linuxmafia.com 2013/2013.06.linuxmafia.com/linuxmafia.com/pub/jordan/Humor/alt.shrugged/text0000.txt

Text File | 1996-11-13 | 21.2 KB | 371 lines

_Preface_

I thought it would be appropriate to end this latest chapter in the
perennial afrj debate with a little humor... and, well, as you all can
see, the little humor turned into a lot of humor.  I'm parodying a
1060-page book, after all, and there's just so much fertile ground for
comparison.  <grin>  I hope the result will be more or less
comprehensible, even for those readers who haven't devoted a month of
their life to plowing through the brick of a book known as _Atlas
Shrugged_.  (Hey, I had a lot of desk time at my job this summer).
Anyway, may you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

ObPost-PesciDisclaimer:  Ayn Rand is not known for subtlety in her
portrayal of either villains or heroes, and tends to simplify all of their
views considerably.  Since this is a parody of her style (as well as a
caricature of our newsgroup), I have taken considerable liberties with the
actual beliefs and styles of numerous posters.  I hope no one takes their
portrayal in the following parody personally; all the portrayals are
biased caricatures of a stereotype, and as such bear only the most distant
resemblance to the real human denizens of rasfwr-j.  End disclaimer.

I also apologize to Andrea Lynn Leistra for choosing her as my heroine.
<grin>  Nothing personal, I assure you, Andrea.  I probably owe an even
greater apology to John Novak, but I think I'll postpone it until after I
see how he reacts to his role in Randland.


--Joel

***************************************************************

                _alt.  Shrugged_


"Who is John Novak?"
    In the half-light of dawn, it was hard to distinguish the lurker's
face.  The lurker said it simply, without expression.  But from the early
morning sun rising far at the end of the street, yellow glints caught his
eyes, mocking and still.
    Dylan Alexander turned, wrinkling his brow in curiosity.  "Why do
you ask?"
    The lurker leaned against the side of the doorway; a wedge of
broken glass behind him reflected the metal yellow of the sky.  "Why does
it bother you?"
    Dylan shrugged.  "It doesn't.  I was just wondering why you wasted
a breath that might otherwise have been put to the more productive purpose
of blowing yourself."
    The lurker began to answer, then stopped short.  A look of
confusion came into his eyes.  "You don't find the question somehow
haunting, or pregnant with hidden significance?"
    "No."
    "It doesn't disturb you in the least?"
    "Not beyond a certain annoyance at having my time wasted."
    "It doesn't evoke a sense that modern society has replaced heroism
with apathy-- that there are no great men left on Usenet, and no one even
cares?"  There was a note of desperation in the lurker's voice.
    Dylan paused for a moment, then shook his head.  "Sorry.  No such
sentiment."
    The lurker shifted back against the wall, looking infinitely
disgruntled.  "Stupid-ass Texans.  No ear for subtext, none at all."  He
looked down to fish out a cigarette, and thus completely missed the
dangerous glint that had appeared in the other's eye.  "Hey, badger boy,
you at least got a light?"
    For the first time, Dylan grinned.  "Oh yes."
    A few moments later, he stepped out of the alley, brushing his
sleeves clean.  "Call _me_ badger boy?  Fucking bonehead."  A few wisps of
smoke trailed after him, and he inhaled with satisfaction.  "Napalm in the
morning, baby.  Clears out the sinuses like a dream."  A second passed
while he savored the familiar aroma; then he shrugged, smiled, and strode
off down the road.  A new day was dawning on rasfwr-j.

