THE HIDDEN ARTICLE
(YES! YOU FOUND IT!)
When digging (rather, reading) through some of the old crazy
letters, I stumbled across the following. It was a hypothetical
Real Time Article of a visit to Norway which Stefan and me wrote
somewhere in March 1988.
Since, again, we were actually FAR too lazy to write something
for this article, we PASTEd is to the "1st Word Plus" scrap
buffer and made this document of it. We have hidden it because it
contains some x-rated material that would even be too bad for the
Let me tell you about a journey we recently undertook to the
beautiful country of Norway. The following is slightly imaginary,
and is copyrighted (C) by DICK productions (Digital Insanity
Computer Karma). All rights reserved for all countries including
Belgium, Ireland and Norway. Those who violate this statement
will be sued, and afterwards haunted by all the golden eagles
ever to set foot in Valhalla.
A VISIT TO NORWAY
- or -
A SEQUENCE OF NORGASMS
- or -
WHY NOT QUIT RIGHT AWAY WITH ALL THESE SUBTITLES, ASSHOLE!
Ouch. I get up. It is Thursday, december 28th, 1989. The moon is
full, never seems to change. Just labeled 'mentally deranged'.
Dream the same thing every night. See our freedom in my sight. No
locked doors. No windows barred. No things to make my brain seem
scarred. Sleep my friend and you will see. Your dream is my
reality. They keep me locked up in this cage. Can't they see it's
why my brain says RAGE.
Leave me be.
Just leave me alone.
As you could have guessed, we wake up on the sounds of
Metallica's "Sanitarium". Great way to wake up! In real life,
there is no full moon but an utter dark one.
Stefan is getting up as well now, and he is momentarily going
through his lethal five minutes after an editor's waking up. He
is crying all kinds of hoarse moans.
Today is THE day. We will go to Norway and meet some people that
should have been sent to mental institutions long ago. But we'll
have fun anyway.
"Sigh", I sigh.
"Moan", I moan.
"BARK!", my stomach barks.
Why do we have to get up at such an hour?
Why doesn't the plane leave at a normal time?
What is that man singing about Mentally deranged who like to
Why is there an eagle hovering in front of the window?
After more or less answering these questions, I decide to get
The blood that had settled itself so comfortably in my brain is
grotesquely startled by such a sudden movement and flees to my
toes. As a result, I loose track of how I have to keep myself
upright and I crash heavily into the bulky suitcases that were so
neatly packed. The things were clearly not designed for such a
treament and burst open, sending clothes, diskettes, Plantiac
bottles, Norwegian money (lots of it) and other items reeling
across the room.
Shit. (no, NOT this time)
After spending some time stuffing it all back into the
suitcases, I collect some clothes and head for the bathroom.
The regular duty of washing ourselves has been performed. Now we
only have to eat and then go to the station and hop into the
train that leaves for Amsterdam Airport (Schiphol). We need to
catch the 02:37 to Oslo, at terminal Two of Schiphol. We take our
special lightning-conductor-gear with us, so that we cannot
become the victim of some weird God's revenge upon his father.
Food......the sheer thought of this makes my mouth drool
slightly. After all, we went to bed at around six last evening,
and we didn't eat any beernuts or potato crisps ALL EVENING.
And I'm afraid we didn't drink any Vieux either.
I hope we have all our stuff packed in a right way. We tucked
away the five litres of Plantiac very carefully, under a couple
of Kilos of coke (the white powdery stuff). The custom agents had
better not find those bottles (who cares about to Coke; they only
have the death penalty on Coke trafficing in the States and some
countries in the far East - in Norway they'll probably just tell
you not to sniff up all the stuff in one time).
OK. Food! Let's raid the freezer and cast some eggs, assorted
bread, tea and beer into our mouths.
Breakfast has been fastly broken by our teeth, and we are now
all set to hop into the bus to leave for Utrecht station.
At 1'o clock in the morning?
Ooops. That was a slight miscalculation. There are no buses at
So we'd better pack our gear and dash for the train station
By the railway, I hope those Plantiac bottles will survive!
Heavily panting from such speedy movements at such unholy hours,
I sit here in the train. We barely made it and had to jump into
the thing while it was already in motion. One of the coke
packages broke while running and I left a small white track all
the way to the station. This train will take us to Schiphol
airport. There we have to pick up our tickets and convince the
security people that the large bulks in our bags are actually
quite innocent Plantiac bottles and not fully-detachable heavy-
duty firearms obtained through some radical left-winged group who
hired us to get rid of someone who hates Green-pissing-nuts.
Glancing out of the window, I see some people crawling on the
I also notice a small black speck high in the air above the
train. Also strange.
Since trains are perfect places to catch up on all the sleep you
have missed in trying to catch them, I think I will do just that.
See you around.
We left the train, and are now searching for Terminal two. The
whole complex is pathetically dark. The ideal place to get
killed, mugged, or raped (hmmm...). The killers will probably be
hired guns employed by competing disk magazines; the muggers will
probably be editors of competing disk magazines that will be
found dying of an overdose after mugging us with those many Ks of
washing powder on us; the rapists will probably be desperate
girlfriends of writers for competing disk magazines that think we
will leave them forever to find and marry a girl in Norway.
Thinking about all this makes me slightly paranoid. Is it my
imagination, or do I see a large square man standing in the
shade? He had an enormous square face, and WHAT is he holding in
That surely ain't no vacuum cleaner!
I blink my eyes. The shadow has vanished.
I slap myself on the face, thereby knocking out the babel
brontosaur that was comfortably sitting on my glasses. I
immediately notice that I can no longer read any of the messages
written on the walls, neither the flight schedule which is
written in English.
Even artificial resperation on the babel brontosaur doesn't
help. It remains unconscious.
Shit. Shit and shit.
ENORMOUS FART. ENORMOUS 'BLORP'. ENORMOUS SOUND OF SPLASHING
SHIT. ENORMOUS 'AAAAAAHHHHHHH'.
Maybe the brontosaur was conscious after all.
We are standing in brontosaur shit right upto our ankles. The
smell is awful (yes, even worse than that of the excrements of
the Mutant Maxi-Mega Monster of Multifizzic Omega multiplied with
Chester's farting power).
Ooofffff. We finally found terminal two. There seems to be a bit
of a queue. It's a small one, but a persistant one: One person. A
large square man with a square head. His seems to be carrying a
whole lotta stuff around his waist, but the girl at the desk
"What's in the suitcase, sir?" she inquires.
"A time bomb." the man answers.
"Ha ha! That's a good one!" the girl laughs, "you may proceed."
The man walks to the gate to the plane heading for Oslo.
It's our turn now. We quickly put some money on the desk.
"Oslo, please. Two."
The hands us to tickets, and we quickly dash for the gate as
well. It turns out that we will have to go through yet another
rather traumatic experience of physical excercise before we can
finally get to be in Norway.
I am now sitting happily in the plane (it's a Boeing so I am not
entirely sure we will arrive with the plane still completely
intact, or in fact that we will arrive at all and we will
celebrate New Year's eve splattered all over Denmark). I fastened
my seatbelt as the good looking stewardess told me and I am now
watching the pantomime act perfomed by a stewardess and a steward
telling us how the oxygen masks work, how to employ the life
jacket and how to tie your shoelaces when the plane is crashing.
The pilot is telling me (with a canned voice) that the weather
is nice, the windspeed is a whole lot of knots, and that we are
waiting for tower clearance. There seems to be some trouble with
an eagle flying around the liftoff areas. Anyway, we will soon
I did not intend to write anymore (planes, especially Boeings,
tend to fall suddenly out of the skies when one of its occupants
employs a portable computer, especially Z-88s, to write this
silly real-time article) but I just HAVE TO because we have been
Remember the square man with the square face?
He is now standing in the alley wielding a feather with which he
just tickled the pilot to death. He is a little nervous because
he demands to be flown to Bergen, but since he killed the pilot
in his enthousiasm, there is nobody to fly us there. In fact,
there is nobody to fly the plane at all. This is developing into
a situation here.
Recognizing our dear friend, I rise and call his name.
"Cronos my man! What's up?!"
The square-faced man gives me a puzzled look. Then some sort of
recognition dawns over his face and he smiles, dropping the
feather and the Instant-Death Superkill grenade he had behind his
back. He walks towards our seats and tells us all about the fun
he had when slaughtering a couple of dozen reli-nuts at our last
But the situation still exists. The pilot is sort of dead and
the plane is coursing at high speeds through Scandinavian
"WAIT!!", Richard exclaims.
"I have played Flight Simulator II!"
"Let me have a go at this baby!"
All the heads of the passengers turn expectantly towards him as
he stands up and walks proudly towards the cockpit.
