========================================

 *** THE INNER SWINE ***
  Volume 1, Issue 3, January 1996
    www.innerswine.com

========================================

"They sicken of the calm, those that know the storm...." - Dorothy Parker

CONCEPT BY: Jeff Somers, Robert Gala, Ken West, Jeof Vita
COVER ART BY: Jeof Vita
EDITOR: Jeff Somers
ADVICE AND COCKTAILS: No one, you cheap pricks!
DISTRIBUTION TSAR: Lauren Strutzel
PROOFREADER: Karen Accavallo, who's a lot of fun when you get her liquored up.
INSPIRATION: The Pope, because he doesn't take shit from anyone

OFFICIAL NOVELIST: Raymond Chandler, who had more balls than Doug Copeland or 
Robert James Waller have between them, their brothers, fathers, and male 
offspring combined

FRIENDS OF THE SWINE: Lauren Strutzel, whose friendship and affection I struggle 
(vainly), on a daily basis to deserve; Rose Ann Haberman, who remains an 
incredibly great gal despite her advanced age; Misty Sue Quinn, for losing bets 
gracefully and for being a friend when it counts; Karen Accavallo, for enduring 
my abuse and surly nature with grace and kindness; Elizabeth Augoustiniatos, 
whom I love very much for too many reasons to possibly list; Rob Gala, who has 
remained a good friend despite his inexplicable inability to be an editor and 
his inexplicable love for chain letters; Alison Culshaw, for offering me 
pictures of the Pope for this issue; Jim O'Connor, for supplying good books (and 
bad ones) to the editor despite great personal danger; Ken West, for 
distributing subscription forms at his office in the face of draining apathy; 
all the Internet Geeks who replied to my postings.

========================================

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

========================================

EDITORIAL: "Pig In Shit #3: Well, That About Wraps it Up for God."
FICTION: "Dick for Eternity" 
COMMENTARY: "Idiot's Delight (The Inner Swine in Every Day Life)" 
FICTION: "The Smile on his Lips" 
COMMENTARY: "Seemingly Endless Time: The Immortality Illusion" 
FICTION: "Self-Inflicted, Glorified" 
SELF-INDULGENT RAMBLING: "The Nine Identical Moods of Karen Accavallo" 
SELF-INDULGENT RAMBLING: "Our Weekly Dose of Filler (The Inner Swine Guide to 
Self-Improvement)" 
FICTION: "Kissed the Buddha"

----------------------------------------
The Inner Swine Volume 1, Issue 3 (ISSN: 1527-7704). Magazine published March, 
June, September, and December by Oinking Sow, Inc. (C) 1995-2002 by Jeff Somers. 
(There is no company, really) Individual subscription rates: $5.00 (cheap!) per 
year in U.S.; $6.00 (cheap!) per year foreign including Canada. Single Copy 
$2.00 (cheap!) but stop teasing me, you're never going to order a subscription, 
you heartless bastards. Free trades are absolutely entertained, send me 
something, and I will mail you treats. Checks payable to Jeff Somers, Editor. 
Address submissions and correspondence to Jeff Somers, The Inner Swine, POB 
3024, Hoboken, NJ 07030, mreditor@innerswine.com. But let's face it, when was 
the last time we published anything not written by me or one of my cronies? 
Other people's pimply writing gives me hives. Still, all submissions or requests 
for Guidelines (there are no guidelines, though) must be accompanied by S.A.S.E. 


========================================
*** EDITORIAL ***

Pig In Shit #3: 
WELL, THAT ABOUT WRAPS IT UP FOR GOD
========================================

  I believe atheists to be the only truly intelligent people in the world. That 
is not to say that I believe anyone with faith in their hearts is stupid, just 
that atheists are by their very skeptical nature smarter. I don't care if you're 
Albert Einstein on speed, man, if you really think there's some old man with a 
beard smiling down on us and rolling a cosmic pair of dice to decide our fates, 
there's a part of you that's dumb. Of course, being a card-carrying atheist 
myself, it's very easy to say something like that. I spend a great deal of my 
time saying preposterous things like that, to the point where very few people 
actually take me seriously any more. So, I will endeavor to prove my point using 
absolutely no divine inspiration or manna from heaven, just the dull and 
disorganized brain evolution has gifted me with.
  The concept of a supreme being, or "god", was one of the first thoughts man 
came up with, way back in our brutish, monkey past. We were so impressed with 
ourselves we've refused to let it go, and have spent a great deal of our history 
embellishing, enlarging, and strengthening it, never seriously pausing to ponder 
the wisdom of tithing. After all, if there is a god, what the hell does he/she 
need any amount of money for? God doesn't need cash, it needs believers; when 
the rains came, it didn't charge the ark to Diner's Club, right? It just found 
some faith- besotted schmuck and told him to build one. Easy.
  The Supreme Being/cash flow dilemma is just one of many difficulties I have 
with summoning faith out of what is, essentially, thin air. There isn't a 
religion in the world that doesn't require of its disciples monetary donations, 
and this makes me wonder what God or Allah or Shiva or Jah or whatever is 
planning. You can babble on about sacrifice and symbolism all you want, it still 
comes down to Moses staggering in from the burning bush and presenting you with 
the bill. What, is god planning a hostile takeover of Microsoft? Granted, it 
would need all the money in the world to do that (as a matter of fact, I think 
Bill Gates just about is god, these days) but still.......god?
  The sordid topic of coin automatically turns the mind to temptation (at least 
my mind, but then I admit with me it doesn't take much to turn me to 
temptation), which is something else that leads me to doubt the cosmos has a 
caretaker. In all the good books I've read, god somehow instills power and 
wisdom in it's true believers. But in the real world, the priests are just as 
likely to caress your inner thigh as bless your soul, and the other religious 
leaders just as likely to tell you their own personal definition of the rhythm 
method. I would expect as grand and powerful a being as a god to inspire some 
sort of small-time greatness in his servants. The lack of it, leaving our 
priests as simply dull men in bizarre robes, makes it hard for me to believe.
  After all, is it wrong to demand some proof? Skepticism is man's natural 
state, it's why we're not still pissing out territories and beating our hairy 
chests in wild abandon. So, why aren't we supposed to doubt god, why not insist 
he prove it to us? This is the fundamental dishonesty of religions - the demand 
that we believe in something which essentially will never be proven to us. What 
a crock of shit. Once duped into this first immense submission, the rest of it, 
even tithing (mankind being notoriously tight-fisted) becomes acceptable. They 
say "Just buy into it, and after you're dead it'll all be worth it" -they offer 
nothing and require everything in return. I have news for you -after I'm dead 
I'll still be dead and some time after that I'll STILL be dead. Once you're 
dead, baby, you stay that way. There isn't anything waiting for you, and there 
isn't even any doubt about that. If you believe in an afterlife, kiddo, you have 
a grand imagination and a depth of foolhardiness that makes me gasp in 
appreciation, because it's basically all in your head.
  The thing with the afterlife that makes me doubt it all is everybody's 
attitude towards their own place in it. Talk to 99.9% of people in this scarred 
and blackened earth and you will find that if they believe in an afterlife they 
also believe that they are well set for it. They all think that despite a life 
filled with small sins and lax morals, maybe even a few mortal evils, they still 
have a halo and harp waiting for them. The only half- baked reason for an 
afterlife (the other reasons being absolutely not-even-close-to-baked) is the 
old saw about proving yourself, you know, the whole temptation thing. This is a 
very catholic concept, but most religions have the same basic idea: you're in 
this sewer of an existence to be tempted into evil. If you give in, hellfire, 
damnation, and a lower caste. If you live life according to the bizarre and 
inexplicable rules invented for the purpose, you go to heaven or nirvana or at 
the very least you aren't reborn as a slug. So, if we're caught up in this 
endless struggle between good and evil, light and dark, Obi-Wan and Vader, why 
is it that 99% of us are so smug about our standing? Whether you're old 
testament fire and brimstone or new testament hippie, the odds seem against the 
human race (a collection of scamps, con artists, and outright evildoers) having 
such a high score.
  What's the explanation for this discrepancy between the rules and the 
perception? Simple, piglet, simple: that damned old human nature, self-centered, 
self-satisfied, and disgustingly sure of itself. No one wants to think that 
they're evil and going to hell (except me; I take a great deal of pride in the 
fact that I'm evil and am going to hell) so we assume otherwise. This is what 
ruins any scant credibility the god concept might have had: the fact that it all 
bubbles up and through our beleaguered brains, which are so small and useless 
that simpler concepts like, oh, racial equality still slip through the cracks of 
comprehension. I'm supposed to believe in something my fellows pigs thought up? 
Please; I'd rather put my faith in Charles Manson and Fruit Loops , 
respectively. The very thought of putting my rare and weakened faith in my 
fellow human beings makes me vaguely ill. And, lets face it, that's where god 
comes from: us. "God created man and man returned the favor", right?

  So, that about wraps it up for god. Some vagrant stumbles out of the desert 
six thousand years ago and we write down everything he says and build temples. 
Some leftist radical stirs up trouble two thousand years ago, so we nail him to 
a tree, regret it, and make him god to make up for it. "Sorry about that 
crucifixion, man -hey, wanna be god for a while?" And every time some idiot 
sees a vision in a fever dream we make them saints, or else die burning in a 
bunker in Waco screaming for them to deliver us from evil, or the FBI, which is 
almost the same thing.
  This is, of course, a personal opinion, just like everything else in this rag.
The thing that makes this opinion special, however, is the fact that even if I 
turn out to be wrong, I will not back down from it. If I die tomorrow in some 
horrible copier- room explosion while pumping out Volume One Issue Three of The 
Inner Swine, and I am greeted by a smug and smiling Jesus in a white spandex 
jumpsuit with rhinestones up the sides, bell bottom cuffs and golden, wrap-
around sunglasses, I won't stare bug eyed and beg forgiveness, fall to my knees 
and grovel. I'll just sink past him and shrug, thinking that for christ's sakes, 
you're god, after all, do you really need all this bullshit? And, if there is 
any justice in this slowly decaying universe, he will frown at me and be 
momentarily confused. I would dig that. For one brief and shining moment, it 
would all be worth it.
  And then, I'd just be dead.

========================================
*** FICTION ***

DICK FOR ETERNITY
by Jeff Somers
========================================
  
  I used to know this girl named Brenda, but that was before Rodney killed her, 
almost completely by accident. A big-boned redhead with that horrible pale skin 
that seemed to break out into sympathetic rashes with alarming regularity, 
Brenda was a loud, outgoing girl that didn't let the fact that no one liked her 
slow her down any. I guess someone liked her. Someone kept inviting her to the 
parties. Looking back, I suppose it was Rodney, since held been sleeping with 
her.
  At the time, though, I didn't know that. All I knew was that this tall pale 
girl with bad teeth and the loudest voice in the world kept showing up at the 
house and chasing everyone away. She talked to all of us with big hugs and 
excited squeals, as if we were old, old chums reunited by chance, no love lost. 
We'd squirm in her grasp until she took her eyes off us, and slip away one by 
one to grouch in private until she was all alone and had to find new victims.
  Eventually she'd disappear, but not until drinking enough to awe even Fat 
Billy, who could sink most mortals in your average beer pong match.
  The night I'm thinking of, however, she didn't disappear, didn't
leave us to the relative peace and quiet of our little lives, although I did get 
a few minutes of quiet relief when I thought she had. That night, though, 
Rodney came hooting down the stairs, tucking his shirt in and grabbing me in 
tight-sweat desperation.

