::::::::::WOWNET DIGITAL NETWORK::::::::::

:::::::::IMPORTANT COMMUNICATION:::::::::

 

To: ALL AGENTS

From: Agent eKlein

RE: HOW IT ALL WENT DOWN

 

Agents, I have reached a safe-house. I have recently been hiding in dumpsters and doghouses for untold days and nights. Running from the shadows, which I cannot pause to contemplate because it could be the government’s emissary come to break my middle fingers and sabotage my career. First the story must be told. Nothing can jeopardize the sensitive and perhaps damaging information that has recently been bestowed upon the WOWists. My I-Town compound is swarming with enemy agents who have pestered and vexed my female pinball entourage into a deplorably frayed state. I dare not go back until this blows over, there’s nothing I can do to help them short of my own incarceration. For now I have no choice but to facilitate my own subsistence. Measures needed to be taken to preserve my endangered personal well-being and flamboyant lifestyle, so on a cloudy and chill morning 5 days ago, posing as a pinball repairman, I entered a local I-town brothel on Seneca Street to ‘fix’ their Williams 1979 Gorgar machine as well as myself. After replacing some light bulbs and applying a moderate amount of Novux2 playfield polish in a ruse to cover my admission to the premises, I took one of the ladies aside and told her discreetly of my situation, of my inherent doom if I could not find safe harbor. She, the glamorous Ms Love Touch incidentally, looked me over like I was the weirdest fetish freak ever when my abbreviated story drew to a close, but soon noticing that I neither drooled, stuttered, or uncontrollably shook, she gave my story more credence. The ladies of the household agreed I was no threat and liked the idea of a man around, for all their other male company was so quick and to the point. So they lead me out of the parlor and up the grand staircase to the personal apartments inside their Victorian mansion where they fed and bathed me, applied a generous amount of talc to my buttocks and put my exhausted self to bed. They watch over me like protective sisters, sometimes they look over me like the bawdy band of harlots they are, which makes things a tad awkward. Ms Von Rumpenstein, ironically hailing from Intercourse Pennsylvania, reads to me at night with the utmost of maternal supervision before using me as her ‘sparing partner’ until we’re both weak from fatigue. While Ms McFriction and Ms Ironwoody hang out listening to Pat Boone records, talking about old Jane Mansfield movies like I’m one of the girls before they give me a robust and erotic sponge bath, half the time with sponges! At times it’s all a bit much, really, but that was before each of the myriad of ladies had a go with me. Now things have settled down that the novelty has worn off, currently I’m sitting in Madame Gorges private study, which is actually the widows watch located at the buildings peak. Madame G is the proprietor of my sanctuary, the celebrated Stagger Out Inn, which has been in her family for generations, always employed in the same fashion it is today; an expensive, discerning lair of promiscuous carnality. Even now I have on a luxurious robe, a glass of fine wine and a pipe of Afghani hash on a small table by my side and a view of Ithaca’s western skyline fading into night through the lavish velvet curtained windows. Madame G is an aging but beautiful woman; she is the finest form from the last age. All of her others girls are young, taut and nymph like, while Madame G has a more coarse dignity and a deep learned wisdom. She brings an air of Southern hospitality to this cordial place; she is the finest picture of proud strong womanhood I have ever known. Madame G has taken a special interest in me, a shine she’d say. She has pulled out every stop the Stagger has to offer, so over candlelit dinners with rather unique cuisine and unduly favorable wine, we talk long into the night about a vast domain of subjects right here. Here, where I write with drawn blinds by day to warn and inform you, here, where I occasionally receive a free lap dance. I still don’t move by day, or near an uncovered window for the danger is too great. By now you have heard the news. The media have taken hold of the rumors and accusations like a tenacious dog and have scattered the story to every corner of the globe. The Department of Defense is searching for WOWists. They’re searching for me. This channel of communication is not secure so I am forced to be brief. I need to inform the agents of WOWism of what has transpired thus far. This information must not be suppressed it must be spread, like pinball, to the masses.

 

Almost 7 weeks ago heavyweightZed contacted me at home, on the direct line. The heaviest hand on any FIPA roster, hZ has long been known as a pinball legend destine for the Hall of Fame. Seems hZ had been watched by not only millions during his recent string of victories at the MSG ‘Masters of the Moment’ 5 Borough Invitational, but governmental agency operatives as well. He told me that a gentleman had paid a visit to his Environmental Suppression Chamber deep beneath NYC. The gentleman in question was Jim Patla, a high-ranking official within the Department of Defense. Mr. Patla was brief, he told hZ that he had been looking for him and required his assistance, Mr. Patla was also still currently there.

“I told him” hZ recounted to me “look, I’ll do it, but last time I took experimental government meds it gave me explosive and erratic diarrhea and a mild rash.”

It wasn’t about drugs. It was larger. We were being asked to participate in an event referred to as Operation FullTilt, a matter which required the services of the worlds top pinball professionals. Patla refused to go into any greater detail. He leaned back in his chair and demanded an answer of yes or no.

“He asked me for WOWists who were not physically destitute or too perpetually stoned to volunteer and I immediately thought of I-towns best” hZ wheezed through a stifled laugh “I’ve got Good-e and Mattie h on the line already.”

