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Mailing List Logs for ShadowRN

From: Colin Smith <csmith@*****.CIT.GU.EDU.AU>
Subject: Electron is back ...
Date: Tue, 10 Aug 1993 15:26:24 +1000
>>>>>[ Oh, good, this bloody sensi-drek actually works ... Hoi, there, all
you septics out there. This is Doc Marten here. I'm here to give you all a
message from a good term of mine, Electron. The little snakeboy went and
got himself splashed, and is laid up in hospital. The bloods up there
won't let him deck (something about the drugs they're feeding him), so
I'm here at his place, typing in a message he wanted to give you all.
Here goes:

Hoi, everyone. Sorry if I seem to have faded completely from
existence, chummers, but I went and got myself a run. Doc Marten could
probably tell you all what went on, but since I was running Matrix, and
had a bird's eye view of everything, I'll let you know what we went
through.
Anyway, I was walking along the beach again after the server broke
down for the tenth time that night, when I heard a ruckus coming from a
beachside apartment. Being 4 in the morning, I didn't really think anything
of it. Rich people, parties, etc. Well, as soon as I thought that, the\
windows on the top level of the structure blew out and people started
screaming.
I hit the sand as soon as I heard the explosion, and people started
pouring out of the place and scattering in every direction. I was almost
trampled by some.
Then all of these motorcycles start coming out of the place. There
were about a dozen of these guys in black riding leathers with red trim,
trying desperately to run down these poor party-goers. The riders would
speed up to the slower ones and wrestle them to the ground from their bikes,
or run down and injure the ones who put up a fight.
One of these riders came to a skidding brake right in front of me,
showering me with sand. While I tried to spit the grains out of my mouth
and shake them from my eyes, I felt rough hands lifting me, and I was shoved
against a motorcycle. I was grabbed by the lapel and shouted at in an English
accent: "WHERE IS SHE?"
I finally shook the sand from my face and looked at my attacker. He
had a tanned face and a shaven head, as well as some sort of chipjack under
his right ear. "WELL? WHERE *IS* SHE??" he spat at me. I didn't answer.
"Won't talk, eh?", he said. I still said nothing.
"Well, maybe if you won't talk to me, sep, then I'll make sure you
don't talk to anyone." He raised his right arm, and a set of spurs flashed
out of his forearm. He started squeezing my face to make my tongue protrude.
"Hey, mon," I heard from behind the razorguy. He slowly turned, still
holding me. I saw a muscly Rastafarian standing there in a fighting stance.
"What you wanna do wit mah *guest*, mon? Wontcha respect dah hospitality o'
mah *spread*, mon?"
With that, I heard a faint snick, then saw a flash of light. Then
I saw the rasta with his hand buried deep in the solar plexus of this Brit,
slowly grinding. I heard a small gasp of pain from the man over me, as the
rasta whispered to his dying face, "Of all da people in da world, you *beef-
cakes* should undastand dat a mon's home is his *CASTLE* !!!" As the light
faded from the Englishman's eyes, the rasta stopped grinding and let the
dead man slide off his hand razors. With another faint snick, the razors
retracted, and the same hand bent down to me.
Thus, I met Borderline. Borderline told me that his punk band,
Jagged Edge, had just left the United Kingdom for their first tour in the
UCAS. He told me that the band had been hassled by these bikers before in
the UK, but this was the first trouble that they'd had States-side.
After a while, the road crew and bodyguards got their act together
and chased off the bikers. I met three other members of the band: Goldmine,
the dwarven "mini-bassist"; Doc Marten, the ork shaman lead guitarist; and
Pattern, the American-born human vocalist. However, the bikers got away
with their objective: they had succeeded in capturing the lady synth-player
of the band, Bottoms-Up.
Lone Star squad cars arrived not long after the incident (too long,
by my liking), and cordoned off the area, which turned out to be Borderline's
Seattle residence. Witnesses were questioned, and the usual garbage. After
about an hour of

***** SIGNAL INTERRUPT
***** MESSAGE DISCONTINUED

]<<<<<
-- Doc Marten <21:27:07/08-09-54>

>>>>>[ Dammit, how do you make this fragging

***** SIGNAL INTERRUPT
***** MESSAGE DISCONTINUED

]<<<<<
-- Doc Marten <21:28:14/08-09-54>

Disclaimer

These messages were posted a long time ago on a mailing list far, far away. The copyright to their contents probably lies with the original authors of the individual messages, but since they were published in an electronic forum that anyone could subscribe to, and the logs were available to subscribers and most likely non-subscribers as well, it's felt that re-publishing them here is a kind of public service.