
	     the Super Nintendo Cereal System is proud to Present:

                                    /\(=:=)/\
                                    
                                <((  MindVox  ))>
                                  
                                    \/(=:=)\/

	  "Uhm . . . like, well, it fell out of my mind one day ok?"

		   in conjunction with Barbie Merchandising

		 Documentation by: the Power Computer Toolkit
		 --------------------------------------------

				You are [HERE]


  Walking along the banks of a majestic riverbank, you come upon  an  old  man
  sitting atop a rock wearing headphones and smoking a bong.  He looks down at
  you and says, "Hey, do YOU know where  Broadway  Hacker  is  right  now...?"
  Unsure,  you  take  a step back and fall down an endlessly spiraling hole in
  the earth, where walls of TV's drag their imagery across the retina of  your
  mind's eye.

  Landing with a splat in a pool of lime jello Traci Lords walks  towards  you
  and  presents  a  laminated  menu  with stains of unknown origin marring its
  cracking  acrylic  surface.   Chewing  gum  and  looking  down  at  you  she
  proclaims;

          "Well like, ok, there's like a lot of. . . uhmmm STUFF  around  like
  you  know?"   Looking at the ceiling and searching for the perfect words she
  continues, "well just read it ok, I have things to do and a life to lead and
  ummm  acting  classes  to go to ok"  Reaching out and extending her hand you
  notice impossibly long red fingernails moving towards your face as the sheet
  is dropped in your hands.


			     Reading, it proclaims


        -=/[:::::::repeNt:HarleqUin:said:the:tick:tocK;maN:::::::::]/=-

	   Welcome to MindRocks, as a uber-privledged SHELL user you
       have access to a startlingly large array of totally incompatible
    programs all of which do pretty much the same thing 50 different ways.
    If you don't understand something, don't hesitate to go to your nearest
		bookstore and buy lots of books about Eunuchs.

      For rendering those fleeting thoughts and hammering life into their
      stillborn shapes and transforming  them into legible ASCII we have:

 Emacs 	-	God's own editor.  Every 8 meg execution comes with Richard
		Stallman's aura, and gives you 23 karmic points to be used
		at your discretion. 

		      For lesser mortals, we also offer:

  vi, pico, ae, joe, jove, and elvis, who lives under the inodes and runs an
	   underground ice cream stand accessible only through UDP.

       -=/[:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]/=-


  Traci moans and dissolves in a shower of something white and sticky, as  for
  a  brief moment the figure exists without time nor space, an as-yet unformed
  collection of patterns upon patterns in the endless stream  of  possibility.
  The laws of physics recoil and then take another hit and stop worrying about
  it.

       As the resonance of his old existence is snuffed out, the pattern he is
  to become coalesces, takes shape, and a door in the wall opens behind him as
  he pours himself through the mail slot.

       A freezing wind whips the voluminous folds of his  black  cloak  around
  his  tall  gaunt  frame  as  a black hole opens above his head and blocks of
  black ice begin raining down.  Taking long, calm, manly strides  the  figure
  walks  towards  the  bar, his heavy black leather boots echoing in the vast,
  crowded space, as acid rain pelts down upon his hooded  visage  and  cliches
  bounce  harmlessly  from  his  headspace,  deflected  with a deft flicker of
  oblivious brilliance so natural it would make an idiot-savant jealous.

       Motioning for the bartender the figure speaks, the voice deep, melodic,
  rich, creamy yet lacking nougat, here and over there, high yet low, speaking
  volumes in a Reader's Digest condensed  version  it  says,  "lighter  fluid,
  straight  up"  as  he  lights  a black bong with a black match, bringing the
  hookah to his black lips and taking a long, slow toke of black  smoke,  into
  his black lungs, as his black thoughts begin to be tinged with pink and gold
  and his awareness slides back through the corridors of time to the tentative
  first steps that began this long journey.

       The stark terror and emptiness of his existence  etched  out  upon  the
  perpetually  changing  and  morphing  canvass  of  the glowing box, the slow
  dawning, the realizations that THEY were following him, sifting through  his
  inner being, his garbage, his notebooks, attaching DNR's to his shoelaces as
  they prepared to monitor his line quality; even as  THEY  canceled  all  his
  favorite  programs  leaving a bleak nothingness where the vivid, warm colors
  of He-Man and Three's Company used to cast their  bright  light  across  the
  shadows of his soul.

       Sighing, his fingers lightly caressing the BANCS terminal sunk into the
  counter's  battered surface, idly toying with the keys and processing change
  of service orders from the  BIG  BLACK  SHITLIST  OF  PEOPLE  in  his  head.
  Glancing  up  and  noticing  the  bartender  looking at him and wincing; the
  figure straightens up, draws a loaded knife and motions at the barkeep while
  speaking  with  a  threatening,  yet  cool, tone of subdued but obvious, icy
  menace, "Doan fuck with me mahn," he begins,  each  word  carefully  chosen,
  falling  from his lips with an off-hand clumsy grace "I've seen what William
  Gibson used to submit to New Worlds in the 70's, so just  don't  EVEN  think
  about  it  motherfucker or I'll read you some of my poetry or talk about the
  true meaning of theatre."  Shadows on either side of the figure waver for  a
  moment  and  then  pull  away,  fleeing  to  the  darkness in terror, as the
  bartender moves swiftly back, crossing to the other side of the bar, visibly
  shaken, a sheen of cold sweat, crunchy peanut butter and cherry gummy bears,
  coating his face.


	Turning to face you the figure looks into your eyes and speaks:


 "I have 0 day old wareZ, Do u want to trade?  212 only (baud not area code)"


     [%][> Phantom Access / 7.62X / (c)reated by: Arnold Hesnod III <][%]

   	    			          G	 C
			      :hesnod    LOD	MOD
			      	          D	 D


                              You are in $hell d00d

  If you don't know how to kill this msg,  mahn are you in the wrong place...

