💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › magazines › SOUB › sob45.txt captured on 2022-06-12 at 14:17:57.
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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UfOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not iSSUE ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what 4/27/98 tahw ro who gniwonk
to think. You are in FORTY-FiVE ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
STAFF LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
A FOOL Patchwork
A BEAUTiFUL DAY iN iNSANiTY Bixenta Moonchild
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
FADiNG MAGiCiAN AND THE SiCKNESS Bixenta Moonchild
HUZZAH HUZZAH Kilgore Trout
JACKPOT Japhy Ryder
[=- FiCTiON -=]
CiTYSCAPE Morrigan
PARABLE OF THE AMPHiBiAN I Wish My Name Were Nathan
A DARKWiNGED ANGEL Howler in the Shadows
SAViNG FACE Kilgore Trout
EVAN GETS HiS ASS KiCKED I Wish My Name Were Nathan
BATHTUB Bixenta Moonchild
ANESTHESiA DREAMS Morrigan
A PERFECT SKY Kilgore Trout
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
First off, I'm gonna make a recommendation. If you're one of those
people that only reads stuff from the writers you know (and I know who some of
you are), please make sure you read Morrigan's "Anesthesia Dreams." I really
like it, and I think you should, too, especially since she almost didn't
submit it. I should also say that you should read the whole zine after you
read her story, but I just thought I'd mention that since I really liked it.
And after you're done doing that, you should drop by #unbeing some night
and join in all of the frivolities that take place there. It's quite
entertaining, and it keeps all of us insomniacs from going crazy. Watch Ansat
molest the bot, watch Clockwork and me discuss the guests on Art Bell and come
up with conspiracy theories, watch Nathan get k-lined the first time he ever
gets on IRC, and watch Morrigan speed by on her T3. Yes, you too can be a
part of the endless party that stretches from California to Bulgaria.
And then, if IRC hasn't sucked your mind dry at 4:30 in the morning while
you're editing your own zine, why don't you write something for the zine? A
little creativity is a great way to end an IRC session full of intellectual
debates where things are posited, hypothesized, postulated, and squabbled
over.
And if you've survived all of that, then maybe by next week you'll be
able to download the second audio issue, which clock has been diligently and
masterfully editing. Having heard much of it pre-release, I can assure you
that the download time is definitely worth it. We'll be sending out a message
when it comes out (and Clockwork has said by next weekend at the latest) so
you can all be drooling until then.
So, enjoy the issue, and if you have any comments or questions, they'll
have to wait since I'm going to bed. Good night.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
From: crackmonkey
To: kilgoret@geocities.com
Subject: ha ha ha
ok....a couple brief notes......who is this Oxyde de Carbone person? you
can't just let him be an official groupie without taking the nessesary
steps to groupieness. just cause he can cook, yes i can cook too and
very well i might add, doesn't mean he gets to be a groupie. thats just
not the way things work. oh well....anyways i'd appreciate his email
address so i can do things in a more official mannor.
#2 you put brianna's name in the groupie section not oxyde's. you might
want to fix that for lack of confusion. ok. thats about all the
complaining i have ot do for today. later guys.
[actually, it's a she. and we've already thrashed clock with the cat o' nine
tails for that mix-up last issue. the ACP bureaucracy is studiously working
on drawing up contingency papers for groupie disagreements and how they should
be settled, so once the specs are written, we'll be sure to get those out to
you so the matter can official be resolved. i worry about that committee,
though, since there seems to be a lot of snickering coming from that
boardroom.]
--SoB--
From: Styx
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: sob
Umm.. After all that blabbing, poor ole' Oxide DeCarbonaide didn't even
get onto the officla groupie list. some bumbling fool put the other chick
on there. Poor OC2 will probably go throw away her life into a pan of
zuchini or some guy's truck.
love ya,
brian
[well, hearty old chum, we have rectified the situation, and all is in order.
as to the whereabouts of OC2, well, only time will tell. that is, if
crackmonkey doesn't get to her first. who says you can't have an exciting
life being an SoB groupie?]
--SoB--
To: kilgore@sage.net
From: Dan Dzenkowski
Subject: SoB Mailing list
I should be added to the list for one main reason.
I sent a reply to an acquaintance stating how rationalism is dead
and she should be as well. She replied that I was a' precocious little fuck'
and that I should check out your site. I took a look at it and it seems
interesting. I am a philosophy major at the University of Wisconsin and
have spent 3 years doing a critical study of Nietzsche.
I am interested in arguing with other 'precocious little fucks' like
myself.
Thank you for your time
Dan Dzenkowski
[actually, "precocious little fucks" was one of the original names we were
choosing from when starting up the zine, but we decided that we'd rather let
people get to know us bit by bit instead of just saying, "Hi, we're a bunch
of assholes." Either people haven't caught on yet or we've changed and
gotten a bit soft. But we still like to argue. Just ask Takeem.]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDiTOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRiBUTORS
Bixenta Moonchild
Howler in the Shadows
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Japhy Ryder
Morrigan
Patchwork
GUESSED STARS
crackmonkey
Dan Dzenkowski
Styx
SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiE
crackmonkey
Oxyde de Carbone
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A FOOL
by Patchwork
The bottle is held firm in my hands, and the keyboard lies before me, and
I whisper sweet nothings to my fingers as they tap elegantly on the keys,
expressing my mind and heart through these words. Again, I think of her.
Still, I'm stuck on her. It's all I think about. I remember the night I
slept over at my friend's house on the floor -- I remembered having dreams
about her being there, beside me, in my arms, just like she used to be so long
ago. When I woke up he was looking at me rather strangely. Did I whisper
things about her in my sleep? Something far worse? It disturbs me so, how
now even my subconscious turns on me. Why? Because I can't tell her. She's
there, in front of me, and my mouth can't form the words, I can't pierce this
coating around my heart and spill to her all about how I feel. I simply
cannot do it.
It's taken me a long time to face the fact that I'm lonely. I fear being
alone, but it takes so much to hold onto another. Soon, says a friend,
the desire to be intimate with one of the opposite sex will so much
overtake me that I will have no other choice than to act on it. I am
still a virgin -- I am not ashamed of it, I have had chances, but I chose
to wait. Yet I should have with her. I want my first time to be with
someone I care about, and I can't think of anyone I care more about than
her. Her beautiful face, her flowing hair, her wondrous chin, her
tender lips: all so inviting, all so irresistible. How could I let this
go? How could I turn my back on her after she was so patient with me, so
caring? She won. I let a great thing go.
I am such a fool.
Such a fool.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"For the temporary relief of minor aches, pains, headache, muscular
aches, sore throat pain, and fever associated with a cold or flu."
--Nyquil, Hot Therapy
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A BEAUTiFUL DAY iN iNSANiTY
by Bixenta Moonchild
What do I do if I have learned the secret of it all? I will stay very
still. I do not wish to let my colossal secret spill out through a glint in
my eye or a twitch of my lip. I feel that the universe is unfit to be endowed
with the ability to perceive itself in truth.
What do I do if I do hold the key to our undoing in my mind?
I will let the doing work its wonders inside myself, for if I disclose it
to the outside world, my outside world, the one I have so victoriously
captured in the apex of human consciousness, all consciousness of all
existence, then it would turn to poison at the moment I let go, and it would
surely destroy their world which does not operate on truth.
No, no, their world is my world. Has not my inner world come to a
perfect mirror image of the one outside? Foolish human brain, with your
imperfect thoughts.
