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accident.hum100644 0 1 24477 6612147343 11254 0ustar rootbin80 Columns

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[:Proudly Presents:]

"ACCIDENT" - By Tristan Farnon, based on a short story called "Terrified"

[Introduction: We have all experience pressure at one time or another
either through work, or school...but in tonight's story, we are
introduced to three people, all experiencing a uniquely terrifying
form of anxiety.]

Beep beep.

Derek lifted his wrist off the steering wheel and glanced at his digital
watch. He looked over at Janet.

"It's midnight. I shoulda gotten you home half an hour ago!" he laughed.

She looked over at him and gave him a kiss. "Relax. My parents aren't home.
They won't be home until Sunday, remember?"

"That's right! I forgot about that!" he kept one hand on the wheel while
leaning over to return her kiss. "I'm surprised there aren't many folks driving
around this late."

Janet whispered a small 'mmmm' while her eyes were almost hypnotized by the
white dashes on the road slipping under and behind the car. She looked out the
side window. No familiar buildings...just plain old countryside.

"I hate this part of the city," she commented. "It's like...completely
isolated from civilization!" she laughed aloud.

Derek agreed, and continued to drive. This road seemed to go on forever.

"Finally!" he said. "The road actually =bends=!" The road did bend, around
a large hill. Quoting a line from 'Stripes', he laughed as he said, "I think
it was all that cough syrup I drank this morning!" he swerved back and forth
in both lanes drunkenly, as Janet understood the joke.

"OH SHIT!" he screamed, seeing two headlights approaching quickly from
around the bend. Janet grabbed onto the armrest and let out a scream, while
the oncoming car swerved, hit the side of the hill and flipped over.

Silence. It endured horribly.

"You okay?" Derek whispered nervously, running both hands through his hair.

"Yes." replied Janet quietly.

The two got out of the car and walked over to the wrecked Toyota on the
hill. The headlights were off, but the inside light in the car was burning
brightly. A man moaned. Derek looked inside the car and saw him. His head
and neck were pressed up against the windshield. His back was twisted on the
seat. It was a stupid question, but Derek asked it nevertheless.

"Are you all right?" No answer.

"My god," he said emotionlessly, "he's dead." Then...a voice.

"Help me..." his voice was scratchy.

Janet looked down. "Derek, he's alive. He's okay!"

"Help me. I can't move." he said.

Derek looked away nervously. Janet looked over at him. "Derek," she began.

The man whispered again, "Please...at least open the door and get me out
of the car. I'll be fin--" his voice broke off in a wince of pain.

Derek spun around on his heel. He looked at Janet. "Shit. Do you realize
what I've just done...I've wrecked a guy's car and probably paralyzed him
for life! My dad will kill me. Oh god...oh god..."

Janet tried the door. "It's stuck." It was hopelessly bent out of shape. The
other door was against the hill. Fortunately, though, the windows were
rolled down.

"Derek - help me get him out!" No response. "Derek!"

Derek walked over to the car and glared down at him. "How do you feel?"

The man darted his eyes around. "Not too good." He began to get frustrated.

"Get me out of the damn car now, young man."

"My dad CAN'T know about this," Derek said.

"Get me OUT of the damn car!" the man demanded again.

"SHUT UP!" screamed Derek.

"Derek," said Janet. "Aren't you going to even help him?"

"I can see what's coming. He'll sue. For millions. The insurance company
can't help me. They'll probably give him twice as much if he's gonna be
crippled for life, too. Oh, shit..."

The man began to feel a strong, steady rage forming. He wanted out, NOW.

"We've got to get out of here. We've got to get rid of him."

"I think I'm going to die," said the man. The moment he said that, he
realized he had made the biggest mistake of his life. He tried struggling
with the seatbelt, but in his condition, he realized he couldn't even lift
his head from the windshield. Frustration. He had to choose his words with
extreme care in order to persuade these two.

"You see?" said Derek, panicked. "He'll be dead in a few hours anyway.

Let's just leave him and get the FUCK out of here."

Janet began to think of her parents. If she told them of this incident,
they wouldn't let them out anywhere again. Yes...she thought. This thing
would be better off forgotten. "Fine," she said. "Let's go."

"No!" cried the man desperately. "Don't leave me! Don't go! You damn
kids! Come back here! If you leave, someone else'll find me! And when
they do, I'll sue you for every cent--" He stopped. DAMMIT why did he say
that. Damn. DAMN! He heard footsteps approaching.

"What the fuck did you say?" asked Derek.

"Nothing. Get me out of the car. It's your fault I'm practically paralyzed
here anyway, so you'd better do as I say."

"He's right, Derek," interrupted Janet.

FINALLY, thought the man. SOMEBODY'S ON MY SIDE. A glint of hope.

"Somebody WILL find him," she continued. His image of her was shattered.

"I know," thought Derek. "But if they find him DEAD...we won't have much
to worry about him, will we?"

Gruesome thoughts filled the man's head. His mind was running wild. He
was going to die - they would kill him to avoid prosecution.

"Relax," he tried to sound calm. "I'm not going to sue you. I'm just...
wait, what the hell are you doing? Hey - get the fuck out of my pockets!"

Derek reached in through the open window and took the man's wallet.

"HEY!" yelled the man. "Give that back - NOW."

"Fuck," Derek whispered. "He's a cop."

As if by pure chance, the moment Derek said "cop", a small police CB beeped
in the overturned car. Instinctively, the man tried to turn his head towards
it and pick it up. Over the air, Derek and Janet could faintly hear a woman
talking. "WILLIAM? ARE YOU OUT THERE. THIS IS TYLER. OVER."

"You see?" said the man. "They're looking for me. They know pretty much
where I am. They're real close now. Face it, you've lost."

"Shut up," Derek commanded.

"It's too late, you too. The best thing to do is to get me out of the car."

Janet looked nervously at her shoes. She was in this thing just as much as
D2rek was - she knew that. Perhaps she, too, was to blame.

The blood was filling the man's head from being upsidedown for so long. He
began to feel uncomfortable (although before, the events had passed so
quickly he hadn't noticed his position). His back hurt. He clenched his
fists. A tear of rage and frustration rolled down his cheek and dropped to
the windshield with a quiet pat.

"Let's just GO, Derek," said Janet nervously. "Who cares if he's a cop? He'll
be DEAD in a few hours! You said that yourself! He's trapped! He's not gonna go
anywhere!"

That sentence seemed to double the man's rage, and he erupted.

"LET ME OUT OF THE DAMN CAR!!" he screamed. A small drop of blood rolled
out of his nose.

"Someone might help him out of the car, though," said Derek, completely
ignoring the cop's outburst. "We've got keep him quiet! There's only one way to
do that, and I think you know what that is."

Janet closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Murder, she thought. This is
murder...but it's to save her own skin. It's not like we're psychos or
something. This child-like reasoning seemed to please her, and she nodded her
head up and down in agreement.

NO, thought the cop. THEY CAN'T KILL ME...I HAVE A JOB...A FAMILY...

Derek went back to the car, and opened the trunk.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" said the cop. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Janet went over to the car and remained inside. Derek walked back to the
twisted car, and kneeled down, looking the cop face to face to the first time.

"What the hell are you going to do now," the cop said in the tone of voice
that let Derek know that he knew full well.

"I'm sorry. I have to."

"No you don't. I might even let you off the hook this time."

"I don't think so. That's not good enough." Derek reached for the rusted
tire jack which he got from the car.

"Please," begged the cop. "Don't do this - you're making a mistake!"

Derek said nothing. He reached into the car with the jack.

"NO!" screamed the man. Derek was frightened at the cop's loud voice, but
remained calm. He lifted the jack above the cop's neck.

The cop closed his eyes. He braced himself, knowing he had lost. Derek,
too, closed his eyes, slamming the jack down upon the back of the cop's
head. Janet, still in the car, shut her eyes quickly upon hearing the
deathly thud of the jack. She relaxed her entire body. It was over.

Derek grabbed the rusty tire jack and threw it into the back of the car. He
had just killed a man, but his thoughts ran in the same direction as Janet's. He
knew he wasn's crazy...he was saving his own skin.

He jumped into the car and drove away from the 'scene' as quickly as he could.
He looked at Janet, who was staring straight ahead. For no reason, he leaned
over and gave her a kiss. Emotionless, Janet reached her hand over and combed
through Derek's tossled hair. He closed his eyes.

Janet screamed. He opened his eyes suddenly. Two lights were approaching him
at lightning speed. Derek swerved to the right...and smashed through a small
wooden fence bordering a deep ravine. The car tumbled and rolled for what seemed
like hours. It flipped one last time, and burst into flames in an incredible
explosion.

Tyler got out of his car and looked down at the burning grass and trees. He
slowly picked up his police CB radio.

"WILLIAM? YOU OUT THERE? WE NEED SOME HELP. WILLIAM?"

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
"Accident" - Copyright (C) Starry Night Productions - by Tristan Farnon
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Call The Works BBS - 1600+ Textfiles! - [914]/238-8195 - 300/1200 - Always Open
afteryou.hum100644 0 1 17131 6612147344 11326 0ustar rootbin
"You never seen me like this before, have you?" - Marilyn Monroe

+:-:+

..Starry Night Productions.. "After You" by Tristan A. Farnon..

+:-:+

Jerry Samuels sipped his coffee and looked out of the restaurant window.
Gazing out across the street, he saw a couple holding hands.

THEY'RE IN LOVE, he thought. THEY MUST BE.

He followed them with his eyes until they disappeared around a corner.

Jerry was startled when a man slightly older than him, dressed in a dark
blue suit pulled up a chair next to him.

"May I sit here?" he inquired.

"Be my guest," replied Jerry. He was a bit impressed with the man's overall
business-like appearance.

"Lovely evening," the man said. "Lots of stars."

"Yes." Jerry trailed off. "Clear night."

"Name's Arthur. What's yours?" he pulled a loose end of string off his left
sleeve and watched it float gently to the floor.

"Jerry," he replied, extending his hand. "Jerry Samuels."

"Nice to meet you," Arthur said. "What do you do for a living?"

Jerry paused. "I used to work at Fox and Carskadon. Real estate broker."

"But you don't anymore.." replied Arthur.

"Fired. This morning." Jerry said, looking back out the window.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have another job lined up?"

Jerry took another sip of his coffee and smiled. "Me? Another job?" he
laughed. "No.. no, I haven't got another job lined up. I wouldn't exactly be
surprised if I remained unemployed for quite a while."

Arthur nodded.

"Why?" continued Jerry. "You have a position available?" he chuckled.

Now Arthur paused. "Perhaps. If you're interested."

"Where do you work?" asked Jerry. "Real estate?"

"No.." began Arthur. "Nothing like that. I don't really have a permanent
position available right now.. but, with my salary, you won't have to work
another day in your life. I pay very heavily."

"What do you mean, 'I pay very heavily'?"

"One million dollars," Arthur whispered. "For one evening's work."

Jerry laughed. "You're joking.. I couldn't make that much in one million
years' work!"

"Trust me," Arthur continued. "One million American dollars. All for you."

Jerry smiled. HE SOUNDS JUST LIKE ED McMAHON.. HAHA..

"And just what is it that I have to do?" replied Jerry.

"Are you saying you're in?" Arthur said, sitting up slightly.

Jerry looked at his watch. 10:15. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, sure.. what the
hell, I've got nothing better to do."

"Good," Arthur smiled. "You won't regret it. Come with me."

+:-:+

The two walked across the dark street to the Red Lion Inn and took the
elevator to the sixth floor.

"Where are we going?" Jerry asked. "Your office?"

"No.. not my office," replied Arthur. "You'll see."

The elevator bell chimed once, and the doors slid open. Arthur led Jerry
to room 634 down the hall and opened the door. Ushering Jerry in quickly,
he closed the door and picked up a small leather bag off the floor.

"What exactly is it that I'm supposed to be doing?" inquired Jerry.

Arthur opened the leather pouch and took out a pistol.

Jerry said nothing, eyes rivited on the gun. "Is that.." he began.

"A gun. A real gun. With real bullets. For real business." Arthur replied,
and handed it to Jerry. Hands trembling slightly, he took the gun.

"What the hell am I going to do with this?" whispered Jerry through his
teeth.

"Use it," Arthur said bluntly, and pointed towards the doorway to the
outer hallway. "On the first person who walks through that door."

"Use it?" asked Jerry. "What do you mean, 'use it'?"

Arthur raised one eyebrow as if to indicate he felt he was dealing with a
complete idiot. "Pull the trigger," he said. "Fire a bullet. KILL him."

"No." Jerry said, putting the gun down on the bed. "I will not."

"You will." Arthur said. "For one million dollars, you will."

ONE MILLION DOLLARS, Jerry thought. He envisioned Ed McMahon again, talking
to the public on television. ONE MILLION DOLLARS, Ed would say. ALL FOR YOU.
JUST KILL THE FIRST PERSON WHO COMES THROUGH THAT DOOR.

"How do I know you're not a cop?" Jerry said.

Arthur raised his eyebrow again. "You idiot, I'm an accomplice. I gave you
the gun, didn't I?"

Jerry smiled. "Of course. How silly of me."

Arthur scratched his ear and headed towards the door. "One million
dollars," he repeated, gesturing towards the gun. "Just for pulling that
trigger. No cops involved. Nobody will ever know."

He closed the door, and Jerry could hear his footsteps trailing off down
the carpeted hallway.

Jerry was alone in a hotel room with the gun.

+:-:+

Twenty minutes.

Jerry had nearly worn out the carpet pacing back and forth. He tried
turning on the TV, but it didn't help ease his mind.

He looked at the gun sitting on the bed. It was pointed towards the wall.

Jerry walked back over to it and picked it up. It was neither warm nor
cool. It was slightly heavier than he remembered it to be. He looked down the
barrel daringly, imagining how funny it would be if it fired right then and
there.

He stopped. Footsteps.

Jerry tensed his shoulders and held the gun at arm's length. KILL THE FIRST
PERSON WHO WALKS THROUGH THAT DOOR, he said. HAHAHA - WHAT IF IT'S ARTHUR?
WHAT IF I KILL HIM? I WOULD LAUGH. He blinked and tried to hold his hands
steady, which was virtually impossible. I'VE NEVER FIRED A GUN BEFORE, he
realized. THIS IS MURDER. MURDER IN THE.. WHAT IS IT.. MURDER IN THE FIRST
DEGREE. THAT'S IT. He imagined his trial. THAT'S THE WORD THE JUDGE WOULD
SAY. The first degree. YOU CAN'T DO THIS, he thought. ONE MILLION DOLLARS,
Ed reminded him again. GO FOR IT.

The doorknob clicked and twisted to the left.

THIS IS IT, Jerry realized. He heard Arthur's voice.

"..certainly," Arthur seemed to be saying to his guest. "This way. Right
through here."

The door swung open.

Arthur immediately scrambled back around out of the doorway. Jerry looked
at his target.. a middle-aged man wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. He
had a scraggly moustache. He looked at Jerry and the gun.

"What the hell is th--" was all he managed to get out before Jerry fired
the bullet. The man fell to the ground, grasping helplessly onto a bedspread.
Jerry dropped the gun in shock and looked down at the man's eyes, which
were still wide open, staring up through the ceiling. The body twitched,
and Jerry jumped.

"A job well done," Arthur complimented. "Couldn't have done it better
myself."

"Money." Jerry said. "I want my money. Now."

Arthur turned out the lights in the room and closed the door behind them
both. Jerry followed.

"My room's right below us. Fifth floor. Will that be cash or check?"

Jerry said nothing. He couldn't quite seem to get the words out. He had
just killed somebody.. it was as easy as accidentally dropping your pencil..
or tripping on your shoelace.

"I assure you," Arthur continued. "My checks are good. Very good, in fact."

"Cash," he said. "Pay in cash. All of it."

"Of course."

The elevator chimed once again, and both Arthur and Jerry stepped out.

