
 Living in such a state          taTestaTesTaTe          etats a hcus ni gniviL
 of mind in which time         sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA         emit hcihw ni dnim of
 does not pass, space         STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE         ecaps ,ssap ton seod
 does not exist, and         sTATeSt        oFOfOfo         dna ,tsixe ton seod
 idea is not there.         STatEst          ofoFOFo         .ereht ton si aedi
 Stuck in a place          staTEsT            OfOFofo          ecalp a ni kcutS
 where movements           TATeSTa            foFofoF           stnemevom erehw
 are impossible                              fOFoFOf             elbissopmi era
 in all forms,                             UsOFofO                ,smrof lla ni
 physical and                            nbEifof                   dna lacisyhp
 or mental -                           uNBeInO                      - latnem ro
 your mind is                         UNbeinG                      si dnim rouy
 focusing on a                       unBEING                      a no gnisucof
 lone thing, or                      NBeINgu                     ro ,gniht enol
 a lone nothing.                     bEinGUn                    .gnihton enol a
 You are numb and                    EiNguNB                   dna bmun era ouY
 unaware to events                                            stneve ot erawanu
 taking place - not                  -iSSuE-                 ton - ecalp gnikat
 knowing how or what                 7/25/94                tahw ro woh gniwonk
 to think. You are in                -SEVEN-               ni era uoY .kniht ot
 a state of unbeing....                                  ....gniebnu fo etats a

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

                            CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
                           =----------------------=

EDiTORiAL                                                         Kilgore Trout

STAFF LiSTiNG


                               [=- ARTiCLES -=]


THE BEGGAR CRACKDOWN                                          Captain Moonlight
                                  
SMILE!                                               I Wish My Name Were Nathan

NANOTECHNOLOGY AND ANARCHY                                              Hagbard

THiNKEST THOU                                                Mr. Asttct Fasuath

ULTiMATUM                                                        Linda Thompson

MEDiTATiONS:  LiVE FROM NEW YORK                                    Crux Ansata


                               [=- POETRiE -=]
           

FEVER DREAM                                                           Harlequin

POP-SOCiAL-PSYCHOLOGY                                I Wish My Name Were Nathan

LOVE                                                                  Harlequin

UNTiTLED #1                                                             Griphon

A DYSLEXiC                                                            Harlequin

UNTiTLED #2                                                             Griphon

TiMES LiKE THESE                                                      Harlequin

MURDER OF AN IMAGE                                   I Wish My Name Were Nathan

FOR J---                                                              Harlequin


                               [=- FiCTiON -=]


SELF-PiTY                                                               Griphon

THE DiLEMMA OF LORNE:  STUD-BOY OR DiSiLLUSiONED GEEK? (Part II)  Kilgore Trout

REQUiEM FOR DEAD SOULS                                                Harlequin


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     EDiTORiAL
     by Kilgore Trout

     So, we're two days late.  Blow me.  I think the wait will be worth it.  I 
am really pleased with this issue.  Maybe it's cause I actually finished one 
of those stories like I promised.  The next one will be coming out in the next 
issue.  Trust me.  Heh.

     We have some very interesting articles in this issue.  Crux Ansata is up 
in New York and writes about some of his observations while Captain Moonlight 
writes about the pigs and their blatant hatred of the homeless.  Clockwork 
found an interesting piece about a supposed revolution right here in the USA.  
As always we've got lots of poetrie and some excellent fiction and my crappy 
story.  Well, hell, I've been told it's nifty, so read em all and enjoy.

     To make excuses for being two days late, I've written a top ten list, 
just like our friend Dave Letterman likes to do.  So...

     FROM THE HOME OFFiCE iN GEORGETOWN, TEXAS...

     THE TOP TEN REASONS KiLGORE TROUT PUT OFF SoB #7.

     10.  He's a lazy ass.
      9.  Space Hulk marathon.
      8.  His sister's dog kept pissing on his manuscripts.
      7.  A big, juicy, high-cholesterol Mexican dinner.
      6.  Thinking up stupid gimmicks like this.
      5.  Looking at submissions, going "That's great!" and doing nothing.
      4.  Talking to an SoB writer at Dairy Queen.
      3.  Playing Super Mario brother tourneys at Doorway's.
      2.  Whores!  Whores!  Whores!
      1.  The O.J. Simpson televised trial.

      And now, without much ado, State of unbeing #7...

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     


                                STAFF LiSTiNG
                              
                                   EDITOR
                                Kilgore Trout

                                CONTRIBUTORS
                              Captain Moonlight
                                Crux Ansata
                              Mr. Asttct Fasuath
                                  Griphon
                                  Hagbard
                                 Harlequin
                         I Wish My Name Were Nathan
                                Linda Thompson

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

                                               
                               [=- ARTiCLES -=]


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     THE BEGGAR CRACKDOWN
     by Captain Moonlight

"Houseless, adj.  Having paid all taxes on household goods."
     --Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

"We're changing all the time.  Sometimes we look like UT students, other times
like transients.  Sometimes it's a female by herself or someone dressed in a
business suit.  We've been in all sorts of things to try and fit in with the
crowd and let people approach us and beg.  Anybody they walk up to might be a
police officer."
     --No, not the alien in some bad horror flick, Austin Police Department
Lt. Greg Lasley on their anti-panhandling campaign

                         ETHNIC CLEANSING THERE . . .
                         ECONOMIC CLEANSING HERE --
                         RESIST NAZI SOLUTIONS!

                            --NYC Protest poster after the 9th St. Police Raid

     Let me introduce you the Catch-22 of homelessness.  You may as well learn
it now: most of us are within a few paychecks of being there ourselves.  Once
you've had the bad luck of falling into homelessness, you're not too likely to
be able to get out, unless you have a very generous friend.  First of all, you
cannot get government help, such as Social Security or Welfare.  Why?  No
permanent address.  Also, you cannot get a job.  Why?  No permanent address.
And you cannot get a permanent address without a job or government help.  If
you can get a job, it will most likely be menial labour, lasting only about a
week or two, where you will be worked to exhaustion for so little wages that
you cannot possibly get out of debt.  Also, once you're homeless you can't
vote for someone who can help you.  Why?  No permanent address.  And, pretty
much the politicians aren't going to give a damn for your concerns if you
can't vote for them.  So, basically, if you're homeless, you're screwed.

     In America today all those who are homeless, either because of necessity
or choice, are being persecuted.  One thing that most people think is one of
the greatest liberties in America is the ability to travel without being
stopped and searched.  Actually, this is not a right in the United States
today.  In the United States today, under vagrancy laws, anyone, man, woman,
or child, can be legally arrested, fingerprinted, and detained, for the crime
of not carrying identification papers.  With this law, both the homeless and
any other private citizen may be arrested and imprisoned.  The American gov-
ernment today is using laws like this to crack down on panhandlers, as well as
the homeless in general.

     The beggar crackdown is not a new evil, but now it is steadily gaining
force.  New York City especially is cracking down on the homeless and beggars.
New York City Council member Andrew Eristoff, representative for the upper
East Side (elected by those who already have a comfy house and food, thank
you), is currently co-sponsoring a bill which would give up to a $25 fine
and/or a ten day jail sentence for panhandling within fifteen feet of an
Automatic Teller Machine.  He claims, "The public has the right to enjoy
convenient and unimpeded access to ATM machines."  Apparently, however, he
doesn't care for the homeless of the upper East Side, and they are apparently
not part of the 'public' [1].  Now the New York Metropolitan Transportation
Authority is attempting to intimidate subway riders into not giving to beg-
gars.  New York Meat Train Authority authorities have placed anti-begging
posters in every NYC subway car which state:

          Come  on,  not me, NOT ME.  Oh pleeeeeze don't  come  stand  in
     FRONT of me ASKING for money.
          What  do  I  do, WHAT DO I DO????  I know.   I'll  pretend  I'm
     reading my book.  Look.  I feel bad.  I really do.  But HEY, it's MY
     MONEY.  And HOW do I know what you'll spend it on anyway?  I don't.

Supposedly this is how you feel when you're asked for money by, or even see, a
panhandler.  I don't know about you, but I'm more afraid of and intimidated by
cops than panhandlers, because the cops actually do things to people.  If I'm
asked for change by a panhandler I merely say "No" if I don't have any, or
don't want to give any, or I give them what I can.  I personally don't see how
people can see that as more painful than a homeless man going without supper,
or a child dying in a gutter.  This poster obviously would be much better for
their campaign if they hadn't capitalized "ASKING," considering the fact that
that's all that panhandlers do, ASK for money [2].  In fact the NYCPD has
admitted that its target is the 'polite panhandler' -- that is, the panhandler
who asks for money peacefully instead of demanding it and threatening bodily
harm [3].