****
    Andrea was staring silently out the window of the train when the
newsgroup first appeared on the horizon.  As always, the first sight of
rasfwr-j momentarily took her breath away: the sheer shining glory of
uncorrupted human discourse thrusting out beyond the virtual skyline made
her want to cry out in triumph.  Countless posts flashed across its
surface every minute and were gone.  The great walkways were crammed with
passers-by, pausing to lurk in awe at the gloriously artificial construct.
As she watched, a great burst of flame erupted along one side, leaving two
trolling 'bots and one clumsy AOLler plunging senseless through the
cybersphere.  Andrea found herself wanting to cheer.
    It was the least natural and the most beautiful thing she had ever
seen.  She could never understand how people could be amazed by the
complexity of their own minds and yet despise the newsgroup.  Poor,
mindless nature had produced the human brain-- but the human brain had
produced Usenet, and in that lay its glory.
    As they drew closer, her initial excitement began to fade
slightly.  There were blemishes on the face of the newsgroup that were
less apparent at a distance.  Trolls had carved out deep, rutted gorges in
which to escape retaliation; "your meen to newbies" was etched in acidic
bile on multiple walls; long, charred smears marked the impact of
countless boneheads, burning up on entry.  And with a faint shudder,
Andrea noticed the ever-increasing number of fine black wires stretching
out from the newsgroup into the distance.  Pulsing with darkness and
corruption, they indicated a crosspost to alt.fan.robert.jordan.
    Behind her, disturbing her thoughts, she heard a nasal, plaintive
voice. "i dont see whats so special about it, the whole things a bit
contrived, a bit unnatural, everyone here thinks theyre so special so
smart so cool, trying to start an elite on the net but the nets 4 everyone
isnt it"
    "HELLS yes!  Those STOOPID BOLLOCKS dunno what a REAL groop OUGHTA
be like!!!!"  The second voice was thick, deep, and belligerent, and gave
the impression that the speaker knew what he believed even if he knew
absolutely nothing else.
    "i ask u... they try 2 make us spell and write the way they like
but who made them god thats what i want know, who gave them the right 2
say whether or not im writing my posts the right way when they flame
everybody they dont like"
    "THEY got some BLOODY NERVE, thats what *I* SAY to the STOOPID
ASS-biters!  WEve OUR rights too, dont WE!!  Weve as MUCH RIGHT to post
HErE or ANWHERE as they DO (or DONT, heh heh heh)!!!!"
    "theres no sense of equality here, thats the problem, its those
oldbies those regulars those knownothing arrogant fools who think theyre
better than everyone else, but theyre no better, no better, we are equal
to them, every1 has the same rights on usenet"
    Andrea turned around.  "I'm a regular poster to rasfwr-j."  Her
voice was even and self-confident, with a hint of challenge.  The two men
sitting behind her gave a start and were silent.  "Who are you two?"
    The smaller, narrow-faced man answered grudgingly.  "im
asmodean12, hes NargLord, and im from america online... u know, america,
as in democracy"  He paused significantly, raising one eyebrow.
"democracy... we believe in democracy, in the rights of all the pepole, in
the equality of everybody, dont u and your friends"
    "Democracy doesn't mean the absence of standards."  Andrea looked
away coldly.  "There's still a right way to do things-- and a wrong way."
    asmodean12 quickly raised his hands, shrinking back into the
chair.  "of course there is, i wouldnt say no 2 that, your quite right but
still theres room 4 difference of opinion isnt there"
    "DAMNRIgHT!!" expostulated his larger companion.  "Who CARES about
    The little man shrugged.  "who is john novak?"
    "What?"  Andrea's head snapped around.  "What do you mean by
that?"
    asmodean12 blinked and rubbed his hands together nervously.  "i...
i... its just a phrase, just a way of speaking, i dont know... it means
who cares, whats the difference, does it matter really...  everybody says
it these days"
    Andrea slowly sat back, feeling a strong repulsion in the pit of
her stomach for no reason she could name.  "I would appreciate your not
saying it around me, thank you very much."
    "of course of course, meaningless phrase, ill never say it ever
again"  The narrow-faced man cast apologetic glances at her and his big
friend, who was looking somewhat bemused.  "so... youre going to the
newsgroup, ms, i see, is there some special reason"
    "I'm going to a party."  She kept her voice cool and steady.
    "THE party?!"  NargLord leaned toward her, smelling of sweat.
"The ONE thrown by MISTER bloody MILLIONaire FLAVIO d'ARIllo?"
    The fine, sculpted line of Andrea's lips tightened slightly.
"Yes."
    "flavio d arrillo, the playboy, the rich young lawyer who spends
money like water?"  asmodean12 sounded genuinely interested.  "i heard hes
invited everyone on the newsgroup to this party, even the ones who still
think arangar is lanfear"
    "He has."  Andrea refused to let her feelings at the betrayal
creep into her voice.  "We were friends, once.  But we haven't... posted
to the same threads in some time now."  There was something in her cold,
emotionless tone that silenced her two traveling companions for the next
few minutes.
    Finally, the train came to a halt and asmodean12 stood.  "well
this is our connection... i hope you enjoy the party, i hear all the cool
pepole will be there, at flavios personal invitation..."  Her expression
of pure contempt brought him to a stammering halt.  With a final mutter of
"fascist elite oldbie," he and his friend hurried off and left her alone.

