🚀 go-pugleaf

--00000000000084748f062d2f09ad
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="UTF-8"

This series has been hijacked by The NTB.  (No. Not the
Naughty Teenage Babes!  The Other One!!  The Less Fun
One!!!)

And we're back in the past and can check the eyrie archive
once again.


Here's where you can find this and more NTB One Shots:

https://archives.eyrie.org/racc/ntb/One.Shots/

And we've reached the LNH's first spinoff Imprint:
The Net.Trenchcoat Brigrade, which began a bit like
the LNH with a bunch of people on Rec.arts.comics.misc
doing there own add-on cascade type story.  A few of
the members of the NTB do have there roots in the LNH
like Kid Anarky and the Dvandom Stranger but mostly
the continuity between the two imprints is rarely
if ever acknowledged (except occasionally by a few
writers like Paul Hardy).

Also -- the NTB was inspired by a line in Neil Gaiman's
miniseries The Books of Magic with John Constantine saying,
"Just what the world's been waiting for. The Charge of the
Trenchcoat Brigade."  So, most of characters in this are
some type of parody of various mystical Vertigo characters
(And some are just completely lifted -- Don't tell DC.)

This is Part One of the first big NTB story, The Wrath of
The Administrator.  The first bit is by Michael McAffe, the
Chaotic Hob Gadling.  And the prologue is by Stewart "GrimSlut"
Fyfe.  Will GrimSloth finally payback all those unpaid taxes he
owes?!!!



Find Out In...







                           C L A S S I C

                    N E T  T R E N C H C O A T  B R I G A D E

                                A D V E N T U R E S  #359




                         =====================
            W R A T H  O F  T H E  A D M I N I S T R A T O R
                               Part One
                         =====================








Okay, everyone, this is the final "it". Wrath of the Administrator is
finally over, and here`s the Trade Etherback, which

a) Is bloody huge and spread out over nine files, and
b) Contains everthing pertinent to the storyline, and
c) Even contains material never before posted (mostly in the Epilogue),
d) and is completely free of any spelling/punctuation mistakes, or at
  least, free of the ones I found when I was proofreading. My
  apologies to those Americans whose spelling I found myself unable
  not to correct, but some American spelling mistakes just drive me up
  the wall...

Good, eh? Anyway, you can go and read it now, if you like. You don`t
have to read this introduction, which also includes a few words from Kit,
who
started the whole thing off, an episode guide, the roster and a short tale
by
Hob Gadling. But if you`d like to, well, go on, then. Oh, and if anybody
does
get this bound in hardcover, can they tell me how much it cost? And is
anybody
interested in doing annotations?
BTW, all material herein these postings is copyright (c) it`s
respective creators, and must be preserved intact, although you can copy it
as
much as you like onto whatever medium. Just remember who wrote it, huh?

Thanx to you all,
Paul Hardy AKA Willoughby Withnail AKA Bacchus AKA Now Very Tired...



And now those few words from Kit that I mentioned:


     To paraphrase Acton Lord, "Free time corrupts, and too much free time
corrupts the grade point average absolutely."
     When the idea for Wrath of the Administrator popped into my head late
one
Sunday night, I thought "Wow, now we have something to do with all these
folks."  I had great ideas, great plans, great storylines (The plot for the
sequel "School: The High Cost of Parking" is still floating around
somewhere...).
     Unfortunately, my life chose that opportunity to explode.
Fortunately, so
did the NTB.
     When I had to remove myself from continuity, as it were, I was afraid,
perhaps egotistically so, that the story would flop and that would be the
end
of the NTB.  Now, thirty some odd chapters later, it comes to a close.
Other
stories will be written.  Hopefully they won't get this big :-)
     So that's that.  A great big thanks to all who contributed.  Maybe I'll
get to stay alive a little longer next time.

Keep your hands out of your Trenchcoat. It looks naughty...

kit

LAST MINUTE THANKYOUS AND APOLOGIES:

-Thanx to Mike Escutia for the logo
-Thanx to Thanatos for mucking around with his story to make it fit
continuity
-Thanx to everyone who sent in stuff when I asked (well, pleaded)
-Sorry to everyone for this taking so long...

-Paul





-------------------------------------------------------------------------------




A  N  D  ,    B  E  F  O  R  E    W  E    B  E  G  I  N  .  .  .
----------------------------------------------------------------


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

        We now take a break from the current story arc for a one-shot.
        This story may change my Origin (tm) somewhat, but c'est la vie.

