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From: mongo@maple.circa.ufl.edu (Bryan Slatner)
Newsgroups: alt.bbs.allsysop
Subject: Dead III
Message-ID: <1992Feb18.184744.14379@math.ufl.edu>
Date: 18 Feb 92 18:47:02 GMT
Sender: news@math.ufl.edu
Reply-To: MONGO%oak.decnet@pine.circa.ufl.edu
Organization: The CIRCA Underground
Lines: 2525
Copyright (c) 1991, 1992 Bryan E. Slatner
All Rights Reserved
You may distribute this file at your leisure so long as the original text
remains unchanged.
Dedaparamaxxaginos productions PRESENTS . . .
! ! DEAD3.DOC ! !
The much-coveted finale to the DEAD?.DOC series!
"Our Heroes enter Cyberspace"
OR
"Ghosts in the Machine"
OR
The return of Joe Blow and George Tush
A NON-musical drama in five parts
("And now here's something we hope you'll REALLY like!!")
INTRODUCTION
------------
There are no songs in DEAD3.DOC. There is a reason for this.
The band moved to California where they are broadcasting useful smells
from Frank's anatomy (don't ask). For a copy of the original score
for DEAD2.DOC, mail an EXCEEDINGLY funny joke to:
Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions, LTD, INC, PhD, BS, FTD.
c/o Doomed Puppy
8009 SW 55th PL
Gainesville, FL 32608
No CODs please. We don't like getting fish in the mail. That is
a REAL address, and any correspondence sent there will be answered
according to our moods. Letter bombs will be returned to sender,
unopened. Drugs, money, complements, and general ramblings are
accepted.
Mail may also be sent to mongo@maple.circa.ufl.edu.
We would like to thank the following people for not suing us, for
whatever reason:
Cheech and Chong, for "Bailiff! Wack his pee pee!"
The Police, for one of the above titles.
Douglas Adams for, "There was a horrible, ghastly silence, etc."
Some comedian whose name I don't remember but who is VERY funny
for "Snakes! Snakes!" and "Sorry about your
family...tomorrow!"
Roger Zelazny, for the blatant thievery of Amber-like concepts
concerning shadow shifting. But Roger knows where Imaginos
lives, so I don't think we have to worry about a law suit.
Dennis Miller, for "existential melancholy."
William Shakespeare, just so we can SOUND impressively literate.
We would also like to thank the Federal Bird Inspector (FBI) for
not arresting us even though we deserve it.
And a hearty FUCK OFF to Dragon Keep for deleting the files
(DEAD1 and DEAD2) when we uploaded them. Your punishment will be
SEVERE jokes made at your expense in this file.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
PART -I-
Oh shit, they're baaaaaaaaaaack!
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene:
Sysop and Beopunk Cyberwulf are sitting at Sysop's machine. They
are logged on to the University of Florida VAX and are exceeding their
disk quotas. Bad. Naughty. Oh well.
All of a sudden, a terrible, ghastly light flashes on the screen
(Sysop now has a brand new 486-10000MHz that he bought with the
insurance money he collected, with an LGA [ludicrous graphics array]
and a 115K baud modem).
After the light dies away a single, lone window appears on the
screen.
/--------------------------------------------\
| |
| We're Baaaaaaaaack! |
| |
\--------------------------------------------/
Sysop:
It can't be!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Be what? It's just a window.
Sysop:
You're right. I probably have some harmless virus.
Beopunk:
Press a key and see what happens.
Sysop presses a key. The box is replaced with.
/--------------------------------------------\
| |
| Nice hard drive. |
| |
| Too bad it's being FORMATTED! |
| |
| Muahahahah. |
| |
\--------------------------------------------/
The light on Sysop's 10.2 Terabyte hard drive begins to flash. He
reboots to try and save his data. This does not work. When the
system reboots, he gets the message:
Insert system disk in drive A:.
Sysop:
Fuck! Those little TURDS!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
We MUST do something.
Sysop:
You're right. We must reassemble "The Assembly of Death!"
(Trumpets play in background)
Fade to:
Imaginos's bedroom. It's even more disgusting than his foot.
There are socks everywhere, broadcasting unuseful smells. His phone
rings.
Imaginos (picking up the phone):
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT?!?!?!?!
Sysop's voice (as if coming out of phone):
Um, is Dave there?
Imaginos:
WHO WANTS TO KNOW???!?!?!
Sysop:
It's SysOp.
Imaginos (becoming bright and cheery):
Oh!
Sysop:
We have a problem. Joe Blow and George Tush are back, in the
form of computer viruses. They formatted my hard drive and . . .
There is a kind of Speedy Gonzalez sound and Imaginos disappears,
and the phone falls to the ground. He always moves fast when there's
something to be killed.
Fade to:
Admiral Asshole's house. He is sitting in front of the TV
watching professional wrestling and cheers as "The Undertaker" puts
"Ivan Teartitsoff" into a coffin and sets it on fire.
Admiral Asshole:
Yeah! Yeah! Burn the fucker's LEGS OFF!
Out front there is a SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECHING of tires. There are
several very LOUD footsteps coming closer and closer. Then: WHAM!
WHAM! WHAM! as the door shakes in its frame.
Imaginos (from behind door):
Wake up goddamit! We have to go and kill something.
Admiral Assholes' serious face changes into a smile of malicious
glee. There is the Speedy Gonzalez sound again as he rushes off into
his bedroom to get his AK-47 and some hand grenades. He opens the
door and meets Imaginos. They get into Imaginos's Sherman Tank and
speed off to Sysop's house.
Fade to:
Sysop's living room. It STILL has not been cleaned since the
party at the beginning of DEAD2. Someone has, however, taken the time
to cover the slime mold next to the TV with a poster of Guns -N-
Roses.
The Assembly of Death is sitting down wherever they can, due to
all the junk littering the real furniture. Sysop calls the meeting to
order:
Sysop:
Friends and goodly users. I would like to start out by stating
that THIS SUCKS. We killed these bastards once, and now they're back,
reincarnated as vicious computer viruses. Since I spoke to you all,
they have infected the VAX, The Crucible, Gridworks Systems, and
Helter Skelter. We don't care much about Helter Skelter. In fact, we
think they're partially guilty, so we're not going to worry about
them. Also, Draggin' Tail has become completely worthless, but we
already knew that; its just more apparent now.
To tell you the truth, I really don't know how to go about fixing
this problem. Does anybody have any ideas?
