nnnnnn nnn nnn nnn $ $$ $ $$ $$b $ $$ $$nd$b .d$$b. $`$b $ .d$$b. .d$$b. $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $ `$b $ $$ $$ $$ $$ nnn $$ $$ $$ $$"""" $ `$b$ $$"""" $$ $$ """ nSSn nSSi SSn "Sbnn" nSn `SS "Sbnn" "SbdS" .nP"=$$ $P nnn TM $$ "" `n' n$$nnn $$ .d$$b. $$$nd$bnd$b nnn $$$nd$b $$ .d$$b. $$$nd$b $$$nd$b $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ S$ $$ $$ $$ i$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$"""" $$ $$ $$ "SbndS" "SbdS" nSSi SSn SSn nSSi nSSi SSn "Sbn" "Sbnn" nSSi nSSi SSn .......... ......... ........ ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. . . . . . . . . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... .......... t h e n e o - c o m i n t e r n e l e c t r o n i c m a g z i n e I n s t a l l m e n t N u m b e r 1 2 5 LANOITANRETNI ht5 EHT ERA EW - WE ARE THE 5th INTERNATIONAL 0002 ,dn22 rebotcO - October 22nd, 2000 CMB :rotidE - Editor: BMC :sretirW - Writers: amsylcataC aniragraM - Margarina Cataclysma sigaaH roinuJ - Junior Haagis enyaW ylnraG - Gnarly Wayne d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P Featured in this installment .b $ $ $ BMC vs The Capitalism Monster- Gnarly Wayne $ $ How I Saved BMC from The Capitalism Monster- Margarina Cataclysma $ $ Into the Melee- Junior Haagis $ `q p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' EDITOR'S NOTE It's great to be back in the world of the living. Well, except for all of the dead stuff in the world. And the stuff that's not even carbon- based like... umm... feldspar and stuff. Ok, maybe "world of the living" is a figure of speech and I just meant that it is nice to be in the world of the mentally living. Well who knows? Are people actually conscious? After all, this is the world of pop music and prime time television. Wasn't it Henry Ford who said, "You can have access to any art you want, as long as it appeals to the Lowest Common Denominator"? Well it's nice not to be in that cave anyway cause there were bats and rats and stalagmites. Fucking calcium carbonate! The Capitalism Monster has been defeated and order has been restored. The Neo-Comintern is back in operation after months of non- existence, and one reporter for the local newspaper wanted to know how I feel now that everything is back to normal. I replied, "Pretty good, I guess." The reporter said, "I do not know how to respond to this." I in turn spoke calmly and sensibly. Yeah, I played it cool. "What exactly would you like me to say?" I asked. "Shall I resort to an unending stream of cliches, or should I just attempt to say something stupid and charmingly innapropriate?" (Cliches - all ending with exclaimation points) -Were black and we're back! -Givin' it 110%! -Wrod to Ra! -This 1's fa you! -Jeah! -We're in full offensive! -Damn it feels good to be a gangsta! -Where we're going we don't need "roads!" -We're the zine that will never die! -The 5th International saves the day once again! (Stupid and Inappropriate) -It make me thirst for tea! -Say what? Say wha whawhawha what? -You're the bomb on mp3.com and I'm the captain of hardcore rappin! -...and that's when I should have said, "cause I don't have a name, you dick!" -You know, I don't even want to know you anymore, man! -Can you please just shut the hell up and get me another drink? -Some people remember being born, you know... -I miss my office but not being a sellout is pretty good too. -I think there's about 16 or 17 if I'm not mistaken. -Hi. Note: as I compiled these lists I downed two bottles of wine and when I was "drunksenough" I stopped listing possible responses... I said, "So those are all of the possibilities and if that isn't good enough then you should just stick with "Pretty good, I guess," and if that isn't good enough then you can just make something up or whatever. I continued to talk after my point had been made, just going on and on describing what was going on as though the interviewer had no concept of what was happening and needed me to describe the situation and my internal thoughts. Now you, the interviewer, are giving me a very strange look that seems to indicate that I should bring this quote to an end. So I did. (The interviewer continued to look at me strangely even after I stopped speaking, perhaps because I had become naked during the last leg of my soliloquy.)" ...and insisted that the rest of the interview be conducted in the dark. As I told the story of my life in great detail until the rising of the sun, I "allowed" our beloved reporter to listen to song after Sons of Prozac song. As according to the prophecy delivered by the Delphic Oracle, it was the greatest night of my life and I was certain