Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 7 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: 04/10/92 What's In Here: =============== 1. Special Thanks In memorium: Isaac Asimov. & 2. The Editor's Soapbox The part everyone skips over. 3. Feature Story #1: The Thousand Dollar Breasts A humorous Ray Bradbury with a twist. 4. Over the Edge of Sanity: Shapes Another mind-bender from Woody Thrower! 5. Feature Poem #1: Provocation 74 An interesting look for a poem. Stare into another world... 6. Feature Story #2: The Harp Eerily strange story about a wood, a harp, and a young boy. 7. Feature Poem #2: Untitled A stanza of loneliness and dismay. 8. Back From the Brink Last month's insanity-makers explained. 9. Feature Story #3: Cardboard Souls In A Steel-Belted World A heavy story about old philosophies argued amongst young men. 10.About the Literature Explainations of the chaos that appears... Special Thanks & The Editor's Soapbox (In one convenient package!) ===================================== This month's special thanks has been metamorphosed into an obituary. As you all probably know, the great Dr. Isaac Asimov died this month (April 5, 1992). I would like to dedicate this issue to him and all he stood for. Not only was he a great hard-core Sci-Fi author, but he was one of the most imaginative, innovative, thoughtful, and caring Science Fiction authors of all time. He invented the Laws of Robotics, MultiVac--the ultimate computer system--, and countless other characters, themes, and ideas. Not only that, but he also posessed one of the best storytelling voices I've ever heard. For all this, I pay tribute to Dr. Asimov. Isaac Asimov would not, I believe, want any of us to give him a moment of silence or pay tribute to him with lengthy speeches or any other ordinary type of memorial service. Instead, I think he'd enjoy it more if he saw us showing our love for that which he showed his love for. Great Sci-Fi literature. I'm sure that he would want to know that Science Fiction has not died with his death, but that it is still growing. Therefore, I believe that Dr. Asimov would prefer it if we were to pay our tributes by reading and writing the best and most imaginative Sci-Fi literature we can. Let's continue to do it! ==================================================================== The Existentialist BBS -- 226-8310 (public node, 2400). Specializes in messages (carries the RIME network), and quality files. Also features an abundantly helpful SysOp and a friendly, occasional Co- SysOpess. The editor frequents this board. (Avail. via ->EXISTEN) ==================================================================== ====================================== WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS SUBJECT- MATTER WITH SEXUAL CONTENT. ====================================== The Thousand Dollar Breasts =========================== (C) 1992 William J. Slattery Timothy J. Connor drank his beer slowly. He was lonely. He didn't know anybody in this part of town. He had never been here before, an Irish workingman's bar on Third Avenue. Connor was retired and lived on a small pension. His wife had been dead now three months. It was time for him to come out of his shell, time to get out and meet some new people. Except for the bartender, Connor was the only man in the place. It was four in the afternoon on a slow weekday late in September. The doors swung open and a handsome woman, about thirty and maybe a little more, strode into the bar area. She was well turned out, nicely dressed in a practical, inexpensive sort of way. She wore a wedding band. "Billy," she said to the bartender by way of greeting. "Grace," nodded the bartender, friendly and re- served as always. Grace eased herself onto a stool. Billy put whis- key and sweet vermouth into a shaker, filled it with ice and stirred it vigorously with a long, slender spoon. He put a chilled cocktail glass in front of Grace, put in a cherry and filled the glass with the reddish cocktail. Grace sipped delicately. She smiled. She approved; she always approved of Billy's Manhattans. She nodded, indicating that Billy should put the drink on her tab. Her tab and Harry's. The tab was running a bit large at the moment, she thought idly. Money had been tight this month. There was no particu- lar reason why. It was not enough to be concerned about, nothing out of the ordinary late in the month like this. The big Seth Thomas above the cash register ticked crisply. Grace sipped her drink. Billy leaned against the rear counter, arms folded, looking off into a pri- vate distance. Timothy Connor drank his beer and thought of his dead wife. The clock ticked. Ice tin- kled. A faucet dripped somewhere. Nobody spoke for ten minutes or more. The doors swung open again. Grace's husband, Har- ry, came into the bar, smiled at Billy, nodded at Timo- thy, and sat down next to Grace who kissed him on the cheek. Harry was about Grace's age, dressed conserva- tively in a dark