THE LAST HIDDEN ARTICLE
OK. You have hereby succeeded in entering the option which loads
in the notorious hidden article.
Since both Stefan and myself where kinda too lazy to write
another article altogether, we have decided to merge in some more
stuff from the Crazy Letter we gave to the Norwegians when we
visited last winter.
We are very sorry, guys - you have ripped this article for
naught as you already know what in here!
I was beginning to feel a bit strange inside. I felt a
mysterious force pulling me towards a certain place in Utrecht
I felt the feeling for the first just after I had eaten a few
sandwiches. Did the cat sandwich not agree with me?
It was a feeling deep down in my guts, and the sandwich couldn't
possible have arrived there already. I hadn't studied Biology
much, but THIS I knew for sure.
Next, a strange sensation found its way in the sensory nerves of
my brain. At first, I mistook it for an upcoming headache, but as
it gently went on without increasing too much, I realised it had
to be something different.
I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes.
All I saw was a strange orange gleam I had never before seen. An
orange not unlike that of fire, but different. Were my Vietnam
syndromes playing up with me again?
As I opened my eyes, I noticed that I didn't see much except for
something very hazy. I felt sweat. It was in my eyes.
I tried to rub it out, but somehow it refused fanatically.
After several seconds of frantic rubbing, however, I could see
My Queensrÿche T-shirt sat stuck to my back and front.
Why was I sweating this much?
Next came the spasms.
I started making some extremely useless movements, most of which
seemed to try and make me get my keys and make me leave the floor
in search of my bicycle.
Desperately I tried to suppress these uncontrollable movements.
Who was I if I wasn't even in control of myself?
I remembered having had these nauseating feelings and rather
irritating spasms before. They had bothered me several times as I
was sitting alone on a bench with a certain girl after midnight.
I had been able to suppress them then. I would surely be able to
do it now again?
My hands again grabbed my keys and my feet walked me towards the
It wasn't worth fighting. I could no longer resist.
I left the floor in a state of perpetual trance.
Within half a minute, I was located on top of my bicycle - on my
way to an unknown destination.
I felt like a junk. I felt aches and pains throb all over my
body, which would only become slightly less as I took a
correct turn on my way to where fate wanted to have me.
Soon, I found myself in familiar surroundings.
The centre of Utrecht city.
The Dom Tower loomed up high before me as the feeling drew me
on. I passed the 112 metre high tower and took a couple of more
The feelings seemed to leave me alone as I parked my bike in
front of a shop called "White Noise".
The record shop that I have bought at least 100-140 CDs from in
the last year.
I looked around. I feared that everyone was looking at me and
that they saw something rather strange, maybe even alien. I felt
as though I was but a shadow of my former self as I felt the
power surge me inside the shop.
I felt unsafe in there as my hands trembled in search of
something they didn't know. I went through the enormous
collection of CDs there. "Anthrax" .... "Led Zeppelin" ....
"Madonna" .... "McCartney, Paul" ..... "REO Speedwagon" ....
My fingers itched as though they hit electrocuted barbed wire
and started fingering through the Sodom CDs present.
"In the Sign of Evil/Obsessed by Cruelty" .... "Persecution
Mania/Sodomy and Lust" .... "Mortal Way of Live" ....
At the very instant I beheld the package, the feeling left me
completely. I felt as though I woke up. A stranger in a strange
But this land was very familiar.
My own record shop.
My hand took out the package of the new Sodom album. I caught
myself trembling a bit as I walked to the counter and put it on
A man with enormous tattoos, some nasty sunglasses and a huge
belly came to me.
"This one?" he mumbled. In spite of the fact that this purchase
would make him a tiny bit richer, he didn't seem to approve of me
buying ANYTHING now.
I nodded, however, looking around as if scared that someone
might see me doing this. I felt as though I was a naughty little
boy buying his first "Penthouse".
"That'll be 39,95," the man acknowledged as he held the package
with the CD in it before me. He looked at me like a copper that
looks at a small kid that has just pinched a cookie.
I fumbled in my pocket and got a 50 guilder note. I put it in
his massive, fat hand as I looked at the CD package's cover. It
was mainly orange.
Some seconds later, I stood in the middle of the street in the
blazing sun, hiding my purchase from strangers - afraid for hate
I jumped on my bike and drove back to the student's floor.
Another feeling teinted my soul now: A desperate longing to
insert the CD into my CD player and go bananas.
I opened the door to to my room and thought I was being looked
at by accusing eyes.
A quick glance around me reveiled nothing. A door closed,
however, further down the hall.
I waited a couple of more seconds before I entered my room.
I walked immediately to my stereo equipment and pressed the
necessary buttons. A small drawer slid out and I inserted the
silvery disc from the orange package in it. Another button made
sure it closed again and I cranked up the volume.
HEAVY METAL OBLITERATION! SAVAGE RAPE OF MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS!
DEAFENING BEAT TO SPEEDS NEVER BEFORE BEHELD MY MORTALS!
Sodom's latest album, "Agent Orange", is GREAT.
Last saturday, I was visiting Miranda in Holland.
And suddenly I felt myself somehow distracted.
She talked to me but I didn't quite hear.