Ah, and not just an image, but I have stolen the ultimate energies of the
outside world into myself where they can be good instead of poison.
But which is the poison? How do you judge two opposites when you have
nothing to measure them by? Could it be that I am a creature of celestial
poison?
Blast this simple brain of mine! This magnificent new reality I have
found must not have replaced all of the many silly ideas that came to occupy
my thought boxes to long ago. I must not let myself be consumed by simple
human thoughts. I must not forget that I and I alone have come this far to be
the guardian of the mystical forces that rule the cosmos, that I am now the
ruler of. Yes, I am the master; I have given my captive universe a new life,
a new era of existence inside myself, for all is inside myself, for I am it
all. But because I am its master, all must be separate from my greatness and
under my control, my brilliant control that has created the goodness in
everything to follow my own perfection.
But wasn't the world alive and well before this discovery of mine,
without my help? No, no, I have reinvented the world to be the eternal
treasure only a God could have made, made by me. See? Look! Look at it all
now! All these happenings happen because I just happen to wish them, to
command them into being. The world is my slave and would disappear if I so
desired. Nothing escapes my powers.
Wait, help, I cannot escape my own powers. I am a slave to myself, to my
wishes, and I do not know where my wishes come from. But where could they
come from if there is nothing greater than I, nothing beyond my reach, nothing
outside of my omnipotence?
Stop! This burst of illogical logic is sounding like that which comes
from the humans that amuse me so with their stupidity. I am not an ordinary
human. Ah, I see, there is an infinitely small part of me that is human,
because I am infinity. But I must have always seen and always known and
always understood everything, including this. It is impossible that something
has just escaped my wisdom. I am not flawed. But if infinity is my domain,
are there not flaws included? No, no, when any random, helpless entity
becomes part of me, any imperfections are dissolved. But no, they were always
a part of me, because there is never anything but me!
Help me, my secret is tearing me apart! No! I am the one with the
divine ability and all else is helpless. And only I can choose to help or
destroy or ignore a thing in its tiny reality that only I can choose to give
meaning to.
But I have no choice! Where is the ultimate me that is the decisions
that I make, the desires that I feel, the creations I distribute, the ideas
that I uncover, and the manager of them all and everything in between?
You don't understand; I have triumphed. I am the change in my thoughts
and the movements of the moments and the stillness of the rest and the
determination of every detail in the never-ending flow.
But I am whole and I am one, but this all-encompassing wholeness is
breaking me into pieces.
Leave me alone! All of me!
Help me! I just can't see the end. I just don't know. No! I know! I
know everything! There is no end. And I am everything and I am the end.
Everything is me! I am all there is. I am it all.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
"The poets? They stink. They write badly. They're idiots you see, because
the strong people don't write poetry.... They become hitmen for the Mafia.
The good people do the serious jobs."
--Charles Bukowski
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
FADiNG MAGiCiAN AND THE SiCKNESS
by Bixenta Moonchild
In my lonely confusion wrapped in dry, quiet, cushioning garbage
the empty things rub against each other a little too hard again
Time is gone while I share myself with the
different black patches stationed in the air around me
When a clean, brilliant view tumbles through me
its magic gets drowned back into the way things used to happen
Somewhere near the center there's a windmill
scratching the edges of my thoughts
but I can't feel the breeze because I've sunk too far down
into my ice-covered flower bed of isolation
Waiting has gotten too easy, only the promised hidden universes aren't
getting any closer
I wonder how everything can stay so still
And now the garbage man has forgotten a few things behind the horizon
The whiteness of the blur of my memories
makes me forget how much I'd hoped for that magic wand
and those white sparkles that could be the cure
Outside the wind begins and the prophets are buried under the sand
Forget about real courage; it's the thought that counts.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I think about it. I'm
sorry I told so many people about it. About all I know is, I sort of
_miss_ everybody I told. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything.
If you do, you start missing everybody."
--j.d. salinger, _the catcher in the rye_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
HUZZAH HUZZAH
by Kilgore Trout
huzzah huzzah
pleasure-based mind control aphrodisiac superhuman erotica swaying
technology waning spirituality showcase of major trends eroding the elbow
grease of society proof that fish swim because of their location longer
necks equate natural selection bumblebees horseflies and orangutans take
over the world hallow be thy name charlatan heretical faith healer of
human concepts and baseball statistics manipulators of cancer and aids
and the plague and tooth decay of the nuclear family power plants the
seeds in the wet warm soiled diapers discarded in discord reggae hipsters
tripping on beats of soldier police riot squads with batons and shields
protect the guilty
huzzah huzzah
biology kills god damn she says mourning the loss of identacled nightmare
gunshot harmonies freeing the soulless species living dark and swarthy
insectoid jobs eyesight craters shroud the opulent moon cities dead in
l.a. waiting for earthquake bingo masturbating pigs and chicken
foodstuffs carried in tractor trailer trucks a simple reduction of
individual to number punching calculators glorified slide rules of man
challenged in court jesters juggling balls of fire the end is nigh saith
the lord
huzzah huzzah
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"So much to turn down in these Babylonian times...."
--Max Blagg
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
JACKPOT
by Japhy Ryder
I died in America tonight
Lay down in the technicolor nightmare
Las Vegas vomited neon melange of electric tracers
and bright sequined tortures like popping flashbulbs
from a vicious paparazzi.
Gone run down dead under tires
of the green Babylon City Works garbage truck,
the intersection of gated white rib and red crushed
glint from dead chrome and 1$ Sahara chips,
and comped whiskeys and betting heavy on 14 against
the dealer's upturned Ace.
Strange things have grown in the desert,
things that would make Caligula blush, such Xanadus
and El Dorados that would give Cortez a hard on like
Montezuma never could, such little middlewestern Montgomerys
out in the desert ready to lose big at their own personal El Alamein,
and greedy geriatrics up from Phoenix blowing their Social Security
and dreams of an RV.
And all of America is debt,
a great cascade of nothing built on nothing--
driving Maximas and Camrys and looking to trade
up to a Volvo or Beamer--middle management waiting
to get old so, they can respectfully latch onto Town Car,
or 5th Avenue, or king-hell Cadapussy Broughm.
So in Circus Circus little wolverine-
faced children cruise the casino floor through the pits
and long rows of Pavlovian dream machines grooving
to the aggressive ching ching ching ching, chunk chunk
of tokens splatting into the tills and hypnotic rush
of bells and spinning prayerwheels--feral children
sidling up to parents (who are looking for about $2000
worth of fun) and saying, hands upraised,
"Please, Sir,
can I have some more?
Please, Sir?"
More in the neon vortex desert frontier night--all free
fluorescence and oxygen on the timeless casino floor,
and fantasy capitalism barking out its mating call:
11, 11, 11, Lucky 'leven, c'mon hit baby yeah--
double down bust, bets please,
Craps
hard 8, hard 8, hard 8,
No Field 5
ching ching ching ching, chunk chunk chunk
JACKPOT!!
and a wild roar erupts from the Craps tables,
and it's Hard Head by a nose at Santa Anita,
and it's the clattertrap rattle of the Wheel of Fortune,
a spinning mandala of love, and the warm caress of
Franklins and Jacksons
bust baby Craps, bets please!
Yo 'leven!
Comp me. Comp me. Gimme more!
