Propaganda Unlimited

March 7, 1994 Volume One, Issue Three

"More Fun Than You Can Have Breaking Nancy Kerrigan's Leg!"


1. Introduction to Issue #3
by Constantine

2. Lucid Death, Part One
by Nex

3. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Three
by Constantine

4. Lampreys!
by Nyarlathotep

5. Dystropia, Part ?
by Midget Caesar

6. Modem Chicks
by Newt

7. Snapple Mango MADNESS!
by Two Fish

Midget Caesar ............ Our Flounder, The Filet o' Soul, Head Writer.

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 of Distribution.

Nyarlathotep ............. Chicken Nuggets, Indiana Correspondant.

Two Fish ................. Large Orange Drink, Columnist.

Operatech ................ Quarter Pounder, Distribution Aide.

Itchi-Koo ................ Fry Guy, Demomeister.

King Trent ............... The Hamburglar.

Letter from the Editor
by Constantine

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 at: PULETTERS@AOL.COM

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 have it.

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 after month.
Peace, Love, and Mangoberries!

Lucid Death by Nex
(Part One)

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 and there...

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.
by Constantine

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 thought.

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, predictably enough.
"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 rose.

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 morningstar.
"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.


I: Gratitude

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 seconds late.

Truth (sort of), Justice, and The Dystropian Way Part One:
Violent Soap-On-A-Rope
(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 courtroom.

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 Noodle!"

Modem Chicks
by Newt

[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 you.]

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 LaRouche.]

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 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.

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.


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 MORE!

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 MY consumption.

[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.


Call these boards, pat them on the head, and give them a cookie. And don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox, at address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!

Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Temple of Pong (708) 268-1696

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