Issue 1 August 1,1998
Copyright 1998 by Shadow Wall Press. All Rights Reserved.
None of this magazine, or any portion of it, may be e-mailed, posted or distributed in any manner without the expressed written consent of The Hold and the authors of the individual articles.
Published Monthly by Shadow WallPress
EDITOR: Vocab Boy
New World Order (No, it's not about those damned wrestlers)
The smell was just starting to wear off. The fetid stench that, for what seemed like months, had alienated me from any contact with intelligent life was finally starting to subside. I think. Excuse me, I'm Jacob. Been hanging around here for about two years now. The aforementioned odor was acquired only a few weeks ago, while attempting to keep what few things I had safe from those damned raiders. I was digging out a place to dump them, when I was overwhelmed by this horrible gas and the next thing I knew there was only darkness. Could've sworn I heard machines working, but, of course, nothing mechanical has operated here for close to fifty years. No one to run them.
Still, I do have a vague recollection of some...voice...speaking ever so softly very far away. "Plant the cerebral augmentation unit.", I believe. Whatever happened, I woke up smelling like a mule.
My body is far less human than my father's was, and so different from my grandfather's that one might mistake us for a different species. I certainly don't look the same. It's probably the glint of chrome that gives away the cybernetics that have been implanted in past years. Anything i've done, though, was completely necessary to survive. Except maybe that penile enhancement. Heh, heh. Thanks to the wonders of medicine i have arms as strong as most men's legs, legs to rival a Clydesdale, and a torso that's nearly bulletproof. Actually, they told me it was completely bulletproof, but harsh experience and a run-in with John Law has taught me otherwise.
This body has served me very well, though, despite any flaws in manufacturing. Jehovah knows i've put it through more than any reasonable man should. Hell, after 150 years i expect some wear. 150years. Has it been that long? i remember vividly when i doubted if my existence would continue through the next hour, much less another birthday. indulge me if you will, and i'll tell about the days when all these metal limbs were necessary.2
It was the coming of another millennium, and the usual fever had set in. Preachers were out in force on their soapboxes screaming repentance and expecting donations. Cults were doing the whole mass-suicide-cause-the-spaceship's-coming thing. Every simpleton that didn't use his pitiful brain was expecting the world to end on March 31,2999. They certainly tried to make sure it happened.
It seems some damn fool had gotten his sweaty hands on a book called Mein Kampf. The next thing anybody knew, the entire world wen tmad. I still blame the ancients and their books for our problems today, and i intend to do something about it. I am the rabbi of a group called Mizpah. our main purpose is to preserve the status quo, however wrong it may be, as favorable to chaos. All too many of our number remember those horrible days, when animosity flew like lightning between people passing on the street, often causing fistfights for no apparent reason. It was like people hated each other for the sheer thrill of it. In those days there arose a leader by the name of Gideon. Hel lof a man, and surprisingly similar to his Biblical namesake. He was definitely a waffler, but once his mind was made up he'd keep going come Hell or high water. Just what we needed to survive. By we I mean the Jews. As usual, we were the subject of persecution and genocide. This time it wasn't just the Nazis. The United States of North America made it official gov't. policy to hunt and kill us. An entire continent was out for our skins. It seemed like Armageddon was near.3
From the time of the last Holocaust there had been films and records preserved. This was meant to serve as a reminder and a deterrent to posterity. It was a powerful reminder, but as a deterrent it left far too much to be desired. All it really did was give the neo-Nazis ideas on "Genocide for Fun and Profit". Extermination camps were set up, and named after their predecessors. Reincarnated were Dachau, Mauthausen and Auschwitz, on a gargantuan scale. After all, there were more Jews to get rid of this time.
Not all of us were willing to bend over and take it up the ass, though. As I had mentioned, Gideon was one of the few with balls enough to organize a resistance army. This was a thing of beauty. If you've never seen millions of Jews pissed off enough to kill, well,...it gives me chills to remember it. This was no rag-tag group of poorly trained rebels. All of us enhanced in any way we could. Cybernetics, steroids, alcohol. We drilled and planned and struck. And won.
I am not ashamed of the behavior of some of our group. They gave as they got. Like good old Moses said, "eye for eye, tooth for tooth." It's a shame that none of the Gentiles survived, they would have been fun to keep around.4
So, here we were, with this Paradise on Earth. Everyone a Jew. You'd think we'd all live happily until time ended. Rebels. Our own little civil war. We tried to put it down, but by this time the king, Gideon, had grown old and senile, and was as useful as a can of bug sprayin the rainforest. Eventually, he was assassinated, and the gov't. just fell apart. It never did get any semblance of order back.
And that takes me to the time just a few...a fewww...
(Log of the Brotherhood of Man April 1, 3126
The biochemical weapon, Cyclon III, has taken effect on subject Jacob1. The last remnants of the old ways have been terminated. Our glorious leader has announced his plans to assume control of the Jewish Nation.)
Here's where the stuff you send me gets its due.
under and off
new and newly broken in.
without your attention
windows blinded with
thick eye lashes
fluttered as the sound
drew on your heart.
whisked up and bright again,
your portrait, painted
red whiskers and burnt sienna
your audience of one- expectantly.
she heard not a note
(offensive, the least)
warm, humidity, rising
thoughts frosted her ice cream
and cake (on paper plates)
it's melted thru the cellulose now,
her new portrait, painted
until the windows reflected, diffused
the absorbance spectra-identical.
so the orange
70's shaggin burber met her back
rubbed her back
her eyes found the 25th
in the middle of july.
middle of a freshman year
with green beans and
middle of algebra books
and meddling in suicidal contemplations
..the beginning of the morning
it's a nuisance now, but a keystone still
in the dark, they don't twinkle
but they are still there,
and as i stare
the christmas tree won't be on my ceiling
so could i, should i
make some of my own
and then your arms could come back
when i'm a million miles away.
when i'm in an old wallet
in a diary
in your (our?) yard
--the paint is less expensive
you remember distance.
THE PADDED ROOM
!!!Warning: The writers of these columns have severe emotional difficulties. I can't control what they write. If I were to reprimand them, the consequences could include verbal abuse, exposing themselves for no apparent reason, and the sadistic mutilation of any small animals present. I know this from harsh experience. Poor Scruffy...
Bill Gates. That will be the subject of this issue's Ranting. He is worth billions. He is what all nerds aspire to be. He could be beaten up by the average fifth grader. We, the average computer users, speak his name as if it were poison to our very tongues. We act this way out of jealousy (that's right) and spite. Jealousy because he has more money than most nations. We would kill for that amount of money. We would kill for the money in his checking account alone. I would at least. The things I would do with his money. One of those things would be to hire Carmen Electra to walk around my newly-bought mansion for one hour in a bathing suit. Or maybe something more trivial would be fitting. One petty thing to do: hire Mike Tyson to beat the crap out of some guy on the street, just for the fun of it. Just going up to Mike Tyson and saying, "Mike, how would you like to earn a quick 11 million?"
Now you are probably thinking, "My good God in Heaven! What a complete waste of human life to bestow upon this insignificant little whiner." If that is true, well, I don't know how you could be reading this with your head shoved so far up you ass, you fucking prick! If I wanted to be above your filthy, mudslinging kind, then I could do it easily. But I find that the gutter is a nice, warm place to keep one's head. It cradles the subconscious and nurtures the imagination. Masturbation is easier when your head is in the gutter. If it was not, the porn industry would not be the billion dollar industry that it is. But, back to my original rant.
Spite is the second general reason that people dislike him. Hell, the government themselves are trying to take him to court because they hate the idea of someone else inventing something that screws the public over like a cheap whore. You know what I a talking about: Windows95 and its sibling through sin, Windows98. Now it is necessary software, but costs nearly twice as much as stuff that actually works. And it is filled with worthless programs that just take up memory. Who uses all of their Windows accessories? I challenge Bill to show me one career where even a majority of those would be used, much less required.
Despite all of this, I still would like to be Bill. Even with all of his short-comings, no one deserves billions of dollars as much as old Bill Gates. Imagine, being a sophomore in high school, and getting beaten up by the little grade-schoolers across the street. Can you think of anyone with a worse childhood? Think of the endless torture it must have been. Probably still El Virgo, too. And most of all, the inability to look like anything but a nerd. Who else, in the history of this great planet, looks forward to high school reunions more than Bill Gates? Well, maybe Donald Trump did, but he is done with all the enjoyment that could have come from the scrutinizing of popular guys' lives and the "forgiving" of all the popular girls' past inequities. Oh well, until next month's Ranting, remember this: the word for "seal" in French is phoque (fuk) with an accent mark or two.
FROM VOCAB BOY, WITH LOVE
I don't know if any of you ever tried to put together something like this magazine, but if you're considering it in any form, stop it right now. Unless you enjoy long hours and no pay, more gainful employment can be found shoveling snow in July. That having been said, I wouldn't trade the lessons I've learned from putting this together for all the bread in Oregon. I, unfortunately, have developed a penchant for showing myself to be an "enigma trapped inside a paradox's body", in the words of the great Dolomite. I find it immensely satisfying to blow off an actual paying job to work on this zine for nothing. I've been known to teach myself to write in Arabic instead of doing homework, and I'd far rather read Dickens than the simple plays they gave me to read in school. If any of this sounds familiar to you,...I'm sorry. On the upside, you can follow in my footsteps, however skewed they may be, and find fulfillment in creativity, whether someone's paying attention of not. Sic Semper Tyrannus!! Yes, I know exactly what it means.
Got a complaint? Don't like the color of your pants? Feel Yoohoos should be served in the finer restaurants around town? Give me hell right here.
THE TOWN SCREAMER
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