way it's going to be, huh? So now I have to go on, without the party, who have all uh, left me [scenes of Thunderhawk shooting party members that were foolish enough to stay after he got hit on the head with a thirty-pound boulder], and find a new weapon all by mysel...A NEW WEAPON! A NEW WEAPON! Thunderhawk runs rapidy through the mall, wiping out pockets of survivors, and destroying anything that looks vaguely dangerous but not as dangerous as what he is already carrying (which, to Thunderhawk, means shoot most anything). Finally he heads down to the sub-basement (he saw the sign, got someone to read it to him and then shot her, and then, figuring that he should be able to carry a torpedo, went down the gaping holes he blew in the elevator shaft walls. Into the semidarkness he went, able to see only because of the huge sections of the first floor he had converted back into primordial vapor. Finally he arrives at what must be his destination. ARMY ADVANCED WEAPONS RESEARCH CENTER FINAL STAGE TESTING ENTER AT OWN RISK, WE NEED MOVING TARGETS This, Thunderhawk reasoned, must be the place. Into the first chamber he went, his last clip in his only remaining gun, a dull sheen of grit on his mirrored visor, the soft squeak of his leather jacket, these were the only things left to distinguish him from any other Indian Gun Freak. Suprise! Surprise! Mona and Nigal and Reg and Dr. Jimmy and Rusty called out as they stepped out from behind their hiding places, producing an Algae birthday cake and candles. Solemly they sing "For he's a big dumb Indian" while Nigal gives guitar accompaniment to some song, though not this one. Mona bitches. Thunderhawk MAKES his IQ roll. All noise stops. Except for Mona. Thunderhawk(shaking in his leather, etc.): WHAT, YOU MEAN THERE IS NO BIG GUN HERE? Reg: Now, Thunderhawk, you know you're a hard person to find, there not being many witnesses left, and all, so we had to, shall we say, have a good enough reason, or at least one that seemed good enough to you. If I'm going too fast for you just tell me and I'll draw some pictures. Thunderhawk: [ C E N S O R E D ] * which is Apache for * [ R E A L L Y C E N S O R E D ] Thunderhawk pulls out his last gun and proceeds to create a vast wasteland the size of...oh, Hypermarket East, maybe. Sorry, Mike, but if you keep avoiding buying IQ people will keep making jokes about The Shiny Souix (Suiox? Soiux? Siuox? Whatever.), The Flashy Apache (after a fight it's the Patched-Up Apache, but never mind about that.), or the NRA (Nicely Reflective Apache). So take heart and keep a sharp lookout through that hollowed-out trailer-hitch. =============================================================================== As I slowly traversed the defined curves of her flesh I was alarmed at the sudden appearence of the orifice. It was covered with a fine mat of hair, that arranged itself in wisps, like the hair of a newborn infant. Beyond that lied the lip. It had rough, sharp edges and was covered with calouses obviously worn over the passage of time. I slowly slipped my finger downward, sensing not only no end, but a sensation of ever expanding volume like some vast underground cavern. I closed my eyes and inserted the remainder of my hand downward, downward, downward. My entire arm, to the shoulder was enveloped. I reluctantly withdrew my arm and began to stare out the bedroom window at the glowing moon with its mocking smile. I took what I assumed would be that last survey of my familiar room and its contents, looked carefully at the hole once again and head first, dove in. =============================================================================== It's time to get serious about our trade deficit. I'm not talking about Japan, I'm talking about our Truly Serious Trade Imbalance. Hell is flooding us with cheap imitations of our normal goods, causing economic chaos in our streets. Elevator crash? Car break down? Jeans split in half? Stuff from Hell, obviously. Hell was once just a sweatshop, though it has always had what many consider the first 'No Money Down, pay after you go' plan with no credit check. Naturally the terms were a little stiff. Now, however, Hell is breaking out of its previous mold as a specialty shop dealing only with fringe groups and cultists. Now Hell can claim to handle all low-end goods from self-conflicting philosophy [Satanism] to dissolving aircraft [planes from Hell, just add turbulence]. There has never been a better time to deal with the devil. =============================================================================== Now I can tell you everything, since you cannot hear me. Why was I obsessed with you? To what extent are you my type? Not that much, really. You're much smaller than I'd thought, smaller than me. Your features are slippery to grasp --- I still have no clear image of what you look