  nnnnnn nnn                nnn   nnn
  $ $$ $  $$                  $$b   $
    $$    $$nd$b  .d$$b.      $`$b  $  .d$$b. .d$$b.
    $$    $$  $$  $$  $$      $ `$b $  $$  $$ $$  $$  nnn
    $$    $$  $$  $$""""      $  `$b$  $$"""" $$  $$  """
   nSSn  nSSi SSn "Sbnn"     nSn  `SS  "Sbnn" "SbdS"


  .nP"=$$                      $P          nnn                          TM
  $$   ""                     `n'          n$$nnn 
  $$      .d$$b. $$$nd$bnd$b  nnn  $$$nd$b  $$    .d$$b. $$$nd$b $$$nd$b
  $$      $$  $$  $$  $$  $$   $$   $$  $$  $$    $$  $$  $$  S$  $$  $$
  $$   i$ $$  $$  $$  $$  $$   $$   $$  $$  $$    $$""""  $$      $$  $$
  "SbndS" "SbdS" nSSi SSn SSn nSSi nSSi SSn "Sbn" "Sbnn" nSSi    nSSi SSn

.......... ......... ........ ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. .  .   .    .
   .   .  . . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... ..........

    t h e  n e o - c o m i n t e r n   e l e c t r o n i c  m a g z i n e
                 I n s t a l l m e n t    N u m b e r  1 2 5

         LANOITANRETNI ht5 EHT ERA EW - WE ARE THE 5th INTERNATIONAL
                   0002 ,dn22 rebotcO - October 22nd, 2000
                          CMB :rotidE - Editor: BMC
                             :sretirW - Writers:
                 amsylcataC aniragraM - Margarina Cataclysma
                        sigaaH roinuJ - Junior Haagis
                         enyaW ylnraG - Gnarly Wayne
             

  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment                      .b
 $                                                                          $
 $                BMC vs The Capitalism Monster- Gnarly Wayne               $
 $     How I Saved BMC from The Capitalism Monster- Margarina Cataclysma    $
 $                       Into the Melee- Junior Haagis                      $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

                               EDITOR'S NOTE

        It's great to be back in the world of the living.  Well, except for
all of the dead stuff in the world.  And the stuff that's not even carbon-
based like... umm... feldspar and stuff.  Ok, maybe "world of the living" is
a figure of speech and I just meant that it is nice to be in the world of
the mentally living.  Well who knows?  Are people actually conscious?  After
all, this is the world of pop music and prime time television.  Wasn't it
Henry Ford who said, "You can have access to any art you want, as long as it
appeals to the Lowest Common Denominator"?

        Well it's nice not to be in that cave anyway cause there were bats
and rats and stalagmites.  Fucking calcium carbonate!

        The Capitalism Monster has been defeated and order has been
restored.  The Neo-Comintern is back in operation after months of non-
existence, and one reporter for the local newspaper wanted to know how I
feel now that everything is back to normal.  I replied, "Pretty good, I
guess."

        The reporter said, "I do not know how to respond to this."

        I in turn spoke calmly and sensibly.  Yeah, I played it cool.  "What
exactly would you like me to say?" I asked.  "Shall I resort to an unending
stream of cliches, or should I just attempt to say something stupid and
charmingly innapropriate?"


        (Cliches - all ending with exclaimation points)

        -Were black and we're back!
        -Givin' it 110%!
        -Wrod to Ra!
        -This 1's fa you!
        -Jeah!
        -We're in full offensive!
        -Damn it feels good to be a gangsta!
        -Where we're going we don't need "roads!"
        -We're the zine that will never die!
        -The 5th International saves the day once again!


        (Stupid and Inappropriate)

        -It make me thirst for tea!
        -Say what?  Say wha whawhawha what?
        -You're the bomb on mp3.com and I'm the captain of hardcore rappin!
        -...and that's when I should have said, "cause I don't have a name,
         you dick!"
        -You know, I don't even want to know you anymore, man!
        -Can you please just shut the hell up and get me another drink?
        -Some people remember being born, you know...
        -I miss my office but not being a sellout is pretty good too.
        -I think there's about 16 or 17 if I'm not mistaken.
        -Hi.


        Note: as I compiled these lists I downed two bottles of wine and
when I was "drunksenough" I stopped listing possible responses...

