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Lost! The author stared dolorously at his screen. Lost! "Intergalactic Moomin Avengers vs the Toad People of Gond in the Year One Million B.C.", lost! His uproariously funny, savagely incisive satirical take on B-movies --- lost forever to a single corrupted sector.
Pity he'd only written one line.
Ah well, he thought, this means I'll just have to give 'em their usual muck.
RAT IN A CAGE ENTERPRISES and SON OF X REPORT imprudently present the mega-action blockbuster of the millennium[1]...
O C E A N S R I S E. C I T I E S F A L L. H Y P E S U R V I V E S.
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No one would have believed in the last years of the twentieth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.
Actually quite a lot of people believed it, but no one had any credible proof. Sadly for them, they had just run out of time to collect it.
The huge, saucer-shaped construct was clearly the work of an advanced civilisation. It sat beneath the clear night sky of the desert, small lights blinking impassively around its perimeter. Deep in its heart sat a lone being, his unnaturally large eyes scanning electronic displays.
All right, he didn't really have unnaturally large eyes. It was just that he wore very thick glasses. He looked over another computer terminal and nodded to himself. Business as usual, he thought, and put the headphones back on. The radio telescope observatory was the keystone to the Phoenix Project, but there was no sign of alien life communicating with earth tonight.
Eric Tharfabbey leaned back in his chair. He looked every inch the stereotypical driven scientist, and it was this and not his academic qualifications (impeccable though they were) that had landed him the job. The Phoenix Project had been raised from the ashes of SETI only with the aid of some wealthy movie producers. And with the bankrolling came the casting, and they wanted someone who looked the part. A generic astronomer.
Eric leaned back further, lost in the sound in his headphones.
"Knock it off," said a voice as a hand pulled the earphones off Eric's head.
Eric wasn't the only member of staff at the observatory. In fact, as a generic astronomer he'd come as part of a package deal.
He twisted round. Standing behind him was Gene. In Gene's right hand were the earphones.
"I was listening to the scan," said Eric sheepishly. Gene raised a doubtful eyebrow.
"We scan thousands of channels simultaneously. Listening to the scan would be like listening to thousands of radio stations at the same time. Fat chance you'd have of picking anything sensible out."
This was not completely true. Ever since the project had attracted Hollywood funding, the observatory had acquired a number of abilities not normally associated with a radio telescope.
Most notable of all were the large television screens which graced various eye-catching positions around the control centre. Why anyone would want to see what the radio telescope was pointed at escaped Gene. It was just part of the Hollywood package.
The screens were definitely the most notable thing. Those, and the screaming red WARNING lights.
The two stared at the image filling the observatory, sheer terror having a party in their minds.
On the screens, drawing ever closer to earth, was the end of the world.
President Stephen Turtle relaxed behind his desk in the Oval Office. It seemed nowadays he couldn't catch a plane without having a fight with terrorists. Luckily, he'd beaten them off with his Zimmerframe --- wait a minute! he thought. That's not how it happened!
(Deep inside the Pentagon, General Calder giggled immaturely as he sat at the controls of the Mind Control Ray.)
Turtle's reverie was shattered by the shout of a flustered looking aide who had just run into the room, a worried manila folder flapping in his hands.
"Terrible news from the long range observatory, Mr President!"
"The observatory? What is it?"
"It's a large building with lots of astronomers. But that's not important right now."
The aide opened the manila folder and took out a large, grainy photograph.
"You're not going to tell me we made alien contact again, are you?"
"No, Mr President."
"Last time we built the world's biggest whirligig and all we got was eighteen hours of static."
"Yes, Mr President."
"I don't want to spend the Defence budget for this year just for another eighteen hours of static."
"No, Mr President."
"I said, I don't want to spend another year's Defence budget on whirligigs unless it's going to bring in a lot of alien high tech gadgetry. Bags of it, I said. Bags of it, yes?"
"Three bags full, Mr President."
"Exactly. Three bags bursting at the seams with advanced extraterrestrial technology."
