,,ggddY""""Ybbgg,, ,agd""' `""bg, T H E N E O - C O M I N T E R N ,gdP" "Ybg, ,dP" ""` ,dP" _,,ddP"""Ybb,,_ .s*""*s .s*"*s. ,8" .+$ '""' `"Yb, .P' $ `.d' `b ,8' .+$$$$ssss+. sssss "'d' .sssP d' `b db. ,8' .+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$+. $$$$$ d' ,P' d' s*s $ d' `b d.+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$`*$$$$+.$$$$$$$$$ $ :$ d'.P .Pd' $ _ 8`*$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ o`*$$$$$$$$ T. `b. :$ TsP .Pd' $ .+P"*+. 8 `*$$$$$$$$$$$ OOb.`*$$$$$ T. `^**sT. .Pd' . $ .+P' :P 8 `*$$$$ YOOOObooi `b. $ T. .P'd' .P $P' .P' 8 `*$ "OQQQO" `TsggsP `TssP' d' .PT. . .P' Y, i. aP ,P d .P :$b+.d' .P' `8, "Ya aP" ,8' d; .P .d' .P' `8, "Yb,_ _,dP" ,8' `*TP .d' .P' `8a `""YbbgggddP""' a8' d; .P' `Yba adP' `*TP' "Yba adY" `"Yba, ,adP"' `"Y8ba, ,ad8P"' E L E C T R O N I C M A G A Z I N E ``""YYbaaadPP""'' .-. t h e l i t e r a r y m o l o t o v c o c k t a i l .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' I N S T A L L M E N T N U M B E R 2 7 3 `-' M A R C H 2 1 , 2 0 0 4 B M C , E D I T O R - I N - C H I E F FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: Under My Skin - Jobe Local Restaurant Review - BMC _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ EDITOR'S KNOWTE Today is WORLD POETRY DAY. To celebrate, we are going to include absolutely no poetry in this issue. But to all you poets and po-ettes out there, just keep on doing what you are doing, and always continue to DARE TO POETRY! And shut up and start reading. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Under My Skin by Jobe _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " The world was filled with blood: roiling, boiling, unending sticky redness. It plummeted from the clouds, spraying the earth and encasing everyone around me in garish crimson cloaks that constricted their movements so that they could no longer pursue me. They began to wail, a hideous cacophony that slowly chipped away at my senses and stopped me in my tracks. The sheer volume of blood began to smother me, filling my lungs until I was no longer able to speak... I woke up screaming. The heart palpitations subsided when I realized it had been just another nightmare. I looked out the window. It was still dark out, probably hours before sunrise. I took a few deep breaths, pressed my damp forehead against the pillow and soon went back to sleep. A series of shrill beeps came from the direction of my alarm clock. I grudgingly lifted myself up and hit the snooze button. A flap of skin nearly two inches long and the thickness of a cracker dangled in front of my eyes. I reached up with both hands and tried to tuck it back into place. When I lowered my hands, the piece of skin peeled away and pitched forward, again hanging loosely from my forehead. Blood had collected on the piece of skin, most of it now hardened. I shut my eyes with the notion that I was in the midst of a lucid dream or was still struggling to climb out of the abyss of semi-consciousness. I fell back onto my pillow. The flap of skin snapped against the side of my head. I opened my eyes and reached out to grab it, suddenly aware that I was fully awake. "What the hell's going on?" I muttered, searching among the pillows and sheets for a misplaced knife or razor blade, but finding nothing but a single sock resting by the foot of my bed. I took a glimpse at myself in the mirror, but turned away quickly. "I can't go to work like this." I found myself the largest bandage in the house and covered up the wound, developing mock excuses in the meantime. "Oh, that, I just fell off my bicycle. I, uh, I was mugged on my way home..." I poured myself some cereal and ate about half a bowlful when I noticed the time. "Shit, I'm going to be late." I hurriedly brushed my hair, made sure the bandage covered up the wound on my forehead and rushed out the door. * * * I walked into my apartment well after six o'clock, the screeching of wheels on subway tracks still echoing in my ears. I stifled a yawn and muttered, "Man, it's going to take some time to get used to this lifestyle again." I walked directly towards the bathroom, where I slowly peeled off the bandage in front of the mirror, squirming as it stubbornly tore away from the loose skin and the pulpy residue that lay beneath it. I tossed the bandage into the garbage and surveyed the additional damage that I had just caused to my forehead. The flap of skin now stretched down well below my right eyelid and was starting to obscure my vision. I gently patted it down, rubbing its cold and spongy texture between my fingers. I pulled my hand away, then washed my forehead repeatedly with soap and water. I lay on my bed and tried to overlook the fact that I seemed to be evolving into some subhuman species. I had heard about clumps of hair falling out when people were suffering from extreme stress, why not clumps of skin? The telephone rang. I ignored it at first, but it continued to ring several more times in the ensuing minutes. "Hello," I called distantly into the receiver. "Jake, where have you been? I didn't hear from you all day. I was starting to get worried," the caller said. "Oh yeah, sorry. I'm sorry Molly, but I've got-" I paused. "I think I'm just having some trouble adjusting, to the new job and all." "How was work?" asked Molly. "You know, it's