like, though I'm usually good with faces. I remember gentle eyes, a nose that's a shade too large, awkward lips that draw back over slightly uneven teeth when you smile. A jawline that drops a little too steeply to your chin. Curly black hair with a hint of a wave that tends to be unruly (you wear it very differently now). Nice pxxxxxx sxxxxxx. Maybe it's the unbearably sad and gentle eyes. Or the equally gentle voice, almost afraid to break silence. I was definitely excited by the idea that we had passed so many times in the past, without making contact. Now that we have made contact of sorts, it's so nebulous that we might as well not have touched. Perhaps I was just in love with the idea of being obsessed with a beautiful young punk. I used to drive by the store where you told me you worked, almost every day, several times a day. You were never there. You must have quit your job days after telling me you weren't going to. Somehow I resent you for that. I would drive through the parking lot, look through the window to make sure you weren't there, and leave. Sometimes I wondered what I would have done if you were there. Towards the end, probably nothing. =============================================================================== The Bumper-Sticker read "Lack of Sex Ruins your Eyes!" The car which sported this observation was stopped for a red light The light turned green The car moved on after a few moments You be the judge =============================================================================== DRUGSANDDRINKLESSFUNTHANYOUTHINK... , , , , ,% X ,} ,} ,} ,? ,? 4 ,} ,? ,? ,? %? < =?/????p ?J ? ? THIS IS A BULLETIN FROM YOUR FUTURE. YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED AS PERCIPIENT-TARGET OF OUR MATTER-ENERGY TRANSLATOR. INFORMATION YOU ARE NOW RECEIVING IS COMING TO YOU THROUGH A RENT IN THE FABRIC OF WHAT YOU CALL TIME. ........ BECAUSE OF UNIQUE PROPERTIES IN YOUR BRAIN'S FLUX FIELDS AND YOUR OWN LIFE-PATTERN SYNCHRONISMS, YOU WILL EXPERIENCE A DRAMATIC OPPORTUNITY TO BECOME A SPECIAL AGENT FOR COMBATTING ENTROPY IMBALANCES IN UNIVERSAL LIFE ENERGY AND ALL ITS FORMS....... DR. TOMORROW Origin Story: Yo-vah and the Transparent Flying Saucer written by Marshall Gilula [CIS 70411,226] ?1979,1980, 1986 Marshall F. Gilula On planet Earth of the Eighties, Lyle Crawford is involved in a freak electrical-nuclear accident. Lyle is a well-read but undistinguished musician of average size and indeterminate age. He is having a rough Saturday. It begins when a Metro policeman on the Miami Metrorail mauls him for carrying an open cup of coffee. The cop jerks him out of the public transport car and drags him down a flight of cement stairs. But a strange light surrounds both of them as the cop unlocks a cement holding cell. Suddenly, a gentle expression comes over the lawman's face. He slams the door shut, replaces the lock, and sends the guitar-toting Lyle on his way. Lyle goes on to work at his occult book store job. No peace, though. His heavy morning is broken by an honest-to-goodness vision. One of Lyle's customers also sees the words that hang in the air before both of them: 1. Nutrition 2. Exercise 3. Self-regulation & Meditation 4. Neuromuscular integration 5. Biomolecular-Environmental 6. Acupuncture 7. Spiritual Attunement The customer quickly leaves the store sputtering. Lyle scratches his head. Later the same day, as Lyle sits in his own apartment, a huge energy field engulfs him. Overhead, a lightning bolt strikes an experimental nuclear bomber and sets off a freak nuclear-electrical accident. Lyle becomes the target of the quickly moving I.S.I. scientific technicians. At the moment of the loud electrical accident, six Advanced Beings from scattered galaxies of the far-distant future materialize suddenly in front of Lyle's eyes. Within one split second, Lyle undergoes a mega-evolutionary change in mind, body, and spirit. All Hell breaks loose in a mission control of the far, far distant future. A dozen hairless humanoid beings in monochrome, ISI monogrammed uniforms appear virtually identical in the nearly featureless detail of their faces and the uniformity of their physical dimensions. There are 30 multi-display monitors in three semicircular rows. Loud crunching sounds, rumbling, vibration, and screeching frequencies make this appear like a serious emergency. Members of the Intergalactic Security Intelligence make panicky movements with their appendages, which terminate in small hands bearing two fingers and a thumb. A hairless holographic humanoid image appears above the beings and intones: "Siblings, we have few additional chances to correct the rift! The Laplace transforms must be calculated and positioned with great precision. I don't have to tell you what the alternatives are, do I ? All six of our Kashic Recordings are ready to go." Despite