
 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                 2/25/95                tahw ro woh gniwonk
 to think. You are in               FOUR-TEEN              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
                           =----------------------=

GUESSED EDiTORiAL                                    I Wish My Name Were Nathan

STAFF LiSTiNGS


                               [=- ARTiCLES -=]


KiLL 'EM ALL:  THE TRUTH ABOUT AiDS                                   Clockwork

PEOPLE?                                                                 Bluejay

SLAVERY AND THE iRiSH RACE                                          Bobbi Sands

STANDARD                                                                Griphon

BLOOD ON THE STREETS: EVERYMAN'S
GUiDE TO GUERRiLLA WARFARE (Part II)                          Captain Moonlight

SHE                                                                    Morrigan

A BRiEF iNTRODUCTiON TO HiGH SCHOOL                  I Wish My Name Were Nathan


                               [=- POETRiE -=]


MEDiTATiONS ON DEATH'S SLEEP Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes

FiLTER                                                                  Griphon

RED                                                                  TOkemASTer

A CLEAR BLUE SKY                                                   Dirk Russell

GUNS ON THE ROOF                                              Captain Moonlight

36                                                                   Vlad Tepes


                               [=- FiCTiON -=]


iMMUNE                                                            Kilgore Trout

THE PROPHECY                                                              Nomad

YOUR TYPiCAL MONDAY MORNiNG                                          TOkemASTer

CONTRAST                                                                Griphon

THAT WHiCH LiES BEYOND       Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes


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

     GUESSED EDiTORiAL
     by I Wish My Name Were Nathan

     Er... hi.  Kilgore's brain dead.  Oh well.  Now's my chance to start
instantiating my plan to take over the reins of SoB from under the unsuspecting
nose of Kilgore Trout, that dirty bastard.  In case you weren't aware, _I_ was
the one who called the FBI on those other literary Irish-loving dorks.  They
were gonna expose the WHOLE FUCKING RACKET--

     Ouch.  Kilgore hit me.  He's animated even in near death.

     I promise to be nice now.  I was having a _tiny_ little power trip there.
Okay, well, here we go.  As all you prolly know, guest editorials have usually
nothing to do with the material or format of the magazine they appear in.  It
is my grim duty to follow this tradition blindly.

     I thought I'd take this time to announce that I will soon be twenty.  As
I imagine, much of the audience of this 'zine are around this age.  Growing
older doesn't scare me, but what does scare me is what my age is supposed to
mean in terms of my role in society and the world.

     Fuck it -- growing older does scare me.  I don't understand adults.  Why
should I?  I know nothing about them, not even as reflected in my parents or
my teachers.  I don't understand them.  But the thing I'm also noticing is
that when I took at the younger generation, I don't understand them either.
I'm falling out of touch with the kid-stuff I used to prize so dearly.  I
don't understand Pogs.  I don't like Nintendo.  I don't even read comics
anymore.

     Well, I suppose this is natural.  I'm a member of my own generation, the
generation of the twenty-fourth letter which I won't mention in polite
company.  I'm supposed to be a lazy, non-voting slacker.  I'm not, though.
I aspire to be, but I cannot.  On the one hand, impending retro-conservatism
is forcing me to make my small voice heard through the ballot box.  I cannot
let myself ignore the very 'adult' act of voting.  On the other hand, being
of adult age pigeonholes me into the image of a soon-to-be-totally-respectable
-and-hirable student and worker.  But I don't want to lose my childish
enthusiasm and idealism.  Do people force childishness out of themselves, or
it is taken away?  When I'm not watching out for myself, I inadvertently
let both happen to me.  That's what scares me.

     Kilgore's waving his fist at me.  Well, okay, I was getting a little
emotional.  I have noticed how dark the "Articles" section in SoB tends to be.
Noted, there are important topics to keep informed about.  The world can't be
all glory and light.  There is relatively little of it to go around.  But
within each of us, even if it has been almost smeared completely away by age,
loss of innocence, or cynicism; we all still have some spark of youth left.
This may be the only hope we have upon entering the next century.  I urge you
not to let it go.  Keep your youth.  Prize it and treasure it, for once it
is gone, is can only be imitated, poorly understood.

     Youth is the future, and the future is still young.  It's not over yet.



P.S. from Kilgore (muttered in hitched breaths between gasping screams):
     SoB #8 will be out some time between the release of SoB issues 14 and 15.
     Be sure to catch it and distribute it.

P.P.S. from the Trout (he's very adamant to have his words expressed):
     SoB is no longer a zine limited to the borders of Austin, and we can't
     keep track of all happenings.  If you write a review about SoB, or see
     one, please forward it to Kilgore at one of the addresses listed in
     the bottom of this magazine.


--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
                                   Bluejay
                                  Clockwork
                              Captain Moonlight
              Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
                                   Griphon
                         I Wish My Name Were Nathan
                                   Morrigan
                                    Nomad
                                 Dirk Russell
                                 Bobbi Sands
                                  Vlad Tepes
                                  TOkemASTer

--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--

     KiLL 'EM ALL:  THE TRUTH ABOUT AiDS
     by Clockwork

     Let me give you a fair warning before I begin.  For those of you who may 
be afraid of the truth -- do not read on.  The truth is a scary thing.  For 
those of you who think you might be able to handle it... prepare yourselves.
     
     We all know that AiDS is a very serious, life-threatening disease which 
has affected millions of people around the world.  We all know that a cure has 
yet to be found.  This is most likely the most medically related catastrophe 
to hit the planet for an extremely long time.  Doctors speculate that there 
are about 100 million people infected in Africa, 30-50 million in China, and 
at least 20 million in the U.S.  Serious is an understatement.  But the truth 
is, it is more serious than you could have ever imagined.
     
     Let me just say it bluntly:  there is astonishing, documented proof that 
the U.S. Government is behind the creation of the AiDS virus.  For those who 
have trouble reading two syllable words:  the government created AiDS.  You 
may laugh now, or blow this off as a joke, but read on and see why I stopped 
laughing a long time ago.
     
     In 1969, the U.S. Army requested $10 million to develop a virus that 
would destroy the immune system.  And their request was granted.  But do not 
just take my word for it.  This is entirely documented in the Congressional 
Record of June 9, 1969.  Around the same time, a group called the World Health 
Organization (WHO) promoted research of the same kind.  More about WHO later.
     
     In the early 70's, a one Mr. Henry Kissinger, along with General Brent 
Scowcroft (who was Bush's national security advisor), wrote a top secret 
document (National Security Memorandum 200) which indicated that "depopulation 
should be the highest priority of U.S. foreign policy towards the Third 
World."  And guess what?  That was adopted as the official foreign policy 
towards the Third World.  And you know what else?  None of this was known to 
Congress or, more importantly, the American public.  This document, which was 
declassified VERY quietly in 1990 and can be attained from the U.S. National 
Archives.  It also includes a map that indicates where depopulation would be 
desirable -- all the Third World countries.  That's right, all the brown and 
yellow people.
     
     Now, back to WHO.  The World Health Organization went into Central Africa 
in 1972 -- an area now called the AiDS Belt -- and administered a vaccine to 
several thousands of Africans.  Right after this event, the first outbreak of 
AiDS on the planet occurred in the same area.  And it just so happens that 
this has never been mentioned in the U.S. media.
     
     In 1978, WHO gave a vaccine to several thousand male homosexuals in New 
York and San Francisco.  Every single one of them got AiDS.  These were the 
first cases of AIDS in the U.S.  And once again, this is all documented.
     
     Let me go back to the first outbreak of AiDS on the planet -- in Africa 
-- and throw a few more bones in the grave.  AiDS supposedly originated when a 
green monkey bit some poor defenseless African on the ass.  BULLSHiT!  First 
of all, viruses can not jump species.  A virus found in a monkey can not be 
transmitted to a human.  This is a law in the virus world.  Second of all, the 
AiDS virus bears no resemblance whatsoever to anything ever found in any green 
monkey.  What it does look like, though, is a cow and sheep virus that were 
somehow bonded together.  And do you know the only way that those viruses 
could have bonded together?  Someone had to have engineered them in a labora-
tory.  Meaning that AiDS was man-made.  Third of all, the AiDS virus started
in cities.  There are no monkeys running around biting people in the cities...
     
