========================================
*** THE INNER SWINE ***
Volume 4, Issue 2, June 1998  
www.innerswine.com
========================================

CONCEPT BY Jeff Somers, Robert Gala, Ken West, Jeof Vita 
COVER ART BY Jeof Vita
EDITOR: Jeffrey Somers 
PUBLISHER: Cassie Moore 
WEBMASTERS: Jeof Vita & Ken West
ADVICE & FREE DRINKS:  
PROOFREADER EXTRAORDINAIRE: Karen Accavallo 
OVERALL OFFICIAL COOL CHICK: Lauren Strutzel

OFFICIAL SITCOM: "The Drew Carey Show", and screw everyone who thinks it sucks.
I know Drew Carey. I feel Drew Carey. I am Drew Carey.

FRIENDS OF THE SWINE: Misty S. Quinn, who remains a great friend I love very
much, and who fearlessly supplied "Soylent Green" pictures for the editorial
despite the obvious copyright issues this raised; Lauren L.J. Strutzel, whose
friendship is a treasure,  and whose constant and unsullied support continues to
inspire me, and who still looks damned good in short skirts; Elizabeth
Augoustiniatos,  whom I love very much, for still calling me now and then and
who may end up staying in NYC for a while; Doug Biggert of Tower Magazines for
offering us the faintest hope of monetary gain for this endeavor; Kenneth C.
West and Jeofry M. Vita, for continuing friendship, technical support, and
artwork  -this zine wouldnt be half as good without their efforts, and the Web
Site would still be a pathetic dream without their long hours and know-how,
thanks guys!; Karen Accavallo, my lovely assistant, because she sincerely cannot
understand why calling me a "cow-brained idiot" isnt deemed a token of
affection; Cassie Moore, for ignoring my sad work ethic and for also looking
damned good in short skirts; Nic Fagan-Latorre, who got married and who still
has kind words for us despite our many, many failings.

======================================== 
TABLE OF CONTENTS
========================================

EDITORIAL: "Pig In Shit #11: When I Move, Im Flailing, Now: Getting old is gonna
suck." 
BULLSHIT: "Your Virtual Age" 
COMMENTARY: "The Corruption of Our Posterity: The Real World Fiddles While Our 
Culture is Torched" 
KVETCHING: "The Vast Wasteland: New York Radio Sucks" 
COMMENTARY: "Let The Weak Ones Drown: Social Darwinism Vs. Social Promotion" 
BLATHER: "Big-Hatted Woman, Where Have You Been All My Life?" 
COMMENTARY: "American Wedding Confidential #5: My Evening with the Lunatic" 
FILM COMMENT: "Shut the Fuck Up, Donny" 
FICTION: "Fade Away Comes Later"

----------------------------------------
The Inner Swine Volume 1, Issue 1
(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. Misty Quinn (Left, groping
the Editor with her breasts) will spank anyone who refuses to pay me monetary
gifts. Or, if thats your bag, she will gladly spank you for giving me monetary
gifts. Whatever.

========================================
WHAT THE FUCK'S BEEN GOIN' ON?
========================================

THIS thing called Swine is snowballing into something vaguely resembling a
legitimate enterprise. Welcome, pigs, to issue 4(2) of The Inner Swine. Since
4(1) I have been smoking cigarettes and drinking White Russians and making
passes at my wonderful and intelligent platonic friends, you know, the usual. So
far no pity sex but I think Ken West is cracking. Ill let you know. Other than
my ongoing descent into sleaze and ennui, The Inner Swine got picked up for
distribution by Tower Magazines, and a short story I sold to Another Chicago
Magazine two years ago finally got slated for the June issue. You should go buy
a few copies and write them to demand more Somers fiction.

Zine Reviews: I love getting reviewed by other zines. Its a great ego boost for
a Pig like me, even if the review is negative, so when I get those sample issues
with my name in them I get all excited. However, I dont care to write reviews,
because a) Im lazy, b) this shifts the center of attention off of me for a
moment, and c) the only reviews I ever actually read are about me, and I assume,
in true Inner Swine fashion, that this is true of the rest of you.

Lets not forget the fundamental theme and belief of The Inner Swine, after all:
everyones an asshole, especially us. Zine reviews tend to be one of three types:
a slobbering pat on the back to a friend or idol, a viscious attack to an enemy
or someone on the thin side of cool according to the reviewer, or an earnest
attempt to offer your thoughts on an unseen publication, forgetting for the
moment that very few people want your thoughts. No one wants my thoughts either,
really.

So, I dont review zines, You dont like it, fuck off.

HIT THE SHIT OUT OF IT. Its baseball again, fans, and one the most annoying
aspects of your Editors personality, it has been pointed out to him on numerous
occasions, is his sad devotion to this ancient religion of baseball. The moment
I start getting misty-eyed, making speeches about Opening Day and the joys of
the Double-Play, everyone groans sort of collectively and leaves the room.
People Ive never even met write me and complain about my baseball obsession
(Marc from Azmacourt, you know what I mean). Most people either assume that its
some sort of arrested development, child-abuse issues, or perhaps the ravings of
a sports-challenged idiot.

Maybe. But I write this on April 1st, 1998, bwana, and the newest season has
just begun. The New York Mets won Opening Day at Shea Stadium 1-0 against the
hapless Phillies in grand style, and there I was in the stands with 49,000
fellow fans. I was close enough to the third base side of home plate to see Greg
Jeffries wince when the drunk guy next to me started shouting out the declining
values of his rookie card. We had Curt Schilling throwing the smallest fastballs
in the universe, making a thwump kind of sound everytime it hit the catchers
glove. The game lacked the fast break, the quick-score, fistfights, protective
padding, and everything else were supposed to want in this attention-challenged,
violence-prone nation. And it was beautiful.

I propose a truce: while I feel that the world has finally turned back to me and
all is right in a baseball universe now that I will have boxscores to scan every
morning, I dont intend to sell this to anyone. You dont care for baseball? Fine.
Wallow in your low-rent leagues and leave me alone. I will do the same for you.
If you cant appreciate the delicate perfection of a 3-2 count, then you wont
hear anything from me about it. The Inner Swine is about, first and foremost,
respect.

Unless youre a hockey fan, in which case: get a real sport, you damned Nuck.

========================================  
My Disgustingly Inflated EGO:  
Heres what they're saying about ME:
========================================

Norman Masters sent us another of his tomes-in-letter-form back in late
February, just before issue 4(1) left its happy home. Norman cant seem to decide
if were a fun bunch of people writing entertaining ditties or Satanists who are
so blinded by our cynicsm we cant see how lame we really are. Or at least thats
the jist of the letter; I kept passing out while reading it. While he finds us
"entertaining" , Norman also says (caps are Normans)  "...I would possibly WARN
potential readers that reading 2 or 3 issues--straight thru--in a day or two IS
going to inject a level of MIND POISON as to literally make them SICK (If theyre
really good and spiritually-evolving people)  -so take it in small doses!" This
really put a grin on my face, pigs. Why really good and spiritually-evolving
people would find this trashbin of ennui, apathy and spiritual-bankruptcy
interesting is beyond me. Apparently so they can feel superior to we
bottom-feeders. At least if Im making people sick, I feel like Im accomplishing
something.

Azmacourt checked in with issue #3, wrapped in a shocking pink cover. Of us,
Marc had this to say "Jeff has style, although he refers to the "cherubic"
qualities of his face a tad much...the material being 1/2 good, 1/2 mediocre.
Sorry for the fractions, Jeff, but at least there were no baseball metaphors."
#1, never apologize for fractions. It took ancient man thousands of years to get
that concept, #2, goddammit, can I help it if I have the face of an angel? You
dont know what a burden these good looks are, and  #3. people who dont
appreciate hundreds of baseball metaphors are obviously communists. AC #3 is
nicely done, The use of "nerdy programs" have paid off in a clean and
interesting layout, and the writing is, as usual, very well done. The "Fake
Shit" section is great, and I remove my head from my own fascinating ass long
enough to applaud it. Poor Marc is feeling the sting of negative reactions to
his reviews, and this issue is publicly declared the "friendly" issue. How sad!
Hopefully Marc will dislike TIS 4(1) or 4(2) and write something scalding about
us, to get his mojo back. I advise all Pigs to check out Azmacourt: Marc Parker,
POB 890535, Oklahoma City, OK 73189, azmacourt@aol.com. Go ahead.

Tower Magazines Doug Biggert agreed to distribute us, pigs, so we are finally
edging into legitimate endeavor after years of being a mildly entertaining
vanity project. Look for The Swine on sale in Tower stores starting...well, we
dont know when, because Doug hasnt called back since sending me the nice letter
agreeing to distribute us. When we do hit the retail racks,  DO NOT STEAL THE
SWINE. We will prosecute.

Robert "The Loser" Howington sent me a bunch of stuff, including some of his "25
cent books". He didnt say anything about me, per se, but I mention him here
because The Loser is a busy motherfucker and I like the fact that he puts out so
much stuff. The hardest part of putting out a zine is the immense mountain of
apathy people pile on you constantly. Thanks for the materials, Rob, keep
writing. Anyone interested in reading some of The Losers rants can send him an
SASE: 25 Cent Books, c/o Robert W. "The Loser" Howington, 4405 Bellaire Drive
South #220, Fort Worth, TX 76109-5103, theloser@earthlink.net. I wont say you
wont be disappointed, but what have you got to lose?

Wow Cool in Greenwich Village didnt want to distribute us, but they sent us a
nifty form-letter/postcard to tell us so. Were not sure if it was our level of
quality, or banality, or if we perhaps insulted someone, but we do know this:
when we are raking it in, theyll be sorry. See Hear also declined to carry us,
saying that they doubted theyd make any money off of us, and while we heartily
agree we assumed people would be willing to lose money for us  -who knew? Ah,
the cruelty of financial reality. They did ask to see the next issue (this one),
so they cant be all bad, and I discourage rabid Swine fans from marching down
there to inflict property damage in protest.

MAXIMUMROCKNROLL reviewed us in No. 180, pigs, and were tickled down to our pink
little tails: "...this is one of the more entertaining things Ive read lately,
well thought out articles on pornography and sex on the internet, among others,
all infused with a healthy dose of cynicism and humor, and equal helpings of
alcohol and misanthropy. My mom would not like this, but yours might. Ask her."
(reviewed by Joe Whiting). Thanks! New pigs being added all the time to my
immense empire of influence peddling and muckracking every day, as you can see.
Join now, avoid the backbreaking entrance fees that are the bedrock of Stage
Two. As for MRR, I am dumbfounded by its girth: its a great reminder that no
matter how much I think I know, therere universes of stuff out there I have no
idea about. Anyone who wants in on the punk and zine scene, check em out: $3,
MAXIMUMROCKNROLL, P.O. Box 460760, San Francisco, CA 94146-0760

IN THE "I AM ALWAYS RIGHT" DEPARTMENT: On Superbowl Sunday, after an afternoon
of wing-eating, beer-guzzling, and annoying the hell out of the hostess at Karen
Accavallos house, Ken West turned to me and said "I bet you Bill Clinton gets
impeached. Its a matter of weeks." I leapt up and did a little dance. "Ill take
that action, baby!" I screeched. I bet him ten bucks that the vacuous and
ill-mannered attacks these smallminded conservatives have been peppering ole
wanderin-dick Bill would amount to nothing. April 1st, 1998: The Paula Jones
lawsuit gets tossed out of court, all is right with the world, and Ken West
calls me at work to humbly submit his ten bucks. Dont fuck with the Swine, kids,
well eat you every time.

Ken Bausert of "Passions" traded me a few issues and had this to say about The
Inner Swine: "I really think youre a brilliant writer...but...why would someone
spend so much time and effort on a project like the Swine and then attempt to
turn people off from reading it with such an arrogant and hostile attitude? You
immediately eliminate half the worlds population from potential readership
status with your abundant use of foul language and then insult the people who do
choose to read your work." Yes, thats true enough. Those of us who embrace The
Inner Swine, attitude problem and all, know my answer to that: considering the
dolts and bluenoses who make up the bulk of the worlds population, removing half
of them from potential readership in one fell swoop is really just saving me
time, in the long run.

Still, I appreciate Kens well-intended criticism. So rarely do I get a letter
that isnt a screed against me or a poorly-written insult. Nice to get something
thoughtful and sincere, even if I do disagree with most of the sentiments within
it. And Ken expressed interest in seeing Misty "The Streak" Quinn nekked, so he
obviously appreciates beauty. I encourage all Swine to check out Kens
publication: Passions, 2140 Erma Drive, East Meadow, NY 11554-1120. If you dont
like it, dont come crying to me.

Long-time supporter Christine Reslmaier wrote us and said "In reference to your
New Years Article where you lament so many people agreeing wholeheartedly with
your every statement [3(3)]; just to make you feel better, I do not agree with
most of your stuff  -you just write it in such a way that makes it interesting
to read." Awwwww...sniff, sniff. These kind of fan letters are going to
completely dull my edge. Actually, it aint so much the fan letter as it was the
check for $15 she enclosed. But still...

Paul T. Olson sent me Mars Needs Lawyers! and a one-shot reviewing the Zines of
the Twin Cities called This Town Needs an Enema. As usual, Subgenius stuff makes
me sweat and worry, and Pauls cheerful invitations to send away for Church
literature just makes me sweat more. The Inner Swine revels in ignorance, Paul!
We chew our gruel and smile dopey grins, happy to know nothing that will ever
get us seriously injured!

Still, pigs, Mars Needs Lawyers! is snazzy. I havent read it, and yet I heartily
encourage everyone to send Paul $2 and tell me how it is, which is really how I
get most of my information, in case you couldnt tell from my substandard
editorials. Paul T. Olson, PO Box 3472, Minneapolis, MN 55403.

