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Subj:  #1(4) RE: Twilight Zone
Date:  93-11-05 06:55:41 EST
From: [e-mail]
To:    RalphCouch

Mail Split By Gateway

------- cut here --------

In Message Thu, 04 Nov 93 18:52:40 EST, [e-mail] writes:

>I would like to subscribe to the Twilight Zone.

 Have done. See below.


    ````````
  (/  - o O  \)
   \    \    /
=-=ooo=-=-=ooo=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 Richard Karsmakers                          "That was no fart.
 [e-mail]               That was just my body
 Editor of "Twilight Zone" on-line magazine    applauding the food."
 Snail: Looplantsoen 50                              Anon (in the gutter)
        NL-3523 GV  Utrecht
        The Netherlands
 Voice: [phone] (All valid to mid '95)
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=











                          T W I L I G H T   Z O N E



                               Volume 1 Issue 3

                              October 17th 1993



                "Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?"











 This magazine may be archived, reproduced and/or distributed provided that no

additions or changes are made to it. All stories in this magazine are fiction.

No  actual  persons are designated by name or  character.  Any  similarity  is
purely coincidental.

 If you bought this magazine through an expensive PD library,  be sure to  get

it cheaper somewhere else next time,  as it's FOR FREE and I didn't intend  it
to be for free just so that someone else could make lots of dosh with it!

 Please  refer  to  the  end  of this  text  file  for  information  regarding
submissions, subscriptions, copyright and all that.



= LIST OF CONTENTS ===========================================================


 EDITORIAL - Richard Karsmakers
 THE PRESIDENT IS MISSING - Richard Karsmakers
 WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A WRITER ISN'T GETTING ANY - Bryan Kennerley
 THE LAST TEMPTATION OF AN ARCADE ADDICT - Richard Karsmakers
 CIRCUS GAMES - Richard Karmakers
 SLY FOR PRESIDENT - Richard Karsmakers
 ECO - Richard Karsmakers
 IGNATIUS' DAY OUT - Stefan Posthuma
 NO SMOKING - Jason Brew
 SHADOW OF THE BEAST - Richard Karsmakers
 BALLISTIX - Richard Karsmakers
 SOON COMING
 SOME REGULAR REMARKS



= EDITORIAL ==================================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers



 Rainbow's  "Catch the Rainbow" gently vibrates the air as I write down  these

words  that  start  off  the third issue  of  "Twilight  Zone".  So  far,  new

subscribers have been coming in every day. I made myself a promise to quit the

whole thing should it not have met with sufficient reader enthusiasm,  and  as

all you people out there have showed plenty of it I have definitely decided to

continue doing it.  The first two issues were a try-out,  sortof,  and I  will

apply myself more seriously to the matter from now on.  Most notably this will

manifest  itself by the release frequency increasing from four to  six  issues
per annum (yes, "Twilight Zone" will be bi-monthly as of Volume 2 Issue 1!).


 As nobody reads the editorial, usually, I will let you get down to the actual
reading now.

 I hope you like what's on offer this time!


 Richard Karsmakers
 (Editor)



= THE PRESIDENT IS MISSING ===================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers

 Inspired by "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?"


 Klick.

 A resolved look settled on the face of the detective as he inserted the sixth

bullet  in his .45 and shut the register.  He looked at the newspaper  on  his

desk  and the secret document that lay next to it.  "Read & Destroy" could  be
read on its cover.

 He blew a large cloud of smoke to the lamp that sat clutched to the desk. The

rays looked ghostly through the temporary fumes. He held the burning cigarette

against  the  document,  waited  until it caught flame  and  then  dropped  it
casually in the wastepaper basket.

 The  flames licked the paper,  rapidly reducing it to a smouldering  heap  of
ashes.
 The detective looked at a small bottle of ink on the table.

 "ACME  Disappearing/reappearing ink" was printed on its label.  He  took  the
bottle and indifferently put it in a coat pocket.


 Eddie inserted the .45 in its holster and adjusted his tie.  He took a bottle

of  cheap  whiskey from another pocket,  intending to take  a  swig.  Then  he
remembered something that had been contained in the secret document.

 "Do  not  trust  *anyone*," he muttered to  himself,  "not  even  your  booze
dealer."

 His new booze dealer was a big man with a large, quadrangular face ornamented

with long side burns.  In Eddie's opinion quite the kind of man that  wouldn't

mind poisoning a poor alcoholic.   He tossed the bottle in the  aforementioned
wastepaper basket and left his office.

 He regretted the act as soon as he walked down the stairs.  The whiskey might

have  been  cheap,  but  how many times had it not helped him to  get  over  a

romance that had gone down the drain,  or to get over a case that he'd  failed
to solve, or even to temporarily forget about his brother's death?
 Above, some of the liquor oozed through cracks in the dust bin.


 He  stood outside and took a deep breath of New York air.  He  stood  firmly,

legs slightly apart, as if he was prepared to face the worst. His eyes flitted

right  and  left,  carefully taking in what was happening around  him  without
moving his head as much as an inch.

 A police car raced through the streets,  its siren making a noise that seemed
to bounce through the inside of his head like a tennis ball.
 It ached.

 The blue flashlights threw disembodied shadows of a mysterious figure on  the

wall  next to him.  The mysterious figure seemed to be drawing something  from

his  inner pocket;  it could be the suction pipe of a vacuum cleaner,  but  it
could just as likely be...

 In a flash of instinct and skill,  the detective drew his gun,  aiming it  at
the supposed shadow. It had gone.

 "Well  I'll  be..." he cursed,  re-inserting the weapon  where  it  belonged,
"...seeing ghosts next!"


 He  stuck  up a thumb and the next moment a yellow cab had  appeared  on  the

street before him,  as if it had appeared out of the blue (which it  seemingly
had). A small cab it was, with no roof and a mouth on the hood.
 "Yo! Where 'ya wanna go, Eddie?" the cab inquired.

 "Kennedy Airport,  Benny," the detective replied,  seeming unabashed by  what
had just now taken place, "and make it fast, will ya?"

 The cab left in a cloud of smoke; the stench of burning rubber penetrated the
air.


 The  wind blew rashly through his hair as the detective held on tight to  his

seat.  Surely the cab hadn't had any traffic regulations lessons recently;  it

seemed principally neglecting every one rule ever written down with regard  to
traffic in any place at any time.

 Eddie  closed  his  eyes tightly,  knowing that it  wouldn't  make  even  the
slightest difference whether or not he complained.

 After  about fifteen death-defying minutes,  Benny came to a screeching  halt
outside Kennedy Airport's main entrance.

 "Here  we  are  Eddie!"  the  cab  exclaimed,   "That'll  be...let's  have  a
look...three bottles of ink."

 Eddie  fingered the contents of his coat pockets,  eventually taking out  the
bottle of ink.

 "This  ought to be enough,  hoodwinker!" he grumbled as he handed it over  to
the cab.

 "Gee,  Eddie,  thanks!  That's  worth at least five regular bottles of..."  -
"Keep the change, and split!" Eddie interrupted, slamming the cab's door.

 Benny  seemed a bit hesitant,  not quite knowing what to do now  someone  had

spoken  to  him like that.  After some seconds of apparent  deep  thought,  it

disappeared  as  quickly and mysteriously as it  had  appeared,  leaving  only
behind a subtle waft of burned rubber.


 Eddie  walked  up  to the main entrance.  A glimmer at the top  of  a  nearby

building caught his attention.  His instincts took over,  making him dash  for
the automatic doors at a far higher than usual speed.

 Cronos Warchild, mercenary and hired gun, cursed in himself, fumbled with his

side burns and dropped his ultra-precision gun. A commonly used synonym for an

animal's  solid  excrements passed his lips.  He disappeared inside  the  high
building, taking the elevator down.

 "Flight IA 734 for Tel Aviv is now boarding.  All passengers please report at

gate  C,"  the Public Address system at John F.  Kenney  Airport's  main  hall
proclaimed, "Thank you."

 Eddie walked towards the counter to get his ticket.  He had to  hurry.  There
wasn't much time left to get to gate C. And he didn't want to be late.

 "But I have nothing to declare!"

 The detective looked at where the savage voice repeating these words had came

from.  It came from the ticket counter;  there was no queue, only a large dude

with loadsa muscles, a red piece of cloth wrapped around his head, carrying an

M 60 machine gun.  He was arguing with a blonde piece selling the tickets.  He
had a small pouch hanging around his waist, from which a ticking sound arose.
 Eddie joined the next queue, observing the muscled guy.

 "But,  sir,"  she  girl now told that man,  still apologizingly  but  already

losing her patience,  "you cannot take aboard that equipment.  I'm sorry. It's
regulations. No guns, and no bombs either."

 The man only grunted in reply, then started to explain to the girl that, what

with  the likelihood of *two* people carrying a bomb aboard any  given  flight
being infinitely tiny, he had brought one just to be certain that...

 "I'm awfully sorry,  sir," the girl repeated, slightly raising her voice now,
"but I have to ask you to be so kind as to..."

 A  large,  broad  man with a rather ectangular face and long side  burns  had

appeared behind the ticket counter girl,  looking menacingly. He was wearing a

Pan  Am  shirt that was obviously in need of replacement by one  of  a  larger
size.

 "Take a hike,  dude!" the man's voice sounded,  threateningly.  His eyes gave

the  muscled  guy with the red piece of cloth tied around his  head  a  killer
look.

 It  was  clear that this supposed Pan Am employee had no  intention  of  ever
repeating this hint without some additional physical interaction.

 The  muscled  guy  took  a  piece  of  cardboard  from  a  satchel  on  which

"Afghanistan" was written in a most terribly fashioned handwriting.  Muttering

angrily, he turned around and walked outside. There, he extended the cardboard

sign  and  stuck  up his thumb.  A small yellow cab  with  no  roof  appeared,

seemingly from out of nowhere;  the man entered it,  after which it left in  a
cloud of smoke.

 Eddie  saw that the girl was pretty much aghast at the rather squarely  built

man's  performance.  He found the man now looking at him,  fixing him with  an
obsessed stare.
 Er...didn't that face look somewhat familiar?
 Eddie got a sudden craving for cheap whisky.

 "Tel Aviv...er....First Class," the detective replied when it was his turn at

the  other queue and the girl at that ticket counter had asked him what  might

be his destination.  She typed something on a terminal,  after which a printer
made some noise and ejected a ticket which she handed to him.
 "Gate C, sir. Have a bon voyage," she said sheerily.

 Eddie  kept  his hand extended for another while,  pulling it  back  when  he

concluded from her raised eyebrows she wasn't going to have him have  anything
after all.

 Airline  Company personnel just wasn't the way it used to be in the good  old
days.
 He headed for gate C.


 "On  your  way to the plane,  you will be contacted by our agent  in  Kennedy

Airport,"  the secret document had read,  "and the fact that he might  to  you
seem a bit odd will be his password."

 Near the gate, Eddie once more noticed a flickering of something metal - this

time in the shade of a large plant. He pulled out his .45 and leapt at whoever
was in hiding there. This time he would have him!
 He ended up holding a rabbit at both ears.

 "Pflulululeeeaaase!" the rabbit complained, "don't you start yankin' my ears!
I hate it when people yank my ears!"

