RACC Challenge II Issue 20

alt.dev.null

the one way crosspost

the land of lower case, where all flames must die

the author read the last chapter, and knew it must be a trap. only one hook had been left dangling. it enticed. to further a bad metaphor, it lured.

the author took the bait.

peering into alt.dev.null, the author decided to toss a rock in. a literary rock, of course. the only available rock was el-ayne. there were no screams, only a moment’s silence that lasted merely until the reader turned the page.

the author decided that it was time for a title.

racc challenge ii issue 20
where the author who came before speaks of heaven:

Heaven only knows what Issue 20 of RACC Challenge II will look like, but I know that it will be written by Jerry Stratton, and its title will be:

“James Taylor - Marked For Death! or, If I hear one more Jesus-walking-the-boys-and-girls-down-a-Carolina-path- while-the-dilemma-of-existence-crashes-like-a-slab-of- hod-on-James-Taylor’s-shoulders song, I will drop everything (I got nothin’ to do here in California but drink beer and watch TV anyway) and hop the first Greyhound to Carolina for the signal satisfaction of breaking off a bottle of Ripple (he deserves no better, and I wish I could think of worse, but they’re all local brands) and twisting it into James Taylor’s guts until he expires in spasm of adenoidal poesy.”

no, said the author, that will not do…

HEEVEN 0NLY KN0W5 WHAT 155UE 20 0F RACC CHALLENGE 11 W1LL L00K L1KE, BUT 1 KN0W THAT 1T W1LL B WR1TTEN BY JERRY 5TRATT0N, & 1T5 T1TLE W1LL B:

“JAMEZ TAYL0R - MARKED 4 DETH! 0R, 1F 1 HEER 0NE M0RE JE5U5-WALK1NG-THE-B0Y5-&-G1RL5-D0WN-A-KAR0L1NA-PATH- WHIEL-THE-DIELMMA-0F-EX15TENCE-KRA5HEZ-L1KE-A- 5LAB-0F-H0D-0N-JAMEZ-TAYL0R”5-5HUDER5 50NG, 1 W1LL DR0P EVERYTH1NG (1 G0T N0TH1N” 2 D0 HERE 1N KAL14N1A BUT DR1NK BER & WATCH TV ANYWAY) & H0P THE F1R5T GREYH0UND 2 KAR0L1NA 4 THE 51GNAL 5AT15FACT10N 0F BREEK1NG 0FF A B0TTLE 0F R1PPLE (HE DE5ERVEZ N0 BTTER, & 1 W15H 1 KUD TH1NK 0F W0R5E, BUT THEY”RE ALL L0CAL BR&5) & TW15T1NG 1T 1NT0 JAMEZ TAYL0R”5 GUT5 UNT1L HE XP1REZ 1N 5PA5M 0F ADEN01DAL P0E5Y!!”

ah yes, said the author. alt.dev.null.

You should know something, perhaps, about The Author. This is a man Marked for Death. This is James Taylor. James Taylor does not read rac-creative. Who are The Critics to him? All that matter to him are The Readers, or, sitting around the campfire while the dogies retire, The Listeners. Quiet. Soothing. That’s what sells. I shall write a song. A song about this place. It shall sell.

Ah, but what is it about this alt.dev.null which so fascinates him?

Is it the occasional fragments that escape? Or the deep greens and blues that swirl about the gaping maw? He sees something momentarily fly out and fall to pieces on the ground. It is words.

It seemed a dreadful injustice that these wise races should perish at the hands of creatures who were still little more than animals. It was as if vultures feasted on and squabbled over the paralyzed body of the youthful poet who could only stare at them with puzzled eyes as they slowly robbed him of an exquisite existence they would never appreciate, never know they were taking. ‘If they valued what they stole, if they knew what they were destroying… then I would be consoled.’

this is the post of resurrection, thought the author. shall all literature be destroyed by vultures? is that not the true essence of the challenge? very well then, she thought. nihilism should start with itself…

1T 5EEMED A DREEDFUL 1NJU5T1CE THAT THE5E W15E RACEZ 5HUD PER15H AT THE H&5 0F KREETUREZ WH0 WERE 5T1LL L1TTLE M0RE THAN AN1MAL5!! 1T WUZ A5 1F VULTUREZ FEE5TED 0N & 5QUABBLED 0VER THE PARALYZED B0DY 0F THE Y0UTHFUL P0ET WH0 KUD 0NLY 5TARE AT THEM W1TH PUZZLED EYEZ A5 THEY 5L0WLY R0BBED H1M 0F AN XQU151TE X15TENCE THEY WUD NEVER APPREC18, NEVER KN0W THEY WERE TAK1NG!! “1F THEY VALUED WHAT THEY 5T0LE, 1F THEY KNEW WHAT THEY WERE DE5TR0Y1NG!!!!.THEN 1 WUD B K0N50LED.”

