inside. It was a peaceful mix of junkies and their dealers, prostitutes 
and their eager clients, and even the infirm and homeless being 
tended to by people of some means. But everyone who touched 
their fingers — index and middle only — to the bridge of their nose 
always got a reply from the squatters who seemed to guard the 
stairwell heading down to the cellar. The scene down there was like 
a vision of hell. 


In one corner was a teeming mass of nude bodies, different sizes 
and colors, the occasional figure prying itself from the mass, 
drenched in sweat and other fluids, sometimes followed by a fresh 
figure slipping in their place. Some more conventional couples stuck 
to themselves, not willing to share their experience, but vain enough 
to want an audience. Elsewhere, people drank, smoked, snorted, 
ingested all manner of hallucinogens and mind-altering drugs. 
Others read from books — the Qur'an, the Bhagavad Gita, the 
works of St. Thomas Aquinas, Thucydides, Xenophon, Confucius, 
Lao Tzu... Everything and anything that might've been considered 
"suspicious" to an ordinary citizen and loyal member of the West-Civ 
party. 


At the far end of the room was a single couch, with a light directly 
above, and a microphone leaning to accommodate some speaker 
reclining comfortably on the couch. Rhiannon Locke wished she 
could say she went straight for the speaker's post the first time she 
came in here, but in the years since she'd first discovered this den of 
sweat and smoke and liquor and piss, she'd found herself many 
months at a time in each corner of the room, sampling everything 
she could. 


Now, seated at the speaker's couch, she felt elevated like the 
deepest orgasm couldn't achieve, nor the sweetest liqueur or the 
most potent drug. This must be power, she thought. 


"You're all my family now, do you realize that?" She warbled softly 
into the microphone. She could never tell if it was even connected; 
she never heard its reverb, or the tinny echo of her own voice 
bouncing off the far room. It was always hard to hear for her. 


"A family looks out for its members. We fight and bleed as one. We 
yell and criticize each other, but the moment someone not in our 


family tries to step in, we shout as one 'STOP!'... Only we as a 
family can call one another out on our flaws. 


"What brings us here, together, as family is exactly what 
disconnects us from the world around us. You and |, man of the 
times and gal in tow, we tried to fit in, to try to show the world that 
we belong here. 


"And they said no. And more than just saying 'No’, they did 'No’. 
Conditions were ripe for a brave new world — a revolution! For boys 
and girls to live free and equal, all types and all skin tones. 


"But all we got were no's. 'No’. 'But wait,’ some say, ‘what about that 
time they tried to make a change? The time they said ‘fuck it all’ and 
let us all live together for a time? It was a lie. A lie, and all the more 
revolting for being so timely. 


"They kept you in a cage, then asked 'why are you in a cage? get 
out of the cage’ they said, while you were /ocked in a cage. You 
flailed and flustered and begged for help, and they said 'Look here, 
now, at this little whelp; unfit to be our equal, just as | said’ then they 
opened the cage and made you bow your head. 


"| Know this is history for you all. Ancient, old, in the past. The 
struggle is now, the change to come will be ours and it will not start 
from a cage with a lock on the door. | tell you this now because 
there's war eruptin' far from our shore. The Great Qing Empire has 
re-invaded southeast Asia. 'The fuck does this have to do with us?’ 
some of you ask. Well, if | must explain... 


"People from there are coming over here, living in fear of their end 
drawing near. And the first to leave any conflict area are always the 
men of the times and their wives of means. 'Means' means ‘white’, 
or in this context, 'white enough’. 


"Wasn't too long ago we called them 'Chinaman’, no matter if they 
were from Malaysia, Indonesia, Dai Viet, or Nippon. 'Ching Chong 
Chinaman’, we cackled at them. 'Ching Chong Chinaman’. Now we 
throw open our doors and beg them to come to us. But only the 
white ones! That won't stop the others from taggin’ along, though. 


"So our pretty white country favors the light-skinned, and they take 
them along into their refugee centers and immigration services. You 
ever been to the local immigrant station down yonder Southwest 
17th street? Some people pitch tents on the lawns, that's how long 
and tedious that process is. What do you think will happen when 
white, upright Asian refugees start cloggin' up the services far out 
west? They'll start moving the brown, low-down Hispanics from 
Bumfucktown, Guatemala further and further east. 


"And guess what; this is Miami. We're the end of the line. Everything 
rolls downhill, and they'll keep shovelin' what they consider to be 
their ‘shit’ until it piles up on us. Lovely people, Central Americans. 
Where will they keep them all, the local government?" 


Rhiannon looked around. The orgy seemed unaffected, but 
everyone else showed at least passing interest in what she was 
saying. The readers and lecturers had stopped and were listening. 
More than enough people were quietly hanging on to her every 
word. 


"Remember where we all started off: locked in a cage." 


