From: Bubba Rom Dos <bubba@dev.null>
Date: Sat, 5 Apr 1997 12:17:51 -0800 (PST)
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: WebWorld 26-27
Message-ID: <3346B3B2.4743@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


Ask Not For Whom Bell Toils...

Ask Not For Whom Bell Trolls...


It was a two-line email from over a century in the past, but its
impact on Jonathan's train of thought was inestimable. The content
of the message was negligible, but in it, Jonathan heard the gentle
whisper of the Tao.

The space between heaven and earth is like a bellows.

The shape changes, but not the form;

The more it moves, the more it yields.

More words count less.

Hold fast to the center.

"More words count less..." Jonathan softly spoke
to himself, pausing, knowing but unable to understand...
"So fewer words count more!" he virtually shouted, shooting
up out of his chair. He paced rapidly back and forth, feeling
foolish. He was certain that he had just had a revelation that
would soon make everything clear, but didn't have any specific
evidence that it was so. He couldn't prove it.

"Damn." Jonathan swore, realizing that he was not only
talking to himself, but was now even swearing at himself.
"Damn." he swore again.
Jonathan's grandfather had hated what he called "magical
thinking." Although he was given to a world-view which encompassed
a wide range of philosophical concepts, his grandfather detested
the magical thinking type of mystical horseshit which had become
so prevalent in his day, imputing causation to events which could
not stand the test of human reason.
Jonathan had been heavily influenced in this area by his grandfather's
opinion, and that was much of the reason that he had become such
an excellent programmer and computer analyst, being one of the
youngest members of the team that adapted GelMem for use with
the Nuclear Quantum computing systems.

Facts, figures, numbers, relations, that was what was real, what
could be held on to. That was what had given Jonathan the stability
and balance that made him who he was, and had made possible all
that he had accomplished.
But what had he accomplished? Here he was, sitting alone in his
new apartment, unable to leave, afraid to stay. A man marked for
death, drinking like a fiend and struggling mightily with ancient
messages in order to unravel some antediluvian myth that was the
result of nothing more than the babbling of a drunken old fool.

"Damn, damn, damn!" he shouted once again, flinging
the glass he was holding against the wall, where it shattered,
and scattered across the floor, as if in mocking parody of the
condition that his own life had quickly fallen into since his
visit to that babbling maniac, Bubba Rom Dos.
"Myth...mysticism...bullshit!" Jonathan shouted.

He grabbed his shirt and strode toward the door, reaching for
the handle and then abruptly halted, realizing that there was
nowhere to go. He had no real friends, no one who would not turn
him into the authorities the moment they saw him. There was nowhere
to go, and worse yet, no one to go to.

Jonathan slowly walked back to his chair and sank down in resignation,
pouring himself a fresh shot of Jim Beam, into one of the many
shotglasses sitting on the small table beside his workstation.

He stared once again at the shattered pieces of his life...glass,
he corrected himself, smiling grimly at this slip that had confirmed
his continuing slide into insanity. He took a small sip of the
bourbon and then stared off into space, frozen in time and unable
to move either forward or backward.

Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles.

Is there a difference between yes and no?

Is there a difference between good and evil?

Must I fear what others fear? What Nonsense!

Others are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast
of the ox.

In spring some go to the park and climb the terrace,

But I alone am drifting, not knowing where I am.

Like a newborn babe before it learns to smile,

I am alone, without a place to go.

Jonathan hung his head, and for the first time since he could
remember, he wept openly and unashamedly, his body heaving mightily
with each new round of sobs which shook loose the remainder of
the life he had desperately been trying to hold onto, as the teardrops
streamed down his face, turning into a river that burst the damn
of his ego and washed away the shattered pieces of his life, leaving
only a small, still silence in its wake.

Jonathan's mind was empty, but he felt refreshed. Drained and
weak, but somehow refreshed, nonetheless. And different...

A man is born gentle and weak.

At his death he is hard and stiff.

Therefore the stiff and unbending is the disciple of
death.

The gentle and yielding is the disciple of life.

Thus an army without flexibility never wins a battle.

A tree that is unbending is easily broken.

The hard and strong will fall.

