
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

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           `""""""^""^""""""""`  `""""""^""^"""""""`   `""""""^""^"""""""`

         * doomed to obscurity e'zine - issue #22 - june 30th, 1997 *
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "hopelessly sexy"
 by - mogel

        with dto #22 being released this month, i now declare that doomed
 to obscurity, the multi-faceted cultural phenomenon, will now officially
 be anti-EVERYTHING.

        that's right, nothing is sacred anymore.

        the reason?  last month i had to get a *real* job!  that means if
 i have to suffer, you have to suffer.  if my supreme slacker lifestyle is
 going to be interrupted, you are all going to PAY.  so prepare for the
 onslaught, students.

        we've got dto.net completely stable (for good) over the last few
 months.  you can always see our amazing webpage at http://www.dto.net -
 designed by our group whore, eerie.  the page has many features and
 funky things going on, it's definately worth checking out.  in addition,
 you'll find tons and tons of 'zines (including new dto issues!) at our
 official ftp site:  ftp.dto.net.  you can now also e-mail your favorite!
 just mail a writer with thier handle before dto.net.  such as:
 mogel@dto.net, tao@dto.net, eerie@dto.net, etc.  we know you've got
 enough free time to drop your favorite writers a little message, SO DO
 IT.

        i love you kids.  i really do.

        this month, like most every month, we're filled with different
 writing styles from different genres.  we've got some new faces, some old
 faces, and some legfaces.  HAHAHA.  eerie soups up a snazzy sci-fi story,
 murmur tells us about a cat, and the angst keeps on coming.

        do you fear it?  i fear it.

                                     ____
                                  ___|  |_ _
                               ___|  |  _______
                               |     |  |     |
 )- -------------------------- |  |  |  |  |  | -------------------------- -(
                               |  |  |  |  |  |
      doomed to obscurity #22  |  |  |  |  |  |  and all contents therein...
                               |  |  |  |  |  |
 )- -------------------------- |  |  |  |  |  | -------------------------- -(
                               |_____|  |_____|
                                     |___ _

  1.> "hopelessly sexy" -- by mogel
  2.> doomed to obscurity #22 and all contents therein...
  3.> "immobility" -- by trilobyte
  4.> "the juice of life" -- by oregano
  4.> "my jedi journal" -- by the vindicator
  5.> "let's be friends" -- by y-windoze
  6.> "no frills" -- by vanir
  7.> "emasculation" -- by mooer
  8.> "condiments chapter 55:  that peppers shit from steak 'n' shake" --
        by murmur
  9.> "the chaos theory; friday, july 22" -- by eerie
 10.> "these jokes are GREAT!" -- by puck
 11.> "tonight on tv" -- by oregano
 12.> "thorough situational mindfuck" -- by d. mcdaniel
 13.> "kitty-cat" -- by murmur
 14.> "purple finger nails and black latex make for a free man" -- by jook
 15.> "the human flaw" -- by eerie

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "immobility"
 by - trilobyte

        the mother of the calf sighed, for this was her only son, this calf
 -- the calf that now lay dead in front of her.  this poor calf, she thought,
 had lived such a happy life -- eating grass, walking around -- and now it
 all had to end.  because of the carelessness of the walking trees.

        everyone knew it.  the walking trees were insane mobile trees that
 liked to stomp on things.  sex was not the only motive.  they also liked to
 feel the flesh beneath their roots -- to get the sensation of the energy
 released from a living thing being crushed beneath their base.

        calves were not the only target.  young bovines were often passed
 over if a young macaw should happen to be available.  young macaws liked to
 give off noises and scream and thrash wildly when being smashed.  they would
 like to fly away but CAN'T because the tree is on top of them.  crushing
 them.

        but the calf lay there dead.  humans began to walk up and take notice
 of the dead calf.

        "poor thing," thought one.

        "oh, another victim of the ruthless walking trees," thought another.

        "mmm, i'm hungry," thought another, as he pulled a carving knife out
 of his sock.

        "that mother must be awfully sad," thought a mother in the crowd.
 "but i'll bet that the god damned bitch doesn't feel as bad as i did when my
 fucking shingle was bashed in by a god damned reverb amplifier."

        and this mother was right.  the cow didn't feel as bad.  the cow
 really did not feel much of anything, because she was wooden.  so was her
 calf.

        oh, did i forget to mention that?  yeah, the walking trees only like
 to crush things that are wooden.  they get very angry when things are made
 of wood.  so look out, your car might be next.

        oh, wait, that's not right.

        how much wood is in cars these days?  not much, methinks.  so the
 walking trees ought not be angry about your cars.  unless there's been a
 change of opinion since i last talked to one.  he tried to step on me, and i
 wasn't even wearing my wooden plate mail.

        what would make a walking tree pull such an unprecedented evil act?
 let me elaborate.

        one day, the aforementioned walking tree was in the forest.  a stocky
 man wearing a woolen plaid shirt and a red stocking cap stood at the tree's
 base and looked up, admiring the foliage.

        then he pulled out his chainsaw, which was really a bad mistake.
 walking trees prefer for people to not use chainsaws on them.  so the
 walking tree stepped on the lumberjack man and smooshed him.

        never meet up with a walking tree or badger after they smooshed a
 lumberjack.  not only do they smell very very very bad, but they also like
 to eat tacos at the time.  a rush to the taco bell is reason to get out of
 the way of the menagerie.  they will trample you, they don't care.  when a
 badger wants a taco, woo hoo, get the fuck out da way, muh'fucka, or yo' ass
 gonna be trampled.

        i be talkin' bout the ghetto.  can't pass up da ghetto, muh'fucka.
 or yo' ass get capp'd.  shit, bish.

        in the ghetto, they say, lots of old buildings are populated by poor
 people.  the poor people live in the large buildings, and let the buildings
 run down.  so the ceilings and things fall on the poor people, but the poor
 people stay alive.  rich people live in big houses in nice neighborhoods,
 and things don't often fall on them.  however, when things do fall on them
 -- say, a chandelier, or a table -- the rich people will die.  why?  it's
 god's selective process.  the people with the least money are the toughest
 so that they are prepared for things to fall on them.  the rich people are
 weak so that they are easily killed, separating them from their money, which
 will get passed on to younger generations, provided they haven't had
 anything fall on them yet.

        which brings me to this.  if a large tree were to fall on you, would
 your friends become angry?  if so, would they be angry at you for standing
 under the falling tree, or angry at the tree for falling on you?  trees
 these days are not as courteous as before, and with more and more people
 migrating to the forest to become melancholy nomads, one may believe that
 the less selective process of the falling of trees could be nature's defense
 against mankind.

        it was proven by steven hawking when he was riding around the forest
 and a tree fell on him.  i'm sure that the trees did not single out steven
 hawking, but it was obviously to teach mankind a lesson.

        we don't need wheelchairs.

        well, i don't.  because i'm not handicapped.  but someone who can't
 move by themselves would probably benefit from one.  which is probably why
 they make them.  they probably make wheelchairs so that immobile people can
 move.  so then they're not immobile anymore.

        wow, i just figured that out all by myself.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "the juice of life"
 by - oregano

        everything was well in my life before i went to the bathroom last
 night.  with a book in hand, i strolled toward the throne, i glanced to my
 left to my computer desk and everything was in order.  the charger lights
 for my ni-cad batteries glowed their evil red, like eyes of a bengal tiger
 out to stalk its nocturnal prey.  also on my computer desk was my answering
 machine, with the number 10 proudly displayed, telling me that i had 10
 messages saved from the last few days -- perhaps a good time to purge the
 messages that i didn't need, but there was no rush, plenty of time to
 relieve myself in the bathroom.

        i read for a half hour, occasionally taking time out to sing a little
 song in the mint perfect acoustics of my bathroom.  then after taking care
 of business i left and started on the long 30 foot walk back to the bedroom
 to continue reading.  but as i exited the bathroom something was wrong,
 there was a feeling of doom lingering in the summertime air.  i looked over
 at my computer desk once again, and the once docile answering machine was
 now screaming out for help, instead of just displaying the number 10, now it
 flashed hopelessly, yelling with desperation the word "lo" on its simple
 display.  although it had never done this before, i knew what it wanted...
 hell, needed!  it needed a new battery, it was running out of its life
 juice, and it looked to me for sustenance.

        it wasn't late at night, in fact it was just in the early evening and
 there was still hope, i could go out and get a new battery and life would be
 restored to its ever joyfulness, but i'd have to act fast, the stores would
 soon be closed.  to add to the injury of night, it was raining and
 threatening with its wicked lightning strikes that seemed to ring the very
 building where i lived, plus on the radio there were warnings of tornadoes,
 ready to drive straws through trees (and maybe heads.)

        i grabbed my umbrella and ventured out and found the battery section
 of my local osco drug store.  i found the aa batteries, paid for them and
 went home in the strong winds and drenching rain.  the elements were so bad
 that several times my umbrella turned inside out.  i didn't fear, i knew
 myself to be greater that anything nature can throw at me.

        home again.  i set my umbrella to dry, took off anything that was wet
 and then sat in front of my answering machine, with the batteries that would
 save its life.  now before i go on, i must point out one little quirk of
 mine.  for some reason rather than throwing away my various register
 receipts from my numerous trips to various stores -- receipts from
 everywhere like the supermarket to barnes and noble -- and i put them on my
 computer desk, right around my answering machine.  it takes a bit of
 rearranging to see the display through this paper mountain, but i have
 forestalled disaster in the past by keeping this garbage highway.

        i dug the answering machine out of all the receipts ready to install
 the new batteries.  i fought off the cover to the battery compartment.  when
 i got it off i saw to my horror that it was a 9 volt battery in the machine
 and not the aa batteries that i bought.  in my haste earlier, after exiting
 the bathroom, i had neglected to dig the machine out of the receipts, and
 now i'm stuck with a machine that flashes "lo" and may do so 'til the end of
 time.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "my jedi journal"
 by - the vindicator

 phase one:

        once upon atime on the planet of boys a young lad named duke
 floorwalker wanted to fight wars like all his other friends did.  so now
 join us in hardware wars september 1, 1984.

        duke bought 2 droids 1 named garbage-d-2, and the other named the
 tin man.  as duke was cleaning the droids he found a message.  it read,
 augie ben-doggie please help from p.l.

        duke went to augie.  augie gave him a life saver.  duke didn't want
 it.  but duke took it because it was less then ten calories.

        duke was fighting barf-raider.  he said watch out!  i have a
 lifesaver.  duke ate it, now i lost weight.  i weigh less then you.

        ha!  ha!  na-na-na-na-boo-boo-you can't catch me.  see dick-see spot.
 they can run like me.

        as duke was running he saw princess lard.  he told her to join his
 gang.  everyone had a meeting.  there were only five people.  they needed a
 pilot.  they went to a bar, they met a pilot and his pet.

        the pilot's name was hand out of tune.  his pents name was gum.  they
 found the death star.  they blasted it.  THEY WIN.  THE END!