Arthur passed only a few doors before he came to his hotel room. "Here we
are," he said. "I'll put it all in a suitcase. After you.."

Jerry stepped into the room and froze. The lady inside raised the pistol
and clicked back on the trigger. ONE MILLION DOLLARS, she thought. THIS IS
GOING TO BE A SNAP.

+:-:+

"After You" - Copyright (c) July 19th 1986 - Tristan A. Farnon

+:-:+

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(>View: (?) ANNIVERSARY (?)
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80 Columns

"I was hoping we could just LIVE together for awhile..." - Marilyn Monroe

"Anniversary" - another twistful adventure by Tristan Alexander Farnon

Trevor Williams smiled and reached his hand across the candlelit table.
It was taken eagerly by Tiffany Smith who sat opposite him. Her eyes lit up.
"You -do- know what day it is, don't you?" asked Trevor.
"Well...it's Friday isn't it?" she teased.
Trevor squeezed her hand. "No," he laughed. "Today is officially our
one-year anniversary together! And I might add that it's been the happiest
three-hundred-and-sixty-five days I've ever spent with anyone!"
Tiffany blushed. It was as if they were married! She loved it. Suddenly
she loved everything. She loved simply -sitting- there. She would have been
there forever...just looking into his eyes. She got a hold of herself and
winked at him.
"Has it really been a whole -year-? It seems like we just met...last week!"
He nodded. "It does, doesn't it Tiffany?" he agreed. Then he added, "You
made a lovely dinner."
"You made it worth eating," she answered sweetly.
"I don't think I've ever met anyone quite as--"

The phone rang.

"Oh, damn," she said aloud. She didn't swear that often, but when she did,
she managed to do it intelligently. She reached over and picked up her
phone.
"Hello?" she said reluctantly. "Yeah...oh, I see...yeah...yeah, I got it.
TOMORROW? Are you crazy? There's no way I can...yes, but...HELLO?" She hung
up the phone angrily and leaned wearily on the dinner table.
"What's the problem?" inquired Trevor hesitantly, knowing it had SOMETHING
to do with her greedy boss.
"It's my boss," she complained. "He wants me to do a complete write-up of
some stupid fiscal something-or-other." She never went into detail about
something she didn't felt mattered anyway.
"Oh," whispered Trevor. His visions of a romantic care-free night with
Tiffany vanished, knowing she would be awake ALL night doing that stupid
fiscal thing. DAMN HER BOSS!
"Look...I really -hate- to do this, BELIEVE me, I was hoping we could spend
the night over here or something...but..." she broke off unhappily.
"Yeah." whispered Trevor. WORK COMES FIRST. "I know ALL ABOUT the pressures
of a business. I work too, y'know..."
She managed to let a 'mmmm' out and slid her chair back. She walked Trevor
to the door and draped her arms across his neck. "Love ya," she said and
gave him one of her 'longer' kisses.
"Love ya," he replied. "How about dinner at -my- apartment tomorrow?"
"You're on! See you later, sweetie." As he walked out her apartment, she
blew him another kiss. He reached up into the air and pretended to catch it.
He put it in his pocket.
"I owe you one," he laughed. He walked down the stairs to his car. He
turned on his radio loudly as he drove.
ONE YEAR, he thought happily. ONE FUN-FILLED YEAR. He looked at the road.
He didn't want to be on the road. I WANT TO BE WITH TIFFANY. He thought of
her boss. PROBABLY A REALLY FAT GUY WHO SHOULD GO ON A DIET. Thoughts of
a large man in a white shirt and yellow tie filled his head. DISGUSTING
SLOB, he thought. He blamed HIM for this. I COULD BE WITH TIFFANY RIGHT NOW,
he realized. BUT NOOO, SHE HAS TO DO HIS BUSY WORK. Busy work. He hated that.

He sat in his apartment alone. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a glossy
black-and-white picture of Tiffany. He picked it up and dusted it off with
his fingertips. I LOVE YOU, he thought. BUT I HATE YOUR BOSS! He put the
picture back on his desk next to the phone.
The phone.
He wished she would pick up the phone and call him. He knew -he- couldn't
call her...TIFFANY HAS WORK TO DO. I'D JUST GET IN THE WAY.
The phone rang. He jumped suddenly.
Regaining composure, he combed his fingers through his hair and picked
up the reciever.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hello, Trev," a very nervous voice said.
"Tiffany...is that you?" asked Trevor.
"Yes," she whispered.
Silence.
"What's the matter, darling?" he asked softly, breaking the pause.
Tiffany said nothing. She sobbed lightly.
"Tiffany!" he repeated, more concerned than ever. "Everything's going
to be all right! What happened to you? You seemed fine when I left!"
"Oh...Trev.." she said through intermittent sobs. "The most awful thing
has happened. I...I lost the fiscal records! I've looked for them everywhere!
TREVOR, MY BOSS IS GOING TO KILL ME! I'M SERIOUS! I HAVE TO HAVE THEM BY
TOMORROW OR I'LL GET FIRED! Trevor, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?" she tried to calm
herself upon realizing that she was screaming.
"Tiffany, everything's going to be JUST FINE. Got that? RELAX."
A pause.
"Tiffany?" he asked again.
No response.
"TIFFANY?" his voice raised.
She broke in. "I'm getting fired. My boss HAS TO HAVE THOSE FILES! What am
I going to do? I'm going to kill myself. What's the easiest, quickest,
most painless way?"
Trevor laughed.
"Trevor Williams, THIS ISN'T FUNNY! I'm seriously considering SUICIDE!"
He laughed again.
"SHUT UP!" screamed Tiffany.
"I'm..." he began to giggle. "I'm sorry, Tiffany. It's just that you get
so irrational when you're under pressure." He giggled again.
"IRRATIONAL?" she said. "If ther--" she stopped suddenly.
"Yeah?" asked Trevor.
"I'll hang myself. That's painless."
"That's true," giggled Trevor.

Silence.

"Tiffany?" he said.

Silence.

"Tiffany, this isn't funny."

Silence.

"I can't face him," she whispered, suddenly becoming quite serious.
"Yes you can," argued Trevor. HONESTLY, SHE GETS SO WORKED UP OVER NOTHING.
"I lost his files. I've looked everywhere. I'm going to commit suicide. Why
shouldn't I? He's going to fire me anyway - I'm gonna lose everything. My
house, my car...I'll never get another job..."
"You want a reason why you shouldn't do it?" interrupted Trevor. "I'll give
you a reason. I LOVE YOU, TIFFANY SMITH."
Silence. Her voice was barely audible. "I love you too, Trevor Willams."
She hung up the phone.
"Tiffany?" he said. He heard the familiar dial tone. "TIFFANY!" he screamed
aloud. DON'T BE SILLY, he told himself. SHE'S JUST KIDDING. He dialed her
number. No answer. He listened to it ring...and ring...and ring.
"NO!" he screamed. Then he calmed himself. TIFFANY WOULDN'T DO A THING
LIKE THAT...WOULD SHE? NO. SHE WOULDN'T. SHE'S NOT THAT SORT OF PERSON. SHE
TRIES TO CLING ON. He imagined her boss again. A sudden vision of Tiffany
dangling from a noose flashed through his horror-stricken mind.
SHE WOULDN'T.
He looked at the time. He tried calling back one more time, but there was
no answer. He let it ring thirty times before grabbing his car keys and
running blindly out the door to his car.
He put the key in. SHE'S LOOKING FOR ROPE.
He turned the ignition. SHE'S GOING TO KILL HERSELF.
Trevor pulled out of the driveway and onto the street. He turned on the
radio. SHE'S GOING TO KILL HERSELF, he thought again. He imagined bursting
into the room and looking at her snapped body hanging loosely from her neck.
Her eyes would be open. Her lips would be blue. He slammed on the gas pedal.
DON'T DO IT. PLEASE DON'T DO IT.
He turned down another street. SHE'S CLIMBING UP ON THE CHAIR, he thought.
SHE'S JUST KIDDING, THOUGH. ISN'T SHE? His mind sped rapidly, thinking
of tomorrow's obituaries. He would see her name. NO!! I WON'T!! He drove
faster. He skidded around a corner towards her apartment. Parking the car
haphazardly, he ran up the stone steps. HER NECK'S IN THE NOOSE, he thought
madly. SHE'S GOING TO JUMP OFF THE CHAIR.
He fumbled with the door. LOCKED. He pounded on the door.
"TIFFANY!!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "TIFFANY OPEN THIS DOOR!"
Silence. He put his ear to the door. He heard a snap and a stretching
sound. He distinctly heard a deadly -thump- on the floor.
He froze. OH MY GOD. He pounded madly on the door and spun around towards
a small houseplant on the step. He remembered - SHE KEEPS A SPARE KEY HERE.
He ripped the plant apart wildly trying to find it. His hand touched
something metal. THE KEY. He fumbled clumsily with it, failing to get it
in the lock the first several times. He closed his eyes and took a deep
breath as he entered the dark room.
Darkness. He looked around. OH MY GOD. Through the dim candles,
he saw a rope at the ceiling rafter. OH MY GOD, NO!! His eyes followed
slowly down the rope...finding nothing.
He looked at the empty noose in utter confusion. WHERE THE HELL---?
Trevor heard a click behind him. He spun around on his heels.

The overhead lights clicked on brightly. The whole room was brilliantly
decorated with paper streamers and confetti.
"HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!" yelled twenty people in unison.
Tiffany slinked over to and gave him a kiss.
He returned it weakly, looking at the guests...and the decorations...and
the giant cake...and the champagne...and...Tiffany.

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

"Anniversary" - Copyright (C) April 7th, 1986 by Tristan Alexander Farnon
Starry Night Productions, Inc.

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"The yearbook staff can all go to HELL!" - Christina

"The Closet" - another short story by Tristan Alexander Farnon...

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Carole Anne Hansen was nine years old.

"Hello," she often greeted people. "My name is Carole Anne Hansen and
I am nine-and-a-half years old. How do you do?"

She hated being polite. MY NAME'S CAROLE AND I HATE YOU SO GO AWAY, she
thought to herself. AND I'M NOT NINE, I'M NINE AND A =HALF=.

"Carole!" sang her mother one evening. "Carole, where are you!" she walked
jovially down the stairs. She was dressed in a black silk gown. The room
was instantly filled with perfume.

Carole wrinkled her nose.

"There you are!" she observed. "Daddy and I are going out to a little
party at the Wilson's tonight."

STUPID WILSONS, thought Carole. DUMB STUPID LITTLE BABY BRIAN WILSON.
She was still bitter about the time that Brian

(stupid little baby Brian)

wet his diapers while sitting on her lap. She was near tears. Carole
could still remember her face turning bright red when Mrs. Wilson laughed
aloud and all the other adults snickered, too.
OH THAT'S SO CUTE, said one.
DARLING. SIMPLY DARLING, said another.
Carole just wanted to scream "SHUT UP YOU STUPID ADULTS" at them, but she
was too angry and humiliated.

"Why are you going over THERE, mom?" she groaned, knowing that she would
have to sit with a stupid dumb babysitter.
"Because they invited us, honey! And it's Mr. Wilson's birthday."

Carole pictured Mr. Wilson wearing a party hat and seated at the head of
a decorated table amongst all his friends. They would sing "Happy Birthday"
to him and bring him cake and ice cream maybe even play a game--

She sat up and looked out the window. "How old is he?" she asked.
Her mother glared sternly at her. "I don't know, dear."
YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW OLD YOUR FRIEND IS? THAT'S DUMB. "Then why are
you going if you don't even know how old he is?"

Her father entered the room buttoning his jacket. "Because we are. Don't
worry. You'll have a fun time with the babysitter."

PLEASE DON'T BE SHERRY DON'T BE SHERRY OH PLEASE GOD DON'T LET THE
DUMB OLD BABYSITTER BE DUMB OLD SHERRY--

"Who's the babysitter?" she inquired warily. "Janet?" she added hopefully.

(PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DON'T BE SHERRY)

"You know her," said her mother. "Sherry Parks. She came over her last
Thursday, remember?"

Carole gritted her teeth in frustration and remembered the song she wrote
about babysitter Sherry Parks.

SHERRY'S A BITCH.
I THINK SHE'S A WITCH.

"MOMMMM!" whined Carole. "Why did you have to pick Sherry Parks? I hate
Sherry Parks! I think she's a b--"

She stopped herself. YOU MEANT TO SAY WITCH. SAY WITCH OR THEY'LL THINK
YOU WERE GOING TO SAY BITCH.

"..I think she's a witch," she concluded and breathed a sigh of relief.

Mr. Hansen laughed aloud at her comment. "Nonsense, Carole Anne. She's no
more a witch than I am."

Carole giggled. She imagined her daddy dressed up in a black cape with
long orange hair and green makeup flying around on a broom.

The doorbell rang.

"That must be Sherry now," blurted her mother.

(THE BITCH! THE BITCH! SHERRY THE WICKED BITCH OF THE WEST.)

Carole laughed aloud and slapped her hand over her mouth.

Her father grabbed a beautifully-wrapped package from the kitchen table.

WHY DON'T I EVER GET BIG PRESENTS LIKE THAT, sighed Carole. IT'S PROBABLY
SOMETHING USEFUL.

"..and you'll find the emergency numbers next to the telephone," Carole
heard her mother saying from the next room. "Carole's to be in bed by
eight-thirty."

EIGHT THIRTY?! SINCE WHEN DO I HAVE TO GO TO BED AT EIGHT-THIRTY? She
thought of moving all the clocks an hour back. NINE-THIRTY. I'M NO BABY.

Carole heard Sherry

(that dumb stupid babysitter)

laughing with her mother. "You don't have a thing to worry about," Sherry
insisted. "You've left me alone with Carole before! I know what to do."

NO YOU DON'T, she thought. AND YOU'D BETTER NOT MAKE ME TRY TO TAKE A BATH.

Sherry said goodbye to Carole's parents, and closed the door behind them.

I'M NOT TALKING TO HER, decided Carole firmly. SHE CAN'T MAKE ME. She
walked into her bedroom and started to draw a unicorn with her Hello Kitty
felt-tip markers.

"Carole!" shouted Sherry. "Carole Anne Hansen! Where are you hiding?"
She did the best she could to sound "joking".

DON'T SAY ANYTHING, Carole told herself in her room. She sketched a horn.
YOU DON'T HAVE TO TALK TO HER IF YOU DON'T WANT.

"Carole Anne!" Sherry repeated. She went into the kitchen.

Nothing. "Carole, you're not being funny!"

Sherry went into the den, the family room, and the living room. Nothing,
nothing, and nothing. "Carole, I know for a FACT that you're in your room. I
want to have a little talk with you."

Carole realized it was only a matter of time before she had to face her.

But maybe not.

Giggling slightly, Carole replaced the cap on her pen and opened her closet
door. Crazily, she was expecting E.T. to smile up at her.

Footsteps. Outside her door. Click - the doorknob turned.

Heart pounding delightfully, she stepped into the closet

(CAREFUL, DON'T SQUISH YOUR PONY)

and slid the door shut tightly. Clickclick. OH NO. PLEASE DON'T HAVE
LOCKED. IF YOU LOCKED I'M GOING TO HAVE TO TELL HER WHERE I AM. SHH. She
could see horizontal strips of Sherry through the venetian-blind-fashioned
door. She whispered a giggle and bit her lip. SHHHH. Heeheehee

Sherry picked up the unfinished drawing of the pony. HEY, thought Carole.
LEAVE THAT ALONE. PUT THAT DOWN, IT'S NOT EVEN FINISHED.

(cough)

SHHH! Carole told herself again. But that wasn't her cough.

And it certainly wasn't Sherry's cough.

Carole opened her eyes widely and stared straight ahead at the inside of
the closet door. It was a big closet. A very big closet.

ENOUGH TO HOLD TWO PEOPLE, thought Carole, horrified. NO DON'T BE STUPID
YOU'RE NOT A LITTLE BABY. IT WAS YOU. YOU COUGHED.

