From: danmacd@terapin.com (Daniel Macdougall)
Newsgroups: alt.test
Subject: test!!!
Date: 2 Sep 92 23:20:37 GMT
Organization: BBS

From: wi.5899@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
Subject: STORY! (It's about time)
Date: 1 Sep 92 07:45:58 GMT

Of course if this was a real story in the sense of something made up then I
could have made it somewhat more exciting. In real life the heronine does not
allow herself to be tortured to death for the sadistic pleasure of her captor.
I am afraid that such torments as enter into this story are not the hot
branding
irons nor the cat of nine tails whose work the Marquis described. In their
place
are the more common place tortures which we inflict on ourselves and others in
each day of our lives. Those common place tortures that revolve arround the
myriad constraints of social convention.

We sit and listen in stupified boredom to the monomaniac who must explain in
turgid detail some piffling matter which is of no possible importance. We could
stem the flow in an instant by merely telling the interlocutor how boring we
find him yet we do not. And why? because we are all bound by social conventions
that preclude us from acting in the manner our reason cries out for us to do.
Instead of telling the bore to shut up we sit there for hours listening, all
the
while mentaly smashing his face to pulp with a fist.

But what when convention is broken? What is the result then? When we lose those
familiar pointers as to what is right and wrong we also lose hold of our
knowlege as to what is danger and what is safety. We can no longer assume that
our compainion will act within the rules for the rules no longer exist.

Take a single incident in which the familiar conventions are broken, where will
this lead? Like the case of the girl in the park. Slim, mid twenties with long
blonde hair that looked genuine. She wore a white polo neck sweater and a short
black skirt. She was standing at the edge of the lake, about fifty yards from
the bench where I was sitting with her back to me. I was thus free to admire
her
figure without having to engage in the usual social convention of pretending
that I was not staring at her.

The incident took no more than an instant, a man and a woman came along the
path, both middle aged. When they came to the girl they stopped either side of
her, she did not look round nor acknowlege their presence in any way. This is
itself had a somewhat unsettling effect. The girl obviously knew of the
newcommers approach yet did not react, instead she continued looking at the
lake. The woman opened her handbag and began to rummage at last producing
something which I couldn't quite make out. Meanwhile the man grasped the hem of
the girls skirt and raised it. The casualness of the guesture was quite unreal,
he gave no hint of the intimacy of the act he was performing, nor for that
matter did the girl whose indifference had by now ceased to affect me. The
woman handed the man the object she had removed from the bag, it was a pair of
scissors. If I had seen them earlier they might have caused me to cry out in
fear of some harm comming to the girl. Now I was transfixed, unable to move.
They say that animals become paralysed with fear as the rattlesnake dances
before them about to strike. Thus are we transformed from participant to mere
spectator.

The trio mad a scene worthy of Magrite. A tableau set against the green grass
and blue lake with the girl in the center, her black skirt raised to reveal a
pair of perfect buttocks covered by a pair of breifs. The age of the couple
provided the incongruity of the piece, it was obvious that they were too young
to be the girls parents yet they were certainly not contemparies. In describing
the scene thus I might mislead you into beleiving that this was a protracted
affair, yet despite the clarity with which every detail is imprinted on my mind
the whole scene certainly lasted no more than a few seconds.

The woman held the girls skirt while the man grabed the panties with one hand
and with the other cut through them with the scissors. Then the scissors and
the
remains of the panties were placed in the womans handbag by the man and the
couple set off, quickly vanishing out of sight in the woods. The skirt replaced
once more it was as if nothing had taken place.

The girl turned round and caught sight of me looking at her. I resisted the
temptation to look away. After all what was the point in the scene if not for
my
benefit? Had not a voyeur been required the act might have been performed with
less contrivance in private. Yet what was the point of such a display? The girl
walked towards me and held out her hand holding a small card I took the card
from her and as I bent to read it she swiftly bent down, pecked a kiss on my
cheek and walked off. I watched her disappearing into the distance, should I
follow? I read the card, in the center was the inscription:-

                         ######*
                        5pm today

(*) For obvious reasons the true number cannot be given here even though given
their methodical organisation which must be explained later it will undoubtedly
have been changed.