        I said, "So those are all of the possibilities and if that isn't
good enough then you should just stick with "Pretty good, I guess," and if
that isn't good enough then you can just make something up or whatever.  I
continued to talk after my point had been made, just going on and on
describing what was going on as though the interviewer had no concept of
what was happening and needed me to describe the situation and my internal
thoughts.  Now  you, the interviewer, are giving me a very strange look that
seems to indicate that I should bring this quote to an end.  So I did.  (The
interviewer continued to look at me strangely even after I stopped speaking,
perhaps because I had become naked during the last leg of my soliloquy.)"

        ...and insisted that the rest of the interview be conducted in the
dark.  As I told the story of my life in great detail until the rising of
the sun, I "allowed" our beloved reporter to listen to song after Sons of
Prozac song.  As according to the prophecy delivered by the Delphic Oracle,
it was the greatest night of my life and I was certain that I had thoroughly
enchanted (or at least as well as was due) this star reporter wtth a knack
for providing the inside story.

        (If you think I am implying that we had sex then you are mistaken...
you can't debase it by putting a label on it.)

        To ths day the article has never been printed.

        I like you.  Thanks for reading today.

        The Neo-Comintern writers are nice.  They all came to save me from
the Kave of Kaptalism.  They wrote stories about it.  The stories are good
so I suggest that you read all of them.


  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                     BMC vs THE CAPITALISM MONSTER                      .b
 `q                            by Gnarly Wayne                             p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

        The BMC staggered as the dreadful Capitalism Monster stunned him
with yet another blow. He tumbled headlong into his lemonade stand,
shattering 500 golds worth of fine crystal in the process.  The Capitalism
Beast let out a shriek and beat his chest with his large fists.  BMC bled
profusely from several major wounds covering his lace clad body.  Capitalism
Monster stood triumphantly over his nearly defeated foe, who put up a
valiant stuggle even though he was losing the entire time.  BMC seemed done
for.  His last thoughts were that he regretted ever releasing the Weekly
Capitalist and the awe-inspiring Monster.

        <Fade to past......>

        BMC was busy enjoying the life of any normal socialist.  He was
happy and carefree and incredibly ignorant, I mean wise.  He hummed along
as he lovingly brushed the hair on his Chairman Mao troll doll.  He looked
up into his ceiling mirror and said "*sigh* Isn't communism great?"  He
stared blankly for a couple of seconds and then decided to release the
Weekly Capitalist.  Minutes later, there was a tiny knock at his tiny door.
He tiny answered it.  There was a tiny creature there.  It was small and
white and had a horn on its head and was digustingly handsome.  BMC shrieked
in pleasure and gave it lots of hugs and kisses.  He nursed it back to
health (oh yeah, it was mortally wounded) and gave it lots of really good
fooooods!

        From then on the BMC and the little monster, named Lester (whom BMC
decided to call the Capitalism Monster after it ate 47 print issues of the
Neo-Comintern (and even some electronic ones as well)), were inseperatable.
BMC would dress up the little guy in various suits of different shades and
write little speeches for the Capitalism Monster to read at his little
podium.  They would have the most fun during their make-believe Question
Period, where NO question was too saucy to answer.  Believe you me, BMC
blushed more than once on those occasions (which, incidently, were
broadcasted live to the Internet).  They also loved to make prank phone
calls to Bill Boyd and make pig-related comments, which Boyd never
understood.

        As BMC overwhelmed the Capitalism Monster with his love, BMC started
to watch the little young boy grow... listen.  The Capitalism Monster grew
over seven tall, way higher than BMC's paltry 6'10".  BMC just saw this as
more to love.

        <cut scene>: BMC and Capitalism Monster having a picnic.

        <cut scene>: BMC and Capitalism Monster swimming at the beach.

        <cut scene>: BMC and Capitalism Monster running towards each other
in a large meadow filled with lemonade stands.

        <cut scene>: Capitalism Monster attacking the BMC.

        Capitalism Monster attacking the BMC?!?!?!  What?  Why?  Compton.
Who?  Compton.  Where?  Compton.  The Capitalism Monster had outgrown the
need for BMC and, like all true capitalists, destroyed everything that
wasn't money or money related.  The BMC realized the error of his ways and
fought honorably against the Capitalism Monster, but as we all know, BMC is
no Prince Namor.

