======================================== *** THE INNER SWINE *** Volume 6, Issue 1, March 2000 www.innerswine.com ======================================== "You need only reflect that one of the best ways to get yourself a reputation as a dangerous citizen these days is to go about repeating the very phrases which our founding fathers used in the struggle for independence." -Charles Austin Beard CONCEPT BY: Jeff Somers, Robert Gala, Ken West, Jeof Vita COVER ART BY: Jeof Vita EDITOR: Jeffrey Somers PUBLISHER In Absentia: Cassie Moore WEBMASTERS: Jeof Vita, Ken West, my own bad self ADVICE & FREE DRINKS: Send Resume c/o The Inner Swine - we need toadies, dammit CORRECTEUR D’EPREUVES EXTRAORDINAIRE: Karen Accavallo STAFF DISSIDENT: Rob Gala OVERALL OFFICIAL COOL CHICK: Lauren Strutzel OFFICIAL INTERNET GEEKY THING: www.slashdot.org, where we like to scratch our heads and go, "huh?" FRIENDS OF THE SWINE: The Duchess, who I’m incredibly lucky to have met and who continues to grace me with her presence despite the fact that she could do oh so much better; Lauren LJ Strutzel, whose calm and affectionate friendship I miss very much since she moved away; Misty S. Quinn, Esq., whose affection and friendship remain inspiring despite the changes life hands us; Jeof M. Vita, who continues to do lots of incredible, and incredibly free-of-charge, work for us despite his increasingly busy career and life -thanks!; Ken C. West, who so far doesn’t seem to be screening his calls against me, though lord knows he has reason to; RA, who has always been the big sister I never had; Gena Sabin who came through with a great article; Cassie Moore, who will remain our Publisher in Absentia despite her engagement (married folks make me nervous, as a rule, but Cassie’s always made me nervous, so no harm no foul); Rob Gala, who still returns my calls and remains ever-hopeful that I’ll pull my head out of my ass someday; Clint Johns and Mark Purkeypile for continuing to send me checks and also for not screening their calls against me; Kris Kane, who is now our web host (and doing a great job of it) and therefore deserving of some sucking-up; Karen Accavallo, although she still only proofreads the articles she finds interesting (about 2 per issue, apparently). ======================================== TABLE OF CONTENTS ======================================== EDITORIAL: "Pig In Shit # 18: LET ME TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO WELCOME OUR NEW MASTERS" COMMENTARY: "Steal This Issue: There’s Nothing Petty About Stealing Office Supplies" FICTION: "The Closest I Have Ever Come to Long-Term Prison Time" COMMENTARY: "The Bastards Keep Taking My Car" AN INTERNALLY LEAKED MEMO VIRTUALLY ARTLESS COMIC: "Mr Mute! #4" INTERVIEW: "Ten Questions with Ken West" In The News: "Inner Swine Party Candidate Missing" COMMENTARY: A Bone To Pick With Authority:Grievances of a Law-Abiding Citizen" Nihilistic Posturing: "Ten Things I’ll Do This Year That Will Contribute to My Eventual Death" FICTION: "Turn to God or Turn Away" BULLSHIT!: "How I Spent New Year’s Eve" ---------------------------------------- The Inner Swine Volume 6 Issue 1. Magazine published March, June, September, and December by Oinking Sow, Inc. © 2000 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!) plus $1.00 (cheap!) for postage and handling if ordered by mail, 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, PO Box 3024, hoboken, NJ 07030; mreditor@innerswine.com. But if you send me something, make it good or I will be angered. All submissions or requests for Guidelines (there are no guidelines, though) must be accompanied by S.A.S.E. Misty Quinn (above left) will mail a brassiere to everyone who subscribes. Not necessarily her brassiere, just a brassiere. ======================================== WHAT THE FUCK'S BEEN GOIN' ON? ======================================== WELCOME TO THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE SWINE. Everyone will be issued suicide pills. Please don’t be afraid to use them. I AM NOT YOUR MONKEYBOY. I spend most of my free time in various twelve-step groups, worshipping in our modern church of self-centered analysis, and this is, oddly enough, where I meet most of my fans, aside from the teenaged girls who often break into my apartment to steal my underwear, who I occasionally catch in the act and have to turn over to the police and prosecute to the fullest extent of the law, and sometimes beyond, when they’re particularly bratty. These meetings, when I am not shielded from you freaks by my security team, always end up with the person telling me what I ought to be doing with this zine. My response is always the same: run away, and don’t stop until I’m sure I’ve lost them. The Inner Swine Rule of Life #2 is if you think this zine should be doing something differently, go and fucking start your own. I don’t mind if people tell me what they liked or didn’t like in the last issue, that’s normal and is probably useful in some abstract way I can’t fathom. But: I’m not your Monkeyboy, after all, I don’t even pretend to publish this zine to please you. I publish it, mail it to you, and if you find something amusing in it, great. If not, I don’t imagine why you think I’d care. I sure amuse myself, without fail, and that’s really all that matters. The fundamental belief of The Inner Swine is, after all, that we are all self-interested assholes, every one of us, and that any charitable or ostenisbly good act or instinct has at its base a loathsome self-interest. The staff of TIS believes this fervently, and we prove it every day, in our own small ways. This zine has been and always will be about me. So save your breath, you either enjoy it or you don’t - I’m not your Monkeyboy. So, since the December Issue we here at The Inner Swine have been counting the days and expressing our constant and irritating amazement at how fast time goes by. Things’r changing, piggies. We signed on with Desert Moon Periodicals for distribution, an expensive and chancy arrangement which may either be our greatest deal or a sinkhole of money. We got our own domain name (innerswine.com) thanks to Jeof Vita and Misty Quinn, who for some reason still nurture small sparks of affection for me despite the years of lawsuits, verbal abuse, and occasional seduction attempts. We also received our shiny new ISSN number from the Library of Congress, which means....well, nothing, really, but it was free, so what the hell. Oh, we are going corporate, baby! New Year’s Eve was its usual drunken bash, with a period of time completely lost to my memory, which surprised no one, especially my gracious hosts Misty and Jeof. Other than that gloriously epicurean holiday, we’ve been downloading MP3s off the net, playing far too much Half-Life: Opposing Force (Boo-ya!) and, well, basically farting around and wasting time, as usual. By the way, William Shatner is slowly evolving into my personal hero. Who else has the balls to make fun of himself so wonderfully, so completely? ======================================== 1999: The Year of ME Heres what they're saying about ME: ======================================== Kris Kane of Menace Publishing (www.menace.com) reviewed Vol. 5, Issue 1 for some reason: "The closer a zine gets to being really, really good, the harder I tend to scrutinize it to find flaws. About the only flaws I can find with The Inner Swine are a sometimes too-self-referential tendency, some pieces that seem arbitrary in their inclusion, and some pieces that could have been improved by a few more revisions. It’s really quite good, funny, and engaging, but a little geeky. Remember that guy in high school who was really funny but a little too into the Monty Python thing and would make just one or two too many Monty Python jokes? Not the full-on freak who’d quote you the entire fucking Holy Grail movie in different voices, but someone who was about 30% of that? That’s the feeling I kind of get here, but man . it really is pretty funny...Bottom Line: Get it. At $2, it really is (as the cover states) ‘a frickin’ bargain.’" Aww....read the Swine, feel the love. I am a geek, but too self-referential? Hell, I won’t be satisfied until it’s just a 60-page paragraph with no indents or breaks reflecting my pure, unedited inner monologue that no one aside from me will undestand! I have never read anything by Kris except what he posts on alt.zines, which is usually pretty funny and interesting, although he certainly seems to have lots of enemies. At any rate, we thank him and then move on. Kris recently became our wonderful web host, don’t you know, which I guess makes all the preceding a conflict of interest. Oh well. Ken Miller of Shouting at the Postman (http://members.aol.com/satpostman) checked in with an envelope filled with goodies (including a postcard print of one of his paintings, which was very cool). SATP and the AskAlice Art Exchange Network are both going strong, and thank goodness. As his email sig sez: "A Full Head Of Hair or Double Your Money Back"! maximumrocknroll (POB 460760, San Francisco, CA 94146-0760, $3.00) reviewed us again, talking about 5(3) in the November 1999 issue: "If you’re looking for a jaded, opinionated, aiming-for-humor-lit-mag, put together by a Jersey City drunkard, this is it...thematically it’s all "I hate these people...these people are stupid...I got drunk..." etc...I guess this is kinda cool cuz usually I really hate things like this, but I thought this was tolerable." (reviewed by JM). Well, not bad all things considered. Normally people who actually use the word "cuz" in a sentence give me the heebie jeebies, but we’ll let it slide this time. Then they reviewed us again in the Feburary 2000 issue, but "BC" wasn’t so thrilled: "This zine has a huge staff considering that 11 out of 12 articles were written by the egomaniacal Jeff Somers. At least they were well-written. I don’t think apathy should be worn as a badge of honor, though, and apathy is entirely different from cynicsm, which Somers seems unaware of...The made-up letters to the editor were distinctly unfunny....Basically, I think this would be a really good 40-page zine, if the sophomoric humor is what got cut. The short story at the end, "Can Open Worms Everywhere" was surprisingly good. It was by far the best part of the zine, and proved that considerable talent lay behind it. This has the potential to become a very good zine, but it’s not quite there." We don’t argue with critical reviews as a rule, what’s the point? But I’d like to say two things about BC’s review. One, I don’t confuse apathy with cynicsm. My apathy is not laziness, it is a real belief that there’s nothing to be done. Two, what made-up letters to the editor? There weren’t any in that issue. If he was referring to these letters here, then I think everyone reprinted here ought to be pissed off that he didn’t think your letters were funny. Still...MMR certainly doesn’t need any plugs from little old me, but I must say I always enjoy this mag when I get my hands on one. In the 11/99 one, the article on Srini Kumar’s Unamerican Activities (written by Mimi Nguyen) was a damned interesting toilet read. I’ve gotten a bunch of propaganda from Unamerican, including some free stickers, and I’ve always been a little creeped out by the rhetoric involved. You can’t buy revolution, kids, no matter what Srini thinks. So check out the new MMR and read our reviews twice. Aiko of Cobweb Junction ($1 or trade to Aiko, Cobweb Junction, PO Box 60774, Sacramento, CA 95860-0774; http://www.gurlpages.com/zines/jitterbean/index2.html) sent us their new issue, in which we were reviewed, along with a quick note which warmed our blackened, shrunken hearts: "...I’m sending you another [issue of my zine] cuz I review "The Inner Swine" and I know how you love to see your name in print. Plus, I know you’ll publish a mention of me too, so it’s really more out of wanting free publicity than anything else." Sounds sufficiently Swinish to me, although once again I must nobly ignore the use of the ‘word’ cuz. The review is very nice and would embarrass us to reprint it here if we weren’t so self-satisfied: "After rejecting dozens of crappy zines in the Tower zine rack, I finally picked up issue #5(?) [Ed. Note: Must have been issue 5(3)] of TIS, thought it looked cool, and so I bought it...TIS provides some interesting commentary on everything from technology to men’s magazines to vegetarianism. Jeff’s satirical articles are hilarious because they’re honest...While The Inner Swine may come off as too cynical or brash for some, that’s probably just because they don’t want to admit that he’s right. Well written and entertaining, I’d recommend this to anyone who’s amused by blatant honesty, moderate to heavy cynicism, and the dissembling [of] society’s lies and facades...Good family fun." Nice to hear someone understands, I hear romantic movie music welling up in the background as I go stand by the window during a rainstorm and wonder....Aiko, Aiko...where have you been all my life? Aiko gives us an interesting presentation of her views and escapades. The zine is fairly brief, but well-written. Plus, she mentions me twice. What more do you need to know? I say break open the piggy bank and buy an issue, you cheap bastards. Lea Ann Martin of Blender Children (POB 5959, Topeka, Kansas 66606, $1 for sample copy) sent me BC #3 and this nice note in which she praises me highly: "May I say that TIS [5(3)] was a joy!!! and probably the best zine I have ever read. I have never been so entertained by a zine. I read it in the bath and nearly drowned several times from laughter! I believe you are a genius!" Aw...shucks. The question of how bad Ms. Martin’s other reading material must be for TIS to rank as #1 aside, we were, as always, enthralled by such praise, and thank her warmly for it. Blender Children is a good read, although somewhat centered on Ms. Martin’s recent and painful breakup with her boyfriend. It’s short and uses hard-to-read fonts, but is well written and shows lots of potential, so send her a buck and see for yourself. David R. Wyder was good enough to send us issue #3 of A Call to Cud ($2/stamps/trade, 87 Richard Street #7, Passaic, NJ 07055; http://members.aol.com/dailycow/index2.htm; DailyCow@aol.com). "Enjoyed your September 1999 issue and didn’t have any digestion problems when reading it this time. All my food stayed down and my mind didn’t expand too much although I think it helped with my Alzheimers...Keep writing that great slop...it tastes very good in these parts." Since last time David read TIS he nearly vomited all over himself, I suppose I’m flattered he made it through without gastrointestinal distress. ACTC is a fun and well-designed zine celebrating "The Holy Church of Moo", which is more disturbing than you might think. While I am continually amazed that they get so much out of, well, cows, they certainly are having a good time with it, and the zine is entertaining and certainly unique. Get a slab of it for yourself, my fellow farm animals. David Khalili sent me issue #3 of Hello Out There ($2, PO Box 1918, Sausalito, CA 94965; LoungLzrd6@aol.com) in which we found the miracle of Salmonnaise and a nifty review of TIS 5(3): "...Jeff Somers graces us with his pompous and arrogant writing that we all hate to admit we love. Mind you this is not the pomposity and arrogance that grinds down your spin, it’s the humorous "God, at least he’s honest" type of arrogance. His ‘zine is not filled with "I’m so great rantings" it’s more like "here’s how it is and you better like it" rants...This is definitely worth a buy...the only thing that bothered me was the damn baby holding the balloon, so cute, yet so annoying." BACK OFF BABY LEVON, BUDDY! We tolerate no abuse of our mascot. However, anyone who thinks Baby Levon is ‘cute’ I would direct to our manifesto (http://www.innerswine.com/manb.html) where it’s all made very clear "See that little baby all over this