======================================== 
*** EDITORIAL ***
Pig In Shit #11: 
When I Move Im Flailing, Now
getting old is gonna suck
by Jeff Somers
========================================

"Because theres always gonna be token truth forgotten code, discarded youth You
know theres always gonna be pedigree one own the air, one pay to breathe." 
-NOFX

LISTEN UP folks, heres how its gonna be, and its gonna be bad:

Im still a child, really, I have few laugh lines and I can still get carded in
liquor stores and my life-experience can, in the words of David Foster Wallace,
be written in blunt crayon along the rim of a shot glass. I am, however, much
smarter than most of you, and I find myself contemplating my mortality on an
almost daily basis. The level of fear and irrational weeping that this
contemplation generates leaves my senses raw and fine-tuned, focussed and
primal. In this ongoing hallucination of despair, I often have visions. Once, I
saw John Denver, dressed as the San Diego Chicken, holding a sign that read I
require your pancreas. I have no idea what that might have meant. Another time,
Bea Arthur appeared to me, naked, and sang the theme song from Valley of the
Dolls in a deep voice with a german accent. Once again the meaning of this
vision isnt exactly clear.

On the surface, for those of you who on occasion look beyond the frail borders
of your own life, this might seem like a good time to be getting older in this
country. Medical science sits atop its giddy summit, dazed scientists with
steamed glasses and sweaty balding heads telling us about cloning for
replacement organs, finding the genes that cause everything from facial warts to
death, and the amazing work theyre doing with laser surgery. The economy is
strong and looks to stay that way, and years of watching our grandparents live
in obscure semi-welfare situations has taught us all to save our pennies so well
be able to afford cable and cocktails well into our tenth decade. The country is
aging along with us, so getting old means youre joining the most important
segment of the country in terms of money, political clout, and taste. Getting
old is gonna be great, right?

Wrong, pigs. Youre forgetting the fundamental truth this magazine attempts to
remind us all of: people are pigs. Which is to say, people are self-interested
little shits, even the best of us, and we rarely care much about anything beyond
our narrow vision. Be afraid, because the one thing that never changes, that
never gets corrected, that never even gets addressed in this sad world is this:
the first question on everyones minds is, who the fuck is gonna pay for all
this?

This country is aging faster and uglier than Norma Desmond in "Sunset
Boulevard", kids; in twenty years the majority of the population will be over
forty, middle-aged or worse. Why should this worry you? Lets consider how this
nation has historically treated the two population types described by the terms
elderly and majority: as a whole, it warehouses and infantalizes the elderly,
and shits on the majority despite its democratic posing.

1. The Inconvenience of Mortality: It is undeniable that this country despises
age and glorifies youth. our society is structured around youth, with little
concern for anyone aged out of that category. Past a certain age, humans are
regarded as increasingly incompetent and increasingly burdensome to society. The
elderly are forced to retire, or fired outright. Their incomes  -and their
potential for income  -become limited. They become reliant on the charity of
their families and society in general. Consider the ongoing debate about
cancelling elderly peoples driver licenses: after a certain age, youre
considered a useless appendage, expected to accept gifts gratefully, to live
quiet second childhoods, and to stop making trouble. Even their families, the
one portion of society expected to be respectful and affectionate towards their
ancestors, often warehouse, ignore, abuse or infantalize their elders, treating
them like children  -too busy with their own productive and fleeting youths to
be burdened with the old codgers.

2. The Pyramid Scheme of Majority Rule: For a country so supposedly democratic,
the United States is mostly about the ruthless control of the majority. This is
a grand country and a fine system  -I would never leave and I will defend it
against its enemies if necessary. But, dont kid yourself that the majority rules
in this country. The majority in this country are ignorant, violent people who
have the vision and imagination of feral rats. The aim of any good government is
simply to control this majority, put it to good use, and keep the elite minority
safe from it so they can do the good work.

I dont mind this, because I kid myself that Im part of this elite minority,
bwana.

Now, however, consider that the majority is aging, and the unique problems of
old age take on epidemic proportions. The Health Care system, already ruthless
and expensive and crass, will become a nightmare of loss management and risk
prevention. Social Security and other programs will be feeding frenzies before
they snap and dissolve, bled white. Unless you believe the Fed will be able to
salvage Social Security and its ilk. In which case I have some marshland in
south Jersey I could sell you.

So, getting old in America is probably going to be something out of a 70s
science fiction movie. The Inner Swine is not about empty complaining, however.
FutureWorld may be a horror show of ageism and heartless crowd control, but
there are solutions:

---------------------------------------------------------------
Suggestions for Dealing with Our Aging Population in the Future
---------------------------------------------------------------

"What we need is more order!" - Karen Accavallo

1. The Logans Run Option: We could simply make aging illegal. You turn forty,
all your friends throw you a big party and toast you with cyanide Kool Aid.
Runners would be hunted ruthlessly by Michael York lookalikes (yikes!). Upside:
There would be no elderly generation to worry about, and your newly defined
twilight years would be filled with great parties. Downside: This might have
been more attractive to me ten years ago. I get the feeling thered be no Farrah
Fawcett for me to boink when I ran like a scared rabbit.

2. The Lottery Option: Just like the story by Shirley Jackson, we could hold a
drawing in every community once or twice a year, and the "winners" would be
stoned to death in public. Upside: This would significantly reduce population in
general, creating more room and resources, and would promote a true sense of
community; also, through Darwinism, mankind may actually become luckier.
Downside: even today, when I rely on my luck I usually sustain a physical
injury.

3. Soylent Green is Old People: Looking towards American Hero Charlton Heston
for guidance, we could give the aged and infirm purpose and use by grinding them
up and processing them into a filling, tasteless gruel. Upside: everyone could
feel like they were serving a higher purpose, and thered finally be a cheaper
alternative to Ramen Noodles for starving artists living on the cheap. Downside:
Actually, I cant think of any.

4. The Rotating Population: Perhaps birth controls could be stringently imposed
so that population growth slowed to a crawl, and then large segments of the
population could be frozen and warehoused in cryogenic facilities. Then, by
lottery, groups would be thawed out and allowed to live their lives in a roomy,
easy world. When they die off, the next groups are thawed, and so on. Upside: no
more overcrowding, youd probably always get a cab at rush hour, and there would
be an orderly system to the worlds population, instead of the unsightly chaos we
now enjoy. Downside: certainly, there would be some spoilage.

5. The William Gibson Option: Since the brain is basically a big battery which
houses our consciousness in a complex series of chemical and electrical bonds
and transmissions, why not figure out how to download us onto huge mainframes so
we can live forever as simulations of ourselves? Upside: Without physical
bodies, this whole debate becomes moot. Downside: smartass teenage hackers
breaking your code and remaking you in their own image, and, of course, the
threat of blackouts.

6. The Andromeda Strain Alternative: We could simply use one of those fancy
uber-viruses that the Federal Government has developed, as reported by Stephen
King on many occasions, to wipe out huge portions of the population, thus easing
the problem. Upside: wed all get to die in a patrotic way, serving our country
as test subjects. Downside: number one job after holocaust would be grave
digger/corpse specialist, plus, apparently, youd have some Demon-Man rising up
in the west to take control of the survivors.

7. John Glenn, Trailblazer: Thanks to Senator John Glenn, we can now consider
just rocketing all our older citizens into the dark uncharted depths of space.
If some of them survive to add to our neat pile of knowledge, so much the
better. Upside: someone besides you and me would find out just how dangerous
space is for carbon-based life-forms, until your turn came, and then you could
look on it as a grand adventure. Downside: the Reticulans would make first
contact with someones 85-year-old Uncle Maury and destroy the planet on general
principle.

8. The HAL 2001/SkyNet Process: By focussing all of our energies and resources
towards creating the most advanced and powerful computers ever imagined, we
could turn the problem over to their clear, advanced programming and let them
solve the problem. Upside: the solution would undoubedly be logical and executed
with ruthless efficiency, avoiding all the shaky "deliberation" we humans go
through. Downside: after we finished building our new silicon masters their
robot servants through slave labor, even the youth of the world would start to
look "expendable".

9. Rollerball Murder: As we age into useless senility, why not at least provide
some entertainment value by being drafted into national teams to play a bloody,
senselessly violent sport? This would be especially poignant for those of us who
have lived our decades without demonstrating a reason for our existence. At
least, by entertaining our younger brethren, our lives would have meaning at the
end. Upside: Ratings would soar! And little tykes would bond with their
grandparents by helping them train for the grueling fight-to-the-death sport
their children designed for them. Downside: No celebrating championships,
really, and I never was good at sports.

10. The Reality of the Situation: Or, we could simply price quality health-care
far out of reach of most folks, forcing them into increasingly ghettoized HMOs
and group plans, strip away their basic rights and priveliges one by one until
they are prisoners of their car facilities and "loved ones", creating a whole
population of second-class citizens whose only crime was getting older.

Maybe things arent quite that dire, maybe they are. The fact is that were going
to witness the biggest explosion in population amongst the over-50 set ever, and
I dont think were prepared for it, and I dont think many people my age are even
pondering it  -although we will all have to get together and figure it our, to
avoid any nightmare scenario. I would hope that when I start to grey up Ill be
allowed to have the illusion that my life matters even as the wear and tear of
existence adds up and weighs me down, and that Ill have the decency and
pragmatism to allow others the same freedoms.

Thats why when people ask me if the elderly should have to go through strenuous
tests to renew their drivers licenses, I say absolutely not. Do they sometimes
get confused and crash? Sure. So do I. Once you open up the floodgates to
questioning some groups competency, you cant shut it, you know. After the
license, how long before we start wondering if gramps is a little too senile to
manage his own money, to live alone, to travel, to vote? Not long, I dont think.

Once you start treating people like children, it gets addictive.

Lines always have to be drawn and defended in this world. It would be nice if
traditions remained the same forever, if sacrosanct values never faded and
rotted out. Unfortunately, if you dont pay attention, these sorts of things
shift and crumble, alter and abandon you. If you start erasing the rights and
dignity of those older than you, simply because they are the victims of
diminishing energy, income, and voice, not only are you obviously setting
yourself up for the same fall, one day soon, but youre also nudging the line a
little. Once its okay to restrict one groups rights, its easier to restrict them
a little more next time, and then its easier to restrict someone elses, until
there is no line left to worry about.

So, quit thinking that theres safety in numbers: millions of us, ready to get
old, fast, scares the shit out of the small number of people charged with
running this messy country. If were not careful we will find ourselves part of a
huge, powerless, fucked-over part of the population facing humiliation on one
side and death on the other. Start thinking about it now, pigs, or else get rich
fast. Some things never change.

========================================
*** BULLSHIT ***
The Inner Swine Presents: 
YOUR VIRTUAL AGE 
Or, just how quickly is your half-life collapsing into senile decripitude anyway? 
By Jeff Somers
========================================

Lets face it, pigs, were not getting any younger. Thats one of the few
statements you can still make these days without getting sued by Johnnie Cochran
or Adam Dershowitz  -none of us are actually de-aging. Were all hurtling towards
our own demise, whether by slow DNA exhaustion or through violent criminal
activity, violent stupisity, or illness. However it is youre dying, bwana, face
it: youre dying.

Most of us, however, think in very simplistic terms when it comes to judging how
far along the ladder youve come. Too many of us do the simple math: If the
average age for men in the USA is 73 years, and youre 27, you decide youve got a
little less than five decades to live and relax and order that third tequila
fanny-banger anyway, not realizing that just because youre 27 doesnt mean you
will even make it out of the bar alive. Hell, it doesnt even mean your liver
will make it out of the bar alive. Death lurks everywhere, and you never really
know how long you have. Age is a relative thing. 27 seems young, after all, but
if Im destined to kick the bucket when Im 28, suddenly Im in my golden years.

Since age is a relative concept, it follows that certain factors will affect
your age. Weve all heard the expressions "an old soul" or "wise beyond their
years", et cetera  -but no one ever stops to consider that were all probably
affected to some extent by quiet, underlying factors that age us beyond our
chronological total or regress us back to an earlier age. Certainly no one ever
tries to quantify this. If youve ever sat in a bar with a group of people and
been amazed at how juvenile a couple of drinks makes them, if youve ever been
bored to death by someone your own age going on and on about interest rates, if
youve ever heard yourself say "Jesus Christ, I am getting so OLD!"  -youve
experienced Your Virtual Age.

Virtual Age is a simple concept: simply having existed on this planet for a
certain collection of days doesnt mean youve learned anything, necessarily, nor
does a lack of experience always mean youre immature and giggly. Sometimes we
grow beyond our time, sometimes we get left back. The concept came to your
Editor while he was busily sending inappropriate email messages to the newly
married Nicole "No Relation" Fagan. Desperate to distract me from my relentless
requests for pity sex, Nic changed the subject, speculating about turning 26 and
what it all meant. Obviously, the age of 26 means different things to different
people. The Inner Swine sought the answer, and found it after an evening of
exhaustive research at a local watering hole, wherein we drank White Russians
and quizzed our fellow patrons until the inevitable fight broke out and we had
to be saved by Lauren "Fistfull of Whup-Ass" Strutzel. What we found was simple:
certain factors will make you older, others make you younger. Further
experiments allowed The Inner Swine Labs to quantify each factor, giving us a
plus or minus value to be attached to your age.

Now, for the first time, you can finally find out why your friends bore you, why
you dont get the new bands that are coming out, why youre the only one in your
circle who can manage a bank account, why youre already a father of three when
your old room-mate is still hanging out behind a GasnSip getting stoned (all
right, we probably already know the answer to that one)  -its because youre
probably older or younger than your paperwork would indicate.

One caveat: Virtual Age really only works once youve turned 25 or so and before
youre 35. This is simply because by 25 if you havent fully formed as a person
youre probably either mentally disabled or you did a lot of whippets as a child.
Also, some of these factors require a substantial income, and even if you
started working at 17 and never looked back, chances are youve been getting the
big Screw from The Man since that time, and it takes a while to be able to
afford certain things. If youre not 25, rejoice: theres hope left for you. Get
off your ass and do something. For the rest of us, who have yellowed and
withered and now consider an evening of Must-See-TV a positive experience
because we can just sit quietly, I offer you the official Inner Swine Virtual
Age Chart:

THE OFFICIAL INNER SWINE "VIRTUAL AGE" CHART

If youre 25 or older and you... --->Adjust your age thusly...

own your own home --->add 5 years have a child (only if under 30) --->adds 10
years have a child out of wedlock --->adds 5 years every year until theyre off
to college, at which point you probably die. know how to mix a "Sidecar" --->add
5 years and quick! make one for me! understand Escrow --->add 15 years own a
Lexus --->add 25 years drink coffee on a regular basis --->add 1 year every time
you drink it black, 6 months every time you allow yourself sugar and milk. Mark
yourself "already dead" if you drink more than 6 cups a day. watch PBS regularly
for real --->add 10 years are married --->add 10 years every year, until youre
numb from the neck down. are having an extramarital affair --->add 15 years and
slap yourself still consider the weekend to be three days of uninterrupted
binge-drinking --->subtract 5 years still date nineteen-year-olds --->subtract 5
years get "spoken to" regarding your Casual Day attire --->subtract 5 years
always get fined for filing incorrect or occasionally blank income tax returns
--->subtract 10 years consider 10am "on time" --->subtract 5 years are still
attending college and feel that B.A. is only a "few years away" --->subtract 10
years consider Doritos a food group --->subtract 5 years are still listening to
Dokken records --->subtract 15 years voted for Perot in all sincerity
--->subtract 25 years have suddenly started exercising within the past six
months --->add 5 years quit smoking recently --->subtract 5 years and take a
butt break.  live with smokers --->add 5 years live with smokers and still smoke
--->add 10 years, investigate the costsof oxygen tanks dream about smoking in
sweat-soaked nightmares in which you are chasinggiant lit cigarettes that are
always just out of reach --->add 30 years can now admit that your first concert
was  Rick Springfield --->add 5 years and call the Karen Accavallo helpline:
1800-LUV-RICK  have in any way shape or form color coordinated your home --->add
10 years have ever purchased something from any of the following stores: Ikea,
Pottery Barn, Lechters, The Sharper Image --->add 10 years ride a skateboard
everywhere --->subtract 10 years still wear Converse Chucks --->subtract 15
years actually know what a Herringbone suit looks like --->add 10 years own a
pair of wingtips --->add 10 years can dance any dance aside from the Macarena,
Electric Slide, or Chicken Dance --->add 10 years consider moshing a dance
--->subtract 15 years consider potato chips a vegetable --->subtract 15 years
still eat Ramen Noodles --->add 30 years for sheer intestinal wear and tear
sometimes wonder when the next Def Leppard album is coming out --->subtract 15
years, and keepwondering own a rolex watch --->add 15 years wear cologne --->add
5 years wear cologne that didnt come from a magazine insert --->add 10 years
have a job which requires any sort of licensing process --->add 15 years have a
job that doesnt have the word "assistant" in the title --->add 10 years have a
job that has no title --->subtract 5 years have job that still schedules
"shifts" --->subtract 10 years have no job --->subtract 15 years have a
secretary --->add 20 years know how to tie a Windsor knot --->add 15 years still
get pimples --->subtract 10 years, because everyone else will treat you that
way, natch still wear clothes you wore in high school --->subtract 5 years, but
feel good about it, kid are an actual member of any political party --->add 10
years still get stoned on a regular basis --->subtract 5 years from the brain,
add 5 to the body actually read The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal
--->add 15 years still live with your parents --->subtract 10 years still live
with your parents and your room hasnt been changed in all that time --->subtract
15 years, and one year more for each stuffed animal, Pink Floyd poster, or Star
Wars action figure still on display in your room make so much money you have a
financial advisor --->add 15 years, and call me your little Cabana Boy have a
savings account --->add 10 years and then kick yourself for wasting away at 2%
have ever invested in the stock market --->add 10 years make less than you owe
--->subtract 10 years and welcome to the club! Im not only a member, Im also the
president. consider your income to be your Moms pension checks --->subtract 15
years still get really angry that you have to have a job --->subtract 20 years
wish you were still in school --->subtract 10 years and try to remember the
meaning of the word "deregistered"

Well, there you have it, the first time in history we can quantify exactly how
old we are! By my calculations, I am 1.5 years old. This makes a disturbing
amount of sense, actually. I can only hope that this encourages us to re-think
our outdated concepts of age and maturity, resulting in the dramatic lowering of
the drinking age across the country. The more bleary-eyed 18-year-olds in those
bars, the better chances I have of dating them! Whoops, now I think I have to
recalculate myself down to negative 3.5 years old.

Remember, pigs: life is short no matter how you figure it, and if you waste too
much time it wont matter how old you are, youll be dead. Remember what your
editor always says: what the hell do you MEAN its closing time?!?

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
THE CORRUPTION OF OUR POSTERITY
"The Real World" fiddles while our culture is torched
by Jeff Somers
========================================

I HAVE never really wanted to be a member of the cast of MTVs "The Real World".
As I write this, I have sadly aged beyond their specifications, and am no longer
even theoretically a possibility. In all sincerity, I never really wanted to be,
because I knew that I would have ended up being one of those pitied members of
the house, like that kid in London who wrote plays. You know: the Real Worlder
who doesnt get much screen time because hes mostly seen sitting around in his
underwear having meaningless conversations with his housemates, or tapping
ineffectually at his keyboards, and who goes home at seasons end as the one
member of whom none of the viewers have a strong opinion. Usually they cant even
remember his name. As a test, try to remember the name of that kid in London.
See? But everyone remembers Puck.

Knowing yourself is a powerful tool in life. I know that I do not have the sort
of personality that leaps off the TV screen and assaults you. It usually takes a
night of steady conversation and steadier drinking before people realize how
immensely wonderful I am. Its tough to convince major TV networks to film you
for hours and hours of meandering flirtation, argument, and humor so subtle it
slinks along the floorboards, biting peoples ankles, so I have pretty much given
up on that television career, for now. At least until the Revolution, when I
expect to be named Chancellor of The Ministry of Truth, controlling the
government-run broadcasts.

My friend and drinking buddy Joef Vita once sent a tape of himself to The Real
World, hoping to be chosen. I think he had a good shot at it, with his brash
personality and ridiculous hair style; he was a Filipino cartoonist and I
suspect he was in the running at some point because that season they went with a
Filipino and a cartoonist (the dull-as-sand Judd). Jeof was obviously too much
for them as he was, so they split him into two people to dilute the power of his
hair. At any rate, another reason I suspect he didnt make the cut is that he let
me film his submission video.

Now, however, I am glad that Jeof didnt make it. This was before The Inner Swine
was born anyway so I couldnt have used his televised appearances as promotional
fodder, so there really wouldnt have been anything in it for me, and as I ponder
"The Real World" these days I grow increasingly negative towards it depsite the
fact that I am hooked on it like a ravenous skinjob. I cant resist watching,
because its a voyeuristic joy to see these maroons makes asses of themselves on
the air, but when I think about the lasting impression this show is leaving
behind, I start to think that maybe it isnt such a good idea. Our posterity is
being corrupted, in the video age. My fellow pigs, were making ourselves look
bad.

Future Archeology: For those of us who firmly believe that someday the world as
we know it will be blown away either by man-made thermonuclear acident or
nature-run holocaust-slash-millenial spring cleaning, its fun to think about how
future generations will perceive the mighty United States of America and the fat
and lazy Western Culture it floats upon, like soap film in bathwater. Assuming,
of course, that the denizens of FutureWorld can pull themselves away from the
Thunderdome long enough to start re-building society and taking an interest in
something like History and Archeology again. Unlike past civilizations, were
leaving behind constant reams of records: newspapers, books, CDs, computerized
records, films, videos  -everything in this modern world, is, after all,
televised.

Up until a few years ago, everything in this world except our simple everyday
lives was televised, but now "The Real World" has taken care of that as well. So
when the Mad Max kids of the future start sorting through it all, they wont just
have documentaries about World War Two to sift through, theyll have filmed
records of what it was like to live everyday lives as a normal citizen of these
United States. I dont know about you, but having these twenty-something
dickheads representing this vast culture is kind of distressing to me.

Whats that, you say? "The Real World" is about as close to your everyday life as
Uranus is to Pittsburgh? Well, theres my point, little piglet: no one in
Waterworld is going to know that. Do you know anything about how the Sumerians
lived in 200 BC? Now, if archeologists turned up videos of Sumerians from that
time, youd probably apply what you saw universally to the Sumerian civilization
(right before you set up the ALIENS ARE WELCOME HERE landing sight in your
backyard, since a video from that time would sort of prove the whol theory of
the Pyramids as Alien monoliths). So the THX-1138 Brownshirts dig of those Real
World tapes, and theyre going to think that everyone in this country is a) a
moron, b) emotionally stunted, c) incapable of judging their appearance, and d)
unable to hold down or even recognize the value of a job. Theyre going to wonder
how it was we ruled the world.

I dont blame the kids. I used to be one of them. I still am, in many dangerously
stunted  ways. Theyre just being young and indiscreet, after all; Im sure a
great many of them are embarrassed to death by their Real World histories,
especially those kids from the first one, who are closing in on 30 now and
probably have to endure endless cheerful jibes about their temper tantrums on
screen. I blame MTV: every year they distribute twenty or so more hours of this
sort of embarrasing cultural immaturity, adding to the chance that these tapes
will survive in some form to ruin or future reputation.

Think about it: past cultures significant enough to be studied and investigated
didnt have this problem. Preserving works for future generations was such a
laborious process that only the good stuff was copied. During the Dark Ages, the
Monks scribbling away in their drafty monasteries werent wasting their time
making a hundred copies of Beavis and Butthead Do America, after all; the
important stuff had to take priority. So when we went sifting through it all
later on, thats all we found: the good stuff. Sure, we know that the Romans and
the Greeks and all had their dirty laundry and their laughable cultural faux
pas, but its not common knowledge, and Im sure that a lot of Roman and Greek
souls are heartily glad for it.

Today, however, recording things for posterity is so easy that everything gets
preserved. Not only in mass media, but within our own families a lot of useless
and embarrassing history is preserved, forever, unsullied by time or
interpretation. I certainly dont want furture scientists studying home movies of
my first toilet training (Ill be known as the "Bowl Boy" in the research papers
published about the film) when trying to make sense of this period of lost
history, but at least I know that with the preservation techniques practiced by
my family the chances of that piece of moldering film surviving through
armageddon are slim, at best. But MTV? Theyve got those Real World reruns on
master tapes, in digital format, in vaults that will withstand the mushroom
clouds. That stuffs gonna be there for The Postman to trip over, trust me.

Forget about the great things our country has contributed to the world. Forget
The Scarlet Letter, The Raven, The Declaration of Independence. Forget the films
and documentaries, the plays and recordings. None of it will matter once the
future men get a load of "The Real World Marathon". Our reputation will be
doomed, and theyll move on to British TV archives, where they at least have a
lot of state-sponsored highbrow stuff to balance out the Bennie Hill and
Absolutely Fabulous embarrassments.

======================================== 
*** KVETCHING ***
THE VAST WASTELAND
New York Radio Sucks
by Jeff Somers
========================================

SOMETIMES, I like to kid myself that this rag is international and in demand.
The truth, of course, is that I can barely manage to give them away and the
strongest reaction I get from people about it are negative: vomiting, insults,
court orders. Even those reactions are rare moments of extremity for The Inner
Swine; usually I can only drum up mild apathy.

Still, in order to support my delusion that were internationally known, I
usually try to keep the themes and topics in here relatively universal, just in
case the people I mail these to in South Dakota really do read it, or the kids
Wes Hegg forces them on up in Canada actually thumb through it. I try to avoid
region-specific topics and stay big. However, sometimes a mans outrage is just
too much and he must voice his opinion even if only a small number of people are
even in a position to comprehend the complaint. Thats the way it is with me and
New York Citys radio stations: I know most of you dont give a shit, but I have
to say something. Ill try to keep it short.

Back when I was thirteen there seemed to be some sort of Nazi organization that
made sure all the top-40 radio stations played the same songs, from coast to
coast, from Boise to Austin. This shadowy cabal seemed to be headed up by our
friend Casey Kasem, whose smiling visage announced the number one song in the
country every week. There was no deliberation. Thats why everyone who grew up
listening to the radio in the 80s remembers every hit song there was, and can
sing it, on demand, name the artist, and possibly even give you its peak chart
position.

Nowadays, of course, top-40s empire has crumbled into several baby-lists. There
are three different #1 singles every week according to Casey Kasem (still alive
and still frightening me with his zombie-like delivery) depending on which
market you live in. The number one song in the country is generally regarded as
the lamest piece of shit the rubes will shell out for (Celine Dion, anyone?) and
most of us have fallen back on our personal best-ofs, investing more and more
money into the personal stereo so we can turn off the radio and listen to good
music for a change. Because, you see, New York City radio has sunk to such a low
that I often think of resorting to violence.