"..Carole! Where are you? If you don't come to me RIGHT NOW, I'm going to
be VERY angry with you. Do you understand? Do you HEAR ME?"

NO YOU DIDN'T COUGH SHERRY DIDN'T COUGH IT WAS SOMEBODY ELSE. IT WAS
SOMETHING ELSE.

Something in the closet.
Something in the closet WITH her.

"Carole," said Sherry sternly. "Are you in the CLOSET?"

She wished desparately for Sherry to open the closet. To get her away
from whatever it was that made that...that cough. OPEN THE CLOSET! OPEN
THE CLOSET DOOR! I'M IN HERE!

Carole couldn't scream, though. She couldn't let "the thing" know that
she knew of its presence. And she certainly couldn't open the door herself
and risk the wrath of Sherry the Babysitting Witch/Bitch/whatever.

Sherry grasped the handles of the closet and pulled, and Carole breathed
out with a sigh of relief. OKAY, SO SHE FOUND ME.

She pulled harder. OPEN THE CLOSET, SHERRY! IT'S NOT THAT--

(a breeze)

Carole felt a light breeze across her arm. HURRY SHERRY OPEN UP THE CLOSET
AND GET ME OUT OF HERE! PLEASE! Sherry pulled again, but to no avail.
Carole remembered the "clickclick" sound she heard earlier. IT'S LOCKED,
she realized. THE DOOR'S LOCKED. SHERRY DOESN'T HAVE A KEY NOBODY HAS A KEY--

(moan)

Carole screamed loudly. She banged on the inside of the closet.

"SHERRY SHERRY GET ME OUT OF HERE PLEASE!! I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M--"

Sherry laughed. "So you =WERE= in the closet! Tell me, how do I unlock it?"

(moan moan moan. scrape.)

"SHERRY THERE'S SOMETHING IN HERE WITH ME HELP ME YOU HAVE TO BREAK THE
DOOR OR SOMETHING PLEASE GOD DON'T LET IT GET ME-- "

Carole was fully aware of a second being with her in the darkness of the
closet. It touched her foot. She screamed again and attempted to force the
door of the closet open with her shoulder. She felt something slide over
both ankles. It felt like her Silly Putty.

"I can't break the door down," replied Sherry. "And there's nothing in
there with you. It's your imagination."

"I promise I'll be good from now on," Carole whispered. "Just PLEASE BREAK
THIS DOOR DOWN NOW I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!"

Sherry sighed. THIS KID IS WEIRD, she told herself. "I'll go to the kitchen
and get a screwdriver." Crazy kid.

Carole heard breathing now. Like the kind she had fun with over the
telephone when making crank calls to her friends. A low, coarse, -grating-
sort of breathing that came from the base of the closet.

"SHERRY RUN HURRY IT'S GOING TO GET ME IT'S GOING TO EAT ME--"

It wheezed and Carole tried desparately to step out of the ooze which
she couldn't see. It laughed, and she heard it laugh. It -was- a laugh.

SHUT UP!! she hissed at it. GO AWAY JUST PLEASE DON'T HURT ME I DIDN'T DO
ANYTHING TO YOU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE..

It contracted and she fell to the floor of her closet, gasping at the
sudden pain in her feet. She tried to scrape it off her ankles, but it
flowed over her hands and bound her wrists. She screamed louder, her voice
hoarse. It began to breath again.

"SHERRY HURRY!!" she shrieked insanely. It ran up her arms and down her
back, breathing and laughing and hissing at the same time. It tangled itself
in her hair and dripped down her face. It was warm..almost hot, breathing
louder and more coarsely.

She tried to scream to Sherry again...but her mouth couldn't open. Her
entire body was paralyzed. Her mind began to drift.

SHERRY HURRY UP PLEASE HURRY UP BREAK THE DOOR DOWN .. OH MY GOD OH MY
GOD OH MY GOD - I MEAN OH MY GOSH - GOD PLEASE HELP ME WHAT IS THIS DON'T
KILL ME I DIDN'T EVEN FINISH DRAWING MY UNICORN PICTURE. . .. SHERRY HELP ME
MOMMY DADDY PLEASE COME BACK WHY DONT YOU PLEASE - STUPID WILSONS PARTY,
STUPID =BABY= BRIAN WILSON I HATE YOU I HATE ALL OF YOU I HATE YOU STUPID
THING. I HATE YOU GOD. I ONLY LOVE SHERRY SHERRY SHERRY..BECAUSE I KNOW THAT
SHERRY WILL HELP ME. . . . OH MY GOD SHERRY PLEASE HELP ME..

WAIT TILL THE KIDS AT SCHOOL HEAR ABOUT THIS ONE...SHERRY...

Carole soon felt herself falling apart. It began to loosen her...it began
to digest her. She started to cry.

It turned to a dark liqued and diffused effortlessly through the cracks at
the back of the closet, as Sherry returned with a screwdriver.

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"The Closet" - Copyright (c) May 30th 1986 by Tristan Alexander Farnon

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[] Dedicated to those with closets opposite their beds.

excuses.hum100644 0 1 6704 6612147363 11134 0ustar rootbinTristan Farnon Presents...

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| INTERNATIONAL EXCUSES |
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Hi, all...

Y'know, every so often we get into a bind where only a little white lie can
help us out. It is to these occasions that this file is dedicated. Here is a
compilation of excuses for you to use in "difficult" situations (for example,
what do you say when you haven't done your homework? "The dog ate it?" Trite.
Very trite. Anyway, enough of me...on with the file.

YOU ARE LATE TO CLASS
=====================

"The bus was late"
"There was a power failure at home and the alarm clock didn't ring"
"I was having a meeting with [NAME OF PRINCIPAL]"
"I didn't hear the bell...I think their system's all screwed up today"
"I tripped and all my things flew out of my backpack onto the ground"
"My shoelace got caught in the fence"
"I was at the dentist - the office has a note"

YOU ARE NOT PREPARED
====================

"I had a pencil just a minute ago! ALL RIGHT, WHO TOOK IT?"
"My mom was looking at my book last night, and she forgot to give it back"
"Someone broke into my locker and stole it. There's been a lot of that..."

YOU DO NOT HAVE YOUR HOMEWORK
=============================

"It was due TODAY? I thought you said it was due at the end of the week!"
"I didn't understand it - you'll have to help me later" (A CLASSIC)
"The electricity was out, and all my family and I could do last night in the
dark was watch television!" (only use on mindless goons)
"That page was torn out of my book"
"I DID it, trust me...I just left it at home. You can call my mom, even!"
"It was page 63? Oh! I wrote down page 68! Darn! Wrong page!"

YOU WANT TO STAY HOME FROM SCHOOL AND WATCH A SOAP
==================================================

"Yes, mom, I think I'd better miss school today in order for me to get better
so that I don't miss any MORE school."

WAYS OF GETTING A WARM THERMOMETER (to be used with above excuse)
==================================

...Smuggle in a warm glass of water and hide it under your bed. Dip
thermometer in occasionally (making sure it doesn't go past 105, idiot).
...Hold it up to a lightbulb that has been on for a few minutes
...Breathe on it (does this work? I've never tried that one.)

YOU DON'T HAVE YOUR P.E. UNIFORM
================================

"It's at home being washed. I can bring a note"
"Somebody stole my shirt"
"I'm going to buy a new one tomorrow"

THE FBI ARRIVES AT YOUR DOOR ASKING TO SEE YOUR COMPUTER SETUP
==============================================================

"Darn, I'd really like to help you in your fight against illegal phone and
computer activities, but I'm practically computer illiterate, myself! All I use
my computer for is writing school reports, using educational software, and
drawing pictures! A modem? What's that?"

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"INTERNATIONAL EXCUSES" - Copyright (C) January 13 1986 by Tristan Farnon.

The author of this file, Mr. Tristan Farnon, assumes no responsibility for
questioning looks of doubt on the faces of those in authority when given the
above excuses, and transferrs all blame to the idiot who wasn't convincing.

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Call The Works BBS - 1600+ Textfiles! - [914]/238-8195 - 300/1200 - Always Open
experien.hum100644 0 1 43157 6612147363 11317 0ustar rootbin"Could I see you in my office, please?" - Maddie Hayes

+:-:+

"The Experience" - T. A. Farnon (Starry Night) Thu Sep 04 1986 11:00pm

+:-:+

I really don't know where to begin.

I've always wanted to keep a diary.. but I hate to think that someone of
my age keeps a "diary". I prefer to think of it as a journal. Or perhaps
my memoirs.

That's what it is. They're my personal memoirs. Someday.. I might even get
to publish them. I'll edit them, first, of course. Or maybe I won't. Maybe
I'll just carelessly throw them together.

If anybody ever found out about this, though..

Wait. Before I go any further, let me just slip in a quick introduction..
or description.. or whatever you want to call it. My name's Dennis.
Thirty-five years old. I think of myself as a younger man. (But then again,
doesn't everybody?) Now that I think about it, though, everybody except the
folks who are actually twenty themselves. Those folks prefer to think of
themselves as "older, mature, well-refined men". Dignified. They think
they've "been around". Ha.

I've "been around". I've seen just about everything there is to see. Felt
about everything there is to feel. Experienced virtually everything there
is to experience. Sometimes, I even think I know all there is to know.. or
at least all there is that's worth knowing.

Hell, I don't even THINK about ninety-nine percent of all the worthless
trash they forced upon me in school, much less use it. I knew full well back
then between the important stuff and the garbage.

I live alone. I've always lived alone. I don't just mean in a house.. I
have no wife.. no children. I'm not even "seeing" anyone anymore.

Oh. There was someone.. a long time ago. Nearly twelve years ago, as a
matter of fact. Her name was Jillian. Jillian Brown. Beautiful woman. I can't
describe enough of her. But rest assured, she was indeed lovely. The softest,
curliest auburn hair that reached down to her shoulders. Pure silk. It must
have been. I was often afraid to touch it.. I was worried it would all
unravel and uncurl at my fingertips. She posessed the most sparkling brown
eyes you've ever seen. On anyone. Most people associate the word "sparkling"
with blue eyes.. or green eyes.. but her brown ones SPARKLED. They fizzed.
It was like they had a mind of their own. I rarely ever saw her blink. Just
two brown circles.. smiling back at me. They revealed everything about her.
And she had a perfect nose. It just "slid" right down her face with just the
slightest curve.. and then perked up again at the end. I wish I had a nose
like that. No matter. Looks better on her, anyway.

I've neglected to mention the most attractive physical quality about her,
though. Without question, it had to be that smile. That SMILE. She must have
flashed that smile at least a thousand times each day. Dimples on both
cheeks. And when I kissed her.. God, it was wonderful. If you've ever been
kissed, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you've never been kissed..
pay attention, because someday you might. I'm not talking about the sort
of kiss your mother gave you when you scraped your knee falling off your
bike.. or the kind of kiss your aunt forces upon you when she visits you
after an absence of several years. I'm talking about a REAL kiss. The kind
that MATTERS. Sure, the others are all right.. but when someone asks you if
you've ever kissed a girl.. you don't really "count" kisses from your mother
or your aunt. When done right (or even spontaneously), it's a wonderful
experience. Damn.. how can I describe it. I know the feeling so WELL, but
it's impossible to explain the EXACT feeling without using cliche expressions
such as "I felt electricity zap all over my body", or "I saw fireworks". I
remember the first time Jillian and I kissed each other.

But first, let me explain something. Most of you who have (or had)
girl-friends or boy-friends in the past know what I'm talking about. No
matter what condition Jillian was in (exhausted from running all around
town.. soaking wet from the rain.. or even sound asleep), she was always (and
I do mean ALWAYS) insanely pretty. I used to think that only the good-looking
guys got the good-looking girls. (In my opinion, I am far from good-looking).
But I think I've learned otherwise.. it goes something like this: once you've
been with a girl a few times, you BECOME a good-looking guy. In fact, the
occasional mascara run or lock of hair that kept falling in front of her eyes
sometimes made her look even MORE attractive. At least it proved that she was
really HUMAN and not some glamorous, ethereal-looking model whose
crystal-clear complexion, bleached blond hair and blue eyes make her look as
if she was made from plastic. Call me insane if you will, but glamour almost
always turns me off. Oh, sure. Don't get me wrong.. I "appreciate" that sort
of thing.. but only in small doses. There's only so much of a "physically
perfect" girl that I can stand. She has to have -SOME- distinguishing
characteristics, you know.

I remember the strangest things about the first time we kissed. For
instance, I remember it being very late at night. And it was raining. For
some reason, we were sitting underneath a patio umbrella outside some cafe. I
vaguely remember drinking something.. (coffee, perhaps).. and she had a
croissant, I think. Something like that.

Anyway. Here we were, the two of us, just barely keeping dry. Her hair
had lost some of its 'bounce', as a few strands were sticking to the side
of her face. She casually wiped them away and tore off a tiny corner of her
croissant. I had to look closely at her, because of the dark.

We had only known each other a month. I was twenty-four.. she had just
turned twenty-three. One of my co-workers at the office introduced us at an
employee Christmas party. (actually, I could have kissed her a lot earlier. I
saw her standing several times under a little sprig of mistletoe hanging by a
string just above the front doorway.. but I was a bit hesitant because there
were several other men crowded around her. Idiots.)

"So," she said. She looked across the damp patio table, staring into a
puddle. At least I think that's what she was staring at. All I remember was
that she wasn't staring at me.

"So.." I replied. I hoped to God she wasn't bored. I prayed to the dear
Lord Jesus Christ that she wouldn't get up and say, 'Dennis.. you're a nice
guy and everything.. but you're not for me'.

I have never smoked a cigarette a day in my life before.. but at that
very moment, I had an urge for one. Just to sooth my jumpy nerves.
I don't know. Maybe it was the rain that had this strange effect on me. Maybe
I just thought I'd look "cool".

"What time is it?" she asked. I said a quick prayer to God again. PLEASE
GOD, I prayed. PLEASE DON'T LET ME BORE HER TO DEATH. I would have done
anything - ANYTHING to make her more comfortable.

"It's almost eleven o'clock," I said. It was as dark as it was going to
get that night. Already, the sky was scattered with stars. There was a bluish
haze around the moon.. telling everyone who bothered to notice it that it
was going to rain again tomorrow.

"I should be getting back home," she said. "I have to get up for work in
the morning." She worked at Nordstrom's from eight-thirty until around six.

I wasn't in a position to "give her a ride home", since we had each driven
ourselves to the cafe.

She took the last bite of her croissant, leaned back in the wire chair and
sighed.

"Looks like it'll rain again tonight," she commented.

"Yes.." I replied, stumbling furiously for words. "It always does around
this time of year."

She said "mmm" and nodded her head once. She went back to staring at the
white porcelain plate which held a few croissant crumbs.

SAY SOMETHING, DAMMIT, I told myself.

"I hope you had fun," I blurted. FUN. YEAH - SHE HAD LOADS OF FUN SITTING
HERE IN THE RAIN, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT HAVING DINNER WITH SOMEONE SHE
PROBABLY WOULD RATHER DO WITHOUT. "I hope I didn't bore you.. or anything.."

Her eyes widened, and she grinned. "No," she laughed. "You didn't bore me.
And I had a good time. Let's do it again next time."

AGAIN? DO IT AGAIN? SHE WANTS ME TO DO IT AGAIN? Of course she wants me to
do it again. Next time. There would be a "next time". I felt like leaning
over and kissing her.. but something stopped me. Maybe it was the funny way
she was--

She was.. looking at me. She was LOOKING at me. Nobody LOOKS at me unless
they want something from me.. she was giving me the sort of look that makes
you - FORCES you - to look right back. Right into her eyes - God, her lovely
brown eyes. Her lovely brown hair. Her lovely.. everything.

"Next time.." I said, but it came out in a stifled whisper. She just looked
SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL.

"Next time," she smiled. "Tomorrow?"

TOMORROW.. I was planning on attending our company picnic.. but to hell
with it now. Haha. Hell with everything now. To hell with the damn company.
To hell with my job. My house. My car. To hell with everything except
Jillian, the most beautiful girl in the whole world.

