Propaganda Unlimited

Volume TWO, Issue One!

February 4th, 1995

(Endorsed by the American Evangelical Council:
Preaching the Word since 1994)

CONTENTS
--------

1) Introduction
by Midget Caesar

2) Rancor (Prequel)
by Nyarlathotep

3) Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part 10
by Constantine

4) Stylus - The Beginning
by Zaphod

5) Dystropia, chapter Six part Two
by Midget Caesar

6) Why The Media is Evil
by Newt

7) House of Meats - A Morality Play
by Dr. Fig

8) Coming Attractions, Distribution, and Rampant Materialism

STAFF
-----

Constantine..........Captain, Editor-In-Chief

Midget Caesar........First Officer, Executive Editor

Oregano..............Security Officer, Evanston Correspondant

Newt.................The Real Brains Around Here, Head Writer

Dr. Fig..............Ship's (fruit) Doctor, Theatre Correspondant

Zaphod...............Improbability Drive, Staff Writer

Nyarlathotep.........Chief Engineer, Staff Writer

Comrade Slash........Chief Mysterious Person, Staff Writer

Malakai..............Token Alien HitchHiker, Staff Writer

Psychotic Ambition...Communications, Head Poet

Aquarius.............Lost In Space, Staff Question Mark

and....

Two Fish.............All-Powerful Cosmic Entity, Arbiter of All That Is Cool, Tasty, True, and In Stock.

Introduction
------------

Who'd have thought that PU could actually release three issues in under five weeks?

We didn't, that's for sure.

As far as schedules go, I'm aiming for a new issue once a month at least, possibly quicker depending on when we have enough material (and time) for a new issue. I'm officially a Second Semester Senior in high school, though, so I should have plenty of time.....

Anyways, I'm on my second issue as Editor, and none of our three fans who live in the backwoods of Idaho have lynched me yet. (It's the small victories that count, really) Corollary to that, Newt Gingrich hasn't blown anything up yet. hurrah!

The ever-changing distribution list changed again (surprise!). We lost all contact with MicroInformation Systems out in California, and so we wish them good luck and farewell. Due to [censored], we have also had to end our association with our former hub, Frontal Lobotomy. But we still have a few loyal sites and our blue suede shoes, and that's all that matters.

This is the first issue of Volume Two, to silence all doubters who thought we wouldn't make it this far (as well as to make our numbering system a bit more confusing). Volume Three by the end of this millenia or bust!

[Side Note: Many thanks to all of you who sent letters of sympathy over last issue's Plea for Help. I haven't heard anything from Sergeant Weikert since writing it, and I'd like to send my gratitude to whatever made that possible.]

A few new things happen this issue: a prose piece from Zaphod entitled "Stylus", a new morality play from Dr. Fig, and the prequel to the long-awaited (by us, at least) new series from Nyarlathotep, "Rancor". For our literate readers, enjoy! For our illiterate readers, we're still working on the ASCII-Illustrated version of Propaganda Unlimited. Have patience! On the subject of patience, the Propaganda Unlimited FAQ should hopefully be ready next issue. Constantine is in the middle of moving to a new apartment, and didn't have time to get it finished.

February is a High Righteousness Month here at the PU offices, as the birthdays of the entire PU editorial staff are this month: Constantine on the 5th, and myself on the 19th. Please wish us well, and lay off the protest marches/fire bombs outside our offices just this month as a birthday present, okay? Thanks!

Rancor: Prequel
-----------------
by Nyarlathotep

Crunch went the bones in the legs of the men. Crunch went the bones in their arms. It wasn't enough to merely kill them, but instead, their bodies had to be crushed to a pulp of a smooth consistency. I believe I am getting a little ahead of myself here however.

The Mad God Talgrok lives in a castle in the sky. Well, he's not really a god, and his castle in the sky isn't really in the sky. Its just on a large hill. And it can barely be called a castle, but it does have a wall. From this fortress Talgrok rules the surrounding countryside with an iron fist. He tolerates nothing, and kills all that displease him. He is fond of torture, and his finest men keep trying to create new ways to kill these unfortunate prisoners. Drowning in Water, flaying, burning alive, these are all too simple for Talgrok's taste. Drowning in maggots, well thats something that he could like.