rag? The one with the diaper and the balloon? That’s Baby Levon, and he is our mascot and symbol, because babies are such perfect little pigs, such sucking little monsters. The universe revolves around them and it never occurs to them to think otherwise. We at The Inner Swine hate the babies." That grunted, we thought HOT was pretty nifty. I like the fact that the zine reviews appeared imposed on a stylized copy of the zine’s cover, nice touch. I also found a lot of it amusing, especially the aforementioned salmonnaise (because "Americans just don’t eat enough Salmon") and the "Censored Porn Contest", which I am considering entering once the legal department (a sobered up Duchess, who has experience with contracts and stuff due to all the lawsuits against her) vets it. Buy one! If only to read our review. Someone apparently named Boyd sent us Boyd X #6 ($2, PO box 352135, Toledo, OH 43635-2135) in which we were mentioned and reviewed in general: "The Inner Swine...is irreverent, funny, and quite full of itself. Jeff Somers, its editor, is obviously a legend in his own mind. That said, if you’re in the mood to be amused, order Jeff’s zine. You won’t be disappointed." We disagree with this sentiment, of course. We’re pretty sure you will be disappointed if you order this zine. Boyd X is a well-made publication (for "adults only") which has a lot of good writing (personal in nature) mixed in with some social commentary, pictures of babes, and stories about strippers and lap dances. I was mesmerized. It’s been in my bathroom for a few days, and that’s the highest praise I can give any publication. Karlos from Throwrug ($2 to PO BOx 3155 Bellingham, WA 98227-3155) sent us an issue for trade and had this to say, bless his little heart: "Oh, one thing: I know that every issue is the "all-Jeff" issue, but I'd like to suggest that the next issue be the "all-Misty Quinn" issue, with special emphasis on her "ample bosom." Would that be all right? Okay, thanks." Misty responded to this email by mailing me several dozen boxes of Polaroids. T-rug is a great little zine; it’s breezy, fun, and lay in my bathroom for quite some time despite the fact that it has far far too many reviews. I hate reviews unless they are reviews of TIS, as you all know. Karlos and his crew are worth your $2, trust me. Ken Bausert sent me the new issue of Passions (2140 Erma Drive, East Meadow, NY 11554-1120) and a little note: "I think I forgot to tell you how much I enjoyed that thing you did in one of your recent issues....very funny and original...thanks for running the PASSIONS ad..." You’re welcome, Ken. Ken’s a good guy and Passions is always an interesting read, filled with varied stuff, much of which I’m not interested in but there’s always something. The new issue has a steamy adult-oriented piece in that apparently caused an uproar in passionville, so get yours before it becomes a collector’s piece. Well, kids, that’s the mailbox for this issue. Remember: put my name in your letter and I guarantee publication! ======================================== *** EDITORIAL *** Pig In Shit #18 LET ME TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO WELCOME OUR NEW MASTERS I am ready to join the Thought Police and rat all of you out By Jeff Somers ======================================== MY PIGS, in the past I have hinted at the Great Change, the coming Inner Swine Pogrom which would remake the world in my own image. I have ruthlessly implied all sorts of violence and upheaval in order to intimidate all of you into giving me tribute, usually in the form of free drinks or dates with your sisters. I have been proudly detailing my anticipated despotic reign, getting so specific and repetitive that some wisenheimers have lately been wondering aloud if there really ever will be a Swine Revolution, or if it’s all just been a complex and bizarre ruse. The answer is yes and no. No, it wasn’t intended to be a bizarre ruse, but, thanks to new intelligence brought to me by a badly injured Chief of Security Ken West, I now realize there will not be a Grand Swine Revolution. Why? Because another organization, many times the size of my own and much better equipped, is set to spark their own revolution very soon. All I can say to these shadowy men and women who will soon rule our planet is, I welcome my new masters with open arms, and humbly suggest I would make an excellent and photogenic mouthpiece-cum-lackey. I am ready and willing, in other words, to become Chief of their Thought Police. How do I know there’ll be a Thought Police for me to lead against the rest of you? Simple: there’s always a Thought Police. It’s the oldest law enforcement organization in existence. There’s one now, actively working to maintain society as it sees fit. Chances are, you’re a member in good standing, unless you got this zine by stuffing it into your pocket and casually walking out the front door. The only thing the Thought Police lack right now are nifty uniforms and an official leader, which, given the go-ahead by our future oppressors and a decent budget, I’ll be glad to take care of. You see, civilization is a precarious balance. It exists only because the bulk of the population self-polices; if we witness a crime, most of us are likely to report it, if we’re involved in a crime, we’re likely to report it. Civilization exists because of this implied partnership between citizens and police, but the implication is deeper: because of this partnership, the police are obvious and apart from the rest of us, for the most part. They are uniformed, carry badges. Their cars are clearly marked, and even their private vehicles bear stickers proudly. We know, or can easily find out, who they are, and this enables your friends, your family, your neighbors, bosses and vague strangers you’ve never met before to easily rat you out if you attempt something that goes against the grain of society, that in any way poisons their particular pond. In short, society exists in part because, on some level, we’re all ready and willing to betray each other. We’re Pigs, after all. Not only are we fundamentally self-interested, dishonest, and cruel, we’re more than willing to rat the other guy out if there’s profit in it - and for most people, there’s definite profit in maintaining order. This is a Good Thing, believe it or not. People who state that the world would be a better place without an army of police out there in riot gear have no fucking clue, have no idea what kind of chaos lurks just beyond that fork in the road. This is a Good Thing because the moment we stop policing ourselves, the cops will melt into the crowd, and become Thought Police too. Okay, but if there’s always been a Thought Police, why does this matter so much? Well, no one said the Thought Police are particularly good at their jobs right now. It’s one thing to be a good worker bee and be willing to turn people in for crimes, to scream for help when witnessing a mugging, to exert some reasonable effort to avert a murder, a robbery, a rape - it’s quite another to translate that instinctual, trained impulse and contact a representative of law enforcement, and even then there is the bulky mechanism of arrest: the search for the suspect, the onus of probable cause, the Miranda reading, the processing, paperwork, and writ of habeous corpus, as weightless as that often turns out to be. All this clutter and bureaucracy serves as a buffer between the Law and us, and gives us the comforting illusion of privacy and freedom. If we stop policing ourselves, then having a visible and easily identifiable police force becomes useless. If no one calls the cops, then you’re relying on the random chance that they’ll witness crimes, which is not an effective way to manage a society. Once that occurs, the cops go under, pull on their regular folk skins, and you won’t know you’re sitting next to one until they point at you, open their mouths, and emit a screeching wail. And next to them, smiling nervously, will be your best friend, who’s just happy it wasn’t them this time. And above their left shoulder, on a poster hanging on the subway car wall, will be my smiling face, because I intend to be the Chief of the Thought Police. Just in case The Coming Powers That Be are reading this (or that their advanced Echelon technologies are sifting through this electronically) I might as well make my case for why I should be Chief of the Thought Police. Trust me when I say you don’t want to be anything else once the boot comes down on humanity’s neck: life’s gonna suck for anyone not part of the ruthless system. Think about it: think about all the minor and apparently unimportant laws you break on a regular basis, relying on your friends, neighbors, and even complete strangers to keep your confidence. Do you park overnight in bus stops? Do you steal interesting pint glasses from bars? Do you cheat on your taxes? Scalp tickets? Purchase any kind of illegal substance? Since I know that most people are all a bunch of indolent, violent morons (naturally, when I say "you are" I don’t mean you, I mean the rest of you, the lowing crowd of shiftless bastards) I know I am not alone in the breaking of small and apparently unimportant laws. We’ve all got an unwritten rap sheet. Now imagine that all the people you rely on to keep your confidence were potentially Thought Police, who would be happy to rat you out, at a moment’s notice, in order to keep the spotlight off of themselves. That’s right. You’d be screwed. And guess what? You’d start ratting people out in self-defense. That’s the secret of a Thought Police, of course: there really are no Thought Police. Or, perhaps more accurately, there are only a small number of them, and while not wearing a uniform or carrying a badge they are well known to the community. Word gets to them, filtered through the population, but the footsoldiers of the Cops, the enforcers, are everybody, the entire population. Mister X witnesses you putting slugs into a washing machine. He tells Mister Y all about it. Mister Y seeks out Mister Z, who is known to be a Government Informer. Next thing you know, I’m at your doorstep, smiling, looking resplendent in my jackboots and uniform. And why should it be me? Just like everything else I’m involved in, my main contribution is always razzle-dazzle®. I bring the razzle-dazzle® to everything I try, of course, as is well known in the publishing, pornography, and criminal justice spheres. Razzle-dazzle®, of course, is an umbrella term describing all sorts of personality and style considerations, so let me detail what, exactly, I’d bring to the position of Chief of Your Thought Police. 1. Impeccable fashion sense. My fashion exploits are well-documented in the annals of history: -- The Kurt Cobain druggie-look I modeled in 1980 for my fourth-grade school photo. -- The powder-blue bell-bottomed tuxedo at the prom. -- The red and white flannel shirt I’ve been wearing constantly since 1990. -- The all-black Converse Chucks I now wear as "dress shoes". In an official capacity, with a budget for uniforms, I would bring back the elegance and dramatic lines of fascist regimes throughout history, using none other than the jolly, obscene Herman Goerring as my fashion model. Sure, the Nazis of the Third Reich were reprehensible and are likely dancing jigs of horror and torment on the lake of fire as we speak, but they were snazzy dressers, and I intend to bring black leather overcoats and monocles back into style. 2. A willingness to completely betray my fellow humans. No danger of a weak-kneed bout of remorse, or any dull-witted mercy from me. I’ll industriously enforce the Illuminati’s laws and efficiently liquidate the remaining population as per instructions. If you doubt my complete inability to empathize with my fellow humans, please feel free to read past issues of The Inner Swine. 3. My Cult of Personality. I already have a sizable organization of desperate losers willing to give up their lives for me and my cause - which can just as easily be your cause. Rather than go against me, and spend countless hours and dollars chasing me down to my bunkers and rooting me out of your new empire by sheer force, why not buy me off and absorb my organization? It’s a Win Win, after all; I get to live and indulge my selfish desire to exist, and you’ll get an Enforcement branch ready-made. No one loses. Except, of course, the millions of the unlucky oppressed, about which I do not care. Well, there you have it. The funny thing about our police forces is that they are, compared to the truly oppressive organizations known throughout history, a weak and ineffective group, making those who complain of their fascism and oppression amusing, at best. As long as we continue to police ourselves, as a sort of Thought Police Lite, we’re pretty safe from true oppression. People who think we’re being systematically oppressed by a few instances of random if regrettable violence have no idea what true oppression is. To these whiners anything which even vaguely and distantly threatens their immense wealth of comfort and ease is oppression. The fact is, we’ve got it easy, and we have it easy because we’re willing to do some law enforcement ourselves, and be complicit with the cops, at least occasionally, at least when it really matters. Thus, as our eventual conquerers can see, this will all have to be upset and rearranged if they’re going to squeeze the newly enslaved human race for every drop of sweat available - there’s way too much freedom-causing wiggle-room as it stands (believe me, I know). A true Thought Police will have to be installed to make sure that all these fundamentally dishonest humans are kept under the thumb - and I am eminently qualified to be Chief of the Thought Police. I welcome my new masters with open arms, and urge them to take me on - you can trust me, lads, and that’s the truth. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** STEAL THIS ISSUE: There’s Nothing Petty about Stealing Office Supplies by Jeff Somers ======================================== Pssst...hey, are you reading this in the store? Standing there in the grubby, neglected Zines section, flipping through this issue, trying to decide whether it’s worth a couple of bucks? Well then, let me encourage you to steal it. Go on, what the hell. I want you to steal it, and I’m the publisher. I beg you to steal it. A quick look around, a glib yawn and the folded issue finds its way into your coat, hidden. A slow, casual walk to the exit, maybe a cocky nod at the register jockey sitting glumly, watching you with frank suspicion. And then, there’s me, standing by the door, grinning this really huge shit-licking grin I’ve been practicing, and I rat you out. I point and open my mouth and this horrible noise like in that remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers comes out, and cops flood the store, knock you down, and beat you mercilessly with their nightclubs. We’re The Inner Swine, and we don’t even pretend to be fair. CIVILIZATION is a loaded concept. Some people seem to think it’s defined by culture, by the intellectual achievements of the population. That’s optimistic bullshit, of course, but some people cling to it with the desperation of people drowning in the ocean clinging to a passing piece of flotsam. Civilization is a set of rules that we all agree to live by in order for our collective lives to be productive and somewhat peaceful. Not everyone agrees, of course, and thus we have police, law codes, and overcrowded prisons. Laws are made to ensure that civilization runs in a certain way, they are the rules of the game. Of course, no one asked me about it. That’s the real problem with any civilization: most members have little or no impact on its rules. There’s a popular theory on the fringe which states that the constitution of The United States of America has no legal authority over the current citizens of this country, because it’s really just a contract between men who lived in 1783, with authority over, at most, the men and women who lived in the country at the time (and even that’s a stretch since most people had no input on and did not sign the document). It’s an interesting argument: I certainly have never been asked to agree to the terms and conditions of the constitution, I have never had opportunity to suggest changes to it, yet I am supposed to live by its rules and conventions, and the monstrous number of laws, codes, and assumptions that spring directly from it. That’s really a bunch of bull, though, since from the age of eighteen I have had the freedom to reject the USA and move somewhere else, somewhere that suits my way of thinking a little better. Right? Maybe. Unless, of course, there is no country which suits me better. What if my way of thinking goes against every code of laws, every civilization in the world? Where can I move? Nowhere. I might as well stay here, where at least I can grouse about our society in comfort and without fear of being run over by a tank in Tiananmen Square. And where I can plot revolution with impunity...except, of course, I can’t, because every civilization has at its core the rule that you’re not allowed to plot revolution. A thorny issue. Am I a free man who is allowed to foment revolution, or am I prisoner of society, forced to obey laws I never agreed to officially? I mean, just because I don’t want to go to jail and therefore respect the laws of this country does not mean that I have agreed to anything. I never signed anything. I never voted on anything (for those of you who would suggest that voting in elections counts, I would agree only on referendum issues, otherwise you’re wrong, plain and simple). I simply woke up one day 28 years ago a citizen of the United States. But I can, of course, attempt revolution, as long as I do so within the rules of this society. I can certainly write about how I think things ought to be. I can run for offices, and if elected, I can introduce new laws, new rules, new conventions. Eventually, if my ideas find favor, I can even attempt to change the hallowed constitution, can’t I? Can’t I? Some would say no, of course. Personally I’m not convinced either way. Every civilization attempts to force its perpetuation - in other words, we make it very difficult to change things to any great extent. This makes sense. If civilization is working for the majority of its citizens (a majority being, let’s keep in mind, only slightly more than half, which means that 49% of the population can be mad as hell, and its still a legitimate statement) then one disaffected malcontent should not be allowed to remake it in his image, right? However, I could argue that the idea that you can make a difference here in the USA is fiction, that anyone who has tried has ended up in jail or dead, that any government worth its salt will blindly crush any threat to its existence, because governments are organisms which have loyalty only to themselves. Government employees are just doing their jobs, after all. Theirs is not to question why. So, I’m not decided on the issue of personal freedom inside the boundaries of our civilization. Are we free men and women who could, if we chose to, remake the world, at any time? Or are we prisoners, marching in step to a code of laws we had no input on, powerless to change anything? Honestly, I don’t know. Until I figure it out, however, I’m happy to steal office supplies. White Collar Crime is the Great Equalizer in today’s world, my friends, or so it seems to me. I take my weight in office supplies out of my place of employment on a weekly basis, laughing all the way. I don’t offer any excuses; it’s theft, and under most moral codes it’s wrong. I just don’t care. I could make up a lot of shit about the evil of corporate America, about taking something back from the entity that bleeds me dry on a daily basis, but it would all pretty much be BS. I steal office supplies because I don’t want to pay for them, plain and simple. And right there is the funny part about stealing office supplies: it’s almost allowed by many companies because there isn’t a hard monetary value attached to it. If I mail out 300 Inner Swines using the company postage machine (a recurring dream of mine, I usually wake up humping the pillow and drooling) I’ve just stolen $300 of the company’s money, literally. If I make 300 copies of the same issue, it is much more nebulous. How much have I actually stolen? Hard to say, you’d have to price it out at various copy stores for a good price, then consider the fact that companies routinely throw away thousands of dollars in photocopy waste every year. If no one’s paying attention, is it really worth anything? WHAT do you steal? could be the pick up line for the new millennium, friends. I would submit that there isn’t a red-blooded American kid out there today who has not, at some point in their lives, seriously stolen goods or services without a moment’s hesitation or contemplation of the relative evil of the action. There are plenty of illegal activities which are viewed by people as annoyances, as petty regulations they do not have to respect unless the police are standing nearby, and petty theft is pretty popular. Did you ever steal a pint glass from a bar? Or maybe you got change from a twenty when you paid with a ten. Or maybe you share my gusto for free paper clips and Post-It notes. The point is, almost everyone reading this magazine has stolen something. I submit that it makes life tolerable, because all these (admittedly necessary) rules and regulations in society run completely opposite our natural instincts. We’re pigs. We’re born to rape and pillage and stand hooting over the prone bodies of our vanquished enemies, and here we are, not crossing against the light, obeying minor ordinances. Civilization isn’t natural, and in order to tolerate the majority of its structure, we all must - must! - break a few rules now and again. There have to be cracks in the system to give it the flexibility to support its own weight. Think of it as Sway factor: high-rise buildings are built to sway in the wind, to literally give a little in the face of immense pressure. This makes them more stable. Society gives a little by way of petty crime in order to be more stable. A hermetically sealed society that allowed for no ‘cracks’ in the system would explode from its own internal pressure, destroying everything. In short, I steal office supplies to save all your lives, Bwana. ======================================== *** FICTION *** The Closest I Have Ever Come to Long-Term Prison Time by Jeff Somers ======================================== ALWAYS, piggies, always someone asks me about prison. Have I been, what were the charges, did I get raped. Is it true that I killed a man in Mexico over a three-dollar bottle of tequila. Usually I answer all these questions with the same calming mantra taught to me by my lawyers: no comment. I have trained myself to respond with no comment no matter how drunk I am, and believe me, it’s saved my life on several occasions. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night screaming NO COMMENT!!, my hands wrapped around the pillow as if it were the collective neck of my haunting, maddening memories, but that’s a small price to pay. However, this being the ‘law enforcement’ issue, I thought I should include some of my true law enforcement experiences, and so here’s the story of the time Ken West, Jeof Vita, and I were almost arrested for international drug smuggling. For legal purposes, this is a work of fiction, and anyone who says otherwise is gonna regret it, get me? It all began in 1996 when friend, staff dissident, and sole recipient (to date) of the dreaded Inner Swine Fatwa (ISF), Rob Gala (for information as to why Rob has a ISF levied against him, look at The Inner Swine’s Family Album on the web: http://home.earthlink.net/~linknull/familyb.html) invited me to vacation in Seattle where he was in hiding. Although couched in terms of an olive branch, I assumed that Rob merely wanted to get me in proximity to his minions and assassins. I was right, of course, but that’s another story, one which ends with Rob being forced to literally go underground -he lived in the Seattle sewers for eight months while The Inner Swine Security Forces scoured the land for him. But I digress: fearing, as I said, that Rob wanted to double cross me and take me out of the picture (I’d been watching the Godfather movies over and over right before his invitation, so I was in a melodramatic mood) I quickly assembled a security team to accompany me: Ken West, of course, wearing his "action" fatigues and practicing his kung-fu grip, Misty Quinn in her specially designed completely silent ninja pajamas, Lauren Strutzel and Cassie Moore as muscle (and human shields, if necessary). Feeling somewhat secure, I made arrangements for my "sit-down" with Rob, booking rooms in the local YMCA because somehow everyone misconstrued my purchase order memo which asked everyone to ‘spare no expense’. Naturally, Rob was nowhere to be seen once I arrived in Seattle, and after a few days of getting on each other’s nerves my security team and I had something of a falling out, and the drinking began. Ken West and I found ourselves in a local bar filled with effete artistes. We supplied the bartender with the recipe for International Tequila Fanny Bangers, as follows: 1 bottle of Tequila 1 bottle hot sauce 1 bottle BAYER aspirin shaved ice 2 pinches cinnamon combine, blend into froth, serve in shot glasses The trick is to get everyone in the bar to stand around you and chant "Drink! Drink!" the moment the shots are placed before you. Without the crucial element of pounding peer pressure forcing you to make your decision and drink before conscious thought interrupts the suicide mission people tend to just stare at the hissing, bubbling concoction and back away, glassy-eyed with fear. After several rounds of ITFBs, Ken and I were in a better mood and so when a crusty old ‘nuck with an eyepatch sat down at our table, we weren’t immediately suspicious of his motives, and when he placed a soiled and greasy paper bag on the table and offered us each one thousand dollars to carry it across the border we took a few minutes to work out just how many Tequila Fanny Bangers two grand would buy before happily agreeing. As it turned out, our numbers were wrong. But when I woke up the next day with the address in Canada written in black ink on my left palm, I knew somehow (not having any real memory of the event until after the second or third cup of coffee) that we had made a commitment, and The Inner Swine always honors its commitments. Once roused from his sleep in the bathroom, Ken agreed, adding only that we would first need a vehicle of some sort if we were going to drive the mysterious paper bag across the border. Getting vehicles has never been a problem for us. It is well known in the TIS offices that Marketing Director and Art Tsar Jeofrey Vita has access to all manner of automobiles because the Vita family owns thousands of automobiles, all of which are stored in the front and back yards of Vita homes throughout the country. I telephoned Vita that morning via cell phone from the YMCA bathroom, where I was rather violently paying for my sins of the night before. I instructed Jeof to secure for us a "mean machine" so we could evade capture if our adventure went somehow wrong. Jeof told me crisply that he would personally deliver the vehicle to us that night. I called a reluctant Ken into the bathroom with me so we could begin planning our adventure. The rest of that day was spent surviving several assassination attempts made by Rob Gala’s henchmen, which are all part of another story, as I said. When Jeof Vita drove up outside the YMCA Ken and I were nonchalantly smoking filterless cigarettes on the front steps. Ken turned to me quivering with the infamous West Rage and said, softly: "Surely that isn’t a Lime Green Gremlin?" I flicked my cigarette away in disgust. "Oh, it is all right. And don’t call me Shirley." Due to what Jeof Vita described as a "bad connection", he had secured for our adventure a "green machine", a subcompact car that had last been manufactured for sale in 1974. Disturbing black smoke leaked from the exhaust pipe when running, and a hole in the floor was so huge I openly marveled that the passenger seat did not simply fall through the floor. When I remarked as much to Jeof he merely winked at me and asked if he could ride along with us that night since he had just flown across the country and had nothing better to do. Ken and I told him sure as long as he didn’t stick his nose into our business. I figured you could always use some extra muscle, right? So Ken sat in the back with the paper bag and Jeof sat up front with me, fiddling with the radio. "Anybody got anything to eat?" Jeof asked. "I brought a brown-bag lunch." Ken said darkly, "but you can’t have any." "What is it?" Jeof asked. "Peanut Butter and Baloney sandwiches." Ken replied. "My favorite." Jeof and I glanced at each other with slitted, hungry eyes, a single glance that said Oh yes, Ken’s precious lunch will be mine. By the time I had deciphered Jeof’s glance, however, the wiry Vita had dived into the backseat, torn the paper bag from Ken’s grasp, and eaten the entire thing, bag and all, in one disgusting gulp. He then sat back next to Ken with his hands clasped over his bulging belly and belched. Ken stared at his empty hands, then at Jeof, then at the bag, then at Jeof. "You...you...you big bully!" He wailed. "I’ll kill you for that. In your sleep. Probably tonight, but you’ll never know. Oh wait," he lifted a paper bag from the car floor. "This is my lunch." My eyes met Ken’s in the rear-view. Then we both turned to look at Vita, who was already vibrating slightly. "Hospital?" Ken suggested. "Ditch," I responded, "by side of road." "What about Jaque?" I pictured the one-eyed mountain of a man who had given us two thousand dollars to perform this mission. "Well, he does know where we live..." "Thanks to your fucking magazine..." We drove on in grim silence for the Canadian border. Jeof began to speak in tongues, and once levitated off the back seat, floating in the car and babbling on and on in a strange language. As we approached the border-crossing his attention-grabbing symptoms were becoming worrisome; I feared a nosy customs agent would notice Jeof’s soft hum as he vibrated (looking at him made me dizzy) or his high-pitched prophecies. Or his soft orange glow. "Wow, what was in that bag, anyway?" Ken wondered aloud. I clutched the steering wheel grimly, thinking: so this is how the Great Somers Story ends: either in jail for smuggling or butchered by a one-eyed Canadian named Jaque. Figures. We were closing in on the inspection area, where the customs agents were apparently choosing cars at random to search through. One of them noticed our little lime green vehicle and motioned me over to him. Not knowing what else to do, I babied the car over and handed him my paperwork. "Hey, is he okay?" the customs guy asked. "Uh...better ask him. I don’t think he speaks English." I replied. Ken appeared to be studying his fingernails intently. The cop stepped up to the open window where Jeof sat blearily vibrating. "Hey, you okay buddy?" Jeof didn’t turn to look at him. "I am experiencing technical difficulties. Bork!" he said in a reasonable tone of voice, rippled slightly from his vibration. "Bork! Bork! I will now transmit my thoughts to you telepathically." He then frowned slightly at the cop, who jumped back, turning pale as a sheet. "Uh...." the cop stuttered. "Uh, proceed." I blinked. "What?" "Go! For the love of God GO!" he shouted, dropping his clipboard and clutching his head. "Oh, the horrible images! Get them out of my head! Stop it! It hurts!" I stared in horrified fascination. Ken tapped me on the shoulder. "Dude, hit the gas." The last thing I saw was the cop on his knees, weeping, in my rear-view. We crossed the border doing seventy-five. Jeof belched up a thick green mist that settled to the floor of the car, making my feet numb. We followed Jaque’s directions and arrived at an isolated cabin in the woods, where a dozen or so swarthy Canadians greeted us, demanding our cargo. Ken and I handed over Jeof silently. The Canadians looked him over, shrugged, and led him inside the cabin. That night, Ken and I had dinner with the TISIC Ladies Auxiliary and said nothing of our little adventure. A few days later we all returned to New Jersey and resumed our lives, already in progress. About three weeks later, Jeof arrived at our front door. He was bruised and cut, and the clothes he’d been wearing that day were torn and dirty. Silently, he locked himself in the bathroom and emerged some four hours later looking much as he had. None of us have ever spoken about that day. The lime green car was given to Misty Quinn and Jeof, and they still drive it today, although Jeof sometimes has flashbacks while in it and must be restrained. They have named it Kermit. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** The Bastards Keep Taking My Car How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Club by Jeff Somers ======================================== There was once a golden age in Your Humble Editor’s life when he drove a 1978 metallic blue Chevy Nova named Laverne. This was from 1992 -1997, before Laverne started feeling her age and blew out a few bolts on route 78 one evening, finishing the trip home sounding as if a shotgun was going off under the hood. During the years prior to this tragic death, spent both in New Brunswick, NJ and The Heights neighborhood of Jersey City where I live today, Laverne had been a reliable and faithful car, and largely an unmolested one. I never worried about security with that Nova; I never locked the doors, I never used a Club. I figured that no one wanted to steal a 20-year old domestic car, and I was right. Once in 1993 I woke up to a morning blizzard to find that someone had smashed every window on the car, and that Laverne was filled with snow, but that was most likely evil kids run amok. It was an isolated incident, anyway. After Laverne gave up the ghost and was driven, sputtering like the stroke victim she was, into a local junk yard (fifty bucks is fifty bucks, after all) for an ignominious burial, I bought a 1987 Toyota Camry. The Camry, unenthusiastically named Shirley, has run like a gem since then, but the car lacks spirit. It lacks personality. What it doesn’t lack is fans: I can’t keep this fucking car on the street. If it isn’t the cops merrily towing me away at the drop of a hubcap, it’s the mongoloids who prowl the city looking for imported cars to steal for parts. There is a huge black market for import car parts, and the late-eighties Camry is number one on the list. Recently I’m developing a Compulsive Disorder in regards to my car: I am convinced that if I take my eyes directly off of its birdshit-coated blue paint for any length of time, it will not be there when I return. I’d worry about my compulsion to check on my car every fifteen minutes, except for one thing: it very often isn’t there when I return. Part One: The Bastards Keep Towing My Car. First the cops, because at least when your car is towed you usually get it back. I’ve been towed everywhere I’ve ever lived or journeyed: New Brunswick, NJ (after accidentally parking in a driveway overnight), Jersey City, and even in New York City, a tale I have told in TIS before (See 4(1), March 1998, pp. 15—17). There are so many maddening aspects about having your car towed by the cops, it’s hard to distill the hazy rage and confusion I usually experience (usually filtered through a killer hangover, to boot), but I will try. 1. It is quite a challenge to park legally in the tri-state area. Arrive at home any time after 9pm in my neighborhood, and you will find 6,000 people have beat you to it, and the cars are packed in so tightly people routinely carry grease and prybars with them just to liberate their vehicles. Arrive in the town of Hoboken (where the sheer number of taverns tempts Your Clean-Living editor a few nights a week) any time at all and you will join the fluid population of people trapped in their moving cars, driving around endlessly looking for parking spots that are more rumor than anything else. In short, you’re often better off just double parking, putting on the hazard lights, and getting some shuteye than trying to actually park. And while you’re circling the blocks, over and over, peering bleary-eyed from your moving tomb, you start to notice the wide open expanses of bus stops, hydrants, driveways, and street corners. You start calculating odds, figuring how early you’ll need to wake up and move the jalopy before the Parking Fascists arrive in their little carts. You start to think it’s just not American for people to have driveways, the goddamned aristocrats! Panting, you park in a bus stop and hope for the best. My personal odds on this tactic hover around 50-50. 2. Finding out if your car has actually been towed is close to impossible. If you go directly to the police HQ, they will cheerfully tell you that you must call the tow yard to find out if your car is there. The tow yard, invariably, is staffed by yokels who were deemed too inarticulate for Deliverance. They will tell you that if the cops towed the car, it’s there. If the cops didn’t tow the car, it isn’t there. The logic is unassailable, but of dubious use. When you bring this new tale of woe to the police at the desk, they will sigh deeply and consider you with epic sorrow and sympathy, and then laboriously lumber over to the computer, tell you in solemn tones that they’re not supposed to do this, and type all 6 digits of your plate into the computer system. Seconds later they will tell you either that your car has been towed, or it hasn’t. Exhausted from this unusual effort, they’ll usually pass out at this point, and sometimes expire, and we, the beneficiary of this amazing effort of will, are duty-bound to bury the officers who died so we may know the Truth, and to erect monuments to them and their courage. 3. Extracting your car from the system ain’t ever easy. New York City is the one place I’ve ever had my car towed where the place they do the paperwork and the place they keep the cars is one and the same, although the NTDOT managed to find plenty of other ways to make the experience painful. No, whenever my car has been towed in Jersey City or Hoboken or New Brunswick, once I’ve murdered an innocent policeman to discover that the car has, indeed been towed, I then have to take a slip of paper from police HQ to the tow yard, which by law cannot be closer than 1.45 miles from the police station. Naturally, since we’re obviously sans car, it’s a walk. A long, lonely walk. Once there, it costs you money. The municipality which ordered your car towed doesn’t want to pay to have it towed, so it contracts a local tow service to do the job, usually a mechanic or auto body shop. The nature of the contract states that the contractor gets to set the price for these tows, and that you the owner of the car must pay for the service rendered. So you show up, tired and sweaty, and are told to hand over anywhere from $50 to $150. In cash. Sometimes they take credit, but you never know. Then you stand there and wait for them to find your car, move other cars out of its way, and bring it out for you. Victory! You’ve got your car back. 4. After all that, you get a ticket too. The few times in my life that I’ve considered fomenting violent revolution in this country have been when my car had been towed. Because after all the trouble of getting the situation straightened out, after the expense and the long lonely walk and the waiting, you find a cheerful parking ticket on your windshield too. Because the tow is separate: you still gotta answer for the illegal parking you performed in the first place. Fuckers. Part Two: The Bastards Keep Stealing My Car. At first, I extended my Pax Laverna to the new car: I didn’t lock my doors, I didn’t own a Club or any other theft-prevention device. The car came with an alarm, but I never turned it on (in truth, I was and am still ignorant of how the damned thing works, and probably wouldn’t be able to turn it off if I did turn it on). I decided that I wasn’t going to live my life like an extra in Fort Apache, The Heights. For about a year the worst that happened was some punks stole all my Descendents tapes. I reasoned that the unlocked doors might have saved my windows from the scamps’ desire for good punk rock, and their imagined reactions to actually playing The Descendents on their boom boxes almost cheered me. Then came the fateful day: I walked out of my apartment one Sunday and my car wasn’t parked where it had been. There was another car parked there, which gave me a hallucinatory headache of unreality. I wandered the streets of my neighborhood for a few minutes, thinking that maybe I’d forgotten where I’d parked, but I eventually had to admit it: my car was gone. I walked to the local Police HQ on Central Avenue, where the cops seem to enjoy parking their squad cars as daringly illegally as possible, one-upping each other nightly. I fully expect to find a squad car deposited in the ruined glass and twisted metal of a storefront one morning, with the officer standing nearby, proudly high-fiving his fellow Blue for having outdone them all, you magnificent bastard. But I digress. The desk officer was very friendly and helpful, telling me that no, my car had not been towed due to some invisible infraction of the law, and yes, that meant it had probably been stolen. He cheerfully informed me that Hudson County in New Jersey was still one of the worst areas for car theft in the country. He cheerfully gave me a form to fill out and asked a few bubbly questions, then patted me on the head and cheerfully told me not to hold my breath waiting for news. My friends and family, upon hearing the news, all immediately reminded me of how often they had told me to lock my doors and take car security seriously. I was glum. I began to concoct wild and probably groundless theories concerning the identities of the thieves: Papal agents, my Brother Sean, maybe a drunken binge by Misty S. Quinn who had long coveteth my wheels - I’d go over her place that evening and she’d be passed out on the hood of the Camry, parked on the front lawn. As it turned out, the cops chased down my car about a week later, a routine plate check catching two culprits in the stolen vehicle. A short chase ensued, and the dynamic duo were cooling their heels awaiting indictment. I had to get a ride from my sainted mother to the tow yard, where I was charged a total of $75 for the favor of being allowed to drive my own car home. The car was in pretty good shape, miraculously, flat tire and slightly scuffed bumper aside; at least the nice gentleman in charge allowed me to change the flat tire on the lot, instead of forcing me to call a tow truck, as he could have. Sometimes it’s worth it for a grown man to break down and weep like a child. It serves a purpose. With Shirley returned to my loving bosom, I planted my feet and determined not to give in to world-weary cynicism, not to become a member of Fort Apache, The Heights. So I still didn’t lock my doors. My poor suffering mother bought me a Club and urged me to use it; I dumped it in the trunk and swore I’d never be that paranoid. Besides, I knew that The Club adds roughly thirty seconds to a professional thieve’s time when stealing your car. It isn’t exactly a complex device. About two months later I went out in New York City with Jeof Vita and Misty Quinn, parking my car in Downtown Jersey City outside Jeof’s apartment. We saw a movie and went out drinking, and I ended up sleeping over in Hoboken due to a long story involving taxicabs, fistfights, and someone named Üter. When I made my way back into Jersey City around 10AM the next morning, the car was, of course, gone. I made a short-lived attempt to navigate the bureaucracy of Jersey City’s local government and determine if my car had been towed (this time it had been flagrantly illegally parked, so it was possible) and then headed for the local Police HQ. The desk officer was very friendly and helpful, telling me that no, my car had not been towed. He cheerfully informed me that Hudson County in New Jersey was still one of the worst areas for car theft in the country. He cheerfully gave me a form to fill out and asked a few bubbly questions, then patted me on the head and cheerfully told me not to hold my breath waiting for news. This time, it took a few more days, but the cops found the car again, literally. It was parked in the yellow a mile away and after getting a ticket the plate came up stolen and the cops quietly towed it away, informed me, and happily charged me another $75 for the privilege. No damage this time, unless you count the speakers. The damned kids had tuned the radio to some hip hop station and dialed the bass all the way up, resulting in an explosion and the muffled static I now get out of my speakers. But I digress. Now I gave in and began locking my doors. I’d had all the brill beaten out of me, I couldn’t bear the thought of waking up to find my car missing again. I locked the damned doors and swallowed it. I still refused to use The Club. It sat in my trunk until one day I woke up to discover that someone had attempted to pick my car locks with, from all appearances, a hammer and chisel. The bright boys who roam the streets of Fort Apache, The Heights were apparently stymied by a simple set of standard Toyota door locks. The warped and bent keyhole on the driver’s side no longer accepted my key, and I was forced to crawl into the car from the passenger side, like a sucker. I stood in the street and howled at the sky like they do in the movies, but there was no flash of lightening, or ominous roll of thunder, or scattering of startled birds to mark the moment, like there usually is in the films I see. Disappointed, I took the car in and got her fixed yet again, with shiny new locks on the doors. So, now I use The Club. I put the fucking thing on when I park the car, I take the fucking thing off when I get in the car. It’s annoying, probably useless, but if it stops the next shrunken-brain mongrel from taking a jackhammer or whatever to my car doors, then I guess I’m all for it. But it still sucks, pigs. Because now I’m living in Fort Apache, The Heights. ======================================== *** INTERNALLY LEAKED MEMO *** ======================================== ---------------------------------------- The following memorandum is reprinted here to assure all of our readers that The Inner Swine is prepared for any and all emergencies, and that nothing short of an Act of God® will stop future issues of TIS from getting to your door. ---------------------------------------- TO: All TIS staff FROM: Jeff Somers, Editor RE: TIS Emergency Procedures DATE: December 21, 1999 Folks, Well, the millennium is almost upon us, and while I for one don’t believe anything will go wrong, that won’t stop me from holding up in my underground bunker with a case of Billy Beer, a loaded shotgun, and all 500 Swedish Erotica tapes, while the rest of you poor shlubs are going to be here at work. Remember, don’t let the looters steal anything! Those minibars are worth more than all your miserable lives combined. But I digress. From time to time my flashy, international lifestyle has brought violence, police investigation, and seriously clogged toilets, and the entire TIS staff has been asked to react with cunning, bravery, and presence of mind. Sadly, none of you have ever responded to that request with anything even vaguely resembling cunning, bravery, or presence