 Eddie released the rabbit from his grip,  mumbling somewhat of an excuse. The

animal,  which looked decidedly odd,  dropped to the ground.  It looked like a
rabbit yet it didn't either.

 "Would  you  mind  putting away that thing,  too?"  the  Rabbit  asked  while

pointing  at  Eddie's gun.  Eddie nodded and put it safely  away.  He  glanced
around skittishly.

 "I'm  Roger,"  the  rabbit  said,  "Aren't  you  Eddie  Valiant,  the  famous
detective?"

 "Yeah," Eddie replied. The rabbit was about to say something again when Eddie

signalled him to be silent. He sharpened his ears as he heard his flight being
accounced again.

 "Last  message to all passengers for flight IA 734," a  voice  droned,  "This
flight now finishes boarding at gate C. The flight will depart shortly."

 "Sorry,  pal",  Eddie said to Roger,  "but I've gotta go. I've got a plane to
catch, and it seems I have to hurry. If you don't mind, I'd..."

 "I am the secret agent you are to meet," the rabbit interrupted urgently,  "I

was  told  to  warn you that there's a contract  out  on  you.  An  incredibly

effective  international  hired  gun is on to you.  You'd  better  watch  your
steps."

 Eddie didn't have any time to reply or say anything at all. The rabbit, which

had a distinctly odd sense of drama,  vanished in a puff of smoke (yeah, toons

can do that). The detective stood glued to the ground for the better part of a

minute,  scanning  the  large plant for possible further  flickerings  in  its
shade.

 "Flight  IA  734  now departing," a voice  droned,  shaking  Eddie  from  his

puzzlement.  Through  the  windows  he  saw his  flight  taxiing  towards  its
designated take-off runway.
 Without him on it.
 What would his superiors say if he didn't turn up at Tel Aviv next day?

 Once  on  the proper runway he saw the plane  increasing  speed,  slowly  but

surely.  A couple of moments later,  it took off.  It went into the sky like a
smooth bolt of erupting fire and melting metal.

 A smooth bolt of erupting fire and melting metal?


 A rolling,  thundering sound caught up with the people in the hall of Kennedy

Airport. Women yelled frantically, children cried; men ran to and fro carrying

boxes  full  of Kleenex tissues.  The plane had exploded in  mid-air  and  had

crashed on a well known street in New York,  killing thousands of business men
and leading to the utter collapse of the dollar index.

 No doubt.  A bomb had exploded aboard the craft.  Someone did not want  Eddie

Valiant to arrive at Tel Aviv.  And whoever didn't want that,  didn't want  it
pretty badly.

 A  couple  of minutes after the plane had exploded and  crashed,  a  telegram

arrived  at the desk of the ticket counter girl who had barely recovered  from

her  supposed  colleague's rather harsh treatment of that  muscled  dude,  let

alone the crash of the plane that they guy had originally wanted to be on. She

accepted  it with trembling hands,  then passed it on to a couple  of  Airport
security men after having read it.

 "Didn't I tell you?  - STOP - You should have let me aboard - STOP -  Signed:
John R.," it read.


 Eddie  strode  to the main exit,  carefully looking all around  him  for  the

possibility of assassins.  Obviously,  this international hired gun that Roger

had been talking about was pretty seriously devoted to killing him.  It seemed

better to keep a low profile for a while.  The president would probably remain
missing for another couple of days and then there was always time to...

 At that instant,  a flicker caught the corner of his eye again.  Right behind
him. Heavy steps followed his.

 "Third time lucky,  eh?" Eddie muttered scornfully,  starting a  trot.  Heavy
steps still followed him, also quickening pace.
 BANG!

 A  high  whizzing sound of sorts passing his ear told him  that  whoever  was

picking him for a target knew halfway how to do it.  He scrambled outside  and

stuck  up his thumb.  The next moment a yellow cab had appeared on the  street

before him - as if it had appeared out of the blue (which it seemingly had). A
small cab it was, with no roof and a mouth on the hood.
 "Hiya! Where 'ya wanna go, Eddie?" the cab asked.

 "Never  thought I'd be happy to see you,  Benny," Eddie gasped,  "back to  my
place. On the double!"

 The cab left in a cloud of smoke; the stench of burning rubber penetrated the

air.  Eddie looked behind him and saw a huge man stampeding with rage,  waving
something that resembled a post-space-age piece of weaponry.
 There was a piece of ragged, gel-stained red cloth lying on the cab's floor.


 After fifteen death-defying minutes,  the cab came to a screeching halt right
in front of Eddie's office.

 "Here we are,  Eddie," Benny said, "that'll be...uh....lemmesee...six bottles
of ink!"

 Many  people  wonder  about  the  sometimes  devastating  rate  of  inflation
nowadays, and so did Eddie now.

 "But  on  the way to Kennedy Airport,  half an hour ago,  I paid  only  three
bottles! What..."

 "It's added danger money," the cab interrupted,  "the dude who hired me about

ten minutes ago first refused to pay and when I started complaining he  shoved

an  M  60  under my hood!  Then he even wanted me to pay  for  a  telegram  or
something he wanted sent to the airport!"

 "All  right,  all  right,"  Eddie,  to whom all of this  made  little  sense,
retorted, "Hang on for a moment, will ya? I'll just get some ink upstairs."

 He got out of the cab, fingering his pockets for the keys. Darn! Where had he
put those blasted keys?! Or had he perhaps lost them somewhere?

 Once upstairs,  in front of his office door, he fooled around with his credit

card.  He  barely had to insert it for the door to open.  It was never  *that*

easy,  unless  the door had already been open.  Had he not locked it  when  he
left?
 So pondering, he entered.


 As  he searched his drawer he suddenly heard a click.  He turned  around  and

found  himself  looking  straight into an impressive-looking  barrel  of  what

seemed to him like a post-space-age piece of weaponry. It seemed lethal enough
for him to make only slow and deliberate moves.

 Cronos Warchild,  mercenary and hired gun, placed a ghetto blaster on Eddie's
desk and pressed "Play".

 The  fanfare  part  of Strauss' "Also  sprach  Zarathustra"  sounded  through

Eddie's  dusty office.  It reminded him of some exceedingly dull but no  doubt
endlessly cult and deeply literary SF movie he had seen once.

 "Say goodbye,  sucker," Warchild said,  his voice sounding just as lethal  as

his  ultra-precise gun that was now aimed at a spot precisely between  Eddie's
eyes.

 "Goodbye," said Eddie while putting a finger in the gun's barrel as  Warchild
pulled the trigger.
 BANG!

 A  commonly  used synonym for an animal's solid excrements  passed  someone's
lips.

 Original version written late 1988. Rehashed September 1993.



= WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A WRITER ISN'T GETTING ANY ===============================
 by Bryan Kennerley



 A very good evening to one and all. I would like to take this opportunity, if

I  may,  to relate to you the unfortunate result of,  as we in this green  and

sceptred  isle of ours like to say,  "not getting any." I am openly  admitting

here  to  being  a  sufferer of this cruel  condition  so  that  other  fellow

sufferers can know that they are not alone, except, of course, in the biblical
sense of the word.

 I  am a budding writer,  although due to this terrible affliction I  have  of

late  spent more time budding than actually writing.  I have  attempted,  from

time  to time,  to put fingers to keyboard in moments of literary  compulsion,

but have always been thwarted by my own bodily urges.  But let me give you  an

example so that you can get an idea of how this form of "writer's block"  (nay

"writer's  bollock")  exhibits  itself for all to see -  I  wrote  this  piece

earlier today filled with good intentions, yet, as you will see, my hands were

being  led  not by my conscious mind but,  unbeknownst to me until I  read  it

back,  by another mind at the completely opposite end of the spinal column.  I

have  capitalised  the  sections of particular  distraction  for  illustrative
purposes.


 As  Andrea  stared solemnly into the fire she recalled the  ferocity  of  the

blizzard that she had endured on their way to this place,  a lonely log  cabin

high in the hills.  The car had died a couple of miles down the road,  forcing

her to brave the remaining distance on foot.  She had barely been able to keep

going  against the merciless force of the soul-chilling gale pushing her  back

towards icy oblivion and when her goal came into view she had never been  more
glad to see a WOODEN ERECTION in her life.

 A  drift of whiteness growing up the door combined with her lifeless  fingers

had  toughened the fight to GAIN ENTRANCE but her resolve had GROWN  also  and

she  let  out  a DEEP SIGH as she felt the ENTRANCE YIELD TO  HER  IRON  GRIP.

RELIEF SWEEPING THROUGH HER BODY,  she clambered through the OPEN ORIFICE into

the WARMTH THAT AWAITED HER.  Slowly her frozen form began to thaw out and she

lit the log fire that had lain unburning since the summer. Sitting in front of

the  dancing flames she had removed her winter coat and flicked her hair  back

from her face,  revelling in the WAVE OF HEAT SWEEPING OVER HER, STARTING WITH

AN  ECSTATIC  TINGLING  IN HER TOES AND GROWING UP  THROUGH  HER  ENTIRE  BODY

REMOVING  ANY LAST RESISTANCE SHE HAD AGAINST THE FIRE'S  PROBING  FINGERTIPS.

SLOWLY SHE DISROBED ALLOWING THE BLAZE TO SPREAD ALL AROUND HER WRITHING FORM,
SAVOURING EVERY TOUCH, EVERY SENSATION IMPARTED TO HER BY THIS RED HOT LOVER.


 You see?  It start off very innocently with just one sexual reference in  the

first  paragraph,  but by the end of the second all hope of a literary  marvel

are  shattered by my thwarted libido crowbarring its way into my higher  brain
functions.

 Don't think that I haven't tried to find a way around,  desperate times  call

for desparate and disparate measures. You might think that by choosing a scene

and  cast  not possessing a single sexual characteristic  between  them  would

reduce the prospects of lustful intrusions to negligable proportions. Nay! For

demonstration  purposes,  let  us take three entirely innocent objects  in  an

entirely  innocent  setting.  Let me see......a library,  a book,  a  pair  of
spectacles and a small pebble named Sam:


 The  library  was  quiet this time of  the  morning,  the  reference  section

entirely devoid of life,  the borrowing area hardly bustled,  what life  there

was  was  soon  to end if the coughing emanating from  that  quarter  was  any

indication.  A  single shaft of sunlight escaped the captivity of the  rolling

autumn cumuli that drifted slowly overhead, spotlighting a single barren table
and in particular the one book resting open upon it.

 The  illiterate  beam cast its single,  brilliant eye over the  sole  picture

contained on the open pages of the encyclopaedia,  an annotated diagramatic of

the workings of an internal combustion engine.  Absorbed in what it  saw,  the

studious ray failed to notice the pair of spectacles folded upon the  adjacent

page  while the scholar vanquished an unrequested call of  nature.  And,  it's

interest  in the book magnified manyfold,  the light became heat and the  heat

claimed the book as its own.  Its grip was a powerful one and its craving  for

knowledge  grew,  grew beyond the bounds of this one volume  of  encyclopaedic

instruction and it grasped out at the boundless collection of words within its
reach.

