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Entropy Issue 05
Entropy
Issue 5
96.04.01
Contents:
1. How to get in touch with the authors
2. Editorial
3. GET.CLUES.FAST by CancelBot [Parody]
4. untitled by Paul Zanca [Fiction]
5. Sacred Thermometer by Matthew Samet [Fiction]
6. Lamer of the month
7. Submission guidelines
How to get in touch with the authors:
Legion: spordon@nyx.net or on one of several fine 303 boards
CancelBot: mross@gatewest.net
Paul Zanca: pjz@friday.houston.net
Matthew Samet: samet@ucsub.colorado.edu
Legal Information:
Stories are owned by their respective authors, who hold full copyright (c)
to their work. You *must* contact the author if you wish to reprint his or her
work. If the author you wish to contact does not have an e-mail address, you
may contact Legion (Steve Pordon), who will relay your messages (put "For
<Author>" in the subject line if you don't want me accidentally reading your
mail. If I know the author personally, I will print the letter and give it to
him or her by hand or by snail mail, so don't write anything sensitive). All
other text in _Entropy_ is (c) Steve Pordon and may not be reprinted without
written permission. Violations of these copyright guidelines may lead to
e-mail bombing or spontaneous combustion.
* * *
The likenesses of Tom Servo, Joel, and Crow (pictured on the cover) are
copyrighted by whichever company produces _Mystery Science Theater
3000_.
* * *
The cover of _Entropy 2_ contained a _Peanuts_ comic strip. The strip is
(c) Charles Schultz and whoever his syndication distributor is (World
Features Syndicate?).
Editorial:
About the cover: Holy shit, that Lens Flare filter looks cool. Well,
what can I say? I have MST3K fever. If you don't know what I'm talking
about, and if you don't know who those silhouettes at the bottom of the
picture are, then turn off your computer, go turn on your TV, put it on
the UPN station (channel 20 in 303 if you don't have cable), and sit
there until Saturday night at 1.30 (MST). Then watch Mystery Science
Theater 3000.
You goobers who are receiving this through usenet or the mailing list
are really missing out on the .jpg cover this month. I never brag, but
this is the best fucking work of art in the western hemisphere . . . uh,
anyhow, go pick up the full _Entropy 5_ package at ftp://ftp.netcom.com
/pub/wr/wraveth/entropy. Speaking of which . . . if you want to become a
mailing list goober yourself, drop me a line.
* * *
Loser Corporate Fucks of the Month: EMI inc. The record company. They
made vague threats toward the University of Nevada for the
ftp.nevada.edu archive, best known for its extensive collection of
guitar tablature transcribed by fans (I transcribed some tabs myself,
back in the days when I had lots of time). EMI is apparently upset that
fans transcribed songs by EMI artists. The nevada guitar archive has
been shut down indefinitely.
This is not a matter of copyright infringement. These songs were
transcribed by hard-working, average schmoes who distributed *their*
transcriptions for free. The tabs are not meant to be used by bands for
performance or recording; they were created for people to learn how to
play the guitar. This is a matter of a corporation trying to control
people and gain more money. I wonder how many guitar tab books EMI
publishes? EMI is telling us that our transcriptions are not good enough; we
must buy EMI's products in order to learn songs we'd like to play.
Fuck you, EMI, fuck you and your subsidiaries. How many of your bands
know about your actions with regard to the nevada guitar archive? I will
continue to make the tablature that *I* spend time transcribing
available to all who want it. I will continue to use this space to shed
light on your actions. I will continue to spit in your face and show
other people why EMI is an especially despised corporation.
* * *
Mayhem and sacrilege abound in this issue. Enjoy. . . .
*******************ATTENTION NEWBIES AND LURKERS******************
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>GET.CLUES.FAST(c)<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
YOU CAN'T miss this exciting opportunity to actually GET A CLUE! That's right,
you no longer have to be a net.loser, be flamed, or be ignored because of your
terminal ignorance. After just a few SIMPLE CLUES you can:
1)LEARN HOW TO READ HEADERS, so you actually know where you're posting.
2)SET YOUR EDITOR TO 80 columns, so your mindless posts don't scroll off the
edge of the screen.
3)Acually FOLLOW A THREAD, instead of bleating unrelated nonsense in reply to
every post.
4)EDIT YOUR POSTS to a readable form.
5)Understand NET.TERMS like Fuckhead, Spanked and Troll.