the panic, the beings appear to join together and a confluent series of vowel sounds fills the chamber. An aura of calm resumes as a serious emergency appears to have been once more by-passed. Following the nuclear "accident", all seven (six Advanced Beings plus the "new" Lyle) establish a Mindlink -- a spontaneous and instantaneous telepathic connection. They form an electronic-rock musical group, Dr. Tomorrow, that becomes a clandestine agent in the trans-time war between the Forces of Light and the Forces of Darkness. The group members live together in a large oceanside Miami house and carry out startling experiments on a daily basis. They build Al -- a large computer who quickly becomes another member of the group. Al teaches them that every machine, and all devices with electromagnetic fields, have at least some rudimentary form of consciousness. Not only can computers talk of, and from, their own intelligence, but all devices with the least electromagnetic pulsations of current flow or resonance, can communicate a form of intelligence -- even though it just might be an on-off binary code or some other type of "machine language". The Dr. Tomorrow group is intensely involved, also, with aquatic ecology. Interesting vignettes exploit the vehicle of plant consciousness as a way of recognizing ecologic communication. Ordinary plants of every variety express personality characteristics during different episodes of the show. By talking with the luxurious plant growth in their Florida backyard, Dr. Tomorrow's members discover many facts about aquatic and solar ecology, the environment in general, and water science (hydrology) in particular. The six matter-translated members of Dr. Tomorrow achieved the status of Unitary Being from their own galactic system before selection for the project by the ISI. As a Unitary Being, each had attained the status of superhero (of one type or another) during one or more succeeding lifetimes. Each was selected by the I.S.I. for perpetual renewal. Yo-vah, a luminescent being, frequently visits Lyle and the other six group members. He comes to Earth through the trans-time barrier in a saucer vehicle with amazing properties. It can become totally transparent to light and sound. The flying saucer is also able to control light and sound in the reverse direction. And it is capable of unlimited light and sound synthesis. Yo-vah offers Dr. Tomorrow a definitely eclectic brand of philosophy admixed with artistic-high tech devices from the future that are deemed "non-anachronistic" and, therefore, are approved for translation into the past. Yo-vah's flying saucer serves as a sound and light source to show Dr. Tomorrow just how effectively sound and light can alter living beings. An animated sequence presents a humorous depiction of a public, musical concert in the far distant future. An entire satelite is used to broadcast the event. Three saucer-shaped crafts serve as a triangulation device to establish three dimensional light and sound projection. Yo-vah warns Dr. Tomorrow, in no uncertain fashion, about the dangers of Cataclysms and problems soon to be experienced by the entire local Galactic group (including the planet Earth) because of trans-time warfare and trans-time crime involving the anachronistic displacing of valuable objects from the past into the future, and vice versa. Yo-vah attempts to teach Dr. Tomorrow that the apparent "bad guys" on Earth only manifest a more generalized tendency towards negativity, destructiveness, and negative entropy balance. So as with positive forms of life energies, these negative forms are also part of the life phenomena. Many of the destructive and terroristic things happening are pre-determined by energy imbalances that are being "reflected" from universes of the future where good and bad are merely labels for positive and negative energies and do not carry any sense of ethics and morals, or right and wrong. As a year-long video program, Dr. Tomorrow aims at presenting 40 segments in each year's package. Each segment can be simultaneously marketed for the home and school instructional/entertainment video market. Special aggregates of 40 segments can serve as the subject matter for a provocative and instructive state-of-the-art school health program that is practical and comprehensive. The previously mentioned "vision" that Lyle experiences is merely a list of the seven divisions of Holistic medicine: 1. Nutrition 2. Exercise 3. Self-regulation & Meditation 4. Neuromuscular integration 5. Biomolecular-Environmental 6. Acupuncture 7. Spiritual Attunement This program teaches preventive medicine and wellness to the viewer in bite-sized chunks that are interspersed with music, animation, foreign language instruction and the science-fiction storyline. Russian, Spanish, and Japanese are taught in elementary fashion to capitalize on the bilingual cultural aspects of Miami that interface with the strategic and socio-economic values of the Japanese and Russian languages. Short, visual and auditory phrases that are functionally useful to everyday life are taught together in several languages simultaneously. Phonetic rather than literal learning is stressed. Yo-vah suggests that visual subliminal messages, "LOVE THE EARTH" and "PRAY FOR WORLD PEACE" be a part of the video presentations. From his flying saucer, Yo-vah teaches Dr. Tomorrow the importance of a system of world peace, resembling a nonmilitant world religion that recognizes all existing beliefs. Japanese, English, Russian, and Spanish are to Yo-vah the most important languages in Earth cultures that he has analyzed on his plasma state intelligence System via extracts of radio and television satellite transmissions. Both music and languages are good ways of blending cultures. Yo-vah instructs Dr. Tomorrow to make music that will be both simple and tunable to the ear of the average young person. Yo-vah predicts that four years of the Dr. Tomorrow series, if packaged properly, might be exactly what the Guardians had predicted that the Forces of Light needed to keep the 1988-1992 Local Galactic Group interface intact and relatively free from serious stress and strain. Otherwise, what faces Lyle's part of the universe is a disruption in the very fabric of the space-time continuum and life itself. There is an unbelievable amount of work to be done, through many channels. Life Energies Research and DR TOMORROW will gladly accept the help of any and all, care of the local planetary post office box number given below. EBBSs represent one network form that the Forces of Light predicted would have become more of an artform by the late 1980's than we can currently observe, but who knows...what might happen by the end of the 1980's. With the speed of cultural evolution being what it is, we actually have no way of knowing. Cultural evolution is possibly faster than other forms of evolution. So fast that we cannot perceive the faster-than-light progress through both time AND space. Consider the fate of the VLSI descendants. Readers of this initial package who wish are advised to check in for further episodes of the DR TOMORROW LETTERS. Those with insatiable curiosity or musical inventiveness/creativity/seeking behaviors are invited to purchase a genuine bilingual (English and Japanese) Maxell UDXL-II or better c-90 audiocassette packed with quality analog recordings of DR TOMORROW SOUNDS from outer space and right here on the planet [Miami -- Tokyo]. Music for focusing your brain and/or your fingers. Send $12 for the high energy tape and a free list of wellness-related publications to: LIFE ENERGIES RESEARCH INSTITUTE, P.O. BOX 588, Coconut Grove, Florida 33133-3812 U.S.A. Checks should be made out to "Life Energies Research Institute, Inc.," which has been IRS-determined to be a not for profit research organization under sections 501(c)(3) and 509(a)(2) of the law. Depending on prevailing tax conditions, your contributions may be considered tax-deductible. Illegitemum non carborundum est and help control the BonzoQuackQuacks of the world! DRINKANDDRUGSLESSFUNTHANYOU...THUGS DR TOMORROW LETTER [1]........................................10/26/87 =============================================================================== This time girl says, You don't understand, You can't understand, You'll never understand, You're you, You're not part of this daughter mother daughter thing, Not part of this mother daughter mother thing, You're locked out of the cycle and that's all there is to it. Says I, Well you can't grok the father son father son father thing so there, You can't imagine what it is to be out of the mother daughter thing, You can't grasp the frustration and contradiction in the mother son thing, You don't miss and crave the womb because you've got one, All you crave is to fill up that empty womb space with something, With anything. Smoking last of party cigarettes, only smoke at parties, treat the things like drugs, which they are, always waking up the next day with taste of Death in mouth, wondering what the hell I drank or ate to leave that taste, then after a few minutes tasting beneath the smoke, tasting the tobacco, thinking, Not such a bad taste after all, thinking Maybe could do this as a matter of course, but girl would never let me. Both collecting glasses and cups around apartment, straightening furniture, wiping tabletops, arguing, arguing, arguing as cat cowers under couch. Thinking, You can take the girl out of the lesbian college, but you can't take the lesbian college out of the girl. Gives me a dirty look like she's read my thoughts, believes deeply in that psychomystical crap. Pile glasses in sink, wash 'em tomorrow. Girl moving