 It was not long before the library was consumed. Its occupants were evacuated

but  two  people  were unaccounted for,  one disciple  of  knowledge  who  had

succumbed to a call of nature and one Miss Forbes,  librarian's assistant  who

had  done the calling.  They were found in each others arms  and  other,  more

moist parts of the human anatomy,  in the gentleman's toilets by a fireman who

removed the door with his fearsome chopper,  which he wielded in double-handed

fashion.  Both  parties  were  unharmed by both the  fire  and  the  fireman's
magnificent weapon and how they all larfed about it afterwards.


 OK,  so  it wasn't quite so bad as I expected,  ignoring the "shaft"  in  the

first paragraph as artistic license,  it was going pretty well until the tying

up  of  loose  ends,  which,  in itself is an expression  of  not  undisguised

depravity,  fun though it may be.  The truth is that I bit my fingers  several

times  before  finally  letting my feelings burst forth in  an  explosion  not

dissimilar  in  scale  to  when  a certain  Charles  Chaplin  stepped  on  the

proverbial hosepipe and then lifted his foot. "But what about the small pebble

named  Sam?" I hear you cry!  Well,  some of you may well have guessed by  now

that  I  only threw that one in to make it hard.   How  about  something  more

moody,  perhaps set in times gone by when storytellers were worshipped as much
as TV sets and, yes, even more than "The Les Dennis Laughter Show"?


 "Come children,  and sit with me by the fire",  beckoned the old man  sitting

beside the sole source of light in the dark Winter evening. This man was known

throughout  the land as a master of experience,  for he had travelled  through

all the lands of the known world and,  some said in hushed tones,  many  more.

His  presence  always  drew  attention,  his  name  awe,  his  weathered  face

incredulity.  In  town  after town he had become known for relating  the  many

things he had seen to the young folk who rushed out to greet him when word  of

his  arrival  struck.  There was not a man nor child in the land who  had  not
heard of this man. So they ran away.


 No,  better end that one before it gets out of hand, as God reputedly said to

himself  as Adam first saw Eve.  One obvious option open to me,  or to  anyone

else unfortunate enough to find themselves in this situation, is to surrender.

Surrender  to  the  primal screaming that is oozing into my  cerebrum  like  a

reasonably  viscous fluid,  give up the fight and join the ranks of the  other

side.  But  such  is the power of the calling that I fear that if  I  were  to

submit to Its demands than I would become Its slave for all eternity,  and all

my  utterances  would  become perverse and my every sentence  would  bear  the

insignia  of the double entendre.  If I did surrender my soul to its will  and

fall  into the ranks of the obsessives then I am afeared as to what  might  be

created on this screen,  yet if I denied It then would It ever go away? Should

I  open  a  direct channel from this nether world into  this  one  and  accept
whatever profligate child results from such a joining?

 No, as long as I have control over my actions then I will fight! Until such a

time as this demon spirit is exorcised by a being of such angelic  virtue,  or

not as the case may be,  then I shall not succumb,  though I may from time  to

time  pass  the  utterance  "ooer missus" at the  passage  of  words  such  as

"succumb" as a vent to the dammed,  nay,  damned reservoir of coital  passion.

For like Dr David Banner, a raging monster dwells within me and I am forced to

wander,  never knowing when He might emerge again doing irreparable harm to my

apparel of the moment.  And,  though it may take numerous rewrites and endless

hours  of  editing,  I  will continue to spew forth material  which  is  truly

deserving  of the adjectival prenomer "literary".  And I shall not be  beaten,
except in a playful and sensual manner!

 So  I end this text on a message of hope for fellow and  fellowess  sufferers
out yonder, fear ye not, thy time will come, as shall ye!

 Original written somewhere in 1992.



= THE LAST TEMPTATION OF AN ARCADE ADDICT ====================================
 by Richard Karsmakers



 I wake up with an enormous headache.  It seems as if a mercenary annex  hired

gun  is trying out his latest killer gadgets on the inside of my  poor  skull.

With  every heartbeat,  a throb slithers through my head's veins,  creating  a
feeling as if the very thing is about to burst into pieces.

 I  open my eyes.  At first,  I only see some vague colours,  predominated  by

miscellaneous shapes that move in specific patterns across my retina.  As  the
colours sharpen, these images disappear as though melting in the sun.

 Ah...the sun!  Can't someone turn the bloody thing off? Or at least close the

blinders?  Even  more  violently throbbing sensations are  finding  their  way
through my skull's nerves.

 Pain!  Pain!  Can't someone extend a helping hand to this poor and  suffering
soul?

 I use all power that is left in my aching body to press a button on the wall,

labelled "Nurse (female)". I can barely avoid accidentally pressing the button
next to it, labelled "Nurse (male)".

 SEX


 After a short while,  the room is entered by a gorgeous brunette - the  likes

of which would turn any healthy male's heart into a smouldering heap of cells,

slowly  devouring the rest of the body into utter foolishness and  folly.  She

wears  white nurse's clothes:  A mini-skirt and a blouse that should  actually

have had a few more buttons starting at the top.  Her  long,  long,  beautiful

legs  are  only covered by air molecules that seem to struggle to be  able  to

touch  her.  She  blinks her eyes in a fashion that would enrapture  the  very

Pyramids of Gizeh, and with a casual move of her right hand puts her hair in a

way so that it congenially covers one of her shoulders.  It glimmers like silk
in a fresh summer morning's sun, even better than in most shampoo ads.

 With  a  voice  that  would have spontaneously melted  both  the  Arctic  and

Antarctic ice caps,  she sighs:  "Can I be of *any* help to you, sir?" (Please
note the emphasis on the word 'any')

 I open my eyes when I discover that her beautifully hewn body blocks the rays

of the sun that try to pierce my eyelids; I clearly see the shapes of what God
must have had in mind when he designed breasts.

 "No thanks," I mutter,  "just close the damn blinders and I'll be  blissfully
happy."

 She looks at me,  utmost wonder portrayed in her endearing rainbow eyes.  She

then  looks  at her blouse as she starts to slowly unbutton  it.  While  doing

that, she opens and closes her eyes regularly, as if in slow motion. She wears

a lovely teint of eye-shade, I can now clearly see. Her hair still glimmers in
the sun like purest silk from far away Eastern countries.
 Yeah....those are surely the things that God must have had in mind...

 She  slowly  turns  around and walks to the  window,  closing  the  blinders,

drawing  the curtains,  too.  She makes each move as deliberate  as  possible,

trying  to make each and every animation as seductive as it can  possibly  be.

Soon,  the room is only lighted by a dim spotlight above the bed as she gently
walks back to my bed.

 I  must have dozed off for a few moments just after she closed  the  blinders

and drew the curtains,  as suddenly she isn't wearing her mini-skirt any more,

either.  She  now  only  wears some white lingerie,  the edges  of  which  are
decorated with the finest lace.

 She  sits down on my bed,  and with her warm and lovely voice asks whether  I

would like to touch her.  When I don't respond to this invitation,  she  shows

even  more  wonder in those rainbow eyes of hers,  and gently puts one  of  my
hands on her left thigh.

 Her  leg  feels like velvet under my  fingers.  Purest,  finest  and  softest

velvet,  that is.  I sense her warmth,  and I hear her breathing slowly as she
moves closer to me on the bed.

 She kisses the long and well manicured fingers of her right hand,  then  puts
them at my dried-out lips.
 No response.

 She glances around as though someone might be looking, then carefully removes

the  final part of textile that is covering the upper part of  her  delightful

body. She bows over me and puts her lips on mine. Her lips are soft, warm and,
like Raymond Babbitt would say, wet.

 She  releases her lips from mine,  doing this in such a lovely way that  many

men  would  have  found that even more exciting than  the  actual  kiss.  This
promises more!

 Yet, there is no response whatsoever from my side. Glad to find that no light

was  trying to kill my sensory nerves that had had their best time  processing
the crushing pain in my head, I close my eyes and nodd of again.
 "Nurse," someone standing in the doorpost whispers, "you may stop now."

 A man wearing spectacles and a long white coat stands there.  In his hands he

holds a notepad and a pen;  on his coat hangs an ID plate reading  "Dr.  James
Hamilton".
 "No response to sex," he says as he writes the words down.
 The gorgeous nurse collects her clothes and leaves the room.

 "Creep,"  she  whispers  below her breath as she  turns  around  just  before

walking  through  the  door.  The  last  thing I  could  have  seen  when  she

disappeared into the dark corridor was the sustained wonder blurring vision in
her rainbow eyes.

 ALCOHOL


 Next,  another girl comes in.  She is wearing a black miniskirt with a  small

white apron embroidered with lace,  a black blouse,  black tights,  high heels

and a laced alice-band that keeps her long,  curly black hair tidy. Her large,
brown eyes look at me as I lie on the bed with open mouth, still nodding off.
 She's also much of a looker, but that was already clear by the aforesaid.

 She  pushes  a small carriage on which various bottles  containing  variously

coloured  liquids  are located.  Her hips sway enchanting to and  fro  as  she
pushes the thing to my bed.
 She simulates a modest cough in order to get my attention.
 She simulates another one for the same purpose.
 Yet, I simply nodd on.

 The  girl looks to the door,  in which' post the man wearing the  long  white

coat still stands.  He signals her to remain subtle,  and to open a bottle and
hold it under my nose.

 She  seems puzzled when looking at the carriage,  as if she doesn't  seem  to

know  what  to select from this vast collection of  fluids.  To  be  perfectly
honest, this lovely girl probably truly doesn't know.

 "Eighty-five percent," she reads aloud,  fetching a flat bottle with  "STROH-

RUM"  written on its label.  She gently lifts up my head and moves the  bottle

subtlely to and fro under my nose.  Within seconds,  the whole room is  filled

with  the  smell of liquor - a smell that would on its own be  enough  to  get
quite brainmurderingly drunk.

 She  pours  the  equivalent  of  a  quadruple  "STROH-RUM"  down  my  throat,
immediately stepping back a few paces.

 Apart  from enormous quantities of droplets appearing all over  my  forehead,
arms and neck, nothing happens.
 No move. No response.
 Now, it's her turn to display lots of wonder in her fawnen eyes.

 The man in the long white coat signals her to use another bottle,  trying  to
lip-sync a word.

 "Ah...Plantiac,"  the  girl agrees,  and takes a bottle  containing  a  brown
fluid.
 "Hmm...thirtyfive percent..." she says approvingly.

 She pours a bit of the fluid into a small glass, takes a sip herself and then

holds it under my nose.  For a fragment of a moment,  it seems as if I  indeed
open my eyes.

 The lids don't agree with what they're told,  however, so they remain closed.

Even a glass of the best and smoothest Dutch Brandy  ever,  Plantiac,  doesn't

succeed in drawing my attention or even waking me up.  The divine smell of the

liquid  enters my nostrils,  yet there is no effect to be  noticed.  Only  the
sweat on my body seems to disappear.
 "Fawn," the man with the long white coat whispers, "that will be all."

 Tears  well  up  in  her eyes as she seems to realize  that  her  job  wasn't
performed satisfactorily.

 "You've done the best you could," the doctor says as she passed him,  "Go and
have a drink. It's on me."

 Just  before  actually leaving the room,  she turns around and looks  at  me.
"Creep," she whispers below her breath.
 The doctor looks up from his paper.

 "No  response to alcohol.  The patient does seem to have a certain effect  on

women,  causing  them to call him 'creep'",  he proclaims,  writing  down  the
words.
 "Next." the doctor says.

 MONEY


 The  room  is  now  entered  by  cigarette-wielding  babe  with  long,  lank,

incredibly blonde hair, lightblue eyes, bright red lips, long legs and a tight

blue skirt just below the knees.  She nonchalantly blows a few puffs of  smoke

to  the  ceiling in a way that would have made Jerry Hall  jealous.  Her  hips

dance as if in a supernatural trance in a way that would have made Mick Jagger

go nuts instantly (and forget all about Jerry).  She wears a very tight  white

blouse that leaves only little to guess about the shapes of the upper part  of
her anatomy.

 Her  necklace  is one of silver inlaid with many a diamond;  a  solid  golden

bracelet  ornaments her right wrist whereas the other one is sublimified by  a

Rolex  watch.  Her left breast supports a priceless brooch.  If my nose  would

have  been  open  to  any alien impressions,  it  would  have  sensed  a  most

extravagantly  expensive  perfume (one of  those  'turn-the-men-on-because-it-

brings-out-the-worst-in-'em' brands, something like Loulou). But it wasn't, so
it couldn't.

 She also sits down on my bed,  and from somewhere she gets about 10,000  real

US dollars that she starts to move back and forth under my nose.  She smell of

fresh  paper money appears to have more penetrating power than  her  expensive

perfume,  as in my dreams I now vividly imagine myself swimming in a warehouse

full  of thousand dollar bills - much in the fashion like a certain member  of
the Duck family would.

 Yet  the  potence of the smell and the associative thought is not  enough  to

make  me  wake up.  At times,  I only see coloured shapes moving  in  specific
patterns across my retina, sometimes littered with sound effects.

 I  make a sudden move with my right hand,  as if wanting to grab a  joystick,

pushing  its  fire buttons rapidly.  The woman startles and nearly  drops  her
cigarette on the bedlinen.
 "Creep," she hisses, slaps my face, stands up and walks away. In style.

 Even  the way in which she did this would have made Mick Jagger  go  berzerk.

Just  before passing the doctor,  who is scribbling something on his  notepad,

she  turns around.  If I would have looked,  I would have seen something  like

wonder  in her bright blue eyes before she vanished into the darkness  of  the
corridor.

 Only  the  tap-tap  sound of her high heels can be heard for  a  few  moments
longer, until that also fades away into silence.
 "No response to money," the doctor sighs, "NEXT!"

 HEAVY METAL


 Another  girl,  this time a rather common one,  enters the  room.  She  wears

amazingly high stiletto-heels on which she seems barely to be able to  balance

her gait, fishnet stockings, an extremely tight pair of leather black trousers

and a torn Metallica T-Shirt; various metalware items cover her neck and arms.

Her  hair is dyed almost perfectly white,  and falls in broad curls  over  her

shoulders.  Bright  pink  lipstick and blue eyeshade make her  face,  and  she

appears to be chewing some kind of cheap bubble gum. Under all the superficial
impressions, she can still be seen to have been very pretty. Once.

 In   short:   A  girl  that  would  turn  every   headbangin'   nervewreckin'

muscletorturin' freakin' heavy metallunatic on,  referred to as 'tart' by many
potential mother-in-laws.

 The  smell  of artificial strawberry flavour fills the room as she  lifts  an

enormous  2x50 Watts ghetto blaster off one of her shoulders and puts it  down

on the small desk near my bed.  She plugs it into the nearest wall socket  and

presses a button.  A small drawer flips out slowly,  in which she puts a small

shiny disc.  She looks at the label approvingly,  then presses another button.
The drawer closes and a slight whizzing sound arises from the machine.

 Within  seconds,  the hospital room is filled with the noise of  Heavy  Metal

Mayhem, blackened noise and hoarse cries proclaiming death, hell, destruction,

murder and genocide.  The girl starts jumping all up and down the room, wildly
banging her head. That surely ain't no wig she's wearing.

 The  doctor  observes  me silently in the doorpost.  He is  now  holding  his

fingers in his ears,  and he is trying to write with a foot, his notepad lying
on the floor.

 As  the vocalist's chainsaw massacres,  the guitarists exploding strings  and

the drummer's atomic invasions are ready to plunge into a second cacophony  of

sound  barrier obliteration,  the doctor frantically signals the girl to  shut
down the device.

 She  breathes  hard  as she moves the hair out of her  eyes  (and  mine)  and
adjusts her torn Metallica T-shirt.

 I still lie there.  Not affected by it all. Still no response whatsoever. Not
as much as a fragment of a twitch.

 "The  man's  a  bloomin' creep!" the girl cries as  she  unplugs  the  ghetto

blaster and runs off,  almost knocking down the doctor.  Was that wonder to be
seen in her eyes?

 "No  response to Heavy Metal," the doctor writes down,  "no hope  left.  Case

terminated. Patient 20.18.5.1., Karsmakers, Richard C., sufferer of the Arcade
Insanity Destruction Syndrome, will be put to sleep. Permanently."

 He  beckons someone who had apparently been waiting in the hallway all  along
during these sessions.

 Another nurse,  looking like an identical twin of Gloria Estefan,  comes  in.

She wields a hypodermic syringe labelled 'Cyanide'. She rolls up my sleeve and
sticks it in my arm, then slowly injects the liquid into my veins.

 The last things I see are small coloured objects flying across my retina in a

specified  pattern.  My  hands  make a last sudden  move,  trying  to  grab  a

joystick, press a fire button. As my life and last strength flow away from me,
I faintly motion the nurse to bend over to me.

 Hoping  to  get a chance to hear my last confession,  an oral version  of  my

will,  or  even receiving a last regretful kiss of farewell,  she does  so.  I
whisper something in her ear.
 A moment later, I utter my last breath. Cyanide works fast and efficiently.
 "Space Invaders?" the nurse wonders, "what a creep!"

 Original version written early 1989. Rehashed September 1993.



= CIRCUS GAMES ===============================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers



 Tiny droplets of salty water emerged from certain microscopic cavities on the

forehead of Cronos the Cumbersome,  formerly mercenary and hired gun,  now one

of the new acts of Circus Piccadilly. Especially where the salty liquid poured

across a sore wound inflicted upon him when his gun had exploded in a previous

story  due to someone sticking his finger in the barrel when the  trigger  was

about to be pulled,  it ached most profusely. Before him was the deep abyss of

the  theatre,  with a concrete floor covered by a thin layer of  sand  located

right  at the bottom.  A trapeze bar swung to and fro in the  air.  Spotlights

were  aimed at him.  Many,  many metres below him,  hundreds of  the  planet's
inhabitants sat gazing with open mouths.

 He  was  about  to do the most dangerous trapeze discipline ever  done  by  a
rookie.


 It  had all started two or three weeks ago.  Killing was  his  business,  and

business  wasn't  good at all.  He had come here to liquidate a  writer  of  a

book  that had apparently offended some kind of religious group on  Earth.  Of

course  they were being childish,  but Cronos wasn't about to question  anyone
who paid.

 Lots  of  outlaws  and refugees lived on  Ambulor  Eight,  and  Warchild  had

considered it his best bet to look for the author who had fled after the first
few threats had been made.

 So it turned out to be.  The author had been found quickly and was eliminated

accordingly,  but  now he had to go back to Earth to get his totally  immodest

fee.  And that was a tougher job than he had imagined it to be. He didn't have

any money on him and some outlaw had pinched his American Express  Traveller's
Cheques.

 He had gone to an employment agency in search for some means to earn money in

a decent way.  It was very difficult.  He knew how to handle just about  every

weapon and he was a master in most martial arts,  but didn't have any academic
qualifications.

 The job he got at the Ambulor Eight Thai Boxing Training Centre hadn't worked

out  satisfactorily:  After  he accidentally crippled a pupil  there,  he  was

assigned to clean the sanitary availabilities.  When he had to clean away  the

excrements of a Mutant Maxi Mega Monster of Multifizzic Omega once,  which are

regarded  as  the Smelliest Creatures in the Universe,  he found out  that  he
definitely wasn't 'educated' to do this kind of job.

 Another  job,  at the Salvation Army,  also hadn't worked out due  to  rather
obvious reasons.

 So now,  eventually,  he had been hired by a circus. Nobody knew why they had

decided to select him,  least of all Warchild himself. Probably his utter lack
of being able to come up with any qualifications at all had helped.


 And  now he stood there.  About to do something that he was not  supposed  to

survive,  probably.  He  saw  the circus manager  standing,  partly  behind  a

curtain,  talking with a dude that looked just as mutant as the  indescribable
thing he recently saw in a Thai Boxing School's loo.

 "Another  one whose payment cheque we can tear apart in a minute or so,"  the

circus manager whispered,  "I still can't believe he agreed to do this stunt -
not with his total lack of experience!"

 He chuckled,  accidentally swallowing a piece of chewing gum. He coughed, and
the mutant creature next to him patted him roughly on the back.

 Cronos couldn't hear this conversation, of course. Not only because they were

whispering and generally were too far off,  but also because he had  forgotten
his hearing aid back on his home planet.


 The  trapeze  bar was coming towards him now.  He jumped.  Just  about  every

female  creature and several weak-hearted outlaws cried out when they saw  the

huge body hurtling itself through the air,  totally missing the trapeze bar by
several yards.

 "Shit," he said,  before crushing down into the heavy concrete  floor,  many,
many feet below.


 Cronos Warchild currently resides in the Ambulor Eight Hospital for the  Very

Very Splattered, surrounded by rather a lot opf nurses and people that keep on

talking  about pills,  poison,  jumping off high buildings and trying to  stop
Arcturian Mega Trains.

 Original written late 1988. Rehashed September 1993.



= SLY FOR PRESIDENT ==========================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 Inspired by "Missing an Action",  an awful load of cinematographical  clich!s
put together, starring Chuck Stallone. Or was it Sylvester Norris?



 It is damp. Very. It is hot. Very, too. The hero strides alone, unhindered by

mosquitos  and leeches.  Grim determination shines in his eyes.  He  needs  no

helmet. Only his faithful M-16 is at his side, a couple of hand grenades cling
to his belt. His Colonel awaits him at an airbase in a neighbouring country.

 The malaria-ridden water splashes freely around him as he crosses yet another

small river,  penetrating ever deeper into the very bowels of the  jungle.  In

his  mind  he  sees  frightened  faces  of  worn-out  men.  Fellow  Americans,

boyfriends,  husbands.  Fathers.  He sees scars all over their bodies. He sees

brains  being  blown out by mandatory Russian roulette,  wounds  inflicted  by

brute  Vietcong sergeants' knives.  Sights that make him  hardened,  make  him
persevere, make him struggle to go on and reach his Goal.

 He  walks on,  seemingly unperturbed by the long vines and dense  undergrowth

that would have made any soldier's offense damn hard. But this hero is a tough
one. Very. And he is angry. Very, too.

 The  sound  of exotic birds cannot please him,  nor the exquisite  beauty  of

flowers that hang from branches and seem to leap at him, as if rejoicing, from
tree trunks.
 He stops suddenly, brushing aside some fallen leaves.
 ZAP.
 A booby-trap, hidden.