****************************************************************************

     I waited in the con suite, a drink in my hand, my feet
propped up on the coffeetable.  I waited for him, not
knowing if he would come.  But everything else he'd said had
come to pass, so I was not surprised when he sat down in the
chair across from mine.  He wore a black t-shirt and jeans,
which matched his black hair.  It all brought out the
extreme paleness of his skin.
     "I...," the words nearly escaped me, for I had not
really prepared what I would say upon meeting him, "I wasn't
sure you would be here."
     His ghostly voice had not changed in the intervening
century.  "I didn't think you would come, either, but I gave
my word that I should arrive."
     "Who are you," I finally blurted out, "a wizard!?  A
saint!?  A demon!? "
     "Oh, c'mon, you don't really believe in that sort of
thing, do you?"
     "Then how come I'm not dead?  How come I'm still
young?"
     "Look," he pointed out to me, "a hundred years ago you
argued that immortality without side effects was possible.
I simply allowed you to see if you were correct or not."  He
folded his hands under his nose.  "Death will not touch you,
Hob Gadling, unless you truly desire it."
     My mouth yammered in shock for a moment.  "Then, I was
right, immortality is possible."
     "Ah, but I thought you were interested in immortality
without side effects."
     "You call living a long healthy eternity a side
effect?"
     He seemed puzzled at that.  "Healthy?"
     "Sure," I replied, "fit as a fiddle."  I exaggerated my
breathing and beat my chest a little.  It may have been a lie,
but it was a damn good lie.
     He was not amused.  "So, what have you been doing with
yourself this past century?"
     "Same as before.  Writing my scientific romances.  But
it's all changed these past years."
     "How so?"
     "Well, things went well with Wells and Smith, but when
'1984' got published people started taking the form so
seriously.  I'm just glad 'Hitchhiker's' made things fun
again.  The sixties were just awful."
     "You've done well, I take it."  He didn't smile, or
show any slip in his demeanor.
     "Well, under a few pseudonyms I've managed to keep
going.  I've also invested over the years.  That Hughes
fellow did right by me, certainly."  I poured myself some
more soda.  "I tried preaching at a small community church
in Wyoming, went into real estate in what is now known as
Silicon Valley, been a roadie for Tina Turner, got involved
briefly with these trenchcoat fanatics...
     "Y'know, it's funny.  Back then, a young pup enthralled
with Verne, I imagined heaven would be filled with all these
wonderful machines, and now look at all the human race has
invented.  Of course, I never thought about pollution in
heaven.  But still, this is a great time to be alive, and-"
     A small discussion over in a corner had gotten loud enough
to interrupt me.  A young man was discussing his latest manuscript
with an older and more established authoress.  I'd met them both
before.  I'd given Nancy one of her first writing critiques.
     My companion gestured over to the man.  "Who's he?"
     I shrugged.  "A hack writer.  Nothing special.  Now the
woman, she's good."
     He stroked at his chin.  "Wait here.  I shall return."
     As he talked with them, I felt a small twinge deep in
my chest.  The operation to remove the tumor was scheduled
for next week, but until then it occasionally kept flaring
up.  I hadn't noticed his return.
     "You are in pain, Hob?"
     "Nothing too serious."
     "It will get worse and more frequent, you know."
     That got to me.  "What do you know about my condition?"
     He composed his thoughts briefly.  "Immortality means
constant regeneration of the cells, Hob.  That means a
greater chance of...mistakes."
     "Mistakes?  You mean..."
     "The term they refer to it these days is cancer, I
believe."
     I didn't answer for a few seconds.  "So my tumor is a
result of your...gift?"
     "Not directly, but it was bound to happen sometime.  I
also expect you'll be dealt a debilitating blow sometime in the
next three centuries, law of averages holding.  Kind of
disproves your original theory, doesn't it.
     "So, I ask you Hob Gadling, do you wish to live another
hundred years?"
     I took a hard sip of my drink.  "I've seen so much.  So
many improvements in science.  So many leaps in progress.
But knowing that I must eventually suffer...
     "But still, I doubt I'll ever seek death.  And I think
you knew that.  And I think I know more about you than you
may think."
     He sat back.  "Don't presume too much, Hob Gadling.
What is it you think you know about me."
     "Well, I hung around the NTB a while ago, and I learned
a few things about the mystic side of the world, and there
were some descriptions of an immortal being who embodied all
that was cynical in the universe."  I looked at him
directly.  "You are Doubt, of the Endless aren't you."
     He didn't even flinch.  "What if I am?"
     "I wondered what an immortal being would want with a
guy like me, and I think-"  I had to look away from him as I
said these words, "I think you're tired of being cynical.  I
think you're looking for someone to just hang out with, and
be yourself."
     "You DARE?  Imply that I might befriend a mortal?  Chee-
yeah, right!  Don't think so, buddy."  He started to make
his way out of the room.
     "Look," I said following him as he walked down to the
hotel lobby, "I'll be at WorldCon in 2093.  I'll be waiting
for you."  He was making his way out of the hotel.  He
hadn't looked back.  "You'll enjoy yourself, really."
     He stopped a moment, and looked back.  "Not!"  And with
that he was gone.
     I went back up to the con.  I looked at my pocket
program, then my watch.  I had some time left before my
panel on "Immortality in Science Fiction," so I went back up
to the suite and finished my drink.  I was smiling.  He may
have put on a hard face, but as he was walking away, I
noticed, in his back pocket, a copy of the latest Pratchett
novel.
     I made plans to be at WorldCon 2093.  I knew I'd see
him again.

*****************************************************************************

        Michael, the Chaotic
        Hob Gadling of the net.trenchcoat.brigade
        disclaimer:  oh, no, some evil malefic beast has gotten control
                        of my keyboard and is writing these evil nasty
                        posts....