The soft and weak will overcome.

Jonathan turned his attention to the printouts on the VideoWall
in front of him. He rearranged them so that they began with the
smallest posts and ended with the largest.
The first contained only two lines in the message body.
"Ask not for whom Bell toils...", and
"Ask not for whom Bell trolls...:

These two small lines started a small pebble rolling down a hill
in Jonathan's mind, knocking against other pebbles and small rocks,
setting them in motion and starting a chain reaction which turned
into an avalanche under which created a huge mound at the bottom,
under which lay...Stego.

Jonathan smiled, once again. He had instinctively known that the
key to following the trail of the disappearing remailers and CypherPunks
would lie in cipher.

He had found Tim C. May's PGP secret key. It was Priscilla who
had inadvertently pointed it to him-at least, he assumed it had
been inadvertent, but now he was not so certain about that.
She had been very aggressive in questioning him about his tattoo,
regardless of his resistance, due to it having been such a sore
point personally, and such a danger to him publicly, for all these
years.
Priscilla had finally wormed out of him the fact that he had had
it since childhood, for almost as long as he could remember. She
immediately launched into a stinging diatribe about what an awful
thing that was to do to a child, castigating his parents, his
grandfather, the CypherPunks, and carrying on almost to the point
of hysteria. Then, just as he was about explode in rage at her,
she abruptly dropped the point, and proceeded to calmly explain
the process of initiation into the Circle of Eunuchs.

He thought he had forgotten about the incident until he had instinctively
known that Tim May's secret crypto key would be the master key...skeleton
key he thought, humorously, glancing at the article on the VideoWall-
Declan McCullagh: "A List Goes Down In Flames," from
Netly News-which announced the 'Death of the CypherPunks, prematurely
as it turned out...
Anyway, in the midst of his mystification as to how he could possibly
retrieve the key, which had been buried with May, as was CypherPunk
custom, his eye caught the word stegonography in an old post,
and he had immediately turned his attention to his tattoo-the
Mark of the Toad.

It had taken Jonathan all night with a magnifying glass and a
mirror to decipher the key hidden therein, but it had indeed opened
the doors to the paradoxical Timmy C. May graphical art postings
that immediately preceded the apparent death of the CypherPunks
remailers.
Those posts revealed the hidden trail of the now underground CypherPunks
remailers, among other things. And it gave Jonathan much of the
information he needed to separate the 'double' agents from the
'triple' agents on the list, as well.
Even more curiously, however, it revealed a parallel thread of
personas who seemed to exist and operate separately from both
the spooks on the list and the hard-core, life-long members of
the list. A shadowy entity which seemed to operate independently
of, but parallel to those who formed the true core of the CypherPunks
list.

"The Mythical Circle of Eunuchs?" Jonathan softly asked
himself, certain that it was true, yet somehow not true, at the
same time. A paradox of the nature that had so recently torn him
apart inside, only now this mystical paradox seemed to coexist
peacefully with the cool logic and reason that had always been
a part of his life.
The mystic and the logical were no longer at war within him. He
no longer felt the burning need to tear apart, analyze and apply
structure to that which seems better suited to flow through the
cracks in the cages he built to constrain it.

Once the whole is divided, the parts need names.

There are already enough names.

One must know when to stop.

Knowing when to stop averts trouble.

Tao in the world is like a river flowing to the sea.



"Ask not for whom Bell toils..."
"Ask not for whom Bell trolls..."

Jim Bell represented the first of the overt physical and legal
attacks on the CypherPunks as individuals. First, the attack on
the list. Second, the assault on the remailers. Then this opening
skirmish in the campaign of direct assaults on individual CypherPunks
around the world.
But by now Jonathan was used to looking beneath the surface of
events connected to the CypherPunks and he knew that the apparent
victims were often the protagonists, and vice versa, or any combination
thereof.

And now, because of two simple lines of an email message, he was
certain that he could unravel the true nature of the events surrounding
the full range of attacks which had commenced with the famed 'moderation
experiment' set in motion by John Gilmore, one of the founding
patriarchs of the list.