President Turtle looked at the photo.
"What is this, huh? Another cock-eyed UFO photo? I could get better than this in the Weekly World News! What's it supposed to be, anyway? It looks like a rock..."
The President approached the safe like a man approaching an unexploded bomb. Like every president before him, he had hoped never to have to open it. He entered his identity code into the keypad. The tungsten-steel door of the safe swung open to reveal ten fat folders, one for each of the ten possible threats to the American nation. Plan 1: From the USSR. Plan 2: From civil uprising. Plans 3,4,5... from Pythagoras. His eyes came to rest on the volume he sought. Plan 9: From outer space.
He leafed through the pages, but none of the suggestions offered any hope. Not even the one that said the comet should be named after Leonardo DiCaprio, so the impact would be cushioned by a horde of screaming teenage girls.
There was no hope. The thought, the horrible thought he'd been trying to suppress finally escaped into his consciousness: he'd have to call a meeting.
Gene stood before the assembled high-ranking men, and it was, uniformly, men (and indeed, uniformed men) --- but there was no time to reflect on the gender politics of action movies right now.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am here today to speak of the greatest danger to life on earth we have ever faced. A threat from space."
"It's them damn Martians," fumed General Calder. "Ah said we shoulda nooked 'em back in '47..."
Gene looked amused.
"The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million-to-one," he said. "The Oort Cloud, on the other hand..."
He pressed a button. A breathtakingly realistic computer simulation became visible on the massive screen behind him. The massive comet (the simulation showed) began to penetrate the upper atmosphere, reddening as friction caused it to heat up.
"As you can see here, Comet Goliath--"
At this point the evils of committees became apparent.
"Comet Leonardo," the President tried without hope.
"Comet Nemesis, surely," suggested a general.
"I prefer Comet Titan."
"Comet Wormwood is the obvious choice."
"You're all mad. Comet Sockdologer is the way forward."
The rest of the committee suddenly stared at the speaker. Gene took advantage of the pause to get back to more pressing matters.
"*Comet Goliath* will strike the mid-Pacific ocean, causing massive tidal waves[2] that will destroy all coastal cities. Furthermore, the ensuing climactic changes--"
"Don't you mean climatic?"
Gene looked at the speaker like he'd grown a third head.
"No. The comet strikes the earth at the *climax* of the film. As I was saying... the climactic changes will wipe out the remainder of humanity."
"I find that a bit hard to believe," said the President.
"Look, it just does, all right?"
On the screen, the comet ploughed into the heart of the ocean. Tektites and shocked quartz (you'd be pretty surprised too) sprayed everywhere as the comet buried itself in the crust. Water rushed in to fill the resulting crater and exploded as thousands of cubic kilometres of steam. Clouds filled the sky. Raging tsunamis crashed against coastlines. Cities crumbled into the sea. The presentation finished.
"That CGI must have been very expensive."
"Oh, don't worry --- we can reuse the footage in the comet-striking-earth scenes."
The Secretary of Defence, William Shatner, rose.
"As captain of the starship... Enterprise, over the years I have faced many and... varied... threats. But I have never faced any... threat... so great as... this. This is an entirely different kind of threat... altogether."
"This is an entirely different kind of threat," chorused the committee.
"I can see only one... solution," he continued. "Scotty, beam me aboard."
The Secretary of Defence disappeared in a golden sparkle of cheap special effects.
Comet Goliath (but briefly Comet Leonardo in a desperate attempt to capture the kiddie market) hurtled on, regardless.
After only a few wasted hours (time, after all, was running out) a plan was devised. This was the chief reason why Robin Harrison stood in a NASA room, dressed in a space suit. (The other reason was, of course, bad writing.)
Robin was being briefed on the plan by a scientist (let's call her Ingrid), who was dressed in a stereotypical white lab coat and clutching a sheaf of paper.
The plan was to land on the comet, deposit nuclear weapons at certain carefully calculated locations, and detonate them. The blasts would change the path of the comet, explained the scientist, so it would no longer pose any danger to earth.