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


-- 
 And these are the words of a supposedly literate student of
      English Literature at the University of Warwick...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul Hardy/enubf@csv.warwick.ac.uk/Willoughby Withnail or Bacchus of the
N.T.B.


Article 1452 of alt.comics.lnh:
Path: warwick!warwick!not-for-mail
From: enubf@csv.warwick.ac.uk (Mr P R Hardy)
Newsgroups: alt.comics.lnh,rec.arts.comics.misc
Subject: NTB: Wrath of the Administrator TEB 1
Date: 3 Jun 1993 15:54:35 +0100
Organization: Computing Services, University of Warwick, UK
Lines: 1016
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <1ul3bbINNf4l@cumin.csv.warwick.ac.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Host: cumin.csv.warwick.ac.uk
Xref: warwick alt.comics.lnh:1452 rec.arts.comics.misc:26320


                    N E T  T R E N C H C O A T  B R I G A D E
                                       <*>
                 W R A T H  O F  T H E  A D M I N I S T R A T O R
                 ------------------------------------------------



     P  R  O  L  O  G  U  E
     ----------------------


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     It was one of those days in alt.cynosure, sweet, cynical
alt.cynosure. Where the Internet meets.

     Articles were posted along the streets with no semblance of
order; Tuesday followed Wednesday followed August 28, 1989,
twice.  Time, a relative concept at best in this city, huddled in
an alleyway amongst fallen net.gods.  It whispered in their ears,
spinning tales of threads and articles long expired.  Pausing,
Time glanced sullenly over its shoulder at the latest arrivals
off the Telnet Shuttle.
     A tourgroup of guest.bots rolled down the exit ramp and into
the street, trampling over lonely, unattributed quotes.  The
.bots ignored the pathetic mewling rising from beneath their
wheels; their attention was fixed upon a swirling mass of
shifting air across the street.  They watched and oohed and aahed
and cheered as the air solidified and a flame war erupted.
Occasionally, one of the .bots would stray too close, and get
sucked in.  Abusive IMHO's and twisted misquotes fell like rain,
sending smileys scurreying for cover.  In the alleyway, Time gulped
down the last of its vodka and tossed the bottle at a passing lurker.

     It was one of those days in alt.cynosure where you wanted to
crawl inside Munden's Bar and log the hell out.

     My name's Stew, but out on the streets I'm known as
GrimSloth.  Why?  How the hell should I know?  It's not my true
name.  Call me lurker.  Call me EE.  Call me trenchcoater.  I am
all that and more.  People looking for me can usually find me at
my place, Munden's Bar.  But then, no one comes looking for me
much these days.  Not since what happened to that little peanut
fellow with the hat and monocle.  Gruesome affair.  For all I know,
he died cursing my name.  Still, I was pretty hungry at the time.

     I was sitting at my favorite table, sipping a Drambuie and
working up to a good day's grim, when the flames started up
outside.  When a flame war brews outside your door, there's
usually three options.  You could pick a side and start swinging.
Or you could wait for the Netiquette Cops to arrive.  I was
in no mood for the former, and I had no love for the latter.
Which meant that there was only one thing left to do.
     I slammed the doors shut, but they rebounded off something
with a metal clang.  There, standing in the doorway, was a
guest.bot.

     Guest.bots were invented many, many years ago by a man long
since nailed to a tree.  The basic idea is rather simple,
actually:  A person logs into a guest.bot account, for a nominal
fee.  They are then free to travel across the net in that .bot
account, leaving their own account safely behind.  If anything
happens to the .bot, the user is kicked back to their own
account.  Guest.bots often go site-seeing, and can get into all
sorts of places, and are annoying as hell.  They also look like a
metal trashcan on wheels.

     "Beat it, ashcan," I said.
     "Mr. Slut?" it asked in a crackling voice.
     "Sloth."
     "Might I ask for a moment of your time, Mr. Slut?"
     "Sloth.  The name is Sloth.  If you want Time, it's over
there drinking in the alleyway."
     "Mr. Slut, if I could just come in for a moment," it said.
A small, brown briefcase floated beside it, powered by the .bot's
presence.  "My name is Burak Racey, and I'm here to discuss a few
unpaid taxes."
     "Look, can't you read?" I asked, jerking my thumb towards a
sign beside the doorway.  "No Guest.Bots Allowed.  Now scram."
     "But you don't understand," it stammered.
     "I understand perfectly.  I understand that you are standing
here in my doorway on my property, where you are not at all
welcome, and you are annoying the hell out of me."
     "But Mr. Slut--"
     "For the last time, it's Sloth!"  And with that, I drop-kicked
him into the flame war.
     His metallic form appeared briefly between snatches of fire
and smoke, and then he was torn apart.  The other guest.bots
turned towards me and gasped.  I nodded towards the sign.  "No
Guest.Bots.  Got it?"
     They hopped and scrambled and rolled down the street.  I
watched them until they disappeared around the corner.
     Burak Racey.  I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't
quite place it.  Burak Racey . . . Yeah, I remembered him
alright.  The last time I'd seen him was in the .Sig Wars,
roasting that peanut fellow.  And if he was mucking about again,
that meant that . . . that meant that . . .
     "Duck me," I muttered.
     My foot struck against something.  Racey's briefcase. Without
the .bot around to power its anti-grav pods, it had fallen to the
ground.  Slowly, I bent down beside it and peered at the flat,
brown surface.
     There, just barely visible in brown on brown, was a familiar
sigil.  The Logo.  The Imprint.  The Letterhead of the Universal Office.
Some idiot must have stumbled across it, and now the whole thing was
starting all over again.  If Burak Racey was roaming around, then
might already be too late to do anything but ride out the storm.
     "I've got a bad feeling about this," I said to no one in
particular.

