Date: Sat, 11 Dec 1993 14:28:31 -0500 From: Sinergy To: fetherow@lurch.winthrop.edu, eudaleyt@lurch.winthrop.edu, clund@delphi.com, npc@tenet.edu, falcor@agora.rain.com, trond.Buland@ifim.sintef.no, chris@rigel.efd.lth.se, jonb@isltd.insignia.com, polekat@well.sf.ca.us.com, acc00ltr@unccvm.uncc.edu, slootsky@cu53.crl.aecl.ca, ugu00010@vm.uoguelph.ca, pnet01!psilo@crash.cts.com, mariusw@ifi.uio.no, kendall@mps.ohio-state.edu, kc5@cu.nih.gov, davet@wv.mentorg.com, p30tmr1@niu.bitnet Subject: Issue Number Four - Winter 1993 .... ::::::: .... :::: :::: : : :::: . . ''''' . . :: :..: : : :- . . . . :: : :. :::: :::: . . . . . ______________________ . .. .. . ... . . ... ... ... . . . . . . .... .. ... . .: :. . ... . ../ |.. . \ . .: :. . .... .... .... . . .. . . . .... . . . .. ... : :. .: : .. .... . .. . . .: :: :: :. .::::::.:. .:.::::::. .:::' ' ':::. :. .: . .:::::. . .. . . true cyberpunk vol i iss. iv winter 1993 . ..... . . ::::::: . ::::::::: WE HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE AND ::::::: WE ARE IT!!! T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JA K IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E-- C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k-- JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E-- C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k-- JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E-- C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k-- JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E-- C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k-- JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E-- C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k-- JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK: JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- T R U E t r u e T R U E t r u e E t r u e T R U E t r u e T R U E-- C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n C Y B E R p u n k C Y B E R p u n k-- JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN JACK IN-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T------------------------------- TRUE CYBERPUNKS JACK IN - BUT THEY WON'T JACK OUT! ------------------------------------------------------------------------- WINTER 1993 + LAST ISS OF THE YEAR! + RAZORS WITH SALT ARE TASTY -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- POISED SALMON SCARE + EVIL ALIEN CAR GANGS + VIOLENCE, SEX, AND MTV NATIONAL PRIDE + I DIDNT TELL YOU, YOU DIDNT ASK ME and YOU CAN'T DO THAT IN CYBERSPACE -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- || | | || || | BUT - First! | || || | | || || | What the hell happened to the cover for issue #3!????????? | || || | Well it is STILL being processed, I mailed it to this guy to | || || | be HI-RES and COLOR scanned! REALLY cool , eh? Anywayz I'll | || || | UUENCODE it and ship it out as soon as I have it so... cool. | || || | The cover for this issue WILL be shipped within the next week. | || || | It is a start on an entry for New Voices,New Visions! For nfo | || || | on the contest just mail INFOBOT@WIRED.COM with the msg, | || || | VISIONS. | || || | | || || | |\ /| | || || | | \ / | | || || | | | | | | || | |__| | | |__| | |______| |______| -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Janie looked up to her Father, repressing the sorrow that she always held so tight inside of her. "Father, tell me a story". "Okay", says he, grabbing an old fax from the floor and slipping on his decrypt-tek glasses. "Be very quiet". Janie smiled on the inside, she'd been waiting a long time for this. "Okay", says he again. "This is how it goes..." -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- :. /\ | |-- --| \ |-- :::::::::::::::::. / \ | | | \ |_____ :::::::::::::::::' / \ | | | \ | :' / \ |____ |-- --| \ |-- A story by Michael Cote' "Rain, rain," thought Chung, "It's always been this infernal rain." He scuttled up the street towards his building. A hidden sun failed to reflect light off long dead neon tubes in the windows of abandoned stores. His building loomed among a mass of rubble and muck in the deserted part of the city. Narrow paths lead up to it's crumbling front door, their gutters running over with water from the television colored sky. He arrived at the front door. Soaked with rain he typed in his building access code. A synthetic voice with female overtones spoke, "Welcome, Mr. Johnson." Chung looked up, smoothing his wet hair back from his face, "Rack off, and open the door." Bits of trash littered the hall ways of