Library: Natural Born Telnetters

[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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Library: Natural Born Telnetters