March 7, 1994 Volume One, Issue Three
"More Fun Than You Can Have Breaking Nancy Kerrigan's Leg!"
1. Introduction to Issue #3
2. Lucid Death, Part One
3. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Three
5. Dystropia, Part ?
by Midget Caesar
6. Modem Chicks
7. Snapple Mango MADNESS!
by Two Fish
Midget Caesar ............ Our Flounder, The Filet o' Soul,
Constantine .............. Cheeseburger, Coke and a Super-
size Fry (no insecurity here,
damnit), Head Editor.
Newt ..................... Hot Apple Pie, Columnist.
Oregano .................. Happy Meal, Evanston Columnist.
Nex ...................... Extra-Value Meal, Writer, Head
Nyarlathotep ............. Chicken Nuggets, Indiana
Two Fish ................. Large Orange Drink, Columnist.
Operatech ................ Quarter Pounder, Distribution
Itchi-Koo ................ Fry Guy, Demomeister.
King Trent ............... The Hamburglar.
Letter from the Editor
Greetings, Buenos Nachos and Blessed Be from Propaganda
Unlimited as we enter into this, our gala Third Issue! As
always, our aim is to bring you quality entertainment, news
you can use, and the occasional bit of (gasp!) thought
provocation. Now that we're settling into a comfortable
groove, I'd like to share our plans for the future and bring
you up to date on what's been going down in Propaganda Land.
PU will now be shipping semi-biweekly, to an always-
expanding list of distribution boards. If you are a sysop
interested in becoming a distribution site, contact any of
the PU staff for details. And now, for faster information
on distribution setup, writing and staff positions, or if
you just want to drop us a line, you can send email to the
Official Propaganda Unlimited Internet Address! Reach us
If there's enough interest, we'll be starting a regular
letters column, where the most provocative mail will be
reprinted and answered by our ever-harried editorial staff.
Love mail, hate mail, warm fuzzy mail-- go ahead. Let us
Speaking of warm fuzzies, let's give a hearty PU welcome
to our newest staff members, Nyarlathotep, Two Fish and
Operatech! You'll be seeing those names quite a bit in
times to come. Unless, of course, the "Ancient Prophecies"
special last week was correct and we're all about to be
devoured by mutant space snails.
And speaking of vermin, there's something on a sadder
note to report. The Entropy BBS was our second PU site, and
one we had rather high hopes for. However, the sysop of that
board sent us a submission under a fake name which largely
ripped on one of our OWN staff members. Now, while we're
firm believers in self-parody (hell, we have to be), the
article in question crossed the line into personal attack.
We rejected it as a matter of course. Shortly thereafter,
it came to our attention that the sysop was opening the PU
submission base to all, particularly the head of another
tfile group, to steal from at will.
Thus was our trust betrayed, and Entropy dishonoured.
Because of this, Entropy and its sysop are not, and NEVER
will, have any association with us whatsoever. We felt that
it was important to bring this matter directly to you, the
readers, in order to deflate any possible rumors.
So what can you look forward to in upcoming issues?
More than you can shake a stick at, if you're inclined to
run around shaking sticks at things. PU is growing all the
time, and we've got a drawing-board full of ideas. This
very issue is the first to be packaged in a double format,
and distributed as PU0103.ZIP and PU3ALT.ZIP. The first
is just the magazine, while the second is paired with the
Smoking Dog Demo, by ISOB's own Itchi-Koo! We've provided
the two formats so that the less demo-inclined can save
time by just getting PU, while others can treat their eyes
and ears to... Well... Let's just say, you won't soon
forget it. It's a pure PU experience.
Remember-- to make Propaganda Unlimited the best it can
be, we need YOUR help. Let us know what you like, what you
hate, and what you'd like to see in the future, and we'll
do our best to keep bringing you a quality digest, month
Peace, Love, and Mangoberries!
Lucid Death by Nex
Some say that when you die in your dreams, you die in
life. Well, I died in a dream, and as you can see, I'm still
around to type this text file. However, although I did not
physically die, it feels as though a certain aspect of my
mind is either no longer there or it has been buried away for
the time being. Anyway. What you are about to read, if
you have the interest, is a narrative account of a lucid
dream, or rather, a lucid nightmare, which I have recently
had. For dramatic purposes, I may edit a couple things here
It was another dark and mysterious night in Chicago.