Chungs building, occasionally barricading the path. Small metallic creaking noises echoed throughout the hollow emptiness of the building as Chung climbed a set of ancient steel stairs. Chung looked upwards, towards the ceiling of the building into seemingly infinite darkness of abysmal loneliness. A drop of water fell from a hole above, striking Chung on the face, causing him to real backwards and wipe away the horrid moisture. The building was utterly quiet except for Chung, "Alone," Chung said aloud tapping in his pass code at his door. "Welcome home Mr. Johnson," said the house computer. Chung threw down his coat on a near by couch, "Lights," the room came to life with a hologen glow. "What's for dinner," Chung asked himself, advancing upon his small kitchen and the refrigeration unit that it sheltered. A small slab of brown bean curd sat by it's self on the middle shelf of the unit. It had once been surrounded by a diversity of food, but now, after the other food had been eaten, it was the only item that gave the refrigeration unit warmth. "Gatta go to the market tomorrow, but I need some money for that black-market food," he grabbed at the little chunk of curd. A little "wurrrr" sound erupted from the microwave, Chung waited for the tell-tale bing, then went into the living room. He began his nightly ritual of watching Channel 34 news, and gnawing away at his lump of tofu. "Looks like tomorrow's' forecast is more rain, with a ten percent chance of sunshine," the weather man said. "What! More Rain! More Rain!," Chung threw his dinner at the TV, tofu and sauce ran down the screen, plopping onto the carpet. He signed, rubbed the anger from his eyes, and went to the kitchen to get a towel. The floor creaked under his weight. Towel in hand, he dabbed at the carpet, then rubbed the screen. "Tired of daily rain?," Chung looked up at the TV, "Want an escape form the solitude of your boring earth life?" "That'd be grand, how much?," Chung spoke aloud in the voice of a transfixed person bathed in he glow of a god, unable to move. "For only 5,000 dollars, you can fly away to the tranquillity of the Mars Colonies, surrounded by old and modern luxuries," the commercial seemed to reply directly to Chung, "So come along with TransWorld." A trail of music followed the commercial. Chung starred past the now drying smudged of curd and sauce, into the beauty of the Mars Colony fields. Thoughts of hills of green grass with people crossed his mind. The phrase "5,000 dollars" cast a shadow over his thoughts, he looked down at the carpet, starring into the pool of sauce. He rubbed at his face, fighting the agony of reality and life. "Next year, next year you'll have enough. Then you can get off this crappy planet, go to mars and be somebody, with somebody." He finished mopping up his dinner from the floor, and threw the towel onto the cleaning machine. He sat back down. The news ended with an aerial view of the city, and Chung sleeping in the chair. The clocks green digits read "5:45," Chung scrambled to the bath room, and lifted up the seat. With his free hand he rubbed the haze of sleep from his face, and looked out the window. Lights filled the city at night, but they were far away, downtown. He flushed down his waste, started starring at the swirling water, seeming to divine the untold secrets of the ages from the swirling mass of water in his toilet bowl. He shuffled into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed, bent over a pillow. "Back to work," he put on his overalls. They were a drab brown color only cut by the glow of a Federal Express hologram logo. Coffee was pre brewed by the house computer, not too hot, just warm enough to bring out the flavor of the bean. Chung wrapped his lips round the edge of the coffee cup, sucked in a small amount, the breathed out warm coffee breath. The computer locked the door behind him, he dragged him self down the stairs to his car. After thirty minutes of driving in silence and solitude, he arrived at the warehouse, his second home. He drove up to the window, "Take this package to thirty five Marshall Street, give it to the butler," a woman with frayed hair gave him package. "Hi, Marge, how's your..," the package distributor closed the window before he could start talking to her. Chung pushed a red button with a grimmy wrinkled thumb. "Where to sir, " the car spoke aloud. "Thirty five Marshall street," he closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head as the car drove off. The car beeped at him. "All