From: Jeff Huo Subject: Re: A Chicago Social Date: 31 Jan 2000 00:00:00 GMT Message-ID: <872tda$mu5$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <86q4v5$ee6$1@bertrand.ccs.carleton.ca> <86q5fe$cu2$4@bertrand.ccs.carleton.ca> <86qthc$2eh$1@bertrand.ccs.carleton.ca> X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x38.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 141.214.37.212 Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. X-Article-Creation-Date: Mon Jan 31 02:52:27 2000 GMT X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDjeffshuo Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.08 (Macintosh; I; PPC, Nav) In article , mloy@topaz.iupui.edu (Mark Loy) wrote: > In article <86qthc$2eh$1@bertrand.ccs.carleton.ca>, > mhoye@prince.carleton.ca (Michael Hoye) wrote: > >>> In article , >>> jsn@concentric.net wrote: >>>> On 27 Jan 2000 19:14:54 GMT, John Rowat >>>> wrote: >>>> >>>>> Michael Hoye wrote: >>>>> >>>>>> P. Korda wrote: >>>>>> >>>>>>> John S. Novak, III wrote: >>>>>>> >>>>>>>> Michael Hoye >>>>>>>> wrote: >>>>>>>> >>>>>>>> Between you and Pam, I'm going to have to >>>>>>>> design a shirt that says "I made a Novak >>>>>>>> shirt and _died._" >>>>>> >>>>>>> I suggest you start making that T-shirt right >>>>>>> now. You can be buried in it, if they ever >>>>>>> find the body. >>>>>> >>>>>> "Do not meddle in the affairs of Novak, >>>>>> for he is grumpy and designs >>>>>> missile guidance systems." >>>>> >>>>> Forget spam, then. I'm going to make sure my >>>>> GPS coordinates never make it on to the Net. >>>>> >>>> So, Novak, how much are you offering for them, >>>> fresh off the meter? >>> >>> >>> I don't need his GPS coordinates. >> >> Well, this is going to suck. > > Not really. Oh sure, there'll be quite a > bit of air sucking back into the > blast zone after the over-pressure has > lost it's impetus but in all > honesty you should be close enough to > ground zero to be nothing more than > a rapidly dispersed cloud of constituent > atoms long before you need > concern yourself with "sucking". > Missiles and nukes? Paugh. Give John more credit than _that_... ---- LOS ANGELES, CA "Consider it done." The powerfully built, spear bald African man snapped the phone closed. The job puzzled him greatly. He had no idea why he was doing it. But he knew he was going to. One did not question orders. Especially not from a caller of such supreme Humbleness. He got up from his pool chair and strolled to the far side of the pool. What would be the best way to carry out this job? It came to him in a moment. Of course. He flipped the phone open again, punched #1 on the speed-dial. Two rings, and a voice. "Hello Mr. Wolf, it's Marsellus. Gotta bit of a situation." ... SOME TWO-THOUSAND MILES EAST-NORTHEAST, A DAY, AND A POUND OF C4 PLASTIC EXPLOSIVES LATER Even before the smoke cleared, two of his men had already dived through the jagged hole which moments earlier had been a door. The dapper, tuxedo clad man opened his eyes, and, satisifed with the devastation he saw, took his hands off his ears, brushed the dust off of his pants, straighted his tie, and strolled on in, his other two men following closely behind, large aluminum briefcases in hand. Their target had already been gagged and dragged to the middle of the room, forced to kneel, his hands held roughly behind his back by the first two men. The second pair set their cases on the floor, knelt to open them, and began a meticulous set up process. The tuxedo clad man consulted his notebook. "Michael Hoye?" The prisoner nodded, his eyes wild. "My name is Winston Wolf. I solve problems. Pardon the intrusion, but we" --indicating in a broad circle the two strong white men in front now doing physical restraint duty, the two equally formitable African men behind still absorbed in their preparations --" have some business with you." Behind the tuxedo clad man, the two African men completed their preparations and stood up. One was now holding a nasty pair of pliers. The other lit off a acetylene cutter with an audible , the blue flame shooting nearly a foot off the nozzle. The prisoner looked from the pliers, to the blow torch, looked again at the pliers, suddenly realized what was about to happen next, and began screaming. ------- <*rewind*> ------- > > I don't need his GPS coordinates. > OTTAWA, ONTARIO Through the mildly falling snow, a young man hustled down the riverside drive beneath the gentle pools of the streelights. He was absorbed with thought, so much so he only appeared mildly startled when the streelight above him went out. When the next light he passed also went out, he stopped for a moment to stare in puzzlement at the now-dark light, then continued to the next lit lamp --which now also went out just as he passed under it. He stopped dead cold in his tracks. Looking around, and not seeing anyone, he slowly shuffled up to the next light. One foot, then the other, then the other. He shuffled up to the next circle of light. Gingerly pushed his foot foward into the bright patch. The light stayed on. Laughing at his own paranoia, he confidently strolled into the light --and the light snapped out. Somewhere, a loud laugh from a loudspeaker began to carry thorugh the chill air. He begain jogging. The lights snapped off on cue as he passed. He ran past the tall sillouette of the Dunton Tower, past the library, the streelights and campus windows going dark as he ran by. As he cut across the parking lot, row after row of cars gunned to life as he ran by, the windows powering themselves down, the inhuman laugh coming from the car speakers somehow rising over the collective engine roar, the headlights snapping on to pin him in their brightness. Now panic seized him in earnest. He ran pell-mell around the Loeb building, past the Life-sciences building, the Computer Science building, following the road along river he raced, the lights flashing on and off in the buildings he passed as if to mock his fear. He was crossing Campus Avenue now, crazed beyond reason. Behind him the metallic laughter followed. He knew He was watching