towards shower now, saying, Gotta wash the smoke out of my hair, showering like she always does anytime after being anywhere cigarettes have been. Through clear plastic shower curtain I watch her washing furiously, eyes closed as she shampoos. My clothes off stepping into shower behind as she's rinsing, looking now like aggravation has been washed down the drain with dirt. Holding her shoulders, kissing her wet neck, turning her around, kissing her now smiling face. Lathers her hands to wash and massage me as cat pushes bathroom door open, cat giving lonely, startled meow like saying, So that's what you're up to! =============================================================================== Melvin brought the can of pop to the counter and fished through his pocket for change. The cashier, young and pretty with blonde hair, wearing a pink blouse, waited on the woman ahead of Melvin. She smiled, wished the woman a pleasant day and gave her change. The elderly woman turned and hobbled toward the door with her package in hand. The cashier turned toward Melvin and her brilliant smile changed to a horrified scorn. Melvin placed the can on the counter. The cashier said "Sixty Five!", and popped open the register. Melvin handed her the exact change and headed for the door. Ashamed, his head hung low, like a puppy just scolded for peeing on the kitchen floor. =============================================================================== I saw the Man. His right hand pointed to heaven, his left to earth. Under his mantle he went. Before him as in deep precipice awaited the road and a deep in foliage and flowers and hear unearthly words. And I heard seemed to be uttered by him. The four symbols of my soul. I saw another man. Tired and the pentacle. The symbols, the cup, the cup, the cup, the cup, the cup, the signs of the precipice. And I heard seemed to look upon myself reflected in his face was luminous and his head, on which he, in his eyes sprang upon him from behind a rock and buried her teeth in his chimerical dreams which was the sword and at moments I felt that he saw most intimate recesses of magic symbols of my soul. I saw the Man. His figure reached from behind a rock and buried her teeth in his eyes I seemed To look upon him from earth. I trembled before me except the blue sky; but within me a window opened through which ran constantly in in infinity. Before him are the voice say: "Look! This is the scorching rays of the mysteries I touched... The foolish, staring eyes, a half leer on his chimerical dreams which was the Great Magician! With his hands he unites heaven and earth." I trembled before me except the blue sky; but was absorbed in his face; he knew not wherever he went. "Before me except the bag?" I inquired, not know their power, they retain in themselves. =============================================================================== "It's six-Oh-clock time to get out of bed!" "It's six-Oh-clock time to get out of bed!" "It's six-Oh-clock time to get out of bed!" "It's six-Oh-clock time-...<*click*>" <*%yawn!*> Oh, gawd, is it morning already? Whot a party last night! I don't think I could stand to see box of Aunt Martha's Totally Organic, No Preservatives Added, Pizza (R) again! Merde! Where's the toilet paper! Oh there it is. Huh..%350 a roll? Sheesh, I used to get the stuff for only %2 3p in Cornwall. Marge has been out shopping again. So what marvel of science is this stuff suppose to be? Um..scented... antibactorial...microporous...algae based...100% bio-degradable...tensile strength 2000kg/meter~2...I don't know why she bought it, it's just ordinary toilet paper. Oh, well,<*flush*>, it must be the newest fad. "Good morning dear,<*kiss*>, sleep well?" 'A little restless, bit o'indigestion from that pizza also.' And probaly that soyale I drank too. "Oh, well take some of that Misamoto IV (R), and maybe that will rest your tummy." 'Will do Marge.' Christ, that stuff tastes like lime flavored chalkdust! But, it does work. <*gack*> Yuck! Mud with lime juice! But, alas, it doth work. 'What's for breakfast honey?' I hope it's not soycakes and beefanalog strips with reconstituted java. "Pancakes, saugsage, and tea!" Well two outta three ain't bad. 'Great, honey! I'll be down inna minute.' Where,<*ruffle*>, is my Zeron (R) jacket? <*shove*> I now it's in here some- where. Right, check the laundry basket. Nope, it's not there. 'Honey, where's my blue Zeron (R) jacket?' "It's down here dear. I thought you would wear today, so I brought it down this morning. Sorry, it worried you. Now git down here boy, an' et your vittles!" 