That is, Chicago in the year 2026. It has been 13 years
since the Vatican had managed to unite the world under its
authority for the "advancement of true spiritual growth."
What utter bullshit. By "spiritual growth," they mean
conformity. Shortly after the world was adapted to this new
leadership, the New Vatican had started to deploy it's army
of high-tech robot police, or as they called them, the
"Population Control." More bullshit. These "population
control" bots are drones sent out to force unwilling members
of the populace to conform. But what they do is alot worse
than slapping people around. They fraggin' strap this helmet
thing to your head and totally wipe your mind. A sort of
operation-less lobotomy. You become a mindless vegetable and
do whatever you're told to do. You're safe from these things
if you put up a good front, but they can usually see through
your disguise. Or, you can be like the majority of the
people and just give in to these sanctimonious assholes. Me,
I don't conform. The name's Tyler. Eric Tyler. I was
a P.I. prior to this "Big Takeover," but now I don't get much
business. So I just go where the wind blows nowadays. Once
and a while, when the need arises, I do some bounty hunting,
but for the Rebellion, and not the Holy Alliance. The
Rebellion is a somewhat organized group of non-conformists.
They have little sub-divisions all over the place, but the
main HQ lies on the outskirts of Chicago, near the old
Nuclear plants. They've got limited resources, but they do a
damn good job of surviving in this harsh environment. The
Holy Alliance is viewing them as a nuisance, and nothing
more. Heh, they don't know what's coming to them. Anyway,
it was a Friday night. I always carry my .357 in the inside
pocket of my black trench.
Any weapon is a valuable commodity these days,
especially in slums like Chicago. The ground was slick from
the drizzle we had earlier, and the air was kind of misty,
but not neccessarily hard to see in. I was heading for Lou's
Marketplace. I had heard that Lou had been giving secrets
away to the Holy Alliance outpost here in Chicago. Well, he
won't be talkin' for much longer. I didn't bother to take my
cycle, since it would be a waste of gas anyway, and gas has
risen to 10 bucks a gallon. All I had was a bubblegum
wrapper and my business cards. As I stepped out of the alley
onto Billary street, a kid bolted out of Lou's Marketplace
with a half eaten apple in his right hand. Food was also
hard to come by these days. As I watched the kid run, there
was a loud boom as the kid was turned into minced meat and
fell, sliding on his own blood. I drew my gun as I turned
towards Lou. The fat slob had a fraggin GRIN on that damn
grizzly face of his! This only fueled my anger as I aimed my
gun for one good shot. It was as if everything was in slow-
mo. Still with that stupid grin on his face and shotgun in
hand, Lou turned towards my direction. His grin turned into
a grimace as I shouted "You fat fuck" and pumped the trigger
on my gun. The bullet struck Lou in the left eye and he fell
backwards into his store. My aim needed a little work. I
strolled over to his store and walked in. I looked down at
Lou, who still had that look of pure terror washed over his
face. I spit in it. Then I grabbed the shotgun and checked
to see how much ammo was left. Shit, there was only one shot
left. I grabbed a Twinkie and stuck it in my mouth as I
started to search the place...
[To Be Continued]
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Three:
Gee, Ricky, I'm really sorry your mom blew up.
I awoke on a floor of steaming sand, a crowd roaring in my
ears. As my eyes slowly focused, I realized that I was in
some sort of open arena, the stands packed with cheering
twits. The only exit was blocked by a huge steel grate, the
passage beyond leading down into darkness. I struggled to my
feet, waved my fist and shouted a rousing speech about truth,
liberty, and a man's inalienable right not to be kidnapped
after being blown up with a rocket launcher. It was a few
moments before I realized I had actually TRIED to stand,
fallen down, flopped around in the sand and cried, "Wubba
wubba wubba". Apparently, I was in worse shape than I
I fought to stay conscious as a shadowy figure stood on the
raised dais over the arena gate, his form silhouetted by the
rising sun. "Ladies and Gentlemen, phreaks of all ages," he
proclaimed, "I welcome you-- to the Telearena!" The crowd
roared as I pulled myself to my feet and looked for another
exit; there wasn't any, short of jumping up into the stands,
and somehow I didn't think any of the spectators would be
willing to lend me a hand.