6)Respond WITHOUT QUOTING THE ENTIRE POST you're replying to.
7)DISCOVER WHERE YOUR CAPS LOCK KEY IS.
8)Learn HOW CROSSPOSTING WORKS.
9)Explore the RULES OF SYNTAX.
10)Practice your SPELLING and TYPING.
11)Learn how to determine attributions and actually RESPOND TO THE CORRECT
PERSON.
12)Arrange a series of alpha characters into an ACTUAL WORD.
13)After learning the "word concept," learn constructs like SENTENCES and
PARAGRAPHS.
14)Finally, use these concepts to CONVEY YOUR WORTHLESS THOUGHTS to the rest
of the net.denizens, who might ACTUALLY READ YOUR POSTS.
THIS IS NOT A SCAM!!! YOU TOO, can be part of net.culture, with just a few
SIMPLE CLUES.
DON'T take the chance of becoming another Bill PAAAAALmer of USENET.
!!!!!!!!SUBSCRIBE NOW!!!!!!!!
You can't afford NOT to GET A CLUE. Your NEWBIE CLUE PACKAGE is waiting to be
emailed DIRECTLY TO YOUR ACCOUNT. For only $99.99, you get ALL THESE CLUES
PLUS our informative references, "Flames for Retards," "Spot the Newbie" and
"The babak FAQ" and as an EXTRA SPECIAL BONUS, a copy of the Bill PAAAAALmer
autobiography, "Indefensible Target."
DON'T DELAY!, send your credit card number NOW, or remain a clueless newbie
bastard for eternity.
A work in progress
He was quick, for such a big man.
As he advanced on me, he hammered me in the solar plexus with his
black-gloved hand. I didn't even see him move. His hands were up, defending
his upper body; then one of them was practically breaking my sternum. I
coughed and backed up some more.
I executed a complicated feint at his face, hoping it would back him off.
He just kept his hands up and kept coming. I couldn't breathe.
I tried a low body combination. He batted my hands away and hit me three
times, ribs, ribs, solar plexus again. One-two-three. *Bapbapbap.* God, he
was quick.
He was taking my air. I couldn't breathe. The crowd was roaring Kyle
Mormon's name. *They're not supposed to do that,* I thought. *I'm the champ.
They're supposed to be cheering for me.*
He came at me with an overhand launching of that massive black fist.
Both of my arms went up and crossed at the wrist in a high block, which
barely held. Darting my left hand forward and down, I managed to hit him,
near the pit of his right elbow. I missed the nerve point; he didn't even
seem to notice the strike.
I started to get scared.
* * *
The bell rang. I thanked God and almost staggered on the way back to my
corner.
Frank and Jesse were there with the stool. I flopped onto it. Jesse
splashed me with a little water and wiped it off, while Frank pressed an
oxygen mask against my nose. I was breathing in tiny gasps, very rapidly.
As I got a few sips of the oxygen, my breathing slowed down some. I nodded
gratefully to Frank and he pulled it away.
"You okay, Joe?" he asked.
"No, man, he's beating the fuck out of me." I gulped down the water
Jesse squirted into my mouth. "The guy's *fast,* man. Fucking scary."
"Dis bastid's been holdin' back on his way up. I never seen him fight
near dis good." Frank looked worried. Real worried. "You think you can
beat 'im?"
"I dunno, Frank," I said. "I'm scared, man."
"You want me to stop the fight?"
"*No!*" I said fiercely. "I ain't even bloody. I can't lose like this,
man, I can't quit!"
"Okay, Joe. Try to cover up more, boy. Stay away from him." The bell
was about to ring. The card girl made her lap around the ring, her placard
announcing that it was ROUND 2. Frank put my mouthpiece back in. I stood up.
Jesse took the stool away.
The bell rang.
* * *
The guy was built like a Mack truck. As he came out of his corner, he
spread his arms wide and flexed his muscles. Christ, he looked like he was
going to pop, he was so pumped up. He laughed, and came at me.
I met him in the center of the ring, and fired off a series of jabs at
his chin, his nose, and the ridge over his right eye, following them up with
a right uppercut to the chin again. He was so busy showing off his muscles
for the crowd that all of my punches landed, and his head bounced around like
a rubber dog toy. The crowd switched back over to my side.
He shoved me back and shook his head to clear it. He wasn't smiling
anymore. His mouth tightened into a hard white line. The giant black hands
came back up, and he looked over them at me with cold hatred. He squared his
shoulders and came at me again.
