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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                            Suicide Note
                            ------------

As the last flicker of life died in my wife's eyes I looked at my hands 
around her neck and remembered that I was a religious man. Religion is 
about love, and I loved her even as I killed her but of course she didn't 
get it. If she'd gotten it maybe I wouldn't have killed her'll never know 
because I agree with the group of particle physicists who say there's 
really no such thing as if. The things we do are just events in a 
multi-dimensional universe where everything we do here has an opposite 
and equal reaction in another unseen but congruent universe. I'm not 
kidding. There really is a large group of reputable physicists whose 
study of the behavior of light quanta has led them to that conclusion. 
But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're probably out 
of the same herd of one-dimensional cows as my wife. Not that I didn't 
love her.

Not that I don't love you. I love all you credit-wearing consumer units 
who trek out each day to do the one meaningful act in your slot-track 
lives, which is...but you don't get the reference to slot-track do you? 
They were little powered cars that raced around a preconstructed track in 
slots. They got their power and direction from the slots, but I'm sure 
you didn't get the reference because they haven't been hot in over six 
years and anything that happened more than three months ago is automatically 
erased in a consumer unit's mind. Because a consumer unit's one 
meaningful function is to buy, and if your buying is to continue on 
schedule you have to forget that anything is supposed to last, including 
wisdom, truth, faith or history.

That's why it will take most of you about a week to forget I killed my 
wife. That little fact will be erased by a blizzard of sitcom stars 
shining out at you from the supermarket tabloids that are your only 
memorable source of information. No? What do you think is the source of 
conventional wisdom? What do you remember, the fact that the latest space 
shuttle is going to carry forty-three pounds of plutonium on top of a 
liquid-fueled bomb that has a one in seventy-eight chance of exploding or 
that Rosanne Barr has become "difficult"? The fact that forty-three 
pounds of plutonium is enough to give every person on the planet lung 
cancer or that the president didn't catch any fish while he was on 
vacation? Not that you'll remember who Rosanne Barr or the president is 
in a few years.

Remember this though, as you take your daily tabloid pill from Doctor 
Rather. It's something you might even be able to recall at the end of the 
evening when Cosby's sent the kids to bed for you and you're tired of 
struggling through those long sentences in TV Guide. There's a darkness 
that doesn't need night to come because it's there waiting behind 
whatever it is you don't know you desire. And there is a witchcraft that 
doesn't need a full moon because the moon always orbits full around the 
dark side of any light you care to name, including television screens, 
including love.

And love is what religion is all about. Did I tell you I was a religious 
man? Religion: sin and redemption. That's what religion was originally 
about. Sin is a word you'll never see in the tabloids unless it's a quote 
from one of the wig-merchant preachers who use it as a crowbar to pry 
open the poor. And I know to that to most of you redemption is a tax 
refund, but originally it meant forgiveness for your sins, and better 
yet, release from them.

That was the problem; I wanted forgiveness but not release because my sin 
was feeling like God. Redemption would have meant giving up that feeling, 
and I couldn't. God: I still capitalize his name; an affectionate 
gesture. He can't help it if he inspires emulation and I can't help it if 
I emulate. Can you see the bind I'm in? I still believe in God but resent 
him deeply for creating me in his image. That's what the bible says, you 
know. He created us in his image. So what are we supposed to do about 
this potential for cheap imitation?

I mean just what the hell was I supposed to do after the first time Sella 
lay facedown across the motel bed, midnight hair spread on the floor, and 
said in her little tin growl, "You can do anything to me you want, anything."

That's what she said. Then she raised the short leather skirt, showing me 
the straps of the garter belt as they extended up the tightly flared 
white of her thighs like the tails of a lash. Then she rose to her knees 
and with a soft grunt pulled the skirt to her waist. She was small and 
thin, but her ass flared wide and pulsed outward like some giant white 
heart. It was shocking in its solid abundance, a secret thrill that only 
the favored could know. She raised it higher and as it swayed there over 
her head the little growl in her voice was changed to a light shriek by 
the way her face was pressed into the mattress. "Anything," she said 
again. "Anything you want. You can hurt me. I like to be hurt. I like to 
be humiliated. I'll do anything you say. I deserve it." 

I swayed on my feet as the blood rushed from my head to my groin and back 
again. I felt like I was expanding in all directions. She meant it. She 
was giving me power, Godlike power. Sure. it was a cheap imitation, like 
a little electric shock compared to a lightning bolt, but it was the 
closest I'd ever come. I know a lot of you consumer units are thinking 
you would have refused, saved by the atheism of your dead imaginations. 
And maybe you would have. But that wouldn't have saved you because any of 
you who've ever come but once would have asked yourselves why. Women too, 
if Sella had been a man, and she could have been, if she wanted you to 
think so. And the question why is the thing that puts the first hole in 
the safety of your ignorance. It's the question that comes for you when 
bad things happen, and they will, because I met Sella.
 
Through some helix of irony that now seems as fated as poisoned strands of 
DNA I met her through my wife. My wife's name is, excuse me, was Marian. 
She was a tall honey blonde with a face like Meryl Streep's plumper 
sister and one of those big-boned Minnesota Swede bodies. You know, a 
hundred and forty pounds maybe but not fat, just big through the 
shoulders with cream-pie breasts and haunches instead of hips. She was 
about a half-inch taller than me and very attractive in an earthbound 
way. I admired her. She had intelligence and guts. As I was strangling 
her, just as her face turned purple, she whacked me so hard I had a 
bruise on the side of my face for a week. I don't say that to be crude, 
just to illustrate one of her better qualities. If I was able I'd miss 
her, but of course I'm no longer able. To miss her I'd have to imagine 
she was real and people are just a collection of feelings, aren't they? 
When I killed her I took those feelings which comprised the entity 
named Mirian into myself. So she's just as real now as before. That's a 
concept I wasn't conscious of when I met Sella in the discussion group.

Mirian was a sociology instructor at the local community college. She was 
heading an adult education seminar on modern mores or some such thing and 
asked me if I wanted to participate. I didn't, but she'd been carping 
about me showing no interest in her career, so I agreed to sit in a few 
times just to see what she was up to. We decided to keep the fact that I 
was her husband a secret so it didn't inhibit the group or me.

My eyes locked onto Sella as soon as I entered the room. She was wearing 
a black sheath dress with black hose that matched the crow-wing sheen of 
her hair. She had a long thin face that suggested an American Indian , or 
rather an Indian's idea of someone he might come across in a forbidden 
part of the desert: tomahawk cheekbones and a mouth so wide it made the 
rest of her face look like something it had kissed into existence. Her 
nose was a bit too long and had a cruel little hook to it that matched 
the one at the corner of her cunt-curl mouth. It was her eyes though that 
locked onto mine and sucked my brain to climax. They were as ice gray and 
hungry as those of an arctic wolf; tundra eyes reflecting the hiss of 
some winter sun that lay deep-gone over the horizon.

She said nothing in the session; an attitude souffle about honesty that 
was punctured every time Sella moved her eyes from my crotch to my face 
and back again. She flicked them at first and then did it slower, 
hungrier each time with a kind of tongue-lolling languor that made me 
feel like I was being licked all over. Sometime during the middle of all 
that she began showing me flashes of thigh, crossing her legs, slumping a 
little in her chair so the sheath rose higher, then uncrossing her legs. 
It took only a few minutes of that for me to realize from the black and 
white contrast of her upper thighs that she was wearing a garter belt and 
stockings. There may be a man over the age of thirty-five somewhere who 
isn't aroused by a garter belt and stockings on a pair of high-flow legs, 
but don't trust him because he's a liar.

When we were boys all women wore them and women is what we wanted. Girls 
knew it and wore them too. I spent untold classroom hours looking for 
that not-too-subtle tan-white promise I'd somehow seen in prepuberty 
fever dreams. That night in my wife's classroom with Sella I was doing it 
again; feeling overheated and dizzy, becoming more capable of rape by the 
minute. Ten minutes before the end of class she crossed her legs one last 
time, took off one high heel, and used her architecturally arched foot to 
massage the back of her other leg up to the knee, down to the heel, 
slowly, tongue slowly. The slight buzz of nylon against nylon sounded as 
faint and plain as a zipper in a dark room. Five minutes before the end 
of class I left and waited at a far turn in the hall so I could catch her 
while Marian was collecting her papers.