Jonathan put aside his keypad and began tracing the tangled trail
on onion paper, with an ancient, faded fountain pen that had belonged
to his grandfather.
Soon...very soon...he would know everything.


Whippersnapper


When Bubba Rom Dos IV arose the following morning, he was immediately
met by a smiling Alexis, who obviously had not slept the previous
evening, holding a fresh robe for him. He had a long, leisurely
shower and, refreshed, sat down with her, once again, to continue
where he had left off the night before.

She was anxiously awaiting his 'revelation' as to what could be
done about aiding the Cowboy in his desperate situation.

Bubba, having not the slightest idea of where to even begin
seeking an answer to this question, if indeed there were
any possible answer, just smiled confidently, and began.

"Let me explain, please, my dearest niece, about the 'initiations'
that your mother, and others like her, have performed under the
direction of the Rom Dos lineage, over the period of the last
century.
"After we have engaged the services of some shameless, flirtatious,
pre-pubescent young hussy to lift the wallets of the seekers who
'lighten' my doorstep, we then send an emissary, such as your
mother, to perform two distinct functions.

"The first function is to give them a solid grounding in
the true legend, according to the tradition of the Rom Dos lineage,
of the history of the Magic Circle, and the complete mythology
of the 'Circle of Eunuchs' in all its detail, including their
ongoing battle against the Evil One and his minions, particularly
Gomez, and the Dark Forces at his command.

"The initiator's second function is to give the initiate
the 'truth' about Bubba Rom Dos, and to initiate them into the
'Circle of Eunuchs', itself.

"The 'truth' they are told, concerning Bubba Rom Dos, is
as follows:

1. Bubba Rom Dos is a broken down old derelict who fancies himself
to be some kind of spiritual leader and spokesman for the 'Circle
of Eunuchs', but who, in fact, has no connection whatsoever with
the Magic Circle and, in fact is not even certain that the 'Circle',
in fact, exists.

This has been true, from the very beginning. The Xenix Chainsaw
Massacre, in recounting the original meeting from which the mythical
organization was formed, clearly mentions that Bubba Rom Dos I,
after delivering a rousing opening speech, began to lose control
of both his mind and his bladder and, quickly becoming an annoying
embarrassment to the whole process, was thrown out of the meeting
on his fat, drunken ass.

2. Those who are in a position to initiate one into the Magic
Circle intercept those who approach Bubba Rom Dos, and later secretly
establish contact with them, having surreptitiously gained knowledge
of their identity and whereabouts, thus having had the opportunity
to 'screen' them.

They are not told, however, that this interception and contact
is done under the direction of the Rom Dos lineage. Neither are
they told that there is no screening done-there is no need
to, since there is no Magic Circle, and, as you will see,
no way they can bring danger to anyone else.

3. It is dangerous to associate with Bubba Rom Dos. He is watched
constantly by agents of the Evil One, and his contacts are monitored.

It is, without doubt, dangerous to one's liver to associate
with persons of any persuasion, or lineage, who go by the
name of Bubba, since the name seems to have been chosen for use
by all who carry on the traditions of an ancient geographical
sect who were known as the 'Irish'.
Though Rom Dos contacts have always been monitored by agents of
the Evil One, they have long ago ceased to pay any special attention
to those monitored, unless special circumstances dictate it. You
will soon see why this is so.

4. Children, in particular, should be kept away from Bubba Rom
Dos, as he is an evil, corrupting influence on them, and there
have been well-founded rumors of pedophilia involved.
Case in point: one pre-pubescent young girl, named Alexis. Flirting
with strangers, acting the 'harlot' and stealing young men's wallets-and
currently 'in love' with a much older man (no telling what
kind of outrageous, obscene behavior has been going on), and drinking
hard-liquor, to boot, at the tender age of (almost) thirteen.

The 'rumors of pedophilia' are indeed well-founded, having been
founded and proliferated by the Rom Dos lineage, themselves, to
suit their purposes. "

Bubba paused, to sip his drink, first 'toasting' his corrupted,
young protégé, and Alexis interrupted, with a school-girl
giggle.
"There's been some 'obscene behavior' going on between myself
and the Cowboy, all right, I just wish I could get him in person,
to where I already have him, in my imagination."

Bubba shook his head, in bewilderment, and replied,

"For all the trouble my ancestors and myself have gone to
propagate wild stories about our perverse proclivities, the rumors
have never been able to match what seems to go on, naturally,
in the minds of the young girls with whom we associate. The world
would little believe the truth of the matter, which is that we
have, for over a century, found ourselves shocked, to the point
of blushing embarrassment, at the things that you young whippersnappers
come up with."

"What's a 'whippersnapper'?", Alexis asked, expectantly,
"Does it involve bondage?"

Bubba raised his eyes to the heavens, in silent supplication,
as if to say, "Please tell me that she's only teasing."

Alexis asked, seriously,
"Why do you promote rumors of pedophilia? Although I suspect
that I kind of understand, but I couldn't really explain it."

"Several reasons." Bubba replied, without hesitation.

"First, it tends to keep people at a distance, and make them
proceed cautiously in approaching us. This means that we are,
by and large, not bothered by a plethora of 'dilly-dally'ers'
who hang out with us for our 'entertainment value' as 'weirdoes'.
Those who do approach us, have to have sufficient concern
and motivation to overcome the 'stigma' of being seen with a 'highly
questionable' character. And their reluctance in approaching us
gives our helpers, such as yourself, ample opportunity to 'intercept'
them as they approach."

Alexis nodded, knowing this to be true, from her own experience.

"Also, it gives you great powers of distraction, both over
those who are watching us and, in particular, over the young (and
sometimes older) men that you are intercepting. You may have noticed
this, in your work."

Alexis almost howled with wholehearted agreement.

"Boy, howdy!", she said-an expression she had picked
up from the Cowboy. "They get so flustered, that I could
probably take their pants off and they would hardly notice.
Is it because I'm at the age where I have all of the tools...",
she stopped to 'correct' herself, "I mean, attributes
of a woman, to make them think of me in a womanly way, but I'm
still carrying the 'taboo' of being a child, so to speak.?"

"Exactly" Bubba replied, smiling, "and that's the
chief reason for their becoming 'flustered' to the point of distraction.
They get 'brain lock' and 'body lock' because there they are in
public, with people watching, and they have to 'fight' their strong
natural urges, in order not to appear to be a filthy, low-down,
vile, scum-sucking pedophile."

"Like yourself.", Alexis teased.

"Exactly.", Bubba responded, reaching playfully out
to pinch her, god only knows where, only to have his hand slapped,
as always.

Alexis cried, "Pervert! Uncle Pervert!", she
laughed. She reflected on something for a moment, then asked,
surprised she had never thought of it before,
"But what if I had been dealing with a real pedophile?",
she looked a bit concerned.

"A real pedophile," Bubba stated, "would
not approach within a million miles of your outrageously flirtatious,
pretty little butt, my dear. Not in public, with people watching.
Their 'worst nightmare' is getting 'caught in the act' of their
sick perversion, or even in 'contemplation of' the act. And there
is no way they could hide their true desires in the face of a
vixenous little 'Lolita' such as yourself, my sweet."

There was a pause, as Bubba gave Alexis time to reflect on the
train of thought that would naturally come next in her mind.
"What about when I'm not in public?", Bubba could
see that she had never, prior to this conversation, thought of
the possible risks involved in what she had considered an enjoyable
'game' of learning the true 'potential' of her womanly 'tools',
as she so often called them as they were developing.

"You are watched...twenty-four hours a day...by women
hand-picked by your mother from an elite group of women. Women
who know, and have experienced, the dangers possible to women
who are vulnerable, and who are now fully capable of insuring
that the 'danger' is now pointing in the other direction."

"Do you remember the gentleman who ran the fruit-stand across
from your apartment?", Bubba asked Alexis. "The one
who spent three months in a wheel-chair? It was a result of genital
swelling. Caused by your neighbor, Mrs. Ashley, on your behalf."

"Ms. Ashley?", Alexis was in a state of shocked disbelief.
"She's a million years old, with arthritis, and can hardly
walk when it gets cold."

