Newsgroups: alt.slack


From: (Rev. Random the Other)

Date: Tue, 23 Jun 1998 02:33:29 GMT


Ben the Bagger works at the Food Lion. I noticed him in the

parking lot yesterday as I carried my watermelon to the

truck. Collecting shopping carts, still fifty feet away, I

caught the Pstench and proceeded to do the little dance in

my brain that I always do when I think I've spotted a

potential Latent.


Like most Yetiscion, I could discern that a rare few others were

somehow less blatantly RANK than the main herds; it

wasn't until I joined the Church of the SubGenius and

underwent the ritualistic and humiliating "Opening of the

Third Nostril" that I was able to clearly identify the

Psychic Pstench for what it was, to harness the Pstench as

the sekrit recruiting agent for the Handbill Mill of the Gods.


When I get a whiff of Yeti I nearly always have the same

reaction. In a purely personal sense, I simply smile and

perhaps share the discovery with Sister Pammy, who usually

notices such things before I do anyhow. As a recruiter, a

businessman even, a mental conversation ensues which I have

learned to trust as a measure of the probability of success.

When I first saw the guy, my thoughts went along the usual

channels: *WHIFF*, Hey! OK, why, Random, do you think that

here is one? I mean, it looks like a human at this distance.

There is no overt look or behaviour to him, nothing to

identify him except for that, that... hmmm, I think I'll

drop a pamphlet on him. But...maybe...maybe I should hit him

with a packet. Number Three. Damn, that's like 150 pages.

Ouch. Hate to waste a good packet. Still, the info has a way

of finding the right sort...maybe he has a friend who will

end up benefitting... (it's at this time that I recognize my

own internal process, and start applying the brakes. I mean,

I'm enthusiastic about my business but I don't want to lose

my focus; it's fun to simply freak out the Humes with info,

casting the Church in any light that I choose just to watch

them try to understand, but serious recruiting consumes

valuable resources that must properly be rationed). OK, I'll

load the melon and go talk to him, and if I get a sign from



"Hey man, did you get that picture off the internet?",

interrupted my thoughts, as the Latent introduced himself,

pointing at the Dobbshead in my window. "Bob" Dobbs, isn't it?"

$$Ka-CHING$$ I love it when they approach me first. I've

been letting that be the way of it lately. A shirt, a pin,

Revelation X propped on the table at Peppers Pizza; I feel

more integrated when I'm working WITH the Luck Plane. When I

got home, I glowingly told SisPam that I found another one,

at Food Lion, and she named him for me, saying, "Yeah, Ben the

Bagger. I talked to him two days ago, but I was out of

packets. I figured Number Three for him." Always a step ahead.


The swirl of thoughts is my indicator, but the Psychic

Pstench is the trigger. Usually I see the person and *ZING*,

but occasionally I know without even seeing. I was driving

home from Chicago and stopped for gas in Mayberry, NC, Andy

Griffith's home town. Really. I was pumping gas when I heard

a voice saying nothing of consequence, "Hey, it's really good

to see you," or something, and knew that the owner of that

voice was Yeti. The owner of that voice was *alive*. I didn't

see him until I had a packet in hand and walked around the

panel van that blocked my vision. A highschool guy wearing a

t-shirt picturing a dozen 'frop varieties and the words

"So Many Choices, So Little Time." He climbed into an old

pickup where three tasty yetiettes awaited, and the four of

them were oogling the goods amidst a pungent cloud of smoke

as I checked the oil, cleaned the windshield, and paid for gas.

The smiling 'Fropboy waved and mouthed "thank you!" as I drove

off. I know lots of people whose lives were forever changed

by the Handbill Mill, people who paid $30 to the Subgenius Foundation,

PO Box 140306, Dallas, TX 75214. I was proud to

spread the corruption in Mayberry.


Yeah, the Psychic Pstench is real. Real enough, anyway. Real

enough to be useful, just like a lot of the dogma in the

church. I believe that it is essential to locate and tag the

souls of the Latents, especially with X-day so close. In a

personal capacity I would suggest that those who have the

ability go ahead and put it to use, go out there and find

those lost souls and bring them home for "Bob". Today.

Really. You'll meet some VERY interesting people, people you DON'T

meet elsewhere. Stop packing the camping gear and ONE LAST TIME, or

maybe your FIRST time, go SPREAD the WOR, REJOICE in the SALE*VATION,



GODDESSES!!!! SEND $30!!!!!! TODAY!!!! HURRY!!!!!

Are you reading this, Laura? Richard? Keith? Minda? Leslie? As a

SubGenius Minister, I'll point out that We don't care about

You, we Just Want Your Money. And we are the only Church out

there with the GONADS to admit that up front, unlike the REST

of the churches. WE believe that Normalcy is a separate,

malignant Force, infecting otherwise useful people. We believe

that the Yeti are superior, genetically different, and by

necessity at WAR with the mewling humes. We believe in the

revelation of Dobbs and the wrath of JHVH-1. And we believe

that Dobbs is an idiot.

J.R."Bob" Dobbs spent last weekend with SPOTS and me, camping

out in Gription splendor. I was walking in town and a

passing car's radio called out "Go to the airport." I

ignored it. The next six cars that passed also were tuned to

radio stations that played "Go TO the AIRPORT" at me as they

passed; snatches of conversation from the people on the

sidewalks were all AIRPORT oriented: "I have to go to the

AIRPORT today", "Mommy, what's an AIRPORT?", "I just dropped

him off at the AIRPORT", "They are going to build a new

AIRPORT I hear..." I glanced at a newsstand and saw "AIRPORT

DISASTER" and "Airport Safety Questioned" and thought

JEEZOhKayAlready, when an eighteen wheeler careened

across two lanes, cutting me off as I was about to cross the

street and stopping so that I was facing a huge N-O-W

beneath which someone had scrawled "airport" in the dust.

I decided to drive to the airport.


Raleigh-Durham International is a fun place to distribute

Church literature. I put Dobbsheads every ten feet, peeking

out from the phone booths and shining forth from the backlit

displays. There are lots of plastic-faced signs that a

Dobbshead can slip into, covering up most of the words

except the well chosen ATTENTION! or CON (tinental). Locked

glass displays all have a tiny crack just big enough for a

picture or a pamphlet to browse, and there are plenty of

racks of visitor literature to be replaced with chapters

from tBotSG or RevX. Two honor-system bookstores make it

almost too easy to get the Word in their faces, a

handwritten sign by the stacks urging the interested to Take

One, Free, and Send $1 to PO Box 140306 Dallas, TX 75214. I

have spent hours watching people read "Don't Laugh", and

"The Conspiracy" and sometimes going from table to table

collecting up a set of alt.slack posts. I once passed a

redneck holding a Handbill exclaiming to his companions

"THIS is what's WRONG with AMERICA today." Honest. I wanted

to stop and say "Fuck YOU, the SubGenii are more AMERICAN

that you OR your Mother; we're the only TRUE Americans left

in this country!" but he was huge, gnarled and mean looking,

and while the Eagle may fly righteously in the Heavens,

the weasel doesn't get sucked into jet airplane engines. I

farted in their general direction and walked on, more packets

in hand.


"Bob" was the first one out of the gate, bounding down the

ramp and grinning like an idiot. It seemed to me that his

smile was just a bit, I don't know, FORCED or something.

Maybe it was just that he was tired. He was sweating, and I

thought it strange because of the air conditioning. He

crunched the bones of my right hand and said "Random, it's

so good to see you, really, really great. Wouldja mind if I

stayed out at your place? Let's go! I got some 'frop! We

should hurry!" and off he went, practically running through

the terminal. He had no luggage.


All the way home he smoked as he talked about wanting to open

a fish hatchery, saying how he'd raise them from eggs and

use big nets to sweep them up when they got to fingerling

size, selling the fish to the Department of Natural

Resources. "Um, "Bob", isn't X-day in two weeks? I mean,

who needs fish when you have Sex Goddesses, right?"

"Bob"'s eyes seemed to bore right through me for just a

moment, all serious-like, and it startled me so that I

snapped around to face him. But in that brief moment his

expression changed into the usual grin, and I shook my head,

wondering if I had seen anything after all. "Bob" laughed

and said "Right. Fish. Sex Goddesses," and began sucking

steadily at the pipe, giggling.


Once home, "Bob" jumped out of the truck and tore through

the garden, saying over and over "This is Perfect. There is

so much Slack here. This is PERFECT. I need to stay right

here for a while. There's a huge Slack bubble right over

this place. It's perfect. They can't even SEE through this

much Slack." He dragged Pammy from border to border, asking

how much this plant was worth and how fast that plant could

be propagated. He seemed to know an awful lot about

plectranthus and indeed many of the tropical species; in

fact, he surprised me several times by referring to related

genera by the Latin names. He was regaling Pam with stories

of the huge plant collection he had once owned, then

finished by saying that the Xists bought up his entire

collection but trashed everything but the Amorphophallus

titanium. Pam laughed and suggested that "Bob" had done

something really clever by selling them a plant "with

fifteen-foot wide flowers that look so beautiful but smell

like a dead, bloated cow." I swear, "Bob" got a look that

was like a signal -- of what I couldn't guess -- and said that

the Xists use them as table decorations.


I asked "Bob" where he had been, coming in as he did through

the international terminal. He just laughed and said, "Oh,

here and there. Markets to fill, armaments to sell. Got to

keep up a good standing, y'know. Saw some jungle plants, saw

some desert plants. Africa. Not a wealthy place..."


Suddenly I KNEW. "Jesus FUCK, Dobbs, Ethiopia. I should have

guessed. Ethiopian fighter bombers. ETHIOPIAN FIGHTER

BOMBERS! You Bastard!" Dobbs laughed like a maniac.

"How the hell could I NOT have figured it out immediately?

When I read about Ethiopian FIGHTER BOMBERS my first thought

was HOW? I mean, where did they get the money to buy fuckin'

FIGHTER BOMBERS? I imagined the tax man going from

refuge camp to refuge camp collecting...WHAT?!? Like maybe a

few grains of corn from each bowl, selling the corn for

fighter bombers. Or maybe some Italian science research

center found a tremendously profitable use for GRUBS or

something. Dehydrated COWS for vet school displays. Jesus."


"Bob" said, "Come on, Random, it's NECESSARY. I mean, these

ARE the End Times, y'know? The profit margin on the Serbian

deal wasn't so great, but the prices went WAY up in the

Albanian deal. Them Chineses paid pretty good for the

satellites, and the kickbacks alone paid for the uranium that

India bought. Business is business, right? Believe me, we NEED world

wide retaliatory cycles of destruction in progress when the Xists

arrive. Keep 'em distracted. You may have noticed how many of them

Ethiopian bombers have crashed..."


"Oh "Bob", how COULD you? The Eitreans are, like, Coptics.

That's almost like a Sister Religion." Giggle. That was Pammy.

She can be way cynical. "Did you sell the Pakistanis their

atomics, too?"


Strangely enough, "Bob" said, "No. Mnnnn, no. The weasely

towelheads did that on their own. I mean, why would I? Do you

know that once the U.S. slaps their export restrictions on

the Paki's, the U.S. wheat market's gonna go belly up? Shit,

the Paki's buy a third of the entire U.S. wheat crop. I'm

gonna have to do something...oh yeah, it doesn't matter after



Sister Pammy of the Soil brightened and said, "So tell me

about the Escape Vessels. Sex Goddesses, right? Eternal



"Bob" fidgeted a bit, then said, "Well, let's get some Homebrew

going and burn some more 'frop, and I'll tell you about it."


Several glasses of brew later, "Bob" got that WAY serious

look, just for a flash, and said, "Slack. It's the only thing

that keeps me safe around the Xists. A lot of it, I mean."

Pam had seen it too. She looked at me, and I looked at her,

then we both looked at "Bob". He was staring with this really

penetrating look in his glazed eyes, smile fixed and

seemingly just like always, except...


Pam was first to get it. "So this place is like a big

SLACKBUBBLE BATH, haha, a scrubbingly clean and Slackful



"Bob" seemed relieved, somehow, nodding to Pam and saying,

"Damn, the BEER is good, too!" They both looked to me, and

something was dawning but I wasn't sure what. I reached for

the 'frop, and didn't say anything. "Bob" nodded and smiled,

his eyes boring into me. I finally said, "Lucky for us, we got

alot of Slack right here." "Bob" nodded and said, "REAL lucky."


I should have gotten nervous, but the beer and the company,

and the 'frop, had mellowed me right out. "Bob" seemed able

to talk more at length, now that we were all on the same

wavelength - or, at least, knew that the wavelength was being

monitored. Slack, I gathered, masked the signal. "OK, "Bob"

we got lots of Slack here. So the Escape Vessels, they are,

like, REAL Escape Vessels and not Sears Escape Vessels, right?" "Bob"

laughed, said, "Yup, real as the day you were born." "And they are

going to get us off this planet?" "That's the plan," said "Bob". Pammy

said again, "Sex Goddesses. Eternal Slack. Let's get some more beer and

some Christmas tree lights! We can turn up the lava lamp and crank up

the ToxicCow fog machine! Oh, yeah, "Bob", Random and me recorded some

killer tunes, pure Slack. Let's set up the room, crank up the music,

and you can tell us about the Xists. The cheezy lightshow will keep us

focused on what Slack there IS."


So it was in a fog filled room with blinky lights and ocean

waves that "Bob" told us about X-day:

"Yeah, the Normals WILL all fry on X-day, and yeah,

the Chosen go aboard the Escape Vessels, and yeah,

there's eternal Slack and plenty of sex. There's plenty of

sex, but it's not especially TENDER sex. I went aboard one of

their scout ships for a Harvest meeting, and I got to see this guy

that they had wired up for sex....yeah, wired up. They have

this machine, sympathetic neural interface or something,

anyway they had this guy ON for about six hours. That seems

to be about the limit, each session. I gathered that a Human

is only good for three sessions; I don't know if a Yetisyn

could last much longer. I got to talk with the guy

afterwards. It SEEMED like he was having a good time, going

through the motions & moaning, but his eyes were rolling back

in his head alot. HE couldn't see that it was REALLY a loathsome alien

DOING THINGS to him. He thought that they had his children

there. Yeah, right there with him. Yeah, during the sex. I

told him that there were no children there, that the Xists

probably induced some sort of hallucination, but he didn't

believe me. He started yelling that I was one of THEM, and

that's when they came and got him. But from what I gathered,

from his experience his four-year-old had the two-year-old

strapped onto a coffee table with big red straps and was

sticking this needle into the two year old's eyes. Yeah, he

said that the youngest was screaming and screaming and

jerking his head and calling for help, and the four year old

kept saying, "Stop it, I want to see if this WORKS." And stuff like

that. Over and over. He said that the youngster even called out his

NAME. And the whole time he was in their GRIPTION, unable to stop

PERFORMING. And sickened that he COULD be performing with the

screaming, but unable to do anything. It's THAT kind of sex. He

thought it was real, that's for sure. From what I gathered talking to

the Xists, they really catch a buzz off of the terror and anguish."


Sister Pammy took a BIG hit off the 'frop before she said, "So

that's it? The Yetisyny are going to walk up the ramps of the

Saucers expecting salvation, and they get illusionary

terrorsex. With a hideous alien?"


"Bob" nodded his head. "The Xists enjoy the irony."


"What about the Eternal Slack?"


"Bob" got up and paced the room, then said, "Well, yeah, Slack

is, like, relative, ya know? The world is gonna be hurtin'

and the Chosen are hopefully gonna keep the Xists busy for a

while, while I figure out the next step. Um..."


I jumped up and said, ""Bob", just what the hell kind of plan

is THAT? You sell off the suckers, but how do you know they

won't grab you up first? Just what kind of 'relative' Eternal

Slack did you have in mind?"


"Bob" smiled again and said, "Oh, it's OK. I got it figured

out. Yeah, we need the suckers to keep the Xists busy, but I

plan to be hiding out on board. They won't even know I'm

there. I found an AIR VENT. Yeah, I saw it in a movie once,

where these aliens hid behind an air vent on board this ship,

and, and, well, it should work for us too, I figure."


"An air vent? US? Just who exactly is US, "Bob"? I asked, feeling



"Oh, Connie and me. And you and Pammy. You know, maybe a few

others..." he said, his voice trailing off.


"That's the Eternal Slack?" Pam asked, horrified.


"Yeah. Well, Eternal, until we figure out something better.

But yeah. Slack. I mean, hearing all that moaning and

knowing...well, yeah, compared to THAT, yeah. Slack. And

that's kind of a problem. Because they'll be going through

the party favors like cheap toot. The longer they keep busy,

I figure, the less chance they'll be, like, cleaning up the

ship. Checking the air vents. Right?"


I looked at Pam, and she looked at me.


Pam was first to talk, and it was to me that she said,

"Random, consider the options." She turned to "Bob" and said,

"So the Earth is toast, right?" "Bob" nodded. "And the Escape

Vessels are only good as long as there are enough 'party

favors' to keep the Xists busy. And you don't think there are

quite enough 'party favors' to last quite an eternity,

right?" "Well, the more we have, the longer we have,"

replied "Bob", "until we can figure out the next step."


"OK, so we need as many Latents as possible," Pam said.


"WHAT!?!" That was me. "Pammy, what are the odds..." She

interrupted with, "You got a better Plan? No? Welllll. So how

are we going to increase membership? We need to get every

Licensed Minister on a recruitment drive, ASAP. There's only

two weeks left."


Ghod, I thought. Maybe it would be better to chance it on

Earth. But then I remembered "Bob"'s description of what was

going to happen to the planet, and realized that the idea was

ludicrous. And the Saucers, right out. Nope, I got plenty of horrors,

don't need new ones... Brrrrr. Nope. Right out. Air vent. No honor in

dying, I guess. In my head I heard the taunting voice of Leela saying,

"That rather depends on what you do to avoid it."


I shook my head. "OK. Air vent. Recruitment drive."


"Bob" brightened, drawled, "Well, that might be a bit of a

problem, with all the Church members gearing up for the

gathering in Brushwood."


"We can let them know on alt.slack," Pammy opined.


"Bob disagreed, saying, "No. No way. The last thing we want to do is

panic the ones already planning to go onboard voluntarily."


Pam spoke up, saying, "Maybe Random could post it as a story. You know,

make up some reason that will get 'em to gather more souls. Something

that they'll believe."


"Shit, Pammy, NO ONE believes my stories. I could post the whole truth

and people would think it was a JOKE. Well, most of them."


Pammy thought a bit, and said, "Maybe something about how much Slack

there is in recruiting Latents."


"Bob" smiled, said, "I guess that would be OK then. If you could write

something inspirational..."



Rev. Random the Other