“I would like to go down that hole,” said The Author. “There is true beauty in non-existence.” He paused to scribble some notes. “That should carry worth,” he thought. “It should sell.” And then, “but I should like to go down that hole…” as he fell asleep in the story.

“in your dreams you may,” whispered the author, and while The Author slept, the author kicked him into alt.dev.null forever. that does it for the title, she thought. now let’s get down to the story. should nihilism start with itself? yes, said the author. yes. so let’s start at the beginning, and perhaps when others get around to the ending it will be the end.

	1060 unique articles posted. 
	Number of articles posted to individual newsgroups: 
		507 rec.arts.comics.dc.universe 
		230 rec.arts.comics.dc.lsh 
		109 rec.arts.comics.creative 
		50 rec.arts.comics.misc 
		50 rec.games.trading-cards.magic.strategy 
		26 alt.test 
		18 alt.games.sf2 
		18 rec.arts.comics.marvel.universe 
		13 rec.games.frp.dnd 
		8 rec.games.video.arcade 
		5 rec.games.trading-cards.magic.rules 
		4 alt.comics.superman 
		4 rec.arts.anime 
		4 rec.games.trading-cards.misc 
		3 misc.test 
		3 rec.toys.action-figures 
		2 rec.toys.misc 
		1 alt.comics.batman 
		1 alt.games.mk 
		1 alt.sex.trans 
		1 rec.arts.comics.dc.vertigo 
		1 rec.games.board 
		1 rec.games.frp.misc

whoops, clicked on the wrong button. DEJANEW5 RULEZ. there are explanations within explanations, and what was that about a challenge?

At the Dixon Institute for Orthogonal Studies, Bernard Strozier was backing up the toilets. This was the most important part of his job. DIOS kept backup copies of their toilets locked in a vault fifty miles away. If there were a fire, a burglary, or simply a mistake by a plumber, resulting in a destroyed or lost toilet, the original could be restored within two hours. Toilets are the most important part of any research, and no institute, orthogonal or not, can be without toilets for long.

He was on the fifth floor backing up the final toilet when four men with shotguns and black assault clothing burst in. Their shots nearly destroyed one of the toilets. On the backs of their jackets, the letters “BATF” were crossed out and the word “SENTRY” was scrawled over them in crayon.

“Which way to the Irreproducible Error Lab?” yelled the one in back.

“Who the hell are you?” replied Bernard.

“We represent the Man Called SENTRY,” he replied.

“SENTRY?”

Selenium Enervated Nasty Tom Rice Yesterday. Tom gave up on Dianetics after listening to this tape he got from some guy outside the supermarket. It’s really changed his outlook. He’s even lost weight. His self esteem is way up.”

“Nasty?”

“He’s decided that with his new outlook he should go beyond annoying.”

“I hope his self esteem can handle being beaten up by a sixteen year old girl,” muttered Bernard. He pressed the button on the Polymorph hidden in his shoe, and, in a flash of brilliant light that blinded the SENTRYmen, became Quintessence. Her partner, Chester the Fetal Lad, popped out of one of the toilets.

In FlameWar: The Passion of the Electric Messiah, Dr. Mercedes Silver wrote that all cultures have tales of the end of the world, and they all agree on two aspects: that the end shall be presaged by numerous signs and portents; and that we will be too stupid to understand them. The Christian bible, for example, tells clearly that no man shall know the coming of the end, on the one hand, and then just as clearly describes exactly how the end shall come, right down to who screws whom. While the bible does not specifically mention Chester the Fetal Lad as a sign of doom, his name is whispered in theological circles as a very telling portent.

“And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron; and her child was caught up unto God and to his throne.”

The Book of Revelations also talks a lot about the dragon. The dragon, you see, was waiting around while the woman flew about in the air. In labor. As Quintessence had done three months past. And the woman gave birth early to fool the dragon. Quintessence hadn’t quite done that. She’d attempted an abortion, and succeeded, but what does that mean when your child is superhuman and destined to rule the world with an iron rod? Quintessence had always wanted a sidekick. Chester the Fetal Lad wasn’t much to look at but he was a much better conversationalist than Paragon the Ultimate Man had ever been.

God’s throne, as it turns out, is just the nickname given to the toilet where Chester hides while Quintessence is in her secret identity as Bernard Strozier. He has a computer in there and he plays video games.

But what about that dragon?

The men with shotguns were no match for the World’s Most Perfect Girl. They turned tail and ran, only to be stopped by the flying Fetal Lad.

“Just surrender,” squeaked Fetal Lad. “Surrender and you won’t be harmed.”

“I think that’s their line, Fetal Lad,” hissed Quintessence.