 Cleverly,  he  trips  the wire from a distance with the nozzle  of  his  best

friend. A sharp object flings itself into a tree, passing through air where he

should have been.  But not him.  Not this smart American hero. Not the man who
doesn't even need a helmet. Not the man of a few grunts and even fewer words.
 His eyes narrow. Was that something suspicious he heard?
 ZAP.

 He sees a Vietcong patrol through the low trees.  They haven't spotted him at
all.

 Will he shoot them?  No.  He can't risk the camp hearing distant shots.  They
will be warned in that case, which is hardly the hero's intent.

 He waits until the patrol has disappeared from sight.  He is not only  tough,

but  he's also very smart.  The all-time American hero.  The camp  is  getting

nearer.  He  fingers  his Rambo knife.  It is one of those large  things  with

compass and fishing gear built in.  Not that he needs any of that. All he ever

needed  was  the  needle,  that he sometimes used to stitch  his  own  wounds,

without sedation of course.  It had been a while ago now. It had been cold. It

had been in the middle of nowhere. And it had been something that he preferred
not to have flashbacks of.

 Once he had arrived back home,  his friends had all started to die of cancer.

Whithered  away by so-called harmless Agent Orange.  He knew nobody from  back

then who was still alive. Nobody, that is, except for his Colonel. His Colonel

who  had  called upon him to single-handedly rescue a dozen Prisoners  Of  War

still held in the People's Republic.  Chuck had done it,  so why couldn't  he,
the hero?


 Meanwhile,  in  a POW camp deep in the jungle,  an evil sergeant has tied  an

innocent  American soldier to a wall.  He administers electric shocks  to  the

poor man. Just to prove his point, the Vietcong bastard takes a knife and cuts
a long wound across the prisoner's chest.
 ZAP.

 The prisoner bites his tongue and closes his eyes in intense agony,  but does

not utter a sound. The Vietcong sergeant looks at him and laughs an evil grin.
It's the kind of person you'd like to have someone shoot.

 In the background,  other prisoners can be heard.  They cry in pain. It seems

as if all enemy soldiers have recently read books on torture.  De  Sade,  that
kind of thing. Really sick.
 They're all the kind of people you'd like to have someone blow up.
 A feeling of premonition hangs in the air.


 The  hero is torn from his sad thoughts when he sees a fence of rusty  barbed

wire before him.  Behind it he sees bamboo towers and huts. The kind that blow
up spectacularly and burn easily.
 ZAP.
 Darkness falls. The sound of crickets is deafening.

 He  takes  out his binoculars.  At first he sees nothing except for  the  odd

soldier toting a Russian automatic. They talk in an incomprehensible language.

Incomprehensible,  that  is,  to anyone but the hero.  Having  served  several

tours,  he has succeeded in learning the language tolerably well.  Well enough
to tell a Saigon prostitute what he wants, at any rate.
 ZAP.

 He sees small cages.  Through the sturdy bamboo bars,  desperate faces can be

seen. There are rats. They sweat and stink. The rats, too. Morsels of food are
left on broken plates on the muddy floor. Even the prisoners don't touch it.

 The hero waits some more.  At about midnight, having listened to the crickets

long enough,  he cuts through the barbed wire and succeeds in planting plastic
explosives under each major hut without being spotted.
 5...4...3...2...1...
 ZAP.

 The  huts blow up in perfect sequence,  each shabby bamboo  hut  transforming

itself  in an explosion of fire equal to that of gallons and gallons of  fuel,

all  at the hand of a bit of plastic explosives.  Vietcong soldiers  drop  off

high spots dramatically,  doing one or two mortal saltos,  hitting the  ground
outside of view.
 ZAP.

 The  first  soldiers  wake up from the nearby  barracks.  They  run  outside,

shooting,  against a background of blazing fire.  They speak and yell commands

in that same funny language observed earlier.  They spot the hero after a  few
moments and start shooting at him, about two dozen of them.
 ZAP.

 They all miss him,  miraculously (very).  Bits of sand explode in the  ground

around him,  splinters of bamboo disconnect themselves violently from the  hut

before which he stands. He does not need to take cover, for he is the hero. It

would be out of the question for a hero to get shot. At least not when they're

as tough as him,  nor when they're on a suicide mission like his.  He shoots a
couple of rounds, three at the most, killing all of the evil enemies.
 ZAP.

 The  evil sergeant is still alive.  His evil grin is still plastered  on  his

face,  his  hands are still wet with the blood of a beautiful  young  American

girl's GI.  He scans the camp for the hero,  sees him almost immediately.  He,
too, stands before the dramatic background of fire and burning frameworks.

 The  bastard grabs a gun from one of his dead men that happens to lie  close,
shoots a bit at our hero and rolls off to a side.
 ZAP.

 The hero suddenly disappears, leaving the sergeant puzzled but unaware of the

consequences, to appear behind the Vietcong man a little while later. The hero

is a very fair man.  He coughs politely, enabling the Vietcong officer to turn
around and aim his automatic at him.
 ZAP.

 Gallons  and  gallons  of blood explode from the body of  the  evil  Vietcong

bastard  as his lifeless body is hurled to the ground,  maimed by round  after

round of lead that is shot from the smoking barrel of the hero's M-16.  A look
of satisfaction arrives at the proud soldier's face. Mission accomplished.
 He takes out a cigar, lights a match on his boot and starts smoking.
 ZAP.

 Someone  puts  on a record of violin music as the hero walks  to  the  cages,

slowly  but  full of purpose,  and breaks open the locks  with  his  powerful,

muscular  arms.  Grateful  anorexic American POWs stumble out of  the  shacks,

muttering their thanks and caressing their wrists as ropes are untied.  One or
two of them scream screams of gladness.

 The  music  is  pumped  up  as a helicopter  seems  to  appear  from  virtual

nothingness. Dust is whipped up, long unkempt hair is flung in brave soldiers'
faces. Light beams pry to and fro through the darkness.

 The hero stands tall, directing his recently gained friends into the chopper,

on  their  way  back home.  He supports a few.  They look up  at  him  utterly

respectfully.  They  go  back  to  the loving  embrace  of  their  spouses  or

girlfriends.  Back  to where they might see their own children for  the  first
time.

 Home.  A  place where people think they've been busy  killing  babies,  where

spouses  or  girlfriends have run off with drug-crazed  hippies,  where  their

children have joined peace movemements and are heavily into flower power, free
love, and give peace a chance.


 The  hero  walks off in the sunset,  M-16 slung  aesthetically  yet  casually
across his broad shoulder, totally unaware of what he has done.
 And the bad thing is that he'll do it again in the sequel.

 Original written early 1992, rehashed September 1993.



= ECO ========================================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers



 It had been a stormy night,  and Charles had a headache when he came on  deck

and  started  searching for Fitzroy,  captain of the  warship  "Beagle".  That

darned Henslow had talked him into going on this trip and he had regretted  it

more than once.  As a matter of fact he did now.  It was September 15th  1835,

and he still hadn't gotten used to the dayly routine aboard this ship that  he
now had been on for almost four years. Ah, there was Fitzroy.
 "Good morning, Robert!" Charles yelled to get the man's attention.
 "Good afternoon, I'd almost say, old chum!" Fitzroy replied.

 "Been looking at my fossils,  again?" Darwin could see the disturbed look  in

the  captain's eyes.  Having been brought up on the creational story,  it  was

rather  hard for someone like Fitzroy to explain the existence of the  fossils
they had found in South America.

 Fitzroy nodded. "It sure is peculiar that these creatures have once roamed on
our earth. I still cannot grasp it, Charles."

 Nor could Charles, but he soon was to know everything he needed it. He'd just
have to be patient.


 The next day, Charles was awake much earlier, and his headache had gone, too.

"Today,  I'm going to change the world",  he thought to himself when he yawned

and  cursed at his beard that was once again stuck between two planks  of  his

bunk.  He  could not have known that his careless statement was only  all  too
true.

 "Land  ahead!" someone screamed.  Darwin startled,  accidentally  and  rather

instantly  loosening  his beard to  his great  agony.  Cursing   four-lettered
words,  he went on deck  and  took  a deep breath.
 The Galapagos Islandslay before him.


 Darwin could already see the extravagant fauna as he approached the isles  in

his small rowing boat.  He had left the others aboard the "Beagle", as he knew

that  they  would  only disturb him in his filoso-biologic  thoughts  and  the

theories he was trying to match together.  It all seemed like a big puzzle  to

him  (he would have thought about "Jigsaw puzzle" if these would have  existed

back then,  but he didn't now).  Where did the South American fossils fit  in?

Could  animals change their appearance during the course of centuries or  even
longer eras?


 His  eyes  were  heavily  occupied as he saw the  diverse  animals  on  these

seemingly  dead and remote islands.  He saw about a dozen finches that he  had

never seen before. Each had its own peculiar form of bill, and he wondered why

they would have such various shapes.  He took out his drawing book and started
drawing. "I will call them Darwin finches," he thought.

 His  words  were not yet forgotten when the sky became  troubled  with  heavy
clouds. Some of the iguanas sought shelter, and the finches flew away.

 This  strange human had seen enough of them.  He would have to think  of  the
puzzle himself, a puzzle to which they had just added a piece.

 Charles  looked up and knew he was going to be wet if he didn't  start  doing

what the iguanas did pretty soon.  To his luck,  fate had made sure that there

was  a small cavern nearby and he decided to run for shelter as heaven  opened
its taps and started making everything wet all through.


 After he had regained his breath,  Charles started exploring the back of  the

small  cave.  Who knows,  he might find some additional fossils!  But what  he

found left him in mere amazement:  Hidden behind a boulder and partly  covered

with sand and dust, he saw a large cube with a glass front, and a smaller flat
light-grey thing with smaller cubes on it.

 "Q,  W, E, R, T, Y", Charles read as he studied the small cubes. He blew away

some  of  the dust and discovered a name on the right of the  plank  and  read

again:  "Apple...MacIntosh?!". Having had the privilege of seeing a typewriter

in  his teens,  Charles immediately saw the striking resemblance of the  plank

and the typewriter.  "It must be a keyboard,  but where must I fit the paper?"
he thought.

 He investigated further,  and found some small quadrangled, flat objects near

the device.  He took his notepad and wrote down:  "September 16th, year of our

Lord  1835.  I  have just sought shelter in a nearby cavern and I  have  found

something  utterly weird,  accompanied by a large cube with a glass front  and

several  small and flat objects that seem to be..." he did an estimated  guess

"...3.5 inches wide.  I will investigate further!" He closed his notebook  and
did what he had just written down.


 He touched the glass of the cube,  and tried to look in it.  Nothing could be

recognized;  it was just pitch black.  Suddenly,  lightning and thunder roared

across  the sky.  Charles jumped back as the glass front just as  sudden  went

white and a small red light started glowing on the device that he concluded to

have  been made by a member called Apple of an ancient civilisation.  After  a
few seconds, Charles heard music.

 He closed his eyes and thought,  "Is this heaven? Am I dead? Is this music of

angels?" When he opened his eyes he could not see Saint Peter, nor any angels,

and  not even his deceased stephmother,  but he did see the cave and an  image
that had appeared on the monitor.

