From: (nikolai kingsley)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: take me to the river
Date: Mon, 1 Dec 1997 20:00:49 +1100
Organization: anarchartists/FDP
Lines: 71
Message-ID: <>
X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00.753

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what this is about, would you?"


"This isn't about that 'Entheogen' Webpage is it? Look, everyone knew it 
was a joke."


"It was MOOSE, right? It was MOOSE magazine. I get it."


Well, I had to admire their consistency as well as their sense of 
purpose. It was like being a piece of food dragged back to the nest by 
foraging ants, sort of, except I wasn't being collected; I was being 
disposed of. They were being quite considerate, really; they didn't kick 
me in the ribs when I grunted in pain as they handcuffed my hands behind 
my back. "Hey, you guys are professionals, right? Yeah, I know.. 

While B1 and B2 (not the actual ABC-TV kid's show characters; I'm simply 
using those names as a convenient label to refer to the two large men in 
natty suits) attached a large chunk of concrete to my ankles with fencing 
wire, I observed the alpha male of the group standing off to one side, 
cleaning his fingernails with, oh, goddess, what a stereotype. With a 
dagger. I managed to wriggle around to where I could address him 

"So. Do you think you could extend your gracious and considerate nature 
to making my last few minutes just a bit less confusing?"

He looked up briefly and I thought he gave a very faint smile. "That's 
part of it. You're going in without ever finding out why."

I managed a sort of shrug, despite the pain it caused in my shoulders. 
Quick, I thought, you've only got a few seconds - say something witty! 
"You're not going to throw me into the Yarra, are you? That water isn't 
clean." B2 tugged the fencing wire tight, deftly tied it off with a pair 
of pliers and nodded to the alpha male who looked up, grimaced and turned 
away. B1 and B2 shoved me and the chunk of concrete off the end of the 
walkway, into the river. I didn't even have time to think whether I 
should be hyperventilating or not, splash.

The concrete dragged me straight down, but not as quickly as I thought it 
might have; I had time to blink until my eyes were used to the water. It 
wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be. The silt at the bottom was like a 
fog-bank; as I sank toward it, I exhaled (thinking of the last few 
paragraphs of Clive Barker's story "Human Remains") and watched the 
bubbles of air wiggle their way up to the mirrored surface, saw them 
burst, saw the ripples spread out. Thinking I might as well get on with 
it I inhaled water and immediately tried to cough it out again. Ow ow ow 
ow fuck ow. I used the little air remaining in my lungs to try and expel 
the water, then had to suck in a whole lot more of it. I kept coughing 
and thinking my lungs are going to have to get used to this eventually, 
but they didn't. It was like coming across the last bit of leaf in the 
bong and inhaling it when you weren't ready for it.

It didn't get any better, but it stopped getting worse. I could look 
around once I'd felt the concrete settle in the mud on the river bottom; 
the fogbank of silt came up to my middle. I saw faint glints off bits of 
chrome attached to rusted car remains, gaussian-blurred by distance and 
drifting silt. I looked up and had to smile as I saw one of those piquant 
Yarra River tourist barges pass by almost directly overhead; then I was 
racked by another bout of coughing. Ah, fuck this. I was determined that 
they'd find me with a grin on my face.

full fathom five