that I had thoroughly enchanted (or at least as well as was due) this star reporter wtth a knack for providing the inside story. (If you think I am implying that we had sex then you are mistaken... you can't debase it by putting a label on it.) To ths day the article has never been printed. I like you. Thanks for reading today. The Neo-Comintern writers are nice. They all came to save me from the Kave of Kaptalism. They wrote stories about it. The stories are good so I suggest that you read all of them. d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P BMC vs THE CAPITALISM MONSTER .b `q by Gnarly Wayne p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' The BMC staggered as the dreadful Capitalism Monster stunned him with yet another blow. He tumbled headlong into his lemonade stand, shattering 500 golds worth of fine crystal in the process. The Capitalism Beast let out a shriek and beat his chest with his large fists. BMC bled profusely from several major wounds covering his lace clad body. Capitalism Monster stood triumphantly over his nearly defeated foe, who put up a valiant stuggle even though he was losing the entire time. BMC seemed done for. His last thoughts were that he regretted ever releasing the Weekly Capitalist and the awe-inspiring Monster. BMC was busy enjoying the life of any normal socialist. He was happy and carefree and incredibly ignorant, I mean wise. He hummed along as he lovingly brushed the hair on his Chairman Mao troll doll. He looked up into his ceiling mirror and said "*sigh* Isn't communism great?" He stared blankly for a couple of seconds and then decided to release the Weekly Capitalist. Minutes later, there was a tiny knock at his tiny door. He tiny answered it. There was a tiny creature there. It was small and white and had a horn on its head and was digustingly handsome. BMC shrieked in pleasure and gave it lots of hugs and kisses. He nursed it back to health (oh yeah, it was mortally wounded) and gave it lots of really good fooooods! From then on the BMC and the little monster, named Lester (whom BMC decided to call the Capitalism Monster after it ate 47 print issues of the Neo-Comintern (and even some electronic ones as well)), were inseperatable. BMC would dress up the little guy in various suits of different shades and write little speeches for the Capitalism Monster to read at his little podium. They would have the most fun during their make-believe Question Period, where NO question was too saucy to answer. Believe you me, BMC blushed more than once on those occasions (which, incidently, were broadcasted live to the Internet). They also loved to make prank phone calls to Bill Boyd and make pig-related comments, which Boyd never understood. As BMC overwhelmed the Capitalism Monster with his love, BMC started to watch the little young boy grow... listen. The Capitalism Monster grew over seven tall, way higher than BMC's paltry 6'10". BMC just saw this as more to love. : BMC and Capitalism Monster having a picnic. : BMC and Capitalism Monster swimming at the beach. : BMC and Capitalism Monster running towards each other in a large meadow filled with lemonade stands. : Capitalism Monster attacking the BMC. Capitalism Monster attacking the BMC?!?!?! What? Why? Compton. Who? Compton. Where? Compton. The Capitalism Monster had outgrown the need for BMC and, like all true capitalists, destroyed everything that wasn't money or money related. The BMC realized the error of his ways and fought honorably against the Capitalism Monster, but as we all know, BMC is no Prince Namor. The BMC appeared done for. Just as the Capitalism Monster was about to land the final blow with a solid gold ten dollar bill, thereby ensuring the destruction of socialism, a shapeless shift materialized in to save the day! The shapeless shift enveloped the Capitalism Monster in its shapeless form. The Capitalism Monster roared in frustration and waved his arms around frantically. BMC had just enough energy to reach into his back pocket and draw forth the platinum Neo-Comintern issue #49. As he read from its hallowed paragraphs, the sensability and reason the ideas potrayed within the issue proved too much for the Capitalism Monster to handle. He had to admit that communism was jawesome and capitalism sux! He ripped off his own horn and anally violated himself to death. Though BMC was turned on, he wept the loss of what once was a good friend. Then BMC remembered he had a bunch of non-capitalist friends, so he went and got drunk with them. THE END d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P HOW I SAVED BMC FROM THE CAPITALISM MONSTER .b $ (and saved the entire megaverse) S `q