"You know the rules," the mysterious emcee said. The crowd
began to chant, "Two lines enter, one line leaves!"
"And in this corner, a particularly desperate specimen of
Netlife, the lowest-paid bounty hunter in town and soon to be
the deadest, Constantine!" The audience booed and hissed,
"And the number-one champion: that's right folks, you know
him as Sergeant Slaughter, the master of SOD, and 'that
annoying jackass who crank-calls McDonalds', it's... Rancid
Goat!" A deafening cheer went up as the tunnel grate slowly
A gong rang in the distance as something evil emerged into
the sunlight. A leprous half-man with cloven hooves and
snaggled yellow fangs, Rancid Goat turned towards me,
swinging a massive spiked ball on a chain as he advanced.
"You look Jewish," he snarled.
"Hey, now, there's no call for that!"
"You look black, too." I lept aside as the morningstar
whistled past my head, crashing onto the sand. "What the
hell are you talking about? I'm PALE!"
"Hitler says you gotta die," Goat grunted, whirling the
"Can't we talk about this?" I said, narrowly dodging
another swing, "Can't we be friends?"
"Bet you're a fag, too. And Japanese. Little black
Japanese Jewish homo. Hitler says you die now." I ran
backwards, stumbled and fell to the ground. Goat stood over
me, the morningstar raised for a killing blow--
--and the sky went black. Faster than you can say "Deux ex
Machina", the arena was plunged into darkness. Luminous blue
letters across the sky spelled out, "System shutdown in one
minute. Everything still in system upon shutdown will be
annhilated. You may want to leave now. Have a nice day."
Goat brought the morningstar slamming down, smashing the
empty sand-- I was long gone, leaping up into the stands and
running like hell, invisible in the panicked crowd. I
streaked down the street and into town, past the demolished
temple to where my modem was parked. A pair of phonelines
were etched in the dirt where it had been driven away.
Bad neighborhood. Go figure.
Hordes of screaming twits ran past me as the letters in sky
changed to, "Thirty seconds to system shutdown. Get out or
die. Have a nice day."
I started praying to Mary of the Larcenous Interface when a
jet-black 14.4 screeched up beside me. Through tinted
windows a voice said, "Get in! Fast!" Not being particularly
suicidal, I did so. The modem lurched forward as soon as I
was in the door, tearing off down the Net as the Melting
Point collapsed behind us.
My feet rested on a layer of empty bottles of whiskey and
tequila, another half-empty bottle sloshing on the dashboard.
The ashtray was overflowing with butts, the smoky air filled
with a most un-tobaccolike smell. The driver was cloaked in
shadow, only his red, bleary eyes visible in the dark.
"Nobody got out of there alive," he slurred as we raced
across the Net. Up ahead, I could see some of the armored
twits from the arena standing on our line, trying to build a
roadblock out of fiberoptic cable.
"Don't worry," my rescuer said, "We'll break on through to
the other side." As we smashed through the roadblock, I
suddenly realized who he was.
"Dear Gods! You're--You're--"
Grabbing the bottle from the dashboard, Jim Morrison downed
the last of the tequila and tossed it onto the floor. "I am
the modem king," he breathed, "I can do anything."
********* To be continued in Part Four: James Earl Jones
Does Dallas! *********
The fire raged across the land, burning everything. The
trees, the buildings, even the stones themselves were ablaze.
It was Ragnaroc, Armegeddon, Gotterdamerung, the
Immanentization of the Eschaton, Doomsday, the end of the
world. And floating above this cataclysm was the face of a
Lamprey, grinning... I woke up from this nightmare, and my
hatred for the dread Lampreys was just reaffirmed. I had
always known that I would never complete my task in life,
alone at least. But I didn't think that it would get as bad
as the dream.
LAMPREY QUEST 3D!