     Have I planted an idea in your head yet?  It is frightening, isn't it?
Well, close your eyes, boys and girls, because we are about to dive deeper
into the pit of government cover-ups.  It seems as though our good ole U.S. 
Government has been suppressing information from the public.  They have not 
been telling us the truth.  I'll start with a simple example.  A Kenyan scien-
tist who has done valuable research on AiDS was refused entrance to interna-
tional AiDS conferences in 1987 and 1991.  Since he wasn't allowed to go to
those, in 1992 he decided to take his research directly to the medical organi-
zations in the U.S.  However, for no reason whatsoever, he was refused en-
trance into the country.
     
     It gets worse.  The Royal Society of Medicine in Great Britain states 
without a doubt that "AiDS meets no criteria of a venereal disease... despite 
what is said by the American Government, AiDS is not primarily a sexually 
transmitted disease."  Here are the facts:  SALiVA is the second most infec-
tious fluid in the body... blood is first, and genital secretions come in a
good third.  And yet Mr. Surgeon General states that AiDS can't be transmitted
through saliva.  Then why is it that the most accurate test to see if you have
AIDS is a saliva test?  Hmmmm?
     
     In fact, it is stated in Congressional Record that AiDS can be transmit-
ted by mosquitoes.  How come nobody ever told us this?  And to make things 
even worse, 16,000 Health Care workers contracted AIDS by just being around 
those who were infected.  BY JUST BEiNG AROUND THEM!  This means breathing in 
the same air as them.  Maybe touching them every once in a while.
     
     Wake up America!!!  Our government has been lying to us... again.  They 
have been stomping and spitting all over us for a hell of a long time.  This 
isn't the first time the U.S. was subject to a germ warfare (if I may use that 
term) attack.  In the early 60's, millions of unsuspecting Americans took a 
polio vaccine that was laced with a cancer causing virus.  We are just now 
beginning to see the effects of this through leukemia and brain tumors.
     
     Why?  That's the big question, isn't it?  Why is the government doing 
this to the world?  Well ... it's not the easiest question in the world to 
answer.  The best answer I can come up with is to depopulate the world.  You 
see, in the 60's and 70's there was a huge scare of overpopulation of the 
planet.  As I mentioned earlier, getting rid of some of the people on earth 
was a very high priority to the government.  And what would be the easiest way 
to do this and have people think it's occurring naturally?  Have them contract 
a disease of some kind.  And what people would be the easiest to get rid of?  
Those who are unwanted.  Namely minorities and homosexuals.  This country has 
always been racist -- it still is.  And this country has never accepted homo-
sexuals as a normal person.  So naturally, there wouldn't be a huge protest by
everyone in the world if all of the sudden minorities and homosexuals started
dying.  Would you like a little more proof that AIDS was targeted at minori-
ties?  In Brazil, 40% of the women at childbearing age have AIDS.  And 90% of 
those are black.  And here is an even more alarming one:  AZT, the main drug 
used to slow down the progress of AIDS is largely ineffective in blacks.  In 
fact, it aggravates the symptoms.
     
     There you have it folks.  What can I say?  It makes me want to cry.  What 
can we do?  Well, I do not know.  All hope is not lost, however, for there are 
many independently funded research organizations not affiliated with the 
government who are desperately searching for a cure.  My guess is, that some-
time, some group, having ties with the government, will miraculously find the 
cure for AiDS ... after a billion or so people have died.
     
     For those of you who are even slightly alarmed by this and wish to find 
out more, let me know.

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


"I'd like to see people, instead of spending so much time on the ethical
problem, get after the problems that really affect the people of this
country."
                                                            --Richard Nixon


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

     PEOPLE?
     by Bluejay, inspired by Robert Shea and
        Robert Anton Wilson's _The Illuminatus Trilogy_

     Out of every one hundred people born, ninety will be fools, nine will be
villains, and one will be a wise man.  The villains will become politicians
and bureaucrats, and the fools will go flocking to their banners like sheep to
their leader, the wise man trailing unwillingly behind, knowing that if he
doesn't go with the flock, he will be ostracized or killed.  But the wise man
is afraid.  He knows that at any time, the villains -- the head sheep -- could
lead them all off a cliff -- and the flock would follow.

     So the wise man changes.  He becomes one of three things -- a sheep like
the rest, docile and servile; a cast out, alone and friendless, though secure
in his knowledge of what is right; or a wolf.  The wolf, as a predator,
follows no rules but his own, no god but that of Blood.  He spends his life,
sometimes dressed in the clothing of the sheep (though he cannot eat their
grass), destroying the flock.  The wolf knows that if he kills enough sheep,
eventually the leader will be alone, with no more lambs to sacrifice, and he
will fall.  If the leader of the flock is dead, the flock cannot be lead off
the cliff, and it will survive.

     With no politicians to lead us off the cliff of war and starvation with
their rules and regulations and bureaucratic bullshit, maybe we will too.

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


"I'm just hoping that one day the sheep will realize that the shepherd is
 really a wolf in disguise."
                                                         --from The Eternal


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

     SLAVERY AND THE iRiSH RACE
     by Bobbi Sands

     This month, over in the States, they are celebrating Black History Month.  
Or Heritage, as some call it, "Because it isn't just about the past," or 
something.  A nominal nod of the head is granted to the militants, such as 
Malcolm X, slain 30 years ago on the 21st, and the Black Panthers, though they 
are generally forgotten.  Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Civil Rights 
Movement is remembered, and the usual encyclopedia Famous Black Scientists 
list is dragged out.  The reason that there is a Black history month, though, 
the root cause, is slavery.

     The existence of slavery, though, is not the root cause alone.  Slavery 
has existed through the ages, and it is generally forgotten.  In the U.S., 
slavery tore apart the white nation, and for this it is remembered.  Slavery 
is not remembered because it is inhuman and barbaric.  The Civil Rights 
Movement is not remembered because people were oppressed.  They are remembered 
because they tore apart the white nation.

     Case in point:  If the point was that slavery was inhuman, why do we 
never hear about the Irish slaves.

     American history books deal quite a bit with Black slavery, and this is 
understandable.  Black slavery influenced the nation considerably.  The Blacks 
were not the first, though, and the history books note that, too.  A paragraph 
is usually devoted to how the Indians were enslaved first, and then a number 
of reasons are given for how easy it was for the Indians to disappear into the 
undergrowth.

     The slavery of Europeans is granted at most a footnote.

     A few Germans and a number of Scots were sold into slavery in the British 
colonies, but by far the worst European slave trade I have read about was that 
of the Irish.  First, though, this should be set into an historical setting.

     Ireland has been occupied for centuries by the hostile British invader 
force.  One of the darkest points of this story was the period of Cromwell's 
invasion.  Cromwell was sent to put down a revolt in Ireland, and took to it 
with all plans of genocide.  His own words survive in some points, such as his 
letter to the Speaker of the House of Commons, where he speaks of the 
slaughter in St. Peter's Church, saying:

          In  this  very place, a thousand of them were put  to  the 
          sword,  fleeing  thither for safety....  And now  give  me 
          leave  to say how this work was wrought.  It was set  upon 
          some of our hearts that a great thing should be done,  not 
          by power or might, but by the spirit of God.

     In celebration of this horror, October 2, 1649, was declared a national 
Thanksgiving Day in England.

     By 1652, Ireland's resistance had been crushed for that generation.  
Seumas MacManus reminds us, though:

          Ireland's sufferings, great and terrible as they had been, 
          were  yet  far  from ended.  True,  she  had  quaffed  her 
          chalice to the last bitter drop, but it was ordained  that 
          she must now lap up the poisoned dregs.

     Five-sixths of the people of Ireland had perished, from the war, the 
cruelty of the invaders, and starvation and the plagues that followed the
occupation.  And after these five-sixths had been slain, we must add to that
those that were removed.  Of these last, the Irish slaves play a major part.