  Let me tell you a little about Rodney. He was half black and half Puerto-
Rican and all asshole, one of those sweaty heart-attacks for whom life was a 
never-ending series of surprises, usually unpleasant. He had a bug-eyed stare 
that had a remarkable steadiness, it latched onto you and didn't let go until 
someone waved something bright at him. I don't know what he had at the center 
of his life, what kept him waking up in the morning, I didn't know him that well 
and didn't feel the loss at all. It had something to do with drinking and his 
dog Percy, though, I knew that because they were the only things he gave a shit 
about.
  He worked as a bartender at a strip joint, which was good money but bad 
health, because he stumbled home in a horrible mess of intoxication and lust, 
his little bug eyes nervous, gasping in big gulps of air. Held rush into the 
living room and sit on the edge of the couch next to me, his hands clasped 
between his knees and the stale living-room air squeezing in between his teeth. 
Sometimes I waited a few minutes for him to speak up, sometimes I couldn't take 
it and asked him outright.
  "Those girls...... he would say with a dull, hollow haunt in his face.
  We would all nod and ignore him, then, having heard it all before. That was 
Rodney. Rodney didn't make love, he banged. It was sweaty, uncomfortably 
desperate act of drool for him. We know this because we lived with him between 
tissue-thin walls and he had no concept of how much noise he made, screaming, 
begging, cursing.
  He was banging this girl Brenda and God knows why it wasn't obvious to me. 
Part of it was the fact that you stop being interested in your room-mate's sex 
life pretty fucking quick. And no one could ever hear the girls over Rodney's 
hopeless bellows.
  That night held gotten her up into his room, although no one noticed. Things 
were sweaty and except for me, who was eagerly driving people away with snarling 
insults and steely glares, no one was paying anyone else any attention unless 
sex was involved, somehow. I was standing by the front door demanding that 
newcomers know names before I let them in, picking fights and talking with the 
brunette who wasn't drinking and so insulted me back with incredibly pretty 
sobriety. We kept blowing smoke into our faces happily.
  I felt the sweaty paw on my shoulder and turned to find Rodney at my elbow, 
half dressed and ugly.
  "C'mon upstairs, Lenny. I got something you gotta see."
  I squinted at him suspiciously. Beer did nothing for him, just made him grey 
and pasty- faced. I tried to put on a friendly 'not-now' face. "Fuck off." I 
grinned, patting him on the shoulder.
  "No, Len," he hissed, "you gotta."
  I looked back at him, this puffy leech which had attached itself to my 
shoulder. There was doom about him, the clinging scent of emergency. There was 
no way he was going to let me get back to wooing the wonderfully abrasive girl 
before I had a peek into his private life, so I waved him on and followed. I 
just hoped he wasn't having a mid-life crisis or something.
  Everybody was having a mid-life crisis, those days. Every other night some 
poor joker was up in his room weeping for his lost youth or something. It 
spread like a disease, from room to room, identity crisis again and again, grown 
men trying to find themselves. You could hear the wailing even downstairs 
sometimes, but this particular night I was lucky, in one small sense. Rodney 
wasn't having a midlife crisis.
  Just in case, I'd grabbed Tina from her admirers because she was better at 
talking people down from the ledges than I was. I got bored too easily, started 
shouting "look, jump already, it's almost lunch" and stuff. I wasn't much of a 
friend, but I was fun at parties so everyone kept me around. I even think they 
were a little afraid of me, which was why I hated them all, the spineless nips. 
They probably wanted me to move out, but were too scared, and I hated cowards.
  Tina wasn't my friend, so I adored her. She was beautiful, and used it 
ruthlessly, and while she was always polite she never hesitated to tell me 
exactly what she thought of me. She was without a doubt my favorite person, 
besides the tart brunette I'd lost forever at the front door.

  Rodney's room was upstairs buried next to the bathroom, which was safest for 
all involved. We paused in the doorway, staring at her like she was just an 
ugly rumor, a joke in bad taste staring blindly up at the ceiling with bland, 
dusty eyes, one bra strap pushed off her pale shoulder.
  We eyed Rodney with a discomfort born of any number of truths but held 
together by the uneasy realization that we were in a murderer's midst. Neither 
of us would say it, but the possibility hung there anyway, the unutterable image 
in our minds, that Rodney had fucked her to death.
  He stood there like a behemoth, unsure what to do with his hands. I turned 
and shut the door. I leaned against it and put my hands in my pockets, just to 
show I knew what to do with my hands.
  "You crazy Fuck," I said conversationally, "you're going to jail."
  That wasn't what he wanted to hear. His sallow face crumpled up into a 
gibbering hole of terror, and he started to pace around his room in a sweat, 
muttering curses under his breath. I got into a quiet talk with Tina about love 
and the evil that men do, until Rodney burst out.
  "I can't do that, Lenny!" he hissed, grabbing my shirt and pulling re close. 
"You gotta help me!"
  I glanced at Tina, and then back at Rodney, eyeing him with hopeless sarcasm. 
I put an arm around him and led him on a spiral around his room,
  "Let me spell out a few quick ones, okay, Rod? You're going to jail. You're 
going to have a new friend named Bubba or Pinky or something who's going to try 
to do to you what you just did to Brenda." I paused to glance reflectively at 
her, and cocked an eyebrow at Tina, but the bitch just shrugged at me.
  Rodney quivered there in my arms, ready to just burst into tears. I was 
terrified that he might start bawling. Completely terrified.
  "Now," I went on, "if someone came up to you and asked you to go to jail too 
and get fucked to death by some guy named Tiny, you'd tell him to go to hell, 
wouldn't you?"
  He paused. "Well," he said slowly, "The way you put it I don't have much to 
lose any -"
  "Go to hell, Rodney." I snapped, leaving him alone by the bed.

  I was fighting my way through the crowd around the bathroom that Tina had 
already disappeared into, trying to get away from Rodney's inevitable pursuit, 
when I saw Fat Billy fighting his way toward the bathroom. Fat Billy was three 
hundred pounds of heaving, sweating flesh and I'd seen him throw up once and 
once was all I needed to be very afraid of seeing it again.
  I was caught between two hells, and in the end I let Fat Billy go by and so 
got caught by Rodney, who had a trickle of spittle lolling from the corner of 
his mouth. From the bathroom, Fat Billy drowned out the crowd, because Fat Billy 
howled in sheer terror or something whenever he threw up. We couldn't hear a 
goddamn thing over the pitiful wailing driving everyone away, so we retreated 
back into Rodney's room and shut the door again. I stood defeated before him, a 
victim of fate.
  "All right," I sighed, "Let's think." 
  Rodney collapsed in relief, and I Just patted him on the head and told him to 
shut up. In the background Fat Billy screamed so you'd think blood was shooting 
out of his nose as he knelt on the damp and scabby bathroom floor, and I had no 
doubt held driven everyone else away. I lit a cigarette and ashed on Rodney's 
rug, staring at this fat and flaccid body still staring up at the dull ceiling. 
I was curious as to what had happened, but was afraid Rodney might actually 
start talking if I asked him about it.
  "Well," I said finally, "we've got to get her out of your room."
  This was not so easily done. Fat Billy had cleared the floor, so me and Rodney 
carried her milky white and soggy to the stairs without a problem. The stairs, 
however, had recently seen a frightened mob tear through it fleeing Fat Billy, 
and glazed strangers stared back at me with barely concealed apathy and dislike.
  "Move aside, you bastards, I live here." I growled. No one paid me any 
attention. I glanced back at Rodney and pulled our luggage upright, her head 
rolling brokenly against my shoulder.
  "Watch out everybody," I said with an eat-shit grin, "I think she's gonna 
puke."
  They studied her, judged relative distance and looked me in the eye to see if 
I was the sort to stand by and let friends puke on total strangers. After a 
moment a shallow path was opened grudgingly and we carried her down, only 
dropping her once.
  The sons of bitches were everywhere, so we couldn't just carry her outside. I 
snarled back at Rodney every chance I got, the fucker. We deposited her on the 
couch and put some distance between us.
  I walked around and lied a lot, spinning stories and assuming names. Mostly, 
these parties were Just big suckfests, the guys sucking up to the girls and, on 
a good warm night with cold beer and the right vibe, the girls sucking off the 
guys. It never really happened that way, but that's the way I described them to 
people when I wasn't out to make friends.
  Brenda became the center of attention, wearing a pair of my sunglasses and 
sprawled in an open invitation on the couch. Rodney stared at her from the 
corner as if he wished held at least gotten to cone before she kicked off, and 
all the other beer-dicks followed his stare like lemmings eyeing a ledge. She 
was the focus of unbridled lust like a heady vision of fading perfume and one 
bra-strap slipped over a pale and paling shoulder.

  Kent Booker, the skinny little shit, must have seen me carry her in, because 
he horned in on me to scam on her, pinning me against the wall with one finger 
and breath that would have been a health hazard if we hadn't had the windows 
open. I didn't see his sister with him, and figured she'd ditched him to make 
out with older men, as usual. She was skinny fourteen-year old with a single 
monotonous eyebrow, pretty in a high-school way, and Kent spent much of his free 
time beating up his friends because of her.
  A few years earlier, Kent had been known as "Pud" Booker, because we'd caught 
him masturbating one lucky evening and even had negatives to prove it. We'd 
matured since then, of course, so we didn't call him "Pud" any more. But we 
still had the negatives. Neal Tucklin kept them in the little cubbyhole behind 
his bed's head-board.
  They deeply worried Kent, they hung over him with dangerous weight and kept 
shadows under his eyes. Whenever he saw one of us he incessantly tried to barter 
them away in desperate attempts to regain his manhood. We usually jeered him 
heartlessly, wondering when held realize we only kept the photos because they 
worried him and quit worrying about it.
  This particular night, however, he didn't even mention the pics, he put a 
slimy, conspiratorial arm around my unwilling shoulders and asked me for her 
name. That's how I knew he really wanted her, with her gummy tongue and dry, 
bloodless lips. She was a vision of cooling indifference squeezed between 
various face-sucking couples, lolling elastically with each subtle shift of the 
cushions.
  I sneered at him. "You goddamn bastard."
  He raised an eyebrow. "Sister?"

  Only relatives were safe. Unescorted women were mauled with a frenzy 
approaching the animal once they were drunk enough. Escorted women merely 
narrowed the mauling down to one. But sisters and cousins and aunts walked safe 
and miserably bored inside little pockets of protection. Only the foolhardy and 
the brave would attack someone's sister, which is why they always married the 
crazy fucks.
  I denied the sister rumor, seeing the need to distance myself from the corpse 
on the couch in the living room. I moved into the Kitchen just ahead of the 
triumphant return of Fat Billy, amid shouts and cries of relief that the king 
had survived yet another bout with his liver. The drinking games had quietly 
degenerated into loosely moderated discussions about life. As if the bastards 
had ever stumbled far enough out of that very same fucking kitchen to have done 
any living. I was surrounded by vinyl-skinned corpses who all wanted to fuck my 
poor dead sister sitting half-naked on the couch in the living room. They kept 
asking me about the meaning of life and I spat curses back at them, grinning 
around my beer heartlessly. They loved it. I told them dirty stories made up 
about that wonderful, acerbic brunette at the front door and basked in the warm 
glow of male bonding or some such crap.
  Rodney sauntered in and crouched in the corner, watching me with his unhealthy 
pop-eyed adhesive stare. He didn't laugh. I had all the pricks hooting and 
Rodney just stared. It was hard to tell if he just didn't get the jokes or if he 
just had his mind on other things. I could have flipped a coin. I scowled at him 
every chance I got, but that didn't help either.

  At four thirty in the morning, Stan Manler used to say wisely, good parties 
are over and great parties were just beginning.
  I was the clean-up team, walking through and pitilessly hauling loved ones and 
invited guests out into the street, the bunch of drunk parasites. Fat Billy was 
passed out on top of the kitchen table, which normally wouldn't have stopped me 
from rolling Fat Billy out the back door into the driveway. Fat Billy was stuck 
fast to the table, though, glued on board by some magic combination of beer, 
drool, and cigarette ash. I left him as he alternately snored and whimpered in 
his sleep, crying out against something.
  Stan Manler himself was locked in the basement with Kent Booker's fourteen-
year old sister, the crazy bastard. Kent was walking around our backyard 
screaming to me to let him back in, because he couldn't find his kid sister. 
Down in the basement Stan couldn't hear anything, and he was lucky. I peeled 
them apart and spent equal time berating her for loose values and pounding him 
on the back with macho enthusiasm. As we chattered I guided them gently to the 
door and thrust them rudely out, at the mercy of Kent and all the overprotective 
brotherly fanaticism he could muster.
  I found Rodney in the living room, sitting next to Brenda with a woefully 
lustful expression on his face, saddened by the loss of such a beautifully 
compliant girl with such pale and doughy skin. I felt sorry for Rodney, he had 
so little. Just his dog which none of us had ever seen but which he talked about 
lovingly whenever the subject was least appropriate, and long sodden nights like 
this one which had been ruined so early. But we still had a body to get rid of 
SO I didn't give in to sentiment.
  The house settled around us and I knocked glass around as I sat down next to 
Brenda as well, quietly lighting a cigarette and enjoying a moment of peace that 
was immediately destroyed by Rodney and his chubby, bleating voice. I stopped 
feeling sorry for him. My night had been ruined, I wasn't nearly as drunk as I 
deserved to be, I'd lost the insulting little brunette into the night forever, 
and Fat Billy was stuck to my kitchen table. I didn't feel sorry for anyone. Not 
even Brenda. They all got what they deserved. Even me.
  "What are we gonna do, Len?"
  I curled my lip up. "We could eat her. Got any relish?"
  He looked ready to agree, so I stood up. "Fuck, Rodney, I'm just gonna call 
the cops and have a clear conscience."
  He leaped up, pop-eyes bulging. "Len -"
  I smiled. "Just kidding." I said quietly. "Sit downs before I kill you."
  He knew I wasn't kidding. He could see it in my eyes, the bloodshot near 
murder that had occurred.
  "We're gonna bury her." I finally admitted. "Pray your killer has the same 
mercy on you, asshole."
  