three-piece suit. He put his slender briefcase on the floor beside his stool. He and Grace began a quiet, easy conversation about the events of the day at their offices. It had been an average day for both of them. Their talk, quiet and unmemorable, lasted a couple of minutes and lapsed into an easy quiet. Billy pumped Harry some stout into a thick pint glass when he came in. The four of them, Billy and his customers, sat quietly in companionable, respectable silence for another ten minutes. During that time other patrons drifted in, regulars all. Billy fixed their drinks. The noise level in the bar increased. By six the place was comfortably crowded and noisy. "Harry," Grace said in a low voice. "That man is staring at my breasts." Harry raised his eyes from his hands resting on the bar. He had been staring at his hands. "What man is that, dear?" he asked. Men often stared at Grace's breasts. They were fine breasts, large and well-shaped. "That man up at the end of the bar. The new guy here. The stranger." Harry looked up the bar at Timothy. He said to Grace, "He seems well behaved, looks like a nice sort. What's the harm? I like looking at them myself." Another few minutes passed. Grace ordered a sec- ond Manhattan, Harry had another stout, Timothy switched to Irish with a beer chaser. "Harry, he's making me uncomfortable. He's still staring." "Okay, love. Just let me finish this and we'll toddle off. There's a game on tonight or we can go to a movie." "He's really bothering me. Can we go now?" She stressed `now.' "Just a sec. Just till I finish the pint." "Please, Harry, now. He hasn't taken his eyes off my breasts for five minutes. Longer." "Grace, please. I won't be a minute." "Then speak to him. Tell him to stop. He's mak- ing me self-conscious. I'm embarrassed." "What should I say to him? I don't want to start a row." "Just tell him to stop. Don't make a production of it. Just tell him he's making me feel peculiar." Harry moved reluctantly off the stool and walked to Timothy's end of the bar. Timothy watched him ap- proach. He got off his stool when Harry arrived and put out his hand. He smiled almost as if he had been expecting Harry to come speak to him. Before Harry had a chance to say anything, Timothy said, "My name's Timothy J. Connor and I'm new here. Glad to make your acquaintance. I've been admiring your wife's breasts. They are lovely, don't you think so?" Harry stood uncertainly, shaking Timothy's hand. He didn't know exactly what to say. He had never dis- cussed Grace's breasts before with anyone except Grace. He felt awkward. "It's her breasts that I came up here to speak to you about," Harry began. "You see Grace feels uncom- fortable about you staring at them and she's asked me to ask you to stop." "Oh, my dear sir, I would gladly stop but I've tried and I just can't do it. I can't keep my eyes off them. My wife's been dead just three months, don't you see, and this is the first time I've noticed such things since her funeral." Harry was reduced to silence. Grace's breasts were without doubt her finest feature. It did no harm for a stranger to admire them, especially since he was way up at the other end of the bar and a recent widow- er, too. But then Grace's feelings had to be consid- ered. They were, after all, her breasts, and if she didn't want them stared at, why something would just have to be done. "I would give a thousand dollars if you would just let me kiss them. I mean no harm, I assure you. You could be right there watching to make sure nothing hap- pened that would upset either of you or your wife. I simply want to kiss them. I used to kiss my wife's breasts, you see. I miss her something terrible. I'm a very lonely man." Harry drew himself up and prepared to become an outraged husband. "If your wife doesn't like the idea, of course that's the end of it," Timothy added, hastily, sensing Harry's displeasure. Timothy made a gesture to Billy indicating that he should prepare additional drinks for Harry and Grace and himself. "Please, as a favor to me, go down and speak to your wife. Tell her that I have fallen under the spell of the beauty of her breasts and that I will gladly pay a thousand dollars to kiss them. Just one chaste kiss on each breast and you can be there to watch to make sure there's no funny business." Harry raised his glass of stout in salute and went back to talk to Grace. He eased back into his chair. "What did you say Harry? He's still staring. He's staring worse than ever." Harry drained his glass and put it carefully on the bar and picked up the fresh one Timothy had sent down. Grace picked up her third Manhattan and waited for Harry to speak. "My darling Grace," Harry began, "Timothy, that's the gentleman's name, has just offered us a thousand dollars if you'll let him kiss your breasts. One kiss on each. And I can be there to make sure nothing else happens. I was going to tell him that such a thing was a filthy, dirty idea, a perverted, degrading notion, but