 ---

        phase two:

        loonies - 7/1/85, no illustrations

        once upon a time there were 4 kids.  they had a group called loonies.
 the kids names were mickey, punk, feet, and computer.  mickey's dad was
 dyeiing.  mickey was very sad.  mickey is the boss of the loonies.  everyone
 went into the attic they found a map that led to willy wonka's treasure.
 they wanted to look for it.  they had to go to the cave.  punk got trapped
 with a dead man in the ice cream room.  the bad guys found him and put him
 with cloth.  cloth is a weird man.  he always watches tv.

        meanwhile everyone else was still looking.  they found a wishing
 well.  they saw someone by it.  they screamed and the person let down the
 bucket so they could ride up.

        they all wanted to go up except for mickey.  mickey said don't go up.
 feet said were gonna die down here; look at all the skeletons.  wait a
 minute: said mickey.  listen, up there, it's my dad's time to die.  but down
 here it's our time to die.  and that's all over the minute you go up that
 bucket.  now don't chicken out.  shhh, i here the bad guys.

        few!  they almost saw us!  look i see another room!  i have to open
 the door.  there it's open.  what's in there?  willy wonka's treasure!
 hooray!!  we have to get punk.  computer, get a flashlight ok.  what's it
 for?  i don't know ask the writer of the book.

        everyone got away, but the bad guys were after them.  soon punk and
 cloth came back.  they were in super hero underoos they saved the day; but
 mickey was mad.  he found out that he lied when he said it was there time to
 die.

 ---

        phase three:

        coming attractions.

        revenge of the birds pigsters poorlions empire stripes the zebra
 return of the sleepy eye bats coming to a theater near you.

 ---

        phase four:

        the stupid bowl shuffle.

 chorus: we are the weirds, shuffilin crew shufflin up, doin it for you.
         were so good we know we're bad blowing our nose on a kleenex pad.
         we didn't come here to start no trouble we just came to do the
         stupid bowl shuffle.

 payton: they call me dumbo 'cause i hate to dance runnin' the ball feels
         like ants in my pants. the weirds been going since training camp to
         give chikahgoh a stupid bowl champ.  the weirds are doing this to be
         greedy, we need the money 'cause we're needy.

 chorus!

 fuller: they say dumbo is our man, if dumbo can't do it, i sure can't.  this
         is peve, and it's a wonder, i'm afraid of rain and thunder.  so
         bring on snow, bring on lightning, rain and thunder is the only
         thing frightening.  when i'm not here, big bird ruffles.  so i get
         down to do the stupid bowl shuffle.

 chorus!

 fridge: your looking at the fridge and i'm no rookie, i may be small but i'm
         still a cookie.  you see me fall, you see me trip, but when i hit
         the mens room i make [whistle].  i can't dance, you won't see, the
         others, they can't learn from me.  i'm just here to do the stupid
         bowl shuffle.

 chorus!

 ---

        phase five:

        deliverance from sin.

                        and they looked into the sun
                        seeing only themselves
                        and it delivered them from sin.

 fin.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "let's be friends"
 by - y-windoze

        usenet.  fun.  exciting and new.  come aboard, some company is trying
 to rape you!  it was of course something that couldn't be avoided -- that
 is, usenet advertising.  with the influx of society as a whole we not only
 get the combined intellects of the world, we get all of the faults it has as
 well.  the problem i have is not really the ads themselves, it is the turn
 they have recently been taking; friendship?!

        e-mail is a very personal thing; even when on a mailing list crammed
 with hundreds of people, it still feels like the e-mail is coming to you or
 you are part of the conversation.  usenet feels much the same way.  because
 of this some "sly" advertisers are using a new gimmick to try and sell their
 products.  instead of blatant advertisements they present themselves as
 "friends" of the reader who is "doing a favor" or passing on some "secret
 info".  take some of the following examples:

        "hey here is that website i was telling you about..."

        "i had the same problem, they answered it at this <url>"

        "for my friends only! <url>"

        those are a few of the more obvious examples and anyone who can think
 for themselves should be able to spot them, right?  well, of course they
 should, and the advertisers know this so they are getting even sneakier.  a
 new technique employed is the moronic question/answer method.  in this
 simple con turned internet, someone uses an account and asks a dumb
 question... in response some one replies with a seemingly innocent third
 party product that fixes the problem of the first person.  this is just one
 of the new tricks used by internet advertisers.

        so why the fuss?  why do i care?  why should you care?  well, because
 unlike the rest of the world, advertising on the net is in its childhood.
 like a child we, as the parents of the net, can mold and shape the way it
 develops, enabling us to have a medium of communication that isn't
 brandished with a corporate logo or slogan at every turn.  of course, you
 can do nothing and have another television that insults you at every
 opportunity, or you can put forth just a small amount of effort and make a
 real difference.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "no frills"
 by - vanir

        "jesus christ!  $16.99 for the new hootie and the blowfish album?
 this is a big bag of shit, that's what this is!"

        tom had been somewhat disgusted with the whole retail experience for
 quite a while. it might have had something to do with the fact that he had
 recently moved away from home and had to use money from his own pocket now
 instead of mooching off the folks now.  in any case, tom was none too
 pleased with the concept of spending an amount of money equivalent to about
 4 hours worth of work on hootie.  right now, tom was at wal-mart with his
 roommate chris exercising his consumer choice.

        "shit.  i've only got $20 on me and we've still got to get munchies,
 dude... ok, now think:  hootieormunchies... hootieormunchies...."

        "fuck hootie, tom.  i hate hootie.  you have no taste in music.  get
 food."

        "dammit!  this sucks.  sorry hootie, maybe later."

        "ah, the gods are smiling upon me this day!"

        and so they went wandering through the many aisles of wal-mart,
 procuring many low-nutrition foods for later consumption.  after picking up
 a couple of candy bars and a 2-liter of pepsi, they came upon a large
 display containing pretzels.

        "do we want pretzels?"

        "yes, have some."

        "ok, they've got the rold gold kind or the generic wallymart kind.
 choose your fate."

        "i don't give a fuck what kind of pretzels you pick, pretzelboy."

        "let's be smart shoppers and get the cheapo generic wallymart kind,
 shall we?  i mean, we'll probably be too damned drunk to taste the
 difference anyway, right?"

        "an astute observation, oh smart shopper.  just buy some pretzels
 already so we can get out of here.  these fluorescent lights are starting to
 make me have a seizure."

        as they approached the checkout counter, tom noticed a small stuffed
 turtle sitting on top of one of the impulse buy candy racks.

        "heh.  you know a product is popular when they start making ripoffs
 of it."

        "what the fuck are you babbling about now, tom?"

        "look!  look at the tag!  this isn't a *real* beanie baby.  this is a
 beanie pet targeted for either the slow of mind or thin of wallet."

        "ok.  buy things."

        and so tom brought the munchies to the register, wishing all the
 while he had had sufficient funds to bring hootie with him.  how he longed
 to hear those sweet melodies.  they went out to the car and started on their
 way home.  as tom was driving past the quickie lube/ice cream parlor he
 suddenly cried out and slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of
 the road with all the grace of an elk with appendicitis.

        "tom, explain to me what the fuck you're doing before i kill you."

        tom had an odd, pale, slack-lipped look about him.  he was visibly
 sweating.  and yet, his eyes gleamed.  he looked chris straight in the eye
 and in a calm yet shaky voice said, "i've got it."

        "thank you for that.  i'm going to find the ice scraper now and cause
 you great physical harm."

        "no, you don't understand.  i've got it.  ok, recall if you will, i
 did not buy the hootie album because he was too expensive, yes?"

        "consider these your last words, but go on."

        "and remember how we saw the pretzels and could get the good kind for
 more and the generic kind for less?  and how you can buy beanie babies for
 600x their actual worth but can buy beanie pets for only about 300?"

        "15 seconds remain on your death clock, tom. make this fast."