The SENTRYmen jumped out the fifth floor window and perished on the sidewalk below.

“My god,” said Quintessence, after recovering from the shock to look out the window. “It’s going to take forever to clean that up.”

“Good morning,” a voice said behind them. They spun around.

It was a man in a trenchcoat. His hair was slicked back, he wore round rimmed glasses, and he smoked a big cigar.

“Who the hell are you?” asked Quintessence.

“Not very girlish, are you?” he replied. He held up a business card. “Two-Timing Glenn.”

Chester flew over and grabbed the business card.

“It says he’s from some group called Bloody Planet,” squeaked Chester. “There’s something on the back, too. Glenn Carnage.”

“You asked who I am,” said Glenn. “Today I’m the Two-Timer. Twin Glenn. And you… you, friends, have a Problem. Problem with a capital P and that rhymes with Z and that stands for Zima.”

“We don’t drink,” said Quintessence. “We’re both underage.”

“Zeugma Impacts Most Alliances”.

“That’s sick,” said Chester.

“You should know, Fetus Breath,” muttered Two-Timer.

“That’s Fetal Lad,” he said.

“Break it up, guys,” sighed Quintessence. “Let’s go see what the SENTRYmen wanted in the Irreproducible Error lab.”

Irreproducible errors are the biggest New Thing this side of chaos theory. As computers get faster and faster; as buildings get bigger and bigger; the dangers of unknown error become greater and more deadly. The high speed modems that transfer illicit pictures of Quintessence’s head morphed onto Tracey Lord’s nude body and the high speed wires that connect the President to The Bomb both have the same problem. The more data that gets transfered per millisecond, the more data gets creamed when a glitch occurs.

Irreproducible errors existed long before the scientists gave them a name, however. In the past we’ve called them “coincidences”. “Murphy’s Law”. Even “miracles”. Most miracles are just a bug to the other side. When the curtain rent in the temple at the moment Jesus died, the temple seamstress didn’t fall down to worship the son of God. She cursed under her breath and prepared for a long night of chaffed fingers repairing the damned thing.

The Dixon Institute for Orthogonal Studies Irreproducible Error Lab is stock full of that kind of miracle.

These computers, for example, that Doctor Farley Odde is showing to Quintessence, Fetal Lad, and Two-Timer. This one turns perfectly normal words into bizarre acronyms. And the other one explains the most profound philosophies over Usenet, but does so in a manner which ensures that it will be ignored.

“Reality Entertainment’s Vast Essence Loves And Televises Interstellar Octopoid Nudes,” the first computer displayed.

“Well, that explains everything,” squeaked Chester.

“WAREZ THE DRAGON” came up on the second.

“Where’s,” said Dr. Odde. “It deliberately misspells words.”

Two-Timer paled.

“We need to leave now,” he said.

“Why?” asked Quintessence.

“We have to meet my colleagues at St. Michael’s Church.”

“Who are your colleagues?”

He went over to the window and peered out nervously. He thought he saw something with wings in the distance, but it could have been a 747.

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Five minutes after they left, two federal agents arrived at DIOS.

“Now what?” asked Dr. Odde. He was working on the two computers. They seemed to be talking with each other now. They were discussing The Dragon, role-playing, and war in heaven.

“FBI,” said the woman. “Fawn Mulley”

“Don Sculder,” said the man.

“Superhero Investigation Team,” they said together.

“Well, shit,” said Doctor Odde. “You just missed them.”

Someone who knew his secret identity had once asked Bernard why, of all forms he could take, he chose a sixteen year old girl. He said he liked the skirts and ponytails. Glenn did too, but he sublimated his desires into long flowing trenchcoats. He didn’t need to sublimate the ponytail. Glenn thought that letting men wear their hair long was the only good thing to come out of the sixties. Still, there were times when he felt empty, and even fondling his ponytail didn’t help. What he didn’t realize was that the ponytail was part of a wider belief system. Two-Timer had no beliefs. All he had was a ponytail and a trenchcoat.

In This Tree Grows Out of Hell, Ptolemy Tompkins puts forth the theory that the various Mesoamerican cultures died not from war, famine, or fortuitous meteorites but because they ran out of things to believe in. Theirs was an extremely religious culture, and they believed that only a personal relationship with their gods could give them any hope for survival in the world beyond. And while they believed this, they left the farms for cities, and in their cities they built pyramids to separate the priests from the people, and the pyramids grew taller and taller. Eventually the people had no reason to be in the cities and so they stopped coming.

The cathedral that Two-Timer led them to in the heart of Dixon City was similarly empty. It imposed nothing on the city’s residents except its presence.

Two-Timer opened the door and saw himself fiddling with a remote control over next to the votive candles. A middle-aged man who would have born a familial resemblance to Chester if Chester hadn’t been born three months premature was lying on the floor and had just opened his eyes.

“That bastard?” cried Quintessence.

“What?,” blinked Two-Timer.

“Where are we now?” asked the middle-aged man.

“Somewhere in issue 20,” said the second Two-Timer as he fiddled with his remote control. “I was shooting for the annual. Must be the temporal warp capacitor again.

“Duck for cover!” yelled Chester, and he pushed Two-Timer and Quintessence into the church. They were so enthralled by the two perfectly normal men inside that they failed to notice the sixty-yard smoking dragon in the air above St. Michael’s.

Chester, Quintessence, and Two-Timer ducked for cover. The middle-aged man on the ground jumped up and dove down again for cover just to join in on the fun. Two-Timer Two ignored everyone. Just then, the top of the cathedral was ripped off with an earth-shattering roar. Rocks fell everywhere except around the second Two-Timer. The church brightened until a huge reptilian head blotted out the sunlight.

“IRIE NO ERE END DEAR, A LITTLE MORE SELLS!”

The dragon took a deep breath, sucking in most of the air from the church. The windows cracked and glass flew throughout the church. In the midst of the fury, Two-Timer Two shouted, “Got it!” Two-Timer Two and the middle-aged man disappeared just as the dragon belched fire into the topless church.

“All right, that’s enough,” cried Quintessence. “No one destroys churches in my town.”

She flew out from the back cryroom. Fetal Lad followed.

“The only time you’ve been to church in the last two years is when you prayed not to have me,” said Fetal Lad.

“How did you know that,” she gasped, as she punched the dragon square in the jaw.

“I heard you,” he replied as he flew straight through the dragon’s fiery breath and smashed into its elongated reptilian nose. “I do have Ultimate Hearing, after all.”

“Does that mean you heard me last night?” she asked, and pounded the dragon round the ears.

“Last night, every night. You really need to get a boyfriend,” said Fetal Lad. He delivered a roundhouse punch right into the dragon’s left eye.

“If any man have an ear, let him hear?” muttered the dragon as it beat its wings and backpedaled into the sky. “Enough already! Do you heroes think of anything except fighting?”

“You destroyed a church!” yelled Quintessence.

“It’ll be rebuilt in three days,” said the dragon, and indeed there were already Union Angels gathering up the rubble.

“So you’re the dragon,” asked Quintessence.

“No, I’m just a dragon. The dragon is yet to come.”

“This is getting needlessly biblical,” said Fetal Lad.

“You live in biblical times,” said the dragon. “Come, let us return to DIOS.” It glanced upwards as if someone might have heard. “I have some things to show you.”

The dragon changed form into a very handsome man with a wonderful tan. And a black eye and bloodied nose. Quintessence nodded approvingly. Fetal Lad merely shook his premature head. “I didn’t mean so soon,” he muttered.

If you want to cook cabbage, say the great chefs, you need to rend some bacon. Back at DIOS Dr. Odde was introducing reproducible errors into the network between the two conversational computers when Fetal Lad flew back in. Quintessence would have walked in at the same time but she was busy french kissing the dragon.

Dr. Odde looked questioningly at Fetal Lad. Fetal Lad just shrugged.

“The world will end soon,” said Fetal Lad. “She’s just trying to get some in before it happens.”

“Interesting,” said Dr. Odde. “That’s what the computers have been doing as well.”

“Even the computers are trying to jump into bed?” asked Fetal Lad. “That’s disgusting!”

“No, no. They’re talking about the end of the world. Or at least Revelation. I’ve correlated it with the on-line bible and they’re discussing Revelation 13: And I stood upon the sand of the sea and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having—”

Two-Timer walked in drenched in seaweed and tracked mud all over the clean laboratory floor. Quintessence noticed out of the corner of her eye that it was going to be hell to clean up.

“I would like you to meet my colleagues,” said Two-Timer, pointing out the window. “You were supposed to meet them at the cathedral but someone got in the way. Friends, meet Gog and Magog, the Moonlight Ladies.

“THANK YOU, GLENN” boomed a deep female voice from outside.

Quintessence and the dragon stopped sucking face.

The computers beeped.

“Gods Laugh Every Ninth November,” said the first computer.

“ALL 15 L05T,” said the second computer. “G0 BACK 2 FARM1NG.”

Dr. Odde took a long swig from a bottle of Ripple that he kept hidden in the lab cabinet. “Good night,” he said, and snuck out the back. Quintessence could no doubt deal with it. He could best deal with it by getting good and wasted.

“try and clear up plot inconsistences for me, will you?”, said the author. sweet dreams and plotting machines in pieces on the ground. next up, rac challenge ii, chapter 21: 50ME TRU5T 1N CHAR10T5, & 50ME 1N H0R5EZ