Propaganda Unlimited

January 26, 1994 -- Volume One, Issue One

"More Fun Than You Can Have Being Defenestrated!"


1. Introduction to Propaganda Unlimited
by Midget Caesar

2. Letter from the Editor (or, Yet Another Introduction)
by Constantine

3. Writer Spotlight: Let's Meat Midget Caesar!

4. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part One
by Constantine

5. Moving Between Places, Part One
by Midget Caesar

6. PhReEkInG Wit DDTs!!
(interpreted by Constantine)

7. Dystropia, Part One
by Midget Caesar


Midget Caesar ............ Our Founder, Head Writer, Head Journalist, Head Head.

Constantine .............. Head Editor, Head Cynic, Enya Groupie, Generally Not Welcome on Warez Boards For a Reason.

Nex ...................... Distribution Manager, that Nutty SysOp We All Know and Love, Head Cyberpunk.

Oregano .................. Head Critic, Lord and Master of Most of Evanston, Perpetually on Assignment.

King Trent ............... Mr. White.

Avocado .................. Head Groupie, Subject of Many a Def Mangoe Song, Hasn't Written a Damn Thing For Us but We List Her 'Cause We Like Her.

Jack Roberts ............. Head Ditto On What We Just Said About Avocado, but We Have High Hopes For Both Of Them.

Billy Idol ............... Mascot.

The Birth, Life, Changing, Cleaning, Schooling, Graduation, Job Training, Marriage, Childbirth, Struggle, and impromptu Murder of a Tfile Group
(by Midget Caesar)

Guido did this in BLaH. All the great, lasting tfile groups have done this. Actually, there's only been one great, lasting tfile group, as far as we're concerned. They called it:


Much has been spawned from it. Spinoff tfile groups, entire BBSes, new forms of the lambada, lucrative deals on fuzzy pink bunny slippers, an entire news network, decent employment for James Earl Jones, and even certain BBSers themselves. But BLaH is dead, and we come not to praise it, not to bury it, and not to feed it chocolate-covered tacos, either. No, we haven't the faintest idea why BLaH was mentioned, really.
Hello, we're Elvis. No, we're not. Midget Caesar, a nifty little collective mind of 420 people, including the entire Caesarian line of Roman emperors, along with a few other people, some of whom we'll list later on. Rah, we bet you care. Anyways, as we write this, the only major tfile group of note left is MaDCaP, now run solely by a racist twit named Chuck. So it's our duty to put something brilliant, something inspired out there. A tfile that goes beyond all legends of BLaH and dreams of what it might have been.

But we decided to put this out instead.

It all, for us, started on a BBS named The Obloid Sphere. It was greatly influenced by BLaH theology , and we began there. It was a wonderful BBS, and the warmth and love of the holy Mango washed over all of the users. Lots of posts, and it was beautiful. The users gathered together with bags on their heads, and spread peace and more bags. Then, we were asked to CoSysop a BBS that was to be called "The Holodeck", for the 42nd time. So we suggested a new name: "Virtual UnReality" . The BBS went up, and was quite successful.

Around the same time, the Obloid Sphere slowly began to deflate, as its guru Nyarlathotep left for college. It sunk into an abyss from which it is only now beginning to recover. But VU continued to thrive, and all was good, until Obloid was crashed by Chuck, and MaDCaP split up. It was time to fill the void with brilliance, inspired lunacy. The BBS world needed it.
But we were lazy, and never got around to finding any of those things.

But Now, with the help of Constantine, former BLaH-member, and some of VU's users, we forge forth with this drek in hand to bring a little happiness to the world. To spread some lunacy, to shed a little light on corruption, to hassle a few public transit employees, to ponder a few 7-11's, battle Big Brother and the Combine wherever they may lay, and to spread some happy thoughts.

Peace, Love, and Mangoes, people, Propaganda Unlimited is here.

