[-------The Midnight Raid--] [-------issue number six---] [-------Presented by-------] [--Raid3d-----------------------------] [--BlueBox Microsystems---------------] [--The Anti-Happle Consortium---------] [--The Letter "B"---------------------] [--tmr team---------------------------] evilturkey.........marauder@punkass.com defect...............defect@thearmy.com countzeero.....countzeero@geocities.com da hitman............hitman@ductape.net seti.................seti@flatirons.org Ÿberphuck.........uberphuck@telebot.net deadly muffin.deadly_muffin@dynasty.net [--raid network-----------------------] hotline://24.4.169.110:666 http://www.countzeero.net raid3d@irc.slacknet.org [--contents---------------------------] ---01...........................disclaimer -fishbone ---02................................intro -evilturkey ---03............sex drugs and drum'n'base -error type 11 04....................hacking the brain -Ÿberphuck 05...................the frosting plain -deadly muffin 06......................how to have sex -Ÿberphuck 07...........genetic breakdown-heredity -da hitman 08..............hacking the SFO airport -Ÿberphuck 09..............................telenet -Ÿberphuck 10.............loop number extraveganza -da hitman 11.....NEW nail in the mouthpiece trick -Ÿberphuck 12...................magical beige cord -da hitman 13.......................touch of death -da hitman 14......................frank's revenge -protist 15................................links -evilturkey [--disclaimer-------------------------] Language is on fire that are launched, start here The warning of the word goes out to allthe above all the below and all who have been cast aside For everyone who is re-energized, critisized, ordisguised From the roof of the powerhouses to the ground floor of your soul To all who can fathom a subsidiary atmosphere And to all who can listen to the sound of cyberfear The Raid... Equals the imaginitave mind that enables us to resist the stratagies of containment brought on to us by political thunder whores from on high It's the coming of the digital freak swing ape kills master If you try you will catch on... Inhospitable cellular chain gangs and the slaves speak of consumerism And in monsters of plastic that await behind the hidden corners of the new hype The Raid... The surrender of our dignities and the disintigration of the Wammo Frisbee within us all of the side effects of the emerging techno psychology. The pulse button landscape of the coming millennia and its intellectual discriminations can't be avoided,they can only be downgraded reputiated and afthroplacentrically renovated the history distorting legislative heartbeat of the coming century Aligns itself with weakness and overindulgence The Midnight Raid suggests that you structure your acceptance of the frequencies according to hope and man and a kick ass outlook If you try you will catch on... The reinvention accelerates from this point For it is with these words that the spirit of The Raid theory of religiosity that we bring you the only antidote that humanity will ever know; RAIDED -fishbone [--intro------------------------------] Welcome to the raid: Where your worst fears become reality. The first hint was the blood curdling scream that came from an unknown voice at 3:00 AM. You get up to see what it is only to meet your final demise at the hands of your seven year old sister weilding a chainsaw. Owned. We haven't had a release in a while do to many problems. Our server host and editor, drop dead bacon, is gone for the summer and we are working out a new format (as you can see). From now on our publication will be released is three formats: .pdf, docmaker, and plaintext. This is to distribute crossplatform and to cut down on size. But I don't have to explain myself. Fuck off. Our old hotline server at raid3d.dhs.org went down. Our new temporary host's ip is 24.4.169.110:666 (hack phillic). Shouts to error type 11 for his story, sex drugs and drum'n'base, seti for his happle spoof and art, and hitman, protist and Ÿberphuck for their articles. Send article submissions to my email address (marauder@punkass.com) or to our horline server's drop box. "What is your theory doctor?" "Strangulation. The bruises on her left deltoid muscle point to only that..." It was really a chainsaw. Prepare to feel my wrath. Raided... [--sex drungs and drum'n'base----------] [--by error type 11--------------------] t h e . c h e s h i r e . c a t a l y s t_.. . . . .. .. login: root password: Last login: Sat May 29 12:21:06 from system console [root] /root$cat|more /home/cheshire/sex_drugs_and_drum_n_base.txt The sky outside is pale gray. The walls inside are pale gray. The art on the D nÕ B CD playing is a cool techno blue design, but the sounds are gray. I read for an hour or two, after I wake up and wash my face. I didnÕt brush my teeth or put on deodorant this morning, didnÕt really feel up for it. You can be sure things are going bad when legacies of youth die :\ My Star Wars book had a ludicrous sex scene, of which the participants were of course, 100% non-Lucas characters, completely lacking any true hero mentality. It turned me on, but the disappointment of seeing innocent childhood fantasies mixed with explicit debauchery, procured by an adult mind, my dreamland wrecked, far outweighs the minimal frustrated pleasure. The goal and passion of the saga declared null and void by the New York Times Best Seller List. They donÕt understand, actually they probably do, they simply no longer care. I talk with Linnea for almost an hour. She had a good nightÕs sleep. I always pray that she will. We chat about the homework we wonÕt finish for tomorrow, the chores our parents yelled at us to do. I met Linnea about 6 months ago. Our friendship started as any other internet conducted pseudo introduction. We were both idling on the same Hotline server, the deceased great and mighty Black Veil. She begins to list off poppy punk bands she likes out of boredom. I recognized some of the bands and started up a conversation. The anonymity offered by the small windows and blinking cursors strip the user of his inhibitions. Apathy soon wanders off, as traces of sympathy walk into my head. Apathy is a little kid with a lot of expensive Legos, I never had many. Sympathy is a little kid who knows what it feels like to be lost in the supermarket, I used to cry and cry, toddling along looking for my mom. As Linn and I talked, over time, the conversation became more sincere. We didnÕt do or say anything especially bonding, we just talked. And talked, and talked. We found ourselves able to make each other feel better, at times when