My taste in music is pretty normal for a lame white kid who grew up raised
mostly by the Puerto-Rican kids across the street: a lot of your basic white
blues classic rock (Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Aerosmith) left over from my
younger days, a little rap (Public Enemy, Ice-T, L L Cool J) left over from my
brief white guilt phase, a lot of heavy metal hair bands (Queensryche, Def
Leppard, Iron Maiden), and, more recently, punk and less definable bands (Too
Much Joy (of course!), NOFX, Sublime, Pavement). Nothing shocking, but thats a
stupid goal and I never pursue it. I like what I like and could not care less
how mainstream, insipid, or dull you think it is. I am always looking for
something new, however, because one lesson I learned from Led Zeppelin et al is
that Black Dog on the 800th listen has no surprises left for you. I still like
Black Dog. But I change the station when it comes on, because Ive heard it often
enough to last me my whole life, you know?

Try and hear something new and exciting on the radio, though, and you will be
sorely disappointed in New York City. With the exception of the college stations
(of course), you would have better luck starting a fire with just your brain
power than you would finding something new and exciting on the radio here. Here
are some of your choices in New York (please note that I only have an opinion
about the lame white-boy stations I actually tune into):

92.3 FM KROC: This is our "alternradio" in NYC, believe it or not, despite the
fact that it plays at least three Guns N Roses songs a day. This is the biggest
bullshit station in the universe, full of fake attitude and manufactured
rebellion. They have a typical "alternative" playlist: Green Day, Bush, Nirvana,
Pearl Jam (yawn)  -the list is pretty much what youd expect. Oh yeah, and Tool.
They play more Tool than Tool really deserves, is all Im gonna say. The fact is,
KROC is a completely corporate whore station that plays what theyre paid to play
and pretends its a trailblazing station. Its basically the same station that its
evil masters have going in LA and other ports; its like the USA has become the
biggest open air mall in the universe and KROC is the muzak system,
simultaneously playing the crap that the demographic experts say we want. In
between the endless repetition of the Tool song, they also endlessly repeat the
usual "alternative" staples (Smells Like Teen Spirit, Alive, Jeremy, Come Down,
whatever) which are quickly approaching Black Dog in appeal-status, for me.
Their "new" songs are either songs that have been around forever and have
finally spiked the sales high enough for the idiots who run this station to
notice the smell of money around it, or are the new band being promoted by their
corporate masters, played over and over again. Their contempt for their audience
is chilling.

95.5 WPLJ: What I can say positively about PLJ is they make no bones about their
boredom level. They play pop hits from the 80s and 90s, as long as its frothy,
was a big hit, and has no edge whatsoever. Were talking a station that plays
Celine Dion constantly, spicing this "mix" up with old Huey Lewis tunes, some
current dangerous bands like Matchbox 20 or Hootie. Hootie was made by stations
like this, eagerly searching for inoffensive but earnest pop songs that passed
the time, which pretty much sums up Hootie. Theres nothing wrong with PLJ, if
youre looking for bland but catchy tunes that have been proven already (not
liking the risk involved in listening to something truly new) and they certainly
enjoy their format sincerely.

100.3 WHTZ: Dance the night away with Z-100. What a crappy station. In-between
endless disco remixes they play incongruent hits by such un-rhythmic artists
such as the increasingly inescapable Celine Dion, Green Day, or whatever  -aping
their top-40 forebears by sticking to whatevers popular. This results in a safe
and slightly schizo format where you are guaranteed pretty much the lowest
common denominator of pop music. Makes me want to wretch every time they play
"My Heart Will Go On" with the dialogue mixed in. Sometimes I do wretch.

102.7 WNEW: This ancient station is trying desperately to convince itself it
isnt an oldies station. They play the new Aerosmith songs with an excited
reverence that makes me giggle. Theyve still got Scott Muni, for gods sakes, on
the payroll  -heres a man who wasnt all that relevant back in 1967, still
rumbling over the airwaves about the Beatles and such. Plus, plays Black Dog way
too much for my delicate constitution. The next time you hear something new on
this station, it will be a different station.

105.1 W???: I cant even begin to tell you how terrible this lite-FM wannabe is.
I heard "Heaven Is a Place on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle on it last week.
Wretch.

105.5 WDHA: This station remains blissfully ignorant of modern life, it seems.
This is actually a New Jersey station, with a format that is one half
alterna-pap and one half classic gems. In other words, Black Dog and the new
Black Dog, Alive. Back to back. A lot. They will sometimes play something a
little tasty, but on the whole its  a pretty safe place to hear George Thorogood
songs.

104.3 WHTQ: Q-104 is what WNEW used to be: a dinosaur station that lumbers along
leaving behind droppings of Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, and Deep Purple. The only
thing less exciting than the music they offer is their new "wild" morning host,
Darien OToole, who on the whole sounds as desperate and futile as Danny
Bonaduce, who works for 105.1. Theyre in the same market as Howard Stern. Like
the Christians in ancient Rome, you gotta pity them, but for gods sake, you dont
have to listen to them. (Or Howard, for that matter; hes a funny guy but for god
sakes, who wants to know his opinions on things?)

There are other stations, of course. Somehow I still manage to hear something
new and interesting every now and then. For the most part, however, you have
three basic choices: ancient, monolithic classic rock (where you can hear Rocket
Man twice a day  -four times if you change stations often enough!), newer but
equally monolithic "alternative" rock (where you can hear that nifty Tool song
about six times a day), or dance music, which I have no opinion on at all aside
from I dont like it. Just because Smells Like Teen Spirit is only six years old
(my GOD, six years?) doesnt mean it hasnt been played to death. KROC beats its
horse every day, though, timidly attracting ratings with its limp-wristed punk
ripoff bands and uselessly formulated "alternative" constructs like Bush,
Matchbox 20, or any of the eleven-hundred sound-alike bands out there. The term
alternative has become a humorous one, a flag that the smart people avoid,
because only the true morons of the industry are using it in their marketing,
now.

Sigh. What can you do? You can search for the small, carefully hidden stations,
put up with the general incompetence of the college stations, or just keep your
ears open for the minor scraps that poke through. This is New York, though. Its
supposed to be easier here, right? When, in fact, its harder. Theres too much
money in this market to squander any of it on some high-risk unknown band. I
dream of starting my own pirate radio station, like in Pump Up the Volume, so I
could play my entire collection from beginning to end. I would, of course, kick
it all off with Black Dog.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
LET THE WEAK ONES DROWN 
Social Darwinism Vs. Social Promotion 
by Jeff Somers
========================================

My whole life, Ive been busy doing things assigned to me.

Im not sure where it started, whether it was my parents influence or television,
Cub Scouts or some other perverse light shining on my pale, chubby skin back
when I was but a lad.  At some point my febrile brain equated the approval of
authority figures with the very stuff of security and happiness. Hell, it was
probably all that Romper Room. From that moment until I was in my rebellious
teens, school was just my job, just a place I had to go and do a bunch of stuff
and then go home and get approved of. By the time I thought to wonder about this
cozy situation, it was too late: I was a good student. Even in my worst years,
in which I am still currently embroiled, I perform better on standardized tests
than most of you, and could write a paper on a novel Ive never even heard of,
much less read, in less than a week and get an "A". Somewhere along the line, I
was hardwired for school and that was that. Does that make me a brainwashed
zombie goose-stepping to the shadowy cabals beat? Probably. Who cares,
rebellions a shell game too. Were all fucked.

I still believe in going through the motions of caring, though: The big issue in
education these days is Social Promotion, which is the practice of promoting
kids to the next grade whether or not they have accomplished the goals of the
previous grade. In other words, just because Johnny cant read and got a big fat
F in math, well move him into the fifth grade anyway. The reasoning behind this
is that leaving kids back would cause such irreparable psychic damage that any
hope of rescuing them from the downward slope of ignorance would be lost. Better
to let them hang with their friends in the hopes that this cozy emotional
cushion would help them finally get with the program. Critics naturally point
out the obvious fact that this means we are often promoting, and eventually
graduating, absolute morons. It doesnt take long for the quality of these
diplomas to become common knowledge amongst potential employers, who quickly
come to regard hiring these simians akin to keeping a pet around the office.

I spent the first eight years of my educational career in the public grammar
schools of Jersey City, New Jersey. After that my parents, God Bless em, feared
for my life and shunted me off to a private high school run by hard-nosed
Jesuits in Jersey City. (The public High Schools in Jersey City are the sorts of
places, I am told by trusted and more adventurous confidants, where nice pale
boys like me either turn to hard narcotics for solace or are last seen entering
the library, chased by several members of the Crips.) I know a little bit about
social promotion. Half the idiots I graduated with were socially promoted. I
think one of them is still alive.

Social promotion is, to put it as clearly as I can, a major case of the assholes
winning, and I can think of three good reasons to stop doing it, even though
that would probably result in a 50% failure rate in New York City alone (Chicago
did it cold turkey one day a few years ago and immediately had to fail 35% of
its high school students. Some Chicagoans are still hiding in their basements,
awaiting the riots). Number one, let the stupid motherfuckers know that theyre
morons instead of treating them like the disabled, number two, stop treating
them like the disabled and maybe well find some of them arent morons, and number
three, keep those stupid motherfuckers as far away from me as possible. I dont
care about the potential psychic damage inflicted on these poor kids, I dont
care that they might suffer lowered self esteem as they repeat the fourth grade
for the fifth year in a row. There is a certain point where stupid people should
just accept the fact that theyre stupid, and let the rest of us get on with the
busy work of running the planet and making the decisions. There are a lot of
burgers to be fried out there, and the sooner they get started the sooner that
glaze-eyed ennui will set in and make it bearable.

Trust me: I hurt because I care.

I do not give in to the simpering liberal bullshit that demands we treat
everyone equally in spite of their defects and lackings. I certainly never
expected to make the football team simply because I showed up every day and ate
lunch in the same cafeteria. We all have defects and lackings, goddammit, and if
yours happens to be a brain just large enough to handle your cardiovascular
system and little else, well, too fucking bad. the sooner someone takes you
aside and hands you a mop the better. Passing you in the name of not hurting
your reptilian feelings is not an answer, its a dodge. Its a way of absolving
ourselves of responsibility and guilt, because we gave the morons every chance.
We put them through grade after grade and kept supporting them and nurturing
them, and when they go on to be morons we can shrug happily and say, hell, we
tried.

I think about some of the idiots I graduated grammar school with. Some of them
undoubtedly managed to pull their heads from their asses and have made good.
Some maybe are even decent people to have a drink with. Who knows? I never will,
thats for sure. Most of them, Id bet, are just as stupid and narrow and dull as
ever, only theyve been pushed through the grey colon of the public school
system, given a diploma, and sent out to fend for themselves in a world which
very rarely offers social promotion. Ive certainly never been promoted in order
to keep me with my peer group, so I dont get too depressed about sucking at my
job and watching my life degenerate into a tasty melange of failure,
humiliation, and fear.

Some would say thats its easy for me to take this harsh position, since I am
obviously the product of not only a decent education, but a supportive and at
least moderately intelligent family life, while a great many of the challenged
students in the world do not have these advantages. To that I say, with a full
grin and a rakish wink, that is just too fucking bad.

Every human is capable of amazing things, even the morons. The least intelligent
of us can still pretty much accomplish all manner of impressive feats. No one
ever got off their ass and did anything unless properly motivated to do so. If
you treat people like fragile little children who could not possibly handle the
spectre of failure, you will get exactly what you deserve: pathetic morons who
are so pathetic they dont even know theyre morons. Can you possibly think of
anything sadder?

I do not propose that anyone be branded with a scarlet letter "M" for moron and
left to collect dust after failing their third consecutive math test in the
third grade. Give everyone an equal chance, and all they have to do is pass the
same tests everyone else passes in order to advance and be rewarded. Not so
hard. I did it. Most of the people I know (most of whom are not very bright, as
far as I can tell) did it. And after thirteen years if you cant manage to pass a
few simple tests, well, babe, grab a spatula and start frying, because youre
screwed. And theres nothing my liberal urges can do to change that: you screwed
yourself years ago, long before we got to this point. Its too late. Youre a
moron.

Ah, the sharp scent of vitriol and hubris, my favorite dressing. Ive been busy
doing things assigned to me my whole life, chumps, I played the game and have
been rewarded with debt, despair, and dental insurance. You dont think that
occasionally makes me a little fucking angry?

Fuck it. Its just me and showbiz, now.

========================================
*** BLATHER *** 
BIG-HATTED WOMAN, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE? 
A Day in the Life of Your Editor: 
The Saint Patricks Day Parade in Hoboken, New Jersey 
By Jeff Somers
========================================

Back in March I was invited to the home town of two of my lovely assistants,
known here as Mandy Cuervo and Carolyn Millivanilli in order to protect their
reputations, to watch a lame parade and then drink all day. What follows is a
report on our activities. It is my hope that this will help others who are
victims of the "Big Hats" at these parades; my therapy is ongoing.

TIME LINE OF THE BIG HATS

11:30am: I arrive. Mandy, is frying bacon naked in the kitchen. Carolyn had
already drank a whole bottle of champagne and was passed out on the floor. I
step over her gently.

12:00 noon: The sound of the Clancy Brothers on the stereo awakens Carolyn, who
immediately begins a painful, off-key wailing I quickly identify as singing.
Mandy has put on overalls. I sneak into Carolyns room to phone Ken West
desperately, promising him 50 dollars if he will join us.

12:30 pm: After consuming six pounds of bacon and two Mimosas each, I am
experiencing heart palpitations,  Carolyn is once again unconscious and Mandy
threatens to disrobe again to attend the parade "alfresco". I bundle the women
out the door and we march up to Washington Street, which shows absolutely no
signs of a parade occuring there this day.

1:00pm: We meet friends and friends-of-friends at Sullivans bar for a drink. The
friends-of-friends are snooty, and Mandy tearfully threatens everyone in the bar
with serial nudity unless they are nice to her. Carolyn quickly attracts a crowd
of men, and dances for them.

1:05pm: Having been politely asked to leave by the Bars management, we strike
boldly out to find a good viewing place for the parade.

1:06pm: distracted by a bar called  Mile Square, we enter to bolster our resolve
with a pint and the women don attractive, humongous, bright green hats which are
just slightly larger than the women themselves. Carolyn gathers a crowd of
drunken men around her and allows them to place things in her hat. Mandy
pretends she has "lost" her socks, a foreboding warning of things to come.

1:30pm: while the women hoot and flash the bagpipers marching by, I notice
police forming a line around us and closing in, so I begin backing away slowly.
Ken West arrives and attacks us with Silly String. Mandy is delighted and claims
his silly string has "ruined" her T-shirt, and happily removes it. We decide to
move on and have to extricate Carolyn from a large crowd of police, who are
clapping their hands and hollering as she dances for them.

2:00pm: We arrive at a bar called Henneseys, where Carolyn immediately finds a
group of men to surround herself with. Ken, Mandy and I have drinks at the bar.
Mandys hat keeps overbalancing her, and she eventually finishes our visit there
sitting on the floor, drinking anything handed to her. When we leave to get
pizza, she has mysteriously lost her brassiere.

3:00pm: At a bar called Willie McBrides, a large crowd of men are waiting for
us, applauding Carolyn and holding banners that read "CAROLYN MILLIVANILLI WE
LOVE YOU". We enter the bar with great difficulty due to dangerous crowding.
Carolyn holds court by the bar in the back while Mandy and I are nauseated by a
"dirty" dancing couple next to us. Ken arrives in the nick of time to demand we
leave immediately. We must resort to force to remove Carolyn from her admirers,
and in the scuffle, Mandy loses her overalls.

5:00pm: We are at The Quiet Woman after several other bars, aware of the
disturbances the women have been causing, refuse to admit us. At The Quiet Woman
Carolyn quickly assembles a small group of men to entertain her. Ken and I talk
baseball in a quiet corner. Mandy is now wearing her large hat around herself,
as clothing. She keeps bugging Ken and I to dance with her, but we refuse,
knowing that this is just a ruse so she can "lose" her underwear as well.

5:10pm: Mandy has "lost" her underwear anyway, and Ken boogies with her,
defeated.

10:00pm: I find myself walking along Park Avenue towards Morans; I have no idea
where the past five hours have gone. Mandy is nude excpet for the huge hat she
is wearing on her head. Ken has the grim look of a concentration-camp survivor.
I smell like Minestrone and vaguely remember the women dancing on the bar to the
tune of "Mexican Radio". A large mob of men follows us at a safe distance,
watching to see where Carolyn goes next.

10:15pm: At Morans Tavern, Carolyns arrival causes a riot. We drink Baileys and
Ken and I get separated from the women as a huge wave of men enters to surround
Carolyn. I claim to be Mandys brother.

2:00am: We leave Morans to have pizza and leftovers at the chicks house. Mandy
reveals that she has been hiding her clothing in her hat. Ken wisely leaves, but
I am too weak and am wrestled to the ground and robbed by the women, who taunt
me, calling me "little man". I am cast out into the street and my pants are
removed.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
American Wedding Confidential #5:
My Evening with the Lunatic
by Jeff Somers
========================================

AND THEN THE RAINS CAME: For the past four issues of The Inner Swine, Ive been
celebrating the various benefits and joys of being a wasted bachelor at a
wedding, especially if youre just the rent-a-date for the evening, bearding some
lesbian or doing a favor for a between-boyfriends lady pal. Singing happy paeans
to buffets, open bars, and easy chicks in tight formal wear, I may have
forgotten to explore an equally important facet of the swinging gigolos wedding
experience: the dark side.

Oh, its there. I didnt think so myself until a few years ago. Behind the free
booze, between the drunkenly wanton bridesmaids, hidden by the blinding light of
the camera capturing the Loco-Motion forever, eternally, winks the grinning leer
of The Darkness, waiting for some sucker in a bad suit like me to innocently
wander in. I started my long, slow walk into the darkness when Insane Co-worker
#23 invited me to her friends wedding one day, about five minutes after shed
told me she liked me a whole lot and Id blithely given her the memorized and
oft-used (believe it or not) "were better off being friends but I will always be
there for you" speech. Usually when I give that speech I mean it, and I meant it
at that moment; even though I am running the other way as fast as I can whenever
someone wants to date me, I usually do want to be just friends.

I hadnt yet realized that Insane Co-worker #23 was, well, insane.

Perhaps the timing of her invite should have been a clue. After someone cries a
little and tells you how shitty their lives are and then hints that maybe you
could be a ray of light in that mess, and after youve replied with the "Id
rather eat cat feces than date you but I will always be there for you, as a
platonic friend who refuses to give you his home phone number" speech, who in
their right mind could then refuse an earnest invitation to a wedding? Maybe the
sort of bastards I wish I were more like could manage it, but I am far too
afraid of my own evil to do it. So I gave in to the manipulative bullshit and
said, yes, of course I would go to the wedding with her.

And theres The Darkness, pigs: when you start showing up at weddings
willy-nilly, eating and drinking and flirting with abandon, inevitably youre
going to get nailed. People know you like to go to weddings. They know you
encourage the practice of inviting you. So when someone like Insane Co-worker
#23 slithers up and invites you, you have no excuses. Youre Wedding Man. As the
months went by between then and the wedding, I realized with slow dawning horror
two simple facts: 1. Insane Co-worker #23 was not putting her feelings for me
behind her as quickly as I would have wished her to, and 2. this wedding was
already the longest night of my life and it hadnt even started yet.

The day of the wedding dawned grey and stormy: a Noreaster had floated into town
and the world was a quick foxtrot from a Tropical Storm. I was driving. Driving
being an optimistic term for what was really 93% floating. I set out bravely,
asking my Mom to take care of my stuff and leaving behind sealed envelopes for
all of my friends to open in the event of my death, or mental breakdown. I went
and got #23, who wore something that probably would have been irresistible on a
woman I had some vague interest in. I was already counting the hours; she had
just begun the seduction.

The wedding itself was a miracle of perseverance. As the soaked and unamused
guests arrived at the drafty and cavernous church, an angry-mob sort of
atmosphere started to form like a cloud around us, I sat with #23 as quietly as
I could, feeling the pulse of The Darkness all around us. She chattered
cheerfully about how great weddings were and how beautiful her friend was. I
chewed my nails and once again spent an unsatisfying few minutes trying to
figure out what, exactly, was attractive about me.

Between the ceremony and the reception we had what amounted to thirty thousand
years of free time, and I pondered worriedly what #23 and I would do to pass the
time. She got us invited back to her friend the brides grandparents house, which
sounded good until we got there and realized that we were the only people
invited. I quickly accepted a stiff drink and locked myself in the bathroom with
it for a few moments, contemplating either crawling out the window or drowning
myself in the toilet. In the end I had the guts to do neither, so I emerged and
sat down next to #23. She sat close to me, letting me smell her, which is a
favorite trick of girls that I usually dont mind at all.

But this time all I could smell was: The Darkness.

The reception was fairly big and energetic and I began drinking immediately. So
did #23, which I tried to subtly discourage. After two hours, however, #23 was
fairly blitzed and dragged me onto the dance floor for some dirty dancing,
grinding against me with what she imagined was seductive fervor. Hell, maybe it
was. I couldnt tell with all that Darkness ringing in my ears. I danced my Bill
Murray dances with the wide-eyed look of deer in headlights and brain surgery
malpractice plaintiffs, feeling her smear The Darkness all over me with every
disco beat.

At one point the band mercifully played I Will Survive and I was able to
convince #23 that it wasnt appropriate for me to dance with her to that one, so
she found her friend the bride and I spent a few soul-muting moments sitting at
our table with the other men, smoking a cigarette and wondering how it had all
come down to this. The other men didnt give a shit.

When we finally escaped the reception, we found the entire eastern seaboard
submerged under water. I grimly drove into the flood. I spent a grueling two
hours driving her home, balked at several moments by immense lakes of water
where there had once been roads. The citizens were out looting and burning
civilization down and I could see the Nazgul circling overhead waiting for the
car to give out and strand me as The Darkness summoned its minions and prepared
for its triumph. I would not be stopped. Against all reason, all hope, all
rationality, I kept driving, often in reverse for several minutes at a time,
until I sat idling outside her apartment, hands white-knuckled on the wheel,
panting.

#23 still thought the night had gone well and, more disturbingly, thought the
night was young. She chatted for a few minutes about a good time this and a fun
night that, and then invited me up. I had looked down the hairy maw of The
Darkness, however, and such simple horrors no longer held any pain for me. I
still had my good-guy fetish, however, and told her sincerely that I had to get
up early, I was tired  -girls, youve heard it all before, albeit usually after
the sex. She seemed to accept this and said good night, but as I leaned over to
give her a parting peck on the cheek, I could see her positioning herself,
giving me ample view of her neckline, ample opportunity to let my aim drift a
bit and perhaps reconsider the soft sound of her stockings rubbing together, the
rain, the perfume in my car.

Around me, I heard The Darkness laughing.

Hastily, I pecked her on the cheek no matter how difficult she made it for me,
and reached around her seductively to unlatch the door and push it open,
grinning madly as she stumbled out with the table centerpiece and a look of
shock on her face. I waved, slammed the door, and sped off, leaving #23 and The
Darkness standing there in the rain.

========================================
*** FILM COMMENT ***
Shut the Fuck Up, Donny 
Dislike and Disdain in Coen Brothers Films
by Jeff Somers
========================================

THE INNER SWINE is alive and well and creeping around every community on the
earth. The basic selfishness, self-interest, and uncharitable intent that define
the Swine (and thus the entire human race, in the Swines sweaty opinion) rises
off everyone, like steam on a hot summer day. You can smell it in the subways,
on the farms, in the oceans and hotel rooms. The Inner Swine is not simply a
theory, its a force of nature and you can ascertain that for yourself any time
you wish, just by taking a deep breath and savoring the rank, acidic smell of
evil that is all around you. Just be careful not to mix up your personal evil
scent with someone elses. It all starts to smell the same, after a while.

So, we look for the signs of the Swine wherever we go: in people, in
advertisements, in church announcements, and especially in the popular arts. We
like to identify the obvious Swines who are out there openly declaring their
evil. While most of the egotistical and unabashedly decadent performers and
artists out there, like most of us, clothe their Swinish tendencies in brightly
plumed bullshit (charitable donations, lip-service to peace, love, and all that
horseshit, paeans to love) some actually throw off the technicolor coat of
acceptable BS and proudly show themselves to be a part of The Darkness. We
salute these Swines. Theyre not good people, we dont claim theyre brave or smart
or even particularly noble. Theyre just honest about the fact that theyre pigs,
baby, and we here at The Inner Swine can dig it.

The Coen brothers, writers/directors/producers of the films Blood Simple,
Raising Arizona, Millers Crossing, Barton Fink, The Hudsucker Proxy, Fargo, and
The Big Lebowski, are, without any doubt, two of the biggest Swines to ever gain
national distribution of their films. Put simply, The Coens absolute dislike and
disdain for their fellow human beings is almost a palpable story element in
every one of their films. They hate us. They make no bones about hating us. And
we love them for it.

---------------------------------------------------------------
"Look into your heart, Tommy!" "What Heart?" - Millers Crossing
---------------------------------------------------------------

Violence is a major component in each of the Coen Brothers films, both outwardly
directed violence against another character and, somehow worse, inward violence
inflicted against the self. The Coen Borthers create universes where life and
the cozy conditions required to sustain it hang by the barest threads, and they
remind their audience of the bizarre and often completely random way you can be
gutted from stem to stern by their fellow human beings. The Coens put forth the
firm belief that all humans are basically simmering time bombs of murderous
intent, and if pushed far enough anyone can start shooting.

Millers Crossing is a perfect example of this theme. While all of their movies
have a nerve-racking hint of senseless violence to them  -Blood Simple revolves
around a typical noir murder plot, Raising Arizona is a comedy about a baby
kidnaped from its happy home and raised by escaped convicts, essentially, Barton
Fink turns on the murder of a woman and the possibility that her head is encased
in a box and carried around by the protagonist, The Hudsucker Proxy, which
sports the least amount of outward violence of all their films, also sports
three suicides, even if two of them fail, Fargo traces the downward spiral into
animalistic homicide of several people, one of whom is presented to us as a
normal guy with a family, and The Big Lebowski celebrates the joys of kidnaping,
blackmail, property damage, and bullying with excited gusto- Millers Crossing
beats them all due not only to the sheer number of murders and attempted
murders, but in the main characters complete inability to defend himself.
Millers Crossing can be seen pretty easily as a lesson in mans defenselessness
against the violent whims of both nature and his fellow man.

Tom Regan, played with flinty irish alcoholism by Gabriel Byrne, begins the film
at the height of security: he is the number one right hand man of the local
political boss of a vaguely defined city in a vaguely defined time period very
much like the 1930s during prohibition. He is welcomed everywhere, powerful,
well-liked, privileged because he has the trust and faith of the godfather of
the irish mob that runs the town. Then, through a plot which echoes any number
of older crime novels from the period (most notably The Glass Key by Dashiel
Hammet, which gives the Coens their plot, pretty much scene for scene) he loses
it all: his security, his position, his personal safety. By the end of the film
he has regained it all, through his own cunning and planning and courage, but
just as he regains all he had lost, he walks away  -having learned that the
cosmos can and will fuck you over without warning, justice, or reason.