        <Fade to present......>

        The BMC appeared done for.  Just as the Capitalism Monster was about
to land the final blow with a solid gold ten dollar bill, thereby ensuring
the destruction of socialism, a shapeless shift materialized in to save the
day!  The shapeless shift enveloped the Capitalism Monster in its shapeless
form.  The Capitalism Monster roared in frustration and waved his arms around
frantically.  BMC had just enough energy to reach into his back pocket and
draw forth the platinum Neo-Comintern issue #49.  As he read from its
hallowed paragraphs, the sensability and reason the ideas potrayed within
the issue proved too much for the Capitalism Monster to handle.  He had to
admit that communism was jawesome and capitalism sux!  He ripped off his own
horn and anally violated himself to death.  Though BMC was turned on, he
wept the loss of what once was a good friend.  Then BMC remembered he had a
bunch of non-capitalist friends, so he went and got drunk with them.

        THE END


  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P               HOW I SAVED BMC FROM THE CAPITALISM MONSTER              .b
 $                      (and saved the entire megaverse)                    S
 `q                          by Margarina Cataclysma                       p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

Shikoomin planet, their date 2000:

When the tsunami hit I, Sniff, Snufkin, and Moomintroll were drifting along
just out of sight of the islands.  The giant albatrosses that we had trained
to drop food for us at regular intervals had abandoned us the day before, I
guess they have the advantage of seeing what is coming before we do, being
so high up in the air and all.  But that is neither here nor there, mateys.
Arrr.

The tsunami cast us up on dry, dry land, way inland in fact. Sniff's,
Snufkin's, and Moomintroll's noses were a tad out of joint because they were
a good 2 days drive to the coast where they had promised emissary Johor they
would party on the weekend.  So they set off immediately.  (That again is
neither here nor there but, Arrr, mateys, I'm telling the story so you just
shut your yaps.) However the location was somewhat convenient for me.  My
pager had been annoyingly beeping and flashing and reminding me that BMC
wanted some sort of attention.  And voila the tsunami dropped me right on
his doorstep.
 
But he was not there.  I know, because I knocked and his mother (normally a
fairly sane woman) poked her head out from behind the curtains and shrieked
"GO AWAY!!  He's not here anyway! What do you want!  Get lost!"  So then I
said to her "Arrrr.  What the fuck, Mrs. MC, I'm just an innocent visitor!"
She opened the curtains a crack wider and squinted at me suspiciously.  She
came to the door, opened it, and I said "Listen lady, obviously something is
the matter.  BMC has been paging me frantically, and you are obviously
insane due to some cause, so why don't you make some tea and tell me about
it."  And she did.

Later that day I was walking along one of Saskatoon's beautiful tree-lined
streets when suddenly a leaf (yellow) fell from the tree and hit me right
square in the forehead.  Reeling slightly from the impact (to which I can
heretofore attribute my heightened deductive powers), the word 'senescence'
popped into my brain.  Wait, you are thinking.  What does mortality have to
do with this article?  Answer: BMC is missing (or was at this juncture),
possibly dead (he hadn't paged me for about 1.5 hours).  And from what his
mother had told me it was quite possible that he had fallen in with a bad
fast crowd.  Not good, not good.  Poor innocent gullible little BMC.  Arrrr.
His mother was terribly worried.

So there I was walking along thinking vague abstractions about leaves and
mortality.  A car drove up alongside me and some retard stuck his head out
the window and yelled "FAG!!" So, Arrr, I gave him the good ole double
fisted finger.  The driver drove up on the curb in front of me and stopped,
and the guy in the passenger seat and his six buddies in the back got out
and tried to loom over me threateningly.  Quite successfully in fact.  But
it turned out that the calling me a fag thing was some joke of theirs, they
didn't want to bash me for being who I am (the details of which you can
possibly read about some other time), they wanted to shove me in the trunk.

No harm done.  I'm a tough chick.  Arrrr.  A trunk of a car can't do that
much damage.  The worst thing about it was the stench.  I could smell fear.
And it wasn't the guys up in the front of the car who were the source of the
stench, for they were decidedly jolly.  It was a deeper stench, a stench
that was ground into the mats of the trunk.  It was the stench of a
previously captured body.  It smelled like... BMC.  "Oh!" I thought to
myself.  "This appears to be more than a horrible coincidence!"  I ran
through the list of possible villainous organizations operating in the
Saskatoon area.  My capturers weren't cops, cause I'm a moonstar, not
native.  They weren't christians, cause I heard one of them swearing.  They
weren't collegiate kids cause they seemed kind of dumb.  Arrr.  I just
couldn't put my finger on it.

I blacked out.  I figured that's what one does in the trunk of a car, close
to the exhaust pipe and all.  When I came to I was in a canoe, with this
weird French-Canadian fellow.  He wore a mask so I didn't see his face, but
he had an accent so I recognized him anyway.  He said, "Eh, Lass, get back
to sleep there, eh?" and hit me on the head with a fish bonker.