I thought I'd better tell you first before I go up there and knock his block off." Grace gulped her drink and stared at Harry bug- eyed. She opened her mouth to say something chaste and offended and mortified and affronted. She closed her mouth. She opened it and took another gulp of her Man- hattan. "I've never heard of anything so outlandish in my life. It's absolutely out of the question. The very idea! What does he think I am, we are? I ask you." A pause followed. It was a long pause during which Harry stared into his stout and said nothing. He did not dare look at his wife. The following practical thoughts ran through Grace's practical mind: The tab is running a bit large. Nothing alarming. Billy hasn't said anything. In fact the tab has been this big and even bigger once or twice. Billy understands. Sometimes people ran a little short. That's what tabs are for, after all. The silence between Grace and Harry lasted a full minute. Then two minutes. Then three. Finally Grace said as casually as she knew how, "Well, we could use the thousand dollars, actually. And if you were right there to make sure it was all right, no gasping nor drooling nor perspiration nor any of that..." Her voice trailed away. Harry looked up Timothy's way. "He's a nice-look- ing chap, you have to say. I mean I'm sure he doesn't have any diseases. He looks clean, you'll have to admit that Very clean and respectable." Out of the corner of her eye, Grace looked up toward Timothy's end of the bar . Yes, she had to agree. He was a nice-looking man, probably a family man and a Catholic, she thought, a man with an eye for beauty. Anybody can see he's respectable. Harry said, "He's no kind of pervert, I can tell you that. He's a widower in fact. His wife has been dead just a short time. Couple of months, he said." She sipped meditatively at her Manhattan. Curt- ains. We could certainly use some new curtains, she thought. And more book shelves. Definitely more book shelves. And of course the sofa could use... "You'd be right there you say, Harry? I'd let him kiss them nicely and you'd be standing right there? No chance for anything improper?" "Yes, I'd be right there. Just one kiss on each, is the important thing. No more than that. Just one chaste little kiss. You'd hardly notice a thing like that, I'm sure. No licking or sucking or anything of that nature. Just a nice little kiss. Like you'd kiss a baby. A little peck is all." Billy, skilled bartender that he was, sensed that his services were needed by Harry and Grace. He stood now in front of them, waiting. "Yes, please, Billy," said Harry. "For both of us. And one for the gentleman up at the other end. Timothy is his name. Put a drink in his hand and ask him if he'd mind coming down here for a minute to talk over some details of an arrangement we're discussing." Timothy came down to Harry and Grace's end of the bar, Irish and beer in hand, all smiles and friendli- ness. He shook Grace's hand gravely and waited for her to speak. Grace's hand shook slightly and she could not make herself look Timothy in the eye. She stared instead at the middle of his necktie. "Now as I under- stand it," she said, her voice quavering a trifle be- cause she was nervous and uncertain, "for one thousand dollars I am to let you kiss each of my breasts just once, with your mouth closed of course, and Harry can be right there. That's all you want. Just one kiss on each." Timothy beamed. "Yes, yes madam (He did not dare speak her name. He didn't want to get familiar on such short acquaintance.) That's it. That's all I want. Just one kiss on each of those beauteous orbs. That's all I ask. Won't take a minute of your time it won't and it would mean so much to me, lonely soul that I recently am, great lover of pure beauty that you per- ceive me to be." Grace looked at her husband. He nodded. She nod- ded. Timothy smiled and the three of them rose to go. Harry, Timothy, and Grace left the bar and went to a small hotel across the avenue. They checked into a room, Harry paying in advance because they had no lug- gage, and stood in the hallway of the room just inside the door uncertainly for a moment, wondering what to do next. Timothy took charge. "Just step over here, missus, in the light, and remove your blouse and bras- siere." He said this nicely. No funny business. No insinuations. Harry pulled up a chair beside Grace and Timothy who were standing. He looked up at them keenly, on guard for any lustful gazes or lascivious smirks. Grace removed her blouse and brassier as directed. She stood before Timothy with her fine breasts exposed to his warm, appreciative gaze. He cupped her left breast piously in both hands, kneading it respectfully. He bent over it and rubbed it against his cheek. He let his nose linger reverentially over the nipple and inhaled its fragrance. He went through the same performance with the right breast, moving his eyes over it slowly and appre- ciatively so as not to miss even the tiniest