  The next morning I sat on our front porch in mud-caked pants and dirt-stiff 
hair, squinting into the sun and smoking my last cigarette. Rodney was asleep in 
his room, in his bed as if no one had or would ever die in it. The world was 
still and I just let the sun bake the mud on like sin.
  "Been groveling?"
  I turned and smiled at her, her short brown hair and beautiful "fuck you" 
grin. She held her shoes in one hand, and stood flat footed on my front porch 
eyeing me with insulting archness. Something lodged itself in my chest, and I 
smoked to dislodge it. Just like that, and I was in love.
  She sat down next to me and we sat there like an old married couple, watching 
all the lunatics driving to work. Upstairs Rodney began screaming in his sleep 
and there was no one next to him to offer any comfort. He just went on and on 
and on.


========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***

IDIOT'S DELIGHT
The Inner Swine in Every Day Life
(1800 words that will waste your time)
========================================

  The funny part about believing in The Inner Swine way of life (it is a way of 
life -and more! It will soon be a line of casual clothes, an expensive perfume, 
and a prime-time TV show chock full of subliminal messages!) is that there is a 
lot of sentiment and emotion involved in it. You think that we're just a bunch 
of world-weary drunkards who still haven't recovered from our traumatic (and 
forced) graduations from college. Who knew you had to graduate? College is such 
a gyp; you spend three years trying to find a place for yourself, one year 
drinking yourself silly, and two more trying desperately to catch up on your 
classes so they won't kick you out, and then the bastards go and graduate you. 
How can any undergraduate be expected to survive in the harsh "real" world after 
six or seven cozy years living a life of no-stress part time jobs, skipped 
classes, and easy women? It's just not right. As a matter of record, it sucks.
  And then what? What does your average little piggy have to look forward to 
after graduation? That's right, a stint in the salt mines of modern society, 
corporate hell. You could always take that job in the Chicken Delight and slack 
your way to minimum wage humiliation, but then you have all sorts of annoying 
people bothering you about your lack of potential, money, and charm. Your 
parents bitch about you having wasted seven years and thousands of dollars. Your 
girlfriend dumps you because you can't afford a car. Your friends no longer want 
to hang out with you because, lets face it, you work at Chicken Delight, for 
gods sake. Slacking is very overrated. On TV and in the movies, slackers always 
have a nice place to live, cool slacker jobs, groovy wardrobes, and plenty of 
cute chicks hanging around, also slacking, but slacking cutely. In reality:

  SLACKING = BOREDOM + DRUGS + A SLOW DOWNWARD SPIRAL OF
  DEPRESSION, BLACKOUTS,
  ABANDONEMENT & BEDSORES

  We at The Inner Swine do not support Slacking! Get off your ass and do 
something, is our motto. Actually, our motto is "Everyone is an asshole, 
especially us", but "Get off your ass and do something" would place in the top 
five, along with "Jello equals happiness", "Everyone but us sucks", and "There's 
no drink like a FREE drink". Slackers are dead weight on society, they attach 
themselves to perfectly plump pigs like yourself and suck the living soul right 
out of your bones.
  But, you may be asking, if slacking is no good, and we're against actually 
working for a living, what is a poor confused person to do?
  Simple. Don't confuse the term "Slacking" with "Not working for some corporate 
vampire organism that considers being able to eat lunch in 15 minutes a valuable 
skill worth listing on your resume'" We here at The Inner Swine denounce 
slacking because you are not out there generating revenue, revenue which you 
might, on a good night, use to buy us drinks, buy our magazine, hell -to buy us. 
But we don't want anyone to put on a suit and tie and sell their soul every day, 
either. The point is to do something, not watch Schoolhouse Rock and think that 
makes you informed. But don't sit at your desk and devote your best attention 
and energy to Who The Fuck Are You Incorporated! To wit:
  Don't send your kids to school, my brothers and sisters, because all they 
teach you in school is how to get a job. In short, they teach you how to do 
dull, repetitive tasks over and over again until it doesn't seem so bad any 
more. Doubt me? Then why in hell were we writing our spelling words fifty times? 
Why in hell did we write pointless reports, endless pointless reports, when 
everyone knows you don't remember any of it. Why? So that when we are forced to 
perform boring, life-sucking labor for complete strangers for slave wages we 
won't stop and say, "Gosh, this sucks!" because our suck-o-meter will have been 
numbed into uselessness. We just don't know what sucks any more. It's sort of 
like the way sewer workers can't smell shit any more. They're used to it.
The world is essentially divided up into two people: those who realize how 
fucked we all are when it comes to this working for a living crap, and those of 
us who don't. I feel more sorry for the ones who don't, because as they swim 
through the sewers of corporate life they can't smell the shit sandwich being 
served in the employee cafeteria. The rest of us, at least, know we're being 
pushed through the long, convoluted colon of life, gliding along on a rough axle 
of vacation days and sick leave, performance reviews and salary debates. And 
with that knowledge is the slim and admittedly futile hope that we'll someday 
choose to rise above it all and give up the corner office.
  The world is not a George Orwell nightmare, but there is a purpose to 
everything and very few of us work for a living out of a love for our jobs. 
Between the early mornings and the stress and the humiliation of having to 
answer to idiots, the horror of a daily commute and a dwindling potential as the 
years go by, who would want to work for a living? Come on. No matter how bored 
you are you could find something better to do, if only you could feed yourself 
and afford cable while you did it. The worst of it all isn't the simple fact 
that we have to earn livings (while I am personally aghast at this concept, I am 
a naturally lazy and corpulent pig so that's natural enough; I admit that 
someone has to do all the things that need doing in this sad modern world, and I 
also admit, smiling all the way, that I'm damned glad it doesn't have to be me.) 
it's the fact that most of us just accept it with a dull sigh and never consider 
subversion.
  There are plenty of ways to earn a living. Technically, if you're willing to 
hunt and fish and wear animal skins, you could go out into the woods and be 
Grizzly Adams and never sit behind another desk in your whole life. If the 
comforts of civilization are too tempting to leave behind, however, you will 
have to find something to dedicate your days to. Even crime is no answer - crime 
is very often more work than a straight job. Sure, they don't take any taxes out 
of your measly paycheck when you rob banks, but they can shoot you. One thing I 
can say about my crummy job, my boss can't shoot me. And besides, it doesn't 
make any difference: crime is just like corporate america. You make money 
according to your skill level and experience. If all you're good for is muscle, 
you'll end up mugging people in back alleys and you'll pull in the low end of 
the earnings. If you've got computer skills and can analyze alarm systems, like 
as not you can go executive. And through it all is that tedious work, all that 
planning, and meetings, and late nights. You might as well go straight.
  Of course, we have to earn that cash somehow. The Inner Swine's inner circle, 
after all, work normal jobs. The secret is, my friends, to slack off on the JOB! 
Get it? Of course you have to work; we have bills to pay, booze to guzzel, fines 
to take care of. We have this magazine to pay for (since none of you seem too 
willing to part with the pesos). But that doesn't mean you have to do a good 
job! Stay out late: who cares if you're not up to your best during the workday! 
Use company time & supplies to supplement your intellectual/revoloutionary 
tendencies: who cares if the company suffers! Abuse your lunch hour, your access 
to office supplies, your free phone services: who the fuck cares? Come on! Get 
over the brainwashing they gave you in school free of charge and most probably 
not listed on the term bill. As a wise man named Jack London once said, man was 
not meant to exist, he was meant to live. Trust me when I say no one will care 
that you were very concientious on your job when you die. No one is totalling 
post-it notes stolen, or hours spent gabbing on the phone with friends. Slacking 
off on the job is the only way to get your self-respect back.
  Doubt me? Then let me ask you this: is working until seven o'clock every day 
worth it? Is getting home so weary you can barely summon the strength to eat 
dinner, watch TV, and fall asleep? Is coming in on the weekends? The thing about 
working for someone else is that, eventually, your efforts are forgotten and 
completely useless. You might become the greatest worker in the world: the 
moment you retire, your work is anonymous. All those reports you wrote, all 
those hours you put in, all that creative energy, gone as if it had never 
existed. They give you a gold watch and some chippy gets to take over where you 
left off. You don't own your job, babe, you rent it.
  Now, you rent your apartment, too, but everyone knows you don't do major 
renovations to a rental. You don't spend time and money ripping out the wiring 
and knocking down walls: your landlord could just decide to raise your rent, or 
worse, not offer a new lease, and all your efforts are wasted. Well, your job is 
just a port in the storm. Whatever marks you make will be wiped away by the 
winds anyway, why bother making any? On the other hand, jobs do offer a lot of 
resources you can utilize for more personal, and hence more permanent, projects.
  Just a thought. You're allowed to ignore me, most people do. You shouldn't 
show this to anyone I work with, either, since I do have rent to pay, drinks to 
buy for unappreciative young women in sleazy eighth avenue bars, lawyers to pay 
off. The whole point could be summed up by saying, simply, that life pretty much 
sucks and you have to work hard to make it otherwise, and you also have to 
recognize when you're being snowed and when you have to go along with it for 
appearances sake. Working is one of those times. I could sum it up that simply, 
but then we wouldn't have very much of an article, even an article meant to come 
under the heading of "Self-Indulgent Rambling", and I've got 64 pages of crap to 
come up with. If you thought this article was flabby and dull, then maybe you 
ought to start giving me something to work with. Remember, this is The Inner 
Swine: don't work for your job, make the job work for you.
  We now return to The Inner Swine, already in progress.

========================================
*** FICTION ***

THE SMILE ON HIS LIPS
by Jeff Somers
========================================

"An easy path for the blind to go,
A clever path for the fools who know
the Secret of the hanged man - the smile on his lips"

-Bruce Dickinson


  BREATH puffing in the cold winter air, all the old men of the Town Council 
stood stamping their feet and waiting for the mayor to get off the phone and 
emerge from his car. They clutched coffees and talked wryly between themselves, 
their silver hair and bulky coats immaculate and tailored. They had lived their 
whole lives in the town of Skillings, as had everybody, and by dint of age and 
history were now responsible for keeping up the traditions which moved through 
the streets with a tangible force and visceral pressure. They were easy and 
affable with each other, confident of their success.
  The crowd standing behind the police barriers hummed excitedly. Almost the 
entire town shifted impatiently there, waiting, hoping that the ceremony would 
be finished by nine o'clock, or else a great number of them would have to go 
back to open up shops and make phone calls, do business. At least it wasn't 
rainy; the sun shone in the sky and the air was crisp and still, except for a 
rhythmic and lulling wind that came and went. They chatted amongst themselves in 
a small-town way, everyone into everyone elses business, everyone filled to 
bursting with secrets that everyone else knew.
  Next to the city council stood the police and the man with the black hood on 
his head.
  There were two policemen, Norman Carrol and Phil Simmonds, and they passed for 
the entire police force of Skillings. They each held one of the hooded man's 
arms tightly, a loose imitation of holding him captive. They both grinned 
hugely, conscious of eyes on them, on the hooded man, conscious that their grins 
made them look ridiculous and unable to stop themselves anyway. In fact, they 
grinned even harder, brittle, frozen smiles.
  The field was roughly square, carpeted in matted, yellow grass and packed 
snow. It was known by the townspeople as The Raffle Field. Trees loomed behind 
everyone, insulating and deceiving, cutting it all off and making the town seem 
further away than it was. It was coated in a light drifting of snow, perfect and 
shining in the sun, largely undisturbed. No one, as a rule, came to the Raffle 
Field unless a Raffle was being held, except for occasional larking teenagers 
or, even more occasionally Norm Carrol, who was sometimes wracked by night 
terrors that were somehow calmed by a visit to the clearing.

