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Tales of the Network - Part 1
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Notice: The case of this story is modeled after asb itself, in the
composite. No actual living persons are intentionally represented here.
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Tales of the Network
Chapter One: The Law of the Land (part one)
Mombassa tested the gavel, and judged the sound somewhat disappointing.
The only surface on which it would make a truly authoritative bang,
she reckoned, would be the surface of Phouka's desk, but they didn't want
to beat up his expensive furniture. Phouka had already done more than
his share by supplying this big, dignified-looking house for what some
were starting to call the Big Scene. Though Mombassa clearly had the
upper-body strength to tear the place up pretty good, she wanted to save
that for the defendants.
"Next time let's get a church. Great acoustics, and the pews and
stained glass and everything would give it a great air of intimidating
tradition."
"Her Honor Mombassa sure don't get out much," teased Swish, who was
struggling into a costume about three degrees more ornate than his bailiff's
role strictly required. "I bet you haven't been to church since you lived
back in Boston where God is the Hairy Thunderer and even the Unitarians have
pipe organs and wooden pews. Here in California, these folding chairs do
about right. Shit, they usually pile them against the walls anyhow so
we can all sit in a circle and hold hands and go 'Ommmm.' CALL THE FIRST
WITNESS!," he bellowed.
The door from the entryway opened and Tinkerbell looked in with
wide-eyed bewilderment. "Phouka and Top Gun are still working on
the sound system. Hardly anybody's even here yet. Are you really
starting, or are you just practicing your lines?"
"Neither, angelic creature, I'm calling for someone to help me zip this
up. I think it will take all three of us."
As they struggled to understand and master the unusual combination of
velvet, silk and neoprene, a bearded man in a lumberjack shirt, carrying
some large electronic-looking box, entered and kicked the door shut behind
him. Working purposefully with only a brief nod to the others, he set the
equipment out of sight under the judge's bench, crawled under there with it,
and grunted a few times. Suddenly, the room felt thirty times bigger and
was filled with the sound of a restless audience. Only the evidence of
their eyes convinced them that they had not been transported.
Everyone gaped, silent except for Tinkerbell's brief gasp. Finally
Mombassa cleared her throat. "Gotta hand it to you, Top Gun." Somehow
even her voice resonated as though in a great hall.
"Thought you'd like it. Wanna try that gavel now? I put a pickup
under the table near the middle. Just smack it right there."
A resonant booming crash reverberated down seemingly endless corridors.
"A bit overdone," smirked Mombassa. "Oughta put the fear in the bottoms,
all right." She looked thoughtfully at the gavel. "Order," she whispered.
As Top Gun holstered his wire cutters, Tinkerbell wondered whether
anyone noticed that she excused herself from the zipping operation so
as to arrive at the door just when he did. "Um, that's really neat,"
she told him, astonished at the sudden disintegration of her vocabulary.
"I mean... you're really good at this."
He looked down at her with what he hoped was toply warmth. "Spoken like
a young lady who'd enjoy learning about the Orgasmatron. Think about
that, won't you?" Tinkerbell thought she managed to say something
before she darted out the door, but it may have been just a squeak.
Swish chortled. "Very nice. `Think about that, won't you?' Ghod,
the way she's thinking about it we may need to call for oxygen. OWW,
watch that piercing there, love."
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Tales of the Network
Chapter One: The Law of the Land (part two)
"Can you guys take that stuff into the kitchen? We don't want it
visible from scene space. This is an Inquisition, we do NOT have
punch and pretzels at an Inquisition!"
"Control freak," Jeff mumbled as he picked up a case of Coke.
"Still, she has a point," he told the women who moved to help him.
"Right now we have a good crowd just setting stuff up, but in a
little while you'll see bit players and spectators all over the place.
Have we met? I'm Jeff."
"MoonBeam," said MoonBeam. "We met at RubyCon '91, remember? But
you were using a different name. Angle bracket or something."
"Left Curly-Brace," grimaced Jeff. "It was a major factor in my
coming out -- I couldn't stand my Wizvax name any more."
"Do you know the defendant?" MoonBeam began putting away groceries.
"The adulteress? No, she's real new. That's one of the problems,
actually. Mr. Carruthers likes her and thinks this will be really
good for her, and he has a lot of credibility, and it all sounds
like fun -- but when you get down to it, we're arranging a scene
around someone we barely know. I mean, OK, she's odd. She doesn't
talk like people in the scene talk. That's fine but if you don't use
a common language, it makes it hard to negotiate a scene. So we
really have only Mr. Carruthers' word. But he's a good guy. Uh,
you want a hand putting that up?"
"No, I'm OK about standing on a chair in a short skirt where you can
see what I'm mostly not wearing underneath. It's naughty but that's
me. Were you planning to do something about it?"
Oh, NOW he remembered her from RubyCon. She was involved in that contre-
temps with hotel security at the jacuzzi. "Put the damned groceries away.
Maybe we can work something out later. I need to see a lawyer."
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"Look, Ginnie," entreated Carruthers, "the word `scene' has a purpose.
Everything here is really theatrical, and there's a reason for that.
If you keep trying to mock it, all you're doing is making sure everybody
will think you don't belong here. And I asked you not to smoke in this
car. We're nearly there and you should be getting ready."
Sweatsuit-clad, without her makeup, and defiantly blowing cigarette
smoke, Virginia didn't really look good enough to make all counts of the
indictment plausible. "Look, you said you were going to arrange a punish-
ment for me, you introduced me to all these people and frankly, all I see
is a lot of computer dweebs with computer-game nicknames who never actually
DO anything." She pushed her face close to Carruthers. "I actually do
feel real perverted guilt about my actual, sinful sex life and I want a
punishment that will make a difference to me, do you understand that?"
She relaxed and smiled, and suddenly looked young and pretty like
Carruthers remembered her. "And if the punishment is a little sinful
too, that's fine," she cooed. She opened the sweatsuit top, as if to
change into more suitable courtroom garb. Carruthers caught a glimpse
of something soft, then heard a rapid bumping under his tires that made
him jerk the car back into its lane.
Her self-appointed public defender cursed the ease with which she'd
roped him in. "Punish me," said her ad. Well, she was unfamiliar
with the scene, but interested, and with his resources and contacts...
but there was always something a bit _off_ about her. At this point, he
was just hoping that the Big Scene would have so much momentum of its
own that she would not be able to top it from the bottom -- she could
participate or get out, but the scene was what it was. She'd sit
thought the "warm-up acts," the other mock trials, see the range of
things people could do to have fun together, settle into the scene,
enjoy herself.
That was his plan from the beginning -- what she needed, he told himself,
was some perspective on her guilt feelings. The sort of perspective she
could get from seeing a caring, mutually supportive group of people into
doing power exchange without guilt or dishonesty. Yeah, that's it.
Horseshit, he thought. What she needs is me, from behind, soon and often.
Oh, I'm going to be the worst public defender you ever saw, Ginnie, he
whispered to himself. You're going to get severe sentences to be served
consecutively, oh yes you are. Just trust Mr. Carruthers, he'll make
sure the court does what's best for all concerned.
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