     First, the invaders, in their "mercy", allowed the Irish to avoid 
starvation by deporting such persons as had been soldiers for Ireland to leave 
the nation and join armies friendly to England.  Many went to the Continent, 
including, for example, five thousand to Poland and thirty thousand to Spain.  
And not just to soldiery, but to all areas where trained people were needed.  
MacManus recounts one historian as saying:

          They  became Chancellors of Universities,  professors  and 
          high  officials in every European state.  A  Kerryman  was 
          physician  to  Sobieski, King of Poland.  A  Kerryman  was 
          confessor  to the Queen of Portugal, and was sent  by  the 
          King on an embassy to Louis the Fourteenth.  A Donegal man 
          named  O'Glacan was physician and Privy Chancellor to  the 
          King of France, and a very famed professor of medicine  in 
          the Universities of Tolouse and Bologna.

               There  was  not  a  country in  Europe,  and  not  an 
          occupation,  where Irishmen were not in the first rank  -- 
          as Fieldmarshals, Admirals, Ambassadors, Prime  Ministers, 
          Scholars, Physicians, Merchants, Soldiers, and Founders of 
          mining industry.

     Second, Cromwell decided that he would evict the Irish people.  The six 
counties of Ireland that remain under occupation, where it is claimed that the 
people support Britain, we to be depopulated of all Irish people and 
repopulated with British subjects.  Irish were, in Cromwell's words, to "go to 
Connacht [west Ireland] or go to Hell."

     After all this, it would seem a wonder that Ireland had any population at 
all, at all, let alone one that would continue to rise up generation to 
generation, and will continue to do so until the invader is repulsed.  
Nonetheless, Cromwell and the businessmen of Britain were not done yet.  
Having drained the blood of the Irish people, they took time to drain the very 
bodies of the people.

     It is estimated that somewhere between thirty and eighty thousand of the 
children of Ireland were sold into slavery into the West Indies during the 
coming years.  So many were taken that the tradition goes some of the smaller 
islands of the Caribbean yet had Gaelic speaking Blacks into the eighteen 
hundreds.

     This was not an isolated event, nor was it small scale.  The documents 
speak for themselves, and they speak of measurements in the hundreds and up 
for Irish men and women.  For example, in 1655 the Governor of Jamaica put in 
an order for 1,000 Irish girls at one go, for, as MacManus puts it, "the most 
appalling kind of slavery."  They would be joining thousands that had already 
been sent.

     Another document, from Henry of the Uprighte Harte to Secretary Thurloe 
says in a letter dated September 18, 1655 [I have standardized the spelling]:

          I  shall not need to repeat anything about the girls,  not 
          doubting  but to answer your expectations to the  full  in 
          that;  and I think it might be of like advantage  to  your 
          affairs  there, and to ours here, if you should think  fit 
          to send 1500 or 2000 young boys of from twelve to fourteen 
          years of age, to the place aforementioned.  We could  well 
          spare them, and they would be of use to you; and who knows
          but  that it may be the means to make them  Englishmen,  I
          mean rather Christians.

It is disgusting that a slaver who thinks nothing to sell thousands of 
children into hard labor in the sugar plantations of the Indies would allude 
to his position as the more "Christian."

     In all, as I have said, as many as eighty thousand Irish were sold into 
slavery in a few short years, decimating an already depopulated nation.  And 
yet this barely even gets a footnote in today's textbooks.

     And yet they'd probably still claim they mention Black slavery because of 
the "inhumanity" of it.

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


"This thing is a man.  Look at what you are, and what awaits you.  Gaze on
this image and learn what your own end will be."
                                                            --a Greek epitaph


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

     STANDARD
     by Griphon

     I have no great thoughts today.  No revelations from a cup of coffee or a
cigarette.  I have no great End to which my Means, my writing this, will
achieve.  I blindly put my pen to paper and continue.

     I am driven by something.  Something that I feel I'm getting closer to by 
scratching my thoughts into reality.  A numb ache inside that I relieve with 
every line, every word, every letter.  Do I wish to be immortal, or tell you 
how I feel?  Do I wish to change the world, or simply acknowledge the beautiful 
day outside?  Truly, I do not know.

     I want to meet Christ and Krishna.  I want to follow the girl with the 
long brown hair back into the woods and play in her Imagination.  I want to 
stare at the stars and scream to Heaven.  I want to make love to her and wake 
up and have her still lying next to me.  Asleep and beautiful.  I want to speak 
and be heard and be accepted and be welcomed with a smile by those, who, to me, 
are intelligent and beautiful.  I want to create.  Not to be known or 
remembered, but because it is in my soul to create.  God felt the most peace 
when he created the world.  And the most love when he created Eve.

     i sigh and look around and fumble for a cigarette  today is a beautifully
calm day and it is at odds with my soul  i constantly wander and search for a
place where I can stop wandering  there is something beautiful to be said  but
i cannot say it  not today  please excuse my rambling  it may be meaningless 
perhaps even to me  but reight now it seems important...

     I realized I am not a writer  Writers are gifted  They can speak and have 
substance  I have substance and I can speak but rarely do the two intertwine  I 
have substance now and am speaking now but I am not speaking with the substance  
The substance is lost to my soul  I apologize

     What will happen when I finish *wandering* and find that in my hand is 
nothing but a grain of salt and that I have cut my feet on a stone that 
signifies nothing?  The void that swallows me is a ring in her nose and a 
stupid Bulgarian speaking of nothing and the broken connections between my love 
and my lust and my security.  They are all beautiful girls....  I have lost my
friends to a higher but meaningless purpose, but smile and suffer silently, all
the while showing a drunken acquaintance how to play cards and take my new
friend away from me, where I cannot speak to her.  She wears Laura Shley and
speaks of snakes the way a dog lover speaks of dogs.  My glasses lie next to me
and my drink is watered down and in the other room I hear the tribes of stupid,
insecure, scared people proclaim their superiority by rejecting me.  I wish to
listen to Mozart coughing.  The ashtray is full.  But they are smoking and I
wish to smoke.  On the grounds with the refined, speaking coldly so as not to
feel, I wish to look at my pocketwatch and patchwork heart and speak of gothic
things.  I want to shave.  I want to retain the mask she gave to me.

     I light a cigarette and leave it burning.  Why?

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


"There is no higher religion than human service.  To work for the common good
is the greatest creed."
                                                          -- Albert Schweitzer


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

     BLOOD ON THE STREETS: EVERYMAN'S GUiDE TO GUERRiLLA WARFARE (Part II)
     by Captain Moonlight

     iNTRODUCTiON TO THiS PART:

"Let me say . . . that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of
love."
                                                                -- Che Guevara

     Welcome to the second part of "Blood on the Streets."  This chapter will
deal with the organization of the guerrilla band in the early stages of the
guerrilla war, which will be followed by a chapter detailing the band's organ-
ization during the later years of the war.  Starting with this installment the
parts have been renamed to chapters, and spellings have been Americanized for
easier reading.  Chapter III will deal with more of the technicalities of the
guerrilla band, as well as its civilian backing.                   -- Capt. M.

     CHAPTER II: EARLY ORGANiZATiON

"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution
inevitable."
                                                    -- John Fitzgerald Kennedy

                                         
     The organization of the guerrilla band varies greatly according to the
band's numbers, as well as the conditions under which the band must work.  The
guerrilla will rise from many different backgrounds and areas, and the band's
organization must reflect all of these.

     The crudest sort of guerrilla band is that which arises whenever any one
group is oppressed, that being small cells of revolutionary fighters who work
individually for their causes.  Sometimes such groups work against each other,
but in such cases the bands are not united, though they occasionally help each
other.  This is often what forms in the earliest stages of a guerrilla war,
when the popular mass is agitated but still not generally willing to fight,
and loosely favoring the status quo.  At this time the revolutionary fighters
work in very unfavorable climates, and stand the best chances of being turned
in by the civilian population.  They will be referred to as 'terrorists' by
the establishment, who will offer large monetary rewards to any who capture
the guerrillas.  During this time period, each cell will plan and execute its
own raids, without the backing of a central command.  Such a force is the
Weather Underground who, in their book _Punch With the Red Army_ declared
(quoted in Robert D. Chapman & M. Lester Chapman's _The Crimson Web of
Terror_, pg. 32):

     . . . but there is no such thing as a cell without its initiative.
     For this reason it is essential to avoid any rigidity in the organi-
     zation in order to permit the greatest possible initiative on the
     part of the cell.  The old type hierarchy of the traditional left
     doesn't exist in our organization.