More in Dick Clark's Bandstand disco all-American
Rockin' Eve, in tight, spangled jumpsuits and short shorts
and Bonne Bell cherry lip gloss, a carniverous smile behind
a popping bubblegum boomtown, and the obscure chant
"Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, Wayne" settles like dust over the Strip--
and in the Hanging Gardens a d?class? Jesus pitboss hands
out blessings and benedictions and double odds on Come bets
to the knowing gambler; and a black velvet Elvis gorges
himself in the buffet line--and this is the old fat Elvis, of course,
with his super bell bottoms and atrophied rhinestone bestudded
cape--and there's Liberace wangling his dick out so Illinois
tourists can rub it for good luck.
And there's long rows of women who lovingly fondle
the thin chrome shafts of the slots--yank and crank and caress,
jerking in hopes of a beautiful golden shower ejaculation
of More and Now, grinding into their stools open-mouthed,
wet with intensity, and deep in the carnal knowledge that
this lover far from being a bandit is the sugardaddy
of all sugardaddy King of Diamonds who'll spin and pop
their cherries, whisper lemon nothings with nitrous oxide
breath:
"Jackpot, baby. More. Now. Jackpot, honey.
Gimme some more. Jackpot, My Sweet,
I need some more, now."
And they answer with Need, this petite bourgeoisie,
their thin lips painted full red, and garish jewelry,
color-coordinated Nieman togs--sweaters and stretchpants
or tennis gear and shamblewear.
And the men, should-be Kubla Khans
or lonely Travis Bickels, split queens at the $25 tables,
and dream of impossible blowjobs in the Keno Parlor
by improbable dancers with an all-over body tan and pencil-eraser
hard nipples saying,
"oh my, you're sooooo big.
Unh, you're sooooo good."
And they bust out with a smile after hitting on 12.
And what's a little less of More in the Pleasure Dome
when we have sex by proxy--this wad of money we've blown
in social orgasm, because there's always more, and more now, and
O brothers and sisters I have sinned before you.
I have visited the dens of iniquity
and have indulged in pleasures of the flesh.
O my brothers and sisters, I have placed myself
a stumbling block in your righteous path.
I have lusted in my heart and in my actions,
but cannot pluck the offending eye from its socket.
I stand before you repentant in Sodom, bathed
in the blood of Gomorrah as the Almighty cleansed
that evil Place with fire. I have sinned! I have sinned!
I have split Jacks and I have split 9's and I have
laid the 5 for 1 Any Seven sucker bet and the Hop bet,
and 5-number bet with a 7.89 vig for the casino.
And brothers and sisters and sports fans of all ages
I have wanted More and have laid down in front of More
and have rubbed More's feet, and I have died
an American Death every night in the desert--
cash heat death--and I am bleached bones
at the poison watering hole, and I need more
and I need it in a pretty big fucking hurry, don't you?
And I'll do what it takes, won't you?
And I'll kill if I have to, wouldn't you?
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CiTYSCAPE
by Morrigan
A city. A vast racing network of faces and cars and food and music and
pavement and fat birds. There, a small patch of green, at first glance
completely out of place, accepted because of the sidewalks running through
it and torn paper fluttering, mimicking absent leaves. Benches act as
beds as well as chairs, and grass is appreciated as a pillow more often
than as decoration. Hearts beat to the constant thrum of high heels and
wingtips and worn sneakers. Cigarette smoke floats against a clear
un-blue sky.
* * * * *
Alice hurries behind her boyfriend. She struggles to keep up with his
long strides while trying not to trip on her heels, specially designed to
force a dignified pace. She internally whines, reluctant to voice her
annoyance but equally hesitant to accept the minor discomfort. Her will power
weakens, though, and after half a block she proclaims her complaints firmly.
"Slow down. Why are you walking so fast? It's hard for me to keep up in
these shoes. My feet hurt already and we still have three blocks to go. Why
won't you slow down?"
Anthony keeps his silence until she pauses and then turns to her
incredulously. "We're hurrying because you were late and if we don't get to
the restaurant on time, they'll give someone else our table. I was hoping to
take you out for a nice lunch on your birthday, but you're making it more
painful than enjoyable so far."
"Oh," Alice murmurs, temporarily placated by the knowledge that the
fuss is for her.
* * * * *
She strides down the sidewalk, easily rolling to the beat of the Ani
DiFranco song resonating through her headphones, her trench coat waving in the
breeze of her passing. Meg hums and half-sings a favorite line and a few
choice chords. Anticipation of a concert two months from now brings an
unrepressed gay glint to her eyes. As she notices a bench with a free space
her path instantly shifts and she flops loosely onto its graffiti-carved
slats. Meg executes a quick rummage in her backpack with all the finesse of a
zealous puppy, ending in the triumphant removal of a new book. She snuggles
contentedly into the bench with her feet tucked in beside her and continues to
hum.
* * * * *
A gaggle of girls skips and twirls its way along the crowded pavement.
Forgotten bubble gum falls from a laughing mouth and without fanfare becomes
merely another trampled stain on the cement. They turn a corner and jostle
into a small shop, lit by neon. After sharing their gossip with the girl
behind the counter, they emerge sipping pale pink milkshakes.
"Did you see that guy with the tight jeans and the cowboy hat?"
"He belonged on a horse with some cows, not here in the city!"
"I think he was lost or something. Maybe we should have given him
directions: West's that way."
"How do people like that end up in cities, anyway?"
Their laughter lets the conversation drift to other topics. Perched on
benches, they slurp the last few inches of their milkshakes without missing a
single word.
"Wait, there he is again!"
"Who, the cowboy?"
"Hey, you're right."
As he passes them, he tips his hat with a smile amid delighted giggles
and clapping.
* * * * *
His freshly polished wingtips press firmly into the sidewalk. Their
soles carefully avoid any cracks thanks to long years of superstitious and
subconscious conditioning. Jake's conscious mind is wandering far from his
mother's back, though. A glance catches the briefcase swinging at his side
and a thoughtful look wanders across his face as he fleetingly lets himself
mull over his next case. As soon as he catches his mind sneaking towards
work, he sheepishly pulls it back to the issue at hand: the problem of how to
fit in a trip to the jewelers for his wife and his son's orthodontist
appointment between his daughter's soccer game and a hearing that begins in an
hour. Long practice helps Jake to come up with a solution quickly, at which
point he unleashes his mind to sprint back to the tantalizing new client he
signed only yesterday and the predicament that said client caught himself in
due to lack of knowledge. He happily ponders the options for untangling the
legal mess that interstate tax laws have created. Routine prompts his glance
to fall on his watch. What he sees startles him into a long striding run
toward his office.
* * * * *
A pigeon lands on the awning of a restaurant while its cousin pecks
around a bench in a park as its brother gets caught in an empty styrofoam
milkshake cup and his mother glares at a man who has almost run over her tail
in his hurry to get somewhere else.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"But usually we're busy denying death. We have some wonderfully evasive
expressions for this purpose, like, 'If something happens to me....'
It ain't *if*, it's *when*, and it ain't *something*, it's *curtains*."
-- Dean Sluyer, _Why the Chicken Crossed the Road
and Other Hidden Enlightenment Teachings_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
PARABLE OF THE AMPHiBiAN
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Languidly drowning, the hitching of the lungs alerts me to my danger.
Limbs flailing, mind racing, the surreally slow movement underwater beckons me
to give up, feast on the strangeness, dwell in the depths, and die.
Concentration is at a premium here, and control seems to be a faint memory,
but somehow I remember breathing once, and walking, happy. That's all I can
believe in. Before my tired mind's grasp on credulity slips, I must
experience that again, if only to remind myself it was true once.