Gelbarion:
Can't we just crush them, like Arnold would?
Sysop:
You know what happened last time, Gelb.
Admiral Asshole:
Let's burn their dicks off.
Sysop:
No good. You can't burn the dick off an electronic impulse.
Wostgheel:
Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetttttttttt's
Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusssssssssst
Shoooooooooooooooooooooooootttttttttt
Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemmmm!
Sysop:
No singing! This is a NON-musical drama goddamit. And besides,
they're too small to hit accurately. No, I think this is going to
require DRASTIC measures. I think this is going to require...dare I
say it?...a journey into------cyberspace.
All (except Sysop):
Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Imaginos:
Rick Wakeman would make a great soundtrack for this.
Wostgheel:
You be cool.
Sysop:
Wostgheel, you have the most experience with this sort of thing.
Do you think you could take us into cyberspace?
Wostgheel:
I don't know...that's pretty hard . . .
Sysop:
Please! The Gainesville BBS network NEEDS you!
Wostgheel:
. . . it's very difficult to accomplish properly. You have to take
all kinds of factors into account . . .
Sysop:
You can bring your napalm.
Wostgheel:
. . . but you talked me into it. When do you want to leave?
Sysop:
As soon as possible. Does everybody have enough weapons?
Everyone assembled pulls out some kind of deadly weapon of one
sort or another. There is enough armament present to make Saddam
Hussein drool with delight.
Sysop:
Great! Wostgheel, do your stuff.
There is a ominous silence as all eyes turn to Wostgheel.
Wostgheel closes his eyes and the room begins to change. Here and
there, little things change shape: the slime mold turns into a fuzzy
squirrel and runs away. The sofa turns into a giant lizard who
scurries away with fear. In the center of the room, a slowly turning
vortex takes shape. Looking into the vortex, one can see a deep
blackness that is broken only by occasional pulses of light.
Wostgheel:
Okay, everybody. Into the vortex!
Gelbarion:
I don't know about this . . .
Sysop:
Gelbarion! That is a very UN-Arnold like thing to say.
Gelbarion jumps into the vortex. Wostgheel goes in after him,
followed by Imaginos, Admiral Asshole, and Sysop, who states "They're
doomed," before jumping in.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
PART -II-
Cyberspace
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Our Heroes manifest inside Sysop's computer. It looks like they
are floating above New York City at night. It's beautiful. There are
uncountable lights, of all colors everywhere. Flashes of light, like
photons of all colors of the spectrum, travel along great subways of
circuitry. Our Heroes are awestruck.
Imaginos:
Wow, man! That's cooooooooooooooooool!
Wostgheel:
You'll get used to it. NOT!
Imaginos:
I wanna STAY here.
Wostgheel:
NOT!
Sysop:
It's beautiful.
Gelbarion:
Arnold would approve.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Yawn.
Admiral Asshole:
Where's my AK-47??? My hand grenades?
Wostgheel:
All your earthly possessions have been "translated" into a form
that befits our environment. For instance, this is my napalm:
Wostgheel holds up about 20 hot pink cubes that say "Norton Disk
Doctor" on them.
Admiral Asshole searches his pockets and comes up with some cubes,
similarly colored that say "FORMAT.COM" He finds another cube, colored
green, that says "VMS Operating System" on it.
Sysop:
Jesus, Admiral A! That'll KILL them! VMS...scary.
Gelbarion pulls out a pink cube that says "FluShot+". Imaginos
finds that his hand gun has turned into "REBOOT.COM" and that his
Rambo Knife has turned into "QBBS.EXE".
Imaginos:
Oh my GOD! If that doesn't kill them, I don't know what will!
Ooooooooh! He puts it back in his pocket and wipes the slime off his
hands.
Sysop:
We'd better get going. The way my computer has been behaving
after they were here, it's likely to power down any second.
As if on cue (in fact it IS on cue, this is a screenplay,
remember?) the loud hum that has been in everyone's ears since they
got here dies down and the lights begin to dim.
Sysop:
Oh shit! That happened as if it was waiting for me to say that!
Imaginos:
It was, didn't you read the script!
Sysop:
Who had TIME man! I do have a *REAL* job, you know.
Wostgheel:
Might I suggest that we get the hell out of here?
Our heroes move from drive A: into drive C:. Drive C is not
nearly as pretty as drive A since George and Joe were here. Instead
of light, there is darkness everywhere. The little bastards have
written graffiti on the drive head: "You suck, we rule! Heheheheh!
We'll teach you to kill US! Muahahahahah!"
Wostgheel:
We have to get to the modem! It's our only hope!
Sysop:
This way!!!
They follow Sysop into the serial port, where the lights are on
again, but are dimming rapidly!
Sysop:
Quick! We'll follow the parity bit to the modem!
They hop on the back of a green pulse of light and are whisked
away into Sysop's modem.
Imaginos:
Help us Obi-Wan-K-ZModem, you're our only hope!
Wostgheel:
Stop being silly and dial the VAX!
Imaginos:
Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep!
Sysop:
We're doomed.
Imaginos:
Don't start that shit again, or I'll start skipping!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Where's Rusty the Bailiff when you need him?
They enter the phone lines and are whisked away . . .
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Part III
The VAX
----------------------------------------------------------------------
They arrive in a place that looks similar to Sysop's computer but
is a WHOLE lot bigger.
Imaginos:
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhooooooooooooooo!
Admiral Asshole:
Shut up or they'll hear you!
Everyone else (in unison):
NOT!
There are packets of information flying everywhere. Most of them
are multi-colored, but a scary majority of them have become corrupted
and are pitch black.
Wostgheel:
Shit, if I had a shotgun, we could go skeet shooting!
Sysop:
Guys! We're here for a PURPOSE! Remember, we're here to kill--
Imaginos:
Killkillkillkillkillkillkill!
Sysop:
--those two little pricks. I can see they've already been here.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I don't mean to be the bringer of bad news, but those black
packets are becoming more and more frequent. If they get to the
Internet, I don't even want to THINK about the damage they could do.
Sysop:
Can't we stop them? There has to be a way!
Wostgheel:
We can't stop the individual packets, but we CAN find the source
of them and destroy it. [ He turns to Beopunk ] If you were a virus,
what would be the place you would infect!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
You're nuts!!! [ Pun intended, ed. ] There are HUNDREDS of
possible places . . .
Wostgheel:
But which would be the most likely?
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Ooooooooh! I don't KNOW! Why do *I* always get the hard
questions . . .
