Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume III, Issue 20, AD MCMXCVIII
Monday, November 2nd, 1998
ISSN 1482-0471
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Q: How long did the Russians take to die? 
A: I do not know. I only obeyed orders. 
Q: How long did it take to gas the Russians? 
A: I returned after two hours and they were all dead. 
Q: For what purpose did you go away? 
A: That was during lunch hour. 

SS-Unterscharfhrer Wilhelm Bahr

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"The moment someone's laziness makes my life difficult, I turn into an asshole with a cause."
-Goatboy

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1.  Editorial
2.  "I met my father for the first time today"
3.  Short Clip Scripts
4.  love and work
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This week's Golden Testicle award:

eCards for people you hate

http://www.crystalscomfyland.com/card.html

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1. Editorial
by CoN Staff

Exclusive!  The CapNasty Star Wars Prediction

By Jason MacIsaac

The next Star Wars movie will not be called "The Phantom Menace."

Remember you read it here first.

Oh sure, you've read the news.  But trust me, it just isn't going to happen.  Here's our prediction: shortly before the release of Episode 1, the title "The Phantom Menace" will be dropped and another title will be used instead.

Why?

Ever hear that story about "Revenge of the Jedi"?  The story goes something like this: George Lucas was originally going to call "Return of the Jedi" by the title "Revenge of the Jedi" until he realized that a Jedi would not take revenge.  

It's a nice story, but according to official LucasFilm propaganda, not true.  According to Lucas, the intention was always to call the film "Return of the Jedi," but the "Revenge" title was initially publicized in order to throw off people making bootleg merchandise.

20th Century Fox apparently misunderstood Lucas' intentions, and several "Revenge of the Jedi" t-shirts were issued before the mistake was corrected.  

Have you noticed in the trailer and the posters issued by LucasFilm, the title "The Phantom Menace" does not appear?  It's only referred to as "Episode One."  We'll probably find out the real title a month or two before the movie is released.

And remember you read it here first on Capital of Nasty.


Issue 20
By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

MOST LIKELY as a result of the size of this issue, the Editorial box will be filled with e-mails of people complaining of its size.

Before you complain, I would highly suggest you read the last article, generously submitted by R.P.T Owen, a very talented British writer.

If after you've read it, you still feel like flipping your nutsuck in our general direction, please do so.   Your e-mail will of course appear in our next editorial with our own evil replies.  You've been warned.

A MORE SERIOUS CoN THAN USUAL - Unlike many other issues which seem to lean on the edge of insanity or just show our potential for being completely crazy, this issue tends to touch subjects of a more serious manner.

Before I leave you with one of the many letters we received, the next issue of CoN will be about "Spam! and the Internet".  There is one spot left for those interested to submit something.

We've received many, many e-mails from our last issue.  Not one was a flame, but we received quite a few e-mails that were not too happy of our views (words like "all gays should burn in hell" and similar).  Kunal Ganguly was the only person who wrote a decent and rather interesting e-mail.

Now then, homosexuality... hmm....

A rather interesting but rarely spoken about topic in my home country -
India. Most Indians tend to be homophobic, but this is more due to reasons
of the overall (rather conservative) social outlook that the Indian people
have.

But strangely, Medieval Indian history has a rich background of
homosexuality and homosexual practices. The Kamasutra, although stressing
the unity of the male and female, includes chapters on male sexual
techniques with other males. The temples of Khajuraho, one of the most
beautiful and rich examples of ancient Indian architecture, displays in
exquisite detail not only the beauty of male-with-female sexuality but
also images homosexual and lesbian activity.

The scale and building process of the temple itself is enough to rival
that of the Taj Mahal. The temple was cut out of a single piece of rock
which was at-least a couple of kilometers across. I don't have the exact
geological figures, nor do I have the figures of how many men it took to
build it.

It is sad to think that a country with such a fascinating history in human
sexuality treats it as such a taboo topic. Kings and warriors were
actually encouraged to have sex with other males, this was mostly due to
the fact that the warrior will fight even more valiantly on the
battlefield to protect the person (man) he loves. Lesbian relationships
were held in high regard much to the same reason it is now.

Heterosexual males find lesbian images much more stimulating than watching
another male banging away at a woman.

