Propaganda Unlimited

December 28, 1994 Volume One, Issue Eight

"More Fun Than You Can Have In Zed's Basement!"


1. Introduction to Issue #8
by Constantine

2. Propaganda by Mail

3. Black Plague, Part One
by Malakai

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

5. Part, Eight Dystropia
by Midget Caesar

6. Poetry Roundup
by Psychotic Ambition

7. Coming Attractions and Distribution


Midget Caesar.......... Pumpkin, Head Writer

Constantine............ Honey-Bunny, Head Editor.

Oregano................ Le Big Mac, Evanston Correspondant.

Nyarlathotep........... Royale with Cheese, Indiana Correspondant.

Newt................... Had the Briefcase, Writing Staff.

Aquarius............... Has the Briefcase, Writing Staff.

Psychotic Ambition..... Doesn't Care What's in the Briefcase, Writing Staff.

Comrade Slash.......... Doesn't like Quentin Tarentino Anyway, Writing Staff.

Malakai................ Mrs. Mia Wallace, Writing Staff.

Platinum Ego........... (Expletive Deleted), Writing Staff.

Dr. Fig................ Just Dr. Fig, Writing Staff.

and, of course...

Two Fish............... Bad-Ass Motherfucker.

Intoduction to Issue Eight
by Constantine

Hello, and welcome to issue eight of Propaganda Unlimited: new, improved, and only half a month behind schedule this time. Our world headquarters has moved to the scenic Club Evermore (312.476.1508), where the music is loud, the drinks are strong, and reality is optional.

Actually, we haven't "completed" the move, per se; everything is sealed up in cardboard boxes, and since everybody on staff developed serious back trouble the second we got here, this entire issue has been composed on a spare TRS-80 we found out bac k. Our only alternative was doing it on a Pentium, but I wanted to use the more powerful machine. The TRS-80, after all, can do basic division.

Before I turn the issue over to our monthly roundup of lunacy, a bit of news: this issue will be my last as editor of Propaganda Unlimited. Outside concerns (food, rent, a life) have made it impossible for me to meet my deadline commitments and get these issues out in time. So, starting next issue, Midget Caesar will be helming the magazine and making sure that your every dose of PU is a timely and potent one. I will still be writing regularly, and Fear and Loathing will continue indefinitely-- and you thought you'd escaped.

And now, on with the show!

Propaganda By Mail!

Your personal propaganda missives can be directed to our mailbox at PULETTERS@AOL.COM. This week brings two letters, one scathing and the other a mild irritant. You guess which is which.

Subj: moo

I'd just like to say that PU is a total rip-off of MaDCaP and you should all get gangrene and DIE.


[Editor's Note: Chuck, you silly little shit. If PU was going to rip someone off, don't you think we'd rip off people with TALENT? We rip off the BEST, and you simply don't qualify. Ta-ta.]
Subj: a letter, darnit, what else?? :)
From: Two Fish

Dear messrs. Constantine & Midget Caesar:

I've got a couple of points to make about issue five of PU.

First of all, you can't fool me--it's pretty plain to see that this was ACTUALLY issue # SEVEN (7), and NOT five as your masthead so brazenly claimed. Being not only the Arbiter of All That is Cool, but ALSO (and, might I add, much more importantly) the _Arbiter of Truth_, I feel it is my sworn duty to inform the masses (gelatinous, congealed, or otherwise) of your hopefully unintentional and therefore unfortunate blunder. For shame, boys! If you had named the issue the SECOND issue #5, well, than THAT would have been different. But you didn't, and that is irresponsible. Have you thought of how the poor souls reading PU reacted when downloading this issue? How disjointed they all must have felt by seeing issue five come out immediately AFTER issue six (6) and exactly two issues after the REAL number five?

I'm sorry. I really don't mean to come down on you. Honest. After all, you're doing a fine job with PU, and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's just that I expected better of you than the blatant disregard you displayed with the issue-# foul-up. But that can't be fixed now. I'm just doing my duty by clearing up the discrepancy. No hard feelings, guys? :) Thanks!

Anyway, point # two (2):

re: Aquarius' Joke Corner. All I can say is, BRILLIANT!! What a talent that young person is, and what a fine job you all did in discovering him. Keep this feature, please. Oh, and if I may indulge in my own foray into humor...?? Thank you. Okay, here goes.
Why'd the monkey fall out of the tree?
'cause it was DEAD!