I greeted the afore mentioned WOWists, Mattie-h the historical rude-boy of the P-Street dreds whose career has seen every conceivable twist as it charts its derelict path, and Good-e, the difficult to disquiet giant of finesse who about it has been said, ‘never get in-between him and a machine’. They now joined hZ on my phones video display. Little discussion was needed, we were confident of our abilities and of our power as WOWists. Once we settled a few minor issues I was sure we would agree to participate. The four of us conferred for a moment and quickly created a modest list.

“We have some conditions” Herm began.

“Right,” hZ said turning toward Patla “first of all Project MegaWOW is to receive funding from Congress. Second; I believe we all have a few pending legal battles and would appreciate their subtle disappearance, and third these drug laws hinder our daily routines horribly and therefore an exemption for all WOWists would be a handsome turn of events.”

Mr. Patla pondered these requests.

“eKlein, I suppose you’ll probably be wanting legalized prostitution?” Patla inquired.

“All my life.” I confirmed flatly.

“Done.” The man from the DOD said. “Then we have a deal.”

Now Patla was prepared to go into greater detail about the nature of his request, Operation FullTilt. He handed hZ $15,000 and told us that we would take the measures necessary to be mentally and physically in order in 8 days time. We were to take our respective machines, Gottlieb’s 1971 Dimension and 1975 Gold Strike, Bally’s 1977 Mata Hari, and Game Plan’s1979 Coney Island! and travel with them to play against an undisclosed opponent. Our game he insisted must be at it best. He continued that we would be contacted late on the 7^th day. He suggested that we relax, which we were fully capable of doing, but we knew that we would do nothing of the sort. With that he shook hZ’s hand and his image disappeared from the screen. The four of us remained connected, smoking various bowls of various strains, and contemplated what we had done. –Nothing, yet.

 

The following morning, after our meeting with Mr. Patla, heavyweightZed made arrangements to come to Ithaca. He arrived that afternoon and moved into an empty wing of my I-town compound. After visiting the Rude Ranch and relocating Gold Strike and Dimension, we convinced Mattie H that he too should join us. Late in the day we repeatedly tried to prevail on Good-e’s rude side to come to the compound as well, but he refused, claiming that proximity to his entertainment center, his bong and the smell of his basement “stoked his pinball playin’ soulfingers.”

“It’s for the best,” hZ said “that man can practice in his basement as well as any. Some say he’s the best there ever was.”

We left Good-e in isolation, but he joined us for several nights out. For a week we ran I-town like the days of old. We spread WOW throughout the night and played at the compound by day, er afternoon. With pinball pants and sunglasses on we invaded bars and bowling alleys alike. No machine in the county was sparred a brutal spanking at WOWist hands. From Ide’s to the Glenwood Pines WOW was placed on the score list with authority. Besides rude attitudes and perilous indulgence, backpacks with hand talc, clip fans, tape recorders, flasks and one-hitters were standard issue as we perused the late hours.

On the 4^th night of that week at the Royal Palms Tavern, after hZ had taken his pills in the wrong order, he barely initiated a conversation about our pending mission.

“Who the ‘ells gonna take on the P-Street Good-eKlein and stuff” He slurred “I… I ‘ave never practiced before. I don’t fear any competition. Up their arse for all I care. Who could it be? The Sultan’s of Spank from Damascus? Ach.”

“Otis?” Said Good-e speculating about the diligent yet disillusioned drifter. Seems Otis is a talented loose cannon. A lonely lost player. A good prospect but destitute of soul. Sure we had all been through those dark early days. Back before WOW every player had felt the weak and empty falseness of simple-minded ego plugging. Herms ‘INI’, my ‘MMM’ hZ’s ‘ZED’, Slowspank’s ‘BOY’ with its sequential ‘TOY’. Otis with his ‘OTS’, it seems, has yet to learn of the larger world of pinball swarming around him. Each of us had similarly struggled before we all learned and embraced the meaning of WOW with its humble disregard for score and self-promotion.

“Not Likely!” yelled Herm picking his head off the bar “That bloaks a fluke and a poof. I’ll spank his bare pimply arse with one hand. 10 to 1 it’s the Godfathers of the Russian League”

“Those sods can ‘ardly keep a machine running,” I said with a hiccup, “that’s like us playin’ Castro’s disreputable and regularly ill-equipped Cabana Boys. That task is beneath us.”

We didn’t talk about it any more than that. We just played on and channeled the WOW. We weren’t even close, by the way. We had no fucking clue who we were about to play. We could have guessed time out of mind and never been close.

On the 6^th and most musically inclined night of our week of intoxication and pinball, Herm and I split his chicken and cocaine calzone creation the Listentometalk Zone at the Chapter House. The 2 of us then accidentally joined the Cornell Glee Club when we lost the ability to end sentences or conversations. For the rest of the night we were followed and pestered by wide-eyed upbeat do-gooders cheerleading our pinball to the barbershop standard Wild Irish Rose. After loosing mental control Herm threw a full yard of Thomas Hardy Ale at the throng after which we all ran into the alley. Continuing at the fastest pace we could muster until we reached the Chanticleer where we knew the mixed chorus had been banned for more than a decade. We lost the unwanted sponsorship of our energetic gang, but were unable to return and play T2 and WC94 for the rest of the week. Mayhem ensued when we encountered the Flaming Scotsman, in all his glory, tilting away at AFM in a whiskey-induced stupor, singing The Blarney Stone over and over. The five of us attempted to drag the a fore mentioned machine out of the bar but were stopped by a rouge band of heavily tattooed, black cloth wearing pinball junkies from the neighboring Haunt. In the ensuing melee of rugbyesque violence Herms impassioned yelling of “do you know who your fucking with? The bleedin’ Glee Club ya buggard arse whores!” only seemed to whip the crowd into an all too familiar frenzy. After escaping the scene without terrible bodily damage we bunkered down with our groupies out of the public eye.