****
    The first person Andrea saw when she got off the train was the man
on the soapbox.  He was gaunt, with cold, empty eyes, and hung about his
neck was a sign bearing the words EQUALITY FOR ALL NEWSGROUPS.  A long
black wire trailed off from him into the distance.  Narrowing her eyes,
Andrea moved close enough to distinguish what he was shouting from the
noise of the crowd.
    "... For years, this so-called, self-proclaimed Cabal has
attempted to undermine the People's Group of alt.fan.robert.jordan!  They
have failed again and again, ladies and gentlemen, because their elitism
is no match, I say NO match, for the will of the People!  We have refused,
and we will refuse, to bow to their arrogantly imposed standards.  We have
refused, and we will refuse, to be tainted by their superior, unfriendly,
inhuman attitude.  We spit on their FAQ, ignore their cross-posts and
laugh off their flames.  We don't need them, or their atmosphere of
self-righteous cynicism!"
    Andrea pushed through the audience of gawking newbies in search of
another regular.  Surely someone would show up to counter this nonsense.
    "Despite all their attempts to sabotage our People's Group, the
rasfwr-j Cabal has dwindled, while we grow stronger!  Yet in their
arrogance, they continue to insist that there should be only _one_
newsgroup, only _one_ forum for the discussion of the Creator's Works!
And perhaps-- just perhaps-- they are right."  The gaunt speaker paused
dramatically.  "But they make the mistake of assuming that that one
newsgroup will be theirs!  For the first time, our group has the power to
assert itself against the forces of elitism-- to demand that rasfwr-j
follow the will of the people and merge itself into afrj!  The tables have
turned, and the advantage is ours, now!"
    Andrea barely managed to stifle an incredulous laugh.  She was
already opening her mouth to deride the very concept of such a merger,
when suddenly she spotted a familiar face on the far side of the crowd.
The woman standing there had the face and demeanor of a bird of prey, and
was wearing an X-men t-shirt.  Feeling a sudden surge of relief, Andrea
strode toward her.
    "Hawk!  How have you been?  Why on earth aren't you saying
anything to shut this idiot up?"
    "Hello, Andrea."  Her voice was strangely subdued-- not at all
like the Hawk Andrea remembered.  "You've been away for a while, I see."
    "Well, yes."  Glancing around, she wasn't quite sure of what else
to say.  "Where's Bill?  I haven't seen him around for even longer."
    "Bill's gone."  She said it matter-of-factly, as if she hardly
cared.
    Andrea blinked.  "Gone?  You mean, he's left the group?"  The
prospect was almost unthinkable.
    Hawk fell silent, and a sardonic voice from behind them answered.
"Yes, that more or less sums up the situation."  Turning, Andrea came face
to face with a young man wearing a ten-gallon hat and a "Hello, my name's
BONEHEAD" label pinned to his shirt.
    "Dylan."  Her voice was flat.  "What do you mean, Bill's gone?"