Sella knew. I saw her wait until the rest of the class was almost to me 
before she started down the hall; her breasts small enough to move free 
inside the knit sheath; ram's-head nipples butting strong against rolling 
black circles. She had an insect-thin waist and a swaybacked walk 
propelled by an ass so mobile you could see it move from the front. The 
others were already out the door when she got to me. I was going to step 
in front of her but she stopped, turned, faced me with those ice-dog eyes 
and said in a voice like a fingernail on my spine, "Marian is talking 
about honesty with a student. She'll probably be about five minutes." 
Then she looked at my crotch again and up to my eyes, emitting something 
between a sigh and a groan as she did. It was that little tin shriek that 
was to become so loud in the upcoming months that it was all I could hear.

I grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her around the corner. She gave 
me a little groan again but didn't resist. "Why?" I asked. "Why were you 
doing that?"

She turned so that one of her breasts kissed the back of my hand. "You 
mean trying to show you I wasn't wearing any panties?" she said in her 
little growl.

I released her arm and leaned against the wall, attacked again by fever 
dreams. She stepped forward so that the rounds of her thighs hugged my 
legs. "You didn't notice," she said. "I tried to show you but you didn't 
notice."

"Why?" I managed to croak. "Why are you doing this?"

She rocked a little on my leg, raising the knit dress as she did so, 
bringing raw nylon in contact in contact with the jeans I was wearing. 
"Because I can always spot a husband," she growl whispered close to my 
ear. "You're Marian's husband, and I like husbands."

"Why?"

"Because I'm bad." She whimpered a little, a sound that made me ashamed 
for her, and hard. "Because I'm bad," she said. "I'm so bad only a man 
who's being bad can give me what I need."

I almost walked away but I felt the wet breath of her sentence on my 
neck. "And what's that?" I asked instead.

She gave the tin growl as she rocked on my leg so hard that the dress 
slipped above the top of her stocking and I felt white thigh-fever 
against my leg. She leaned forward into my neck and slipped a piece of 
paper into my pocket. "Anything you tell me I need," she said. "And I 
mean it." Then she leaned back, looked at her watch, and said, "Five 
minutes, don't forget I mean it."

She went out the door in a way that made me wish I was a door and I was 
alone against the wall, dripping sweat onto my shirt, prostate fluid into 
my pants.


That night in bed with Marian I was like a lion on an antelope. I wanted 
to draw blood. I wanted to crack her spine. Our marriage had always 
included regular sex but the method was always what magazines with douche 
ads call "comfortable." Marian would lie on her back or, when she was 
especially passionate, on top of me and give out a few oohs and a "that's 
nice" or two then come with all the regularity and passion of the morning 
newspaper.

The night I met Sella Marian sweated like a boar and grunted like a sow. 
She trashed and raked me and even tried to throw me off but I'd just flip 
her into a new position and drive on because my semen was boiling inside 
me and I wanted to make it hurt her as much as it was hurting me. She 
made birth sounds and came three times, but afterward she looked at me 
from the other side of the bed like I'd suddenly grown fangs. "You 
frightened me," she said in an apprehensive voice.

"You came three times," I answered in my defense.

"I didn't even know it," she said. "I was lost."

It was then that I felt the beginnings of power, the thrill of subsuming 
another person into your desires, making them a seed out of which your 
fulfillment grows. If she had only agreed to it things might have been 
different but of course it was her fate to die rather than agree to it 
just like religion tells us. You know, disobedience is sin and the wages 
of sin is death. It's right there in the Bible, you could look it up but 
you won't. You'll just go on reading douche magazines and believing in 
"relationships" that are "comfortable."

That's what Marian wanted to do. After a bout with Godlike sex during 
which she came three times and couldn't remember two of them all she 
could say was that she wanted to know it when she came. Mind you, she 
didn't deny she came three times but she wanted to know when, wanted to 
enjoy it. She went to heaven but didn't like it because she couldn't 
remember the address. She wanted low-fat no-cholesterol bite-sized safe 
sex instead of pig-slop pleasure, and it killed her. Because then I knew. 
I knew I had to have Sella and once I had Sella I had to have it all. If 
Marian had only submitted it might have saved us both. After all, Abraham 
was willing to kill his son for God. All Marian had to do was be a sex 
object. Not that I think I'm God. What a cliche. I don't even want to be 
God. I just want to feel like him. It's not my fault. I didn't make the 
world but if I had I wouldn't have told my children they were created in 
my image. I'd have let them come without knowing it just like I did 
Marian. I tried to save her but she'd too many douche ads to accept dirty 
love. So I had to find another way to love her. I learned that way from 
Sella.