 "ECO," he read,  "...the contest of evolution...a game of survival...survival

of  the fittest..." He did not dare to touch anything and wrote down  what  he

saw;  "Is  this wizardry?  Is this some spell of old that tries to help me  to

complete  my  puzzle?"  He closed his book in mere  amazement  as  the  screen

switched  and  the  cube  started emitting  sounds  and  showing  an  animated
sequence.

 It seems he had stumbled into some kind of futuristic machine running a  gene

manipulation system of sorts.  He saw a spider feeding, multiplying itself and
grow different by means of gene manipulation.

 "That's it!" Charles exclaimed,  "Species can manipulate their genes by  pure

coincidence...bla bla bla " (I will not let you be witness of the whole speech

he gave,  but it included terms like 'evolution',  'mutation',  'survival' and
the like).

 Charles rushed back to his rowing boat,  just in time to escape the lightning
smashing the cavern to bits. "Damn!", he thought. "Who will now believe me?"

 Right he was.  Pity he couldn't stay there any longer.  If he would have done

that, he would also have been able to come with DNA structure theories and the

lot,  theories for which human civilisation now had to wait some more  decades
to be found out.

 Darwin  had  to  think and contemplate until 1859 before  he  would  get  the

courage  to publish his theories (that's the  official  reason;  well-informed

sources  told  that  he needed all that time to formulate  everything  he  was
taught by the wizard machine).

 He  wrote down his findings and called his book "On the Origin of Species  by

means of Natural Selection".  That was a term pinched from the wizard machine,
actually.

 Original written somewhere in 1987. Rehashed September 1993.



= IGNATIUS' DAY OUT ==========================================================
 by Stefan Posthuma


 Inspired by and dedicated to John Kennedy Toole who, with his "Confederacy of

Dunces",  created  the most brilliant character ever.  This is only my  feeble
attempt to approach the amazing personality of Iganatius J. Reilly.



 "BLASPHEMY!"  Ignatius  yelled at the skinny young man standing in  front  of
him.

 "How dare you inflict your hideous views on me!  Go on and assault some other
innocent bystander. Leave me alone before I have you seized and lashed."

 "But I only want to inform you about our view on life",  sputtered the  young
man who was dressed in a robe and had a bald, shining head.

 "Why  have you chosen me to spill forth your obcene and  primitive  religious

babble? Has your obscure sect chosen me as a victim? Am I to be slaughtered in

front  of a blood-stained altar to satisfy some ridiculous deity you  worship?
Get out of my way, I have pressing matters to attend to."

 Ignatius  pushed the young man aside and headed down the  station  hall.  The

young  man  sighed  and  tried to get another traveller to  buy  some  of  the

pamphlets he was carrying.  The purpose of these was not exactly clear to him,

but  he liked the fact that he finally had something to do.  It had taken  him
quite a while, though, to memorize all the things he had to say to people.

 Ignatius already regretted the fact that he had entered this  station.  Myrna

had  thrown him out of her flat and told him to go stay with her friend for  a

while.  Since he didn't have enough money for a taxi,  he had to take the tube

to  the  place.  His valve made a strange movement when he saw the  masses  of
people assembled on the platform.

 The  foul wind coming from the tunnel told him that a train was  approaching.

The  mass  of  people  started moving towards the edge  of  the  platform  and

Ignatius tried to manoeuvre his bulk safely towards a vacant seat attached  to

the  wall.  But the train thundered into the station and he got swept away  by
the crowd.

 "Oh  my God!",  Ignatius yelled,  "I will lose my delicate balance  soon.  My
physique is not prepared for such wild motions."

 Some people gave him irate looks.  Then he spotted some open train doors  and

changed course towards them.  He heaved himself into the train and noticed  to

his  horror  that  there were no more empty seats.  The doors  closed  with  a
whirring sound and the train set itself in motion rather abruptly.

 Ignatius  was  not prepared for this and lost his  balance.  His  arms  waved

wildly,  in  search of something to hold on to,  but failed to grasp  anything

steady.  He  did  however,  knock  the hat off an old lady's  head  before  he
dramatically collapsed on the floor.

 "Oh  my God!  I've been paralyzed!" bellowed Ignatius as he  lay  there.  His

valve closed with a snap and his left paw landed on a soft and sticky piece of
chewing gum that sat stuck to the floor.

 Some people started laughing,  and in the back of the car, a subway attendant
started to make his way through the carriage to see what was going on.

 "Don't  sit there and mock my misfortune.  I've probably crushed  some  vital

organs  and will spend the rest of my existence in a  hospital  bed.  Somebody

help me before I fall into a state of shock!  I need urgent medical attention.
Somebody signal for help!"

 "All'ight pal,  why don't you get up and stop yellin'", the attendant said to
Ignatius.

 "Who are you? Are you qualified to perform first aid? I refuse to be crippled
by some incompetent quack. Now stop stalling and help me up."

 Ignatius extended his left paw,  forming a rubbery band between the floor and
himself. The attendant pulled a face and took a step back.
 "What are you doing, you fool? Don't you see I am in severe distress?"
 "You got gum allover yaself man.", the attendant commented.
 Ignatius noticed the pink mass on his hand now and turned pale.
 "Disgusting!", cried Ignatius and slowly pulled himself up.

 "Which  brainless  ruminater  has dropped this revolting  piece  of  chemical

tartar?" Ignatius hollered while holding his hand in the air like a prosecutor
displaying a murder weapon.
 "You?" he yelled at a spotty girl whose jaws were moving rhythmically.

 "Hey fatso, I ain't dropping no gum in no subway. My momma won't let me," she
replied between chews.

 "OK  mister,  why don't you get that stuff off ya hand and  keep  calm",  the

attentant  ventured.  He had always been told to try and keep people  calm  in
situations like these.

 "Don't interrupt me while I am interrogating this juvenile jezebel. She's the
cause of this outrage..."

 "Hey!  Ain't  nobody callin' me a jezebel!",  the girl said and got  up.  She

kicked  Ignatius  in  the  knee  and headed  for  the  doors.  The  train  was
approaching another station.

 "Seize her!" Ignatius cried.  He was getting very excited now,  his head  was
turning red and the white spots were forming on his hands again.

 "She  assaulted me in public!  Somebody apprehend that teenage  barbarian!  I
will be maimed for life!"

 The  train entered the station and grinded to a  halt.  Again,  the  momentum

surprised  Ignatius and he crashed into the attendant,  who was not built  for

this  kind  of onslaught,  causing the two of them to go reeling  through  the
carriage.

 They  were stopped by a post,  and the attendant quickly escaped through  the

opening doors.  Ignatius was left,  panting and wheezing,  leaning against the
post.

 "What  more  do  you have up you sleeve,  Fortuna,  you  vicious  trollop  of

destiny,"  Ignatius  mumbled as he sat down heavily on  two  empty  seats.  He

looked  out  of the window and saw a billboard on the tunnel wall of  a  young

girl dressed in a bikini,  advertising some sort of sun tan oil.  His blue and

yellow  eyes  closed to shut out this demoralizing display  of  decadency  and
revolt.
 "Prostitutes" he mumbled as he slipped away into a state of slumber.

 Written autumn 1990. Slightly rehashed September 1993.



= NO SMOKING =================================================================
 by Jason Brew



 "Ssshhhiiiittttt", groaned Alpha to himself as he felt his bowels release and

the  urgent  mass escape his bodily prison.   With a wry smile he  thought  to

himself how true that word was - literally.   After such a long journey it was

good  to be back on the ground,  and he was looking forward to relaxing for  a
few days while work didn't need him.

 Alpha  decided that he was going to become a completely apathetic slob  while

he  was home - have a long wash,  consume until he could do so no  more,  then

shut  the door and sleep the rest of the time off,  until work called  him  in
again.

 He  felt  the  exodus  from  his bowels slow  to  a  trickle  and  then  stop

completely, and he headed off to the shower room for a well deserved, thorough

cleaning - he'd make sure that he got off all of the crusty bits.  Re-emerging

into the sunlight after a blissful shower he headed over for a feed,  the food

here  wasn't  the  best - a bit too oily - but he was much  too  tired  to  go

anywhere else.   Luckily for Alpha the food had improved,  and he was able  to

enjoy an enormous feast - at his employers expense - before he slowly  cruised
home and slept.

 "Ssshhhiiiittttt", thought Alpha, "WHY ME???"

 It  was hot and Alpha wasn't terribly impressed at being called back to  work

after only one day of apathetic bliss.  He was really sure this trip was going

to  suck in a big way,  so sure,  that he was thinking of quitting right  now,
even before he went anywhere.

 "Nah",  he  resolved  himself,  "There's nothing else that I could do  for  a
living, I'll just have to put up with it - it won't kill me."
 Then it was too late for second thoughts, and they were off on another trip.

 A half hour later Alpha was still lamenting his lost days of apathy,  when an
unfamiliar feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach.

 "Ssshhhiiiittttt",  thought Alpha, "Don't tell me I'm getting a stomach bug -
bloody hell - Life really is like that."


 Ryan  was  a completely mindless,  moronic arsehole.  And he  loved  it.   He

thrived  on it.   It was what he lived his excuse of a life for.   He was  the

sort  of  person to jump a six foot fence - because a sign on the  other  side

said   "Keep  off  the grass."  He was the sort of person  that  throws  their

rubbish on the ground - next to the bin.  He was the sort of person that asked

for extra pickles on his macdonalds.   He was that kind of person. He was also

the kind of person that gets lucky,  which is probably why he had just boarded
the plane for an around the world tour.

 The  first thing that Ryan noticed inside the plane was the plethora of  big,

bright red,  "No Smoking" symbols on the walls.  And to a completely mindless,

moronic arsehole like Ryan, it was like putting a chiahuaua in front of a pit-
bull.

 Even  with  all  the bright red signs around,  it  still  took  Ryans'  brain

approximatly  45  minutes  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would   be

hysterically funny to have a cigarette on the plane, and off he went to do so.

 He wandered around for 10 minutes before deciding that the only place to have

a smoke would be in the toilet,  and in he went.   Laughing all the while,  he

brought the smoke to his lips,  flicked his lighter and inhaled deeply.   When

he'd  finished the first one,  he decided that that had been so funny that  he
was going to do it again.


 The unfamiliar feeling in Alpha's stomach was now becoming a real worry as it

just kept intensifying,   he wriggled and wriggled but it had no effect and he
soon began to feel a strange tingling sensation in his nose.


 Ryan was in hysterics by now,  which quickly ceased as the plane rocked madly

for a few moments,  but then resumed as he brought the third cigarette to  his
lips.


 Alpha couldn't control himself any longer and a huge series of racking coughs

burst  from his air passages,   then before he could recover his  composure  a
huge grey object reared directly in front of him....

 EXCERPT FROM THE DAILY NEWS (13/11/1993)


 Townsville  -  A  horrific plane crash occured here yesterday  with  all  211

passengers killed instantly.   Authorities have no idea as to the cause of the

crash and are awaiting the discovery of the black box for clues.  Eyewitnesses

say  the plane,  Alpha 151 Charlie,  seemed to crumple in the  midsection  and
straighten out before smashing into the side of Mt Stuart....

 Written summer 1993.