by Margarina Cataclysma p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' Shikoomin planet, their date 2000: When the tsunami hit I, Sniff, Snufkin, and Moomintroll were drifting along just out of sight of the islands. The giant albatrosses that we had trained to drop food for us at regular intervals had abandoned us the day before, I guess they have the advantage of seeing what is coming before we do, being so high up in the air and all. But that is neither here nor there, mateys. Arrr. The tsunami cast us up on dry, dry land, way inland in fact. Sniff's, Snufkin's, and Moomintroll's noses were a tad out of joint because they were a good 2 days drive to the coast where they had promised emissary Johor they would party on the weekend. So they set off immediately. (That again is neither here nor there but, Arrr, mateys, I'm telling the story so you just shut your yaps.) However the location was somewhat convenient for me. My pager had been annoyingly beeping and flashing and reminding me that BMC wanted some sort of attention. And voila the tsunami dropped me right on his doorstep. But he was not there. I know, because I knocked and his mother (normally a fairly sane woman) poked her head out from behind the curtains and shrieked "GO AWAY!! He's not here anyway! What do you want! Get lost!" So then I said to her "Arrrr. What the fuck, Mrs. MC, I'm just an innocent visitor!" She opened the curtains a crack wider and squinted at me suspiciously. She came to the door, opened it, and I said "Listen lady, obviously something is the matter. BMC has been paging me frantically, and you are obviously insane due to some cause, so why don't you make some tea and tell me about it." And she did. Later that day I was walking along one of Saskatoon's beautiful tree-lined streets when suddenly a leaf (yellow) fell from the tree and hit me right square in the forehead. Reeling slightly from the impact (to which I can heretofore attribute my heightened deductive powers), the word 'senescence' popped into my brain. Wait, you are thinking. What does mortality have to do with this article? Answer: BMC is missing (or was at this juncture), possibly dead (he hadn't paged me for about 1.5 hours). And from what his mother had told me it was quite possible that he had fallen in with a bad fast crowd. Not good, not good. Poor innocent gullible little BMC. Arrrr. His mother was terribly worried. So there I was walking along thinking vague abstractions about leaves and mortality. A car drove up alongside me and some retard stuck his head out the window and yelled "FAG!!" So, Arrr, I gave him the good ole double fisted finger. The driver drove up on the curb in front of me and stopped, and the guy in the passenger seat and his six buddies in the back got out and tried to loom over me threateningly. Quite successfully in fact. But it turned out that the calling me a fag thing was some joke of theirs, they didn't want to bash me for being who I am (the details of which you can possibly read about some other time), they wanted to shove me in the trunk. No harm done. I'm a tough chick. Arrrr. A trunk of a car can't do that much damage. The worst thing about it was the stench. I could smell fear. And it wasn't the guys up in the front of the car who were the source of the stench, for they were decidedly jolly. It was a deeper stench, a stench that was ground into the mats of the trunk. It was the stench of a previously captured body. It smelled like... BMC. "Oh!" I thought to myself. "This appears to be more than a horrible coincidence!" I ran through the list of possible villainous organizations operating in the Saskatoon area. My capturers weren't cops, cause I'm a moonstar, not native. They weren't christians, cause I heard one of them swearing. They weren't collegiate kids cause they seemed kind of dumb. Arrr. I just couldn't put my finger on it. I blacked out. I figured that's what one does in the trunk of a car, close to the exhaust pipe and all. When I came to I was in a canoe, with this weird French-Canadian fellow. He wore a mask so I didn't see his face, but he had an accent so I recognized him anyway. He said, "Eh, Lass, get back to sleep there, eh?" and hit me on the head with a fish bonker. I blacked out. When I came to, I was lying on a blue painted floor. I noticed the blue because my face was right squashed into it. I said, "Arrrr, get yer foot off my head matey." BMC's voice said, "Hey fuck you, why should I?", and then whispered, "where have you been anyway, you untrustworthy scoundrel!?!?" Strong words for such a one as BMC. And then he took his foot off my head. I sat up. Thinking back now, right then and there I should have pulled out a claymore and pitched it at that punkass kid, but hindsight is everything. Sure woulda saved a lot of trouble. In any case: the room was filled with cigar smoke. There beyond BMC in the shadows was a friendly looking porcine fellow. He said, "Stand up" and BMC did. He said, "Take up a pen there boy, I need you to transcribe a message for me to the Nobel Prize committee regarding my upcoming award." And BMC scrabbled in his pockets for his little techy gizmo. The pig was talking: "We then inserted a long needle into the subject's ear hole into his thalamus, because it was rumoured that to do so would influence him to dance a fine jig. But we were misinformed, for instead of dancing he began to scream strange things about systems of government*, and then we had to withdraw the needle. Our team withdrew from the stunned subject, conferred, and concluded that removal of the prefrontal association complex was in order. We had Harriet call in an anaesthetist, and when the subject was properly numbed we split his skull and removed said portion of brain. When subject was stitched up, he indeed danced a fine jig, and, when trained, turned out to be a fine man servant." That is what BMC wrote down. It dawned on me, later in the evening, while BMC was fetching tea for the genial pig and I, that BMC was in fact the one the pig was referring to as "the subject." And there upon the mantle, I spied a mason jar with a little piece of slimy brain glob in brine. While my host (the pig was expostulating on the virtues of the sitcom 'Friends', I slyly grabbed the jar and hit him upside the head with it. Arrr. The chunk of brain fell to the carpet. I grabbed it, and while BMC stood there slack-jawed, I hit him over the head with the fireplace poker so that his skull was split open. Then I stuck the chunk of brain back in, wrapped a towel around his head, and slumping him up on my shoulder, made for the door. The rest is history. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- * Arrrrr. You, readers, have a window into this time in BMC's life: the Neo-Comintern. Remember the half-baked idea he had to change the N-Com's name to 'Love' last year? That was when he was under the influence of anaesthesia. The Weekly Capitalist hails from the full frontal lobotomy era. Who knows what the future holds? Will BMC make a full recovery? Check back regularly to see what the electrical patterns in BMC's recovering brain are generating! d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P INTO THE MELEE .b $ (the rescue of BMC) $ `q by Junior Haagis p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' By now you've read alot of stories about the supposed BMC rescue by several other authors, who shall remain nameless in the spirit of all-fairness. Well, I'm here to say that they're not worth your precious reading time, because they are all horrific, manipulative lies! In fact, those people weren't even there! Those fattened glory hogs just want your adoring fan mail. I was there. I can tell this tale. By now you know the tale of "The Capitalist's" monumental rise to success, and "The Comintern's" subsequent drop off the face of the Earth, all due to BMC's conversion from communist to capitalist. The months following consisted of the Comintern staff day in-day out whiling away, kicking around the office and playing Masterball into the late hours. Our readership had dwindled into just a few small figures that could've been counted by monkeys being constantly whipped. By the end of August, nearly 7/8 of the planetary population was reading "The Capitalist," out-doing us by about..uh..7/8 I believe. Under a year ago, no one had even heard of this Capitalism Monster. Truly the key to their fortune was utilizing the talents of countless E-zine writers from a number of publications which were systematically converted into the fold. But as we labelled Boss MC 'traitor' in unanimous fashion, word was smuggled out that all was not as it seemed. At the tail end of Issue #119, there contained a super-secret message explaining of torturous, malevolent conditions where writers were forced to spew forth capitalist dogma at the rate of a hectare a minute. The author of this super-secret message was BMC himself. What once was a subject of betrayance, had now become a matter of brain-washing and savage slavery. If the message was true, BMC needed our help. His attempts the sow the seeds of revolution and liberation would not be tolerated for long. We needed to form ourselves a posse, and bring back our beloved leader, in little ziploc bags if necessary. That was the price I was willing to pay. But, this sense of