The Hunter got out of his bed and got dressed. It was a
busy day today. Time to get outfitted for his coming
adventure. He had a meeting with a possible sponsor, and he
wanted to make a good impression, as lamprey hunting sponsors
are not easy to find. He dressed in his finest clothes,
neatly brushed his hair, shaved. Not in that order mind
you... He was going to look his best, and prove that his
cause was just and deserved funding.
Not one to go out in the world unarmed, however, he
carried with him a 9 inch dagger tucked neatly in a shoulder
under his jacket. Not much, but with his skill it was quite
deadly, especially to small lamprey forces. Heck, he had
beaten scouting parties of several lampreys unarmed. The
meeting was for 12:30 at Magio's, a popular restaurant for
business lunches on 8th street, a good 45 minute drive for
the Hunter. He left at 11:43 precisely. At 12:20 he was
near the restaurant, looking for a parking place.
Due to the popularity he had to park several blocks from
the restaurant. Not one for taking the long way, he decided
to cut through a back alley. For anyone else this would have
been a grave mistake. While walking through the alley, he
was confronted by a youth brandishing an automatic pistol.
"Give me your Money! OR ELSE" Yelled the youth,
pointing his gun at the Hunter. The Hunter stood still.
"Come on man. I'll plug you I swear."
"I'd put the gun down if I were you," answered the
Hunter in a cool voice.
"Man, you're dead!" said the young hoodlum as he
prepared to blow the skull off the Hunter. But before he
could pull the trigger, the gun was on the ground, the
youth's hand pierced by a rather large dagger. Momentarily
after that, the youth was on the ground, with the hunters
foot on his throat.
"You should be thankful to be alive, I'm in a good mood
today. Any other day and you would have found the knife in
your heart. But I like you for some reason, Kid, and I'm
gonna let you live. Remember what happened today son, next
time you might not be so lucky. Here, here's 10 dollars. Go
get yourself a cab to the hospital."
He picked up the pistol, stuck it in his wasteband and
walked off to the restaurant. The youth sat stunned for
awhile, amazed at what happened. That guy had the reflexes
of a cat. He thought about what the dude said, and went to
the hospital. While waiting in the emergency room, he
decided that he had to find that guy, and thank him for his
life. The hunter's meeting went well, despite his arrival 30
Truth (sort of), Justice, and The Dystropian Way Part One:
(chapter 3 of the dystropian chroniclings by midget caesar)
The freeze pop was old. There was basically no doubt about
that. It had been frozen ages ago, and the freeze pop
couldn't decide if it was a good thing that it hadn't been
sucked dry, and had instead been left here to rot. It didn't
dwell on that question, for it was a rather stupid freeze
pop. It would promenade up and down the beaches during the
summer, when as everyone knows, the only time people REALLY
want a freeze-pop is winter. Thus, the freeze pop could be
seen as having deserved its fate. Darius sincerely hoped that
the judge didn't see things that way.
The case was reexamined to the tune of not a heated
debate, but instead an old Bee Gees song, intended to get
everyone in the right mood for handing out death sentences. A
grave looking, serious, brilliant man named Zeppo represented
the prosecution. Zeppo was a talented, older lawyer whose
technique of appearing in the courtroom dressed as a kiwi
bird had been so hugely popular that he had spawned legions
of imitators, and finally every lawyer in the legal circuit
appeared dressed as various birds, hoping to duplicate
Zeppo's success. (It should be mentioned that when Zeppo was
asked which symbolic principles of truth he was representing
with the costume, he simply stated that it was proof that
lawyers can't take a joke) Zeppo began to present his opening
arguments, while Darius was noticeably absent from the
Seeing as how this was Darius's first case, most people
figured that he was simply afraid of battling against the
menacing legend of Zeppo, the undefeatable kiwi bird, as most
lawyers would be. Zeppo calmly stated that the freeze pop,
regardless of how distraught it may have been, had no
justification for staging coups and summarily conquering 42
third-world countries in a week, which was obviously far over
the legal limit of 40. The jury nodded in assent, because
everyone present had been confined by that nasty but
necessary limit. The bookies in the back of the courtroom
increased the odds against Darius, believing that even if
Darius did show up, after the empathy that everyone could
share with Zeppo's speech, Darius could not possibly win.