For 35 years this Mad being had ruled the land of Entallor, ruled it because he had the power of the Mantjor Staff, and for the fact that no one else wanted to rule it. Which isn't to say that his subjects didn't want a different ruler. He had aquired the Staff by slitting the throat of its former owner, Jalron of Tiben, in his sleep. At this time Talgrok was a petty sorcerer, and used his meak spells to keep Jalron's guards busy. Now, with the aid of the Mantjor Staff Talgrok's powers had increased 20 fold. He could effortlessly fly, or cause the death of his enemy with a single word. But this was not enough for him. The world he wanted. That was his greatest aspiration. He was planning an attack on the neighboring Kingdom of Apsertoo, an attack of great cunning, or so he thought. The attack that he pondered, sitting on his bed, would never come into effect, however.

Despite the power he possesed with the aid of the Mantjor Staff, he still did not possess the wisdom to see the quarrel, nor to block or dodge it as it sped towards his dark heart. He expired quickly, blood running from his mouth, the bedchamber guards unaware of the death of their master. The Master Thief Fendin grapped the Staff as he left the room, as silently as he came, fading into the shadows.

--to be continued!

Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Ten:
A Boy and his (Mental) Fog
by Constantine

"It's... It's YOU!"

I couldn't have been more surprised to see the dark, broad-shouldered man standing behind me, even if we weren't both hip-deep in muddy water in the smoking crater that used to be my officebuilding.

"Yes," he said in a deep baratone, smiling as I groped in my pockets for my instant digitizer. I raised the lens to take his picture, but the water had scrambled its circuits beyond repair.

He handed me a pair of batteries and said, "Here. Use these. They keep going, and going, and going."

James Earl Jones had come to Cyberspace.

And he was doing product endorsements.

"Before I go any further," he said, "I have to ask a question. Are you--"

"Gay? No, but I could be."

"No. I'm looking for a private investigator, but I seem to have gotten lost. Maybe I should have made a left turn back at Idaho Falls. Are you--"

"Here we go again," I sighed, "Lemme save you some time. I'm not Gary Shandling, I'm not Conan, I'm not Conan O' Brien (thank the Gods), I'm not Ivanhoe, I'm not Metalhed (and neither is Time Warrior), I'm not Ally Sheedy, I'm not Sherlock Holmes, I'm not Watson, I'm not Meatloaf (but I'd do anything for love, I just won't do that), I'm not 'Super Dave' Osborne, I'm not Barney, and I am not Gilbert Gottfried."

"Are you Phillip Marlowe?"

I paused for a moment. I was talking to James Earl Jones, THE James Earl Jones, and apparently he needed a private investigator. An investigator with skill, preserverance, integrity and, most of all, honesty.

"Yes," I said, grinning broadly, "Yes, I am."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marlowe. Your reputation is top-notch. I have a job of very sensitive importance. You see, my family jewels have been stolen."

"Yeow! That IS sensitive!"

"These jewels have been passed down my family line for centuries, but no longer. When I was in Rio last week, burglars invaded my home and stole them. They went right for the hidden safe-- there's no doubt that the thief, or thieves, was familiar with the layout of--"

"Wait a sec. What were you doing in Rio?"

"Looking suave."

"Okay. Go on."

"I have reason to believe that the thief, or thieves, was last headed in this general direction. In fact, I'm certain that they traveled to a local nightclub, a place called Evermore."

"How do you know?"

"One of them left a trail of reeses' pieces all the way here. I've been walking for four days."

"Bummer. Can you describe these jewels?"

"There were eight of them, all about the size of a large egg and flawlessly cut."

"Any super powers, mystical curses, anything like that?"

"No, but if you collect all eight, they can be redeemed at your local Hardees for valuable cash prizes."

"I'm your man, Mr. Jones."

"I knew I could count on you," he said, shaking my hand, "If you succeed, I trust an offer of ten million file points will be sufficient?"