we thought that nothing could. We found something to love about each other. In my eyes, our whole situation is perfectly natural. There have been times I have heard people talk about similar ones they hear about on radio shows or something, many find it plain bizarre. I guess it must be to an extent. Normal kids should have better things to do that sit at their keyboards for 8 hours a day. Heh, I have terrible posture and am already developing carpel tunnel syndrome. I bet the kids on the school golf team do not share my afflictions. But, Linn had to go out shopping with her mom :( I talked with a few random idiots after she left. SirKlown just got a SPARC system. Rift wrote a cute little text encryptor. IsoX rooted another 5 boxes last night, like every night. The numb pointless feeling I get talking too long about nothing creeps into my stomach and into head. I begin to feel nauseous and my migraine starts. Without bothering to quit any applications I restart and reboot into Linux. t h e . c h e s h i r e . c a t a l y s t_.. . . . .. .. login: root password: Last login: Tue Sept 21 16:36:30 from system console [root] /root$ppp-on [root] /root$telnet watt.csd.mit.edu Trying 204.29.202.50... Connected to watt. Escape character is Ō^]Õ Linnea, my other friends, school, they linger for more time than IÕd like, as I try to push it all out. It takes a bit for it to go away. It goes eventually, it always does, ItÕs just been taking a little longer lately. The sky is blue, the walls are blue, the music is blue. I hear it now, the bass and the fast sharp drums, the ambient synthesizers. The text is white. The world is blue and white. My parents lie downstairs on the couches, they are tired and beaten, with nothing at all to do on a Sunday. I donÕt remember that they are there. When they look out the window the sky will still be gray. The sky isnÕt really blue. The sky isnÕt really there. I donÕt really have a window. There is a computer sitting in a lab in Massachusetts, a few people also making use of itÕs facilities. They arenÕt real. Their computers have no keyboards. These people have no bodies. They have only their little white letters. There is me, there is the music, there is the blue screen with the white letters. ItÕs all gone now. I feel great. I begin searching the directories. Mostly student files, some are still interesting though. One kid has hacked up some neat code. ItÕs a math cheater program. I look it over for what feels like only 5 minutes. If I knew calculus or trigonometry I could use it. It takes only very strict syntax, but will solve extremely complex looking equations, that look like would take many many steps to solve by hand. I downloaded it, but it wouldnÕt compile on my box. ItÕs Solaris native, and has some obscure library conflicts. 2 hours later I decide IÕve had enough of this. 102 [wburroughs] /student/csd/tsmith>logout Connection closed. telnet>quit [root] /root$ I have plenty to do, I find myself bored none the less. I correct my slouch, lean back in my chair. A thought of Linnea sneaks into my make beleive electronic faerie land. She charges the gates of the compound the second I let my guard down, the second I break my concentration. The gray walls flash. The depressing gray light pours back in my room. I switch off the monitor. Up from my chair I stretch for a couple seconds, the muscles and tendons holding my frail body together scream for me to let go. IÕm feeble and weak, ill effects of dangerously extended periods of inactivity. I slouch more than usual. I like to exaggerate my moods. Almost no matter how I feel it makes me smirk. I laboriously stagger the 4 or 5 feet across my room, as if I can no longer stand. I let my body collapse onto the bed, I lay for a few seconds in a twisted knot, and roll over. Linnea :) Thinking of Linn makes me feel good. I have a picture of her. She got it taken at some dance club that had a web cam, sheÕs very pretty. She doesnÕt have a picture of me, but it doesnÕt really matter. She knows me by the funny little cat icon I always use. I imagine us facing each other in my small single bed, weÕre just tired, our only reason for being there. WeÕre like little kids who have been playing out in the sandbox all morning, settling in for our afternoon nap. Happily we chat about things that donÕt matter, giggling, poking and touching each other. We fall asleep, naturally our bodies drift closer together, if we were awake we would have felt each otherÕs breath on our skin. She wakes up sometime later, I wake up too. ŅIÕm cold.Ó She says in her quiet, tired, pretty voice. I tuck the covers close, all around her, and pull the comforter bunched up at our feet over us. She nestles herself against me, pulling my arm to her, using it as a pillow. I feel her hands on my chest, her slender legs wrapped around mine. I put my arm around her and nuzzle my nose playfully in her hair. She giggles and shakes her head. We lay in silence for a few moments, she fashions her gentle mouth into a contented grin and falls back asleep. I lay thinking about her, until I drift off, wearing an expression of wonder and gratitude on my face. I see us again, in a different bed I donÕt recognize. I see myself touching her face slowly and kissing her. She kisses back passionately. Lust is a naked woman, the naked devil woman, like the girls on the Lords of Acid Voodoo album. Lust can take on a familiar, sensitive form, she looks at me with false innocence, cruelty shining through in her eyes. IÕve seen her around enough to know what sheÕs up to. She holds herself in a relaxed pouncing stance, casual, but ready to strike. She extends her hand and curls her pointer finger, rythmically back and forth, asking me to join her... I see Linnea lying naked by my side. We touch each other and kiss, I feel her tongue in my mouth. I put my hand over her petit breast and kiss her soft neck, she exhales deeply. It completely consumes me. I want to stop thinking it, if only my mind would give me the choice. Lust takes me by the hand and pushes herself onto me... IÕm 16 years old, nearing the peak of my sexual vitality. Goddamn, IÕm gonna go blind, I think to myself sarcastically as I undo my belt and unzip my pants. Testosterone is a lone football casual. He runs around through my body in his designer clothes and big muscles. He chases my other thoughts. Fleeing at his sight. He finds Linux and MIT, they are oblivious and donÕt notice him. Two acne-ridden teenagers, playing Netrunner, a game forgotten by a now commercial profit driven industry. They sit on a park bench, Evanston Illinois. He pulls the first, Linux, from the bench and onto the ground with force. He gives the boy a merciless kicking as the second watches petrified. The first squeals in agony as his blood flows freely from his face and hands, which desperately flail to ward off the blows, and onto the worn gray asphalt path. He pauses and pulls the second off the bench, paralyzed, stiff as a board with terror. He gives MIT only one swift kick in the stomach. ThatÕs all he needs, Linux took the brunt of the beating. The 2 boys lie crying... It feels wonderful. ItÕs all gone again, thank God. Everything is skin colored, the light, the walls, the music. Linnea is here with me. She loves it too. I realize my shoes are on way too tight, as my toes curl, I gasp in ecstasy, the endorphin and enkephalin peptides surging through my brain. I hold onto her tightly, my hands clutching her shoulder blades, pressing her body close against mine as we move together. She moans louder, clawing my back, biting my neck, her mouth open wide. I feel her teeth burrow, her tongue pressing hard, her saliva running down to my collar bone. Her breathing is warm and powerful as it rushes across my skin. Her stifled squeaking subsides and her fingers loosen their grip. I relax my hold on her, our bodies turn to Jello, their firmness drained, she lets her head rest on my shoulder, her hands move to my waist, gently on my hips. We collapse in exhaustion, falling back onto the bed. She lays on me and sighs, stroking her hand delicately across my cheek, smiling. Everything floods back in with a flash and a bang. The realization is brutal, reminding me of where I am. IÕm cold and alone. The mess in my hands and on my bare chest absolutely disgusts me. Shame is a clothed Lust. She wears a tan trench coat and hat. The coat is closed a few inches above her belly button, letting bare the curves of her large breasts. She stands with her hands on her hips, scowling down at me. She says she wouldnÕt fuck my pathetic waste of a body if I was the last yeah blah blah blah. ŅFucking catamite,Ó she says as she walks away... Linnea :( I get into the shower and rinse myself off. I hate the smell of Ivory soap. It reminds me of my first girlfriend. The nights I snuck off to her house to mess around with her, I always got nice and tidy, washing with Ivory. We broke up about 2 weeks after that started. It reminds me of what I just did, I hate putting things like soap on my body, this is one of the instances where I will. The smell stays on my hands for hours. I always smell my hands. Sometimes I can smell myself, I like my odor. Most of the time I smell like nothing. The soap always smells very strong. People all have unique finger prints and faces, I think they have unique smells too. I get out of the shower and dry myself off. I hadnÕt worn my clothes for more than 4 hours, but I put a new set on. I go back to my room and lie down on my bed. I think of Linnea again, not in that way though. I asked her the other day if she thinks of me too. She said she does as she orgasms, and added a little smiley. I still feel wrong, like IÕve used her. I donÕt want to have sex with her when I see her in real life. SheÕd like to with me, but since I donÕt want to, she says she doesnÕt. SheÕs coming to visit this summer, I canÕt wait. IÕve only had full fledged sex once. A self-inflicted gunshot wound to the spirit. I donÕt regret much, experience teaches you things. I regret that. I regret being mean to my friend Bill when I was little, and I regret having sex. It wasnÕt even that great. I donÕt remember how it felt different from my own hands, or hers. I was so terrified. I came almost instantly, making her get off just after a minute was up. I withdrew, ejaculating all over myself and her filthy sheets. I wanted to cry, I wasnÕt embarrassed, I donÕt know what it was. IÕm pretty sure it was the fact that I had wasted myself like that. I felt I had surrendered my innocence to an adolescent Gestapo of Russian children, shouting at me, the cyrilic characters flying from their mouths, cutting into me like ninja stars. They want to take it into an alley and beat it with clubs. Innocence is a small child. He stands at the gate of a magnificent garden, the wrought iron gothic door open inward, large ivy infested stone walls on either side. The paths twist and turn, intersecting, the beautiful sculpted trees and shrubs stand towering over the colorful flowers, a great organic monument. The waters of the fountains glisten, splashing down their concrete terraces, out of their jets and spouts, into gurgling streams. The streams join and split, the pathsÕ little bridges allowing passage across. Stones jutting out from the streams, covered with moss, compliment their lush green grassy dirt walls, that enclose them, set about a foot lower in the ground. Other stones, submerged, form gentle waterfalls, following the slowly rising hills of the garden. It is early morning, the birds chirp as the mist dances among the plants. The boy laughs as he runs along the cobblestones. A beautiful woman, his mother, wearing a flowing white gown beckons to him from an intricately ordained stone bench. As I surrender my innocence to the boys, he slips on the damp surface of one of the little bridges. He falls, into the stream with a splash, his head hitting a stone with a crack. He drowns in the chill crystal clear water, now flowing red downstream. His mother cannot help him, she doesnÕt know heÕs in trouble. He is too ashamed to tell her... Then after a moment I did cry. She tried to comfort me, I wouldnÕt have it. She didnÕt understand. When I see Linnea I wonÕt have sex with her. I hate sex. What is it? ItÕs intercourse, the most personal and powerful. I donÕt care if I sound like a prude, some little naive Bible bred chump, sucking up all the values and morals so many find so outdated, so damn restricting. Sex fucking special, no 2 ways about it. Commercial television may have tricked me once, never again. I donÕt think I can handle something so powerful, something so easily abused. WhatÕs a 4 letter word for intercourse that ends with ŅkÓ? ..................... ........ ................ ................... ............ ........ ........ ............ ......Talk. That is Linnea. With what of her that is mine, her body doesnÕt even matter. Her thoughts are mine, her conversational eccentricities. I donÕt know how she reacts in all the trivial situations we encounter in the day-to-day. But I wonÕt be surprised when I do see how, because I already know why. I have what she chooses to give me. People may think sex is something they give, but itÕs not. ItÕs something you take. It makes for selfish wants and hurts. It represents what we have managed to overcome. It has no place in our friendship, not yet anyway. I donÕt even want it to. IÕm not done being a kid yet. ..................... ......... .................. ŅIÕd hit that shit any day. Awww, youÕd fuck her wouldnÕt you man?