"Yes,", Bubba agreed, "and she can rip the nuts
off a grizzly bear in the dark of night, while 'juggling oranges
and whistling Dixie', as they used to say in my great grandfather's
time."
"As a matter of fact, she's the one who founded the 'unit'
I referred to, and her recruits always said, 'You don't mess,
with the Ms.', and they said it with the utmost respect."

"I guess I should thank you...", Alexis began, only
to have Bubba wave away her gratitude.

"No, please don't, Alexis."
"Your protection falls in the realm of a 'sacred duty' that
must, without fail, be performed as a prerequisite for engaging
the services of one who is not yet of sufficiently developed to
the point of being able to take full responsibility for consenting
to what will be required of them, nor fully capable of understanding
the risks involved, however minimal. Thus, it is a sacred duty,
for your mother and myself, to ensure that the experience will
be to your benefit, and in no way to your detriment."

A light suddenly went on in Alexis' head.
"It's not just a 'coincidence' that my mother 'dated' so
many psychologists that she didn't seem particularly attracted
to, romantically, is it?"

"No,", Bubba chuckled, smiling, "but they all agreed,
to a man, that they never saw any need for concern for your psychological
well-being, but were gravely concerned about the effect that your
pre-pubescent, perverted little mind might have on a broken-down
old derelict such as myself."

"So what's the term for a child who molests old men?",
Alexis said, with a laugh, reaching out and giving Bubba's buttocks
a good, solid pinch.

"A whippersnapper!", Bubba shouted out in pain,
slapping her hand, and they both began laughing at each other.


Shortly, Bubba began explaining, once again, the process of 'initiation'.

"After receiving the 'truth' and the 'warnings' concerning
Bubba Rom Dos, our emissaries would proceed to 'initiate' the
'chosen' into the 'Circle of Eunuchs', and outline the basic requirements
expected of them, and what they could expect in return."

"These were as follows:

1. For reasons of security, they would have no way of contacting
the 'Circle', or anyone in it, until such time as it was decreed
that it was necessary, and that they were a safe risk.

In actual fact, there was never any further contact made. There
was no 'Circle', at least, that the Rom Dos lineage was
aware of, in existence, so there was no one to contact.

2. They were, upon 'initiation', full members of the 'Circle'
and obliged to commit to a life-long service of the Magic Circle.
Until such time as they were contacted, and given instructions
or orders, they were to develop, to the best of their abilities,
their computer skills, keeping in mind the kinds of expertise
that they might need when the time came for action.

Our theory was that, if we made them life-long members, they would
be ready and waiting if the mythical 'Circle' ever did surface,
if it actually existed, of course.

We also felt that a multitude of self-directed, self-trained individuals,
if they ever were brought into the 'Circle' and unleashed, would
have a multitude of differing approaches to unique situations,
thus making it exceedingly difficult to analyze, categorize and
counteract their talents and skills.

3. They were told to watch, and wait, ever vigilant, for a 'sign'
from the 'Circle', whether they had been contacted or not. We
told them, with a great air of mystery, that they would know
the message when they heard it, and know that it was time
to act.

It sounded good to us, and it might, after all, some day be true,
instead of 'horseshit'.

4. They were given a 'secret account number' to send donations
to, in order to support the 'activities' of the 'Circle', and
instructions on how to hide the monetary and credit transfers.

Gomez and the Dark Allies knew and recorded every single transaction,
of course, there was no way to hide it.
Our clever, masterful plan, however, was to spend every last penny
donated on riotous living and a licentious lifestyle, with only
the purest of intentions, of course-namely, to convince Gomez,
beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bubba Rom Dos was a thieving,
broken-down old derelict whose only angle in this whole 'Circle
of Eunuchs' affair, was to rake poor, impressionable youths for
every penny possible, and piss it all away in pursuit of Bacchanalian
excess and lascivious conduct."

"And no one will deny that I, and my ancestors, more than
succeeded in this aim." Bubba added, lifting his shotglass
in toast to himself.

"So basically," Alexis summarized, "the Rom Dos
lineage, of which you are a proud member, spent four generations
purporting to be, and confirming, that they were drunken, psychotic,
child-molesting losers, and suckered a multitude of trusting 'seekers'
into waiting for something which did not even, to your knowledge,
even exist, while scamming these poor, lost souls' hard-earned
funds to support your debauchery."