After the week an agent of the DOD contacted us. The following morning a limousine would arrive at the compound. A group would crate our machines and follow in a Ryder truck. The time: 8AM.

“We’ll need Popsies and Ephedrine.” I said into the phone.

After some hesitation the voice replied.

“We have a cache of both outside Binghamton gentlemen. Sit tight.”

That night was the pinnacle of our debauchery for the week. The Ephedrine and Popsies were of the finest quality and both allowed us to sleaze our way to 8AM. When an agent rang the bell at the front gate of the compound the festive atmosphere faded. The agents of the DOD were all about their business. They quickly crated our machines and ushered us outside to get underway. I waved goodbye to my groupies and respective popsies assembled on the front balcony, and told them I’d miss them all. Then I turned to Chloe, my 6ft impossibly attractive German mistress and gave her a warm departing embrace. After taking my hand from Chloe’s pants I promptly fell inside the NYC bound limousine and passed into a deep sleep, the first I’d had all week. I must have been put aboard the private jet asleep, for that is where I awoke just after touchdown at a Florida USAF base.

 

Upon landing we were told of our location, Cape Canaveral, and immediately briefed, this time by a NASA spokesperson, assistant flight director Ward Pemberton. He informed us of a primary shuttle launch date in 3 days, a flight which we would be on. He continued that after brief proficiency training exercises we would be cleared to board space shuttle Discovery.

                  “Is this nothing more than an elaborate plot to deport WOWists?” Herm inquired

                  “I assure you it is nothing of the sort.” Was Pemberton’s stern reply.

The next 3 days were filled with activity; breakdown of ship functions, basic shipboard safety, tests of physical endurance, etc. Conscientious NASA employees attempting to teach years of sensitive technical material to a band of easily distracted misfits in mere hours carried out all of these. After completing the launch simulator, Herm immerged and began a bout of ardent vomiting. A kind-hearted technician came to his side and administered a strong sedative. He quickly noticed that the dosage had little if any effect, and so began to carry out another injection. This too did nothing to halt Herms violent heaving. After 4 doses, the nervous technician pulled Good-e aside.

                  “Uh, that should be enough to put an African elephant into cardiac arrest.” I overheard him whisper.

                  “Don’t worry.” Good-e said placing his hand on the technician’s shoulder. “Herm is just now reaching equilibrium with his normal day-to-day mental environment. Those sedatives to Herm are the equivalent of drinking watered down sour mix to get drunk. And don’t sweat the vomit, he vomits like you breathe.”

                  “Does he always smoke a pack of those hash and tobacco cigarettes to fall asleep?” the tech asked.

                  “Him and eKlein both” Good-e responded shaking his head sadly from side to side. “Him and eKlein both.”

                  “and always with those 2 women?”

                  “Not always,” Good-e said as his mood lightened “with Herm it could be any 2, or love of Samson it could be a goat, if the woman is willing to play along. I’ve seen shit that would make you convert to Islam mate.”

The technician just stared open mouthed at the still retching Herm.

On the evening of our first day, Hz and myself were lucky we weren’t commissioned officers when we were embroiled in a scandal, for had we been it would have lead to a day one dishonorable discharge. Needing to meet the attractive women necessary for our nights of immoderate consumption, hZ and myself decided to hold interviews in the female barracks mass shower. Finding this location to be the most expeditious for the task at hand, we dragged a small desk into the previously mentioned locale and began to take notes and ask questions about the prospects. Before we were thrown out of the barracks by an angry mob of imposing female officers however, we had successfully attained 12 willing applicants to become temporary groupies.

We were fairly sick of the constant reminders that we were deplorable astronauts. The catcalls of “you suck like elementary school bitches” and “go the hell home you indigent morons” or “you stoners will be the death of all of us” were wearing on our morale a bit, but none so much as my inability to defecate in a zero-gravity simulator. The problem, it seems, is that I was completely hopped up on Valium for most of those days. Likewise I had little interest in being potty trained by grown men with rough hands. Besides, the whole apparatus was so foreign looking that it made me nervous, and therefore unable to attend to business. During training exercises I would make all the attendants leave the room, by the time I called them back in I had mercilessly destroyed the toilet in some way, breaking levers or snapping crucial buttons. It was sad, and time was running out.

All in all at the end of the days of training and simulations we were told that there had never been a worse band of inept spacemen on earth and that we had caused an estimated $25 million in damages. Had we truly been in flight on a real shuttle mission, Flight Control Technician Margaret Hudson informed us one night over bong hits, we’d have been inevitably destroyed.

                  “That figure’s crap” I said knowing now the price of my countless blunders “It was maybe half that.”

At a dinner meeting the night before we were to fly certain officials discussed concerns they had about our abilities. Some, like flight director Paul Faris, was convinced that the trip would kill Herm. Others, like Pemberton, were under the impression that we should all be heavily sedated, if possible, and shipped to our destination like cattle. In the end however, it was decided that the WOWists were adequate at best, it was too late to find a replacement for Herm, we would simply have to touch nothing, and absolutely never help the crew in any way. I raised my concerns of having never successfully used a space toilet without breaking it.