She kissed me but I didn't quite sense.
I stood up, as if some kind of remote control told me to. A
strange look must no doubt have been visible in my eyes.
Miranda looked at me with her wandering fawnen eyes and I
suddenly also felt guilty though it was entirely out of my power
to react to this feeling of deepest guilt and sadness.
That was all I could succeed in pronouncing.
She asked me what was up.
Again, that was all I could say.
She was threatening with divorce and putting suitcases filled
with my clothes at a certain door (probably hers).
"Yngwie." I said. There was no emotion in my voice. Nothing. My
eyes beheld only a void. I didn't even know what I said.
Miranda later told me that my hands were cramped in a position
like they were playing a Fender Stratocaster with built-in
Rapidly, at at least twenty notes per second, that is.
I jumped in my car (rather, the Ford Escort XR3i Cabrio of the
company that I am borrowing until I will buy my own) and drove
away with squeeling tires.
"Richard!" a girl's voice yelled desperately somewhere behind
me, "Don't do this to me! Not now!"
Yet I was completely rendered mute, immune and senseless.
She started back to her room, crying and shaking with emotions.
With a speed that was no doubt too high, I turned into the
Utrecht city streets. Women screamed and pulled their children
off the street (and sometimes even off the sidewalks).
A car with blue flashlights appeared behind me. The lights were
so blatantly obvious that I couldn't miss 'em, even in my high
state of trance.
The car overtook me (amazing how fast those copper cars can
drive) and made me stop.
A guy wearing a light blue uniform stepped out, and a remarkable
sense of foreboding made him hold his right hand at his hip,
where a handweapon was conveniently located in some kind of
I turned down the window, allowing the guy to press his ID card
in my face.
"Sir, would you please step out of the car?"
I looked at him as though he was my father asking me whether I
would mind a joint (which is a rather remote possibility, to use
just a nice understatement).
That was, again, all I could say.
The police officer, quite obviously not prepared for such an
outrageous insult - for that was what he considered it to be -
took out his gun and stuck it in my left nasal cavity.
Which was rather nice, since I had been experiencing some kind
of itch at my brain's front lobes since a couple of days.
"Freeze, sucker," he growled, "and don't make any hasty
movements or I'll blast your brains all over this neat car's
He must have been joking - or he must not have been joking and
had watched yesterday's police movie.
His colleague stepped out of the car, too, and hastened to my
"Are you out of your mind, Jack!?" he yelled at the guy wielding
the .45, who was apparently not named anything else than 'Jack'.
Jack looked around him as though I (or maybe someone else) was
asking him to stick a joint up his anal muscle.
"Do you play guitar?" the new officer asked.
"Yngwie." I said.
The guy beheld me now as if I had just asked him the question of
Life, the Universe and Everything.
"That explains everything. Let him go, Jack." he said.
Jack still looked kinda strange. He indeed looked as if his
colleague had stuck a whole package of joints up his anal muscle.
I turned the window up again and drove on.
I am not exactly sure to whom I said it.
Anyway, I said it.
Several seconds later, I had the car grind to a halt in front of
a shop called "White Noise".
I opened the car's door, and several moments later that of the
shop. I fell to the ground as the odour of new CDs entered the
cavity that had only recently been occupied by the solid steel of
The itch re-appeared.
Water dripped from my mouth in such enormous quantities that the
shopkeeper looked at me as if I had just offered to shove him
1001 joints up every nostril, anal muscle and eardrum of every
person present in the shop - including himself.
I could just gather enough energy to drag myself to the counter.
The shopkeeper's voice was trembling.
Was it fear or was he stoned?
That's what I said.
The man heaved a deep sigh of relief.
"Jack!" he yelled to another guy who indeed seemed to be working
in that very same shop (many people seem to be named 'Jack' in
Holland, don't you think?). "Here's another one! Give him the new
Malmsteen CD, will ya?"
At the mere mentioning of the name of He Who Plays The Guitar
The Best And The Fastest In The Universe (And Beyond), I started
drooling from every pore, from my ears and even from my nostrils.
From my mouth appeared a sound like thunder mixed with a
bubbly, slimy waterfall of saliva.
Both men inserted a small box in my hands, and lifted my pocket
off the 37 Dutch guilders and 95 cents that the thing appeared to
Overwhelmed with joy and soaking wet with my own saliva, I left
the shop in a state of highest happiness.
That was all I could say (and hear) the rest of the day.
Of course, I know you're aching to read more of the real-time
article of the hypothetical visit of the Nutty Norwegians to
Holland. So we'll give you a treat, and offer you ALL THE REST we
wrote in the Crazy Letter.
Please note: We ran out of inspiration and time during this
Crazy Letter Writing, and thus the actual end of the real time
article is NOT the end of the aforemeant hypothetical visit!
Please note that is is truly tasteless, and it should not be
read if you're fainthearted or called Ken Butler.
HOLD ON TIGHT TO YOUR CHAIRS FOR HERE IS THE NEXT PART
(THOUGH I CAN'T REMEMBER WHICH - PROBABLY THE SECOND)
AND UTTERLY MINDDEVASTATINGLY NUTTY
STORY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED IN HOLLAND
WITH THE NUTTY NORWEGIANS
ON THEIR 'ST KLUBBEN QUEST 1990'!!
Tuesday, July 3rd 1990
I can't seem to remember having gone to bed yesterday evening?
Er...I AM not lying in bed, either?
I AM LYING ON THE FLOOR!!!
I am partly covered by sleeping Norwegians (one of which is
Frøystein, looking peacefully with a smile on his face and a
thumb in his oral opening).
As a matter of fact, I also lie on top of someone.
I seem to be the only one awake. There are bottles located
everywhere - which are all quite empty. The floor is sticky and
the smell is awful.
Some parts of the furniture are heavily damaged, and an ST is
lying on the ground. A busted inflatible harddisk is located next
Everywhere, the presence of cookie remnants, candy wrappers and
lolly-pop sticks indicate that Frøykid was probably the last to
go to sleep of us all - after having raided the whole house for
My God what happened?
Did we REALLY drink ourselves into a permanent state of
It really seems we did. The wreckaged room and the corpse-like
humans lying in it, seem to prove this theory right.
Everything - the bottles, the sticky floor, the computers, the
bodies, the clothes, the empty candy wrappers - seem as if
logically intertwined in something undescribable.
I was woken up by Stefan making some mumbling noises, and the
sun that had a strange tendency of shining directly into my face.
You know I can't stand that, don't you?
Each time when this happens, I throw up poems with the same ease
and regularity in which Stefan sneezes (and that's very easy and
very regular). Since I cannot seem to think of anything else
rather than love, romance, kindling fires of passion and alcohol,
I think the poem that is now forming itself is rather nice.
Why am I here with a matchbox
Why am I wearing white socks
Why is the world so strange
Why is there nothing to arrange
Why is she not here
Why can't I just persevere
Why is the grass so green
Why is it for everyone to be seen
Why is the sky to blue
Why am I me and not you
Why is the world so utterly flat
Why can't I stand that
Why do I say 'fucking slut'
Why do I shove yet another bad poem up everyone's butt
Why can't I stop this poem now
Why does this seem like an unbreakable vow
Why is she there and not here
Why can't I still persevere
Why is the grass still green
Why is it still for everyone to be seen
Why don't I quit this fuckin shit
Why will this poem never be a hit
I am afraid I will have to go and lie down for a while, for all
this poetry drains me of my vital energy.
It's very hard to write a poem like that - I hope you understand
DO YOU NEED SOMEONE TO BE POETIC
DO YOU NEED SOMEONE TO BE UNAESTHETIC
DO YOU NEED SOMEONE WHO IS ONLY JUST NOT MAD
DO YOU NEED SOMEONE WHO ISN'T TOO BAD
PLEASE TAKE A PHONE AND DIAL MY NUMBER
PLEASE AWAKE ME FROM AN EVERLASTING SLUMBER
I WILL WORK FOR YOU AS POET EXTRAORDINAIRE
AND I CAN ASSURE YOU I WILL BE THERE
FOR PARTICULAR POEMS, PITIABLE PROZE AND LYRIOUS LYRICS
CALL (HOLLAND)(0)30-514932 (ASK FOR RICHARD)
-END OF ADVERTISEMENT-
Oh sweet Thor, Odin, and Wodin!
I never imagined that poetry could be SO...er...strange.
Especially on an empty stomach, it has the tendency of falling
the wrong way so to speak.
It is the first time that I heard it myself, without having to
read it off some stupid piece of paper or disk magazine. It's
quite extraordinaire, indeed.
Where is that plastic bag?
I got that, you miserable mini-dickhead!
Do you think my poetry isn't good? In that case, I'll shove
something up yours...
(Stefan hastily switched on the Aiwa walkman. Here follows the
recording resulting therefrom - hard core uncensored!)
Richard: Stand still, you miserable schmuck!
Frøystein: If it's the same to you, I'd rather move a bit.
(Sound of glass breaking and furniture cracking as someone
evidently leaps over a table)
Richard: Fuck! Shit! Cunt! Slut!
Richard: Fuck! Shit! Cunt! Slut!
Stefan: Watch out for my Mum's Ming Vase!
(Sound of a ceramic object falling as someone swings his fist and
missed the target)
Stefan: Sob! Sob! My mummy'll strangle me!
Frøystein: Please! Have mercy! I will from now on like your
poetry as if it was my own...
(The little boy starts to cry desperately)
Frøystein: I is small and he are big. It isn't fair...sob..weep!
Richard: Hmmm....that's better!
Stefan: I can't stand little boys crying....sob...weep!
Torbjørn: What the fuck is....??....crying Frøykid?...weep...sob!
Ronny: Oh shit...no.....weep....sob....cry...sob....
Rune: NO! NO! I won't do it! I won't do....(sob)...it......WEEP!!
Richard: Well....sob....weep......aaaaggg....no! I don't want to!
Sob! Weep! Sigh!
(Sound of water gathering on the floor. The Walkman shows some
small difficulties in handling all this liquid in its circuitry.
When Frøystein started crying just now, I couldn't resist doing
On an empty stomach....bwaarrgh!
