A Story of Good and Evil.
Mar. 9th, 2004 12:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mojocattAn old story I wrote some time ago. I has been a very long time, but I remeber ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
conandammit had some input as well.
Having navigated the cold war in our youth, Reagan safely in an Alzheimer’s stupor babbling, drooling and filling his pants, we could concentrate on matters that are more important. Such as the television, sex and the timely bombing of Iraq. We had reached what could be called pre-midlife, a state somewhere between youth and midlife, and a dangerous mix of consertivitisim and liberalism, able to swing either way; in short, we want not only justice, but justice and money. Mass pre-midlife crisis can be a real strain on society.
We have had some small success on marking the world in the past, but the Minneapolis City works had wiped those achievements clean with a simple sandblasting, can, and bottle recycling programs. Our quest had been for naught, our culture stacked in a record bin with “Foghat”.
Under the constant supervision of the baby boomers, who at this time call most of the shots, crowding the middle management stockades full of corporate vice-presidential meat. Waiting our turn for them to move into retirement, so that we may in turn climb the ladder, take their seats, their larger pay checks, and turn our newly found raises right over to social security, right back into the baby boomer (hence referred to as BBG) pockets. The future is so bright we need to wear miner helmets.
Insert chime from computer as I receive another e-message, titled “FW: Top 10 reasons to show up at work naked”
Anti Depressants in hand, we navigate the world with a smug look and quick wit. The beatniks of generation…”what?” Somehow, we seem to worry our BBG superiors. They watch us very closely, and seem to have a small dose of fear because of our electronic skills. We know the secrets of the new strange box called computer. A quick comment about “whats all this shit?” Alternatively, pretending to understand with a simple nod and quick directives that are not related to the overall goal of the project. Just as long as we know who is in charge. My hacking skills being the most feared of all the electronic skills. Being able to mysteriously summon passwords from the depths of the box, in reality, just turning over the keyboard to see the password written on the underside. A quick reference to obtaining their credit card number can send them into panic, though you have no resources besides digging in the garbage to get them.
The realization those children never do grow into adults. The fact that your mind is set in its ways somewhere along puberty. The constant threat from the parents and teachers that “someday you will have to act like an adult” never materializes. A quick look around my work place reveals many children a great deal older than me. First off, the squealers have grown into 200 pound squealers, teachers pet has become the bosses sidekick, the stoners continue to get stoned, the truant become the absent, the bully has become for the most part a general asshole. Everyone has their “individual dignity” at stake and playground rules apply. The bosses office has replaced the principals office, and the same people seem to end up there.
This is the world we endure each day, maybe not endure, since I do enjoy these things from time to time. A general feeling of superiority, being able to rise above the mess and see how the machine works. A feeling of disappear, knowing full well that I play a role in the operation of the machine. A feeling of delight, that being a cog in the machine makes it that much easier to toss the wrench in and watch the machine suck it in, and continue to operate in stride.
My recent membership in the Pop Music Sniper Association being a easy thing to predict. The only choice in the matter being 7mm or .308. The realization that Naked Raygun was wrong, it is not the weight of the load, but the sound of a Pepsi commercial.
We parked the truck in the River Place parking ramp, it was a short walk to the elevators. We walked to the security desk with our toolboxes, in our gray jump suits with a Oscar’s Air Conditioning Inc. logo on our right pocket and showed our credentials to the guard. The River Place guard could not have been more than 18, wearing an extremely embarrassing red blazer, clip on tie and poorly fitting pants. The guard put down a issue of “Starlog” magazine and looked us over, then grabbed the keys from the desk without a word. This was fortunate for us, he never even checked our credentials, let alone our toolboxes. We headed for the elevator, the guard scratched at a pimple on his nose and put the keys in the elevator panel. “Give the keys back to me when you are done” the young guard said, and he strolled back to his desk. We filed into the elevator and turned the key for the top floor.
We knew the security would be tight around N’Synch, but the access to the River Place rooftop gave us a clear shot at the stage on block “E” outside the target center. Besides the security was only meant to deal with teenage girls, they were ill equipped to deal with a .308 slug. It was a long distance to travel, but the wind was low and the stage was well illuminated. The five of us lined up along the edge of the rooftop facing downtown Minneapolis. Notbatman on the far left, Conandammit next to Notbatman a little farther down Caveman, Sweetalice and Jesse positioned themselves. We each opened our toolboxes to reveal sniper versions of M-21 rifles, Sweetalice pulling our her .50 caliber sniper rifle and resting it on the roof edge. The Springfield Armory M-21 sniper rifles being identical to the preferred Israeli model, maybe even better. Sweetalice’s .50 caliber rifle being one mean son-of-a-bitch with a “Ass Whooper” decal in white on the side of the barrel and a scope the size of a small car muffler on top.