Then, Darius appeared. In a business suit. The courtroom
was shocked. Darius quickly tore Zeppo's argument to pieces,
and by the time he was done, he had the prosecution giving
heart-rendering speeches praising the sheer agony and
endurance that this freeze pop had exhibited. Then Darius
quickly reversed the case, and sued everyone in the courtroom
for neglecting and therefore abusing poor freeze pop. The
judge and jury, still riding high from Darius's initial
speech, agreed wholeheartedly and sentenced the entire
courtroom to life imprisonment watching failed TV pilots from
the 1950's, listening to former teenage music idols try to
make comebacks, and reading bland, failed attempts at text-
file groups. Darius cheerfully left the courtroom, sucking
on a freeze pop.
(MORE chilling thrills!)
(MORE emotional hills!)
(MORE overpriced bills!)
(MORE kosher dills!)
All in Truth (sort of), Justice, and The Dystropian Way Part
2: "Yes, Your Honor, I Murdered Him In The Closet With The
[Editor's Note: The following article arrived in our offices
untitled, so we employed editor's fiat (it's a real word,
look it up) in giving it a title deemed most appropriate.
Yes, we're sexist bastards. Yes, we'll go to hell now, thank
What I am about to say may shock you, frighten you, or
cause you to have strange dreams involving your mother and a
pineapple. I, Newt, am a female, girl, chick, babe, skirt;
anyway you say it, I have two X chromosomes. Since currently
being a female and being a "modemer" is a rare as the Alaskan
Tropical One-Horned Whooping Crane, I thought that sharing a
few of my experiences, dispelling some common myths, and
perhaps perpetuating a few would entertain all you out there
in Cyberspace at least a little bit, and maybe even enlighten
you a bit. If it doesn't, tough: they can't throw me off
the staff because as of now I'm the only girl, which leads
nicely into my first topic.
[Editor's note: the only grounds for discharge from the
Propaganda Unlimited staff are dandelion-stomping, making
crank calls to Hillary Clinton (come to think of it, that's
also grounds for getting HIRED), and voting for Lyndon
Women are treated more specially on the modem than men.
Absolutely true. I will not deny that I receive quite a bit
more butt-kissing than the average male who is not a sysop.
I will not deny that sometimes I feel I only receive certain
privileges because I am a girl: case in point my cosysopships
which will be discussed later on. I will also not deny that
I kind of like all the attention. But then again, girls get
constant requests for modem sex which are not only a pain in
the derriere but also embarrassing, insulting, and make me
feel violated. That aside, the way everyone is soooooo
friendly to me kinda makes me think saccharin isn't very
sweet at all. Most of the time I can't tell whether someone
likes me 'cause they think I'm groovy or because I happen to
have a uterus. And sadly, I think most of the time it's the
latter. However, there are many exceptions to the rule.
Usually, I can't quite tell.
Take for instance, this little anecdote. I began my
adventure into the wonderful world of Modemland this summer,
a few short months ago on an H/P/A board, now defunct, that
my boyfriend Jason introduced me to because he was a cosyop
on it. The sysop, Erekose, liked my sense of humor, and he
and I became good friends; so good, in fact, that when he had
to leave for college in the fall, he needed someone to keep
the board up. The situation gets sticky here: Jason talked
to Erekose and suggested me for the cosyop opening. Erekose
did indeed decide to give it to me, but I still to this day
am not sure why. It might have been because he genuinely
liked me and thought I would best handle his board, or it
might have been that I happened to be the girlfriend of his
friend. I, of course, would prefer to think that my zaniness
won over his little heart, but you never know... The other
time I was appointed cosyop on a board is a little tricker
because recently it was taken away, I feel, because of
something I wrote. I could plead the Fifth, but only Jello-
men do that, so... I will very cautiously state that I do
feel I was a cosyop because I was female and because the
person who ran it found me attractive. Which leads only
semi-nicely into my next point, but hey, I don't feel like
making a brilliant connection. Women are viewed as sexual
objects over the modem.