"I know what you want," she said on the phone, and told me to name the 
time and place, any time and place. I did. The next day I found myself in 
a room watching Sella rock the garter-whipped purity of her veinless 
white ass against the darkness while begging me to hurt her. And I did. I 
whipped her. I told her to stay in exactly that position while I whipped 
her with my belt and every time she moved I whipped her some more. When I 
saw her skin beginning to redden to the point of blood I stopped until it 
passed but I told her stay in that position the whole time.She did. It 
was a transcendent experience. At first I could see her whole body in all 
its pornographic glory as I vented my anger at Marian on it. Sella's ass 
shook with each blow, sending ripples of force up each side of her body 
to her breasts and down her legs where they straightened her toes. The 
more I whipped her the angrier I became at Marian for refusing to allow 
me to stop of what I was now doing. Because I would never have whipped 
Marian, unless she'd asked me and of course she wouldn't have asked me. 
Not that I'd have wanted to. She wasn't built for it; too big, too 
unsegmented. It would have been as erotic as driving a mule team.

I would have continued normal animal sex with her though, watching the 
sweat splash as she flopped around the bed, but she wouldn't and that 
made me mad, which sent me to Sella who received anger like an offering, 
which after a while it was. Because after the first flush I got when I 
realized I was actually whipping her, after the first time I'd rested so 
she wouldn't mar the occasion by bleeding, I ceased to see her body at 
all. Rather I ceased to see her as a body. The blackness of her dress 
blended with the dark of the room and the white of her skin with the 
lightness of bed and bathroom beyond until I imagined myself alone in the 
room and her ass a blank page upon which I was writing a save-me note to 
the world. The more I whipped the more articulate I became, the tip of my 
belt landing just where I aimed and eliciting a different note in the 
continuous keening wail that came from Sella but which seemed to come out 
of my own screaming frustration at being locked onto two legs in a world 
that is mostly air. When I became aware of Sella's noises I stopped 
writing and became a musician. Every cry of rage or pleasure or fear or 
want I'd ever felt in my life I was able to bring to her lips through the 
instrument of my belt, and as it got more accurate and more intense there 
was no remaining difference between Sella, the room, and myself. I was 
creating a world through the mediums of pain and violence and I didn't 
stop until she became me and I was feeling the burn in my head more 
strongly than she on her skin and we were two poles of an electrical 
field so strong that if anyone else had touched the belt at that moment 
it would have killed them.

It was in that moment that I drew the belt aside, leapt onto the bed, and 
shoved into her like a coked-up angel sent by the Almighty to cuckold 
Lucifer, and the only way to cuckold Lucifer is to give his wife more of 
what she wants than he does. So I used myself as a weapon. I banged 
against the backs of her thighs so hard that her head drummed against the 
bedboard with the doomlike thud of the slave-master's hammer on a galley 
ship. I bit her and slapped her and bent her into positions that made her 
nothing but an orifice with a body attached. And I used every orifice she 
had, finishing with the one Lucifer likes the most; the one that makes 
the cunt seem like a debutante at her coming out party, the one on the 
side of town where the lights never shine, the gateway to the gardens of 
perversion where the black roses of hubris grow out of wells of dark 
satin. And as I did it I could read her spine from the inside and it 
said, "Yours is the thing that writes the limits of my life. Yours is the 
alchemy that changes my pain to bone and my bone to come." And I did it 
harder and her wail swallowed itself into a muted roaring grunt so I 
could feel it sitting on the end of my spear, and as I came I could see 
the limits of my life expand like the speed and reach of the universe. I 
could squeeze air and feel it run between my fingers. I could bite 
minutes and feel the seconds run down my chin. Afterward I couldn't 
remember coming. I was lost.

I don't remember how many times I saw Sella after that, only that they 
were never enough and the times between felt like a flourescent dream 
from which I wanted to awake. Each time I entered a shady motel room with 
Sella felt like balm to a burn wound and each time I came out I felt like 
I'd been singed all over and needed the balm worse than before.

Whatever I did she wanted more. I tied her hair to the top of the bed, 
wrapped a rope around her feet, and pulled her taut using the bathroom 
doorknob as a pulley. She spread her arms and called it flying through 
hell, and asked for more. I had her suck me until her neck was stiff and 
her jaws were sore and when I needed time to keep from coming I made her 
use that time to suck everything else in the room; table legs, doorknobs, 
bathtub fixtures, her own toes. She called it tasting exotic fruit and 
asked for more. I used appliances on her; an electric shoe shine machine, 
a slow-turning power drill with a sponge bottle washer attached, a wire 
attached to a tape-player's LED flashers so that small shocks were 
delivered in time to the music. She called it lips of fire and came until 
she cried, and asked for more.

And me? My days were like slow-flying mud and my time with Marian like a 
sensory deprivation tank without the hallucinations. I began taking time 
off from work to meet Sella. I bought leather outfits from Frederick's, 
whips and harnesses from feed stores, new appliances from hardware 
stores, liquor by the case, and drugs by the kilo because they all 
enhanced the erotic imagination and Sella wanted more. And as she got it 
Marian got less and noticed. She also noticed our dwindling bank account 
and my decreasing weight. I was getting quite thin and liking it because 
I was able to fit into the zipper front leather bikini underwear which 
never seems to come in husky sizes. She wondered about the porno films I 
rented for posture concepts and the two pack a day cigarette habit I'd 
picked up because they enhanced the drugs and were handy for inflicting 
controlled burns. She nagged about them all and said she'd think I was 
having an affair but I didn't have the look of love. She didn't know much 
about the look of lust so she chalked my behavior up to a mid-life 
crisis. Unintentional irony is, after all, the hallmark of the uninformed.

And it was an ironic statement because I was about to face the crisis 
that sealed both our fates and many of yours. It began when I met Sella 
at the motel we'd been using because it was fairly soundproof and had a 
bed that was anchored to the floor. She was dressed in the outfit she'd 
worn the first night I whipped her: leather skirt short enough to show 
the fasteners on her garter belt, black silk blouse sheer enough to show 
her nipple erections. The outfit summoned up a wave of nostalgia in me 
and I decided to whip her again just like our first time but this time 
she called it old and said it wasn't enough. She sat up, slithered off 
the bed, sat at my feet, and said in a pouty little groan, "Ooh, I feel 
like such a bad girl tonight. This just isn't enough to hurt it out of 
me. I need something special, something very special."
 
I asked her what and she told me I had to be in charge, that it wouldn't 
do any good for her to think of it. She asked me to go home and think of 
something really special and then come back, without phoning in advance, 
walk in the room and just do it, whatever it was, just do it. She said 
she'd wait there until I came back, even if it was days or even weeks. 
That's how bad she needed me to do it.

On my way home I suddenly realized that God chose to be love instead of 
pain because it's so much easier. All you have to do to love is just do 
it, just open your arms and passively let it flow. Pain requires 
imagination, constant innovation. And that is of course the reason why 
humans are only a cheap imitation of God and Satan a very good imitation 
of humans. We're all in his image and have a taste for it.  But the only 
kingdom we can be masters of is the kingdom of pain, which requires 
constant thought, which induces fatigue and depression, which causes us 
to be tired and pitiable creatures which makes us even easier to love. 
You can't win.

That's the state of mind I was in when I got home to Marian that night 
and she started on me about money. The bank statement had come and she 
couldn't help but notice the dent my last cocaine buy had put in our 
funds. She wanted to know what all that money was for. And, by the way, 
why had the latest Frederick's fall catalog come in that day's mail? She 
even hinted that I might be a transvestite. I considered it for a minute 
but decided that wasn't what Sella had meant by something special. Sella! 
What the hell did she want? How far into cruelty could I go without 
rounding the bend into love? Then I realized that was it, the most 
dangerous thing to Sella of all, a thing so cruel that it stopped just 
short of love. I knew what she must want.

Marian was in my face, literally, leaning in, waving the bank statement 
under my nose. I stared blankly at her face and thought of all the times 
we'd seen each other through. Hard economic times when we were both still 
in school. Hard emotional times when members of our families had died. I 
knew I loved her with an intensity just short of hate. Ah hell, what are 
we to do about this capacity for cheap imitation? And I was an imitator, 
a sincere flatterer, a man in desperate need of something special, 
something to keep him from the land of the ordinary. My blood now flowed 
too fast for me to go back to being God's navel or the devil's fantasy. I 
needed something special to stay king in the kingdom of Sella. I needed 
something on the cusp of love and hate.