detail. Harry sat watching every move. Grace stared straight ahead, pretending she was not there, pretend- ing this was not happening. Never had she been more embarrassed. She thought furiously about curtains and book shelves. Timothy now held one breast in each hand, kneading them gently, rubbing them softly against each other. He looked at them with shining eyes. He put his face between them and rubbed them slowly against his cheeks. He moaned softly with pleasure. The look on his face was rapture pure and unalloyed. "Oh," he groaned ecstatically, "if I only had a thousand dollars." ==================================================================== The Pension Grillparzer -- 224-1242, 2400 baud. Specializes in messages and oddities/literature files. Running Waffle v1.64. Also has an overtly helpful SysOp and a casual, confusing atmosphere and BBS system. Plus, newly added, USENET! Als has cookies... ==================================================================== Over The Edge of Sanity: Shapes =============================== by Woody Thrower Can you draw the shape below without ever lifting your pencil, backtracking, or going over any lines twice? /\ / \ /----\ /|\ /|\ / | \/ | \ \ | /\ | / \|/ \|/ \----/ \ / \/ Provocation 74 ============== (C) 1992 Michael Matthews p lanktonswimin oceanswi r lsthebluelife habitat. o ddgirlswho'll ne v erevenunderstand asmuchas o ughttheymight demandattentionslavi c miseries (u' corstevly a nik) larceniesof grandthef t autholover'swounds icannotheal i llumidjune'sdra- maticpastorfuturest o ldincircles (roundedsquarehead's olddeadgossip) colum n istsobeyonetruth/existence doesn'tpayawageworth 7 weeksinhell (thediff'renceis iwillnottellyoulooking 4 meto you'relookingformeto you'relookingformeto . . . i'llkeepmymouthshut). ================================================================== Xavier's Barnyard -- 756-5100 (2400 baud): Message bases teeming with insanity. Features sponshorship of the popular local radio station X-96 (96.1 FM) with several employees there acting as DJs. ================================================================== The Harp ======== (C) 1992 Kevin Francis Mark walked up the dimly lit and shadowy path in the forest near his home. His dog jogged slowly behind him. The cool air of the mountains came full into his lungs and filled him with a vitality comparable only with five pounds of sugar. The thoughts in his mind trailed endlessly on, as the path on which he trudged. "I like these woods," he thought to himself. "I'm glad I stayed here. After father died, I figured I'd move somewhere like California or New York, but I guess I couldn't give up this sense of freedom." He remembered what his dad had told him about this wilderness well. A picture of one night on which they sat beside a fire talking long after sundown quickly filled his memory. "You know, there's something special about these woods," his father thought, staring at the ceiling. "What would that be, dad?" Mark quickly replied. "Well," he started, "don't tell your mother this, but there's a special story behind Floater's Creek. I remember once when I was alot younger that I came across a shadowy place in the stream where all I could hear was the thrumming of the water against the rocks. "I noticed a small glint of light off of something metal on the other side of the stream. When I went to investigate, I found a large harp just sitting on a rock. The next thing I remembered was looking up and walking away. I could tell that something had happened because it was well into the night, but I couldn't remember anything for the life of me," he explained, staring off into the insulation somewhere in the attic. Mark felt that there was something strange about that story. He had heard it a few times, and each time it seemed as if it was without a resolution to the reason the harp was there. Whenever he mentioned this to his dad, though, his brow just crinkled up and he just forgot about it. The sound of rushing water brought him back into reality. He looked down and noticed he had almost stepped into the stream. His faithful dog waited by his side panting as normal. He looked up to see where he was. "So it's true," he thought, "it's really true." He looked across the stream to a large harp sitting on a rock. Rather than pass up a good opportunity, he waded across the stream and went over to look at it. The tenseness around him built as he neared a small harp of fine workmanship. A squirrel jumped out of the bushes and startled him, throwing him off balance. He fell into the harp. A loud thrumming noise filled his ears and he blacked out. When Mark opened his eyes, he was in a large city. He looked up and saw that the sky was a dark blue green color. It seemed to be moving, but he dismissed that thought as soon as it crept into his mind. Not being able to think of anything else to do, he walked on into the city to find out what was there. As hard as he looked, he couldn't find anything. He looked