Now everybody seems to have gotten rid of excessive fluids
through a rather unorthodox channel, I suppose the time of
breakfast has come upon us.
Plantiac is still the best Vieux of all (and will remain so): I
have NO hangover again!!
My head feels as if Thor has crushed his hammer on it with
pretty minddazzling speed.
And why does my breath smell like after shave?
Breakfast is in me, and I have finally been able in silencing my
Today, we will go and swim with the Nutty Norwegians. Since we
thoroughly liked swimming with the TEX guys, in March of last
year, we kinda thought it would be very nice to swim with our
Norwegian friends as well.
All the teeth have been brushed, the swimming clothes retrieved,
and I guess everyone is now ready for leaving.
Well....Frøystein is still looking for his plastic swimming
Almost eight o'clock. Frøykiddie has succeeded in finding his
toys, although it took quite a while until he found his favourite
one: A "He-man" blow-up puppet.
We are now just sitting in Stefan's car.
It's kinda chilly because of that missing door.
Ah! Here we go....
We have all arrived at the swimming pool. Since, as you might
remember from previous real-time articles ("Visit to TEX") I tend
to have problems with my breathing apparatus when I swim, I am
again sitting at the side while all the others swim and generally
seem to have a good time.
I think it will be rather amusing for you, dear ST NEWS reader,
to tell what I see happening before me.
As the host of Norwegians entered the swimming pool, looks of
fear and disgust could immediately be witnessed in the eyes of
the men wearing white T-shirts labelled "Swimming Pool" (only
then "Zwembad", which is Dutch). They immediately retreated to a
small room and they could be seen discussing the arrival of the
freaky bunch that at that moment succeeded in splashing into the
water in a huge orgy of water and a cacophony of sounds.
Did I leave him in the back trunk again? No...I am sure I took
Ah...there he is. He is wearing his sisters bikini and this is
quite a sight. He is ghastly white (no sun upthere in Norway, I
suppose) and he is holding his Mickey Mouse Swimming-Belt with
vigour as he jumps into the children's pool. He cries desperately
that he is drowning when he noticed that he is up to his knees in
the water, and one of the swimming instructors dashes out of the
room to rescue him.
After mouth-to-mouth breathing, Frøystein happily jumps back in
the children's pool and the swimming instructor is left looking
rather awkward. The man retreats to the loo and sounds of
vomiting can be heard faintly above the sound of splashing and
slashing going on around the merry bunch.
Rune is sampling the taste of Dutch swimming pool water, and
from the look on his face I seem to distinguish none to positive
an impression. Yes, this stuff surely tastes different than
"Stroh Rum", "Channel No.5" or even "Amando Sport".
Ronny and ToRbjørn are trying to drown one another (both doing a
good job at the attempt) and Richard is eagerly staring after
some blonde, long-legged females in tempting bathing suites that
"Hey man! You're occupied, for God's sake!" I yell.
He doesn't take much notice of me, but after some seconds of
staring after those rather luscious females he decides to help
and drown both the struggling Norwegians.
As they see him swimming towards them, they exchange looks and
drown him. When, after almost half a minute, he comes up again,
he looks rather tired and dead.
But he regains his composure and climbs on the side of the pool.
Almost bumping in a wall when staring at a blonde long-legged
female, he finds the high board and climbs it.
When, after a minute or so of zealous climbing, he gets up at
the highest point he walks to it and jumps.
The water smashes under the weight of his body and is lifted up
to two metres above the water surface. A ripple dashes across the
pool, creating a vain attempt at a 'bomb'. I have seen better
(ever seen Erik of TEX jump into the water like that?).
Frøystein now stands quite near to the same pool where the rest
of the bunch is swimming. His eyes are wet (but then...all of his
body is wet), and he signals that he wants to go and swim in the
deep pool as well.
Ronny signals him not to (quite desperately, one might add), but
the boy jumps anyway.
Frøystein seemed to have forgotten that he was still three yards
of the pool's edge, and he smashes with his bum on the floor -
now only one yard from the pool's edge.
He looks around him as though not knowing what to do. He looks
like a baby that just sliced his wrists and, when seeing all the
blood, doesn't know whether it is handy to start sobbing or not.
A decision is quickly made.
He starts sobbing with such vigour that all swimming pool
visitors look around and wonder where the desecrating sound of
crying is coming from. When they discover the pathetic little kid
with the Mickey Mouse swimming belt, they all start sympathizing
and they all start crying.
Within half a minute, everybody is crying their hearts (and
eyes) out. Not only the formerly merry bunch, but also alll other
I think I am having difficulty keeping my eyes dry as well...
The swimming instructors come out of their small room, holding
tissues to their eyes and stuff dripping from their noses. They
are shaking with grief in sympathy of the little boy with the
Mickey Mouse swimming belt.
They direct the whole merry bunch out of the pool. While
dressing themselves again, they get their entrance money back,
together with an additional sum of money and the fondest request
never ever to come back to this swimming pool again.
Everybody is still crying, but Frøystein is already chatting
away gayly with a ten-year old little girl that is swimming
ToRbjørn pulls him away from the little girl and tells him to
get dressed soon.
"If you are dressed sooner than I am, I will treat you to some
ice-cream", he whispers. The little boy dashes off into a locker
and gets out after 13 seconds. He had got his trousers of his
head, and his shirt tied around his hips. His shoes are put on
the wrong way and he is still dripping wet. His hair isn't even
ToRRRRRRbjørn looks out of his locker and with an angry look
directs the boy back in the locker he just came from. After
another ten minutes, the boy gets out again.
He is dressed properly and his hair nearly coombed.
But Torbjørn was already finished earlier, so Frøystein misses
The little boy starts sucking his thumb desperately.
They is big and I are small. It ain't fair!
Hi. Hi. Sorry. I can't resist chuckling.
We are now all back in the car. We are driving back to Stefan's
place. We didn't swim long, but at least we were able to get rid
of some hangoverish feelings.
Back from the swimming pool.
On the way back, Frøystein saw a small place where little
children played. It contained swings, a place where children can
play with sand, and some more tools with which very young people
are liable to enjoy themselves.
So he insisted (well...he started to sob and cry) we'd pay a
visit to that place.
And that's why we're all heading for Stefan's little car right
now, so that we can go there.
Once again I will have to manoeuver a car stuffed with
Norwegians. Have you ever tried watching out for pedestrians
while there is an Hustadnes examining your windshield wipers? Or
have you tried breathing while Rune is talking to you with his
enormously strange smelling breath? Not to mention Torbjørn, who
tries ripping the internals of the poor vehicle, hacking the
sparkplugs while you're bloody driving! Only Ronny is behaving
quite normally. He is just hanging out of the window, snatching
the purses from females, examining their contents and giving
anything that slightly resembles fragrant fluids to an extatic
Rune. Richard is in the middle of all this, sneezing and burping
away, sucessfully clogging the windshield of my car. Since I
don't see anything anymore, I drive solely by hearing. Whenever I
hear people scream and wet thuds against my car, I know that I am
on the pavement. When I hear screeching tires and violent
crashes, I have run through a red light. Quite miraculously, my
rear view mirror is still not totally obscured so I can see the
trail of empty perfume bottles, ripped purses, screaming females,
wrecked cars and very, very Splattered Ones. Suddenly Frøystein
bursts out in violent gesturing, totally wrecking my wipers. It
seems that we have arrived at the playground and I press the
brakes quite hard. The following chaos cannot easily be
described, but if you imagine three Norwegians and two Dutchmen
all stashed in the front seat of a Peugeot 305, you will get the
picture. The first thing we do when we remove ourselves from the
car (after having to take off the steering wheel to free Torbjørn
who was trying to crack the gas pedal), is to search for
Frøystein. Momentum has hurtled the poor infant a few hundred
yards across the playground, depositing him in the middle of
sixty screaming children who just bought cotton-candy and are on
their school-trip. We spent about twenty minutes going through a
thick mass of pink sugar, in search of our little buddy. Finally
Ronny emerged from the mass, holding a vaguely infant shape which
was shouting something in a vaguely scandinavian tongue, so we
assumed it was Frøystein. And indeed, after dipping him in the
pond a couple of times (during which we had to restrain several
priests from jumping in with us) we finally were able to
recognize our little friend.
They have such a great sandbox here! I already buried two other
We were alarmed by the sound of screaming mothers who discovered
that their offspring was being covered with considerable amounts
of sand by a very energetic young Norwegian that used his
Transformer-shovel to dig enormous pits. We could do nothing else
but jump in with them and dig out some Dutch kids. Luckily, Ronny
had the common sense to point out a merry-go-round to Frøystein
and off he dashed, knocking two little girls off a swing and
almost lethally injuring a balloon-salesman with his GI-Joe pop-
Will this ever end? Right now Frøystein is battling with three
boys about the rights to a rather dopey-looking girlie with long
hair. Somewhere along the line, our young friend has picked up
some wicked techniques for the BANZØI! and HAAAIIIØØØØ!!'s are
accompanied by vicious low-kicks and sweeps. Two boys are already
knocked out and the third one is now trying to keep Frøystein
from him by means of a long, wooden stick. Apparently, Frøystein
is not impressed by it for he keeps bashing it with all his
might. After urging my Norwegian friends, the three of them pick
up Frøystein and dump him in the trunk of my car. For a while,
some violent sounds can be heard coming from it, but after a
while, they subside and a quick peek into the trunk reveals our
friend sedately sleeping, with his arms around the spare wheel.
Time for a drink.
I am somewhat flastergabbered...er...flabbergasted by what I all
behold here. And the sheer thought that I could instead spend my
time with the most enchanting girl on earth. But alas. My duties
call upon me.
If only those f.cking Norwegians had not taken over "ST NEWS"'
spirit in their new (English) "ST Klubben", we would not have had
to go through all this hassle, multigalactic mayhem and other
Why is Frøykiddie so god damned juvinile?
I'll have to bring a visit to his parents one day and nuke them.
I didn't know those Dutch playground could be so nice!
But now I have to do pee pee. And one of the little girls kicked
me in the nuts.
Little F-word really understands how to be bored quickly. After
making a damn nuisance of himself at the playround, he exclaims
he is bored and starts to nag about doing something else that's,
So we decided to go back to Stefan's house.
But what do you think happened?
We were startled as an enormous bird flew over. It was white and
enormous, and it looked quite like a stork. In its bill hung what
seemed to be a giant napkin.
It flew past us, yet turned around a couple of hundred metres
further and dove down towards us.
We startled. We had not yet recognised any swastikas on its
wings, yet the bird seemed to have World War II tendencies and
its primary target were, quite clearly, we.
The bird flew over, and when we followed it with our eyes filled
with fear, we noticed that its bill was empty. The enormous
napkin had disappeared.
Our attention was soon drawn to Frøystein, who was crying as he
appeared to have been hit by something falling from the sky.
But not only the napkin: There was also a person lying in it. A
very tiny person that started to speak Norwegian while looking
Gard Eggesbø Abrahamsen. Our dear little friend and ST Klubben
and "ST NEWS" fanatic!
And he brought some fresh after shave for me!
(Gulp gulp gulp.... thank you, Gard!)
Boy. Do I feel insanely witty.
God, please tell me this isn't true!
I DON'T WANT A FIFTH FUCKIN' NORWEGIAN AT MY HOUSE AND/OR IN MY
God, please tell me this isn't true!
After recovering from my first impulses of terror, I now have
greeted Gard the Minute One. Now I didn't account for the very
fragile structure of his body and nearly crushed the poor fella
to death. Anyway, he and Frøystein are now happily sitting in a
corner of the room, eagerly playing with the viking-dolls that
Gard brought with him in the huge napkin. We are now trying to
decide what to do next.
NOW FOLLOWS A SMALL AUDIO-TAPED FRAGMENT, TAPED ON THE SECOND
Stefan: Well, fellas and kiddies, where do ya want to go to?
Rune: To the chemist's!
Torbjørn: To a hacker's meeting!
Ronny: To a computer shop!
Frøystein: To the red light district!
Richard: (Barely audible) To Miranda...
Stefan: Gard, why are you looking so insanely witty?
Richard: Yeah! The red light district!
Ronny: Hmm...that might be interesting, too.
Rune: Do they sell perfumes there?
Torbjørn: Can I rip (or rape?) something there?
Frøystein: Yippie! I wanna play! The red light district!!
(The sound of fourteen feet dashing to a car can be heard)
Stefan: Get away behind the wheel, Gard!
Rune: Take your filthy foot out of my ear, Ronny!
Rune: I wasn't talking to you, asshole!
Torbjørn: Eh? I can't hear you! I've got Ronny's foot in my ear!
Stefan: No! NO! NOOOO! Tell me this ain't true! NOOOO! NO! No!
Frøystein: This is fun!
Stefan: F-word! Get your head out of Gard's ass!
Richard: Why are you looking so insanely witty, Gard?
Frøystein's head: POP!
Stefan: What's that smell?
Telephone: Ring! Ring!
Rune: Bwaargh! My mouth tastes like sweaty feet!
Telephone: Ring! Ring!
Richard: Eh, Stefan?
Telephone: Ring! Ring!
Telephone: Ring! Ring!
Richard: The phone is ringing.
Telephone: Ring! Ring!
Stefan: But I haven't got a car phone!
Telephone: Haven't you? Sorry. Than I must have taken a wrong
Richard: Het zal wel.
(A key can be heard to be inserted in the ignition lock of the
car. After some hesitant coughing, the engine actually starts to
work like it should. With screeching tires, the car is now
apparently driving towards Den Bosch' red light district!)
Frøystein: Yippie! We're going to the Red Light District!
Rune: Do they sell perfume there?
(A click signifies the end of this recording. Full Dolby B
recording is continued several minutes later, when the car has
apparently succeeded in halting itself)
Girl #1: Hey! What do you think you're doing!
Frøystein: Hi hi.
Gard: No, Frøyyie! That's done like this, don't you know?
Girl #1: IIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!
Frøystein: You're right. This....hhggnnn!....is even more fun!
Girl #2: (Just entered the scene) Hey! Leave Lola alone!
Gard: AH! A second girl!
Girl #2: ?
Gard: Yippie! Come here, babe!
Girl #2 + #1: IIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!
Frøystein: It's even more fun when you do it upside down!
(Some strange sounds...furniture falling....boys moaning....)
Girl #2 + #1: IIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ronny: Really, kiddies, we are guest here!
Torbjørn: Is there something to rip here?
Richard: This is sick, kids!
Stefan: You've said it, Ritch.
(Frantic sounds of bed spirals being tortured, muffled screams
of two girls, frantic and utterly enthusiastic crying of two
Stefan: That's enough, kids!
Ronny: You've said it, Stefke!
Richard: Well....I was actually beginning to enjoy this.
Rune: I found perfume!
Gard + F-word: WHERE?!
(Sound of two kiddies running out of the room. Two girls stay
behind, moaning and bringing their mouths in gear again after
having to perform a blowjob on both kiddies' elbows)
Rune: Look! Amando Noir!
Frøystein: Look! Drakkar!
Gard: Paco Rabanne!
Frøystein: Lou Lou!