Letter From the Editor
by Constantine

Propaganda Unlimited is like bran. Not quite in the same way as conformity is like cheese (ask Chessman), but close. Like bran, PU is filling and nutritious; every issue, we'll be bringing you humor, fiction, and news you can use, all written by fellow BBS enthusiasts and codified into the Tfile 'O' Mirth you see before you. Like bran, PU is the perfect supplement to your cyberspace diet, preferably digested with eggos and a heaping spoonful of raw tang.

It has been rumored that PU cures irregularity-- try it for yourself.

We would like Propaganda Unlimited to break from the mold and become a rolling juggernaut of annihilation, but we can't do it without your help. Namely, we need material. If you're a good writer who can produce solid articles on a regular basis, or if you've just got a piece you'd like to share with the cold, cruel world, or if you did have a piece once, lost it, and think you could retype it reasonably well, or if all the kids in your science class are afraid of you FOR A GOOD REASON, drop us a line! We can't pay you, as we are currently pouring all our assets into the "Free Jimmy Bakker-- We Need the Laughs" fund, but if we use your work, we'll put you on the masthead with a catchy title for all your friends to envy forever.

(Note: It is not true that the editors can be bribed to put people on the masthead with bogus titles. It is especially not true that they will do it in exchange for sleazy home videos. It is certainly, definitely not true that they prefer VHS format.)

And let us know what you think! Send email to Midget Caesar, Nex or Constantine on any of our distribution centers, and tell us what you like and dislike. Remember, this is YOUR magazine. The best letters we receive will be reprinted in the letters column, with appropriately pithy comments, so write today and write often.

Welcome to the first issue of Propaganda Unlimited-- we hope you enjoy it. Relax, jack in, and take a look at the world through our eyes.
And don't forget to eat your bran.

Yes, it's what you've all been waiting for and after us to do....

LeT'S MeeT THe MiDGeT CaeSaRS! (MeaT?)
Part 1

The Human: Boring (does not count as one of us, since he has no personality, he can't be one.)

Idiot: Our voice of insane sanity, the calm voice that usually mediates our fights and steers the body, an open mind to anything.

Bhuufu: A baby pygmy, Tai Chi master, and Dragonfly Lord who just *loves* to make messy in the sandbox! He refuses to be potty trained.

Julius Caesar: Despises Augustus Caesar after 2 millennia of hanging out together. Affectionately called "Uncle Julius" by Bhuufu, he is usually stuck with the task of cleaning up after Bhuufu.

Augustus Caesar: Despises Julius Caesar as well, and tends to monopolize the bathrooms whenever he is having a hissy fit.

Al: In charge of body odor and standing around looking muscular. Convinced that he's really Al Capone, but no one believes him. Of course, we're sure as hell not going to say it to his face.....he fears only Bhuufu, for some strange reason.

Myron: Ignore him, he's an asshole. Unfortunately, he's quite good at running the body. He's the &%@^#*& who let the Ayatollah Khomeni into our mind......basically, if the biggest asshole you know had an illegitimate child with Marvin The Paranoid Android from the Hitchhikers' books, this is him.

QWeRTYuioP: WaReZ FReaK, aND CoMPuTeR HaCKeR! SiNCe THe ReST oF uS AReN'T 3LiT3, He DoeSN'T TaLK To uS.

Erf The Anarchistic Happy Slayer: Loves grandiose titles and making bombs at home from boxes of Trix.

Papaya: Has one of those funky hats with the fruit on top. Likes to play with Bhuufu. Besides having a funky hat, we can't figure out why the hell he's here.

Davus The Cross-Dressing Bandit: Who says transvestites don't make good philosophers?

Eucliedes The Victim: Gets beat up all the time, and learned to enjoy it.

Cornelius Of The Studly Pose: Wears a spandex toga, and therefore believes himself to be quite important.

Syrus The Thrasher Of Buttocks And Anything Else He Can Get At: Thoroughly enjoys his work.

Ralph The Wanna-Be Ninja: Ordered one of those "Secrets Of The Ninja" catalogs from a Boy's Life, and it went to his head.

Aurelius The Apelike:

Bernie: He's been lost ever since that Hamster incident. Has been spotted as many times as Elvis, but we've never met up with him again.

Nero: Obnoxious, refuses to get dressed, and must be kept sedated.

Tiberius: Driven insane by implications of a lack of endowment.

Sextus The Demon Child: Hit his head one too many times . He does anything Lil' Anti-Christ says.

Lil' Anti-Christ: He was sent to bring about the Apocalypse, but before he could grow up and do it, he got run over by a reindeer.

Karl The Kinky: In charge of polishing the leather supplies, and is busier than you might think.

Catullus The Flatulent: Uses big words to disguise that he tooted.

Woofie: Our dyslexic pet god.

Tyrone: Thinks we're all stupid, and is worried his rep will be ruined from being stuck in here.

Gary Coleman's and Emmanuel Lewis's Careers: Hiding out here, petrified of being reclaimed.

Meep: Just says that. Meep. A lot. He's getting annoying. SHUT UP, MEEP!!!!

The Guava Melon: Just wants to be loved.

ThrashBoy: whamWHAM! BaDUM!

Biff The Taxi Driver: Tries to collect fares for piggyback rides.

Abdul The 7-11 Stud!: Would you like some beef jerky with your purchase of Hustler magazine?

Strawberry Ice: Vanilla Ice's Twin Brother who didn't quite make it big.

That Thing That Was Hiding In Your Closet At Night When You Were A Kid: Yes, he exists......

Snuffleupagus: Only here when he's not hanging out with Big Bird, and is secretly furious that his existence was revealed on Sesame Street to everyone, and not just Big Bird

TenorBoy: O SOOOOLOOOOO MEEEEOOOOOO! Idolizes OperaMan from SNL, but is embarrassed of his high-pitched, shrill voice. But he keeps trying, and thus we're constantly buying new glassware.

Master and Servant: Two really fun guys.
Blarney: Ireland's answer to obnoxious purple dinosaurs: An Obnoxious GREEN dinosaur!

The Fungus King: Yes, fungus can be dangerous. Very dangerous.

Flip Swivel: Slimy record executive, convinced that LPs WILL come back. Just watch.

Swimmy Jaggert: Fundamentalist Born-Again-Christian Out-Of- Work Evangelist.

Vermin: Likes gutters and what's in them. We dunno why, but he's scary so we don't ask.

Back-Seat Barry: Convinced that Sierra ripped him off, and is growing insane having been separated from his Volkswagon and its back seat for so long.

Salty The Sailor: Has had a long life of advising captains of famous ships like the Titanic and the Exxon-Valdez.

Lord Gavin Thromwell: A stuffy old English poet who is BRILLIANT no matter if you little teenage whelps think that a poet should have talent to be good.

Bernardo Riviera: Considers it his personal duty to expose the sex lives of the ex-wives of transvestite alcoholic overweight Satan Worshippers who are pro-censorship.

James Donovan The Third: Rich child, football team captain, debate team leader, and all-around snot.

"Little Booties" Caligula: Dances in a dixie cup and fuzzy booties.

Eraserleg: Rejected from the movie, he now handles angst for us.

Marcus Miximus: Mad and sullen because the human doesn't wet the bed anymore. That was his job.

Warth The Twentieth Polyester King: Has a dangerous life (The last 19 polyester kings were assassinated), but flaunts his platform shoes in the face of death.

The Unknown Street Sweeper: Wishes he had a nice tomb too, but noooo, the soldiers get all the good ones.

Geta The Runaway Rebel: Flasher Extraordinaire.

Bhuufu's Diapers: Yucky Yucky.

Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part One:
Mr. Bobbit Never Had It This Good
By Constantine

(Based on the original "Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace" serial, also by Constantine, which ran in BLaH till it kicked the bucket.)
The bar sat on the edge of 708, a run-down dive where the drinks were as deadly as the customers. Walking past a huge ANSI sign that flashed "The Shrivelled Zone", I lowered the brim of my stetson and pulled up the collar of my trenchcoat against the cold Cyberspace wind.
I pushed open the front door and stepped inside, catching icy stares from the regulars as I walked up to the bar and slapped a few file points on the counter. "Jolt," I said, "Straight up." The bartender filled my glass as I scanned the room. Here were the dregs of the Net-- warez couriers, hacker wannabes, even a few K-RaD KiDdIeS... Any one of them would cut your line for ten cents, and a few were eyeing me like they meant to do it. Then I spotted my quarry, sitting alone in a booth in the back.
Downing my Jolt in a single gulp, I walked over and sat down across from him. He looked like a cute n' fuzzy bunny rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming DC-747.
"Hiya, Zeppelin. Hack your school computer lately?"
"Wanker! You wanking wankers never wanking quit, do you?"
"Language, Zep. And keep your hands on the table, where I
can see them. Nice and slow, that's it. I'm armed and unfriendly."
Zeppelin twitched spasmodically as he put his shivering hands on the scarred tabletop. Too many bad downloads, thought, the boy's got a serious warez addiction.
"Pick up a virus somewhere, Zep?"
"Wanker! Wanker!"
"Yeah, that's what she said. Listen--I'm on a case and I need info. Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I'll forget I saw you."
"Wank, I'll talk. Don't want any wanking trouble, wanker."
"Good boy. When's the last time you saw--" A dark shadow fell across the table, and I turned to see a trio of unfriendly faces. They were K-RaDiK00l, and those bulges under their coats probably weren't shareware.
"Looking for me, Constantine?"
"Joe Fred Foster. There's enough file points on your head to net me a nice vacation in 813. Don't suppose you want to come along quietly?" The 11-year-old goons flanking him sniggered. I tried to stand up, but one flashed forward and shoved me back in my seat. With speed like that, he either had a 14.4 up his sleeve, or he was one hell of a Nintendo player. When it came to bodyguards, Foster could afford the best.
"Not so rough," I said, "I just had my coat dry-cleaned."
"You're the one going to the cleaners," Foster leered.
"Hey! That's pretty clever! You're a funny guy."
Foster scowled. "Funny? What do you mean, 'funny'?"
"You know, funny."
"Funny how? Like I'm a wanking clown? Like I'm here to wanking amuse you?"
"Come on, Joe!" Zeppelin said, "He didn't mean anything by- -"
"He's a big wanker! He can speak for himself!"
"Stop kidding around, Joe!" Zeppelin cried. Suddenly, Foster whipped out a virus and fired. Zeppelin's screams faintly echoed across the bar as his form dissolved into nothingness. Foster pointed the virus at me.
"Time to drop carrier, Mr. Bounty-Hunter. Say your prayers."
I reached into my coat and pulled out a tiny black file. Holding it in the air above my head, I leapt up on the table.
"Stop!" I shouted, "Do you know what this is?"
Foster laughed as the goons looked at us in confusion. "Lemme guess," he said, "It's a Whore virus, and unless we let you go, you're gonna crash the whole bar. Right?"

Damn, I thought, that almost ALWAYS works.