How's that? (Don't worry, Aquarius, it's the only joke I know. You need not fear me intruding upon your sacred joke-telling ground, believe you me! ;) )

Okay, well, that's about it. Constantine, keep the flows tapping. And until Midget Caesar turns into a WaReZ />00d and becomes a devout follower of Joe Fred Foster, make mine Marv--- oops! I mean Propaganda Unltd.!!!

The Arbiter of Truth and All That is Cool,
Two Fish
See ya 'round! ;)

[Editor's Note: You know it's a sad month when Two Fish will only communicate with the home office via email. He usually prefers notes tied to rocks and letter-bombs. At any rate, responsibility for the issue numbering foulup belongs to me. Until I find someone I can pin it on.]

The Black Plague
by Malakai

Mikoun once was a great explorer and a great hero, but he has now slowed down his living. He lived in the castle of King Arenthas of the city of Nalevin in the south near the Great Waste, a vast desert which many venture into but very few return. He was held in high regard amungst the people of Nalevin, for he led the small band which stopped the bandits of the area, who called themselves, The Black Plague. The band had recently gained a new leader, an eight foot tall, muscular, yet brilliant giant of a man who was rumored to be the spawn of Satan himself. Promised the throne after the king's death, Mikoun decided to settle down in Nalevin, leaving his adventuring past and adventuring friends behind. But always watching Mikoun for a time to kill him, was Arenthas's jealous son, Landolin.

This is the story of Mikoun's fight with the Black Plague. Mikoun's group consisted of a few of his friends which he met on his many adventures through out the lands. Mikoun's best friend, whom he saved from a prejudiced mob many years before, was the only one who could rival him in the sword as well as in brains, 'Nym by name' as Nym would often say. Nym was a black skinned human from the Northern steppe, a race whose brutality has left them with a large black mark on thier reputation. Then there was Feinam, once a practiced rogue, but was defeated in a duel by Mikoun years before and turned to a life of good, using her skills for the good of mankind. Then there was Saychen, a friend of Mikoun's from childhood, but they had grown distant, mainly because Saychen LOVED to play pranks, though he was pure of heart, he was mischevious. The strange thing about Saychen were the powers in which he possessed, his mind was extremely advanced, for what reason, that is not known, but he has the power of magic in his mind, and his eyes reflect that, pure white with no pupils, but he is not blind. Then there is Amber, a young and beautiful priestess who started travelling with Mikoun not too long ago, she wished to learn the cruelty, as well as the love, of the world. Mikoun could not turn her down, so she's been with ever since. Finally, there were the twin midgets, Kenami and Ruun. They were opposites of each other, both good, but one used magic of making illusions, this was Kenami, the other used a magic of hiding reality. Mikoun met these two in a forest west of the Great Ocean, where they were captured by a few semi-intelligent carnivores.

Mikoun and his friends were riding on horseback down the long trek south to the city of Nalevin, which was quite a distance from Beikos, the city in which they were in, which is rather near the swamps. Earlier that week they decided to go to Nalevin, because Beikos had grown, well, boring. So as they were trotting along, Nym heard the clopping of hooves (besides thiers) and decided to tell everyone. "Prehaps Feinam and I should stay behind about a minute to prevent an ambush of sorts," Nym suggested with his usual suggestive tone. Mikoun nodded to Nym, and continued by saying, "I will go ahead then, I shall see if those in front are headed for Nalevin, after all, better to travel in groups! Come on people, I will see what they are about." Mikoun finished his sentence and sped his horse ahead with no delay.

A short travel of a minute or so led Mikoun to a row of armed and lightly armored horsemen. They advanced, with a large man in front who wore the skull of an animal, apparantly a bear, on his head as a helmet, the bulge of muscles showed under his black chainmail, and a ray of light gleamed off the 2 handed hilt of a very long bladed sword. The man stopped a short distance in front of the others, and Mikoun promptly stopped his horse a good distance in front of the 8 foot tall man. After a short pause, Mikoun decided to speak first, "Hello there, horsemen, are you, perchance, headed for Nalevin?" The man's only response was a cruel smile and a raise of his left arm. At this, the men dismounted from thier horses and they drew thier swords.

Mikoun kept a calm look as he dismounted and drew his two beautiful rapiers and in a concerned voice he said, "I have no wish to harm you, please, sheathe your weapons."

Again, the reponse was a violent one, they charged with thier swords poised, outward and ready to strike. Mikoun ducked under a couple swings and lept over another. He then countered with a forward lunge and a feint, finally a stab which pierced one of the horsemen's neck all through. At this, the man spoke something which Mikoun could not understand, and then men moved away. Mikoun pulled away in defense, expecting something dangerous, then the giant man dismounted, and pulled out the sword at his side, and grinned evilly at Mikoun as he advanced toward the crowd.

