Dear Fuad Ramses, Please Sacrifice Those Stupid Robots

The insightful Chris Fujiwara, previously mostly seen in the obscure environs of Hermaneut magazine, now has his own website. Yay!

No-Treason readers who are concerned with issues of war and peace, liberty and the non-aggression principle, are well advised to contemplate Mr. Fujiwara’s musings on the career of Maciste – the Mike Schneider of the ancient world. “Seemingly, a Maciste movie could take place in any society that had not yet experienced the emergence of a strong bourgeoisie.”

And our own Greg Swann (who I often agree with – despite the slanderous and unjust portrayal of the patriotic and perpetually alert American tweaker community in one of his stories) can find much to ponder regarding the clash of civilizations in Mr. Fujiwara’s “Dear Fuad Ramses”.

Finally, for those, like myself, who hate Mystery Science Theatre 3000 – almost as much as they hate loudmouth jerks who sit just behind them in movie theatres laughing mindlessly at old movies the loudmouthed jerks are too narrow-minded and stupid to properly appreciate – there is this stirring manifesto.

A Worthy Cause

The culture of the West may be seen by some as a dialectic between Athens and Jerusalem, as John Kennedy (the Dr. Carmus of No-Treason) suggests below – but just right now it’s Jerusalem that’s being threatened by ululating, self-exploding savages (a.k.a. either the “Palestinians” or “Justin Raimondo” – take your pick). What better way is there to show your appreciation for the defenders of civilization than buying them pizza?

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Beck To The Future

“But in the future there will be no wives and no friends.” O’Brian continued. “We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.’

He paused as though he expected Winston to speak.

“Can’t happen.” replied Winston Smith “People will just eat the boot leather. The system wd brk dwn quickly. By the next full moon it’ll be all over.”

“What?” said O’Brian, looking nonplussed. “What did you say?”

“But in the future there will be no wives and no friends.” O’Brian continued. “We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.’

He paused as though he expected Winston to speak.

“Can’t happen.” replied Winston Smith “People will just eat the boot leather. The system wd brk dwn quickly. By the next full moon it’ll be all over.”

“What?” said O’Brian, looking nonplussed. “What did you say?”

“Boot leather. Edible” said Smith brightly “Well-known fact. Eternal boot stomping on human face system discredited. Your boot system too one dimensional,two-valued. Boot too edible, shortage threatens. Prhaps y cld combine approaches, include meditation, Lotto sweepstakes, pieplates.”

O’Brian sat down, looking unwell. “But…that’s not what you’re supposed to say…you’re supposed to say, uh, ‘It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and cruelty. It would never endure.'”

“Fear, hatred cruelty – only 3 things” replied Winston “Not cubic. The simultaneous, harmonic, 4-day TIMECUBE, just discovered three minutes ago, abolished causality, old-age thinking, boot-dependency”

“The what?” O’Brian looked confused. “I…I feel dizzy…everything seems to be shifting … wern’t you quite a bit *larger* about ten minutes ago, Winston? And…and… why are you covered with *fur* now?”

Suddenly, a completely unexpected development, or something, occurred! With a tremendous crash, an experimental X-15 rocket plane from the distant past crashed through the wall of the Ministry of Love, flattening the pesky O’Brian like a pancake! “Arrggggghhhhhh” stated O’Brian, as the fuselage squished him against the Ministry of Love’s austere but tasteful beige and brown tile floor. Ironically, Winston thought, titanium, unlike shoe leather, proves inedible. Must mk nt of that.

When the dust settled, Winston Smith saw the cockpit hatch pop open, and the pilot of the X-15 emerged. The pilot (whose namepatch read CLN. B. BECK) shook his head. “Huh. It looks like I’ve indvertently broken the time barrier, and ended up in the nightmare world of the future. *And* pranged the X-15 again.”

From inside the cockpit, Winston Smith could hear the faint strains of “Inna-gadda-da-vida” from the on-board 8-track tape player. Colonel Beck looked around disapprovingly as he stepped out of the plane, carefully avoiding O’Brian’s pulverized remains. “Looks pretty anti-reason, anti-life, probably overrun with Attilas, mystics and secondhanders.” Beck observed as he examined the late O’Brian’s copy of HOW TO BECOME A MANIACAL STATIST IN YOUR SPARE TIME – IN TEN EASY LESSONS! “Looks like I’ll have to invent the arc lamp, reintroduce the basics of rational epistomology, have a doomed, poignant romance with the beautiful daughter of Big Brother *and* overthrow this nightmarish dystopian regime *and* rebuild my experimental X-15 rocket plane just before either dormant volcanos, radioactive lizards or atomic mutants blow the entire place up. That always seems to happen. Should be back home in time to make the Rush concert, though.”

Beck turned and noticed Winston Smith, crouched on the interrogation table “Sure are some funny-looking animals here in the future, though. Or *something*. What the hell *is* that thing?” Beck added to no one in particular, as Winston Bredon Smith lept off the table and ran like a small brown furry blur across the floor, tiny paws skittering on the tasteful tile, before running up the face of a giant Big Brother poster, leaping into the branches of a nearby oak tree, and vanishing from sight.

(The first draft ends here, although at the bottom of the typescript are a few scrawled sentences in Orwell’s handwriting. Although almost illegible, a few lines can be made out, although they have so far puzzled Orwell scholars. What did Orwell mean by “artificial mammal-like thing…beady little eyes not of this dimension…Ia! Cthulhu fthagn R’yleh!….the timecube…arrrrrgggggghhhh.”? One can only regret that Orwell did not follow up, in his final version of the famous novel, on some of the interesting, (if rather puzzling), directions we see indicated in this fascinating first draft. If nothing else, his reputation would have been enhanced by not only being among the first to warn against the dangers of totalitarianism, but also being among the first, in 1948, to predict 8-track tape players and Iron Butterfly. – JS)

The Case Of Charles Dexter Wellstone

For Halloween, and for the spirit of tolerance in a time of tragedy.

The madman Senator choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting.
“Damn ye, who did ye tell – and who’ll believe it? What d’ye mean to do?”

Billy Beck raised a hand in admonition.

“I have told no one. No human, that is. This is no common case – it is a madness out of time and a horror from beyond the spheres which no defence agency or private arbitration company or even President Mike Schneider could ever fathom or grapple with. You cannot deceive me Paul Wellstone, for I know your accursed magic is true!”

“I know how you wove the spell that brooded outside the years and fastened on your double and descendant; I know how you drew him into the past and got him to raise you up from your detestable grave. I know how he kept you hidden in his laboratory while he was elected Senator from Minnesota. I know what you resolved to do when he balked at your monstrous rifling of other’s pocketbooks, and your plans to raise the Weezil Hordes from Below, and at what you planned afterwards – and I know how you did it. They thought it was he who went into Senator Charles Dexter Wellstone’s chambers and they thought it was he who came out when you had already sacrificed the poor duped lad to Nyarlathotep The Crawling Chaos.”

For Halloween, and for the spirit of tolerance in a time of tragedy.

The madman Senator choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting.
“Damn ye, who did ye tell – and who’ll believe it? What d’ye mean to do?”

Billy Beck raised a hand in admonition.

“I have told no one. No human, that is. This is no common case – it is a madness out of time and a horror from beyond the spheres which no defence agency or private arbitration company or even President Mike Schneider could ever fathom or grapple with. You cannot deceive me Paul Wellstone, for I know your accursed magic is true!”

“I know how you wove the spell that brooded outside the years and fastened on your double and descendant; I know how you drew him into the past and got him to raise you up from your detestable grave. I know how he kept you hidden in his laboratory while he was elected Senator from Minnesota. I know what you resolved to do when he balked at your monstrous rifling of other’s pocketbooks, and your plans to raise the Weezil Hordes from Below, and at what you planned afterwards – and I know how you did it. They thought it was he who went into Senator Charles Dexter Wellstone’s chambers and they thought it was he who came out when you had already sacrificed the poor duped lad to Nyarlathotep The Crawling Chaos.”

“But you hadn’t reckoned on the different content of two different minds! You were a fool, Paul Wellstone, to fancy that a mere visual identity would be enough. Why didn’t you think of the speech and the voice and the handwriting? It hasn’t worked after all, you see. There are abominations and blasphemies which must be stamped out, and I believe that your undead traitorous minions, Chomsky and McDermott, are being dealt with by the Adorable One – even as I speak, lung is sweeping their castle in Transylvania with atomic fire! You…”

Suddenly the fearless aviator, rock musician and psychic investigator was cut short by a convulsive cry from the creature before him. Hopelessly at bay, Paul Wellstone’s deep hollow voice bellowed out the opening words of a terrible formula:

“PER ADONAI SATANAS, PER ADONAI ABRAXAS, PER ADONAI BELIAL TETRAGRAMMATON, METRATON…”

But Beck was too quick for him. Even as the dogs in the Senate hallways began to howl, and even as a chill wind sprang suddenly up from the Potomac, Beck began reciting the second of that pair of formulae used for resurrecting the dead and putting to rest the undead – the cryptic invocation of the descending node

“OGTHROD AI’F
GEB’L – EE’H
YOG-SOTHOTH
‘NGAH’NG AI’Y
ZHRO!

At the very first word from Beck’s mouth – and the very first accompanying chord from Beck’s silver stringed guitar – the demonic Senator stopped reciting his spell. Unable to speak, the monster made wild motions with his arms until they, too, were arrested. When the awful name of Yog-Sothoth was uttered, the hideous change began. It was not merely a dissolution but rather a transformation or recapitulation; and Beck shut his eyes to the horror as he finished reciting the formulae of undoing.

There was silence.

Opening his eyes, Beck saw that the invocation of the descending node had done its work. The madness out of time had subsided, and the case of Charles Dexter Wellstone was at an end. For, like his accursed picture a year before, the resurrected Paul Wellstone now lay scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey dust.

(Adapted, kind of, from THE STRANGE CASE OF CHARLES DEXTER WARD, with apologies to H.P. Lovecraft)