sales. Sales is sales. It's dehumanizing. It's bringing me down." "But, where were you? I called you three times today. Didn't you get my messages?" "You know, Molly. Can we talk later? Now's not a good time," I said, and hung up the telephone. I was sweating streams. The stale air was choking me, searing my skin. I opened some windows in order to keep my skin cool and prevent any further damage. Wind rattled the windowpanes and rustled my drapes, gasping horrifically as it seeped through cracks in the corner of the room. The bedroom light dimmed gradually, then flickered before returning to full power. The shift in the lighting played havoc with my eyes, and I was soon overcome with fatigue. The bedroom was becoming blurrier in the fading light. The two walls adjacent to my bed compressed against each other as though someone were forcing a book closed. Red and purple watercolours swirled about the painting on the wall in front of me like diluted blood inside a syringe, waiting to be released. I lost all recognition of the contents in the room, a pile of papers on the floor expanding and contracting in step with the rhythm of my breath, the figurine on my dresser tilted to its left side, which was staring down at me and smiling, the acute malformations of the ruddy dog that lay at the foot of my bed, howling and coughing up streams of blood... I exhaled sharply and arose with a start, peering around my bedroom. I shook my head violently and let out a deep yawn. "Weird," I grumbled, as I clenched my fists to rub my eyes. I held myself still, focusing on the stucco ceiling above the bed, miniature stalactites plunging into an imaginary nothingness. The air in the room hung heavy like a fungus, clinging to my body and paralyzing my limbs. And then I noticed it. A beanbag-sized chunk of skin had peeled off my right shoulder and stretched halfway down my bicep. I leapt off my bed and opened the closet door, rooting through clothes, boxes, suitcases in search of a hidden enemy. "Who's there?" I shouted. "Come out, you coward." A scent in the room suddenly became pervasive, choking me as though it were a virus. I groaned, trying to suppress the vomit that was burning in my throat. I ran to the bathroom and proceeded to splash cold water on my face and over my arms, hoping it would settle my stomach and calm me down. The air stung when it penetrated my split skin, but the water felt cool and medicinal as it seeped into my bloodstream. Panic struck me as I observed the further deterioration of my face. I'm shedding like a bloody snake, I thought. I wore my old skin almost like a mask now, a prop from a low-budget horror film. Morning was distant and elusive. I returned to my bed and buried my face among the pillows. * * * Dawn arrived, far too late. I had been awake for the past several hours. The steady progression of my metamorphosis was demoralizing. Sunlight skulked into my bedroom at last, only accentuating the erosion of my body. "I can't go to work like this. Nobody would go near me," I said to myself. "My second week and I'm already calling in sick. That can't look good." I tried smoothing down the loose skin on my face. The skin refused to return to its original position, springing away from my forehead and collapsing across my face. "But I have no choice." I picked up the telephone, my rapidly rotting right arm twitching after every movement. The arm had lost most of its strength already, reduced now to a barely functional appendage limited in its movements like a component of some outdated machine. "Is Mr. Reynolds there? Oh, hi, Mr. Reynolds. I hate to do this, but I'm not going to be able to make it into work today... I'm just not feeling... I'm a bit under the weather... Okay, bye." I hung up the telephone, dissatisfied with the conversation, then picked it up once more and dialed another number. "Yeah, hi. I was wondering, does Dr. Scott make house calls?" I asked. "Only on Sundays, I'm afraid. Would you like to make an appointment to see him?" the receptionist said. "Uh, no, that's alright. I-I probably shouldn't leave the house. But thank you," I replied faintly. I ran my fingers up and down my arms and face, then along my chest. Flakes of skin and clumps of hair collected in my palms. A vein in my right arm threaded its way between my index and middle finger as I gently stroked it, like a worm emerging from beneath the earth. Salty, bloody, gritty tears rolled down the remnants of my face, its features barely distinguishable from one another. In frustration, I tugged at the skin that was peeling down my face while emitting an almost feral wail that shook me. I massaged my sinews and nerves that were now exposed, inadvertently detaching a few when an unexpected surge of power overcame me. The sudden ringing of the telephone startled me, but prevented me from inflicting further damage upon myself. "Hello," I said weakly. "Jake, why aren't you at work?" Molly probed. "I just called there and your boss said you didn't come in today. Your first decent job in months and you're going to blow it." "I'm not feeling right today. I need to-- I need some rest." "What's wrong, Jake? Are you okay? I want to see you--" "No, I don't want to see you today," I interrupted. "I mean, I don't think we should see each other today." "You're acting really strange, Jake. I haven't seen you since the weekend. Do you have another girl over there?" "No, that's ludicrous. You wouldn't understand, Molly. I just need some time to myself for a little while." "You're an asshole, you know that," she cried, and hung up the phone. I released the receiver, which swung like a wrecking ball from my hands, its arc halted by the bedroom wall. "What is happening to me?" I muttered. "What the hell is happening to me?" I shouted aloud as I drove my right foot into the wall repeatedly. The flurry of action made me feel faint and, before I could deliver another kick, my body went limp and crumpled to the floor. I shifted my eyes from side to side, then everything went black. * * * I regained consciousness some time later, covered by a soft canopy of flesh that was stripped from my right ankle to just below my torso. My clothes were strewn about the bedroom floor. Still feeling dizzy and groggy, I remained on the ground. Everything that had happened in the past several minutes was blurry, nondescript. I struggled to my feet as the apartment intercom crackled to life. "Let me in, Jake." I glared at the intercom through bulging eyes, biting the fingers on my left hand while rooting around for something with which to conceal myself. Go away, I thought. Please go away, Molly. You shouldn't see me like this. "Hello... Hello," she said in a more urgent tone. "Fine, I'm coming up," she snarled. I struggled to my feet as large patches of loose skin quivered, accompanied by sharp currents of pain. Much of my skin remained firmly detached from my body, but still hung on stubbornly in certain spots. Molly pounded on the door. "Let me in, Jake." "Molly, please don't come in yet." I hurried into the bathroom and found an unused razor inside one of the drawers. I ran my finger over the blades as Molly began fitting keys inside the locked door. I glanced at myself in the mirror, fingering my brittle skin and readying the razor. "I have to do this. I'm tired of hiding," I whispered. Then I set to work slicing the skin from my forehead, removing my disguise, discarding these artificial layers that could no longer shield me. I made short, quick slitting motions, ripping the skin a couple of inches each time, finally tearing it right off my face when the shard of lacerated skin reached my upper lip. Next, I took the razor to my shoulder and followed the same mechanical rhythm to eliminate the delinquent skin that hung loosely off my arm, this time drawing it over a larger surface area so that much of the right half of my body from my rotator cuff to my navel was now free of the old and withered skin. By now, Molly had opened the front door and was walking tentatively across the apartment, holding a tennis racket out in front of her, which she had picked up from my front hall. "Jake, where are you?" she hollered. I extended my legs fully, nudging the bathroom door up against its frame, occasionally wiping away blood that cascaded down from my face and upper body. A murky shadow of blood was forming on the floor in front of me, but I resumed my mission. I made a deep incision into my right foot and lifted the flap of skin off my body, biting my lips to control the pain. I resumed slicing, continued pulling skin, eager to be rid of this veil of flesh, the false idol that it had become. "Jake, where are you? Jake?" Molly called as she headed towards the bathroom. "Answer me, Jake. You're scaring me." She knocked on the door just as I removed the final dangling patch of old skin from my right leg. "Jake, are you in there?" Molly asked tentatively. "Wait, you can't see me yet. I'm not quite ready." "What do you mean?" Molly asked as she pushed the bathroom door open. As the door swung inward, she looked down at me, my disfigured body lying limply in a quagmire of my own blood and flesh. She let out a piercing shriek and buried her face in a towel hanging on the wall, gagging and sobbing to herself. I pulled myself up with difficulty and took a couple of steps toward her. "Molly, don't you recognize me? Don't you recognize me, Molly?" _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Local Restaurant Review by BMC _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " It isn't often that a restaurant review presents an opportunity to learn about an unfamiliar cuisine and, at the same time, gain valuable insights into an often misunderstood and misrepresented demographic of Canadian culture, especially when the restaurant is within minutes of your home. But that was the case when I decided to check out The Happy Dungeon, Fredericton's newest restaurant, and also the only restaurant designed specifically for monsters. This should be of benefit to the crime rate as well as the economy, since Fredericton monsters have traditionally roamed the streets for food, claiming victims from dark alleys, stalled cars, and abandoned mansions. If The Happy Dungeon had windows, the restaurant would boast a spectacular view of the Saint John River, but owner Lawrence Talbot has instead opted for a more gothic look. Darkly lit, The Happy Dungeon's design keeps customers in mind. The dank atmosphere, grey brick walls, and structurally unsound ceiling may not be to the tastes of non-monsters, but Talbot assured me that these qualities are cultural staples within the monster