    "He was one of the first."  Dylan shrugged.  "Hawk probably knows
more than I do; all I can tell you is that one day he up and dismantled
his humor page, stopped posting, and hasn't been heard from since.  Within
a couple days, Ken Caveness and Mike Hoye were gone as well, and Becky
Slitt the following week.  We rasfwr-j regulars are becoming an endangered
species, sweetheart."
    Hawk spoke bitterly.  "And don't we all wish that some of the
remaining ones would leave..."  Several seconds of silence ensued while
Andrea waited patiently for the exchange of "Bite me"s to begin.  Then she
suddenly realized that Dylan was nodding grimly-- that, contrary to all
reasonable expectation, Hawk had been referring to someone else.  Andrea
looked over at her, feeling a strange sensation of expectant dread.
    "You're here for Flavio's party, aren't you?"  The other woman's
voice was almost gentle.  "I don't think you'll find many old friends
there.  He's changed, Andrea... changed a great deal."
    Dylan snorted.  "The day I hear him ask me 'who is John Novak?' is
the day I flame him off the froup, Cabal member or no Cabal member."  He
glanced back up at the afrj speaker, who was still in mid-tirade.  "But if
you'll excuse me, I think for the moment I have a more pressing target."
He strode off through the crowd, ignoring the indignant yelps as he
deliberately trod on people's toes.
    Andrea turned back to Hawk, incomprehension furrowing her strong,
finely sculpted features.  "I don't understand.  What made Bill decide to
leave?  He was well-respected here, and everyone enjoyed his humor page.
Especially after it acquired that hilarious Hair Loss parody..."  She
paused, not quite sure what had made her say that, then shrugged
helplessly.  "I mean, if he was upset about this whole Flavio thing..."
    "Oh, it's much more than that.  Just look around you."  Sounding
more despondent than ever, Hawk waved one hand in the hair.  "These
People's Newsgroup speakers keep popping up faster than we can flame them
down.  No one even tries to format their posts correctly, except a handful
of aging regulars.  Most newbies now refuse to read the FAQ as a matter of
principle.  Everyone just trudges about apathetically asking who John
Novak is, as if anyone knew.  I tell you, Andrea... sometimes I feel like
leaving myself."
    "What?"  Andrea suddenly felt like her last foothold was beginning
to crumble.  "But... you couldn't possibly leave!  Don't the rest of
us...?  No, that's unworthy of us both.  But doesn't the future of
rasfwr-j mean anything to you?  Hawk, you loved this group like it was
your child!"
    "Excuse me?"  There was suddenly a dangerous glint in the other
woman's eye.
    "Well... like it was your sister, then," Andrea stammered.  "How
can you abandon it all now?"
    Hawk shrugged.  "Lurk around for a few days, and I think you'll
see.  No one wants us here any more, so what's the point?"  Eyes sad, she
turned to walk away.  Then she glanced back, just as the gaunt speaker
burst into flames.  "Enjoy the party, Andrea.  Give my regards to Mr.
d'Arrillo."

