The Comintern: Installment 291 The Neo-Communist Newsletter August 21, 2006 Editor:The BoSS MC Writer: The BoSS MC "Back to tha Lab" Hiya pallies! Check out that triple-dope header! Whooooooooooooooo! That's the same header from the first issue, eleven years ago. Good Lord, I don't know if I remember how to put one of these things together. Now, I know it's been a couple of years since the last issue, but it seems like people are still reading the zine, and in more numbers than ever before. I have no idea how that's possible, with no advertizing, etc. Cog assures me it's spam-bots. So if you're a spam-bot, and you're reading this issue, send me an email: count_k@neo-comintern.com. bmc@neo-comintern is disabled, due to the excessive amount of junk email I've received at that address. Anyway, I am in no way making an attempt to revive the magazine full-time. I just thought some of you might be mildly amused by these pieces I had written for kix. In the next issue, I might print a few N-Com pieces and outtakes that, for varying reasons, ended up not being used. Over the next 9 or 10 years, I plan on releasing 9 more issues, rounding the Neo-Comintern series off at 300 issues. If you would like to be a part of this, let me know. If not, it'll be more of the same skeletal nothingness of the past few years. I don't give a good piss either way. With love, The BMC Jimmy K. Mafia Deals Justice Hot coffee is splashed in Lou's face. Two men rope him up, yank him past the bumper cars and Tilt-A-Whirl--through the cig butts, summer dust, grasshoppers, paper cups--back behind the bandstand bleachers. Lou coughs. His ribs are bruising. "Who did it?" Jimmy says. "Who fucked our plan?" Lou doesn't speak. The air is music and bumper cars slamming. Everything slows down. He's not getting away, he realizes. But this sensation is nothing new. "Hey buddy, when Jimmy K. Mafia asks a question, you answer." Lou says nothing. Something is cut and bleeds. "Lou, do you know what happens to people who don't talk?" "Yes Jimmy, I know what happens to people who don't talk. I myself am a person who doesn't talk, and I know very well what has happened to me." "If you don't tell me who fucked it--" "Do you remember when we first met each other, Jimmy? You needed information, and I had it. I had a wife, kids, a lease on a car, and a mortgage on a house. And I needed money and you had it. So we made an exchange. "Soon I needed more money. So you gave me money and I gave you information. And we kept at it like that so I was able to feed my family every day, pay the bills, and put some money in the bank. "And you liked my information, Jimmy. You liked it a lot. You came to rely on it. You'd pay me anything. You'd give me a thousand to tell you the colour of the sky. "Then the day came when I was rich off you. But I had information, lots more information, and you wanted it. You were sick without it. "Then you put a lock on my bank account. That's when you went too far, Jimmy. You went too far, and I decided that you weren't ever getting anything else. "Then came my wife and kids--raped and murdered, if I recall correctly. And me, simply raped. And again you asked me for information, and again I told you no. "At this point I went into hiding, knowing you couldn't get the information about where I was. But now you've found me, so you obviously got some kind of information, but not the best, obviously, or you wouldn't need me. "But I digress. The point is, no matter how many times I fled, you found me, bribing my body with bruises, cuts, broken bones, burns, lashes, injections. Injections, Jimmy. And when I fled, you took my feet, hacksawed them at the ankle. And when I struck out at you, you took my hands, lopped them at the wrist. And when I looked at you, you took my eyes, ripped them out with hooks. You even took my skin, flayed me alive, and still I refused. "Now you have me, Jimmy, a moving tongue in a toothless mouth, and you want to know who fucked your precious plan. What can you take from me that hasn't already been taken, Jimmy? Go ahead, Jimmy, take it! You can take anything you want, anything I have left, but my information is one thing you shall never have!" "Okay, Lou. I guess you've got a point. Maybe I'll just come up with my own information from now on." "Just kidding. It was that guy over there." "Ha. Okay, thanks, Lou." "You're welcome." "Gee, Lou. Uhh... can I get you anything? A cup of water?" "No. I'm good, thanks." My ten favourite jobs: The Shame Job: The Shame Job is performed on one who is wrapped in a state of dejection. It is to be conducted with such precision, passion, and care that the recipient thinks, "I have earned this moment through my shameful misdeed." The Whore Job: Daddy comes home from a business trip, straight off a dirty whore. He enters the door and offers me a pretty doll. I'm a boy, I remind him, before I try fucking its mouth. The Non-Job: "May I ask you a question? If you were in love with someone, and sitting next to them, would you ask them if you could ask a question?" The Stocking Job: I wrap my sister's pink sock around my penis and imagine it her long wet clitoris. The Sound Job: In the still of the night, when masturbation fantasies have reached their limits and nothing can arouse me, there is a noise in the attic. It is a bumping sound, clumsy at first, but increasingly rhythmic, increasingly steady. I am hard, my hands moving in time with the noises. Before I accomplish anything, the sound disappears. Momentum carries me for several seconds before I realize that I am worse-off than I started, now fantasizing about mere noises, not even sex itself. I dwindle as I cry myself to sleep. The Chill Job: She reaches her hand into the bathtub. Half an hour later, I am too paralysed to ask her to stop, to add hot water to the tub or warmth to her emotion. Semen floats away like winter breath. The Stolen Panties Job: When I am done, I pull them off my face and remember all at once how empty a basement bedroom can look. The Dry Socket Blow Job: Goodbye wisdom teeth, hello morphine sulphate. These factors, in combination with live nerve endings, make for an unforgettable experience. The Tube Job: On a train in the Chunnel, engines roar through the world's most splendid orifice. Semen jets into washroom sink, microcosm within microcosm. The False Idol Job: "Oh God!" I come, worshipping you with my whole body, even though I've been taught there is only one God: a big fat man with white beard, golden throne, and a quiver of lightning bolts. Some merie tales: .xi. On a time at Uniuersitas Noui Brunswicki there was two scholers, the one a womman of Canada, other a man of the Vnited States. These two scholers dyscouered an emptie room, & they dyd begyn to vie for it as an offyce. By Mounte Rushmorre, sayd the American, but the room shall be myne. By the CN towere, saide the Cannadian, but it shalle be not. But by the presidents armie it shal, sayde the other. By the prime mynysters helthcare it shal not, said the other. By VVashyngtons swerd sayde the othere. By MacDonaldes bottel saide other. And as they debayted the janitore dyd stoppe by & aske, vvhat do you two wante of my roome. To make an offyce for scholers, replyed the two. Welle neyther of ye shal haue it, sayd the janytor, by my broome and bye my fyste. Here one may see that witte and wysdome is the domaine of euery man. .xii. I finde writ amongste olde jestes that one dyd aske a man of Frederick's Town, latelie befor marryde, why hee chose hym so lyttle a vvife. The man answerd because he had reade a text sayinge thus: Ex duobus malis minus est eligendum. And at thys they dyd bothe laughe because it was fvnny. .xiii. In Frederyck's Towne ther dyd dwel a plaier of hockye whose job it was to staund befor a nette & preuent blacke disques from passyng into it. VVhen a disque wold passe into the net it woulde be named a goale. After hockeye plaier dyd allowe manye disques to passe hym the hockey coache dyd speake thusly: let not your goales oppose the goalles of this team. VVhereas the goal of this team is to be vyctorious the goales allowd into thy net do preuent vyctory. Remember Komrades, be viligant against government treachery at all times and trust no-one! Copyright (c) 1995 Comintern Publications, and The BoSS MC. All Rights Reserved. #291-8/21/06