"Tomorrow's perfect," I smiled. I couldn't help smiling. I was just so damn
happy.

She was "looking" at me again.

I had never done this before - I had never, EVER in my entire live done
this before, but I risked it. I risked everything in my life for her. I put
it all on the line. I leaned over ever-so-slowly and kissed her. Right on
her lips. I closed my eyes, waiting for her to pull away. I had just made
the biggest mistake of my life. I knew I shouldn't have done it. The minute -
the MINUTE I kissed her, I pictured her backing away, getting up, and going
straight to her car, never to call me again.

But.. she didn't.

SHE DIDN'T! It was INCREDIBLE! She actually WANTED me to kiss her! Instead
of pulling back, she leaned forward! She put her hand on the back of my neck,
too, which sent a chill up my back.

Then I noticed something I hadn't realized until now.. she was wearing
FLAVORED lipstick! I think it was strawberry. I don't know, and I didn't
care. All I knew was that it was wonderful. The whole night was wonderful.

I hated to do it - GOD, I hated to do it.. but I had to breathe. I had to
draw a quick breath. For an instant, I forgot that my nose knew how to
breathe, and I pulled away. She was smiling.

I didn't know whether to flash her a big smile or just grin. I grinned, and
she giggled. She kissed me again, and this time I recognized the flavor of
her lipstick.. raspberry. She leaned back again, slowly, and closed her eyes.

"I think I love you," she said.

"I think the feeling is mutual," I answered, and brushed a piece of hair
away from the side of her face.

We gave each other one quick last kiss before she reminded me that we BOTH
worked.. and that we really should be getting home. I saw her walk briskly
through the rain across the dark street to her raindrop-covered car. I didn't
blink my eyes - not once. I was too excited to blink.. or even breathe. She
drove away, and I stood perfectly still, not caring about how soaking wet I
was becoming, watching her car grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared
over a hill.

That was twelve years ago.

She's gone now.

Oh, I don't mean DEAD-gone, I just mean.. gone. From me. From my life.

One evening, she called me up and told me things just "weren't working out"
for her. She said it "might not be a good idea if we saw each other anymore".
I could hear her crying in the background. I could feel the tears pouring out
of her brown eyes, sliding down her cheeks onto the telephone.

"Jillian.." I remember saying, "..why? What's the matter?"

I could barely hear her teary voice choke, "I'm.. sorry.. I'm really..
sorry.. please.. I have to.. don--"

And that was it. She hung up. I tried calling for days after that, but she
never answered her phone.

Six days later (I counted), I recieved a letter in the mail. It was from
Jillian. She finally broke down and told me what was going on.

His name was Andrew. Apparantly, they used to be together or something.
They had gotten into a fight of some sort.. and they had split up, yet kept
writing letters to each other and making phone calls.

That's when I came along.

Jillian, slightly "off the rebound" from Andrew, thought she was in love
with me, and used this to make life difficult for Andrew, telling him all the
things Jillian and I did.. all the places we went.

Eventually, Andrew apologized, and Jillian returned to him.

Leaving me to wander about in my own dark, loveless world.

Of course.. deep down, I know she did the right thing. Anybody as perfect
as Jillian is already spoken for. I should have known that.

But no. I was stupid enough to think that the first person - the FIRST
person to tell me they loved me was telling the truth.

I could never have lived up to Jillian's standards anyway. Deep down, I
knew she really couldn't like me. Nobody could. People just don't do that
with me..

Like I said, that was twelve years ago. I'm going to tell you something
that I haven't ever told anyone. (actually, I've never had anyone to tell).

Jillian never knew this.. but after that last phone call, I saw her every
day. I went by the place she works - Nordstroms - and I just quickly walked
through the women's department. Quickly, because I couldn't let her know I
wanted just.. to see her.

It was like I was killing myself.. very slowly. I don't know why I did it,
but I did. Every day, for twelve years. She almost saw me a few times, too.

I'm making my life a living hell for doing it, I know, but for some reason,
I can't stop. I can't stop looking at her.. even from a distance. Parts of me
say, "There's Jillian. Beautiful Jillian.." and other parts just violently
hiss back, "There's the girl that did this to you. The girl that made your
life miserable."

I still can't decide which "conscience" to believe.

Every day I see her, she looks a little bit better - a little bit more
appealing. I wish I could stop.. I wish there was some way I could just walk
up to her and apologize for putting her through whatever I put her through.
I often wished I could just go up and be friends with her - just friends.
Good friends.

But of course, I know that isn't possible.

I look at her picture every day. I re-read her letters. Often, I go by
her house and just sit in my car.. staring. I KNOW WHO LIVES THERE, I always
think. JILLIAN LIVES THERE. ANDREW'S GIRLFRIEND.

Then I slowly drive away, feeling as if I had just died. Feeling as if
I was an invisible ghost trapped in her house, only able to watch Jillian
live out her life with Andrew. Smiling.. and laughing.. and everything. Over
and over.

I wish I could stop this. I wish I could stop it all. I'm killing myself
inside, I know I am.

God, I loved her. I loved her so much. I get so hysterically depressed
when I see her.. or even when I think about her. The feeling doubles whenever
I see her smiling. I told you about her smile.. her wonderful, never-ending
smile.

Andrew doesn't realize how lucky he is.

But I do. They say time heals all wounds. I've had twelve years, and I'm
still in love with Jillian. I always will be.

And there's nothing I can do to make the pain go away. Nothing at all.

Except..

+:-:+

The doctor looked down at the twisted, bleeding body on the floor. Glazed
eyes, frozen into glass stared up through the ceiling. Three policemen
stood nearby in the background, scribbling unimportant notes down into their
official black notebooks.

"Dead," the doctor announced. "Razored both of his wrists. All the way
up to his elbows. I can tell you right now there's no sense in rushing him
to the hospital."

The policeman glanced down, eyeing the pints and pints of blood which had
spilled onto the carpet.

"We rushed you all the way over here so you could tell me that?" the
policeman groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I know he's dead. And
we know the reason why."

He held up the notebook, which had five or six drops of blood on the cover.

The doctor motioned for his assistants to remove the body on a long, white
stretcher. A plastic cover was placed over his face.

"Get away from here," the policeman hissed. "Now. All of you."

The doctor quickly departed with the other policemen, who were used to
this sort of thing.

The policeman read through the notebook one last time, and coughed lightly.
A tear rolled down his cheek and landed softly on the book. He wiped it away
with the back of his hand. Cops don't cry. Normally.. a routine case such as
suicide didn't affect him this way. But this one was different. This one went
much deeper. But no matter. He had his own life to be thankful for. And he had
someting else to look forward to.

He was going to marry Jillian in three weeks.

Andrew closed the notebook, put it in his coat pocket, and went back
outside.

It looked as if it were going to rain.

+:-:+

"The Experience" - T. A. Farnon (Starry Night) Fri Sep 19 1986 10:00pm

+:-:+

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_ ___ _ the _ _ __ P>rogressive U>nderground
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fintouch.hum100644 0 1 27753 6612147372 11323 0ustar rootbin

(>80 Columns

"Oh, I don't give a damn." - Brett Tossy

There was something about Roger that made people stop and wonder. He
was in his late thirties, attractive, great personality, well-paying job...
all the qualities of the typical "eligible bachelor of the year". Women,
even girls would turn their heads as he walked down the street dressed in
a formal three-piece suit. His eyes were a striking shade of brown. His
smile was contagious - once you saw it, you were almost forced to smile back.
Yes, Roger was definately one-of-a-kind. He had a few hobbies; some usual,
some unusual. He enjoyed coin collecting. Model airplanes was another.
So was making explosives.

"Finishing Touch" - another twistful adventure by Tristan Farnon

Childish mischief. That's what Roger called it. BIG DEAL, he often thought.
SO I MAKE EXPLOSIVES. I LIKE WATCHING THEM GO OFF. SO WHAT. Roger wasn't
crazy. Roger wasn't a demented maniac who ran around terrorizing restaurants
by letting pipe bombs explode in their bathrooms. In fact, he was very
safety-concious while dealing with the things. He had a few rules which he
tried to adhere to. ONLY DETONATE BOMBS WHERE NOTHING CAN BE DESTROYED.
Usually, he chose a large, vacant area or parking lot. Occasionally, he
lit off small bombs in fields...where nothing could be burned or ruined, of
course. NEVER, EVER DETONATE BOMBS IF THERE ARE PEOPLE AROUND. This was
for several reasons. One, he didn't want to hurt or kill somebody...and two,
he really didn't want anybody to know of this bizzare hobby. IT'S QUITE A
CONTRAST FROM COIN COLLECTING, he thought, smiling that perfect smile.

Normally, he came home from work and watched some T.V...or he went out
with his girlfriend...but today he slammed the door quickly and ran excitedly
down to the basement where he constructed his "little toys". He liked to
call them his "little toys". What else could he call them? He ripped the
staple of a closed paper bag labled "GEMCO". A small cannister fell to the
wooden table. He stood it up on its end. It was a can of hair spray. He
smiled at it. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO DO WITH YOU? he asked silently.
He removed the large plastic cap and looked at the spraying nozzle. Pointing
the little arrow away from his body, he pressed down the white button. He
heard the familiar "Pssssssst" sound as the hairspray jetted out. MY GOD,
thought Roger. THIS STUFF SMELLS TERRIBLE. He moved his thumb and looked at
the label. VIDAL SASSOON, HUH? He kept his finger on the button. The white
mist was still pouring out quickly. Roger coughed suddenly and took his
finger off the button.
"This stuff is TERRIBLE!" he yelled to his basement. He looked at the mist
drifting to the floor. He wiped his nose and pressed the button down again.
"Hurry up, hurry up," he mumbled impatiently. "This is going to be fun."

In about ten minutes, two-thirds of the can was empty. OKAY, he thought.
THAT'S GOOD ENOUGH. Gently, he removed the plastic button, exposing a small
red tube which reached the bottom of the can. He put on some gloves, and
opened up a small jar from the side of a slightly-charred wooden bench and
took out some yellow powdery crystals. He poured them through an infinitely
small funnel down into the red tube. When the crystals were gone, he reached
for a small glass bottle filled with a clear chemical. He poured the entire
bottle down the funnel into the can of hairspray. Carefully, he removed
the funnel and replaced the white button. He shook up the can carefully,
tilting it from side to side. CAREFULLY, he thought. CAREFULLY. He put the
can down on the table and looked at it with a bright smile. He turned it
around so the arrow was once again pointing away from him. Closing his eyes,
he pushed the button.

A jet of yellow and orange flames streaked twelve feet across the room
and blackened the far wall of the basement. He opened his eyes upon feeling
the sudden heat. He smiled.
"I've done it!" he yelled happily. "I've made my own flame-thrower!" He
pushed the button again and released it quickly, thus making the flames go
half the distance they did the first time. He laughed. THIS IS GREAT. He
thought of the uses. WHAT USES? he thought. WHAT THE HELL WOULD ANYBODY DO
WITH A FLAMETHROWER? THE ONLY THING I COULD THINK OF WOULD BE--
He stopped short. He had a crazy idea.

NO.

He put the combination hair-spray/flame-thrower back on the table.

COME ON, IT WOULD BE FUNNY!

"Pretty sick sense of humor you've got," he said aloud. ACTUALLY IT WOULD.

He smiled a half-smile. "Yes," he whispered. "It would be funny in a way.
In a sick, disgusting, crazy way it would be hysterical."

THEN DO IT.+x
He looked around the basement. Nothing much. He looked at the hairspray
container sitting on the workbench. He smiled another half-smile.

SURE. WHY NOT.

Roger ran back upstairs with the hairspray and put on his jacket. He went
out to his car and drove calmly back to Gemco. THIS IS INSANE. YES. IT'S
INSANE AND PROBABLY AGAINST THE LAW SOMEHOW...BUT IT'LL BE HYSTERICAL.

r He entered the store and looked around nervously. The hairspray container
was hidden beneath his jacket. He walked slowly about the entire store,
pretending to admire the various merchandise. He soon found himself back at
the cosmetics department. He was alone in the aisle.
Reaching slowly into his coat pocket, he withdrew the hairspray. He smiled
again. He looked it over. It was a bit dirty, so he wiped it on the side
of his jacket. A clerk walked up behind him.
"Can I help you find something?" he said, almost in a demanding voice.
Roger jumped and the hairspray slipped to the ground. Roger froze. He knew
the power of those crystals...if they were jostled enough they could explode.
OH MY GOD - THAT WOULD IGNITE THE OTHER CHEMICAL AND...Roger's heart raced
as the cannister rolled to the foot of the clerk.
"Oh," began Roger. "I'm sorry. I'll put that back." THAT'S WHAT I WAS GOING
TO DO WITH IT ANYWAY, Roger thought to himself.
The clerk looked the cannister over, rolling it back and forth between
his hands. He scanned it for a price tag. "Just a sec," he said to Roger.
"There's no price on this. I'll go check on it." He tossed the cannister up
in the air and caught it.
Roger's breathing rate increased. NO! he wanted to scream. LEAVE THAT THE
HELL ALONE! IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE FOR SOME IDIOT WHO TAKES IT HOME
WITH THEM!! PUT IT BACK, DAMMIT!
The clerk returned, tossing the container up once again. Roger winced.
DON'T DO THAT YOU FOOL, he thought madly. NOT WHILE I'M HERE!
"I think this stuff's about two bucks. Who cares." He shook the can up
and down wildly. "I never use the stuff anyway!"
Roger stared at the hairspray. IT'S GOING TO EXPLODE - IT'S GOING TO KILL
HIM AND ME RIGHT NOW - PUT IT DOWN - JUST LEAVE IT ALONE - GO AWAY...
The clerk put the hairspray down on the shelf and looked at Roger. "Well,
if I can help you with anything else, let me know." He disappeared behind
another aisle. Roger clutched his heart and let out a sigh of relief. He
looked at the hairspray container on the shelf. THANK GOD.

He kept an eye on it from a distance. Some lady was there now. She glanced
over the merchandise on that shelf. TOOTHPASTE, she thought. I NEED SOME
OF THAT. She helped herself. MOISTURIZER, TOO. She picked up a small pink
box.
"Get some hairspray!" smiled Roger. "You need some of that, don't you?"

She continued to eye the products. TOOTHPASTE...MOISTURIZER...SHAMPOO...
ANYTHING ELSE? She turned away and started to leave.

"Hairspray!" whispered Roger to himself. "Don't you want any hairspray?"

As if she heard what he had said, the woman glanced back and said aloud
to herself, "Oh, that's right. Jenny needed some hairspray." She ran her
fingers along the various cans and bottles.

MINE! Roger screamed delightfully to himself. PICK UP MINE! YES! THAT'S IT!
THAT'S THE RIGHT ONE! He laughed and covered his mouth. She picked up the
innocent-looking flamethrower. She dropped it in her cart. Roger winced,
hoping it wouldn't burst right then and there. It didn't.

"Very good," Roger said to himself. "Excellent choice." He walked to the
candy section and bought a Twix bar before leaving the store.

+:-:+

Heather walked into her apartment and turned on the light. Her watch
beeped a loud 8:00. SHUT UP, she told it, and dropped her brown paper bags
onto the kitchen table. I WONDER WHERE MY DEAR ROOMMATE JENNY IS, she
thought sarcastically.
"JENNY!" she screamed. "I'm HOME!"
Jenny walked out of the bathroom drying her hair with a towel.
"You been in the shower?" asked Heather, smiling.
She looked at her and lifted an eyebrow. "No," she laughed. "I fell into
the kitchen sink. Course I was in the shower." She eyed the brown sacks.
"Did you get my--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." droned Heather. "I got your hairspray." She opened
up one of the bags and tossed it to her. Jenny fumbled with it a few seconds
before it banged noisily on the carpet.
"Good catch," smiled Heather.