"No more games, little nigger," I heard him say around his mouthpiece.
"Now you gon' die." I was too slow to dodge the tremendous straight-on right
jab that fell on my face like an anvil, or the hammerlike left that followed
it. I almost went down.
He waited.
I shot a weak left at his midsection, and he swatted it away. Then there
was that huge fist in my solar plexus again, practically blowing my spine out.
I felt ribs break, and all my breath left me in a loud *Whuff!* I bent over,
and his other fist smiled up at me and said hello to my face and straightened
me up, lifted my feet from the ground. I don't remember landing; I must have
passed out for a second.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on the mat and the referee was trying
to push Mormon back to his corner. The big man grabbed the ref by the face
and shoved him away, and he reached for me. He picked me up by the throat.
The reflex armor there didn't interpret his grab as a blow, so it didn't
stiffen up.
I wound up looking out over his head at the roaring crowd, vision graying
as the big man's thumb pressed down on my carotid artery. I thought something
funny was going on in my brain just then, because I saw in the lower left
corner of my vision the words:
strategy: alert: objective three.
proposed target: 99.9999% certain pattern match.
target #1: acquired.
target #1: locked. tracking.
I was pretty dazed, so I sort of took this for granted. As I hung there,
getting numb, blacking out, weightless, I saw the words "first aid: extensive
body damage," and thought, *No shit.* When I read:
obstacle: tentative identification "bodyguard".
target #2: acquired.
target #2: locked. tracking.
tactical: propose override.
strategy: concur.
volition key: not present.
tactical: going active.
tactical: motor function override initiated.
tactical: 2500ml adrenaline released.
I didn't particularly care. I thought, *Sure, go for it. Okay.*
My chin went down, neck muscles bunched, and Big Boy's thumb was forced
away from my carotid. I could breathe, too. My battered ribcage expanded,
sucked in a lungful of air, and the broken ribs crackled like dry sticks. It
hurt like hell, but I didn't scream.
I saw my hands reach out and rip my opponent's ears off.
He roared like a bull and dropped me. My feet were ready for it; I
landed in a graceful-feeling crouch, though my ribs got jolted again. Down
at the bottom of my vision, I saw:
target #1: lock lost.
The words were flashing. *Hey, that's too bad,* I thought. My eyes were
roaming, left-right, left-right. Laughing Boy must have gotten over the
realization that he didn't have ears anymore, because right then, his left
hand broke my jaw, and almost broke my neck.
first aid: warning: body damage critical. treat for shock. he's dead jim.
first aid: 4ml dopamine released.
first aid: 4ml endorphin released.
first aid: 1000ml vasoconstrictor released.
first aid: 20mg methamphetamine-b released.
The pain all over my body just sort of got really small, like I didn't
have to pay attention to it anymore. My vision got sharp and brittle, like I
was watching everything on television. I felt my head swivel right, back
from where it had been twisted by the punch. I saw the big man's right fist
screaming in toward my face. I heard the bell ringing frantically, the
referee's pleading shouts, the thunder of the crowd. I watched as my left
hand reached out and grappled the enormous incoming fist. I marveled at the
ease with which his wrist broke, and felt my right thumb angle its knuckle
away from my other hand. I was entranced by the beauty of the motion of that
hand as it swept up, gracefully, with impossible speed, and buried the knuckle
of the thumb in the big man's temple. He was dead before he hit the mat.
target #2: lock dropped.
obstacle: removed.
I was hearing a high-pitched keening sound that I hadn't noticed before.
I felt very light, as if I was made of air. I felt like I was going to blow
away. I was seeing in bright flashes now, like strobe lights in a nightclub.
It was pretty trippy.
first aid: advise shutdown now.
tactical: no threats present. target #1 lost. critical body damage.
tactical: propose defer objective three.
strategy: concur.
*Hey!* I thought giddily. *I can do it! I just dropped Mr. Badass in
two rounds, by God! Lemme at 'em!*
tactical: motor control override dropped.
shutting down.
I went out like a light.
[Ed. note: this better be the beginning of a serial, Zanca. :) ]
Sacred Thermometer
I'm as bitter as a chalice of battery acid now, a defrocked priest
stumbling from saint to saint, victim to victim. I was 16 when it all
began, the lust, the sins and the careless dismissal of hell's omnipresent
threat. No man is a castle, buffeted from the earthly temptations of young
flesh, and so it was that I ended up in the hospital that ghastly morning,
purging my vices during a quasi-necro-pedophilic hour of sweaty
bacchanalia.