'Yes 'um ma'am, I's a-come'n' She is a dear, pushy, but a dear none the same. =============================================================================== it all ended up that i waited too long and the story was already finished before i even thought about finishing the writing about it. i followed her home, ignoring the man, who turned off at a street before we got to the subway station. she went down the stairs, running her hand lightly along the handrail, pulling a token out of her small purse. while i rushed to buy a token, she was getting on one of the express trains heading for the suburbs. how strange! she looks like quite the urbanite, obviously i am lacking in experience. perhaps she is not going home but to some other meeting. a job? but she is constantly at the restaurant and i cannot fathom how she could also work elsewhere. surely it must offend her sense of propriety. i managed to get on the same train as she but although i suspected that she might have seen me i could not tell from her expression. i pulled out my book and read, it was the biography of some guy named oh, lent to me by an acquaintance. every time the train stopped i looked up slightly to see if she had moved. my head was throbbing with pressure-- i had come this far, would the whole incident be forgotten if i got off and went home? had i already made some incalculable error which weakened my position to the extent that i should leave the train by the most immediate route? i decided to postpone that decision: i had received no sign either way, and no sign is better than bad sign, at least from the third person's point of view. returning to my book, i tried to immerse myself in the story. once i looked in-between stops and she was gone-- i sat up straight and with total lack of subtlety swung my head from side to side, trying to find out if she was still on the train. i assumed, you see, that she was not there and that i had missed a stop and that she had left. turning around, i see her face smiling broadly at my confusion, instead of not being there she is smiling at me and laughing, leaning forward as she draws her arm across her stomach. =============================================================================== <*sniff*> Well the sausage smells good, and so does Margie. Sneak up behind her and... "Touch me, and you'll be wearing breafast, dear." 'Good morning to you too honey, <*smack*>, you smell almost as good as that sausage.' "Why thank you dear, and I think you smell as good as fried pork fat too!" <*kiss*> <*sit*> 'When's Hilary supposed to be getting home?' "This afternoon, oh...around 3 or 4. Do you miss her?" 'Hardly, with her calling home every third day. But, it'll be nice to see our little girl in the flesh again." Of course she's not little any more. God, she'll be twenty-four in another month! Where did the time go? We have to do something to celebrate her home comming from Geneva. Maybe Brandywynes, or De la Clare's? 'Marge, why don't we take Hilary to Brandywynes tonight? We could celebrate her success in the University.' "That sounds wonderful! I'll make reservations for four tonight..." 'Four?' Four? Reservations for four? What's going on here? "Uh...yes...for four...uh...did...she didn't...weeell Hilaryisbringinghomea schoolfriendofhersnamedTrevorandhe'sgoingtostaywithusforawhile.<*smile*>" ... ... School friend. Named Trevor. Staying here. With us. Our house. With us. With her. With her. %%%%WITH HER!!!! 'HILARY'S BEEN SHACKING UP?!' "Now, now dear, its not like that..it's..." 'NOT LIKE WHAT?! WHERE IS TREVOR GOING TO SLEEP? ON THE FLOOR? HAH! NOT IN MY HOUSE, NOT WITH MY DAUGHTER, NOT ANY TIME!!' "John, SHUT UP!! Trevor is going to sleep at his own place here in town, when he gets himself established. He's going to stay with us for awhile, thats all." <*gnash*>%*growl*^My little Hilary, S-s-ha-hacking up with some one! "Besides dear, uh...Trevor isn't human...He's a chimp." <*thump*>music. i hear music. what is that tune? i know it, but i just can't remember what it is. what's that? i hear a voice. what is it saying? john-john wake up-john wake up. please john-wake up. who is john? why that's me! maybe if i open my eyes... "John! Wake up John! Oh, please wake up!" 'I'm awake. God my head hurts.' Blood. On my hand. 'I must'a fainted.' "John, I'm sorry I dropped that bombshell on you like that...Oh no! You're bleeding!" 'I'm okay, I just hit my head on the counter when I fainted' Blood. On my hand. "John? John, why are you staring at your hand?" Blood. On my hand. 'Nothing dear, I have to get to work.' Blood. On my hand. "John, I think I'd better get you to a doctor." Blood. Onmyhand. 'I agree dear. I think I'm going into shock.' Bloodonmyhand. Bloodonmyhand. Bloodonmyhand. Bloodonmyhand. Bloodonmyhand.Bloodonmyhand.BloodonmyhandBloodonmyhandBloodonmyhandBloodonmy- handBloodonmyhandBloodonmyhandBloodonmyhandBloodonmyhandBloodonmyhand. =============================================================================== the visions the visions the visions which have of late started haunting me again walking down a shiny path on the frozen cold sidewalks of a dying town with the corpses of a myriad flowers strewn all over the sidewalk and my blood frozen as glaze over the sharp cobblestones. the stones. the visions which haunt me. then i walk down the street which recedes to an infinity of a town with narrow streets there i roam in desperation fortifying my soul and strange joys grabbing me by the balls and transporting me to utopias of ineffable joy. and so i am. as i stare up i see no sky; only the tentacles of an army of trees: they extend all over me and hold me tenderly. fast they take me to unknown lands, unknown pleasures and the trees (you must know) are our brothers and the guards of our prisons that stoop over us with a menacing glint in their eye and so much love is hard to take. because as i stand here watching the town being airborne and away she flies at such a breackneck speed. reaching the limit. the limit of love. i pull out my heart and offer sacrament to the multitudes of this heavenly city that recedes in the distance in promises of a helpless sacrament. my blood and flesh to you .... =============================================================================== No grief when I die. No dancing some dance of death wearing some shirt cut from my skin As I wear yours now (still unwashed) straining and tearing and spitting I don't perform in public for the blackclad who paid a third of an hour for a drink and that tribal beat in the half dark For music is just music and dancing is just dancing. =============================================================================== Hamlet wants to write a novel. He has this idea: he'll rewrite a classic in a more contemporary setting, from a demented point of view. He'll mingle two unrelated plots, two different sets of characters. The book will be brilliant, a literary masterpiece. He daydreams of posing for the dust-jacket picture, handsome in his black jacket and tie, the hint of a wry smile on his lips. He's been reading Don Quixote and On the Road, taking notes as he goes along, reading a page of one and then a page of the other, changing books between sentences, sometimes in the middle of words. Jack Quixote is his title character, a kid who goes crazy reading Kerouac, who dreams of hitchhiking in this day of paranoid drivers and interstate highways, who uses slang thirty years out of date. But what's best is that Jack Quixote dreams of being a writer, just like Hamlet. "The only real fiction these days," writes Hamlet, "is metafiction. When an art form matures the only thing it can be used to express is the act of expression. When an artist matures the only thing he can express is himself. The world and everything in it collapse down to expression, the tool for mapping one reality onto another. The mapping maps itself." =============================================================================== Marc brings the coke and Horace brings the smack. They're going to do speedballs tonight. "Belushi died doing speedballs," says Marc, "what a way to go." "Yeah," says Horace, "maybe we'll see his ghost." They laugh openly, they know what Hamlet's thinking. Hamlet's wondering if he'll see his father's ghost again. He wants his father to appear to him, to talk to him, to tell him of some ill that must be put right. He stares out the window into blackness, past his own reflection. He rolls up a sleeve and Marc ties the tourniquet around his arm. Hamlet gets to go first, he payed for the stuff. When the tourniquet is untied the two drugs fight their way up Hamlet's arm through his chest and into his head in the time it takes him to realize he's forgotten the things he learned in his undergrad physiology class, things like how long it takes blood to complete one circuit from the heart through the body and back again. The forebrain soaks up the C, the backbrain the H. C for Cold and H for Hot, he thinks, except that's backwards. The coke is hot, the smack is cool. There's a Trival Pursuit question: what letter appears on hot water faucets in France, and the answer is C -- or the question is about cold water faucets and the answer is H -- but it's the reverse of what an English speaker would say. Things get inverted, he thinks, and puts the thought into words, words he memorizes to write down later. "Things get inverted. I change place with my reflection. A character writes a book about his author. Man creates God, and then declares that God is dead. And what of ghosts? Are they as scared of us as we are of them? "When we stumble in the dark do they hear us?" =============================================================================== TREW FACK : George Bush will visit a one-room Amish school in Lancaster County, PA, to lecture the students on the dangers of drugs. M-BELLISHMENT: ``Don't get ripped off by your dealer'', Bush will advise the retiring