                  “There’s like 7 or 8 of these shitters on board right?” I asked

                  “Sir, there are 2, and one is technically a back-up” reported my patience worn toilet trainer Kevin O'Connor “if you would just stop flushing the space toilet with your space booted foot…”

                  “What have we always said Kev,” I broke in “I should not have to succumb to faulty design. Right?”

                  “Right” he said exhaling heavily “whatever, you’ll live with the inability to crap and your crews rage.”

                  “Perhaps after a cigarette we can go over it one more time.” I said, I was becoming less modest.

O’Connor looked down continuing to mutter to himself. After a few moments he pushed his half eaten dinner away from him and closed his eyes sobbing softly. I though I overheard him say.

                  “You freakish WOWists will be the death of me”

Had we know what the ramifications of our mission was, he could of said death of all of us. In hindsight though, we had already begun to perceive the fact that the government needed us more than they had let on. That we commanded more respect in their eyes then they wanted us to know of.

By now the DOD had turned our care fully over to NASA who put us up in a block of unused officer quarters, which was basically a 4 bedroom apartment. Where the DOD had nurtured our self-destructive side, NASA frowned upon it. Therefore the means of obtaining the vials of illicit drugs and gallons of booze was dramatically limited. However, on the night before we were to fly, hZ had finally completed a makeshift still.

                  “25 mil in damages eh, that makes this ‘bout a $5 million volitilizer.”

It was true. The high damage figure was about 80% my amazingly destroyed toilets. The rest was from what hZ had stolen from simulators for his moonshine producing ‘hillbilly babysitter’ and Herms outrageous tranquilizer tab. After a night of drinking hZ’s swamp root, which actually removed planters warts, with every female on base not on duty, even Good-e was whipped into a slurred frenzy. Herm awoke in our kitchen wearing nothing save an officers panties, occasionally yelping “Gretchen come back to daddy baby” and holding his head. Good-e awoke with his resin caked hands stuck to his face asking “how do you get vomit off leather pants?”, while myself and hZ had never slept, choosing to pull out his good liquid from Ibiza and ramble the dark away with two young cadets.

A hangover is never easy, but the effects are nearly fatal when combined with space travel. So that is how the WOWists embarked upon their first mission of space exploration. Pale, gray, sullen and clammy. On launch day the odds of our survival at Mission Control were 250::1.

 

The space shuttle, I can now say, is indeed a sluggish and archaic mode of travel. At first excessively loud and jarring and then cumbersome and cramped. In fact Herm threw-up quite a bit. But all this obnoxious rattling rocket nonsense is just expensive subterfuge to fool the world into believing we were still in a condition of primitive technological knowledge. Our governments actual status is decades ahead of what they let on. Not 15 minuets into our flight we began maneuvers for docking with a ship of the United States Space Navy. In fact the sky was full of ships, to our amazement, and we noticed that the scene unfolding before us was similar to a bustling seaport or naval base. Smaller craft ferrying crew and supplies about the anchorage filled the area we could observe from our small vomit filled compartment at the rear of the shuttle. We were towed by barge directly for the largest ship, the USSN Ronald Regan we would learn, Flagship of the space navy’s fleet. Those Dogs! The Regan was a veritable floating Aircraft carrier from Vegas baby! And to top it off we were done with NASA’s stern, disciplined treatment and back to the unrestrained days of the expense account boozehoundin’ high life of the ruinous DOD. Ye Haw! After we docked and were brought aboard we met the ship’s steward Barrett Oursler. He welcomed us aboard and escorted us to our quarters. We were all surprised when we found them to be full of spacious affluence. After getting settled in our respective rooms we meet in the parlor of our suite for drinks and took the opportunity to discuss this turn in events.

                  “‘Ell mates this is awl roight!” was hZ’s first comment after taking a hefty belt of a strong 2ton. “That space shuttle was like getting’ shot out of a fuckin’ cannon, but this is unreal.”

                  “Unreal.” I said as I took notice of the most dramatic stars I had ever seen. “This is like bad science fiction. I mean if I weren’t actually here seeing it I’d say it was trash sci-fi.”

                  “I’ve kept half a tuna sandwich down for ‘alf an hour mates.” Mumbled an immobile Herm curled up on the sofa. “Where are we?”

For one thing we were decidedly mystified by what had so far taken place. Our unknown opponent must know of this world hidden from the public eye too, which made us even more curious as to whom they could possibly be. After a while Barrett Oursler returned to say that the Captain had asked us to dinner that evening. He told us that at 8 bells we should find our way to the stateroom in the stern of the ship. After explaining the bell system briefly we understood that diner was 2 hours away. We continued to drink and ponder about the true scope of operation FullTilt.

 

Agents, stop and to the present moment for a bit, if you will indulge me. I just have spilled red wine on myself upon hearing news, in the curvaceous form of Ms O’Firm Breasts, that Mattie-h, the man the myth and the depraved legend has recently stumbled his way into this very brothel. The very man we’ve been talking about here at the renowned Stagger Out Inn! Apparently Herm entered Madame G’s parlor and began asking about animals “yea high” and gesturing with his hand to a height near his belt. The ladies were about to give him the boot when Ms O’ Hurt Me (yes another Irish prostitute is that so hard to believe.) recognized Herm from one of my many descriptions of rural Tompkins Country buggery. Once they had confirmed his identity they raced him into seclusion and came to inform me. I’m off to meet with him now, since Madame G won’t allow anyone but me or her girls to this part of the house.