I have a goal, and I start to remember. Arms thrusting in unison with my
legs, pointing up, straight up, this is so damned hard without breath, should
I just give up now? How much farther is it? Why bother.... At once my eyes
open and I can see dimly through the murky expanse of water some other people
trying to get out, but I cannot but doubt my senses. Looking down, I realize
I have just ascended from a pile of corpses, heaped on the ocean floor, with
an occasional free arm lazily rocking in the undercurrent. My attention is
distracted and I feel myself sinking again, in horrific wonder, until it
becomes clear that the arms are actually reaching, grasping, and trying to
pull -- me! Oh no! Not again!
I redouble my efforts and refuse to think about what I have left behind,
wanting only to leave the water and find out what I faintly remember about
breathing and walking. My lungs are aching, my mind is reeling in hopeful
frenzy, and I am sure my heart will burst from its terrified throbbing, but as
I ascend, the pressure decreases and everything gets brighter, or is that just
a trick of my mind?
I glance back down and am caught in unexpected wonder, for everything
around me is positively shining. Why hadn't I noticed that before? Had my
eyes been shut tight in concentration? Something then beckons me to look up
again. Before moving a muscle I know what it will be.
Light.
Rapture.
Ecstasy.
My head pops out of the water like a bubble and I take in a tremendous
gulp of air, the whole universe utters a sigh of relief. I notice the glowing
orb of light far above me. The sun! How could I have ever forgotten! It is
all too apparent, of course, what had been distracting my attention, and I can
only laugh at myself for having been a fool. The sun is warm too, so warm,
but for the moment my wet skin only shivers from the contrast.
Startled, I forget to tread and am taken underwater again. I didn't need
to remember what it was like, but my terror burns into my mind a reason why I
should. The heavy water which presses equally at all points makes one forget
that it is still a brutally constant force. A lot like air, I reflect, but
remember that breathing is a romantic exchange, a give and take, which doesn't
drown.
My mind is set and settled and I rise to the surface once more to do the
work of reaching shore. It's so easy to see through air, no one ever believes
that, but I can merely turn my head and take in everything around me. I see
that I have emerged remarkably close to land. Land is something else no one
will believe in, and I had almost dismissed myself the belief in the fabled
foundation upon which one could rest. But I understand something about this
piece of land. Aside for a small accidental ledge, it is a mountain, and the
mountain meets the water at such a steep angle that underwater, with the
effect of erosion, it can seem to be nothing more than an impassable wall.
Had I not had some hint myself, I wouldn't have even been able to convince
myself that climbing the wall was the only way out.
I swim to shore and recoil in pleasant surprise at the touch of sand and
rock, which is positively burning under the sun's rays. I intuit my next step
and pull myself to shore and lay down on the small ledge. Instantly I feel
utter calm and safety and have to laugh at how easy it is. Had I really
resigned myself to dying underwater? If anything, I would choose to die here,
happy, and not writhing and panicking... but that's what the water makes
impossible to avoid. Unburdened, I soon fall fast asleep.
* * * * *
I woke up hungry and sore and knowing that somehow this ledge was not
anywhere to be. I toyed facetiously with the idea of walking around the
mountain and staking a claim to sea level but knew intuitively that the only
way was up.
I had no clothes, no shoes, no hat. I knew I'd had some before or made
some or something like that but they'd got lost underwater. I think I can
remember insolently tossing them off as unnecessary baggage. I felt quite
stupid about that but my mindset was not at all defeatist. With my
well-deserved sleep I only felt more earnest to continue forward. I would
merely have to be careful scaling the rocks, and avoid sunburn, and be
sensible. Or, I could be reckless and just thrive on the joy of being on the
mountain. There was something vaguely repellent about that, though.
Up! I remembered. I sensed a definite danger of forgetting everything
again, since I was in such relative ease. But I had no food and no clothes
and couldn't subsist here any better than underwater.
As if to dissolve any lingering doubts, with an accidental peremptory
glance around me, I noticed other people on the mountain. "I knew it!" I
thought, as if I wouldn't have, but my memory was coming back to me. My
anxiety was quelled and I called merrily to some other figures far ahead of
me. I could feel them smiling back although few of them said much. I felt
silly again, sensing that they needed their concentration on their tricky
paths. I joyously started to climb.
It was a bit tricky to learn how to find footholds and secure
outcroppings to grab onto. Kind of a disappointment coming from the
uniformity of the water, which gave no illusions about its nature, but no
compromises either. While starting out I impetuously grabbed onto several
rocks that gave way when I pulled on them and could have spelled my doom. With
an appropriate balance of fear and determination, though, I drove on forward,
higher and higher.
The memory pains me but it is important to recount. I had been climbing
for several hours with nary a rest, so proud of myself that I didn't consider
to stop once. My uncovered feet were bleeding because I had told myself with
bravado, "no pain, no gain." The sun had been burning into my skin the whole
time since I hadn't thought of circling the mountain and climbing in the
shade. And without any food or water, my mind alone was keeping my body
going. I was moving forth, step by step, knowing I was doing something wrong,
but making up excuses for continuing. Indeed, in my frenzy, I was actively
convincing myself that this amount of hard work and labor was the discipline
I'd been lacking. Yes, I thought, I need this pain so I won't forget to keep
trying, just look at all those people who give up when it's easy. I was so
sure of myself that I decided to howl at the sun in mockery of its relentless
heat and stamp on the mountain to taunt its immovability and spit into the air
to mock its ephemerality.
And I fell.
And as I fell, it became clear that the ephemeral air would not restrain
me, and the immovable mountain would not reach out to grab me, and burning sun
would only look dumbly down and blind me. And while the air was empty and the
water was soothingly constant, while falling, the plane between them was hard
enough to break bones.
I don't know how I survived. Finding myself drifting downward through
the water, breathless, all that came to mind was anger. Nothing else mattered
but to express my rage at the injustice done to me. Hadn't I earned anything
with all that, for it to be so pointlessly taken away? How could that
possibly have happened? Hadn't I been trying, giving it a hundred and fifty
percent? I couldn't believe how unjust it was that these morons drowning down
here in their own apathy would feel less pain than me, and I couldn't stand
the thought of them watching my broken body drift down into the heap to join
the others. I didn't deserve this, not at all!
Oh, but was the point anyway? All the effort of finding my way to the
surface, swimming to shore, climbing so high, so easily whisked away by the
dumb and blind force of gravity. I couldn't stop gravity, could I? Well,
fuck it then. Fuck it all. Forget it, gravity, you win. I'll just sink down
here, I'll take my last breath of salt water and listen to my lungs hitch up
and watch my brain stop and curse you the whole way to my death. You can make
me fall but you can't take away my will.
In my orgy of self-righteous anger, of course, there was no way I could
really accept the humiliation of giving up, but the fantasy of cursing gravity
to the very end seemed so very sweet....
I whipped my head around to sneer at any of the drowning idiots who might
be grinning slyly at my demise when I realized that I was still far higher
than I'd been before. I was amazed. I couldn't see a single one of the
desperately grabbing hands reaching up from the depths. In fact, cold light
still shone around me. What could explain this? I noticed dumbly that I was
still madly treading water.
Before I could laugh at myself, I found myself pulled to the surface.
This was more startling than coming up by myself. I'd never imagined that
anyone would bother to rescue me. I was confused and angry, still grasping
onto the fading plan to die indignantly, and I was about to transfer my anger
to my rescuer when I saw how serene she was.
"You had a nasty fall there."
"Who are you?"
"I'll pull you to the shore."
She wrapped her arm around my chest and swam me up to the ledge. I was
baffled and still entertaining the idea of pushing her aside and claiming my
death. What did this mean? She didn't say anything else, and I didn't
either, not sure whether to thank her or curse her.
On the narrow shore-ledge, she wrapped bandages around my feet and rubbed
a cream over my neck, shoulders, and back. She gave me water and I didn't
understand at first that I should ingest it. I hadn't fathomed the concept
before -- I had lived in it! But this water was different. It didn't burn
and it seemed to dispel the heat. I drank it greedily.
I was grateful but confused, angry, and depressed. I thought it was all
over. I was on land again, and I knew all I could do was learn to climb. It
seemed entirely out of the question to go underwater again. I'd thought I
would die there.
"I don't want to climb."
"You're in shock."
"I hate the sun. It will just burn me and blind me. It's evil."
"You need to rest."
"I hate climbing. It's too hard. It doesn't get me anywhere."
"You don't know that."
I sighed. But part of me couldn't believe with what indigence I had
changed my mind and thrown away all the possibility I had only recently
rediscovered. But I felt humiliated. I shouldn't have fallen at all. If I
hadn't fallen, I wouldn't have had to go through the humiliation of being
rescued. I didn't want this woman to see me naked and injured. It was
terrible.
I sat in silence and thought about my rescue. This woman seemed so
comfortable and prepared. She had shoes and clothing and she was happy. I
knew instinctively that she didn't need me whatsoever and would probably soon
leave me here. But instead of resenting her, I too started to calm down and
rethink my actions. She had that effect.
"Did I really climb all that way without shoes?"
"You did. I wish you hadn't."
"You don't want me up there." The words escaped me, I didn't mean them.
"I want everyone up there."
I thought about this and marveled at her naivete. There was no way that
would ever happen. I figured. "Is that what you really want?"
"Absolutely."
"Then why don't you --"
"It's not *my* job."
The way she said it, I again realized how unimportant I was to her. And
only then did I also realize that there was no reason I should have been
important to her. It wasn't her place to fish everyone out. Unless they
already wanted to, she would let them stay. I decided then that it was in my
best interests to continue climbing. Not just as an alternative to dying in
the water like most did, not just because it was different and exhilarating,
but because I wanted to. I knew somehow that good would come of it.
"Do you have any shoes?" I asked.
"Thought you'd never ask. Here," she said, taking off her own shoes,
which surprisingly fit me. "I can't offer you a shirt just yet. Until you
get one, climb in the shadows."
"Makes sense," I said. "Thank you."
In spite of my relief and remounting joy, I couldn't help but notice that
she seemed a bit tired of me, again pointing out that I was nothing to her.
So, I decided to accept my humility. At once, she stood up and took her
leave.
"See you on top!" she said, beaming.
At that moment, I couldn't discount the feeling that I had only been
projecting.
* * * * *
I start climbing again after circling around to the shady side of the
mountain, where I find to my surprise the slope is less steep, although it
will be a longer climb. I am still amazed to see so many other people up
there and I hope to know them all some day.
I look up and the sun is hidden behind the mountains. I will find later
to my dismay that the sun disappears, but reappears again. All the people on
the mountain attest that this cycle never ends. I have my doubts. I doubt
even that the mountain will be here forever. And everything else? But I am
sure that I won't be around to find out otherwise. So as I take my first
steps back up, I put my trust in the support of the mountain, which may give
me slippery slopes or loose rocks to keep me aware. I put my trust in the
life force of the air, which may blow me uncomfortably loose from the face of
the rock and grow thin as I climb higher. I put my trust in the warmth and
light of the sun, which may burn my skin and tax my body and disappear when I
want it most. And I put my trust in the sustenance of the water, from which I
came, and to which I must return.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"There are many people and many tribes, but only so many stories."
--Neal Stephenson, _The Diamond Age_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A DARKWiNGED ANGEL
by Howler in the Shadows
A steady gust of wind blew from the south, forcing the rain to hit and
reflect off the wall of the Chicago North Star Regency's wall, creating a
small haven from the water at its base. A teenage girl huddled in that haven,
scanning the passing crowd. Her hair would have been the color of fire if it
had been dry, but the water turned it almost auburn and matted it in thick
tangles down almost to her shoulders. She wore an old, brown polo shirt with
tan bands at the end of the short sleeves. The shirt had a tear from the last
button to the upper part of her left breast, and another across her midriff.
The shirt tucked into a faded pair of blue jeans with a single tear from the
knee to the upper thigh of her left leg. She had a large, black cloth bag
pressed between the small of her back and the hotel wall. Her wandering eyes
suddenly halted, locking onto a single figure in the crowd. A man in the
beginning stages of middle age walked quickly toward the hotel. Holding an
umbrella over his head was a massive man wearing mirror shades and a suit that
looked two sizes too small for him.
Anticipation and queasiness filled the girl's belly as the men drew
closer. The smaller man slowed to a stop as they came even with her, the
larger stopping a foot behind and to the right. Her light brown eyes met his
dark green ones. His eyes widened a little in surprise. He smiled at the
little bit of fear that had sparked in her eyes. His gaze traveled hungrily
down her body, taking in exposed flesh of her slim, athletic figure, her wet
clinging shirt, her bare feet and most importantly, her ringless hands. She
could almost read his thoughts.
"Guildless," he would be thinking, "this girl has no Family."
"Girl," he said, breaking her train of thoughts, "you look cold."
She nodded mechanically, her eyes locked onto his face. It was not an
ugly face: dark, sun worn, with stress lines disappearing into graying
stubble. His dark emerald eyes seemed to shine with life,
"You're soaking wet, girl," he said, his kindly expression ruined by the
excitement in his eyes.
"Would you like to come upstairs?" He licked his lips. "Maybe get
something to eat?"
He was enjoying her nervousness, but worried that he might scare her off.
The girl paused, as if considering, then grabbed her bag and slipped her arm
around the man's side. After a moment's hesitation, the man's arm slipped
around her shoulder in a warm, if confining grip.
"Sir, I don't think this is such a good--" the larger man began.
"You worry too much, Davis, relax," the man responded.
"After this morning?" the man retorted.
Irritation filled the man's eyes, he looked at the girl for a moment and
then at Davis. Finally, he smiled.
"Fine then. You can search her when we get up stairs."
Davis did not respond.
If anyone in the North Star's Lobby thought it strange that this man
should walk in, arm in arm with a barefoot and soaking street girl, they kept
it to themselves. The man directed them into one of the elevators and seemed
relieved when the doors closed without anyone else entering. She could
already see his erection through his pants and his arm had somehow drifted
down so that his finger tips rested lightly on her breast. After what seemed
like an eternity, the elevator chimed and the doors opened. He led her out of
the elevator and down the hall, stopping at the fifth door. He released her
and dug in his pockets, finally producing a card key. He swiped the card,
cursed when the lock buzzed angrily at him, clumsily reversed the card and
swiped it again. He sighed when the light turned green, pushed the door open
and gestured for her to enter. She stepped in and looked around. It was a
nice room, making it a very expensive room. It was large, and filled with
quality synth-wood furniture. In a corner stood a high-res holo-tank with
very real looking coy swimming lazily about in it.
The man stepped inside and closed the door after slipping a "do not
disturb" sign on the outside knob.
Davis stepped up to her. "I would like to search her now, sir," he said,
laying a large hand on her shoulder. The man nodded irritably and walked over
to the desk where he began shuffling through some papers. Davis did a quick,
thorough search of her. When finished, he grabbed her bag, dumped the contents
on the floor and dug through them.
"She's clear sir."
The man turned to face her. He watched as she squatted down and
carefully packed all her belongings back into the cloth bag.
"What's your name?" he asked, meeting her gaze.
"Angel," she responded in a quavering voice, dropping her gaze.
"You certainly look the part," he said, smiling. "Why don't you go sit
on the bed while I make a phone call."
"Can I have my food and my shower first?" she asked, her voice almost
cracking.
She flinched when his gaze snapped back on her. His anger melted away
quickly and he smiled.
"Of course. You were thinking I'd have my way with you and then have
Davis throw you out, weren't you?" he laughed, his eyes betraying that he
had been thinking just that.
"Go take your shower and I'll order us some dinner," his impatience had
reappeared in his voice.
She nodded and walked quickly into the bathroom, closing and locking the
door behind her. She stripped off her clothes, wrung them out in the sink and
draped them over the towel rack to dry.
She reveled in the jet of hot water that hit her in the face when she
stepped into the shower. She found a disposable razor wrapped in plastic and
a small wax-paper wrapped bar of soap sitting in the soap dish. She used them
to shave her legs and armpits. She washed and combed her hair and then just
stood under the spray of water until it started to turn cold. She turned off
the water and stepped out of the tub, toweling herself dry. She heard a faint
knock at the outside door and Davis's muffled voice saying something.
She found a large white robe hanging on the back of the door and slipped
it on. It was too large for her and had the letters N.S.R. embroidered in
gold on the left breast. She opened the door and stepped out into the living
room.
The man sat at the table that room service had wheeled in, eating a very
rare vat-grown beefsteak and sipping a Japanese beer. Davis had resumed his
place to the left of the front door. The man watched between bites as she
walked over to the table and sat down opposite him, drawing her legs up under
her. She took a few nibbles of the sandwich he had ordered for her. She
glanced up nervously, cast a glance over at Davis, and back to the man.
"He's not going to watch is he?" she said, blushing.
The man laughed. "You hear that, Davis? The little girl's shy."
Her face turned scarlet. Davis did not react.
"He he makes me nervous. I would like it better if you sent him
outside." Her blush deepened.
The man laughed again, "well, sweet, innocent little angel of mine, when
you're ready, I'll send him outside." He placed a large, sun-darkened hand on
her pale knee.
She smiled, her face changing back to its normal color, and began eating
again. The man didn't eat much. He simply sat and watched her, seemingly
enthralled. When she had finished, she smiled, stood up, walked past him to
the bedroom door and paused, looking back. The combination of innocent and
seductress in her eyes filled him with desire. He stood up so quickly that
the dishes rattled and his beer tipped over. He cursed and picked it up,
throwing a napkin over the spreading puddle of beer.
"Davis, wait outside," he said, following her as she disappeared into the
bedroom. She stood facing the wall, waiting. When she heard Davis close the
outside door behind him she undid her robe and let it slip to the floor.
"Oh yes, you certainly look the part," the man said in a breathy voice,
standing closely behind her.
He grabbed her with the intent of twisting her into an embrace, but when
she spun, she swung an open knife-hand strike to his throat. He gasped and
stepped back a bit, hurt and startled. She didn't wait for him to recover.
She spun again and landed a wheel kick to his throat, crushing his wind pipe.
He gasped like a fish out of water and struggled for the door. She swept him,
stepped over him, and planted her heel on his neck, breaking his spine. He
lay face down in the plush carpet.
Angel's mind raced. All traces of nervousness had evaporated. She
grabbed her cloth bag and dumped its contents onto the bed. She pulled out
the liner and removed several small plastic wrapped packages containing an
expensive, if conservative business suit. She retraced her route through the
apartment, removing all traces of her presence. Once satisfied, she changed
into the outfit and pulled her hair into the severe bun that was in style for
upper-level business women.
She reentered the bedroom, picked up her bag and flipped it inside out
revealing a brown suede synth-leather surface. She carefully repacked her
belongings. When she finished, she pulled off the false skin she'd been
wearing on her hands and stuffed them into her bag. She retrieved a plain
gold band with a clinched fist engraved on it from her pocket and pushed it
onto her left ring finger. Finally, she slipped on a pair of white gloves.
Her new persona complete, she ran into the bathroom, pulled open the
under-sink cabinet and cursed. She had paid the cleaning lady five-hundred
creds to tape a Tranq pistol and ammo to the back of the pipes. It wasn't
there. There was no time to wonder why. She would deal with that later. She
momentarily felt sorry for the body guard, but let it go. Her mind raced. A
man like her target did not go about unarmed, body guard or no. He would have
it somewhere he could easily get to, but not on his person -- too easy to get
caught that way. She spotted a metal briefcase in the open closet. She
rushed over and cracked it open, dumping out the multitude of documents. It
would have a false bottom. Her hands found a cleverly disguised latch and
triggered it. She cursed again. Inside the compartment was a snub-nosed
needler with a clip of needles and several spare air cartridges. Next to that
were five gold bars each about four by seven inches across and two inches
thick. She grabbed the bars and threw them into her bag, then picked up the
pistol. It had a full clip, but the air cartridge, needed to propel the darts,
was half empty. Her target was either very busy or very sloppy; she was
willing to bet on the latter. She exchanged cartridges, double checked the
settings, and plugged the pistol's fiber-optic lead into a subtle hook-up in
her wrist. She became aware of the pistol more as an extension of her hand,
than as a separate object. Her targeting hardware was state of the art. The
gun kicked and let off a truncated hiss as she put a test shot into the body
of her former target. She smiled, shouldered her bag, and headed for the
door.
She leaned against the door with her left hand on the handle and her
right holding the needler pointed at the ceiling. The door would open in,
therefore Davis would be on the left side. That way, if the door opened, he
could tackle anyone coming out. Angel slowed her breathing and listened.
Silence. She hoped that meant the hall was clear except for Davis. She
turned the knob, threw her weight onto her right foot, opened the door and
pivoted with it exposing only her arm and her face. The gun hissed once, and
Davis collapsed onto the floor. The needle had hit him in the left eye,
piercing his brain and killing him. She checked the hall. Seeing that it was
clear, she grabbed her bags and left. When she reached the elevator, she
disconnected the gun and dropped it down a garbage chute. She called an
elevator and calmly waited for it.
As the elevator traveled down, she let her language software kick in,
sinking deeper into her new persona. By the time the car reached the lobby,
the real Angel had sunk completely out of sight. She walked purposefully up
to the front desk and called for the clerk's attention.
"Checking out Ma'am?" he asked, placing a ring-print scanner on the
counter.
"Yes," she said, her German accent heavy. She slowly pulled the glove
off her left hand and placed it palm down on the pad. The computer in the pad
scanned her prints and ran them against those stored in the microprocessor
embedded in her ring. Finding a match, it checked her out and settled her
bill.
The clerk was looking at his screen.
"According to my records, your luggage was brought down last night, as
per your request, and our driver, Reginald, is waiting out front to take you
to the airport. Was everything to your satisfaction, Ms. Leiberstaad?"
"Well, there is one thing," she said smiling, her accent making it hard
for the clerk to understand, "the room directly above mine -- they made much
noise."
