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...presents... Some Form of Success
by WeaselBoy
10/31/1997-#343
__///////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\\__
\\\\\\\/ Everything You Need Since 1986 \///////
___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___
|___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons___|
David stared at the ceiling from his bed, as he had many nights
before. His house, a small cottage in the middle of Colma, wasn't his
idea of anywhere he wanted to be. He had hoped to have made something of
himself by this time in his life. He was twenty two years old, and he
had been slow on the uptake in juvenile hall.
Life hadn't been unkind, to be sure. He'd inherited this shack
from his father, who'd died during a bank heist. Sure, the life of the
criminal class was dangerous, but it held a certain mystique that most
of the normals couldn't comprehend. All he'd ever wanted to do in life
was get into a good jail, some cushy federal prison where he would never
have to worry about money or drugs or cigarettes ever again.
That was what it was all about, these days. How to get into one
of the better prisons was a way of life for most Americans. It had all
started in the early 21st century. David lived in the prison slum of
Colma, but he wanted to move on to one of the better places like
Virginia or maybe even the District of Columbia itself. People were
literally killing each other to get into these places, but they hadn't
caught on to the basic fact that David had discovered as a teenager --
the violent and dangerous criminals were all sent to the slums, because
there were just so many of them. David wasn't a violent person, no
matter how much his father had beaten him or spit on him. He owed a lot
to his father. He'd left him his prison cell, after all.
The shack was a small dingy white structure on the outskirts of
a cemetery. It was a standard prison shack, with no phone and lockdown
capabilities. If something was up, all the houses in an area would be
locked down with the flick of a switch, steel shutters slamming tight
over the doors and windows. This was mostly to quell riots, but it
hadn't been activated in almost a year. Things had been quiet lately.
They'd relocated the poor of San Francisco south in the late
20th century, and built a wall between the two cultures. Now, only
normal law abiding citizens lived in San Francisco, placated by the
marijuana shipped in from the growers in Colma. Only people in Colma
grew it, because it was still illegal to grow the stuff, but not to
possess it. It was all very weird.
David swung his legs over the side of his metal futon cot that
served as his bed and couch, and stared at the yellowing carpet. Too
many different stains from different bodies and bodily fluids spotted
the carpet. If David thought hard enough, he could recall how each of
the stains got there -- a spot of blood from a beating by his father
here, a semen stain from his rape of a neighbor over there. The stains
took on life sometimes and threatened to engulf his dreams, but he
always awoke from the nightmares. He looked at the mildew covered walls
and sat up, pulling on a pair of government issued sweat pants lying on
the disgusting carpet.
He smelled his armpits and decided he wasn't whiff enough yet to
take a shower, but he desperately wanted one. With this in mind, he
decided to plan out his day and its special place in his newly
determined attempt at success.
David had made friends with his neighbor, a bizarre man with a
computer talent. Evidently, the man had been put away for some sort of
computer crime and had only moved there after the inmate next door had
been executed last month. It was surely some sort of mistake, but David
saw the man as his ticket out of the slums of Colma. The guy had a lot
of equipment in his house that he'd stolen from some kids who'd knocked
off a Fed Ex truck in Silicon Valley, and his state of the art Sun
computers were an easy way to make extra dough. But this guy Brian was
all weird, thought David. All he ever thought about was going back to
San Francisco and the hated normal society there, to blend in and be
lost. David hated the thought, but Brian was even now trying to crack
some computer at the DMV or something to get himself a new driver's
license. This would allow him to travel through the proscribed zones and
back to San Francisco.
David had other ideas.
He had learned a bit about computers in juvenile hall, and his
main thoughts on the matter were that they were nothing but a key to a
cushy Federal prison. In Federal prisons, they had steak and potatoes
for dinner, swimming pools, and tennis courts. Not that David had ever
played tennis, but it sounded way cool. He'd have full cable and access
to email if he wanted. All he had to do was get caught doing a big
enough cracking job. This was sort of a hard thing to do these days --
this had only happened during the last century and hacking wasn't really
looked on as a crime anymore. Many people got paid to hack, and there
was only one way to get thrown in jail for it these days. This was to
get caught with some sort of sensitive data like weapons plans or
corporate secrets, and have the means to sell them. David had planned it
all out -- he knew what company he had to hit, and he even had a buyer
lined up for the data. His buyers were agents of the Federal government,
posing as Russian mobsters. Of course, he knew they were Federal agents,
having done his homework. He'd need them to bust him good so he'd get
into the cushy Federal Pen in Washington.
He got his shoes on and headed for the door, out into the
blazing sunlight, curling scraps of fog from the hills, and the
reassuring sound of automatic weapons fire.
Brian was inside working on something when he rang. He punched
the door intercom and announced himself.
"Hey Brian? It's David, from next door."
"I'll be right there. Can you give me fifteen minutes?"
"Sure thing."
David sat on the stoop, watching an Apache gunship hovering a
few miles away. They had one of those huge loudspeakers on the gunship
and it was screaming something at someone, but from this distance it
didn't make any sense. He looked down at the neatly manicured garden and
noticed something white partially sticking out of the dirt underneath.
Probably a house arrest monitoring device, David decided. He was about
to kick it with his shoe when the door opened, and a freshly showered
Brian appeared at the door.
"Ready for today's lesson?" he asked.
"Sure!" said David, excitedly.
Brian's shack was sort of spooky, and David didn't like being in
it very much. It smelled like rotting food, something David had gotten
accustomed to during a brief stint he'd had as a black marketeer for the
meager food supplies the government dropped in. After you had the food
stored for a month or so, it would begin to rot and he'd known a lot of
people he sold it to that died from some disease it carried. He had
always been worried about food poisoning, and the smell reminded him of
that fear. He swallowed his fear, and moved through the dingy foyer into
the computer room.
Brian was a clean cut man, in his early twenties. He didn't look
much like the inbred criminals that usually inhabited Colma -- he was
blond with blue eyes, and very muscular. He smelled faintly of the
glycerin government issued soap everyone used, and his teeth were very
perfect. In other words, he appeared to have grown up with everything
David hadn't gotten as a kid, and this made him envious. He could easily
see Brian as being at home in a business suit if they hadn't caught him
hacking. David had never asked much about what had put him in this
position, but he assumed it must have been minor. Usually, hacking was a
federal charge and Brian must have pissed off the state to get sent
here. Only a federal job would get you into a federal prison, and that
meant you had to do something across state lines.
The computer room smelled differently, and this was a little
more welcome. The familiar smells of stale piss and blood permeated
everything, and dirty dishes were everywhere. Brian slept in this room,
a sign of a true hacker. Dirty clothes littered the floor, all stamped
with the familiar state prison logos. One workbench on the side was set
up with old radio equipment that Brian had set up. He was something of
an electronics whiz, or so David thought. David saw that Brian had set
up two chairs in front of the now familiar Sun SparcBurst computer, and
there was a three dimensional fractal on the screen saver.
David sat down at the seat, and waited for Brian to join him.
"Wait a minute," said Brian. "I have to do something."
Without sitting down, he pressed a key and moved away.
"What's up?" asked David.
"Nothing," said Brian. "Just watch that counter and tell me when
it gets to zero. Call out -- I've got to get something from the other
room."
Brian left the room.
David watched the counter as it sped towards zero. He looked
around nervously. He knew that Brian had tapped into the Internet
through a satellite connection he'd established somehow. He'd gotten one
of those small satellite dishes and altered it to broadcast in some
microwave range that David thought sounded like voodoo, but he felt
confident he could explain it to the pigs well enough to get himself put
away. Policemen were nothing but really stupid normals anyway, and it
wouldn't take much to fool them. If he pled guilty to whatever they
charged him with, he wouldn't have to explain it any further. He watched
the numbers go by and listened to the squawking radios as the counter
approached zero.
"Hey Brian! It's at zero now!"
There was no answer. In the background, one of the radios
squawked out an address, and David heard gunfire outside the shack as
the steel shutters slammed down on the windows and doors.
Shit, thought David. What the fuck? Riot outside? He decided to
search for Brian and wandered out of the computer room towards the
bathroom, which was near the back of the house. He had gone towards the
open door when he saw the body.