****
    The party was well underway when Andrea arrived.  She walked
calmly into the brightly lit ballroom, holding herself haughtily aloof to
conceal the sick hollowness in her stomach.  All around, like leeches
starving for life and vitality, the guests mingled: Haywar67 stood in one
corner swapping epithets with fafnir, and moridin666 was already halfway
under the table.  Boneheads, newbies, and trolls, every one-- who despised
and feared their host for his greatness, even while feeding on his
sophistication.  Andrea could understand them all too well; what she could
not and would never comprehend was why their host allowed them to feed.
    Flavio d'Arrillo was conversing pleasantly with three guests in
one corner of the room.  His face was as she remembered it-- an assembly
of hard, angular planes, like the cover of a high school geometry
textbook-- and had lost none of its old self-possession.  As she
approached, Andrea was relieved to note that he had also retained his
famous polished courtesy, even since his unaccountable transformation into
a cheap and hedonistic playboy.  Then she overheard his last words to one
of his three companions.
    "...But I do hear what you're saying about Robert Jordan stealing
countless story elements from Dune.  It's rather an original point, I
think, and one that bears further consideration when I have the time."
    Heart sinking, Andrea stood to one side and listened.  Another of
the three newbies was speaking.  "As long as we're talking about the Aiel,
I thought their military tactics were really cool!  A whole army of great
fighters moving through the desert en masse and outrunning horses to take
over walled cities must be one of the best ideas the Creator's had yet!  I
can't wait for them to start working with the Ashaman!"
    Andrea thought she was the only one who detected Flavio's barely
perceptible flinch.  His smooth voice certainly betrayed nothing as he
said, "Actually, I hadn't thought about the military aspect of the series
all that much.  I just supposed that since Jordan attended the Citadel, he
knew what he was doing in writing the battle scenes...  Oh, you didn't
know he was a Citadel graduate?..."
    At this point, Andrea finally cleared her throat and stepped
forward.  Flavio's eyes brightened, and he gracefully kissed her extended
hand.  "You must excuse me, I'm afraid... this is Miss Leistra.  She and I
are old friends."  Without waiting for an answer, he strode over to the
nearest bay window; there he stopped, and smiled winningly at her.
"Hello, Andrea.  How have you been?"
    "I'd heard you'd changed, Flavio," she said steadily, refusing to
surrender to his cheery self-assertiveness.  "I couldn't believe you'd
changed this much."
    He raised one finely sculpted eyebrow.  "Changed, Miss Leistra?  I
can't imagine what you're talking about."  Before she could say anything,
he glanced over her shoulder and sighed.  "I'm afraid we're about to be
interrupted."
    A rather harried-looking young man with _The Wealth of Nations_
tucked under one arm pushed brusquely past her to accost their host.
"Forty-two years, Mister d'Arrillo!  That's not what I said, but surely
you must see that there are no more reserves except the ones we have yet
to find and the Middle East cannot long retain its relevance under these
circumstances."
    Flavio paused for a long moment, staring coldly at the intruder,
and opened his mouth as if to speak.  Then he smiled, almost beatifically,
and shrugged.  "Whatever you say, Prasenjit.  You're right, I'm sure."
    The young man paused, taken aback.  "But surely some difference of
opinion is justified given the admittedly unlikely scenario I outline...
I mean...  have you no respect for these opinions?"
    "Have you any respect for them?"  The question was light but hard.
"If you did, I'm sure you'd offer some sort of facts to bolster them and
not waste our time with sophomoric prattle.  But frankly, I've more or
less lost interest in facts.  As you say, it's all a question of opinion--
so by all means, let us ignore the Arabs."
    "Flavio!"  The shock was too much to bear.  Andrea brushed past
the dumbfounded neo-Malthusian and grabbed the smiling lawyer's shoulder.
"You don't mean that.  Tell me you don't mean what you just said-- about
fact and opinion.  Tell me they haven't got you."
    Flavio drew her away from the crowd, an ironic smile on his
perfectly proportioned face.  When none of the other guests could hear
them, he spoke gently.  "What's the point, Miss Leistra?  They claim that
their right to an opinion is more important than their responsibility to
live in the real world.  Who am I to disillusion them?  It's a futile and
thankless job, and I see no reason to attempt it further."
    Andrea stepped back, feeling something die within her.  "I suppose
you're right, Mr. d'Arrillo," she said dully.  "What's the point?  Who is
John Novak?"
    A strange glint came into her host's eye.  "That's a vile phrase."
    "I know-- I hated it too, from the first moment I heard it."
Suddenly, she felt ashamed.  "It's just... it's on everyone's tongue these
days.  I guess it's contagious."
    "But you see, I know the answer."  Flavio smiled, a bit sadly.  "I
know exactly who John Novak is."
    For no accountable reason, Andrea felt her heart leap.  "You do?"
    "Yes."  Flavio's eyes were distant as he spoke.  "John Novak was a
Teaching Assistant who was forced to grade the final exams of two hundred
worthless and lazy undergraduates.  Not a single exam deserved better than
a C+, but the students protested loudly, demanding that he grade them by
curve, and threatened him with the loss of his job if he didn't comply.
So he took all the exams, publicly marked them all with an F, then burned
them in the quad and shoved the ashes down his students' throats.  And
then he vanished forever, one step ahead of the official academic
reprimand, and no one has seen him since."
    "Oh."  Andrea was a bit taken aback.  "Well.  That wasn't quite
what I'd expected, I suppose."
    The young d'Arrillo's gaze abruptly snapped back into reality.
"It's just a rather contrived metaphor, my dear Ms. Leistra.  I'll explain
it to you some other time... but for now, good night."
    He really did have finely shaped cheekbones.  Her eyes were sad as
she bowed back.  "Good night, then, Flavio."

****

[continued]