It'd begun before she'd first learned about it. Rhiannon knew this. 
She didn't want people to have to wait to see it unfold; she wanted 
her words to strike like a revelation, and the next day everyone 
would look up and suddenly see what was happening right outside 
their front doors. 


The INS office on SW 17th street was nestled right in the middle of a 
sprawl of residential housing, upper-middle class and lower-middle 
class largely mingled together, just a few miles from the luxurious 
Coral Gables neighborhoods. Buildings around the office had long 
since been demolished and remained vacant lots. No one saw 
refugees squatting on their front lawns. But they had to look if they 
ventured past their blocks. 


A few dozen people from Southeast Asia were now being brought in 
by local government convoys. The line already waiting was told to 
move back, and let the Asians in first. At least 50 or 60 newcomers 
from Dai Viet and Laos were being put ahead of them. Most of them 


were well-dressed, if frightened and tired, carrying bags with them. 


Rhiannon wasn't naive enough to believe racism was a one-way 
road. Some of the refugees already in line saw these newcomers as 
intruders, given undeserved special privileges and recognized the 
injustice of this. Most simply saw "Chinamen" and got angry. 


Rhiannon sat in the vacant lot, nestled on a branch of an overgrown 
low-hanging tree, able to take in the entire sight. A select few of the 
Hispanic refugees refused to move. Police started to approach 
them. The refugees held their hands up, and started moving around. 
Not away, but just... around. Some moving in circles, just to prevent 
the police from taking them by the shoulder and forcibly moving 
them along. They would have to use force on them. The police just 
weren't ready for this. 


It was earlier than usual for the INS station to open. Rhiannon knew 
this. That's why she had told the group at the Temple to spread it 
around town that the station would be open this early. It was just 
about 6:45 AM. More refugees began to move in to stand in line, 
and saw the absurd sight of men and women with their arms up, 
screaming protests as they ran in circles, the cops grabbing some 
and looking hesitant to tackle the others. This was the sort of scene 
they'd seen in Texas, Arizona, California. Not all the way down in 
Miami, Florida. 


7:20 AM, the protestors got tired, and simply moved out to stand in 
the street. Someone had brought signs, mostly scribbled in Spanish, 
the message not quite clear overall; some read 'Chinese go home’, 
others read 'Cubans were here first!’, an assortment of others 
protesting the favoritism of light-skinned Asian refugees over the 
darker-skinned South and Central Americans. Rhiannon grinned as 
she recognized at least two of the signs in her handwriting. 


Less than thirty people were gathered in the streets. By 8:15, it had 
grown to sixty, mostly in the form of bystanders, nearby residents 
watching, and the very beginning of local news media on the scene. 
Traffic was starting to thicken as people drove to work. The 
protestors were starting to hold up traffic. Shouting matches began 
between residents and protestors. Cars that stopped too long got 
dirty hands pounding on the fronts, as if their message were clear 


enough through the rage-fueled din of angry men and women 
shouting and stomping around. 


That got police moving, as they started grabbing and rough-handling 
people. Screams and shouts intensified. A car screeched to a halt, 
hitting a protestor with enough force to knock them onto their knees, 
screaming. He got right back up to his feet, not so much as a limp as 
officers pulled him away from the car. The man in the car rolled 
down his window, started yelling. In rage? Confusion? Panic? She 
wasn't sure if anyone close by could tell. It was just noise; more 
noise in the dissonant orchestra of rebellion. The confusion was too 
much. An officer drew his gun. Amongst the din, Rhiannon heard, 
"Put your hands up, get out of the car!" Another officer repeated it, 
then another. 


She had no idea who the man was. He was bald, had a goatee, was 
wearing a tanktop. Could've been Cuban, could've been Honduran, 
could've been a white boy from Orlando. Whatever got into him, he 
shouted, loud enough for Rhiannon to hear, "Fuck you, pig!" and hit 
the gas. 


Gunshots ran out, and the car jerked to a halt after moving 
backwards several feet. People screamed in terror and started to 
disperse. The car's windows became clouded with cracks and blood. 
The man had panicked, and hit the gas in reverse, but there was no 
way the cops could've known he wasn't intending on blowing 
through them. Now the cops were panicking. Rhiannon knew it was 
horrifying, tears welled in her eyes, and her guts churned in 
revulsion. It was a tragic event. An accident, even. Then she 
laughed, feeling elevated like the deepest orgasm couldn't achieve, 
nor the sweetest liqueur or the most potent drug. 


