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the best things in life are F R E E
Holy Temple of Mass Consumption F R E E
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Raleigh, NC 27622 StarFleet BBS (919) 782-3095
The Only News In The World Worth Mentioning:
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the Sex Kittens Hotline at (919) 233-2999.
This show airs on Wednesdays at >>10:00pm<< on Raleigh cable channel 10
Buy these COMIX or die:
**** Post Bros. #31 - Part 3, The Fearborn Thing - Ron and Russ confront the
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** The Worlds of H.P. Lovecraft - "The Picture in the House" - story of
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some of the intensity of the original text work, though. Caliber Press
**** Ren & Stimpy #9, "Native Son" - Shipwrecked, they land on a South
Seas island, where the natives wear Stimpy masks and worship him as a god.
Nice references to "Apocalypse Now". Plus, Marlon Hoek & Jacques Stimpy
do a undersea "Wild Kingdom" episode. One of their best issues in a while.
**** Urban Legends #1, Dark Horse comics. Illustrated urban legends
including the baby in the microwave, Rod Stewart's trip to the hospital,
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***** Wild Cartoon Kingdom #1 - Cartoon-oriented magazine. The cover story:
The Ugly Truth behind Nickelodeon's Ren & Stimpy takeover, and how it is
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NOTE: The original author of JM:SR has been found!!! and he has actually
changed and continued the story! Wipe your neurons of the stories in the
past 2 issues, and get ready, its....
Jim Morrison: Space Ranger
by T.Rev hin9@midway.uchicago.edu
Part 1
The shooting had stopped. The jungle quiet was disturbed only by
the sound of huge mosquitos flying through the humid summer air. A
full moon gave Morrison's face a ghastly pall as he reloaded his
Tarantula 9000. The Tarantula was a fine weapon, a .50 caliber
recoilless machine pistol of a type that would not be mass-produced
for another twenty years.
Damn. If only the Viet Cong patrol hadn't shown half an hour
early. Damn. If only he hadn't gotten separated from his squad
during the firefight. Damn. If only anything in the last eighteen
hours hadn't happened. Damn.
Morrison tried to clear his mind by concentrating on the gun. It
was a prototype, a weapon he had rescued from the laboratories of a
dead Ceylonese weaponsmith, and he hadn't been taking proper care of
it. Now, the loading mechanism was jammed, and he didn't have the
tools to repair it. He tried to improvise using his pocketknife,
the one he'd picked up during the Doors' last tour, years before,
but his hands were shaking so badly from malaria and hunger that he
couldn't make any progress.
He worked long into the night, slapping at the mosquitos that
descended in clouds to drink the blood from his exposed arms and
chest. He didn't notice the change in the moonlight as it drifted
from silvery-white to blood-red, until the sound of inhuman voices
nearby caught his attention.
Even after decades of war, or perhaps because of them, there were
things in Southeast Asia that men like Morrison were not meant to
know. Morrison saw the moon, and knew he was in trouble.
He sheathed the broken weapon and rose shakily to his feet. The
voices were louder now. He turned and broke into a trot, trying to
ignore the sick aching in his body. No use. After a few steps, he
faltered, tripped, and fell. He rolled, trying to rise to his feet-
-and he saw them. Black as tar, dripping wet, they were half the
height of a man and twice as wide, and they were roaring like angry
dogs, jaws opened wide and dripping foam. The first one grabbed him
and tossed him into the air like a rag doll. He flew against a tree
and felt his spine snap. The last thing he heard was gunfire.
"What the hell were those things?"
"No idea. Not important. Morrison is here, like the boss said."
"Is he alive?"
"Does it matter? Get him in the chamber and let's get back to
base."
Jim Morrison was dreaming. He dreamed that he was back on tour
with the Doors, dropping acid, getting in trouble with the police.
But, for all the sweetness and light normalcy, something was
terribly wrong. Maybe it was the fact that all the police had blank
silver panels where their faces should have been. Maybe it was the
fact that Robbie Krieger kept changing color, like a badly tuned
color TV. Maybe it was that the drugs he took the most were ones
he'd never heard of. Something was wrong.
Jim Morrison sat up in bed with a start, his body drenched in
sweat and shivering uncontrollably. He felt terribly, violently
ill. His bones ached as if there were sand in the joints. Every
move of his eyes shot red lances of pain into the back of his skull.
His gut twisted with intense nausea. Through the tears welling up
in his eyes, he hazily saw a pipe and a lighter next to his bed.
What the hell. Maybe there's something left in the pipe. With
violently shaking hands, he took the smoking equipment from the
nightstand and lit up the pipe.