We all pulled out radios and head sets and put them on and plugged them in with trained efficiency. Sweetalice’s voice crackled over the radios, “Maverick 1, this is Raygun 5, do you copy over?”. Some time passed and Don’s voice came crackling back over or radios “Raygun 5, this is Maverick 1, I copy”. Sweetalice spotted Don on the stage lighting rig through her scope, “Maverick 1, I spot you, report wind speed”. Don had got a job with the N’Sych crew and was working on the lighting crew. Don’s voice came over our head sets “South East, 3 miles per hour”. We all adjusted our scopes a few clicks for wind speed.
Even though it pained us, we waited for the encore, the reason being simple, everyone remembers the encore, and the posers have already left the building in vain hopes of avoiding the post-coital traffic snarl. The goal here is not simply to rid the world of bad pop music, but to rub the harsh reality of a world that just doesn’t give a fuck deeply into those mislead teenage cerebellums, hopefully causing all kinds of incurable mental disorders. We waited through most of the old hits, and we had to pay attention, it was important that we have a complete understanding of the scourge we were fighting. Sweetalice called for a ready check, “Team Raygun, report”. The reports came rolling in.
“Raygun 1, check”
“Raygun 3, check”
“Raygun 2, check”
Then silence, Sweetalice was waiting for Raygun 4 to check in. “Raygun 4, Report!” Sweetalice barked. A quick check found Notbatman, AKA Raygun 4, urinating on a patch of oregano several floors below on a balcony, giggling. “Oh, sorry, um, Raygun 4 check, and sexxxxey as all hell!” as Raygun 4 rubbed has crotch and quietly moaned. Raygun 1 gently rested her head on the stock of her weapon and sighed. Raygun 4 continued his strip tease “Oh ya, uh-huh, baby, got your fire hose riggght here” wiggling his hips and thrusting his pelvis.
The stage went dark, Raygun 4 grabbed his weapon, our headsets came to life, “Raygun Team, this is Maverick 1 copy?” “Copy Maverick 1” replied Sweetalice. “Encore on my count; 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,”… at “ONE” the stage lights went up and the rabid fans screamed with wyld delight. The five of us brought our scopes to bear on our respective targets. The members of N’Sych were in perfect formation. At the beginning of the second verse, the pryo technics started and five sweaty fingers squeezed five triggers. Four short cracks were followed by the thunderous roar of Sweetalice’s .50 caliber spewing a three foot flash out of the end of the barrel. Four pop stars were hit directly behind the ear, dropping immediately, as the brain was suddenly cut from the body. The fifth was hit by the .50 caliber slug near the temple, the top of his head exploded as the pop star cartwheeled from the force of the impact. The powerful .50 caliber slug continued through the stage and through half of the engine block of a diesel engine behind the stage, lodging itself in a piston. Five pop stars lay dead.
The moment the icons of millions of pre-pubescent girls crumpled to the stage, the lights went out, the fire alarms went on and sixteen teargas canisters were released. The crowd that was only moments ago bordering on orgiastic delight became a screaming clawing pit of agony, confusion and despair. It truly was the most beautiful sight I have ever witnessed, there is nothing like the first time you know. We got the fuck out of dodge, the pimply security guard had left his post to masturbate to the photo of Councilor Troy in Starlog. Notbatman went to the van and returned with a pet taxi, the pet taxi reinforced with 2X4 studs strung along the sides, carefully attaching the pet taxi door to the bathroom door with a piece of string. Notbatman picked up the pet taxi and began to shake it violently, yelling “Look it’s the cat next door” Frodo inside the pet taxi, began to growl and hiss. The guard was about ten seconds from being clawed to death in a violent fashion.
We all piled back in the van where TartQueen was waiting for us with freshly made sticky buns. We removed our coveralls to reveal our street clothes. We ate the sticky buns and waited for Frodos return The sound of a flushing toilet and then the unmistakable sound of a man being killed by a 15 pound cat. Frodo promptly returned to the van, mouth covered in froth and blood, curled up in Notbatman’s lap and began to purr loudly. TartQueen took the wheel and we exited the parking garage. It was a short trip to Surdyk’s, where we sampled cheese and beer, Frodo feasted upon a kings helping of “Fancy Feast”. Blind teens, screaming, clawing at their faces ran north and cop cars speeded south. A good day.
conandammit had some input as well.Having navigated the cold war in our youth, Reagan safely in an Alzheimer’s stupor babbling, drooling and filling his pants, we could concentrate on matters that are more important. Such as the television, sex and the timely bombing of Iraq. We had reached what could be called pre-midlife, a state somewhere between youth and midlife, and a dangerous mix of consertivitisim and liberalism, able to swing either way; in short, we want not only justice, but justice and money. Mass pre-midlife crisis can be a real strain on society.