During Toms fall and subsequent scramble to regain his security, the Coens
remind us of the brutal randomness of life by beating the hell out of Tom on a
regular basis. Tom takes a beating several times during the film, and each one
is savage and, most importantly, completely unexpected. Tom gets hit as he walks
out of rooms, after meeting with a rival boss, by his mistress, as he turns to
exit a phone booth  -each time he is knocked off his feet and loses his hat
(Toms hat being a symbol of his personal power and control) and each time it is
completely unexpected. He ends up nursing his new wounds and wondering where
that one came from  -never gaining any ability to predict these encounters. By
the end of the movie Tom has put things right again  -his boss is back on top
and peace has come to the town. But Tom Regan walks away, realizing, after all
those fists to his face, that not only will life fuck you over without a moments
notice, but it is usually your fellow human being, your friend and lovers, who
will be doing the screwing. The Coens delight in showing us how primitive and
hair-trigger violent we all can be, if placed in the proper situation.

---------------------------------------------------------------
"Shut the Fuck Up, Donny!" - The Big Lebowski
---------------------------------------------------------------

Akin to violence is the lack of sincere communication in the Coen Brothers
movies. The characters within often use communication or a denial of it in a
violent way, stupidly ignoring facts or advice or emotion and defending their
own ignorance. The tone and insulting word choice of many Coen Brothers
characters echoes the extreme violence, and underlines the belief that people
are, in general, dumb animals constrained against violence by the barest of
threads.

The dynamic between John Goodmans character and the character of Donny in The
Big Lebowski perfectly illustrates the Coens attitude toward people. Donny is an
odd character, floating on the edges, never really a part of things, always
trying to catch up on conversations he isnt part of. John Goodman treats Donny
with thinly-veiled violence, the phrase "Shut the fuck up, Donny!" is virtually
all he says to him through the entire movie. Donny is constantly, pathetically,
attempting to communicate and he is met with scorn, derision, and insults
delivered in a tone of voice and level of volume usually associated with an
enemy  -and yet these characters are presented as friends, with supposed
emotional ties to each other. That John Goodmans character handles argumentative
or combative situations by drawing a loaded gun and threatening his fellows is
also telling.

The Coen Brothers present us worlds in which no one really listens to each
other, in which petty differences can mushroom into murderous violence without
warning. The communication barriers are plain and painful. Witness Fargos car
salesman, plotting to have his wife kidnaped in order to make a small profit and
ease his financial burdens, sitting on the phone with the loan officer
requesting paperwork to prove that the cars they loaned money on were really
bought. William H. Macy smiles, doodles nervously, and speaks in circles,
forcing polite cheer in the place of sense and lucidity. The car salesman
speaks, says nothing, and no one can understand him. After his own animal rises
up and inadvertently causes the death of not only his wife and father-in-law but
two other people as well, its no surprise in a Coen Brothers universe that he
ends up howling inarticulately, like a beast, as he arrested in a nameless motel
room.

People talk in Coen Brothers movies, but nobody really listens.

---------------------------------------------------------------
"You know, for kids!" - The Hudsucker Proxy
---------------------------------------------------------------

The final insult we, as their audience, take when we watch a Coen Brothers movie
is the proclamation that our desires, usually small and petty to begin with,
will amount to nothing. The implication found in all these films is that even
our most wretched hopes and plans will be ruined by either our own stupidity or
by the immense and purposeless violence intended for us for no reason by our
fellows. Their films are filled with characters who not only fail to achieve
whatever modest goals they have set for themselves, but who usually cause
immense disaster due directly to their insipid and futile attempts to make a
change.

Consider: the couple in Raising Arizona simply want a family, but their warped
attempts to create a family cause nothing but suffering and chaos. The idiotic
hero of The Hudsucker Proxy does manage to make himself famous and rich
momentarily, but in the end his pursuit of his goals leaves him a broken man
jumping out of a window. In Fargo, the car salesmans minor dream of paying off
his illicit debts results in a bloodbath and his own ruin. In The Big Lebowski,
the main character simply wishes to have a ruined rug replaced. This minor goal,
and his apathetic efforts towards it, result in a mess that indirectly kills one
of his friends. The Coens paint everyone not only as prisoners of violence and
our primal, dumb urges, but as futile prisoners: everything we idiots try, they
seem to be saying, is doomed. And will probably get all our friends killed.

The basic tenets of a Coen Borthers film are these: 1) people are dumb and do
not listen to anything they do not already agree with. 2) People are inherently
violent and are capable of incredible crimes with very little motivation.  3)
Life can easily be upset and ruined by random acts of such violence, against
which we have no defense.   4) Thus, all of our hopes and dreams are doomed,
only were too dumb to realize it, and if we do attain some minor and short-lived
success, were too dim to prepare for the ruin about to rain down upon us. They
really do hate us.

So, in short, the Coen Brothers view their fellow humans as stupid, violent, sad
people who will never get what they want. We here at The Inner Swine celebrate
this. Why? Because its an honest opinion, and one we tend to share. People are
stupid. People are senselessly violent. People usually do fail in their attempts
to attain anything greater than themselves. The Coen Brothers dont dress sup
their hatred of their fellows with any false sentiment or ludicrous faith; they
know were all pigs, and theyre not afraid to say so. For that, The Inner Swine
salutes them.

========================================
*** FICTION ***
Fade Away Comes Later
By Jeff Somers 
========================================

"For I have known them all already, known them all"

1.

The bathroom had three stalls, three urinals, and two sinks. None of the stalls
had doors. The urinals, yellowed and veined with dark lines, were stuffed with
cigarettes. Pale yellow tiles lined the floor imperfectly, gaps staring up at
the pipe-laced ceiling. The mirror which stretched the length of the sinks was
cracked, a spiderweb of impact inching to each of the four corners. one of the
faucets leaked, dripping into the dusty bowl of the sink steadily, endlessly,
marking off the increments of its own particular time.

A steady buzz of silence filled the room, the hum of lights only heard in empty
places. Every now and then something creaked.

The door, wooden, with slats at the bottom for ventilation, burst inward, and
the woman sailed into the bathroom clumsily, airborne for almost five feet
before crashing onto the tiles and sliding, leaving a thin smear of blood.
Stopped, she gasped for a second or two and then scrambled to the far wall,
staring back with wide eyes, blue and bruised.

The doorway was crowded with men; the three of them moved into the bathroom
slowly, the last one shutting the door gently behind him. The trio stood,
looking scruffy despite the dark blue suits and long coats they wore. They were
unshaven, their hair was long, pale and unkempt; their faces overshadowed their
neat suits.

One stood in front of the other two, holding a gnarled, shiny black walking
stick, twisted and petrified, covered in ancient thorns. His hair was grey, long
and curly, sloppily cut and still down to his shoulders. His eyes were grey as
well, faded and clear, steady and relentless as he stared at the woman pushing
herself into the far wall.

The ones behind him had darker hair, but both were flecked with grey. The one to
the leaders right was oriental, small and wire-limbed, and kept a hand on the
gun in his shoulder holster, smiling secretly to himself. The third wore
sunglasses and sucked on a lollipop, leaning rakishly against the ruined door,
hands in his pockets, jingling change. Every now and then he shifted the
lollipop from one corner of his mouth to the other.

The woman, eyes wide, sniffled back blood and swallowed. She tried, without
success, to breathe more quietly.

"Gwen," the grey-haired leader said in a conversational tone, "Gwen, do you
believe that were not kidding, now?"

She rubbed blood from her eyes and stared, opening her mouth as if to say
something and then shutting it with a click.

He shook his head, tisking softly. He wandered over to a urinal and pulled the
handle down, listening to the pipes groan and rumble, sending brown water to mix
with cigarettes. "It was stupid to get in my way, Gwen. It was dumb to ignore
tradition and resort to these petty little brutalities. You forgot what we are
and got down in the muck with the Briefs  -but you forgot that I can be petty
with the best of them." He turned to her, smiling, holding his cane in both
hands. "Gwen, you broke the rules."

"Now," the one with the lollipop said stickily, "we break you."

The oriental laughed darkly.

"Metzger," the woman whispered, her voice shaking, "you arent Warlord, you cant
-"

The stick smashed into the mirror, sending shards of glass cascading into the
sinks. The leader switched it into his other hand and advanced on her, teeth
bared, broken and yellowed. "Warlord, eh? Well, if Harrows and Wallard want a
war, Gwendoline, theyve got one! You want to see whos a fucking Warlord, Gwen?
You broke the rules, Gwen, you broke the rules!" he stood over her for a moment,
and they stared at each other, diluted blue into faded grey.

"Go to God, Gwen." he whispered, and then brought the stick down, thorns sinking
into her. Yanking it free, he smashed it down again, and again, until he stepped
back, breathing hard, and stared down at a battered corpse.

After a few moments, he leaned in again and brought the stick down two handed,
grunting with each impact.

The oriental waited patiently for a little while, and then raised his hand to
his mouth and coughed into it lightly.

Metzger whirled and stalked to the door, where he paused to let the oriental
open it for him. "Boys," he said, "were at war." He walked out, his cane
clicking on the floor.

The larger one plucked the lollipop from his mouth and moved after them,
chuckling. "Dont worry, sir, the MetzGingll give em hell."

2.

He wore a plastic PRESS ID clipped to his raincoat, and walked amongst the
police staring about balefully. He was pale and gaunt, with dark bags below his
eyes and a hunched, suspicious posture, hands in pockets and head down. An
unfiltered cigarette dangled listlessly from his lips, and his bourbon breakfast
hung about him like oil on water. The cops eyed him doubtfully as he stood near
the body, staring down with squinted eyes, breathing heavily.

"You Philip Marks?"

The man with the PRESS ID turned slowly to peer at a sharp-nosed detective.
"Yeah." He turned back to regard the corpse, blinking as flashes went off. Blood
had pooled around the woman, a disturbing amount.

"Howd you get in, Marks? And why hasnt anyone thrown you out?"

Marks shrugged. "I got in somehow, and everyone assumes that if Im in, I must
have been cleared." He held a finger to his lips. "Sssssh. Dont tell anyone."

The cop regarded him blankly for a moment, then held out a hand. "Detective
Kieth. Ty Kieth."

Marks turned and stared at the extended hand for a moment before shaking it
limply, his eyes slipping to the detectives. "Hello, Mister Kieth."

"Detective Kieth."

"Detective Kieth. What do you make of her?" Marks asked, gesturing at the corpse
with his cigarette.

Kieth smiled, a wide, face-splitting action that was far too toothy to be
heartfelt. "So you are a reporter! The rumors of your demise were greatly
exaggerated, Mr. Marks."

Marks didnt look at Kieth. he continued to stare at the body, as if he hadnt
heard and still waited a reply. After a moment Kieth cleared his throat, the
smile draining away. "Ahem. Female Caucasian, estimated between thirty and fifty
years of age. red hair, greying. Eye color...unattainable at present. Multiple
contusions and puncture marks, several broken bones, entire skull pretty much
caved in, smashed to pieces. We assume a number of assailants, working her over
with sticks or bats." He pulled a pad from his pocket and checked it. "No sign
of robbery." He looked up, awaiting a reply.

Marks nodded, and stared.

After a moment, Kieth shrugged. "Howd you beat the rest of them here, Marks, and
get past the uniforms outside?"

Marks sighed. "Youre going to bug me, arent you?"

Kieth shrugged again. "Youre going to write about me, its only fair I bug you."
His face threatened to grin again.

Marks shook his head. "Not about you, Kieth. Her."

Kieth opened his mouth, paused, and seemed about to gather a second wind when he
was called away. Marks didnt notice where he went. After a few seconds he made
eye contact with a young uniform and motioned him over.

"What was her name, officer?" he asked. When the uniform hesitated, Marks
nodded, his smile oddly winning on his skeletal face. "Detective Kieth said I
should get the details from you. Is that right?" he pulled out a pad in a
gesture he had learned from television. "What was your name again?"

Instantly, the uniform brightened. "Phillips. Thos Phillips. What paper do you
write for, Mr. -?"

Marks smiled. He had always prided himself in an ability to pick out the dumbest
shit in any operation. He sometimes frightened himself with this ability.
"Hayes. Darren Hayes, and I write the crime beat for the Times." Without taking
his eyes off the younger mans, he reached up and casually unclipped his PRESS
ID, slipping it into his pocket as he talked. "Is that Phillips with two Ls?" he
asked, his smile sitting on his face like a half-hearted imitation of Ty Kieths
high-wattage edition.

"Two Ls." Phillips agreed.

"Thanks, officer. What did you say the victims name was?"

Phillips sighed and looked at the body greenly. "According to her wallet,
Gwendoline Pierce. Detective Kieth says that the license looks faked, but well
know for sure before the days out." He took off his cap and ran a hand through
his damp hair, shaking his head slowly. "Christ, someone must have had a really
good reason, Mr. Hayes."

Marks snorted. "Sure. Thanks, officer."

Phillips stood next to the reporter for a few minutes, expectant, and then moved
off to look busy. Marks didnt notice where he went. The reporter circled the
body, getting in several peoples way as his brown eyes slid around, studying.
Occasionally, he wrote something down in his pad, pausing between notes to
scratch his cheek with the pen.

He turned, and found Ty Kieth once again at his side, his grin subdued but still
itching across his face. Marks raised an eyebrow, and then sighed. "Hello again,
Detective. Any ideas?"

Kieth forced a laugh. "Ive been here for two hours, and you want me to
reconstruct the crime!" he laughed again. "Would you like the address of the
killer, or just their name?"

Marks didnt smile. "Can I quote you on that, Detective?" he asked, poising his
pen on the pad.

Kieths grin dried up. "No sense of humor, eh, Marks?"