I blacked out.  When I came to, I was lying on a blue painted floor.  I
noticed the blue because my face was right squashed into it.  I said,
"Arrrr, get yer foot off my head matey." BMC's voice said, "Hey fuck you,
why should I?", and then whispered, "where have you been anyway, you
untrustworthy scoundrel!?!?"  Strong words for such a one as BMC.  And then
he took his foot off my head.  I sat up.  Thinking back now, right then and
there I should have pulled out a claymore and pitched it at that punkass
kid, but hindsight is everything.  Sure woulda saved a lot of trouble.  In
any case: the room was filled with cigar smoke.  There beyond BMC in the
shadows was a friendly looking porcine fellow.  He said, "Stand up" and BMC
did.  He said, "Take up a pen there boy, I need you to transcribe a message
for me to the Nobel Prize committee regarding my upcoming award."  And BMC
scrabbled in his pockets for his little techy gizmo.

The pig was talking: "We then inserted a long needle into the subject's ear
hole into his thalamus, because it was rumoured that to do so would
influence him to dance a fine jig.  But we were misinformed, for instead of
dancing he began to scream strange things about systems of government*, and
then we had to withdraw the needle.

Our team withdrew from the stunned subject, conferred, and concluded that
removal of the prefrontal association complex was in order.  We had Harriet
call in an anaesthetist, and when the subject was properly numbed we split
his skull and removed said portion of brain.  When subject was stitched up,
he indeed danced a fine jig, and, when trained, turned out to be a fine man
servant."

That is what BMC wrote down.  It dawned on me, later in the evening, while
BMC was fetching tea for the genial pig and I, that BMC was in fact the one
the pig was referring to as "the subject."  And there upon the mantle, I
spied a mason jar with a little piece of slimy brain glob in brine.  While
my host (the pig was expostulating on the virtues of the sitcom 'Friends', I
slyly grabbed the jar and hit him upside the head with it.  Arrr.  The chunk
of brain fell to the carpet.  I grabbed it, and while BMC stood there
slack-jawed, I hit him over the head with the fireplace poker so that his
skull was split open.  Then I stuck the chunk of brain back in, wrapped a
towel around his head, and slumping him up on my shoulder, made for the
door.

The rest is history. 

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

* Arrrrr.  You, readers, have a window into this time in BMC's life: the
Neo-Comintern.  Remember the half-baked idea he had to change the N-Com's
name to 'Love' last year?  That was when he was under the influence of
anaesthesia. The Weekly Capitalist hails from the full frontal lobotomy era.
Who knows what the future holds?  Will BMC make a full recovery?  Check back
regularly to see what the electrical patterns in BMC's recovering brain are
generating!


  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                            INTO THE MELEE                              .b
 $                           (the rescue of BMC)                            $
 `q                            by Junior Haagis                            p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'


By now you've read alot of stories about the supposed BMC rescue by several 
other authors, who shall remain nameless in the spirit of all-fairness. 
Well, I'm here to say that they're not worth your precious reading time, 
because they are all horrific, manipulative lies!  In fact, those people 
weren't even there!  Those fattened glory hogs just want your adoring fan 
mail.  I was there.  I can tell this tale.

By now you know the tale of "The Capitalist's" monumental rise to success, 
and "The Comintern's" subsequent drop off the face of the Earth, all due to 
BMC's conversion from communist to capitalist.  The months following  
consisted of the Comintern staff day in-day out whiling away, kicking around 
the office and playing Masterball into the late hours.  Our readership had 
dwindled into just a few small figures that could've been counted by monkeys 
being constantly whipped.  By the end of August, nearly 7/8 of the planetary 
population was reading "The Capitalist," out-doing us by about..uh..7/8 I 
believe.

Under a year ago, no one had even heard of this Capitalism Monster.  Truly 
the key to their fortune was  utilizing  the talents of countless E-zine 
writers from a number of publications which were systematically
converted into the fold.

But as we labelled Boss MC 'traitor' in unanimous fashion, word was smuggled 
out that all was not as it seemed.  At the tail end of Issue #119, there 
contained a super-secret message explaining of torturous, malevolent
conditions where writers were forced to spew forth capitalist dogma at the
rate of a hectare a minute. The author of this super-secret message was BMC
himself.