harder to find something that could help him find out where he was. There wasn't a single object of worth to him to be found. Wind blew a small tumble weed beside him and off down the road. This was the only movement he saw, so he followed it with his eyes. Something red on the wall attracted his attention. He walked over to find some sort of carving on the wall. All he could understand from it was "Clark Bridges." A shudder ran quickly down his spine. Clark Bridges was his dad. The old stories he always had heard suddenly rushed back to him and he sat down to think. He knew he didn't know where he was, and, worse than that, he didn't know how to get home. Considering the use of this city useless, he went on a search for a way back. None could be found. He walked for hours on end, finding nothing. Finally, Mark could find no alternative except for sitting himself down and waiting for something to happen. Suddenly the colors around him swirled together and he felt himself falling sideways. He woke up on the river side, his dog liking him on the face. The night sky loomed far above his head. He promptly got up and went home. "Well, that was a nice walk in the woods," he thought. The thought of anything being amiss from this visit never occurred to him, and he went home, remembering nothing. It wasn't until later in his life that he remembered anything about the harp. By this time, however, he was much too old to go walking in the woods, and he had his own children to tell stories to. His father had done the same. ================================================================== Cloud 8 -- 756-5100 (14.4K USR HST) or 756-1630 (16.8K high speed) Specializes in Sound Blaster and high res. .GIF support! EXCELLENT files and a helpful SysOp. The editor frequents this board. ================================================================== Untitled ======== (C) 1992 Chris Lynn Lacking true identity, Yet countenance never fails The self. Want of name not entity, It beholds a lesser jail Of self. War of inner dissentry Over personal mail To self Untitled. Back From the Brink =================== Here's the answers to the riddles from last month's issue: Riddle: 1. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ + ³ ³ ³ ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Answer: b. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 2. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Answer: d. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 3. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ³ ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ + ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Answer: a. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 4. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Answer: d. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 5. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ³ ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Answer: d. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 6. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ = ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ + ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Answer: d. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 7. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ = ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ + ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ b. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Riddle: 8. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ ³ ³ + ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ = ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ + ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ = ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ b. ÚÄÄÄÂÄÄÄÂÄÄÄ¿ ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ³ ÃÄÄÄÅÄÄÄÅÄÄÄ´ ³ ³ÛÛÛ³ÛÛÛ³ ÀÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÁÄÄÄÙ Cardboard Souls in a Steel-Belted World ======================================= (C) 1992 Chris Lynn The brown, vinyl La-Z-Boy recliner sat in a nook of the matted carpet while Tony just lay in it smoking his pipe. The lava lamp lit the room with its aqueous light and meandering igneous particles. The windows remained closed to the impudent breeze questioning why they were in the smoke-filled apartment and not outside in the cascading snow. "Entertainment!" screeched Noah to break the monotonous creaking of the rocking monstrosity in the corner. "I need entertainment, now!" He laid down the blue, plastic bottle of bubble-liquid. Tony flopped around in the seat imitating a minute convulsion but he managed to keep the clumsy pipe clenched in his tiny teeth. Tony had always had small teeth and it was fairly disturbing to watch him smile.He looked like he was wearing a pair of children's dentures. He flopped some more and gurgled. "There, how was that?" "Great. Just great. I know you've got music in here somewhere. You're always talking about it." Noah stood from the grey, non-padded