     It is indeed odd how the New York Police and Metropolitan Transit Author-
ity can get away with this mistreatment when the New York Second Circuit Court
of Appeals upheld a lower court's decision supporting the right to panhandle.
The court wrote, "We see little difference between those who solicit for
organized charities and those who solicit for themselves in regard to the
message conveyed.  Both solicit the charity of others.  The distinction is not
a significant one for First Amendment purposes."  The court, therefore holds
that peaceful begging is protected by the First Amendment right to free speech
and free expression.  The class-action which brought this decision about was
brought to court in 1990 by two homeless plaintiffs who had been harassed by
police, though not arrested.  The police brought to court claimed that the
city's ordinances against panhandling were necessary to avoid harassment and
intimidation by beggars, but the court said, "A verbal request carries no
harms of the type enumerated by the City Police if done in a peaceful manner"
[4].  Apparently the NYCPD does not wish to follow the court's decision, as it
has just targeted the homeless even more.  According to Rush Limbaugh, in his
TV show of July 8, 1994, the new mayor of New York City has given the police
permission to break up panhandling and homeless settlements without having
permission of the courts.  While Limbaugh hailed this as a great victory for
'freedom', I must disagree, for now the police can break up any settlement
they very well please without warrant or court order.  I do not see how these
homeless were a menace, as Limbaugh seems to think: maybe he's afraid they
might (horror of horrors) ask him for a quarter.

     However, New York City is not the only place suppressing their homeless.
In Austin, on the Drag alone, sixty panhandling arrests were made in two weeks
in May.  This is during an ongoing operation run by at least ten undercover
cops whose sole job is to go out and catch people when they try to panhandle.
About four people are sent out per day.  Fines for panhandling can be up to
$200: money which most homeless people I know can't part with, but the govern-
ment greed machine wants it.  Police Lt. Greg Lasley showed exactly how much
he cares for humanity when he said, "These guys are just hitting on anybody
out there.  It's really obnoxious."  I'd really love to have that guy "serving
and protecting" me.  He said, "The officers decided to go ahead, and we can be
our own witnesses."  Pay special attention to that "we can be our own witness-
es" part.  Virtually what he's saying is that cops can arrest you, say you did
something, and what they say goes.  Ever wonder why car cops always patrol in
pairs?  It's for that very reason: "we can be our own witnesses" [5].

     Intimidating panhandlers and beggars are not the police's only tool
against the homeless: police also delight in tearing up homeless cities.  In
October 1992, police raided a homeless city called by its residents Dinkins-
ville (after the then-mayor of NYC) in a vacant lot in New York City.  Later,
in February 1993, police raided a homeless city in a Ninth Street lot, bull-
dozing the city and forcing off residents.  Michael Kharfen, head of the so-
called "Community Assistance Unit", told the press that residents were given a
day's notice, and that "outreach personnel" had visited the lot over the past
"several months" to prepare residents for removal.  In fact, the police raided
the area, giving residents "12 minutes" to gather their belongings and leave.
Those unable to comply, and there were many since most residents had been
living here several months, were bodily removed, and then the police stood by
while the site was bulldozed.  An old man was arrested during the raid, and a
resident known for his many dogs was committed to Belleview, and his dogs were
shot with tranquilizer guns and taken away, because on of the dogs was scared
by police and bit a cop.  Michael Kharfen told media that the lot was being
evicted to build 56 units of low-income housing and a new police station.  In
truth _Shadow_ got a copy of the plans, which call for a new police station
and a HUGE parking-lot.  However, on the night of February 20, 1993, four days
after the eviction, more than fifty demonstrators gathered in the lot and had
a bonfire and metal jam.  (For those of you who don't know what a metal jam
is, it is this: a large group of people gather at night, preferably in a rich
residential area.  They then slam corrugated iron, sheet metal, whatever's
handy, and keep as many people awake as possible.  It's great for curfew
protestations, hint, hint.)  At first two police tried to force the protesters
out, but they were highly unsuccessful.  The fire department put the fire out,
but it was quickly rekindled, using police line barriers.  The fire was put
out again, and replaced with several smaller ones.  When it was over, nine
people were arrested.  The bulldozer used during the eviction mysteriously
exploded four days after the demonstration, and had to be hauled off in a
flatbed truck.  As of May 1993, the only work actually done on the lot was the
erection of a fence [6].

     Texas cities are not above using such techniques, either.  For instance,
in Dallas, in an underpass beneath Interstate 45, about fifty people were
rudely forced out by the Dallas Police Department.  This raid resulted in one
arrest, that of a man who refused to identify himself to lawless enforcers.
'Sanitation' workers bulldozed the area later in the day [7].  Austin, too,
has had its incidents.  Unfortunately, I do not have any references to support
myself, but I can give a few right off the top of my head which should be
familiar to any residents who have been here for any period of time.  For
instance, there was the homeless barge on Town Lake which cops and the City
Council got removed.  People don't want to see them on land, and they get them
blocked when they try to go on the water.  Also, I seem to remember Austin
recently tearing down a shantytown on Sixth Street, though I may be wrong
about where it was.  It seems even when a homeless person tries to make them-
selves a home it is torn down.

     How long will the beggar crackdown go on?  Austin Police Lt. Greg Lasley
says of its Drag panhandler busts, "For the time being, as long as we've got
the manpower and we're not overrun with calls, we'll keep doing it" [5].  And
Dallas city spokesperson Mark Flake said of its cardboard city raids, "If we
are alerted to other problems, we'll do the same thing" [7].  Rest assured --
you may be mugged, murdered, or raped, but as long as these guys are on the
job, no one will ask you for a quarter.  Now I tell you this: persecutions
will not stop with one group of people.  Under laws passed during the Bush
regime, anyone who is even _suspected_ of being a drug dealer can be sent to
work camps in Nevada and the Southwest, where they can be forced into hard
labour for up to a year _without trial_.  And guess who _suspected_ drug
dealers are.  Just about _anyone_ the government disapproves of.  And remember
Lt. Lasley's comment: "we can be our own witnesses."  Unless we stop the
persecutions now, we can all be victims of the police state.  Think about it.

ENDNOTES:

[1] "Panhandling Near ATMs is a Hot Issue,"  6/28/94.
[2] Beth J. Harpaz, "Anti-Begging Ads Give Subway Riders Guilt Trip," 5/12/94.
[3] Rick Hampson, "N.Y. Crackdown Closing in on the Polite Panhandler,"
    5/12/94.
[4] "Court: Begging is Protected Speech," 7/30/93.
[5] Sharon Jayson, "60 Panhandling Arrests Result of Undercover Operation,"
    5/25/94.
[6] Chris Flash, "Pigs Raid Homeless in 9th St. Lot," 12/92-5/93.
[7] Pauline Arrillaga, "Dallas Evicts Residents of Highway Underpass Shanty-
    town," 6/15/94.

The following articles were used writing this essay:

Arrillaga, Pauline.  "Dallas Evicts Residents of Highway Underpass
    Shantytown."  _Austin American-Statesman_, June 15, 1994, p. B2.

"Court: Begging is Protected Speech."  Prodigy interactive personal service,
    July 30, 1993.

Flash, Chris.  "Pigs Raid Homeless in 9th St. Lot."  _Shadow_, #28, December
    1992/May 1993: p. 4.

Hampson, Rick.  "N.Y. Crackdown Closing in on the Polite Panhandler."  _Austin
    American-Statesman_, May 12, 1994: p. A21.

Harpaz, Beth.  "Anti-Begging Ads Give Subway Riders Guilt Trip."  _Austin
    American-Statesman_, May 12, 1994: p. A21.

Jayson, Sharon.  "60  Panhandling Arrests Result of Undercover Operation."
    _Austin American-Statesman_, May 25, 1994: p. B4.

"Panhandling Near ATMs is a Hot Issue."  New York _Daily News_, June 28, 1994:
    p. 24.

Thanx to Crux Ansata for the majority of the New York information.

Note: Captain Moonlight has each of these in electronic form, as well as a few
      other articles relating to panhandling and homelessness, and will be
      more than happy to give copies to interested parties.  In fact, he would
      be ecstatic, because that means that someone actually read this far in
      his article.  Post him on Isis Unveiled, the home of SoB, (user #3) to
      make arrangements.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     Military men are the scourges of the world.
                                                            --Guy de Maupassant


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     SMILE!
     by I Wish My Name Were Nathan

     S*M*I*L*E!  And fuck you!  Personally, whenever someone tells me to 
smile (usually some preppie bitch) I usually want to do so and also quickly 
knock out some teeth.

     What is the purpose of smiling, anyway?  Who is ever happy, anyway? 
Anyone who has any intelligence and knowledge about this world ought to 
realize that smiling is like waiting an extra five minutes for that cute guy 
for like to call you, even though you know he doesn't even know you. It's an 
act of faith, people.

     I do smile sometimes; it's a hell of a lot more effective when used in 
specific contexts than all the time which tends to make stretch marks on my 
face.  Here are some friendly tips I pass on to you on when to smile.

     Smile whenever you're on your bicycle and you come up to a stop sign next 
to a car with a mother driving and her little kid in the passenger side seat.  
Also stare and wink while pointing at your mouth or crotch.

     Smile whenever someone falls down on the sidewalk near you.  Stand there 
smiling.  Don't laugh, though -- this may make you seem cruel.

     Smile at angry people who pass by you to make them think you know 
something they don't.  It may make them angrier, but you'll laugh.

     Smile from the second you enter class to the second you get out, 
especially when there's a test.  Make sure they see you.  Exquisitely piss 
them off with your self-confidence.

     Smile while standing in an elevator with one other person in it. With 
your hand deep in your pocket.

     Smile after you've watched the lottery drawing and are staring at your 
tickets.  Try to make your family faint dead away.  When they wake up, smile 
and say, "_Two_ numbers matched this time."

     Smile when someone is crying and breaking down in front of you. Stare 
right at them with a blank look in your eyes.  They'll stop crying.

     Smile when someone is rehearsing for you -- a play, a song, a guitar solo 
-- and don't say a word.  Make them edgy.

     And, last of all, dear friends, smile when it's a nice, sunny day, and 
the clouds have parted and the air is comfortably dry, and the trees are green 
with life.  Direct your smile at the turtle lying upside-down in the sand at 
the beach.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     The larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder.
                
                                                             --Ralph W. Sockman


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

      NANOTECHNOLOGY AND ANARCHY
      by Hagbard


WHAT iS NANOTECHNOLOGY?
-----------------------

     Nanotechnology is a concept created not long ago (around early 80's) by a 
man named K. Eric Drexler. Basically, the idea is the creation of tools at the 
molecular level, tools and machines that measure only nanometers across (hence 
the name). These tools would be able to handle materials at the molecular or 
even the atomic level. Think about that for a moment. All of human technology 
is the use of tools to manipulate matter in our environment. Plastic, shoes, 
computers, space shuttles, etc., all come from our ability to manipulate 
matter. The ultimate in tool making, in material manipulation, IS 
nanotechnology.


WHAT iS THE CURRENT STATE OF DEVELOPMENT?
-----------------------------------------

     Well, as you may well have noticed, we don't quite have nanites running 
about yet. But scientists are working on it. Currently there are two 
theoretical methods of assembler construction. An assembler is the generic 
term for a nanite that is capable of reproduction or assembly of molecules. 
The first method is the biological track. As always, nature is a step ahead of 
man, for nanites exist already. Without them, you would not survive. The 
proteins within every living organism serve as nanites within individual 
cells, with DNA to provide the necessary programming. But proteins are so 
specific in their particular functions that they are useless in building 
diamond fiber mesh or other such complicated things. Also, proteins are too 
fragile; they dry up outside the body, break down when heated or cooled, and 
therefore would not be of any use for industrial applications. However, 
scientists are presently trying to modify proteins to be able to build better 
structures, thus in effect working their way up a ladder of more and more 
complicated nanomachines until the goal of assembler is achieved.

     The other method of production being worked on is direct manipulation of 
atoms using macroscopic devices, such as scanning/tunneling electron 
microscopes. Engineers have been able to design crude structures using these 
microscopes to place atoms together one at a time. One group of scientists 
built the IBM logo out of xenon atoms. Scientists hope that in the near 
future, crude assemblers may be built which can build better assemblers and so 
on.


WHAT DOES THiS HAVE TO DO WiTH ANARCHY?
---------------------------------------

     The absence of government has been a long time dream of many people. 
Often people have resorted to violent means in order to disrupt or attempt to 
eliminate government. This has often resulted in the people getting executed 
and the government becoming more constrictive. Many people also misunderstand 
the meaning of anarchy. They believe that the absence of government means 
chaos, no laws, and no authority. Good or bad, this is not the case. The 
absence of government cannot be effectively achieved through elimination of 
bureaucratic control, but rather by making it unnecessary. Government exists 
today as a measure of organizational control and as a method of organizing 
resources for it's people. But what if such control, enforcement, and services 
became unnecessary? Then government would no longer be required. A state of 
anarchy, or total freedom for the individual, would become a reality.

     Technology has been increasing individual freedom for a long time. The 
printing press liberated Europe by liberating the individual through the 
spread of information. The computer has increased individual freedom tenfold, 
allowing people to access a global village of data, and to express themselves, 
just as my computer is enabling me to write this article and share my ideas 
with others. 

     Nanotechnology can provide this. Imagine having access to your own 
assemblers. Imagine being able to build anything you had the design plans and 
the resources for. Currency would become a thing of the past. Material wealth 
would become relatively meaningless. Only two things would have any wealth 
inherent to them, and that is information and resources, with resources being 
a distant second. Information, data on design plans for devices, computers, 
and better assemblers would become the basis for economy in the new world of 
nanotech. Only with such data would people be able to build their dreams. No 
longer would a car be valuable, only the molecular design, fed into the 
assembler computer system, would be of worth. The only limiting factor would 
be resources, which can be found all over the place, most in space. Just as 
desktop publishing has given everyone the ability to be an author, nanotech 
will give everyone the ability to be an engineer; we could call it 'desktop 
manufacturing'.

     No longer would there be a need for most of the services provided by the 
government. Nanites could take care of all your needs. Protection? Who would 
want to steal anything from you if they can make it themselves? Besides, you 
could build your own security system. Health care? Nanites can keep you germ 
free for the rest of your life [That is, if you die. Conceivably, 
nanotechnology could make one immortal, barring serious injury.]. Nanotech can 
provide the ultimate in individual freedom. People will make what they need, 
what they want, and will live off the land (for raw materials). However, not 
all government will become unnecessary. Measures will still have to be taken 
to keep harmful devices from being built, like atom bombs. If John Q. 
Terrorist received the plans for an ICBM, he could feed it to his nanites. As 
long as he had the raw materials available, he could build as many as he 
wants. The fact is, once nanotechnology becomes sufficiently advanced, the 
possibilities for technological expansion, and technological abuse, become 
limitless. 


THE PROBLEM.
------------

     Unfortunately, not everything can be as good as it looks. The problem is 
that the same technology which can free your body and soul from the chains 
that hold it (mainly the government and the megacorps) can be used against you 
in awful ways. Nanotechnology, if released into the wrong hands, is more 
dangerous than nuclear weapons. If, like computer technology, nanites become a 
tool of the already powerful, than it will become the ultimate tool of 
exploitation. It is very alarming that a greedy corporation could gain control 
of the most powerful technology this planet has ever seen, and sell it to the 
highest bidder; such technology could control the world under a crushing 
threat of 'disassembly'. 

     Folx on the Net, of all people, have seen what happens when only corps 
and governments have access to the most powerful toys. How some people in this 
country barely have access to a phone book, while others bathe in a sea of 
information. However, we all know the benefits that arise when people have 
unlimited access to a domain that has no centralized seat of power, like the 
Internet. The future of our society and nanotechnology depend on this 
principle of unlimited access to technology. Governments and megacorps, once 
they wise up to what the future holds in store, will attempt to grab it and 
take it away from us. They will see that it is a threat to their existence, a 
development that will change the way we live and work forever.

     We must stay alert. We must not be afraid of the change. Our society must 
embrace the technology as another step in our evolution as a species. Once 
fully developed, nanotechnology will change humanity forever; more than the 
wheel, or the computer, ever did. We must keep our heads above the sea of 
information and not let those who would exploit such power take it out from 
under our noses. Nanotechnology may be years away, it may be decades away. 
Keep your mind open...



Hagbard
hagbard@io.com

Want to know more about nanotech? Read _Engines of Creation_ by
K. Eric Drexler. ISBN 0-385-19973-2
Doubleday Books

or

_Nanosystems_ by K. Eric Drexler, for a more technical 
approach to the subject. ISBN 0-471-57547-X
John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     Ia-R'lyeh! Cthulu fhtagn! Ia! Ia! 
                                                               --H.P. Lovecraft


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     THiNKEST THOU
     by Mr. Asttct Fasuath

NOTE:  NOT a religious text!
     The dogmas of many so-called "Christian" churches are incorrect and
dangerous.  As with all things, there is a correct way and an incorrect way of
going about things.  The approach taken by those labeled "fundamentalists" is
almost the exact opposite of that espoused by Christ and His teachings.
     It is unfortunate that so many misguided followers belong to these reli-
gious institutions.  Many good and honest people are attracted by the apparent
devotion of the church leaders -- the forward, open statements of belief and
so forth that characterize Pentecostals, Baptists, and the followers of sever-
al other churches extant in the U.S. today.
     The dogma of these institutions is where the fault lies, not with the
people.  Examples of the hypocrisies bleated by these misguided sheep listed
below:

For the following crimes against humanity, you receive the following prizes:
1.) Eternal life in heaven <"The mind is its own place, and in it self/ Can 
    make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n." -Milton>
2.) Attending church at least once a week, sometimes more <you go into a big 
    room with a lot of uncomfortable, overdressed, self-conscious people who 
    don't really want to be there, get tennis knee by Aerobicising (?) to 
    Amazing Grace, get told for an hour that you've BEEN VERY, VERY BAD, can 
    you ever forgive us oh Lord Jesus, thank God for forgiving we poor misera-
    ble sinners, despite the fact that we haven't actually been given a sign
    that He will forgive us, then leave, and lie to the preacher about how
    good his Epic sermon was, pretend to like people we hate, then go home,
    become total gluttons, and repeat, ad infinitum et nauseum.  And, depend-
    ing on your particular flavor, you might get to:
     a. Speak in Tongues
     b. Do penance
     c. handle snakes
     d. pray (prey?) to minor patron Demigods and/or a modified Mother Goddess 
     e. Practice tribal chants with the preacher>
3.) Cram yourself into a very narrowly defined social structure <Turn the 
    other cheek, don't dance, don't wear make-up (Don't paint yourself like a 
    little whore!), don't, es ist verboten... in some extreme cases, and these 
    are the ones the farthest (?) from the Godhead>
4.) *keep the Temple clean!!! <the body is a temple, ergo things like coffee, 
    colas, and certain foods are _sehr_verboten!_  Note:  * only for Mormons, 
    some Baptists, and a few others>