What once was a subject of betrayance, had now become a matter of 
brain-washing and savage slavery.  If the message was true, BMC needed our 
help.  His attempts the sow the seeds of revolution and liberation would not 
be tolerated for long.  We needed to form ourselves a posse, and bring back 
our beloved leader, in little ziploc bags if necessary.  That was the price I 
was willing to pay.  But, this sense of duty was not felt by my fellow 
komrades.  They were already seeking new careers elsewhere.  Magarina 
Cataclysma was now a spokes-model for Massey-Ferguson at travelling 
farm-shows.  Cog had become a commision-earning ape for Culligan 
water-softeners and Gnarly Wayne was spending a greater part of his time 
getting the fuck away from Rap-Machine.

Laughed at, ridiculed, and even set on fire a couple of times for my demands 
to mount a rescue attempt, I realized now that I must do this thing alone.

Now far be it for me to play Mr. One-Man-Army, but in all of us is the 
ability to overcome great obstacles through the channeling of positive 
energies by the chanting of mantras, mental conditioning through 
psychotherapy, or believing in the guidance of a higher power. My inner 
inspiration is Tol Chilibeck, a tape-worm that lives in my head.

T.C. was keen to point out that my best bet in infiltrating capitalist
headquarters was to relent to their invitation to convert into their
beliefs as did so many other E-zine writers.  My only question to that
was once that was done, what line of defense would I have under the horrific 
conditions?  Gaining control of my motor functions for a short period of 
time, Chilibeck whipped up an ingenious device to aid my mission.

"It's a seven fingered gauntlet," he said.  "A compact CPU and multi-task 
apparatus.  Once you've learned how to wield it, you'll be as powerful as a 
Ugandan Talisman."

"Why seven fingers?" I asked.  "I only have four, and they're all on one 
hand."

"Uhhm.." he said, "time honored patent?!"

"Doesn't even fit..!"

"SIGHHH!  Look!  Would you rather use your brain?!  Cause it's sitting right 
here next to me.  Your little bench warmin' brain here!  Would you rather we 
rely on that..PUNK?!!"

"Uh..no!  It's cool."

"Yeah, you see..who the...worm is..now,..bub!"

Calling a toll-free 1-800 number to Capitalist Conversion Operator
Suzy H., I was able to gain a response immediately.  Within 6 minutes a car, 
a task-master, and several hyper-intelligent humanoids were at my door ready 
to receive and process me into their elite system.

Taken to a debriefing center somewhere in remote French Guienne, I underwent 
days of reconditioning.  I learned of middle-class values, the acquisition
of consumer goods, and of the pursuit of great fortune by starting ones' own
business, while dealing with subsequent competition in a given market.

But could all this just be window-dressing; a front for the true nature of a 
most devious cause?  Hearts were not all content.  Then on the sixth day, all 
that was covered in a seminar entitled; "Well,..Not Really Kids" where we 
discussed the subject of one single individual owning and controlling 
everything under an iron-clad, fascist dictatorship.  This new 
straight-forward approach went well with myself and the rest of the group, 
and the rest of the lessons went off without a hitch.

After ten days, all 17,000 of us new converts, were shipped by mass-transit 
freighter to a Super-Continent just West of the Sandwich Islands.  The 
landscape, the architecture, even the people themselves were a cross between 
utopian and gothic.  A middle ground between Fritz Lang and.. Fritz Hitler I 
think it was.  Perhaps of an ideal society that had gone bad in a big
screaming hurry after it's dream had died.

As we entered the heart of the capitalist capital city, Washingburg, the 
rover took a subterranean route some 200 meters below the surface. At the
end of line was a immense penal facility some 900 city blocks long and
containing just about every e-zine writer in the world.

I was coded with a fluorescent hand-stamp that if removed (with two 
hand-washes) would cause my head to explode.  I was then taken to a cubicle,
one of tens of thousands, restrained to a padless swivel chair in front of
an old-style ribbon typewriter, and fitted an elaborate cage-mask, complete 
with a vicious sewer rat loaded into a separate pre-chamber.  Threatening 
maybe.  But in fact, purely ornamental.

My writing assignment slated me to compose an article pre-entitled "Damned
if you Do... Dead if you Don't" which was a call for acceptance for a
proposed bill that if passed would allow the power of impromptu public 
execution to those loyal employees of the state who, while violating the 
homes of unsuspecting citizens in the middle of the night, are refused food, 
lodging, and the company of the women of that house-hold.

As I struggled to find the words that would somehow make this grotesque
periodical work (as I'm doing right now), a commotion in the middle of the 
floor redirected my attention to a lone figure addressing a frenzied crowd 
with a homemade banner; a red field with hammer and sickle.