I had already been sent to the Servants of the Paraclete, a retreat for
misguided, alcoholic and confused clergy deep in the Jemez mountains north
of Albuquerque. Surrounded by ponderosa pines reeking of vanilla and
shoved to and fro by a sulfur-scented wind, we would shuffle daily from
mass to counseling to nature walks to dinner and solitary prayer in our
Spartan, white-washed rooms. Only I wouldn't pray--pulling on my
sacrosanct pecker was about as close to God as I ever wanted to be, and
Jesus's gaping mouth would swallow a good half pint of semen a week if I
was truly in form (not the black velvet Jesus, but a true-to-god plaster of
Paris statuette). Anyways, Paraclete sounded too much like parakeet , and
after four years given to the Catholic church, I was fucked if some twitte
ring little half-bird would save me from my manifest fuck-thirst.
How did I, Stephen Martinez, a good boy raised indifferently in the
dusty road-side strip of houses called Pea Blanca, New Mexico, turn out to
be a priest, and why such a warped one at that? The answer is
simple--depravity born of boredom and ribald curiosity.
The priest of our village, Father Javier Gonzales, a balding fiftyish
man with sweaty palms and eyes as flat as fish eggs had coached me well
when I was a choir boy. He would make me stay late, long after mass was
over. He would run his stubby fingers through my thick hair as I
extinguished the candles by pinching the flame between my thumb and index
finger, occasionally leaning over my shoulder and rubbing my neck as each
candle was snuffed. It was only that one day during confession, when I was
12 and beginning to sprout beastly hair on my boy-smooth body that he
called me in for a special confessional. "My son, Stephen, tell me--have
you violated any of the Ten Commandments, any of our God's laws?" he had
whispered in my ear as I sat in his lap, both of us on the same side of the
confessional box. I had looked around desperately, seeking an escape or
some sort of half-baked excuse, but nothing came to mind, so I scratched
my feet about on the graying pion floor and mumbled incoherently about
being more or less pure and wanting to leave, to go home and slop the hogs
in our muddy yard and stare at the snow collecting high above on Redondo
peak.
But he wouldn't take no for an answer, and as I squirmed out of his
grasp, Gonzales grabbed my balls in an appallingly tight vice grip, locking
me to the spot.
"You will go into the priesthood, my son," he breathed heavy on my
cheek, stroking my inner thigh the whole time. I deflected myself, intent
on the image of the dead road-side horse, legs akimbo and stiff, blood on
the highway for weeks before one of our lazy-ass neighbors managed to
slough the thing off into a ditch. Maana for the horse's corpse, maana
for the ceding of the ass. "But first you must show your love for God, your
respect for his chosen." And with this his elb was pulled up around his
waist, his salty penis shoved in my mouth, and me, paralyzed and sucking
air through my nose, had no choice but to indulge the man. Wet and sloppy,
like the hogs, but with a view of pubic hair, not a volcanic dome, and soon
I was cross-eyed with repulsion and pleasure. I finally gagged on his
jick, thinking that the virgin Mary never had to give blow-jobs to
tottering, rotten priests reeking of lust and sacramental wine, but what
the hell, my vocation was chosen. For I realized that a taste for dick,
especially young, clean dick, was best satisfied by sidling in close to the
source. And the source was god and his shit-ridden brethren, slavering
hearty over a chunk of eternal salvation as a reward for suffering the
dust-blown mundanity of northern New Mexico.
The young, doe-eyed, soft mouth human beasts that trampled to church
every Sunday were left in the care of asexual, non-threatening priests who
proceeded to defile every young hole in the children's bodies as soon as
the parents went home after mass (Sunday school, to the uninitiated). And
what is mass but ass with an "m" and m stands for masochist which is all
the little bastards and their blank-eyed parents ever will be in a town
where horses rot roadside.
Yes I am a priest, but before I ever even entertained notions of some
sort of higher power, images of butt-fucking and candle wax dripping on
smooth young backs tantalized me more than those far-flung notions of God
and all his inane rules. The ass was all, and if posing as a conscientious
priest brought me closer to young ass, then so be it. I entered the
seminary when I was 16, usurping all the high-hair sluts and cholo
low-rider bastards who played pretend at having fun every Saturday night
in our one-horse anus of a town. I would be a priest, I would help the
children, and I would poke my sacred cock in any orifice I wanted to.