Jenny put the hairspray on the counter and looked into the mirror. She
turned on the hairdryer and ran her fingers back through her hair. Looking
dreamily into the mirror, she imagined herself driving a fast convertable
down a deserted freeway...
"DAMN THIS STUPID HAIR!" she yelled angrily. "It never stays where I want
it to. Wher+['s my comb?" Jenny picked up a small yellow comb and tried to
style her hair with it.
"Great," she whispered. "Don't move from that spot." She reached over and
picked up the hairspray. "This is perfect. Don't move...don't move..."

She put her finger on the button.

"DAMN!" she shrieked again. "Why the hell don't you stay where I put you?"
She put the hairspray down on the counter and combed her hair with her
fingers this time. She smiled. "Perfect. Don't move."

She picked up the cannister and aimed it to her forehead.

"Jenny!" screamed Heather from behind the closed door. "Telephone!"

Sighing angrily, Jenny put the container back on the counter and stuck her
head out of the door. "Take a message, would you? I'm doing my hair."
Heather reluctantly agreed and went back into the kitchen.

Jenny closed the door and combed her hair with her fingers for the third
time. She ran her hands under some running water and combed her hair again.
"You'd better look good tonight," she said to her reflection. She moved her
arm down slowly and grasped the hairspray cannister. She aimed it toward
her head and pressed the button down, smiling.

The first thing she felt was a sudden gust of heat. She turned her face
towards the nozzle and was smothered by a jet of flames. Screaming, she
dropped the hairspray and it rolled to her feet, refusing to turn off.
It shot a streak of flames up her back and she fell to the bathroom tile.
Her arms flailed out wildly and knocked the cannister to a position where
it could easily destroy her face. She gasped for breath as her neck was
engulfed by fire. Her entire body became a pale white...then a dark, dark
black. The cannister sputtered several times before running out of energy.
Her hair snapped with sparks several times and curled with intense heat.

The doorbell rang, and Heather walked slowly out to answer it. She opened
the door to find a man dressed in a white tuxedo. He held a small bouquet
of red roses.

"Hello," said Roger. "Is Jenny ready yet?" He smiled a perfect smile.

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

"Finishing Touch" - Copyright (C) May 9th 1986 by Tristan Alexander Farnon

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

9:35 pm
(>
(>futurpro.hum100644 0 1 12733 6612147374 11364 0ustar rootbin

..Starry Night Productions..

+:-:+

New Computer Utilities! - Tristan A. Farnon. (July 16-17, 1986)

+:-:+

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's that time again. It's WiLD, it's WACkY,
it's a list of -new products- for your Apple computer.

If you haven't got an Apple, kindly hit [ESC] now. You don't deserve
to be reading this. Go read one of those spiffy [D[C[D[C[D[C files on another
volume. Leave me alone. Nyahh.

Anyway, let's get on with this so we don't waste Precious System Time.

+:-:+

In our BOOK department..

"Common Apple Typos" - $19.95

We've all done it before. Some laugh about it, some cry over it, and some
move to Palo Alto because they've done it. The book is a compilation of
dozens of typos we've all made in the past. Laugh hysterically as you watch
people turn "LIST" into "LIAR", "CATALOG" into "CATLAOG", "BRUN" into "BURN",
and of course, our favorite, "HOME" into "PENIS".

+:-:+

In our SOFTWARE department..

"Noise Maker" - $29.50 (Unlocked! Unprotected! Copy and Distribute At Will!)

New from Beagle Brothers, a disk full of different obscene noises you never
realized your Apple could generate. Sounds range from a plop-in-the-toilet
noise to the sound of the human body getting pushed into a duck pond.

"Shoplifter" - Br0derbund, $39.95

A fast-pace, high-action arcade game. Try to steal as many items as you can
from a simulated shopping mall. Watch out for Officer Bob! Bump head-on into
well-tanned, big-breasted girls for extra points, while avoiding degenerates
wearing bellbottoms.

"Ultima XXVII" - $79.95 (and well worth it, too).

Yes! We actually have this in stock! Believe us! We really do! What.. you
don't trust us or something? It's for real! Would we exaggerate? Come on.

"Outfit Construction Set" - $30.00 (comes in decorative square package).

Perplexed about what to wear with your blue glow-in-the-dark Snoopy and
Woodstock sweater? Well, never again, thanks to this miraculous new software
package from Electronic Arts. With a simple click of the finger icon, you
can be on your way to being socially trendy and acceptable.

"Schedule Organizer" - $95.00 (complete with charts and attractive graphs).

Gosh darn those Penguin programmers! They've really hit the Big Time with
this masterful piece of software ingenutity. Suppose you wake up in the
middle of the night in a cold sweat, realizing that taking a shower and
tending to personal hygiene will REDUCE the number of minutes you can spend
with your computer! Fear not.. with Penguin Software's "Schedule Organizer",
you can eliminate such needless tasks as bathing, clothing changes, and
tedious, menial shaving rituals. In fact, "Schedule Organizer" eradicates
every needless task you do each day in order for you to spend more time
alone with your Apple in your life.

"Build-A-Bomb" - $49.95

First there was GERTRUDE'S SECRETS, then ROCKY'S BOOTS, and now, those
creative programmers from The Learning Center have come out with a sure-fire
hit, "Build-A-Bomb". Realistic in every detail, this do-it-yourself
educational teaching tool will make the youngsters squeal in delight as they
mix-and-match different forms of explosive substances. As a special treat,
the children actually get to see a computer-animated cartoon of an entire
city being demolished according to the power of the bomb they've created.

+:-:+

In our HARDWARE department..

"Spacebar Smacker" - $80.00 (adapter not included).

Sits quietly in the front of your Apple keyboard and holds up to 255
different names or aliases. A simple circular pad link-up to your left
temple measures the slightest degree of anger or frustration. An electro-
chemical impulse is sent down the wire to the Smacker, which taps the
spacebar accordingly. Eliminates those "GET ON WITH THE DAMN MESSAGE, YOU
STUPID NEW USER D00D" feelings.

"Computer Waterproofing Sealant" - $20.00 (3 12oz. jars).

With this useful and practical new gel cream, you can take your entire
Apple computer system right into the shower with you.. without fear of
electrical shock! A quick yet simple coating all over your computer, monitor,
floppy disk drives or 10meg storage units will render them completely
leak-proof. Works great in the swimming pool, too!

"Keyboard Umbrellas" - $15.00 (1 doz. plastic umbrellas).

Tired of accidentally spilling your grape juice down through your precious
Apple keyboard? With these simple KEYBOARD UMBRELLAS, beverages both regular
and alcoholic pour smoothly and efficiently into your lap onto your newly-
cleaned and pressed wool dress pants instead of creating a "sticky situation"
that could prove costly later.

"CONTROL OPEN-APPLE RESET Electro-Covers" - $199.95 (with cables).

Too often, our left pinky, and left and right forefingers slip into the
wrong place at the wrong time and hit CONTROL OPEN-APPLE RESET, which can
result in the loss of valuable data. These three simple electro-lock covers
are directly linked up to the AC/DC current in the nearest wall socket.
Should all three fingers fumble their way around to the fatal RESET keys,
a mild electric shock (of about 3 or 4 hundred volts) will be administered,
alerting the avid computer enthusiast of impending danger.

+:-:+

Well, that's about all of the new products I've heard about.

Personally, I can hardly wait to get my hands on some of those.. can you?

+:-:+

..Tristan A. Farnon - $1.95 (with instructions)

(>imagine.hum100644 0 1 32552 6612147400 11076 0ustar rootbin
(>80 Columns

"Hey! That's a pretty good line!" - Steve Dawson, owner of THE MAGIC TOUCH

+:-:+

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" screamed Adam. His fists pounded madly at
the top of the coffin. "LET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" He felt himself being
lowered down into the earth. He heard a serious of loud "thumps" as shovels
from above piled dirt over the coffin. He kicked the top of the box. THIS
CAN'T BE REAL, he whispered. THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING. IT'S A DREAM. There
was pitch black, but he could still faintly hear the shovels above. He tried
once again to open the coffin. THIS IS INSANE. He screamed loudly. "LET ME
OUT OF HERE! I'M ALIVE!" Nothing. "I'M ALIVE!!" Adam ran his hands slowly
across the sides of the wooden coffin. They were cold. Very cold. He could
feel himself sweating. How could they think he was dead? I WAS SCREAMING AT
THE TOP OF MY LUNGS! They thought he was dead. Everybody did now. NO!! I'M
NOT DEAD! I'M STILL ALIVE! SOMEBODY HELP ME! SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE...

"Adam!" yelled Miss Schroder. "Adam, are you paying attention?"
Adam's mind jumped from inside the dark coffin back to the classroom.
"Oh, sorry. I was just...thinking." he said, opening up his book.

"Imagination" - something different from Tristan Alexander Farnon

HOW EMBARRASING, thought Adam. I'M DAYDREAMING AGAIN. Usually, his thoughts
weren't that graphic. ME? BEING BURIED ALIVE? THAT'S NOT LIKE ME TO THINK
ABOUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT. Normally, he would think the normal teen-age
daydreams. Being at the beach (or at least, away from school)...being seen
driving a nice fast car...HAVING SEX WITH KIMBERLY (but that was a daydream
shared by -all- the boys at his school). Adam turned his head and looked
over at Kimberly. He wasn't surprised to see four other boys staring at her
as well. DISGUSTING SLOBS, he thought. WAIT - I'M DOING THE SAME THING THAT
THEY'RE DOING! DOES THAT MEAN I'M A DISGUSTING SLOB TOO? OF COURSE NOT.

"Oh, Adam..." Kimberly whispered.
"Oh, Kimberly," laughed Adam. He poured her another glass of champagne.
He looked out across the dark ocean. THIS IS NICE, he thought. US...ALONE...
SITTING HERE ALL BY OURSELVES ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT.
"I love you." Kimberly said, lightly touching the rim of her glass.
Adam leaned over and kissed her on her lips and she closed her eyes. She
returned the kiss, putting her glass down and draping an arm around his
shoulder.
"Mmmmmm! Minty, not mediciny!" said Adam, quoting the commercial.
Kimberly slapped him across his face...

He sat up suddenly in his seat and blinked. He looked over towards Kimberly
again. She was still sitting there, highlighting something in her book with
a pink felt-tip pen. Adam looked at the time and groaned. TWENTY MINUTES LEFT
TO GO, he thought. HOW ELSE CAN I AMUSE MYSELF. He glanced at a wall covered
with various posters of famous authors.

A huge crack suddenly appeared in the wall and a gigantic army of gleaming
metal robots burst through and aimed their deadly lasers at the classroom.
The students began screaming...Miss Schroder was clinging to her desk. One of
the robots walked to the front of the room, its yellow eyes piercing through
the hearts of everybody present.
"ADAM TAYLOR. WE HAVE COME FOR YOU." its metallic voice grated.
Sadly, Adam looked at his classmates for the last time. "I'm sorry," he
told them all. "I knew they'd be coming for me sooner or later. You see,
I'm a fugitive from Neptune, and..."

"ADAM TAYLOR!" demanded Miss Schroder again.
He blinked. "Yes?" he replied weakly.
"I've had just about enough of this foolishness."

Adam pulled out a shotgun and blew Miss Schroder against the wall. The
other students looked on, amused. Then they stood up and began to cheer...

"I'm sorry," said Adam. "I'll pay attention."
"Let's hope so." she answered, and turned her back to the board.

He scanned the room. He looked at the door. Detective Crockett kicked in
the door with his foot and it crashed to the floor.
"FREEZE! MIAMI VICE!" he yelled, holding his gun at arm's length...

Adam began to giggle. THAT WAS TOO FUNNY, he thought. The image was
perfect. Don Johnson in his typical "Don Johnson clothing"...the dark
glasses...the stubble on the chin...it was hilarious. He laughed aloud.
Miss Schroder spun around on her heel. "ADAM!" she yelled, and removed the
spectacles from her nose. "I've had it. Go up to the office. Now. I've been
as patient with you as I possibly could be. Go. Now."

A neon-blue laser streaked from Adam's eyes and pierced through Miss
Schroder's chest. She flew back against the board, her clothes turning black
and red. She screamed and crumpled to the ground...

Several students snickered as Adam picked up his backpack and exited the
classroom. He walked slowly up to the office. His eyes scanned the outside
grassy field. He looked up. WHAT THE HELL'S THAT?

He looked up and saw a dark, black sphere. It drifted slowly down to the
earth, growing bigger and bigger. Finally, it landed in the middle of the
grass. It was enormous. Red and green lights encircled it, blinking on and
off. A huge sliding panel lifted from its side and "somebody" from inside
walked slowly out. Adam couldn't take his eyes away from the sphere. The
newcomer walked closer to Adam. He smiled and outstretched his hand. Adam
shook it weakly.
"Hello," said the being. "I'm your replacement."
Adam studied the figure closely. "This is incredible! You look exactly
like...like...ME!"
"Yes," he replied. "I know. Now, if you'll accompany me back to the space
ship, we can both be on our way."
"On our way? Where are we going?" inquired Adam, still overawed by the
floating black sphere.
Adam's look-alike laughed. "No, I don't think you understand. I'm not going
anywhere! You're going back with the others in the ship. I'm supposed to
stay here in your place. That's the way it works, you know."
"But - wait - I don't want to leave! I've got a life -here-!"
"I'm sorry. I've got my orders. Please come with me."
"NO!" demanded Adam. "I'm not going ANYWHERE with you! Just go away...go
look like somebody else and take THEM!"
Sighing, the alien took out a small pistol. "I hate it when you earth
idiots get like this," he said, and fired. He dragged the body into the space
ship and made a sign for the door to be closed...

"Umm, yeah." said Adam, forgetting where he was for the moment. "My
teacher, Miss Schroder, sent me up here."
The secretary lifted her eyebrow and frowned. "Adam, this is the fourth
time this week you've disrupted her class."

Adam sat comfortably in the driver's seat of the tank. He flicked several
switches and grasped hold of the levers. The tank inched forward slowly,
flattening everything in sight. MISS SCHRODER'S CLASSROOM STRAIGHT AHEAD
TWENTY FEET, he thought. CONTACT! The wall collapsed under the force of
the tank. Debris dropped from the ceiling and dust encircled the room. Miss
Schroder's desk was completely dest???wd, papers floating everywhere.
Lifting her head from the ground, she was barely able to speak. The top
of the tank popped open and Adam looked around at the chaos.
"Sorry," he smiled. "Did I disrupt your class?..."

"I said, HAVE A SEAT! Adam, are you listening?"
Adam blinked twice and looked at her. "Yes. I'll...um..just have a seat."
He looked around the office. OOH, thought. A COMPUTER!

The secretary walked over and inserted a disk. Within seconds, there was
a fancy menu on the screen. She studied the choices.
"Hmmm," she mused. "That's interesting. I don't think I've ever seen
THAT choice on the menu before."
Adam looked over from his chair with interest.
She put her finger on the "3" but changed her mind. WONDER WHAT THAT
COMMAND IS FOR, she thought. She pushed the "9" instead.
The secretary screamed as a wave of static electricity passed over her
entire body. Her body writhed in pain and straightened stiffly. Her finger
seemed glued to the keyboard. There was a loud popping noise and Adam saw
a bright blue spark from the back of the computer. She slid out of her chair
and fell coldly on the floor...

"Huh? What?" said Adam, still looking at the blank computer.
"I said, Mr. Riches will see you now!" replied the secretary. HONESTLY,
she thought. THAT KID HAS PROBLEMS.
Adam thanked her sarcastically and walked slowly into Mr. Riches' private
office. He closed the door and looked at his principal, who was busy
opening an envelope with a fancy gold letter opener. Upon seeing Adam, he
put the envelope in his desk and gently put the letter opener back in its
case. He looked sternly at Adam.
"I know, I know," said Adam. "This is the fourth time this week I've been
in here. I'm real sorry. I'm not paying attention again."
Mr. Riches removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How long
have you been going to this school, Adam?" he asked wearily.
"Since my freshman year," replied Adam. "Last year. Why?"
"You seem to have quite a record of office-visits," he remarked. "What
gets into you? About ninety-nine percent of those visits are for daydreaming
or not paying attention."
HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO ANSWER THAT QUESTION? thought Adam. SO I
DAYDREAM! BIG DEAL! He gave a safe answer. "I really don't know."

Mr. Riches got up out of his chair and stood on his desk. He removed his
pants and started dancing crazily...

Adam felt a smile coming on and he quickly slapped his hand over his mouth.
NO, he thought. NOT HERE. DON'T HAVE YOUR CRAZY THOUGHTS HERE. It was
too late. Adam smiled and began to giggle. NO! he told himself. STOP IT!
"Do you find something funny in all this, Adam? I don't. This is serious."
Adam regained composure and became very serious. "I'm sorry. I realize
this is no laughing matter...but I wasn't laughing about that."
"Good. Let's get back to business. You're not going to like what I have
to say, Adam, but I'm going to recommend that you be transferred into the
other class. The "B" class. I think you'll find it much easier."
Adam froze. NO. NOT THE 'B' CLASS. I WON'T BE STUCK IN THE 'B' CLASS...
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE IN THE 'A' CLASS! PLEASE, NO. LEAVE ME ALONE! I'M JUST
FINE! DON'T DO ANYTHING!
"Um," stammered Adam. "I really don't think that's a good idea."
"Trust me on this one," stated Mr. Riches. "I know what I'm doing. I've
been a principal at this school for over twenty years. I get kids like you
in here every year, and all they needed was a slower pace."
Adam winced. A SLOWER PACE. That made him sound like he was mentally
retarded. "I really don't want to be transferred into that class," he said
softly. "I think I can perform a lot better in the 'A' class."
"Look, Adam," began Mr. Riches tiredly. "We'll just try it out for three
or four months, just to see how it works. I hate to sound like the old
knife-in-the-back, but I really think..."
THE OLD KNIFE-IN-THE-BACK? smiled Adam to himself. WHERE THE HELL DOES
THIS GUY COME UP WITH THESE EXPRESSIONS?
"...a lot of my other students felt that such a change..."
Adam tuned out and looked around Mr. Riches' desk.

"Kneel, slave!" said Mr Riches. "You are defeated!" He raised his sword
high in the air while the Roman citizens cheered widly. His foot was
on Adam's chest.
Adam grasped hold of Mr. Riches' ankle and pulled him to the ground. He
rolled over twice and grabbed a sword. "Now we'll see who's the victor!" he
said through gritted teeth. He lunged forward with the knife.
Mr. Riches dodged to the left and swiped Adam's side with the sword.
Blood leaked out slowly and Adam covered it with his hand. His anger
increased as he looked at the audience, laughing and screaming with delight.
Adam laughed. "You pathetic bastard," he said defiantly.
Mr. Riches threw down his sword and ran towards Adam with his bare hands.
His fists locked around Adam's neck as the crowd screamed with joy. Adam
gripped his knife with his hand and rammed it through Mr. Riches' stomach.
His eyes opened suddenly and he fell back on the dirt. Adam continued to
stab him through the chest. Blood covered his hands. The crowd cheered
and he stood up smiling. "I HAVE WON!" he screamed...

Adam blinked twice. He looked around Mr. Riches' office. Instinctively,
he looked at him and said, "What? Could you repeat that?"
He froze and looked at his principal. His blue shirt was stained red.
At first, it looked like ketchup, or jelly...but the glassy stare of Mr
Riches confirmed that it was blood. Real blood. All over his shirt. Some
light patches, some dark patches.
Adam's heart raced. He clenched his fists, only to find that he was holding
something. He lifted his arm, not breaking eye contact with his principal,
who wasn't moving or breathing...just sitting there. He opened his
fist and gaped at it with horror.

He was clutching the shiny gold letter opener, now dripping red.

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

"Imagination" - Copyright (c) May 11th 1986 by Tristan Alexander Farnon

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

(>index.html100644 0 1 5103 6703607607 10732 0ustar rootbin<HTML>
<TITLE>T E X T F I L E S</TITLE>
<BODY BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#00FF00" LINK="#00FF00" ALINK="#00FF00" VLINK="#00FF00">
<H1>Stories: TRISTAN FARNON</H1>
<P>
<P>
<TABLE WIDTH=100%>
<TD BGCOLOR=#00FF00><FONT COLOR=#000000><B>Filename</B></FONT>
<TD BGCOLOR=#00DD00><FONT COLOR=#000000><B>Size</B></FONT>
<TD BGCOLOR=#00AA00><FONT COLOR=#000000><B>Description of the Textfile</B></TR>

<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="accident.hum">accident.hum</A><TD>10559<TD> Accident, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="afteryou.hum">afteryou.hum</A><TD>7769<TD> After You, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="aniversa.hum">aniversa.hum</A><TD>10051<TD> Anniversary, a story by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="closet.hum">closet.hum</A><TD>11120<TD> The Closet, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="excuses.hum">excuses.hum</A><TD>3524<TD> International Excuses<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="experien.hum">experien.hum</A><TD>18031<TD> The Experience, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="fintouch.hum">fintouch.hum</A><TD>12267<TD> Finishing Touch, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="futurpro.hum">futurpro.hum</A><TD>5595<TD> New Computer Utilities, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="imagine.hum">imagine.hum</A><TD>13674<TD> Imagination: A Story by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="inthedar.hum">inthedar.hum</A><TD>7602<TD> In the Dark, by Tristan Farn0n<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="listenin.hum">listenin.hum</A><TD>3437<TD> <TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="offguar.fun">offguar.fun</A><TD>3001<TD> <TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="offguard.hum">offguard.hum</A><TD>3765<TD> <TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="pressed.hum">pressed.hum</A><TD>8626<TD> <TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="transfer.hum">transfer.hum</A><TD>12000<TD> <TR VALIGN=TOP><TD ALIGN=TOP><A HREF="whatslef.hum">whatslef.hum</A><TD>8305<TD> What's Left? Tristan Farn0n parody</TABLE><P><TABLE WIDTH=100%><TR><TD ALIGN=RIGHT><SMALL>There are 16 files for a total of 139,326 bytes.</SMALL></TABLE><P>
<B>Note on this directory:</B> I am <I>very</I> aware there are a lot
of doubled files, and files desperately needing some editing. When I
have personally verified which of two files is the more complete, I
will make it the "canonical" version. Currently, I am just trying to
compile a rough, "version 1.0" version of my textfile collection,
with as little lost data as possible; this will be refined in the near
future. Volunteers are always welcome.

</BODY>
</HTML>
inthedar.hum100644 0 1 16662 6612147401 11270 0ustar rootbinTristan Farnon presents...

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
| In the Dark |
+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+ ...another twisful adventure!

Ellen sat stunned on the sofa, reading the headlines of the morning paper.
She couldn't believe it. Last night...just a few houses away...one of her
neighbors had been viciously murdered. Nine knife wounds in her chest. No
trace of a suspect. The entire house had been roped off by the police to
prevent any newspaper reporters from wandering around, looking for a story.
There would be none of that this time.

"Did you hear about what happened?" asked Ellen to her friend at school.

"Yeah...that Peterson lady. What exactly happened?"

"Somebody killed her at night. With a knife...there were NINE stab wounds."

"What if he comes back? What if he decides to kill someone else? Like ME?"

"Who'd want to kill you? What have you done?"

"Well...once I stole some M & M's from 7-11, but that's it."

"Oh, gosh," laughed Ellen. "Guess we'd better send out the National Guard!"

Throughout the day, however, Ellen found it very difficult to concentrate on
her schoolwork. She thought about Mrs. Peterson, and her husband, who had
cried and cursed for hours on end, swearing to God that he would find the man
who had done this terrible thing. Then, her thoughts moved to the police.
Maybe she could help them in her search...maybe she could find the man herself.
Maybe there would be a REWARD! The reward, however, was the last thing on her
mind.

"ELLEN!" demanded a voice.

Ellen turned away from the window and looked hazily towards the front of the
classroom. CLASSROOM? IS THAT WHERE I AM? OH, THAT'S RIGHT...

"Ellen, now that we have your attention...please open your book!"

"Oh. Right. Sorry." mumbled Ellen to herself, but the other kids laughed,
and she smiled back at them faintly.

Back at home, she found herself thinking about what her friend had said...
something like "What if he decides to kill agagin?". Just to be safe, she
locked the doors and windows of her house. Then, she didn't know what happened.
She lost her appetite. She couldn't eat a bite of dinner. She was scared to go
into a dark room, but knowing full well her fear was childish. The evening went
by slowly, and then it was night. She was alone in her bedroom...still thinking
about 'the killer', referring to him only as that. Quietly, though, her eyes
began to get heavy...she was getting closer and closer to sleep...WHAT WAS THAT?

Her eyes opened wide, but she remained under the covers. WHAT WAS THAT, she
thought. THERE'S SOMEONE OUTSIDE MY WINDOW! OH, GOD...OH GOD...OH GOD...NO.
IT'S MY IMAGINATION, IT HAS TO BE.

She heard a slight click, and heard the window slide wide open. NO! she
thought madly. WHO IS THAT? IT'S THE KILLER. IT HAS TO BE. MY GOD, HE'S
COMING AFTER ME. WHY?? WHY??

Through her slightly open eyes, she saw a figure walking stealthily around in
her room, picking up things in the dark and putting them down. By this time,
Ellen couldn't have moved, even if she had to.

PLEASE GO AWAY...PLEASE GO AWAY...PLEASE GO AWAY. OH MY GOD...GO AWAY!! GO
AWAY!!

The figure slowly advance towards her bed. Ellen snapped her eyes shut. OH
NO...DID HE SEE ME? DID HE SEE ME SHUT MY EYES? HE KNOWS...HE KNOWS I'M NOT
ASLEEP. HE KNOWS I'M NOT ASLEEP. GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! PLEASE! JUST GO
AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE!

The man looked at her as if to say, 'is she asleep?'. He reached a hand out
towards her face...and she felt the presence of his hand. She braced herself,
as he touched hrr forehead, then her eyes. LEAVE ME ALONE! His hand moved down
to her chin. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? GET OUT!

She felt the man move away from her bed, and she opened her eyes slightly.
The minute she did it, she knew she had made a mistake. He was looking directly
at her. She tried to keep her terrified breathing under control, moving only
her stomach slightly. HE SEES ME. HE KNOWS I'M NOT ASLEEP. WHAT DO I DO??
She felt as though he could hear her screaming in her mind. HE'S GOING TO KILL
ME!! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME NOW! DAD!!! DAD!!! I NEED YOU NOW!! DAD COME
HERE!! HELP ME, DAD!!! PLEASE!! The man spun his head around as if he heard
something. WAIT A MINUTE...MAYBE HE DIDN'T SEE ME. Just to be safe, though,
the figure took out a concealed knife. THIS IS IT cried Ellen. HE'S GOING TO
KILL ME NOW. She imagined him sitting on the side of the bed, brushing the hair
out of her face. She saw him taking the knife and ramming it into her chest and
stomach again and again.

Ellen wished for a miracle. She wished her father would get up out of bed and
storm into the room, grabbing the knife out of his hand and knocking him
unconcious. She would then leap, crying on his shoulder.

She felt him sit down quietly on the side of her bed. NO!! she thought. YOU
CAN'T KILL ME!! She thought of the knife. Would it be a slow, painful death?
Or would she die quickly. She tried not to move her eyelids, yet kept a watch
on her assailant. THIS IS IT, she sobbed silently. I'M GOING TO DIE NOW. She
looked closer at the knife. It raised slowly up into the air.

It flew downward. Unable to control herself, Ellen let out a long, painful
scream. She screamed again, and again. Her assailant, completely unexpecting
this approach, grabbed the knife and scrambled out the window. Her mother and
father came running down the hall, only to find their daughter almost dead.

"The knife wound," said the doctor, "is not as bad as it looks."

"Yes, but WILL OUR DAUGHTER SURVIVE?" interrupted her mother.

"There's a chance. A very slight chance...but she'll have to stay here
overnight so that we can operate."

"Yes. Yes of course she will." said her father.

Ellen, heavily sedated looked around her dimly lit hospital room. It was
pleasant, she thought. She was still in shock, but somehow remained calm after
the ordeal. She looked at the lions painted on the wall, and the multi colored
flowers. WAIT - froze Ellen. WHAT WAS THAT? Her eyes froze at the door. The
knob turned slowly. HE FOUND ME, thought Ellen, paralyzed. HE FOUND ME AND
HE'S GOING TO KILL ME NOW!!

"HELP!!" screamed Ellen, but it came out a whisper due to her sedation. Her
fear, though, turned to laughter when she saw the doc.

"Help? With what? Any problems?" worried the doctor.

"No...everything's fine. For a moment, there, I thought..."

"Never mind what you thought," interrupted the doctor. "It's time for you to
go back to sleep. You're a very lucky girl."

"Thank you," said Ellen dreamily.

"A very lucky girl."

"Thank you," said Ellen, half asleep. THIS SEDATION STUFF REALLY WORKS!

"Good night, Ellen."

"G'night doc..." whispered Ellen.

The doctor looked at her exhausted face. What an ordeal she had faced, he
thought. Imagine what TERROR must have been going through her head, looking
straight up at her killer! He shuddered at the thought.

He reached for a scalpel. "At least this time her parents aren't around."

Now, he could finish the job.

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
"In the Dark" - Copyright (C) February 13th 1986 - by Tristan Farnon
+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
Call The Works BBS - 1600+ Textfiles! - [914]/238-8195 - 300/1200 - Always Open
listenin.hum100644 0 1 6555 6612147406 11304 0ustar rootbin
"I didn't do it on purpose--it said flush TWICE!" - An unknown cafeteria cook

+:-:+

..Starry Night Productions.. "Listen In" by Tristan A. Farnon..

+:-:+

"Isn't the sky lovely tonight," she told. "I just love coming out here
by the stars and sitting and watching the moon slowly move through the sky.."
She faded off.

LIAR, thought Dave. YOU SICKENING LIAR.

"I really enjoy coming out here when its raining," she told, he looking
across the lake from their rest under a tree. "It's just so sad--when the
rain hits the water. You think of how the water is so peaceful, serene, and
then the rain comes along and.." She faded off again, with a sigh.

ALL LIES, thought Dave. YOU CAN NEVER TELL ME THE TRUTH, CAN YOU?

"It makes it all worthwhile," she whispered, "when I'm sitting here with
you; we're together, on nights like this--that I like so much.."

Dave cringed.. SHE ACTS SO WELL.

"Dave, I can't think of a better place to be, or with a better person,"
she sighed out, with long breaths.

Dave just sat there. NO, SHE THINKS SHE HAS ME. SHE THINKS I'M IN HER
MALICIOUS POWER. NO, I'M GOING TO SHOW HER. I'M GOING TO PROVE THAT I'M NOT
HER DUMMY TO BE THROWING AROUND AT HER CONVENIENCE.

She sighed as he sat motionless, his back against the tree. "Doesn't it
get to you, Dave? Just how lovely it really can be? It just fills you all
over with just a subtle sorrowness, doesn't it?" she trailed off, never one to
stop mumbling to herself.

DEATHLY LOVELY, he thought. IT'S JUST SO LOVELY, I CAN'T STAND IT. Dave
skeptically told himself. But he was going to hold out.

"Dave, tell me how you feel--" she continued. "Tell me what it feels
like to you to be here. I've been here so many times, and.."

Dave trembled. WHY WON'T SHE JUST SHUT UP!

"And, well, I guess it's just that.."

Dave pounded his fists on the ground. WHY DOESN'T SHE JUST LET IT DROP?
He yelled to himself.

"Well, it's just that I'll be here so many more times, and each time
I want you to be with me..and.."

"NO!" yelled Dave, and stood up with a jerk. "I can't STAND IT
ANYMORE!" he picked up the tape recorder, and frantically flustered with it
but couldn't get the stupid tape to eject.