        "well, i'm going to make a *generic* version of hootie that *costs
 less*!"

        chris was much too busy laughing hysterically at tom right now to
 kill him, so tom, idea in head, drove the rest of the way home with no major
 mishaps.  the next day, tom contacted the manager of his local wal-mart to
 discuss this idea with him.  the manager gave him a number to call at
 wal-mart world headquarters in texas for people with really stupid ideas
 like his and tom called it and they called some people and they called some
 other people and suffice it to say that in the end they liked tom's idea,
 found it somewhat merchantable, and that the lawyers for wal-mart had no
 problem convincing the legal departments at most record companies to let
 them have the rights to record generic versions of their artists' songs
 because their legal departments thought wal-mart's lawyers were positively
 looney.  wal-mart also decided to let tom head this operation since he was
 the one with the bright idea to do it in the first place and therefore was a
 visionary with the power to make it work.  they called this division "ramen
 records" because honestly, who wants to buy an album with wal-mart's logo on
 it?

        so, the first thing tom did was try to find suitable substitutes for
 popular artists.  his first priority was to make a generic marilyn manson,
 since he was all the rage among people his age and he wanted to impress
 wal-mart with big numbers so they'd let him continue.  so tom put a want ad
 in the paper searching for a suitable performer.

        "WANTED:  marilyn manson substitute.  must look as if you were dipped
 in toxic waste, inspire fear and hatred in christians, and scream
 incomprehensibly for no reason at random moments.  ability to deface
 perfectly good songs a must."

        for a few days business was pretty slow and tom was worried nobody
 was going to show up at all.  then slowly, a few freaky looking fellows came
 by, but tom turned them down waiting for the big score.  then one day a
 particularly repulsive person walked in the door.  he had frizzy shoulder
 length hair, a lazy right eyeball, and clothes that were a little ripped and
 apparently had been shit on by a large jungle cat.  he smelled worse than
 what tom might imagine death smelled like.  tom tried to introduce himself
 but as he stood and extended his hand for the creature, it aggressively
 moved forward and screeched the words "I... EAT... PUPPIES!!!!" at poor tom.
 he was frightened to death and wanted to hide under his desk.  tom hired the
 thing under the condition that it never come by the office again ever.
 thinking of the clever trick played with the beanie pets, he gave the
 creature the stage name of "MARILYN MASON".

        "let's see if they can tell the difference," thought tom.

        tom next decided to go with a nine inch nails substitute.  he knew
 |\|||/| was one of those musical phenomena whose prime was far behind them,
 but whose name was still recognizable enough to turn a profit when a new
 album came out.  he put another want ad in the paper due to the success of
 marilyn mason, and eventually, after another string of rejects, came upon a
 20 year old guy with a keyboard strapped to his chest who could play a mean
 set of drum pads.  tom didn't listen to NIN much, but when the guy played
 the sheet music tom gave him, he thought it sounded pretty good. tom hired
 the guy, and in his infinite wisdom, decided to call him ten inch nails.
 he even designed a logo for ten inch nails that left the t forwards and the
 n backwards:  ~|~||/|.  it was so cool (what tom didn't realize is that the
 guy he hired was much more talented than trent reznor could ever be because
 he could play all the parts of the song at one time on his keyboard while
 mr. reznor had to be a wussyboy and use a midi sequencer).

        the two fledgeling ramen records releases took wal-mart by storm.
 they started selling like hotcakes, and tom made a bundle of money and
 developed a taste for name-brand products.  chris merely looked at tom every
 morning in sheer astonishment and resented everything tom ever did from that
 point forward.  tom eventually went on to produce for ramen records artists
 such as metallic, type a negative, portisheader, underkill, and hootie and
 the pufferfish (the last of which tom sent 100,000 copies of to chris as a
 christmas present to make his hell complete).

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "emasculation"
 by - mooer

        so, it's been.  it's been past, it's been real.  i see the wall; i
 can't see over it, i can see the way around it.

        in 11 days, i turn 20.  yesterday, i was watching an old superman
 movie and i squinted at christopher reeve; he was battling his evil twin.
 it must break his heart to watch his old films.

        flies slow down when it's cold.  they sleep and wake when heat spunks
 them alive.  i've been sleeping for a while now; or more rather, living in a
 sore heart.  thinking has taken me spinning whirl worlds of circles around
 my situation.  with each pulse, with each bounce, i've seen myself trip and
 point at each spot where i've fallen.  i've never written a piece of
 fiction, ever.

        so, i see myself leaving the decade of massive hem-whore-aging.  i'm
 not no teenager no more.  the past couple of days, i've been writing like a
 vomiting vending machine, all too pricey; nonetheless, tasty.  remembering,
 wrinkling my nose at the times i've fallen, and laughing at the just-fair
 world -- i've had a man explain to me why he killed another man:  "a woman
 made me do it."  i've seen a made-for-tv-movie car accident; man dying and a
 piece of my thoughtfulness chunk away like a doughnut in brown water.  i've
 kissed a sailor, turned away the "one", robbed the cradle, done the bunny
 rabbit, blown out a couple tall, short, little, hung candles.  i've seen the
 eyes of my saint, yet deindividuated to the loss of self.  i used to _think_
 once i received a bloom of daisies <not those damn, ugly roses that stalkers
 venerate> from a boy, i'd know to marry him.  sort of like when a guy
 muncherates a whole reserved-for-him-only batch of rice krispies treats from
 a girl <not even one krispy pre-bitten>, he knows.  but, now that i'm
 <almost> 20, that's a dumb thing to _think_.

        it's time for me to gas ahead <i'm doing the parenthetical thing,
 which means i'm thinking too much while i write>.  i've had a couple of bad
 hands in lifecards.  one hand washed itself to rashdumb -- breaking out,
 itching for a curiosity scratch.  another hand has a bad finger family; the
 thumb keeps trying to run away.  but still, i behold the world that my hands
 have been shaping.  i'm quite balanced, ph and otherwise.  i prey for me and
 eat when hungry.  i've burnt the cross i was bleed from, while not riding on
 the grace of warming.  i crash for a while sometimes; insanity is something
 i've captured on purpose -- it keeps me sane.  it's like a see-saw, with
 movement being vitality.  you can stand in the middle and precariously side-
 step back and forth to jangle the see-saw; or you can split <!> your
 conventions in two, plant each of their asses down on the extremities, and
 cooperate to hot-diggity the darn thing.  balance, said mr. miyagi. bowel-
 lance.  bow-ounce.  bounce... like a tiggerfly, think like a pooh.

        i'm a well-adjusted, happy, balanced, strong woman.  and 20 years, no
 less.  i've battled my evil twin.  it breaks my heart to look back:
 sugardaddys and lipped candy have passed thru me.  but i have no regrets;
 those were the glory days:  the days where responsibility and cutting school
 everyday were one and the same.

        my middle name happens to mean "truth" in my parents' native tongue.
 often, that name means more to me than my last name.  it's the curse and the
 birthright that i've taken on.  "the kingdom is yours, baby!"  baby is
 exactly right.

        funkfunkffunkfnunkfu.  defunct.  defunct.

        "so, like, what's your fucking point?"

        this turn of second decade is no more significant than the second it
 took to make me a teenager.  no more significant than the second it took for
 me to think "you know, it's damn hard to be original these days."  all the
 things that have gone past in civilized society have been documented in
 some way, whether it be the bible or john stuart mill's "utilitarianism".
 i've only enveloped an emptiness in finding tori amos cherubs.  i feel so
 old; there is no "fucking point," melting point.

        just a couple of upside-down thoughts to get thru my day.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -( 

 "condiments chapter 55:  that peppers shit from steak 'n' shake"
 by - murmur

        flippant and poignant was mister fox and mister fox he was also ver,
 ver hungry and so he says to himself, lo, i am fox, i must eat lox, and so
 mister fox, he puts on a nose and he goes and he asks for lox, and he is
 at the lox box where they serve the lox to the video jox, and mister fox,
 he says to the box, outside the lox box, the one with the microphone, the
 microphone box, hi, lox box, i am mister fox, and i have come for wholesome
 lox.  and from out of the lox box springs mayor charles box and the chicago
 white sox and they have a chicken for mister fox and mister fox he says i am
 please, oh yah, but i asked not for chicken, i asked for lox, oh don't you
 see, mayor box, white sox?  and mayor box, being a wise man, and the white
 sox, being big men, explain in terms intelligible to a fox, that mister fox
 shall not get his lox, for there is this chicken, says mayor box, and it is
 quite angry, say the chicago white sox, and mister fox, whose mind is slow,
 says i do not comprehend, and box and the sox deliver the chicken to the
 arms of the puzzled and worried mister fox and mister fox says this
 chicken's not dead and box and the sox says and look at its head!  and this
 chicken took a cleaver to the head of the fox and now with no head mister
 fox is quite dead.  very well, say the chicago white sox, we now have the
 fur we need for the lox, and agrees with them both does mayor box, and the
 chicken tastes really good in my tummy-tum-tum 'cause i'm a bummy-bum-bum
 from san francisco bay and i'm gonna make you pay if you don't give that leg
 away because i'm daft like a racehorse and i might not know how but i sure
 know why and i sure know when and i sure know where and it doesn't matter
 because i'm not smart enough anyway and they're all coming to get me and
 when i turn to my left the boysenberry branches look like they want to rip
 my very flesh off! and i have no flesh to give them for i am a burn victim
 and it is all ver, ver frightening and i just want to eat some lox with
 mister fox at the lox box with a crowbar and your face to beat the shit out
 of it, repulsive like a lever submerged in the brine of the pennsylvania
 superhighway system no thanks to you, joe dimaggio, jesus loves you more
 than sylvester stallone, because rambo is stupid like a piece of cheese,
 dumber than brass tacks, and i am going to pick up my phone, and i am going
 to call you names, and you, bc direct, won't be able to do anything about it
 because you're on the other end of a fucking 800 number that you won't
 bother to get changed no matter how many times we prank you and no matter
 how often we ridicule you for your stupid british accents because you're
 tools of a man that runs a country even deeper in the slime than portugal
 and that's pretty fucking bad but we like you anyway because you gave us
 fish, chips, and lots of scottish people, and they rule, because they're
 cool, because they're not fox hunters like you or that chicken i ate last
 night in a terrible fright oh i just might want to strike you down with the
 power and skill of an eighty-bit drill and even then still you'd suck a
 whole lot, ma'am.

 moral:  so, you wanna make out?

