ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ßÜ Û ÛßßßÛ Ûßßßß ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ º º ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ßÜ Û Û Û ÛÜÜÜÜ ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ º º ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ßÜ Û ÛßßßÛ Û ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ º º ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ßÛ Û Û ÜÜÜÜÛ ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ º ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ º Vaginal and Anal Secretions Newsletter #0059 º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º Date Released : [07/14/92] Author: FLaMinG SeVeReD HeaD º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º Spontaneous Combustion And The Aryan Parade. º ÓÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĽ (ED- This is actually a file intended for CdC Issue #200 - But we got permission to print it here first so here it is...) As Thryxen's primer painted 1967 Camaro splashed its testosteronic shock down State Road 101, I cranked myself forward from the front passenger seat and shook my head free of the Demerol induced spin it had been caught in. One of my numbed, blurred fingers reached for the Alpine and pushed the awaiting cassette into action. After a "click", and a few silent ingestive seconds, Primus unfolded itself from the speakers and began its torturous spree of unorthodox Funkiness. The slapping twang of Les Claypool's Six Stringed Carl Thompson took ill effect immediately; I plunged back into semi-catatonia and Thryxen began mumbling insensibly as the lid on reality loosened and toppled. I cautiously watched the leather-wrapped steering wheel try to shake itselffree of Thryxen's grip as the Camaro quickly thundered over the aspault that cracked and seemed to shatter under its thick black tires. One hour ago we had strapped ourselves into a chemical dead-loc and set off along the thick careful edge of Rural America on a voyage to the house of Big Teddy, a snakebreeder who was Thryxen's cousin (or something) and who had promised us two dozen live white mice. Once ours,we would torture them with needles and electricity. We had journeyed a good part of the way, when my mind, in pursuit of a reflectful lapse to shorten the boredom, wandered my eyes into the legwell and rested them upon the black travel bag that had traditionally held our narcotics. I reached between my Miltary Issue Stomper Boots and retrieved it. Thyrxen, now sweating above his lip and brow, still mumbled incoherently as he watched me unzip the vinyl flap. Inside was the usual host of ingestable illegalities, as well as a toothpaste tube, some cheap "Western" cologne, two speed loaders, and .38 caliber SnubNose with a pink anarchy symbol on its grip. I immediately prescribed Thryxen two loose Flexeril tablets to help him get resettled, while I ingested two 40mg Ritalin tablets and then retired my head upon the window to await the enevitable swing of energy. Outside my window lurked a piney hunk of America smearing past my eyes like a parade in slow motion. Other vehicles accelerated and decelerated sporadically into my view, and I observed that most of these were occupied by healthy-looking families seemingly on their way to the many glorious Tourist traps that speckled the locality. Presently, a Dodge MiniVan was slowly slipping past us, the backseats dense with active children; the frontseats occupied by a stern looking Father and mother. I imagined myself being sucked under their front wheels, screaming as the bones in my body crunched under the fresh bright tires. The father, ever-silent, offered only the slightest of grins as I was snapped, broken, and wedged into his wheelwells. Nothing would delay his pilgrimage. Given to this vision, my mind suddenly flooded itself with other grim images. No longer in control of my mind, I had become only a witness, chained to the background as my brain cascaded into the powerful currents of Sociopathia. A choir of sledgehammers split open a row of human heads like so many Chrsitmas presents. Flesh was peeled from a forearm by a powerful cornhusking machine. White hot piano wire skewered a pair of testicles as a welder's torch set a pyramid of eyesockets to boiling. A string of eyeballs trailed from the anus of a tremendous horse, human from his neck up, wielding a great silver sabre in his gloved human fist. I watched all this spill uncontrolably over the lids of my now closed eyes, mesmerized, pinned down, and enslaved by the beautifully gruesome content, like an artist and his canvas. The beauty of illusion had captured me. These hallucination spells were not the by-products of substance abuse, nor were they a new occurance. I had been experiencing them for awhile, and over the course