One puff and his agony dwindled to a vague uneasiness behind his
temples. The second brought with it a sublime joy that had nothing
to do with physical pleasure, as if Jim had touched the mind of God.
"Shit! What's in that stuff?" he gasped, hastily replacing the
pipe on the nightstand. As his vision cleared, he gave the room he
was in a brief inspection. Aside from the bed and the nightstand,
there was little in the rather cramped room. On the wall in front
of him was a television screen, and to either side of him were large
panels, doors perhaps. A low hum resonated through the room, and
Morrison guessed that he might be on a ship or airplane.
Morrison went through the mental stabilizing exercises he had
learned during his visit to Tibet.
Who was he?
Jim Morrison.
What was he?
Once a poet, a philosopher, and a musician; now just a
landless mercenary.
Where was he?
Not enough information; file away for the moment.
When was he?
The summer of 1974, he assumed; again, not enough
information.
What was the last thing he remembered?
Dying.
Jim got out of bed, his pain quite gone. What was in that pipe?
He took stock of himself in the reflective surface of the television
screen. He noticed the faint scars that ran from his temples back
past his hairline, and the small metal plate behind his
right ear. What happened to me?
One of the panels slid silently open, and in the doorway stood
Jimi Hendrix.
Morrison should have been stunned. Instead, he only felt a vague
echo of surprise. "Jimi!" exclaimed Morrison. "I thought..."
"...I was dead? I could accuse you of the same thing, man. But,
like," Jimi said, spreading his arms and smiling, "the simple fact
is that I'm alive as you are." His smile seemed genuine, but there
was something subtly wrong with the way he walked, something that
didn't fit with friendly old Jimi. He walked like a jungle cat now,
Morrison realized. Not knowing what to do with the insight,
Morrison responded with a question.
"How much is that?"
"Uh, good question, man. Listen, I know you must have a lot of
questions, but I'm not, like, the person to ask. The reason I came
up here is to invite you to a jam session."
Morrison was taken aback. "But, uh..."
"Hey, calm down. You're safe right now, dig? Hold on a
minute..." Jimi walked over to the TV screen. "Just like I
thought, somebody left this turned off. The computer will explain
everything," said Jimi as he touched a button. "I gotta run.
Later." Jimi left the room.
"Computer?"
"Hi there!" said an unnaturally perky voice from the TV, as an
abstract pattern flickered to life on the screen.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Oh, that's simple. You're on a spaceship."
"A spaceship." Sure. Why not?
"Yup! A spaceship. You're on tour, okay, on tour, with you and
Jimi and Keith and everyone else!"
"On tour."
"Yeah!" continued the computer breathlessly. "And, um, also you
gotta do some...special...things. For Bob."
"Bob. Check."
"Bob's the guy who owns this ship and he's the guy who saved you
and Jimi and everyone else. So, that's the short version. Can you
dig it, Jim?"
"I guess."
"Great! You have a gig tonight and you gotta come down and
learn the set they're doing. Just follow the big blue dot!" On
cue, a glowing electric blue sphere appeared, floating at waist
level by the door.
"Yeah. Sure."
As he left, the lights in the ceiling went out, and the only
illumination was provided by the eerie green glow of the pipe.
Jim Morrison woke from a dream of formless shapes and impossible
geometries. Blinking and squinting, he focused on the thing that
had awakened him--a strobelike pulsing from the video unit that
knifed through the darkness of the room. As he sat up in bed, the
pulsing stopped, and was replaced by a message:
GOOD MORNING MR. MORRISON. YOUR ATTENDANCE IS REQUESTED AT A
MISSION BRIEFING. PLEASE PREPARE YOURSELF AND WHEN YOU ARE READY
PLEASE FOLLOW THE BIG BLUE DOT.
Morrison stared at it contemptuously.
AS IF YOU CARED, THERE WILL BE COFFEE AND DOUGHNUTS AT THE
BRIEFING. HAVE A NICE DAY.
"Fuck off," Morrison said cheerily. Actually, he was feeling
almost unnaturally good, considering how long he'd jammed with Jimi
and the boys and how long they'd been drinking afterward. Just the
faintest headache. It wouldn't do, however, to be polite to a
computer.
He got out of bed, stretched, and jumped into the shower.
Several minutes later he was dressed and ready to leave the room.
As he walked through the doorway, the blue light floated away from
him, as if it was supposed to lead him somewhere. Shrugging his
shoulders, he followed. It led him down several hallways, where he
passed several men and women. The only one he recognized was Janis
Joplin, but she didn't seem to recognize him, so he walked on. The
light led him into an elevator that also seemed to know where to go,
back out, and finally into a small auditorium.