Wostgheel:
Beo . . .
Beopunk's face turns to a look of fear.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Oh shit. They've infected the FTP program!!!
Imaginos:
We must find it!
Sysop:
Lead the way, Beo.
Our Heroes go through innumerable subdirectories (which is scary,
this is VMS, remember? MSDOS forever!). As they float about, the
black packets become more and more abundant. They almost run into a
couple of them. At last, they arrive at the proper directory.
The FTP program image lies before them. It's a scary-looking
structure, that is emanating black packet upon black packet.
Admiral Asshole:
Stand back! I'm going to nuke it with my VMS cube!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Noooo! It's immune to that! Besides we will need it for
[ominous pause] the FINAL BATTLE. Imaginos! Reboot it! Quick!
Imaginos (blushing slightly while putting one finger in his mouth):
Ummmmmmm. I can't.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
WHY THE HELL NOT?!?!?!
Imaginos (still blushing):
I already used it . . .
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
On what?
Imaginos (STILL blushing, eyes cast downward):
Ummmm. On myself. It's better than valium . . .
Sysop:
We're doomed.
Admiral Asshole:
STOP THAT!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Well, I have this cube here that says ProDOS on it, but it may
not be powerful enough . . .
Wostgheel:
Don't talk! USE IT!!
Beopunk throws the shit-brown cube labeled ProDOS into the image.
Almost immediately, the black packets stop. The remaining black
packets get sucked into a void of nothingness that manifests within
the image. Our Heroes notice that they, too, are being sucked into
it.
Sysop:
Shit! We're being sucked in with the black packets!
Imaginos:
It just goes to show you that ProDOS is too horrible to
contemplate.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
SHUT UP!
Wostgheel:
Ummm, guys, we need to get out of here before we all become files
marked for deletion . . .
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
To the modems!
Imaginos:
Yahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Admiral Asshole:
When do we get to kill something??!?!!
Imaginos:
Just be quiet and fasten your seatbelt.
Beopunk Cyberwulf leads the way to the modems. When they arrive,
they notice that the black packets are almost gone.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I hope we get the right one.
Wostgheel:
What happens if we don't?
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
We'll end up on the Internet.
Sysop:
Oh shit.
They pick one of the modems and fly into it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Part -IV-
The Internet
- *********************************************************************
ALERT:
------
At his point, our intrepid staff of authors has been increased.
As you know Marimaxx and Imaginos usually write these little gems, but
we here are Dedaparamaxxaginos productions are proud to announce the
arrival of Morgan Bluejeans and Tempus (as in Fugit [pronounced fuhg-
it]). From here on out, parody fans, it can only get stranger. Do
not attempt to adjust your monitor/terminal/DECWriter, we are in
control.
We control the horizontal.
-<->-+-!!!.bork.bork.bork
We control the vertical.
|| \
<> \
<> ( o ) \
++ ^ |
<> ( o ) /
<> /
|| /
We control the cows.
(__)
(oO)
/-------\/ ---("How much for de wimmen?")
/ :: :
* ::@\--::
^^ ^^
- *********************************************************************
----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SCENE:
Our intrepid (read: DRUNK) heroes now stand in the Main Stream of
the Internet [**NOTE: This is probably the first, last, and only time
that Beopunk Cyberwulf will be referred to as "mainstream" in ANY
Dedaparamaxxaginos Production. So if you are going to capture ANY of
this story, or echo it to your printer, NOW is a good time.***]
The vastness of the Network links overwhelms Admiral Asshole, who
is used to lording over tiny little systems like the "Please Don't
Bubble Sort BBS", run on a Timex Sinclair with 2K of RAM and ASCII-
only transfer protocol. He begins to sob uncontrollably.
Admiral Asshole:
It...It...It's so big!
Imaginos:
Yeah, that's what your mother said.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
It's big, alright. But don't let it intimidate you. Most of it is
just wasted space.....like HIM! (he points to Gelbarion)
Gelbarion:
Huh? (He strikes and Arnold-ish thinking pose)
[***NOTE: "Arnold-ish thinking pose" is actually the grand prize
winner of the Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions in-house Oxymoron
Contest. Shortly after coining the phrase, Morgan Bluejeans was
awarded his prize: a beer. There were hearty handshakes all around,
and much rejoicing. Then Imaginos came along, slammed a surplus WYSE
terminal into the side of Bluejeans's head, and stole the prize.***]
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Exactly.
Sysop:
Well, let's see now. Hmmmmm. (He pulls from his pocket a faded
copy of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the InterNet." The torn cover is
illustrated: a blindfolded smileyface with a cigarette in its mouth
and a single, bloody bullet hole in its forehead. Underneath is the
guidebook motto "We're doomed.")
Wostgheel (looking over his shoulder):
YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUU
KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW,
(sees the others stare at him in annoyance, with more weaponry
that he has)
er...You know, We always DID wonder where you came up with that
phrase.
Sysop:
It's on my family coat of arms.
Wostgheel:
We believe it.
Sysop (quickly scanning the book):
Well, it's to assume that they're going to AVOID the MODERATED
newsgroups.
Imaginos:
So are we. (loud belch)
Wostgheel:
Well said. We agree.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Howzabout we just head 'em off at alt.sex? Little weenies like
that always head there eventually.
Imaginos:
So are we.
Wostgheel:
Well said. We agree.
Imaginos:
You know, we seem to be skipping here--
Sysop (turning in mild annoyance):
"PKUNZIP Imaginos."
Imaginos:
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
It seems we don't NEED Rusty here.
Sysop:
Nah. I know a FEW tricks, 'Punk.
Gelbarion:
Punks? Where?
(he turns in an Arnold-ish pose of vigilance.)
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Oh, shut up. He meant me. "'Punk" equals "Beopunk Cyberwulf".
Get it? (he rolls his eyes.) There are NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO punks here.
Disembodied Voices (off-stage):
Speak for yourself.
Sysop:
We're doomed.
Disembodied Voices (STILL off-stage):
Nice motto.
Admiral Asshole:
Shut up!! (He wheels around looking for the voices, FORMAT.COM
cubes in hand. Strapped to his belt, the VMS bomb makes small but
menacing noises).
Disembodied Voices:
Over here, Asshole.
Admiral Asshole (through clenched teeth):
That's my name. (He fires off a few FORMAT.COM cubes. Somewhere
in Ohio, a small semi-public access UNIX system dies messily, its
spectacular sparking affects accompanied by a loud whine akin to that
of a Jewish-American-Princess Convention on a humid day in Miami
Beach.)