Marks smile was brief and sunny. "Say something funny, Kieth, and Ill laugh."

Kieths eyes squinted up. "Tyler!" he snapped over his shoulder. A burly officer
appeared, black and ominous. "Tyler, show Mr. Marks to the street."

Marks, his smile less bright but still present, put his pad back in his pocket
and pulled a pack of cigarettes out. Shaking a gasper out, he placed it in his
mouth and nodded. "Thanks for your time, Detective." He found some matches and
lit up,. "But I can find the street myself." He turned and walked off.

"Who was that, sir?" Tyler asked.

"I dont know." Kieth snapped, and then shrugged. "He used to be a reporter, but
something happened."

3.

"Hello, Fred."

Fred Tiller looked up from where he sat hunched on a park bench. "What do you
want, Phil?"

It was a cold day, the sun was bright but its light was watery and cool and
offered no heat. Fred Tiller took his lunches in the park year round, despite
snow or rain or wind. Everyone who knew him knew he could be found there, Monday
through Friday, eating a sandwich and just watching the pigeons. He was an older
man with a balding head of curly grey hair and a long, narrow face that hinted
at someone who liked to correct other peoples grammar.

Philip Marks sat down on the bench next to him. "I need a favor, Fred."

Tiller rolled his eyes and carefully place his tuna salad on the wax paper in
his lap. "Christ, Phil. I havent seen you in what? Two years? You look like
hell. No ones seen you. For all intents and purposes, you retired. Looks to me
like youve been drinking as a profession since then. Now you want a favor? Go
home. Dry out. Get your shit together. Then call me and well have dinner, like
civilized people." He tore a small piece of bread off his sandwich and tossed it
to the birds. "Besides, I dont recall owing you any more favors."

Marks glanced down at his hands, which shook slightly. "Ive got a story."

Tiller didnt look at him. He watched the pigeons fight each other. "Youve got to
be kidding me."

Marks looked up and stared at Tillers face. "Fred, please."

The older man closed his eyes and leaned back into the bench. "All right, say
your piece, Phil. But you know I cant get you your old job back."

"But you could print a piece, if I wrote it."

"I could Phil." Tiller said expressionlessly. "Whats the story?"

Marks started speaking immediately. "A few hours ago, the cops found a body DOA
in the old library, beaten...well, with something spiked." Tiller opened his
eyes at this, and stared at the clouds. "Faked ID, from what I could tell.
Pretty savage."

Tiller waited a beat. "So?"

Marks nodded. "So  -about ten years ago  -and a few years before that- two
similar murders. Beaten by a spiked weapon, savagely. Fake IDs. No positive ID
ever made, cases remain unsolved homicides of John Does. Almost the same
circumstances."

Tiller waited another beat, and then glanced sideways at Marks. "You got records
of this?"

Marks nodded, taking a deep breath. "The two seemed like a mystery to me back
then, so I kept a file. I cant make any solid connections, but -"

Tiller held up his hand. "Okay, okay, Phil." He sighed, looking back at the
pigeons. "I cant make any promises. The papers been sold twice since
your...incident. If you bring me something good, I can maybe get you a few
inches. Maybe your name will convince those British fuckers to give you some PR.
But first you gotta give me a story. Without something on paper, Phil, youre
still a ghost as far as theyre concerned."

Marks nodded, but he looked at his hands again. "I was famous, Fred."

Fred nodded, still keeping his eyes far away from Marks. "Now youre nobody,
Phil."

Marks nodded. "Until I write this story."

At the old library, Ty Kieth watched distractedly as the white coats cart the
body away. He sat on the sinks, his sharp nose pinched by thick bifocals that
made him seem bug-eyed. He tousled his thinning black hair and sighed, closing
his eyes.

When he opened them again, Officer Tyler stood in front of him, a wall of black
and blue.

"We wrapped here, Tyler?" Kieth asked.

"Yes, sir." The uniformed officer hesitated. "Any ideas, Detective?"

"Nothing yet. Listen, do me a favor and look up that Marks guy. Philip Marks.
One L. Used to be a reporter. Had a big local following doing specials on weird
crimes, real strange stuff. Looks like hes been living in a bottle for a few
years. Find out wheres hes living and if hes working anywhere. And Tyler," the
Detective looked around. "If need be, can I count on you for some leaning?"

Tyler didnt grin, but looked like he wanted to. "Sure, TK, sure. You think itll
be necessary?"

Kieth shrugged, playing with his purple and brown tie. "Just dont want him
bringing bullshit into my investigation, is all."

"Sure sir." Tyler said, and turned away.

Ty Kieth watched the big man walk off. He took his glasses off and looked around
the bathroom, at the yellow tiles and the shattered mirror, and then at the
stained tiles where the body had lain. He stared for a while, and then slid off
the sinks and walked out, tucking his glasses into his checkered shirt pocket.

4.

The two people walking down the street both wore long, dark coats, but after
that the resemblance ended. Still, the people they passed remembered them as
twins. Both were tall, wore dark glasses, and sported long hair, but they were
different people. He was broad shouldered and muscular, his face scarred badly 
-almost a design of shiny pink marks. His hands, hidden in the pockets of his
long coat, were also nicked, threaded with webs of old wounds. His face was
tight and unwrinkled, closely shaven. His ears each sported six plain gold hoop
earrings, small and unobtrusive. Grey hair touched the middle of his back in a
long pony tail, perfectly straight. Behind his dark glasses, his eyes were grey
as well.

She was slim, her face stern and plain, her hair shorter. She walked as if she
expected people to get out of her way, and they did. Her hair was black,
streaked in white, framing her pale face in curls. Behind her sunglasses, her
eyes were a slightly darker shade of grey than her partners, bloodshot and
unblinking.

They walked side by side. She looked straight ahead, he seemed to watch
everything, his head turning at every slightest movement around them. They
imposed their way down the block and paused in front of an old, run-down
brownstone. The woman checked a slip of paper and nodded; they walked up the
steps and he held the door open for her. They walked up the stairs and the man
seemed ready to anything. He was tense and his eyes, freed from their glasses,
moved constantly, searching every shadow they encountered.

On the third floor they went to a door marked 3A. The man listened at it for
some time before knocking authoritatively. Then he stood back, hands at his
sides, on the balls of his feet.

The door opened, and Philip K. Marks regarded them groggily. After a moment of
surprise, he cleared his throat and finished threading his arm into the sleeve
of his shirt. He stood there for a moment, then, unshaven, in a pair of pants
and an open shirt. He tried not to be conscious of it.

"Yes?"

The woman stepped forward. "Mr. Marks? Mr. Philip K. Marks?" Her voice was deep
and old.

Marks eyes flicked to the hulking figure behind her as he considered the pros
and cons of the truth. Finally, he nodded. His head ached with every shaky
heartbeat, his eyes kept watering up, and he hadnt finished vomiting yet. He
didnt have it in him to lie, just yet, he thought. "Yes. And you are?"

"May we come in and talk in private, Mr. Marks?" she said, looking around. "Who
knows who might pop up in a dark place like this?"

The big mans lips skinned back to reveal teeth. Marks stared, swallowed, and
tightened his grip on the door. His heart beat crazily, and his eyes didnt want
to focus.

"Um, what did you say your names were?"

She stared for a moment. "My name is Janice Wallard, Mr. Marks, and this is my
associate, Adam Harrows."

"Pleased," Harrows growled, grinning, "to meet you."

Marks stood for a moment, and then pushed the door open, stepping aside. For
some reason, he felt better knowing their names. "Come in, then." She moved past
him. The man followed, but as he passed Marks, the reporter put a hand on his
chest and the big man stopped to look down at him.

"Just so you know, Mr. Harrows," Marks said quietly, "that automatic crowding
your shoulder is pretty obvious."

Harrows smiled again. It was only slightly different from his snarl. "Its meant
to be, friend." he said, and finished squeezing through the door. Marks took a
deep breath and shut it, turning to face his visitors.

"So what is this, Miss Wallard? A collection agency?"

Wallard was holding up a newspaper clipping. "You are the Philip Marks who wrote
this?"

Marks thrust his shaky hands into his pockets and moved away from the door. His
apartment was three rooms and a toilet, but it was his and he fought a
ridiculous urge to clean up. To keep busy, he pulled the almost empty bottle of
gin from the kitchen table and sat down behind the old, beaten desk which lurked
gloomily by the one window. He put his feet up because he was nervous, sipped
stale liquor, and blinked, trying to read the clipping through blurred eyes.

"Let me see that. Can I offer you two anything?" he asked. "Wallard shook her
head, once. "No, Mr. Marks."

Marks didnt need to read the clipping to know that the headline read MYSTERIOUS
MURDER LINKED TO DECADES-OLD KILLINGS. He smiled. It had only been a few days;
he was still kidding himself. "Yes, I wrote that."

"Stop."

He looked up as sharply as his blurry head allowed. "What?"

"Stop writing about it, Mr. Marks. Stop making connections, or youll be involved
in far too much for you to handle."

He looked at her set, hard face and then at her hulking companion. "So you came
here to scare me." he said quietly, his face draining and becoming bland.
Wallard noted the change quietly. "I dont scare easily. I guess Gwendoline
Pierce  -or whatever her name was- was an associate of yours, Miss Wallard?"

Her bloodshot eyes flashed. "Dont dare to presume to ask me questions!"

Marks stared back at her blankly. "Why not, Miss Wallard?"

The big man growled, but she held up a hand. "Youve got a lot of nerve, Mr.
Marks, for a man being threatened."

Marks grin was watery as he threw his arms wide. "Yeah, well, as you can see,
Ive got so much to live for, miss Wallard. Threat received, understood, and
taken under consideration. Now take the Goon and leave me alone." His sandpaper
tongue rubbed bone-dry teeth, and he was sure she was just going to let Harrows
kill him. He tried not to let his eyes get too wide, and he refused to lick his
lips.

Wallard paced, her eyes enraged, her face calm and stone-like. "Mr. Marks, Im
trying to warn you. Im trying to save you."

Marks swallowed, wincing. Heart pounding, he sipped gin. "Funny way you have of
showing concern, Miss Wallard." he managed to say without his voice cracking.
"Next time bring some smaller member of the animal kingdom and leave this
gorilla behind." He tried the smile hed learned from Ty Kieth on Adam Harrows,
beaming with all his might.

Harrows grinned back, teeth white, sharp, and filling his mouth completely. He
held up a scarred hand, wiggling fingers. "Opposable thumbs, Marks." he said
brightly. "Maybe Ill use them to strangle you, someday."

Marks heart skipped another beat, but Wallard raised her hand in annoyance.
"Adam, stop. Youre getting too cocky for my own good."

Immediately, Harrows sobered, and looked down at his shoes.

"Marks," Wallard said tightly, "Im telling you to stop now or get hurt  -get
killed-  and not by us. Im trying to help, Marks." She gestured. "Harrows, the
door." She spoke over her shoulder as the pair moved away. "If you keep poking
your nose into this, someone less polite might find you. This is private, Marks,
do you hear me? Private."

Harrows scanned the hallway, nodded to himself, and the two swept out of the
apartment, slamming the door shut behind them.

Marks stared into the dusty silence for a few seconds, and then he was up, the
bottle dropped to the floor. he ran around the apartment, buttoning his shirt
and searching for shoes. A minute later he scrambled down the stairs, throwing
on a jacket anc clutching a pair of dark glasses. He skidded into the street and
saw the pair walking down the street. He ran after them for a half block and
then slowed to a wheezy walk, trying to look casual as he searched desperately
for cigarettes.

They wandered, it seemed, and appeared to be chatting casually. Marks still had
the impression that the big one, Harrows, was walking on his toes with one hand
on his gun.

After another few minutes he was sure they were wandering, and he thought maybe
theyd sense the pursuit or seen him. They cut through the park, walking like an
old married couple amongst the pigeons, and as Marks began to consider giving up
they paused at a corner long enough for a limousine to roll up, collect them,
and rumble off.

Writing the plates down on his hand, he spit bits of tobacco out and thought
about the fact that it hadnt been a rental.

When Marks got home, he sat down briskly behind his desk and picked up the old
rotary phone sitting on it. He dialed quickly, from memory. The place stank of
gin.

His face was blank as he leaned back, listening to phantom rings and chewing his
lip. After a moment he leaned forward, shifting the receiver to his shoulder as
he searched his desk.

"Hello? Yes, could I speak to Mary Stone, please? Yes, Ill hold."

Drawers opened and slammed shut, until, finally, he found a lighter.

"Mary? Hey there, Mare, its Phil Marks. Yeah. Fine  -you?"

He fumbled out the cigarettes and lit one, leaning again and rubbing his eyes.
"Did you? Yeah, thanks. I think the vacation is over."

Silently, he listened.

"As a matter of fact, yeah." He laughed, forced and quick. "No, not insurance
scams. I just need you to run a limo plate through your computer for me. Ill owe
you dinner. Huh?" his smile was more genuine, but not very happy. "Saturday?"
His eyes landed on the broken glass on the floor. "How about Friday? Okay, its a
date. Yeah, I know its been a long time. You ready?" He waited, and then read
off the plate number.

As he waited, he played with the lighter.

"Wait, Mare, wait  -" he searched his desk again and found a pen, and after
another minutes search he just held out his hand again. "Go ahead."

"Okay. Janice Wallard, 2323 Palermo Drive. Private vehicle. Okay. Thats it?" he
listened. "Okay, thanks Mare. Ill call you tomorrow. Yeah, its good to talk to
you, too. Yeah. Okay. Okay. Bye."