We have had some small success on marking the world in the past, but the Minneapolis City works had wiped those achievements clean with a simple sandblasting, can, and bottle recycling programs. Our quest had been for naught, our culture stacked in a record bin with “Foghat”.
Under the constant supervision of the baby boomers, who at this time call most of the shots, crowding the middle management stockades full of corporate vice-presidential meat. Waiting our turn for them to move into retirement, so that we may in turn climb the ladder, take their seats, their larger pay checks, and turn our newly found raises right over to social security, right back into the baby boomer (hence referred to as BBG) pockets. The future is so bright we need to wear miner helmets.
Insert chime from computer as I receive another e-message, titled “FW: Top 10 reasons to show up at work naked”
Anti Depressants in hand, we navigate the world with a smug look and quick wit. The beatniks of generation…”what?” Somehow, we seem to worry our BBG superiors. They watch us very closely, and seem to have a small dose of fear because of our electronic skills. We know the secrets of the new strange box called computer. A quick comment about “whats all this shit?” Alternatively, pretending to understand with a simple nod and quick directives that are not related to the overall goal of the project. Just as long as we know who is in charge. My hacking skills being the most feared of all the electronic skills. Being able to mysteriously summon passwords from the depths of the box, in reality, just turning over the keyboard to see the password written on the underside. A quick reference to obtaining their credit card number can send them into panic, though you have no resources besides digging in the garbage to get them.
The realization those children never do grow into adults. The fact that your mind is set in its ways somewhere along puberty. The constant threat from the parents and teachers that “someday you will have to act like an adult” never materializes. A quick look around my work place reveals many children a great deal older than me. First off, the squealers have grown into 200 pound squealers, teachers pet has become the bosses sidekick, the stoners continue to get stoned, the truant become the absent, the bully has become for the most part a general asshole. Everyone has their “individual dignity” at stake and playground rules apply. The bosses office has replaced the principals office, and the same people seem to end up there.
This is the world we endure each day, maybe not endure, since I do enjoy these things from time to time. A general feeling of superiority, being able to rise above the mess and see how the machine works. A feeling of disappear, knowing full well that I play a role in the operation of the machine. A feeling of delight, that being a cog in the machine makes it that much easier to toss the wrench in and watch the machine suck it in, and continue to operate in stride.
My recent membership in the Pop Music Sniper Association being a easy thing to predict. The only choice in the matter being 7mm or .308. The realization that Naked Raygun was wrong, it is not the weight of the load, but the sound of a Pepsi commercial.
We parked the truck in the River Place parking ramp, it was a short walk to the elevators. We walked to the security desk with our toolboxes, in our gray jump suits with a Oscar’s Air Conditioning Inc. logo on our right pocket and showed our credentials to the guard. The River Place guard could not have been more than 18, wearing an extremely embarrassing red blazer, clip on tie and poorly fitting pants. The guard put down a issue of “Starlog” magazine and looked us over, then grabbed the keys from the desk without a word. This was fortunate for us, he never even checked our credentials, let alone our toolboxes. We headed for the elevator, the guard scratched at a pimple on his nose and put the keys in the elevator panel. “Give the keys back to me when you are done” the young guard said, and he strolled back to his desk. We filed into the elevator and turned the key for the top floor.
We knew the security would be tight around N’Synch, but the access to the River Place rooftop gave us a clear shot at the stage on block “E” outside the target center. Besides the security was only meant to deal with teenage girls, they were ill equipped to deal with a .308 slug. It was a long distance to travel, but the wind was low and the stage was well illuminated. The five of us lined up along the edge of the rooftop facing downtown Minneapolis. Notbatman on the far left, Conandammit next to Notbatman a little farther down Caveman, Sweetalice and Jesse positioned themselves. We each opened our toolboxes to reveal sniper versions of M-21 rifles, Sweetalice pulling our her .50 caliber sniper rifle and resting it on the roof edge. The Springfield Armory M-21 sniper rifles being identical to the preferred Israeli model, maybe even better. Sweetalice’s .50 caliber rifle being one mean son-of-a-bitch with a “Ass Whooper” decal in white on the side of the barrel and a scope the size of a small car muffler on top.
We all pulled out radios and head sets and put them on and plugged them in with trained efficiency. Sweetalice’s voice crackled over the radios, “Maverick 1, this is Raygun 5, do you copy over?”. Some time passed and Don’s voice came crackling back over or radios “Raygun 5, this is Maverick 1, I copy”. Sweetalice spotted Don on the stage lighting rig through her scope, “Maverick 1, I spot you, report wind speed”. Don had got a job with the N’Sych crew and was working on the lighting crew. Don’s voice came over our head sets “South East, 3 miles per hour”. We all adjusted our scopes a few clicks for wind speed.
Even though it pained us, we waited for the encore, the reason being simple, everyone remembers the encore, and the posers have already left the building in vain hopes of avoiding the post-coital traffic snarl. The goal here is not simply to rid the world of bad pop music, but to rub the harsh reality of a world that just doesn’t give a fuck deeply into those mislead teenage cerebellums, hopefully causing all kinds of incurable mental disorders. We waited through most of the old hits, and we had to pay attention, it was important that we have a complete understanding of the scourge we were fighting. Sweetalice called for a ready check, “Team Raygun, report”. The reports came rolling in.
“Raygun 1, check”
“Raygun 3, check”
“Raygun 2, check”
Then silence, Sweetalice was waiting for Raygun 4 to check in. “Raygun 4, Report!” Sweetalice barked. A quick check found Notbatman, AKA Raygun 4, urinating on a patch of oregano several floors below on a balcony, giggling. “Oh, sorry, um, Raygun 4 check, and sexxxxey as all hell!” as Raygun 4 rubbed has crotch and quietly moaned. Raygun 1 gently rested her head on the stock of her weapon and sighed. Raygun 4 continued his strip tease “Oh ya, uh-huh, baby, got your fire hose riggght here” wiggling his hips and thrusting his pelvis.
The stage went dark, Raygun 4 grabbed his weapon, our headsets came to life, “Raygun Team, this is Maverick 1 copy?” “Copy Maverick 1” replied Sweetalice. “Encore on my count; 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,”… at “ONE” the stage lights went up and the rabid fans screamed with wyld delight. The five of us brought our scopes to bear on our respective targets. The members of N’Sych were in perfect formation. At the beginning of the second verse, the pryo technics started and five sweaty fingers squeezed five triggers. Four short cracks were followed by the thunderous roar of Sweetalice’s .50 caliber spewing a three foot flash out of the end of the barrel. Four pop stars were hit directly behind the ear, dropping immediately, as the brain was suddenly cut from the body. The fifth was hit by the .50 caliber slug near the temple, the top of his head exploded as the pop star cartwheeled from the force of the impact. The powerful .50 caliber slug continued through the stage and through half of the engine block of a diesel engine behind the stage, lodging itself in a piston. Five pop stars lay dead.
The moment the icons of millions of pre-pubescent girls crumpled to the stage, the lights went out, the fire alarms went on and sixteen teargas canisters were released. The crowd that was only moments ago bordering on orgiastic delight became a screaming clawing pit of agony, confusion and despair. It truly was the most beautiful sight I have ever witnessed, there is nothing like the first time you know. We got the fuck out of dodge, the pimply security guard had left his post to masturbate to the photo of Councilor Troy in Starlog. Notbatman went to the van and returned with a pet taxi, the pet taxi reinforced with 2X4 studs strung along the sides, carefully attaching the pet taxi door to the bathroom door with a piece of string. Notbatman picked up the pet taxi and began to shake it violently, yelling “Look it’s the cat next door” Frodo inside the pet taxi, began to growl and hiss. The guard was about ten seconds from being clawed to death in a violent fashion.
We all piled back in the van where TartQueen was waiting for us with freshly made sticky buns. We removed our coveralls to reveal our street clothes. We ate the sticky buns and waited for Frodos return The sound of a flushing toilet and then the unmistakable sound of a man being killed by a 15 pound cat. Frodo promptly returned to the van, mouth covered in froth and blood, curled up in Notbatman’s lap and began to purr loudly. TartQueen took the wheel and we exited the parking garage. It was a short trip to Surdyk’s, where we sampled cheese and beer, Frodo feasted upon a kings helping of “Fancy Feast”. Blind teens, screaming, clawing at their faces ran north and cop cars speeded south. A good day.