After all, God had already showed me that it was OK.
But lo and behold, I was caught; a carper, bitching and pissing into
the wind about defiled this and violated that went sniffling to the
archdiocese in Santa Fe and suddenly I was under investigation. Verdict
guilty as handed down by Bishop Alfonse, a slick-back hard-hitter with
enough grease in his hair and on his palms to run the whole Catholic church
with one hand down his pants. Me--guilty as charged. But such shit
really, with the ass being all and everything, and Pea Blanca going
neither here nor there without me, everyone defiled by someone (usually a
cousin or brother in the long run) as sure as the arroyos ran swift and
deep with green water every March.
And so off to the Paraclete it was, a "retreat" "nestled" in the
tranquil Jemez valley, pock-marked cliffs of ash high above screaming
"Hole...hole...hole..." in the angry evening sun. And I would walk up to
the tent rocks every day, cones of pumice and ash shaped like tattered
tents, like upside-down traffic cones and I would light candles in the
holes and pray to God? but it would usually end up with the image of some
spry little Mexican boy on all-fours, his hole the volcanic hole and before
I knew it I was auto-shagging, too weak at the knees to stand aright at
the moment of truth and collapsing into the popcorn earth, the smell of
sulfur wafting up hot from the springs below.
Treatment followed (visit the children, rebuild a mutual trust sans
the diddling and befouling) and now I will end this tale with an anecdote,
one to grow on, an experience learned by me and surely comprehensible to
those not even of the Catholic persuasion.
To overcome my lust, to cast off the pederast lurking beneath my black
robes, I was to work again with the children. But the sick children, those
dying and weak and tubified in hospitals down in Albuquerque, and I was
only to converse with them, to reassure us both that god frowned on the
bad and we would heal each other copacetically, without penetration.
All was well for the first few weeks as I stayed at Our Lady of
Fatima's dorm residence, hard behind Lomas avenue, two miles from
Presbyterian hospital where the children's ward gave solace to I, the
ever-penitent and recovering priest. But the night was oh so sordid, a
semen-stenched raunch in fudge-pack park (actually Sunshine park between
Lead and Coal streets), me always the priest, the hole-for-hire usually a
man in a mini-skirt named Juan who regretted leaving Juarez for greener
grass to the north, but who would accommodate just about any heinous act
for ten clams.
And it still wasn't enough and this led to the episode, one you can
even look up in the archives of the Albuquerque Journal if you remain
shock-shocked with incredulity, or are just sickly curious.
It was Wednesday, dirty Wednesday, with dust devils and diesel buses
and rolling beer cans that I arrived at the hospital, thirsty and hungry
for the ass, pockets empty, craving again the hallowed frock that
guaranteed me all the little-boy-I-could-eat.
And so the slouch, sway-back and puff-lipped nurse directed me to
little "Timmy's" room (name changed to protect the orifice), and so I
sidled in, recuperating, recovering a false faith as my pecker stiffened at
the sight of a helpless body clad head-to-foot in a body cast.
Lest you think I'm a rapist let me just tell you that Timmy smiled at
me as I came in, a sexual jeering-leer up-whipping his lips into a wanton
smile (even though his head was also obscured by bandages), and I could see
the monkey-lust etched in his bones.
As he was already blissed out on morphine (having survived a horrible
car accident in which everyone he knew on earth was killed by a cow in the
middle of the highway), it occurred to me that he no longer had need of his
steady-drip morphine IV, which I promptly relocated into my arm.
But timing is all, and I knew I had to shoot my load before I became
too stoned, what with the bollocks becoming all-confused by the opiates and
what-not, so I quickly sliced a hole in the cast around Timmy's tulip anus,
yanking free the colostomy bag and casting it into the corner where it
exploded, brown, depressing.
He moaned a bit, "Urgh, urght, Nonnn, donnnnnnt," but I plugged my
ears with bits of sheet torn from the bed and fucked him hard with a
spit-shined phallus.
But that still wasn't enough, and I was beginning to bliss out and at
this point only the little mouth would serve, but it too was obscured by a
swathing of bandages, only the nostrils free for breathing and
tube-feeding. Out with the knife, another slit made below the nostril
holes, and this time no verbal complaints, only a slight shuddering from
below as Timmy thrutched about in a sort of defeated agony. Weak winter
sun poured through the window, and as I caught my palpitating shadow
dancing up and down on the yellowing wall, a divine pride grabbed me,
straight by the ball sack and as I was about to shoot. . . .