Hypocrisy for guilt & prophet!
1.) Espousing forgiveness -- yet themselves being totally unable to forgive 
    others, or themselves (the root of the problem).
2.) Being exclusive and insular -- Christ was the opposite
3.) using God as an excuse for their failures
4.) using God as an excuse for their personal prejudices
5.) See above 

     "So," you think, "What would you have us do, Mister-Really-A-Satanist-
Trying-To-Corrupt-The-Flock-And-Send-Us-All-To-Hell?  Well, MR. ASTTCT FASUATH
would like for you to RTFB and make up your own damn minds about all of this.
Most of the bizarre shit people think is important is dated, or rather OUTdat-
ed.  (Would you drink 2,000+ year-old milk?  No?  I don't drink it if it's
over a week old, myself.)  This is not to say one should run out and join the
Church of Scientology, either.  Trendy is bad.
     These are the major points:
     1.) Love the Lord your God with all your heart.
     2.) Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
     3.) Think.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


Now consider the tortoise and the eagle.
     The tortoise is a ground-living creature.  It is impossible to live
nearer the ground without being under it.  Its horizons are a few inches away.
It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce.  It
has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past it being, on the whole,
no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat.
     And then there is the eagle.  A creature of the air and high places,
whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world.  Eyesight keen enough
to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away.  All
power, all control.  Lightning death on wings.  Talons and claws enough to
make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack
out of anything bigger.
     And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms
of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus,
_focus_ on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there in the desert.
And it will _leap_...
     And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it.
And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground
but five hundred feet above it, and it thinks:  what a great friend I have in
the eagle.
     And then the eagle lets go.
     And almost always the tortoise plunges to its death. Everyone knows why
the tortoise does this.  Gravity is a habit that is hard to shake off.  No one
knows why the eagle does this.  There's good eating on a tortoise but, consid-
ering the effort involved, there's much better eating on practically anything
else.  It's simply the delight of eagles to torment tortoises.
     But of course, what the eagle does not realize is that it is participat-
ing in a very crude form of natural selection.
     One day a tortoise will learn how to fly. 

                              -Terry Pratchett, from _Small Gods_
                                                                               

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     ULTiMATUM
     by Linda Thompson

[Ed. Note:  Clockwork found this text on a local board, and we thought you 
 should get a look at it.  We neither condone nor disapprove of Ms. Thompson's 
 views, but we might.  Needless to say, it is interesting reading, so you 
 might want to make reservations in Washington D.C. for the second full week of 
 September to watch the spectacle (or fizzle).]

     Every member of the United States House of Representatives and Senate are
this week being delivered an ultimatum that demands that each of them  person-
ally  take the initiative to revoke unconstitutional legislation and  initiate
an inquiry into Waco.  A copy of the Ultimatum follows in the next message.
     All MILITIA units will convene in Washington, D.C., the second full  week
that  the Congress is in session in September to enforce this mandate  and  to
deliver copies of the Declaration of Independence to the White house.
     All  units will be armed and prepared to enforce this mandate.   This  is
exactly what it sounds like.

   **NOTE:  MILITIA UNITS MUST WEAR IDENTIFYING INSIGNIA AND BE ARMED.

If you are armed and wear a military insignia identifying you as a member of a
military unit, if captured, you must be treated as a Prisoner of War, not as a
criminal arrestee, by law.

     We have five months to get in shape and be prepared to restore this coun-
try's liberty.  Mentally and physically, we must be ready, willing, and  able,
to do the job.
     I  have personally signed the ultimatum to be delivered to  Congress,  as
John  Hancock  said, in handwriting so large that the King cannot  mistake  my
identity.   No other persons are or will be identified, however,  please  feel
free to copy and issue the ultimatum to Congress yourself.
     A copy of the ultimatum follows in the next message.
     Additionally,  a signed Declaration of Independence will be delivered  to
the  White House on the day the militia convenes in Washington, D.C., in  Sep-
tember, very likely with millions of signatures.
     Below  the initial 100 signers' names which are affixed on the  original,
we  will attach every page of signatures obtained between now  and  September.
Please  circulate  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  obtain  signatures
throughout the country through every means possible and return to AJF, 3850 S.
Emerson Ave., Suite E, Indianapolis, IN 46203.
     We  will be airdropping this information throughout the country and  dis-
tributing  it through churches, gun shows, etc.  All national media have  been
provided copies as well.
     Please distribute all pages of the Militia Alert, Ultimatum, and Declara-
tion  of Independence everywhere.  Make thousands of copies.  Put them out  in
grocery stores, wherever you can think of.
     More pilot volunteers, printers, and funding for the distribution of  the
Declaration of Independence are needed.
     Whether  I  am arrested or killed in the interim has no  bearing  on  the
preparations of the militia units, the ultimatum, or the Declaration of  Inde-
pendence throughout this country.
     Proceed as planned, plan accordingly, and God bless us all.

Linda Thompson
Acting Adjutant General
UMUS, pursuant to
10 USC 311
Articles I and II, Bill of Rights,
Constitution of the United States of America

Additional  information  and updates will be posted on  the  American  Justice
Federation voice mail line at 317-780-5200 beginning April 20, 1994.  Leave  a
message  if  you can volunteer to help print these documents,  fly  planes  to
airdrop  literature, get the information on radio or television, etc.  A  copy
of  this  ultimatum is being delivered this week to each member  of  the  U.S.
House of Representatives and U.S. Senate, as well as to all national media.
______________________________________________________________________________

                         *** ULTIMATUM ***

     WHEREAS,  the federal government of the United States of America is  con-
strained by the law of the United States Constitution, the Supreme law of this
country, to limited jurisdiction, and limited power; and

     WHEREAS, the federal government of the United States of America,  through
unlawful  Executive Orders, and through legislation passed without quorum  and
without  proper ratification or otherwise unlawfully enacted under mere  color
of  law by members of the legislative branch, have usurped the  Constitutional
authority of the sovereign states and sovereign citizens of this country,  and
laws  which are unlawful and unconstitutional have been enacted in  voluminous
number which have outrageously exceeded the boundaries of law and decency; and

     WHEREAS, the people of this country have been exploited and subjugated to
an  unlawful authority by an unlawful system of loans from a  private  banking
institution, known as the Federal Reserve, and been forced, even at  gunpoint,
to  submit to an unlawful federal income tax which is not and never  has  been
within the authority of the federal government to enact or enforce, all to the
benefit of private individuals and corporations at the expense of the liberty,
lives, and property of the citizens of this nation; and

     WHEREAS,  persons acting under color of law as federal agents, under  the
direction  of those claiming to be elected officials operating under color  of
law,  sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United  States,  have
infringed  upon the rights of citizens to keep and bear arms,  have  conducted
unlawful warrantless house to house searches and seizures, have assaulted  and
killed  sovereign citizens of this country on the false pretense of "gun  con-
trol,"  "child abuse," "the war on drugs" and a plethora of unlawful  statutes
enacted  to unlawfully control the lives and liberty of the citizens  of  this
country;

     WHEREAS, elections are now controlled through the power of committees and
lobbies wielding the most money to obtain electoral votes or sway the  nomina-
tion of candidates and persuade the enactment of legislation that has made  it
impossible for the common citizen to participate as a candidate in an election
or for the vote of the common citizen to be meaningful; and

     WHEREAS, through an unconstitutional and unlawfully enacted "income tax,"
the  federal government has created a "carrot and stick" that has seduced  and
coerced the elected officials of the several states to submit to the  unlawful
incursion of the federal government and its agents into the sovereign territo-
ry of each state, as a trade off for the receipt of these ill gotten proceeds;

     THEREFORE, YOU ARE COMMANDED to uphold your oath and duty to the citizens
of this country, to uphold the Constitution and the rights of the citizens  of
this country, and in so doing, you are commanded to personally initiate legis-
lation and do all things necessary to:

     Repeal  the  14th, 16th, and 17th amendments to the Constitution  of  the
United  States and to publicly acknowledge that the federal government has  no
jurisdiction to make or enforce criminal laws outside its territories, limited
to  the  area of Washington, D.C., and the property and  territories  actually
owned by the United States, which does not include any State within the sever-
al states of the united states; and

     Repeal the Brady Bill and NAFTA;

     Repeal  the Drug Interdiction Act and 10 USC 372, et. seq. and  any  laws
which allow the use of military equipment or military personnel against United
States  citizens or which provide a backdoor method to fund "national  guard,"
under  the  guise that the guard is a "state asset" even  though  the  federal
government provides the salary, funding and support and none of these units is
counted  as a State Guard asset, or which trains federal "law enforcement"  in
military  tactics and provides military equipment to federal  law  enforcement
for any purpose; and publicly acknowledge that the federal government, through
any means, may not use military force or equipment against any person on  U.S.
soil or upon the soil of any sovereign state, except in the case of a declared
war  or  in  the event of an actual invasion by troops of  a  foreign  country
within the boundaries of the United States of America, and only then,  against
such foreign troops, not citizens or residents of this country; and

     Immediately remove any and all foreign troops and equipment and to  imme-
diately  identify  each and every federal military troop and federal  law  en-
forcement  or tax enforcement agent and all equipment now located  within  the
boundaries  of any and every state, including all assets of military  or  task
force  "special operations" units, CIA, NSA, or any other covert law  enforce-
ment, quasi-law enforcement or military agency or activity; and

     Declare  that  the United States of America is not  operating  under  the
authority  of  the  United Nations or if it is, to  immediately  renounce  and
revoke any and all agreements binding the United States to such authority; and

     Declare the federal debt to the Federal Reserve null and void, unconsitu-
tional, and without effect and order that currency no longer be printed by the
Federal  Reserve or any entity other than the Treasury of the  United  States,
backed by gold within the possession of the United States; and

     Declare  that the federal government does not now have and never has  had
the  legal  authority to enact or enforce criminal laws outside  the  area  of
Washington,  D.C.,  or outside its territories or its own  property,  such  as
military  bases, and never upon the soil of any sovereign state, and that  all
such laws are null and void and without effect;

     Convene  a  full Congressional inquiry, to be conducted publicly,  by  an
independent  prosecutor selected from a person who has no association  in  any
way  whatsoever with any agency of the federal government, into the events  in
Waco, Texas, from February 28, 1993 through the present, at the property known
as Mt. Carmel, with the special prosecutor to have the full power to convene a
grand  jury  from the citizens of all the 50 states, obtain  indictments,  and
issue  subpoenas duces tecum and subpoenas for testimony before a grand  jury,
and to prosecute any and all persons, regardless of their position in  govern-
ment, for any crimes for which a true bill of indictment is returned.

NOTICE:   You have until the second full week that the Congress reconvenes  in
September,  1994, to personally initiate legislation to this effect and to  do
all  things  necessary  to effect this legislation and the  restoration  of  a
Constitutional government within this country.

If  you  do not personally and publicly attend to these demands, you  will  be
identified  as  a Traitor, and you will be brought up on charges  for  Treason
before a Court of the Citizens of this Country.

Linda D. Thompson
Acting Adjutant General
Unorganized Militia of the United States of America
Pursuant to 10 USC 311 and
Articles I and II of the Bill of Rights

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     Don't  be shocked that I was in prison.  You're still in prison.   That's
     what America means:  Prison.
                                   --Malcolm X, "The Address to the Grassroots"


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     MEDiTATiONS:  LiVE FROM NEW YORK
     by Crux Ansata

     When I talk to my friends, I hear what they most recall from New York.
For many it is the plays, the musicals, for I am often with a dramatic crowd.
For others it is the shops, or the museums, or the tourist sights.  For me,
this trip, I suspect it will be the prison.

     There is a prison four or five blocks from my house, or the house where I
am staying.  I pass by it every day as I walk to the house where I feed the
cats of a lady I know, now on vacation.  (The lady, not the cats.)  Even in
the case of a prison, many will perceive their protectors at work, or, at
best, a necessary blemish on the landscape that we may remain the most free
nation on earth.  (Indeed, every police car I've seen, even those with no
licence plate, have a bumper sticker proclaiming a reward for anyone calling
(212) COP-SHOT that helps get another citizen incarcerated.  'Tis a pity they
don't care that much about citizens.)

     The reality is that we have more of our populace behind bars than any
other nation in the world.  The "most free nation on earth" is free at the
cost of the freedom of its parts, and, in freedom, can freedom of parts exist
at the cost of slavery of parts?  Were we not a slave nation when we held
slaves?  Were we free before _all_ were free?

     No, when I see the bars I do not think of the actions of my "protectors,"
I think, rather, of the teenaged girl I saw yesterday, clutching the chain
fence just below the barbed wire, crying as two of her friends tried to con-
sole her.  How common must this be?  I don't know, and neither do the kind of
people with whom I "hang."  There must be an uncountable number of girls
clutching the wire that enslaves their boyfriends, their fathers, their broth-
ers, even their children.

     I think of such as I saw today: a well dressed family -- father, mother,
and eight or nine year old daughter -- dressed in fine, "go-to-meeting"
clothes, exiting the massive concrete bunker with heads down, apparently
leaving a visit.  One of the greatest tragedies of our "society" today is that
we cannot empathize with those who must undergo the torture of repeated sepa-
ration for the lifeforce of the occasional glimpse behind the bars.  Today we
weekly have _Cops_ to dehumanize the "criminals."  When will we have something
to humanize these silent victims?

     I think of the graffiti sprayed on the sidewalk outside, evidently for
the benefit of those encased in the concrete and iron tower, which read, for
example, "_______, your mother loves you."  Is this the menace our tax dollars
need to clean up?  When the reporters display gang signs and decry the de-
struction in the streets, I can recall no instance where such a touching logo
was so defamed.

     No, our nation has come to forget the intentions of our founding fathers,
from Franklin to Jesus, all of which supported the reduction of criminals by
the reduction of laws.  While one of us is in chains, none of us will be free.

     All of us must seek to balance our minds.  I'll not proclaim that all
crime should be decriminalized.  That is not the purpose of this essay.
Rather, I'll assert that there is another side to our prisons.  Until that
side is appreciated, we will all be willing slaves.

                                 

     "You visited me when I was in prison."

     All too often today, we forget the obvious edict here: to visit the
obvious victims, those in the steel cages.  Yet this is only part of what
Christ commanded.  Remember Jude 22 (NEB): "There are some doubting souls who
need your pity; snatch them from the flames and save them."

     It is, of course, true that those in the boxes are victims of a system;
how much more so it must be to their captors who have come to believe that
they serve man by enslaving men!  How much more must we visit and free those
whose souls have been moulded into a frame where they cannot feel their love
flow freely!  And how many more prisoners there are outside the prisons!

     When the word of God says, through Jude, to "snatch them from the
flames," He speaks too of those in "the system," the law of this world, the
law of Mammon.  The Lord calls many, but if one is lost because of your pride,
because you felt his better, how much will you pay in judgment!

     No, visit the prisoners, if such is your calling, in the uniforms of both
sides of the bars.  Visit the prisoners in the schools.  Visit the prisoners
in the military uniforms, the business suits, and the beggar's rags, for are
we not all sons and daughters of God?  Are we not all brothers and sisters?

                                 

     Eight days after penciling the last of the preceding words, on Independ-
ence Day 1994, I read the words Timothy Leary left his guards, following his
prison break.  Coincidence, I'm sure.

          In the name of the Father and the Mother and the Holy Ghost  --
     Oh,  Guards -- I leave now for freedom.  I pray that you  will  free
     yourselves.   To hold man captive is a crime against humanity and  a
     sin against God.  Oh, guards, you are criminals and sinners.  Cut it
     loose.  Be free.  Amen.

(Source: Robert Anton Wilson, _Cosmic Trigger_)

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


                               [=- POETRiE -=]
                                              

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     FEVER DREAM
     by Harlequin

     I am dysfunctional, broken
       (Or so they say)
     You fulfill a need; a chasm
       (the hole in my heart) 
     I bleed my life in endless dreams
       (nightmares, really)
     Your cool hand soothes my fevered brow
       (I adore you)
     You gaze down on me, a benevolent goddess
       (I worship you)
     I matters of heart, your cup runs over
       (Filling me)
     You make me whole, you help me live
       You have but to ask
       You will receive

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     To preserve the freedom of the human mind then and freedom of the  press,
     every spirit should be ready to devote itself to martyrdom.
                                                             --Thomas Jefferson


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     POP-SOCiAL-PSYCHOLOGY
     by I Wish My Name Were Nathan


     Society will approach ruin
          sooner than you can           realize

     Notice the methods man has taken
          to
                    destroy
               itself

     No   more      togetherness --
          look at the size of the  s p a c e   b a r

     No   more 
               respect
                           for work
     See the size of the PLAY button.


               Meditate.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     She  apparently  caused [the baby] to be dead.  I fully  anticipate  some
     kind of charge.
                                    --Bob Wiatt, Texas A&M director of security


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     LOVE
     by Harlequin

     My hand, nervous, a mind of its own
     My body betrays me, I feel alone
       Unable to move
       Yet able to think
       Breathing fast
       I see (I think?)
     You move, you laugh, a twinkling eye
     No one here seems alone, as I...
       Nerves again
       Fear in my throat
       I cannot move
       I cannot speak
     You walk away, completely unaware
     I cannot tell you, you'll never know
       I'd die for you
       I already have

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     Hell is not a place, it's a game you play.
     You suffer every move you make.
                                   --The Revolting Cocks, "Something Wonderful"


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     UNTiTLED #1
     by Griphon

     My expectations
     far exceed my abilities,
     still.
     I have not learned
     to control myself with what is in my grasp,
     still.

     I look upon my situation
     and groan in contempt of my foolish desires.
     Standing here at my crossroads
     I see a life
     totally screwed up by my covetous spirit.

     'Tis not the seeds of hope I plant
     that hurt me
     But rather the needs of what I cannot do:
     my failures
     my shortcomings
     that put me through broken shame.

     The soul I lie to
     because it does not deserve to see me
     as I am;
     and because I cannot stand
     to be alone with myself.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     The middle of the road is where the white line is -- and that's the worst
     place to drive.
                                                                 --Robert Frost


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     A DYSLEXiC
     by Harlequin

     Life before was an empty shell
       Angel or Devil
     I cannot tell; sometimes,
       They're one and the same
     How do you feel?
       I can never tell

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     "As you can tell from last weekend, there's a lot of pistols out there."
                                --Police Capt. Juan Gonzalez, head of a program 
                                    to trade concert tickets for citizen's guns


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     UNTiTLED #2
     by Griphon

     The soul that I sometimes dream of...
     I have not yet realized it shall remain a dream
     tempestuous and torturous
     and always wisping out of my broken grasp.

     I am a fool.
     I am a liar.
     I am a coward.
     Yet, at times,
     I aspire to a perfection
     that I might obtain
     if only I were courageous.

     And, at times,
     I do not loathe myself,
     and do not lie to the soul trusting me.
     I do not think myself wretched,
     and am favored by the soul whom I cannot touch...

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     We are the people our parents warned us against.
                                                             --Nick Von Hoffman


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     TiMES LiKE THESE
     by Harlequin

     It's times like these, I feel I'm losing touch;
     feeling the bodies pressed close beside me-
     feeling the urge, and not caring too much.

     Choking on foul breath, perfume and such;
     Fury, confusion: the beast within me-
     It's times like these, I feel I'm losing touch.

     "Oh, tell me, Sebastian, shall we go clutch?"
     Their babble and squawk infuriates me;
     feeling the urge, and not caring too much.

     Men, their machismo, that masculine crutch;
     women, neuroses: "God, I'm so ugly!"
     It's time like these, I feel I'm losing touch.

     Peering o'er tables whilst eating my lunch,
     wanting to unleash the beast within me-
     feeling the urge, and not caring too much.

     Baring my teeth; grinning, showing too much
     gleeful laughter that wells up inside me...
     It's times like these I feel I'm losing touch-
     feeling the urge, and not caring too much.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     It  is  useless for sheep to pass resolutions in favor  of  vegetarianism
     while the wolf remains of a different opinion.
                                                           --William Ralph Inge


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     UNTiTLED #3
     by Griphon

     What manner of man am I,
     that takes no initiative in his future?
     I stand idly by,
     and my world passes me by.

     I cannot take my eyes off this life
     lest it devour me.
     It does not care
     I am not as important as I think.

     My future is not assured
     nor is my presence here.

     I denied religion,
     I became hollow.
     I sought a dying heart,
     I put myself through fires of hell,
     all the while saying
     "This is love."

     Apathy kills the pain caused by trying to care,
     but it eats away at one's life.

     I feel cheated
     because I did not reacts to this tilting world
     because I was Numb.

     Yet it's my own damn fault.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     Ordinary people will go mad if they hear too much truth at once.
                                          --Robert Anton Wilson, _Nature's God_


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     MURDER OF AN IMAGE
     by I Wish My Name Were Nathan

     Drowning in ineptitude, I feel.  My mind shuffles words into exotic and 
magnificently lucid phrases, but the mere act of typing them destroys their 
meaning, their soul, their passion, in a wheezing and gasping convulsion of 
destruction.  My visions die slowly in 7-bit text, characters who are people 
suddenly smashed into characters who are letters in the computer screen; they 
slither along the surface of the glass, confused, aghast, horrified. Finding 
frustration in their emotions, their speech, their gestures which seem so dry 
and empty and white on black, they realize dimly that they have been reduced 
into words, sentences; adjectives, adverbs; cliches and occasionally 
interesting phrases which sometimes cry out but are soon forgotten. They die 
and I clench my fists in furious disappointment.  With a keypress, they are 
buried on the platters of my hard disk, neatly put away, conveniently 
forgotten, no longer a concern.  I shan't bring flowers.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

     
     If Satan and the Incredible Hulk had a baby, would it's name be 
     Luciferigno?
                                                                --Kilgore Trout


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     FOR J---
     by Harlequin

     Deep inside, the swelling seed
       Bursts into life, unknowing
     What it is, where time will lead
       knowing only of the place it's growing
     The stalk grows higher, with it
       grows the green'd, young bud
     A Flower, unopened, inside it
       Waiting... opening... blooming
     A single red rose, bright & new
       A single red rose, alone, for you

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
                                              

                               [=- FiCTiON -=]


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     SELF-PiTY
     by Griphon
     

     To A---

     I forgot how much I missed self-pity.  The feeling of despair that rises 
in the stomach and permeates the soul.  The darkness that overtakes the senses 
and deals pain in throbbing, sporadic intervals like shallow breaths or 
wandering thoughts.  The inexplicable power realized by knowing that I and I 
alone am hurting myself.  The doting and pining over a single even or object 
to the point of gut-wrenching and unholy desire.  And especially the pain, the 
sharpened, caustic pain of never obtaining the thing I believe I must thrive 
upon.

     I remember being alone, in the dark.  Staring at the heavens and cursing 
everything.  Objecting to the cold reality of If and the contrast that my 
yearning, beating heart felt.  The self-pity and meticulous fantasizing that 
only brought the sword of If deeper into my belly.  I believed myself a poet, 
the pain that I suffered genuine, and the satisfaction of knowing it could be 
ended at anytime should I make the effort.  But I didn't end the pain.  It was 
a drug to me.  It hurt like hell, but there was no escape.  The more I hurt 
myself, the more I pitied myself, the more I enjoyed it.  Then it ended.

     Blindly, I came to you.  I stopped cutting myself, stopped being 
contented by the sight of my soul bleeding.  I looked to you as a source of 
healing for what I thought was my wounded self.  I sought a release for my 
beautiful, poetic devices that didn't include self-desecration.  I searched 
for the love that I purposely denied myself or tainted for the beauty of 
suffering.  Yet it was all in vain...

     All I succeeded in doing was giving you Control over my pain.  I allowed 
you to destroy me, and I came back to you for more.  I would run every 
beautiful moment we shared through my mind and then face the grim inadequacy 
and insecurity you felt and returned as acts of cruelty to create a symphony 
of pain for myself.  I reveled in the torture you brought me and found even 
more suffering because you had taken my failsafe tool:  Control.

     Now it is over.  I am scarred and torn by you.  There is a seething and 
loathsome hatred I hold for you.  I am bitter and angry.  And yet, I return to 
my darkness.  I hate the light; I hate your light.  I sink back into my 
shadows and take the blade from your hands.  Slowly, I cut myself, replaying 
the moments I shared with you that were perfect and feeling the bittersweet 
pain flow like blood inside me.  The hatred is gone and the pain returns.  I 
have control and I have self-pity.  I close my eyes and run my fingers over 
your body once again.  I remember the passion and pure love I felt for you and 
the void inside of me bellows and burns.  discontent rages and I feed off it.

     In time I may search for light again.  I may pray that I never find 
daggers hidden within the angelic wings.  But should I cut myself again, I 
shall be content with my discontent and pain.  I crave it.  I need pity, even 
if it is self-inflicted.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     My gosh, he sat on that furniture.  It's like he's almost here.
                  --Ethellymm Sims, customer at an auction of Elvis memorabilia


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     THE DiLEMMA OF LORNE:  STUD-BOY OR DiSiLLUSiONED GEEK? (Part II)
     by Kilgore Trout
     
     When I last wrote to you, my blessed readers, I was about to follow Lorne 
and his date, the lovely Veronica.  However, since I knew the restaurant that 
they would be eating at, I stopped off at a 7-Eleven to kill some time.  I've 
read enough Hardy Boy books in my life to know how to spy on people.

     I parked my Plymouth Fury and thought about buying gas, but figuring that 
with only twenty dollars for the night it would not be wise.  I walked inside, 
acknowledging the store clerk with a nod.  The back of the store was my goal, 
and as I walked there, I perused enormous amounts of teeth-rotting candy.  The 
back of the store was one big cooler, and I found myself staring at cases of 
beer.  It would have been heaven for a newly-turned eighteen-year-old in 
Louisiana.  I went to the next door and grabbed a Big Slam Mountain Dew, 
thirsting for caffeine and sugar from hell.

     As I placed the bottle on the counter, the store clerk gave me a strange 
look.  "Ya know, that stuff sure is strong," he remarked.  "Are you sure you 
want to drink that?"

     "Why not?" I answered.  "They wouldn't be selling it if it wasn't safe."

     Two hands came slamming down on my shoulders.  "What the hell are you 
saying, guy?  Do you think the government cares about your safety?  Oh, no, 
buddy-boy, they just wanna make a buck.  Sure, if the public gets a little 
pissed off, they'll take minimal action to appease them.  Take this Formula 
One stuff they just banned in Texas.  Said it contains this drug called 
ephedrine which is chemically similar to speed and supposedly doesn't mix 
well with other people's compositions, causing fatalities."  He reached 
behind his back and retrieved a small bottle of pills.  "Well, look at this, 
Mr. I-Think-The-Government's-Okay.  Do you know what this is?"

     I shook my head violently.

     "It's ephedrine," he laughed, "A bronchial dilator for people with 
asthma.  Anyone can buy this stuff, and you're telling me the government's 
doing a good job of protecting us?  Geez..."

     "But I don't think--"

     "That'll be $1.15 for the drink."

     I paid and left.

                                 

     I arrived at the restaurant in a fit of clanking hubcaps and choking 
engine fumes.  The valet outside the restaurant stared at me in disbelief as I 
got out of my good ole American car and handed him the keys.

     "My Jag is getting an alarm put in it," I lied.

     "Oh, really?" he replies.  "I hope you get your Jag back soon.  I didn't 
know they could put alarms on Matchbox cars."

     "Shut up and park the damn thing before I punch your lights out, bucko."  
I raised my hands and one leg, ready to fight in the Karate Kid stance.

     "No, please!" exclaimed the valet mockingly.  "Don't piss on me!"  His 
voluminous laughter must have been heard around the globe.

     I took aim at his head and let my leg fly.  The valet ducked and punched 
me in the gut.  To quote John Bobbit, "It hurt real bad."  With the half of my 
face not imbedded in the asphalt, I saw that the valet was talking to a 
really big guy.  The only words I could make out were "Bruno," "dumbass kid," 
and "kick his ass."  Bruno turned towards my direction and smiled.  He must 
fight off the babes with those five black teeth sporadically placed in his 
mouth.

     He started walking this way, and I started thinking I'm gonna need a new 
change of underwear.  I started to scream.  Bruno picked me up.  I kicked 
wildly, constantly missing his fat body everytime.  Bruno raised a hand and 
beaned me in the head with his fist.  I began seeing lots and lots of 
breasts.  Don't ask me why this happens when I get hurt--go read some Freud or 
something.

     Out of the corner of my eye, a tweed-covered breast raced out of the 
restaurant and attacked Bruno.  A haze of kicks, punches, headbutts, 
dropkicks, body slams, suplexes, clotheslines, screwdrivers and martinis were 
all I saw.  Guess I forgot to tell you:  Lorne wanted to be a professional 
wrestler when he grew up.

     Bruno took all the punishment he could and fell over, denting the 
pavement in the process.  Lorne, who was looking less and less like a breast, 
ran over to me.  I think he looked better with that big nipple in the middle 
of his forehead.

     "Thank you for saving my life, Lorne.  I'll do anything for you."

     Naturally, Lorne just shrugged.

     "No, I mean it.  Anytime you need anything, call me and--"

     A screaming Veronica rushed out, eyes wet with tears.

     "Don't worry, Veronica.  I'm fine."

     Naturally, Vernoica ignored me.  Life went back to normal.

                                 

     Basically, the rest of Lorne and Veronica's date took place at the 
hospital while I had my spleen removed.  It _was_ sponge bath Friday, however, 
so I got soaped down by a voluptuous nurse--the only good thing that has ever 
happened to me, except for maybe seeing my mom naked.  They did let Lorne 
watch my operation, which he thoroughly enjoyed, even if it meant leaving the 
lovely Veronica in the waiting room for six hours.

     So, that's about it, really.  Our lives around here pretty much suck.  
Okay, okay, so only mine does.  Veronica and Lorne are in love now and are 
about three months away from graduation and five months away from having a 
baby.  Once Lorne got started, he was a crazed lunatic and, well, let's just 
say you should go buy stock in Kleenex cause even Veronica couldn't keep up 
with him.  But he was monogamous, unless you count pictures of naked women.  
He had quite the collection.

     As for me, I'm still broke and lonely.  Girls still don't talk to me, 
much less give me the time of day.  I thought that by writing this down I'd 
see a pattern.  I must be blind because the only pattern I see is one of a 
loser.  At least some people out there will get a laugh at my worthless life.

[Follow-up note:  Two weeks later the writer was shot dead in an alley after 
 passing up a can of OK Cola at a party.  This supposedly was a coincidence, 
 but I'd go ahead and sue their asses anyone just for the taste.  His body was 
 cremated and his ashes placed in an ashtray in Lorne and Veronica's home.  He 
 did make a nice coffee-table piece.  Finally, a happy ending.]

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


     To maintain sensibility is the greatest effort required
     To slip would be so easy, it would be accomplished with
          little effort...
     To burden others with your problems-
          are they problems?-
     Is not right-
          However
     To carry them is akin to carrying a fused bomb-
     I wonder if the fuse can be doused-
     If it is doused what will be gained?
     Will the gain be worth the effort put forth?
          But should one who considers himself strong,
          Surrender to an enemy he considers so
          trivial
          and
          despicable...

                                       --Charles Whitman, the U.T. Tower Sniper


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--     

     REQUiEM FOR DEAD SOULS
     by Harlequin

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
  The hour when earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling
  And took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
  They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
  And saved the sum of things for pay.


   from Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries
                         by  A. E. Housman


December 20, 1999...

     Lane punched through the frozen static hell into the net, his tear -- 
tracks lost in the sense -- irreality of the artificial environ.  Anguish -- 
dulled senses made him fumble codes and trip alarms, but he didn't care. 
Nothing mattered.

     He was caught, slammed into a nonwall construct, and caught again.  He'd 
found the Child.

     "Now now, Lane.  No time for tears.  What do you need?" the idiot 
savant/genius Child soothed him in its cold, calculating way.  Now the room 
was orange, for anguish.  The child floated, white and glowing, in the middle 
of the shifting Room.

     "Take it, take it all.  I...I...just take it."  Lane composed. 

     "You don't mean that."

     "Yes, I do, dammit!  Take it all, I don't want to remember."

     The Child leaned forward, an expressly adult maneuver.  "If I do, you'll 
be empty, nothing left, like a cracked egg.  Every memory, every experience, 
every touch... I wouldn't do it, were I you."  It leaned back, the room kalei- 
doscoping into fractal shapes.

     "They're my memories, damn you!  You eat them like so much candy!  Just 
take them, just take them, please..."

     "Fine, fine.  You'll want something in that empty brain of yours--"

      Lane interrupted.  "I don't care -- but don't let him feel pity, or 
remorse, or, or..."  Lane was gone, sucked from his own mind and stored in the 
memory of the Child.

     "Are the lambs still screaming, Lane?" the Child chuckled as its face 
melted into that of a middle-aged man, his hair slick against his scalp. 
"Goodnight, sweet prince..."

                                 

May 1, 2005...

     It was dark in the room.  The room was huge and gray, and reeked of hot 
copper.  It was unutterably cold in the room.

     And then the Child spoke.

     The room was filled with the quiet voice of the Child.  The Child knew 
everything, and in its knowledge, knew nothing.  The Child filled the empty 
room with its presence.  It spoke of great things, and things of no import. 
Cody was the child; they were the same.

     Cody awoke from the sleep disoriented.  His room was warm, and the body 
pressed to his under the sheets moved ever so slightly.  Cody lay quietly, the 
dream fading into a waking oblivion.

     He rose and made coffee.  The girl stirred under the sheets and made 
small waking sounds.  Cody sat in his robe with the steaming mug clasped be- 
tween his cold hands.  The girl moved behind him, poured coffee.  Weak yellow 
light filtered through the closed blinds and made dancing patterns on the tile 
floor.  Consciousness cleared the predawn fog from his mind as the sun cleared 
the morning mist from the streets.  She sat across from him, head down over 
her mug.

     The stereo came on in the bedroom.  Japanese rock played softly through 
the walls and fell lightly on the ears of the wakeful.  The rich scent of the 
coffee played about his nostrils and wafted to the vent, to be lost among the 
other morning smells.

     Cody heard the shower motor whine, then kick in as water flowed through 
the pipes.  Mali was gone, bathing in the tepid water which fell on cool 
porcelain.

     Cody stepped onto the balcony and watched patrol gyros dart like damsel- 
flies through the powder-blue sky.  Life began to stir in the rooms around 
him, as he heard alarms sound and children begin their faint wailing cries for 
attention.  One could only hear that outside, through the closed doors of the 
other balcony rooms.

     Cody liked the space he'd gotten.  The park spread below like a green 
carpet, the trees and lawns verdant and alive.  He heard locusts, buzzing. 
Odd... not locusts...

     The blast would've killed him, had he been inside.  The apartment blew 
apart behind him, the door shattering with the force of the explosion.

     The fire alarm wailed as he picked his way through the wreckage.  The 
bedroom was gone, lost in a swirl of debris and flame.  Cody dove through the 
doorway to the bathroom.  There wasn't much left of Mali.

     Cody ripped the remains of a poster from a bedroom wall and powdered 
sheetrock with his fists.  There was the briefcase he'd hidden, so long ago. 
He ran from the room with the case clutched to his chest like a mother with 
her child.

     The hall was chaos.  The remains of the front door were strewn about the 
floor like so many straws.  People were jabbering at one another across empty 
space, too frightened to step outside their doors.  Something truly new had 
popped into their world like an obscene jack-in-the-box, and none could under- 
stand this terrible new thing.  None save Cody, who had known that this would 
have to happen, eventually.

     The lift doors down the hall rang cheerfully as they opened.  There were 
bound to be police on that lift, and they would want to question Cody.  So 
Cody ran to the stairwell and pounded down to the garage.

     Cody opened the briefcase.  Everything was there.  He pulled the old 
stealthleathers from the bag taped to the case and slid them on under his 
robe.  The case itself was coated with the mimetic polycarbon, and blended 
with the gray cement wall.  As did Cody.

     He stepped into a dark alcove beneath the stairs and waited until the 
police left.  Soon, intelligence agents would be crawling all over the rooms, 
examining blast patterns and looking for his remains.

     Cody stepped from the shadows and tapped his left wrist.  The suit dis- 
played a crystalline control board, curved around his forearm.  Cody tapped 
the glassine panel and an expensive three-piece suit materialized about him. 
He walked to the street and hailed a cab, which took him to the spaceport.  He 
paid the driver with three pink tens, and strode through the busy terminal. He 
booked a seat on a transorbital to Houston, and another to Tokyo, under his 
assumed name.  The credentials were real; he'd paid a lot to get the paperwork 
filed and his new identity verified legally, and it had kept him alive.  He 
gave the ticket agent a single thousand, a crimson bill with Warhol's Marilyn 
Monroe on one side and Stonehenge on the other.

                                 

     In Houston he found the Child.  The techno-barbarism of the modern Repub- 
lic of Texas allowed for a great deal of experimentation.  The Child was one 
such experiment, a Texas Instruments toy gone wild.  The Child was a VR con- 
struct who went solo on October 30, 2001.  Nobody knew why; the Child was 
designed by machines, which were themselves designed by machines.  Some said 
it was a virus; others, an act of God.  Cody had met the Child long ago, and 
the Child had helped him, as it was helping him now.  He/she/it controlled a 
region of cyberspace Jockeys called the Void.  When one entered the Void, 
there was no up, no down, no anything, but for the Child.

     The Child was itself empty, once.  Now, it was the sum of the memories 
and knowledge given it by its wards.  The only price the Child demanded was a 
memory; any memory.  But that memory would be lost once it was given to the 
Child, the neural pathways erased by the very act of taking.

     Cody had been paid well to forget.  Now, he traded his memories of Mali 
for the aid of the Child, who helped him when he was in need.  The Child told 
him who was after him, and why.

                                 

     His trip to TokyoChiba was smooth until he landed.  The stealthleather 
told the scanners it was a business suit and a briefcase full of papers; the 
passports verified that Cody was in fact Jerrod Terence Hill of Nebraska.

     When he stepped from the terminal onto the gritty pavement, a woman 
strode up from behind him and put her arm through his.  She was trembling 
under the big coat she was wearing, her face pale and sheened with sweat. Cody 
felt thin hardness along her arm; he looked sharply at the girl, fighting 
reflex.  Her face, in profile, was one well remembered, one well loved.

     Cody hailed a cab and paid with Hill's slotcard.  They rode together in 
silence to a motel, where a shaky ironwork lift carried them to their floor. 
The sleepcubes were old, but cheap and nondescript.  Cody slid the card 
through the reader and pulled the key from the lock.

     The woman followed him into the coffin, closing the door behind her.  She 
sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her head down.  She looked at Cody 
with tears in her eyes, and told him her name was Kera.  She didn't recognize 
him, his face a mask of expensive surgery which had changed constantly over 
the years.  Their history was long and painful.  He'd helped her when he was 
'lancing in Belfast for the I.R.A.  Her family slain by overzealous Brits, and 
he'd saved her from their baser attentions.  The doctors rebuilt her in an 
expensive Army hospital in Kentucky.

     Kera, battered and nearly broken, bore scars which told of her hard life. 
He stayed near her throughout the reconstructive therapy, knowing that she was 
weak and empty.  She seemed to emerge from a shell, a hardness she'd built to 
protect herself from the harshness of her existence.  He was drawn to her, 
there being too many parallels in his own past for him to simply walk away. 
The doctors rebuilt her face, restoring her natural beauty and her dignity.

     She transformed from a scarred and frightened young girl to a graceful, 
vibrant young woman.  He loved her; Kera was the only person who had stirred 
those feeling from their abysmal slumber.  She was his Achilles heel; when she 
cried for help, he was there.  To him, she was The Woman.

     They'd spent a heady year together.  He found himself deeply in love with 
her, and she never left his side.  He hadn't taken any of the nastier work, 
and had kept her innocent of his occupation.  Eventually, as always, there had 
come a snag.  Cody remembered the hurried packing, trying desperately to 
explain why she had to leave, why they had to part.  She'd fallen to her knees 
and wept, holding him tightly around his legs, begging him not to leave her.

     He'd reached into his sleeve and unfastened the thin  Velcroed straps 
around his forearm.  He handed the thin plastic Cross dagger to her; Cody told 
her he loved her, that he'd know where to find her when she needed him, and 
disappeared.

     Kera brightened as she told him how she'd tried to contact him.  She was 
a hacker, a shadow programmer.  She'd run against the wrong people, and her 
employers hadn't backed her.  She was trying to disappear, to melt into the 
sea of people who flowed and ebbed through Tokyo.  She needed his help, as she 
had so many times before.

     She moved to him and put her head on his chest, and wept.  He held her 
gently, and soon she was asleep, her fears lost to her tears.  Mechanically, 
trance like, Cody pulled a small black box from his case.  He opened it; 
packed in soft foam were a pair of sensor beads.  He attached these to the 
sockets at the base of her skull; light pulsed along the optics, passively 
scanning her mind and recording it all.

     As the device worked, Cody prepared himself for his task.  Finished, the 
complex and expensive device beeped, twice.  Cody ejected the newly-burned 
data wafer the size of an old style diskette, a ROM card with Kera's mind 
stored in it.  He packed the box and the wafer back into the case.  He left 
her a note; he'd be back, not to worry.  It was all business.

                                 

     The elevator doors opened on the executive suites.  Cody told the secre- 
tary he had an appointment.  She sent him to the exec's office.  The man was 
on the telephone, yammering away the latest stock reports.  Then he turned to 
Cody.

     His plastic smile dropped when he saw Cody's face.  The face that was 
supposed to be dead, plastered across the bedroom wall in Boston.  The exec 
opened his mouth, and closed it, like a fish deprived of water.  Cody stood, 
and shot the man through the skull as he tried to rise.  The gun went off with 
a pop and a slight whining noise, and the flechettes erased the man's face. 
The falling corpse spun the chair, and it was still spinning when Cody left, 
drawing a perfect circle with one bloody shoeheel.

     Nobody _ever_ tried to take out Cody when he'd done a job for them.  That 
was part of the Deal; Cody never named the employer or the job, and the em- 
ployer never tried to wash his hands of the affair by eliminating Cody.  Cody 
gave the memory of his employers to the Child; he could never have spoken of 
the employer to anyone because he truly did not remember them.  That was the 
Deal.

     Because if they came for Cody, Cody would have them removed.

                                 

     He returned to the coffin.  Kera was there, asleep.  He crawled in to the 
cubicle and she awoke.  When she saw him, she threw her arms around him and 
kissed him as if for the first time.

     Their embrace became more passionate.  As Cody achieved climax, he slit 
her throat.  Her eyes opened, then; infinite sadness was clouded as she fell 
back onto the foam slab, her tight embrace slipping from him as she bled to 
death.  She didn't cry out, she didn't even struggle, a single crystal tear 
falling from the corner of her eye.  For a long time afterward, Cody could 
only stare at the dark spot it had left on the foam.

                                 

     It was dark in the room.  The room was a cement cryotank, and it reeked 
of spilt blood.  And then the Child spoke.

                                 

     The room was filled with the quiet voice of the Child.  The Child knew 
everything, and in its knowledge, knew hatred.  The Child filled the empty 
room with its presence.  It spoke of things which could make a man great, and 
things which would ruin men.  Cody was the Child; the Child took Kera as 
easily as it had taken Mali, as easily as Cody had then taken Kera's life.

                                 

     Weakness was intolerable.             

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--


State  of  unBeing  is  copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore  Trout  and  Apocalypse 
Culture Publications.   All rights are reserved to cover,  format,  editorials, 
and all incidental material.   All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by 
the individual author, unless  otherwise stated.  This file may be disseminated 
without restriction for  nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete 
and  unmodified.   Quotes and  ideas not  already in  the  public domain may be 
freely used  so  long  as  due recognition is provided.   State  of  unBeing is  
available at the following places:

                 iSiS UNVEiLED   512.930.5259  14.4 (Home of SoB)
                THE LiONS' DEN   512.259.9546  24oo
                 ftp to io.com   /pub/SoB

Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>.  Thank you.


--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
