o$$$$$$o o$o o$$o db "$$$$$$" $$ $$$$ $$ $$$ $$ $o o$$o $$$$ $$ o$$o o$$o $$$ $$$$$$ $$$$$b $$ $$ $$ d$$$$b d$$$$$. $$$ $$' $$ d$$ $$ $$ '$$ $$ d$$ $$ $$$ `$b $$P $$ $$ $$$$$$P $$ $$$$ $$$$$$P $$' ,$$ $$$ $$ $$ $$ `$$. ,$ $$ $$$ `$$. ,$ `$$$$P $P $$ $P `$$$P' $$ $$$ `$$$P' `$$P o$o. $$$ d$$$$$$o $P d d$$' `$$$ o$$o o$$o o$o o$o d$ o$$o $$. o$o $$$ d$$$$$. d$$$$$$$$$$b $$ $$$$$$b d$$$$ d$$$$b $$$$$b $$$$$$b $$$ $$$ `$b $$' $$' $$ $$ $$' `$$ $$$P d$$ $$ $$ $$ $$' $$ $$$. ,$$ $$. ,$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$$$$$P $$ $ $$ $$ o$$$$$P `$$$$P $$ $$ ,$$ $$ $$ ,$$ $$.$$`$$. ,$ $$ $$ ,$$ $$$P `$$P $P $P $$P $P $P $$P `$$P `$$$P' $P $$ $$P The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine -- Installment Number 221 .... .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. .... `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Subversive Literature for Subverted People Date: January 12th, 2003 Editor: BMC Writers: Jobe Gnarly Wayne d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P Featured in this installment: .b $ $ $ My Neighbours Are Terrorists - Jobe $ $ Big Pizza Taste - Gnarly Wayne $ `q p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' EDITOR'S NOTE (please do not read the following) Let's get serious here. So fucking serious like beyond serious to the point where we don't know who to trust anymore including ourselves. A place where perception is a detriment. Like about 43. Let's see if we can do that for just a moment, like a moment-long issue, ok? Let's see. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' My Neighbours Are Terrorists ,$$ $$: by Jobe ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' After hearing warnings from television news stations recently about the potential for terrorist attacks in Atlantic Canada, I've made a point of becoming more aware, more alert to suspicious characters and strange activities in my neighbourhood. I don't mean the standard chicanery, like carfuls of male university students hooting and hollering at girls strolling along the sidewalks or downtown shops and restaurants locking up at 5:00 (5:30 in Newfoundland) or cunning pranksters grabbing garbage bags of raked leaves from the roadside and stacking them against people's front doors, taking great pains to ensure the bags are tied up tightly so as not to spill out their contents. Nor the rows of minivans lining the driveways on my street, which seem to be multiplying at an exponential rate, although this may be partly attributable to the fact that birth control is still prohibited in all four Atlantic provinces. No, I'm talking about the really unusual behaviour, which is clearly associated with some overzealous reactionaries who have schemed their way into the city and are attempting to destroy its moral fibre. They may be catching the general public unawares, but I'm on to them. Take the place next door, for instance. I thought it was a typical student house just like all the others in the neighbourhood, but what tipped me off that the people who lived in the house weren't from around here was the fact that they didn't drink alcohol. At least four people lived there, but I'd never seen a single one of them drinking a beer, let alone Jack Daniels or screech. They must have been from Utah or members of one of those newfangled religions or something. But no matter, I live and let live. I'm not one to question other people's lifestyles, regardless of how outlandish or abnormal they are. However, something happened a few days later that piqued my curiosity. If I was standing by my kitchen sink, I could see almost directly inside one of the windows on their main floor. As I peered inside this particular night, I spotted several candles placed about the room. They were projecting long shadows on the walls of the people sitting down on the floor amongst the candles. It was becoming obvious to me that something nefarious was going on next door and I was determined to find out what it was. So I began to spy on them almost nightly, partly out of curiosity and partly to ease my anxiety. At first, it appeared my next-door neighbours were operating a temple, though I couldn't figure out what religion they were practicing. On a particularly warm Saturday night in September, people made pilgrimages from all over the city to visit this temple. They often arrived looking rather disheveled-which I presumed to be a consequence of their long and grueling journey-wearing shoddy sandals and all manner of tattered rags. Occasionally, I would see these pilgrims at the front door of the structure trying to scrape together the last few dollar bills in their pockets in order to make a modest contribution to the temple. In response to this gesture, the pilgrim would be allowed entry inside the place of worship for several minutes and leave holding some sacred offering, which he clutched eagerly and which seemed to infuse him with a renewed vigour. Yet, these journeys only happened late at night. The place was virtually deserted in the daytime, during which time the worshippers must have been deep in prayer or in confession. As the weeks passed, progressively more people brought donations to the temple, which I hoped would go towards paying for repairs to the appearance of the building, as the temple could actually have passed for a condemned building to the untrained eye. While walking my dog one evening, I saw a man wearing a black robe sitting at the entrance of the building, so I decided to approach him. He must have just completed a lengthy fast, as he looked