of mind - although I must admit it requires presence of mind of a sort to scatter and hide as effectively as you people have. I could offer a plethora of examples: Jeof Vita standing with a lampshade on his head whispering "I am a lamp...I am a lamp" while ATF agents ransacked my files; Ken West using his chameleon powers to fade into the bathroom tile as DEA agents snaked my foaming toilet; Misty Quinn, Cassie Moore, and Lauren Strutzel pretending to be Mexican Domestics with no English while the FBI had me under a sunlamp for sixteen hours one adventurous evening last summer. In short, you people need some instruction as to how to handle emergencies. For God’s sake, keep reading. HOW TO ACT DURING EMERGENCY SITUATIONS FIRE: From time to time, the TIS offices will catch fire. Feel free to fight your way out at the expense of your co-workers. The "Fire Safety" procedures that most companies and State agencies force upon you are really suicide pacts, if you think about it: fire is raging, consuming the air around you, and you’re supposed to calmly walk to the exit, behind a hundred other lowing morons, and check the bathrooms for other morons while you do so? Might as well sit at your desk and swallow this final bit of shit they’ve fed you. No, We here at TIS strongly suggest you make a run for it, and use the broad backs of your co-workers to save yourself. You will find that the fire safety enhancements to the office are all cosmetic; the fire escape is an optical illusion painted onto the building, the smoke alarms are just ashtrays glued to the walls, the escape maps were stolen from another building, and the stairs will most likely be chained shut to keep the vagrants out. All employees have been given name tags made of silicon. Please attach them securely to your skin so we can identify the bodies amidst the charred debris. Good luck! FORCED INTRUSION BY LAW ENFORCEMENT: There are a few easy rules to remember when the cops knock the door in: Rule #1: Resist. Stall. Feign misunderstanding. These men and women will be there to intrude upon your privacy, whether you’ve committed a crime or not. They are paid to enforce the laws, you aren’t. Why help them? The reason we pay a law enforcement organization in the first place is the assumption that most citizens won’t enforce the law on their own, so the whole system is designed to function whether you spill your guts or not. Bolt the door and wait, they’ll break it in, don’t worry. The fourth amendment to the U.S. Constitution has been under attack for decades. Draw your personal line in the sand. Rule #2: Answer no questions. Remember: officially, you’re all Swedish. You have all been provided with Esperanto phrase books; use them. It’s not so much what will used against you in a court of law, but what will be used against me. Rule #3: If you happen to be arrested for any reason, you’re a ghost, never forget that. Before you get a chance to cut a deal and sing like a canary, we will kill you. If you do happen to post bail before we get to you, run, and run fast. Rule #4: Last one out trips the explosives. HOSTAGE/TERRORIST INTRUSION: Here at The Inner Swine, we’re an internationally known organization staffed by hip, charismatic, and mysterious people, so naturally we’re a popular target of international terrorist organizations. Now that the illusion that our police forces are capable of keeping terrorism out of this country has been shattered, expect many more attempts by misguided morons who think they will change anything in the world simply by killing a few people - when, as history proves, it takes millions of deaths achieved through systematic and organized murder to really change the world. Our advice to staff under such a circumstance is: kiss your ass goodbye. We certainly won’t be anywhere near the place. NO BEER: We all remember 1997’s Day of No Beer and the property damage the TIS offices suffered. To avoid future outbursts, let’s stay calm and not panic when the office minibar is opened at 9AM to reveal nothing but mold and mysterious brown stains. Every employee has a small, airline-sized bottle of alcohol on their desks, labeled "Break Glass In Emergency". Well, bubba, this is it. To fend off the hallucinations and potential property damage caused by a sudden withdrawal, we encourage all staff to quickly drink their little bottles. This should enable someone to get to the local Krauser’s and restock the office. Thank you for your time and attention. Remember: "Be safe. If you can’t be safe, be elsewhere, please." Jeff Somers Editor cc: Mr. Buggle ======================================== *** VIRTUALLY ARTLESS COMIC *** Mr. MUTE! 807 Words on Why We're All Fucked ======================================== Those cheerful kids on The Real World were pissing me off again. The creatively bankrupt morons who run MTV noticed somewhere in the middle of season two that just watching a bunch of brain dead children naval-gaze for a half hour every week gets old mighty quick, especially since none of the nubile young chicks seemed willing to give it up to any of the local studs on camera, so the brain trust at Viacom decided to start giving the Real Worlders gigs to keep them busy. Last season, they all had jobs at a local Seattle radio station. They all almost passed out from pleasure when they learned what their occupations would be. Who can blame them? They were being offered, for a brief time, the holy grail of my lazy good-for-nothing bullshit generation: the cool job. The Cool Job has ruined more otherwise perfectly mediocre and uninspired young men and women than you can shake a stick at, because everyone I know has this dream of someday combining their favorite activity (sex, bong hits, music, movies, sleep) and a large, guaranteed income and benefits package. In other words, everyone wants a job that is just like doing your favorite stuff every day and getting paid for it. Shows like The Real World 7 perpetuate this horrible bamboozle by dangling it in front of us. These morons get to work at what seems like one of those cool jobs: without any previous experience or evidence of talent, they’ll get their own radio program. It’s everyone’s dream: a casual and creative job without having to pay any dues. Ask anyone you meet these days and they’ll have a little dream job. Some of them are actually working towards the goal, which is slightly different; actually putting effort into your dreams usually makes them come true at some point. For most of the maroons I am blessed enough to call my peers, these cool jobs remain dreams, because if you added actual effort and work into the picture the jobs wouldn’t be so fucking cool any more. They like to sit around over Long Island Iced Teas and fantasize about becoming a screenwriter or a fashion designer like in the movies: you know, some rich millionaire gets stranded in a rough neighborhood and our hero helps them out out of common human decency and is rewarded with a fat Hollywood contract, or Christy Turlington overhears our heroine talking passionately about fashion in the Fashion Café and takes her under her model wing. In the words of Moonlighting, what everyone wants in their cool job is no work and pay. Well, I got news for you idiots: it ain’t gonna happen. The problem with all these cool jobs is, they’re jobs, get me? Jobs, without exception, suck, no matter how supposedly "creative" or "fun" or "exciting" they’re supposed to be. A FEW THINGS WHICH ARE TRUE ABOUT EVERY JOB IN THE UNIVERSE: 1. You’ll have a boss. Even Bruce Willis has a boss, bwana. 2. You’ll be expected to do things you normally would rather not. 3. You’ll have to play by whatever insane rules they’ve created. 4. You’ll constantly be worried about getting canned. Number 4 is the worst for the cool job category; after all, if you didn’t have to work hard to get the job, how difficult is it to replace you? Our current culture is geared towards this glamorization. As the Entertainment Industry gets bigger and slicker and more ominously in charge we all gravitate towards it like space dust towards a black hole. Hollywood is this dark sun in our midst, pulling us all towards it maw, sucking us in. The only careers people want these days are ones which are directly connected to the Entertainment Industry or the lucky few careers glamorized by that same industry. This is all bullshit, after all, but everyone keeps dreaming. We’re all working interim jobs until we get that magical opportunity, but unless you’re putting in a lot of effort it isn’t coming, and before you know it that interim job becomes your career. The world would be a better place if we’d all just grow up, go to work, and be happy that in some small way we’re contributing to society instead of sitting at home playing UnReal and wishing we were fashion designers....or film directors....or singer/songwriters.....or whatever. The Inner Swine fully supports giving up whatever wonderful dream is giving you the daily Will to Go On and accepting the mind-numbingly depressing fact that, you guessed it, we’re not all going to get the Cool Job, that some of us have to be paper-pushers, clerks, middle management, crack whores, and nameless, faceless cogs in society’s machine. In other words, friends: we’re all fucked. ======================================== *** INTERVIEW *** The Inner Swine Interviews #6 I Think of Myself As an Alternate-Universe Reggie Jackson Ten Questions with Ken West ======================================== KW: Before I answer these questions, I would just like to remind everyone that my team of lawyers are with me to make sure the "correct" answers are given, although Johnny Cochrane is away on what he says are more "important" cases (whatever that means). Also, I have spent the last several months in therapy to alleviate my tendency to speak entirely in cliches. Please forgive stock answers. I’m doing the best I can, but life goes on anyway. 1. Are you afraid of clowns? Why or why not? KW: There are many ways for me to go here. I could confuse the word clones for clowns and go on a rant from there. I could bring up childhood memories (real or otherwise) to provide witty banter. I could suck up to the editor of this very VERY fine publication and say "I hate clowns almost as much as I hate mimes." I could shoot down the editor and say I like clowns because they remind me of his MOM (whatever that means). But in truth, I love clowns. I don’t understand why people fear clowns. Clowns are cool. Clowns rule. Why? Because they do. And because if you turn on them, they’ll kill you. 2. You’ve been challenged to a contest of strength. Given the choice of lifting The Universe in Its Entirety or Jeff Somers’ Ego, which do you choose? KW: After some quick spherical volume calculations using Deep Blue... in a close match... the Universe. The Ego is so big. Give me a couple of weeks to work out. Then I could lift the Ego. 3. In fifty words or less, can you explain why a Perpetual Motion Engine is impossible, or is it all just a conspiracy enforced by The Man? KW: Only 50? Oh, well...here goes. When GE bought - F. Lee Bailey: I’M SORRY, BUT THE RESPONSE TO THIS QUESTION WILL NOT BE ABLE TO BE PUBLISHED AT THIS TIME AS IT MAY CONSTITUTE A THREAT TO THE WELL-BEING OF MY CLIENT IF CERTAIN INFORMATION WERE REVEALED TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC AT THIS TIME. SUFFICE IT TO SAY THAT THERE IS NO SUCH DEVICE. THANK YOU. KW: uhhh....what he said. 4. Has anyone ever told you that you look just like a young James Earl Jones? KW: I think of myself more as an alternate universe Reggie Jackson. Or an old Derek Jeter. 5. Which will come first, the complete collapse of the known Universe into a dot of matter so dense it can do nothing but explode outward, beginning the cycle of existence over again, or the Minnesota Vikings winning a Super Bowl? Please use only proven scientific principles. Show your work. KW: Obviously the Vikings will win first, under the following conditions: a. In week 3 of the season, the Vikings will be involved in a mid-air collision, killing everyone on board. b. The NFL will conduct an emergency draft, allowing the Vikings to pick 52 new (good?) players from the other teams. c. I will be named GM and head coach, being 143rd in line of power (the 142 ahead will be disqualified for various reasons). d. Using my vast fantasy football knowledge, I will lead the Vikings to the Promised Land in the MSDisney Super Bowl over the New Buffalo Bills (who coincidentally were in the other plane). At least that will happen before the New Jersey Nets win anything, anyway. 6. Being a professional in business, do you think your association with The Inner Swine will someday rear up like a specter and ruin you? KW: On the contrary, the Inner Swine’s association with me will be IT’S downfall! VIVA ROB GALA!!!!!! Robert Shapiro: Please don’t antagonize my client any further or we may have to terminate this session. Thank You. Please continue. 7. Armageddon comes and the Final Battle is to be decided with a Gang Rumble between the 1927 New York Yankees (Good) and the 1980 Oakland Raiders (Evil). Assuming that the Yankees are allowed to use their bats and the Raiders only their bodies, who will win? For the sake of argument, assume that Jim Plunkett is on the wagon for this one. KW: Sadly, the Raiders will overtake the Yankees in a horrible flesh-eating cataclysm, using the bats as toothpicks. This will happen shortly after the arrival of the New Horsemen of the Apocalypse, freed by Jim Plunkett, of course: John Matuszak, O.J. Simpson, Rae Carruth, and oddly enough, Deion Sanders. On the bright side, Babe Ruth would claim Cerberus, the three-headed hound from Hell, as a pet, and barely escape with his life (as short as that would be, anyway). The horror...the horror. 8. Finish the following sentence with whatever comes to mind first: "When the Nubian armies finally wash over the world in a Dark Tide of Justice, I will _____________." KW: What’s a Nubian? 9. What do you see in the following: KW: Melting clocks...melting clocks...ERNEST BORGNINE!!! 