     I grabbed the briefcase and walked down the steps to Munden's.
Behind me, the flame war had begun to die down, burning out as
quickly as it had begun.  A cold breeze blew down the street,
rustling articles on their posts, and the approaching sirens of
the Netiquette Cops echoed against the buildings and across the
rooftops of the city . . .

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
        by fyfesh@lafcol.lafayette.edu
        aka FYFES@lafvax.lafayette.edu



==========

Next Week:  More NTB Fun with Wrath of The Administrator Part Two!!

==========

Arthur "Same Classic Channel.  But Same Time?  Probably not." Spitzer

--00000000000084748f062d2f09ad
Content-Type: text/html; charset="UTF-8"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable

<div dir=3D"ltr"><br>This series has been hijacked by The NTB. =C2=A0(No. N=
ot the<br>Naughty Teenage Babes!=C2=A0 The Other One!!=C2=A0 The Less Fun<b=
r>One!!!)<br><br>And we're back in the past and can check the eyrie arc=
hive <br>once again.<br><br><br>Here's where you can find this and more=
 NTB One Shots:<br><br><a href=3D"https://archives.eyrie.org/racc/ntb/One.S=
hots/">https://archives.eyrie.org/racc/ntb/One.Shots/</a><br><br>And we'=
;ve reached the LNH's first spinoff Imprint: =C2=A0<br>The Net.Trenchco=
at Brigrade, which began a bit like<br>the LNH with a bunch of people on Re=
c.arts.comics.misc<br>doing there own add-on cascade type story.=C2=A0 A fe=
w of<br>the members of the NTB do have there roots in the LNH<br>like Kid A=
narky and the Dvandom Stranger but mostly<br>the continuity between the two=
 imprints is rarely<br>if ever acknowledged (except occasionally by a few<b=
r>writers like Paul Hardy).<br><br>Also -- the NTB was inspired by a line i=
n Neil Gaiman's<br>miniseries The Books of Magic with John Constantine =
saying,<br>"Just what the world's been waiting for. The Charge of =
the <br>Trenchcoat Brigade." =C2=A0So, most of characters in this are<=
br>some type of parody of various mystical Vertigo characters<br>(And some =
are just completely lifted -- Don't tell DC.)<br><br>This is Part One o=
f the first big NTB story, The Wrath of<br>The Administrator.=C2=A0 The fir=
st bit is by Michael McAffe, the <br>Chaotic Hob Gadling.=C2=A0 And the pro=
logue is by Stewart "GrimSlut" <br>Fyfe.=C2=A0 Will GrimSloth fin=
ally payback all those unpaid taxes he<br>owes?!!!<br><br><br><br>Find Out =
In...<br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0C L A S S I C<br=
><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
N E T =C2=A0T R E N C H C O A T =C2=A0B R I G A D E<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 A D V E N T U R E S =C2=A0#359<br><br><br><br><br>=
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=
=3D=3D<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 W R A T H =C2=A0O F =C2=
=A0T H E =C2=A0A D M I N I S T R A T O R<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0Part One<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=
=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0<br><br><br><br><br><br><br>	Okay, everyone, this is the final "=
it". Wrath of the Administrator is<br>finally over, and here`s the Tra=
de Etherback, which<br><br>	a) Is bloody huge and spread out over nine file=
s, and<br>	b) Contains everthing pertinent to the storyline, and<br>	c) Eve=
n contains material never before posted (mostly in the Epilogue),<br>	d) an=
d is completely free of any spelling/punctuation mistakes, or at<br>	 =C2=
=A0 least, free of the ones I found when I was proofreading. My <br>	 =C2=
=A0 apologies to those Americans whose spelling I found myself unable<br>	 =
=C2=A0 not to correct, but some American spelling mistakes just drive me up=
<br>	 =C2=A0 the wall...<br><br>	Good, eh? Anyway, you can go and read it n=
ow, if you like. You don`t<br>have to read this introduction, which also in=
cludes a few words from Kit, who<br>started the whole thing off, an episode=
 guide, the roster and a short tale by <br>Hob Gadling. But if you`d like t=
o, well, go on, then. Oh, and if anybody does <br>get this bound in hardcov=
er, can they tell me how much it cost? And is anybody <br>interested in doi=
ng annotations?<br>	BTW, all material herein these postings is copyright (c=
) it`s<br>respective creators, and must be preserved intact, although you c=
an copy it as<br>much as you like onto whatever medium. Just remember who w=
rote it, huh?<br><br>	Thanx to you all,<br>	Paul Hardy AKA Willoughby Withn=
ail AKA Bacchus AKA Now Very Tired...<br><br><br><br>And now those few word=
s from Kit that I mentioned:<br><br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0To paraphrase A=
cton Lord, "Free time corrupts, and too much free time<br>corrupts the=
 grade point average absolutely."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0When the idea=
 for Wrath of the Administrator popped into my head late one<br>Sunday nigh=
t, I thought "Wow, now we have something to do with all these<br>folks=
." =C2=A0I had great ideas, great plans, great storylines (The plot fo=
r the<br>sequel "School: The High Cost of Parking" is still float=
ing around<br>somewhere...).<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0Unfortunately, my life =
chose that opportunity to explode.=C2=A0 Fortunately, so<br>did the NTB.<br=