"Wrong!" I said, thinking fast, "It's the pre-pre-pre-beta release of the PC version of Mortal Kombat II!"
Suddenly, every eye in the bar lit with filelust. I hurled the file into the center of the room, where a dozen punks chased after it. The rest of the patrons ran into the fray, static lightning flashing as they fought it out for the coveted program. I used the distraction to leap over Foster's head and race across the bar, a blast from the virus program whizzing past me and splintering a wall. More shots rang out around me as I burst through the front door and out onto the street.
I leapt into the driver's seat of my cherry-red 9600 and gunned the engine, chips squealing as I tore down the phone line. As the Shrivelled Zone dwindled into the distance, I could hear Foster screaming, "You just wait, wanker! I'll get you!"
Not if I get you first, I thought grimly, my hands tight on the wheel. My name's Constantine, and I'm a bounty hunter for hire. It takes a special man to hunt renegades across Cyberspace-- a fast man, a strong man, the kind of man who could wear Brut cologne, but doesn't because he knows better. I'm not that kind of man, particularly, but I never had much talent for show biz and sysoping gives me acne. I pulled into my private garage at Evermore Keep, in the 312 zone. It's a nice place, quiet, away from the bustle of the chatlines. It's also really, really cheap. My office is on the second line. I tossed my hat on the rack as I walked through the door, and stopped dead in my tracks. Before me, resting on the sofa, was a woman who could separate a Catholic priest from his altarboys.
"Lady," I said, breathless, "You've got more legs than a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise."
"Hello there," she said, "Is that a mouse in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" I reached into my pocket.
"Um, no, actually, it's a Microsoft mouse," I mumbled apologetically as I set it on the desk.
"I hear you have a gift for finding people. I need someone found. Can we do business?"
"Can Bill inhale? Can Hillary be president? How can I help you?"
She set a slim attache case on the desk and took out a photograph. I looked it over. The grainy black and white shot depicted a young man sneaking out the back door of a CompUSA with something very large under his overcoat. "My brother," she said with a sigh of despair, "Vito Hernandez. I haven't seen him in weeks..."
"Do you suspect foreplay? I mean--um--foul--"
"My brother had a gambling problem. Perhaps his unpaid debts led to his-" she sighed again, her hand to her forehead, "untimely demise."
"I know a few people I could talk to. Where was he seen last?"
"He kept a small apartment at the Melting Point. That's really all I know. Over the past few months, we've become... distant."
"Not to worry, I'm on the case. How can I reach you, Ms...?"
"Call me Beatrice. And I'll reach you." She strutted to the door, and slowly turned to look back at me. "Please, Mr. Constantine. Save Vito. I can't pay you much, but I know that beneath your hard-boiled exterior, you have a heart of gold."
"How do you know that?"
"It's in the script."
I couldn't argue with that.
"I'll be in contact with you soon. Until then, Chow, Mein Noodles."

I sat alone in the dark, pondering the clues. Then I realized I didn't have any clues yet. Then I went to sleep. Tomorrow was another day, and the Melting Point was right down the net.

******** To be continued in Part Two: James Earl Jones Strikes Back! ********

*TRUE* Stories About Modern Transportation Moving Between Places Part 1: 420 Midgets Go Hitchhiking On Ice.

We were bored Wednesday. That wasn't unusual, since as people who know us at school or work may know, we go through most of life bored . It was also cold. Perhaps we should have known better. Perhaps we should have dressed in something more than a string bikini. But now is no time for recriminations. We could have waited for the bus, but if we had, there would be no point to this particular article on transportation . So we tried our thumb at hitchhiking, and we submit our results for you, Propaganda Unlimited readers.

We waited near the bus stop just in case one came . We were near Marillac High School on Waukegan Road in Northfield, Illinois, not much of an area to hitchhike in. The fish there are particularly paranoid ones. But we thrust our thumb out into the cold, cruel world anyways. The first car to go by pretended to ignore us, as did the next hundred or so. We would have been offended, but we soon rationalized that if they didn't pick us up, it was THEIR loss anyways. So we continued trying, an joy of joys, we were acknowledged! Someone noticed us and imitated us, using their middle finger instead of their thumb like us, being alternative we guess. (Justice was served when they summarily spun out of control, flew over a bridge, and were swallowed up by the Sarlacc Pit that lay underneath) Reactions continued along those lines. Some people were amused, some bemused, some apathetic , some angry, some offended, some indigested, some swallowed by giant lampreys, some had muscle spasms in their middle fingers, some took out assault weapons, some went fishing, and one stopped. It was an old man. He pulled over the side of the road where we were now dancing along with offering our thumb unto the road. After reacquainting himself with the interior of his car, he rolled down his window. "Kid, who the heck do you think you are? James Dean?" "Little punk. You tryin' to get yerself killed? Do you know what some freak who picked you up might do to you?" We wondered out loud if he was referring to a possible Defenestration? "Hmm? Didn't think so. Get yer ass outta here before I call the cops!" We wondered out loud if the rest of our body might stay. A bus came. We were saved, as he had to move.