carpet and hobbled over to the lava lamp on the ground as if he could find any hidden behind the glowing pillar. Tony attempted to blow a few smoke rings but failed miserably. "Check the closet, weenie." He motioned the now- released pipe towards a plain-brown, scratched door set into the north wall. "Would you stop smoking that crap for a second and put on some incense?!" Noah semi-winked his eye in a grimace and pointed at the gilded pipe in Tony's smoke stained hand. "No, but you can burn some incense if you want. I ain't gonna' put my pipe out." Noah opened the closet door with some grunts and heaves. "This door sucks. Where's the incense?" He looked in the closet and found a portable CD player, some CD's, and a box of coconut incense. "Nevermind. I found it." He let loose with a stupid chuckle. He yanked the CD player from its dusty bed and placed it next to the power outlet in the wall. Then he put the incense in his pocket, took a few CD's, snatched the sandy incense holder from a linoleum coated shelf, and shut the door. "Put on some Grunt Truck." "Shut up, I play what I want," sarcasm. He inserted the Grunt Truck CD into the maw of the player and shut the lid with a plastic click. Then the knotted and twisted cord was introduce into the outlet burned by experiments with metal forks. "What would happen if I put this fork into the socket?" Tony had asked. "Why don't ya' find out?" Noah slyly had known what was going to happen and so had Tony, but Tony had wanted to have the self-experience of being fried by electrical volts. He had implanted the tarnished handle into the black slot and the lights had dimmed to darkness. Tony had fallen back from the wall with the fork still clenched in his white fist. "Cool!" The machine whirled the chrome disc and began to play a gala of loudness. Noah twisted the dial to a deafening seven and he began to shake his head in synch to the staccato drumbeat. "Turn it down, man! The landlady'll kick me out!" Tony shouted through the smoke and din. "Screw the landlady!" "You! You haven't seen her!" Noah stopped his dancing seizure and flicked the knob to four. "That's better!" He released a sigh and returned to his tiring task of holding the pipe in his mouth. Noah opened the incense package and slid a stick from the faggot. "Lighter," he demanded. Tony wriggled in the chair causing a variety of flatulent sounds and then tossed the unearthed lighter to Noah's cupped palms. He quickly lit the stick with a flick of his thumb and laid it across the wooden holder. Tony picked up the retired blue bottle and began blowing smoke filled bubbles. "Good. Keep your smoke in the bubbles so I don't haveta' smell it." "Shut up!" A bubble glided to the white, flaking front door and stuck producing a misty dome. A knock on the door caused it to silently and unobtrusively explode. "Come in!" Unison. The door opened and a figure was lit by the porch bug zapper. A snow flake maneuvered itself into the blue florescent death-trap and the air was shattered with an electric blast. "I come from God. Have you ever heard of the Jehovah's Witnesses?" "Shut up Frank!" Tony groaned from behind a wall of bubbles. "Hey, guys!" He lifted his long fingered hand in an indian salute. "Why don't you shut off that bug zapper. It's January for heaven's sake! Not a bug in sight!" Frank entered the room and began to remove his plaid, wool hunting coat. Frank was a thin character yet somehow wide in the hips. His arms were wiry and his legs were like stilts but he looked like he was a Kleinfelters. His curly, blond locks hung from the back of his Yankees cap. His wan jaws worked on a piece of Big Red. "Hey, Frank-Bank-Bo-Bank-Banana-Fanna-Fo-Fank-Me-Mi-Mo-Mank- Fra-ank," Noah broke into the well known tune that everyone wore out in the second grade. "Shut up." Frank hung his coat on the curtain rod above the window and shivered. "I don't know how to shut it off. I figgered the landlady'd do it." Tony flipped the handle at the side of the chair so that he wasn't lying down any more. Frank and Noah went to the same high school. Frank was a senior and Noah was a junior. Tony had graduated the year before and he just lived in his apartment/gathering place and worked at a local record store. They were a pretty loose definition of friends but they hung out together when they were bored. "So whatcha' guys got lined up for this evening?" Frank knew that they always ended up sitting in Tony's living room and talking. "Well first we hit Reno, then we were deciding whether to rob a liquor store or hang out with the showgirls." Noah's sarcasm was always a stale way to begin an evening. Frank leaned against the wall next to the outlet and slid down to an uncomfortable sitting position. Noah walked into Tony's bedroom and came out with a Sesame Street bean bag. He threw it into the corner under the window and then flung himself on it. "Aaaahhh," he sighed. "Whatcha' playin'?" Frank never could tell what group it was unless