-- To be Continued! --

Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Eight:
This is REALLY Gonna Hurt...
(Part Three of the Dystropia/Fear and Loathing Crossover!)

I dove into the portal of inky black, my senses submerged in a whirlpool of sights and sounds beyond imagination, beyond comprehension. I was subjected to a vision of nightmare, morbid obscenities from beyond the wall of space and time gibbering madly around me, disgusting atrocities that should never have been born flapping and squawking in an insane cacophony.

Reminded me a little of Congress.

Then I was propelled through the other side of the interdimensional portal, the smell of beer nuts and cheap silicone assaulting my nostrils as I flew across a dimly-lit room to hit the grimy floor with a dull thud. Dazed, I rolled onto my back and squinted at the harsh neon lights above, my vision swimming. A myriad of faces appeared above me, short kids in Megadeth t- shirts and coke-bottle glasses who looked down upon me with eyes of burning hatred.

"Oh, shit," I muttered, "Warez geeks. Why don't you little fu--"

After they beat the living hell out of me, I slowly came to consciousness in a dank back room, lit by a single dangling bulb. A tarnished sign over the door read "File Library #458 -- Farm Animal GIFs". I was tied to a chair. This worried me.

"Excuse me," said the man tied to the chair beside me, "Are you--"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I am."

"I'm Floyd," he said, "I'm here to rescue you."

"Really? Great. You can start any time now."

The door swung open and Joe Fred Foster, flanked by his second-grade disciples, swaggered into the room. The kid could swagger like nobody's business.

"Ha! So, you thought you could defeat the invincible forces of (PeNiS!), did you? Think again! Even now, your beloved "reality" is on its way-- to our clutches! Muahaha!"

"YOU have reality? How the hell did you get it?"

"Shortly after it escaped the courtroom in Dystropia, Reality hid itself inside a Granny Smith personal computer notepad belonging to some lawyer named Darius-- a personal computer notepad that WE have the access code for!"

"No, you can't mean--"



"Yes!" he cried with evil glee, "WE'RE DOWNLOADING REALITY!"

"Wait a second," I said, "What's the speed of your fastest modem?"

"Are you kidding? (PeNiS!) possesses the most powerful hardwarez known to man! We're running an 8088 with a heathkit 150 baud modem-- I built it myself."

I groaned and slumped back in my chair, as Floyd turned to look at me. "Constantine, I know I haven't been here long, but is everyone in your dimension this stupid?"

Reality would be hovering between Dystropia and Cyberspace for the next 12 billion years, barring a system crash or power outage. These (PeNiS!)-heads had to be stopped.

"I'll dispose of you two later," Joe Fred Foster laughed, "But right now, I have a universe to conquer-- and a new copy of Little People Farm III!" He swaggered out the door, goons in tow.

"That's it. We're dead."

"Actually," Floyd said as he jumped up from his chair and started untying my ropes, "Fifteen years spent among the indigenous tribes of the Rubberobandes Mountains left me with astounding abilities of bodily control on the molecular level, thus allowing me to slip these bonds easily."

"That's swell," I said, running to the door, "Bet you're popular with the ladies. But now we need to figure out how to get past this locked door, and--"

It opened at my touch. They had forgotten to lock it. Normally I can't stand incompetance, but in this case I decided to make an exception. We stepped out into the darkened antechamber beyond, and Floyd halted me with a wave of his hand.

"Careful," he whispered, "I smell a trap."

"How right you are!" cackled a high-pitched voice from the darkness. A young boy of about ten years old stepped from the shadows before us, attired in G.I. Joe Underoos and carrying a plastic zap-rifle.

"Who the hell are you?" I said, "Macaulay Culkin's evil twin?"

"I am the bane of your soon-to-be-ended existance! I am the ElYtE warrior of the (PeNiS!) legions! I am... TIME WARRIOR!"

"Yeah. I'm scared, kid. Now, you wanna show us where the master control room is, or do I take that cap gun and shove it up your--"

From the shadows behind us emerged another small figure, identical to the first! He leveled his rifle at us and said, "If you mess with him, you mess with me! I'm Time Warrior's dad!"

We spun around as two more stepped from alcoves. "I'm Time Warrior's brother!" "I'm Metalhea-- I mean, Time Warrior's best friend!"

In no time we were beset by a flock of Time Warriors, a sea of them surrounding us with no end in sight. Time Warrior's friends, enemies, lovers and extended family declared themselves one at a time as they came out of the woodwork, every one taking aim at us. I looked over to Floyd.

"Um... That rescue thing you mentioned earlier?"

"I'm working on it."

"Work faster."


Watch for Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part Nine,
James Earl Jones buys Comfortable Shoes!

Fear And Lotion in Dystropia Part Omega:
At Last, The Thesis Sentence.
by Midget Caesar

"And I'm Time Warrior's proctologist!", declared yet another being who looked remarkably like Time Warrior, down to the Underoos. I had lost count by the time Time Warrior's entire soccer team had showed up, each also bearing an identical resemblance.

"Yes, apparently, you did smell a trap," said Constantine. "Now will you please go about this rescue business soon?"

I was forced to admit that I was wrong. "Actually, it wasn't a trap I smelled, Time Warrior just needs to change his Underoos. It was a lucky guess about the trap." I didn't want to admit that I hadn't been able to find the script to this whole thing, and thus couldn't slip through a hole in the plot.

Constantine and I were backed against the wall, an unceasing multitude of voices announcing new arrivals from Time Warrior's extended family. I needed a plot device, and I needed it quick.

To stall for time, Constantine asked Time Warrior WHY he was doing this.

"Why??? I'M ON A MISSION FROM GOD!!!!!" was his manic reply, as the crowd advanced closer.

"Gee, that's nice. Why is God mad at us? Just because our respective writers haven't been returning HIS calls either doesn't mean --"

"And because you hate me!!1! You're talking about me right now! I know it! You were making fun of me in secret!!1! And you tried to crash my BBS when it wasn't up yet! don't LIKE me!"

So we were backed into the corner. Constantine tried offering Time Warrior copies of something called "Mortal Kombat" with various numbers after it, but Time Warrior was not to be swayed. That's when I found the plot hole we needed.

Constantine turned to me. "What is that awful noise?" Then he saw, and a look of shock passed over his face, which was nothing compared to the look seen on the legions of Time Warriors.

"Yes, Time Warrior, those are all the chickens whose heads you've bitten off, all the monkeys you've ever spanked, all the farm animals you've ever abused - come back from the grave to enact their revenge."

When the thousands of Time Warriors had fled in utter fear, only one was left, who thretened to see us in the future and shouted something Polish: "Dobermanpuppychewzee!" it sounded like. Then he ran like hell, and we were left to confront the PeNiS boys and the reality question.

We cautiously walked out into the dimly lit main room, to the shock of the bartender, Lord Darkly Lit Abysz. Joe Fred Foster and his disciples were nowhere to be seen. Constantine went over to ask Mr. Abysz a few questions, and asked me to cover him as he went. So I went out into the middle of the bar and showed the patrons what a great breakdancer I am. Constantine demanded to know where the PeNiS people were hiding, and Lord Darkly Lit Abysz informed him nervously that he had insufficient access for it. Constantine whipped out one of those unpleasant virus things and told Mr. Abysz to consider the virus an access raise. We were shown our way into a seedy looking back room marked "oCCuLT teXTZ!!!", and there they were: the Bee Gees. The door was locked behind us, and a demonic voice gloatingly told us that we were trapped. Strobe lights flashed on, the disco ball descended, the Jive Talkin' began, and I flung myself against the wall, ready for certain death.

"Wow, that's a pretty catchy tune", said Constantine. I looked up from my convulsions, and was amazed. So were the Bee Gees.

"Don't you realize that we're in hell? This is the Dystropian section of Dante's Inferno!", I asked him. Too late, Constantine was already Stayin' Alive in the middle of the room. The Bee Gees backed off, afraid. But there was no stopping him. He had that Saturday Night Fever, and the dance floor was all his. It all began to melt away until we were back in Cyberspace, and Joe Fred Foster was angrily pounding away at keys on a computer. Once Constantine had been calmed down, we strode boldly towards the cowering legions of phallic envy, PeNiS.

Constantine assumed control of the situation. "Alright, Foster, back away from the keyboard." (He did) "Who put you up to this? What were you seeking to gain?"

"A big, dark hacker guy gave us 100,000 file points if we could keep you two from interfering with his plan or something. He also gave us these great GIFS, but accidentally left a copy of "reality.txt" in there, so we called the number in it and downloaded what we found there, because it would give us complete control of everything. We were able to do THAT (he waved at the remnants of the disco) with the demo version of reality we've got now, and it'd only be (he checked his watch) 62,000 years before we'd finish downloading the full release!"

Meanwhile, I had found a trampoline in the back of the room and was playing on it when Elvis Presley came into the room from an unseen entrance. He spoke. "Good job, Constantine. I'll take them into custody now." Constantine was about to hand them and the computer over to Elvis (because if you can't trust Elvis, who can you trust?) when I came running over.

"STOP! That's not Elvis!" Constantine whirled around, surprised, and Elvis took off running. Little did he know that I had telekinetically tied his shoelaces together. I grabbed him, and ripped off his mask, to reveal:

Bubbles the Chimp.

Bubbles swore mightily. "Damn you, everything was going according to plan, even AFTER those PeNiS interlopers got into the act! I was going to have complete control over everything, and THEN I could enact my revenge upon Michael for dumping me in favor of Lisa Marie! And I'd have gotten away with it, if it weren't for you gosh darn kids!" He was still kicking and screaming a few hours later, when the Apathetics arrived from Dystropia. (It had taken that long to convince them to come over and do it.) However, Joe Fred Foster had escaped in the confusion. And Milo was still on the loose. At least things had been more or less resolved, there were frosted doughtnuts for everyone, and I even got a "I Went To Cyberspace, And All I Downloaded Was This Lousy T-Shirt." Only one thing was left.

"What will we do about Reality?", asked Constantine. "There's no way we can abort the file transfer, and things will continue to fall apart if we don't do something." I assured him that everything would be fine.

Later that day, my hand opened a door that had only been opened two times before in eternity. Once was when Reality had been put in its place, and the other time was when it had left, for good. The man I was with smiled at me, and thanked me for the ride. I made sure that Jim understood what he was doing, and he assured me that this was going to be a fantastic gig, and he couldn't wait. So I turned to leave.

"Well, hope you have fun as the new Reality, Mr. Morrison."

The End.

(be sure to tune in next time as we boldly Clean Up After Ourselves!)

Poetry Roundup
by Psychotic Ambition

Behind You

Like a knife in the back
Like a shiver up the spine
Life catches up to you


Old and weary
Small and bold
This man of creation

Sunset to sundown
Fields of sorrow
He plowed
Tool of life
Rusted and cold
He and his knife
All alone

Broken face
Brittle boned
Piggen toed
Was he

His friends were the sky
The water below
How could he be alive
With a moral so low

Day by day
Scrapes and Scratches
Nothing to show
For all his actions

He sat on the throne of poverty
Hunched over
Black and blue
Ruler of the unwanted

Chipped Trophy

Gripped upright
Thrown around
In your world

Tugged at the chains
Scratched at the floor
Wallowing in a false hope

I am molded
Trophy of mockery
I'm put in place

Lies and guilt cover me
Shelled in
I cannot see

Make loose
What is firmly in place
I'm accused

But I excuse
To defuse
The madness

Look at you

Excellent perception I say
For someone today
Noticed they were imperfect


Burning pain
Punctured twice
Nothing to gain
Strapped to this vice

One hole bleeding my existance
My memories, happiness, and freedom
Pissed away

The pulsing of a lifeless body is all I feel
The pumping is slow
I'm getting into the rhythm
I'm forgetting
Who I used to be

A second hole is felt
Cold and harsh

This one is easier
I can't really feel it
I'm getting numb

As I forget who I used to be
I'm reborn

As one hole is taking life
The other is giving it
But my new life is unwanted

I just want to die
I'm getting thoughts
Pain, suffering, frustration, anger
I can't stop it

My head is getting fuzzy
With lusts
Greed, exploitation
I want it all

Less and less I feel
I just don't care
The new life is here
afraid I don't dare
To stop

The first hole is sealed
It is complete

The second hole pumps away faster
Nothing to compete
For me

No outside influences
To detach the pump
Not one pure soul
In this sick world
So I have to be filtrated and cleansed
To be tolerated

I'm sick
All of this takes it's toll
I'm black and cold
Barely alive

I'm happy and faithfull
A follower
Just perfect for this world

[Editor's Note: Rumors to the contrary, Psychotic Ambition is NOT Trent Reznor in disguise. If he was, we'd be milking him for money and publicity at this very moment, probably as an opening act for Def Mangoe.]


-- A New Look, New Attitude, New Deadlines...

-- A Responsible Editor.

-- Malakai's Black Plague Part Two. Nuff said.

-- Lots of really neat-o-keen stuff, really.


Please call these boards. If you don't, they'll cry.

And for letters, comments and rants, don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!

Club Evermore (312) 476-1508 (Headquarters)
Strangeways Asylum (312) 588-4231
Legion of the Undead (708) 546-4605
The Ice Palace (708) 635-0953
Big Bob's Leech Burger Farm (708) 838-1015
MicroInformation Systems (805) 251-0564
Dark Globe (815) 363-1351

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