of time, I had learned to intergrate them into reality, allowing me to at least function semi-normally during their episodes. Presently, the visions were already subsiding and I felt the whirling inertia of reality come trickling back into my senses, lagging down upon my fantastics. I had been pulled from the spell's potentcy by a sudden jerk of the Earth and a piercing Banshee Shriek. I suddenly found myself in a Camaro skidding towards a column of white robed and hooded Monks which were marching across road. Instantly the sour stench of burning rubber slashed through my nostrils as a great cloud of black smoke roared up from behind and consumed our vehicle. Thryxen, wild with panic, had sent the car into a dangerous skid. The Monks went into a state of dismay and began zigzagging across the pavement to dodge our car as it lunged into their grouping. Thryxen "X"ed his arms across his face and let out a roar, completely surrendering control of the vehicle to the roll of FaTe, as a Hooded Holy Man shot up the hood of our car and smashed into the windshield. The banner he had been holding had curled around his torso, and i managed to catch a glimpse of the red lettering across it as he slid from the off the hood and painfully back on to the pavement. It had read:"Aryan United". The car rolled lazily to a stop. There were dozens of figures darting towards and around the car; I tried to stop the surge of fear and bedazzlement by absorbing the situation, but the drugs in me overpowered any hope of calmness. The hooded faces and the bald heads that were gathering around the Camaro granted me only one sickening realization; These were not HoLy Men, but instead a collection of racist riffraff, and we had just smeared one of their ranks all over the front grill of our drug-driven trash train. Thryxen opened his door and quickly submerged into the ever-growing mass of skinheads that were collecting around his car. I reached a nervous hand into the vinyl bag and gripped the pistol, as the violence of voices swooped upon me from the outside. Immediately they swooned upon Thryxen who had begun taking quick, powerful swings at the crowd, and had connected with quite a few before his 6'4" frame was heaved against the hood by at least four of his opponents. As I was pulled through the fractured windshield, i caught a glimpse of our victim who, though bloodied somewhat, was still alive and writhing on the aspault. No one was dead, at least at present time. And To that, I let out a silent sigh of relief as I cracked the butt of the revlover into the face of the snarling Skinner who had been dragging me out of the car. I prayed for Zero Causulties. The Skin Reeled back on his heels, and instantly a red splash erupted from his forehead as I recovered from my swing. The flood of crimson soaked my face and white T-Shirt as my adversary dropped to his knees and tried to plug his wound with his thick, flithy fingers. I dug a foothold into the hot wet aspault, swinging randomly at the throng of bald heads that were quickly dispersing around me, hoping for another lucky crack before they made clear of my reach. The presence of the handgun helped me keep a fair amount of nuetral ground and I had a moment to snap a glance over to Thryxen who seemed to presently be losing his leverage. Still pinned against the Camaro, he was now receiving a vigorous abdominal workout from the fists of perhaps the largest of the Aryans. Although in reality there were no more than a dozen of them (including the original victim), their number seemed endless and impenetrable from my drugged and paniced perspective. I felt my will cave in. My head, burning white hot with adrenalin, flickered once or twice and sent me spiraling into another hallucinigenic fit. i tried to fight off the visions, hoping to postpone them until the situation was under control, but, as usual, they triumphed. One of my adversaries loomed foward, and his eye sockets began to spit forth spinning lengths of chains that wrapped around my limbs. I felt their wieght upon my arms as I raised and fired the revolver in a fit of deranged self-preservation. The bullet flared as it left the barrel. Immediately, My eyesight began strobbing, replacing the normal fluidity of motion with slow dripping snapshots of the situation around me. Reality had twisted itself into a grotesque falsehood to satisfy the Viscious chemicals that coursed in my blood. The thunder of the handgun warped and lingered while the white cloaked figures around me dashed for safety. The bullet had made them aware of the dangerous mental corner I was painted into, and they reacted conservatively. I swung my head slowly through the swamp of air that surrounded me and saw a half dozen of them dodging and diving towards the tree clusters that fringed the roadside. The other five or six that were near Thryxen leapt back from the combat but stood their ground, attempting to measure my willingness to fire the handgun again. Even Thryxen stood in a peaceful patient accordance next to them, trying to guess my next action. My instincts, ever-loyal to the chemicals within it, dragged my body into action without waiting for my mind to come to a reasonable descision. I leapt upon the hood of the Camaro, in an effort to look aggressive enough to chase the remaining Skinheads away, but my feet slipped in a slick streak of Aryan blood which caused me to lose my balance. The handgun belched again as I battled gravity, and another bullet whizzed through the cluster of men. Thryxen and the Aryans instinctively crouched at the sound of the revolver and at the thought of a stray round possibly popping into their torso as I spilled over the hood and the gun skittered from my grip. We both wound up on the roadside, separated. A headful of narcotics certainly adds a factor of subjectivity into the equation of reality; it no doubt congests cognitive faculties with flaws and lies that wouldn't normally be permitted. Because of this, the events that followed my fall can only be speculated upon, and the only shine of truth that can be derived from the matter comes from the fact that both Thryxen and I later admitted we had witnessed the same phenomenon. Whatever the case, it was surely strange, be it real or imagined. I remember my frantic actions to reach the revolver were joined by almost everyone present, and soon there were at least half dozen of us, including Thryxen and several of the Skinheads, rushing across the pavement to swoop up the handgun and tip the scales of the battle into whomever's favor. In the split of a second, we had all converged upon the same five foot perimeter, clogged into a mass of writhing humanity as we wrestled and fought for possession of the weapon. The struggle was brief and i felt my heart sink to a new level of fear when the largest of the Aryans emerged from the pile with the revolver clinched in his fist. He stepped back from the mass of men and signaled his victory with a maniacal smile while waving the weapon above his head. All heads had turned to him and a slash of silence sliced across the battlefield. Things had begun to look ugly for us. Just then, as everyone regained their stances, he pointed the weapon at me and seemed to open his mouth to say something. Nothing came out, and suddenly his victorious smile dripped away and a curling fown of agony replaced it. He crumpled over and groaned. Thyrxen and i backed away slowly as his friends formed a circle around him, inquiring what was wrong and whether he needed thier aid. We were very near to Thryxen's Camaro when we allowed ourselves to look back. The Aryan was again upright, standing firmly on his feet, but with a face that seemed in the throughs of rage. He tore off his shirt, and his chest seemed to be bursting with unseen internal pressure. His neck shook and then violently ruptured, spewing torn hunks of bloodied flesh upon the white robes of the circle of men around him. A tired whistle spat from his mouth as his chest erupted, spilling its contents with such pressure it knocked the two Skinheads in front of him right off their feet and covered them in a shower of gore. I blindly gripped for doorhandle, mesmerized by the spectacle i was witnessing. He twisted in place, and his circle of friends stepped back in surprise. As he spun around the flesh of his arms and legs split and dripped off the bone and a continous crackle similar to popping corn began to fill the air. His eyes bubbled into liquid and drooled down his cheeks and his lips shattered and dropped from his face. He crumpled into a torn heap. I managed to open the door and slide into my seat. Thryxen turned the key and the Camaro roared into action. The tires shrieked as he cranked the wheel and shot across the median, steering the vehicle towards home. The Aryans, hypnotized into disbelief, didn't even seem to notice our departure. I looked over at Thryxen, who seemed to be smuggling a smile under his apathetic face. I took one more look at the rapidly fading Aryan Parade, and waited for side two of Frizzle Fry to click over. ÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍ[ VaS DiSTRiBuTioN SiTeS ]ÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄ ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º BBS Name Number Baud Sysop Title º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º LiVe WiRE BBS (313)464-1470 14.4 Studmuffin World HQ º º PoT BBS (313)462-1906 24oo Phreak_Accident World HQ º º Floating Pancreas (305)551-0311 14.4 Majestic Cockster Dist. #1 º º Midian BBS (703)790-8048 14.4 The Raging Golemn Dist. #2 º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