(The sounds on the recording are now so chaotic that a written
description is not possible. It sounds like two people eating a
bottle, while several others are trying to stop those two people)
Rune: Hey! You should try this Charlie perfume!
Richard: I have to go to the loo....
(Remark: Whenever our dear master correspondent drinks alcohol -
even if it's virtually NOTHING - he has to go to the loo to do,
as F-word would say, pee pee)
Richard: I can't get out!
Ronny: No, Richard!
Torbjørn: What's that smell?
Ronny: What's that wet feeling here?
Richard: Sorry chaps.....
(The Walkman starts making funny sounds, as if its mechanism is
being flooded by some kind of water - or something vaguely
similar. The Walkman survives long enough to hear that someone is
being blatantly slaughtered (in a very eldritch way, and for no
Richard: Aaarrggh!! No! I couldn't restrain myself!
Frøystein: Snif....oops. When I smell that....I have to....
Ronny: No, Frøystein!
Torbjørn: What's that smell?
Ronny: What's that wet feeling here?
Frøystein: Sorry chaps.....
Girl #1: Hey! That costs 25 Dutch guilders extra, sucker!
Girl #2: And for me 25, too!
Madam: (Comes bouncing in the room) What's all this?
Ronny: Nothing, bitch!
Stefan: Yeah! BITCH!
(There is the sound of heavy stumbling on the stairs. The madam
has just cried the name of the local pimp - isn't it remarkable
how many people are called 'Jack' in Holland?)
Ronny: Oh. Great. That's just what we needed.
Frøystein: What will that mister do to me, Ronny?
Gard: He might take away the girls and give us beating on our
soft little baby asses..
Rune: He might drink all the perfume!
Stefan: He will crunch you GI Joe puppets, and shove them up your
tiny little anal muscles in a fashion that certain aliens would
do with a Brussels Sprout.
Frøystein: No! I got those from my mummy and daddy! Mister Jack
not touch those or I will cry!
Jack: Grmmppffff! (walking towards Frøystein, reaching out for
his GI Joe puppets)
Stefan: I wouldn't do that if I were you, mister...
Jack's fist: Crunch.
GI Joe Puppets: ... (nothing, of course, you idiot! Would you
have expected puppets to talk?!)
GI Joe Puppets: AAAAARRRGGGHHH!! (sorry....I said nothin')
Frøystein: Weeeeehh!! Cry! Weeeeeh! Shudder!
Ronny: Eh. Gard! Why are you looking so insanely witty?
Frøystein: Bad mister killing my puppets! Me sad! I wanna go to
Jack: Grmmpppf? Snif? Cry?
Ronny: I will NOT cry.....I WILL NOT CR.....weeeeehhhhhhhhh!
Richard: Weeeeeeehhhhhhh! Miranda!
Torbjørn: Is there something I can rip her....here....h....WEEHH!
(A large part of the tape is then filled with what can only be
described as hyper frantic crying. Jack cries loudest of all, and
swears that he will never ever touch little boys' GI Joe puppets
any more. He even pats little Frøyyie on the back and assures him
that he can use his personal phone so that the little boy can
call his mummy....After this, the whole lot gets into the car
again and they head for Stefan's house. Richard has been quite
silent the last couple of minutes. He just stares out of the
window while Frøystein and Gard are holding a chewing-gum fight,
Rune is eating the seat covers, Torbjørn is examining the handle
that opens the window and Ronny is engaged in an discussion with
Stefan about why you should paint your ST pink)
Richard: ...... (He just stares out of the window, his eyes are
transfixed onto nothingness, small twitches can be seen in his
Stefan: NOOO!!!! UUHHHH....GET AN YGNWIE MALMSTEEN CD!!!!!!!!
(Several people jump on top of Richard as he falls into violent
convulsions. Shattering glass can be heard as well as little
Norwegians being thrown from a violently shuddering Richard. The
car screeches to a halt, and several people can be seen emerging
from it, including one that seems to suffer from violents spasms
and is slightly foaming around the mouth)
Stefan: A CD PLAYER!!! QUICK!!!!
(Gard and Frøystein remain in the car, nursing each others
bruises. While Ronny and Torbjørn try to hold Richard under
control, Stefan goes in search of a CD player. Suddenly, he
beholds a little old lady, wearing a Discman and who is avidly
banging her head)
Stefan: Gimme that Discman!
Little old lady: POGO!! HEADBANG!!! TRASH!!!!
Little old lady: WHATTHEFUCK??
(Stefan removes the disk from the Discman, while fighting off
the little old lady)
Little old lady: NO!! Not my Napalm Death CD!!!
(Holding the CD player in one hand, and dragging a little old
lady who is holding on to his left leg, Stefan can be
heard frantically stumbling into a CD store, heading for the 'M'.
Then follow sounds when he grabs the first Yngwie Malmsteen CD he
finds and slams it into the CD player.
Shop attendant: Hey!!
Stefan: GET LOST!!!
Little old lady: BITE!!!
(A quick punch stuns the shop attendant. But she just grabs hold
of Stefan's right leg and doesn't let go)
Shop attendant: MUNCH!!!