To Conclude: Hitchhiking only works in warm weather in deserts along long roads with tight clothing on, and it is basically necessary to have a beer in your hand that will create spontaneous snow.

Coming Soon: Moving Between Places Part II: How Many Elephants Can You Fit In A Pace Bus?

PhReEkInG WiTh DDTs By: ThE HakEr D00D!

[Editor's note: this file was sent to us from "The Filthy Diner BBS" along with a lengthy imbedded advertisement, which explained that the Filthy Diner was "ThE SorCe for ALL yEr WaReZ, D00D!". The BBS in question offers 1-3 minute warez at 300/1200 baud, 12 hours a day, and is the home board for the highly elite (and Interpol-wanted) band of European crackers known only as [PeNiS!]... This last bit puzzled us, as the area code of the BBS placed it somewhere in Idaho. We can only assume that a top-secret phone trunk exchange is involved. As the entire textfile was written in something resembling a cross between Sumerian and Pig-Latin, we gathered our specially trained PU literary board (all two of us), and painstakingly translated it into English for the edification of our readers. We trust you will find it as utterly enlightening as we did. --Constantine.]

So ya wanna phreak, huh D00D?! Well, ya got your PBXes and your IUDs, but first ya gotta know all about DDTs! And I'm the HakEr D00D!, here to teach ya! Remember, this is really illegal stuff, so if your mom sees this file you better not tell her where you got it or where I live or I'll find you and BLOTTO BOX YER PHONE, D00D!!!!!!!!!!! Or at least beat you up a lot. Now I got this stuff from a real real technical guy I met on a chat line, and he works for Bell Sprint, he said. And this is what I learned, and now I'm telling you, and remember this is really really--wait, did that already. Anyway. This guy told me to phreak the phones (that means you don't gotta pay for calls and stuff) you gotta find a DDT. A DDT stands for "D-Dial Transvestite". I don't know what that means cause it's real technical, but someday I'll look it up and when I do I'll write another tfile to cover that too. So ya gotta find one, or someone who HAS a DDT, I guess he meant. Funny thing is, the only people who have DDTs hooked up to their phones are chicks! And this is the really cool part-- chicks on BBSes who have DDTs are ALWAYS horny! Anyway ya gotta look hard to find them but they usually have handles like "Cindi" or "Veronica" or "Com" or "Sex Kitten" or something EVEN HORNIER THAN THAT, D00D! Isn't this K-RaD!? When you find one, you gotta make friends with them or they won't help you use their DDT. But that's easy cause these chicks are really friendly! Just tell them how K-RaDiK00l you are, and they'll be all over ya! Now here's the tricky part: NEVER mention DDTs, or ask if they have one, cause a lot of sysops scan their boards and they'll report stuff like that to the FEDS. What you gotta do is use a secret code--tell them that you wanna go out with them, or go over to their house and have sex. Most of them will even suggest it before you do! Then, they'll ask for your phone number. THAT'S THE CODE! You gotta give them your phone number, and then they (this is what the phone d00d told me) will call you back and give you access to their DDT! And once you do that, you're made, D00D! Free calls everywhere! AnArKy!!! So anyway, give them yer number, log off, and wait. Keep the line open, don't call anywhere. Soon, the right people will have your number, and you'll get all the calls you can handle, d00d! I haven't tried this yet but as soon as I finish typing this and uploading it (so I can get enuff file points to d/l Little People Farm III), I'm gonna go and pick up a DDT tonite! DDTs! They're K- RaDiK00L!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Editor's Note: As always, information offered in the pages of Propaganda Unlimited is employed at the reader's own risk. --Constantine.]

Lunchtime in Dystropia Part 1: Fish Out Of Water, Human Gets Wet.

A man walked slowly through the darkness, the elements working fiercely against him, but he paid no heed to the crystalline daggers, nor to the angry cavemen attacking him with spears, nor to the warring taxi drivers, nor to the spectre of the Temple to Elvis that kept disappearing and reappearing, each time doing its best to crush the man's blue suede shoes. No, this was a man who was hungry, and he would not be denied.