drivers are to have both hands on the steering wheel during auto pilot." Chungs wrinkled hands, the trade mark of Earth life, grabbed at the wheel and closed his eyes. An abrupt stop caused the package to fall face down on the floor. Chung grabbed at the box, lifting it up. A bundle of dollars fell out , the top had been broken in the fall. "Stop!," he yelled out. The car swerved to the side of the street and parked. He scanned over the money, then looked about for other people, "Silly, there won't be anybody. There must be, wow," he stopped and thought, "What is the description for package, uh, " he looked at the bar code of the box, "nine-five-zero-three?" The car spoke, "Five comic books, insured for 5,015 and 23 cents." "The sender must have lied, "Chung said smiling, "This would buy a nice apartment downtown. I'd have neighbors, go to house warming parties, I'd talk to people!" He looked at the money again, "Or, I could..." he dove into the money, counted it three times. "Car, change course, Airport." He arrived to the bustling airport of the city. It was infested with people traveling about the earth. Middle management suck ups clung to corporation executives, seeming to protect them from the earth and the rain. Tourists looked for a cab with a worried expression on their face. Bus boys scrambled about trying to make money carting about bags and other pieces of luggage. Scanning the offered ticket counters, he picked TransWorld, and walked up to it. Once a human sold tickets to people, but now automation provided more expedient service, and eliminated the hassle of paying employees. A large drawer served as the collection bin for money, a slot for credit chips. Chung thrust carried the box up to the counter and thrust the money into the drawer. "Hello, sir, please enter Social Security Number, " a computer terminal spoke to him, concurrently displaying text on an inset screen. Chung hurriedly looked at the label of the box, the number was there. Chung punched the number into a keypad, his hand jittering with an the unknown high of excitement and hope. "Please wait while your ticket is processed and your money is counted," the terminal paused, a faint sound of paper flicking could be heard, "Enter Colony Plan number. Plane one is a..." "I don't care, I just want to get away from this hell," he randomly pushed button two. "I'm actually leaving, I'm leaving!" Chung said attracting a bit of attention from fellow airport patrons, and entered the airport. "I don't have any of my things, " he said stopping in front of a baggage check robot, "Never mind that, I'll not need my possessions in the sprawling colonies." He hopped onto a pedestrian conveyor belt. The woman in front of him held a small leather bag in her left hand. It's bottom punched down by some sort of spherical object. She looked back at Chung for a moment, her red lips were full, her eyes highlighted by bluish eye shadow, then looked forward again. Little waves of movement passed over the back of her silken shirt as they went under an airduct. They were nearing the mini mall section of the airport. Large signs informed travelers of a last chance to purchase duty free items, Chung steeped off the belt. Randomly he picked out a shop, "All Things Scottish", the sign read, surrounded by holograph array of plaid. A bagpipe noise exploded from an unseen speaker when he opened the door, finally fading into silence. Tartan cloth and green shelves covered the walls of the small store. Behind a desk, a little old man dressed in full Scottish garb greeted him, "Welcome tou Aill Tins Scoutish," a thick accent cut through his English, "where if it's not Scottish, it's CRAP!," the last word came out with a thundering boom, sending bits of spittle across the counter as he bent down his head, "How ma' I 'elp eou?" "Um, I'm just looking, thanks," Chung said. He had fifteen dollars and twenty three cents left after buying the ticket, "Do you have any of those, uh, skirts for men?" "Ah think eou mean keilts, lad, " the man replied sternly, "Ah've gote sume right over there," he pointed towards a shelf. Chung walked over to the shelf, flipped through the kilts. Green, red, black, blue, all arranged in geometric patterns. He selected out a classic red and black one, "I'll take this and whatever socks and sweaters go with it." After discarding his old clothes and stepping into his new traditional Scottish clothing, he stepped back onto the conniver belt, ten dollars poorer. Somewhat high on excitement he rocked back and forth on his feet. The odd feeling that the wool kilt produced caused Chung to scratch at his legs. Large neon lights encircled the panel to the space shuttle. No one else was waiting to enter the same portal as Chung, which caused him to check his ticket for the gate number again, "2H38, it's the same. Reassured he stepped of the conveyor belt into the door to his flight. His seat was a worn down brown cushioned chair. Next to him sat the lady with the silken shirt, she clutched the bulging bag in her lap. "That's a nice dress," she said with a smirk. "What? Oh, it's kilt," he looked down at it and tried to discreetly scratch his leg, "I got it and this sweater and these socks, all for fifteen dollars." "Isn't it great," she began, "going to a Mars colony, peace of mind, no more constant rain." "Ahhh, no rain. That'll be excellent, not to sopping wet constantly. And meeting all those people! I'll actually be someone, a neighbor to borrow sugar from!," he looked over to the lady for a response, but she had put on a pair of ear phones, looking in the opposite direction, "Well, no one will ignore me any longer no mars." The shuttle landed on Mars five hours later. An exhausted Chung stood up, ready to exit. "Thank you for flying TransWorld," said the shuttle as he exited. "Please exit through the door marked with your colony site number," said a loud speaker in a digital voice. Chung looked at his ticket, "Site 593A-65H", it read. He passed by several doors, looking at the digital read outs on three panels before he arrived at his door. "Please insert you ticket," said the door. Dumbfounded, Chung looked about for a slot, found it and slid in his ticket. The door whisked open, "Thank you for flying TransWorld. And please, enjoy your stay on colony 593A-65H." Chung sat on another seat for several hours, this time alone. The manmade landscape of mars whizzed by him, visible through a window in the mini shuttle. Clouds floated in a once barren sky, birds flew about where live creatures had once never been. The shuttle stopped, a door opened, "Thank you for choosing TransWorld, enjoy your new home at site 593A-65H." Chung walked up a path to a house, "This is odd," he thought, "Where are all the other houses?" He looked about. His new house sat on a hill, surrounded by water as far as the eye could see. He scrambled back to the landing site, only a small dark circle remained at the site. "Something must be wrong," he muttered," Where are all the people?!?" He rabidity searched the island. A quaint little hut rested on top of a small mountain. Cooking implements and a refrigeration unit were the only \ furnishings. Chung sat down in the hut. He picked up a \ handful of sand. The sand shifted through his fingers, \ leaving a single stone in his hand, "Alone." \ \ \ /\ \ / \ /\ \ / \ / \ /\ \ / \ / \ / \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\_________ . \ / \ / \/ \ / \/ \ / \/ "WOW! - Only on the NET kids, yes siree. Only in CyberSpace can you find such quality entertainment" - Joe Alphaperson -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Father looked at Janie, all snug in her bed. Thoughts crept into his mind. He was full of those thoughts on the inside. Those dark thoughts. Those thoughts that made him feel guilty sometimes. He knows there is only one way to kill guilt. Janie laughed on the inside. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- |--------| |--------| | | | | .: |--------| |-------| |--------| .:::::::::::::;::: | | | '::::::::::::::::: | | --| | ': | |-------| | "This much is true"- Spandeau Ballet So you think your E-Mail is private! Well, maybe it is. But what about the person your sending it to. What about the numerous possible between the two of you? That's why many user across the globe have been enjoying the security of PGP. Unfortunatly the Anal Retentive American Government to disapointed at their failure to control their own countries REAL problems has lashed out at Phil's Pretty Good Software. That's right! If you haven't heard yet PGP v2.3 has been labeled as 'high-level encryption'. This means you can not export it out of the country. Yulp- You probably guessed it! The U.S. gov'ment is accusing Phil of intention to export 'cause he put it on the net. If you feel you need to express your views on this act send some txt to the white-house or to Phil 'imself. (Addresses below). [(For CyberSpace to be Real, Real People must X-Press their Real Opinions in that CyberSpace)Paraphrase May'93 Lord Sterling] The Pres --------------->PRESIDENT@WHITE-HOUSE.GOV Phiilip Zimmerman ------>PRZ@ACM.ORG -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Father left the room and took off his glasses. They had succesfully thwarted Janie's attempt to read his mind. That's what his insides say. He knew that because he could still feel her happiness. She wouldn't be so happy if she had known what he was thinking. He began to laugh on the inside, as his meandering hands began to embrace him. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- :. ----| |--- | / |----| | . | |--- :::::::::::. | |__ |/ ___ |____| |__ | |__ :::::::::::' | | |\ | | | | | | :' | |--- | \ | | | | | |--- ESD PRODUCT SERVICE SUPPORT SUBJECT:NEW RETAIN TIP Record number: H031944 Device: D/T8550 Model: M Hit count: UHC00000 Success count: USC00000 Publication code: PC50 Tip key: 025 Date created: O89/02/14 Date last altered: A89/02/15 Owning B.U.: USA Abstract: MOUSE BALLS NOW AVAILABLE AS FRU (Field Replacable Unit) TEXT: MOUSE BALLS ARE NOW AVAILABLE AS A FRU. IF A MOUSE FAILS TO OPERATE, OR SHOULD PERFORM ERRATICALLY, IT MAY BE IN NEED OF BALL REPLACEMENT. BECAUSE OF THE DELICATE NATURE OF THIS PROCEDURE, REPLACEMENT OF MOUSE BALLS SHOULD BE ATTEMPTED BY TRAINED PERSONNEL ONLY. BEFORE ORDERING, DETERMINE TYPE OF MOUSE BALLS REQUIRED BY EXAMINING THE UNDERSIDE OF EACH MOUSE. DOMESTIC BALLS WILL BE LARGER AND HARDER THAN FOREIGN BALLS. BALL REMOVAL PROCEDURES DIFFER, DEPENDING UPON MANUFACTURER OF THE MOUSE. FOREIGN BALLS CAN BE REPLACED USING THE POP-OFF METHOD, AND DOMESTIC BALLS REPLACED USING THE TWIST-OFF METHOD .. MOUSE BALLS ARE NOT USUALLY STATIC SENSITIVE, HOWEVER, EXCESSIVE HANDLING CAN RESULT IN SUDDEN DISCHARGE. UPON COMPLETION OF BALL REPLACEMENT, THE MOUSE MAY BE USED IMMEDIATELY .. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT EACH SERVICER HAVE A PAIR OF BALLS FOR MAINTAINING OPTIMUM CUSTOMER SATISFACTION, AND THAT ANY CUSTOMER MISSING HIS BALLS SHOULD SUSPECT LOCAL PERSONNEL OF REMOVING THESE NECESSARY FUNCTIONAL ITEMS. P/N 33F8462 -- DOMESTIC MOUSE BALLS P/N 33F8461 -- FOREIGN MOUSE BALLS USERID (RSSTEWART) NODEID (BCRVM1) INT.ZIP 1225, DEPT 2AW, TL 443-4597 (407-443-4597) ESD PRODUCT SERVICE SUPPORT, BOCA RATON, FL. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Father didn't mind the wet pants. Father didn't mind. He just stood in the hallway. Thinking on the inside. Janie could see his insides, she had been able to see there for about three months. Janie understood what he had been doing to her. Making her forget the pain. Forget her insides. He did it because of "love" he says. Janie knows this is no love. Janie clings tightly to her security. Janie presses hard on the H-Icon that floats in her mind. The Aura-Gaurd Soft v13.2b ware that she linked to was active. Father didn't mind. He just stood in the hallway. Janie laughed on the inside, she knew that 'they' had all on tape somewhere, they would have prrof that her act was in 'defense'. She had moved the T.V. into her room. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- FROM: (UNIMPORTANT) DATE: (UNIMPORTANT) In an effort to gain access to the homes of millions of Americans, the FBI, CIA, and NSA have collaborated on a scheme which will finally bring to fruition George Orwell's nightmare scenario. American citizens will be the unwitting accomplices in this plan as they purchase new televisions and bring them into their livingrooms and *bedrooms*. I'm speaking of the CC decoders that have secretly been mandated by law. These decoders supposedly provide captions to TV shows for the hearing impaired, but in fact they are also rebroadcasters which will allow the gov. to spy on anyone they want. The television already comes with everything necessary to be a spying apparatus. Speakers are essentially no different than microphones and therefore can be used to pick up sounds in the room. The infrared eye which detects the remote control signal also receives an infrared picture of the room, especially detecting heat sources like people. Thus, all that is needed is a way of gathering this information and relaying it to the government. The little understood "Decoder" is the solution. The congress has recently passed a Law (in virtual secrecy) that requires all new TV's to have the "Decoder." This is claimed to be for the benefit of deaf people but that is obviously a smoke screen. How we know the congressional law mandating the "Decoder" is not for the deaf: 1) Legitimate CC decoders are already available for TV's. 2) The law doesn't cover other things, like telephones, which are obviously in the same situation w.r.t. the deaf. 3) There is no law requiring that shows even be broadcast with closed captions, only that the TV have the "Decoder". Clearly we see that there is no real justification for mandating decoders other than for gathering intelligence. How to deal with the decoder: simply removing the decoder will not be an option because it will undoubtedly be integrated in such a way that the television will not function without it. Also, if you open the TV to get at it, you will void the warranty and then when you get it fixed, they will just replace the "Decoder" without telling. The best way to avoid the "Decoder" is to avoid it by not buying any new TV's. This will be made difficult by the predictable introduc- tion of High Definition Television soon after the "Decoders" are on line. In this way you will be forced to buy a new TV because the old one will not get HDTV. When HDTV is made a standard by the govern- ment, the old style signal will not be allowed to be broadcast on the grounds that it interferes with the HDTV. This is all to force people to buy new TV's with the "Decoder". When you find yourself with a TV equipped with the "Decoder" there are several things you can do to protect yourself. First, don't put the TV in your bedroom, this is where the government is most interested in spying. When not watching, push the antennas all the way in or disconnected the cable. Unplugging the TV will not help because the "Decoder" will use passive broadcasting to continue sending its signal. Also turn the volume down when not watching. When you watch the TV, place a candle or other heat source to confuse the infrared EYE. Don't say anything secret or get undressed near the TV. Don't be seen smoking near the TV. I hope this post is not censored before reaching you because this is very important to us all. Warn you families. I don't know how much longer I will be allowed to keep my account after this. Please do not keep copies of this article in your files unless you delete the header. End of File, Press RETURN to quit -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Father takes his hand out of his pants. He hasn't had enough. Janie knows. She turns the TV up full blast by the remote. The audio damping warez that she slipped Father simultaneously activate. The brightness on the TV is all the way down. The room is dark, inside. Father wants, inside. Janie fears inside. "They have to have their damn evidence" says she, inside. Janie clings tigtly to her security. Father slips the cable into her port. His warez activate, she masks them. He comes inside, covers off. The TeeVee. is on. The TeeVee sees all. The pain. The disease. The sickness. The blood. She'd been waiting for this for a long time. Janie sits up in bed. Father was nothing on the inside. Father was a mess. As she stands to approach the TeeVee. Father slips out of her, inside. Janie grabs a vial and rubs it's cold edge against her pain. She caps it and places it on the bed. She calls security. She sits and waits. "It feels good to have it out", says she. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- [-Inside- SINergy '93] Special Thanks To: The Winthropians --> Cote 4 the sub --> Black Sun --> The FBI (for following up) <-- PWEI 4 Good Musak <-- Kyle 4 being there A big howdy do joy joy hand shake too all abduction van users, abuser, drivers, and riders. Hope to see you all on YFN soon. "Hey man I can't get my stuff published ANYWHERE! What Am I gonna do?" -- "Give it to TCP, they'll publish ANYTHING!" =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- TCP is a publication of "bull shit." All rights reserved unless otherwise noted. You are being noted otherwise, please don't confuse the two. All syringes found inside this E-Zine should be considerd either a legitimate conspiracy to introduce a deadly disease to all the world, or as we like to think of them.. collectors edition bonus prizes! Any names places or events are to be considered names places or events. Any assumption otherwise was not intended or was intended. Thank you for buying our bull shit. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- __________________________ /If you think love comes in\ |only one flavor that you \ |haven't been to Baskin-Robbins| :: \_____________________________| __.::.__ |\___ / :: \___/| \___| (O)__(O) |___/ | /00\ | \__ |--| __/ ___/ \__/ \____ \ /B| \ \ |S/ BullShit productions. 1993