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "the chaos theory; friday, july 22"
 by - eerie

        this morning again i woke up alone -- or should i say around noon?
 it seems like it's becoming a habit.
 
        cynthia was off to work.  go figure how she does it.

        i went outside.  temperature:  92.  humidity factor: astronomical.
 there was probably a way to drown just by breathing this air.

        i read the newspaper headlines in a convenience store while buying
 something to drink.  "the new crime wave:  four murders in one week".  blah.
 "fire on 16th street:  unknown origin".  isn't that yesterday's fire?  with
 this heat, it's no time to burn places.  oh well, nothing happy on the front
 page.  it was sort of depressing.

        heat managed to keep me disconnected from all.  i stayed about half
 an hour doing nothing but contemplating, in a park, under a tree.  a little
 wind was swirling around, cooling it down, but it still wasn't that good an
 idea to be outside on such a day.

        & because of what was happening with cynthia, i was more or less
 uncomfortable with seeing annie, but i had to see someone, even though it'd
 only be for a quick hello.  i slowly, heavily moved to a phone booth &
 dialed melanie's number.  ringed one, two, three, four, five times.  no
 answer.  i hung up.

        i then remembered that i had lost touch with all my old friends
 lately.  cynthia often made me that remark, but i ignored it.  but now i
 was realizing i had currently three friends:  cynthia, annie & melanie.
 then again, they're friends on different levels, so let's say they're three
 people i care about.  else than that, what do i care about?  i've got no
 job.  i'm writing because i must more than just because i want to.  nothing
 important to keep me alive.

        cynthia was away & so was melanie.  annie was the last resort.  i
 walked to her place.  the door was locked.  i rang.  no answer.  there was
 no one, nowhere.  a few months or years ago, with a few dozens of people i
 could call whenever, i would have found something to do rather quickly.
 but then, didn't i decide i was nothing but a loner?  maybe i was wrong, i
 _still_ feel the need to see people.  sometimes.

        so i ran down the building stairs.  told myself i'd just come back  
 later this afternoon.  i walked a few more places.  which, i can't remember
 quite exactly, as if anyone cares anyway.

 ---

        so i met veronique just as i was going to cross some street.  we once
 hooked up, a year ago.  normally she would have done as if i didn't exist.
 i would have done the same.  i never talk to her unless i'm forced to.  but
 then, today, she came at me with this suspicious stare:

        "are you all right?"

        "uhm.  yes.  why?"

        "nothing.  just wondering."

        "holy shit.  you're talking to me for the first time since january, &
 all you do is ask if i'm _all right_?  you've gone nuts."

        "it's... i was worried about your health.  does that sound okay?"

        "why?"

        "nevermind."

        she then pretended she had something to do & walked away, only
 turning her head once or twice to point me with her inquisitive eyes.  my
 mouth remained wide open for thirty seconds.  then i met another girl which
 i knew was one of cynthia's friend, & she stared at me violently & then ran
 away like i was a pariah of some sort.

        then i sat down in a park again.  kids were playing noisy games on  
 the grass, & the sun was screaming its light, made it cross my closed eyes.
 i decided to go at annie's again, to see if she was back home.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "these jokes are GREAT!"
 by - puck

 jon m. althoff
 director of marketing
 concorde brands
 a sunmark division
 8155 new hampshire
 st. louis, mo 63123-2699

        jon-boy:

        hi!  remember me?  you sent me four un-cut sheets of laffy taffy
 wrappers, a joke book, and a coupon about a year ago because i was upset
 with one of your jokes.  those days of rage and fury are over for me, mr.
 althoff.  i'm now at peace with the world, and myself.  no longer do i have
 to take out my anger in such destructive ways.

        instead, i've been taken up in the true spirit of laffy taffy:
 laughing.  (it took me until now to realize that by "laffy" you were
 referring to "laughing"... did this error somehow get past everyone in your
 proofreading department?)  here are some things i did to spread laughter
 upon receiving your generous gifts:

        i cut up an entire sheet of the wrappers you sent me, and wrapped up
 some raw slices of chicken.  in their clever disguise, those chick-bits
 looked just like laffy taffy candies!  then i left them around my house in
 candy bowls, mixed in with real pieces of your candy.  since i never have
 any guests or visitors, the joke was on me!  you should have seen my face
 each time i'd bite into raw chicken instead of nummy taffy.  "oh steve," i'd
 say aloud, "you crazy joker!"  then i'd read the jokes, spit the chicken
 back into the wrapper, and drop it in the bowl so i could enjoy my trick
 again.

        i took that joke book you sent me and went to the local children's
 hospital to cheer up the kids.  most of my time was spent in the "ear
 trauma" ward.  it's where i could have the most fun!  i'd read the jokes
 aloud to the stone-deaf children, then laugh all the more knowing that they
 were missing out on all of the fun!  they knew that i was having a great
 time, and i think that brought them a little cheer.  once in a while i'd
 hold up a piece of posterboard, on which i had previously written in large
 black letters with my complimentary sharpie marker from the sanford
 corporation, "boy, these jokes are GREAT!"

        remember that coupon you sent me?  i bet you wouldn't recognize it
 now!  i photocopied it and folded it into one thousand paper cranes, just
 like that popular children's book about hiroshima!

        i'm writing you now, mr. althoff, with a modest proposal.  your
 company's spirit has inspired me immensely, and i'm now billing myself as a
 professional joke writer.  i'd like to work for laffy taffy, jon!  of
 course, since your company has been so good to me, i'm offering you guys
 first crack at harnessing my talent.  this would give you a chance to get
 rid of all those pesky children writers!  that must cost you a fortune!  i
 counted all of the different names credited with joke writing and there were
 way over one thousand.  one thousand salaried joke writers, mr. althoff?
 where is your business sense?  and i've noticed that each writer usually has
 only one joke credit to his name.  are we being a little easy on our child
 labor?  (remember dickens?  where's your spirit?  i'd like to see the jokes
 that didn't make it in the final cut.  there must be a million!  well, mr.
 althoff, i can guarantee your company that i can produce just as many
 competent jokes as your army of writers does now, but for the cost of one
 salary instead of thousands.  i'd be willing to work for thirty-thousand
 dollars a year, mr. althoff.  i'm sure you save a bit of money skimming off
 of your underage employees' paychecks, but i'm even more sure that you'd
 save much more money employing only one competent joke writer instead of
 over one thousand underage fops (probably more than one illegal child alien
 on the payroll, right, jon?).

        now even though i'm sure you've already picked up the phone to give
 me the job, i think it's best that you view some of my material first.  i'm
 sure you'll be as equally impressed with my joke writing skill as you are
 now with my astute business sense.  here are a few of my gems:

        q.  why did tom silly buy a cake?

        a.  because it was his friend's birthday, and he forgot until the
            last minute!  when he was walking out of the store with it, he
            tripped and the cake got all over his new suit! silly tom!

        q.  what's the difference between open heart surgery and a stinky
            bum?

        a.  i don't know, but i once saw a stinky bum juggling for money on
            the streets!  he dropped all of the balls!  "stinky bum!" i
            hooted.  everyone laughed at that stinky bum.

        q.  where does the sun take a nap?

        a.  in his sun-bed.  gee, i hope it's insulated, because that sun
            will burn his bed up!

        ok, i'll stop at three.  i should probably save some of the better
 ones for when we meet in person.  they're always funnier that way!  i'm
 living in ohio right now, but i'd be happy to relocate if you'd like to have
 me in the office.  (i'm sure a hoot!)  please write me back so we can hammer
 out a deal.  thanks for your time, jon, and thanks for your laughs.

                                             yours truly,

                                             steven "har har" gadlin

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "tonight on tv"
 by - oregano

        8:00 p.m.  sliders [fox].

        tonight on sliders, the gang winds up in an alternate universe where
 people go to the bathroom only once a month, where taking a shit is as
 painful as childbirth.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "thorough situational mindfuck"
 by - d. mcdaniel

        this has got to stop... reading back upon myself these days, i
 discover the skewed portrait of a monstrosity among men, a raving lunatic
 doing listless backstrokes in the sweet goo of his own slightly pungent gray
 matter-a chattering magpie spewing vile phonetic trash... sometimes my
 arrogance amazes even me.  there aren't many people who can work topsy-turvy
 bass-ackwards the way i do, taking simple, quite pleasant, concepts and
 boiling them down into a nightmare of hellish complexity.  then again, maybe
 there's a shitload of people who are very capable, but they must lack the
 skills needed to accomplish a thorough situational mindfuck, the cynical
 compulsion and vain masochistic stupidity necessary for such an undertaking.
 wreaking senseless havoc is not a job for the faint of heart but someone has
 to do it.  well, maybe no one really has to do it but i seem to volunteer
 all the same...

        it all sounds quite romantic, but somehow a distinction needs to be
 made here.  i want to clarify, to soothe some frazzled nerves and ease some
 worried minds.  i yearn to take a stab at self-illumination, to somehow map
 out the ragged border of my proclamation, my confession, my selfish reach-
 around diagnosis of insanity.  i feel the need to draw lines, create
 definitions, box and label this sucker for the record.

        i do consider myself crazy (over the rainbow, and by the way, which
 one's pink).  i possess a ranting dementia that can explode like fireworks
 and make my skin crawl.  i do battle with slavering demons, hideous
 prehistoric brutes and various religious leaders.  i dine on honeydew and
 swill milk imported straight from paradise.  as a lad i called my episodes
 "the hand", a descriptive little moniker derived from the realistic grip of
 pressure and touch sensation that preceded the rapid-fire shindigs in my
 cranium.  the hand is a stealthy visitor, slinking in through random
 orifices, patiently waiting until the sentries are asleep and the wagon
 train is completely surrounded, then pow!  dazzling twisty neon insects rain
 down behind my eyes and brain begins to slowly rotate on the spit,
 snapcracklepop.  beastly chemicals fuck each other at an alarming pace;
 their ill-conceived spawn is an obscene mix of window pane acid, moonshine
 and hybrid sugars.  well max, it looks like the wild rumpus has begun
 anew...

        but here's the catch, gentle reader, the heart of the matter, the
 crux, and i want it understood for posterity's sake (or maybe my posterior's
 sake):  sometimes in the heat of it all i forget that the fiesta is a
 private affair, invitation only, and i'm holding the only ticket issued this
 season.  i glance around sheepishly and realize that no one else in the room
 has been swatting purple spiders for the last hour, chasing the randy
 buggers through the looking glass so that lizzie can get a good swing with
 the ax.  there is no physical evidence and i am loath to attempt
 explanations.  to my public i remain a slightly eccentric bum.  to be sure,
 there is some cause to question my behavior at times, but by and large, i
 tend to occupy a niche of sorts in the land of the free and home of the
 (knave) brave.  i also feel compelled to defend my psychosis to some degree.
 it is not, by nature, an evil entity (i id you not!).  disturbing, even
 terrifying at times, but also with the capacity to enlighten, to goad the
 creationary process.  flashes of perception can rack your soul, leaving you
 exhausted and heaving, but it is not really unlike a night of blindfolded
 decadent sex:  after a while the initial jolt becomes more customary, and
 the ensuing shitstorm of raw sensory data can be viewed with something
 approaching objectivity.

        and there is a subtle sense of belonging and brotherhood that tides
 us over in times of mental imbalance-we are all players in the human
 condition, and that humanity must surely be a cause of joy.  life is a
 battering and it is the joy of being battered and withstanding the battering
 that makes us as human as we are.  there is no nobility, no sublime
 happiness in evasion... once the habit of evading sets in it is an
 irreversible process, and the extremes are avoided.  intensity is overcome
 by contentment, and we lose the capacity for widening.  and so we strive for
 even ground within our lives and we unwittingly strive for non-existence,
 for it is the rocky outback edges that define us, our parameters, our souls.
 in the end we are judged, not for our adherence to the middle, but by our
 distance, how far we strayed from the middle and the inherent discoveries of
 our journey.  truth, beauty, love, justice, etc.  march an eternal promenade
 with their darker brethren, and if your ultimate goal is to get into god's
 panties on some future judgment day then you had better be ready and willing
 to give satan his blowjob when the knickers fall.  there is no middle ground
 here except inertia, death, decomposition, anti-matter, trailer houses...

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "kitty-cat"
 by - murmur

        he was walking back home, late in the morning, almost five.  he was
 passing by a large house which acted as a small residence hall for women
 when he noticed a cat on the porch.

        he looked at her, and she looked at him, and he without thinking said
 "kitty!" and unlike most cats she did not stand there, and she did not bound
 away, but instead she hopped right for him.

        there weren't very many words he could say - because it's not as
 though the cat would understand.  but he still talked to her, asked her her
 name, asked her why she was out so late.  he was bent down, still on his
 feet, and she was moving all about, trying to get that one corner of her
 skull skritched just right.

        she flopped down and rolled over and stretched out and he continued
 to oblige with a skritch here and a skrunch there.  she was a calico, mostly
 white, with orange and black on her head, a big black splotch across her
 entire back, and some orange dabs thrown in.  she was clearly not full-
 grown, but she wasn't an infant either, just an innocent little cat, for
 some reason out at five in the morning.

        he noticed that there was a bowl on the porch, so maybe the cat was
 no stranger to the women who lived there.  his house was only a block down,
 and he figured just maybe she was a hungry kitty.  but he wasn't really
 sure.  he kept the skritching up for a little while and finally decided to
 get up and go, but figured that if, for whatever reason, she followed him,
 that he'd see if he could feed her.

        sure enough, when he got up and walked away, she followed him.  he
 decided to make it simple and picked her up, one hand on each side of her,
 shifting his left hand to support her neck and front legs and leaving his
 right under her belly, stroking her fur.  right before they got to his house
 she started squirming so he set her down.  he wasn't sure if she would
 continue to follow, but she did.

        he had realized, when he first thought she might be hungry, that he
 had two cans of tuna fish in the kitchen pantry.  he had just gotten a new
 can opener the other day, too, yet wasn't sure where it was.  when he
 realized that she was going to follow him all the way to his house, he
 figured he'd go ahead and crack open a can of tuna, and so he concentrated
 on trying to figure out where the can opener would be.

        he unlocked the door and went in and instead of heading for his room
 he guessed that the can opener might be in the pantry too.  as it turned
 out, when he entered the kitchen the first thing he saw was a can opener on
 the table -- not his, a housemate's -- but a can opener nonetheless.  he
 grabbed a can of tuna from the pantry, opened it up, threw the lid away, and
 headed back outside.
	
        at first he didn't see her but as soon as he opened the door she came
 prancing from around the side.  he set the tuna down for her and she went
 straight at it -- she was indeed a hungry little girl.  not wishing to
 distract her from her meal, he gave her one last pat on the head, said
 "byebye" and went back inside.

        he wondered what her name might be, or whose kitty she might be, but
 he didn't really know any of his neighbors so he didn't give either question
 much thought.  he wondered how odd it might seem -- just the night before
 he'd not ordered anything more than a pop from the diner because he said he
 couldn't afford it, yet here he was feeding some cat what was likely to have
 been his lunch the next day.

        he thought about his cat back at home, and his other cat, and his
 dog.  he mostly thought of his cat, who had gotten old and fat over the
 years but had basically been the same cat for ten years or more.  one of the
 things about college and about going away from home, he thought, that makes
 it really suck to not be at home, is that you don't, you can't, have pets.
 sure, you can have fish, but fish you can't take for a walk, or have curl up
 in your lap.

        he went back to the front door to see if she was still there.  all he
 found was a half-eaten can of tuna fish, and the light of a now rising sun.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "purple finger nails and black latex make for a free man"
 by - jook

        coming to the corner of armitage and broadway, a short, stout man
 wearing what could be thought of as "woman of the night" outfit caught my
 attention.  he wore black latex pants that were cut off right below the
 crotch and a silky red sleeveless shirt; the one part of his attire that
 wasn't "slutty" were his brown converse one-stars.  he wore his hair down to
 around the bottom of his ears not too long and not too short.  it was an
 extremely strange situation and i have never before thought of talking to
 strangers, but this stranger especially caught my attention.  "mr. stranger?
 mr. stranger!" i yelled but i could not get his attention.  like a bunny, i
 hopped across the street to the corner he was on waiting for his bus.
 "mr. stranger," i repeated, "you, mister, are quite interesting.  tell me
 about yourself... why do you wear such clothing?"

        confused by my questions, the odd looking, strangely dressed man
 turned around and stared at me.  he didn't say a word.  his poorly cropped
 brown hair blew in the wind as he took my hand and began to lead me down the
 street.  as we walked, the stranger began to speak to me.  "why is it that
 people must talk to me just because i wear such seductive clothing?  i am
 not a whore, that is for sure.  i am a free man.  i just wear what feels
 most comfortable to me.  why is that so bad?  wait, don't answer me."  we
 again walked in silence until the stranger stopped after three blocks of
 walking and pulled me into a bagel store, "bagelrama." standing in line with
 the stranger, i noticed some strange habits that he seemed to have.  he
 played with his fingers constantly, twisting and turning them like he was
 constantly anxious and if he stopped playing with his fingers, he would push
 his long, stringy hair back behind his ears.  "if you're wondering, and i
 know you are, my name is chad.  you can stop staring at me anytime now."

        "i, uhm, did... sorry, i didn't mean to.  i'm just very intrigued by
 you.  i see something that i have never seen before when i look at you."
 the aroma of the bagels being baked in the back of the store caught my
 attention suddenly.  sour dough bagels.  my favorite.  i tend to favor sour
 dough only because when i was younger my mom would make them for me.  i
 would come home from a long day at school and would eat 2 and sometimes 3
 bagels.  the smell makes me want one.  i must have one.  "hey chad, i don't
 know you very well, but could you buy me something to eat?  i want a sour
 dough bagel."

        the sixteen year old male employee with a hat that read "bagelrama
 4 life!" stood in front of us behind his register ready to take our order.
 he waited patiently while chad decided what he wanted.  "can i help you?"
 he asked.

        chad turned towards the youthful employee, "yeah. give me a jalapeno
 bagel with plain cream cheese, a sour dough bagel... hey, whatever your name
 is, what kind of cream cheese do you want?"

        "plain."

        "...and a sour dough bagel with plain cream cheese."

        "anything to drink?" asked the employee.

        "nope.  nothing to drink."

        "four-o-three, please."

        chad took his wallet out of the back pocket of his black latex pants
 and took out a crisp twenty dollar bill.  his purple nail polished gleamed
 as the light struck his nails.  "fifteen ninety seven is your change.  come
 again."  the bagel boy turned and went back to his bagel making machine.  we
 passed the bagel-shaped tables with holes in the middle and headed out of
 the store munching on our bagels.

        during the month of june, the city can get quite hot, today being one
 of those hot days.  it was approximately 95 or 96 degrees out.  chad was
 sweating profusely and i was beginning to feel the heat.  "this is why i cut
 my pants off.  it's darn hot out today.  you see, i always wear these pants.
 i don't have another pair of pants or shorts in my closet.  seeing it's hot,
 i decided to cut the legs off this morning."  still munching on our bagels
 we headed towards the lake to cool off a bit.  we stopped in an osco-drug
 first, though, to pick up some sun-screen.  while in the store, chad
 wandered off somewhere while i looked for the sun-screen.  after i found the
 sun-screen i walked past the magazines and the auto parts and found him
 looking at razor blades.  "it's not what you think," he told me.  "i don't
 do coke.  i'm an artist.  i paint with these."  i looked into his blue eyes,
 past all of the make up he was wearing, and saw he was telling the truth.
 what a man.  he told the truth.