The clerk smiled apologetically. "Well, I hope you will accept our
apologies, ma'am. I will send someone up right away," he said typing, no
doubt making sure that no priority guest was in that room. She nodded curtly
and headed to the door, ignoring anything else the clerk might have said.
She did not completely relax until she was in the limo and on her way.
Once on the highway, she picked up the phone and let it connect to her ring.
She dialed up the number of a dry cleaner in Seattle. The answering machine
picked up.
"Seen the sights, be home soon," was all she said before hanging up.
She dialed the number of a flower shop in Sacramento. A marionette -- a
program designed to imitate a human -- answered.
"I'd like to have an arrangement delivered. I want a single white rose
in a green glass vase. No card. I am forwarding you the address now," she
said. She selected an address off a menu prompt on the phone, and forwarded
it to the shop's computer.
She hung up. The ring's microprocessor settled the bill for the flower
and the two phone calls then disconnected. She sat back and began to think,
analyzing her performance, noting those aspects that could have gone better.
She got to the gold bars and paused. Clan Law dictated that the bars were
clan property. She should surrender them to her superior upon her return.
Her thoughts drifted back to the job just completed and she wondered, not for
the first time, how much longer she would want to stay in this line of work.
"Driver," she said, waiting until she saw his eyes in the rearview mirror
before continuing. "What is the largest bank in Chicago?"
"That would be the Chicago Trans-Global, ma'am."
"Would you please take me there?"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Give humans motive, opportunity, and a mechanism for being unpleasant,
and they will be."
--Peter Jackson
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SAViNG FACE
by Kilgore Trout
She smelled of sweat. Paul could feel her nearby, watching him, trying
to anticipate her next move. She's not in my mind yet, he thought and
blindly swung the aluminum baseball bat in the darkness. Nothing. He heard
her breathe, but he couldn't judge where she was. The size and acoustics of
the room toyed with Paul's senses, and he was on the verge of breaking. Paul
gripped the handle of the bat tightly, readying himself for another strike.
It's not fair, he thought. It's not fair that you've always been in
control.
Paul took a step forward and waited. A muffled gasp came from his left,
so he turned and smashed the bat in that direction, connecting with something
solid. He heard bones crack.
"That wasn't me," a female voice called out from above him. "Who'd you
pulp, Paul? Do you really want to know?"
Paul dropped the bat and raised his hands. "I'm tired of your games,
Melinda. I'm finished playing. It's over."
"Not until I say it is," Melinda shouted back, and then the room was
awash in a blinding white light.
* * * * *
"So, how's class going for you, Paul?" his father asked. They were
seated at the dining room table eating breakfast. Paul's mom walked in with
some bacon and sat down.
"Sucks as usual," Paul replied with a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "But I
did meet this girl in my intro to western religions class. We've been dating
a bit."
"Oh, my Paulie's finally got a girlfriend," his mother said elatedly.
Paul rolled his eyes while his father chuckled.
"Tell us all about her," she said.
"Her name's Melinda," Paul answered. "She's a sociology major. Only has
one more semester after this."
"An older woman, huh?" his father asked. "Way to go, Son. I knew you'd
get out of your shell finally."
"Dad," Paul objected.
"Well, Son, you have to admit you're usually absorbed in those strange
books you read or sitting in front of a computer. It's nice to see you get
out some, that's all."
"Your father's right, Paul," his mother explained. "We know you've got
some good friends, but it's nice to know that I might get to be a grandmother
someday."
"Jeez, Mom," Paul said. "It's not like we're about to get married.
We're just dating."
"Well, just be good to her, and she'll be good to you," his mother
advised.
* * * * *
As Paul's eyes adjusted to the bright light, he made out two burly shapes
hurrying towards him. He bent down to retrieve the bat, but a hard kick from
one of the men sent him slumping to the ground. He grabbed his belly, coughed
up some phlegm, and rolled over onto his back. He looked up at his attackers,
recognizing them as Jim, a running back on the football team, and Laurence,
his roommate.
"Help me, please," Paul gasped, trying to regain his breath.
"No can do, little man," Jim said.
"But she's crazy," Paul said. "Melinda's off her rocker."
"Not really. Not once you get to understand her."
"Yeah," Laurence agreed. "She's a lot more stable than you ever were."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Paul asked. "Look what she's done."
"What, made us stronger?" Laurence sneered. "I don't consider that a bad
thing. You could have been like us, Paul. It would have been so simple."
"Never," Paul spat out. "You're delusional. Melinda's got you by the
balls."
"Stop your inane arguing," Melinda's voice echoed from above. "You can't
turn them against me. Power has its advantages, a fact that you can't seem to
fathom."
Paul turned his head to the left and saw the limp body next to him, blood
pooling around its head. Laurence bent down and grabbed the head, lifting it
and turning it towards Paul. He saw his own face with eyes glazed over in
silence.
* * * * *
Melinda smoothed out the skin on her face and attached the clasps behind
her ears. "There," she said. "A perfect fit. This is one of my favorite
faces."
"Doesn't that hurt?" Paul asked. He was lying naked on the bed, rubbing
the socks on his feet together.
"Not really, thanks to modern painkillers," she replied, turning away
from the bathroom mirror. She was naked, too, and Paul watched her small
breasts rise as she stretched her arms upwards.
"I still don't get this whole face thing," Paul said, stroking his
hairless chest. "It kinda freaks me out."
"Understandable," she answered. "You're not having second thoughts, are
you?"
"No, no. It's just that when you said you had many different faces, I
didn't think you meant that literally. I figured it was a sordid background or
manic mood swings or something."
Melinda slid across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Her milky
white palm caressed Paul's thigh softly. He sighed.
"It all about conquering the flesh," Melinda said. "We're forcing
evolution. We can be anybody. All we need is skin."
"But I don't understand still," he complained. "You were beautiful
before."
"That wasn't me, Paul. You've never seen me. And it's not about
beauty."
"Then what is it about?"
"Identity. Being. Control of self. Let me cut you, Paul."
"I like my face."
Melinda bent down and kissed his thigh. "For now, Paul," she said. "For
now."
* * * * *
Jim and Laurence grabbed Paul's arms and legs and hauled him out of the
room. He did not resist. They took him down a hallway with walls of peeling
plaster and into what looked like a dining room. A long, metal table with a
chair at either end was in the center of the room. The two men dropped Paul
in one of the chairs and left, locking the door behind them.
Paul ran his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the table,
wondering whose head he had bashed in back there, wondering who was wearing
his face. He leaned forward and stared at the reflection in the table, seeing
Melinda's face glaring back at him.
"Surprised?" Melinda's voice asked from behind him. "You were so
beautiful when I cut you."
Paul whirled around, seeing Melinda with his face on. It sagged a bit at
the chin. He stood up and tried to speak, but no words came to him.
"Luckily your face was salvageable," she said, scratching the hanging
goatee. "A tad big for me, but I could get used to it."
"Who was it back there?" Paul asked. "Who did I kill?"
"We've got lots of time for your questions. How does my face feel?"
"Why? Why did you do this to me? I never wanted this."
"Come now, Paul. You are not your face. I thought you would have
figured that out by now."
"I want my face back!" Paul screamed.
Melinda walked over to Paul and knelt in front of him, unzipping his
pants. "You know, Paul, you of all people should be able to understand the
significance of what we've accomplished," she said. "Don't you understand
the power I've given you? You're free from your bondage. You're free from
yourself."
Paul stood motionless as he watched his own face give him head.