(Stefan emerges from the store, dragging the two carnivorous
females with him. He throws the CD player at Ronny who puts the
headphones in Richard's ears.)
Gard & Frøystein: FEMALES!!!
(The two little Norwegians rush to the aid of Stefan who is on
the brink of being devoured by the two females. They throw
themselves at them and Stefan is rescued just in time. Rune also
comes into the picture and starts scavenging the purse of the
little old lady, in search of any cheap perfume)
Gard: Please, miss, would you like to perform a blowjob on my
Carnivorous female #1: What? Slam!
Gard: You should have ducked! Ha ha!
Carnivorous female #2: Slam!
Carnivirous female #1: Hey! Midget! Why are you looking so
Little old lady: Keep your hands out of my purse, bloody
Rune: Do I sense any rascism, old cunt?
Little old lady: (Menacingly waving her umbrella) OH!
Gard: Thanks, miss, that was the best alternative I ever had to a
Carnivorous female #1: Slam!
C-64 ERROR MESSAGE: END OF TAPE
Blue flashing lights reminded us that the activities we were
performing weren't exactly what the local police had in mind, so
I gathered all Norwegians, Richard and stuffed them in my car.
The little old lady had found her Discman again and was now busy
listening to the latest Sodom CD. In a fury of grey hair and
umbrellas, she left the scene. The shop attendant spotted a hunky
male and was now busy trying to stuff his elbow into her mouth.
He looked quite unhappy, poor fellow. Anyway, I slammed the pedal
to the metal and for once, my car did not disappoint me.
The sound of screeching tires and the smell of burned rubber
filled the air as we headed off to the sunset.....
Sorry, I got a bit carried away here. We have a whole day in
front of us and we sure as hell are going to make something out
SO FAR THIS UTTERLY EXCHILLERATING, INTENSE, ZANY (ETC.) STORY
ABOUT THE NUTTY NORWEGIAN'S "ST KLUBBEN" QUEST. MORE WILL FOLLOW
(SURE!) THOUGH PROBABLY NOT DEFINITELY HERE.
New dimensions of number quantities, even beyond those possible
within the limits of 256000 bit arithmetics, have to be invented
to supply us with an ample number of apologies for having to read
But you cannot complain that we didn't warn you. We did say it
was slightly rude (which is, of course, a braindeafening
Then, again, there's the compo bit, where you can win some
spiffo stuff (i.e. ALL ISSUES OF ST NEWS SIGNED BY BOTH MEMBERS
OF THE ST NEWS CREW) if you get down to the post office on the
double, get a postcard, write your address on it, and write
something on it that you will find in the SECOND hidden article
(yeah! Find that one, buster!), and send it to our correspondence
address. Please also write down the numbers of the answers you've
had to type in for the Hidden Article quest, as well as the way
you reached the second Hidden Article!
Of course, we have also strained ourselves to the utmost limits
of our fatigue to find another song text worthy of publication in
this hidden article.
IF YOU ALREADY THOUGH WHAT YOU HAVE READ UPTIL NOW IS TASTELESS
DO NOT READ ANY WORD FURTHER AND JUST SEND THE POSTCARD!!!
You cannot say (again) we didn't warn you.
The text is from a hardcore band called Carcass. And when you
read the text (which is REALLY gory, vulgar and tasteless!) it
becomes evident clearly why they're called that way.
SWARMING VULGAR MASS OF INFECTED VIRULENCY
(That's the song name; not the text)
Festering crabs, papillae and pores
Hardened carbuncles, spots and cold sores...
Pick at the scab - septic blood starts to weep
Rip at my face - ruptured growths start to seep
Blackheads and boils, pustular cysts
Chapped commodones, perspiring zits...
Pierce the blane - infected tissue starts to bleed
Diseased and plagued - tumours chew and feed...
...On ulcerated flesh...
...On facial mess...
...On blooming sores...
...On blistering warts...
Squeeze out the blood, the pus I extract
A rancid cocktail, steaming and black
Infested skin, bubbles and bursts
Hackne vulgaris, spluttering pus...
...The swarming mass...
...With acid I attack...
...With razors I hack...
...Bubos, bulging and black...
Squeeze out the blood, the pus I extract
A rancid cocktail, steaming and black
Bursting canker, clustered bullae
Pimples and boils eat me alive...
Gnawing, curdling, swarming flesh
Bubbling, seething, disgusting mess
Smarting, abrased purple and raw
Pustular, vulgar pimples and sores...
The juice is squeezed
Lick the pox
Weals and warts...
-Decrepit and plagued...
Please believe me if I say that this wasn't even the worst lyric
on the CD (Yes! This shit is available on CD and I BOUGH IT!!! -
For the last time.
The text of the articles is identical to the originals like they appeared in old ST NEWS issues. Please take into consideration that the author(s) was (were) a lot younger and less responsible back then. So bad jokes, bad English, youthful arrogance, insults, bravura, over-crediting and tastelessness should be taken with at least a grain of salt. Any contact and/or payment information, as well as deadlines/release dates of any kind should be regarded as outdated. Due to the fact that these pages are not actually contained in an Atari executable here, references to scroll texts, featured demo screens and hidden articles may also be irrelevant.