him, somehow. Reveling in his fear. Punishing him. Ahead, across Alumni Park, the lights in Robertson hall now flashed on and off to form a continuously scrolling message, as if he needed any confirmation what was happening: HOW 'BOUT THAT NOVAK SHIRT, MIKE? ;-P Across the railway tracks he sprinted --tried to, but his boot caught, he fell head-long into the gravel, his right foot painfully sprained and firmly wedged between rail and tie. On his left he heard the scream of steel on steel --a train! He tugged a few times, but knew it was hopeless. He sqeezed his eyes shut as the deafening screech came to a cresendo. Death would come quickly. The screech came to a halt. All was quiet, save the pounding of his heart and the roar of blood in his veins. He took a dozen sharp breaths. Was he dead? Was he alive? He was too scared to open his eyes. "RISE AND SHINE, HONEY." His eyes snapped open and he turned his head left to face the source of the voice. Above him was the massive steel bulkhead of the very front of the train, at it's very front a voice-box --an intercom someone riding in front could use to communicate with the cabin when the trains were being assembled in yard. It now was speaking to him. "YOU DIDN'T THINK I'D LET YOU GO _THAT_ EASY, DID YOU?" The inhuman laughter began again. And Mike began screaming. ------- <*rewind*> ------- > > I don't need his GPS coordinates. > OTTAWA, ONTARIO I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming. That's what I get for watching the Star Wars Movie Marathon --twice-- while stuffing myself full of pizza right before bed. He stood on the corner of Broson across from campus, his brain refusing to accept what he was seeing. TIE Fighters screamed across campus. Sharper winged Interceptors crossed and criscrossed paths. Two wings converged, the lucky ones realizing at the last second they were on a colision course and veering off at crazy angles, four unlucky ones continuing right on into a firey collision, a fitfh careening off to avoid the others and diving straight into the ground. Three giant Assault Shuttles lumbered their way in over his head, angling in southwest over campus. They soared in gracefully, tracking in a straight line, never deviating out of formation, even as that straight line path took the starboard shuttle right smack into the 22-story bulk of the Dunton Tower. Fortunately, the building --and the campus-- was deserted --the attackers having taken about three hours to decide to actually begin landing troops, there was more than enough time for the inhabitants to flee. The campus was taking a beating, tho. "I must be dreaming," he thought as a tremendous explosion obliterated the shuttle and enveloped the midsection of the building. "I'm going to wake up any moment now," as he watched the Stormtroopers exiting the two surviving shuttles scatter like hell under the onslaught of a group of obviously misguided TIE Bombers. "This can't be real," as a hapless stormtrooper on a speederbike barrel-rolled out of control over his head, screaming and cursing, and then crashed into a tree behind him. "God, these guys suck," as he watched two large groups of Stormtroopers circling a building neatly ambush each other with heavy losses on both sides. One trooper, evidently a non-com of some kind, attempted to break up the mess but was hit by a Cadillac. Two giant AT/AT walkers rumbled in, apparently for fire-support. One calmly walked straight into and entangled itself in a low-rising building, wobbled for a few seconds, then fell on top of the other, taking both out in a giant fireball. After several minutes of chaos in a similar vein, a giant voice boomed in from the sky: "LOOK PEOPLE, WE KNOW WE'RE PATHETIC. JUST GIVE US MIKE HOYE AND WE'LL GO AWAY, ALRIGHT?" A group of people fleeing the chaos spotted Mike standing on the corner. One pointed straight at him. Mike took to his heels and ran, but his pursuers were faster. He tripped on a tree root. He came up on all fours but something hard hit him on the back of the head, and all was black. ... He came to, groggily, as he was being dragged by his shoulders bodily down a deck corridor by two grey-clad non-coms. His hands and feet were securely restrained; even excluding that he barely had the strength to lift his head, let alone try to escape. Ahead, a giant bulkhead swished open, revealing a broad bridge deck, with high bay-windows looking out into space. On the left the blue and white of Earth filled the view; surrounding were the unmistakable wedges of Imperial Star Destroyers. Directly ahead was the command dias; the commanding officer had his back to Mike. Below, an officer wearing the pips of a General was beginning to have difficulty breathing. "Incompentents. I'm surrounded by a army of idiots," the cloaked figure in the command chair muttered, then directed the voice to the hapless General. "Where the blast did you get your troopers, General? alt.fan.robert-jordan?" The General opened and closed his mouth in a vain attempt to reply a few times, and then collapsed to the deck unconscious. "My Lord," one of the Non-coms holding Mike nervously pipped, "we have the prisoner you requested." "About fucking time," as the commander swung around in the chair and threw back the hood on the cloak. Dark hair framed the face. The eyes bore down pitilessly from behind thick glasses. The mouth formed a cruel grin, like a lion facing a cornered impala. The glint of chain-mail flashed off an ample bosom. "Maggie?!?" Mike croaked. "You were expecting someone else?" she laughed. "Oh, don't worry, Novak will be back shortly --he's having a nice chit-chat with the command officers involving EVA activity sans suits-- but until then.... David! Open up communiations with the surface! Tell them to send up twenty tons of Ghirardelli's Dark or we slag Peoria! And then do it anyway!" -Jeff -- Jeff Huo | http://www.starfall.com/~jeff U. Michigan Med | jeff@starfall.nospam.com He only earns his freedom and his life who take them every day by storm. --Goethe's Faust Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy.