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Library: Natural Born Telnetters

Books

Author: Arduin
Date:Nov 2 1995

[Disclaimer: I did not write this story. This is posted with the permission
of the author.

Notes: The idea for this story stemmed from rather a heated discussion
about MUDding etc. in a our university's local newsgroups. As such, it
contains some inside jokes and stuff, but I believe it should be rather
funny anyway.]


                        Natural Born Telnetters

                         An Oliver Stone Film

                Script by Q.Tarantino and Rastan@Nanvaent

ACT I

Scene I - Rutherford Computing Terminal Room 2.

          [ The room is packed with people occupying every available PC.
            WHINER, a man obsessed with his right to a terminal enters
            through the doors. ]

WHINER: Freak, all the freakymothering terminals are in use. How am I
        supposed to freaking post my freaking news when a freaking bunch
        of freakymothers are using up my valuable resources?

          [ WHINER walks around behind one PC user and peers at his screen. ]

WHINER: You lousy freaker! You're MUDing in the freaking day on a terminal
        I could be using to post some freaking news about how I can never get
        a freaking terminal! I'm going to freak you up you freakymother.

          [ He angrily pulls the MUDder out of his chair by the hair and
            shoots him in the side of the head with a Colt Python. The
            MUDder slumps to the floor and WHINER empties a few more rounds
            into him. ]

MUDDER 2: You're freaking insane man! You've freaking killed Mathagaroth the
          Veteran Swordsman! Freak, I never did find out what his real name
          was, but we had a great relationship and were as close as any two
          friends who'd actually spoken to one another could be.

WHINER: Freak you you freakymother. Freaking suck on this.

          [ WHINER accurately plugs the unfortunate MUDder in the head
            from across the terminal room. Blood and brain matter are
            spattered all around in the best Oliver Stone fashion. ]

WHINER: Freaker. Now, where's a terminal? Ah hah...

          [ WHINER strides across to the next terminal and peers intently
            over the shoulder of its user. ]

WHINER: Freak it, you're a freaking offensive news poster. I know your sort
        you little freaker. You just sit there posting to annoy as many
        people as possible, ooh, you freaking make me so freaking mad...

O.N.P: Well, at least I've got a real life, so you'll just have to live
       with it.

WHINER: Freak you, freakymother.

        [ WHINER clubs the O.N.P round the back of the head with the butt
          of his gun and then empties a half dozen rounds into the
          unconcious form on the floor. ]

WHINER: That'll teach you not to freaking spell check your freaking articles
        you freakymother.

        [ Strangely enough, the terminal room has emptied, leaving WHINER   
          to stalk among the idling terminals with his smoking Python.
          Enter an unfortunate sociology undergraduate stage right. WHINER 
          has his back to the door and is examining a terminal. ]

WHINER (to himself): Some freaker has just walked off and left this freaking
                     terminal stuck in word freaking perfect...

SOCIOLOGIST: Hey, what are you doing with my terminal?
            
WHINER: So, you're the freaking freakymother who just walked off and left it
        eh? Pop out for a coffee and some fags did you? The relentless grind
        of a thousand word essay on how the british goverment works getting
        you down? I'll give you something to analyse you little freaker. 

        [ WHINER spectacularly shoots the SOCIOLOGIST square in the chest,
          spilling coffee and marlboro lights everywhere. The SOCIOLOGIST  
          collapses to the floor, coughing blood. ]

SOCIOLOGIST: Freak, you freaking shot me. Don't worry man, I understand,
             you're just the brutal result of the uncaring and totalitarian
             policies on a society high on a media glut of obssession with
             the material.

WHINER: Don't talk freak. Just shut the freak up and freaking die you freaker.

        [ WHINER empties several more rounds into the SOCIOLOGIST. The
          viewer begins to wonder exactly how many he can shoot before
          needing to reload. ]

WHINER: Think I'll reboot this terminal, don't reckon Mr.Sociology there is
        gonna be back to claim it.
        
VOICE FROM THE WINGS: Alright, open up in there, this is the Systems Group.
                      We've got the place surrounded. Throw down your
                      telnet processes and come out with your hands up.

WHINER: Open up you say freakymother? I'll be glad to oblige.

        [ WHINER pulls a matching gun from a pocket and runs out the door
          blazing away. He gets a few yards and is then shot to the floor
          in a hail of gunfire. ]

WHINER: Freak. Oh well, thats me freaked I guess.

SYSTEMS GROUP MARKSMAN: Stand clear, we're going to sort the load out on 
                        raven once and for all.

        [ The camera pans out to a shot of a huge napalm detonation
          consuming Rutherford Computer Room II. Pull out to accompanying
          funky music from the soundtrack (CD/MC. 12.99 from HMV.) Fade
          to black and scroll credits. ]
             
END.



              Natural Born Telnetters 2 - Society Made Me Do It.

                            An Oliver Stone Film.

                    Script by Q.Tarantino and Rastan@Nanvaent.

SCENE I.
        
Act I - The burning remains of Rutherford Terminal Room 2.
                      
        [ A patch of rubble begins to shake and judder. Loose rocks roll
          down it as WHINER slowly emerges from beneath the debris. He is
          in remarkably good shape for a man who has just sat in the middle
          of a thirty kiloton napalm detonation. ]

WHINER: Freak, that freaking hurt my freaking head. Ow ow ow.
          
        [ WHINER gets up and dusts himself down. Looking around, he is
          irresistibly drawn to the lights of the adjacent Rutherford
          terminal room. ]

WHINER: I'll be freaked if a little thing like a direct airstrike is going
        to freaking stop me posting. Freaking freakymothers.
        
        [ As he approaches the terminal room, WHINER is waylaid by a
          CANVASSER, a shifty looking individual with an armful of
          papers. ]
             
CANVASSER: Excuse me, have you voted today? If you haven't, can I ask you
           to consider Ted Lager for the post of Sports Sabbatical?

WHINER: Get the freak away from me you freaking freak. I'll freaking freak
        you backwards.

CANVASSER: But he's the most experienced candidate for the position.

WHINER: Suck on this you freaker.

        [ WHINER empties a half dozen rounds into the CANVASSER who jerks
          violently and collapses to the floor. Upon his death, the
          CANVASSER's fiendish disguise is revealed, as he melts and
          decomposes into a member of the Labour Club. ]

WHINER: Freaking freakers are everywhere.
          
        [ WHINER reaches down and helps himself to a bloodstained badge
          which reads 'I have voted General Secretary/Sports Sabbatical.' ]

WHINER: Right, back to business.

        [ WHINER enters the second terminal room, pushing through the door
          and looking around aggressively. His eyes alight upon a man sat
          at a PC with a small dog beside him. ]

WHINER: What the freak do you think you're doing freakymother?
        
SELF-IMPORTANT COURSE REP (for it is he): I really don't consider standing
here
                                          shouting at me to be an effective
                                          means of tackling the issue. We need
                                          direct and relevant action. Email me
                                          so I can massage my ego by bringing
it
                                          up at the next users meeting.

        [ The dog has begun to worry at the bottom of WHINER's suit trousers ]

WHINER: Freak off you freaking mutt.

        [ The dog snarls nastily and trys to bite WHINER. He promptly
          dispatches it with a bullet in the forebrain. ]

WHINER: Your freaking dog has got freaking distemper you freakymother. You
        freak with me, I'm going to freaking freak your freakass.  
          
        [ WHINER pushes the barrel of his trusty Python into S.I.C.R.'s mouth
          and pulls the trigger. We are treated to a superbly conceived shot
          of the violent collapse of the left side of his head. ]
          
S-I.C.R: Urrgghh.

WHINER: Freaking communicate that effectively you freakymother.

        [ WHINER reverts back to his usual state of searching for a terminal.
          His gaze lands upon a man in a particularly ridiculous hat who is
          seated at a nearby terminal. ]

WHINER: Hey you! Yes you, you freaker.

ECCENTRIC (for it is he): Que moi?

WHINER: Yes, I'm freaking talking to you you freaker. What the freak is that
        freaking thing on your head?
             
ECCENTRIC: That sir, is my hat, my weird hat, the amusingly eccentric one
           which eccentricly sets me apart from the common herd in an amusing
           manner, and makes me very interesting and eccentric.
        
WHINER: No it freaking doesn't.

ECCENTRIC: Clearly you're just not either clever enough or eccentric enough
           to appreciate the finer points.
          
WHINER: You can freaking appreciate this you freaking freak.

        [ WHINER takes aim and fires, the slug bursting through the forehead
          of the ECCENTRIC. The round must have been explosive, for the head
          is removed completely, leaving only an eccentric hat sat atop a
          pair of shoulders. ]
          
WHINER: This freaking place really gets on my freaking nerves.

        [ The ground begins to shudder. WHINER looks around in confusion
          as the stomping of heavy feet grows closer. The doors to the
          terminal room burst open, and we are confronted with the sight
          of ROBOADMIN, a gleaming metal figure bearing a large gun. ]
          
ROBOADMIN: Bzzt.. bzzt.. halt perpetrator..

WHINER: What the freak?

ROBOADMIN: Post only to an appropriate newsgroup!

        [ The University has been taking 'cost-efficient' bids from external
          contractors again, and ROBOADMIN doesn't quite function as intended.
          He opens up with a series of bursts in WHINER's direction, but
          WHINER is already diving for cover. ]

ROBOADMIN: Bzzt.. bzzt.. Do not repeatedly post the same article. You have
           fifteen seconds to comply.

WHINER (from under the table): I don't freaking believe this.

ROBOADMIN: Fzzt.. halt perpetrator. You have fiddled with the header lines in
           the skeleton article which Pnews or rn gives you. Prepare for
           termination.

        [ There is a whistling of ricocheting shots as ROBOADMIN puts a few 
          bursts into the table under which WHINER is hiding. The PC on the 
          the table sparks and explodes. ]

ROBOADMIN: Oops, hold on a moment.

        [ ROBOADMIN produces pencil and paper, and scrawls a small note
          which reads: 'This PC has been removed for repairs and should be
          back in service some time after you graduate.' ]

WHINER: Freak me, I'm gonna run for it. Freak you, freakymother!
          
        [ WHINER rolls from under the table and heads for the door, blazing
          with both guns, shots spanging and whining as they strike
          ROBOADMIN's titanium frame. ]

ROBOADMIN: Fzzt.. bzzt.. Do not include drawings, pictures, graphics,
           banners, boxes of characters, multiple blank lines, unprintable
           characters, or escape sequences! ..bzzt..
          
        [ ROBOADMIN fires several bursts at the fleeing WHINER who narrowly
          avoids being hit. WHINER flees into the distance, his shouts of
          'Freaking freak you you freaking freakass freakymother.' growing
          ever quieter. ]
        
DISEMBODIED VOICE: What are your prime directives?

ROBOADMIN: Fzzt.. serve the admin's trust, protect the load average,
           uphold the posting guidelines... bzzt..
          
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Very good, very good.

           [ The disembodied voice breaks off into an evil laugh as the
             imposing form of ROBOADMIN strides from the burning wreckage   
             of the second terminal room. Play out to 'Don't Judge Me,
             I'm a Christian (Logic is a Frightening Thing Mix)' from
             the soundtrack. ]

END.
          
          
(c) 1995 Rastan@Nanvaent.
    All events and persons portrayed herein are entirely
    fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely
    coincidental. The screenwriter does not in any way condone violence,   
    the use of foul language, telnetting to MUDs before 6 o'clock in the
    evening, or tithing away twenty percent of your income to the
    evangelical slush fund of your choice.


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