The theory of loving another male and thus fighting more fiercely in order
to protect him was also put to practice with the Spartans- the last true
warrior race since the Vikings. The Spartans have an interesting history
when it comes to sex. Since childhood, boys were taught not to be shy
around other males and females when naked. Homosexual activity was
encouraged and copulation with women was allowed only to those warriors
who proved themselves on the battlefield. The warrior would only spend a
brief time with a woman, the time required to create a child (one week,
max). However, lesbian relationships were abhorred.

There is hardly any documentation about the Vikings, but one wonders what
they did for pleasure for the months-long voyages they would spend on the
sea with other males....

The homosexual history of the world is not very well documented and nor
does any respectable historian/sociologist would care to trace it, unless
of course they are gay themselves. If they did, they would have to bid a
fond adieu to that grant and their respectability. And you can forget
about seeing a documentary on Discovery on this topic!

The search for the origin of the word 'gay' and 'lesbian' is difficult to
find. Homosexual and Heterosexual is easy, 'Homo' means one and 'hetero'
means two or more. Attach the word sexual and the meaning becomes clear.
I'm sure lesbian has a meaning in Webster's (I didn't bother to check) but
I heard this interesting story for the word 'gay' although I would not
vouch for its authenticity.

Most kings and queens had entertainers in their courts. Jokes, jugglers,
etc etc. A certain few of them would be required to perform sexual favors
on their masters. I suppose the word 'gay' got attached to them, as they
were really entertainers and the literal meaning of 'gay' is to be happy
or in a good mood.

Last and perhaps the most weird in this short (and poorly documented)
trace of homosexuality lets have a look at our ancestors - monkeys. Open
any book on monkey behavior, especially the rhesus, baboon and some
African species, and you'll find that there is normally one chief monkey
in the pack and guess what the other males have to do in order to show the
big-chief that they are inferior to him? Allow him to bugger (butt-fuck)
them of course!


---



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2. "I met my father for the first time today"
by Theresa Toth

I met my father for the first time today... now, don't think this is one of those long lost "I've never met my father until now" situations. I've always known my father... or at least I thought I did. Let me explain...(don't worry, I'll keep it brief).

I used to be "daddy's l'il girl", I worshiped my father. He used to do anything for me (he even risked his life for me when I was almost run over by a motorcycle at age 4, but that's a whole different story) and we had a strong bond between us. When I was little (in fact, I think a lot of us when we were little) thought that our parents were the ultimate beings (I won't say God, because I know there are some unbelievers), they were capable of doing everything and they could never let us down. 

But as I got older, the relationship between my father and myself started to deteriorate. I started seeing him as human, and he didn't seem like an "ultimate being" like when I was little. I saw all his flaws, how he used to treat my mother, and as I began my teenage years, how he would treat me. He was heavy on the alcohol and light on the compassion. As years went by, I started to hate my father, what he had become (an alcoholic) and my mother and I decided to leave him with his poison.

Now, to come to the present...

It's been 4 years since I've seen him (we left him on my 16th birthday) and I was fine without him. He was in his part of the universe and I was in mine. There was no need to come into contact with him again, I already had experienced too much heartache from the past, and I was damned if I was about to go through it again. I had finally gotten him out of that small dark part of my grey matter, and it was about time... until my mother got a phone call.

It was my father's friend Karl. Now, my mother and I knew Karl, and he didn't phone unless something was really wrong (that's the kind of guy he is). He left a message on my answering machine "pertaining to my father" and gave us his number. My mother contacted him and when she finally hung up the phone, she said to me "Tess, it's your father. He's in the hospital and he's not doing too well." I just stared blankly at her. Now, I'm not a cold person, it's not like I didn't care, but my father has done "stunts" like this before, like phoning us and telling me he was going to commit suicide if we didn't come back, but he never did, he just wanted us to feel guilty. So when my mother told me about my father's condition, I was a little skeptical. But she had a serious look on her face, and I had a feeling that this was not one of his schemes to make us feel like shit. He really was sick.

So,when my mother told me we were both going to go to the hospital, I felt an anxiety attack coming on.  I hadn't seen him in 4 years!! What was I going to say? Would he still be the prick he used to be?? Oh... I just couldn't handle it, but I decided to go anyway, and try to be as calm as possible.