* * * * *
Paul would feign being asleep in the mornings to try and catch a glimpse
of Melinda when she was unmasked. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to see
her as she really was, but part of him wanted to see underneath her flesh.
She was always careful, though, making sure she never made herself visible.
Sometimes he thought it might be nice to be able to change faces, but he
also wondered who Melinda had really been before this, if any of the faces she
wore were her original face. Paul asked himself if Melinda had forgotten who
she had been, who she really was. After all, he could never be sure himself.
* * * * *
Paul awoke in a haze on the sidewalk, the taste of chloroform still in
his mouth. He tried to recall what had happened before he had been knocked
out, remembering that Melinda had been talking to him as Jim and Laurence held
him by the arms.
"Nobody wants to be themselves," she had explained. "If they did,
everyone would be happy. No, people always want to be something different, to
be like someone else. We've given you that power, but you still won't accept
it. You just can't see the possibilities, can you? No, of course not. I
forgot. You like your face. You are not your face, Paul. Do you know who
you really are?"
He stumbled onto his feet, balancing himself on sore legs and looked
around. The setting was downtown, but it was unfamiliar. Paul wasn't sure
what town he was in. He slowly walked over to the window of an electronics
store and tried to look at himself in the dim reflection. He didn't recognize
the face at all.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"This book should have been written three years ago.... But these truths
were a fire in me then. Now I can tell them without getting burned.
These truths do not have to be hurled in men's faces. They do not
intend to ignite fervor. I do not trust fervor. Every time it has
burst out somewhere, it has brought fire, famine, misery.... And
contempt for man. Fervor is the weapon of choice of the impotent."
-- Franz Fanon, _Black Skin, White Masks_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EVAN GETS HiS ASS KiCKED
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
"Fuckin' god damn!" Tony shouted as he was walking down the sidewalk. "I
hate this!"
"What, what?" Evan asked. "What?"
"My drink, you stinkin' bum! Can't you see? It just flew out of my
hands."
"Damn."
"Right into the fuckin' sidewalk. Look at that," he cursed, throwing his
hands at the sight. Evan looked obediently and glanced back and noticed how a
tree root had upended a block of the sidewalk several years ago and conspired
through time to steal Tony's drink. "Now tell me if that ain't fucked. It's
seeping right through the pavement. Is it *thirsty*?"
Evan kept mostly silent, but offered, "The pavement is porous."
"'Porous,' eh? Porous. Por-ous. Poor us, huh? Poor goddamn us."
"Buy another drink, okay?" Evan suggested finally, a bit testily.
"Pardon me, okay, just pardon me. I don't deal well with loss or
something, okay?" Tony snapped. Evan merely shrugged. "Now all my
concentration is gone. Were we going somewhere?"
"Back to the park where Nikki and Hunter are, I figured. They might want
to see 'Lost in Space.'"
"Sure, let's go all the fuck the way back there, and me with my hands
empty and nothing to do," Tony lamented, giving angry looks at his white
palms.
"Do you always have to be holding something?"
"Alright then Evan. I'll just, oh, walk like a goddamn fairy." Tony
proceeded to walk forward, extravagantly animated, waving his arms in double
pinwheels. "Let's go, huh?"
Evan watched sullenly and muttered, "Goddamn fairy, that's good."
They continued to walk along the side of the road, where the sidewalks
eventually tapered off into chaotic sprays of gravel, and then still-muddy
foot-trails, and then subtly stamped-down grass. The blocks were wide and
underdeveloped on the edges of the town and the streets all headed into dead
ends. Before the grid of streets disappeared into overgrown grass and cactus,
a plain row of brown warehouses delineated the edge of the city, most rented
out for private storage. And a few blocks behind that, in a circle of trees,
Tony expected to find Nikki and Hunter getting stoned or skateboarding.
"I swear I'm gonna die if it gets any humider," Tony complained,
laboriously stretching the collar on his shirt and waving air in.
"Maybe your jeans will stay up for once," Evan commented.
"Maybe I'll whale on your ass, huh?"
Evan refrained from commenting but retained his sullen expression. He
hoped they could get to the movie sooner than later.
Crossing between two warehouses, Tony called out, "Yoo hoo, kids,"
capitalizing on the resonating echo effect, "movie time!" And then, "Fuckin'
no way!"
Evan stopped short and started to turn back. He knew the tone of his
voice meant they'd been ditched. Since they'd planned to borrow money for two
tickets from Nikki (and had been cautiously optimistic that she'd understood
the situation as well as they did), they were hosed.
Still facing the empty space under the trees, Tony said, in a tone oddly
triumphant, "Okay then, no goddamn movie." He laughed. "I heard it sucked
anyways." When he turned around and saw Evan receding, he cried out, "Wait
up!"
Evan continued to walk blithely on, having made up his mind to ditch Tony
and waste the day by himself for once. Tony had other ideas.
Running up behind him, Tony exclaimed, "Hey man, where you goin'? Stick
around, I can fetch up somethin' fun to do! We don't need those sorry fuckers
around!" Evan continued to ignore him, only shrugging vaguely. His
determination didn't wane. "Well at least let me follow you then," Tony
muttered.
Walking back into town, the afternoon sun blazed directly into their
faces, and for Tony this seemed to mock their failure. Ditched by their
friends, and now the humiliation of coming back with empty hands. All he
could bare to look at was the obscured silhouette of Evan's head in the way of
the sun. He bored his eyes into the back of Evan's skull and hated him.
"You know what?" he said, as if offhandedly, glaring at the black shadow
of Evan's head. "I bet we wouldn't have missed them if I didn't have to
explain to you the whole fucking complicated fact of spilling my drink."
Evan knew that Nikki and Hunter would have walked to the theater just as
doggedly as they, and there was no way they could have missed them by a
minute. "What?!" he shouted at the illogic, and instantly regretted it.
"Yes, you motherfuckin' *made* me. I was content to leave the spilt milk
behind, but you were too goddamn dense to understand."
Evan recognized and knew this pattern, triggering one of the rare moments
in which he honestly wished he were actually too dense to understand. He
braced himself and shrugged in the most noncommittal way he could.
"Fuck you!" Tony shouted and rammed his hands into Evan's back, sending
him flailing and falling into the street. "You ruin everything for me!"
For a few agonizing seconds Evan's mind raced with deciding whether to
stand or remain prone on the ground. He decided to stand up as slowly and
coolly as possible. He could feel Tony glaring down at him and he could
imagine the expression he always had on his face at these times; wide angry
eyes, flared nostrils, flushed red cheeks and nose, and a scowl infected with
a repulsively malicious half-grin. Evan resisted the urge to meet that glare
and concentrated on relaxing his eyes into a dead gaze so the stress wouldn't
make them shake. He pushed himself up by his arms and slowly brought his legs
under him until he was almost sitting. He looked silently at Tony's shoes,
ancient Adidas, the shoelaces frayed, almost hidden in the ample legs of his
baggy jeans. After a quiet moment of reflection, he carefully extended his
legs and stood up, facing Tony with an equanimous expression. Then he glanced
down, turned his head, turned his body, and continued walking.
*Six... five... four...*, Evan counted in his mind, *one...* -- nothing.
He hadn't prepared to continue walking and dazedly meandered forth, now
understanding some of the effect that the blazing sun had on his unhinged
companion. As he kept uneasily placing footstep after footstep, he
contemplated breaking into a dash and running away. /You could, you know,/ he
told himself in a ludicrously over-calm voice. /Tony would never catch up./