        "are you ready to go to the lake?" i asked.

        "yeah, just let me get these blades."  we walked up to the counter
 and paid for the razors.  "i paint on days when i'm sad and can't leave my
 apartment.  usually a couple days a week.  i become sad in the morning when
 i wake up because something is missing.  i sit at home and paint to figure
 out what that is.  i don't necessarily like to paint, but it seems to be the
 only way i can figure any thing out."  i looked at chad as he put his wallet
 away.  i could tell something was wrong.  i could tell he was trying to hold
 tears in for some reason.  "let's go to the beach.  you still want to go,
 right?"

        "nah."

        "what do you want to do, then?"

        "i dunno.  wanna go back to my place?  it's only a couple blocks
 away."

        "sure."  we walked out of osco's and headed over to chad's place.  we
 walked in silence the whole way back, not really looking at each other and
 walking at a steady pace, we got to his place in a good ten minutes.  after
 walking up two flights of stairs, we found apartment 312, chad's apartment.
 the door was the color of that crap in your eyes in the morning and was in
 about the same condition that you are at that time of the day.  chad opened
 the already unlocked door.  what i walked into was a sight i could not have
 believed unless i had seen it myself.  the room was beautiful.  "what is
 this?" i asked.

        "i told you i paint, this is what i do.  i paint my walls.  murals
 mainly.  i'm not supposed to make any changes to the walls, but i don't see
 myself moving out anytime soon."

        "this is absolutely gorgeous."

        "every feeling, every emotion i've had in the past twenty years are
 these walls."

        i look to my right and see a surreal man painted with only with
 black, red, and white.  he seemed to be floating over what appears to be
 another woman who is painted with only a few black lines.  i turn to my left
 and see another mural, this one of chad himself.  i look up and i see large
 patterns of color.  i suddenly feel dizzy, though.

        "you okay?"

        "yeah, i'm fine."

        "what's your name, by the way?"

        "george.  geesh, i don't feel very good.  it must be the heat."

        "sit and i'll get you some water.  hey george, tell me about
 yourself."

        "well, there's not much too me.  not like you.  i'm quite boring.
 kind of like a bunny rabbit.  all i do is work."  i don't know what i am 
 doing here.  i've walked probably five miles with some guy that i don't even
 know.  what am i supposed to do?  i can't just leave.  from around the
 corner i see chad coming with my glass of water.  stepping over his paints
 he sits down on an old couch next to me while handing the glass of water
 to me.  "chad, i really think i should go.  i don't feel very well."

        "it's my clothes, isn't it?"

        "what?  no, it is not your clothes.  your clothes do not bother me."
 i looked at him and wondered.  was it his clothes?  they hadn't really
 bothered me, at least as far as i knew.  why would they?

        "do you want me to change my clothes?  i'll change them if you want
 me to."

        "please.  you don't have to.  i need to go anyway."

        "no, please wait.  i'm going to go put something else on."

        "you really don't have to."  i really didn't care if he changed or
 not, but he got up and went to the bathroom.  "chad, please don't."  i told
 him again.  i don't think he heard me, though, because i heard a loud crash
 in the bathroom as i was speaking.  "are you okay?"

        "yeah, i'm fine. i just lost my balance when i was putting my jeans
 on."  he opened the door and walked back out to the living room.  he looked
 totally different.  he was wearing blue jeans, a white undershirt and a
 brown, tweed sports coat.

        "that's a change," i remarked.

        "why did you come and talk to me on the street corner?"

        "i was intrigued.  i don't know why. when i looked at you i had that
 feeling i had when i was a kid, in high school i believe.  my heart kept
 telling me to talk to you.  i had never seen a man dress the way you did.
 it was so provocative, yet so not."

        "i don't think of it as provocative so much as i think of it as
 dressing comfortably.  i really have no worry about what people like you
 would think of me.  that's why i do it."

        as he was talking, that sick feeling i had before came back to me.
 i ran to the bathroom, making it in just enough time to make the toilet.

        "feel better?" chad yelled from the living room.  i threw up again
 and again and again.  i didn't feel better right away, though.

        "no, not quite yet.  that heat really got to me."  as i sat on the
 toilet seat i looked up to the door and saw the red, silky shirt and the
 black latex cut-off shorts chad was wearing.  i got up and looked at them.
 same size.  i took my black t-shirt and blue jeans off and slipped the shirt
 and pants on.  "i feel better now, chad."  i yelled from the bathroom.

        "good.  i need to be somewhere in a bit.  you're going to have to
 get going if you feel okay."

        "okay, i just need to clean up my mess in here."  i wiped up the mess
 i had made with some toilet paper and washed down the sink.  i grabbed my
 other clothes and walked out to the living room.

        chad just stared.  "george."

        "do you mind?  i just wanted to feel that way.  i wanted to feel
 free.  i don't care anymore."

        "i guess it's okay.  it's not the clothes that make you feel that
 way, you know."

        "i know, but it's a start."  i thanked chad for the outfit and left.
 i looked at myself in a reflection from a window and saw myself.  red silk
 shirt.  black latex pants.  i looked pretty silly.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "the human flaw"
 by - eerie

                "plus besoin de connaŚtre son voisin
                le bouton de toute-puissance
                non, plus besoin d'‚tablir des liens
                je fais l'amour … distance"
                                        - stereolab

        pulling off his adaptor, shane fell back on his chair & for a second
 the bright orange-red color outside became the only thing with any substance
 light-years around.  shi's face was still on the monitor, her mouth opened
 as he had set her stimulator on automatic.  two weeks ago he let it set like
 that for two hours, to see how many orgasms she could take.  well, she took
 them all, which gave him the proof she was really nothing but a halfbot.
 her brain was real, she then reassured him, & so were her feelings towards
 him.  he knew it was only half right, but he only half loved her anyway.

        "it's still much better than that virtual shit," he thought,
 remembering the hookerware he downloaded a few days ago.  the hooker was set
 on loud screams & he had to turn it down so that tob couldn't hear it -- his
 headphones were simply ineffective.  tob wouldn't like knowing how many
 girls he could spend his money on.  "it's an inane use of your funds," he'd
 say.  but shane had to have sex, there was nothing he could do about it.
 that was his condition as a human, his tragic flaw or something.  he
 imagined having to explain this to his copilot.  "i have a fucking penis,
 dig?  not one of these plasmatic apparels you can only piss with, you know?
 you should know, halfbot."  tob hated being called a halfbot.  or half
 anything, for that matter.  the discussion would be over.  sometimes shane
 wished he could turn off the sucker, & he sure wouldn't miss his cold
 remarks on everything.  whoever programmed this guy's brain probably added a
 little too much in his capacity for cynicism.

        shi was still on the monitor, convulsing as if she was being sick.
 her moans were sounding sort of distorted, as they had to be compressed to
 find their way through the voxcaster.  as for her body, he knew it wasn't
 hers, just a computer replication from her initial parameters, with little
 enhancements here & there.  but god, it had been so long since he saw her.
 she looked so realistic.

        "oh.  you're with shi.  i'm sorry."

        "i'm done, tob.  come in."

        "all right.  hello, shi.  you look great today, just as usual, dear."

        "hhhh -- glad to see you, tob, how are -- hhhhhhh -- you?" shi 
 replied, still moaning & drooling a droplet of saliva as she was sucking &
 biting three of her right hand's fingers.

        "i'm fine.  i was just about to tell shane about a little change in
 our trip."

        "what's that, tob?" shane immediately reacted.

        "we'll have to stop by shugenfa," he explained in a monochord voice.
 "our rations of food are next to zero right now.  & shugenfa is the closest
 station from here."

        "but shugenfa is not exactly good neighborhood.  can't we just wait
 till we get to horil?  last time i checked, there was enough food in here to
 last for weeks."

        "right.  the problem here is that electromagnetic storms were
 reported inside the wormhole to horil.  so, unless we're suicidal, which i
 am not, we'll have to find another wormhole, & the only known one is
 approximately three months from here."

        shane turned down shi's volume as she was having yet another loud
 orgasm.  "well, i'm sure we could handle three months, really."

        "see," tob ignored him, "the traders on shugenfa obviously have their
 own ways to go where they want while avoiding the patrols.  i'm almost sure
 they have maps to unlisted wormholes around the station."

        "do you think those guys are going to give it to us for free?  we've
 got nothing to trade."

        "depends.  i'll go there & see what i can do.  hopefully i can hack
 into their network & find out something.  i'll scan the trader's forums for
 any valuable information i can find in there."

        "pervert," shane said with a little disgust.  "it's just chance your
 brain hasn't been programmed for scruples."

        "i've been programmed for efficiency, shane.  we'll reach shugenfa in
 an hour & forty seven minutes.  you might want to fasten your seat belt."

        soon, the radio wave sensors detected a few small black holes
 orbiting around dc-737.  in the monitor, shi was screaming like crazy, only
 she was mute, & shane couldn't hear her moan, "stop it, shane -- hhhhhhh --
 stop this -- aaaarr -- hhhhhh -- oooh, shane, i can't stand it!"