  In the center of the field stood the old wood of the gallows, an ingenious 
invention with a lever and a trap door. The knotted rope hung down to just the 
right height, swaying slightly in the occasional chill wind. The wood was 
scratched and seasoned, warped and weathered; it whispered age and ruthless 
fate. There was no ornamentation, no beautification, no effort to make it 
attractive. It was stark and bland, and against the sunny sky it was dark and 
shadowed. The platform was large and sturdy, and a podium had been dragged onto 
it, off to one side of the gallows.

  The mayor's car opened its door, and with a cheer from the crowd Mayor Donald 
Carson emerged, beaming a chubby grin and waving a gloved hand. Large and solid, 
he filled his winter coat reassuringly, a man the people could lean on and count 
on. The cheers died down to manageable hurrahs, and the mayor made his regal way 
to stand near his councilmen, facing most of the crowd. Pausing for a moment to 
chat amiably with his council, he was ruddy-faced and cheerful, laughing and 
gesturing expansively. After a few moments of this, he was reminded of pressing 
time and mounted the steps to the platform, standing behind the podium.
  "My good people!" he began, as always. The phrase my good people began all of 
the mayor's speeches. It was expected and he never disappointed.
  The man with the hood twitched at the sound of the mayor's voice, and the 
police tightened their grips on him.
  "I'd like to thank you for coming out today!" The mayor boomed. The crowd 
cheered itself, and Donald Carson beamed around, not at all surprised since they 
cheered all his speeches with gusto and enthusiasm. "I'd like to thank you for 
braving the early hour and the cold to come out and perform your civic duty to 
the sovereign state of Skillings!"
  With a ripple, the crowd cheered.
  One of the elderly councilmen stepped up to stand near the mayor and whisper 
to him, pointing at his watch. The mayor nodded and speeded it up. "Officers 
Simmonds and Carrol?"
  The two policemen led their prisoner and met the mayor at the gallows. They 
removed the black hood and stood to either side of him, watching him 
suspiciously. The mayor nodded and returned to the podium.
  The prisoner was a tall, thin man with a three day bread and bloodshot eyes, 
blinking in the sudden snowy brightness. He was middle-aged and pudgy, wearing a 
rumpled and slightly stained suit which had once been expensive. He looked 
around and saw the gallows, and stared around in something close to disbelief 
but closer to panic. Finally, after a brief tugging at his arms which the police 
did not even seem to notice, he collapsed into a sneering darkness, a disdain 
and despair.
  The mayor glanced at the police and they nodded. He nodded back, turned to the 
crowd, and launched into tradition. 
  "What is the prisoner's name?"
  The officers each had their roles. Phil Simmonds cleared his throat. "Nathan 
Williams, Mr. Mayor."
  The crowd cheered. Nathan Williams blinked in shock.
  "What is his crime?"
  The prisoner suddenly tried to step forward "I demand -"
  Norm Carroll casually smacked Nathan Williams across the face. After a moment 
of quiet, Phil Simmonds cleared his throat again. "While utilizing a Skillings 
road the prisoner did knowing violate our statute six one seven oh thirty, 
exceeding the speed limit as set by his eminence, the Mayor."
  The crowd cheered. Someone shouted "That's the way, Donnie!" and laughter 
rippled here and there. Mayor Carson nodded amiably at the crowd. Nathan 
Williams scowled, muttering. Officer Carrol glanced at him sharply, but made no 
move to strike him again.
  The mayor nodded, grinning. "Let the raffle begin!" he declared, and the crowd 
cheered itself hoarse.

  A wizened old man from the city council hobbled forward as the prisoner 
shouted curses, a sudden outpouring of vitriol even a few hard smacks from Norm 
Carrol could not silence. Max Silver was the oldest soul in Skillings, eighty-
eight and still with all his faculties, and so was de facto president of the 
Town Council. He walked slowly but purposefully to stand next to the mayor, 
holding a large wooden box in both hands. With a characteristically sour scowl 
on his lined face, skin looking like slightly yellowed tissue paper, he waited 
patiently for both the cursing and the cheers to subside.
  Then, with the common and requisite cheer from the crowd, he raised the box to 
the podium, set it down, and reached within.
  "The slate grey four door Oldsmobile sedan," he wheezed in a static, reedy 
voice, There was a hush as he fished around his hat, which was filled with small 
white pieces of paper. After a moment one was plucked out and held aloft. 
Squinting, Max nodded at it. "Goes to Ms. Gloria Mayson!"
  Nathan Williams stared, stunned into silence, as the crowd erupted into 
applause. A round middle-aged woman with stiff, tidy hair ran forward and hugged 
Mayor Carson as he handed her a pair of keys. The applause died down as she 
returned, talking excitedly among her friends.
  Max smiled watery teeth and started fishing around his hat again. "A fine 
black leather wallet, complete with three hundred and fifty five dollars cash 
goes to -" the white slip of paper fluttered in the wind "- Ms. Ann Murphy!"
  The crowd exploded again, clapping up a storm as a pale teenaged girl screamed 
and ran up to the mayor, waving her arms around and jumping about. He handed 
over the wallet with a beaming smile, laughing along with the crowd. He shook 
Max's unsure hand and gestured to the officers, who shoved Nathan Williams under 
the rope and the noose around his neck, pulling it snug. Nathan bared his teeth 
at them, struggling and screeching. The policemen glared at him, but didn't move 
to stop him. An expectant hum fell over the crowd and all eyes fell on the 
mayor. In the background, the growled curses of the prisoner carried in the 
clear air, bordering on incoherence. Norm Carrol slipped handcuffs onto Nathan 
Williams with a minimum of struggle.
  Mayor Carson turned and frowned over his shoulder. "The prisoner will have a 
chance to speak." he reminded Nathan, and smiled back at the crowd, booming over 
the noise. "Enjoy your new possessions, folks. Just remember to register it all 
with the Division of Taxation before the first of the month!"
  A light ripple of amusement went through the crowd. The Division of Taxation 
was a small office in the basement of city hall where the Mayor's younger cousin 
dozed off with his feet up when he wasn't rubber-stamping requisitions and 
declarations.
  The prisoner's curses drifted over them, souring the moment of community. The 
Mayor, exasperated, turned to the prisoner. "All right, Mr. Williams, say your 
piece." he sighed, walking off towards the coffee table. Dutifully, the crowd 
fell silent.
  "Fuckface." Williams muttered, and in the sudden quiet it carried loudly. 
There was a gasp from somewhere. "This is the most amazing bullshit I've ever 
seen -if we weren't a million miles from fucking civilization, I'd have you all 
in jail. I'd sue this whole fucking town for everything its got. I'd fucking -"
  "Now, Miste -" the mayor began
  "Fuck you." Williams snapped. Then he laughed, a quick bark that made the 
first row of people flinch away. "Christ, you're all an inch from hanging me, 
and you expect me to have a little respect?"
  "Officers!" Mayor Carson shouted. The police stepped away from Williams. Norm 
Carrol took his position by the drop lever.
  The crowd started to cheer, shouting and whistling and drowning the prisoner 
out. Norm waved and the noise swelled and overran Raffle Field. The mayor smiled 
benignly and waved, as well, making them cheer ever harder. Williams began to 
laugh, getting red in the face.
  "This is bullshit!" he shouted, sounding thin beneath the waves of noise. 
"Bullshit! This is the United States of America, for God's sake!!! I was 
speeding!!!"
  "No sir!" the mayor shouted back, suddenly full of fire, "This is the Town of 
Skillings, and you'd do best to remember that!" Then he raised his hand, and 
Norm stiffened expectantly, his face grim. Waiting dramatically, Mayor Carson 
watched Phil Simmonds run about, trying to suppress the crowd. But the town was 
sweaty and flushed and didn't notice for quite some time. Slowly, it all died 
down, leaving nothing but the hoarse shouts of Nathan Williams.
  "Bullshit!!"
  Mayor Carson boomed over him, experienced in out-shouting other men. "By the 
authority vested in me as the duly elected head of state, granted by the native-
born men and women of Skillings, sovereign and independent - "
  "And staying that way!" someone shouted.
  "Bullshit!"
  " - I condemn the prisoner to death!"
  The crowd exploded, the mayor dropped his hand, Norm pulled the lever, and the 
prisoner
  "Bull -"
  dropped about three feet, cut off into tight silence.

  Hours later, the rope creaked in the wind and old Alan Haines chased garbage, 
spearing errant wrappers and stuffing it into a low-slung sack. An old boozer, 
old Alan had been given the only job he could do anymore, and he was grateful.
  He hummed softly to himself. The hum mixed in and adhered to the rhythms of 
the rope, instinctively.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***

Seemingly Endless Time: The Immortality Illusion
GET OFF YOUR ASS
========================================

  None of us knows how much longer we have. For those of you who will be dead 
and gone before this article is even published, you know that better than 
anyone. One minute you're enjoying life, playing Nintendo, screwing around, 
whatever, the next you're dead. It could happen at any moment. It could be 
happening right now, while you're reading this, rubbing your arm and wondering 
what that tightness in your chest is. Or maybe your vision just went a little 
blurry in one eye, as a weak artery prepares to spill darkness into your brain. 
The point is, you never know when you're gonna die, babe, so you might as well 
make good use of today, this hour, this minute.
  Modern society is so entertainment focused it sickens your local Inner Swine 
sales representative. An advertisement for a recent video game proclaimed 
proudly that it was "the number one killer....of time". Such giddy heights 
bullshit has climbed in the television age. We are bombarded on every side by 
products and services designed to waste our time, and these products and 
services sell pretty damned well. The conclusion? Simple: we as a species like 
to waste our time. We enjoy frittering away our valuable existence, we 
apparently like the idea of dying and watching a series of movies, TV shows, and 
video games flash by us in an unwholesome excuse for a life. We embrace the 
concept of living, and dying, as anonymous consumers.
  As I am fond of saying around the house, This is not a conspiracy. That might 
as well be a catch-phrase for the few of us who choose to blame everyone else -
the government, our parents, elves, whatever- for our own sadly misused and 
possibly wasted lives. I have news for you idiots: nothing's a conspiracy. If 
you choose passivity then it is you choosing it. If we're wasting our lives 
sitting in our houses blinking milky eyes at various video screens, it's our 
fault and no one elses. You can't blame Nintendo or Sony or the people who make 
VCR's. They don't make us waste our lives watching other people live our 
fantasies, we choose to. I humbly suggest that this is not the way to utilize 
the existence afforded you if you don't want that sinking feeling of having been 
cheated when you do finally kick off five minutes or five decades from now. I 
don't particularly care what you do, but do something. Think of it this way: you 
have this particular space of time, right? You might believe in an afterlife, or 
reincarnation, or that you're really the only person in the world and everyone 
else is an animatronic android playing roles in a vast, twisted experiment 
(don't laugh, piglets, I knew someone who swore by this theory of life, and no, 
it wasn't me) but face it: faith doesn't mean anything. No matter what you 
believe, you could be wrong. Real wrong. There might not be anything after this 
sad, short life. And since the only thing we are sure of, really, is that we're 
gonna die, then the only real option you have for anything resembling 
immortality or meaning in your life is to leave something behind. The only thing 
you're leaving behind by playing with yourself all day in a passive role hungry 
for entertainment is receipts.

  Of course, all work and no play makes us dull pigs.
  If you take this philosophy of wasted time = slow boring suicide too 
seriously, you'll start to notice that no one invites you to parties any more. 
The Inner Swine fully supports parties, especially those held at other people's 
houses with other people's beer, laundry, and foodstuffs. Not being invited to 
parties any more would be sad. You can't just sit about creating great works of 
art or building things or whatever you choose to accomplish all the time, we all 
need breaks in the monotony of our own limp thoughts. The fact that you 
shouldn't devote your life to entertaining yourself and the passive acceptance 
of other people's thoughts as your own does not mean that you shouldn't and do 
it sometimes. I am not a grinch, after all. I'm a pig.
  And of course, some people take the stance that you can leave something 
worthwhile behind even if you're not much of a creator or builder or what have 
you. Being a Swine, I am loathe to admit the possibility that raising a family 
or having some sort of lasting effect on people is leaving something behind as a 
legacy. The thing about people is that you can't trust them to remember, things 
fade fast. People die and ten years down the pike we've forgotten them. It's a 
defense mechanism, a survival instinct, we wouldn't be able to live if we kept 
all the miseries and pains of life in perfect clarity. But the point is, if 
you're counting on your descendants or your neighbors or anyone to carry your 
legacy on through the flood of time, forget it. It gets diluted. It gets lost. 
The best you can hope for is that a scrap of you will remain hundreds of years 
from now, a small, pathetic remnant of whatever it is you meant to leave for the 
future. Everything else will be lost to the imperfect memories of your fellow 
shaved monkeys and the eroding effects of time and distance. Out of sight out of 
mind, after all.
  Of course, maybe a small sliver of yourself is good enough to you. Maybe the 
thought that some future relative will hear a story you once told your kids and 
thus a bit of you lives on is enough. Maybe it warms the cockles of your heart 
in some Hallmark way, maybe it satisfies your meager thirst for immortality.
  Not me.
  I want to leave volumes behind. I want to record my own existence in 
meticulous detail, every moment, every thought, not because I think I'm so 
goddammed interesting, but because the only way I can guarantee that there will 
be enough of me left over when time takes its final chunk out of me five minutes 
or decades from now is to do it myself. No one else cares enough. No one else, 
when it comes down to a universal cosmic scale, gives a shit about my 
immortality. Let's face it, my immortality is pretty much my problem. The idea 
that some grandchild three hundred years from now might catch a glimpse of who I 
was isn't enough. I want the entire world to remember me. (Irene Cara, are you 
listening?)
  Is that arrogance? I don't think so. That's reason; everything else is wishful 
thinking and a big load of bullshit. Whether you think its through holy intent 
or pure blind accident, this lifetime is a pretty amazing and precious 
commodity, and you'd best not waste it jerking off in front of the TV or even 
jerking off between the pages of books. The people who buy into the timidly 
intellectual crap story that reading is more worthwhile than other forms of 
escapism are only half-right: reading is more worthwhile, but it is still 
escapism, and as such is eventually useless and meaningless, as meaningless as 
sitting around watching talk shows or sitting around smoking pot until the 
wrinkles in your brain smooth out and everything makes you giggle. You can read 
all you want, watch all you want, smoke all you want but if you don't channel 
something that you pick up along the way into something that is uniquely you, 
you've wasted your time, because all those experiences, insights, and miseries 
will be lost forever the moment the ever-weakening shell that is your brain's 
life-support system gives up with a spastic twitch and a wet gurgle.

  Oh, what the fuck, no one gives a shit anyway. My immortality is pretty much 
my problem, as it should be. And as we get older we get tired, winded, wearied 
of the constant battle to be heard, and most of us slip into a dozing sort of 
existence, wherein only loud noise and extreme pain rouse us into full 
consciousness again. That's how we make it through our dwindling days, aghast at 
our own body's betrayals, preparing ourselves for death years and years before 
it actually looms. We mummify ourselves over time with indifferent care, a layer 
here, a layer there, until finally when the long-awaited and much-ballyhooed 
event looms up we're scented and anointed, at peace and utterly ignorant of the 
depth of nothing we have left behind: a few scattered genetic pools, a few 
scraps of meaningless acumen, a few scattered friends who will soon also kick 
off.
  That's why, when we die, we organize social events. It gives us the illusion 
that we're noticed.


========================================
*** FICTION ***

SELF-INFLICTED, GLORIFIED
by Jeff Somers
========================================

The question is not Are you paranoid?, rather ask yourself "Am I paranoid enough?" - Somers family proverb.

  FOR a moment I was snow-blinded, until I realized there wasn't any snow, and 
it all went pitch black for a moment. I had the impression that I was standing 
on the edge of a huge canyon underground; I could feel stale, interior wind in 
my hair and I could hear echoes of my breath all around me, multiplied. I knew 
that if I took a step forward I would have that nauseous moment of falling and 
then it would be silent and still and almost like flying, until I started to 
bang against the sides. I stood my ground, not liking the image, and a sharp 
noise made me turn. I blinked in the bright sunlight, shying away, tripping, and 
falling back.
  My hands were still bound. I held them up to the sun filtering through the 
forest's leaves and the chains, rusted and ancient and unbroken by time, seemed 
black as space, a band of night around my wrists. The ground was soft, a 
cushion, padded with grass. The air was quiet, empty; I listened to the air 
rattling in and out of my chest for a moment, studying the way the leaves swayed 
in the wind, waving at me.
  I sat up. I couldn't hear the wind scraping the leaves along. I remembered 
what it was supposed to sound like -old newspapers burning in the fireplace. But 
I couldn't hear it- I only heard my breath.
  I shouted out something, but what came out didn't sound like what I'd meant to 
say at all. It sounded more like something I'd said before, every day. I 
blinked. Someone was behind me, then, crushing leaves as they walked -I turned 
suddenly, hoping to surprise them, and blinked again, this time at her. She had 
been here before, I recognized her, of course. She was crying. I wanted to slap 
her, mark her white skin with red phantom fingers, make her remember, make her 
see -but when I held my hands up the chains dug into my wrists.
  She was still wearing that red dress from the day she brought the lawyers. It 
was torn and she looked dirty and wan, drained -maybe she'd come to beg me back. 
She stared at me with those maddeningly calm blue eyes, clear and knowing. She 
knew everything. That was what I was always trying to knock out of her, that 
know-everything look. I had no privacy, with her. Those eyes held every secret 
and made it her own, they saw around corners and through walls and every secret 
thought I had ever possessed she had edited and revised, laughed at and 
belittled. That was what I had always tried to smack out of her. I thought maybe 
if I rattled her enough she would lose track and I'd have a moment of privacy.
  She held a key in one smooth hand and I took a step forward, holding out my 
chained hands. She had come to make retribution, to set me free, to make it all 
good again. We might live in the forest, I supposed, eating wild berries and 
running, naked, through the trees. I walked up to her gladly, trying to speak, 
trying to tell her how I felt, but I just kept shouting the same thing over and 
over. She hardly flinched, though, and when I stood before her she held up a 
dull metal tray, on which lay the key. Her dress had turned white, I noticed, 
and a quick glance at her cold eyes revealed her an imposter, not her at all. I 
slapped the tray away and turned and ran, my bound hands held out before me.
  The silence was shattered by apes, screaming and chattering. The wind rushed 
by as I ran, the chimps screamed. I tripped on a root or a rock and stumbled 
forward a few steps, bursting from the woods into an open field and falling face 
first in the grass.
  They were upon me instantly, hands all over me, tight and sweaty. I thought 
they would rip me to shreds, but the apes (huge burly apes in white turtleneck 
shirts and white slacks) turned me over and held me down. They screeched as I 
struggled, their furry hands unyielding, until the woman in white caught up, 
holding a small gun in her hand. She hurried to me and knelt by my head, saying 
sharp, indecipherable things to the apes. For a brief moment I thought she might 
plan to shoot through the chains, as I'd seen in movies. But instead, as the 
apes' lips skinned back from their teeth, she puckered my mouth open with one 
hand and pushed the barrel of the pistol in. I tried to scream; if I did it was 
drowned out by the screaming of the apes. The sun in the clear sky made them all 
faceless, blank shadows bent earnestly over me. I think she grinned down at me, 
and the she pulled

  When I opened my eyes again I wasn't sure if I had or not, it was so dark. It 
was cold and dry -I could hear my breathing again, and the chittering of rats, 
somewhere. I tried to sit up, but I couldn't, it was like being nailed to the 
floor. A furry body crawled over my leg, and I tried to scream and twitch and 
pull away, but I couldn't.
  Somewhere, the click of heels announced someone. With a clink of switches, 
fluorescent lights clicked on and filled the cell with buzzing. It was too loud, 
too there, it filled my ears and overflowed. I tried to stuff my hands into my 
ears and couldn't move; I looked down and saw that I had been wrapped from 
ankles to neck in shining chains, a huge rusted padlock resting against my chin. 
Suffocated at the sight, I struggled for breath. The heels, very close, paused 
on the other side of the bars, and I could see red pumps and torn nylon 
stockings.
  "You almost made it." she said. Her voice just as I'd remembered it, only cold 
and stiff, like tinfoil. I gasped for breath.
  "You were a few feet away from the edges of the grounds. Past that fence we 
have no authority."
  I choked, trying to fight the panic -if I could just have moved any part of 
me, I would have breathed an easy sigh of relief -but the chains paralyzed me, 
and I struggled in vain, sure that if I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. 
Dimly, in the background, I could hear someone reciting numbers in a dull 
monotone.
  "Oh, no you don't." I heard, distantly, far away, keys in a lock, and then the 
squeal of hinges. A moment later she leaned over me, the imposter -she even 
smelled like her, a mix of fall leaves and perfume- and somehow loosened my 
chains. I twitched my fingers and sucked in air; I wanted to thank her out of 
habit and stopped myself. She wasn't her. She was a lie, I knew that.
  "Why didn't you kill me?" I tried to ask, but what came out was the same old 
scream. She looked at me sharply.
  "I'll be back, lover." she said, and strode from the cell, leaving the gate 
open. I listened to her heels clicking away until all was silent.
  I could wriggle, I could breath, but I was still cocooned in metal. In the 
distance I heard the tell-tale screams of the apes, the odd galloping of their 
bare hands and feet on the floor.
  Slip-slap. Slip slap.
  Added to this was the squeaking of something which needed oil.
  Slip-slap, squeak. Slip-slap, squeak.
  I started struggling, trying to just get one arm out of the chains, one arm 
would make all the difference, it was the key to my freedom, my only hope. I 
listened to the rhythmic slapping and the crazy squeaking as I panted from 
exertion; soon my pantings drowned out the slappings and squeakings. They were 
to no avail -the apes, a pair of them, arrived with a gurney between them. 
Without ceremony they loped in and plucked me up as if I were light as a feather 
and deposited me on the gurney. It sagged with my weight. I tried to scream 
abuse at them, to discourage them, make them think I was not entirely helpless, 
but I couldn't draw enough breath to waste. Like luggage, I was wheeled out of 
the cell.
  Slip-slap, squeak. Slip-slap, squeak.
  The hall was long and white and it shined with a soft glow which I assumed was 
fungus or something. It curved crazily this way and that and as the apes whipped 
around each turn I though I might roll off the gurney and slam into the wall. 
The apes were screaming at each other again, and the screams were echoing off 
the stained walls and if I were a paranoid man it sounded like a legion of apes 
were jogging along with us, like an honor guard. I was King of the Apes, the 
Simian Lord, I was being carried on the shoulders of my subjects, brought into 
battle on the broad backs of my lessers. I wanted to stand up -and my chains 
slipped, rolled off me like water, clattering to the floor and I stood on the 
gurney and turned. Hundreds of apes were loping along behind me. I raised my 
fist and they cheered, grunting and hooting, hopping about madly and beating 
their fists against the glowing walls of the hall. After a moment, I lay down 
again and all was quiet once more. All I could hear was the slip-slap, squeak, 
slip-slap, squeak.
  Two doors loomed ahead. I sat up as we rushed towards them. They had 
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY painted on them in thick black paint. We did not slow 
down, and I ducked my head in between my knees as we crashed through -the gurney 
began to spin, then, as I realized that the apes had pushed me through and 
abandoned me. I got on my hands and knees and gripped the sides of the gurney, 
holding on as it spun. Slowly, I glided to a halt.
  The room was dim, lit by a single light bulb which hung from a wire which 
crept upwards endlessly, disappearing into clouds. There was nothing else in the 
way of furnishings or features - I couldn't even see the doors I had just burst 
through. There was only me, the gurney, and the other man.
  He stood several yards away from me, dressed in white robes and wearing a 
clown mask - one of those cheap, garish masks they sell kids on Halloween. He 
held both arms out from his body, and in one he clutched a sword.
  I climbed off of the gurney, and he came to life, beckoning me with one hand. 
I looked around once more, more out of habit than any suspicion or hesitance. 
This was a clown. A gaudy clown. I took a step forward and the clown began to 
dance, but when I paused, he paused. After a moment, I took another step, and he 
danced a step, and so I began to walk around him, careful, watching him jig this 
way and that, wave his sword, all silently, so perfectly silently.
  We were not alone, I realized with a start. Other clowns stepped out of the 
darkness around us to watch. None of them danced. They all watched, and one by 
one they began to clap. A steady rhythm, clap clap, clap clap, and the first 
clown danced furiously, swinging his sword and kicking his legs out, his robes 
flying this way and then that way, swirling together, and when I started to 
clap, too, he raised his sword up like a baseball bat, swung hard at my neck and 

  I could feel. The floor was cold and gritty with dust and dirt, soft like 
padding, smooth like glass. I could feel. The air moved around me in soft, quick 
waves, warmer than the floor. It made the hairs on my arms stand up. I could 
feel. I was blind and deaf and silent, but I could feel.
  Every now and then they turned me over. I could feel their hairy arms, but 
couldn't cry out, not even to scream the same old thing.