Percy didn't want a taco. This was rather unfortunate, since tacos kept flinging themselves at him. So Percy went to his local Fast Food/Religion place and converted to the Arbyan religion. Once converted, he had its deity banish the tacos with a fierce, rousing round of the old top 40 favorite song, "Get Thee Away, Foul Burrito- Wannabe". Percy had chosen initiation-combo #2, which came with a large fries, a large drink, and a demon banishment. Percy handed his receipt to the tallyfish by the door, who was supposed to denote his conversion in the official log of Interesting Things about Normal People, which had sadly become irrelevant with the dawn of the fast food/religion chains. This should have been foreseen, but due to a recent law it was not. The law rooted from dissatisfaction in the fact that public restrooms were lacking doors. It was decided that morons in government were responsible for this. Since the government was to be held responsible for this, then it was decreed that everyone in government was most likely a blithering idiot. Since this had never been realized before, it became evident that the intelligence-rating system needed a revamping also. So the new system was based on the individual's prior involvement in government. Suddenly, the universe was filled with geniuses, and several hundred members of Mensa retreated into quiet desperation, trying to find another excuse for why they were rather socially inept. No one could figure out where to put the new supply of unemployed morons. who were supposed to be drooling, but were apparently being obstinate. Having them become postal workers was considered, but it was soon decided that they were all far too peaceful and stable for such a position. Plus, some sort of government was needed. So fast food employees went to work in government, and no one really noticed a difference. In protest, most fast food of the world decided collectively to become sentient, and stage guerrilla attacks on anyone they saw supporting restaurants as an act of vengeance. Not being especially bright, their first strategy was to hurl themselves at their target, who usually promptly ate them. Since there is known to be an infinite supply of french fries in the universe, they had fresh recruits, but they just weren't having success. They decided to use the already-devoured chocolate milkshakes as martyrs, but would be ultimately defeated by the well-known and documented fact that, as everyone knows, french fries just can't come up with cool-sounding acronyms, a necessary part of any military conquest. There wasn't enough fast food left to maintain the restaurants, and thus a new dimension was added, the fast religions. Divine assistance in a Drive-Thru! Each chain had its own set of deities. The concept of the Happy Meal became something else entirely when certain stores began offering unevolved humanoids as chia pets. So the former government employees, now labeled hopelessly braindead were sent to work in the various fast food/religion chains, where they delighted in enforcing the rules.

Percy returned to the Church of Apathy, but he didn't care enough to disavow his prior connection to the McDeities. This caused great confusion among his own set of deities, when Ronald McDonald turned up as the immaculate conception. Oblivious to this distraction, Percy continued on his quest for a nice, sit- down restaurant.

(WILL Percy ever find a restaurant? Well, yeah, probably. But what horrors await him there? Depends, what restaurant is he going to? Um, I don't know.....what if he was going to Shoney's? Why would anyone do that? Don't ask're the one writing it.)

(WILL anyone ever be able to make sense of what's going on in this story? Well, no, probably not. Does it matter? Nah.) Tune in next time for...... "Waiter, I've Been Waiting Several Light Years For My Food!"


-- Nex is the guy who spent more time hacking Bloodnet than actually playing it. Learn his hex-editing secrets; not only is it easy, it's a hell of a lot cheaper than a hint-book!

-- Evanstonites and visitors won't want to miss Oregano's guide to the drinking fountains of the northern suburbs! Where is it safe to drink? Where is the water good? Where do the homeless folks bathe? It's all here, folks.

-- More fiction, and the continuing sagas of Dystopia and Fear and Loathing!

-- General Wackiness.


At present, these are the fine boards where you can pick up your new issues of Propaganda Unlimited before all the other poor schmucks on your block. Give 'em a call today!

If you'd like to be an official PU distribution hub (whether you really like the mag, or you just need some really cheap publicity and all the cracking groups have turned you down), drop us a line.

Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Entropy (708) 205-0935
Lunatic Phringe CNet (708) 991-4277

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