duty was not felt by my fellow komrades. They were already seeking new careers elsewhere. Magarina Cataclysma was now a spokes-model for Massey-Ferguson at travelling farm-shows. Cog had become a commision-earning ape for Culligan water-softeners and Gnarly Wayne was spending a greater part of his time getting the fuck away from Rap-Machine. Laughed at, ridiculed, and even set on fire a couple of times for my demands to mount a rescue attempt, I realized now that I must do this thing alone. Now far be it for me to play Mr. One-Man-Army, but in all of us is the ability to overcome great obstacles through the channeling of positive energies by the chanting of mantras, mental conditioning through psychotherapy, or believing in the guidance of a higher power. My inner inspiration is Tol Chilibeck, a tape-worm that lives in my head. T.C. was keen to point out that my best bet in infiltrating capitalist headquarters was to relent to their invitation to convert into their beliefs as did so many other E-zine writers. My only question to that was once that was done, what line of defense would I have under the horrific conditions? Gaining control of my motor functions for a short period of time, Chilibeck whipped up an ingenious device to aid my mission. "It's a seven fingered gauntlet," he said. "A compact CPU and multi-task apparatus. Once you've learned how to wield it, you'll be as powerful as a Ugandan Talisman." "Why seven fingers?" I asked. "I only have four, and they're all on one hand." "Uhhm.." he said, "time honored patent?!" "Doesn't even fit..!" "SIGHHH! Look! Would you rather use your brain?! Cause it's sitting right here next to me. Your little bench warmin' brain here! Would you rather we rely on that..PUNK?!!" "Uh..no! It's cool." "Yeah, you see..who the...worm is..now,..bub!" Calling a toll-free 1-800 number to Capitalist Conversion Operator Suzy H., I was able to gain a response immediately. Within 6 minutes a car, a task-master, and several hyper-intelligent humanoids were at my door ready to receive and process me into their elite system. Taken to a debriefing center somewhere in remote French Guienne, I underwent days of reconditioning. I learned of middle-class values, the acquisition of consumer goods, and of the pursuit of great fortune by starting ones' own business, while dealing with subsequent competition in a given market. But could all this just be window-dressing; a front for the true nature of a most devious cause? Hearts were not all content. Then on the sixth day, all that was covered in a seminar entitled; "Well,..Not Really Kids" where we discussed the subject of one single individual owning and controlling everything under an iron-clad, fascist dictatorship. This new straight-forward approach went well with myself and the rest of the group, and the rest of the lessons went off without a hitch. After ten days, all 17,000 of us new converts, were shipped by mass-transit freighter to a Super-Continent just West of the Sandwich Islands. The landscape, the architecture, even the people themselves were a cross between utopian and gothic. A middle ground between Fritz Lang and.. Fritz Hitler I think it was. Perhaps of an ideal society that had gone bad in a big screaming hurry after it's dream had died. As we entered the heart of the capitalist capital city, Washingburg, the rover took a subterranean route some 200 meters below the surface. At the end of line was a immense penal facility some 900 city blocks long and containing just about every e-zine writer in the world. I was coded with a fluorescent hand-stamp that if removed (with two hand-washes) would cause my head to explode. I was then taken to a cubicle, one of tens of thousands, restrained to a padless swivel chair in front of an old-style ribbon typewriter, and fitted an elaborate cage-mask, complete with a vicious sewer rat loaded into a separate pre-chamber. Threatening maybe. But in fact, purely ornamental. My writing assignment slated me to compose an article pre-entitled "Damned if you Do... Dead if you Don't" which was a call for acceptance for a proposed bill that if passed would allow the power of impromptu public execution to those loyal employees of the state who, while violating the homes of unsuspecting citizens in the middle of the night, are refused food, lodging, and the company of the women of that house-hold. As I struggled to find the words that would somehow make this grotesque periodical work (as I'm doing right now), a commotion in the middle of the floor redirected my attention to a lone figure addressing a frenzied crowd with a homemade banner; a red field with hammer and sickle. He talked openly