  
========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***

RAGE! DO YOU HEAR ME! RAGE, I SAY!
by Karen Accavallo, authority.
========================================

  My rage factor is about a nine today. It all started out when I heard these 
two guys on my bus ( it was snowing; the bus was filled with the odor of wet 
wool and fumes, which would make anybody's rage factor skyrocket) talking about 
dumping oily refuse into a sewer. Really. The first guy (I'll call him Sawyer), 
claimed that he would not dump oily refuse into a sewer because it would break 
some environmental law. His friend (I'll call him Bennett) stated that he would 
dump oily refuse into a sewer if it would save lives. 
  Jack coined the term "rage factor." I just don't understand why everyone on 
this green earth (although I don't know how green it will be if Bennett keeps 
dumping oily refuse into sewers) has to fill me with rage. Rage, rage, rage. 
  So anyway, Sawyer and Bennett are discussing oily sewers, and I'm sitting on a 
bus next to a woman who smells of old sausages. I march through the fudgy snow 
on the New York City sidewalks, bumping into international sensation Margaret 
Cho in Times Square. She glares at me, and I get mad because after working in 
the city for two years, she's the biggest celebrity I've seen. (I did see a guy 
that, in the right lighting, could have been a distant relative of Eric Clapton 
once.) I get to work and become filled with rage (for the umpteenth time today) 
when I receive the following voice mail message:
  "Hello, Karen. I spoke to woman yesterday for about a half hour about this 
particular article. Her name was Karen, too. I just found out today that it 
wasn't you. Hee Hee. Anyway, I know you've faxed this article about sixteen 
thousand times already, but could you send it again? And this one marked 
'unscheduled.' When will that be published?"
  All this brings me to what I really wanted to write about: Mentos commercials 
and Wilford Brimley. Does anyone understand either one? A guy is running through 
a festive shopping mall, trying to escape from an old lady wearing a hat. This 
is my worst nightmare! And I must be inundated with this torture just because I 
want to catch a little Richard Bey? When he escapes from this woman (mind you, 
we, the collective consumer has no idea who this woman is, or why she is 
stalking this fun young man with the candy.) He thrusts the Mentos roll in the 
air victoriously and winks at us, as if we were in on his adventure from the 
get-go. Color me reactionary, but HOW DOES THIS SELL CANDY? Whenever I even see 
Mentos in the supermarket, my blood pressure rises, my heart pounds, I sweat, I 
run away. (Sounds like what happened with my last boyfriend.) I will never 
purchase a roll of Mentos EVER, in fact, I want everyone associated with this 
product maimed or killed. 
  And who does Wilford Brimley think HE is? This guy has the gall to sit there 
in his Vermont cottage with his dog Myron or WHATEVER! and he sits there and 
tells me that "it's the right thing to do" if I eat oatmeal. Now I went to 
college; I know oatmeal. I still may be a little naive about the workings of the 
world, sometimes I am faced with tremendous moral judgments; but I see nothing 
particularly "right" about eating oatmeal. Or particularly wrong. I lived on it 
for a year. It's good with honey. But who in this green earth does Wilford 
Brimley think he is that he can invade my living room and tell me what is right 
and what is wrong? Just what has this world come to? Here's my real question: 
WHY IS PROCTER AND GAMBLE TRYING TO KILL ME? Same deal with the Mentos people. 
  Can anybody help me?

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***

BEING AN EXPLANATION OF THOSE MENTOS ADVERTISEMENTS
By Jeffrey Somers
========================================

  We've all seen those Mentos advertisements that fill Karen with such rage, 
we've all wondered about them, their eerie emotionlessness, the absolutely 
disturbing fact that they seem to be trying to convince us that the route to 
personal effectiveness lies through candy. If they don't make you into a 
drooling pit of rage, they must at least make you scratch your head. Here then, 
I will try to make sense of these commercials so you will know what you are 
getting enraged at:

  Commercial #1: 

  PLOT: A young woman, looking spunky and happy, walks up to her car, just as a 
bloated capitalist pig parks his heaving gas guzzler so tightly close to her 
small, enviro-friendly compact that she cannot conceive of getting out of that 
spot. He shrugs with the natural apathy of the elitist fascist pig and walks 
away to consume more. She doesn't pause to weep, though: she has Mentos! She 
pops one into her mouth and, energized by such blatant consumerism, entices 
several burly workers nearby to move her car by sheer brute force with the 
promise of free love.
  EXPLANATION: The cars are obvious symbols of wealth, and this commercial is a 
mini sponsor for the coming communist revolution. The wealthy elite will put us 
down, but one day we will gather up strong brutes and by sheer force steal their 
cars!

  Commercial #2:

  PLOT: A young man is in a mall, enjoying some good clean fun with his zany 
friends, when he is suddenly and mysteriously stalked by a menacingly 
grandmother in an odd hat. For a moment it seems he will be caught and consumed 
by the old woman, when suddenly he realizes he has Mentos! He pops one into his 
mouth and pretends to be a mannequin, and the evil old woman breezes past him, 
unawares of his ruse. He is then free to pursue free love with his young 
friends.
  EXPLANATION: This commercial attempts to illustrate to the masses why old 
people are bad. The youth, enjoying life and making a difference with their 
energy and good looks, are momentarily menaced by an old hag intent on some 
unnamed cruelty. However, as the commercial ably proves, old people are slow and 
easily confused, and thus youth wins the day, as it must. Once again, the 
established culture of baby boomers is overthrown by kids souped up on sugar.

  Commercial #3:

  PLOT: A gang of youths roams a city street, supporting free love and cool 
fashions. Suddenly, as the group crosses a busy street a car blocks the way and 
one of the group is trapped, cut off from the rest, who stare in horror. The one 
left behind is horrified at his situation until he remembers he has Mentos! He 
pops one into his mouth and opens the back door of the car, moving through it to 
join his friends and be rewarded by free love.
  EXPLANATION: This commercial is a blueprint for revolution without violence. 
It teaches the youth of the world how to subvert their fascist masters by 
unconventional thinking and a willingness to vandalize or otherwise abuse 
existing property. The youth of the world must learn to think in new ways, or 
the established rulers of the world will win the day with superior cars.

  These Mentos ads are thus much more sinister than you ever imagined, even if 
you are aware of their creepy cheeriness and bland view of the world as giant 
mall. With their vaguely European look, lack of dialogue, and insanely cheerful 
stories of self-achievement, I view The Mentos advertisements as the second most 
evil, annoying, and creepy commercials in the world. The number three evil 
commercial is The Puttermans spot for batteries. Number one, by far the most 
disturbing series of ads I or anyone has ever seen, are the ads for Diesel 
clothes. These ads, I am convinced, are subliminal in some way. I always have a 
vague urge to kill my officemate Alison whenever I read one. The fact that this 
urge is fairly common and easily transferable to anyone else means nothing, I 
don't think. If anyone out there has any info on the Diesel ads, please forward 
them to me care of The Inner Swine.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***

OUR WEEKLY DOSE OF FILLER:
The Inner Swine Guide to Self-Improvement
========================================

  IN MY weaker moments I will admit to having faults.
  In my even weaker moments, which usually occur between the hours of five and 
ten in some bar or other, I will admit to an urge to improve myself, an urge I 
usually ascribe to too much beer and too much frustration and too many nights 
going home alone. That sort of thing can numb you down after a while. In the 
spirit of The New Year I will give in to a sort of low-rent philosophical debate 
and make some resolutions, a method of self-improvement wallowing in 
hucksterism even more deeply than the power of positive thinking. It's so low 
rent a half million drunk idiots will be swearing to their sainted mothers 
memory to stop this, start that, accomplish this, end that. A million drunken 
idiots can and often are very, very wrong, sadly wrong, and it is an Inner Swine 
rule that the more of you morons doing something the less value, beauty, and 
effect it must possess. If you don't believe me I give you Ace Ventura, I give 
you whatever the #1 single in the country is right now (whatever it is), I give 
you Howard Stern. What with the entire freaking country making resolutions on 
New Years Eve, I feel that the power a resolution has to change your life must 
be like the power of a small breeze to evaporate the Atlantic Ocean, if that.
  Still, resolutions do have one major value, I suppose: they allow us to 
measure just how miserable a failure our formerly bright and breezy lives have 
degenerated into. If you say at the beginning of the year I am going to quit 
smoking and by the end of it you have increased the habit by two packs a day, 
you are most probably weak willed and getting worse as your youthful enthusiasm 
and strength drains away in a torrent of aging so destructive it'll fucking kill 
you eventually. Resolutions are the ticks on the rulers which measure how low 
we've sunk.
  As such, we at The Inner Swine embrace them. Anything which reminds us and our 
slothful readers (both of them) that we are essentially futile in the face of 
our own piggishness is a useful and beautiful thing. In the spirit of embraced 
failure, then, in the spirit of knowing you are going to fail and still taking 
that first cold step (the true nature of bravery, some smart guy once observed) 
we are going to list our resoloutions for 1996 and then sit back and watch it 
all come crumbling down.

OUR 1996 NEW YEARS RESOLOUTIONS:

1. One of these days I am going to wake up before noon and actually clean my 
apartment. The bitter war I am waging with my refrigerator and my stove is 
quickly approaching a crisis point, and the roaches and mold have had time to 
develop advanced societies and are worshipping me as a god. My bathroom has 
begun to loom like a shadowy fate in some distant part of my mind, sort of like 
a dish of Tupperware you know has been in there a while -but how long? I often 
find myself experiencing bathroom anxiety at the oddest moments: Hmmn....I need 
tomatoes, celery, dressing, and -MY GOD WHAT IS GROWING IN MY BATHTUB??!?!?

2. I resolve to get paid for one of these issues even if I have to extract money 
at gunpoint. I don't think I need to go into this again. See various screeds 
throughout this issue.

3. One of these days I am going to wake up before noon and stop drinking. Which 
will give me time and money to start doing harder drugs, which are cool.

4. I swear to whatever god is paying your rent these days that I will stop 
looking down on my fellow human beings, and recognize that there is beauty in 
everyone, and everyone has a right to express their opinions and feelings in a 
bias- free world. Ha. Just kidding.

5. One of these days I am going to wake up before noon and eat healthy and once 
and for all throw aside the rusted chains of grease and gunk and cholesterol and 
all that other stuff they swear will kill us all many many years before our 
time. I always hope to be one of those genetic quirks who is immune to 
everything, like my friend Ken's grandfather, who apparently live to be a 
thousand years old (by all appearances) on a steady diet of cigarettes, beer, 
and television.

6. I promise myself that I will stop torturing innocent people. Like the poor 
souls who ride the elevator with me every morning as I hum old Disney tunes and 
smile at them. Nothing scares people more than old Disney tunes and smiling 
before noon.

7. I swear that I will stop driving a car that increasing resembles a museum 
exhibit and start saving up to buy a Viper, so I can run people down seriously.

8. I promise myself that I will stop bothering Karen "RAGE" Accavallo who still 
likes to hide around corners and jump out at me to screech "RAGE! Do you hear 
me?! You FILL me with RAGE!!" several times a day before being captured again by 
her weary keepers.

9. One of these days I am going to put in a solid days work. (They tell me it is 
good for the soul, but since I have no soul, what good could it do me? On second 
thought, scratch that one and pass me another drink.)

10. I promise to stop watching so much damned television and get my own life. 
Now that Seinfeld has proven for once and for all that anyone can base a sitcom 
about their wacky friends and that comedy doesn't have to be funny (that's high-
concept stuff, folks), I see no reason to waste my time pondering Kramer and am 
free to start pondering Ken West, who is startlingly like Kramer except he's 
black, and he's funny.

  SUB SECTION: Top Ten Funny Things My Friend Ken Has Said*

  1. "The Avocados are ripe."
  2. "The Vikings do so have a chance this year."
  3. "I thought you weren't doing this for the money?"
  4. "Hey, did you see the new Candelbox video?"
  5. "Thirty dollars for a lap dance? That's ridiculous!"
  6. "You white folk just don't understand."
  7. "What's Weird Al up to these days?"
  8. "You interested in seeing Live in concert?"
  9. "MMMmmmmnnnnn......Bananas."
  10. "Wait a second.....what do you MEAN, I'm BLACK?"

11. One of these days I'm going to wake up before noon and determine to my 
satisfaction that there is such a time of day as "eight o'clock in the morning".

12. I swear I will spend less time in bars trying to pick up cheap women and 
more time in bars trying to pick up expensive women, who I hear are easier, 
ironically.

13. I promise to either quit my job or admit that I'll be working for the rest 
of my life and quit acting like a wounded hipster denied his birthright. Or 
maybe I'll just get one of those jobs where you don't have to do anything, like 
being a cop.

14. One of these days I am going to wake up before noon.

15. One of these days I am going to admit to myself that Calvin from Calvin & 
Hobbes is not a good role model, which will leave me with no one to look up to. 
I think the last strip of C & H will feature a St. Elsewhere ending, wherein we 
find Calvin as a thirty-three year old man locked away in a mental hospital, 
eating the stuffing of his toy tiger and grinning like a loon.

  So, there you have it, a bona-fide resoloutions list. If I keep one I will 
send a dollar to everyone I know, which my way of making sure I don't keep any 
of them, natch. Even here at The inner Swine we try hard to improve ourselves, 
although we fail more often than not. But that's okay. It doesn't make us bad 
people, and it even allows us to look back on 1995 with a clear head unmuffled 
by cotton-candy dreams of a new year and hope for peace on earth. Who wants 
peace on earth? Economies would fall apart, population would explode, whole 
profession would disappear. The loss of the military alone would double our 
national unemployment rate, and I don't want those leathernecks, pissed off, 
angry, and likely as not piss drunk, roaming the streets looking for college 
grads like me who made this whole peace on earth things happen. No Way, uh uh, 
no thanks. Keep them in the trenches shooting each other, the way it ought to 
be. Peace on Earth would be a world-wide disaster, mark my words.
  Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah: 1995. Dennis Hopper once mouthed in a movie 
that the 90's were going to make the 60's look like the 50's. It was a clever 
line, but whoever wrote it (Not Dennis Hopper, that's for sure; Dennis is lucky 
he doesn't require help cleaning himself after all the drugs he did) was wrong: 
so far the 90's are dull and listless, filled with supermodels and Calvin Klein 
ads, Joey Buttafucco and talk shows. Who cares? It's still a culture dominated 
by consumerism and greed, and I for one am overjoyed. Keep the kids doped up and 
out of my hair, and I will find a way to suffer (and thus justify my anger) 
along with the rest of us. Just like the rest of my generation, happiness is an 
anathema. It makes us soft. Only the hard will be cool.
  As for 1996, here is a quick wish list:

PEOPLE WHO OUGHT TO DIE IN 1996:
  
1. Hootie
2. Live
3. Michael Jackson
4. Bob Dole (It's time, Bob.)
5. George Bush (Why is he still alive?)
6. Frank Perdue (Why not? One good reason will do.)
7. This guy named Jerry I know
8. Alanis Morrisette (before she annoys me further)
9. Frank Sinatra (before he embarrasses all of us further)
10. Brad Pitt (I speak for all my fellow men, here)

  I expect the world to be much the same in 1996. As we become increasingly 
technology-oriented we will lose more and more of our perceived privacy, more 
and more of our perceived freedom, and we will learn to love it in the name of 
Mentos ads and Levis jeans. The freedom to buy whatever you want, folks, is not 
the same as true freedom. True freedom is anarchy, and while I do not support 
anarchy (its silly and adolescent) I just wish everyone would realize that.
  Ah, but that's me: ever the optimist. I suppose I ought to wish all of you a 
good 1996, so there you go, all my best in a year that will be marked by 
bloodshed, ripoffs, bad comedy, and dance music, as has every year since, oh, 
dance music was invented. Take care, good luck, and never forget: everyone's an 
asshole, especially ME! (Read: You.)

Love,

The editor

========================================
*** FICTION ***

KISSED THE BUDDHA
by Jeff Somers
========================================

  WE congregated in what I liked to call the Bridal-ready room, a small pastel 
place where the blushing beauty sweated out those empty moments before the 
wedding march. The sharp edge of emergency filled the air and made us grin at 
each other, like jackals, jackals in monkey suits.
  "I can't find him." Tommy said, his hands up in the air.
  "We looked everywhere." I added, just to keep my hand in. "Shit, I wouldn't 
want -"
  She burst into the room in a haze of perfume and creamy whites, followed 
closely by Kirsten and Margaret in pink. We scattered before Jennifer the 
Terrible like eunuchs, grunting into corners of the room and peering at her 
sheepishly.
  "What did you do to him?" she demanded.
  I stepped forward. "We got him drunk."
  Her green eyes, very pretty, fastened onto me and I fought the urge to flinch. 
"And?"
  I shrugged. "I suppose we humiliated him, a little."
  She leaned forward predatorily. "And?"
  I blinked. "And what?"
  "Where is he?!"
  I was getting angry. I could see how mortal men feared Jennifer, I knew she 
usually thought the world rose and set on her perfumed ass and I was even sure 
at times that Benny proposed to her out of fear. But I wasn't afraid of her. I'd 
known chicks like her -I'd dated chicks like her. Tommy rolled his eyes at me 
and Ken just laughed a little into his hand, but I took a step forward.
  "Back down, Jen. Maybe he just realized what a bitch you are."
  I felt that sinking feeling again, that feeling that I'd gone and done it 
again. The room grew silent, and Jennifer the Terrible stared at me for a 
moment. To her right, Kirsten was pissing her panties, laughing at me.
  Jennifer swirled around and stalked away, huffing, leaving the room quiet and 
tense. I'd insulted her, but I believed intensely that Jennifer was in dire need 
of insult. She was the sort of person who needed to be opposed just for the sake 
of opposition. I looked around and sat down on the counter, burying my face in 
my hands and blowing my breath through them.
  "One of these days," I could hear Tommy say, "you're gonna stop saying fucking 
things like that, man."
  I laughed and looked up at him. "Isn't that part of my charm, man?"
  "Ha!" Kirsten barked. "Charm, my ass. Joe, get it through your head that 
people like you in spite of your tendency towards asshole, not because of it." 
She sat down next to me and leaned her head on my shoulder. "What a fucking 
disaster."
  Ken was amused. "You think everyone knows?"
  We all looked around and Margaret cursed. "Of course they do. The groom 
doesn't show up for the wedding? Tough to spin that sucker." She narrowed her 
eyes at me. "You were supposed to get him here, Mr. Best Man."
  "Me?" I smiled. In spite of my headache, this was the best wedding in history.
  Margaret shook her head, presumably in disgust. "I'm gonna check on Jen."
  "Where did you guys look?" Kirsten asked.
  "What the fuck do you mean?" Tommy asked back. "We just checked around here."
  I grinned. "If he ain't here," I said cheerfully, "he could be fucking 
anywhere."
  She was still leaning her head on my shoulder. "Shouldn't we look for him?"
  I caught Ken's, then Tom's eyes. We all shrugged. "I dunno." Tommy said. "What 
if he shows up and we're not here?"
  "I think we should look for him." Kirsten said.
  "That means we ought to look for him, fellas." I said. "When Kay repeats 
herself that means heads are gonna roll."
  Tommy threw his hands up. "This is crazy. What the hell is wrong with that 
asshole?"
  Ken grinned, undoing his tie. "Some might say nothing at all."
  "Hush, you!" Kirsten growled.
  "Okay, okay, let's not bicker amongst ourselves!" I said suddenly. "That's 
just what Ben wants us to do! We've got to think like him, if we're gonna catch 
him! Gotta crawl inside his skin, see things from his point of view."
  "Ugly thought." Ken said.
  We all laughed, and I hung my head.
  "I got his apartment." Tom said.
  "I'll check his Mom's house, and Rosie's." Ken added.
  I looked at Kirsten. "We'll check the reception hall."
  
  "No sign of anybody." I announced, hopping the bar and picking out glasses. 
"Jen's going absolutely batty. Everyone's disappearing."
  "Jen's not so bad, really." Kirsten said with a laugh. "She just thinks you 
guys are bad influences on her Benny."
  "Hell," I complained, "Benny's a bad influence on us, Kay, you know that."
  "I know no such thing." she said primly as I served her a gin and tonic with a 
twist. My uncle Tim owned the place; I'd been crashing receptions my whole life. 
"He's her little angel."
  "Yuck." I leaned back and looked around the place. "You remember when we broke 
in here, back in school?"
  She giggled, holding her drink in her lap with both hands. "Sure. You got me 
drunk and tried to seduce me."
  I goggled at her, and she burst into full laughter. "I never touched you!" I 
protested.
  "I know." she sighed petulantly. "That's the problem." She looked up at me, 
and began laughing again. I watched the open lines of her face and sipped my 
drink.
  "We should get back." she said, finally.
  "Aw, they'll manage enough fret and worry without us, I'm sure. They're all 
too afraid of Jen the Gweat and Tewwible to not be."
  She giggled, then stared at me for a moment, the way she used to when she 
thought I wasn't paying attention. "You don't want him to get married, do you?"
  "Not exactly. I don't want him to marry her. She'll ruin him and make him like 
it.
  "You once told me you were ruined."
  I had said that. I glanced down. "I was a little ruined, back then, but I got 
over it."
  We laughed again, a little.
  "We ought to get going." she said.
  
  Chaos had swamped the church.
  "Joe, thank god!" Tommy panted, running down the church steps to meet us. 
"Ken's gone too."
  "Gone?" I asked, trotting back up with him. "You mean we've got two missing 
men, now?"
  Tommy gave me his dark look, meant to warn you of dark times ahead. 
"Jennifer's ready to spit blood, Joey. It's turning into the worst day of her 
life, man."
  "Brides," I muttered, "so egocentric."
  We paused in the lobby, unsure what, after all, to do about it all. A steady 
hum of dissatisfied patrons and upset fans spilled out from within.
  "Her father has threatened to murder Ben next time he sees him."
  "Great," I said, "so things get worse the longer he's gone, but death is his 
reward for showing up. Great."
  Kirsten was just slightly tipsy. "Well, if he isn't here really soon, it's all 
over."
  "What the hell is he thinking?" Tommy said hotly.
  I sat down in one of the stiff-looking couches. "Can't a guy change his mind? 
He hasn't taken any vows yet."
  Tommy blinked at me as if I'd muttered blasphemy. "Not like this, champ." he 
said, wagging a finger under my nose. "This is cruel and unusual."
  "I have to agree with Toms." Kirsten said happily. "He had up to last night to 
quit with grace. This is just cowardice."
  I was warming up to the fight. "So it's better to give in to ridiculous 
societal pressure and commit your entire life rather than inflict some pain? 
That's cowardice, in my book, and sort of arrogant, too."
  "Oh, man," Tommy groaned, "look who I'm talking to: Mr. Bachelor-for-life"
  "The more important question," I added before he could go on, "is what 
happened to Ken? With Ben we can reasonably guess the motive. What the fuck is 
Ken up to?"
  "You just can't stand losing arguments, can you?" Tommy said with a little 
fire.
  "Huh?"
  "Every time it looks like you're losing the argument, you change the subject. 
You've gotten so good at it I don't think you've lost an argument in years, 
man."
  Kirsten nodded solemnly. "It's true, you know."
  I guessed they had all gone mad, but Margaret saved me by bursting into the 
lobby.
  "Has anyone seen Jennifer?"
  We stared at her. "Don't tell me we've lost the bride, too?" I asked. "We 
might as well give up and go home, now. The chances of witnessing a wedding here 
today are officially zero."
  "Oh, shut up Joe!" Margaret begged. "And help me find her! She's distraught - 
I'm afraid of what she might do!"
  I hauled myself erect slowly. "The Dragon Lady harming herself? Surely you 
jest. I'm more concerned for the innocents around her. All right, I'll check the 
bathrooms."
  I liked the bathroom so much I sat on the sink and lit a cigarette until Tommy 
came looking for me, his face flushed with excitement.
  "Thank god!" he said with a grin. "We thought we'd lost you, too."
  "Not yet, kiddo, but soon enough. Has everyone left yet?"
  "Oh, there's a bunch hanging about looking glum." Tom said leaning against the 
blow dryer, "but everyone knows there's no wedding here today."
  "Jesus," I watched the smoke settle around us, "what do you suppose happened 
to him?"
  "And her."
  I nodded at him. "Okay, both of 'em. You don't suppose they ran off together, 
do you?"
  Tommy laughed. "That's fucking paranoid, champ. Besides, I've never known Jen 
to have that much imagination, you know?"
  "Oh, yeah." I watched him watching the smoke from my cigarette. "Do you think 
you'll ever get married, Tom?"
  "Sure." he said immediately. "You?"
  "I doubt it." I admitted. "Though I'm sure I'll regret its lack, eventually."
  "If you're sure of that, why not get married?"
  I shook my head. "I'd be unhappy. C'mon -just because you regret something 
doesn't mean it's bad for you."
  He nodded, and stared at the blue and white tiles thoughtfully for a moment. I 
studied him, the familiar and strange shadows of his face. Then he looked up and 
grinned. "Aw, fuck it, let's go get a drink."