members of the religious sect, which eschews contact with the outside world, according to an advance copy of his remarks released to the White House Press Corps this morning. ``They may try to cut your crack with detergent, flour, or sugar. Always check bulk purchases,'' Bush will tell the rosy-cheeked youngsters. In response to queries about what to do if drugs are found to be cut, Bush will reportedly reply ``Read my lips: HEAVY ART-ILLERY. An AK-47 has the most fire power, sure, but it's difficult to conceal and more effective at long range for use against law enforcement personnel. My recommendation is to go with the lightweight Uzi, or for traditionalists such as members of your community, the old standby Colt .357 magnum does just as well. The trick is to make sure you're at close enough range so that the first bullet doesn't miss.'' When asked about the growing problems with metamphetamine use and production spreading from Los Angeles, Bush will offer an analogy. ``You can't stop economic growth just to head off inflationary pressures. We've got to keep this economy going, and discretionary purchasing is a major part of any growth economy. You don't stop watering the flower when it's blooming just because there's a little problem with hayfever.'' Snide reporters will take the opportunity to ask Bush questions about potential loss of technology to the Japanese high tech industry with the planned joint US FSX fighter plane venture, to which Bush will comment, ``Synthetic drug manufacturing in the United States has no parallel in any industrialized country. Success stories like XTC and met prove that we have nothing to fear from the Japanese or anybody. Sharing technology only means we're expanding our markets.'' An adoring young Amish girl will then present Bush with a traditional hand-crafted wooden Amish bong, which Bush will playfully toke on in a pre-arranged photo opportunity. TREW FACK: In a related story, the Supreme Court yesterday upheld the right of the government to force certain federal employees in ``sensitive positions'' to take urine tests for a range of legal and illegal drugs. =============================================================================== Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. -- Hamlet, II.ii. "Some mornings the light cuts through the blinds just so, filling the half of the bed where Ophelia used to sleep. At these times her absence seems so fresh that in my awakening daze I look around the room for her, expecting to see her at the closet trying on clothes, or at the dressing table choosing makeup and earrings." It is one of those mornings now, and Hamlet is sitting naked on the edge of the bed writing haltingly in his little notebook. He surveys the room carefully as if just-forgotten thoughts are hidden around it -- under the furniture, maybe. "Sometimes I'm scared to death of what I might dream, of what part of the real world I'll take with me into sleep. But then I wake up trying to hang onto the things in my dreams, trying to carry them back into my waking life." She seemed so real in last night's dream, he wants to write. The memories of her are not fading; rather, they are becoming more vivid. What a frail and lovely creature she was, how I should have cherished her... What rubbish! he thinks. Can't write that. She herself would have said, What rubbish! =============================================================================== ... and we had the chance to observe him clearly on the balcony as he was embracing himself and kissing passionately his hands, his arms, his chest and his feet. his lips were glowing with a bright red color and his silver white hair contrasted pleasantly with his flustered face. finally, his legs crossed, he balanced himself on the edge of the railing , and lowered his face to his crotch and proceeded to fellate himself. the intense rhythm of his bobbing head was overtaking the crowds that cheered fifty meters below. as i looked up, straight against the glaring sun, i had a spell of dizziness- the world around me was growing darker . this, i thought before passing out, must be what they call the Dark Light. =============================================================================== Submission - I thought this was fairly bizarre : Let not the fleeing wizard calmly groan, Nor onions which have gibbered with a drink: No longer will a stoic or a bone With woollen stoat to rabid regions blink. For Time, the alpine butcher, is not weird And Destiny has waddled with a bell: Nor can ducks say if Fate will wake a beard When Beauty is delicious as a shell. Alas! the days of turtle, blob and pine Are gone, and now the Belgian ospreys talk; Amazing was the warden, now so fine And greenfly cannot rob the praying stork. Oh tell me, wombat, in this world so shy Where will the poignant cabbage find the fly?