          This means that, except for the priority of objectives set by
     the strategic command, any cell can decide to assault a bank, to
     kidnap or to execute an agent of the government, a figure identified
     with reaction, a spy or informer, a major heroin distributor, and
     carry out any kind of propaganda or war of nerves against the enemy
     without the need to consult the general command.

          No cell can remain inactive waiting for orders from above.  Its
     obligation is to act.

     This organizational structure was also suggested by Abraham Guillen in
Uruguay.  While in exile from Spain, he saw the Tupamaro safehouses fall like
dominoes when one was discovered.  Believing that the city was the important
sector from with to start a guerrilla war, Guillen believed that the guerrilla
band should come together only to form attacks, then dispersing into the
population, never relying on a single command structure.  This was not only to
avoid the linking of safehouses, but also to prevent arrested members of the
central command from revealing their subordinates to the authorities.  This
method was also used by the White Boys, rural guerrillas in nineteenth-century
Ireland, where members of the organization, calling themselves names such as
Slash-and-Burn, Captain Starlight, and Captain Moonlight used a de-centralized
command structure so as to avoid prosecution by the authorities.

     While in this stage of development, much stress must be put on forming
alliances for later stages in the war, and for mutual support.  During this
time period organizations cannot be completely discounted on trivial differ-
ences.  Simply because a group has minor ideological differences does not mean
that they are wrong or that they cannot help in the struggle.  Remember,
Capitalist and Communist fought side-by-side against the Nazis during the
Resistance.  However, too often one runs into a band such as Tito's (Josip
Broz') Communists who, when battling the Nazis in Yugoslavia, would sometimes
sit and watch as resistance forces of different ideologies battled the Nazis
and were wiped out before attacking with his own bands.  While the guerrilla
must learn to work with comrades of different beliefs, he cannot be foolish
and believe just any guerrilla he meets is to be trusted.  The guerrilla must
only align himself with those bands who stand up, like him, for the rights of
the people.  In this way, the bands will be brought more together by common
toil in order to unite them into one mobile, more efficient force.  Also, this
leads to the ability to trade arms from one band to another.  Unfortunately,
in the early years of the war the bands arms will be a hodgepodge of whatever
the guerrillas can get their hands on.  Eventually these arms will standardize
into whatever arms are used by the opposing army, for, since in a guerrilla
war the guerrillas generally do not control the means of production, and must
thus rely on the ruling army to supply ammunition.  By forming such alliances,
each group may form a squad, and, having prearranged a maneuver, perform it
with more efficiency than a single band.  Eventually these bands will evolve
into a Liberation Front, which shall be described in more detail in the next
chapter.

     Also during the early development education must be stressed.  All mem-
bers of the guerrilla band must be able to use the weapons, and for this
training camps must be set up outside the city.  One tactic used by the Red
Army Faction (RAF) of West Germany was to set up shooting ranges near air-
ports, so that gunfire would be covered by aircraft noise.  Also, troop maneu-
vers and drilling must be conducted, but in such a way so as to not arouse the
authorities.  While this is often possible for the rural guerrilla, the urban
guerrilla must often learn combat in the field.  Theoretics of warfare can be
taught both through written works and through workshops set up wherever possi-
ble, be it in barns or in basements.  This is also the time to educate the
masses about why the guerrillas are fighting, for the guerrilla cannot win
without public support.  All the guerrillas must be trained in first aid to
help injured comrades, for in the beginning doctors on the side of the guer-
rillas will be few and far between, and these will most likely be wandering,
and not attached to any one particular unit.  Later, when strongholds and
liberated zones are established more stable training and medical zones can be
set up, but in the earliest stages of the battle such permanent establishments
are impossible.

     While fighting with small decentralized cells is the only option in the
opening years of the war, as well as in totalitarian regimes where any form of
expanded resistance would immediately be snuffed out, this must eventually
evolve into a larger force as more people join the movement and more land is
captured for training.  The problem with such a decentralized organization is
that it means that, with so little organization, the bands often start working
against each other and the common interest.  One band could have an informer
who is killed by another band.  Also, business and government leaders who are
generally benign or seen as benign cannot simply be executed without expecting
reprisal.  While this leads to good psychological warfare against the estab-
lishment, it also leads to a loss of support among the people, and the people
are the ones who will win this fight.  Also, all fronts, both legal and mili-
tary, must be used to achieve humanitarian goals.  And, without power behind
them, the guerrillas have no weight at the negotiations table.  While small
units are the necessary beginning of a guerrilla army, they must eventually
coagulate into a larger fighting force.  Just as this will happen, the guer-
rilla band will eventually evolve into a regular army, as a guerrilla army
cannot win a war.  Small armies win small battles, but the war will be won by
a regular army.

Next installment: Chapter III: Later Organization

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


"I have asked you for a moral and spiritual restoration in the land and give
thanks that in Thy sovereignty Thou hast permitted Richard M. Nixon to lead us
at this momentous hour of our history."
                                                          -- Rev. Billy Graham


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

     SHE
     by Morrigan

     Slowly the curtains part.  Only a millimeter at first, they open further
and further as the person inside gains confidence that no one will see her.
Once the crack reaches 2 inches, though, it ceases to grow.  Outside her
haven, the girl of about 15 watches the other children talk and play and
tumble in the grass.  She has no desire to be with them, but yet she cannot
tear her gaze away.  It is almost as if by observing these other creatures she
lives their lives, escaping from her own dread existence.  Though many look
her way, they see not her curious eyes, nor even the crack in the curtains.
Their gazes skim over her entire room in fact, not consciously seeing it.
 
     Later, she changes for dinner and calmly walks to outside the dining
hall, where all her fellow students gather before the doors are opened for
dinner.  Quietly she sits on one of the many benches, choosing one that is
unoccupied, though it sits in full view of all, in the light.  Even here,
amidst the hustle and bustle of her noisy classmates, she seems forgotten.  No
one speaks to her, nor even seems to notice the small figure hunched there on
the bench.  Her eagle eyes dart here and there, eagerly drinking in the sights
of the crowd.  Her sharp ears listen to the words being spoken, though she
does not remember their content.  She remains physically motionless, though
her brain races along the lives of all of the people here, their words and
motions being filed away where she can easily access them if she needs to.
Her actions are completely subconscious.  Her conversant mind senses only that
it wants to view these interesting creatures, while having no desire to run
amongst them, mingling her talk with theirs.

     Even at the dinner table she randomly chooses, she is unnoticed.  Her
classmates do not plan to ignore her, they just simply do not realize that she
is there.  Even were she to say something, they would not notice.  Their eyes
skim over her as something not important, her existence not even being
excommunicated to the consciousness of their dimly lit minds.  Yet the girl 
does not care.  She actually is glad that they are unaware of her presence.  
She does not enjoy conversation, though if it confronts her, she will face it,
seeming to be a shy, kind, harmless girl to those on the other end of the
words.
  
     The young woman has done this for most of her life, even as a very
young child.  She never tires of it, constantly taking in new information
about her surroundings and her fellow humans.  Perhaps by looking in to her
past, this curious behavior can be rationalized.  Could it be because of the
many dinner parties she attended throughout her life, always being under the
old rule "Children should be seen and not heard"?  Could it be because of her
enjoyment of books and computers, and other activities that were for one
person, and one person alone, preventing her from developing social skills?
Probably it is a combination of both of these factors.  Perhaps her constant
acclimation to being silent while observing people has caused that action to
become a part of her person, wherein her lack of communication was transmitted
to the outside world, so that they began to not notice her.  Perhaps over time
her entire being has been built around not being noticed, in such a way that
she possesses almost a magical immunity to people.
  
     Who can say whether this is good or bad?  It is a perfect illustration
of how easy it is for the species to adapt to its own environment.  It takes
less than a generation, less than a lifetime, barely 7 years.
  
     The girl succeeds greatly in all of her studies, perhaps because of
her incredible ability to tune out all things, concentrating on just one, and
because of her amazing powers of recollection.  She has no need to take notes.
All the information gained in her varied readings is at her fingertips,
available for immediate use.  She is a genius, but even her parents and
teachers fail to recognize this.  Not even she knows it.
  
     She lives her life.  Surviving if you would call her existence such.
But following Nature's rule, she will not pass on her talents.  Her life, her
being, have no use in her world.  For her, they have meaning, they have
reason.  But they are in no way essential or helpful to the world in which she
lives.  So by Nature's hand she will be eliminated.  Forgotten.  But she will
not care.  For she will have reached the sweetness of Death.  Soon perhaps...
or not....  Her life depends upon her whim, and no one else's.

     As it should.

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

"It is very nearly impossible... to become an educated person in a country so
 distrustful of the independent mind.
                                                                --James Baldwin


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

     A BRiEF iNTRODUCTiON TO HiGH SCHOOL
     by I Wish My Name Were Nathan

     The principal washes his hands a lot.  His half-hearted attempts to
rinse them in a drinking fountain still leave traces of the gum and spittle
which stain them, driving him into a frenzied puppet's-dance of scrubbing
and shaking.  When he turns around to face the audience of students that
waits patiently for his decree, he can only wrench up a grim authoritarian
smile, and tell them to go back to class.

     Certainly the students grin at this.  There's not yet a rule against
it.  Not to worry, a week's time will remedy the situation.  The students
live their daily lives, filled with not being late, not running in the
halls, not chewing gum, not spitting, not wearing indecent clothing, not
hugging or kissing, and not leaving the campus during lunch.

     It is a highly rewarding education, one hundred and eighty days of
study for four years or more.  Their days are filled with brief mentions of
the major ideas in mathematics, science, history, English, and art if the
schedule allows.  If their attention has lapsed, and they forget just
what's being done with their lives, they may catch some of these glimpses
into the human experience, which, without mandatory attendance they would
have otherwise missed.

     The teachers enjoy their jobs.  Discipline is challenging and
rewarding work.  Since this art is one of the things still not taught in
teacher's colleges, they are left unprejudiced in forming their own special
styles of controlling their students.  Duct tape, spankings, demeaning
comments, F's, these are all at a teacher's dispensal.

     After the teachers have maintained their students' attention long
enough to teach them a thing or two, there is time for some superficial
chatter.  Questions such as 'Just what differentiates marijuana from legal
drugs like cigarettes and alcohol?' and 'If gay teen suicide rates are
three times higher than other teens, then why isn't there a school club for
gay teens?' and 'Why do principals smirk when you speak of the Bill of
Rights?'  As certain well-meaning regulations provide, teachers can't talk
about such matters, and send students with such questions to the guidance
counselors.  And the guidance counselors aren't allowed to talk about them
either.  So the superficial chatter stays just that.

     The principal is perturbed with all the petitions, suggestions, and
questions that reach his desk.  The flow seems to be never ending, yet he
doesn't understand what causes it.  He reminds himself how he's in touch
with the students and faculty, about the loving camaraderie the school
shares, about just how positive the atmosphere is.  He decides to think
about the petitions, suggestions, and questions later.  As he leans back in
his large, stuffed chair, he notices his hands are grimy with sweat and
dirt.  He glances about; no one has noticed.  So he wipes his hands on his
trousers.  There.  The dirt is hardly noticeable anymore.  No one will see
it.

--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--

     MEDiTATiONS ON DEATH'S SLEEP
     by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes

     It is easy to forget the dead, I suppose,
     Who never quit their silent repose --
     Cold carven marble stones
     On time-whitened ancient bones
     Keep quiet the cries of the Dead.

     And yet, in the midst of the dark night,
     The haunted and the sensitive mind might
     Catch a glimpse of something dim
     And hear Dead voices calling him
     Reminding the Living that the Dead do not eternal lie.

     Shrouded Spectres, ill-remembered from youth,
     And the recent Dead, grotesque and uncouth,
     Warn us of Life's transientness
     While they call us through Time's mists
     And warn us to seize the day.

     For, once gone, the past is Dead,
     And when at Judgment our accounts are read,
     We must answer for the deeds, both good and ill,
     With which we our Lives have filled,
     And our darkest deeds shall be cried from the highest hills.

     And so for the future we must prepare;
     The past is gone -- and must be repaired,
     And we insignificant ones with our fleeting Lives
     Must with our short limited Time
     Do our best -- and then we die.

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


"There were the days when you peered into your self, into the secret places of
 your heart, and what you saw there made you fair with horror.  And then, next
 day, you didn't know what to make of it, you couldn't interpret the horror
 you had glimpsed the day before.  Yes, you know what evil costs."
                                                             --Jean-Paul Sartre


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

     FiLTER
     by Griphon

     Staring,
     empty,
     watching, breathing, hoping...

     Slowly she turns, brushing the hair from her face.
     She wishes the cars would stop
     their beautiful chaos.
     Sometimes it is too much for her.

     Sometimes it is too much for me.

     The crowd forgets me
     and I sit among the vacant stares
     as idle thoughts are spoken.
     Random, meaningless noise.  Not substantial...

     I would crawl inside her head
     and smoke a cigarette.
     Listen to her echo
     as I silently scream.

     I slowly asphyxiate
     and fall into utter sunlight.
     I am not at peace with this peace.
     I am peace with this war.

     The world is a beautiful place
     unless you are not removed from it,
     unless you are removed from it.
     Sometimes she is beautiful,
     sitting in her room,
     staring at the cars,
     smiling at the trees,
     and slowly leaving.

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


"The night is my companion, and solitude my guide."
                                                              --Sarah McLachlan


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

     RED
     by TOkemASTer

     I see this river of blood
     Running, chasing, eternally with me
     I bathe in its darkness,
     Enfolding my nakedness.
     From the dark, it calls me.
     It is never far away

     In a trance, I float numbly
     On a breeze of terror blown.
     On bloody coast of loveless nights
     Sitting in an easy chair.
     Listening to the glowing darkness,
     Effervescent, calmly rising.
     O, the blood
     The silver sword, the life drained
     From a fellow man
     Representative of a God, i roam.
     *I* am the slayer,
     the wielder of the scythe.
     I will carry the Blood throughout time.
     Eons of victims, drained,
     Will fall unto me.

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


"What sane person could live in this world and not be crazy?"
                                                             --Ursula K. LeGuin


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

     A CLEAR BLUE SKY
     by Dirk Russell

     We met under a clear blue sky.
     You were standing alone beneath the shade of a tree as I walked by.
     Our eyes met briefly, as strangers do. Yet there was recognition there
        As well.
     I stopped a few feet away and tried to watch you without watching.
     A man nearby said, "Describe her to me."
     "Tall and thin," I replied, "black hair cut short frames her oval face."
     He smiled.
     I took your hand in mine and said, "Long, supple fingers. Tipped in red."
     And you caressed my face.
     We looked into each other's eyes. Your's, dark like night, stared into my
        Soul and I knew we would never cross paths again.
     Later, we rode in the back of a convertible. The top was down.
     I don't remember who drove.
     You lay on me and my thirsty lips met yours for the first time.
     Poet's words of wine and honey flowed from me as our unspoken love grew.
     Each of us afraid to say it because we knew there would be no tomorrow.
     We kissed again while the wind blew over us.
     I felt whole.
     I felt shame that I must tell you something that honor and honesty
          demanded.
     Yet, I couldn't.
     I couldn't out of fear that I would drive you away. Even though I knew
        We would never meet again.
     Later still, we walked hand in hand. Smiling at one another and exchanging
        Pleasantries.
     Each of us afraid to say what we felt, yet our hearts exploding with the
        desire to shout it to God.
     Finally, I knew the time had come.
     I spoke as we walked and talked of another in my life.
     Hoping you would understand. Or pretend you didn't care.
     Knowing you wouldn't.
     You stopped and my heart sank.
     You raged at me and swung out with open hands and screamed profanities.
     You screamed of my betrayal. Of your Love for me.
     All were like daggers in my heart.
     But your tears twisted them deeper into my soul.
     I held you close and kissed you one last time.
     Our tears mingled on our lips.
     I finally told you that I loved you. And silently prayed we would meet
        Again.
     Knowing we wouldn't.
     I know that I will remember you for years to come.
     I will remember the warmth of your body pressed to mine.
     The taste of you lips. Your love. And your tears.
     The feel of your hands in mine.
     And the ache in my heart.
     Sadness.
     Despair.
     Loneliness.
     Undying love.
     We met under a clear blue sky.
     You were never real.
     You never existed.
     Except in a dream.
     And I love you still.