« Rot | Potent Drug | First Ones In » 
Anabasis Hub 


Preface to Practical Logopsychology (1998) [2nd ed.] by 
Thorn and Wionsky 


CODE 192-DCLS - RESTRICTED GENERAL 
FOUNDATION USE 
RAISA (Records and Information Security Administration) has 
declassified portions of the following text under Code 192-DCLS 
for the purpose of "making available defunct, inaccurate, 
outdated, or compromised texts for general usage, research, and 
analysis by Foundation assets and Foundation-approved 


affiliates" in compliance with §4.11 of Protocol AXNN-53 
("Declassification of Internal Research"). 


PRACTICAL LOGOPSYCHOLOGY (1998) 


Thorn and Wionsky 


CONTENTS 
Foreword 1 
Preface 2 


Chapter I: Theory and practice 5 


Chapter II: Logomemetic primers throughout history 112 


Chapter III: Practical categorization of primers 196 


Chapter IV: Constructing command primers in the field 245 
Chapter V: Usage of primers in the Creation 355 
r VI: Administration of command primers to large populations 
Chapter VII: Textual demonstration of logomemes 634 
Chapter VIII: Command primers in modern society 636 


Chapter IX: Obeying the Words 811 


Appendix 1211 


Preface 


The study of logopsychology can be briefly described as the study of 
interactions between words and the human psyche [Reedy, 1986]. 


The peculiar cognitive macroflaws of Homo sapiens sapiens, 
neurological heuristics crafted through evolutionary development, 
have long been exploited, from confidence artists to performance 
entertainers to politicians [Laurens, 1993], including confirmation 
bias and the bandwagon effect, which the reader may already be 
aware of. Only until recently has modern science been capable of 
categorising and systematising the microflaws of human neurology, 
which exist on a more basal, implementational level [Laurens, 1994; 
Kahneman & Tversky, 1973]. So why exactly are memetes 
(exploitable cognito-efficacious environmental stimuli) | most 
commonly found within the written and spoken word? Why not 
perhaps visual stimuli? Or olfactory stimuli? Or non-speech aural 
stimuli? 


During the course of our investigations, we have been able to 
propose only tentative possibilities as to the unusual statistical 
distribution of currently-known memetes. 


Perhaps it is a bias within the investigation of possible memetic 
agents - afterall, it is easier to find twelve sounds which produce a 
cognito-effect once concatenated, rather than to find fifty thousand 
sine waves or sixteen million colours or a precise arrangement of 
molecules which produce a similar effect [Reedy, 1989]. Typically, 
the discovery of a memetic agent is commonly made through 
generating random word-lists, exposing them to test subjects, 
observing cognitive effects, and optimising on the basis of 
morphemic characteristics [Wtonsky, 1991] [Reedy 1992]. 


However, a more intriguing possibility is that the effectiveness of a 
logograph-type memetic agent is due to the construction of the 
human mind itself. Consider the relative recentness of civilization as 
modern anthropologists have come to understand it - systems of 
writing were invented at least eight thousand years ago [Tyrelson, 
1975], while the facility for soeech and communication was likely 
developed hundreds of thousands of years ago [Tokigaishii, 1997]. It 
therefore seems that writing was grafted onto pre-existing cognitive 
facilities. The ability to convert printed symbols into units of meaning 
is not an innate ability, it is an ability specific to modern civilization, a 
unique ability which our minds have been honed towards [Gibson, 
1975]. Therefore, it seems, as with any graft, it may not be a perfect 


SCP-916: Man's Best Friend 


Item #: SCP-916 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-916 is to be kept ina 
locked, soundproofed kennel of appropriate size for a dog of its 
breed. It is to be fed a species-appropriate meal twice per day and 
its kennel is to be cleaned regularly. Personnel should attempt to 
provide stimulation to SCP-916 through the provision of a 
companion dog in its containment area and/or regular exercise ina 
larger containment area. While this is not mandatory, insufficient 
stimulation has previously resulted in physical illness for SCP-916. 
Personnel in contact with SCP-916 are advised to wear noise- 
canceling devices to avoid unnecessary contact with SCP-916-1. 
Should SCP-916 unexpectedly enter its active state, it may be safely 
transported to and locked in its kennel. Test subjects should be 
checked for any potential implements of self-harm before testing, 
and guard personnel are to maintain at least one non-lethal means 
of subduing test subjects. 


Description: SCP-916 is an adult, male golden retriever. It is 
identical to any other dog of its breed, other than its exceptional 
longevity.! Researchers and test subjects report its demeanor to be 
exceptionally friendly. 


Anomalous effects occur between 15 minutes and 1 hour after initial 
contact with a human subject. SCP-916 will begin this active phase 
by becoming docile and attempting to lie down next to the subject. 
After several seconds of immobility, SCP-916 will begin to 
completely suppress any pain felt by individuals in contact with it. 
Subjects report this effect to decrease with distance, and to cease at 
twelve (12) meters from the object. 


Within three (3) minutes of beginning its active phase, one or more 
instances of SCP-916-12 will appear. SCP-916-1 manifest as