The little imp had pressed the nurse call button and in she came
bursting, hair aflurry, lips pursed in a puzzled Y, eyes aflame with
disbelief. I withdrew, veins running and pulsing and snaking through my
man-shaft, the whole scene painted in January grey and hospital yellow. I
didn't bother to tuck myself back in.
"What....wha....wha....are you doing?" she stammered, and Timmy rolled
about a bit, trying to spit his mouth clean through the small hole in his
body cast.
I reposed, composed, and answered.
"I was taking his temperature," I mumbled, and the sky split open like
the Magdalene's tattered old cunt.
Lamer of the month
From: satanyuppi@aol.com (Satanyuppi)
Newsgroups: alt.flame
Subject: I AM A GAY NEO-NAZI NECROPHILLE
Date: 4 Feb 1996 21:54:07 -0500
Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364)
Lines: 1
Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com
Message-ID: <4f3rgf$ma@newsbf02.news.aol.com>
Reply-To: satanyuppi@aol.com (Satanyuppi)
But I am
[Ed. note: this is the loser who made several posts to alt.flame whining
about "faggots." I think he got upset at the distinct lack of attention
the regulars were paying to him, so he tried this post. Congrats,
"satanyuppi"...you finally got the attention you deserve. Fuckhead.]
How to submit:
Entropy will be dedicated to distributing quality fiction to the electronic
masses. It will also be a (limited) forum for political articles and possibly
a small amount of non-fiction. The ratio of Fiction to Non-fiction will be
approximately 90%-10%. I will review submissions in the following categories:
Fiction
Sci-Fi
Horror
Comedy
Mainstream
Fantasy
Quasi-Fiction
Humor (Dave Barry- or PLA-type humor)
Non-Fiction
Political commentary
Reviews
Games (arcade or home systems)
Books
Movies
Other zines
Current-events or newsworthy stories
By "Dave Barry- or PLA-type humor," I mean the kind of humor that starts out
as an anecdote from reality which quickly introduces elements of hyperbole,
or actual news stories that are genuinely funny without exaggeration.
Be aware that this is by no means a complete list of valid material. If you
have something in mind that you don't see on the list, send me a brief
description of your idea and I will get back to you.
I need VGA art for covers of future issues. Requirements:
- The cover must be in JPG format, preferably uncompressed (maximum
quality).
- I'd prefer the picture to have a sci-fi or fantasy theme, although
others will be considered.
- If you're sending this cover through email, uuencode it first.
- Leave some "dead space" at the top for me to put the Entropy
title and issue number (the title goes at top, but the issue
number can go anywhere)
- Sign your picture unless you want to be anonymous.
- Do not use copyrighted photographs. If you want to alter an
existing photo, try the CorelDraw royalty-free CDROM series (about
$12 - $15 for each disk of 100 photos).
- I like pictures that use a 16.7 million color palette. More
realistic that way.
I've dropped the hack/phreak articles from the guidelines because there
are already several good zines out there for these types of articles,
and I have no interest in competing with them for decent material (I
would lose). Read CoTNo, Hackers, PLA, and the other good ones if you
want decent h/p information.
I can be reached on the internet at spordon@nyx.net. I have a web site
under construction at http://www.nyx.net/~spordon/entropy.html. When I
get around to learning HTML, I plan to put in a link to the current
month's .jpg cover, and possibly the current month's issue.
These guidelines are in revision. Check the site often if you're not
sure of changes in the submission guidelines.
_Entropy_ will now be released on a bimonthly schedule due to a lack of
submissions. The more submissions I get, the more often I can release issues,
and I'm much too busy to fill in the empty portions of each issue every month.
I am accepting guest editorials. Mail 'em in. And I'm always looking for
MAKE.MONEY.FAST parodies.
I've noticed a lack of Fantasy stories in _Entropy_. Fire up those word
processors and send me some Fantasy.
Authors so far may have noticed that I've edited your submissions for
spelling and grammar. I usually try to contact the author for clarification
of specific words or phrases, but I usually throw each issue together at the
last second and sometimes I don't read a story carefully enough before the
deadline.
-Legion
Coming attractions:
Stay tuned for the second part of the "Final Gift" trilogy. I'm also going
to do more parody issues, so send me those send-ups.