[***NOTE: Before anti-Semitic accusations are hurled willy-nilly
against the staff of Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions, it should be
noted that Morgan Bluejeans, who conceived and typed that last
metaphor, is in fact Jewish, and lacks the foreskin to prove it.***]
Disembodied Voices:
You missed.
(They step into the light provided by a passing Elf Sternberg
posting, and are revealed as ghostly Net simulacrums of Joe Blow and
George Tush, as anyone with the brain of a trout would have deduced a
full page ago. Our heroes, however, sharing a full brain between them
as the result of overconsumption of fermented grains, gawk and gape.)
Joe Blow Virus:
And you won't get a second chance. Nyah!
(He throws a bag into the air. It bursts, spraying a fine dust
into the air.)
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Aw, shit, man! A virus! Duck!
(At this point, all the heroes except for Gelbarion duck. Ducking is
a very UN-Arnold-ish thing to do, you see, and Gelbarion would rather
have his testicles removed with an acetylene blowtorch than duck and
hide from a cloud of glowing motes, even glowing motes that give off a
sinister, keening wail)
Gelbarion:
Saint Arnold, protect me!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Get down, you macho idiot!
(He grabs the black-clad Arnold-clone and drags him face-down
into the "ground".)
Sysop:
We're doo--
Wostgheel (holding an "NDD" cube to Sysop's head):
We would suggest you refrain from saying that again.
(All this ducking, chattering, and macho posing is to no avail. Our
heroes, one and all, are covered in "The Dust." MUAAAAHAHAHAHAH!
[***NOTE: At this point, it would perhaps be a good idea to have The
Alan Parsons' Project "Tales of Mystery and Imagination" CD running in
the background. Trust us.***])
Imaginos (sniffing at the dust):
Anybody got a little spoon?
(It is then that our heroes notice that---DUM DUM DA DUM!--nothing has
happened...)
Blow-Virus and Tush-Virus:
HAHAHAHAH! You fell for it! You idiots!
Tush-Virus (nudging Blow-Virus):
Hey! This is better than a Tesla Coil!
Blow-Virus:
Huh?
Tush-Virus:
Never mind. You had to be there.
[***NOTE: There was a brief pause here as Morgan Bluejeans and Tempus
Fugit, two Latin scholars, almost came to blows over whether the
correct plural of "virus" should be spelled "viri" or "virii". Wisely,
Dedaparamaxx suggested consulting a nearby medical dictionary, which,
being many years old, prompted our authors to use "viruses." After
much wailing and gnashing of teeth, MBJ and Tempus sat down and
settled for glaring at each other and occasionally muttering "Gluba
me" in each other's general direction. From there out it was decided
that all occurrences of the word "viruses" would be immediately
followed by the token "(dammit)." Imaginos and Dedaparamaxx settled
for drinking another beer apiece to the tune of "Piranha", and after
several moments, all four authors continued to create their High
Weirdness...***]
(The VIRUSES (dammit) dance around for several moments laughing at and
taunting the Assembly of Alcohol-Enhanced Cyberspace Warriors, before
skipping off in a random direction.)
VIRUSES (dammit):
Yoooooooou can't caaaaaaatch ussssssssss!
Yoooooooou can't caaaaaaatch ussssssssss!
Wostgheel (sniffing):
They can sing but We can't?
Sysop:
Shut up. We have to catch them before they wreck
telecommunications all over the world!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Or, at the very least, generate nonsense newsgroups like
"alt.romper.room" or "alt.we.dont.need.no.steenkeen.moderators"
Sysop:
Yeah.
Wostgheel:
LEEEEEEEEEEEEET'S
JUUUUUUUUUUSSST
FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGMEEEEEEEEEEEEENTT---
Admiral Asshole (clutching the VMS Bomb menacingly):
Shut up, man, or I'll set this thing off!
Wostgheel (under his breath):
AAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSHOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEE!
Gelbarion:
It's hard to be sinister and Arnold-like when your black
motorcycle jacket is covered in this glowing purple dust.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I grieve for you. Now let's go.
(They all scramble to their feet, except for Imaginos who is busy
scraping up dust into his palm and shoving it into his pocket for
later consumption. Finally, though, Sysop grabs Imaginos by the
shoulders).
Sysop:
Remember, Imaginos: THEY have the dust.
(There is a Speedy Gonzalez sound and Imaginos tears off after the
viruses (dammit). With Road Runner puff-clouds trailing behind, the
rest of the Assembly of Pickled Purple People Peelers chases after
him. The chase ensues, carrying our heroes down a side trail off the
InterNet main feed. Around them, the environment shifts from "pure"
cyberspace to a vaguely familiar starfield.)
Overvoice:
Space...the final frontier--
Imaginos:
Shit! I HATE Star Trek!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Not so loud, man.
Admiral Asshole:
Yeah! Jesus! You want to get our DICKS burned off or something?!?
Imaginos:
Well, actually---
Sysop:
We're doomed.
Wostgheel:
Where are We anyway?
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
(Opens his mouth to answer, then pauses in thought.)
Do you mean US "we" or YOU "we"?
Wostgheel:
Not quite sure. Sometimes, We have trouble distinguishing.
Sysop:
(Starts to make a comment, thinks better of it, and closes his
mouth).
[***NOTE: This is FORESHADOWING. Remember it.***]
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Well, anyway, it's gotta be part of the rec.arts.sf hierarchy.
Let's just pass through the newsgroup wall and find out.
(Our Heroes just now notice the softly glowing wall in front of them.)
Imaginos:
Is there a door?
(He holds out his foot.)
Sysop:
"PKUNZIP Imaginos"
Imaginos:
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Sysop:
No. There's no door.
Gelbarion:
Good. Arnold would not need a door, and we do not either.
Admiral Asshole:
I could BLOW it open.
(He holds out the VMS bomb)
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Dude, if you do that, you will TRASH rec.arts.sf and all the
weaponry in the world won't save you from "Dead IV: The Wrath of
Trekkies."
(He turns to Sysop)
You wanna do this or should I?
Sysop (nodding):
Allow me.
(He turns back to the wall).
"SUBSCRIBE"
(There is a small humming noise and part of the wall becomes
transparent. Following an article, our heroes enter the starfield.
As they pass through the barrier, however, each of them feels a
tingling sensation.)
Sysop:
Wow! That was strange.