  We had closed the Full Moon Saloon many a night, in our younger days. Tommy 
and I still wore our tuxedoes -we both declared often and loudly that we had 
paid for them and intended to get our money's worth.
  "I intend to wear it through next week." I said between beers. "Every day, 
every night."
  "Just like your other clothes!" Kirsten said with a grin. I made a face at 
her, and she mimicked me.
  "Children," Tommy admonished, "this ought to be a solemn occasion, eh?"
  I shook my head. "Brother," I said through the flush of a good beer after a 
bad day, "that ain't the way to look at it. One of our own has escaped doom, this is a celebration!"
  Kirsten and Margaret glanced at each other, then turned to eye us coldly. 
Kirsten raised an eyebrow at me. "Doom?"
  I smiled at her eyes. "Not if I were marrying you, Kay." I said. "Only if I 
were forced to settle for someone else."
  She nodded. "That's better." We grinned at each other and looked into each 
other's eyes, for a moment not hearing anything else. When I looked away and the 
rest came rushing back, Tommy was tapping me on the shoulder.
  "Earth to Joey! Ken just walked in."
  Ken was also still in his tuxedo, and he looked fit to split with pleasure, he 
was so pleased with himself. He sighted us and we waved, chattering like old 
women as he crossed the fairly crowded bar.
  "He's got some explaining to do." Kirsten said.
  "I'll bet Ben got married to someone else." Tommy speculated.
  Margaret sniffed. "They've probably just been drinking all day, is all."
  "My God!" I said suddenly and with just enough volume to make them look at me, 
"What if Ken and Ben got married....to each other?"
  They stared at me, and then Ken was there.
  "Hey, folks." he said, grinning, as he turned a chair backwards and sat down. 
"What happened with Jennifer?"
  "Aargh!" I groaned. "He spends all day with our renegade bridegroom, soaking 
up secrets and cracking the codes and now he walks in here with the amazing gall 
to forget that, to ignore our bright and keening need and ask us: what happened 
with Jennifer!"
  Tommy nodded. "yeah, she threw a fit, cried a little, and went home to make 
her father's life hell. Now: where the hell have you been all goddam night?"
  "Really, Ken." Kirsten admonished. "I thought you knew better than to tease 
your friends."
  "If all I'm going to get from my friends is flak and friction, they can all 
fuck off."
  We stared at each other in a sudden quiet, shifting uneasily.
  "Tommy," I said gravely, "you'd better buy Ken a drink."
  We laughed, bought Ken a beer, and watched his face carefully.
  "You'll never guess," he said slowly, "where Benny is right now."
  "Prison?" Tommy offered.
  "Another church entirely?" I said.
  "Married to you?" Kirsten said quietly, and we dissolved into laughter again.
  "He's in Newark."
  We blinked. "Newark, New Jersey?" I asked.
  Ken nodded. "Newark, New Jersey, the ugliest city in the world."
  "My God," I said, "what could have driven him to such lengths?"
  "Oh, for christ's sake." Kirsten grumbled at me. "You make it sound as if he'd 
committed suicide or something."
  "No -that's if he had married Jennifer. That's why we held the wake last 
night." Tommy said, before we could stop him. "Newark's a fucking reprieve, eh?"
  Once again Margaret and Kirsten looked at each other and then glared at me and 
Tom and Ken.
  "Wake?" Margaret asked.
  I glared at Tommy, who grinned and shrugged. "Well," I said carefully, 
conscious of enemies all around. "It was all in fun. The whole bachelor ethic 
and all that. We even had a coffin, a real small toy coffin."
  "For what?" Margaret wanted to know.
  "His sex life." Ken replied.
  "Or rumor thereof." I added.
  She couldn't help herself; Kirsten smiled once and then laughed out loud. 
Margaret didn't. She studied Kirsten for a moment and returned her cool eyes to 
us men. Her disapproval made us laugh again.
  "And you don't think that had something to do with today's tragedy?" Margaret 
demanded, her voice tight.
  "Oh, please." Tommy swore.
  "First of all," I barked, leaning forward and jabbing a finger rudely at her, 
"don't tell me I'm responsible for Benny's decisions. Second, lighten up. It was 
all in fun."
  "Besides," Tommy added straight-faced, "you don't have sex after marriage."
  Kirsten giggled. "Then how do you explain us, kiddo?"
  "Someone had sex." Ken nodded in.
  Tommy shook his head. "That isn't sex, man, that's....marital duty."
  "Amen." I let slip.
  "So what you're saying," Kirsten said in that slow way that indicates you are 
in trouble, "is that you can only truly lust after someone you're not married 
to."
  I could feel we were in dangerous and cherished territory, and so said 
nothing.
  Kirsten shook her head. "I don't buy it. If two people are in love -"
  Ken, Tom, and I moaned in chorus and cut her off, making her smile. "Kay, 
please, let's not argue about the vague vagarities of love and all grey areas in 
between!" I shouted, "I'd much rather hear what Ken has to say about our missing 
groom."
  "Here Here!" Tommy cried, pounding the table.
  We all turned to face Ken, who took us all in with a generous grin. "His Mom's 
house," he began, "was buttoned up tight, and after a few minutes of pounding, 
ringing, and yelling I figured, hell, no one's at home, right? Either that or 
he's hiding under the covers in his room and I figured that if he didn't want to 
be found then I should respect that right? So I went to Rosies, to check. I 
didn't even think it'd be open, huh, but it was."
  "Rosies?" Margaret asked.
  "Just a bar." I said quickly.
  "Yeah - a strip joint." Kirsten laughed. I kicked her a little under the table 
and she threw a napkin at me.
  "Anyway," Ken went on before it could grow ugly. "I just checked in there 
because I know its where Benny goes when he feels like getting drunk."
  "It is?"
  "Trust me, Margaret," I said with a leer, "if you spent a few hours watching 
women shake their tits in your face, you'd start drinking too."
  Kirsten kicked me.
  "Anyway," Ken said pointedly, "there he was, hungover and lounging at the bar 
as if he hadn't a care in the world. He was still wearing his suit from the 
night before."
  "Funeral black." Tommy put in.
  "He actually seemed happy to see me, and he waved me over without hesitation. 
He put an arm around me and tried to buy me a drink, and I tried to gently 
remind him that Jennifer was on the verge of murdering children and small 
animals if he didn't show soon. He just smiled at me. 'Kenny,' he said softly, 
'I can't marry Jen. I don't love her.'"
  Gasps all around. Kirsten and Margaret did that whole oh-my- god routine, and 
Ken waited a few beats like a trained performer.
  "So, I'm like, holy shit! you know? And I ask him what the hell made him 
realize that, and he smiled. 'After you guys left me last night,' he says, 'I 
took a walk to clear my head and contemplate marriage. And it just came to me: I 
don't want to watch Jennifer get old.' That's just what he said, I swear it! I 
don't want to watch Jennifer get old. And that was it. He knew he didn't love 
her, so he couldn't marry her."
  "Pig." Kirsten said menacingly, and then giggled.
  "He could have called." Margaret sniffed.
  "Called? He should have gone over to her house, dragged her out of bed and 
taken his fucking medicine." Tommy spat. "Jenny might be a part-time bitch but 
she deserves better than being humiliated."
  "So, what about Newark?" I asked.
  "Oh, hey, that's the kicker!" Ken dove right back in. "He says to me, 'So, I 
was walking around, waiting for the sun to rise, and I realized why I wasn't in 
love with Jennifer. It's because I'm in love with someone else, and always have 
been.'"
  "Holy shit!" Kirsten gasped.
  "Who?" I demanded.
  "Who?" Tommy echoed.
  "Carol Allando."
  I looked at Tommy, Tommy looked at me. "Carol fucking Allando?" we said in 
unison.
  "Carol," Ken confirmed triumphantly, "fucking Allando." He looked around at 
us, "who just happens to live in Newark, New Jersey now. She's an Oral Hygienist, 
or something."
  "My God," I said, "who's going to tell Jennifer?"
  The horror of it made us pause and stare. We could almost feel her malignant 
weight around us, waiting and watchful.
  "Hey, man; I told the story once." Ken said hurriedly.
  "Didn't Ben call her?" Kirsten asked.
  I laughed. Ken chuckled. Tommy cackled as if it were funnier than it was. 
Kirsten looked at Margaret and they rolled their eyes at each other as if they 
knew something we didn't.
  "Well, someone's got to." Margaret said heavily, standing up. She tapped Tommy 
on the shoulder. "Give me a ride to her place."
  "Oh, Jesus." Tommy groaned, "no one told me this wedding party shit went on 
forever."
  "Stop whining." I snapped. "If things had gone as planned you'd be drunk and 
slow dancing with some little cousin of Ben's."
  He made a face at me and stood up. "Cowards."
  We raised our glasses to him and laughed. "Cowards!"
  Ken stood up. "Well, I've been drinking on and off all day. I'm gonna go home 
and sleep."
  "Bye, Kenny." Kirsten said softly.
  I stood up and shook his hand. "Lay low from Jenny for a while, man. She'll be 
out for blood."
  "Don't worry about me." Ken said with a grin. "You're the one she can't 
stand."
  "Thanks."
  I sat down next to Kirsten and she leaned her head on my shoulder again. "You 
know," I said, "it never ceases to amaze me. I smell like sweat, booze and 
cigarettes, you smell like a fresh breeze."
  "I smell horrible." she disagreed half heartedly.
  "Tired?"
  "Yes."
 
  It was a cool night, crisp and clear, and it woke her up a little. "You ever 
getting married, Joey?"
  Anybody else called me Joey, I corrected them. "I don't think so, Kay."
  "Why not?"
  "I'd be too terrified."
  "My God, that sounds honest."
  "Not me. I always lie."
  We rode in silence for a bit. "You know, you shouldn't be afraid. There's a 
lot to lose, but everything to gain."
  "I wouldn't know."
  "You know."
  Her apartment building swung into view. "Here we are." I said.
  "Here we are."
  We sat for a moment. "Can you honestly say you want to be alone all your life? 
Is hanging out with Ken and Tom until you're too old to rock and roll what 
you're looking for?"
  "Tom's planning to marry, someday." I said.
  "Ken, then."
  "Ken's not so bad."
  She was staring at me. "Don't do that. I hate that." I said.
  "Then answer me."
  More staring. I sighed. "No." I admitted. "Don't crow or anyth - "
  She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. "Call you tomorrow."
  I watched her run up the front steps, and shook my head, laughing.


======================================== 
The Fact that a believer is happier than a skeptic is no more to the point than 
the fact that a drunken man is happier than a sober one. - George Bernard Shaw
======================================== 

WHY NOT SUBSCRIBE TO THE INNER SWINE? $5/year, $9/two years, four issues a year. 
A BARGAIN, YOU CHEAP BASTARDS. Write us at PO Box 3024, Hoboken, NJ 07030 or 
subscriptions@innerswine.com for more information.