community. It is difficult to tell how many customers the restaurant can accommodate at once; there are about fifteen tables, but also water tanks and compression chambers designed to "seat" non-humanoid monsters. Also, the maximum ghost capacity has not been classified due to certain theoretical unknowns, i.e. is it possible for more than one non- corporeal being to occupy the same space at the same time. The Happy Dungeon's food ranges from the simple to the exotic. It is a restaurant designed to appeal to a diverse variety of tastes. "No two customers are the same," explains Talbot. "Some like to eat human flesh, while others prefer to drink human blood. We try to provide the right variety for every palette." Aside from human flesh and blood, The Happy Dungeon also provides familiar staples like potatoes, rice, onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, spinach, garlic, eggplant, chickpeas, carrots, apples, prunes, walnuts, raisins and yogurt. Most dishes are generously seasoned with herbs and spices like ginger, coriander and saffron. Not all spices are included on the menu, though; Talbot explains that some are off-limits. "Garlic. A lot of our customers are allergic to garlic. And nuts. Lots of peanut allergies." Best of all, it is surprisingly easy on the pocketbook. Talbot explains, "Non-monsters often fail to recognize that monsters are people too and, as such, should be able to find good meals at reasonable prices. The food at The Happy Dungeon ranges from quite expensive to free. "Vampires and invisible peoples have very particular tastes. They crave the best of everything. Zombies, on the other hand, can't usually afford to go to white-collar restaurants; nor can spectres or mer-persons." Talbot jokingly refers to The Happy Dungeon as a Marxist utopia; "To each monster according to his hunger, from each monster according to his commercial success," he laughs. "For instance, you're not going to try to feed King Kong or Godzilla for free. You have to restock the entire kitchen after they leave. And mummies - they've got veritable hoards of Egyptian and Aztec treasure - there's no way you can give them the same deal as the Phantom of the Opera, who is practically penniless." (In January, Phantom was given a 70,000 Euro fine to replace the shattered chandelier of a Paris opera house. When visiting The Happy Dungeon most recently, I sampled an appetizer, dumplings stuffed with ground human flesh and chunks of onions and topped with seasoned yogurt and meat sauce ($3.25). On another occasion, I ordered a hearty noodle soup with mixed vegetables, crowned with yogurt and ground human flesh sprinkled with mint ($2.25). Both were excellent choices. The menu includes a wide selection of appetizers, soups and entrees. There are also several vegetarian options. "Ghosts don't need to eat," explains Talbot, "but when they do, they like something light." After dinner, Talbot came to my table to talk about how business had been going. A waiter poured us two glasses of wine and slyly slipped a small packet of white powder into mine. I pretended not to notice and drank heartily of the beverage. I found myself asking Talbot what types of monsters frequent The Happy Dungeon the most often. "Vampires are common, as they traditionally prefer fine-dining to take-out. We value our werewolf customers, although they usually only show up on full-moon nights. Is it difficult to satisfy all of these different types of monsters? "Yes and no. Zombies are fairly indiscriminate. You can prepare human brains in any way you like and they love it, but it's absolutely got to be human brains. Sharks like Jaws and his friends will eat anything, so long as it is bloody and still partially alive, but when it comes to vintage wine, they really know their stuff. Giant ants are also a problem." Has the restaurant seen any celebrities? Talbot explains, "We get our share. Freddy Krueger was here once. The ghost of Jack the Ripper. The Mummy was here and brought some other mummies with him. We had Gollum in last week, a big spender and big tipper." The big question is it illegal to serve human flesh at the restaurant? "It was difficult to get the license at first, but we got a petition together - that got over ten-thousand signatures - and then some people at City hall got behind us, and before you know it, we were in business." As we chatted on and Talbot described his experiences, the maitre d' slunk up to our table. "Is it having any effect yet?" he whispered into Talbot's ear. My vision became quite blurry, and my speech quite slurred. "Whatshhhhh guiiiiinng onnn," I slurred as I attempted to rise to my feet. With haste, Talbot lunged at me and clasped his hands around my throat. I gurgled for air and felt around me for a sturdy object. Grabbing my wine glass off the table, I snapped the stem and jabbed the jagged tip through Talbot's skull. As I fled into the night, I felt renewed with the spirit of life, and swore that I'd thereafter stick to pizza, or maybe start cooking at home. RATING (out of 10) Ambiance: 1 Food: 3 Service: 2 Price/Value: 9 .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' 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 2004 by #273-03/21/04 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. By Canadians. And a couple Others.