"Well, I love you so much..." It played.

Dave screamed with sheer terror and flung the tape machine out onto the
lake. It bubbled a bit, and sunk, but not without playing a second or two
more..

"I wanted to remember this forever, so I could listen to this moment
again and again, so..." It sizzled.

Dave flung himself to the ground. "She always gets the last word," Dave
scolded himself. EVEN IN DEATH.

+:-:+

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
_ ___ _ the _ _ __ P>rogressive U>nderground
And as this textfile | ||__ \ | | | | | ||_ \ D>issidents
rolls off the screen, | | __) )| | | | | | \ \ 3 1 3 - 4 3 3 - 3 1 6 4
you realize instantly | ||___/ | | | | | | ) ) 300/1200 Baud
the place to get more | | | |___| | | | _/ / 20 Megs of TextFiles
like it.. |_| \_____/ |_||__/ SysOp: Mr. Pez
offguar.fun100644 0 1 5671 6612147146 11106 0ustar rootbin80 Columns
Tristan Farnon Presents...

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
| Off Guard |
+:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

"Day pass, please." said the old man.

"Yeah. Here." replied the bus driver. He was clearly bored with this awful,
tedious job. Always meeting weird people. Why is it that the weirdos always
carry the big suitcases? He sipped his Pepsi Free.

The man walked back to the end of the bus, where he dropped his heavy
suitcases down with a crash, and slumped into the uncomfortable seat. He looked
around at everybody else's back.

"Is that yours?" a voice said.

"What? Huh?" He seemed anxious at the question. Then, he realized what was
asked. "The newspaper? No. Here ya go..."

"Thanks. My name's Sam. What's yours?"

"Dave. Harris." he seemed nervous. It wasn't everyday that he met a man with
such...such...'boldness'? No, that wasn't the word.

"Listen to this," said Sam. "just yesterday a County Transit bus JUST LIKE
THIS ONE burst into flames for no reason! Doesn't that just freak you out? You
or me coulda been on it!"

Not interested, Dave made a "Mmmm" type noise and looked out the window.

"And listen here," he continued, scanning the column.

"DO YOU MIND?" interrupted Dave. "I'm sorry for raising my voice, but I'm
kinda...well, thinking about something. It's been annoying me all day. See, I
have to make a choice about something. Something personally fulfilling for me.
And I don't know if I should do it or not."

"What is it?" smiled Sam.

"Never mind WHAT it is...it's nothing I can really describe...Even if I wanted
to, I couldn't."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, you can do whatever you like! I mean, I don't
know you very well, anyway."

"Thanks. You're a big help," lauged Dave.

Smiling, Sam said "Don't mention it. Where are you going, anywa--"

"Oh no! This is my stop!" interrupted Dave. "Nice meeting you!"

"See ya later, Dave," replied Sam, as Dave gathered up his belongings.

He lumbered off the bus through the back doors. The bus took off slowly but
steadily.

Putting down the newspaper, Sam looked down at the floor. Oh, great. Dave
forgot a suitcase. Way to go, Dave!

"Maybe there's some ID in there somewhere," thought Sam. He bent over to pick
it up. Surprisingly light for the size of it. He snapped open the left latch,
then the right. It opened up easily in his lap.

Then he froze.

"My god...STOP THE BUS!" he screamed. "STOP THE B---"

Dave Harris smiled quietly to himself. He took the battery out of the remote
control detonator and slipped it into his pocket. He reached for his notebook
and made a second tally mark. He felt 'personally fulfilled'.

...and "they" called him UNSTABLE.

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
"Off Guard" - Copyright (C) January 14 1986 by Tristan Farnon
+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
offguard.hum100644 0 1 7265 6612147420 11247 0ustar rootbin
This is the first file I ever wrote and uploaded to this (or any) AE.
Since nobody can ever remember the name of it (including myself sometimes),
just call it "The Bus One".

Everybody else does.

80 Columns

Tristan Farnon Presents...

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:+
| Off Guard |
+:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

"Day pass, please." said the old man.
"Yeah. Here." replied the bus driver. He was clearly bored with this
awful, tedious job. Always meeting weird people. Why is it that the
weirdos always carry the big suitcases? He sipped his Pepsi Free.
The man walked back to the end of the bus, where he dropped his heavy
suitcases down with a crash, and slumped into the uncomfortable seat. He
looked around at everybody else's back.
"Is that yours?" a voice said.
"What? Huh?" He seemed anxious at the question. Then, he realized what
was asked. "The newspaper? No. Here ya go..."
"Thanks. My name's Sam. What's yours?"
"Dave. Harris." he seemed nervous. It wasn't everyday that he met a man
with such...such...'boldness'? No, that wasn't the word.
"Listen to this," said Sam. "just yesterday a County Transit bus JUST
LIKE THIS ONE burst into flames for no reason! Doesn't that just freak you
out? You or me coulda been on it!"
Not interested, Dave made a "Mmmm" type noise and looked out the window.
"And listen here," he continued, scanning the column.
"DO YOU MIND?" interrupted Dave. "I'm sorry for raising my voice, but I'm
kinda...well, thinking about something. It's been annoying me all day.
See, I have to make a choice about something. Something personally
fulfilling for me. And I don't know if I should do it or not."
"What is it?" smiled Sam.
"Never mind WHAT it is...it's nothing I can really describe...Even if I
wanted to, I couldn't."
"Well, as far as I'm concerned, you can do whatever you like! I mean, I
don't know you very well, anyway."
"Thanks. You're a big help," lauged Dave.
Smiling, Sam said "Don't mention it. Where are you going, anywa--"
"Oh no! This is my stop!" interrupted Dave. "Nice meeting you!"
"See ya later, Dave," replied Sam, as Dave gathered up his belongings.
He lumbered off the bus through the back doors. The bus took off slowly but
steadily.
Putting down the newspaper, Sam looked down at the floor. Oh, great. Dave
forgot a suitcase. Way to go, Dave!
"Maybe there's some ID in there somewhere," thought Sam. He bent over to
pick it up. Surprisingly light for the size of it. He snapped open the left
latch, then the right. It opened up easily in his lap.

Then he froze.

"My god...STOP THE BUS!" he screamed. "STOP THE B---"

Dave Harris smiled quietly to himself. He took the battery out of the
remote control detonator and slipped it into his pocket. He reached for his
notebook and made a second tally mark. He felt 'personally fulfilled'.

...and "they" called him UNSTABLE.

+:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:+

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
_ ___ _ the _ _ __ P>rogressive U>nderground
And as this textfile | ||__ \ | | | | | ||_ \ D>issidents
rolls off the screen, | | __) )| | | | | | \ \ 3 1 3 - 4 3 3 - 3 1 6 4
you realize instantly | ||___/ | | | | | | ) ) 300/1200 Baud
the place to get more | | | |___| | | | _/ / 20 Megs of TextFiles
like it.. |_| \_____/ |_||__/ SysOp: Mr. Pez
pressed.hum100644 0 1 20662 6612147425 11140 0ustar rootbin?80 Columns

"Pressed for Time" - Another twistful adventure by Tristan Farnon.

Stephen Rodgers was in a hurry. A very big hurry.

He popped the locks open on his briefcase and eyed the papers inside. This
was a very important account. His promotion hinged on the work he would
accomplish today, discussing the contracts with "these people". WHAT IF I DON'T
GET THIS ACCOUNT? WHAT IF I FAIL? He cringed, gritting his teeth and slamming
his briefcase closed. He wouldn't fail. He wouldn't let himself down like
that. He couldn't. He looked in the mirror. A dark suit. That was always
impressive. He nicknamed it his 'lucky suit'. He brushed off a small white
thread hanging on the shoulder, and went downstairs, tightening his bright red
tie.

"Morning!" his wife Melanie greeted him. She knew about today too.

Stephen muttered what was meant to be a pleasant greeting.

"Ready for work?" she smiled.

"You bet," he said and grabbed a danish. "I've got to run. Jesus Christ,
look at the time." His watch said 8:45. "Dammit, that meeting's at 9:45. How
the..." he broke off, deciding that it served no purpose to talk to himself.

"Knock 'em dead," grinned Melanie, and she kissed him on the cheek as he ran
out the door. He brushed off his dark suit, and got into the car.

Mile after mile he drove. He hated this part of the state. That's the
trouble with California. All this desert. He looked out across the empty
plains. Nothing...although this desolate scene wasn't unusual. He had seen it
twice every day for the past eight years, driving to and from work. Although,
he admitted to himself, the second time each day it was dark out. Today,
though, it wasn't dark. It was incredibly bright for early morning. It was
also incredibly humid...

He broke off his train of thought. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU HAVEN'T GOT TIME
TO THINK ABOUT THE =WEATHER=, YOU'VE GOT A MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR ACCOUNT TO WORRY
ABOUT! He smiled. His digital watch beeped, to his dismay. 9:00.

DAMN! he yelled aloud to nobody. He slammed on the speed. Forty-five
minutes, and he wasn't even halfway there yet. DAMN THIS SUN! He put on a pair
of sunglasses. That's better. It did nothing for the heat though. He began to
feel the all-too-familiar sticky feeling all over his shirt. Keeping one hand
on the wheel, he took off his suit coat. His silver shirt was wet. DAMN, he
thought again. Then...the car stopped.

"NO!" he screamed. "You can't do this to me now. You CAN'T!" he looked at
the gas gauge. EMPTY. That wasn't like this car at all - normally, he? could
drive for miles on an 'empty' tank. DAMN! DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN!

He got out of the car and looked around. It was even more humid outside the
car than in. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his face, but it was a
combination of heat and frustration. He scanned the flat area for miles on
end...nothing. He looked hopelessly down the road. WAIT! WHAT'S THAT? He
squinted into the burning sun. YES! I REMEMBER THAT! IT'S THAT GAS STATION!

It was a desparate attempt. he looked at his watch. 9:07. Damn. Opening
the trunk of his car, he took out an empty gas can. THANK GOD MELANIE ALWAYS
TOLD ME TO KEEP ONE OF THESE THINGS IN HERE, he smiled. 9:08.

He ran quickly towards the station. DAMN THIS HEAT, he cried. He unbuttoned
his shirt all the way and rolled up his sleeves. It was very, very unbusiness
like, but he didn't care. A thought passed through his mind...after work, he
would sit at home telling Melanie how frustrated he was when the car stopped.
The gas station seemed miles away. He wiped his forehead, and found it dripping
wet. He looked into the sun, thinking about all those scenes he had seen in
movies where they showed the brightness of the sun again and again...and
again...AND AGAIN, he screamed aloud, the anger building inside him. He ran as
fast as he could towards the station. He thought of the account. Crazily, he
thought FUCK THE ACCOUNT, but he winced after he said it. Almost
there...almost. A truck drove past.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Stop for a sec!"

There were at least six teenagers in the back of the pickup truck. They
laughed aloud. They knew...they saw the car several miles back. They had been
making up stories about 'a guy who ran out of gas'. They leaned back
hysterically upon seeing him with the gas can. They sped off down the road and
did a U-turn...passing right by him again.

"No!" he yelled after them. "Wait for me!" No use.

He collapsed on the dusty ground. He got up slowly, realizing how silly he
must have looked. He was there. I'M HERE! He looked around for an attendant.
A? fat man wearing overalls walked slowly out carrying a polished shotgun. He
smiled.

"What can I do for ya, stranger?" he smiled.

Stephen, now dripping wet, replied through bursts of sighs, "My..car... it
broke down...about four miles from here...need gas..." He glanced down at his
watch as he lifted the gas can. 9:25. DAMN.

"Got any money?" the attendant spoke, putting the shotgun down atop a small
wooden barrel.

Stephen reached for his wallet. Nothing. Panic shot across his face as he
hurredly patted his remaing pockets. "Damn...I haven't got my wallet." He tried
to sound jokingly casual, as if they had been friends for years.

"Sorry," the man said. "No money, no gas."

Stephen's rage increased. He felt another trickle of sweat drip down his
face?. He thought of the kids in the truck. "Please. You don't understand.
I'm in a very, very big hurry. If you give me the gas, I promise I'll come
RIGHT back and pay you - and give you a $20 tip. How does that sound?"

"No thanks," the attendant said. "There's another station about three miles
down the road that way you might try. I know the guy. He might let you do
that...but not me. I'm poor as it is."

Stephen looked with disgust at the fat attendant. He was grinning an
obnoxious grin. His overalls made him look SO DAMN IGNORANT. He looked at the
shotgun sitting on the barrel. Should he...? He looked at his watch. It was
exactly 9:30. Fifteen minutes. He had to. There was no other choice. He
thought of the promotion...he thought of the money. The money. A?nd he thought
of Melanie. As if in a dream, he picked up the shotgun.

"Hey," yelled the attendant. "What the hell are you doing with that? Be
careful! That thing's loaded! Hey--wha--"

Crazily, Stephen thought 'Make my day' and he pulled the trigger. The bullet
shot through the air and skimmed through the attendant's neck. Blood spilt
everywhere, as he collapsed to the ground, grasping his throat.

"Okay," thought Stephen. "So I've killed him." He dropped the shotgun at his
feet. The killing was easily forgotten - he thought about saying, "No, he was
dead when I got here" to any questioning policeman. But there was nobody
around. He went to a tank and silently filled up his container. Some spilled
on the ground. BIG DEAL, he thought. He looked at the dead body on the dirt.
Blood was still dripping. He wiped his forehead once again, and ran back as
quickly as he could towards his car. He glanced at his wrist. 9:38. He could
still make it. He could make that meeting. Time suddenly meant nothing to him.
He saw his car. He ran quickly towards it, carrying the gasoline. He was
getting closer. Closer...twenty feet...ten...

He stopped. He looked up at the sun. It was still burning as brightly as it
ever had. He saw his car. The front and back windows were smashed. The
fenders were broken and lying on the cement. He dropped the gas can in horror.
He looked at the four empty spaces where his tires used to be.

Off in the distance, he saw the rusty pickup truck, and heard hysterical
laughter. He fell to his knees, looking out across the empty desert.

His watch beeped 9:45.

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transfer.hum100644 0 1 27340 6612147451 11316 0ustar rootbin
80 Columns

"uh.. I don't know what to say." - Marilyn Monroe

Jeffery Higgins looked in the mirror and ran his fingers through his
hair. He smiled, YOU LOOK MARVELOUS. Jeff was a junior at Peterson High
School. Looking around, he grabbed his backpack and went downstairs.
His parents weren't up yet, so he grabbed a box of cereal and poured them
into a glass bowl. Eating and reading the back of the box at the same time,
he didn't hear the footsteps walking down the stairs. He looked up, and saw
two complete strangers. He swallowed.
"Oh," he blurted. "I'm sorry. I don't think we've met. Are you friends of
my parents?" He stood up out of his chair and extended his hand.
"Don't be silly, Jeffery!" said the lady. "WE'RE your parents!"

"Transference" - A Twilight-Zonish story by Tristan Farnon

He looked blankly at them, as if he hadn't quite heard what she said.
"What?" he laughed nervously. For a moment, a brief moment, he thought...
The man looked down at him. "Better hurry up, son, or you'll be late
for school. I'm late for work as it is."
"Son?" Jeffery sat down weakly. WHAT'S THE DEAL HERE?
"Yes...SON. You -are- my son, aren't you?" laughed the man.
Jeffery remained silent. He was confused...very confused. A girl bounced
happily down the stairs.
"Hi, mommy! Hi, daddy!" she said sweetly. Then she looked over at Jeff.
"Hi, Jeff." she said reluctantly.
"Who are you?" whispered Jeff.
"Sara!" replied Sara. "Don't you even KNOW? You're so dumb."
Jeff felt something twinge inside of him. He got up and looked at the
three strangers in the kitchen. "All right," he said. "I don't know what
the deal is here, but I want to know who all of you are. NOW."
The young woman looked strangely at Jeff. "Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm just FINE, I don't know what you're all trying to achieve here.
Where's my mom and dad? Where's Sara?" He glanced at the little girl sitting
across from him. "The -real- Sara," he added.
"Jeff, you're not funny. I'm beginning to worry a little," said the man.
Sara looked up at Jeff. "You're weird."
Jeff, ignoring this comment, ran upstairs and threw open his parents'
bedroom door. PICTURES, he thought. I CAN SHOW THEM PICTURES. He looked at
the wall. He grabbed a framed photograph and fell to the bed in disbelief.
He was in the photo...so was that little girl downstairs. Those two people
were in it too. As if they had been a family for years. He threw the picture
down on the dresser, shattering the glass. He ran downstairs.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" he screamed at them.
They looked blankly at each other.
"We're having breakfast, dumbbell," Sara replied honestly.
Jeff grabbed his coat. He had to get out of here. This was too scary. He
felt a chill run down his spine. Taking one last look at them, he closed
his eyes and slammed the door as hard as he could.

He locked his bike into the racks and walked blindly to his locker. The
events of the morning were a complete blur. On television, somebody usually
asked, "Are you sure you didn't IMAGINE it all?" What a stupid question. I'M
SEVENTEEN. I OUGHT TO KNOW WHEN I'M IMAGINING THINGS.
"Jeff!" a voice behind him said.
He turned around, trying to identify the voice. A completely foreign face
smiled in his. "Hiya! Look, did you finish your Chemistry? I need the answer
to problems seven and eight..."
Jeff said nothing. Who was this guy?
"Hey - are you all right?"
"I'm fine," choked Jeff. "...who are you?" He blinked twice quickly.
"Who -am- I? Rob, remember? Maybe you'd better sit down!" he laughed.
The school was the same. The buildings were the same. Jeff even recognized
the pink shirt which "Rob" was wearing. But it wasn't Rob. He scanned the
area nervously. He could not identify one single individual. There were
several strange adults walking around. TEACHERS, deduced Jeff to himself.
THEY MUST BE. WHAT THE HELL--
The bell rang. Rob glanced at his watch and looked up at Jeff. "You okay?"
"No. No, I'm not OKAY. In fact, I'm damn SCARED."

He sat in the classroom, dumbfounded. He couldn't recognize a soul. The
classroom hadn't changed a bit. He moved his eyes over to a girl sitting
across from him. She was attractive, but he was too pre-occupied to care.
"What's your name?" he asked, suddenly realizing HER point of view. SHE'S
GOING TO THINK I'M CRAZY.
Her voice raised an octave as she smiled. "Leslie!"
LESLIE. OF COURSE. SHE'S SITTING WHERE...WELL, WHERE THE =REAL= LESLIE
WOULD BE SITTING. Actually, he thought, he much preferred -this- Leslie
to the other one. WHAT AM I THINKING? She turned back to her desk, still
grinning slightly, thinking "What's with Jeff today?"
Weakly, Jeff raised his hand. A completely different voice answered the
familiar question, "Can I go to the bathroom?". Jeff was slightly taken
aback by the new voice of his Chemistry teacher...but made no mention of it.
He walked slowly down the hallway. A tear. NO! I CAN'T CRY! I HAVEN'T
CRIED FOR MONTHS! He clenched his fists. WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?! Another
tear. He looked at his shirt. It was slightly dirty, but again - he didn't
care. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he stopped to lean his head back
against the lockers. I'M A =JUNIOR=. JUNIORS DON'T GET EMOTIONAL. His
mind flashed by him quickly. He got up. He saw two strange people. He saw
his sister. NO. THAT'S NOT MY SISTER. WHERE'S MY SISTER? He went to school,
and met people he didn't know. He slammed the locker with his clenched fist.
Hard. Then again. He walked slowly into the boy's restroom. He looked up
at the sign. MEN. For some reason, he gave a short laugh and went inside.
He looked at his shirt in the mirror. His eyes followed up the shirt in
the mirror to his face. His eyes locked with two completely different ones.

He screamed and looked behind him. Nobody. His eyes riveted back to the
mirror. It was him. He reached up and felt his face. It felt exactly the
same. His eyes were blue now...his hair was brown. Relatively clear
complexion. He felt over his forehead and through his hair, which was now
parted on the left side. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them.
WHO THE HELL AM I? He asked himself again, WHAT'S GOING ON? He punched the
mirror with his fist, breaking nothing but his knuckles. He grabbed his
bleeding hand and wiped it on his shirt. He collapsed on the cold floor.
WHAT'S GOING ON...WHAT'S GOING ON...WHAT'S GOING ON...WHAT'S GOING ON?
He woke up several hours later, in the nurse's office.

"Look, son. We just want to know who you are," interrupted Jay Harvey,
principal of Peterson High School.
"I'M JEFFERY HIGGINS!" screamed Jeff. "LOOK AT ME--" he stopped. He closed
his eyes desparingly and whispered "Oh yeah."
"Where do you live? We have to get in touch with your parents. You don't
belong on our school grounds without permission."
"I go to school HERE, Mr. Harvey! My name's Jeff Higgins...I'm supposed
to be in Chemistry right now--" then he broke off. MR. HARVEY, he thought.
THAT'S THE REAL MR. HARVEY! "Wait - you're Mr. Harvey! The =REAL= Mr.
Harvey!" Jeff smiled.
"Yes, very good." responded Harvey coldly. "And it's lunchtime right now."
LUNCHTIME? CHRIST. He looked outside, and saw Rob. ROB! THE REAL ROB! He
knew he was going to make a habit of referring to people as their 'real'
self for quite a while.
"Rob!" he screamed. Then, to Harvey he said, "Look - I -know- you don't
talk with me very often...if ever...but Rob's my best friend. He can
explain everything."
Rob, hearing his name called, entered the office and looked at Mr. Harvey.
"Yeah? What'd I do this time?" he complained in an irritating tone.
"Rob," interrupted Jeff. "You gotta tell him who I am."
"Who you ARE? How the heck should I know?"
Jeff froze. "WHAT?" he screamed.
"Hey - look - don't yell at me! Have we met before?"
Mr. Harvey interrupted. "Look, Jeff, or whatever your name is, I think
it's time you started being honest with us."
"HONEST? I'm being PERFECTLY honest!" A tear. NO!! NOT HERE! NOT IN FRONT
OF ALL THESE PEOPLE! PLEASE...NO...PLEASE...NO...
"June," said Mr Harvey to a secretary. "Pull out the record of a 'Jeffery
Higgins', 11th grade."
It took no time at all. June handed a flimsy white card with a photo
stapled loosely to the left corner.
"Jeffery Higgins, huh?" smirked Mr. Harvey. "This don't look like you." He
held the snapshot directly in front of Jeff's weary eyes.
"Yes it DOES," answered Jeff. "LOOK at me!" Then he remembered. Again.
DAMN, he whispered. WHY DID I CHANGE. WHY DID I CHANGE. WHY. HOW? His
parents walked in the door. A surge of relief swept across him. His
parents. His -real- parents. He looked up at them.
"We got the call," his mother said.
"Yes...what -exactly- is going on here?" his father interrupted.
"This your son?" he gestured towards Jeff.
"No," his father's eyebrows lifted. "Course not."
A tear. Jeff didn't care. He was tired. He wanted to go home...he wanted
his parents. He wanted Sara. He wanted HIMSELF back the way he was. Why was
everything so COMPLICATED all of a sudden? He screamed. He screamed loud.
Picking up a chair, he hurled it across the office. He sobbed violently,
the tears making him even more frustrated. They were getting in his way.
Suddenly, EVERYTHING was getting in his way - deliberate obstructions in the
pathway of his peaceful life. He felt a sharp pinpoint on his shoulder. He
smacked his hand on his arm and looked down. He saw a tiny dot. Looking up at
Mr. Harvey, he realized what had just happened. AN INJECTION...
Jeff looked at the nurse staring calmly back at him. For an instant, there
was blackout. He looked around...as if suddenly his eyes were two telescope
lenses. His mother and father looked concerned, but not involved. Gasping,
he clutched the coat of Mr. Harvey and slumped to his knees.
"You have to...believe me...I'm...Jeff...damn it...it's obvious..." He
collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily.
"He'll be all right," said the doctor wearily. He hated giving injections
like that. "We'll take him to the hospital."
Mr. Harvey looked at his watch. "Well," he began. "I'm really sorry we had
to include you two in all of this," he spoke to the parents.
"I'm still a bit confused," admitted Jeff's mother, watching 'that strange
boy' being carried away to the hospital.

Mr. Harvey scanned the office for his secretary. He spotted a young lady
behind the counter. "Excuse me, miss. Have you seen my secretary?"
The young lady began to laugh. "Relax! I'm getting back to work!"
"I beg your pardon?" replied Mr Harvey, relatively uninterested in the
ramblings of a strange lady in his office.
"I said I'm getting back to work." The lady smiled. "That -is- what you're
paying me for, isn't it? Secretarial work? I ought to know...I've been here
for almost a year!" she giggled. "Can I have that student record back now?"
Weakly, he looked at the card, now recognizing the familiar face of
Jeffery Higgins. WHAT'S HAPPENING? He cleared his throat and whispered
to the young lady sitting at the desk. "June..?" he said quietly.
She swiveled around in her chair slowly. "Yes?"
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE, he screamed silently.

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"Transference" - Copyright (C) March 30th 1986 by Tristan Farnon
Starry Night Productions, Inc.
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(>whatslef.hum100644 0 1 20161 6612147455 11305 0ustar rootbin
80 Columns

"Methinks thou has overstepped thine own potential..." - Old English Proverb

Fumbling over the controls of his craft in the dark, he found the com and
spoke into it nervously.

"Candice? Bring some drink, won't you?"

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-=> [] Vapidly Presents [] <=-

"What's Left of Her Right?" -- another file written by Dristan Napoleon Barnone

+:-:+

The spherical image on the radar shrank in equal proportion with his hopes.
She should have brought the drink by now. WHY HADN'T SHE COM'D BACK? And where
were those toothpicks he'd placed on the flight console only minutes before?

Dismissing that thought, he returned to his previous thought, and stared out
the viewing bay, waiting for the drink to arrive.

He was scared, damn scared.

The windoor to the flight deck opened with a silent sound, and the sound of
movement slid by.

"Ahh, Candice. At last..."

Turning the cushioned chair around sharply, he ran his dangling feet into her
prone body.

"WHAT?! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! CANDICE?!" She didn't respond, she
never would again.

The blood was still flowing from what was left of her right breast. The
nipple he had once caressed so lovingly was now gone forever. The remaining
hole was as big as his fist.

"As big as my fist," he said aloud. "As big as her..."

She was obviously dead, but how? They were all alone on this route. In the
past five years Candice had been his only regular co-pilot, and his only
companion. How could she have died? There was no one else onboard. No androids,
no other humans, not even any roboids or machines that might have the slightest
capability of movement. Just that phalanx of generators, pumping out an endless
supply of creatwrit energy.

SHE DIDN'T DIE, SHE WAS MURDERED, came the stealthy reply from deep within
his mind. Something had done her in, it wasn't human, it wasn't machine. IT was
something else.

"No, that's impossible," came the calmer reply to the previous reply.

Settling into a much calmer attitude, he began a search of the craft.

There were no weapons onboard, this was a merchant vessel. He had to
improvise. Deciding that his adversary could be anything, since it should be
nothing, he packed some matches and a b.a.

+:-:+

Jogging into the galley with his pants down gave him a cool, creamy feeling.
He sat down on the chilled countertop and received an even frostier sensation.

"DAMN! Nothing here. DAMN!"

The head and bunks were also deserted.

As he further meandered cautiously down the hallways of the starship
'Hemingway,' he thought of Candice.

He'd been 'bopping' her regularly twice a week. But it was more than just
'bopping,' much more. She had a special talent, a special talent he
surprisingly couldn't place at the moment.

He began to increase his speed down the halls. Eventually he was rounding the
corners of the ship at full speed, his adrenaline raced. WHERE WAS IT?!
Where was the IT THING that had slaughtered his candy Candice?!

After a few hours he became weary of the chase, what with no one to follow.
He strolled into the viewing room.

"This was Candice's favorite bulkhead," he nostaligized to himself.

To his surprise, the holo-viewer was playing. Candice's form graced the
platform.

"CANDICE!" he exclaimed refreshingly. But it wasn't Candice, it was only her
static-laden image. He could tell from the fully developed and intact breasts.

There was something peculiar about the image, something both clear and
unclear.

He stepped closer.

Still unclear.

He stepped up to the platform.

Still unclear.

He stepped onto the platform.

He and the image were now only inches apart.

"I'd forgotten how really real these things look up close," he murmured to
himself. He couldn't help but be mesmerized by the beauty of her presence, even
now.

"Candice?" he whispered into its ear.

Into ITS ear.

He leapt back in horror.

'IT' reached out in horror.

He hadn't leapt back far enough, 'IT' grabbed for the soft area between his
legs and held on tight. But 'IT' hadn't grabbed with 'ITS' hands.

Struggling in his final throws of life, his mind flashed back to their
moments together.

"You're special to me Candice, very special," he had said. "Yes, but not in
the way you mean," she had always replied.

Now he knew what 'IT' was. He had slain her, brutally, and had immediately
suppressed the memory. But 'she' had come back.

From where he lay, he could see that the right breast had grown to much
larger proportions than the left one still attached to her dead body. He felt
every bit of the tension as it clenched hard and fast to his private parts. The
holo-image still stood above him on the platform. She looked as lovely as when
he had laid her out on the thermo-shaft floor with the jagged edge of his
shower curtain pole.

He finally remembered what was special about her, she had mumbled it as she
bled to death on the platefloor, just before he had slit her bazoom, just as
now 'he' bled to death.

"I have an autonomous nervous system, all my body parts are durable."

He hadn't thought he'd heard her right, even if he had, he didn't know what
it meant.

"She must be some sort of android, some 'special' sort of android."

He'd thought he'd been all alone, alD@hw was rif?4.

She wasn't like the rest, not in the way he meant.

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"What's Le???y??BU$?ZZ]? - Copyright (c)) uune 13, 1986
6@? by Dristan Napoleon Barnone

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(>Directory

t 001 WHEN WILL IT STOP?
t 032 [] LIFE AND TIMES
t 003 [] ABOUT 'LIFE AND TIMES'
t 003 WHY I CAN'T...
t 002 TO DRISTAN
t 002 0TT0 IS MY ALT0R
t 003 MY REVIEW...[]
t 034 [] WHAT'S LEFT?
t 002 [] ABOUT 'WHAT'S LEFT?'
t 003 TO DRISTAN..
417 Sectors (104K) remaining

(>View: TO DRISTAN..

Hello, Ferrison here. That was great! I liked it. It amused me in ways that I
can't begin to tell you. A vice-like grip? Ouch. Maybe a date with her sister
might be fun. Seriously, good work. Hmm. I have a friend who works at a book
store, named Jake "The Bonghead", an old friend of mine. Hmm. I'll have to give
this to him. Why? I don't know. He's on first, and I don't care. You should
really think hard about submitting these stories to some magazines like 'Real
Detective' or 'Biker'. You could make at least $10,000 per, easy. Please do it,
so then I could tell everyone that I know someone famous. haha.

Ferrison.

(>View: MY REVIEW...[]

- I LAUGHED, I CRIED, I FINGERED MY 'NADS.

BFD (Big the Fucking Deal)

P.S.

I LIVE MY LIFE, MIND MY OWN BUSINESS, THEY MAKE FUN OF ME.
IF I EVER GET A LIFE, THEY'LL PROBABLY STILL MAKE FUN OF ME.
I WONDER IF THEY HAVE A LIFE? CAUSE BOY, THEY SURE HAVE AN EGO.

(>View: [] ABOUT 'WHAT'S LEFT?'

It's just something I wrote while taking a trig final. Nothing 'special.'

- Dris

(>Hang-up? Y

AE: Moral - Upload regularly and suffer from false modesty.

%Y?

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