about worker's rights, and the call for a separate party within the system-..hell no! An entirely new form of government based on socialist beliefs. Plus some stuff about Massey, W.O. Mitchell, and a time travelling ex-girlfriend. Yeah, it was him. Not before long did a squadron of Opinion Control Agents haul his ass down from the highest rafter and proceed to beat his head into the Earth's mantle. Acting without fore-thought, I hopped from the cubicle, scaled over the multitude of greasy noggins, and leapt into the melee. Regaining consciousness an hour later, my foggy recollection had me realize that I had leapt into two melees short of the right melee, and that the melee I had so abruptly barged-in on took offense, and encouraged several other surrounding melees in the vicinity to join in on an entirely different melee that mainly focused it's melee energy into fucking me up. I was in a dank cell lying on a wire-frame bunk. To my right was BMC, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Rising slowly, I uttered under strained voice; "Hey..Boss?" "Freak! You're up!" he said. "Great! Let's book! Where's your ride?" "Uh, no ride!" I said. "The staff..couldn't make it. They've kinda moved on with their lives. But I do have help." "Awww! Not the fucking parasite! "How many parasites do you know speak seven languages including Thai', you grease-ball?" yelled Chilibeck from a nasal cavity. "Isn't it some kind of terminal condition?!" said BMC. "Hey, we're an item, you big yuck!" said Chilibeck. "Hey Boss..." I said, "..listen. Chilibeck whipped up a little something that'll..." We were interrupted by an armed guard who ushered us from our cell, down a series of catacombs, into a great hall. At the head of this hall was a solitary figure sitting atop in a highly decorative throne of gold and sapphire. Hooded, cloaked, and shrouded by darkness, it stirred and then it spoke. "WELL, HELL, MEL! Look who's here!" it boomed as it pointed it's boney index finger in my direction. "The globulous little turd. I've been reading your recent scribblings from the work-house. I must admit, your instinct for this type of journalism has suprised and impressed me. Can one really set a price for their own well-being? We have. So take solace in that it's entirely our pleasure to continue to do so.' I have absolutely no idea what it means but it's positively brilliant!" "You like it?" I sheepishly asked. "LIKE IT?!" it screamed, "Keep this up and we'll see to it your rat gets his own colorful little habitrail!" Rising from it's throne, the Capitalism Monster continued it's angst-filled rantings. "Once again, the Boss MC has caused discontent in the day to day operations of our massive writing staff. Heart to hearts, counseling, crisis interventions. We've tried to be reasonable, my child, but now you leave us no choice." "Oooh!" said BMC with certain ridicule, "Big baby's gonna kill now!" "Since we've recently acclaimed a suitable replacement for you in your colleague here, I won't be short of staff. But, with another former communist amongst us, I must snuff out the seeds of revolution before they're fertilized by socialist party poopiness. Therefore, Haagis, in a show of true loyalty to your new cause, I must ask you to liquidate your beloved leader yourself." "What?! No!" I relented, "What makes you think....Me?!" "Hey, use your worm!" said the Boss, "Don't you go recalling certain disciplinary moments in our professional relationship now! They've got nothing to do with this, you rotten little apple-head!" "Oh really?" I pressed, "Four fingers all on one hand? How'd that happen, BOSS?! I think we'd all like to know!" "If you need anymore inscentive," added the Capitalism Monster, "I can make sure that conditions here can be made quite comfortable for you... MISTER Haagis!" "GASP!" I thought, "He called me 'Mister.' Not 'Master,' 'Junior,' or 'gimp-frog!' The nuns back at the old mission coined that one." Reaching into my gullet tube, I produced the gauntlet. Immediately, a scurry of troops surrounded the throne and trained their weapons on me. "Hold!" said the C.M. to the troops. "What is that you have there, boy?" "My means to step out of the shadow of this cretin, and take my rightful place by your side!" "Ahh! Seven-fingered gauntlet. Unorthidox but deadly. Use it at your discretion, my son, but be mindful of my men all around you. The wrong move and they'll reduce you BOTH into guppy chum!" As I donned the device it powered up. Into it's key-code I entered nine 9's, took the square root, and pressed the integer. Then with methodic movement, I aimed it at BMC's head. "Well aren't we special, all of a sudden," said BMC, "Oh hey, nice rescue by the way." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!" said the C.M.. "AH-HAHAHAHAHAHA- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!" Just then the gaunlet emitted a sonic charge. A piercing 'ZEE-ZEE-ZEE-ZEE'. The ground trembled. Guards were shaken off from the highest levels. Grabbing BMC, we dashed into the catacombs. "The lechorous bastard!" screamed the C.M, "He's activated the spontanious super-intelligent botanical motivator and homing device!" Just then an eruption in the middle of the hall sent terror-driven soldiers scrambling towards the exits. From this outburst grew a jungle nightmare of demonic flora and satanic fauna. Then a pod, from which a snearing mouth appeared, split open and uttered triumphantly with otherworldly appeal: "PLANIMAL RULES!! CAPITALISM MONSTER DROOLS!!" Relentless from the get-go, Planimal tucked-in and devoured the entire compliment of troops. All 400 of them in one swift motion. Turning it's sights on the Capitalism Monster, backed up against the North wall, it's prehensal vines lunged towards him. But before they could latch on, C.M. dropped through a trapped door under a fanfare of his own maniacal laughter. Infuriated, Planimal ravaged the great hall in order free himself of the surroundings. As BMC and I headed for the lift that would take us to the surface, he grabbed my arm and lead me down a different passageway. Back towards the work-house. "What-up? Exit's this way!" "We gotta free the E-zine writers!" he said. "All of them?!" I inquired, "There must be 70,000. AND they're our competiton!" "It's partly my fault they're there in the first place! I lead the first wave of conversions way-back. I've become a father figure to them! Plus I'd promised them all a trip to Massey in a big green combine!" Agreeing to the Boss's wishes, I asked Chilibeck whether or not the gauntlet might aid us in transporting the prisoners. "There is no immediate mode of transferring that many individuals in one go," he exclaimed, "But there is a transmografication sequence that can metamorphasize them into a massive swarm of marigold butterflies." "Pretty fruity," I exclaimed. "Well..Hey! We could christen it the.. Papillion Metamorphasis Sequence. Y'know..Papillion...freedom...butterflies...sorta.." "Papillion kept his personal belongings up his ass, Tol," I retorted. "BUDDERFLIES?!" BMC said in tickled ecstasy, "Oh yes! That will do wonderfully!" Within moments, we were addressing the entire work-house. The many writers, so stricken with heart-ache and grief, would have picked death next to anything for release. So they condoned the proposition. Some also with tickled ecstasy. Entering several key-codes into the device, a rainbow ray of utter campiness shot from the gaunlet sounding like the tinkling of a toy piano. In an instant, the destituted thousands upon thousands had become a sea of delicate insect life, who were then compelled to take flight, make their way into the dozens of air ducts, and travel upwards toward the sunny skies hanging over the Capitalist Super-Continent, and freedom. I don't think I've ever seen BMC cry before. I don't think I've ever laughed at anyone crying even half as hard. But in light of reprocussions, in future I should endevour to conduct myself with more sympathy and even empathy. Especially now that I've but two fingers remaining. With the prisoners released, we now concentrated efforts on finding a way out ourselves. Leaping merrily in place, I gathered BMC wanted some of that rainbow himself. Intent on taking out the Boss the way he was, I insisted we return to the lift, make our way to the surface, and contact the local Sandwich Island law enforcement immediately. Rushing back to our previous point through delapitated hallways, tremors again were being felt. Planimal was on the rampage. He was intent on taking this place. "Why the fuck did you hook up with that 50 foot ragweed?!" said BMC, "I thought we had him out of our hair for good!" "I ran into him on Titan. I promised him a land worthy of his influence in exchange for the liberation of my people. Oh and by the way, read Junior Haagis' ongoing adventure serial, "The Secret Origin Files" in future Comintern.." "Watch your fingers, meat man!" "Sorry.." Finding the lift, rafters began to fall all around us. The doors of the elevator opened, and before we could enter, out stepped a darkly cloaked figure brandishing some very serious fire-power. "Drop the gauntlet, gimp-frog!" he said. I did, thinking he'd drop his gun and we'd duke it out maybe Greco-Roman style. He didn't. Where the hell did I see that once? "Over 6,000 of my men have fallen to your hellatious beanstalk." "Actually," I interjected, "It's a 'forget-me-not'..." "Silence!! You think my empire is in ruins, but this is not the end of me. No! With my network of Capitalist Super Continents all over the world, all I have to do is to simply transfer my base of operations to one of several other bases of operations. And you's thought I'd be done-in by your pathetic takeover plot. HA! I'm laughing here! At you, no doubt...no less." "Ah! But your wrong Mr. Monster there, sir! You see, my friend the Planimal is one hungry, ornary flesh-eating entity. His hollow leg is virtually bottomless, if you get my meaning. The more he eats, the more he grows. No doubt you intend to kill both me and the BMC very shortly, but without me and the knowledge I hold to activate the 'Cease' command on the gaunlet, Planimal will continue to feed and grow, and will eventually envelope this tiny planet until all, including your Super Continents with their bases of operation, is consumed!" "Sighhh!" he sighed, "So if I point my gun at BMC's head like 'THIS', and tell you to put on your gaunlet 'LIKE YOU KNOW..HINT-HINT!', and I pull this trigger before you have a chance to send the 'Cease' command..! I mean just..heavens! Whatever would become of us?!" "You know," I said as I donned the gaunlet, "you have a real gift for spelling shit out. That's probably why you bore the tits off of everything." As I entered the 'cease' code, a sudden explosion beneath us tossed us back. I looked around in disarray, to find that an omninous plant-life was staring down at me hard from high above. "Where are the lit-tle BA-BIES?!" it bellowed, "You promised me that there would be lit-tle BA-BIES!! YOU...TURD!" Hitting the enter key, the command went through, and Planimal ceased his rantings. "Aww!" he blubbered, "You turned off the lovely 'Surge-Kill.' Now I just feel fat from eating everyone." "Thank-you!" gratuitized the C.M., "And now with that loose end under wraps, I must bid adieu' my fellows. Until the next time and unto the breach once more, fair thee well!! HA-HA!!" Ducking into the lift, pulling the helpless BMC under the gun with him, the doors shut, and they were gone. "Why didn't you eat him?" chewing out Planimal I did, "That would've been the end of it!" "Hey, you turned me off," said Planimal, "You turn me off, suddenly I'm not so peckish, and (pardon me sir; correct me if I'm mistaken) without the rage, it's just pure indulgence. 'Kay? And you know me. I'm... I'm just a little sweetie flower. Hm? All petals and sunshiney. Am I right? Hey, BMC, Capitalism Monster, am I right?" Having failed to to press a single button on the wall, the elevator had remained on our level with BMC and the C.M. still standing in the now open car. "Uh,..down..please.", said C.M.. "KILL MY PRETTY-PRETTY!" I shouted as I reactivated the gaunlet, sending Planimal back into his rage. Seizing the Capitalism Monster under thorny tendril, he was spirited from the lift, hurtled several feet into the air screaming maniacally, and was violently snapped up by powerful jaws. Satisfied, the Planimal relented and slipped slowly into the earth once more, probably never to be heard from again, until around Christmas maybe. Later, as both BMC and myself emerged from the facility, we found the once vast, stoic metropolitan settings to have been magically transformed into a garden utopia. Planimal's mere influence had made the landscape much like the mythical Eden of long-ago. Marigold butterflies graced the leaves of the lush vegitation, free and content, away from deadlines, dictatorships, and free from the iron grip of a foe now forgotten. BMC frolicked in the joyful surroundings like some infant just learning how to walk, feebly trying to touch the endless sky, as I stood by him in Sears-model-like fashion with hands at hips. Grinning ear-to-ear with one foot on a rock, I chuckled, shook my head in playful negativity, and couldn't help but wonder. While the rescue helicopters drew ever nearer, I wondered if ever there would be a day when such a threat to our way of life will ever rear it's ugly head again. And will we be ready for it in future? Then I thought, "Communism...It's back! Oh, Fuck Yeah!" .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b. ___________________________________________________ |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://members.home.com/comintern | | Email BMC at: thebmc@home.com | |___________________________________________________| .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b. Copyright 2000 by The Neo-Comintern #125-10/22/00 All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada.