_PINKBOY WITH SPAM_
Pinkboy's head atop a youngish-looking Suessian-crittur's body
whizzes past an armchair. There is sitting in the armahair a large,
shaggy, sleeping Yeti of indeterminate sex. Pinkboy is aboard a
loud, 2-stroke-powered skateboard belching great gouts of pink
exhaust. He swervingly steers the contraption perilously close to
the elder Yeti's toes with one hand while holding aloft a covered
tray atop outstretched fingers.
The old Yeti starts awake. S/he is wearing a tatty sweater with a
sort of emblem on the breast. Sort of shield-like, but not entirely
unlike an artistic representation of a blob of sputum, for that
matter. In *GOLD*.
Yeti: "That Spam-I-Am! That Spam-I-Am! I do not like that
Pinkboy: (pharting by on the return trip thru the living room) "Then
I shall make you eat more SPAM!
"I'll make you eat it on a plate! I'll make you eat it, no debate!
I'll make you eat it with a scam! My Kenlow name is Spam-I-AM!"
Yeti: "I SHALL NOT eat it on a plate! I shall not eat it, no
debate! I shall not eat it with a scam! You know this means war,
Pinkboy has by now scooped up Yeti, who is now perched perilously
atop the skateboard's handlebar. They are heading out the door -
Yeti, Pinkboy, covered tray, and all. An astonished Yeti looks on
as they whiz outdoors. A portrait of Pinkboy hangs from a bent nail
near the door.
Pinkboy: "Eat it now, before my portrait! Eat it here, or face a
Yeti: I shall not eat beneath your portrait! Serve instead your
yummy court date! Hire lawyers if you can! Your name shall be
(Pinkboy's face falls momentarily at mention of lawyers... then
A public picnic grounds near the center of town. The tray, on a
picnic table, is uncovered to reveal Hideous Pink Meat with Squiggly
Smellies a-rising into the air. Yeti is seated, pushing away the
platter with a look of great distaste on his face. Pinkboy holds
forth a large teacup, heaped with more smelly stuff, from a stump
nearby. A curious crowd is gathering... Most of the faces reflect
repugnance. Others are laughing. One winks at another.
Pinkboy: Then you shall have it cup by cup! For if you don't we'll
fuck you up! My friends and I have LOTS of spam! We'll make you
eat it, zip-zap-zam!
Yeti (roaring, with teeth): I shall not eat it cup by cup! Your
friends shall not my SLACK disrupt! Alt.SLACK shall never eat your
spam! The war is on NOW, SPAM-I-Am!
Pinkboy is seated alone on a low stool, wearing an eyeshade. The
candle at his elbow is unlit. He sits at the console of an outdated
mainframe with whirring tape drives, a green-screen monitor and No
Mouse. Pink-gloved hands, extending from the tape drive and such,
hurl great gouts of the Unclean Meat from a huge hopper on the
ground in the general direction of the high stone wall that
separates him from the rest of the population. (Pinkboy's working
space is cramped, compared to the rest of the page.) Not all of the
meat makes it over the wall. A large pink button marked, "CANCEL"
protrudes from the console. Pinkboy's finger, of course, hovers
just above the button. Imagine his expression... with teeth...
Facing Page, extending into previous:
Five Yetii wearing Famous Golden Badges, including our friend from
Page One, sit at consoles *with* mice. Yeti One is seated within
the comfy recesses of the SubNectivity Interface. Yeti Two is
saving many things to many disks. Yeti Three is on the phone. Yeti
Four has a walkie-talkie. More Yetii and a lone postman approach in
awe. Yeti Five, seated at a high Scrivener's desk, applies a
Scribe's quill diligently to paper. The writing on Yeti Five's
Document is quoted verbatim:
"We eat no spam. It would be wise, Mike Enlow, to a-pol-o-gize!"
Back to the House. Yeti One has just opened the door to receive
mail from a large pink weasel (still looks mostly like Enlow). The
Subnectivity Interface is seen in the background, tentacles
extending in every direction. An unhealthy-looking potted magnolia
sits by the door; Pinkboy's picture is turned to the wall, but the
nail is straight now. The mail from the Pink Weasel reads:
"Apologize, I might, it's true. But FIRST I'm gonna CANCEL you! My
Me-Goes-WHEEEE! will make you SCRAM - or else my name's not
Page Seven and Page Eight (facing):
Yeti One and four friends in a large room. The SubNectivity
Interface and the rest of the console from Page Five are in full
view, none the worse for wear. One huge streaming tape drive by
Networth Precision Industries dominates the scene. Cut Magnolia
blossoms enhance the decor, tho' some are wilted and dying... as
tho' Magnolia thingies are a-gettin' kinda old by now...
"He CANCELLED us, that horrid pup! Good thing we have our
Back-'Em-Up! He cancelled half of UseNet too! And now he says he's
gonna sue! This has to stop! This place has rules! No Enlow blow
shall nix our tools!!! Moreover, now HE's in a jam! CRY HAVOC
'till he eats his spam!"
Outside the entrance to Enlow's "bunker", which consists of a
'Sixties vintage A-bomb shelter tank buried in his back yard, Yeti
warriors of both sexes and many children celebrate with feasting and
many drums. Their enemy and tormentor has gone to ground... with
ample rations, to be sure, but with one fatal flaw in his
would-have-been Master Plan to Take Over all Webdom by bearing clear
and evident Malice and Assault against alt.slack and
alt.binaries.slack. It's the Law of Return. Diminishing, at that.
No matter where this worm turns, he shall find no escape. Oh, he's
safe enuf... until the food (or the _friends_) he feeds on run
out... and the water... and the air... or he can come out with a
*genuine* apology... but as long as the "food" 'n' all holds out...
The "food" on the table in the eerily Seussian cutaway of the
"Shelter Tank" cum-bunker is as pink as the Pinkboy-faced wurrum
that gnaws pensively away at it... A lone 640K PC/XT with two
floppy drives is on the table, its power cord plugged into a
tricycle. Under the table is a great heap 'o' oblong tin cans. The
candle on the table is growing short.
Pinkboy: "I'm in a scrape, now, I tell you! For ONCE the thing I
say is _true_! Those Yeti folk'll have my hide! I must confess
what I've denied! I'd better think this over well! BoB DAMN that
UCE to Hell! I sure was DUMB to run that scam! I guess my name is
Fade to black amid the sound of drums and keening howls of savage
joy. An occasional rock goes, "Plonk!" against the bunker's hatch.