I am back from my interview of the heavily sloshed Mattie-h. It seems that he was completely oblivious to his being in any danger at all. In well over a week Herm has seen absolutely no evidence of the existence of media in any form. The Rude Ranch is more isolated than I thought. He was unconcerned for his personal safety and just kept repeating

                  “Ach bleedin’ heart, no luck at all, thought I could find a decent brothel in this town without runnin’ into one of me mates. Be a good sport and be discreet about this will ya.”

I told him he was a lucky sod he wasn’t picked up and questioned by the heavily enraged DOD (the predicament that this article is attempting to explain) in all his stumbling about. I assured him I wouldn’t let another sole, yet alone a WOWist, know about his cravings for bestiality. We, that being Madame G and the ladies, have decided that it is too dangerous having 2 WOWists in one spot. So we have decided that Herm will have to be moved to a disreputable little establishment on the outskirts of Trumansburg owned by Madame G’s sister, she being the well known efficient little landlady of the lust filled Dirty Dirty Brothel. We have promised Mattie ‘treatment due to a WOWist in a brothel’ which I helped set the precedent for! In return, Mattie has promised to sit tight until the heat dies down. Ms Ewe Bet has volunteered to take Herm into the rural countryside this very night. Seemed damn eager too.

 

Sorry. Back to our cruise aboard the Regan. We were still relaxing in our sitting room on the starboard side of the ship, 2 floors beneath the Regan’s enormous quarterdeck, from where the ship was commanded. From this vantage-point we pieced together from what we saw that we actually were in a port of sorts. From what we had seen during the docking phase, the Regan was the largest ship by far, but it was surrounded by other stout craft. These creations were an elegant throw back to the era of Lord Horatio Nelson’s British Royal Navy, they were broad, long ships. Having been slowly constructed in space without the need for launch or landing, their similarity to airplanes was non-existent. Instead these ships were rather boxy, shaped a lot like a brick. The exterior aesthetics were particularly puzzling since they were so heavily ornamented in a Neo-Victorian way. These ships, in a strangely Sony kind of way, were gorgeous craft that shimmered and gave the impression of a truly elegant human existence. We watched the USSN Roswell slowly pull away from its mooring station and begin to drift towards our stern, passing slowly from sight. The Roswell was only slightly less glamorous than the navy’s gem which we were aboard, it was slightly more armed however, a fact we verified ourselves as she passed by with her 2 rows of missile bays-doors open. Almost as soon as the Roswell passed from sight revealing the smaller pair almost identical ships the USSN Liberal Republican and the USSN Conservative Democrat which seemed more agile than the 2 cinderblock ships we’d seen previous. No sooner had the 2 come into view, with their 3 rows of slightly rounded glass along their stern swinging into view, than our ship commenced to lurch abruptly, throwing Mattie-h to the ground and nearly spilling my drink. hZ and Good-e were still helping a bewildered Herm back to the couch when Edward Krynsky, the Regan’s surgeon poked his head in the door of our stateroom.

                  “Gentlemen,” he said shaking each of our hands less the already comatose Mattie-h “I am the ship’s Doctor and I am at your service. If there’s anything I can do for you during our cruise don’t hesitate to ask.”

                  “That’s right kind of you Doctor.” hZ began. “Our mate Mattie been in a tough spot since take-off this morning, hasn’t ‘ardly moved, and just now he knocked his head pretty good on that ashtray when ship began to tiltin’”

                  “I find opium answers tolerably well in cases of off-planet motion-sickness. I also find it answers tolerably well for a great number of problems small to large.” Krynsky stated.

                  “I couldn’t agree more Ed. Simply couldn’t agree more. In the Pan-Pacific Rim Tourney I had ½ a pint before my final match and nearly touched the face of some local god, in the form of a serpent woman, and the breasts…” Good-e remarked nodding and growing distant.

The doctor then removed a flask sized glass jar from his pocket and removed its small cork. Drawing the eyedropper from inside the vessel he placed 5 drops is a glass of water and kindly helped Herm consume it.

                  “You gentlemen should use this too. I’d say this is a month supply of laudanum, an opiate, but for you I’d be happy if it lasted the week. I’ve heard said you all have mighty appetites for narcotics, especially those with addictive qualities, so I’d limit yourself to 10-15 drops a day, no more.”

With this the doctor bid us farewell and safe voyage finishing by telling us that we should not be late to the Captain’s table for dinner. What he failed to inform us of was the time however, which was ¼ till the hour, or 15 minuets to 8 bells. I noticed this first and pronounced the time to all of our surprise. (and we hadn’t even taken the opium yet!) I walked briskly into my dressing room to find not only a fine dark suit I had never seen before, but a my own personal steward, a young man named Douglas Watson, who told me to call him Watt. He was patient but attentive to his duty, so he hastily got me ready for my apparently formal and important date with the Captain. Oh how I wish it had been a date. The Captain was a seductive piece indeed.

With the ringing of the last of 8 bells still in my ears we found ourselves standing behind our respective chairs awaiting the entrance of our Captain. The door to the large private chamber opened revealing the shapely form of Captain Kathryn “Hot Pants” McCants. After brief introductions we sat and began polite conversation about the truths that had been exposed to us throughout the day. This is when we learned that there was more going on than we had imagined. To our amazement the USSN had no less than 450 commissioned ships, most of these small support craft for the larger but fewer Man-of-War class, which the Regan was a part of. The Regan was the largest of all. We were currently setting a course for our destination of Mars we were told. Currently we were slowly drifting out of the New Washington anchorage, a large network of space stations which was the major port of the USSN but not the only one, we left the busy port behind for empty space, with the Roswell, Democrat, and Republican along for the ride. During dinner we learned not only these facts but also many more pertaining to the operation of the ships. We learned when they were built, how the whole space station over budget ploy had paid for all of this, and how the Mars exploration failures had also been tricks to keep the citizens of the world from expecting too much. All in all, it was pretty average conspiracy theory shit.

After the main course and a seemingly endless number of smaller dishes passed round the table, we push back in our chairs and commenced to pass the decanter of wine around. Mattie-h regained his spirits almost immediately and within a glass or 2 the table had erupted in boisterous conversation, mostly directed towards the Captain. hZ was seated on the Captains right followed by Good-e, Ed Krynsky, myself, Mattie, and lastly the First Lieutenant, Mr. Ted Zale on the Captains Left. Except for the doctor and the lieutenant, the rest of us were using every great sleazy FIPA tour learned move to seduce her. Dinner ended when hZ passed out face first on the table leaving four marks from a dessert fork in his forehead, this just moments before a bright red Mattie-h slowly slid out of his chair and under the table with a muffled thud. For several days we sat about the quarterdeck talking with the Captain and crew, but when some pressing affair called the Captain’s attention away Barrett Oursler would lead us on tours of the various parts of the ship. On the 3^rd of these we encountered the ships lounge and with it we found ourselves in the ship’s bar. Now this is where the story reeks of bad fiction, and again if I hadn’t been there I wouldn’t swallow this tripe in a 1000 years.

The Ships bartender, who looked an awful lot like Isaac from the Love Boat, was named Tony, (he didn’t seem to have a last name and we pressed him.) Tony was instrumental in introducing us to all sorts of people on the ship and he opened our eyes to the fact that an amazing amount of the ships crew hung out poolside wearing sporty and revealing swimwear. In the 10 days it took to ‘sail’ to Mars, and amazing amount of nonsense took place. I’ll just touch on it briefly. Seems Good-e has a penchant for the roulette table, which he showed us by loosing a whole bunch of cash, but by the end of the cruse he had his problem in check. While this was all going on, Mattie-h after a night of drunken gambling with Good-e fell in love with a curvaceous and athletic, yet deep voiced female, who turned out, only Herm’s surprise since the rest of us had been telling him that was a guy for hours, to be a man. I later fell in love with the woman, a real woman, who loved the man whom Herm had thought was a woman. After I have my heart broken when she refuses my advances, I score with the Captain on the rebound. Bing! And During all this, hZ learned to swim. All in all, it was an action packed cruise. If I had to make a short visual presentation about it, I couldn’t do it in less than an hour. The issues really wrapped up nicely, and at their conclusion, we had arrived.

 

The Regan was towed by barge to a secured berth, while this was taking place the 4 of us had assembled in the Captain’s private stateroom where we now watched a similar scene to the one near the moon. Here as in the New Washington anchorage, craft were plentiful and busy around our destination of Port Glenstown. The Captain was filling us in on many details of the history of this place and it was in this conversation that we learned of a small city on the planets surface. We were to be lowered there by an enormous elevator inside the Commander of the Ports main building.

It was in that building which we met Mr. David Christensen, a man in charge of the efficient operation of Port Glenstown. He greeted us warmly and showed around the main building, with its amazing view of the lengthy umbilicus which connected this building to the red Martian planet below (yet we saw this through the roof). After our brief tour we were put in the conveyor and soon found ourselves on the ground where a division of marines and the Governor of the city, the honorable Donald Hooker, met us in a large room. Hooker was a tall golden haired man in his mid fifties and he made us welcome in New Brooklyn.

                  “Gentlemen,” He said as he shook our hands “I want you to feel at home here, and the DOD has made me aware of your carnal and narcotic inclinations, so I believe you’ll see that we have gone to great length to make your stay here most pleasurable.”

Indeed Hooker had told no lie, he led us past the marines at attention and into a larger room which was awash in a dancehall vibe good enough for a Friday night in South Beach. He, over the din, as we walked past all sorts of scantly clad gals, Hooker told us that this had all been put together for our enjoyment. He then excused himself, making it clear to us that we should stay and delight in our Arrival Soiree. This we did. After two weeks of travel and work we had finally earned a reprieve, for all that sitcomesque antics of the cruise was work, and we took our leisure, as if not more, as serious than our work. By 2AM the entire unbelievable context had slipped far into the background and we were just 4 pinball rock and rollers out on the town. By 4AM we were in our government supplied apartment’s Jacuzzi with 7 enlisted females in tow-- the number of ‘hide the this-or-that‘ games we played rivaled the stars in number.

In the morning, while we ate a breakfast of Luscious Santa omelets with the girls, Barrett Oursler appeared at our door with his and the Captain’s regards to inform us that we were to meet at 2PM with a man from the DOD.

                  “Barrett you old sod, why are you still lookin’ out for us?” hZ asked the man who was now starring at the girls around our table. “Come sit if you’re at leisure and have a bite.”

                  “I am your custodian until were back at Port New Washington” He told us with a look of ‘so don’t screw anything up or it’ll be my ass’. Then he told us he was on leave and that he’d love to join us. Oursler did so, and after breakfast was done we sat smoking hash from the DOD supplied hookah in our parlor. This had the effect of creating an incredibly relaxed environment, one which allowed us to slowly stroke and caress our female company at our leisure while Oursler let us in on the big caper we were wrapped up in like a burrito.

                  “See y’all our the mercenaries hired to take on the Pacifica. These smooth grayish blue skinned creatures from some way off place. They came to us here and while we tried to communicate with them, to utter no good I might add, we started to notice a meditation device they used which looked an awful lot like a pinball machine. So some of the boys round here can play an alright silverball, and they sheepishly approached the Pacificans with flipper hittin’ gestures.” Here Oursler paused to sign the international motion for double hittin’ flipper bitch as he caught a brief brush of a young woman’s buttocks on the way. “ ‘Cept none of the guys could take the experience, all said it was too intense and that they couldn’t even hold on to the machine. Y’alls the governments idea of pinball mercenaries see. They say you’re the best there ever was, say if anyone can take these suckers on its you.”

Well I was blown away. I knew all about my pinball, but a hired gun taking on some alien at a machine I’ve never seen? This was all starting to become a little much.

At 2PM we dragged our stoned asses into the HQ of the whole Martian/New Brooklyn shootin’ match and met the esteemed Gen. Marty Rosenthal, who basically greeted us and then gave us a more detailed version of Oursler’s account. Rosenthal informed us that we would play the Pacifica that night and that our machines were being shopped to like-new status as we spoke. If we were successful, Rosenthal told us as we were leaving, in playing the Pacifica, we would each find $5,000,000 more in our respective bank accounts.

                  “You are Mercenaries of the United States gentlemen,” he said sternly “and America looks out for it own”

 

Around 8PM we were relaxing with ‘some friends’ in and about the hot tub area-- the music was right, the mood up and the girls were frisky. Good-e suggested we prepare for our encounter buy ‘getting ridiculously high’ and this we did in fine fashion smoking the Holland bought herb the DOD had obtained for us. That done, we put on our farcical yet intrepid pinball outfits, including the signature yellow tinted glasses, and staggered defiantly to meet out opponent.

As dictated by the bounds of StarTrek like imagination, our alien opponent, the Pacifica, were rather human looking beasts. Sans the smooth blue grayish texture of their bodies and their freakishly mutant really big middle fingers, they were just average human forms. We watched them through a 2-way mirror with several technicians before entering the venue in which we would square off.

                  “Those bloaks just look like a colorblind version of Blue Man Group except for the hands.” Good-e remarked after we had watched them on their ‘meditation devices’.

                  “That one near the back… no Herm that one,” I said turning Mattie’s head a full 180 degrees, “that fucker is spanking that machine somethin’ sleazy”

                  “I’d say that mates got a pretty heavy hand, but ‘is Stagger Lee could have a little more style.” hZ was saying as we now focused our attention on the player. “These boys seem all right, but it ain’t shit if we can’t see the playfield.”

Soon enough we were seeing the playfield all right, and it’s the damndest thing I have ever seen. The playfield we glanced upon was as grayish blue as the Pacifica themselves, and it didn’t have a single feature on it.

                  “Seems the Pacifica play a game of the silverball a little different then we.” Mattie stated pointing at the playfield glass. “I mean the cab is all recognizable and the legs and buttons. What the… hZ look at this… there ain’t no cord, nothin.”

At the time Herm was noticing the lack of a power cord, technicians were wheeling our machines into the venue. Now the Pacifica and the WOWist were each doing the same thing, scrutinizing the others machines. Good-e and myself were checking out the various backglass designs, which were all one design really, a seemingly flat liquid mercury or liguid mirror type surface.

                  “What the fuck. This ain’t pinball.” Good-e said to me as he hit my arm. “This isn’t anything.”

While the 4 of us checked out the Pacifica’s machines, technicians were actively and eagerly taking notes on the movements of the Pacifica, who were still checking out our machines. For the first time since their arrival, the Pacifica seemed to be enjoying themselves, gesturing more, I think I even saw one slap another on the back. For us this wasn’t earth shaking material, but for the on-lookers in the other room, it was their hope that these were signs that the WOWist could communicate where others had failed. The pinball butt sniffing, so to speak, went on until our machines were plugged in and set next to the Pacifica’s. They alternated, one of ours then one of theirs. Now we walked over to the group of 4 Pacifica’s and attempted to gesture the idea of ‘no offense but were still gonna mop the floor with your blue gray asses, no matter what the hell you’re idea of pinball is’ with little effect. The Pacifica bowed and then gestured that we should play. First it seemed that they wanted to watch us play, so we each stepped up to our home table and started the lesson.

I spanked the shit out of Mata Hari, treated her like the Plain St whore she was tryin’ to be, and then I spanked her more. The game was a teleport to the planet WOW. The score was somewhere in the high 7hundreds, I could have crapped my pants and not noticed. As I watched hZ, the only other still bumpin’ nasty when my demonstration ended, he had a ferocious focus, and his hand was indeed heavy.

                  “Preach on Brother Zed!” I called. “Tell the people what they need to hear!”

When we were all done, we turned to see the Pacifica and honestly, I have never seen an expression convey the emotion of ‘fundamentally aghast’ more clearly captured on four faces. They were even uncomfortable making eye contact with us. They recoiled from us like a plague riddled mouth foaming dog.