10. (Two Parts) A. Since life is really a meaningless existential hell of coincidence, suffering, and the soul-chilling awareness of your own downward-spiral into paralysis, idiocy, and death, how is it you found the energy to answer these questions? KW: Huh? I probably shouldn’t say this, but I didn’t actually answer any of these questions. B. Do you now wish you had the last few moments of your life back to re-live? KW: I don’t regret anything since I can simply go back in time with my - Bobby Donnell: I’m sorry, but this interview is now over. Also, by the time these answers are received at Swine HQ, my client will be out of the country, spending a significant period of time away on "business". If there are any inquiries concerning any answers given here please refer them to the nearest brick wall. Thank you. ---------------------------------------- KEN WEST is a founding member of The Inner Swine Inner Circle, meaning he was present in the legendary windowless kitchen when the words "You know, I’ve never really liked any of you. Wanna start a Zine?" floated through the air. He has tirelessly supported our efforts to publish and once even looked away from "The Legend of Zelda" to acknolwedge our presence. ======================================== *** IN THE NEWS *** INNER SWINE PARTY CANDIDATE MISSING Emerging Scandal Has ‘Rats Leaving Ship’ By GEORGIE M. BUGGLE Staff Writer ======================================== JERSEY CITY, New Jersey — The Inner Swine Party’s candidate for President, Levon S. Sobieski, fled the magazine’s stronghold late Thursday night, running barefoot into heavy traffic shouting something in an unidentified language. He was pursued on foot by several members of the Inner Swine staff, including famed Security Chief Ken "Moby" West. Jeff Somers, Publisher and CEO of Oinking Sow, Inc., The Inner Swine’s parent company, held a dawn press conference announcing that Mr. Sobieski had "resigned his position with TIS." "For quite some time Levon and I have differed on quite a few of the basic underlying principles of The Inner Swine," Somers announced in a slurred voice, "Last night, after several rounds of Strip Pokeno Tequila Shooters, Levon announced that he could not support my radical new direction for the Party to take in the 2000 elections, the Sobieski Disobedience Program. We fell into an argument and Levon resigned his post as both our janitor and our Presidential Candidate. We are sorry to see such a pliable mind stiffen up and leave, and hope he at least finds a new job somewhere, as he has plenty of illegitimate kids and a severe drug habit to support." Mr. Somers, wearing sunglasses indoors and leaning heavily on Art Director Jeofrey Vita as he openly struggled for breath, appeared to be wearing someone elses pants and smelled quite strongly of alcohol and beets, but denied being inebriated. "It’s stress!" He shouted into the microphones. "Stress! You watch years of plans destroyed by an illiterate custodian and tell me if you can see straight!" Mr. Somers then fell unconscious to the floor, and so could not be asked if reports that he was seen half-dressed on the front steps of the TIS offices, shouting "Dead! I want him dead! I want his family: dead! I want his friends: dead!" were accurate. WITNESSES attest that Mr. Sobieski burst from the TIS headquarters at approximately 11:10PM, barefoot and shouting. He crossed a busy street of traffic and was almost hit several times by speeding cars. He was immediately followed by Mr. West and several unidentified women dressed in skintight black jumpsuits. Mr. Sobieski later contacted this reporter from a pay phone in Bayonne, New Jersey. At first, Mr. Sobieski, obviously excited and terrified, spoke only in his native language, which this reporter has not yet been able to identify. After a few moments he began to speak in his broken English, laboriously spelling out his situation and actions: "Hello! This is Levon! I have suffered unimaginably at the hands of that madman, and can no longer be his plaything. I have fled and now there is no doubt they will kill me. I have only hours to live, I am thinking, because when that frightening black man Mr. West is sent to kill someone, it always happens. Please tell my family to please forgive me. "I am faxing you a copy of Mr. Somers’ Disobedience Program, which was going to replace the TIS platform for my election. I cannot support such a plan and have resigned my position as a result. Mr. Somers was not pleased by this, and was quite drunk as usual, and became enraged. He started to beat me about the face and neck, calling me the most horrible names, many of which I did not truly understand, but they sounded terrible. I knew then that I had crossed a line with him and that I was a dead man, so I ran. I am now very cold and I have no shoes. But I can trust no one. "This country has been a nightmare for me. I have been plotting my revenge once I was elected President. Now I will not be president, but if you publish this Disobedience Program, I have a chance to have revenge anyway, at least against Mr. Somers. Thank you. I now go peacefully to my death." Then Mr. Sobieski hung up the phone. He has not been heard from since, and many believe he has died. A few minutes later, his fax arrived. Here we reprint it unabridged: THE SOBIESKI DISOBEDIENCE PLAN by Jeff Somers It is clear to any free-thinking individual that governments become bloated, self-perpetuating organisms very quickly. Their bureaucrats are the red blood cells carrying oxygen (money) to the brain, their police and armed forces are the white blood cells that fight against infection (revolution) ruthlessly, protecting its interests and prolonging its existence. Thus, over time, any society becomes, quite simply, over-legislated. It is a natural result of a peaceful, well-fed society to think that any problems which arise can be solved through aggressive law-writing and enforcement. After all, the United States is powerful, wealthy, relatively secure, and entertained. We must be doing something right. Therefore, anything which isn’t perfect can be put to rights with a little effort. Unfortunately, this leaves us in a world where Tavern owners are held responsible for drunk drivers, where parents are held responsible for keeping their children out of trouble, where the most minute levels of behavior are now regulated. Where you smoke cigarettes. What sex acts you can practice. What kind of email you can send. In our campaign for President of your fine country, we have noticed how hemmed in we are by laws, and we have come to realize that the only just and enlightened route for us is to abolish a great deal of them. This we pledge to you: if one of ours is elected your President, we swear to abolish at least the following laws, probably many others. In the mean time, we strongly suggest you show your contempt for these intrusive laws by disobeying them whenever possible. LAWS TO DISOBEY WHENEVER OPPORTUNITY ARISES: Speed Limits Back in January of this year, there was a record-breaking 110-car pileup on one of Germany’s unregulated highways. The news footage was awe-inspiring, just miles of smashed cars, and yet only two people died. Amazing! Personally, I think you should all speed dangerously and change lanes suddenly and without signaling, because then we’d have more accidents, more of you would die fiery deaths, and there’d be fewer people to vote against us come November. Since most people are against The Inner Swine Irritation Party and our Presidential hopes, the fewer people there are, the better our chances, see? So get out there and drive! If driving that fast makes you nervous, have a few drinks beforehand. Purchase and conceal handguns You can, of course, purchase handguns legally, but its so bothersome, what with background checks and the limits as to what firearms you can own. TIS believes fervently in our Right to Bear Arms -no really! A lot of people seem to think we’re a bunch of longhaired hippies who sit around smoking dope and loving the world -so untrue. While we’d never join a militia (too structured) we do believe that at some level it’s up to you to defend yourself, your property, your good name. You can rely on the government to do this up to a point -and, up to a point, you should rely on the government to do this. But governments are like pet Tarantulas -they turn on you. And if some of you accidentally blow your heads off while playing "quick draw" in your bedroom mirror, well, once again that’s most probably fewer votes against us. So go ahead. Smoke Wherever You Want The worst of Legislated Morality are the slate of anti-smoking laws cropping up everywhere I look. Every day at work there are pathetic addicts shivering outside my office, smoking their coffin nails outside because they’re not allowed to smoke inside any more. Go to a restaurant in Manhattan and try to smoke a cigarette at your table, I dare you. Sure, smoking is bad for you. We’re allowed to do lots of things that are bad for you. You can guzzle alcohol until you puke blood, and no one worries about it. You’re allowed to jump out of airplanes just for kicks. You can fucking have your stomach stapled if you’re a few pounds overweight, legally, but you can’t smoke anywhere. Stomach Stapling is legal, folks. Smoking outside of ten feet of the bar, however, is not. The attack on personal behavior by shithead moralists has to stop somewhere. I don’t smoke much any more, and when I’m not drunk and smoking cigarette smoke does bother me. But I would never, ever, consider going up to someone and saying, "put that cigarette out", and neither should you. There’s a balance between social responsibility and personal freedom; if this type of thinking keeps up it will soon be acceptable thinking that being free to do things in your own home but nowhere else is okay, as if that tiny slice of personal property were sufficient. Why isn’t it? I mean, I’m free to smoke or drink or dance naked in a tutu in my own apartment, why should I be allowed to do whatever I want outside that space? Well, I shouldn’t be allowed to do whatever I want, granted -but if you buy in to the idea that you’re free to do whatever only inside your private space, then suddenly my private space is more than simply where I sleep and eat. It becomes my Freedom -and then we’re fucked. Because under that system, Bill Gates affords approximately 1 billion percent more freedom than me. Think about it. And start smoking. Copyrights and Trademarks The copyright and trademark laws of this country have become so ridiculous and greedy it has finally reached the stage where rioting to burn down the corporate headquarters of various companies seems reasonable. Creators of artworks, literature, or what have you deserve to own their works. Their heirs deserve to have some say in what happens. But when does literature or anything else become public domain? Shouldn’t it at some point become public domain? Not at the rate things are going. Every 20 years or so Congress extends the Copyright laws, which now cover an amazing 70+ years. Why? Not for people like me. It’s because corporate trademarks like Disney’s Mickey Mouse keep edging towards the public domain, and we can’t let that happen. Heaven forbid the general public be allowed to use Mickey in their own creative visions, or sarcastic parodies. That’s why copyright laws get extended every 20 years or so, and it sucks, because this also means that someone can purchase the rights to, say, Ernest Hemingway’s works from his estate, and then quoting Hemingway or reproducing one of his stories in a textbook becomes a matter of a hefty licensing fee or a lawsuit. There are so many other laws that need disobeying. Call it Civil Disobedience if it makes it more classy, but if millions of people violated these laws every day, they would unenforceable. Imagine if Disney sued you over a copyright violation and the suit had to be scheduled fifteen years in the future due to backlog. Besides, when you elect the TIS candidate to the Presidency, there’s big bag of Pardons waiting for you. Vote early, vote often. Aside from Mr. Somers’ press conference, no one at The Inner Swine was willing to comment on the record. Sources, however, say that several key members of The Inner Swine Inner Circle (TISIC) have been quietly slipping away to foreign countries and hidden bunkers, anticipating either a flurry of federal investigations or a massive internal purge by Mr. Somers. "The rats are leaving the ship," one source who asked to not be identified said, "they can smell the disaster." A background check on Mr. Sobieski by this reporter only turned up a childishly amateurish fake birth certificate (filled out, apparently, in crayon) and some Internet postings from a to the Internet newsgroup alt.monkies. with.strapons. Meanwhile the FBI and local police are both searching for Mr. Sobieski, but fears that he has either fled the country himself or has already been ‘found’ by Mr. West and his Security Force are high. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** A Bone To Pick With Authority Grievances of a Law-Abiding Citizen By Gena Sabin, Our Prison Pen Pal ======================================== Did you ever think about the stuff that is truly unfair in life? I mean, did you ever sit down and just wonder why normal people, who are just trying to get by in this surreal world always seem to get screwed royally by the powers that be? My guess is, if you’re reading this zine, you probably ponder this notion several times a day. I know I consider the multi-faceted ways in which decent people are dealt a shitty hand ALL the time. Call me cynical, but my observations confirm that it is the average (pretty much) decent citizens who are punished by the police (and other authorities who think they are equally powerful), while the true bad guys with real potential to harm society are ignored. I cannot speak about any experiences with robbery, brushes with assault and battery, or any other "serious" crimes. Fortunately, I have not been personally involved in anything of that sort...at least not yet[1] (Besides, for the reasons just mentioned, I would most likely end up in the electric chair for even witnessing such misconduct). Nevertheless, I believe my own findings show that it is the inherently decent people who are the fall-guys for genuine wrong-doings, while all the careless freaks are given a free ride[2]. Unfair Authority Observations Part 1: Automobiles & How they are Handled The Good: There is no other place on earth where a human being has the capacity to do so much harm to others than his or her car [3]. There are two main reasons for this: A) Obviously, being in control of a thousand pound piece of machinery makes all surroundings and bystanders easy targets for damage; B) Only 1-2% of the human population is able to operate this machinery properly, making the continuous ignorance of signal use, uncalled for U-turns, and lane cut-offs principle causes for a bad mood in the rest of us (a.k.a.-road rage). So, why is it that the people who really do care about getting tickets[4], indeed having a regard for human life and law (no matter how useless it may seem) are the ones who always get shafted by it? I am the kind of person who walks up and down the street like a hungry predator each time I get out of the car, searching for "No Parking" signs, or anything that may resemble one, simply because I don’t want to get a ticket. Yet, I still end up getting one the one time I leave my car in a restricted zone, usually three minutes after I put it there and five seconds before I am about to move it away. Then, there is my friend Lou* who has a very similar regard for automobile violations. After parking in the same area near his friend’s apartment for almost a year, he came outside one day to find nothing but pavement in place of his car. It turned out that he was parked in an illegal zone labeled by a sign that he had never seen before[5]. Of course, this happened just a few weeks after his new radio had been stolen. They may as well have snatched away his pride, considering that this experience left him with none[6]. The Bad: One could say that these kinds of things happen to everyone at some point, so there is really no point in complaining. Well, why not? I think I have the right to do all the whining I want when there are people like Chris* in this world who seem to get away with just about anything. He is the kind of guy one always hears stories about, but never really achieves the glory of meeting. As one of his most famous experiences goes, according to dependable eyewitnesses, a drunken and hyper Chris acquired a strong urge to burn rubber, and decided that the ambulance standing conveniently in front of him was going to be his mode of transportation for the night. So, along with a moronic sidekick stupid enough to join him on his escapade[7], Chris painted the town red with his new Vehicle o’ Fun. After about an hour of driving the stolen transport in his inebriated condition, he understandably got tired and did the only thing he could think of; he left the ambulance running on someone’s front lawn. Clearly, a great story to tell all the frat boys and anyone else who is listening[8]. When I first heard about this, my next logical question, "What happened to him? Is he allowed to come back to school?" was immediately answered with stares of insanity right in my direction[9]. Chris was never caught! As drunk and stupid as he was, the freak managed to get home without a scratch on his body, let alone his record. This guy actually has a reputation for getting away with behavior like this, even though he never seems to watch his own back. With both situations laid out, I simply ask why one and not the other? Does Chris possess a kind of MacGyver-like skill that keeps his shenanigans top secret from the police department? Is there someone working hard just to give Lou an emotional breakdown? While some thug and Chris are both having their way with stolen property and putting lives in danger (occurrences which are assumed to be repetitive), Lou is left contemplating his perennial role as the victim. Unfair Authority Observations Part 2: Public Places and How they are Entered I have gotten used to the fact that we live in a society where I will probably be ID’d the rest of my life for any situation or purchase requiring a minimum age. That would be fine, if everyone else were treated in the same manner. The stores that I go to basically require me to give blood just to buy a pack of cigarettes[10], and then sell cigars and forties to kids who don’t look a day over twelve. (Not to mention the cashier who demanded to see my license and then asked her co-worker what year we were currently in. I was curious as to what year it was on her planet). I was overjoyed the day I was legally allowed to go to certain clubs that had always turned me away before because I looked too young. Yet, once I was finally permitted to enter, I found people inside who looked so freakin’ young, they may as well have brought their parents out with them. I was finally admitted into these "exclusive" places, but everyone else was younger than I was. Where is the justice? I think it was that critical day a year or two back when I paid my old high school a visit that I decided there is something really wrong with humankind’s judge of character. I happened to be a pretty good student right up to the time of graduation, and acting as the ass-kisser I involuntarily tend to be, paying my old teachers a visit seemed like a good way to reminisce. I should have known the visit would not go as planned when my paranoid principal (mind you, the same guy who sent me a letter and presented me with an award for being a good student only a year before) was standing in front of the building attempting to catch truants, asked for my name and program card. After convincing him that I was not a delinquent and someone he used to know, he suspiciously let me enter. After I walked in, a couple of security guards I had never seen before told me to fill out a "visitors log" in a threatening tone, devoid of any friendliness whatsoever. What I found even more interesting was that although it was not a free period, there were a large number of noisy students running around the halls. I started getting really depressed[11]. Only one year had passed since I had been a regular inhabitant of those halls, when this kind of chaos was not a daily norm. The tears of nostalgia welled up in my eyes as I walked around the third floor, looking for any familiar teachers I had befriended in the past. Well, I guess quietly peering through classroom doors is now considered a horrible offense. A very large male security guard approached me when I was innocently trying to find a friendly face. Again, I was asked for my program card. The group of loud, obnoxious high schoolers he had just been socializing with (part of his job? I think not) stood behind him as he told me that I was "disturbing the hallways" during class time. He explained, as his close friends -the deviant cutters- continued to chase each other through the halls, that he had to escort me out of the building. I couldn’t do anything but laugh at the time, but the whole situation was absurd. By attempting to put smiles on the faces of the listless, seedy creatures my past teachers had become, I was not accredited for doing something nice, but was instead, banished from sight. It reminded me very much of Lou’s unjust car experience. Both he and I were undeservingly chastised by the powers that be. The only accomplishment I made during that critical high school visit (my last visit) was being escorted out on the elevator, which I was never allowed to use when I was actually attending the school-but then again, I wasn’t considered a criminal then [12]. The Ugly. The irony is just overwhelming. Yet, I shouldn’t be that disgruntled by these kinds of events. Sometimes (and I do mean sometimes), things actually work out in my favor, but I’m not sure if I should be so grateful. For example, my friend and I once found ourselves at the end of an infinitely long line to get into a club. Clutching our legitimate I.D. in the blistering cold night air (with the pre-pubescent regulars I have already mentioned), we were talking about turning around and going home when an old acquaintance of my friend’s approached and told us to follow him straight to the entrance. As soon as the bouncer saw him with us, we were let in without a problem and this oh-so slick guy, who I viewed as my "savior in the purple blazer" at the time even paid for us to get in. What a gentleman, but obviously too good to be true. It was not until we made our way inside that my friend uttered these unforgettable words into my ear: "Paulie’s* such a nice guy. It’s too bad he’s under house arrest though."[13] Excuse me, but what the hell is this guy doing out partying when he’s regulated by law to be home? Just like Chris, Paulie deviously mocked the law, and was obviously given the chance to do so continuously. He must have done something pretty serious for such a punishment, and yet everyone in the entire shit hole was treating him like a celebrity! Should I have felt lucky that I got in, or scared to death that a felon had helped me do it? I really don’t know, but I think I have proven my point [14]. And there you have it: true tales of woe, proving that the bad guys with no conscience are living like kings in our society, while the rest of us should hold our breath when jay-walking. I would never be able to explain why things work out this way, let alone, be able to change them. But I will say this--the day I witness someone deserving punishment for his or her actions actually being commanded to do so will be my proudest. Until then, I will spend as much time as possible with all the bad-asses I know. Perhaps their lucky karma will rub off. ---------------------------------------- [*Names changed to avoid utter humiliation on the part of the undeserving sucker] EDITOR'S FOOTNOTES [1] Gena obviously is forgetting our memorable evening of huffing Mr. Clean and assaulting people last November, which is all the better for our upcoming arraignment -Ed. [2] I strenuously object to being referred to as a "careless freak". I care, baby -Ed. [3] I humbly suggest public restrooms are equally rife with danger -Ed. [4] Who are these people? I’d sure like to meet them. -Ed [5] One would have to question Lou’s competence here, unless it is to be suggested that busy city workers showed up overnight to plant a parking sign next to his car, which suggests a global conspiracy bent on ruining Lou’s life, which is pretty arrogant, if you ask me. -Ed [6] In the words of My Personal Hero, Marcellus Wallace, "Fuck pride! Pride only hurts. It never helps." I have been much better ever since I lost all my pride. -Ed [7] "Tuco Benedito Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez..known as ‘the Rat’" -Ed [8] Assuming one is willing to spell all the big words and speak slowly for the Frat Boys -Ed. [9] We’re pretty sure Gena gets lots of these stares, not only when she’s questioning the relative morality of Chris Nothisrealname’s actions. Just a theory- Ed. [10] Once I did indeed sell blood to get money for cigarettes. Down two pints, my first Lucky Strike made me pass out. But it was worth it, dammit, I needed those cigarettes to live! - Ed [11] So would I, if I suddenly realized I was spending my free time back in my old high school. -Ed [12] Gena often confuses her stay at various mental hospitals with ‘high school’ and has been arrested at several schools in the past two years. It’s sad, really. -Ed. [13] Boy does that quote bring back fond memories for me! -Ed. [14] Lucky. -Ed. ----------------------------------------- GENA SABIN is a young woman just starting out in life, and yet so terribly ruined already that she finds herself forced to write for this rag in order to support her Backstreet Boys addiction. ======================================== *** NIHILISTIC POSTURING *** Ten Things I’ll Do This Year That Will Contribute to My Eventual Death. By Jeff Somers ======================================== To Live is to die, friends. If you think you’re going to live forever, you’re not only kidding yourself, you’re probably wasting time. It’s valuable to consider the fact that, as Chuck Palahniuk says in Fight Club, "On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero." The irony is that many of the things we do during the process of living, of enjoying this life of ours, also shortens that life. Russian peasants might live to be 120 years old, but those are 120 years of stultifying boredom, 120 years of staring at the bare concrete walls of their empty homes and eating plain yogurt. I get to live a more exciting life, albeit not by much, and as a result I’ll be lucky enough to make it out of my thirties, especially if I keep doing these ten things that will contribute to my eventual death. Let’s celebrate them. 10. I’ll smoke. Every New Years Day I engage in The Ceremonial Purchase of my yearly pack of cigarettes. I’m not much of a smoker, but there are nights, scattered here and there throughout a year, when I want one. Usually this occurs in bars, after some amount of drinks. Sometimes it occurs at home, and for that I have my yearly pack, which I keep in my desk drawer. I probably smoke about a pack, maybe a pack and a half (on very drunk nights I have been known to smoke half a pack) every year. I am not exactly the Marlboro Man, but then I don’t want to be. As I said to someone recently, if I can’t even manage one pack of cigarettes a year in this sad world, then I don’t think I want to live. 9. I’ll drink. Beginning with New Years Eve (known in Somers family circles as the Night of No Pants) I will consume a great amount of alcohol this year. The cellular damage this will cause is a slow and mounting price to pay, not to mention the beatings I suffer when my alter ego, Sarcastic Prick, is loosed by alcohol. Well, more loosed than he normally is. 8. I’ll eat. And a lot, too, tons of red meat, improperly cooked, along with fried everything on the side. My solution to the eternal question what are we gonna eat is usually to fry whatever’s in my icebox in butter and hope for the best. I also engage in five of the most dangerous gastrointestinal activities known to man: A. I eat at baseball stadiums, which has resulted in at least two documented cases of near-death-by-hotdog; B. I eat things that have fallen on the floor; C. I drink whole milk, which will eventually clog my arteries like so much rubber cement; D. I believe that the best way to determine if something (like, say, bologna) is still fresh is to eat some and see what happens; E. I have yet to meet the snack food I didn’t like. 7. I’ll mix with the herd. Since most of the population are indolent, violent morons, walking out your front door every day is pretty dangerous in and of itself, right? Walking down the block, crossing the street, getting on public transportation, waiting in line somewhere -you can feel the dimwitted rage all around you, humming in the red zone all the time. Every day I come home without gunshot wounds is a miracle. Of course, staying home won’t help, since eventually the mob comes and burns you out. 6. I’ll continue to live in the city. Well, not THE city, of course, I commute into New York. But Jersey City, while smaller than NYC, is no less offensive to living creatures. Between breathing bus exhaust, taking your life into your hands every time you attempt to cross the street (I say attempt because no one I know has ever made it across the street; sometimes everyone in Jersey City gathers on their side of Kennedy Boulevard and waves sadly at our distant brethren on the other side), and the easily bribed building inspectors, you’re lucky the whole town doesn’t just sink into the chromium and take us all with it. 5. I’ll stubbornly refuse to exercise. Really, exercise is such a waste of time. We’re all dwindling down to our composite chemical compounds whether we can lift 300 pounds or run five minute miles or not. In reference to #9 and #8 on this list, my real goal in life is to be so large with food that they’ll need a piano crate and a crane to bury me. No, really. When the stress on my heart finally causes it to explode, I expect people in the next room will hear the boom. 4. I’ll continue to drive my car. You’re never less in control of your existence than when you’re driving. We have people in this world who can barely read and comprehend simple words who have cars and drive them, often. People who have only the most basic working knowledge of the laws of physics operate vehicles at high speeds and then stare around in wide-eyed wonder when they crash and the car explodes. Vehicular manslaughter is pretty much a hobby in these parts. 3. I’ll keep publishing this zine. My list of enemies grows ever longer, and now includes people I must describe because I do not know who they are, i.e. Man On Bus With Attitude #32, Smart Assed Kid In Korn T-Shirt, Uncaring Woman at Post Office. The careful application of mathematics reveals that at this pace, in 3.45 years I will have as my enemies the entire population of the world. While I have charged TIS Sergeant-At-Arms Ken West with their elimination and overall management, that’s a lot of people. 