#On-Line B Novel
22 messages in this thread
I staggered back from the attractive yellow-pages ad salesperson, trying
to avoid the cloud of disgusting cigarette smoke that escaped her sensual
lips. Not noticing the Lino RIP 1 behind me, I backed into it, flipped
over, and ended up on the floor, one arm in a tray of Rapid Access film
developer, and my head in a wastebasket full of banded halftones and stale
french fries.
She smiled maliciously and, gesturing at the developer with her
cigarette, asked, "Is that stuff flammable?"
"No," I squeaked, struggling to get my head from from a sticky piece of
film. The developer was etching my arm.
"A shame," she said, putting out the cigarette in the diskette slot of
our Jasmine MegaFloppy drive. She walked to the door, pulled it open,
turned back and said, "I hope you'll reconsider, the next time you think
about taking on the DTP Women!" The door slammed, and I could hear her
heels clicking on the old linoleum floor of the hall, echoing out of my
life.
It was more than I could bear. Jumping up, I pulled the french fries
out of my nose and ear, frantically wiped the developer fluid off my arm,
and stumbled across the frayed carpet to the door. Throwing it open, I
shouted after her, "…
"Hey girl! You can build your own laserprinter in your one-woman shop." The
click, click, clicking stopped.
I ran to the mailing room, where I had last heard her steps. It was empty,
but I heard soft, feminine voices drifting in from the entryway. Brushing
the last fry off my pants zipper, I turned the corner and bumped into a
woman in a karate uniform, who was in the process of saying something that
ended with "and he *deleted* the message!" She turned to me and pointed to
the other women in the room. One was wearing a shirt covered with old
campaign buttons, and another was eating broccoli and drinking a tofu
drink. "We're here to DTP!" they said in unison….
"Good grief!" I mumbled as I quickly backed out the door and into the
hall, leaving the DTP Women to their macabre work.
Somewhere along this hall, I knew, there must be a private room of some
sort. But where? How could I find it?
I ran down the hall, my arm still stinging from the developer, wondering
if it was time to apply the fix. "Proper exposure is important," Lee
Atwater always used to tell me, and I didn't want to screw up my big
chance.
I passed Room 4 and heard high, shreiking voices. "Bleed him!" shouted
one. "Strip him!" shouted another. A third yelled, "No, choke and spread
him!"
I gasped and quickly backed away from that door with a jerk, fearing now
for my very life. Who could be the poor schmuck they had in there? How
could I escape such a fate?
Across the hall the elevator door opened. I strained, peering into the
shadows of the ancient, brass and wood car. There was a strange
fragrance…Sandalwood?…and an even stranger sound; the haunted echo of a
long-gone resident of the elevator.
I ran across to the open door and stared, dumbstruck, at the grafitti
painted over the "Fire Only" button. Terror touched my heart as I read the
fateful words…"The penguins were here!"
[next contributor?]
Only the sounds of clicking heels heading towards me roused me from my
meditation on the unlikely message. How close were they and what would they
do if they found me here?
The arm was really burning now but there was no time to loose!
Already I could see the shadows of several women coming towards the hall
where I stood. One last time I pondered the message …."Penguins" …was
it code,incantation, curse? Then hearing a woman's voice shouting
"Aiiieeeeeee!" I jumped onto the elevator and punched the button for the
basement.
The doors took what seemed an hour to close as I pressed against the
side wall but just as I saw a flash of blond hair…..they shut! The
elevator shuddered, then began it's descent. I had figured that if I
reached the basement, I could sneak back up to another floor and find
something to soothe my searing arm.
As the old carriage slowly creeked down,floor by floor, I turned my
thoughts once again to the word "penguin" …why that? why not "puffin" or
some other species?
But such thoughts would have to wait. For as the elevator approached
the sixth floor, I noticed tht the Sandalwood scent grew stronger and the
air thicker …until I could barely breathe. Loosening my collar and
gasping, I slumped to the floor. My eyes began to cloud. My last thoughts
were of hordes of penguins, standing on an ice flow, guarding their eggs
and laughing at me. As the doors opened on the basement level..I
…..slowly ….blacked out…..
..as I came to, I saw a woman bending over me. My hands were tied! My feet
were bound! There were brocolli bits all over me!
"Who were you looking for?" she screamed. "Are you here to tell us that
we don't exist? That We Are Not Equal? Who sent you? What did you hear? Why
are you spying on us?"
She was obviously upset. In the background there was a slow building
chant of women, "Are We Not Women! Are We Not Women! Are We Not Women!" Was
that drums I heard or my pounding head?
I had to think fast. These were persons to be dealt with. My Irish
Coffee clouded brain refused to work.
Looking up into her flashing eyes, I said, "Do you have any furniture
that needs moving?"
The chanting stopped. A hush fell over the room. A sigh escaped from one
of their lips. "Ah, he knows his place…"
As I slipped back into unconsciousness, I saw them huddle into a
conference. Would I live to find out about the penquins? My buyer's
protection plan?…
hahahahaha….
That was very therapeutic!
Dianne
grinning and chanting "Are We Not Women…">
Through a haze of pain, I heard the wailing of sirens. A man in a uniform
pushed through the crowd of chanting women, saying, "Let me through. I know
CPR and I know DTP." As he leaned over to place the oxygen mask over my
face, he whispered to me, "And I know women…"
The momentary peace was suddenly pierced by an ear-shattering roar from a
motorcycle engine. The door was thrown open and I heard the thwack, thwack,
thwack of heavy boots on linoleum. Simultaneously, the DTP Women gasped,
"Ohhhhhh….!" and then all was silent.