Imaginos:
Yeah.
(The others turn around and see that he is not moving; simply
standing on the threshold, smiling).
Admiral Asshole:
OK. Let's get our bearings. Anybody wanna volunteer to recon?
Imaginos:
Yeah. Let's go find the little fuckers. (His voice cracks on the
last word. The others resist laughing. They all walk together. A
large Galaxy-class starship passes overhead.)
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Well, that confirms it. We're in--
Imaginos (His voice is VERY nasally and squeaky now):
HELP ME!
(The others turn. Wearing Imaginos' clothes is an Imaginos-sized Wil
Wheaton. He clutches at his throat in surprise.)
Sysop:
Holy shit! He's turning into Wesley Crusher!
Imaginos:
My pubic hair is falling out!
(Suddenly, all background noise in the immediate vicinity STOPS!)
Off-stage voice:
DID YOU SAY WEASELEY?!?
(There is a sound of phaser fire)
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Ah, shit!
(at this, his voice, too, begins to shift up a few octaves)
Sysop:
rec.arts.sf, my ass! We're in alt.ensign.wesley.die.die.die!
Off-stage voice:
THAT'S RIGHT, YOU LITTLE DWEEB!
(the phaser fire draws closer)
Sysop:
RUN!!!
Wostgheel:
RUN?!? (his voice actually cracks) Not until we save the ship!
(his hands fly to his mouth with a gasp of horror)
Admiral Asshole (now looking like Wil Wheaton in plaid workshirt,
ragged jeans, and a Dick Tracy baseball cap):
Motherfuckers! They led us into a trap!
Gelbarion (now looking like Wil Wheaton in black fatigue pants and "US
ARMY RANGERS" T-shirt):
Arnold would not run!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
You ain't Arnold, you twit. You're Wesley-Fucking-Crusher, and
you'd better get used to the idea and fucking RUN, OK??!!??
(A phaser blast set on "puree" liquifies a stray bit near Gelbarion's
head.)
Gelbarion:
Well, maybe just this once.
(The heroes run.)
Wostgheel:
How's about We just shift the shadows? (He leaps high into the
air. A well-aimed phaser blast set on "Vienna Choir Boy" barely
misses his genitalia).
Admiral Asshole:
Sounds like a plan. (He dodges a phaser blast set on "Really
Messy Death". Then he turns to Wostgheel) WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU
WAITING FOR!?!?!?!?!?
Sysop:
(He ducks a phaser blast set on "existential melancholy") NOOOO!
(This is in a very high pitch. In fact, by now all of our heroes have
been transformed into WEASELY, errr, WESLEY CRUSHER like parodies of
themselves).
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
ACK! (he does a double somersault and escapes a bout with a
phaser blast set on "OH, WOW") That would be a BAAAAAAAD idea!
Wostgheel:
(He does a triple back flip, landing on Gelbarion's shoulders, to
avoid a dangerously well-aimed phaser blast set on "occasional
irregularity") Why not? That's what GOT us here!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
You've been contaminated, man! Who knows what the effect of this
virus will be in the real world! What if we don't change back...or
worse yet, what if we translate into 'Noles!??!?!?
Sysop:
EEEEEEEEEK! Anything but 'Noles!
Gelbarion:
FSU...Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb!
Wostgheel:
We see your point.
Offstage voice which comes, oddly enough, from off stage:
This is better than the death scene in Toy Soldiers!!
Another offstage voice:
Nah! The leeches in Stand By Me were better!
First Offstage voice:
NOT!
Third offstage voice:
You know guys, maybe Weasely isn't so bad after all.
First and second offstage voices in unison:
WHAT!?!?!?!?!?!
(There is the sound of offstage phaser fire. You don't even
wanna KNOW what these are set to!)
Third offstage voice:
Joke! Joke!
Fourth offstage voice:
Set phasers to "maximum flame!"
Fifth offstage voice:
NOT! Set phasers to "very painful disembowelment"
First, second, fourth, and fifth offstage voices:
(They fire in unison and shout) ASSHOLE!!!
Admiral Asshole:
(Stepping out from behind a DMA chip) What?!?!? (He is nearly
pulverized by a phaser blast set to "Roseanne Barr in a tub of lime
jello", but is pulled out of the way in the nick of time [not the
Randy or the Fred of time] by an offstage HAND)
Sysop:
Asshole! Are you okay!??!
Admiral Asshole (panting):
No you idiot, I'm fucking Wesley Crusher! But other than that
I'm in one piece.
Imaginos:
You're fucking Wesley Crusher!?!? Stay away from me...
Voice attached to offstage hand:
Could you all PLEASE just shut up? I'm trying to save you.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
We're in alt.ensign.wesley.die.die.die, we look like Wil Wheaton,
and you're trying to save us?!? You must be a cabbage or something.
Either that or . . .
Sysop:
No, it can't be . . .
Wostgheel:
He's . . .
All (in unison):
AN EXPENDABLE CREWMAN!!!!!
Voice steps into the light:
Yes (he hangs his head in shame). So far this season, I've died
twelve times...I'm actually a production assistant on the show, but I
read this newsgroup.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Sad.
Wostgheel:
Indeed.
Expendable Crewman:
Anyway, I've tossed in my jibe here and there, but I never
thought they would take things THIS far. So let's go.
All (in unison):
But where shall we go?!?!
Sysop:
'Punk, you know this place better than any of us. Where would
you go?
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I don't know...
Sysop:
Come on, dude, we're counting on you.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I just don't know...
Sysop:
Stop saying you don't know!!!
Beopunk Cyberwulf (a little light bulb appears above his head):
That's it!!! (He turns to Sysop) Where would you go if you had a
question you needed answered?
Imaginos:
Miss Manners?
Wostgheel:
William Safire?
Admiral Asshole:
Dr. Ruth?
Gelbarion:
ARNOLD!!!!
Sysop (slapping head in frustration):
SHIT! If it were a cow it would have bitten me! The USENET
ORACLE!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Exactly.
All (except Beo and Sysop):
OF COURSE!
Beopunk Cyberwulf (turning to Expendable Crewman):
Plot a course for alt.humor.oracle. Make it so.
Expendable Crewman:
Course plotted, sir!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Engage!
Our Heroes suddenly find themselves being whisked away through a
gate of light on a carpet of digital signals. They are bounced off
several satellite relays, in and out of many UNIX systems, and
eventually are deposited at the foot of a great, golden altar.
Imaginos:
Wow! What a rush.
Admiral Asshole:
Someone stop the floor from moving, please.
Sysop:
Would anyone hold it against me if I said, "We're doomed."
All (in unison):
YES!
Great Booming Offstage Voice:
GODDAMIT!
(The altar trembles)
Sysop (whispering):
Oh, we are SO fucking doomed.
GBOV:
Could you guys KEEP IT DOWN!?!?!? Lisa and I are BUSY!
Imaginos:
Lisa?
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
The net.sex.goddess...also the USENET Oracle's steady squeeze.
(there is offstage giggling)
Offstage Feminine Voice:
Gee, Orie, THAT's never happened before. But don't worry, I'm
sure it's only temporary.
GBOV:
It had BETTER BE!
Beopunk Cyberwulf (shouting toward the offstage fornicators):
Oh, Great Oracle...
Sysop:
You, who are so very big...
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
You, who are so absolutely HUGE...
Sysop:
Gosh, we're all really impressed down here...
[***NOTE: This is obviously a BLATANT plug for Monty Python's "The
Meaning of Life." In fact, get thee immediately hence to rent that
wonderful film; it is only wafer thin. We will wait.***]
Gelbarion:
He doesn't look so tough to me.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Shut up!
Sysop:
We're doomed.
GBOV:
What's that you say?!
Gelbarion (as Sysop and BPCW frantically try to shush him):
I said "You don't look so tough to me!"
GBOV:
Who the hell do you think you are?? You're supposed to be
grovelling.
Wostgheel:
Indeed, even WE can see that grovelling is in order.
Gelbarion:
I am a graduate of the Arnold Schwarzenegger School of Looking
German and Being Tough, and I do NOT grovel.
Sysop:
Oh great Oracle, whose nipples I am not fit to pinch, we have
become infected with a horrible, ghastly, completely yucky virus that
makes us look and talk like Wil Wheaton. Oh, great Oracle, whose
zipper I am unfit to zip, canst thou cure us of this wretched illness?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
I'm not sure whether you are grovelling or insulting, but the
Oracle, taking pity on thee in this, thy hour of need, shall cure you
of this virus.
There is a blinding light that leaves Our Heroes, well, blind.
As their vision clears, they see that they have been transformed from
the Assembly of Annoying Adolescent Nerds into the Assembly of Heavily
Armed Vigilante Sub-Processes.
Oracle:
Is there anything else? (He turns to BPCW and Sysop). You two.
You grovel rather well. I like you, even though you interrupted my...
Offstage Feminine Voice:
Oh, Orie!
Oracle:
...well, you get the idea. Anyway, we have time for one last
grovel.
Gelbarion:
I will NOT grovel. Nay, for the Great Saint Arnold would not
Grovel.
Sysop:
Well maybe HE can't grovel, but I can! Oh, great Oracle, whose
nose hairs I would gladly trim with mine own teeth. Oh, great Oracle,
whose earwax I am not worthy to sniff. Oh, great Oracle, I beseech
thee...[remember the foreshadowing???]...I beseech thee...[he turns
rapidly to Wostgheel and trumpets blare in fanfare in the
background]...WHY THE FUCK DOES HE ALWAYS TALK IN FIRST PERSON
PLURAL?!?!
Wostgheel (shocked, and in a heavy French accent):
Nous? [French for the plural of "moi?"]
Imaginos:
No, you mean MOO!
Oracle:
The Oracle has considered your question. Your question was "Why
the fuck does he always talk in first person plural?" And the answer
is: "He multitasks." Pause. "You owe the Oracle...a one year
membership in the 'Sub-Process of the Month Club!'"
Sysop:
No way!
Wostgheel:
Indeed. You could have just asked Us, We would have told you.
Sysop:
Do you use DesqView?
Wostgheel:
Windows.
Sysop:
You're doomed.
Wostgheel:
So We are told.
Admiral Asshole:
All the time!
Imaginos:
Without pause!
Gelbarion:
There will be no grovelling as long as *I* am around.
Sysop:
Shut UP Gelb!
Gelbarion:
Arnold does not grovel for ANYONE.
Oracle (turning to Gelbarion):
You. I do not like you. You are beginning to piss me off.
Gelbarion:
I will CRUSH you.
Sysop:
Shut UP, Gelb!
Gelbarion:
Hasta la vista, baby.
Oracle:
You are so fucked. I hereby banish you to the most intolerable
newsgroup on the InterNet. I hereby banish thee to...
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
No! Anything but...
Sysop:
No please! I'll grovel some more!
Imaginos:
As long it's not alt.sex.bestiality.hamsters.ducttape.
Oracle:
No...even worse. I hereby banish thee to...
(trumpets blare)
alt.swedish.chef.bork.bork.bork!
All except Oracle (in unison):
NOOOOOOOOO!!!
And Our Heroes are whisked away into the void of
alt.swedish.chef.bork.bork.bork.
The scene shifts to:
Our Heroes walk out of a large glowing gate. They are frazzled.
Their hair looks funny. Admiral Asshole's beard has turned white.
Sysop looks like his tongue has gone several rounds with an electric
handshake buzzer.
Imaginos:
Jesus Christ, that was awful.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Gelb, you are a DEAD MAN.
Gelbarion:
Arnold...
Admiral Asshole:
Shut the fuck up!
Gelbarion:
...still would not...
Sysop:
BE QUIET!!!!!!
Gelbarion:
...GROVEL!
Sysop:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
All right! All right! Where do we go from here?
Sysop:
Thanks to Gelb we STILL don't know where they are.
Blow-Virus (stepping in from offstage):
Hee hee hee hee hee! We're right here!!!!
Imaginos:
They've got more of that dust! Cool.
Sysop:
Duck!
Imaginos:
But they've got the DUST!
Sysop does a flying tackle and wrestles Imaginos to the ground as
several bags of dust go whizzing overhead.
Imaginos:
I want DUST!
Sysop:
Stay DOWN!
Imaginos:
MORE DUST!!!
Tush-Virus:
You can not escape!
Blow-Virus:
Hee hee hee hee hee! Cackle!
Imaginos:
DUST! DUST! DUST!!!!
Admiral Asshole stands back and throws a FORMAT.COM cube at the
viruses (dammit). The viruses (dammit) manage to get out of the way
and the cube flies into the void where it immediately erases the
makeup on Tammy Bakker's face.
Viruses (dammit), in unison:
You can't catch us!