Jimi Hendrix was already there, in the front row, sitting next to
a table on which strange guns and less identifiable objects were
placed. Keith Moon was standing near the back, admiring a painting
on the wall. Hendrix motioned Morrison over.
"Hey, man," said Hendrix. "Sit and learn."
"From what?" asked Morrison.
"From that," Hendrix said, pointing at a large screen set into
the front wall. The screen was dark.
"It's dark, Jimi."
"Yeah, uh, watch."
Morrison squinted. "Is this one of those Zen questions?"
Hendrix pondered the question. "No, uh, watch."
Before Morrison could respond, the screen flickered to life. A
face dominated the screen. The face was of a distinguished-looking
man, blandly middle American, grinning, smoking a pipe. It was
obviously a puppet of some sort. The lips moved. The voice was
full and rich and tinged with arrogance, but had an artificial
quality.
Hendrix waved at the screen. "Hi Bob!"
"Hi there. I'm sure you're wondering what I'd like you to do."
"Yeah, like, tell us and we'll get with it, you know?" drawled
Hendrix.
Morrison quickly glanced over his shoulder to see what Moon was
doing. Moon flashed him a tight-lipped smile and Morrison stared
back at the screen.
"Well, okay, I need you to get a rather special artificial
intelligence from a research station on Sirius. Your cover, as
usual, will be as the New Jimi Hendrix Experience."
"Right, Bob." Moon approached the front of the auditorium.
"Tell us where it is, I'll get us in, Jim and Jimi will take care of
the guards. What else do we need?"
"You're going to need an Archetype." The capital letter was
audible.
Moon hissed. "No, not Jerry! Damn you, Bob, too many people die
when Cornelius is involved. Can't we do this without him?"
"Without Jerry Cornelius, we'll never get it. We need him.
That's the truth."
"I'm pleased to hear it." Jerry's voice was sardonic as he
entered the room rather theatrically and closed the door behind him.
Jim Morrison looked him over. He was very tall, and that pale
face, framed by the hair, resembled Morrison's own. His black eyes
did not seem at all kindly.
Jerry strolled toward the front of the auditorium. "This is
heavenly. What a smashing way to finish. Or begin."
Morrison's headache worsened.
Hendrix searched through the pile of weapons and equipment on the
table. He handed a small machine pistol and a battered plastic case
with inscriptions in Japanese and English to Moon, and a chrome dart
gun and a neatly folded black car coat to Jerry. For himself, he
took a modified gauss rifle. Its complicated sighting mechanism was
connected by a tangle of fiberoptic lines to a pair of silvered
goggles that he hung around his neck. To Morrison, he handed a
fragile-looking crystal and chrome gun, about the size of an AK-47.
"What's this?" Morrison asked sullenly.
"'Sa gun, luv," said Jerry. Morrison ignored him, stared at
Hendrix.
"What's this?" he repeated.
"That's the best weapon we got on the ship, man. That's a
Slampire V pulser. Use that on someone, you'll burn a hole in them,
and they'll get the worst case of, like, bad karma you ever seen."
Morrison hefted it. "What do I do with it?"
Hendrix smiled happily. "Blow up the bad guys. Handles like an
Uzi."
Morrison thought a moment. Sure. He'd been a mercenary before.
This Bob, whoever he was, saved Morrison's life. Why not? "What
bad guys?"
"Whoever Bob tells us to blow up."
"Moral absolutism!" clucked Jerry. "Oh, dear. What will I ever
do with you, Mr Hendrix?"
"Hey, Bob? We got a trank for Oscar Wilde here?" asked Moon,
gesturing toward Jerry.
Bob ignored him. "So, gentlemen, and Jerry," he continued, "the
full details of your mission can be found in the dossiers the
computer is about to print out for you. You have one week to plan
and prepare. Goodbye."
And the screen went dead.
--end of part 1--
[Appropriate graphics here]
*******************************************************************************
SUNDAY JULY 4th, 1993
INHALE TO THE CHIEF
[Miscellaneous
The 24th annual Washington D.C. hemp rally.
(a white house tradition)
graphics
HIGH NOON
all over
LAFAYETTE PARK
the page
---and---
in the
The 1993 NORML CONCERT ON THE MALL
hardcopy
4pm - MIDNIGHT
version
23'rd & CONSTITUTION AVENUE, NW
only]
Featuring:
Everything
Blue Miricle
Blind
SEE-I
and `special guests'
SPONSORED BY THE FOURTH OF JULY HEMP COALITION
Both events will feature speakers from across
the hemp/marijuana movement.
For more information, contact:
The July 4th Hemp Coalition at (202) 363-0068
or
NORML at (900)-97-NORML
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