"TEN MILLION?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Marlowe. I didn't mean to insult you. Twenty million?"

"TWEN-- um... That'll be fine, sir."

"Good! Let me know when you have the jewels-- you'll know how to reach me. Now, please, avert your eyes."

I turned my head and covered my eyes. "Why, exactly, am I doing this?"

"Because I like dramatic exits," he intoned, as a flash of light crackled across the heavens. When I looked back, he was gone.

"Sure," I thought as I climbed out of the mud crater and shook myself dry, "I've still got that missing-persons gig, but this kind of money is just too good to pass up. Maybe things are starting to look up for me, after all!"

****

And somewhere, far away, across the multiverse, an oddly-angled room throbbed with evil laughter.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Stylus - by Zaphod

Part One: It All Begins Here

From the distance, a shadowy figure could be seen walking gracefully down the high-tide line of a nameless Chicago beach. His booted feet barely escaping the water's tarnishing flow, as the wind blew his long, beaten, coat behind him. He pulled a crushed pack of Marlboro's from his inside breast pocket, carefully taking the last cigarette from its beaten home and lighting it. He inhaled deeply the first puff of smoke, feeling its warmth as it entered his lungs.

Quickly Stylus turned and stared his prey dead in the eyes. The fool had no idea what he was in for. The man that had been following Stylus pulled out a knife and began to speak. The only words he managed to get out were, "Give me all of..." This predator, now become prey froze in mid-sentence as Stylus' eyes began to glow brightly, with anger and hunger; and as often happens to mortal men when they realize death is upon them, the would be thief found that he could not move, and tried, hopelessly, to scream; managing only a meek whimper. Before he had time to think about anything, much less the mistake he'd made in even thinking about robbing this man, the hungry Stylus was upon him.

Split seconds later the thief lay at Stylus' feet, bleeding, unconscious, ready to be drained of his soul and his foul memories. The stench of evil was strong on the incapacitated feed-flesh and Stylus knew he would hate the sting of the memories when he drained the criminal of his thoughts; but he needed food badly. It was becoming hard for him to remember the last time he had fed.

Stylus arched backwards, arms outstretched, as the meal's memories and soul mixed with his own. A roaring, wordless cry of pain and relief was released from his gaping mouth as he once again felt alive. The warm coloring of man came back into his face as his first meal in what seemed an eternity found its way into his body. It felt wonderful to finally eat, even if it was a rapist and a murderer.

Stylus pushed the limp, drained, corpse into the icy water and watched as the hollow body floated out into the lake. He crushed the last of his cigarette lazily into the sand with the his scuffed boot. The last of the sun was being soaked into the rainbow water at the horizon, and the dark figure of the man-beast, Stylus, sank down onto the sand, relaxed and relieved to be free of his hunger and the burden of choosing his food, and fell into a dreamless slumber.
_____________________________________________________________

Part Two: Home again, home again...

The next day, Stylus awoke, dazed and disoriented, lying in a smoothed patch of sand, no thoughts in his mind...it was the first time in months he had slept so well; the first time he had slept the whole night through without being awakened by a terrible fit of hunger or a mind tearing dream. Fully rested, and clear headed, he looked about to get his bearings and realized that he was still lying in the sand. Standing up, he brushed the sand from the creases of his coat and pants, shook more out of his hair and began his walk home.

Home to Stylus was a small, sparsely furnished, alley view apartment in Chicago's Ravenswood community. He could hear and see the "El" as it went by every so often, and the smell of the restaurants below mixed horribly in the air he breathed. Chinese, Mexican, and hot dogs, and aroma that could drive a cockroach to suicide, but Stylus welcomed the variety, most of the time.

This however was not one of those times. The sensory overload of the feed, the night before, was just too much to handle in combination with the smell, and his stomach made sure the rest of his body knew it. Upon opening the door, Stylus made a dead run for the washroom and began his worship of the porcelain god. Thirty minutes, and a shower later, he emerged from the washroom a new man, at least on the insides.