The viruses (dammit) fly in circles around the heads of Our
Heroes.
Admiral Asshole:
Can I use the VMS cube now!?!?
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
No!!! Save it for later!
Admiral Asshole:
But I wanna!!!!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
NONNONONONONONONO!
Tush-Virus:
You can't catch us. Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhbbbbbbbbb!
Blow-Virus:
Follow us, if you dare!
The viruses (dammit) fly off into the void.
Sysop:
Well, are we going to follow them?
Wostgheel:
We may very well have to. After listening to that Swedish
Meatball, I don't think I can safely shift the shadows.
Sysop:
We're...
Wostgheel:
Don't say it or We'll eat your liver.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I vote we go after them. I'm getting tired of this shit.
Admiral Asshole:
THEN can I use my VMS cube?
All in unison (except AA):
ALRIGHT! NO PROBLEM! YOU CAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNN!
Admiral Asshole:
Goody!
They follow the viruses, jumping into the void...
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Part -V-
The Final Battle at:
The Draggin' Tail BBS
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene:
Our Heroes Manifest inside the Draggin' Tail BBS (which, as you
will recall, has become completely worthless. Even if Our Heroes
manage to disinfect it, it will STILL be completely worthless. Some
things never change). It is a barren void, much like it used to be.
There are dead messages everywhere, many of them Private Messages left
by horny Siberian Dwarf Teenage Mutant Ninja Samurai BBS Girls from
Hell with Hormones that Go BUMP (or BANG, if you prefer) in the Night.
These messages are a chronological history of puberty, detailing love
affairs and virginity lost. Many of them are from a Siberian Dwarf
Teenage Mutant Ninja Samurai BBS Girl from Hell with Hormones that Go
BUMP in the Night named Persephone.
Imaginos:
Oh, great.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Are you SURE we have to save this place?
Imaginos:
The only interest I have in saving this place is so that I can
have the pleasure of trashing it myself.
- *********************************************************************
Cut to:
A row of terminals. Many students are hastily finishing FORTRAN
projects that are due in 27.93487598 seconds. Dedaparamaxx and Tempus
Fugit (who, as you will have noticed, are the ONLY two
Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions staff writers who do NOT have a part in
this intense drama [Astute readers may or may not have noticed that
the part of Sysop is in fact played by Morgan Bluejeans]. Well, this
is their bit-part. They demanded it. We are sorry for the
inconvenience) are sitting at a terminal.
Dedaparamaxx:
You know, Tempus, do you ever get the feeling that we're just a
story being written?
Tempus:
Shut up and finish your homework.
- *********************************************************************
Cut back to the Draggin' Tail BBS.
Sysop:
I wonder what the Tyrant of the Tail thinks about this.
Admiral Asshole:
Who cares. Lets burn his dick off.
Imaginos:
If we can find it. Let's just shove all 60,000 of his modems up
his ass!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Wait! Then people might get busy signals.
All (in unison):
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!
Sysop:
Seriously though, we need to find those little...
Imaginos:
YEAH!??!!?
Sysop (looking at Imaginos in an annoyed way):
...twits before...
Imaginos:
UH HUH?!!??!
Sysop (looking at Imaginos with unadulterated disgust):
...they do any more damage.
Imaginos:
THAT'S A GOOD ONE!
Sysop:
"PKUNZIP Imaginos"
Imaginos:
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Wostgheel:
You and your dust.
Imaginos:
I don't have any dust! I took a shower in the modem.
Wostgheel:
Oh, hell.
(Imaginos simply smiles)
Suddenly, and without warning, and without any hint of its
happening before it happened, without ONE SINGLE clue as to the events
about to occur, without even GOD knowing that it was about to take
place, without ANY FORETHOUGHT WHATSOEVER, sans any immediate
intelligent guessing on the part of Our Heroes, the viruses (dammit)
swoop in from offstage and dive bomb Our Heroes. Our Heroes duck.
Sysop:
DAMMIT!!! There they go!
Wostgheel:
Let me handle 'em, boys!!
Wostgheel bravely stands up and fires off five NDD cubes. They
bounce off the tough hides of the viruses (dammit) and go sputtering
off into the darkness. Where they land, the previously blackened
portions of the drive head take on a healthy pink glow.
Imaginos:
Oh, how cute. Reminds me of a vagina. I mean, Virginia! I
mean, oh hell, forget it.
Imaginos stands up and throws his QBBS.EXE cube high into the
air. When it reaches apogee, it bursts into a gigantic ball of slime
that splatters on the ground and begins spreading toward the viruses
(dammit).
Blow-Virus:
OUCH!
Tush-Virus:
Goddamit! They've turned my favorite BBS into a QBBS system!
Now how can I keep four, pubescent, message threads going
simultaneously?
Imaginos:
HAHAHAHHA! Take that you heartless scum! Ding Dong, the Tail is
dead! Yeah!
Sysop:
We've hurt them, guys! Let me give it a try.
He discloses his heretofore undisclosed weapon that had not yet
been seen by a single one of Our Heroes except Sysop himself: a
corrupted copy of McAfee an Associates' SCANV90. He hurls it in the
general direction of the viruses (dammit). It makes small, farting
noises. It strikes the Tush-virus on the tush.
Tush-Virus:
OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
The Blow-virus circles around and begins throwing bags of the
purple dust at the group. Imaginos steps forward and inhales all of
it.
Imaginos:
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Wostgheel:
Awww, Jesus Christ! Dress him up, but you can't take him
anywhere.
Imaginos (his eyes are WIDE OPEN and his expression would make Jack
Nicholson gape in awe):
DUST! DUST! DUST!
Sysop:
Somebody tie him up!
Wostgheel:
He'd like it too much.
Imaginos:
DUST! DUST! DUST!
Obi-Wan-K-ZModem (from offstage):
Use the VMS bomb, Asshole!
Bill Gates (from offstage):
NO! It's not a Microsoft Product, and it doesn't run well under
Windows!
Imaginos:
DUST! DUST! DUST! I *LIKE* looking through windows!
Sysop:
"PKUNZIP Imaginos"
Maybe it's the dust, maybe Imaginos is just too weird, but
something happens when Sysop PKUNZIP's him.
Imaginos begins to uncompress.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
I think I'm going to be sick.
Sysop:
Point him the OTHER way!!!
Imaginos begins to grow. And grow. And grow! Soon he is
towering over the rest of Our Heroes. The Blow- and Tush-viruses
(dammit) simply gape.