terribly thin, dark eyes set well back in his sockets and bare forearms all discoloured and veiny. I placed my palms together in front of me, bowed down before him and called out, "God bless you, my son." I didn't quite receive the response I expected. Instead, the young man stared at me queerly and blurted out a few words in some unintelligible language, so I just smiled nervously and resumed walking. I made my way around the block and, when he saw me walking up my front steps, he spoke to me again in the same foreign tongue, gesticulating wildly with his arms. I hurried inside the house, convinced that he was threatening me, and even started questioning the legitimacy of this temple. I grew suspicious that my next-door neighbours were brewing up some sinister plot against me, and was unable to sleep for the next two nights. On the third day, I bought a pair of binoculars so that I could examine them more closely and improve my chances of foiling their underhanded scheme. I assumed my position by the kitchen sink and focused the binoculars on my next-door neighbours. The young man who I had spoken to a couple of days earlier was leaning against the wall leafing through a book by a Baudelaire or Baudrillard or something like that. Another was lighting a candle and moved his lips constantly as if reciting a chant. A third guy lay on the floor, tugging at his bushy beard with one hand and scouring through pizza boxes and bags of potato chips with the other. The last one sat underneath a lamp on a desk in the far corner of the room, back to the window and plastic gloves covering his hands. Although the lighting in the room was fairly dim, I observed that these four young men looked different than most of the people I had seen in this town, different in an unsettling way. They were all unshaven, and sported dark, scraggly hair that went well below their shoulders. Each of them wore their distinctive ethnic hoods, which possessed unrecognizable symbols on the front but were otherwise suspiciously similar to our North American baseball caps, probably so as not to appear too conspicuous. I focused my attention on the guy wearing the gloves. He was busily mixing a number of materials, as if concocting some type of potion, and was surrounded by dozens of clear plastic bags bulging with a powdery substance inside. I suspected it must be anthrax and began to panic. My knowledge of anthrax was fairly limited other than the fact that it was a white powdery substance that was usually administered to people in envelopes through the daily mail. My mind was racing. Had they seen me watching them? Does a steady diet of pizza and potato chips breed terrorism? To whom were they planning to send this anthrax? Was it weapons-grade? Did pharmacies still carry Cipro? I thought about calling the local drugstore, but decided I would be best served to treat the problem at its source. I went down to my workroom, grabbed some tools and brought them outside with me. I affixed a couple of wooden planks over my mailbox in a crisscross fashion and nailed them into place. Then I wrapped a chain around it for good measure. No sooner did I finish when my ghastly next-door neighbour spotted me from the doorway. He held up some pipe-shaped weapon and mumbled, "Suh-vaw, mon-vwa-san", but he didn't look Japanese or "Suh-vaw, mo-nuh-mee, suh-vaw" over and over again, then started walking in my direction. I waved my hammer frantically in front of me while walking backwards up my porch steps, making sure not to take my eyes off of him. As he drew closer, continuing to utter his perverse incantation, "Suh-vaw, mo-nuh-mee", I bolted inside the house and shut the door behind me. I could still see him grinning madly outside my window, so I grabbed several more large stakes from my workroom and set to work securing them over the front door. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Big Pizza Taste ,$$ $$: by Gnarly Wayne ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' After the a very relaxing night at the day spa, I went home to have a swell dinner of pizza pops and... nothing else. "Welcome to bachelordom!" I cheered myself. I put my microwave at power 6 for 6 minutes, a time tested and true strategy for evolving frozen pizza pops to hot, gooey taste sensations. It's like a tiny suicide bomber runs into my mouth with pizza pops strapped on his chest and he yells out: "You want big pizza taste?!?! Well hang on then! Here comes three different cheeses full force at your taste buds at two thousand fucking kilometres per hour, beeiach!" While I was waiting for my six minutes to be up, I ran back upstairs to sit alone in my room. I figured six minutes had gone by but could not hear the microwave beeping. After what I had thought to have been ten minutes went by and there was still no beep, I got started to thinking. "I hope this isn't some mad scientist's experiment to test out time-altering drugs on me." After several days, I finally managed to work up the nerve to check on my pizza pops. To my surprise, there was no one in the kitchen at all. After checking the microwave, I found the pizza pops, right where they should be. There was only one problem though... THEY WERE STILL FROZEN! bomm bomm BOMMMMMM! .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b. The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - ___________________________________________________ |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - copyright 2003 by #221-01/12/03 the neo-comintern All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada.