From: Bubba Rom Dos <bubba@dev.null>
Date: Wed, 26 Mar 1997 16:06:20 -0800 (PST)
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: WebWorld 17-18
Message-ID: <3339BA11.6842@dev.null>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/html

Title: The True Story of the InterNet







The True Story of the InterNet

Part II


WebWorld & the Mythical 'Circle of Eunuchs'


by Arnold


Copyright 1995, 1996, 1997 Pearl Publishing


Pitch


Bubba was sitting quietly, contemplating
the meaning of the conversation that he had engaged in with Alexis
the previous evening, while they were awaiting Priscilla's return
from the 'initiation' of a new member of the mythical 'Circle
of Eunuchs'.

Alexis, though fully aware of the sublime
connection that existed between herself and the Cowboy, still
had little idea of the full ramifications of many of the things
she instinctively 'knew' or 'felt' regarding their relationship
and the bond between them. There were 'levels of upon levels'
of meanings to everything surrounding this great battle that was
currently being enacted across the face of the earth-perhaps for
the last time-and it fell upon Bubba to extract every ounce of
meaning from every detail, to sort and sift every microcosmic
nuance of every single item of information that pertained to the
ongoing battle of wits taking place between the 'Magic Circle'
and the 'Dark Forces' that they opposed.

There were two details, in particular, that
were bothering him at this point in time. The first was Alexis's
statement of the night before.
"I know that the Cowboy and I are perhaps not meant to have
a 'real' relationship, in this life, anyway. I understand
that, Bubba. I know that there's something we're involved with
that goes beyond the personal affairs of the individual participants
in a grander scheme of things.
"But I'm really mad that the one chance that he had
to acknowledge me, the one opportunity for him to acknowledge
us, he had to be such a...such a..."

"Such a man.", Bubba had
finished the thought for her.

"Yes!", Alexis had cried out,
satisfied that Bubba had helped her hit the nail exactly on the
head. "And I'm going to give him 'Holy Hell' about it, the
next time I see him.", she continued, resolutely.

Bubba, 'three sheets to the wind', at the
time, had noticed the discrepancy in her statements, and made
note to himself to resolve it later. And now was later.

Alexis instinctively 'knew' that she would
not be seeing the Cowboy again-ever-but she was blissfully 'unaware'
of knowing it, just the same. Thus she could talk about never
seeing him again, and then turn around and talk about the next
time she saw him.
Ignorance is bliss, in many an instance, and Bubba was
grateful that the 'powers that be' were allowing her this blissful
ignorance, while bringing this fact to Bubba's attention, regardless.

This did not bode well. Especially given
the second fact that was troubling Bubba. Priscilla had failed
to return from her previous night's rendezvous with a new member
of the 'Circle'. This did not bode well, at all.

Bubba's concern about Priscilla was allayed,
however, when she came in later, joined Bubba at his table for
a short drink, without the customary 'peck' on his cheek, and
left abruptly, with no meaningful conversation having taken place.
The 'explanation' for what changes were being wrought in the grand
scheme of things would obviously come from another.

Bubba waited...and watched...and waited...



It was several hours before Alexis came
in, stopping to converse, and flirt, with a few of the other patrons
before joining "my favorite old geezer," as she loudly
proclaimed to one and all, at his table in the corner. She gave
Bubba a warm hug and leaned to kiss him fondly on the cheek, whispering
in his ear,
"How's my favorite Uncle, today?" 

"Fine, my dear, just fine."

He gave her a fatherly kiss on the forehead,
in return, disturbed by her message, but somehow relieved that
the 'game' that had been played for centuries between the 'Circle'
and the 'Dark Forces' had finally moved onward, past the point
of no return.

The Cowboy had finally set in motion what
was likely to be the final match in a contest that had spanned
millennium-the battle between the forces of light and the forces
of darkness on the cosmic sphere known as Earth-the battle for
the souls of men.
And this battle, Bubba was certain, was for 'all the marbles'-the
souls of all mankind.

"God help us all.", Bubba thought,
inwardly, as Alexis sat and waited for a sign from him as to what
he needed of her, from this point on.


"Have you got time to sit and flirt
with a lecherous old geezer with evil intentions, my dear?"

Alexis gave Bubba an affectionate hug, and
ran a finger slowly and flirtatiously down his chest, to his navel.
She blew him a kiss and laughed like a little schoolgirl playing
with fire and enjoying the danger. She was glad Bubba needed her
to be with him a while, because there was a strange heaviness
reaching for her from afar, and she needed a point of stability
to lean on, to share that heaviness.

Bubba brought out a deck of cards, as he
did on very rare occasions, and they played silently, while Bubba
concentrated his thoughts on the developing situation, reading,
as best as possible, at the same time, the energy coming from
the affinity between Alexis and the Cowboy.

Alexis, after winning several hands of a
game she had never played before, a game she knew nothing about,
but one which she suddenly, instinctively, knew how to play, asked
Bubba the name of the game.

"Pitch.", he replied.

"Pitch, with the 'Bitch'?", Alexis
asked, quizzically.

Bubba smiled, a genuine, joyous, earth-shaking
smile, and Alexis smiled with him.

"What are we playing for?", Alexis
asked, teasing Bubba with a cute, quizzical look.

"We're playing for all the marbles.",
he replied, giving her a wink.

And somewhere, on the softness of the breeze
that wafted gently, inexplicably across the room, a voice from
far away whispered,

"We're 'Shooting the Moon', boys and
girls. We're shooting the moon."


Shooting the Moon


I need to get out of here. Soon...very soon.

Schultz goes back on duty at Level Two next week,
Jesus #1 and Jesus #2 are driving me crazy, and I know that Gomez
has something nasty up his sleeve by now.

I've spent a major portion of my life orienting my
every action towards making sure that I leave a cold trail behind
me, but now I'm a 'link'. A link to the past, a link to the present,
and a link to the Magic Circle...the Circle of Eunuchs.

I'm fairly certain what Gomez will do now. He'll
seed the InterNet with clues and messages regarding my situation
and my location, hoping someone in the Circle will follow the
trail and make an attempt to break me out of here.

They wouldn't, of course, I had made sure of that
with my reference to 'Uncle Bubba'. Gomez knew, knew absolutely,
that this was impossible, but he would have to check it out-I
was sure of that. It was the whole foundation upon which I had
based the dangerous game I had set in motion. If I was wrong...

No! I couldn't even think about that possibility. I had told him
everything. I knew the moment his henchmen had grabbed me that
I was out of the loop, with no way to get a message to the Circle.
My only hope was to find a way to get Gomez to deliver the message
himself.

It was a desperate gambit. 'Shooting the Moon', we
used to call it in my youth. 


Dad and mom used to take us to Wichita, a mid-western
city in Kansas, in the former United States of America. One of
dad's six sisters, Marjorie, lived there with her husband and
family. Alia and Larry and I used to stay up all night playing
cards with our cousins, Bob and Ronnie Springsteen. Those were
the glory days. 
It was a time and a place that was as close as one could get to
'heaven on earth'. It was a time of peace and prosperity, living
in the greatest nation on earth. A time and place where children
were blessed beyond belief. Food was plentiful, affluence was
the norm, education was free. The 'Great American Dream' was possible
for anybody, harder for some than others to attain, but still
possible. 

It was all we knew. We thought that was how life
had always been and how it was meant to be. We never knew...

If only we had known...


The game was called 'Pitch'. Fifty-two cards dealt
to four players. Each hand called a 'trick'. There were four suits,
diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades. We would bid on how many tricks
we thought we could win, and the high bid got to name 'trump'.
Trump was the suit that ruled over the other suits. Trump was
boss-hog...except for the 'Bitch'.

When a suit was 'led' (the first card played in each
hand), you had to 'follow suit' (play the cards you had in that
suit). If you had no cards in that suit, then you could play 'trump'
and win the hand.

Four players, divided into two teams, the members
of each team being 'partners'. The partner's fates were intertwined-fellow
warriors joined in battle against the other two players. They
lived together and they died together, symbolically speaking,
with the fate of each depending on the other. There was only one
catch...the bidding was 'blind', you had no idea what kind
of cards your partner was holding.

I know...I know. You think we were crazy. You
are wondering what could possibly be the point of a structural
procedure whose successful outcome depended upon haphazard conjecture
founded upon an inadequate substructure of informative data.

The only answer I can give you is via a colloquialism
of the time...'you just had to be there'.

I realize that in WebWorld data accuracy and structural
integrity is paramount. 
'Everything is the norm, and the norm is everything'.
We didn't have that saying back then. That was a concept we called
'fascism', or 'totalitarianism'. It was a notion that was considered
a great evil in our time.

Yes, I know. You think I'm 'pulling your leg', as
we used to say, but it's true. In order to understand the concept
of what we called 'games', back then, you need to get clear in
your mind that they were not, as I know you are thinking of them,
a matter of 'random chance'. 

I realize that you have been programmed by your Channel,
from early childhood, to think of any deviation from 'total information
accuracy maintenance' as a sign of mental imbalance, but I implore
you to attempt to free your minds from your Channel orientation
for the briefest of moments-just long enough to understand and
give consideration to the concept I am trying to explain.
I know it's blasphemy. I know that the whole concept is totally
contrary to 'Channel Logic', but believe me when I tell you that
it is your only hope to escape from an evil that lurks in the
heart of all you have been raised to believe as sacred and true.

The card games we played back then were not like
we have today. Today the cards are dealt 'face up', the players
then studying the cards and reaching mutual agreement as to who
has the better hand.
Even so, card games today are considered a foolish activity, an
archaic holdover from the past that is mostly indulged in by the
inmates at the psychiatric facilities, but there is a subtle difference
from the way we played back then.

The games of the Before Channel era were a combination
of information analysis and random chance. Their very essence
was established on the concept of a consummate symmetry of haphazard
circumstance and the certitude of the absolute.

'Pitch', with the 'Bitch', was the consummate game
of my childhood.

The 'Bitch' was the 'Black Bitch'-the Queen of Spades.


Ron and Bob had a black Springer Spaniel, a bitch,
who had developed a taste for cards. Once, when I had given her
hell for destroying a new deck I had broken out, she came up to
me shortly afterward, offering me a slightly chewed card she held
in her mouth, as a peace offering. It was the Queen of Spades.

My uncle Bill, consoling me because I had to spend the last of
my allowance buying a new deck, spun me a tale about how Lady
Luck had given me a sign, by sending the Black Bitch to me via
the black bitch, and that the Queen of Spades, which was so unlucky
for others, would be lucky for me.

I believed him then, and I still believe him now.



I suppose that I ought to tell you how Pitch was
played, for you to understand the significance of just why the
Bitch was feared by those who played the game.

There were twenty-six points to be won in each game.
A point for each hand taken, and thirteen points for the Queen
of Spades. But the Queen of Spades was a two-edged sword.
If you 'made' your bid, getting at least as many tricks as you
had bid, then you got that many points, but thirteen points were
subtracted for the 'Bitch' if it were among the tricks
you had won. If you failed to reach the required number of points
you had bid, then you went 'set' and lost the corresponding number
of points.

'Shooting the Moon' meant you declared your intention
to take all the tricks, including the 'Bitch', and your final
score was doubled. You got thirteen points for the tricks, and
the Queen of Spades counted as thirteen points in your favor.
If you failed to win all the tricks, however, you went 'set' to
the tune of 26 points.
 So when you 'Shot the Moon', then you won 'big-time' or
you lost 'big-time'.

We would cut the cards to decide who would be partners
in each game and there was invariably a groan from the person
who was unfortunate enough to become partners with 'yours truly'.


I was the crazy one, lunging into battle, time and
time again, with a complete disregard for the pragmatic status
which the cards conveyed to anyone with the sensibility to base
their play even remotely within the bounds of reason and rationality.

My divinely inspired strategy for bidding was based on my complete
conviction that Lady Luck was my SoulMate-the Yin to my Yang-and
that she was my protector and guardian. I based my whole bidding
strategy on the assumption that Lady Luck's love would never fail
me.
I lost a lot of games, dragging my partners down with me, but
I never lost my passion for 'Shooting the Moon'.

Time and time again my partner and I would be sucked
down into the void, going 'set' on my asinine bids. But there
were also times when I could do no wrong, when Lady Luck would
smile down on me in all her beatific glory. Times when the Moon
was my eternal lover.
With the full moon shining beatifically down upon us, my partner
and I would 'slam' our foes ceaselessly, trick after trick, game
after game, in a savage onslaught of bestial, untamed power. 

I would 'Shoot the Moon' with a hand incapable of
winning a single trick and watch our opponents wail in despair
as they struggled in a futile battle where all they could do was
watch my dumfounded partner capture trick upon trick with a hand
he or she would have been a fool to bid on. They would watch in
a state of numbed disbelief as the impossible was transformed-by
the divine alchemy of Lady Luck-into the inevitable.


You may be wondering what the point of this childhood
story is and, to tell the truth, I'm kind of wondering myself.

One of the great story-tellers of our time, a man
named Herman Hesse, once said, "We make our gods,
and do battle with them...and they bless us."

I believe in Lady Luck and I believe in the Power
of Myth. I believe that Lady Luck loved me and blessed me because
I desired her and created her...with love.
I believe that we created the reality of WebWorld, not
the other way around, and that it is we, not WebTV, that
is sacred. And I believe in the Magic Circle, because......

Because...without the Magic Circle...we are
doomed.


I have never lost the crazy side of my temperament,
but I have matured over the years, sometimes to the point of almost
being mistaken for an adult. I've learned the wisdom of being
mindful of the laws of actuality which govern the universe in
which we live. I've acquired the ability to act with discretion
and be heedful of the need for caution in matters of great importance.

But I've also learned that the Power of Myth is the
cornerstone of the 'Inaugural Enigma'. Mythos is the 'Black Bitch'
of the universe...it's the wildcard in the game of life. 

Once again I find myself 'Shooting the Moon' (without
a winning card in my hand), in a deadly game that may well decide
the fate of mankind.
Gomez, my sworn enemy, is my partner. We live together or we die
together. The hand is his to play. I told him everything, gave
him every reason to believe that he holds all the cards. Spades
are trump, and he's holding the Ace and King. I've given him every
reason to believe he's holding the Queen as well, and, in a way,
he is.

But the Lake of Life has started to turn over. The
bottom is rising to the top, the top is descending to the bottom,
and everything is becoming the opposite of what it seems to be.

Gomez holds the Queen of Spades, but he will lose
the game if he plays it.

You see, 'Uncle Bubba' is the wild card. 'Uncle Bubba'
is the 'Bitch'.


Chapter 17 - Pitch / Chapter 18 - Shooting the Moon