Imaginos:
Ahhhhhh! G'day mates! Now you get to know what it's like when I
chase cockroaches. You get to know, know VERY WELL, the fear; the
fear of being chased. Being chased by: A TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY TON
FOOT.
Imaginos removes his right shoe.
Everyone (except Imaginos) in unison:
HOLY SHIT!!! RUN!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Imaginos:
See! It even scares the good ones! And they didn't even do
anything...
Imaginos begins running in the general direction of the viruses
(dammit). BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! With every POUNDING footstep, the
circuits in the Draggin' Tail shake (of course they ALWAYS do
that...especially if the lines are full).
Blow- and Tush-viruses (dammit):
NO! NO! ANYTHING BUT THAT!
Imaginos continues running toward the viruses (dammit), wiggling
his toes menacingly.
Imaginos:
You can not escape! Resistance is useless! Exterminate!
Exterminate!
Blow- and Tush-viruses (dammit):
We're doomed!
Sysop:
YES! Finally, someone other than ME says it and means it!
Wostgheel:
We're happy for you. Now cover your eyes before the blast blinds
you.
Imaginos gets closer and closer to the viruses (dammit). The
viruses (dammit) are running for their lives, casting quick glances
over their shoulders every now and then where they see the ominous
figure of Imaginos's foot coming ever closer:
Imaginos:
Your master has a labor at the instruments of time!
Finally, Imaginos catches up with the Blow-virus. He catches
Blow between the toes on his un-shoed foot. Blow begins screaming.
Blow-virus:
NO! NO! STOP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!
Imaginos:
You should have thought of that BEFORE you made my favorite BBS
go supernova, you little shit!
Imaginos crushes the Blow-virus between his toes and lets it fall
to the ground, where it is still alive, and writhing in pain. Then,
Imaginos resumes the chase after the Tush-virus.
Imaginos catches up with Tush and stomps him into oblivion. The
Tush-virus is overwhelmed by the unuseful smells being broadcasted
from Imaginos's foot.
Sysop:
It's almost too horrible for even THEM.
Wostgheel:
Well, after that, we can be CERTAIN they won't be back.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Let's hope so.
Admiral Asshole (weeping uncontrollably):
I didn't even get a CHANCE to burn off their dicks! Not even a
LITTLE bit of their dicks!
Sysop:
Your chance with come Admiral A. Just wait.
Imaginos puts back on his shoe and comes trotting back up to the
Group.
Sysop:
Good work, dude! It's about time someone put that thing to a
good use.
Imaginos (sobbing):
No more dust. Sigh.
Sysop:
"PKZIP Imaginos"
As suddenly as he grew, Imaginos is restored to his normal size.
Imaginos:
Well, I guess that wraps up THOSE guys!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
NOT QUITE! Look! They're still moving.
Our Heroes turn and stare at the viruses (dammit), refusing to
believe that ANYONE could have survived such an ordeal as being THAT
CLOSE to Imaginos's foot.
Imaginos:
Give me a can of RAID! I'll fix that!
Sysop (putting a restraining hand on Imaginos's shoulder):
No, dude. This one belongs to Admiral A.
Admiral Asshole smiles gleefully and unclasps the VMS cube that
is attached to his belt. He looks at it for a minute, and then throws
it high into the air. When it reaches the apex of its trajectory, it
bursts into THOUSANDS of multi-colored sparks that float slowly
downward.
Sysop:
Wostgheel! Get us out of here quickly!
Wostgheel closes his eyes and the shadows begin to shift. Within
moments, Our Heroes find themselves standing in front of the Draggin'
Tail BBS's main terminal: a TRS-80 Model I.
Sysop:
Oh, shit! Get it out of my sight!
Imaginos:
Can I ring the electric piezzo buzzer?
Sysop:
NO!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
GADS! Look at the screen!
Our Heroes turn to look at the screen. The TRS-80 is listing
sub-processes on the screen!
Sysop:
Oh my God! The Draggin' Tail has been formatted with VMS!
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
Not only that, but the viruses [dammit] have been turned into
tiny little sub-processes!
Sysop:
It can't BE! It thought they were dead.
Beopunk Cyberwulf examines the screen more closely.
Beopunk Cyberwulf:
They might as well be. Look, they don't have any privileges!
Everyone looks at the screen and sees that this is so.
Sysop:
Well, guys! I guess that just about wraps this one up!
Gelbarion:
Yeah! Let's all go home and watch Terminator II.
Sysop:
Please, Gelb, I was thinking more of some SLEEP!
Imaginos:
DUST! DUST! DUST!
----------------------------------------------------------------------
EPILOGUE
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Our Heroes all returned to their respective domiciles where they
consumed much beer and many many drugs, and slept for a very long
time.
Imaginos went to Kash and Karry and raided the meat department.
All that compress/decompress stuff had made him VERY VERY HUNGRY.
The Draggin' Tail BBS is still draggin' its tail. It went up
again after it was formatted with VMS. Strangely enough, no one ever
noticed it was down, and no one noticed the change in the operating
environment. Just goes to show you that shit is shit, no matter how
it smells. A rose by any other name and all that.
The Gainesville BBS network went back to its day-to-day routine,
minus a few, still-infected systems that nobody ever cared about
anyway.
THE END
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming soon from Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions:
DEAD IV
REVENGE OF THE
SIBERIAN DWARF TEENAGE MUTANT
NINJA SAMURAI BBS GIRLS FROM HELL
WITH HORMONES THAT GO BUMP
(OR BANG, IF YOU PREFER)
IN THE NIGHT
(__)
(oO)
/-------\/ ---> "23 SkiDoo!"
/ :: :
* ::----::
^^ ^^
CREDITS
-------
Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions (lack-of-good) Management Staff
--------------------------------------------------------------
Dedaparamaxx: Head writer, head dum kopf, head head.
Imaginos: Master of cows and demented thoughts.
Morgan Bluejeans: Cyberspace expert, maker of "big funnies."
Tempus Fugit: Latin scholar, possessor of "outrageous French
Accent."
Sometimes, but not all times, staff writers
-------------------------------------------
Jeff the Riffer: Evil! Evil! Evil!
Diskwiz: Cyberspace engineer, editor-in-sleep.
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mongo@maple.circa.ufl.edu
Bryan Slatner, aka Marimaxx, aka Dedalus, aka Paradox, aka Mongo
President of Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions
If these opinions were the opinions of JenMar International, Inc., I would
own it.
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