Marian was in my face, shouting for my attention, and I gave it to her. I 
reached out, hoping she would understand, and put my hands around her 
neck, just as an experiment at first, to see if I was on the right track. 
Then I started to squeeze. The more I squeezed the more I realized it was 
what Sella wanted. They say hanged men die with a hard-on and I knew 
strangulation would give Sella the biggest orgasm of her life and that 
once she had it there would be no repeating it so she wouldn't want to 
live anyway. And without Sella I could never go back to Marian no matter 
how much I loved her. I had the power over all of us at that moment and I 
took it, rather I thought I took it. Now I can see it took me. An 
imitation's not the real thing after all, is it? But once I was squeezing 
I kept on, feeling myself emigrate permanently into the realm of 
imitation power as I did it. I was still a religious man but then so was 
Lucifer. Let me tell all you consumer units who only read parts of the 
Bible quoted in the elevator version of Bob Dylan songs that Lucifer was 
an angel who became the devil when he decided to be equal to God. He 
became a real imitation rather than a fake original.

After killing Marian I raced to the motel, knowing that Sella would 
appreciate it all, that she'd been waiting there for me to kill her. I 
could hardly wait to hear her groan with pleasure when I told her. I was 
on fire with the thought of finally uniting her and Marian in my hands, 
of squeezing my two great loves into one.
 
But she wasn't there. All I found was a garter belt lying like a black 
corsage on top of a pair of black bikini underwear. A white note lay in 
jarring contrast on top of the small pile of nylon. I read the hooked 
scrawl: "As you can see I'm not here, and I'm still not wearing any 
panties. As you know, witch rhymes with bitch. Now you know I'm one. I'll 
leave it up to you to decide whether I'm the other. I know we'll meet 
again when you become really special. Until then I'm always yours in 
pain. Sella."

So good-bye, kind world. This is my last note to you, and my only 
warning. Like all religious men I know that there is only one sin God 
will not forgive and that is the sin of rejecting forgiveness. And sadly, 
I reject it because I have discovered that Sella was the bitch and I am 
the witch. In using her as a window to the caverns of pain where the fires 
of small power burn I cast a spell on myself. Now I sit in those vaginal 
halls on a throne of God's excrement beside a river of blood where I 
baptize myself daily in dreams of Sella's neck gripped in my hands as I 
squeeze in masturbatory pleasure. As she dies maybe the spell will be 
broken and I can accept the forgiveness that lies just across the now 
impassable membrane where love meets power.

The problem is though, that to find her I must remember her and I can 
only remember her through action. So, just as Marian did, the ones of you 
I select will in your final moments become Sella. I will love you as I 
loved her and some of you will in those moments find that you love me. 
Yes, it's true, you will. Because you are consumer units and each 
purchase is nothing but a small and thrilling act of submission, a 
voyeur's ticket to the kingdom of pain.

So as you stare at your televisions each night, know that I am the dark 
moon that orbits full behind the piano key grins and the toylike wrecks 
of the expendable cars. I'm the darkness in the center of the mother's 
whispered douche advice to daughter. I'm here, behind the tube, outside 
the window, and around any impulse you might have to leave fake reality 
for real imitation.

   I wait for you.
   I want you.
   I need you.
   I Love you.
   And, to paraphrase that most romantic of songs: You always love the 
one you hurt.


(submitted anonymously)

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= Plan 9               716.881.3663    suicidal chaos       718.592.1083  =
= Damaged              801.944.7353    The Death Star Bar   805.872.3151  =
= Purple Hell          806.791.0747    BloodNet             901.872.8615  =
= Atrocity Exhibition  905.796.3385    Phoenix Modernz      908.830.8265  =
= The Keg              914.234.9674    that stupid place    215.985.0462  =
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= Files through AnonFTP  FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK           =
=                        FTP.LEMMING.COM/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
=                        FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck       =
=                        FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck              =
=                        FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK            =
=                        ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK        =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho                  =
=                    http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/                 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=       (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author         =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(12/5/96)