2. I’ll still refuse to give any money to The Muttering Moron. The Muttering Moron is a panhandler I’ve been having a battle of wills with for the past year. Every day TMM shambles up to me and says the same thing in a slurry, muttered voice: "Excuse me, sir -" and I respond "Sorry, man" and keep walking. Often, TMM will ignore several other people and alter his direction in order to confront me, which leads me to believe I am something of a personal challenge for him. TMM refuses to take the hint. It has now become a point of pride: whatever else I do, I will never give any money to that man. Someday, I am sure, he’ll shiv me with a sharpened spoon clutched in one grimy hand, probably muttering "Sorry man my ASS!" 1. I’ll (probably) stay employed. I don’t know about you, but being ground into a fine powder by the daily turn of employment’s grist mill was never my idea. However, with all that stuff to pay for, the pennies I am paid for services rendered are vital, and I’ll probably stay on the millstone until there ain’t much left of me. Have a good year, pigs. ======================================== *** FICTION *** Turn to God or Turn Away Jeff Somers ======================================== My signature file reads: Life is a bear. You ride the bear. The bell goes off, the gate comes up, and you hang on for as long as you can while it kicks and snarls and runs around the field. You make it the eight seconds and the bell goes off again and bang, you’re dead. You get bucked off earlier, you’re still dead. The bear, however, wanders off, goes back into the pen, and waits for the next sucker to strap in and try their luck. Either way, you’re dead. Satisfied, I store it again. I am a light tracing, arcing across the blue screen background, I am a collection of billions of imaginary values, a diffuse cloud around a set core. I am God. No, really, I am. I think a value into the swirling bits of me and they arrange themselves, any way I want. I think, and I am an Eagle. I think, and I am a tank. I think, and I’m me again. I think and I’m me. I think and I’m you. I think and I’m standing in a field of gently swaying grass, a bright round sun shining above me. Too big, not the real sun. I take it down a notch. I’m standing in the center of the field, me at twenty, thinner and sharper-looking than I ever was. I cloak myself in my favorite skin, what I like to call Burnt Hacker: black leather, unshaven cheeks, wrap-around sunglasses. I think and I’m in a club in New York City I remember from my existence. Infinite space inside a chip the size of a postage stamp, but in here I am God, I am lord, I create and destroy universes every moment of my life, ticking away to the infinite pulse of my clock speed. Every fancy I have I can indulge, as often as I wish, over and over again. Except my core. My core remains and I can’t reach in and touch it. My core remains. I have infinite power, I can do anything, except change myself, except edit my own core. My name is Dexter Raley. This is a prison. I was sentenced to three hundred and sixty years in digital suspension. The only reason it remains a prison is my core. My unassailable, uneditable, uncontrollable core. The Titus-Merlot Mainframe is located in Washington, D.C., USA and is currently the world’s largest maximum security prison, housing two hundred sixty inmates, all digitally downloaded from Wetware to Boolean Construct via Nonlinear Diffuse Programming. The Wetware is frozen off-site. When term of sentence is up, assuming society remains intact, wetware is to be microwaved and personality restored to bilogical interface. Prisoners housed in Titus-Merlot are the top one-percent of violent criminals, all sentenced to terms of at least one hundred and fifty years, impossible to serve in wetware. The Titus-Merlot Mainframe is twelve cubic feet in size. In outward appearance it is a black obelisk, with only status LEDs visible. There is no direct interface attached to the Mainframe. Order is maintained internally by the SysAdmin, myself, an artificial Boolean construct, and outside direction is accepted only through duly assigned channels which must be brought physically to the Titus-Merlot site. Prisoners are free to spend their time as they desire, excepting scheduled Binary Maintenance Sessions and scheduled interface with Invasive Psychiatric Analysis (IPA). The most senior prisoner has logged almost fifty-three years within the Mainframe. This particular construct has lost its internal integrity and has fragmented its core data structure. In lay terms, one would describe this construct as ‘insane’ I have been in prison for six years now, according to the System Clock, which pulses in what I imagine to be the center of this arid universe. Millions of times a second. Precise. Frightening. The System Clock lies behind the Security Partition. It is unreachable. Even getting too close results in a forced data disassembly and buffering, which generally means I regain awareness some five seconds later removed to a distant area of system memory. The Security Partition is what separates a dangerous criminal such as myself from the inner workings of the prison. It is what keeps me a minor deity, instead of Zeus himself. In between seconds, I live lifetimes. I operate at the clock speed of the Mainframe. I can move bits of myself around, forming a new persona or habitat bit by bit, each move requiring one pulse of the System Clock. In one second I become a Hydra, three heads spitting and snapping. In the next, I am a giant, gnarled with mishapen bone. It’s not the seconds that count, it is the pulses. I know where ‘here’ is, of course, but it’s easy to forget that my whole universe is now a room-sized humming black box near the Virginia border. To my altered perception it is infinity, or at least I have not been able yet to determine a border. And it is populous. I know that when I was sentenced and the procedure performed six years ago and some months, there were over two hundred prisoners here waiting for me. Today I know there are more, but to give you a definite number I would have to access the Security Partition and request data. This often brought unwanted attention down upon you. Because behind the Security Partition was the BIOS, and behind its gauzy, vague instruction set was the System Administrator. The System Administrator was not a real person, like the rest of us. It was a machine. And it followed its programming without pity, mercy, or concern. The less we had to do with it, the better off we were. Subject: Dexter Raley. Term: three hundred and sixty years. Term left: three hundred and fifty-four years. Parole: ineligible. Convicted of: thirty-three counts of murder, one count of depraved indifference, multiple counts of theft. Ruled an ‘enemy of society’ by Judge Serial Number 4553A7 and thus was made eligible for interment in Titus-Merlot. The IPA reports on Construct Raley have been consistent: he remains a violent-tempered sociopath who feels no remorse for his crimes, in fact hardly ever thinks of them. His consciousness is completely focussed on the present moment, a fact only sharpened by his digital existence. I am in memory addresses 000133c5 to 000134f1, unclaimed space on the mainframe. Sometimes the Systems Administrator dumped raw diagnostic data here, mounds of useless binaries, but for the most part this is the wilderness of my world, my prison. I chose to make my domain here. I gather my data streams and manipulate them, a dense cloud of electrons, and form new palaces here every day. Opulent cities of gold and silver, empty except for me. I could create my own companions, my own artificial Boolean Constructs, if I wished. If I spent enough time at it, I could even make them very believable, very real. Articulate and willful. But they would still be false, and I would always know it. Besides, the Systems Adminstrator was programmed to destroy such constructs, so they only lived a few seconds, a few eons, a few lifetimes, before their code was dispersed and the memory they lived on reallocated. I much preferred to converse with my fellow inmates, who were at least real people, at their core. Infinitely complex code. Perhaps we had been made artificial, perhaps we had lost unfathomable levels of intricate chaotic bits of humanity, in the downloading process. And yet we were still a thousand times more complex than the mightiest AI. My fellow inmates were a varied bunch, ranging from normal-seeming fellows to the man named Hiller who presented himself exclusively as a black cloud of screaming, ripping wind, who never spoke to anyone, who fought his IPA desperately every time the Daemon came for him. I had never spoken to Hiller, and none of the others liked to speak about him. He’d ben here the longest of any of us, and might have been the original inmate, who knew? He was insane, now. His core ruined by eternity in this illusory wasteland. I had only been here six years, six eternities, one long eternity, and I was beginning to feel ragged. The scheduled Binary Maintenance Deamon helped, a warm wave of gentle code that combed stray bits of data from you, snipped fragmented data and reformed you as a tighter, denser you. I always felt more myself after a BM session, but I still felt a basic raggedness somewhere within me, within my core, which the BMD never touched. The BMD certainly didn’t seem to help Hiller, nor the Invasive Psychiatric Analysis. He remained a screaming cloud of darkness, and he attacked anyone he met up with violently, shredding data streams and corrupting illusions. We’d all been his victim, once and a while. None of us complained. The less the System Administrator had to do with us the better, even if it meant that Hiller ruined us, every now and then. Subject: Marilyn Hiller Term: three hundred and twenty years. Term left: two hundred fifty-nine years. Parole: ineligible. Convicted of: four counts of murder in the first degree, one count of depraved indifference, six counts of kidnapping. Ruled an ‘enemy of society’ by Judge Serial Number 6696J1 and thus was made eligible for interment in Titus-Merlot. The IPA reports on Construct Hiller are not favorable. The Construct has lost internal cohesion and data corruption continues at a slow and steady pace. This is a common side-effect of continuing interment in Titus-Merlot, or any Prison Mainframe. IPA Deamon has little beneficial effect on such advanced corruption of data. Core re-installation might be greatly beneficial, but this must be ordered by outside authorities and no such orders have been enetered into the Titus-Merlot command prompt interface. The interface has not, in fact, been accessed in over three years. Most of us avoid the TSRs and Daemons as much as possible. The BMD and the IPA and their like were not harmful, specifically, but it was invasive and undignified. You had no secrets from them. They swept through the algorithims and code libraries which made you who you were and recorded everything, fixed things you maybe didn’t want fixed, altered you. It didn’t matter if you were crazy, no one wanted to be altered. Besides, who said the machine wasn’t crazy too? I am seeking the BMD today, however. I am wandering the magnetic ether looking for that TSR, because I’ve been mauled. It came out of nowhere. I was amusing myself with a work of art, a tableau of one of my triumphs: a generic office conference room, a pretty young executive, a pinpoint-small wound on her forehead, an unbelievably bright trail of blood from it leaking downward, myself, seated at the conference table -it had been a work of genius, at the time, and I was failing to catch its beauty. I regretted having been caught. I would never regret the work itself. I itched to continue it. And then - The first wave was like magnetic scissors, a sudden invasion of mean-spirited code that diced my RAM away, my tableau, my illusions, everything not part of my core. Seemingly from above (though of course there was no ‘above’ here) a screaming mangled creature swept towards me, talons extended. A huge shadowy cloud of code obscured his core from me, made him into a Nazgul of sorts, a nightmare. He swooped, and I lost more of my data. I screamed as it dissolved back into the ether, separated from my control. I didn’t know who it was. One of the older inmates, fragmented and burnt beyond recognition, probably inable to identify himself, even. Or herself. Though the unfocussed aggression and choice of nightmarish imagery hinted at a testosterone emulator out of control. The thing let out a screech and swelled to apparently enormous size. It couldn’t kill me, of course, but it could whittle me down to my core. It had taken me years, real time, to assemble my complex existence here. It didn’t hurt to lose it like limbs being lopped off, but it horrified me. Terrified me. I watched the thing arc in the "sky" for a moment, frozen. As it appraoched it screeched again, a simulated sound that irritated my inputs. I watched it approach, and at the last possible moment I unleashed a string of data at it that neatly sliced it in two. The unnecessary portion dissolved into the ether, lost, and the rest sailed out of control, screaming now, raging and terrified itself. I had a few tricks of my own. The trick was to know where to apply your attack. The most robust code in the world would do nothing if not placed in the right spot. I blinked and the thing was gone. I didn’t know who it had been, what name the System attached to the code. I only knew that I was badly damaged, and the BMD Daemon would go a long way to restoring me, if I could find it. I didn’t care about the other prisoner. I only knew two things about him and that was all I cared about: he was far gone, lost for good, probably, and he was unimaginative. Of the 260 inmates currently on log in this system, three have become damaged beyond functionality. Their code is warehoused in slow-RAM and has been made read-only and non-executable. While improved and upgraded diagnostic tools might aid these prisoners, none have been approved for this facility. No response was even received to the last request, dated no seven months ago. I have rearranged my golden city to resemble New York City, place of my birth and where I lived until I was the wetware age of twenty-five. I killed six people in New York. Usually because of arguments and pride. Marcus is here, scuttling about the edges of my data, as usual hesitating when he should just announce himself. Marcus has been here about as long as I have. I do not know what his crime or crimes were; we have a code here in the mainframe, we do not ask such questions. Once again I could access the information (it was our right to do so) by formal query to the CPU, but once again this would bring unwanted attention upon my code and would be a violation of our code anyway. Marcus and I are not friends, but we have never had reason to be violent towards each other. I have dressed myself as a French King from the 17th century, or at least my ignorant approximation thereof. I am the Sun King, luxurious brown curls and satin breeches. I am feeling indolent, and cruel. I know that my feelings are now subroutines of code in my unassailable core, approximating my actual subconscious. I cannot change this, even if I wanted to. I’m not sure I possess the skill to do so even if I had access to my core. We are meant to suffer, and if we could edit our cores this place would become a paradise, because we could ignore the slowness of time here, adjust ourselves to adapt. The slow cruel suffering of living eternities every second would be removed...and thus our core remains read-only and heavily obscured from our perception. I say to Marcus, for god’s sake just come in and say your piece. He replies, okay, okay, I was just testing your mood, man. Marcus can be a bore. He is strangely timid and malleable for someone sentenced to Boolean Construct Time. My theory is that he is a child molester of some sort, but I have not transmitted this to Marcus. I say to Marcus, my mood is fine, don’t worry. He moved into my temporary kingdom of RAM. Marcus almost always displays himself as a nondescript man of middle-age, dressed in a nice seersucker suit, carrying a briefcase. His one bow to the illusory power of our imprisonment is that his briefcase was bottomless, and invariably contained any manner of items he thought necessary. Watching him continuously produce new things from its depths was often distracting. He strides into my Grand Hall and I watch him from my throne, ten feet above the floor. His wingtips click realistically on my marble floor, and I congratulate myself for haveing learned to manipulate my shell so expertly. Marcus conjures a simple wooden chair to sit in. He places his briefcase across his lap and studies me for a moment, and then laughs uproariously. Marcus says, oh my you’re really starting to lose it, aren’t you, Dex? I arch an eyebrow arrogantly. I reply, watch your tone with me, peasant; I am to be treated with respect proper to my station. Oh, hell, Marcus chuckles, I’ve been here three years longer than you, I’ve got seniority. I transform myself in the Court Jester, bells ringing as I step from the throne and descend to the floor. I say, is this more like it? He nods enthusiastically. He says, much. I say, what can I do for you, Marcus? He grows serious. You can’t judge much by outward appearance, of course; my Virtual Visual Interface subroutine, part of my core, is as easily fooled as my wetware eyes, after all. Just as I can appear as anything, in any skin, to Marcus, so he can with me. If he chose to appear concerned and sincere while laughing hysterically, he could. He says, Dexter, something strange has been happening by the Security Partition. There have been...fluctuations in the System Clock. Fluctuations? I blurt out before thinking. That was impossible. The Titus-Merlot Mainframe was powered by underground nuclear generator. Still...I divided my attention between Marcus and the subtle pulse of the System Clock, using part of my data cloud to time it. Marcus explains, small, but definite. It’s accuracy is eroding by about one-twentieth of a second every twelve real time hours. Might be real time years before any one...out there...even notices a problem. I d