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            `"Y8baa,      ,d888P,ad8P"'           BMC
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 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
  APRIL 13, 2003               INSTALLMENT 234         BMC, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -


                         FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT:

                         Guest Editor's Note - Heckat
                    N-Com War Correspondence #2 - Komrade B
                             Breakout/in - Steak
                The Neon Man from Mars: Fiction and Fact - BMC


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

                         Guest Editor's Note - Heckat

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -


  I was at a party on Friday night with an "Irish" theme.  Well, to tell
  the turtle... the truth... the elephant was on the table.  What a
  night!  What a faux pas!

  Elephants in the chip bowl.  Chip from Kate and Alley was there.  He
  got shanked in the men's room.  No, that was one of the daughters.
  I don't remember her name, but her mom (Kate, I believe) killed her
  in solitary confinement when she wanted to start shaving her legs.
  "No daughter of mine will be a sexual object at sixteen" quoth she.
  And she slid a knife blade between the gaps in her hairy ribs.

  Benjamin Franklin was wathcing porno in the back room while flying
  a kite out the window.  The electric shock from the lightning only
  made his mastrabatory orgasm all the more intensely satisfying.

  Those were the most boring parts of the evening.  One more yawner
  happened when we resurrected the spirit of John F. Kennedy Jr. using
  a ouiji bourd.  Believe me, he was as vain as ever.

  One thing to try: ferment Irish elephants in the hot water heater
  for a weekend.  Add red pepper sauce (not the salsa kind, but the
  kind with "inferno" on the label).  Drink it before your Irish guests
  come over and stir.


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

                   N-Com War Correspondence #2 - Komrade B

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
                                               
  Day 17 - Komrade B reporting from the front lines.

  It's been a trying few weeks for our brigade.  We were cut off from the
  headquarters by a storm that lasted for nearly four days and prevented
  us from entering the city proper here at the capital.

  The only action these men have seen was blowing up a refinery on the edge
  of town.  It didn't seem to be posing any sort of danger to the brigade,
  but the commander mumbled something about contracts with giant oil moguls
  in the South that would just be rebuilding everything anyways.  He also
  added that it's fun to blow things up.  I guess I can confirm that
  sentiment by saying that the rocket assault on the refinery was really
  cool, or perhaps really awesome.  I don't know.  You'd have to have seen
  it to decide which it was.  It's just my job to report the facts.

  Anyways, yesterday we entered the city proper.  Our intelligence had
  informed us that the city had been bombarded by thousands of cruise
  missles and that we would only face sporadic resistance at best.  If
  anything, they would be cheering at our arrival, waving tiny flags, then
  dispersing back to the the smoking ruins that were once their homes before
  the bombs started falling.   But when it's all said and done, what price
  can you put on freedom?  Your home and perhaps a few of your children is a
  paltry price to pay for the sweet taste of western liberation, don't you
  think?

  With that in mind, I cannot express the brigade's surprise to finding the
  city largely intact.  In fact, we saw no evidence of any sort of bombings
  (except for the ones we made when Tony didn't put the safety on his rocket
  launcher).  Other surprises included the complete lack of resistance, save
  for a few police officers who were inquiring why the army had come into
  town, but they were taking care of by a few well-placed artillery and
  mortar shells.

  The citizens were not cheering or greeting us in any matter either.  In
  fact, they seemed quite scared of us.  At one point when the brigade
  decided to stop at a Houston Pizza to "fuel up!" as one private stated, I
  couldn't help but notice everyone in the restaurant simply stopped eating
  and stared at us while our commander haggled and pleaded for the hostess
  to accomodate our 2500-man brigade, preferably in the non-smoking
  section...

  As we waited, I couldn't help but recall those classified documents in the
  command tent that I perused while the commander was out getting a haircut:
  warnings of enemy troops posing as civilians and suicide bombers waiting
  to strike at any moment.  Being a reporter, I'm not allowed to carry any
  firearms, so I didn't bring one to the war.  However, I did win a pistol
  beating some private in poker, so while it was against international law,
  I had a pistol cocked and ready in my jacket.

  I noticed some kids in the corner looking shifty, and in my humble opinion
  quite devious.  Perhaps it was the hunger of not eating that day, or
  perhaps the fatigue of standing around while the commander arranged our
  seating, but my frayed nerves got the better of me and I unloaded my
  pistol at those kids.

  Now I'm in some sort of holding cell.  I'm not sure what's going on.  The
  commander yelled at me, and I was questioned about some sort of Geneva
  Convention.  My only reply to that was that I had never been to a Geneva
  so I couldn't possibly know what had occured at some convention there.

  Needless to say, I think I'm in some degree of trouble.  I hope they don't
  make me help the cook prepare the meals.  He's a real headcase and he
  smells like cabbage.

  K-rad B reporting from the frontlines @ the capital.


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

                             Breakout/in - Steak

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

  Jail was a synch to get out of; there were no problems.  Remember that
  phone call I said I'd make?  Well I made it, to a friend of mine called
  Adam.  Adam has connections.  He has friends.  The sort of friends who
  wore suits to sleep, the sort of people who, when wearing said suits look
  like their entire body mass is made of walnuts and they have been stuffed
  into a suit-coloured condom.

  I was sitting there in my cell, writing a text file about fight club, and
  this uniformed guard, the same one who had thrown me into the cell in the
  first place, comes in.

  "I'm sorry for the mishap sir," he said.  "I'm afraid that we didn't
  know quite who you were.  If you could apologise to the man in charge
  and tell him that anything the police force can do to further supply his
  operations would not be a problem"

  Feeling very confused, I fixed the officer (who was now starting to look
  scared) with a mesmerising stare and coldly said, "Your behaviour has been
  a breach of protocol.  This entire embarrassing incident could have been
  avoided if only you had shown a little initiative in the first place and
  not let it get to such extremes.  I'm afraid that I have no choice but to
  recommend to the ones in charge that you receive the highest possible
  penalty for your actions.  Good day sir."

  And with that I walked out of the cell, home free and leaving my new
  friend, the disgruntled police officer, shivering with fear in his
  law-enforcement-issued boots.

  "Adam how did you do it?" I asked as we both got into the car.

  "It was easy. I just used the picture I had of the police commissioner
  with a Chippendale and I bribed your way out.  Apparently, the
  commissioner told the rest of the pigs you were a very high ranking
  official of a certain, shall we say, political group that has been
  giving the police force, shall we say, mysterious directives."

  "Ooh very deep,"  I said.

  The car pulled out of the police station and started off along the road.
  However, we hadn't got far when I was disturbed from my tranquil
  relaxation by the unmistakeable sound of lead metal crashing through the
  back window.

  "Holy shit!" I yelled.

  "Too right!" Adam yelled back.

  More shots were being pumped from the car behind us into our own back
  window, and what was left of the glass was hanging on by that thin sheet
  of plastic that covers safety glass.

  "Who are they?"

  "Err, probably gangs members, pissed off that the police commissioner used
  them as a cover story to get you out of jail."

  "Well that's not my fault, is it?"  Another shot broke off the last of
  the safety glass.

  "Maybe you would like to tell them that," Adam said looking at me.

  Before I could get a chance to reply, the car had suddenly swerved to
  the left to avoid an old lady crossing the road, causing us to go into a
  spin, then a tumble, then a roll, then finally a stop.

  After the car had been stationary for awhile, I noticed that my entire
  field of vision was upside down.  Then I realised that gravity had been
  turned on its head, because all the other things outside my field of
  vision were not affected by this sudden, monumental change of physics.

  As my head started to come together, I realised that it was not the world
  who was upside down, but me.  But I was tied down somehow.  I couldn't
  quite place my finger on it.

  The seatbelt!  Seatbelt?  Car.  Car?  Car!  It was all coming flooding
  back, the crash the gunshots, everything.  I looked to the passenger seat.
  Adam was unconscious, but alive.

  The door beside me opened with the force of a few men, which was
  incidentally exactly what was pulling it on the other side, three men in
  those horrible starchy type of suits pulled me from the vehicle and threw
  me to the ground.

  I kept my hands above me head and tried to see who it was I was dealing
  with.  They looked big, very big.  Either of these guys could have snapped
  me in half with all the thought and consideration they might put into
  liquidating a small cheese and ham roll.

  I turned my head slightly so that I could hear what it was they were
  saying.

  "He's too heavy, and unconscious.  I can't move him," one was saying.

  "Then kill him," said another.

  A gunshot rang out and a terrible thought entered my mind.  What if they
  had killed Adam?  I strained my neck and looked to see if I could see my
  friend.  To my dismay I got a very clear shot of what was left of Adam, I
  couldn't believe it.

  He was really gone.  The gravity of the entire situation was only just
  starting to settle in when one of the guys came over and ushered me to my
  feet.

  "Are you the one they refer to as Steak?" he asked.

  "In the flesh," I said, eyeing him down.

  "I'm afraid that you will have to come with us," he said.

  "Come with you?" I yelled.  "You just shot at us and killed Adam!  I'll
  be damned if I'm going anywhere with you."

  The man gave me a sympathetic stare and attached a pair of handcuffs to
  my wrists, after which he bundled me into the back seat of a car where I
  was trapped between two more of those walking muscles.

  "Are you part of the sect that's after me for pretending to be a high
  ranking official?" I asked.  There was no reply.

  "You know, the government operatives?  I assume that's who you are, the
  same guys who forced me out of addendum."  Still no reply.

  "Ok, well I guess you guys don't speak that much, huh?" I said, turning
  to the slightly smaller one of the pair.

  "We're not part of what you're trying to do here," was all he would say
  to me.

  We came to an official looking building with a white front and a large
  vicious-looking fence.  They hurried me through the front door, where I
  was forced to give my fingerprints and a blood sample.  After this, they
  hurried me down a corridor and placed me in a small, empty, white,
  box-like room with nothing but a crappy-looking chair for comfort.

  "I can't believe that I've found myself here," I said to myself.

  "I've been saying that for a long time," said a voice that I recognised.

  "What the hell?  First man?  How the hell did you get in here?  The room
  was empty only a few second ago."

  "Steak, you have to remember that this is ultimately your story, your
  writing.  It and I can appear in any form you like and at anytime you
  like."

  "But I don't particularly want you here right now."

  "Not consciously, but subconsciously at least, which is why I'm here.
  I should be angry at you for the fact that you started out writing this
  story about me back in addendum, but your inflated ego took over it during
  `dicya' (see: Neo-Comintern, issue 223) writing me in for a few paragraphs
  to deliver an important plot point then effectively leaving me for dead at
  the hands of the very same people who have bought you here.  They caught
  me, all right, but I managed to bribe and talk my way out of the problem
  before it got too dire.  Look.  I'm willing to let bygones be bygones and
  just get on with the narration of this story if you will just listen to
  me."

  "Ok, First man, I'll listen to what you have to say, but I don't have to
  like it."

  "Good, because it is very important that you understand what is happening
  here."

  "Ok first man, but look, I'm not one hundred percent sure what's happening
  here myself.  I need a break to work out what's going on and to get my
  head together, not to mention all the impossible plot points I've laid out
  for myself.  I have some general ideas, and even some concrete ones, but I
  need a few days to get them into order.  Is there any chance that this
  surprise revelation could wait until the next instalment?"

  "Of course," said first man.  "I have no problems with that.  I can wait,
  and so can the mysterious visitor I have here with me that has to explain
  it all to you."

  "Thanks man," I said.  "You're a pal.  I promise to make it a good one."


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

                The Neon Man from Mars: Fiction and Fact - BMC

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

                                   Fiction:

  "Ladies and gentlemen, madams et messieurs, in goal, number 30, the Neon
  Man from Mars!"
 
  A resounding "Boo!" came from the throats of home viewers across the
  nation.

  We all hated the Neon Man from Mars so much that you could trade his card
  for a Lemieux rookie.

  I remember my father coming home from a day at the Wheat Pool, slamming
  the door, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his flannel
  shirt.  "If we let these - these - these Neon Men from Mars play in our
  leagues, what next?  How do we stop the Moon Monsters?  Or the Mermaids of
  Atlantis?  I don't want to see Monsters and Mermaids in the NHL!"

  Eventually, Steve Tuttle did us all a favour and cut the throat of The
  Neon Man from Mars, right there on the ice.  We all cheered at the thick
  fluid pumping out on the ice with each heartbeat, six pints freezing thick
  as slurpee.

  But it was red blood.  Human blood.  We realized that we had made a
  terrible mistake.

  Eleven days and 200 stitches later, he returned to the net.  He was
  nothing to us now.  When I stuck this earthman's card in between the
  spokes, my bmx bike sounded like a rad motorcycle.


                                     Fact:

  O-Pee-Chee, 1987.  After Clint Malarchuk and Dale Hunter are traded to the
  Capitals, nobody at hockey card central remembers to get pictures of them
  in their new jerseys.  In an act of desperation, a graphic editor seeks
  out a back-alley airbrush hack.  In seconds, Nordiques royal blue is
  coated over with a flat one-tone neon orange.  Despite the fact that the
  pictures churn the diarrhea in the graphic editor's guts, he decides to
  release them as-is.  Months later, when the president of O-Pee-Chee finds
  out how the neighbourhood kids have responded to the photos, he fires the
  graphic editor immediately.  Neither Hunter nor Malarchuk will ever
  recover in popularity or dignity.


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
                     
  The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions.
  Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or
  anti-capitalist nature are wanted.  Contributors are encouraged to
  submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings
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  General Mirth.  The more creative and astray from the norm, the better.
  For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at
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  Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is
  approximately 200-1000 words.  Send submissions via email attachment to
  <bmc@neo-comintern.com>, or through ICQ to #29981964.

  Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The
  Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for
  publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern
  Magazine.

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    ___________________________________________________
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 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
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  the neo-comintern

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