He talked openly about worker's rights, and the call for a separate party 
within the system-..hell no!  An entirely new form of government
based on socialist beliefs.  Plus some stuff about Massey, W.O. Mitchell,
and a time travelling ex-girlfriend.  Yeah, it was him.

Not before long did a squadron of Opinion Control Agents haul his ass
down from the highest rafter and proceed to beat his head into the Earth's 
mantle.  Acting without fore-thought, I hopped from the cubicle,
scaled over the multitude of greasy noggins, and leapt into the melee.

Regaining consciousness an hour later, my foggy recollection had me
realize that I had leapt into two melees short of the right melee, and that 
the melee I had so abruptly barged-in on took offense, and encouraged 
several other surrounding melees in the vicinity to join in on an entirely 
different melee that mainly focused it's melee energy into fucking me up.

I was in a dank cell lying on a wire-frame bunk.  To my right was BMC,
sitting on the floor with his head in his hands.  Rising slowly, I uttered 
under strained voice; "Hey..Boss?"

"Freak!  You're up!" he said. "Great!  Let's book!  Where's your ride?"

"Uh, no ride!" I said.  "The staff..couldn't make it.  They've kinda moved on 
with their lives.  But I do have help."

"Awww!  Not the fucking parasite!

"How many parasites do you know speak seven languages including Thai', you 
grease-ball?" yelled Chilibeck from a nasal cavity.

"Isn't it some kind of terminal condition?!" said BMC.

"Hey, we're an item, you big yuck!" said Chilibeck.

"Hey Boss..." I said, "..listen.  Chilibeck whipped up a little something 
that'll..."

We were interrupted by an armed guard who ushered us from our cell, down
a series of catacombs, into a great hall.  At the head of this hall was
a solitary figure sitting atop in a highly decorative throne of gold and 
sapphire.  Hooded, cloaked, and shrouded by darkness, it stirred and then it 
spoke.

"WELL, HELL, MEL!  Look who's here!" it boomed as it pointed it's boney 
index finger in my direction.  "The globulous little turd.  I've been reading 
your recent scribblings from the work-house.  I must admit, your instinct for 
this type of journalism has suprised and impressed me.  Can one really set a
price for their own well-being?  We have.  So take solace in that it's
entirely our pleasure to continue to do so.' I have absolutely no idea what
it means but it's positively brilliant!"

"You like it?" I sheepishly asked.

"LIKE IT?!" it screamed, "Keep this up and we'll see to it your rat gets
his own colorful little habitrail!"

Rising from it's throne, the Capitalism Monster continued it's angst-filled 
rantings.

"Once again, the Boss MC has caused discontent in the day to day operations 
of our massive writing staff.  Heart to hearts, counseling, crisis
interventions.  We've tried to be reasonable, my child, but now you leave us
no choice."

"Oooh!" said BMC with certain ridicule, "Big baby's gonna kill now!"

"Since we've recently acclaimed a suitable replacement for you in your 
colleague here, I won't be short of staff.  But, with another former 
communist amongst us, I must snuff out the seeds of revolution before 
they're fertilized by socialist party poopiness.  Therefore, Haagis, in a 
show of true loyalty to your new cause, I must ask you to liquidate your 
beloved leader yourself."

"What?! No!" I relented, "What makes you think....Me?!"

"Hey, use your worm!" said the Boss, "Don't you go recalling certain 
disciplinary moments in our professional relationship now!  They've got 
nothing to do with this, you rotten little apple-head!"

"Oh really?" I pressed, "Four fingers all on one hand? How'd that happen, 
BOSS?!  I think we'd all like to know!"

"If you need anymore inscentive," added the Capitalism Monster, "I can
make sure that conditions here can be made quite comfortable for you... 
MISTER Haagis!"

"GASP!" I thought, "He called me 'Mister.'  Not 'Master,' 'Junior,' or 
'gimp-frog!'  The nuns back at the old mission coined that one."

Reaching into my gullet tube, I produced the gauntlet.  Immediately, a
scurry of troops surrounded the throne and trained their weapons on me.

"Hold!" said the C.M. to the troops. "What is that you have there, boy?"

"My means to step out of the shadow of this cretin, and take my rightful 
place by your side!"

"Ahh!  Seven-fingered gauntlet.  Unorthidox but deadly.  Use it at your
discretion, my son, but be mindful of my men all around you.  The wrong move 
and they'll reduce you BOTH into guppy chum!"

As I donned the device it powered up.  Into it's key-code I entered nine 
9's, took the square root, and pressed the integer.  Then with methodic 
movement, I aimed it at BMC's head.