"We've run the plan through our supercomputer a million times and each time the computer has declared the plan to be completely and utterly foal-proof."
"Shouldn't that be 'fool-proof'?"
The white coat leafed through her computer printouts.
"Um. Maybe," she said. "Not to worry, it's only a small mistake."
Robin began to back away.
In the end, they'd convinced Robin to pilot the shuttle. They'd appealed to his sense of honour. They'd appealed to his courage. They'd appealed to his duty to his country, and to his fellow human. But mostly they'd appealed to his hip pocket and the fact that he wouldn't need to be on the committee for NatGat 2000.
So here he was, then, flying towards the fateful comet. On the main controls panel was a seemingly ubiquitous giant video screen. Although it had so far remained a blank, it was now flashed the words 'Incoming Message'. Bloody e-mail, thought Robin. Even in deep space, you can't escape it.
He pressed a button. The words disappeared. In their place was the presidential seal, which was quickly replaced by the presidential turtle. Robin wondered about the suddenly obsession with aquatic creatures, until he realised the author has failed to correctly capitalise Turtle.
The President spoke.
"Having spent our entire special effects budget on the tsunami sequence, we were unable to equip your ship with the nuclear weapons necessary for your mission. You are therefore instructed to headbutt the comet off-course."
"Of course."
As the deadly planetoid rolled into view, Robin could see that a passing alien civilization had humorously attached a bumper sticker to the rock.
It said: "If you can read this, you are too close."
"Oh shi--" was as much as Robin managed.
As the poet wrote, this is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but a whimper. But from here it sounded like a bloody big bang. True, if you listened carefully, you could hear people whimper.
Though not for very long.
All intelligent life was destroyed, leaving only the cockroaches. And Larry Emdur.
"Welcome back to the Very Best of the World's Worst Extinctions. I'm Larry Emdur."
He gave a too-perfect charming smile.
"Wasn't that extinction just great? When that big rock crashed into that ocean, didn't you just laugh? I know I did."
He appeared to be talking to the cockroaches which had gathered around his feet. It was hard to tell if the roaches appreciated the show or not. Cockroaches have always been a tough crowd.
"And now... The extinction of stupid 'Best Of' hosts... what?"
A flicker of doubt passed over Larry's faced, dislodging his smile. The roaches moved closer. Closer. Closer.
"I can't believe we did that," said one cockroach afterwards. "We *ate* Larry Emdur. There are some things even cockroaches shouldn't do."
"Shut up, Ken," said another roach, "and get on with the X Report. Sheesh."
ATXF had been reincarnated as (mostly) cockroaches, showing that there just might be something to the law of karma. All the roaches had gathered round an old shoe (a platform, of course). All except Roachael Bahl, who was trying to swat herself with a newspaper.
Ken scuttled to the toe of the shoe, cleaned his antennae, and began.
"Welcome to the last awards ceremony of 1999. No expense has been spared," he said, waving a leg at the decaying ruins of civilisation about him. "We are gathered here to celebrate the end of the millenium."
"That's millennium," said a gruff, knowing voice.
"Once again, Trevor, you've proved your ignorance. Are you suggesting that thousands of copywriters, dance parties and postings on Usenet have spelled the word wrongly?"
Ken laughed.
"It seems that everyone but you is familiar with the word, which means a period of approximately one thousand years A.D.[3], marked by the fact that they all start with the same digit, with the exception of the first millenium."
Trevor said nothing. He just sat there, cleaning his gun.
"Ahem," said Ken. "We are here to celebrate the end of the millenium. That makes us millenium bugs. Ahahaha. And of course, that makes me Y2Ken. Hee hee."
The remainder of ATXF urged Trevor to clean his gun quickly.
"And now, on with---$teve, why are you dressed in chicken wire?"
$teve proudly ran two of his legs over his outfit, which appeared to be made of chicken wire, a dog muzzle, and the protective armour worn in gridiron, finished off with a black feather trim.
"Good, isn't it?," he said. "It's de rigueur for post-apocalyptic life."