>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0When I had to remove myself from continuity, as it wer=
e, I was afraid,<br>perhaps egotistically so, that the story would flop and=
 that would be the end<br>of the NTB.=C2=A0 Now, thirty some odd chapters l=
ater, it comes to a close.=C2=A0 Other<br>stories will be written.=C2=A0 Ho=
pefully they won't get this big :-)<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0So that'=
s that.=C2=A0 A great big thanks to all who contributed.=C2=A0 Maybe I'=
ll<br>get to stay alive a little longer next time.<br><br>Keep your hands o=
ut of your Trenchcoat. It looks naughty...<br><br>kit<br><br>LAST MINUTE TH=
ANKYOUS AND APOLOGIES:<br><br>-Thanx to Mike Escutia for the logo<br>-Thanx=
 to Thanatos for mucking around with his story to make it fit continuity<br=
>-Thanx to everyone who sent in stuff when I asked (well, pleaded)<br>-Sorr=
y to everyone for this taking so long...<br><br>	-Paul<br><br><br><br><br><=
br>------------------------------------------------------------------------=
-------<br><br><br><br><br>	A =C2=A0N =C2=A0D =C2=A0, =C2=A0 =C2=A0B =C2=A0=
E =C2=A0F =C2=A0O =C2=A0R =C2=A0E =C2=A0 =C2=A0W =C2=A0E =C2=A0 =C2=A0B =C2=
=A0E =C2=A0G =C2=A0I =C2=A0N =C2=A0. =C2=A0. =C2=A0.<br>	------------------=
----------------------------------------------<br><br><br>-----------------=
--------------------------------------------------------------<br><br>=C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 We now take a break from the current story arc for=
 a one-shot.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 This story may change my Origin=
 (tm) somewhat, but c'est la vie.<br><br>******************************=
**********************************************<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I=
 waited in the con suite, a drink in my hand, my feet<br>propped up on the =
coffeetable.=C2=A0 I waited for him, not<br>knowing if he would come.=C2=A0=
 But everything else he'd said had<br>come to pass, so I was not surpri=
sed when he sat down in the<br>chair across from mine.=C2=A0 He wore a blac=
k t-shirt and jeans,<br>which matched his black hair.=C2=A0 It all brought =
out the<br>extreme paleness of his skin.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"I...,=
" the words nearly escaped me, for I had not<br>really prepared what I=
 would say upon meeting him, "I wasn't<br>sure you would be here.&=
quot;<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0His ghostly voice had not changed in the inter=
vening<br>century. =C2=A0"I didn't think you would come, either, b=
ut I gave<br>my word that I should arrive."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0&qu=
ot;Who are you," I finally blurted out, "a wizard!? =C2=A0A<br>sa=
int!?=C2=A0 A demon!? "<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Oh, c'mon, yo=
u don't really believe in that sort of<br>thing, do you?"<br>=C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Then how come I'm not dead?=C2=A0 How come I'=
;m still<br>young?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Look," he pointe=
d out to me, "a hundred years ago you<br>argued that immortality witho=
ut side effects was possible.<br>I simply allowed you to see if you were co=
rrect or not." =C2=A0He<br>folded his hands under his nose. =C2=A0&quo=
t;Death will not touch you,<br>Hob Gadling, unless you truly desire it.&quo=
t;<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0My mouth yammered in shock for a moment. =C2=A0&q=
uot;Then, I was<br>right, immortality is possible."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0"Ah, but I thought you were interested in immortality<br>without=
 side effects."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"You call living a long he=
althy eternity a side<br>effect?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0He seemed puz=
zled at that. =C2=A0"Healthy?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Sure,=
" I replied, "fit as a fiddle." =C2=A0I exaggerated my<br>br=
eathing and beat my chest a little.=C2=A0 It may have been a lie,<br>but it=
 was a damn good lie.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0He was not amused. =C2=A0"=
;So, what have you been doing with<br>yourself this past century?"<br>=
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Same as before.=C2=A0 Writing my scientific roman=
ces.=C2=A0 But<br>it's all changed these past years."<br>=C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0"How so?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Well, things =
went well with Wells and Smith, but when<br>'1984' got published pe=
ople started taking the form so<br>seriously.=C2=A0 I'm just glad '=
Hitchhiker's' made things fun<br>again.=C2=A0 The sixties were just=
 awful."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"You've done well, I take it.=
" =C2=A0He didn't smile, or<br>show any slip in his demeanor.<br>=
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Well, under a few pseudonyms I've managed to =
keep<br>going.=C2=A0 I've also invested over the years.=C2=A0 That Hugh=
es<br>fellow did right by me, certainly." =C2=A0I poured myself some<b=
r>more soda. =C2=A0"I tried preaching at a small community church<br>i=
n Wyoming, went into real estate in what is now known as<br>Silicon Valley,=
 been a roadie for Tina Turner, got involved<br>briefly with these trenchco=
at fanatics...<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Y'know, it's funny.=C2=
=A0 Back then, a young pup enthralled<br>with Verne, I imagined heaven woul=
d be filled with all these<br>wonderful machines, and now look at all the h=
uman race has<br>invented.=C2=A0 Of course, I never thought about pollution=
 in<br>heaven.=C2=A0 But still, this is a great time to be alive, and-"=
;<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0A small discussion over in a corner had gotten lou=
d enough<br>to interrupt me.=C2=A0 A young man was discussing his latest ma=
nuscript <br>with an older and more established authoress.=C2=A0 I'd me=
t them both<br>before.=C2=A0 I'd given Nancy one of her first writing c=
ritiques.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0My companion gestured over to the man. =C2=
=A0"Who's he?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I shrugged. =C2=A0"=
;A hack writer.=C2=A0 Nothing special.=C2=A0 Now the<br>woman, she's go=
od."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0He stroked at his chin. =C2=A0"Wait h=
ere.=C2=A0 I shall return."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0As he talked with t=
hem, I felt a small twinge deep in<br>my chest.=C2=A0 The operation to remo=
ve the tumor was scheduled<br>for next week, but until then it occasionally=
 kept flaring<br>up.=C2=A0 I hadn't noticed his return.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0"You are in pain, Hob?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"No=
thing too serious."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"It will get worse and=
 more frequent, you know."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0That got to me. =C2=
=A0"What do you know about my condition?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0=
He composed his thoughts briefly. =C2=A0"Immortality means<br>constant=
 regeneration of the cells, Hob.=C2=A0 That means a<br>greater chance of...=
mistakes."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Mistakes?=C2=A0 You mean...&qu=
ot;<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"The term they refer to it these days is ca=
ncer, I<br>believe."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I didn't answer for a =
few seconds. =C2=A0"So my tumor is a<br>result of your...gift?"<b=
r>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Not directly, but it was bound to happen someti=
me. =C2=A0I<br>also expect you'll be dealt a debilitating blow sometime=
 in the<br>next three centuries, law of averages holding.=C2=A0 Kind of<br>=
disproves your original theory, doesn't it.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0&quo=
t;So, I ask you Hob Gadling, do you wish to live another<br>hundred years?&=
quot;<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I took a hard sip of my drink. =C2=A0"I&#=
39;ve seen so much.=C2=A0 So<br>many improvements in science.=C2=A0 So many=
 leaps in progress.<br>But knowing that I must eventually suffer...<br>=C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"But still, I doubt I'll ever seek death.=C2=A0 A=
nd I think<br>you knew that.=C2=A0 And I think I know more about you than y=
ou<br>may think."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0He sat back. =C2=A0"Don&=
#39;t presume too much, Hob Gadling.<br>What is it you think you know about=
 me."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Well, I hung around the NTB a while=
 ago, and I learned<br>a few things about the mystic side of the world, and=
 there<br>were some descriptions of an immortal being who embodied all<br>t=
hat was cynical in the universe." =C2=A0I looked at him<br>directly. =
=C2=A0"You are Doubt, of the Endless aren't you."<br>=C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0He didn't even flinch. =C2=A0"What if I am?"<br>=
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"I wondered what an immortal being would want with=
 a<br>guy like me, and I think-" =C2=A0I had to look away from him as =
I<br>said these words, "I think you're tired of being cynical. =C2=
=A0I<br>think you're looking for someone to just hang out with, and<br>=
be yourself."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"You DARE?=C2=A0 Imply that =
I might befriend a mortal?=C2=A0 Chee-<br>yeah, right!=C2=A0 Don't thin=
k so, buddy." =C2=A0He started to make<br>his way out of the room.<br>=
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Look," I said following him as he walked dow=
n to the<br>hotel lobby, "I'll be at WorldCon in 2093.=C2=A0 I'=
;ll be waiting<br>for you." =C2=A0He was making his way out of the hot=
el.=C2=A0 He<br>hadn't looked back. =C2=A0"You'll enjoy yourse=
lf, really."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0He stopped a moment, and looked ba=
ck. =C2=A0"Not!" =C2=A0And with<br>that he was gone.<br>=C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0I went back up to the con.=C2=A0 I looked at my pocket<br>prog=
ram, then my watch.=C2=A0 I had some time left before my<br>panel on "=
Immortality in Science Fiction," so I went back up<br>to the suite and=
 finished my drink.=C2=A0 I was smiling.=C2=A0 He may<br>have put on a hard=
 face, but as he was walking away, I<br>noticed, in his back pocket, a copy=
 of the latest Pratchett<br>novel.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I made plans to b=
e at WorldCon 2093.=C2=A0 I knew I'd see<br>him again.<br><br>*********=
********************************************************************<br><br=
>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 Michael, the Chaotic<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 Hob Gadling of the net.trenchcoat.brigade<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 disclaimer: =C2=A0oh, no, some evil malefic beast has gotten control=
<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 of my keyboard and is writing these evil nasty<br>=C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 p=
osts....<br><br>-----------------------------------------------------------=
--------------------<br><br><br>-- <br>	 =C2=A0And these are the words of a=
 supposedly literate student of<br>	 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 English Literatur=
e at the University of Warwick...<br>--------------------------------------=
-----------------------------------------<br>Paul Hardy/<a href=3D"http://e=
nubf@csv.warwick.ac.uk/Willoughby">enubf@csv.warwick.ac.uk/Willoughby</a> W=
ithnail or Bacchus of the N.T.B.<br><br><br>Article 1452 of alt.comics.lnh:=
<br>Path: warwick!warwick!not-for-mail<br>From: <a href=3D"mailto:enubf@csv=
.warwick.ac.uk">enubf@csv.warwick.ac.uk</a> (Mr P R Hardy)<br>Newsgroups: a=
lt.comics.lnh,rec.arts.comics.misc<br>Subject: NTB: Wrath of the Administra=
tor TEB 1<br>Date: 3 Jun 1993 15:54:35 +0100<br>Organization: Computing Ser=
vices, University of Warwick, UK<br>Lines: 1016<br>Distribution: world<br>M=
essage-ID: <<a href=3D"mailto:1ul3bbINNf4l@cumin.csv.warwick.ac.uk">1ul3=
bbINNf4l@cumin.csv.warwick.ac.uk</a>><br>NNTP-Posting-Host: <a href=3D"h=
ttp://cumin.csv.warwick.ac.uk">cumin.csv.warwick.ac.uk</a><br>Xref: warwick=
 alt.comics.lnh:1452 rec.arts.comics.misc:26320<br><br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 N E T =C2=A0T R E N=
 C H C O A T =C2=A0B R I G A D E<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0<*> =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 <br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0W R A T H =C2=A0O F =C2=A0T H E =C2=A0A D M I N I S T R A =
T O R<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0----=
--------------------------------------------<br><br><br><br>			 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0P =C2=A0R =C2=A0O =C2=A0L =C2=A0O =C2=A0G =C2=A0U =C2=A0E<br>			 =
=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0----------------------<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 <br>-------------------------=
------------------------------------------------------<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0=
 =C2=A0It was one of those days in alt.cynosure, sweet, cynical <br>alt.cyn=
osure. Where the Internet meets.<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0Articles were p=
osted along the streets with no semblance of<br>order; Tuesday followed Wed=
nesday followed August 28, 1989,<br>twice.=C2=A0 Time, a relative concept a=
t best in this city, huddled in<br>an alleyway amongst fallen net.gods.=C2=
=A0 It whispered in their ears,<br>spinning tales of threads and articles l=
ong expired.=C2=A0 Pausing,<br>Time glanced sullenly over its shoulder at t=
he latest arrivals<br>off the Telnet Shuttle.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0A tour=
group of guest.bots rolled down the exit ramp and into<br>the street, tramp=
ling over lonely, unattributed quotes.=C2=A0 The<br>.bots ignored the pathe=
tic mewling rising from beneath their<br>wheels; their attention was fixed =
upon a swirling mass of<br>shifting air across the street.=C2=A0 They watch=
ed and oohed and aahed<br>and cheered as the air solidified and a flame war=
 erupted. <br>Occasionally, one of the .bots would stray too close, and get=
 <br>sucked in.=C2=A0 Abusive IMHO's and twisted misquotes fell like ra=
in,<br>sending smileys scurreying for cover.=C2=A0 In the alleyway, Time gu=
lped<br>down the last of its vodka and tossed the bottle at a passing lurke=
r.<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0It was one of those days in alt.cynosure wher=
e you wanted to<br>crawl inside Munden's Bar and log the hell out. <br>=
<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0My name's Stew, but out on the streets I'm =
known as<br>GrimSloth.=C2=A0 Why?=C2=A0 How the hell should I know?=C2=A0 I=
t's not my true<br>name.=C2=A0 Call me lurker.=C2=A0 Call me EE.=C2=A0 =
Call me trenchcoater.=C2=A0 I am<br>all that and more.=C2=A0 People looking=
 for me can usually find me at<br>my place, Munden's Bar.=C2=A0 But the=
n, no one comes looking for me<br>much these days.=C2=A0 Not since what hap=
pened to that little peanut <br>fellow with the hat and monocle.=C2=A0 Grue=
some affair.=C2=A0 For all I know,<br>he died cursing my name.=C2=A0 Still,=
 I was pretty hungry at the time.<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I was sitting =
at my favorite table, sipping a Drambuie and<br>working up to a good day&#3=
9;s grim, when the flames started up<br>outside.=C2=A0 When a flame war bre=
ws outside your door, there's<br>usually three options.=C2=A0 You could=
 pick a side and start swinging. <br>Or you could wait for the Netiquette C=
ops to arrive.=C2=A0 I was<br>in no mood for the former, and I had no love =
for the latter. <br>Which meant that there was only one thing left to do.<b=
r>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I slammed the doors shut, but they rebounded off some=
thing<br>with a metal clang.=C2=A0 There, standing in the doorway, was a<br=
>guest.bot.<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0Guest.bots were invented many, many =
years ago by a man long<br>since nailed to a tree.=C2=A0 The basic idea is =
rather simple,<br>actually: =C2=A0A person logs into a guest.bot account, f=
or a nominal<br>fee.=C2=A0 They are then free to travel across the net in t=
hat .bot<br>account, leaving their own account safely behind.=C2=A0 If anyt=
hing<br>happens to the .bot, the user is kicked back to their own<br>accoun=
t.=C2=A0 Guest.bots often go site-seeing, and can get into all<br>sorts of =
places, and are annoying as hell.=C2=A0 They also look like a<br>metal tras=
hcan on wheels.<br><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Beat it, ashcan," I s=
aid.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Mr. Slut?" it asked in a crackling v=
oice.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Sloth."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0&quo=
t;Might I ask for a moment of your time, Mr. Slut?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =
=C2=A0"Sloth.=C2=A0 The name is Sloth.=C2=A0 If you want Time, it'=
s over<br>there drinking in the alleyway."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0&quo=
t;Mr. Slut, if I could just come in for a moment," it said. <br>A smal=
l, brown briefcase floated beside it, powered by the .bot's<br>presence=
. =C2=A0"My name is Burak Racey, and I'm here to discuss a few<br>=
unpaid taxes."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Look, can't you read?&=
quot; I asked, jerking my thumb towards a<br>sign beside the doorway. =C2=
=A0"No Guest.Bots Allowed.=C2=A0 Now scram."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=
=A0"But you don't understand," it stammered.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0=
 =C2=A0"I understand perfectly.=C2=A0 I understand that you are standi=
ng<br>here in my doorway on my property, where you are not at all<br>welcom=
e, and you are annoying the hell out of me."<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0&q=
uot;But Mr. Slut--"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"For the last time, it=
's Sloth!" =C2=A0And with that, I drop-kicked<br>him into the flam=
e war.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0His metallic form appeared briefly between sn=
atches of fire<br>and smoke, and then he was torn apart.=C2=A0 The other gu=
est.bots<br>turned towards me and gasped.=C2=A0 I nodded towards the sign. =
=C2=A0"No<br>Guest.Bots.=C2=A0 Got it?"<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0Th=
ey hopped and scrambled and rolled down the street. =C2=A0I<br>watched them=
 until they disappeared around the corner.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0Burak Rac=
ey.=C2=A0 I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't<br>quite place=
 it.=C2=A0 Burak Racey . . . Yeah, I remembered him<br>alright.=C2=A0 The l=
ast time I'd seen him was in the .Sig Wars,<br>roasting that peanut fel=
low.=C2=A0 And if he was mucking about again,<br>that meant that . . . that=
 meant that . . .<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"Duck me," I muttered.<b=
r>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0My foot struck against something.=C2=A0 Racey's b=
riefcase. Without<br>the .bot around to power its anti-grav pods, it had fa=
llen to the<br>ground.=C2=A0 Slowly, I bent down beside it and peered at th=
e flat,<br>brown surface.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0There, just barely visible=
 in brown on brown, was a familiar<br>sigil.=C2=A0 The Logo.=C2=A0 The Impr=
int.=C2=A0 The Letterhead of the Universal Office.<br>Some idiot must have =
stumbled across it, and now the whole thing was<br>starting all over again.=
=C2=A0 If Burak Racey was roaming around, then<br>might already be too late=
 to do anything but ride out the storm.<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0"I'=
ve got a bad feeling about this," I said to no one in<br>particular.<b=
r><br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0I grabbed the briefcase and walked down the steps=
 to Munden's. <br>Behind me, the flame war had begun to die down, burni=
ng out as<br>quickly as it had begun.=C2=A0 A cold breeze blew down the str=
eet,<br>rustling articles on their posts, and the approaching sirens of<br>=
the Netiquette Cops echoed against the buildings and across the<br>rooftops=
 of the city . . .<br><br>-------------------------------------------------=
------------------------------<br>=C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 by <a href=3D=
"mailto:fyfesh@lafcol.lafayette.edu">fyfesh@lafcol.lafayette.edu</a><br>=C2=
=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 =C2=A0 aka <a href=3D"mailto:FYFES@lafvax.lafayette.edu">=
FYFES@lafvax.lafayette.edu</a><br><br><br><br>=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=
=3D<br><br>Next Week: =C2=A0More NTB Fun with Wrath of The Administrator Pa=
rt Two!!<br><br>=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D<br><br>Arthur "Same Cla=
ssic Channel.=C2=A0 But Same Time?=C2=A0 Probably not." Spitzer </div>

--00000000000084748f062d2f09ad--