"Well aren't we special, all of a sudden," said BMC, "Oh hey, nice rescue by 
the way."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!" said the C.M.. "AH-HAHAHAHAHAHA- 
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!"

Just then the gaunlet emitted a sonic charge.  A piercing 'ZEE-ZEE-ZEE-ZEE'. 
The ground trembled.  Guards were shaken off from the highest levels. 
Grabbing BMC, we dashed into the catacombs.

"The lechorous bastard!" screamed the C.M, "He's activated the 
spontanious super-intelligent botanical motivator and homing device!"

Just then an eruption in the middle of the hall sent terror-driven soldiers 
scrambling towards the exits.  From this outburst grew a jungle nightmare of 
demonic flora and satanic fauna.  Then a pod, from which a snearing mouth 
appeared, split open and uttered triumphantly with otherworldly appeal:

"PLANIMAL RULES!! CAPITALISM MONSTER DROOLS!!"

Relentless from the get-go, Planimal tucked-in and devoured the entire
compliment of troops. All 400 of them in one swift motion. Turning it's
sights on the Capitalism Monster, backed up against the North wall, it's
prehensal vines lunged towards him.  But before they could latch on, C.M.
dropped through a trapped door under a fanfare of his own maniacal laughter. 
Infuriated, Planimal ravaged the great hall in order free himself of the 
surroundings.

As BMC and I headed for the lift that would take us to the surface, he
grabbed my arm and lead me down a different passageway.  Back towards
the work-house.

"What-up? Exit's this way!"

"We gotta free the E-zine writers!" he said.

"All of them?!" I inquired, "There must be 70,000. AND they're our 
competiton!"

"It's partly my fault they're there in the first place!  I lead the first 
wave of conversions way-back.  I've become a father figure to them!  Plus I'd 
promised them all a trip to Massey in a big green combine!"

Agreeing to the Boss's wishes, I asked Chilibeck whether or not the gauntlet 
might aid us in transporting the prisoners.

"There is no immediate mode of transferring that many individuals in one
go," he exclaimed, "But there is a transmografication sequence that can
metamorphasize them into a massive swarm of marigold butterflies."

"Pretty fruity," I exclaimed.

"Well..Hey! We could christen it the.. Papillion Metamorphasis Sequence.
Y'know..Papillion...freedom...butterflies...sorta.."

"Papillion kept his personal belongings up his ass, Tol," I retorted.

"BUDDERFLIES?!" BMC said in tickled ecstasy, "Oh yes!  That will do 
wonderfully!"

Within moments, we were addressing the entire work-house.  The many
writers, so stricken with heart-ache and grief, would have picked
death next to anything for release.  So they condoned the proposition.  Some 
also with tickled ecstasy.

Entering several key-codes into the device, a rainbow ray of utter campiness 
shot from the gaunlet sounding like the tinkling of a toy piano.  In an 
instant, the destituted thousands upon thousands had become a sea of 
delicate insect life, who were then compelled to take flight, make their way 
into the dozens of air ducts, and travel upwards toward the sunny skies 
hanging over the Capitalist Super-Continent, and freedom.

I don't think I've ever seen BMC cry before.  I don't think I've ever laughed 
at anyone crying even half as hard.  But in light of reprocussions, in future 
I should endevour to conduct myself with more sympathy and even empathy. 
Especially now that I've but two fingers remaining.

With the prisoners released, we now concentrated efforts on finding a way 
out ourselves.  Leaping merrily in place, I gathered BMC wanted some of that 
rainbow himself.  Intent on taking out the Boss the way he was, I insisted
we return to the lift, make our way to the surface, and contact the local
Sandwich Island law enforcement immediately.

Rushing back to our previous point through delapitated hallways, tremors 
again were being felt.  Planimal was on the rampage.  He was intent on taking 
this place.

"Why the fuck did you hook up with that 50 foot ragweed?!" said BMC, "I
thought we had him out of our hair for good!"

"I ran into him on Titan.  I promised him a land worthy of his influence
in exchange for the liberation of my people.  Oh and by the way, read Junior 
Haagis' ongoing adventure serial, "The Secret Origin Files" in future
Comintern.."

"Watch your fingers, meat man!"

"Sorry.."

Finding the lift, rafters began to fall all around us. The doors of the
elevator opened, and before we could enter, out stepped a darkly cloaked
figure brandishing some very serious fire-power.

"Drop the gauntlet, gimp-frog!" he said.  I did, thinking he'd drop his gun 
and we'd duke it out maybe Greco-Roman style.  He didn't.  Where the hell did 
I see that once?  "Over 6,000 of my men have fallen to your hellatious 
beanstalk."

"Actually," I interjected, "It's a 'forget-me-not'..."

"Silence!!  You think my empire is in ruins, but this is not the end of me.
No!  With my network of Capitalist Super Continents all over the world, all
I have to do is to simply transfer my base of operations to one of several
other bases of operations.  And you's thought I'd be done-in by your
pathetic takeover plot.  HA!  I'm laughing here!  At you, no doubt...no
less."

"Ah!  But your wrong Mr. Monster there, sir!  You see, my friend the
Planimal is one hungry, ornary flesh-eating entity.  His hollow leg is
virtually bottomless, if you get my meaning.  The more he eats, the more he
grows.  No doubt you intend to kill both me and the BMC very shortly, but
without me and the knowledge I hold to activate the 'Cease' command on the
gaunlet, Planimal will continue to feed and grow, and will eventually
envelope this tiny planet until all, including your Super Continents with
their bases of operation, is consumed!"

"Sighhh!" he sighed, "So if I point my gun at BMC's head like 'THIS', and 
tell you to put on your gaunlet 'LIKE YOU KNOW..HINT-HINT!', and I pull this 
trigger before you have a chance to send the 'Cease' command..!  I mean 
just..heavens!  Whatever would become of us?!"

"You know," I said as I donned the gaunlet, "you have a real gift for 
spelling shit out.  That's probably why you bore the tits off of everything."

As I entered the 'cease' code, a sudden explosion beneath us tossed us back. 
I looked around in disarray, to find that an omninous plant-life was staring
down at me hard from high above.

"Where are the lit-tle BA-BIES?!" it bellowed, "You promised me that there 
would be lit-tle BA-BIES!!  YOU...TURD!"  Hitting the enter key, the command 
went through, and Planimal ceased his rantings.

"Aww!" he blubbered, "You turned off the lovely 'Surge-Kill.' Now I just feel 
fat from eating everyone."

"Thank-you!" gratuitized the C.M., "And now with that loose end under wraps, 
I must bid adieu' my fellows.  Until the next time and unto the breach once 
more, fair thee well!!  HA-HA!!"  Ducking into the lift, pulling the helpless 
BMC under the gun with him, the doors shut, and they were gone.

"Why didn't you eat him?" chewing out Planimal I did, "That would've been 
the end of it!"

"Hey, you turned me off," said Planimal, "You turn me off, suddenly I'm not 
so peckish, and (pardon me sir; correct me if I'm mistaken) without the 
rage, it's just pure indulgence.  'Kay?  And you know me.  I'm... I'm just a 
little sweetie flower.  Hm?  All petals and sunshiney.  Am I right?  Hey,
BMC, Capitalism Monster, am I right?"

Having failed to to press a single button on the wall, the elevator had 
remained on our level with BMC and the C.M. still standing in the now open 
car.

"Uh,..down..please.", said C.M..

"KILL MY PRETTY-PRETTY!" I shouted as I reactivated the gaunlet, sending 
Planimal back into his rage.  Seizing the Capitalism Monster under thorny
tendril, he was spirited from the lift, hurtled several feet into the air
screaming maniacally, and was violently snapped up by powerful jaws.

Satisfied, the Planimal relented and slipped slowly into the earth once 
more, probably never to be heard from again, until around Christmas maybe.

Later, as both BMC and myself emerged from the facility, we found the once 
vast, stoic metropolitan settings to have been magically transformed into a 
garden utopia.  Planimal's mere influence had made the landscape much like 
the mythical Eden of long-ago.  Marigold butterflies graced the leaves of the 
lush vegitation, free and content, away from deadlines, dictatorships, and 
free from the iron grip of a foe now forgotten.  BMC frolicked in the joyful 
surroundings like some infant just learning how to walk, feebly trying to 
touch the endless sky, as I stood by him in Sears-model-like fashion with 
hands at hips.  Grinning ear-to-ear with one foot on a rock, I chuckled,
shook my head in playful negativity, and couldn't help but wonder.  While
the rescue helicopters drew ever nearer, I wondered if ever there would be a
day when such a threat to our way of life will ever rear it's ugly head
again. And will we be ready for it in future?

Then I thought, "Communism...It's back! Oh, Fuck Yeah!"

<J/H>


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    ___________________________________________________         
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 Copyright 2000 by The Neo-Comintern                           #125-10/22/00

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