"Yes." Bubba replied, proudly patting his generous,
rotund, pot-belly, "Once you remove all of the eloquent sugar-coating
I've added to my explanation, that is pretty much what our work
has all boiled down to."

"Nice work, if you can get it.", Alexis added, with
a huge smirk.

"Ain't it, though.", Bubba replied, and they both laughed
like banshees, and toasted one another with upraised shot-glasses,
filled to the brim with Bubba Rom Dos' Private Reserve of Jim
Beam. 

They both grew silent, Alexis' face grew gravely serious, and
Bubba realized that it was now time to address her heartfelt question
concerning the Cowboy's fate.

As much as he hated himself for it, Bubba felt that his only alternative
was to proceed according to his perennial fall-back plan, and
spread as much 'manure' as humanly possible, hoping that something
might grow out of it.

"Alexis," Bubba began, "the Cowboy has set his
plan in motion, and willingly sacrificed himself to achieve his
ends, which are for the benefit of the whole of humanity, at the
most critical point in the history of human development."

"It would be a sacrilege for anyone else to take actions
which might negatively affect the outcome of the plan he has set
in motion, at great cost to himself."

"You, however...", he looked deeply into Alexis'
eyes, "you have a connection to the Cowboy that goes
beyond a relationship of 'one' to the 'other'. You, and
only you, have a right to..."

Bubba stopped, abruptly, in mid-sentence, and Alexis, hanging
on his every word, drinking in every nuance of what he was saying,
waited for him to continue.
"Shit!", Bubba said.

"Shit!", he said, again. "I fucked it up. I should
have waited until I was sober."
"Damn!", he exclaimed, in exasperation.

"Bubba, what the hell are you talking about?", Alexis
asked, now worried.

Bubba, seeing no other way around it, told the truth.
"Alexis, I have no idea of anything that I or anyone else
can do to pull the Cowboy's ass out of the fire. I was planning
on feeding you a bunch of horseshit about you being the only one
who could 'connect' with him and find out what might be done,
but then I realized that it would leave you 'holding the
bag' for his death..."

"...Sorry, dear. That was a very bad choice of words."

"Look, Alexis, I'm drunk, I'm tired, and 'Circle of Eunuchs'
or not, you and I are on Gomez's Number Uno Hit List, and I have
not the slightest inkling of how to save 'our' asses, let alone
the Cowboy's, so just let me drink myself into a stupor and go
to sleep, and I'll be able to feed you a much better line of horseshit
when I've had a chance to rest."

"Hell, I'll probably come up with a line of horseshit so
good that I might even believe it, myself."

Bubba watched the blood boil to the top of Alexis' body, turning
her face a fiery red, and he realized that he was about to once
again serve his prime purpose in life, which was to take a well-deserved
shit-kicking for being such a sorry piece-of-shit, so he was not
surprised when the first blow came.

"You ratfucker!" Alexis screamed, as the first
blow almost knocked Bubba on his 'can'. The second blow followed
quickly.
"You sorry, no-good, piece-of-shit, ratfucker!",
a good, solid body-blow that sent Bubba sinking to his knees.

"How could you even think of doing that to a twelve
year-old child.", she screamed with the third blow, as
Bubba groaned from the realization that she was going to pull
out all the stops, and subject him to psychological abuse, as
well.

"Almost thirteen.", he whispered, in self-defense.

"TWELVE!", Alexis shouted at the top of her lungs,
so angry that she forgot to hit him this time, but she quickly
made up for her momentary lapse.
"Twelve! Twelve. Twelve", she repeated, in conjunction
with three shots to his chest that knocked the wind out of him
and sent him sprawling backwards, onto the floor.

Bubba lay there docile and resigned, waiting for the next series
of blows which, after a few moments, he realized were not forthcoming.
Tentatively, he raised his head and saw Alexis sitting beside
him, holding out a shot-glass full of Jim Beam as a peace-offering.

"Almost thirteen.", she conceded.

Bubba looked at her, without the slightest trace of reconciliation
on his face, took the shot-glass from her hand, and said, sternly,

"Twelve!"

He knocked back the shot of Jim Beam, gave her his best lecherous
wink, and continued,
"Still young enough to spank!"

"You filthy old pervert!", Alexis exclaimed in
surprise. "Wait till I tell my mother your sick, twisted
fantasies."

"Hell," said Bubba, "I was fixing to spank her
next!"

They both laughed at the thought of what Priscilla might have
to say about this, but their views differed on this point.

"She'd probably decide to spank me, instead.",
said Bubba.

"No," Alexis said, "knowing mom, she'd probably
demand to be first."

After a short fit of laughter, they fell silent again for a few
moments.

"Bubba?"

"Yes, my love."

"Would you like to give your line of horseshit another try?
I need something to believe in and 'horseshit' is better
than 'no shit at all'. 

Bubba laughed, and realized that their falling into a common sense
of humor, as he and the Cowboy used to do, was probably a sure
sign that he had finally succeeded in being an evil influence
on youth-getting a twelve, almost thirteen, year-old girl drunk.

Bubba stumbled to his feet, he pretended to be pulling his fly
down, as he said,
"Alexis, I want you to tell me how many fingers you see."

She fell over, laughing, and he sank to the floor in laughter,
as Alexis said,
"That's the kind of humor that you and the Cowboy shared,
wasn't it?"

"Yes.", Bubba said, and remained silent for a short
while.

"I miss him, Bubba."

"I miss him, too, dear."

Alexis poured them both another drink.
"Don't worry about getting me drunk, Bubba. Try to think
of it as saving the embalmer a little money."

They both laughed, once again, and grew silent. Then Bubba said,

"I probably should have gone with the 'Power of Myth' horseshit,
like I originally planned."

"Oh?", Alexis was interested. "How was that
pile of crap supposed to go?"

"I don't know, really, I hadn't finished working it all out."

"Well, then why don't we finish it together, and give it
a try?"

"O.K. What the hell.", Bubba began fishing through his
papers, while Alexis poured them another drink.

"Bubba?"

"Yes, drunk...I mean, dear." 

Alexis slapped him on the shoulder, for being 'silly'.
"Would we be laughing about dying, if we were sober?"

"Yes," Bubba said, after a moment's reflection, then
added, "but it wouldn't be near as funny."

The two of them broke into a fit of laughter that left them holding
their sides to keep from hurting. Alexis was still wiping the
tears from her eyes when she asked Bubba,

"You ever see those posters in the Museum, where the ancient
religions swindled people out of their money by using pictures
of skinny kids and claiming they were going to go to bed hungry
if people didn't send the religion, not the kids, a whole bunch
of money.?

"Yes.", Bubba replied.

Alexis rose to her feet, used her fingers to imitate the frame
of a poster, with herself in the middle, and proclaimed, in all
solemnity,
"Poor little Alexis is going to die sober, unless Bubba Rom
Dos donates another bottle of his Special Reserve to the 'Circle
of Eunuchs'."

She sat down, laughing, as Bubba, taking his cue, dug out another
bottle. And she grew morose, thinking, not about her own possibly
impending death, but that of the Cowboy.
"Bubba, do you realize that unless we bust the Cowboy out
of Nuthouse Number Nine, that I will, in all likelihood, die a
virgin?"

"Not if you fall asleep before I do.", Bubba replied,
sending them both into spasms of laughter, once again.

"No, I'm serious.", Alexis said, slapping at him to
'serious him up', but missing.

"Well," Bubba said, solemnly, 'you might 'die' a virgin,
but you probably wouldn't stay that way for long, because pedophilia
isn't my only perversion.", he doubled over, in laughter.

"No! You sick bastard, get serious.", she said, and
then decided that Bubba's remark was indeed as funny as he seemed
to think it was, and she went into another laughing fit, before
composing herself, once again.

"O.K. Alexis," Bubba suddenly said, having found the
papers he was looking for, "the Power of Myth is ready to
be subjected to frontal attack, and bent to do our bidding."


Chapter 26 - For Whom The Bell Trolls / Chapter 27
- Whippersnapper