_____________________________________________________________

Part Three: Too loud shadows

As the sky grew dark and the street lights came on, Stylus awakened. Quickly grasping for the ringing alarm, he made contact and there was silence. Through the near soundless Chicago night, a red light and piercing siren flashed by outside his window.

He dressed quickly, knowing, that if the squad car or ambulance were on its way to an accident, he may be able to find a quick snack. He was a blur as he raced down the stairs and onto Chicago Avenue. As he approached the corner, he realized that something wasn't quite right; someone had just been there, waiting, and watching for him. It was at this moment that he felt the blow and the street lights above him swirled, and went black. When Stylus came to, he was surrounded by silhouettes, moving about as if in a dance. Thinking he was had not fully recovered from unconsciousness, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes, hoping that the shadows would gain more substance. His hopes proved worthless, and the shadows did not gain more substance, they just continued to dance and occasionally look towards him.

Propping himself up on both elbows, he realized that these were definitely not humans, but, for lack of anything better to call them, they were "living shadows". He yelled -Loudly- for the shadow men to stop dancing (they were only confusing him and making and their constant movement was not helping him think either). Fifteen featureless, black faces stared back at him.

Slowly Stylus managed to utter, "W...w...what the hell are you? And why am I here? For that matter, where is here?" The last question was not meant to be heard, but came out anyway.

Apparently in response to his questions, the shadows shrugged their shoulders in unison and began dancing again, this time it appeared that there was some meaning to their movements. After the third or fourth time through the same movements, Stylus realized that the creatures were pantomiming his run from the apartment, and when they got to the last moment he remembered before everything went black, they pointed to him and around the room. The only clear thought he could manage at this point, "A mime is a terrible thing to waste", seemed extremely ridiculous and frustrating to him. Then, more questions came pouring into his head. Did they not know how he got here, or where here was, or were they just not showing him? Was he supposed to know where he was? He managed to keep the questions to himself this time and the shadow men went back to their dancing.

Stylus chose to ignore their foolishness and to try to find some sign of where he was. Scanning the room, he saw nothing, but white walls, broken only by corners and the "shadow people". No doors, no windows, no way out or in. The questions came back even stronger and finally he let loose and just screamed them at the creatures, much the same way as one does when attempting to speak to someone that doesn't understand the same language. Louder and louder until he realized it was useless, they didn't know where he was or how he had been brought to the room......

Cry Havoc, And Let Slip The Small Woodland Creatures of War!

(part Two of chapter Six of the Dystropian Chronicles)
by Midget Caesar

Forgotten amidst the sands of time, long-closed eyes suddenly opened. Vengeance burned within; vengeance that screamed for satisfaction, that could no longer be ignored. Long ago the thing had lost, had been buried here, but this time was different. The world was going to know the thing's pain, the world was going to suffer. The thing struggled to the surface, ready to carry out its grim agenda of death. It stumbled forth, but unfortunately did not realize that the geography of the land had changed a bit since it was last free, and the entity fell off a cliff, slammed into the ground below, trigged a minor earthquake, and was squished by the tons of falling rocks. A little later, city developers arrived at the newly leveled area, and proclaimed it the perfect place for the city's new playground.

Silas wasn't happy about the earthquake. For many years, he had plotted to increase tourist activity by diverting a nearby river to create a waterfall above the cliff, and his plan had been ready to come to fruition at the moment of the earthquake. 603 years of work (Silas's ancestors had had the same plan) were now blown, and Silas needed a new hobby. His long, white beard wrapped around his body by the wind, he staggered forth towards the town, hoping to find something new to do. After all, he had plenty of other plans waiting to happen, didn't he? He assured himself that he did, and continued his journey.

Dtjkrslvao arrived in Dystropia, overjoyed to be in what he hoped was a land of great opportunity. In his native land, his name meant "Boundless Adventure", and he considered the travel to Dystropia a fulfillment of his name's legacy. The rest of his family laughed at him when he said that he was going to Dystropia, but Dtjkrslvao didn't know why, and paid them no heed. He was, however, alone, his family having scoffed at the idea that they come with. Dtjkrslvao was determined to prove them all wrong, and to return home triumphant with his newfound riches. He entered the Dystropian Immigration Centre excitedly, and wasn't surprised to see a very crowded room. He got in line patiently, and listened eagerly to the proceedings going on in front of him, barely able to wait for his turn. However, Dtjkrslvao didn't speak Dystropian very well, and didn't understand much of what was being said. As he got closer to the desk, he thought it strange that the clerk didn't seem to care very much about what was going on. The words were strange to Dtjkrslvao, but he listened carefully to them so that he could remember them for when he did understand their language.

"Next." said the clerk.

The person ahead of Dtjkrslvao stepped up.

"Name?"

"Anonymous."

"Alright, hold on while I check.....
...GOD DAMN IT, YOU DON'T EXIST EITHER!"

The person smirked and faded back into non-existence.

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY! EVERYONE WHO COMES TO THIS MISERABLE BUILDING DOESN'T EXIST! I'M FED UP WITH THIS CRAP!"

The clerk swung his crazed attention to Dtjkrslvao.

"COME ON, FUNNY BOY! WHO ARE YOU? "UNKNOWN"? "FIRST M. LASTNAME"? "UNIDENTIFIED"?

Dtjkrslvao looked at him nervously, and answered with the speech he had prepared.

"M-My name is Dtjkrslvao and I would l-like very m-much to be in your n-nice c-country of Dystropia."

All of the non-existent people in line behind him left in disgust. The clerk gaped.

"You-you're real? Wow! Um, right this way, please, may I see some ID?"

"My name is Dtjkrslvao and I would like very much to be in your nice country of Dystropia."

The clerk whipped out a pen and completed several forms at record speed, sadly not paying attention to the typos he had made.

"Here's your Dystropian Translation Guide, Welcome Guide, and a free lollipop. Welcome to Dystropia!" said the clerk, and before Dtjkrslvao knew it, he was being pushed through a door and out into the sun.

Silas wandered through the countryside. It had been a long day, and certainly not the best of his long life. Still, the rest of his various plans scattered about the area were still moving according to plan. Thanks to the rockslide, Silas had no home to return to, and the mansion he spied up ahead seemed as good a place to stay as any, so he made his way towards it.

Dtjkrslvao wasn't quite sure where to go. However, the city was so full of new, wondrous things that there was always somewhere to go. Dtjkrslvao let fate guide him, which was a mistake, as usual. As he walked, he studied the material he had been given, and after not too long he had a working grasp of the language. He had a new name as well, a shortened version of his old one. Dtjkrslvao couldn't wait to try it out on someone. After quite a bit of walking, he grew tired, and it was night, and the sum of those two things necessitated that he find a place to sleep for the night. He was still under the impression that this was a golden, open land, so he picked the first house he saw, which was a large, brooding mansion,and entered.

Finally, the time had arrived. Vernon was working the late night shift, and it was time for his lunch break. NOW! Now, he was going to make headway on his quest to be considered the greatest hunter in the world! Vernon slipped excitedly to the back of the store, ready to use his new equipment to help him track down his prey. Vernon used a complex blend of physics, geography, geometry, trigonometry, and astrology to track his prey, and he never failed. He eagerly set the calculations in motion on the new computer, printed out the results, and set out.

When Vernon arrived, he was right in front of a giant, dark mansion, and there was no prey in sight. He couldn't understand it. He had never failed before! Vernon kicked at the ground in disgust. He was washed up, he knew it. After all, he had made the calculations on the office's Pentium computer! Vernon stalked into the mansion in disgust, looking for something to redeem himself....

The Entity smiled. Everyone was now in place, and the plot was focusing squarely on him, not that damned show-stealer Milo. It was time for the Entity to make its mark....

The entranceway was rather crowded. When things calmed down a bit, everyone introduced themselves to each other for the sake of character interaction.

"Hi, I'm Percy. I don't really care if the rest of you stay or not, I just want to go to sleep."

"Greets, I'm Darius. I was the hottest lawyer in Dystropia and will be again, 'cause this place smells of redemption (and chicken)."

"AND WE'RE HIS FOLLOWERS!" shouted a hundred or so similar looking people. Darius silenced them with a glare.

"I am Silas. I'm having a bad day."

"I'm Vernon. I'm here to kill you all."

Everyone nodded and turned to Dtjkrslvao. Dtjkrslvao decided that it was time to shout out his new name, and did so, barely able to contain his excitement:

"DITTO!"

Everyone (except Percy) screamed and ran, calling poor Ditto a homicidal maniac. He didn't understand why everyone was so mad. Fortunately, they had found a new thing to be scared about, courtesy of Percy:

"Uh, guys, the door's locked."

The Entity cackled.....

[In Part Three:
-A Plot begins to Develop!
-The Entity Makes Messy!
-A Dramatic Arrival!
-That Rambler Spirit!
don't miss it!]

Why the Media is almost as Evil as my namesake in Congress

by Newt

Today, home sick, instead of tackling my overdue calculus homework, I did what any self-respecting student would do: lie around and watch daytime television. However, just as I'd settled comfortably and was happily watching Jerry Springer talk about bisexual teenagers, my bliss was interrupted by a NBC special report. Had Clinton died? Was there peace in Bosnia? Had someone actually figured out the French political system? No, Dan Rather just wanted to tell me that nothing new had happened in the OJ Simpson trial. oh. I flipped through the other network stations; sure enough, Peter Jennings was trying to intelligently discuss Kato Kaelin's contradictory testimony.

No, it's not really the OJ Simpson trial I'm mad about: it's the media that's perpetuating it. Think about it: who do you know that REALLY cares about this trial? No one, I'd wager. And yet, the press continues to thrust this media carnival at us, trying to condition us to run to the TV set every time we hear the words DNA testing.

See, right now, they think this story is hot: but when the ratings go down, our lives will become saturated with yet another pointless event until we become sick of it. When was the last time you heard about Tonya Harding or Nancy Kerrigan? A mere year ago we could recite the facts and even knew the name of Tonya's bodyguard. What became of the flesh-eating bacteria, Lorena Bobbitt, and Amy Fisher? Frankly, I don't care now because I didn't care in the first place.

Watching the network news seems more like Hard Copy: they open with OJ and get to the real stories halfway through the broadcast. I guess they feel they have to cater to the so-called MTV generation -- short sound bytes with lots of pretty pictures, with superficial coverage of everything except the sensational stories like Mr. Simpson. The media has trained us to be fickle, to flit from one story to the next. What happened in Rwanda? Didn't that story just kind of disappear? If there is harmony and peace, what happened to the story detailing that? Oh yeah, a special report on Marcia Clark's former lovers pre-empted it.

What you are about to read is a morality play, which was actually performed once long ago. For those of you who don't know, a morality play [assuming English professor pose] is a story in which characters represent certain qualities, be they good or evil. It usually illustrates some sort of moral point, in this case an extremely cynical one. I wrote it when I was in one of those moods, not only cynical but a tad maniacal. As my mental state was, well typical of me, this story won't make much sense, but hey, this is Propaganda Unlimited...

House of Meats
by Dr. Fig

It was a cheeseburger stand for it was a cheeseburger land. Sooner or later, everybody came to the cheeseburger stand, because that was where life was. Cheeseburgers, fries, chocolate shakes, for which milktrucks were always present outside. This was the world. Coming in and out of this world were people from the outside world, a place where cheeseburgers did not rule completely, but competed with the terrible forces of greed, hatred and cruelty. In opposition to these forces were generosity, love and kindness, but they didn't rate much in the grand scheme of things, however in the hearts and minds of one small group of idealistic teenagers they were very important. The world called them fools for believing this, and maybe you will too.

They were three in number always good and gracious righteous and pure. Their names were Jenny Rossity, Lawrence Oglethorpe [L.O.] Ving and Kindie Ness. They were always smiling and always friendly. However, not everyone felt the same way. They had three "friends". George Reed was a young man who was seldom seen without his suit and tie, cool car and Rolex watch. He was usually known simply as "G" for short as in "Whatup G?". With him was the voluptuous Lusty who ate young boys whole. Also present was the most wicked of them all, the vicious Carl "C" Rule.

The six youths would go to the cheeseburger stand often, for everyone eventually went to the cheeseburger stand. The cheeseburger stand was home to all. One of the other regulars at the cheeseburger stand, besides the youths, was a friendly but cynical old man who would sit at a table there and eat cheeseburgers: A lot of cheeseburgers, and we do mean a lot. He wanted what was best for the children, but didn't interfere too much. He gave them wisdom when he could and ate cheeseburgers the rest of the time.

The six young people came in one day to order their food. There was a little collection box on the food counter to help lost souls. Jenny Rossity contributed everything she had, excepting the money she needed to buy a cheeseburger with of course. When he thought no one was looking G Reed proceeded to smash the collection box and take every cent contained therein. Jenny Rossity, upon seeing this vile and despicable act of selfish larceny she was pushed over the edge. She renounced her noble ways and proceeded to rush out of the cheeseburger stand and steal G's car, vowing to destroy anyone she saw engaging in acts of charity. At the same time, the gentle soul, L.O. Ving was reading sentimental poetry while ordering his cheeseburger. ["She walks in beauty, yes I'd like fries with that."] At about the same time, Lusty approached him, and raped him from behind his back, leaving him a broken and spiritually destitute man. No one particularly noticed, since that sort of thing went on all the time at this particular cheeseburger stand. When L.O. recovered he would devote the rest of his life to lechery and hate.

Still untouched by the wickedness around him, Kindie Ness sat down to converse with the gentle, if cynical old man. The old man told him that once he too had been dedicated to goodness and niceness, but the pressures of a sick and evil world around him lead him to give up on saving it, and he wandered into the cheeseburger stand one day and never came out. Thirty four years was a long time to spend in a cheeseburger stand. Kindie Ness encouraged him to come out of his shell, saying that evil did not completely rule yet, and that there was still plenty of goodness in the world. The old man said that that was a bunch of naive crap and that people were basically scum. But Kindie didn't think so and remained true to goodness.

Just then an adorable little puppy came wandering into the cheeseburger stand [Or maybe he was escaping from the butcher]. Kindie hoped that this would melt the old man's hardened heart and it almost did, but then C Rule came along, grabbed the puppy and proceeded to inflict horrible pain upon it, making it squeal and yelp. This almost led the old man to utter despair. Kindie chased C Rule out of the cheeseburger stand, and C Rule ran him over with a milktruck. This left the old man to reflect. Evil always conquered good, the strong always conquered the weak, and no one ever lived happily ever after.

The End

[OK, so maybe that's a little too sad. Hmm...]

A little girl went up to the old man and said in a sweet cute little girl voice "Please Mr. Man, won't you be my valentine?" And the old man's heart was warmed and everything was peachy.

COMING ATTRACTIONS:

- Rancor: Unbound!
- The Propaganda Unlimited FAQ (hopefully)
- A new Fear and Loathing so shocking that Judge Ito wouldn't allow it in court!
- A new Dystropia that no one in court was quite able to comprehend!
- What REALLY happened at the 1995 Illinois High School Theatre Fest!
- Return of the Poetry Corner!
- Yet another completely different Distribution List

and

- More Furious Madness From the Massed Gadgets of Auximines....

DISTRIBUTION LIST:

Club Evermore (312) 476-1508
Dimensional HQ, Worldwide Hub, Great Drinks

Legion of Cyberspace Users (708) 546-4605
New Name, Meet the New Boss, Same As the Old Boss

Munden's Bar (815) 455-9783
Underage Downloading Not Allowed Without ID

The Obloid Sphere (708) 965-3098
1.2 GiGS oF TeXT FiLeZ oNLiNe!!!!

MAIL:

To submit material for Propaganda Unlimited, to make your BBS a PU Distribution Site, to let any PU Staff Member know that you're stalking them, or just to send feedback on any PU issues, email Midget Caesar on any of the above BBSes, or on the Internet:

PULETTERS@aol.com (official PU mailbox!)
or
mcfish@ripco.com (Midget Caesar direct)

Thank You, and Goodnight.

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