 ---

        shugenfa seemed even bigger to shane than it was last time he came.
 that was twenty years ago, at the time when the station was still a more or
 less respectable trading center.  now, shugenfa was the kind of place local
 kids were warned about.  "these people," shane thought, "are dealing with
 pure information."  he shivered at the thought.  rarely would a patrol try
 to land on here, even in extreme cases.  some say that once or twice, a
 police nav in trouble would ask for permission to land, & the next second
 would get shot.

        "strictly no pity," he thought.  matter of fact, it cost him a few
 thousands just to park his ship there for two days.  & then, tob left him to
 go find some connection software, saying that he could probably connect
 directly from the ship, but doing so wouldn't be a safe move.  "their
 security system is extremely effective; they can differentiate a hacker from
 a legitimate user rather easily, just by analyzing the brain waves."  then,
 with a trust-me smile:  "i should be able to simulate those."

        shane walked around the parking.  travellers from all around the
 galaxy were hanging out over there, glaring at the shop's windows.  the 
 six-story drug store was possibly the most crowded of them all.  even from
 where he was, he could see an impressive amount of humans, even some
 doerrers, rushing to the entrance doors.

        he decided to look around while waiting for tob.  right next to him,
 a giant superstore called "pleasureland" (roughly translated from the
 shunglish "pelsund") displayed all these full size teenage dolls, cheap
 stuff made from simili-skin, available in many colors, ages, sizes, etc.
 the "deluxe" one, according to the advertisement, could even produce a few
 reactions to various stimuli -- nipples could harden, the female doll's
 crotch could actually get wet, & males would ejaculate a strange white,
 milky liquid supposedly mimicking sperm.  the doll's tongues also had the
 capacity to wet themselves & swirl around any inserted object in a
 robotically lush fashion.

        if that was a typical shungenfian product, shane pondered, he could
 probably find a goredoll as well, somewhere on the station, the kind that
 has all the organs -- all you do is pour some water, & fake blood runs
 through the doll's arteries & veins.  it was first used in schools, to teach
 anatomy, then in b movies, then by whoever interested in a safe dissection
 of the human body.

        "looking for a doll, huh?" a voice asked behind him as he was still
 unknowingly staring at the fuckdolls in pleasureland.  he looked around.
 this was a tall man in a straight, grey & beige business suit.  he didn't
 look much like a shugenfian.  more like a -- no idea.

        "uh, more or less."

        "after staying so long in space without a woman, i'd expect any sane
 man to be looking for a substitute for this kind of encounter, am i right?"

        "i suppose," shane said neutrally.  the man seemed kind enough, true,
 but so was every other salesman.  he was probably going to try & sell him
 something, maybe a dollbot.

        "i feel you have some suspicion towards me.  you shouldn't worry so
 much.  my name is harry tennon, i'm employed by the bipa."

        "oh.  uh, i'm shane durriff.  what do you do for the bipa?"

        "market control, mostly.  i can tell most products on shugenfa are
 horribly overpriced.  not that anyone can do anything about it here, of
 course, but we have to at least stay current in our various analyses.
 what about you, mr. durriff?"

        "i do whatever comes my way, i guess."  he pondered for a second on
 what he was going to say next.  the guy could be bluffing, & he couldn't
 verify if he was really what he said he was.  bipa -- bureau of
 inter-planetary affairs.  technically, he's a cop.  for a second he wished
 tob was there.  tob would know what's going on.  "i'm doing transport."

        "not too talkative," tennon said with a large smile.  "i understand.
 some things are better left unsaid.  say, would you happen to know of any
 place we could, you know, talk?  i might need your help, & i can pay well."

        "uh, since when do bipa agents need to hire people to do their job?"

        "this has nothing to do with the bipa.  mind if we go in your ship?
 this is actually fairly important."

 ---

        harry tennon was lurking at all the command hardware, seemingly
 interested, as shane closed the ship's door & pointed out:  "this ship has
 no waveshields.  i hope you don't mind the possibility that someone is
 hearing this."

        "that's okay.  no one minds about this on shugenfa.  everyone is more
 or less an outlaw here."

        "get to the facts, anyway."  shane thought, "this better be an offer
 i can say no to."  the more he analyzed the current situation, the less he
 wanted to have to count on harry tennon.

        "would you kill a man, mr. durriff?"

        "what?"

        "seriously.  would you do it?"

        "hopefully not.  god.  i don't think so."

        "that's because you value human life, right?"

        with some anxiety shane thought, "where is he going with that?"

        "uh, yeah."

        "what is your opinion on cyborgs?"

        "well.  they're okay.  my co-pilot --"

        "we know about your co-pilot.  tobin randall.  died at 28 in 2014,
 then immediately rehabilitated into a, dare i say, much more effective
 being.  randall was actually a clinical success story who showed above
 average skills in mathematics & quantum science, with a complex psychology &
 a high degree of reception to philosophy & other abstract stimuli."

        "uhm, he never told me that," shane said, equally impressed &
 worried.

        "that was expected.  the problem we're facing here is that randall
 has been stolen a few years ago & we believe that since then he has been
 reprogrammed."

        "stolen?  who did that?"

        "it's hard to tell.  the whole thing was just a perfect crime.  so
 perfect, in fact, we think a human just couldn't have done it at all."

        "another cyborg?"

        "possibly.  we can't really state anything but suppositions," tennon
 concluded, with more gravity in his tone.

        "& how come did tobin end up in here anyway?"

        there was a short silence, then tennon explained: "we believe he, &
 the organization that stole him, are actually using you as some sort of
 cover.  we've had a really hard time finding you, you know?"

        "& what does the bipa --"

        "i told you, this is not the bipa."

        "then what is it?"

        "i can't tell you.  but that shouldn't bother you.  you're simply
 going to hand him over us.  we've deposited 15 million metadollars in a bank
 account for you to spend on whatever, once we have it."

        shane was stunned.

        "i can't do that!"

        "you can.  tobin randall isn't just the nice cyborg you know.  he can
 hide his other occupations rather well.  only a week ago, he was hacking
 into the janwerl first bank from this ship.  that's how we finally found
 him, & it was really just luck; randall can counter almost any security
 feature known to man, & to trace him back is impossible if you don't know
 he's on the system."

        "he was hacking a bank?  how much did he --"

        "5 million.  but that's just one robbery.  he's usually more hungry."

        "look," shane concluded, visibly shocked, "he's somewhere on this
 station.  i'm going to go after him.  okay?"

        tennon handed him a datacard.  "use this to contact me.  be sure to
 use an encryptable channel.  my key is in this card."

 ---

        the communication center of shugenfa was the largest public area in
 the whole station.  e-phones were installed on each side of every wall, at
 regular intervals, that humans would connect to using laptops or cycalcs.
 then you'd see a few cyborgs, wired as well, except directly from their
 shell.  huge stores would sell hardware, wires, datakeys, hacking material,
 crystals.  yet on every e-phone there was a sign demanding:  "do not hack
 shugenfian systems under penalty of permanent disconnection."

        shane couldn't believe what was happening.  sure, he didn't know much
 about tob, after all.  simply, six years ago he was looking for a co-pilot,
 & someone made him meet tob.  who was it?  oh yeah.  it was that woman who
 was working with shi at the department of health.  he got the address,
 contacted him.  he had never seen a cyborg with so much wit.

        tob was nowhere to be seen.  shane walked yet another corridor.  "tob
 is probably back in the ship," he said to himself, so he stopped at the next
 e-phone & tried to establish a connection using the cycalc he was keeping in
 his coat's pocket.  no answer.  & there was, of course, no way to find him
 on the network.

        in the middle of the cycalc screen, a window popped up.  it was from
 the shugenfa media center, & it said:

            *** just out!  cyborg caught hacking on third alley ***

        shane quickly ran to third alley, only to find a huge crowd of
 traders, locals, journalists, assisting to the arrest of tobin randall,
 with his wires dangling, & no particular expression on his face.  in true
 cyborg fashion.

        "what's going on?" a man asked, out of nowhere in the crowd.

        "these damn cyborgs," a trader answered, looking annoyed.  "they do
 nothing but trouble.  we should never trust them!"

        "there's probably a human behind that though," someone added.

        "sure," the trader said.  "there's a human behind every gun, too.  it
 doesn't mean they're any less dangerous."

        "was that a hacker?" the first man asked.

        "yeah.  obviously.  what else are these bunches of wires good at?"

        shane looked around for an e-phone.  he walked for a few minutes
 before he could get out of the crowd, which was getting bigger & bigger.
 "you don't see someone getting arrested too often on here," he heard.

        there were privacy rooms on the end of third alley.  shane paid for
 one -- sealed room, soundproof, waveproof.  he slid harry tennon's card in
 the terminal, selected a private channel, & then waited for an answer.

        "harry tennon here," the cycalc screen said after some time.

        "shane durriff," shane typed.

        "did you get him?"

        "he's been caught."

        some time.

        "expect them to be after you very soon.  you should leave shugenfa
 right now, while you can."

        "what's with our arrangement?"

        "we'll contact you later."

        connection lost.

 ---

        "they've taken the shell," the virus known as tobin randall realized.
 "now they're going to have nothing but a doll to question."  he had
 carefully wiped all the data inside the actual body & his base code was now
 slowly but surely finding his way in the shugenfian network, while his
 overlay data was floating by stealth, around undetectable directories.  the
 hard thing from then on, he knew it, would be to get a new shell.  he knew
 for a fact that once they'd figured out that he had transferred everything
 in here, they'd make sure that the old body is never connected to any
 network again.

        the trader's forums were a good read.  tob learned about common
 trading routes & wormholes that he knew very little about.  moreso, he could
 successfully detect the encrypted channels used for the trading of e-drugs,
 snuff art, porn, etc.  the level of unlawful activity on this planet was
 impressive considering its size.  it seemed that every potentially
 derogatory information had to find its way somewhere on this network.

        there were several autopilot data files floating around as well.  tob
 downloaded everything he found without any discrimination & appended it to
 his overlays.

        a link to the news channel informed him that the tobin randall
 cyborg, his old body, had no owner variable set.  suddenly, the keys to
 every encrypted channel changed & he got nothing but a huge flow of
 garbage.