Ó My friend will blether. ŅNo I donÕt think so.Ó IÕll say next time in my Ewan McGregor voice. ŅNo!? Why not?Ó ŅI donÕt know I just wouldnÕt want to.Ó My normal voice, IÕm wonÕt be able to explain myself though. ŅAre you fucking gay man?Ó HeÕll jeer, ŅYou are, arenÕt you?Ó Giving me a crass, wide-eyed stare, as if heÕs just figured me out. ŅHi,Ó IÕll say resuming my Ewan McGregor accent, Ņwhy donÕt you run along outside and play hide and go fuck yourself.Ó Sex is mean. Linnea is my best friend, you shouldnÕt be mean to your best friend. You shouldnÕt think of being mean to your best friend. ............ ............ I take a nap for 5 hours or so, an attempt to try and shake these bullshit deep thoughts from my head. The unavoidable side effects of prolonged isolation. When youÕre by yourself too long, itÕs inevitable youÕll start thinking about things youÕd probably rather not. You canÕt get around it. I wake up feeling tired, I donÕt want to do anything especially. I sit up in bed, look around my room, at my computer, and scowl. ŅPtch.Ó I sound, annoyed at my own self pity. I smile to myself and stand, turning my head slowly back and forth, looking around my room again. I do a walking 360 spin to the doorway. There are lots of bottles in the medicine cabinet downstairs, I take one nearly full bottle of Tylenol. Back in my room I place it on my desk, covered with all kinds of papers and pens, CDs, and disks I never use. There are a few empty cans of Pepsi and a half empty bowl of cereal, long gone soggy, near the edge. The little black plastic project box from my broken redbox is right next to my pocket knife. I really should fix that sometime soon, it makes me wretch paying for phone calls, hearing the beeps through the earpiece as I drop the coins into the slot, knowing that I too could make them, if IÕd just steal another tone dialer. Abbie Hoffman would not approve, I think to myself with a smirk. I need to water my little cactuses sitting on the window sill. I love them, IÕve had my favorite one for almost 4 years. TheyÕre all plain green, no ugly blooms or anything. I listen to my own thoughts. Thinking about my desk and my room, as if they matter at all. IÕve put up with thinking about pointless nothing all my life. IÕm rather sick of it. ItÕs about time IÕve done something about it, put an end to all this bullshit. These stupid things I describe, they canÕt make me happy, nothing really can. The cap comes off easily, I smell inside, the pills reek, I smell it again and theyÕre really not that bad. Perhaps they can help me. They make little clicking sounds as I pour the entire bottleÕs woth into my hand. I open my mouth and bring the pills to it quickly, a ridiculous grin on my face... .................... ............... ........ ....... ......... ....................... .......... .... Heh yeah right............ .............. ...... ........ ......ŅAfter all, IÕm not fucking stupid,Ó I say to myself in my best Ewan McGregor voice, Ņat least IÕm not that fucking stupid.Ó ItÕs time I put an end to it for a few hours anyway. I loosen my fist and look at the little blue and white pills in my hand. I count them out with my other by 5s, placing them on the desk. I have 38. I begin to dig through my closet. I have lots of random things in my closet. I donÕt like having lots of things. In my room there is a bed and a bookshelf and my computer desk. My dresser is the bottom of my closet, I hang my t-shirts on the rack. My stereo is on top of the bookshelf along with my CDs. The shelf is made of white plastic-covered boards and concrete cinder blocks. I have around 100 books. My speakers are on the floor against the wall on opposite sides of the room. My bed is one mattress with sheets and blankets. I have a funny thing with sheets, I like to have a lot of them, I have 5 on my bed right now. I donÕt know why, it looks nice, all the colors. My sheets always come off while I sleep, I toss and turn a lot. Even when I have a full relaxed sleep and I remember my dreams. TheyÕre still pulled off and my chest has mattress prints on it when I wake up, my pillows usually on the floor. My desk faces the windows. I sit down after finding the things I was looking for in the closet, setting them on the desk. One 1/2 gallon stainless steal camping pot; 1 100 milliliter measuring flask; 1 scratched plastic measuring cup, with a very sharp lip; 1 box of 12 coffee filters; 1 near empty box of Berry Blue Blast Kool-aid, containing 6 unopened packets. 1 old mercury thermometer; 1 reddish-brown clay grinding bowl; 1 wooden grinding rod, in truth only the end of a broom handle sanded round; 4 small 30 milliliter greenish-gray translucent glass bottles; 1 glass medicine dropper with black rubber top. I pull the cords to the blinds out to the side and let go, they fall with a small crash. The right one hits the computer monitor and makes a slightly louder one. I have to smile, my friends always look at me like IÕm going to pull their cords and let them crash, whenever i do this. The left blind is easier to reach than the right one. I pull it back up to have a look out the window. Sometimes the little kids next door play in the yard, they can be fun to watch. No oneÕs out there now though. They have a huge house. I have a huge house too, I hate it. IÕve tried to make my room into an antithesis of the suburban narcissism my house represents. My room still posesses a few traits that one residing in a house built for yuppies will. There is a navy blue border running along the wall at the ceiling, matching the short carpet. The border is ripped above the window where I put up some stupid poster with packaging tape. I took all my posters down a while ago. They pissed me off, I felt like I was surrounding myself with meaningless slogans and other petty themes of commercial Amerika, worshiping them. Star Wars and the likes. Not that Star Wars is bad, far from it. I do have one huge Taxi Driver poster on the wall next to the closet, my only poster still up. But thatÕs just because he looks so damn cool, with his mohawk, his shirt off, wearing a shoulder hostler, holding a gun in each hand. The opposite wall is covered with cardboard, which is covered by muslin fabric. The muslin is a miriad of graffiti. Anyone who comes in my room can write on it, I usually insist. There are small speakers on the floor, centered against each of these 2 walls. The window wall is blocked by my desk and bookshelf, my bed is against the opposite wall, the one with the doorway. There are 4 full trays of ice in the freezer, I dump all of the ice cubes into a large cooking pot, leaving the trays on the counter, and bring the pot upstairs, setting it on the floor. I push the pills closer to the edge of the desk, move the clutter closer to the other side. There is just enough room for everything, and surplus to work in. I look my little lab over and smile. I begin by grinding the pills to a fine light blue powder. 38 pills * 2 = 76 milliliters of warm water, I calculate in my head. It annoys me that I have to think about such a simple problem, I should have paid better attention in third grade. I go into the bathroom, flask in hand, turn on the hot water as I set the flask on the counter. It always takes a minute for it to warm up, I wait, letting the water run over my hand. I adjust the pressure to a steady stream and place the flask under the faucet. I turn the water off quickly and raise the flask to eye level. 78 Milliliters, I tilt it over the sink, pouring a little out. I return to my room and dump the powder into the flask, it makes a small splash, clouding the water. As the crushed ingredients of the pills dissolve, I prepare the ice bath, picking the biggest ice cubes out of the pot and placing them into the smaller. There is a collection of insoluble powder settled at the bottom of the flask; the acetaminophen, Tylenol, and filler that the water will not assimilate. I thoroughly clean out my finger nails with my pocket knife. after 2 or 3 minutes I stir the solution with the thermometer, leaving it in the flask, which I put it into the cold ice bath. I slouch in my chair and wait for the temperature to drop. I have a copy of Nine Stories at hand, I begin to read ŅThe Laughing ManÓ. I nearly forget about my small project as I read, I finish the story and check the thermometer. The water inside the flask is well below the necessary 15C. I take a coffee filter out of the box and position it over the measuring cup. I grasp the flask by the neck, and slowly pour itÕs contents into the filter, the large particles trapped, the smaller, passed through. At this point I wish I had some aspirin instead of Tylenol, because the filtering process goes much smoother, you only need to filter it a couple times. I on the other hand must continue filtering for 5 more minutes, to get all I possibly can of the acetaminophen. I remove the filter and dip my finger into the water. I dab my finger on my tongue, itÕs unbearably bitter. I remove 2 packets from the Kool-aid box and tear them open. Both go into the measuring cup and I stir with the medicine dropper. I unscrew the tops of all 4 of the little bottles and begin dripping the laced Kool-aid into each. The bottles full, the flask is empty except for the trace amount that the dropper cannot pick up from the bottom. I take it into the bathroom and fill it an 1/8th of the way. I walk back to my room, drinking the water in one small gulp. I fasten the screw tops onto 3 of the 4 bottles and place them on one of the edges of my bookshelf that sticks out from under the cinder blocks. The 4th, I hold over my mouth and invert, the bitter-sweet concoction splashing on my tongue and throughout my mouth. The Euphoric Kool-aid Codeine Test. Doing things like this always makes me feel good. I like to make things, it gives me a feeling of purpose. I lay down on my bed and think of Linnea, waiting for the drugs to take effect. The cytochrome 2d6 enzymes working in my brain break the codeine into morphine, my receptors greedily absorb the opiates. I feel the music, the bass n the drums, the drums n the bass, my body feels like a cello. My discontent is an angry teenage punk with red pronged hair. The codeine is a Sex Pistols album and a crowbar. The music lets him go as he runs through the streets smashing out the windows of expensive Roles Royces, BMWs and Mercedes Benzes. The cars are double parked by off duty DEA agents, police officers and Social Workers, boxing in beat up Amerikan made Ō91 Ford Probes, Ō93 Chevy Cavaliers and other older cars. The cytochrome 2d6 is the mob little black children playing on the sidewalk. They cheer and scream. ŅYeeeaaa!Ó A boy on a tricycle and a little girl holding the handle to her jump rope in one hand, the cord laying idle on the sidewalk, shout in unison. They watch the punk approach in anticipation, as if he is an ice cream truck coming down the street. ŅShow them mothaÕ fuckas who we is!Ó The girl yells as he charges past, bringing the crowbar down on the rear windshield of a black Mercedes 740IL, passing the back window, popping the front with the curved prying end of the crowbar. Glass crunches under his heavy black boots. ŅHeard that!Ó her mother agrees from the window, taking a short break from the dishes. A boy with a red beret and a black pantherÕs arm band sits on the stoop, listening to his boom box. He bounces his head to the old school beat, rapping with the music, his words are hurt and angry, demanding retribution and reprisal. The boy pauses, watching the punk streak down the street, crowbar violently striking every car, the honking and screeching of car alarms following in his wake. ŅFuck! Yeah brothaÕ!Ó he raises his fist in the air and leaps down the stairs, taking them 2 at a time, bounding across the sidewalk, attacking, climbing onto the hood of the closest Rolls Royce. He stomps and kicks the windshield. Had he been a few more than 8 years old, it would have started to crack. The morphine is the feeling of justice served, that the happy children give to the punk. It wonÕt do anything real for him, but it will do what he wants. The receptors are the world that never shows him enough nice things. The morphine makes them show him the nice things he normally canÕt see, no matter how contrived and wrong they really are... I wish that Linn was lying with me. I imagine she is, we just stare facing each other and she kisses me. We donÕt get any heavier though. You donÕt think like that on codeine, at least you usually never want to. We just lay there. Codeine makes you unreasonably optimistic, sensitive. I think of how everything could be perfect. I wish I could show her what I mean. I think of how IÕd like propose to her. ItÕll be in a pretty Chicago north side park, late at night, only us, the moon and the stars, taking a walk. WeÕll stop and sit on a nice wooden bench, and chat for a little while. After some small talk, IÕll grin, saying I have a surprise for her in a mischievous tone, and ask her to close her eyes. She closes them, giggling, a smile on her face, tapping her foot excitedly. I lower myself off of the bench and onto one knee, she opens her eyes as I take her hand, a ring in my other. She meets my gaze, her expression changes, her eyes widen, her mouth parts, her lower lip quivering. The tears roll slowly down her cheeks as I slide the simple, golden band onto her finger. She lets me finish my proposal and drops from the bench, letting herself fall into me. I take her in my arms. ŅYes,Ó she whispers in my ear. Had I not been totaly off of my face, I would have never let myself get so dreamy, it would have disgusted me. ItÕs too niave, thinking things can actualy work out that nicely. I go by the principal that the less optimistic you are, the less you will find yourself disappointed. Optimism is a little boy riding his new bike down a steep hill, a smile of glee painted across his face. Disappointment is a little boy, going too fast, who canÕt follow the sharp curve of the road as it turns at the bottom of the hill. He crashes into the briar patch that the little bunnies in his favorite story book take life saving refuge in. ŅFuck you Huffy Bicycle Company! Goddamn San Fransico!Ó He screams in a high pitched agonized shrill voice, sobbing as he pauses. ŅBurn in hell Rabbit Hill, I hope you all drown in GrandpaÕs sea of blue grass!Ó He runs off into the street, leaving his bike tangled in the bush. Bloody scratches cover his exposed arms, legs and face... I hear my parents yell something up from the first floor, the door slamming shut behind them. Five minutes later rain begins to pour and I hear the calming rumble of distant thunder. This is perfect. I could lay here just like this forever. I roll onto my side and look out the window. The sky is a rich, but flat greenish yellow, the rain pitter patters on the roof. I glance at my computer. Smiling as I think once again of MIT. Mischief is a hacker. He wears nondescript blue jeans and worn out white sneakers, a black t-shirt declaring ŅDUNGEON MASTERÓ on the front in big white letters. The long brown hair coming down the back of his neck is dull and thinning, not to mention a bit greasy. He has a pair of big black sunglasses and a silver watch, heÕs not fit, but he isnÕt fat either. HeÕs about 30 years old, he isnÕt especially attractive. Most people think heÕs a nerd, and donÕt give him a second look, his wife knows that heÕs absolutely charming. HeÕs been around since 1983 and heÕs fucking leet as hell. He never grew up and he never will. HeÕs making $80,000 a year as a system administrator for a rather large Silicon Valley start up. He doesnÕt care though, he lets his wife spend most of it, he likes being a sysadmin, thatÕs it. Mischief was on the other side of the park, he saw Testosterone coming. He was frightened at first, heÕll admit, for too long, but he knows heÕs canÕt run away from Testosterone forever. He bolts out from behind the tree, his sneakers making no more than a light pat pat pat on the old asphalt trail. He tackles Testosterone from behind, plowing into the small of his back with his extended forearm, braced by his other arm, his hands locked together. Testosterone tumbles to the ground, Mischief allows himself to fall on top of him, digging his knees into his back. ŅWhoot ta fuck is this?!Ó Testosterone yells, ŅAhÕl dae you whin ah git mah hands on you, ya daft cunt! Good n proper ah will!Ó ŅYeah yeah yeah, my little k-rad hooligan.Ó Mischief sarcastically mocks. ŅFukcin roight! Like ah sais, ah kid you no.Ó Mischief pulls a pocket knife from his back pocket and opens it with one hand. He lifts TestosteroneÕs head by his pony tail and slams it back into the ground hard, breaking his nose, the blood pours from the split cartilage. He presses the dull looking metallic gray blade against his neck. ŅWhat youÕll do is not mess with my friends ever again. ThatÕs what youÕll do, you jerk.Ó He presses with the knife a little harder for effect, making a slight laceration. ŅMe, IÕm definately NOT joking.Ó Testosterone feels the blade at his neck, and the hand, shaking with anger, pressing his face into the trail. ŅFuck sakes mate, yuÕv goat mah wird.Ó ŅOh?Ó Mischeif asks, increasing the pressure, letting the blade make a shallow incision, blood dribbles onto the steal. ŅDinnae fuckin chib ays, likes!Ó He pleads, gurgling his own blood as he inhales. Mischief gets up with a scowl, pushing off of his back with both hands. He watches Testosterone slowly get to his feet, wiping some of the blood from his face with his sleeve. It continues to flow freely, he tries to stop it with his hand. ŅYer a doss cunt, dae ya ken that? Fuckin radge. Ya ken, if you wirnae such a poof, ahÕd be up fir a fair swedge aboot now, teach you a lesson eh.Ó He pauses to catch his breath, wipes more blood from his face, examining his coated hand and stained sleeve curiously. He looks back up at Mischief with a condescending scowl, ŅBut, seeing as ah dinnae want tae touch a biscuit-arsed, queer-beast such as yerself iny mair than ah absolutely have tae, ahÕl no.Ó With that he turns and walks away. Mischief doesnÕt give him a second look, he knows that his own threats canÕt possibly stop TestosteroneÕs regular assults. Only because Testosterone respects him, he does not organize the kicking of MischiefÕs life. He makes his way to Linux and MIT. At the sight of Mischief, they bring themselves off of the ground and back onto the bench, staring at him, obviously afraid, their game luckily undisturbed. He only needs to give an assuring nod that everything is okay and they continue where they left off... I remember all the of fun I had this past summer. It really was fun, I loved it. The first thing that comes to mind is all the trashing we did in Chicago. Ameritec, Megsinet, UIC, UOC, Northwestern, Citicorp, AT&T... The list goes on and on. We hardly slept. My friend Digphreak is rich, weÕd all sleep over there, in his huge basement, with 3 computers, all etherlinked with 10BaseT lines, a cable modem for net access. There was me, that is The Cheshire Catalyst, Digphreak of course, Camodemon, SirKlown, Rising Sun, Joe Nobody, Archive, Rob, Hexmaster and Mike. MikeÕs not a hacker, heÕs just my partner in crime. We always woke up at around 12:00, weÕd scramble down to the train station to catch the 12:21, not one of us even considered looking in the mirror before we left, it didnÕt matter, our pimples meant nothing to each other, and most of us had plenty. It was about an hour long ride out of the burbs to Citicorp Station, a.k.a. Madison Station. From there on out, the bounderies of the CTA was the limit. ŅThe streets are awash with computers you can have for unhappiness and depression,Ó I say to myself in my Ewan McGregor voice as I reminisce, grinning, ŅWe hacked them all.Ó WeÕd get back to DigÕs around 7. We tried our passwords, called telephone numbers, played with new systems, with old ones. Told jokes, watched movies. Listened to music, mostly techno and punk, even some poppy shit; Dig listens to commercial radio, but hey, itÕs his house. I remember the anticipation of planning our fun little raids. Archive was the oldest and he usually took over, we didnÕt mind, he was leet. HeÕd say ŅfuckinÓ every other word, in his southern drawl, telling us to watch for any fuckin guards or fuckin cameras and keep our eyes open for the fuckin cops. Cause they might think we were actually up to something threatening :) I remember the thrill, the Ņgo all the fucking wayÓ attitude we had. It really came out at the exciting times. The most vivid episode in my recollection took place sometime around the 4th of July. Everyone was at different lookout points around the alley, behind boxes, crates, garbage cans and other grimey, wet obstructions. Mike runs up the dumpster near the back door of the gigantic 12 story Ameritec switching station and lifts open the lid. Digphreak follows behind, reaches in and grabs a bag, then bolts down the alley, and across the street, receiving a chorus of honks from the Taxis as their tires screech. One by one we relinquish our positions to salvage. One by one my friends sprint down the alley, and across the street. IÕm last, next to Mike, who will go with me. We always run off at the same time. My adrenaline is pumping and I wear an ear to ear grin, just from watching my friends act in such precision formation. As Camodemon begins his retreat from the dumpster I go, feeling my muscles contract, my bones jar as I run. Mike feels the same. He wears the same grin, he is thinking what IÕm thinking: ŅFuck yeah man.Ó It really canÕt be described. TheyÕre all thinking it. ItÕs so much better than playing on some fucking little league baseball team. ItÕs so much more. It wonÕt go away either, not until we split up, sometime later in the next couple of months. But even then, we know itÕll all happen again. You canÕt play in little league forever, you have to stop when you get into 8th grade. Every phony phone call we make, every bug we exploit, every password we find. They all fuel it. WeÕre completely enthralled. Enthrallment is not a real word, because of this, IÕll have to settle for personifying the state of being enthralled; a socially alienated hacker, surrounded by people that actually think like himself. The Mentor put it better than I ever could, than anyone ever could. He helped some of us realize what itÕs all about. Ņ...I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me... Or feels threatened by me.. Or thinks I'm a smart ass.. Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here... Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike. And then it happened... a door opened to a world... rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought... a board is found. ŌThis is it... this is where I belong...Õ I know everyone here... even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again... I know you all... Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike... You bet your ass we're all alike...Ó The HackerÕs Manifesto was excluded from the Holy Bible because it wasnÕt thought to be inspired. IÕm hot and sweaty, I listen to the city sounds, I feel the heat issuing from the concrete everywhere around me, the sun pouring down. I think of the cars forced to stop in the street, their drivers gawking dumbstruck, as a motley band of scrawny teenagers surge across thier path. I separate myself from the wall, running as if the next seconds of my life depend on reaching the dumpster. I already know that the last of the bags are at the bottom. I let myself slam into the dumpster and pull my body halfway inside of it. I chose the biggest of 3 remaining bags. I yank it out and fall to my feet, as the back door to the switching station swings open. ŅHey!Ó yells the slim middle aged man, moving towards us. We freeze for a brief second. ŅFuck!Ó Mike and I half both exclaim, half sigh. We charge off down the alley. The tech follows. We respect him, weÕre stealing family secrets, he has every right to chase us. But no way in hell are we going to let him catch us. We couldnÕt get in any real trouble of course anyway. The City of Chicago Police Department doesnÕt have time to bother with something so petty. But none the less, no way in hell are we going to let him catch us. Our feet slap the concrete and splash the oily puddles. My backpack hugs me tightly, strapped to my chest. I run with the bag extended to my right side, bouncing up and down. Mike is faster than me, but we run together. Our feet hit the street in sync, we feel like guerrilla insurgents. I look back, Ma Bell is right behind. I laugh, a full fledged spirited laugh of raw excitement, my feet hitting the pavement hard and fast, my free arm flailing wildly. I burst out into the street. The colors and sounds of the open city overwhelm the dull gray and brown tones of the alley, they pass by in a blur. I have to throw my weight to the side to avoid getting hit by a white Grand Prix, as the driver accelerates, thinking the last of us have finally passed. He curses at me and swings his fist out the window in frustration. ŅHACK THE PLANET!Ó Mike shouts back at him, now laughing too as he runs. ŅPHREAK THE FONES!Ó I join. The man continues shouting words we cannot hear. We couldnÕt give a shit now anyway. The path is still clear for the company employee, he runs safely across the street. There is only one way to go, straight to where our friends, who have gotten quite a head start, wait for us. Camodemon isnÕt far ahead, heÕs taken notice to our new situation. He enters the small lot, formed by the intersection of 2 wide alleys. TheyÕre sitting and standing against the walls, just talking and looking around, resting from the exercise. ItÕs good that none have opened their bags yet. ŅBREAK UP!Ó He shouts between pants, he too, is laughing. We know we are to meet at the Third Coast Cafe on North Dearborn if something like this ever happens. They all scramble down 1 of 3 different alleyways. Digphreak breaks to run, missing his grab at his bag, stops on a dime, and back steps, at this point Camodemon has passed, and Mike and I are charging through the lot, Digphreak stands awkwardly, one foot on the ground, one suspended in the air, his back arched bending behind, his hand grabbing frantically for the bag. We run past him, ŅCome on man!