Well, it's true in real life too, but somehow it seems to
be worse over the modem. Maybe it's because since no one is
face to face and most likely you'll never meet someone, it's
easier to say something like, "Hey chick, are you hot? How
big are you? And if you're hot, you wanna (expletive
deleted...kids might read this kinda stuff!)???" I can't
exactly picture the guy who sits next to me in math asking me
to have phone sex with him. People never fail to ask what I
look like, too: if they're talking to me or someone's who's
met me, this inquiry always comes up. It bugs the Snapple
out of me... I mean, I don't say, "How long are you?" Then
again, I should be more objective. Many of the people who
are very involved in the modem world are there for a reason:
they don't have something in real life that fulfills some
need. This is not true for everyone, so don't start sending
me nasty e-mail saying how you were the Prom King at your
school, but let's face it: it's generally true. Stereotypes
exist for a reason. The typical computer geek, whose hard
drive is his best friend, doesn't have much experience with
girls, which leaves him not knowing how to act and also
panting over anything with ovaries.
Which leads me to another myth. All BBS Chicks are
heinous. Not true. 'Nuff said.
I have been focusing mainly on the negative aspects of
being female so far, but it's not all bad. I do enjoy all
the attention I get, and I like surprising people who
automatically assume I'm a guy. It lets me know that I'm not
using my femininity to gain status. I try not to, but it's
easier to do than not. I also like being a minority, an
underdog: I feel like a pioneer and when my friends stare at
me blankly when I talk about uploading or baud rates, I feel
like I'm the elite part of a secret elite group. It's very
strange: the more deeply I become involved in the BBS
community, the more aware I am of my femininity. Perhaps
it's because the more deeply I go, the less women there are.
I'm not sure right now if that means good or bad things for
me, but the one thing I'm sure of is that I wouldn't change
my sex for the world... as if I could.
MANGO MADNESS COCKTAIL: A, uh, Review. Thing.
by Two Fish
It is 6:59 PM on Sunday, February 6, 1994. It's been
exactly five minutes and thirty-two seconds since I consumed
that... HEAVENLY beverage. I just-- I just can't stop
thinking about it.
MANGO MADNESS COCKTAIL.
I... Didn't think it would have such an intense affect on
me. Guess I should have known. After all, it's the juice,
the very ESSENCE of that fruit which is so much more than a
mere fruit! The Great and Sacred Mango (as we all know
through the word of Nyarlathotep the Enlightened and Oregano
the Profound) is the paragon of holiness, the object of
worship for millions (well, okay, at least for a smattering
of folk living in a concentrated area just north of Chicago-
but our numbers are growing!).
Although MANGO MADNESS COCKTAIL (you've got to spell it in
all caps-- lower case just doesn't do it justice) is
produced by the malevolent Snapple Beverage Corrupt-- er,
Corporation, whose chief spokesperson at one time was the
vile, fish-hating Rush Limbaugh, the blessed drink is still
irresistable. The mango's essence has splashed into my
mouth, sluiced down my throat, and entered my humble gullet.
I... I have been REBORN. But, I tell you, one bottle was
not enough. No, not nearly enough. I must have more! The
sacred stuff calls to me, beckons me to partake of it again.
I can't stand it! I have to empty my bank account and buy
But-- before I go... I WOULD reccommend MANGO MADNESS
COCKTAIL to all of you PU readers, but then you'd all go
out and buy it-- and leave fewer bottles on the shelves for
[Editor's Note: It's yummy.]
-- Learn about the mystical world of Tai Chi, with Nex!
Facts and fiction about this most artistic of martial arts.
-- Def Mangoe: They're so over-promoted, they don't
show up for their own PU interview! We'll manage to
track them down at last, and give you a sneak preview of
their next album (which may or may not be released, all
depending on the royalties!)
-- Introducing several new columns, several new guest
writers, and a small dachsund named Ralph.
-- Wackiness, spelled any damn way we please.
D I S T R I B U T I O N
Call these boards, pat them on the head, and give them a
cookie. And don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox, at address
Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Temple of Pong (708) 268-1696
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