he was the one who put the music on. "Grunt Truck," Tony answered from the corner of his mouth. "Cool. I heard that they're lead singer got arrested for indecent exposure." It was almost a question, but hidden in a statement. Frank shrugged. Noah snickered, "Obviously not what you'd call an inhibited guy." "Why do you still go to church?" Tony had been waiting to ask Frank about this question for the past week. "Where did that come from?" "I decided to pluck a new subject out of the air." Tony pinched the air above his head with his index finger and thumb. "Because. Why ya' wanna' know?" "I dunno'. I just think that it's an outdated human theory." "I'm not really sure why I go, but I just think that I should, just in case." "Just in case of what?" Tony's voice broke on "what". "That there is a God?" "Just ask Noah here. His parents are the religious fanatics!" "Leave me out of this! I live with my grandparents now." Noah held up his hands in a guiltless shrug. "Yeah, but you lived with the pious old farts for sixteen years." Tony sat up in his chair. "Back to you, Frank. Just in case of what?" "I think that there could be God and I go to church just in case that there is one. I'd like to be on his good side. But I'm pretty sure that there is a God." "But how do you know that your religion is true?" Noah's shifting in the bean bag caused a few little, white, styrofoam balls to spill out of the small hole at the seam. "I just feel like it is." "You mean that you were raised on it and so you feel like you'd be turning your back on your parents." A few more beads emerged. "No." A confused retort that was the only defense that Frank could come up with for the moment. He stretched his legs out onto the hard floor. "Then what?" Tony sprung back into the conversation creating more flatulent sounds from the vinyl. "What? You guys don't believe that there's a God?" He removed his hat and smoothed his ear-length hair back. "I just don't believe in any of the 'Gods' in circulation out there." Noah quoted with his fingers. "None of them seem to be right..." then quickly added, "..for me." "So what, you're saying that there're a lot of Gods?" "No. Just a lot of different religions. You know what I'm talking about! You're just trying to get the heat offa' ya'!" "No," Defensive. Then he replaced his hat. Tony stole his pipe from his baby-teeth and spoke up, "Well then, what about you Noah? I think you're trying to get the heat off of yourself. We're all in this conversation." More beads spilled out and the hole widened. "I just have my own private religion." "So you think that God only gave you a religion, or doesn't he have an organized religion for everybody out there? You think that he keeps people blind from him so that they won't know what to do or be comforted by him?" More pellets. "No! I just think that God allows everyone to believe for themselves. Then they should live how God would want them to." "Sounds like a psychopath in the making!" Tony grinned. "Ya' know, like the guys who say that God wanted them to kill their wives and babies." "Hey if they actually believe that God told them too, who are we to judge if they're right or wrong. Let the law take care of them here and God take care of them there." Noah poked at Cookie Monster's eyes, "Frank?" "What?" "We're back to you now." "No, we're still on you. So you believe that some of those crazies in Utah who kill their families have actually talked to God? Tony, ya' got anything to drink?" He began to stand up against the flaking, pale-pink. "Dr. Pepper's in my room." He pointed the bubble dip-stick towards the doorway to a dark room and a little bit of the soapy liquid fell to the carpet. He puckered his lips and blew a wall of clean spheres in Frank's way. Frank disappeared into Tony's room and then turned on the light. "Look! I just think that we can't decide if God has spoken to them or not! Maybe he has! Stranger things have happened." Noah spoke up so that all involved could hear. "Ya' know? The angel Gabriel came to me in a vision last night. He said that Satan was Elvis and that he now resides at the North Pole with Santa. Ya' see. You mix up the letters in Santa and you get Satan!" "Shut up!" Frank laughed from the depths of Tony's room. "You asked me a question and I answered!" Noah got defensive. "Cool." Frank strolled out of the doorway with a two liter of Dr. Pepper in one hand and a Yo-Yo being worked by the other. "Where'd ya' get the Yo-Yo? Does it glow-in-the-dark?" "I think I got it at 7-Eleven? But no, it doesn't glow." Tony sat the smoldering pipe next to the lava lamp and focused all of his attention to the bubbles. Frank resumed his spot at the wall but he remained standing. "If you guys want to laugh at a perfectly serious answer, then, hey, feel free!" Noah was steering the group back to the original plot. "I was just jokin'!" Tony shrugged. "Bite me!" Noah leered at Tony. Frank swallowed his gum and opened the bottle of soda with some difficulty because of the held Yo-Yo. "Ya' know that that stuff'll just gather in a huge ball in your stomach until there's no room for food." "Noah, I worry about you sometimes! You guys want any?" Frank offered the bottle to the duo. "Yeah, over here!" Tony held out his greedy hand. Frank handed him the beverage, he took a few gulps, then handed it to Noah. Noah handed the bottle back to Frank. "Okay, so you're saying that we have no place judging the weirdos." "Exactly!" "I just think that God offers an organized religion to everyone. It doesn't make much sense to me that God would just let them make up their own rules and then rationalize them by saying, 'Well God'd do the same think if he were in my place.'