,,ggddY"""Ybbgg,, subversive literature ,agd888b,_ "Y8, ___`""Ybga, for subverted people! ,gdP""88888888baa,.""8b "888g, / ,dP" ]888888888P' "Y `888Yb, ,dP" ,88888888P" db, "8P"""" Installment 241 of... ,8" ,888888888b, d8" db. dP b. ,8' d88888888888,88 d$$$s. dP `8, - -- -THE NEO-COMINTERN ,8' 8888888888888" dP$$$$$s. dP 8. d' I8888888888P" dP `T$$$$$$dP `.d$$b. .d$$b. .d$$b..s$s 8 `8"88P""Y8P' dP `T$$$$P d$$$P dP' `$ dP' T$ dP' `TP' `T$ 8 Y 8[ _ " dP `T$P d$$$P dP dP dP dP dP dP 8 "Y8d8b dP dP :$ .$ $b. .dP dP dP dP 8 `"".dP dP `T$$P' `T$$P' dP dP dP Y, ,,odnd88b, ,b `8, ,d8888888baaa ,8' ELECTRONIC MAGAZINE- -- - `8, 888888888888' ,8' `8a "8888888888I a8' Writers: `Yba `Y8888888P' adP' ada "Yba `888888P' adY" Melatonin `"Yba, d8888P" ,adP"' BMC `"Y8baa, ,d888P,ad8P"' - - - - -``""YYba8888P""''===================------- -- - - - - MAY 31, 2003 INSTALLMENT 241 BMC, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: 26 reasons why i need heckat - ada My Dinner With Heckat - Melatonin Brecken Walks the Kiten - BMC - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - EDITOR'S NOTE - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Happy birthday, Heckat. You are very rad! La la you are having fun in Halifax! Halifax is very beautiful, but also cloudy! But still ada is taking good care of you! Have fun in Halifax! Like, more fun, ok? Whooo! That is better! Talk to you soon! - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - 26 reasons why i need heckat - ada - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - (in no particular order, and of equal value) she understands me she has a passionate heart she is my co-editor she tells me what to do with complete love she listens to everything i need to say she grounds me she makes me chaotic she reminds me to be loud she accepts me she gets angry she has this way of walking that is very cool she enjoys a night swim she is wonderfully sexy and deep deep deep down, knows it she teaches me the good and the bad she makes me know how she feels she is the reason why utopia won't corrupt me she is a poet she is driven she has cute socks she is my family she hates jogging she still does it she tells me what i want to hear she tells me what i need to hear she embraces who i am she stole my heart - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - My Dinner With Heckat - Melatonin - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - A small, stone-cobbled bistro in the south of France. An outdoor table, sun-dabbled, rests under a ring of yellow orchids. There are two chairs, exquisitely crafted from twisted bamboo: one is empty, waiting for my ass; the other has been filled with the ass of some wretched hobo. The hobo is forking a piece of cheesecake and sipping pink daquiris through a hard straw. Flies buzz. I note his poor etiquette: eating dessert with a salad fork, elbows resting on the table, dog shit smeared in his beard. I approach the table and politely clear my throat. "Excuse me, disgusting hobo, but can you please go away? I'm supposed to meet my friend here and you are making her seat smell like feces." The hobo glares at me through one pinched eye. "Bugger off, you classist git." "Well I never!" I gasp, and look around for a snooty French waiter to help me eject this scoundrel. "Har har har har!" he laughs, cheesecake crumbs sputtering from his lips. "Sit down and talk to me, you lily-livered ne'er-do-well." I turn back to the hobo, aghast at his impertinence. "Do you know who I am, Mr. Hobo? I am Melatonin, famed Neo-Comintern journalist. I come from a middle-class background which means I owned a Nintendo when I was eight years old which means I do not need to associate with the likes of you." "Arrgh, lad. I owned me a Nintendo too. I was the Duck Hunt champion of me entire neighbourhood." Confusion blanks my expression. "You... owned... a Nintendo? But how? How could you have sunk so low?" "Y'still don't recognize me, do you matey?" And with that the hobo's eye unpinches slightly, sunlight strikes his iris, and he gives me a friendly wink. Wait a minute, I recognize this disgusting hobo! "Heckat?" I ask. "None other," she says, and suddenly the illusion of the costume falls away before my eyes. The strings holding up the beard, the cartoon scar across the forehead, the hair extensions, the fake dirt. The dog shit, however -- the dog shit is real. I give my good friend a hug and sit down across from her. "Heckat!" I gush. "Long time, no see! I can't believe you smeared shit all over your face!" "Smeared what?" she asks, and then touches her face in remembrance. "Oh right, right, the shit. Actually, you'd be surprised. You get used to it pretty quickly. And it keeps the cold out at night. Shit is a natural insulate." "Really? Here, let me try some of that shiznit." Heckat gives me a big scoop of dog shit and I smear it all over my nose. I feel warm and cozy almost instantly. "Wow, this shit really works. Can I keep this?" "Go ahead." That snooty waiter finally shows up and asks to take our order. "Ah, hello my good man," I say, unfolding the leather menu. "Hmm, what looks good, what looks good? Ah, yes. May I have the duck mousse basquaise, a side of foie gras, and, ohhh, let's see. What year is the merlot?" "1939, sir." "Ah, delightful. A perfect year. A glass of that, please. Nicely chilled." "Of course, of course. Is that everything?" "Yes, quite. And oh, yes, a rag to wipe this dog shit off my nose, if you please." "Certainly, sir. I'll return with the wine in a moment." "Lovely. Thank you." The waiter scurries off and I turn back to Heckat. She has grown bored waiting for me to order and has started to re-read Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night". It is a comical juxtaposition: a homeless person who can read. Imagine! Suddenly Heckat laughs out loud at the text. "Ha ha, good one, Shakes," she snorts. "Ahh, Feste, you are such a card." "Heckat," I interrupt, "you still haven't addressed the main point." "Which is?" she asks, eyes still on the play. "Why? Why? Why dress up as a hobo and ask me to meet you for lunch in the middle of France? I don't understand." She sets the book down and turns to me, leaning forward, her eyes burning with a startling intensity. The shit on her fake beard quivers in the afternoon breeze. "I'm in hiding," she whispers, her eyes darting left and right, a bead of sweat pooling under her prosthetic forehead scar. "You're in hiding? From what? Did you murder a drifter? Is Johnny Law hot on your tail?" "The bumps, Melatonin, I'm hiding from the bumps." "You mean the mumps?" "No, the bumps." "The mumps?" "The bumps." "You have the mumps? Who gave you the mumps?" "No, bumps, bumps. With a B." "An M? Wow. I'm sorry to hear it, Heckat. The mumps. That's not something you come back from." At this, she punches me in the face and three francs are jostled from my ear. Suddenly everyone has stopped slurring. "Bumps, you idiot!" she seethes. "You know, like the birthday bumps." "Ahhh, I see. Is it someone's birthday?" "It's my birthday!" "Ha ha," I cackle, standing up. "It looks like somebody's about to get the birthday bumps!" "Go away," she yells. I claw at her legs, trying to flip her over. "Ha ha, whoo! Birthday bumps, here I come. Everybody loves the bumps!" "Stop!" I am clinging onto her ankle, laughing hysterically. People are turning around to stare at us. "Woo hoo! Look at the Bump Girl, everyone! One! Two!" Suddenly she spin-kicks me in the head and I fall to the floor, dazed and bleeding. She steps into my field of vision and looks down, frowning. "I didn't call you here to give me the birthday bumps," she says. "I called you here to deliver a message." "A massage?" I ask, rubbing my skull. "Eww, gross. I don't want to touch some guy's hairy back." She kicks me in the head again and four francs unlodge from my other ear. I quickly snap them up. "Get away from my money, you filthy hobo!" I yell. "A message, Melatonin, a message!" "Message? Message to who?" "To all my friends back home." "But I'm your friend!" "That's true, but you're the only one I knew I could overpower in a birthday bumping coup." "Fair enough. What is your message?" Suddenly she jumps onto the bistro table, plates trembling at her feet. She places one hand over her heart, and gazing up to the clouds, makes the following impassioned speech: "I'm sorry, but I don't want to be a hobo. That's not my business. I don't want to beg or borrow from anyone. I should like to help everyone, if possible. We all want to help one another. In this world there is room for everyone, hobos and real people alike. And the good earth is rich and can provide for us all." The people in the restaurant have stopped eating to listen to her, their forks and spoons held in mid-bite. Outside, the passing crowd has come to a stop. They are listening to her, enraptured. Grown men wipe their tear-stained eyes. A baby coos. She continues: "Citizens of France! In the name of democracy, let us unite! Melatonin, can you hear me? Wherever you are, look up! Look up, Melatonin!" "I'm here, Heckat! I'm right behind you!" "The souls of men and women have been given wings and at last they are beginning to fly. They are flying into the rainbow!" "What? Rainbow? Where, where, I can't see it!" "They are flying, flying! Flying into the light of hope! Look up, Melatonin!" "I'm up, I'm looking up! Where is this rainbow? What's going on?" "Listen! Can you hear it, Melatonin, the chimes of freedom, struck by the rainbow of democracy!" "What, chimes? There are chimes now!" "Listen! Listen, everyone, and rejoice!" And with that the crowd bursts into applause and she does a backflip off the table, landing on the roof of the bistro. From there she disappears into the glinting horizon. "Wait, no, come back!" I shout, calling after her. "I'm so confused! What about the chimes? And the flying light?! Come back, Heckat, come back!!!" "Ahem!" Someone clears their throat behind me and I spin around, all sweaty and flustered. It is Heckat. She is standing at our table, dressed normally, her face clean, her hair nicely groomed. "Hi Melatonin," she says. "I'm sorry I'm late, but there were so many homeless people in the street, I just had to stop and help them out." Suddenly I am a cartoon character, pointing in seven different directions at once. My tongue flaps dumbly. "But... you... her... him... what?" "Can we order soon?" she says. "I've been craving cheesecake all day." - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Brecken Walks the Kiten - BMC - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - (a story for babys) The kiten meows by the door. "Take me outside, Brecken," it says. Brecken puts a harness on the kiten. The kiten purrs. The door is open. Run, kiten, run! After looking both ways, Brecken and the kiten cross the street. They play and play. Time to go home! The kiten has a nap. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - 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 AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | 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 #241-05/31/03 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.