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


"Intelligence and war are games, perhaps the only meaningful games left. If
 any player becomes too proficient, the game is threatened with termination."
                                                            --William Burroughs


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

     GUNS ON THE ROOF
     by Captain Moonlight

     Guns on the roof
        Keeping up the fight
     Long after the rest give up
        THEY have the might
     To keep off the Oppressor.

     Rifles to their shoulders
        Squeezing off the rounds
     Fighting a futile battle
        While the Oppressor storms the grounds --
     Death before dishonour.

     Slowly they are silenced
        One by one they go
     Killed by the Oppressor's guns
        As their families look on in woe
     The streets are splattered red.

     No white flag for them
        Mourned by very few
     They keep up the battle
        While in the foggy dew
     They lay dying, these brave few
        For the sins of the Oppressor.

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


"We must select the illusion which appeals to our temperament and embrace it
 with passion, if we want to be happy."
                                                               --Cyril Connolly


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

     36
     by Vlad Tepes

     And yes I believe in what we had,
     Christ on high, can you feel my pain?
     In time, in my life, I am more than you could wish.
     I am truth in what I see.
     I am Rage.
     Angel, can I call you that?
     Can you feel my pain?
     Can you stand to take so much?
     I am more than your faith stealing God.
     I am here, real.
     In a moment, skeleton lust.
     I rip, I tear.
     Angel, oh Christ on high, can you kill me?
     Kill me, can you dare kill me with your flesh?
     Take me, can you take me and press more than you wanted?
     And I am, in the last days, your god.
     And you will fall to me and claw at my feet.
     I am God.
     I am Rage.
     With nothing more than the sound of silence, I pass on.
     Fifteen candles and my life is through.

--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--

     iMMUNE
     by Kilgore Trout

     They mixed the mustard gas with the laughing gas, and everybody around
me is enjoying their demise.  I'm immune to all of this, so I just watch.  It
doesn't take but a few minutes before the laughter stops and I'm the only one
left standing.  Praise God for this super-duper poison:  grade A, recommended
by the FDA.  Too bad it doesn't affect me.  Dying makes life so much simpler.

     Across the street is a bar where I used to spend some of my free time.
Never was a good bar.  Only a few people ever went there -- mostly me and the
bartender.  Must be why the drinks cost so much.

     When I walked in, no one stared.  Janey looked up from behind the bar and
smiled.  She was in her fifties now:  overweight, grey hair, t-shirt, blue 
jeans.

     --Hi.

     --Hello.  Haven't seen you in a long time.

     --Yeah.  Times change.

     --Naturally.  So, what have you been doing?

     --Watching people die.

     --Ah, the usual.

     She reached below the counter and placed a shot glass on the bar.

     --Still drink the same stuff?

     --No.

     --Oh.  Well, it's on the house.  Tell me what you want.

     --Anxiety.

     --Sorry, that's what we're supposed to relieve you from.

     --Guess I'm in the wrong place.

     Don't you understand that when the clock strikes three time will stand
still?  People will freeze and life will cease.  But it's only a temporary
reprieve and then things return back to abnormal.

     At my court hearing they wanted to know if I really had cut off Janey's
head.  I told them I had.  They did not look pleased.  Seems that particular
action isn't something one does if he wants to be a respectable member of
society.  The judge didn't believe me and let me go.  I protested, stating
that I was not a liar and if I said I did something, I did it.  He still 
didn't believe me.  Even decapitating my lawyer on the spot didn't convince
him.

     Twenty years ago I owned a pair of red tennis shoes.  They were made from
canvas and I wore them everywhere.  One day I realized I didn't know what the
bottoms of the shoes looked like.  When I lifted my foot, all I saw was the
word "lucid" scribbled in blue ink.  My faith in God died right there.

     I burned the shoes.  They were still on my feet, but that didn't matter--
I was immune.  The children screamed and cried while a teacher put out the
flames with a fire extinguisher.  He said I shouldn't do stupid things like
that.  I didn't understand his logic.

     My father placed me in one of the local labor camps when I was fourteen,
right after my mother died.  For eight hours a day I worked in the diamond
mines.  Deep beneath the earth, I fell in love with Melanie.  She worked
beside me.  Melanie only had one pinky because the guards had sliced off her
other one to instill the idea that it was wrong to steal diamonds.  On our
breaks we would hide and make love because she wanted to.  When the guards
found out that she was pregnant six months later, they shot her in the belly
and complimented me on being so manly at such an early age.  I never thought
it would be this easy to make new friends.

     --You need me.

     --I don't want you.

     --But I love you.

     --You only think you do.  Love is dead.  What you call love is really 
lust.  You need me so you can use me.

     --Maybe you're right.  Maybe all I want is sex.  Is that wrong?

     --No, as long as you admit it.

     --God, you are so smart.  Wanna fuck?

     --Why not?

     Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way
home.  One had a steel pipe and the other two had knives.  They beat me into a
bloody pulp.  It didn't hurt.  I asked them, "It does no good -- I have 
nothing to give you."  They turned and ran away.

     Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way
home.  One had a steel pipe and the other two had knives.  They beat me into a
bloody pulp.  It didn't hurt.  I asked them, "Will you kill me?  I want to be
alive again."  They turned and ran away.

     Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way
home.  One had steel wool and the other two had wives.  They beat me into a
bloody pulp.  It didn't hurt.  I asked them, "Have I not suffered enough
already?  Why don't you hurt me?"  They turned into fish and swam away.

     Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way
home.  One had steel spikes and the other two had planks of wood.  They nailed
me into a bloody christ.  It didn't hurt.  I said to God, "Father, forgive
them, for they know what they do."  They rolled dice for my clothes and ran
away.

     I visited myself today.  I looked utterly terrible.

     --You're a mess.

     --I know.

     --Why don't you pull yourself together?

     --I can't.

     --All you do is watch people die.  Is that any way to live?

     --It's the only way I know how.

     --Isn't there any way to change that?

     --I could die.

     --But you can't.

     --Right.

     --You're wrong.

     --No, I'm not.

     --Yes.  You can die.

     --How?

     --You'll figure it out.  I'll be waiting.

     The bombs fell two days later.  Nothing was mixed with these bombs.  This
was real war, and people were definitely not having a good time.  The streets
became cratered and buildings grew huge, gaping holes in their sides.  Bodies
were strewn about everywhere.  The usual.  At least the flies were enjoying
this new influx of food.

     The end seemed near.  But the finality of the situation only applied to
those around me.  They were temporary while I had somehow become a permanent
fixture in this dying world.  I needed to find a way out soon before I lost my
chance to do so.

     I invited myself to dinner.  We decided on this little Italian place on
the West Side.  The drinks were waiting, and after our food was ordered, I
looked at myself in helpless abandon.

     --Do you understand what is happening now?

     --No.

     --It's really quite simple.  I'm embarrassed--I thought I was smarter.

     --Then tell me what I have to do.

     --I cannot.

     --Why not?  If you're me...

     --And you are me...

     --Then why can't you tell me?  You aren't telling *me*, you're telling
*yourself*.

     --But I wouldn't be telling me, I'd be telling you.  After all, I am you.

     --This is confusing.

     --Understandable.  You've suffered so long and yet you are very close.

     --Close?  Close to what?  The end?

     --The truth.

     --And what is the truth?

     --Just the truth.  Nothing more, nothing less.

     --Why do you tantalize me like this?  You of all people should know what
I'm going through.

     --I do.  You suffer because you cannot suffer.  You feel pain because you
cannot feel.  You don't live.  You just are.

     --And I want it to stop.

     --Then stop it.  You have that choice.

     --But I've tried everything imaginable.  I can't kill myself.

     --True.  You can, however, kill yourself.

     --Aren't you listening to what I'm saying?  It's impossible.

     --Damn, I really am an imbecile.  Wake up!  You hide behind a shroud.
Remove it and see reality *for what it is*!

     --I have no reality anymore.

     --Exactly.  Your reality is the absence of reality, and once you accept
that and understand its implications, the answer will be obvious.

     --I need to go to the restroom.

     The reflection in the mirror glared at me without compassion.  Was 
another me on the other side, or was it just what it appeared to be?  The
boundary of where I began and where I ended was becoming increasingly blurred.
An explosion from outside shattered the window with a deafening blast.  If
only I were that window...

     Life is cruel, but it becomes sadistic when there is only life.  To be
immortal is a curse, for he who does not die never rests, and it is that
eternal sleep that I yearn for.  People always say they want to live forever,
but do they really?  It is a hideous thing to hope for, an unnatural thing, an
evil idea.  From the moment one is born he starts dying, yet with that taken
away he can never truly live.

     Behind the toilet was a revolver, duct-taped to the wall, just like in
the best gangster movies.  I took it and walked out to the dining area.  I saw
myself and smiled.

     --Shoot me.  Kill yourself.

     I raised the gun and fired.  My head exploded into a bloody cloud.

     I didn't feel a thing.

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


"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go
 away."
                                                               --Philip K. Dick


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

     THE PROPHECY
     by Nomad

     And the prophecy read:

       And so it shall be mother and father will hate each other.
       Brother and sister will love one another.
       Son will fight with father till one is dead.
       Greed will consume the populace.
       Murder, suspicion, and bigotry will spread like wild fire.
       All will hate each other.
       No learning save by mouth.
       Knowledge known as books will all be destroyed.
       Buildings will fall.
       The smell of the dead will be one with the air.
       People pray to gods for a miracle.
       After some years, there will be a peace and with that peace comes a
  plague.
       No one seems immune.
       More will die till only a hand full of people will survive.
       And they go back to nature with no wish to remember the past.

     I read the prophecy to the ones who follow me.  Me! a man who in his life
was a follower.  "How times change," I think.

     My group know the truth of the plagues and war, and death.

     We alone accept the truth.

     We don't believe some cosmic deity brought about this end so only to root
out its followers.

     We know that mankind killed itself.  All the great nations fell; no one
was safe.  Even I contracted the plague.  But I would not let something that
this race has brought upon me I will survive.  And I did.

     "The prophecy was true but for one thing.  We shall not forget the past
for if we do we are forced to relive it," I said.

     "Let us be off away from the carnage that the race known as man has done.
We will live, thrive off the land and survive.

     And with that I turned and looked at the fires and death that spread
through the city.  And tears came to my eyes of the remembrance of the dead.

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

"Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on
 a rainy Sunday afternoon."
                                                                   --Susan Ertz


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

     YOUR TYPiCAL MONDAY MORNiNG
     by TOkemASTer

     It was a cold day in hell, and as I looked out my window, I saw the cows
were coming home.  As I stepped outside, I almost got knocked over by a flying
pig.  Walking to the garage, I stepped on a worm.  I stooped down, looked
closely, and--lo and behold--it had ears.

     I gasped.  I turned around, heading for the street.  The mailman, Melvin,
stopped, greeted me, handed me my mail, and started walking away.  As he
started treading down the street, he stopped.  I heard a large *rip*, turned
around, and he was writhing on the ground.  I looked closely, and saw a head
poking out of his ass.  In a few minutes, out came a winged monkey!  He was
flying as gracefully as all flying ass-monkeys do.

     I stopped just long enough to kick Melvin's skull in before walking back
inside, drinking syrupy straight black coffee for a few hours, and smoking a
big fat joint.  I wanted to slaughter Barney the Dinosaur because he's just
so damned corny.  And then the realization dawned on me... the last thing I
needed was another hit of acid.

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


"Who's going to bake a cake for the lord?"
                                                           --Brother Bob Tilton


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

     CONTRAST
     by Griphon

     Darkness fell.  Slowly, he reaches out for her.  She pulls closer, more
instinct than emotion.  He touches her.  Her body is warm and giving.  He takes
from her.  He gives to her.  Her breath is hot on his neck.  Her teeth bite,
draw blood.  She digs into his skin, pulling him closer.  He swears he cannot
get any closer to her.  He is right.  No spirituality.  She tries to become a
part of him.  But he resists.  He is scared...
     
     Sometimes he wishes she were not alive.  His soul is not his, but it is
all he knows.  She alienates him by forcing him to look at himself.

     "I am your mirror," she says.

     "Go to hell," he says.

     She cries.  He touches her softly and whispers something to her that he
cannot say to himself.  He loathes himself through her.  He hates her through
himself.  He continues the quest for denial...  She is a saint...

     He writes:

          Sometimes there is no meaning here.
          Deep inside I hate you.
          You are my pain.
          I once thought...
          Now I regret you.

     Blood from his wrist.  Her legs.  His breathing slows.  Hers quickens.
She screams in ecstasy.  He gasps in agony...

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


"If you'd like to find out what's behind these cold eyes?
 You'll just have to claw your way through this disguise."
                                                                   --Pink Floyd


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

     THAT WHiCH LiES BEYOND
     by Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes

"There are sacraments of evil as well as of good about us, and we live and
move to my belief in an unknown world, a place where there are caves and
shadows and dwellers in twilight.  It is possible that man may sometimes
return of the track of evolution, and it is my belief that an awful lore is
not yet dead."
                                                              -- Arthur Machen

"Remember That which lies beyond and fear It, for It is the devourer and the
giver of Life, the Destroyer and Maker of Man."
                                                        -- _Book of Leviathan_

     In the cedar-studded slopes and ravines known as the Texas Hill Country,
many a small town is hidden and almost forgotten to the outside world, tucked
away down seldom-trod dirt roads and by-ways.  Just such a hamlet is the town
of Sageheimlich, nestled away along the Leiden River within the Illuch Valley,
between hills which hide the valley from the world.  Not much has changed in
this town since the 1830's when it was first founded, due to the lack of
contact with the outside world, and to this day it remains more a part of
Germany (though more mediaeval than modern) than of Texas.  Though the town's
inhabitants have taken on the English language and some modernities, much lore
has survived the transition from Germany to America.  Centuries of inbreeding
both in Texas and their native Germany, however, have made the townsfolk seem
to take on a semi-human appearance, as though they were indeed not fully
human, but had the blood of things best not seen running through their veins.
Dark rumours of this town have been heard by disquieted ears around many a
neighbouring hearth, tales told by travelers who, rather than stay overnight
in the town, have chosen to speed their mount through it, despite the late
hour.  For, while the town's inhabitants have never been *known* to mistreat
outsiders, something disquieting in their demeanor and the odd sounds heard
from below have sped the traveler on his way.  The ignorant hill-folk around
the town, however, know these things first hand, and try to forget them in
order that they may sleep without sordid dreams of hidden places.

     Sageheimlich's strange inhabitants have had an aura of mystery about them
even before the town was founded, for even in Germany were they seen as some-
thing other than human.  In pre-Christian times these folk gathered in the
Nordic hills, worshiping stranger Gods than did even the other Germanics, and
called strange chants and wild songs.  In the remote hills which they inhabit-
ed wails which could come from no human tongue joined in the din, and tunnels
with inhuman inhabitants were rumoured to lie under the towns and under the
great monoliths erected to forgotten Gods.  When Christianity came to Germany,
and the king outlawed pagan ceremonies, these people were among the first to
convert, much to the surprise of the missionaries, but it was said that the
Christian churches were built upon much more ancient entrances to caverns
peopled with loathsome creatures which should not walk a healthy Earth, and
thus, what outwardly seemed to be utter piety, was actually deepest blasphemy.
The encroachment of civilisation and the urbanisation of the area, led to a
series of violent clashes between the natives and the newer inhabitants, which
led to a mass exodus of the entire tribe to find a new homeland.

     When the churches were entered by parties investigating the sudden depar-
ture of the tribe, slabs were found set in the floors which were hastily
opened and, once the noxious fumes, which caused the fainting of several
party-members, had subsided, a party who entered the tunnels resurfaced prema-
turely aged and often insane.  The group soon returned with axes and barrels
of acid and said a fervent prayer upon reentering the charnel holes.  That day
the screams of creatures and men rose to the heavens, and many fewer men
returned hours later from the churches bearing empty barrels and dead bodies.
Those members of the party who did not go mad never spoke a word of what
happened that day, but reduced the churches to rubble and erased every trace
of the now-vacated tribe.

     The relocated Germans soon established themselves in the hills of the
newly-formed Republic of Texas, again isolated from the outside world, and
again the night sky echoed with the beat of drums and the weird chants of
human and inhuman voices melding together into a strange unwholesome medley.
During the Civil War the Germans sided with the South (which was not surpris-
ing considering the amount of slaves who were brought into the region, though
none saw the land being cultivated by them), and the tribe formed their own
brigade.  It was observed by their superiors, however, that they were fighting
for themselves rather than the Confederacy, for more than once they turned on
grey-clad soldiers who came too near Sageheimlich.  So vicious were they in
their attacks, massacring without regard to human life, that they were ordered
to disband by General Lee himself -- an order which they ignored, merely
throwing off their uniforms and fighting for themselves.  At the end of the
War, and the end of troop movements through the surrounding area, they retired
quietly to their town and, despite outcry about their acts, they were left
unmolested.

     It was to this town that Gunther Meyrink came upon the death of his uncle
to claim the ancestral lands.  Meyrink's mother had been from outside the
region, his father being a descendent of the original Germans to settle the
area.  Meyrink's father, however, was not of the temperament of the majority
of those who lived in the area, and he left as soon as he could for the out-
side world.  He never spoke of his past, and whenever the subject was brought
up he would retreat into himself, until no-one asked.  When Gunther's uncle
died, the land lay vacant for over a year until census workers learned of his
death and the state stepped in, despite protests from the townsfolk, to award
Gunther the land.  Being a childless widower, Meyrink retired to the ancestral
land.

     Upon his arrival in Sageheimlich, Meyrink was treated well, until his
reason for being there was learned, at which time he was shown just how much
he was not wanted there.  Meyrink caused something of an uproar, for it was
known he was a stranger to the area, as all those living there knew each
other, but he had the distinctive features of those in the area: features
which, though mixed with those of his mother, were very obviously those of a
native of the area.  The only person in the town who treated Gunther warmly
was old Gustav Busson, the grizzled keeper of the only shop in the town, who
claimed to have known Meyrink's uncle since he was a child.  Gustav was one of
those 'literate illiterates,' men of exceptional intelligence who, born in a
place or a time against them, though not formally taught, have become wise in
the lore left by mightier men of mightier times now long forgotten, contained
in ancient and mouldering tomes abandoned and, decades later, rediscovered in
ramshackle old garrets and cellars.  His eyes hid secrets which his backwoods
accent did not even hint at.  Gustav, however, though he seemed to like this
newcomer, seemed eager to speed him on his way.  When, despite the coldness of
the majority of the town's inhabitants, Meyrink chose to stay, Gustav reluc-
tantly bid him welcome.

     The Meyrink land was on one of the hills overlooking the town and the
Illuch Valley, the house being built on the side of the hill.  That day, a
great fire could be seen for miles around as the horrified Gunther reduced to
ashes the grotesque and blasphemous books and idols he found within the con-
fines of that abode.  Leering images which bore a terrible likeness to the
people of the town, yet were very obviously not human, stared down at piles of
worm-eaten texts: the _Book of Leviathan_, whose mere possession meant death
during the Inquisition; Arkon Daraul's famous work on secret societies; the
_De Daemonialitate, et Incubis et Succubis_ of Sinistrari; the infamous _Ubels
Kulten und Ubels Zeremonie_ of Kleinkafer: books in German, English, Greek,
and Latin, and even books in no alphabet which Gunther had ever seen, all went
up in flames that day.  That night Gunther's sleep was uneasy, with wails
coming up from within the Earth while in his dreams the idols danced under a
Moonless sky.

     The following night was Walpurgisnacht, ancient night of sorceries, when
that which should not be walks the Earth.  No Moon rose to light Gunther's way
as he walked slowly towards the bonfire on the neighbouring hill, careful
steps seeming to pierce the night air with such a noise so as to be heard even
over the din made by the crowd dancing about the fire.  Carefully he mounted
the hill, pushing his way through thorns and past impeding cedar trees, fol-
lowing that sound which is lost to all but a few mortal ears; that song which
moves the darkest impulses of man's mind, that song which is sometimes heard
upon the very borders of sleep, which causes a man to bolt upright screaming,
covered with cold perspiration, as his mind tries desperately to block all
memory of the song.  The song too affected Meyrink, even more so than most
men, having the blood of the townsfolk coursing through his body, his heart
thumping to the beat.  Having climbed to the crest of the hill, Meyrink gazed
in fear and awe upon the loathsome things which danced to the Music of the
Spheres, the unEarthly pipe and drum, as the whole company on the hill
throbbed to the beat of the song, and as chants went up to Deities which
should have been lost to the minds of men.  Men and women danced with twisted
half-breeds, and with things which should not be seen by the light of day,
things which are banished to the darkest nether-regions, only to rise and
plague the Earth again.  All the people whom he had seen at the town, from the
youngest child to the oldest widow, even old Busson was there, throwing their
bodies into strange contortions, every part of them moving to the strange
music as the whole company twirled and chanted and gnashed their teeth and
rolled their eyes, all conforming to meet the unholy tempo.  In the fire and
tied to stakes nearby were the writhing figures of bound men and women, whose
pale skin seemed not to have seen the Sun in years.  Suddenly Meyrink could
stand it no longer; he had no options but to either join in the bizarre frenzy
or to put as much distance between him and it as possible.  Screaming, Meyrink
threw himself into the undergrowth, tearing skin and clothes as he dashed away
from the scene towards his Uncle's house.

     Meyrink sat, holed up in the house, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as the
strange company moved down the hill towards his house.  A rap at the door
pulled him out of the dull stupor in which he sat, clutching the Crucifix
which he had brought with him.  While he had never missed a day of church, he
had never been a religious man, and now that the time came to call upon a
Higher Power he was praying fervently, though all of his religious beliefs had
been turned upside-down.  The door opened and in walked Busson, sweat dripping
from his face.

     "Next time check a house's locks *before* you need them -- old locks
don't work so well," he said, almost humourously.  Busson sat at the table
opposite Meyrink, who merely stared wildly at his visitor.

     "You shouldn't never've seen what you seen tonight.  You shoulda jest
left this ol' town and never come back.  But it's too late for that now, ain't
it?

     "Oh, I see," Busson continued, looking at the Cross in Meyrink's hands,
"yer gonna change the world, just like them others.  All them missionaries an'
all, well they tried -- what're you gonna do that they couldn't do?  Well I'll
tell you som'in': no-one can rid the world of evil, 'cuz there has to be evil
for there to be good.  You think God's gonna save you?  Well, what you saw
tonight -- that *was* our God -- yours and mine -- 'cuz we both got the blood
in us -- the blood o' them *things* on the hill!

     "Ever' time you open a Door -- whether it be in Magic or Religion, Love
or Hate -- you have ta take whatever lies beyond, both good 'n' evil -- both
parts o' the picture.  That's what you don't seem ta understand.  What you saw
tonight was both good *and* evil, which we have ta embrace to evolve.  And you
think you're gonna change that?  Well, look out that window.  See them torches
comin' up the hill?  Well that ain't no parade.  Now listen," he said kindly,
as he pulled a revolver from his pocket, "you have two choices -- you can do
it, or *they* can do it, and if *they* do it, it ain't gonna be too pleasant.
You saw the fire on the hill.  That'uz their *livestock*.  How d'ya think they
feed without people findin' out?  There ain't no slavery no more.  Nobody's
big enough to change a damn thing here -- not me or you or anybody else.  Yer
father knew that -- that's why he left.  Yer uncle knew that, and that's why
he joined us.  Now make your choice, or it'll be made for you."

     And Busson walked out the door as Meyrink put the revolver to his head
and leapt between the Spheres.

--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) 1995 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) 1995 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
                  TEENAGE RiOt   418.833.4213  14.4 NUP: COSMIC_JOKE
                    MOGEL-LAND   215-732-3413  14.4
                 ftp to io.com   /pub/SoB
                World Wide Web   http://io.com/~hagbard/sob.html

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--