There was a young boy in the bathtub. Actually, he wasn't in it
so much as arched over the side, with his head in the tub, and his feet
on the floor. He was on his back and then David saw that he wasn't
really a complete body either. His head was sitting on the sink and most
of his skin had been peeled away, exposing the abdominal cavity that
glistened with moisture. The contents of that cavity were beside the
carcass on the floor, lying in a moist pile that steamed slightly.
Several knives, arranged in a neat surgical pattern, laid on the floor
beside the body. Some of them, like the box cutter there, were stained
crimson.
David had seen all this before and it really didn't bother him.
What bothered him more was the fact that Brian was still in the house
somewhere, maybe, and he had totally been lied to. Brian didn't know
dick about computers, he was a damned maniacal killer same as everyone
else out here. David felt cheated somehow. He grabbed a large knife,
commonly known as an Arkansas toothpick, and ran back to the computer
room to find Brian.
Nope. Not in there.
As David ran into the room, a radio squawked even louder. It was
a 406 alert, the code the police used for all available officers meet at
this area. Of course, this interested him and he was only distracted by
the computer playing some sort of video in a loop.
The video loop was of Brian and several still shots of him
standing over gutted bodies. Laughter echoed from the speakers, and the
whole loop ended with a full motion video that had evidently only been
done moments before -- it was of Brian in the bathroom totally naked
with the corpse he had just seen. He was slitting open the belly of the
boy, washing down the blood with a hose, and laughing maniacally as the
soundtrack wore on. Brian had the hugest erection David had ever seen,
and he was taking the huge pile of intestines, stomach, liver, spleen,
kidneys and rubbing it all over his body. He stuck his tongue out at the
camera, and laid down on top of the body with the head. David felt a bit
of disgust at what happened next -- he'd heard about such things, but
he'd never seen them.
Brian was fucking the stump of the head's neck. He shoved his
member through the bloody esophageal opening and jeered at the camera and
he grabbed the ears and worked it up and down the shaft of his erect
member. Blood and broken teeth flew out as the head of Brian's dick
pushed through the dead man's mouth several times.
Brian shuddered on the video, and the camera lens was covered
with ejaculate. Then the video looped again.
David felt dizzy. He saw black spots in front of his eyes, and
felt his body going slack. How much worse could this get, he thought?
All of his hopes and dreams were dashed in an instant, and he felt very
bitter. Then again, he might be mistaken for an accomplice and get sent
to a nice mental institution. That's what they did to serial killers
and their friends these days, he thought. The radio was still squawking,
and he swung around to listen to the 406 he was certain was convening on
his location.
"All units, be advised. Subject is Brian Floyd McAuliffe, age
twenty six, height six feet. Subject is currently believed to be locked
down in a house at 1260 Grove Street. Occupant of the house is believed
to be dead, and McAuliffe is widebanding a broadcast from that location.
Subject is believed to have been involved in at least seventy five known
homicides fitting his M.O., and should be considered armed and extremely
dangerous. This subject has never been incarcerated and is believed to
have false identification allowing him to travel between states and
borders. Suspect is wanted in connection with murders in over twenty
five states, but today's orders are shoot to kill, repeat, shoot to kill.
The Prison System of the state of California has determined that this
subject should be terminated with extreme prejudice. The house is being
flooded with tear gas now -- lockdown will be released and units will
converge upon signal from headquarters.
David frantically looked around at the vents in the room,
spewing thick white gas. He ran for the door, beating on it and
screaming for Brian as he started to pass out from the fumes.
Oh well, he thought. Guess I should have been more careful. The
world's a dangerous place.
The End.
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`-' the original e-zine `-' _
Oooo eastside westside / ) __
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\__/ ) / Copyright (c) 1997 cDc communications and the author. \ ) \)(/
(_/ CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of oooO
cDc communications, PO Box 53011, Lubbock, TX, 79453, USA. _
oooO All rights reserved. Edited by Grandmaster Ratte'. __ ( \
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\ ( \__/ Save yourself! Go outside! Do something! \)(/ ( /
\_) xXx BOW to the COW xXx Oooo