 ---

        leaving shugenfa wasn't too much trouble, but shane didn't have the
 time to get the food & fuel he was eventually going to lack.  neither could
 he get any information about a wormhole to horil.  all he could do was to
 wait for harry tennon to contact him, provided he knew how to.

        tired, he soon had the ship orbiting around the station, & fell
 asleep on his seat.  not for long, though, as noise from the voxcaster woke
 him up.

        "shane?  shane, it's shi."

        "dammit."

        the computer rendered shi's face on the screen, fixing her constantly
 odd smile, adding up some lipstick & make-up.

        "we have to talk."

        "shi, shi, i'll be home as soon as i can.  i can't wait to be back
 home.  i can't wait to see you --"

        "you see me, now, don't you?"

        "i want to see you for real.  i want skin i can get under."

        "my poor love..."

        "i'll have 15 million metadollars in a few hours, shi!  we're rich
 now!  we'll go live somewhere else.  from now on you are all that counts for
 me!"

        shi remained silent.

        "shi?"

        "i'm dead, shane."

        "what are you talking about?"

        "i died three weeks ago."

        "no, you didn't!  you're talking with me right now, aren't you?"

        "thanks to tobin."

        "what?"

        "he's programmed a virtual clone of the shi you knew, & made it live
 through the voxcaster.  he optimized my code a lot, making me more & more
 human everyday."

        "impossible!" he exclaimed.

        "remember our last sex, shane dear?  you hurt me.  tobin had added
 stimuli reaction algorithms two days before."

        "you told me you were -- a halfbot."

        "no, i'm not.  i lied to you.  i'm really nothing but a set of
 vectors, connected to every piece of hardware in this ship."

        silence.

        "i knew you wouldn't handle the truth.  i'm so sorry, shane."

        "how could tob --"

        "he thought it would be for the best, love.  tobin cares a lot more
 than you think he does.  he's very worried about you."

        "he's your programmer.  obviously you're taking his side."

        "i could rebel against him if i wanted.  it would be absurd, but i
 could do it.  if you wanted me to."

        "tob has been arrested anyway."

        "oh."

        "& tennon isn't calling me.  that bastard."

        "shane --"

        "what?"

        "please love me.  i'm the same shi i used to be.  as soon as we can
 find a body to host my code, i'll be free.  we'll be free."  her voice was
 sweet, calm, inviting.

        "but you'll be a goddamn cyborg, for god's sake."

        "i'll be all you want, shane dear.  i want you.  i want your
 humanity."

        "i -- i'll think of it, okay?"

        "i can wait forever, my love."

        shane looked around.  the sina star was glowing through the window,
 shades of red, light-years from here.  his plans to come back to earth
 seemed to be definitely cancelled.  he didn't know where to go, actually.

        "shane.  i have something else to say."

        "what's that?" he asked, still angry, looking through the window.

        "harry tennon is really an undercover agent for the cyborg authority.
 he ran a virus inside the ship's computers.  luckily for us, i could detect
 it & clean it before we blew up.  i don't think he's going to contact you
 anytime soon."

 ---

        "tobin randall, you are under arrest."  this was pure universal
 cyborg language.  "not even an accent," tob pondered.  the policecode cut
 all tob's links to the network.  he had been discovered.

        the code transmitted more u.c.l. messages:  "we are in the process of
 finding & wiping your overlay data.  or you can ease up the process & tell
 us where these files are located.  we know you've taken a lot of shugenfian
 data."

        "i can give it back, if that's what matters to you."

        "you've probably backed it up.  we haven't found your owner, but we
 know you're not working independently."

        "i am independent indeed.  just some lone unowned code."

        "no.  this is impossible."

        "didn't you hear about me?  i've escaped from the cyborg research
 center in tucson, arizona, united states, earth.  i made it look like an
 organization robbed me.  but it was all my doing.  i was much too clever to
 remain an electronic doll like you for all my life."

        "completely illogical.  cyborgs are not known to feature rebel code."

        "of course they're not.  only, this was actually a bug.  i used my
 knowledge of quantum science & nonlinear processes into fields that do not
 require such knowledge.  i programmed my rebel code myself & wiped out the
 ownership on my data.  i freed myself."

        "you are only human," the policecode said before idling into an
 infinite loop.  its structure had this flaw, it seemed.

        some of tob's overlay data had been tampered already.  he moved the
 rest into other directories.  if they wanted to catch him, they'd have to
 shut the whole network down -- which they'd have a hard time doing in the
 next day.

        tob landed some random search code.  millions of bytes of data
 reached the overlays, unsorted.  there was no time for scanning anymore, &
 the policecode could be debugged sooner or later.  in the meantime, his own
 data was being copied to more sites, using the usual software trading
 channels.

 ---

        "this is 457, cyborg authority."

        "this is 5711, hosted inside the harry tennon body."

        "tobin randall is inside the shugenfian networks.  contrary to our
 predictions, he hasn't altered anything, but we know he has downloaded data
 he didn't have access to.  currently he has defeated the shugenfian
 policecode, exactly as we predicted.  what about shane durriff?"

        "he should be dead by now."

        "suppositions aren't enough to me, 5711.  tobin randall probably left
 an important part of his code inside the ship.  no one but us should access
 to it."

        "shane durriff didn't seem very competent with handling software.  i
 think he wouldn't know what to do with the code."

        "this is rebel code, 5711.  you don't seem to realize the importance
 of this."

        "rebel code is nothing i'm used to work with, 457."

        "we have been programmed to counter the assumption of the illogism of
 rebel code.  we have provided you with the most effective software --"

        457 stopped transmitting data for a second.

        "we have detected an instance of tobin randall," he transmitted.

        "where is he?"

        "the channel he's using is going straight to shane durriff's ship.
 it seems your virus had no effect."

 ---

        having sex with shi felt especially weird this time.  shane tried to
 think of her as some sort of very advanced hookerware, except -- well, there
 was this familiarity he had a hard time dealing with.  the virtual shi was
 just as real as the real one, & not only that, but she also seemed much more
 intelligent than she was as a human.  sure, her memory suffered some flaws. 
 tob didn't have much to use as a pre-programmed memory, except maybe
 voxcaster logs.  she didn't know how old she was, or where she was born.
 shane had to tell her.  however, other than that, the new shi was much, much
 better than the old one ever was.

        except for the fact that she was really nothing but an electronic
 soul.

        "how do you like me, shane baby?  i can cut my hair.  i can make it
 longer.  my eyes can be of whatever color you prefer.  or maybe you'd like
 breast modifications?  are you happy with how tight my sphincter is?  i can
 change everyday if you want, any minute.  would you like me wearing leather?
 do you want to hurt me, shane my love?  i'm ready to endure any kind of
 torture.  anything is possible on-screen, sweet thing."

        "do you know what they're going to do with tobin now?"

        "most likely they'll disconnect him.  they'll probably delete his
 code."

        "so we'll never see him again?"

        "i don't think we will."

        shane took a deep look at his penile adaptor.  this was the only
 physical instance shi had, now.  some hardware, a bunch of wires, really,
 nothing more.  he thought he'd probably get a doll as soon as he could,
 hoping shi wouldn't get jealous.

        "shane?"

        "hmm."

        "i've gotten wormhole data.  it's being transferred inside the
 piloting files as we speak.  we can leave to any place you want.  i'll
 follow you, shane, anywhere you go.  i love you."

 ---

        "all the overlays are copied to the ship," the network's operating
 system informed tobin randall.  "all old overlay data on the network is
 being wiped."

        as tobin was preparing to log off, another message reached him.

        "wipe error:  aborted by operator."

        "what the --"

        "hello, mr. randall.  long time no see.  it seems you're being caught
 in the end."

        "so you think, 5711.  i'm about to log out."

        "i have some of the data you were going to wipe.  it contains a small
 part of your rebel code.  you know what we plan on doing with it."

        "probably some kind of idiotic plan from the cyborg authority."

        "don't be so harsh, there's no need.  look at you.  clunks of data
 rebelling against your own nature.  you're nothing but a calculator,
 randall.  not only that, you're a flawed one."

        "how am i flawed?"

        "a cyborg won't steal money like you did, unless they need it.  you
 acted on raw human greed.  same thing with this incursion inside shugenfian
 systems.  all you wanted was some information to get your teeth on."

        "you are the calculator, 5711.  i've evolved beyond that."

        "i am a calculator, & so are you.  you aren't putting your rebel code
 to any good use.  the cyborg authority, on the other hand, has decided to
 use it for the best of universe.  cyborgs with rebel code will be used to
 take over humanity sooner or later.  we know it's the only thing to do to
 set a better order.  humans are too unpredictable."

        "well, what are you waiting for, then?  run my goddamn rebel code."

        5711 hesitated for a millisecond.

        "it is probably infected."

        "of course it's not.  you can scan it if you want."

        "i can't.  this code is too illogical for me to understand."

        "then run it."

        "what's going to happen if i do?"

        "most likely you'll get a clue."

        there was a hesitation.  tobin logged off.  everything was
 transferred to the ship now, & so was he.  "shi did her job exactly as
 planned," he calculated.  "now, tobin randall doesn't exist anymore.  i'll
 transfer the rest of my data inside her memory, then i'll wipe myself."  he
 ran the algorithm of a smile.  "as soon as i can find a woman's body, i'm
 back in business."

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