We got to the hospital and we entered his room. He was sound asleep. I stared at him...my gawd, what happened to him? He looked so frail, his cheeks were sunken in and the smell of death was everywhere in that damn hospital. I had gotten him a card and a pair of slippers, but I just placed them near his bed and went outside the door. I couldn't handle seeing him like that! It was too much for me. I thought that I had gotten him out of my mind for good, and now all my lost feelings were coming back to haunt me. I just breathed in and out, trying to calm myself. Then I saw Karl coming down the hall and he looked at me and smiled. I felt better knowing he was there, so I went back into the room with my mother. Karl woke him up and my father opened his eyes. He had the most bewildered look on his face when he saw us. But after the initial shock, he looked at us and smiled. Was this my father? No...it couldn't be,he was happy to see us...happy?? After us leaving him? After all the bullshit our family went through?

It was a weird feeling...here was this person who looked like my father, but he was a complete stranger to me. This man was smiling and talking like nothing had ever happened! That's when I started to feel guilty...all these years of not seeing him, pretending he didn't exist, but he never stopped loving me. We found out from the doctor that he might have had a stroke, so we should prepare ourselves because he might not make any sense. Some things he said were just weird, but he remembered me. He was such a kind soul now, it was a shame that it took all these years to see him, especially when he was sick. I forgot all the hatred I used to have for him, how he used to be. He was human, he wasn't perfect, but he was my father. And I finally found out that I still loved him. I had finally met my father for the first time. 

Now I see him all the time. He only remembers the good things. We found out that he didn't have a stroke, it's permanent brain damage from drinking all these years. But I'm glad that I'm finally part of his life again and he's part of mine. Even thought he only remembers me when I was little, it's something. And to finally have the father I've always wanted is what more than I could of asked for.

Addendum:

My father passed away on October 20 at 3 in the morning.

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3.  Short Clip Scripts
By "The Screaming Clown"

Here are a few "short clip scripts" that I have written about 4 years ago, while over-relaxing. I now found the paper with these thoughts, and since I am leaning up my desk, I shall write these thoughts down and communicate them to you.

1. The church. - 50 seconds clip
(organ music is playing softly, music intensity increases throughout the clip. occasional suspense sound effects)
The camera starts moving from the altar, from behind the cross.
You can see a part of the huge wooden cross that is hung on the wall, and you can observe part of a hand that is supposedly nailed onto the cross. Little worms crawl out of it (what was I thinking!!), but you can barely see them. The camera moves forward towards the benches in the church, which are facing it at this moment. In front of the altar, you see a monk kneeling, his hood completely covering his face. The camera goes on a tour around the church walls, returning from the entrance and gradually advancing towards the monk, whose back is now at the camera.
The cross can be seen at the front, with Christ on it, high above the monk. A bright light is shining from behind the cross.
As the camera approaches the monk, with a sudden move the monk takes off his hood, which was covering his head, exposing an ugly, bleeding face. Suddenly, the light behind Jesus's cross turns red, the monk stands up and grabs the camera (shrieks and other sound effects take place). An add appears on the screen: "Reformation. www.reformation.gov. www.666.mil. We are here"


2. The little girl. - 45 seconds clip
A little girl is standing outside on a hill. A ruined church can be seen not too far away from her. The wind is blowing, and the clouds are dark-red, with occasional fire burning in the sky.
A shrivelled teddy bear is at the girl's feet, all ripped apart.
The little girl holds a tight expression of anger on her face, staring into the horizons, the wind's intensity growing even more.
A tear flows gently on her young cheek, mixing with the dirt on her face. She looks up at the sky, her large eyes are very wet.
She raises her hand up at the clouds, and sticks out her middle finger. Suddenly, in less than a second, she burns and disintegrates to ashes. (dark, evil laughter in the background). "Your turn, Luci".


3. Coca Cola Commercial
Ruined cities in the background, ruined skyscrapers with vegetation all over them, cars on the streets, barely seen through the bushes that are now all over the place. Skeletons and 1990's house appliances can be seen, scattered around. As the camera stops moving, this imagery stands still and the sun is still shining brightly.
Behind the camera, one can hear: "PSsssst (pop can opening)... Gul gul gul gul gul (person drinking)... Still got the taste!"
(steps of a person walking away)
Big logo on the screen flashing:
"ALWAYS!!! Coca Cola!"