I strained to sit up so I could discover what kind of human being could
have the power to *silence* the DTP Women. Though my vision was still hazy,
I could see a dark-haired man with a helmet under one arm and a Personal
Publishing magazine under the other. He looked somehow familiar…. Where
had I seen that face before….?
[Take it away, Rick or Dan]
ok Diannne…
so who's going to upload a scan of the infamous Dan into the files for
those of us who missed his photo in the latest issue……..
C.
The man from the motorcycle reached down and grabbed my shirtfront, his
fist like a ham hock, his face an angry mass of shifting emotion. As he
lifted me up, the pint flask of Jamerson's slid from my torn jacket pocket
and shattered on the wet, black pavement; the pathetic sound of the
breaking glass and the spreading liquid reminded me how my own life now lay
shattered on empty streets of my own creation.
I knew why he'd come, and that the VariTyper Retraction ads were only
the beginning.
"You're the SOB who ripped off my motorcycle, aren't you," he shouted,
his breath betraying the garlic and feta quiche he'd been eating. "You
duplicated it down to the last detail and built one just like it in your
garage."
I lifted my good hand, pleading. "No, sir. Honest."
"Then you must be the one who made jeans out of blue fabric, just like
these I'm wearing!" He shook me violently. "And your name ain't Strauss!"
"No…"
"You made the leather jacket, then. Like this one. I know somebody stole
that idea!"
"Not me…"
He lifted one eyebrow. "The boots?"
"No…"
[continued in reply]
[Continued from previous message]
"Ok, Pilgrim. Spill it. What did you steal?" He glared at me with
bloodshot eyes; an avenging angel, king of a sooted alley.
"Hel…"
"Help you want?" he laughed, backhanding me across the face.
"Hel…"
"You're bound for hell for what you've done?" He laughed again, bunching
my shirt tighter.
"Hel…vetica," I gasped.
He let go of me like I'd caught fire and stepped back to his bike, a
stunned expression creasing his mouth and eyebrows. His left ear twitched
under his black curls as he repeated, dumbstruck, "Helvetica?"
Wiping blood from the corner of my mouth, I shot him a defiant glare.
"Yeah," I said. "It was Helvetica." I looked at the shattered Jamerson's
bottle and felt a pang of nostalgia for the days of cold type. Even
phototypesetting was at least predictable, I remembered. And expensive.
He climbed back onto his motorcycle, still shaking his head, his hands
trembling. "You must be…" he started; then hesitated. He couldn't get the
word out.
"Yes," I replied, fighting back the malicious grin.
He fumbled in his pocket for his motorcycle keys. "You're the man
from…"
"Yes." The words fell flat on the rain-slicked asphalt. "I'm the man
from Bitstream…"
<major grin!>
And as he rode away, I saw his license plate. It read "Penguin." It all
began to make sense, well, sort of, "The Penguins were here." But what did
they want?
All of sudden there she was again. In that karate suit. Now, I
understood. It wasn't me, it was the "Penquin's" — into motorcycle's,
bluejeans, leather and a man named Strauss. I said, "I'm *not* a penguin!
I'm only the man from Bitstream!"
"Yeah?", she said. Pausing while purusing my face for the truth, she then
said, "Well, we're into Adobe around here. Whaddaya want?"
I replied, "I only came here to see if you do resumes."
"Resumes? RESUMES?!" she screamed. "I spent 4 years studying English Lit
(with a minor in design) at Penguin U., just to do _your_ resume??"
"N-N-N-o," I stammered. "I'm thinking of starting a Resume Writing
Newsletter (with lecture series, of course). Do you know where I can find a
brilliant and talented designer/writer/editor/artist/printer-broker that
will work for $25K a year?"
At this point, her eyes started to glaze over; strange, gutteral sounds
started eminating from somewhere along her esophagus; and she dropped into
the horse stance. I knew my days–no, my _seconds_–were numbered, when all
of a sudden I heard a blood curdling cry in the distance….
The piercing scream was enough to jolt me into action. I followed the
harrowing cry outside and arrived just in time to see the firefighter jump
into the back of the ambulance with a newsletter, still dripping blood-red
ink.
He picked up the mic and began describing the patient in an
adrenalinepumped staccato. "We've got a bad one here. It's just the final
proof, though, so there's still time to save it. Type's flush-right,
moire's all over the place, and the dam* thing's not just bleeding–it's
hemorrhaging! And you better call in a copy surgeon and schedule a proofing
room. This thing's got logorrhea, too."
The DTP Ambulance lights and siren came on and as the paramedic reached
forward to grab the door handle, he looked at me and said, "Dam* liberals.
Think whatever people want, people should have. Well, this time they're
wrong. Any Tom, Dick and Harry can walk into a store and buy a DTP system
and then start murdering documents with it. It's just not *right*, I tell
ya'. I'm tired of seeing all the carnage." SLAM! The door shut and the
ambulance tires squealed as it took the corner out of the parking lot.
My head was spinning with questions. How did things come to this? What's
going to become of us?–when out of the corner of my eye I saw….
[next contributor]
Thom –
This thread is ggettin' good — any way you can save it?
— don
Brad's already captured the early parts of it, and I'll hold what's on the
board right now…
Is this thread going to end up in a library somewhere/time? I have NO idea
where this all started.
–Hilary
Right now, that's the plan. We have the active part of the thread on
Hold so it won't scroll off the board, and will be capturing and uploading
it when it seems long enough or when it appears it's run its course. It's
great fun, isn't it?! 🙂
Thom –
Great!
— don
And, Don….. Where's your contribution to our effort? <grin>
–Thom
Thom –
"Where's your contribution to our effort?"!!! I wrote the FIRST episode!
— don
Oh. (oops…) Well, thanks!!! <g>