                  “Now what.” I said to no one in particular.

Now the Pacifica wanted to have a go at our brand of pinball. They stepped up and began to play and honestly they could play those machines like a mother-fucking riot. Their style was so laid back it was as if they weren’t even trying, I couldn’t really categorize any of their moves; terms like ‘rude’, ’sleazy’, ’domineering’, ’aggressive’ just didn’t apply. Their scores were above average, but not over the top.

This is where the shit gets spooky.

This is the whole point of this diatribe.

At the conclusion of the Pacifica’s game they came to us with far more compassion in their eyes than before. One steeped before me and looked into my eyes for a long time and then slowly placed his hands on top of my head. In this one small moment I learned everything the DOD doesn’t want you to know.

In a blinding rush of images and sound I knew everything about the Pacifican grasping my brain. I knew his very soul as if it were my own. He told me many things which have fundamentally changed my life. He gave me the power of pinball telepathy. That’s right. This whole thing up till now has been to inform you of pinball telepathy, the ability to know machines thoughts, as it were.

Stop. First let me explain some background. The Pacifica indeed were completely of the mind that we were savages when they watched us play, but this was before they had played our machines. Upon playing they realized that our machines were savage brutish creations, and we therefore had to play them in a savage brutish way. With this bit of knowledge attained they saw us as their primitive ancestors, a caveman of the early pinball epoch. Now they knew that we were harmless pinball players struggling in the early stages of pinball evolution. They saw us as Cro-Magnon zenWOWists. They explained that they simply couldn’t tell us everything, for it would blow our freakin’ minds, but they did tell us that the future is large for pinball, that the road before us is twisted and tortured by events of cosmic significance. The Pacifica educated us on our own pinball future by explaining that there will be another Cold War, one in which the fear of nuclear weapons is too great to consider. Instead of physical combat the nations devise a way to simulate battle and its consequences. They bring a political agenda to the table, play an equal match, and the winner receives their political objectives. The game is pinball. The best players in the world are WOWists and it is therefor inferred by all that the WOWists will become pinball mercenaries who will take on the best of the best with large looming political consequences, and fabulous financial rewards.

They told us that eventually we will refine pinball, that we are strong of spirit and WOWism is the true path. That is when they acknowledged pinball telepathy and tapping into the essence of the machine. The Pacifica taught us how to relax our minds and communicate with the machine’s soul, listen to it and play using it. This they taught us, to hear the sweet song of the silverball, right before they let us play their machines.

The machine I stepped to was blank until I touched its flipper buttons, then it became whatever I wanted. I could create ramps and targets and I could change them with fluid ease. Any feature I wanted I could have, hell I even had megaclick technology with strobe lights and a disco-ball. When I lost my first ball down the middle I turned dumbstruck to my Pacifican mentor. He explained that this was the future of pinball, my imagination.

Next the Pacifica taught us that we could communicate as WOWists via telepathy, and in another blinding flash of image and sound I knew my pinball brothers as well as myself.

                  “Oh Christ Herm that’s sick!” hZ, Good-e and myself all said in unison. We chose to be ignorant of our personal powers of telepathy after that, it was just too real.

After our encounter with the Pacifica, we had a world of knowledge that spelled out some amazing events. We parted company politely and they promised to look over our progress and offer their guidance us if the situation permitted. We told them we would spread their word to the masses and headed back to our lair. We digested the heavy dish we had just been served in WOWist fashion, by throwing the biggest freakfest Mars has ever seen, and I passed out that night in a euphoric state created by many stimuli.

 

Our cruse home was not of much significance here. Besides the fact that I have never been naked as much (that is until I came upon my current Eden) nothing really happened except for the now 20 million dollar richer WOWists mading Rock Stars look like Mormans in their late night capacities. The same is true (less the debauchery and nudity damnit!) of our debriefing upon reaching the earth’s surface in that intolerable mode of transport, the Space Shuttle. The next real item of note is that the DOD, after taking in all the info we ranted in their general direction as they asked us an ungodly amount of question, has decided that this information we were so good to obtain for them must not be spread like pinball to the masses. Far from it. They doubled our pay in hush money! But this would not serve we told them, followers of our path must know, we told them, the general public could rot as far as my 10 mill was concerned. I said I’d sleep on it, but instead I ran.

 

And that, weary reader, brings us to now now. Back to the plush old Stagger Out Inn and all her lavish attention to detail. I didn’t want to break the flow of my story again to inform you, but just this very morning it was brought sadly to my attention, that the DOD apprehended Mattie-h and Ms. Ewe Bet. Found the two of ‘em cavorting around buck naked in one of the Flaming Scotsman’s many sheep pastures looking for lost articles of clothing. It would appear that Herm is sunk. I know not what they’ll do to him. In my desperate fleeing from the Man’s grip I’ve lost contact with hZ and Good-e too. This story is becoming rather bleak.

All I can do is get this message out before they find me. Well, that and live the glamorous highlife I’m quickly becoming used to here at the hands of Madame G and her seductive crew. I will leave you now, but mark my words… if I have to stay in this beautiful, sin riddled, wondrously pleasurable brothel everyday until the Luscious Santa Invitational to bring you all the techniques of pinball telepathy, I’ll do it. I will suffer through this to bring you all the joys, which I have learned.

 

Be careful Agents… I’m off to get a bit of massage therapy at the hands of Ms. O’Firm Breasts.

 

--wownet digital news

 

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