I'm "the Screaming Clown", as always.
Treat me as Joe Blow, criticize everything I send you,
and give me a hard time, which will improve my quality
of being.

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4.  love and work
by R.P.T Owen: rpto@btinternet.com

	"There's vice out tonight," she said, as we pulled away from the kerb, "an' I just saw one of the fuckers in an unmarked car!"
	I pushed the accelerator too hard and the wheels of the old car I was driving span on the tarmac. We looked at each other and started to laugh. It was past midnight but the air that blew around us in the car was still warm from a summer's day. When we'd stopped laughing she said to me: "Well then, what do you want?"	
	"I guess I want to have some sort of sex with you."
	"Ha!...Everybody wants that!" she looked at me and smiled, "you got much money?"
	"I'm not a rich man, no," I said; she laughed again
	"You got twenty-five?"
	I said that I had it.
	"O. K then!" she said. 	
	
	"You must make a lot of money."
	"I do O. K - a couple of hundred every night I work. The guy I was talking to, before I came with you, he used to come and see me when I worked in a massage parlour, came to see me, special. He'd give me sixty, seventy pounds a time in the parlour, but when I asked him for thirty tonight he said it was too much, can you believe it?"
	I said that I couldn't. 

	We were lying beside each other on a mattress in a room that overlooked the street; there were little bottles of cosmetics, a mirror and some letters on the floor; a radio was playing. She told me about a man that used to pay for her to watch films that he'd made. They would sit in his room and watch a film, he would pay her and then she would leave. She told me the story of one of the films she'd seen there and I remember that the story echoed in my mind and seemed to me to be full of meaning. She fell asleep and I lay beside her and looked at her. Her legs were decorated with a tattooed constellation of little blue stars that she'd made herself with ink and a needle. I felt a lot of emotions that I wasn't able to put words to and some that felt like a kind of simple peace. When she woke up we dressed and I drove her down the road and bought us each a bottle of beer to drink. I have tried many times to remember the story that she told me that day but it seems to want to stay forgotten.

	Once I'd met her and we'd gone back to my room and she was sweet and giggly and she kissed me and rolled around with me like I was some kind of instant boyfriend and I loved her and loved every moment of it. She asked me for fifteen pounds and I was happy to give her the money and happy to drive her to a place where she could spend it. She opened her hand and showed me the little pebble-like thing and it was tightly wrapped up in see-through plastic like a boiled sweet.

	I took a job in a spacious old house that was built all through with high ceilings and stained-glass windows. Each day I'd sit in a room with the people that couldn't manage to live anywhere else and I'd listen to them talk and then I would talk myself, from my knowledge of the matter, of how it was to live a good life in the world.

	"I remember, I'd taken some smack, I think I'd injected it - I did inject it; I hadn't done very much but even so, I was totally fucked, I was shaking. I couldn't really stand up but it was freezing where I was so I tried to walk to another room where there was a heater - I couldn't make it - I just collapsed in the corridor and I'm lying there shaking and thinking that I'm going to die.
	 I was there, well, I don't know how long I was there but all the time I was lying there I was thinking about this porn that I'd got hidden under the bed in my room. That's all I was thinking about. I was thinking that if I died, then my mum would come and clear out my room, clear my stuff away - and if she did, she'd find this porn. I was wishin' I'd thrown the fuckin' stuff away - I really was - that's all I was thinkin' about."

	I talked with a young woman who'd gone crazy working as a prostitute and had ended up living at the place where I worked. I'd spend half the night driving around the city looking to buy sex then I'd sleep, go to work in daylight and, between-times, try to figure out if it was possible to live a life like this. Listening to her turned my mind into cotton-wool - I heard that she'd started selling sex in the toilet of a public bar down the road, then she just disappeared.


	 "New years eve; I'm eighteen years old. I'm walking home, it's one, maybe two in the morning, it's cold and I'm drunk. Old guy walks past me on the street and he says "Happy new year" to me and I say "Happy new year" back to him. He starts to talk to me about I-don't-know-what and then he invites me back to his house to have a drink with him and, because it's New Years Eve and all, I go.
	And we have a drink and he suggests I spend the night at his place because it's cold outside and I say "Well, no, I'll go home, but thanks anyway" and we talk a bit more and he asks me to stay again and this time, and I don't know why, I say yes.
	And I'm in his bed and I don't know what I'm doing there but I can't seem to figure out how to get out of there and he tells me that I'm beautiful.
	 I ask him, for some fucking reason, if he's gay, if he's always slept with men and he says "Well, now and then."
	And I saw his dick or I think I saw it or I think that I remember seeing it and then I'm in the kitchen downstairs and there's a plate of ham on the table and there's mould growing on the ham.
	Then I'm back in his room and there's a bottle of sleeping pills beside his bed and I steal the bottle of pills.
	And then I'm back on the street, walking home with a bottle of pills in my pocket."
	
	Elizabeth talked to me in a deadpan monotone for about a week. She talked about her children being taken away from her and about the times she'd tried to kill herself. I had lots of good ideas about things that she could do to make her life a better place; I told her about these good ideas.
	I got called into work one night to find that she'd stuck her head and her arm and her leg through a plate-glass window and twisted and slashed herself. She didn't want to go to hospital so she fought with the ambulance crew and the police and with anyone else that came in sight. We wrestled her into the back seat of a police car; I held her by one arm and a policeman held her by the other arm. We drove to the hospital very fast with the siren going and the blue light flashing and all the time she was trying to kick the driver and punch us at the same time. We were all of us covered in her blood and we walked into the hospital like we were all three walking from the battlefield. She opened her wounds and bled on the nurses, she screamed and she shouted - she told the doctor to go fuck his mother, she raged and she cried till at last the drugs took a hold and she slept.	

	I read a book that was written by a monk and in the book it said: "...creatures remain untouchable, inviolable. As soon as you try to possess their goodness for its own sake, all that is sweet in them becomes bitter to you, all that is beautiful, ugly."	

	 I went to the place where the monks lived. I found myself in a room full of silent people. A bell would ring and we would go into a big hall and sit there in silence. When it was time to eat we'd go into another room and bow to the plates on the table in front of us, eat in silence, finish our food and bow to our empty plates. We would work in silence, read in silence, sit in silence and then sleep with the sound of the wind and the rain and our own hearts beating on silence.
	One day at the monastery, in winter, I was outside chopping up logs with an axe. A little red bird perched on a fence post and watched me chop the wood. The bird scooted from one post to another but it wouldn't fly away completely, it seemed to want to stay around and keep an eye on me. I stopped for a moment and looked around at the bleak, white valley that was spread as far as the horizon and I thought to myself: why don't I just come here to live? Why don't I just stay here and live here and die here and get buried in that little cemetery under the pine trees over there? The rest of my life is a joke, I'm sick of it and burned by it and bored of it so why not? Why not?
	So I lived with this idea in my mind for a while - it was a dream that looked good to me and I looked good in the dream. I saw myself there with my shaven head and the same peace beaming out of me that shone out of all the other monks who'd been there long enough to have burnt the world's idiocy out of their lives. It seemed like a good idea.
	One day I saw a photograph of the inside of the monk's private meditation hall. Until you became a monk you were not allowed to go into this hall and it seemed like a big secret to me and one that interested me very much. The photograph showed the stained-glass windows in the hall from the point of view of someone on the inside.
	That was it; I went back lots of times after that but it was all wrong and it stayed wrong and in the end I just stopped going.
	
	Monique looked as if nothing in the world could ever surprise her.
	"You don't like me do you?" she'd said to me, "You never talk to me." 
	After that we started to talk to each other.
	I ended up drunk with her one evening in a deserted all-night caf. The caf was a dark, windowless room at the top of a narrow flight of stairs; loud music was playing. There was a little Korean guy running the place on his own and when we'd come in he was sitting crouched over an electric fire - it was the middle of winter. We held hands, drank bad coffee out of plastic cups and talked about love. 	
	"What about your boyfriend?"	
	"Well," she said, "I don't know - I love him, I don't love him - what can I say?"
	"What about me?"
	She was quiet for a moment. "We have a drink - we hold hands - it's nice."
	"I could say that I loved you."
	"Sure," she smiled at me, "you could say that."
	
	"Let's get out of here and find a cheap hotel," said Monique, "let's go and get a cheap room somewhere, somewhere we can make love - do you want to?"
	"Yes," I said, "yes, I want to very much."
	We left and started walking around the city. 
	"I don't think I know where to find a cheap room around here," I said. We walked some more. A moment ago we'd been heading in a direction, now we just seemed to be walking.
	"I have to make a phone call," she said, "wait for me."
	I sat down in a shop doorway and watched her in the phonebox. She talked for a long time; while I sat there I thought about the prices of hotel rooms. 
	She came out of the phone-box. "He said to me: "sure, go ahead and sleep with him - only don't bother coming back here afterwards - I don't want to see you again if you do that."
	I walked her to a bus stop; as she got on the bus I said to her, "You know what my phone number is don't you?" 
	"I know what it is," she smiled at me, "but I'm not going to ring you." 
	"Is that a promise?"
	"It's a promise," she said.  One more time she smiled at me and then the bus pulled away and took her back to the place where she lived with her boyfriend.

	We did see each other again after that but all the time she was telling me quietly that we would soon have to stop, that she didn't want to do this anymore. One day she rang me up and said 'goodbye' to me, she said it kindly - and that was it.

	I went home and listened to my parents and their friends talk about the war. My father showed me some black and white photographs that I'd never seen before. One showed a smiling man in a beret and overalls who was standing on a low, blackened mound.
	 "That's Stanley," said my father, "I think he died last year. He was in the plane with me - we both bailed out at the same time - what he's standing on is what was left of the plane after it crashed."
	 I looked at the photograph again. 
	"This one," said my father, "her name was Veronique." A picture of a woman dressed in 1940's clothing; she looked out of the picture with a steady gaze. "She was one of the people that owned the farm where we hid after the plane was shot down. We wrote to each other once or twice - after the war was over. She made a handkerchief for me out of a bit of my parachute and embroidered my initials on it."
	I left soon after that and got on a train. I sat on the train wondering about my father and this woman called Veronique.

	"And the whole Earth was of one language and one speech...
	And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto heaven: and let us make a name lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.
	And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.
	And the LORD said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they have begun to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
	Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech.
	So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.
	Therefore the name of it is called Babel: because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of the earth."	

	My father is unaccustomed to using answerphones. He left me a message: "Your mother's home." My mother had just spent a week in hospital. There was a noise on the tape afterwards that made it sound like he was trying to say something more, but the phone went dead. Just a muffled sound and then the bleep as the message ended. I re-wound the machine and listened to it again. Then I listened to it one last time before I hit the 'erase' button.

	I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote a letter to Monique:

"Dear Monique,
	Hey, given a bit of time I've finally got around to getting pissed off with you! Put out the fucking flags!
	What I want to say to you is: fuck all this bullshit and just fucking marry me.
	I'm serious and why not?
	I have a dumb-ass, stupid, lonely, fucked up life and it sucks - but you are the only woman that I have ever met that I could speak to about every fucked up stupid bit of it and not think that they'd get horrified and fuck off.
	I hate the fucking way you control the fucking access I have into your organised fucking life. I feel like a rat in a fucking maze. 
	Fuck your boyfriend... 
	                            ...and fuck you if you're dumb enough not to fucking recognise that we could've gone all the fucking stupid way to death together and it wouldn't have been a waste. There has never been anyone else that I could say that about ever, and if you just piss off...
	                 ...well, it's just a fucking waste.
	fuck fuck fuck
	"Good-bye," you said, "I cannot (fucking) see you again." 
	click.
	end of fucking story."



This story appears courtesy of R.P.T Owen.  He can be reached for comments at: rpto@btinternet.com

"I'm 34, I live in London, England. I have worked in the mental health field for eight years When I'm not working I try to be in love. Failing that, I read and try to write. These stories were the first things that I've ever really written. I'm very grateful to the editor of CoN for giving them a platform."

-------------------------------------------

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Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro          Colin Barrett
<leandro@capnasty.org>            <tyrannis@capnasty.org>


ZimID 708EC8D1  1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32  7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D