= SHADOW OF THE BEAST ========================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers



 Some days, nothing goes your way. The weather is that of a sunny early-autumn

day, and although it's a bank holiday your diary tells you that you swapped it

in exchange for an additional day off around Christmas.  The light outside  is

that very odd shade of what it normally is,  which tells you today is actually

not  a day like any other.  Your Great Love is far away from you but you  know

you  can't reach her by phone since she is at some kind of obscure  children's

village  teaching  tiny  kids how to take care of their pets. A  few  of  your

colleagues  that  also  work at a day like that suddenly find  ways  of  doing

things  that do not happen to include you.  Outside,  everybody is  happy  and

celebrating some kind of Great Unity. You know that the most gorgeous girls in

town,  the  ones that are miraculously hidden from sight on all other days  of

the year no matter how hard you look,  walk around on a nearby fun  fair.  You

*know* they are,  for you saw some of them for a brief instant as you went  to

get  your  post from your mail address (which only consisted  of  unsollicited

stuff and a traffic ticket).  On top of that, you notice that the ache in your

throat, a first sign of a heavy flu coming up, gets worse by every drop of de-

carbonated  lukewarm Cola you swallow. You know you should go and have a  bite

to eat since you haven't had anything all day, but you're not hungry. Then you

spill the last glass of Cola, de-carbonated and lukewarm as it is. You see the

fluid  disappearing in the carpet but you feel powerless and too futile to  do
anything against it.

 In short:  Everybody seems to be having not too bad a time.  Everybody,  that
is, but you.
 On a day like this, Wednesday, October 3rd 1990, this story was written.

 The Beast had one of these days, too.


 It  had  started  as it had gathered the courage to  face  the  challenge  of

getting out of bed.  Some kind of psychological switch in its head had flicked

the wrong way that night,  and if only it knew why,  it would have tried to do

something about it.  Yet it couldn't for it didn't,  and when it looked in the

mirror it saw a rather gloomy version of itself, looking astonishingly dreary.

 It  hadn't quite understood this,  for it had gone to bed early  the  evening
before and by the time it had got up it was way past eleven in the morning.

 It  had growled,  and had been startled by the way it looked at  itself  when
doing that.


 At least the weather was OK.  It was dark and gloomy like the Beast itself  -

the  perfect  day  for  the rather dark and  gloomy  job  that  it  considered
appropriate to do about once every year: Kidnapping a newborn human child.

 Not only was it gloomy and dark,  but the ultimate darkness of the night  was

also approaching - as were some rather impressive thunderclouds that  foretold
heavy weather.

 As  it closed the door of its dark abode in the back of a concealed  cave  in

the  mountains,  it  felt  positively  gloomy - even though  it  felt  in  his

throbbing veins that on that very day a young boy had been born in the  nearby

valley  where mortals roam,  something that would normally have made  it  feel
very glad and strangely warm inside.

 Everything was perfect except for its state of mind, yet there was nothing in
its considerable power that could change that.


 The valley started at about a three hours' walk from its cave. Since it was a

Beast,  however,  it had means of transport at its disposal that really didn't

make it necessary for one to walk any more,  not even when going for a bit  of
groceries just around the corner.

 It  jumped on its Harley and headed south,  down to Nocilis Valley  where  it

would  satiate  its immeasurable and inexplicable chronic desire to  kidnap  a
human nursling.


 The  thunderclouds  had  held their promise,  and now and  again  some  heavy

rolling,  thunderous sounds...er....rolled through Nocilis Valley, accompanied

by  flashes of lightning and ghusts of violent rain the earth had  but  rarely
seen before.

 Deep down in the valley,  a small solitary house lay.  Some smoke managed  to

arise from the chimney,  climbing as it were against the severe downpour  that
shuddered the very tiles on the roof under which its fire burned.

 To  the north of the valley,  a dark silhouette of a creature  stood  poised,

crouching  on the corner of a ledge's edge.  It waited eagerly,  its red  eyes

gleaming  with  fire  and torment gazing towards the  frenzied  souls  in  the
shadows of the valley below.
 A crack of thunder broke the sound of rain.

 The  creature  was unmoved by the commotion of what seemed  to  be  unnatural

pandemoneum of the elements.  It stood proudly,  inhaling deeply,  each muscle
flexing as if in the stance of a great dimensional deity.

 As if in an immense state of rage,  it suddenly spread its wings and  dropped
down towards the small, solitary house.

 If it had to be done today,  then it might as well be done now - for the sake
of suspense and all.


 In the house, a woman sat in a rocking chair. Her beautiful voice sang a soft

song,  and she looked very happy.  Now and again she would pause her  singing,

sigh a deep sigh of contentness,  and then continue with an even softer,  more
gentle song.

 Would she have been named Susanne Vega and would she have lived in our  time,

she would have had no problem making a hit record singing about a dull  every-
day afternoon in some kind of coffee shop.

 But,  apart from the fact that she wouldn't know what a coffee shop was,  she
wasn't and she wasn't, so she had and therefore didn't.

 In  her arms lay a baby boy.  It slept peacefully on the soft silken skin  of

her arms, seemingly unaffected by all the violence of nature that was going on
outside.

 A cosy hearth fire threw the disembodied shadow of a gently rocking figure at
the wall.


 A bat-like shape descended from the ledge's edge,  and its goal was  obvious:

It  aimed  to land directly on the roof of the small,  solitary house  in  the
valley.

 Shit.  Wasn't thunder and lightning enough nowadays?  Why did it have to rain
like this? He liked cats and dogs, but not when they were raining.

 The  Beast hoped it wouldn't slide off on all those slippery wet  roof  tiles
when landing.


 The  woman  still sang softly,  yet a slight tremor in her  voice  hinted  at

sudden  subconscious unrest deep inside her - as if she felt that great  peril
was drawing nigh.

 The  baby  woke up,  as if triggered by the hint of a tremor in  the  woman's

tender voice.  A light touch of her fingers on the baby's  forehead,  however,
made it close its eyes again.


 Would this have been a movie,  now would have been the moment for some rather

heavy  music  to  fade in.  No saxophones but  lotsa  violins  and  associated
instruments. Possibly a bit of percussion during the vital bits.


 A sound as if a hundred crows had suddenly crash-landed on the roof tore  the

friendly silence in the house to shreds.  The woman instantly stopped  singing
and looked up, covering the baby which immediately started to cry.

 The  roof  seemed  to bulge inside as if some kind of  enormous  *thing*  was
standing on it.

 Part  of the roof got torn off by savage hands,  creating an opening  through

which two fiery red eyes peered in towards the frightened woman and her child.
 The Beast felt really pleased with itself.
 "GIVE THE CHILD TO ME, WOMAN," it intoned.

 The  woman froze as a beastly hand was stretched in through the hole  in  the

roof. It was a big, hairy hand; a hand with menacing claws that glittered in a
treacherous way in the light of the small fire in the hearth.

 "GIVE  THE  CHILD TO ME,  WOMAN," the Beast repeated.  Nothing  had  actually

changed  in its voice,  yet *something* made it sound almost  infinitely  more
hideous than before.

 The hand extended itself further,  deep enough to allow the woman to put  her
baby in its enormous palm.
 "No," she replied.
 Her voice was very soft yet, peculiarly, very strong.

 The Beast had already felt strangely uncomfortable all day,  and when it  had

got up from bed that morning it swore that that would have been the first  and
last challenge of the day.
 Now it stood aghast. Simply abashed.

 "NO?"  it simply said.  Its voice had lost all of its hideousness and it  was

starting to wonder why it had actually set out to kidnap this baby boy in  the
first place.
 "No," the woman confirmed in her soft yet peculiarly strong voice.

 "WELL..." the Beast sighed,  "I GUESS I'D BETTER BE OFF THEN. I  THINK I LEFT
THE GAS ON, ANYWAY."

 The  woman nodded appreciatively.  The baby stopped crying and now seemed  to
look up at the Beast in a rather accusing way, defiant and bold.
 The hand retreated.


 "TODAY IS DEFINITELY NOT MY DAY," the Beast muttered to itself as it  flapped

out its wings and flew back to its mysterious,  dark hiding place deep in  the
mountains to the north.


 Original written October 3rd 1990 (German Unification Day).  Rehashed October
4th 1993.



= BALLISTIX ==================================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 The loud cheering of the stadium audience silenced as the speakers bellowed.

 "Yeah,  ladies and gentlemen! With quite considerable pride we hereby present

to  you  the  Superball competition of  the  century:  Craterhead  BC  against

Brainmanglers  United.  This might just be the most exciting  Ballistix  match

ever,  as  these  two giants battle against each other for the  New  Universal
Trophy!"

 "Yeah, Derek!" another voice now shouted agitatedly through the speakers, "On

your  left,  playing from left to right,  you will notice the blockbusters  of

Brainmanglers United; on your right you will have noticed the raw dudes of the

host  team,  Craterhead BC.  It might be interesting to know that these  teams

only once stood opposed to each other before - in July 2137. The Brainmanglers
then beat their opponents by 23-19!"
 "Well, Vince, that sure was a fight, wasn't it?"
 "Betcha, Derek!"


 As  the speakers silenced,  the audience started to sheer,  yelling  assorted
yells at people that didn't support their team.
 The noise was deafening when both teams actually entered the arena.

 "YEAH!  Here  they are!" the speakers burst forth again,  "The match  of  the

century  is about the start.  I see that the Brainmanglers are looking  pretty
mean tonight, don't you agree, Vince?"

 "Sure thing,  Derek," the other voice proceeded,  "I couldn't agree more!  It

looks  like those stooges are set to win again,  whatever the cost!  And  what
about these..."

 "Wow, Vince! Do you see who's the umpire here?" Derek interrupted, "It's good
old Tom 'Stubbly-cheeks' Johnson! Didn't he do the previous engagement, too?"
 "Betcha, Derek!" Vince replied.

 Both teams were out in the Arena after a few moments.  They all wore  special

Ballistix suits, mostly made up of steel garments to protect their vital parts
and thick clothing everywhere to absorb shocks and ricochet.


 Where had Cronos Warchild - mercenary,  hired gun, former trapeze artist, ex-

member  of  the  Salvation Army and toilet cleaner of the  alien  loo  at  the

Ambulor Eight Thai Boxing Club, got himself into this time? Hardly had he been

released from the Ambulor Eight Hospital for the Very Very Splattered when  he
was forcefully recruited to become a member of the Craterhead Ballistix Club.

 Well,  anyway,  it was a sure way of getting his hands on vicious amounts  of

dough - if he survived,  that was.  The recruiting officer - who had  actually

looked  more like a goon - had told him that it was a pretty dangerous  sports

discipline,  but  his  fellow players had told him stories that  exceeded  the

crimp's  stories by miles (if pain and suffering can at all be  measured  that
way).

 He looked from under his helmet into the Arena and up into the  audience.  It

made him remember drawings he had once seen of ancient Rome. He could only see
people that had a distinct look in their eyes. They all wanted to see blood.

 But who cares, he thought to himself, he had been in far worse and far hotter

situations.  He'd  just have to survive this game and then he would  at  least

have  enough  money to return to his home planet and  leave  this  Godforsaken

planet  and head for Earth to get his payment for a recent liquidation he  had
done.

 And  he  still hadn't managed to get back his  American  Express  Traveller's
Cheques.