He hung up the phone and looked around at the dusty chaos of stuff around him.
He opened one of the drawers again, removed a half-full bottle of bourbon, and
then a pad of paper. He transferred the information on his hand to the pad, and
dropped the pen with a triumphant finality. Standing and grasping the bottle in
one hand, he stretched and then headed for the shower.

"Did we put the fear of God into him?"

Wallard slid grey eyes to the hunched form of Harrows, too large for the back
seat. "No. Hes one of those Briefs who thinks hes not. Brief."

Harrows grimaced. "Fucking rumhead is gonna get himself killed before his time."

Wallard shook her head. "Shut up, Harrows. Dont be an asshole today."

He looked away, red-faced. "Where are they holding the ceremony?"

"Barley Square."

"Small church."

Wallard looked annoyed. "Oldest chapel in the area, Executioner, and in case you
hadnt noticed, there arent that many of us left. I think the whole Wall will
fit."

Harrows shifted uncomfortably, his huge hands clenched. "I have an official
request. From the MetzGing."

She turned to look at him, her grey eyes somehow bright. "What kind of balls
does Metzger have to make requests, now? After Gwen?"

Harrows seemed to be holding himself within the car by force of will. His face
was red and his neck straining with cords. "They want to call a truce so they
can attend the ceremony."

Wallard turned to stare hard out the window. "They do, eh? They murder her, call
a war, and now they want to...fuck Metzger, Adam. Just tell him he and the
MetzGing can fuck off. Well be holding plenty of Raisings for them, before this
war is over." She turned to regard him. "Have you got that clear, Executioner?"

"Yes, Warlord."

She nodded, and turned away again. "And get a few people to agree to guard
Barley Square, tomorrow. In case the MetzGing decide to defy me on this."

Harrows looked glum. "Yes, Warlord."

"And Adam," she continued, still intent on the passing city, "I know I started
this, technically. It doesnt change anything. We still have to fight. Its been
five hundred years, weve been divided. Were shrinking, we need to be together
again. Its time to make the Wall whole. Its time."

"I know."

They both stared out of windows.

5.

Showered and shaved, Marks stared at 2323 Palermo Drive from across the street,
slightly drunk and popping peanuts into his mouth energetically. It was a huge
house, white and many-windowed. It sported a fine front porch, roomy and
complete with a swing. It did not look rich enough for a limosuine. He didnt
know what rich enough would look like.

Chewing, he rolled up the bag of nuts and stuffed them into his overcoat pocket,
and started across the street. Wiping his hands on his coat, he bounded up the
stairs and rang the doorbell, hoping the big goon Harrows didnt double as a
butler.

He waited a long moment, staring tipsily at the damp street. The door opened,
and he turned to face an old woman, white haired and wet-eyed.

"Yes?" she creaked.

He studied her, and then smiled. "Good afternoon  -is Ms. Janice Wallard in?"

The woman looked confused, shaking her head. "Im sorry. You must have the wrong
address. Ive lived here for twenty years, and my name is not Janice Wallard."
She frowned. "I do get mail for that name from time to time, though."

Marks nodded, Ty Kieths smile pasted on his face. He found it the most usefully
insincere expression hed ever witnessed. "Well, Im sorry to have bothered you,
maam."

Suddenly, she was smiling. "Oh, no trouble. A nice young man like you, Im sorry
you had to come all the way out here."

Marks smiled, and turned away. "Not as far as Im willing to go, lady." he said
cheerfully, pulling the nuts from his pocket and unrolling the bag. "I got my
walking shoes on, today."

Across the street, he kept walking. He figured it was an interesting, but by no
means discouraging, development. "Nice trick," he murmured to himself. "Well, if
I cant come to them, I can think of a few ways of making them come to me. And
this time, Ill be prepared." He grinned to himself, headlines dancing in his
head.

A block behind, a grey-haired woman dressed in leather watched him balefully.
After a moment, she kicked her motorcycle into life and roared away.

Hours later, Marks struggled to climb the stairs of his building without falling
over or vomiting, or both. He waved at imaginary figures as he panted in front
of his door, fumbling for keys. He sighed in relief as the key slid home and he
pushed the door open, entering his apartment wearily.

The door was shut for him as two pairs of hands found his arms and lifted him
just slightly off the floor. His gaze swept the dim shadows and quickly counted
at least six grim-looking men and women. The two carrying him dropped him into a
creaking wooden chair, moved from its usual place in a corner to right in front
of Marks desk. The man sitting behind the desk was big, not as big as Harrows
had been but still impressive, with a long, smooth face and long, slightly
curled grey hair. His eyes were grey as well, clear and disconcerting as they
studied.

Marks couldnt help but look around nervously. The two whod carried him took up
positions on either side of the one behind his desk; on the left was a big, fat
bastard with a pale moon face who seemed amused by it all, grinning around a
lollipop. The other was a rail-thin oriental with a long grey braid, standing
with his hands in his pockets, looking bored.

Marks glanced at the fat one and winked at him.

"Philip Marks, I presume?" the seated one said, his voice soft. Marks looked at
him again, noting a black walking stick covered in thorns, petrified and shiny
with age, held easily across his knees.

The reporter cleared his throat. "Is that a shillelagh?"

"An ancient one, Mr. Marks. I am Talen Metzger."

Marks nodded. "I didnt realize this was a social call, Mr. Metzger."

Metzgers face tightened. He leaned back and stroked the shilelagh, his murky
eyes glued to Marks face. "If we threatened you enough, Mr. Marks, would you
give up writing about this murder and go back to being the rumhead recluse you
were quickly becoming?"

Marks felt his heart skip, and he tightened his grip on his chair. "Okay. Ill
stop." he said.

Metzger smiled. Next to him, the flabby one started to laugh, wheezing chuckles
that shook his whole body. Metzger glanced at him.

"Enough, Jester."

The big man stopped laughing immediately, and Metzger returned his eerie gaze to
Marks. "Mr. Marks, I dont believe you. I guess Im not surprised. Harrows is a
little dim, but if he cant put the fear of God into you, no one can." He sighed.
"The problem is, youre a famous writer known for reporting the strange and
unbelievable. You may still have fans willing to believe what you write. What
would be dismissed as ravings from a lesser talent might be taken seriously
enough, coming from you." He sighed again. "I guess well have to kill you.
Rewk?"

Marks forced himself to speak. Hearing someone moving towards him from behind,
he said what was on his mind in a panic. "This isnt quite fair, Mr. Metzger! I
was only warned earlier today  -you dont even know if -"

Metzger stood as Marks felt hands grab him by the shoulders. "Oh, yes we do, Mr.
Marks."

Marks was twisted around painfully to face a grey-haired woman with very pale
blue eyes. She stared at him from behind a scarred nose that looked like it had
been broken several times. he thought she might have been pretty, once, and then
she wrapped a calloused hand around his throat and squeezed. Instantly, Marks
couldnt breathe. As he clawed at her hand, he heard Jesters wheezing laugh
again.

Metzger knelt next to him. "You fucking Briefs, always getting in the way." He
shook his head. "I guess you just dont know any better. Let him go, Rewk."

Marks slumped into his seat, rubbing his neck and gasping. As a body, the grey
and dark men and women moved for the door, buttoning coats and putting on hats.
"Come on, MetzGing. Mr. Marks, try to keep in mind that we could have killed
you. Youre not involved. Keep it that way." Metzger paused to look around at the
doorway. "Weve got an appointment at Barley Square, MetzGing." They walked out,
Metzger swinging his walking stick, the rest flowing behind him. The door seemed
to shut of its own accord, but Marks was sure that was only his imagination.

He stared, mouth open, heart pounding. Slowly he leaned forward and fumbled
about his desk, finding a pencil and writing Barley Square on his pad. Then he
pulled the bottle of bourbon from the desk and slammed it down on the desk in
front of him. Then he leaned back and wondered where, exactly, the day had gone
so wrong.

Barley Square Chapel had been built hundreds of years before, burnt to the
ground, and rebuilt. It stood out in the city block like a Model-T on the
highway, resembling something European and baroque. There was little historical
significance to the building, but it was old, and so it was a landmark of sorts.
Aged stained glass stared back at Marks, who leaned groggily against a telephone
pole, waiting.

He was trying to think as little as possible. His mind dredged up images,
disassociated and meaningless, and he forced himself to stop trying to make
connections, to stop remembering things. His face was still clean and
clean-shaven, but he was pale and puffy and studied the church with
slack-mouthed interest. He looked ready to topple over.

He watched hawkishly as two black men walked up the block towards the church.
They were tall and well-dressed, grey-haired and had an aura about them, an aura
he was beginning to recognize as similar to the one hed seen around Harrows,
Wallard, Metzger  -all the weirdos that had visited him that day. They strolled
into the building. They were quickly followed by others, all expensively
dressed, all looking like mobsters, all grey-haired or greying. Expensive
domestic cars began to pull up and disgorge more of them. Marks began thinking
of them collectively as Greyhairs.

He quickly lost track of how many there were, but he figured the church would be
filled.

When the arrivals had stopped, a limousine pulled up, discharged four people,
and pulled away. Marks recognized the monolithic presence of Adam Harrows and
assumed the woman was his boss, Wallard. The four went up to the church doors,
and the two entered, leaving a pair of burly, nondescript men at the entrance to
the church. They crossed their arms and eyed the street suspiciously.

Marks detached himself from the pole, pasted a fake grin on his face, and
crossed the street cheerfully, whistling. He continued up to the church (the
guards were eyeing him suspiciously, then, the street forgotten) and when he
reached for the door one of them stuck an arm in front of him.

"Private service, hoss."

Marks nodded to him. "Really, hoss?" he mimicked. "Didnt realize this place was
private. Seems to me its open to all who want to worship."

The guards eyes were as grey as his hair. "You best be leaving."

Marks nodded again. "I suppose so. I guess I could stop by a phone on my way and
call the cops, tell them a hundred or so radical hippies have taken over the
Barley Square Chapel and are ripping it apart."

The guard snarled at him, his lips skinning back and his teeth grinding. Marks
switched to his Ty Kieth smile, the corners of his mouth straining. "Or," he
said, leaning in close, "or, you could let me in to talk to Harrows and then
nothing muchll happen. Okay? Hoss?"

The guards broad, flat face smoothed itself out. "Fucking Briefs." He hissed,
and stepped aside. "Search him, Merril."

Marks tuned down his smile to the merely bright. "Thanks." Rough hands patted
him down and stuck themselves into his pockets. Finally, he was turned loose and
shoved into the foyer of the church. he stumbled, shrugged his jacket back into
place and straightened his tie, looking around the hum-filled church.

The pews were filled, and men and women crowded the aisles, all dressed
formally, all dressed expensively. The back row turned to regard him, and
several stood up, hands going into their shoulders and stopping there. Several
ran over and grabbed his arms, roughly. After a moment, he was well in hand, and
no one else had even turned a curious glance his way.

"Good job, guys," Marks said cheerfully. "Ive been neutralized, okay?"

A squat man with strands of red in his short grey hair squinted at him. "Show
some fucking respect, guy." he said quietly.

Marks swallowed, not saying anything because he was sure his voice would crack.
Having guns poked in his ribs raised his blood pressure. Instead, he returned
his attention to the scene in the church proper.

Wallard, dressed in a simple black gown that looked vaguely religious and
looking an odd mix of young and ancient, stood at the altar with a wrinkled ball
of a man dressed in priests vestments. Between them, stretched out on the altar,
was a shrouded body. Marks strained to hear Wallards conversation with the
priest, and thought they were speaking in Latin, although he couldnt be sure.
Certainly not English. He couldnt see Harrows anywhere. He noted that they all
had grey or greying hair, and they all looked to be somewhere between thirty and
fifty years of age.

"Whats going on?" he asked, quietly, trying to inject some respect into his
voice.

The squat former red-head glanced at him. "A Raising."

Marks blinked, unsure if he was supposed to know what that meant. Marks scanned
around.

There were some new additions to the crowd, he saw, and frowned. The newcomers
didnt look any different, but they bubbled up from the basement doors steadily,
almost sneakily. It wasnt until he saw the flabby one with the salt and pepper
hair, without a lollipop this time, that he realized who was sneaking into the
church. He glanced up at Wallard and saw she was speaking around a scowl hard
enough to break glass, and when he glanced back at the crowd of trespassers he
found Talen Metzger standing at their fore with his shillelagh planted before
him. The population inside the church had almost doubled, but Marks heard no
sound besides the soft Latin being spoken by Wallard and the priest.

Some of the newcomers, Metzgers gang, were not as prosperous as the others. Some
were downright dirty and threadbare. They all stood silently and with a deep
look of respect, some with heads bowed. A few were mouthing the words along with
Wallard.

He felt the hands on him tighten painfully.

"Hey -!"

The squat redhead glared at him. "For your sake, Brief, I hope you didnt lead
them here." he hissed.

Marks decided not to reply. His eyes caught the huge form of Harrows standing
and making his polite way past people, heading slowly towards Wallard. She
glared at him, but did not break her recitation.

The reporter did some calculations and realized there were upwards of two or
three hundred people in Barley Square Church, and, judging from the sample of
them hed met, they were all probably heavily armed.

He swallowed hard, recalling that they also seemed to be enemies.

The ceremony went on, until suddenly the priests voice rose up remarkably steady
and strong for a man his age, drowning out Wallard. He threw both arms out and
shouted a word, and in response the crowd murmured it back.

"Caelum" the man holding marks said quietly.

Suddenly, a wind ruffled Marks hair and hissed through the whole church. It only
lasted a moment, but the reporter stared bug-eyed as everyone bowed their heads.

For a moment, complete silence.

"Metzger!" Wallard shouted, shattering the quiet. "Youre lucky I dont just have
you shot on sight!"

Talen Metzger strode forward, trailed by the fat man na