Ó I sincerely urge, wanting to shout comrade. He gets hold of the bag, swinging it in front of him, plunging his offset weight forward, hugging the bag to his chest, he sprints not 5 feet behind us. We can hear his feet slapping lightly the concrete. ŅAhhhhhhhhhh-hahaha! Shit!Ó He screams, laughter dominating in his high, 13 year old voice, as he shoots a glance back at the phone man. ŅOI!Ó Mike shouts as Dig catches up with us, Our feet making quite a clamor pounding the ground together. ŅOI!Ó Our pursuer is much faster than weÕd though. He catches up to us, grabbing me by the shoulder. ŅEeeyaaah!Ó I shriek. ŅKeep going!Ó Mike shouts to Dig, who doesnÕt need to look back. Mike hits the poor old guy hard in the side with his garbage bag. I still wish it didnÕt have to come to this, it doesnÕt seem right, violence and hacking together. The man lets go in shock and I immediately feel sorry for him, as he staggers we bolt. He doesnÕt follow, he just stands with his hands on knees, catching his breath. We get to the next intersection of the alleyways and stop, turning around. ŅHey!Ó Mike shouts, the man looks up. ŅSorry I hit you like that, I was out of order, my heart is pumping like 1000 miles an hour, you know, IÕm really sorry.Ó Mike has to shout in order for the man to hear him, but does with genuine apology, as if over a telephone with a really bad connection. ŅYou know how it is, right man?Ó I yell, putting the bag down and my hands in the air, a little below shoulder level, giving an exaggerated shrug, tilting my head. ŅHack the planet eh!Ó He stands and waves his large right hand over his head in our direction, as if saying ŅGet the hell out of here you crazy kids.Ó I know he was smiling. IÕm pretty sure he chuckled as he turned and lazily walked back to work. We at least gave him a funny story to tell his wife tonight at dinner, maybe he got a break from a really tedious, boring job he had to do. The main thing is, he understands, thatÕs all that really matters. When he was our age, I bet he loved his chemistry set. We run off down the alley... ItÕs been a few weeks since I thought of that last :) I laugh out loud thinking about it. Things arenÕt necessarily so bad. It feels like 10 minutes, but about 3 hours have passed. I get up from bed and sit myself down at the computer. I look at my modem, I left PPP on. I smile. I keep smiling. I laugh again, thinking of Mike and Dig, of the nice Ameritec guy. ItÕs all gone now. Sitting here, even before I turn the monitor on, itÕs already gone. I was so happy. I am so happy. I get up and pace, beaming, I run out of my room and run back in, making little laps, IÕm so excited. I stand still for a moment, beaming. I run another lap. I sit down again, and turn the monitor on. [root] /root$telnet digphreak.detour.net Trying 169.207.32.89... Connected to digphreak. Escape character is Ō^]Õ digphreakÕs b0xor. you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. login: catalyst password: Last login: Thur Sept 16 18:12:43 from d0-168-007-00-039.dsa.co.uk [catalyst] /home/catalyst#telnet kashyyk.cdm.cisco.com Trying 45.67.155.33... Connected to kashyyk. Escape character is Ō^]Õ Dig hates it when I use his box to hop. It probably wouldnÕt help me anyway. IÕm not thinking about that though, my thoughts are little white letters on the blue screen. My world is in the fiber optic cables and routing computers. I look at the green, red and yellow blinking lights on my modem and wonder what itÕs like in there. I imagine myself as a TCP packet. ItÕs chaos. Token rings flying by, as I wait and wait until the computer that has me patiently tucked under itÕs arm gets one, so she can send me along the chain. The big computers at the Chicago NAP throw me at the speed of light across the country in milliseconds, I Fly though the air to a communications satellite, am sucked in through the circuitry, like a bird getting sucked into a jet engine. Only I donÕt come out mangled, it handles me unbelievably swiftly, but gently. I shoot back down to the earth, hit a dish in Ireland and am shuttled along through more fiber optics. A sniffer in London grabs me, running a little scanning device over me, like Max does to Adam in Flight of the Navigator, and spits me out again. I continue like this for milliseconds more, it seems like an eternity. Wonder and curiosity are a scrawny hacker, up way too late, playing with his computer. I smile to myself as I open a can of Mountain Dew. I wonÕt move from my seat for 6 hours, only to use the bathroom, I wonÕt sleep for 6 more after that. The rain continues to pour, the sky darkens. The screen casts a peaceful blue glow on my pale face, expressionless in concentration. I hear the music, the drums get faster and the bass deeper, the tempo increases, and the MC preaches... .............. ....... ........... ... .................. ...... this music is my first song baby and i must confess.. ..i will profess knowing that i wonÕt get stressed..... ......oh yes oh yes oh yes ..oh yes ...oh yes .....as i move on as we progress... ...so baby open up your mind and let your soul get undressed ........as we fly with the rhythm. [root] /root$logout Testosterone and Mischeif: T: ŅWhoot ta fuck is this?! AhÕl dae you whin ah git mah hands on you, ya daft cunt! Good n proper ah will!Ó M: ŅYeah yeah yeah, my little k-rad hooligan.Ó Mischief sarcastically mocks. T: ÓFukcin roight! Like ah sais, ah kid you no.Ó M: ŅWhat youÕll do is not mess with my friends ever again. ThatÕs what youÕll do, you jerk. Me, IÕm definately NOT joking.Ó T: ŅFuck sakes mate, yuÕv goat mah wird.Ó M: ŅOh?Ó T: ŅDinnae fuckin chib ays, likes!Ó T: ŅYer a doss cunt, dae ya ken that? Fuckin radge. Ya ken, if you wirnae such a poof, ahÕd be up fir a fair swedge aboot now, teach you a lesson eh. But, seeing as ah dinnae want tae touch a biscuit-arsed, queer-beast such as yerself iny mair than ah absolutely have tae, ahÕl no.Ó Translation: T: ŅWhat the fuck is this?! IÕll kill you when I get my hands on you, you stupid jerk! Good and proper I will.Ó M: ŅYeah yeah yeah, my little k-rad hooligan.Ó Mischief sarcastically mocks. T: ŅFucking right, like I said, IÕm not joking.Ó M: ŅWhat youÕll do is not mess with my friends ever again. ThatÕs what youÕll do, you jerk. Me, IÕm definately NOT joking.Ó T: ŅFor fuckÕs sake friend, you have my word.Ó M: ŅOh?Ó T: ŅDonÕt fucking stab me, really!Ó T: ŅYouÕre a real jerk, do you know that? Fucking crazy. You know, if you werenÕt such a fag, IÕd be up for a fair fight about now, Teach you a lesson. But, seeing as I donÕt want to touch a self-pitying, flaming-homosexual like yourself any more than I absolutely have to, I wonÕt.