 The umpire,  the aforementioned Tom Johnson with the stubbly cheeks,  was now

hovering above the Arena,  just out of reach of both ricochet and flying parts

of human bodies.  He put a small metal thing in his mouth that seemed to  look

very  much like a whistle.  When he blew it,  however,  a sound came out  that

could  only  be compared with the noise you hear when a Monk  who  thinks  the

world  is pink is dropped from 1932.23 metres height into a bath of  sulphuric
acid.

 Anyway,  it was the signal that made all players run around the Arena, aiming

their shooters at a large ball that had mysteriously appeared in the middle of
the playfield.
 The game had begun.


 Only seconds after the game had started,  Cronos had been trampled  on,  shot

three  times,  hit  by  the large ball twice,  and spitted  on  at  dozens  of

occasions.  The  audience  also threw things in the Arena that hit  him  -  he

didn't  dare to spend time thinking about *what* they threw  in,  but  instead
looked forward to the after-match shower. If there was ever going to be any.
 "Eh, Cronos!" someone cried.

 He looked at where the voice seemed to come from, only to receive a foul blow

right  in the face.  He spitted out a tooth - one of the preciously  few  real
ones he still had left.

 A huge bloke with a bloated face,  a bloated body, bloated hands, yes, even a

bloaetd mouth spoke to him,  threateningly,  "Eh,  Cronos,  sucker! Sissy! Get
lost, wimp! This is a game for *men*, not for dodos!"

 "Count  to ten," Cronos thought to himself,  "or you will lose  control  over
yourself."

 A  fact of considerable disfortune to the bloated man was that  Cronos  could

not  restrain  himself and instead separated the man's bloated head  from  the

rest of his bloated body,  deftly using his infamous Killer Finger Nail before
he had even proceeded to counting to 10 to the power of -9.


 The  audience  now came alive and was aroar with anticipation of  what  might

happen now.  Bashing was OK, shooting was permitted. But it was rather unheard

of  for virgin Ballistic rookies to go around killing seasoned  veterans.  The

big metal ball that was supposed to be the centre of the game was pretty  soon

left  in  an  unheeded Arena corner.  Instead,  all attention  now  seemed  to

concentrate  on Cronos Warchild.  All players were now grinding  their  teeth,

looking  pretty destructively.  Cronos had obviously done something that  they

didn't  like.  Unaware  of having done anything out of the  ordinary,  a  fear
struck him that he might have forgotten to use his breath spray this morning.
 It wasn't the only thing to strike him that evening.


 More  and  more fellers now came near him,  as well as  some  rather  zealous

members of the audience that had found ways to get into the  playfield,  eager
for a thrill.

 Warchild  didn't have much time to think (it's hard to think when someone  is

using your head to make a dent in a concrete floor),  and before long at least

twohundredandsixtyseven  sturdy  players  and audience  members  were  located

around and on top of his torso. He was beginning to experience slight troubles

breathing,  and  an old war injury in his left leg was also playing tricks  on
him again.
 "It's about time for some defensive transactions!" he murmured.

 He arose.  He lethally injured at least two dozen men with assorted parts  of

his body. He yelled one of those ominous yells that you would only know if you

had  ever  seen  a  triumphant Bugblatter  Beast  of  Traal  discovering  (and

devouring)  your mother-in-law.  He began to systematically kill  every  human
being (and assorted other creatures) stacked atop him.

 Within  seconds,  he  was  covered by limbs,  guts,  glooloos  (part  of  the

metabolic  system  of  a Klaxos  Nine  Great  Bear),  blood,  pus,  ripped-out

entrails,  torn-off  bone  tissue and tattered rags  of  skin,  all  logically

intertwined  in  a giant,  lustful orgy of anatomical  anarchism,  the  visual

equivalent of cacophony.  His fists,  fingernails,  elbows, teeth and feet had

already butchered an enormous number of creatures when the tide seemed to turn
and they were about to get ther upper hand.

 Another  Klaxos  Nine Great Bear was gnawing fervently at his  shin  bone,  a

Home-Cultivated  Mini  Tyrannosaur was munching at his left upper  arm  and  a

player  of Brainmanglers United was busy removing the upper part of his  skull
as a means to grab hold of Cronos' hypothalamus.

 Warchild was beginning to lose his mind, which might have had something to do

with  the aforementioned player of Brainmanglers United,  for this person  had

indeed  succeeded in lifting off part of the mercenary's cranium and  was  now
ineptly fingering through some lesser brain coils.

 AAAAAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!


 Cronos looked around, frightened. After opening his eyes, he noticed that his

bed  was  all torn apart and a nurse was lying in the  corner,  parts  of  her
clothes torn as well.

 A  doctor came rushing in,  a hypodermic syringe filled with .44  gallons  of

thorazine in his hands.  He turned around Warchild before the patient could do

anything  to  prevent it,  pulled down Cronos' pyjama pants and  stuck  it  up
some flesh at Warchild's rear end.


 After Cronos lost consciousness,  the doctor helped the shocked nurse to  her

feet again, gently stroking through her hair and whispering that it wasn't her

fault.  She  couldn't  do anything about the fact that she had to  watch  this
utterly deranged lunatic from this pathetic little blue planet called earth.

 They  left the room.  On the backs of their coats,  one could read in one  of

those  letter  types generally used only in horror  film  pamphlets:  "Ambulor
Eight Hospital for the Very Very Splattered".

 Original written early 1989. Rehashed October 1993.



= SOON COMING ================================================================



 The next issue of "Twilight Zone",  Volume 2 Issue 1,  is to be released  mid

January  next year.  Please refer to the 'subscription'  section,  below,  for
details about automatically getting it in case you're interested.

 Please  refer  to the section on 'submitting',  below,  for  more  detail  on
submitting your own material.
 The next issue will probably contain the following items.

 THE FAIRY FELLOW'S MASTER STROKE

 The third Tale from the Tavern at the Edge of Nowhere
 by Bryan H. Joyce

 THE LAST NINJA

 Whele Hang Foy Soozooki and his Loyal Selvant ale Intloduced
 by Lichald Kalsmakels

 POPULOUS

 Where Cronos Warchild joins Odd Folk
 by Richard Karsmakers

 THE SCHOOL OF LIFE!

 A story of Life, Love and Lots (more)
 by Kai Holst

 RICK DANGEROUS II

 Where Fate plays once more with Sir Richard 'Rick' Dangerous
 by Richard Karsmakers

 AND MORE



= SOME GENERAL REMARKS =======================================================


 DESCRIPTION


 "Twilight  Zone" is an all-format on-line magazine aimed at everybody who  is

interested  in any sort of fiction - although it usually tends to  concentrate
on fantasy-and science-fiction.

 One of its sources is an Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk magazine by the name of  "ST

NEWS" which publishes computer-related articles as well as fiction.  "Twilight

Zone"  principally consists of the best fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so  far,
with additions submitted by dedicated "Twilight Zone" readers.

 AIM


 It has no particular aim, but "Twilight Zone" would like to be a fresh breath

to  all  you  people out there that don't mind a magazine that  tries  not  to

conform to too many preset rules,  which might indeed cause some of our  stuff

to  be  considered  'rude' or perhaps  totally  disgusting  (or  worse,  plain
boring).

 SUBMITTING ARTICLES


 If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being  published

world-wide,  you can mail it to me either electronically or by standard  mail.

At  all  times I reserve the right not to publish submissions.  Do  note  that

submissions on disk will have to use the MS-DOS/Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk format

on 3.5" Double Density floppy disk. Provided sufficient IRCs are supplied (see

below),  you  will get your disk back with the issue of "Twilight Zone" on  it

that  features your fiction.  Electronic submittees will automatically get  an
electronic subscription.

 At all times,  please submit straight ASCII texts without any special control

codes whatsoever,  nor right justify or ASCII characters above 128. Please use
*asterisks* to replace italics if needed.

 COPYRIGHT


 Unless  specified along with the individual stories,  all bits  in  "Twilight

Zone"  are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread  wholly  or

separately to any place - and indeed into any other magazine - provided credit
is given both to the original author and "Twilight Zone" and/or "ST NEWS".

 CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS


 All  correspondence and submissions should be sent to the address  below.  If

you  need a reply,  supply one International Reply Coupon (available  at  your

post  office),  or two if you live outside Europe.  If you want  your  disk(s)

returned,  add  2 International Reply Coupons per disk (and one extra  if  you

live  outside Europe).  Correspondence failing these guidelines will  be  read
(and perused) but not replied to.
 The address (valid at least up to summer 1995):

 Richard Karsmakers
 Looplantsoen 50
 NL-3523 GV   Utrecht
 The Netherlands
 Email [e-mail]

 SUBSCRIPTIONS


 Subscriptions (only electronic subscriptions available!) can be requested  by

sending  me some email (at the address mentioned above).  "Twilight  Zone"  is

only available in an ASCII version.  Subscription terminations should also  be
directed to the mentioned email address.

 About  one to two weeks prior to each current issue being sent out  you  will

get  a message to check if your email address is still  valid.  If  not,  your
subscription is automatically terminated.

 Back issues of "Twilight Zone" may be FTP'd from atari.archive.umich.edu  and

etext.archive.umich.edu.  It will also be posted to alt.zines,  alt.prose  and
rec.arts.prose. Thanks to Gard for this!

 PHILANTROPY


 If you like "Twilight Zone",  a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed at the

postal  address mentioned above would be very much  appreciated!  Please  send

cash  only;  any regular currency will do. Apart from keeping "Twilight  Zone"

happily afloat,  it will also help me to keep my head above water as a student

of  English at Utrecht University.  If donations reach sufficient height  they

will  secure  the  existence of "Twilight Zone" after  my  studies  have  been
concluded.
 Thanks!

 DISCLAIMER


 All  authors  are  responsible for the views  they  express.  The  individual

authors  are  also the ones you should sue when copyright  infringements  have
occurred!

 ST NEWS


 In case you have an Atari ST/TT/Falcon,  you might check out "ST  NEWS",  the

"Twilight  Zone"  mother magazine.  The most recent issue can be  obtained  by

sending  one  disk  plus two International Reply Coupons (three  if  you  live

outside Europe) to the snailmail correspondence address mentioned  above.  "ST
NEWS" will *not* be officially available electronically.

 "ST NEWS" should run on any TOS version,  needs a double-sided disk drive and
prefers at least 1 Mb of memory (though half a meg should be supported too).

 OTHER ON-LINE MAGAZINES


 INTERTEXT  is  an electronically-distributed fiction magazine  which  reaches

over  a  thousand readers on five continents.  It publishes fiction  from  all
genres, from "mainstream" to Science Fiction, and everywhere in between.

 It  is  published in both ASCII and PostScript (laser  printer)  formats.  To

subscribe, send mail to [e-mail]. Back issues are available via
anonymous FTP at network.ucsd.edu.


 CYBERSPACE VANGUARD:   News and Views of the SciFi and Fantasy Universe is an

approximately bimonthly magazine of news, articles and interviews from science

fiction,  fantasy, comics, animation (you get the idea) genres.  Subscriptions
are available from [e-mail].

 Writers contact [e-mail].  Back issues are availabe by FTP
from etext.archive.umich.edu.

 EOF

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