Ken waggled his antennae sceptically.
"De rigueur? Oh, come on. Cockroaches can't speak French!"
"I'll have you know I ate a very good dictionary yesterday."
"Well, you certainly sound like you swallowed one. And now, on with the awards ceremony!"
"Ingrid Jakobsen, scientist extraordinaire, wins the `SUMMA TIME AND THE LIVING IS EASY' (a.k.a. `SUMMARY OFFENSES') AWARD for her astute observation about the character of the newsgroup:
Subject: TAN [was REL: Two Fathers.
Date: Fri, 23 Apr 1999 19:01:45 GMT
"Demosthenes" wrote:
> Stephen Turtle wrote:
>>"$2K" wrote:
>>>Stephen Turtle wrote:
>>>> I've a good mind to come over there and give you a severe talking to!
>>>
>>>If he could remember what he was supposed to be talking to you
>>> about.
>
> That would be the "fucking alzhei-"
>
> ?
I think this sums up this whole newsgroup nicely.
1) Although it has a REL subject, the post is basically[1] fluff
2) Swearwords are not hidden, euphemised or modified
3) Medical/scientific terms are
Ingrid :-)
[1] Who am I kidding? Entirely, more like.
"ajf wins the `MAISY DOATS' AWARD for creative interpretation of another's poor phrasing:
Subject: Re: The NatGat99 Mailing Lists
Date: 1999/10/13
Author: Adam James Fitzpatrick
Matt 'EBE' Sims wrote:
>We remain ever vigilant, but sometimes one slips through the cracks...
Even you aren't that thin.
--
ajf | Can't sleep, posting.
"Back in October, someone by the name of Ultra21753 (we know where you live) wasted their time and ours by detailing alleged surveillance carried out by the local chapter of the Illuminati. This cabal was apparently responsible for determining who is allowed to live in New Jersey. If you'd had any doubts that poor Ultra was imagining it all, then this should have given the game away -- no one's interested in anyone who lives in New Jersey.
"However, it inspired this award-winning response from the Meerkat:"
Subject: Re: High Technology Used To Terrorize People
Date: Wed, 13 Oct 1999 10:15:21 GMT
On 11 Oct 1999 16:49:09 GMT, ultra21753@aol.com (Ultra21753) cast the
following pearls of wisdom:
>High Technology Used To Terrorize People
>
>Hello,
>
>I'm writing this message to try to bring awareness to a very serious
>problem that is occurring where I live, Camden County, New Jersey (USA.)
>I have been targeted by some kind of harassment group. This group uses
>the most high tech equipment to terrorize its victim.
This missive has inspired The Meerkat to open up her own
surveillance/harrassment/terror/sneaky spy thingie type
organization.
The name is Meerkat.....THE Meerkat..... I like my raspberry lemonade
shaken, not stirred....
ANYWAY....
For a small fee, The Meerkat will
* pee on the leg of a dickhead of your choice
* hiss and spit on any creep you desire
* ferret her way into any abode/crevice/nook/cranny to gather
information
* dress and purr provocatively to distract and entice (Mata Hari
Meerkat)
*perform the most fur-raising stunts on a motorbike, speedboat, high
performance car to impress you and be the envy of other spies.
The first fifty customers will also get a set of steak knives.
Regards,
The Meerkat.
The Meerkat, one of the few ATXFers not to have come back as a roach (she remained a meerkat) made her way to the stage. Via a paraglider. Out of an exploding plane. Without getting a fur out of place.
"Chris Sloan, wins the `SHORT AND TO THE POINT' AWARD (this is not a personal remark, honest) [nominated by Rachael Bahl] for her comment in the thread "REL versus NatGat":
Subject: Re: REL versus NatGat
Organization: Cataloguers-R-Us
Date: Tue, 30 Nov 1999 20:28:26 GMT
On Tue, 30 Nov 1999 07:09:59 GMT, ingridbj@my-deja.com wrote:
>
>Rachael Bahl wrote:
>> ingridbj@my-deja.com wrote:
>
>[snip - I think the sense is still there]
>
>>> But when did this picking on actually happen? (I'll admit
>>> I haven't been able to follow this newsgroup closely for its
>>> entire lifespan). I can recall people being picked on for spamming,
>>> bad spelling and grammar, and excessive drooling. Not for actually
> > just plain liking the show.
>>
>> I think it's really more the mood of the place - from time to time.
>:-)It
>> wasn't so long ago that the FAQ itself basically said "we think the
>> x-files suck, but if you must post REL go ahead" (apologies for the
>> paraphrasing).
>
>I remember that, and I agree it wasn't well-phrased. On the other
>hand, given this newsgroup is named after that show, what's it
>called again? :-), I think it is a good idea to advise newbies
>(those who bother to read the FAQ) that although the name of this
>newsgroup would suggest a large proportion of fans, for historical
>reasons that is no longer so. And I think a lot of newbies/fans
>are disconcerted by the mismatch between newsgroup name and
>function.
Maybe we should rename ourselves aus.tv.ex-philes
Chris[-ook]
"Gem wins the `DELURKING NEWBIE' AWARD for, um, being a delurking newbie. I think anyone mad enough to delurk during the off season deserves an award. Not content with that, Gem also receives the GOLDEN EXCLAMATION MARK. Perhaps Gem hasn't used as many !s as other winners of this award, but the fact that Golden Exclamation Mark = G.E.M. was the deciding factor. Spooky, eh!
From: "Gem"
Subject: Hi Everyone!!!
Date: 16 Dec 1999 06:12:53 GMT
Just saying hi!
I've decided to leave my lurking ways and... well.. Post!!
--
Gem
Visit The Asylum - refuge for the X-Files insane
http://www.geocities.com/agentscully_1013
"Ingrid once again wins the award that was made for her, the `MUST BE A PROFESSIONAL ACADEMIC' AWARD for demonstration of excessive knowledge of scientists in real life, for the following tale:
From: ingridbj@my-deja.com
Subject: Re: SUNBURN: stop the room spinning
Date: Fri, 17 Dec 1999 07:40:20 GMT
Annette Fraser wrote:
> ingridbj@my-deja.com wrote:
[something she nicked from New Scientist]
> I couldn't remember all the details though so I printed this out and
> gave it to him.
>>
>> Who says scientists are no fun at parties? :-)
>
> The Dean *really* liked this comment and told me that I was
> under strict instructions to bring Ingrid in to visit the next
> time she's in Brisbane
> :-)
Chemists are particularly good at parties. There is an actual,
published (and presumably peer-reviewed) paper on the optimal
ratio of vodka, orange juice and Galliano in a Harvey Wallbanger.
The data had been collected at Friday afternoon happy hours over
a number of months. The experimental technique was to my eyes
immaculate - they had drawn a surface indicating all possible
ratios and used it to map responses, gradually zeroing in on the
best ratio. From memory, the optimal ratio was near 2:4:1.
Be really, really careful about inviting statisticians though.
Last time I was at a party with statisticians was an outdoor
barbeque with a swooping magpie nearby. By the time I arrived,
a hypothesis had been formed, namely that the magpie was more
likely to swoop people wearing red (you had to pass the magpie
on the way to the BBQ). By the time the food was ready,
volunteers were being recruited to approach the magpie twice
wearing red, twice not wearing red - of course all properly
randomised.
This is a true story, I swear.
Ingrid
"The mysterious Hast^H^H^H^H He Who Is Not to be Named has earned the Bearded Legion's undying wrath for revealing the secret of The Beard. As a reward (?), we offer him the `RAZOR GANG' AWARD for secrets man (sorry, Ingrid) was not meant to know. And a dark corner to hide in.
From: pikachu@pokemon.org (I am so Important I don't need to steenkin name)
Subject: NatGat conspiracy warning
Date: Wed, 22 Dec 1999 11:53:52 GMT
Hello everyone, it doesn't matter who I am, all you need to know is
that I know a lot more than any of you do.
Surveillance pictures supplied to me by ATXF Illuminati have revealed
a dangerous trend in ATXF. Those of you perusing NatGat pictures will
notice strange fibrous growths on the chins of a great number of the
male members of ATXF. The gullible among you may dismiss these growths
as beards (or perhaps a bad case of fungal infection), but being privy
to certain forbidden knowledge, I feel it is my duty to warn you of
the true ramifications of this situation:
At the time when Steve Leahy dismantled the ATXF web site and hid its
most dangerous secrets from chance discovery by the un-prepared, it
was decided that Steve Leahy's beard be dismantled and spread between
certain widely spaced ATXF centres of activity in order that a truely
devastating power not fall into unwitting (or malicious) hands. All
was well for countless years[1] until the advent of NatGats.
At this time, the strange symbiotic organisms[2] used the opportunity
of co-location to start re-assembling themselves. The first symptoms
manifested themselves as a 5 O'Clock shadow, or the erruption of
puberty[3]. But this years NatGat photos confirm my suspicions. Unless
stopped, at next years NatGat, Steve Leahy's beard will once again
reform into "Mega-Mega-Man"[4] and completely and utterly destroy
everything in the vicinity[5]. All that will be left is a radioactive
wasteland of utter desolation[6].
So why do I tell you this? And what can you do? Well I'm glad you
asked[8]
The answer is simple. At the next NatGat, it is imperative that you
gather all male members of ATXF and amputate the offending growths[9].
Upon doing this, the beards shold be kept apart in air-tight plastic
containers and distributed evenly among ATXF members immune to the
effects of this devastatingly dangerous power. (That would be girls
for the thought challenged, most of them do not host beards easily).
Give them out as prizes if you must, just do it.
Remember, only you can shave ATXF.
Salutations,
He who is not to be named.
P.S. Annette, I saw the pic. Very Goth. Deny it if you can.
[1] If you were unconcious during this time it was
[2] Mitichlorians
[3] Like there isn't enough of that allready here
[4] Don't believe $2 who will claim it's actually a Voltron, he's
actually on the take.
[5] OK, maybe it's not such a bad thing, maybe Mega-Mega-Man will take
out the Crown Casino and those stupid street mimes in Bourke Street
Mall. A small price to pay if you ask me.
[6] On second thoughts, if you do it out in Heidelberg, no-one will
notice[7]
[7] No one important anyway
[8] Deny it if you can, you *know* you want to.
[9] I meant beards, but if that kind of thing turns you on, who am I
to stop you?
--
23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23 23
"The last award of the evening goes to Robin Harrison, one of the Chronically Late Brothers. Robin wins the `FAMOUS LAST WORDS' AWARD for his one-liner:
From: merlinc@zip.com.au (Robin Harrison)
Subject: Re: ADMIN: The X Report Schedule
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999 04:10:22 GMT
kaf03@uow.edu.au (Kenneth Alexander Finlayson) wrote:
>
>It's baaa-aack!
>
>For one night only, we present:
>
>
> X2K -- the last X Report of the year
Er. Ken.... *which* year?
"Robin's withering scorn concludes the --- ooh, pretty," Ken said, suddenly distracted by explosions blooming in the night sky.
"Ahhh," said the crowd.
"Ken," said $teve, struggling to keep his train of thought, "who do you suppose fired those millenium fireworks if the humans are extinct?"
"This is no time to worry about plot holes," Ken replied. He would have said more, except he and his fellow roaches were crushed by a meteorite.
In a very real sense, the X Report was late.
[1] A claim we can make with complete accuracy. I mean, this story just pisses on the Bayeux Tapestry...
[2] You're right, an astronomer should know better. Clearly a wave caused by a cometary impact has nothing to do with the tides. Such is the parlous state of education. Really, the species of today --- mass extinction's too good for them.
[3] A millenium is not necessarily a thousand years long. For instance, the first millenium (the years A.D. 1 through to A.D. 999) had only 999 years.
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