." Tony spoke up again, "But do you think God focuses on individuals when there're so many in those denominations?" "Yeah. I mean God's all seeing and all knowing, right?" "Yeah, omniscient!" Noah was pleased with his chance to show off his vocabulary. "But Noah, if you think that God is all knowing... Nevermind!" Frank took a drink and folded his arms. "What?" "Nevermind! A stupid argument." "It seems that you aren't all that strong in you're religion," smugly. "No, not really. Any true religion should be fairly hard to understand." Some more beads emerged from the hole near Grover's foot. "What! So God makes it hard on you to understand. That makes no sense!" "It's kinda' like a test. Ya' know. Like all of this is a big test for us to see how spiritual we really are." "But it's not like we have any control over what we do!" Tony held out his hand for the pop but Frank ignored him. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" "I think that once we're born, our whole lives are laid out for us. Simple as that." "And how do you rationalize that, oh mighty guru?" Tony inquired. "Okay. Since the beginning, since the first little slime mold appeared on the earth, that's what set what everyone was going to do. Since his first motion that little thing made, there was only one path to follow from there." "Uh-uh. First: that still makes no sense; second: what determined what the first slime mold did?" Frank gave Tony the bottle. "Look!" Noah was frustrated now. "Everyone influences everyone else, right?" Tony and Frank nodded. Tony puffed a breath into the dip- stick and broke the film of soap. "Okay. It's like your parents tell you what to do etc. and their parents told them what to do." More nods. "So every action begets a reaction, the only logical reaction that there is. So everything that I see and hear and feel and smell is locked into my brain somewhere. Then I just spit out what I've recorded over my lifetime." "That kinda' makes sense. I'll haveta' think about that!" Frank started to ponder the philosophy spewed before him to absorb. "But that just demolishes the whole concept of free choice!" Tony was vaguely upset. "You just feel like you're choosing what you'll do! You're just recalling past experiences." "But what if I just do something off-the-wall like this," Tony erupted into another frenzy of spasms and gurgling. "Just a faster recollection of previous experiences," flatly stated. "You can't deny it. It just happens. If you decide that you're doing something spontaneous, it's just along the same branch as what you've just done. Some experiences are along the same path in you're brain, like 'off-the-wall' stuff. If you were just talking about...say Smurfs!" "Why Smurfs?" "For the sake of argument. Say you were just talking about Smurfs, then along that path is a variety of the previous experiences. Just some more closely related to the subject. There is still only one choice that's logical!" Tony needed to pick up his pipe to look philosophical. "I still haveta' stick with the idea of free choice! Otherwise it would ruin any thought of spontaneity I'd have. Lame!" Frank was still absorbing some of the conversation, but he was exhausting most of his conscious thought on the previous statements. He continued playing with the Yo-Yo. "Look at the floor, man! It's a mess!" Tony pointed beneath Noah's seat. Noah just laughed. Tony dethroned and began picking up the white baubles and stuffing them back into the hole. The CD wound down to the end of the album and Frank whipped his Yo-Yo up and down. About The Literature: ===================== "The Thousand Dollar Breasts" was written by William J. Slattery. This is his first appearance in The Boundaries of Sanity, though I doubt it'll be his last! Mr. Slattery, of course, witholds all rights to his work. "Provocation 74" is Michael Matthew's third poem to appear in The Boundaries of Sanity. He holds all copyrights over his work. "The Harp" is a story from another long-time contributor, Kevin Francis. He holds and keeps all rights to his work. "Untitled" is from our most exuberant contributors Chris Lynn, who with- olds all rights to his work. "Carboard Souls In A Steel-Belted World" is another piece from Chris Lynn. He holds all copyrights over the work.