(Remark: This message was recorded through audio means, using the
highly sophisticated Aiwa portable tapedeck - Walkman. It was
later typed into the document)
Richard: "Boy; this Boeing cockpit surely looks a bit different
from that of the Cessna."
Richard: "What's this button for?"
Strange sounds of metal being bent can be heard. In the
background, assorted people yell assorted cries of panic in
Stefan: "What the hell are you doing?"
Richard: "It beats me!"
Warchild: "I thought you knew how to fly, spiritual daddy?"
Richard: "Of course I do. Don't be ridiculous!"
For a while, there is a silence that is only broken by people in
peril, yelling, crying, cursing.
Then, there is a familiar voice on the tape.
Richard: "Oops. I seem to have accidentally opened the rear
Warchild: "Yeah. It looks kinda empty in the plane now."
Stefan: "So I think this year many people will celebrate New
Year's eve all over Denmark."
Warchild: "That's a good one, Korik...er....I mean....Stefke!"
Richard: "What now?"
Stefan: "Ørsta should be here somewhere."
Richard: "What now?"
Warchild: "Do you always say things twice?"
Richard: "Er....explaining that would require a long story."
Stefan: "Don't talk! Act! We have to get the plane down!"
Warchild (menacingly wielding his Megazooka): "That can be
Stefan: "Nah, Cronos. That's not the way. Do you know of any
parachutes in the plane?"
Warchild: "Yeah. I have one."
Richard (panicing slightly): "Give it to us!"
Sounds can be heard of a parachute being removed from a sturdy
back, and being put on one that's much less sturdy.
Richard: "Let's jump. We're right above Ørsta!"
Stefan: "And me?"
Richard: "Just hold on tight."
Warchild: "And me?"
Richard: "You're kind of a toon. You can jump easily without a
Warchild: "Are you sure?"
Stefan: "I guess..."
Richard: "Shut up."
Stefan: "Don't forget the walkman."
A sound can be heard that indicates that the walkman is fetched.
A loud yell can be heard as Warchild is pushed out of the plane.
Next, there is only the sound of wind.
(This is the end of the Aiwa Walkman recording - recording in
dolby B and using stereo)
Ough, that was close. I still have the impressions of Stefan's
hands in my stomach, and his sweat soaks my jacket. He is
standing next to me, shivering. His knees feel weak and he
vomited thrice in the last twenty seconds. The parachute didn't
appear to work all too good, but we're alive?
Our drop must have been broken by something. But what?
As I get up, I see a large hole in the ground. In that hole, a
human is located. His head is partly covered by vomit. He slowly
crawls out of the pit, and starts yelling something in a strange
"Sorry sir," I answer when he's finished talking, "I haven't got
my babel fish with me at the moment. Can you perhaps speak
"Yøø møtant pøtatøsøckers! Damned maxi-mega assdickers!
Quadrøplebrested titflies! I am Gro Harlem Brundtland, and my
pøwers are høge! I will seize you, and get you to jail for
I interrupt him, asking what all those rubber things are in his
back pocket. I also notice the fact that we're standing in front
of a house with a giant logo on its roof in pink and purple neon
"Tsskk..tsskkk" Stefan says.
Gro Harlem gets to be a bit red now.
"Er....er.....let's forget about it, yes?" he speaks.
We pat him on his head, afterwards wiping off the vomit to his
It is 03:24 as we part from Mr. Brundtland.
"Now we have to find Bjørkevegen," Stefan brings in, "and visit
"OK", I admit.
While searching I sprain my ankle when I fall into a hole in the
middle of a concrete street. It is shaped like a man. A huge,
Ørsta is quite a small town, but due to all the hills in it, we
have still not been able to find Ronny's house. Shit and shit.
I have to drag Stefan away from the gutter as he pulls down his
pants and intends to do something there.
"No!" I yell.
I pull his pants back up, but it's already too late. His pants
are stained brown and start to smell awfully.
"Read the reli-news! Read the Crazy People's Paper," a paperboy
yells on the street, carrying an enormous amount of papers in his
arms, "Plane crashes on Bergen! Prime Minister caught in
whorehouse! New Year's eve Tourist boom on Denmark!"
We neglect the boy, searching further for the proper street.
After some time, we reach a totally dark and deserted outskirt
of the town. Most of the houses here have boarded up windows and
the yards are completely neglected. All sorts of wild vegetables
are growing wildly, totally strangling some of the houses. Then
we see it. A small sign saying 'Bjørkevegen'. Excitement grips us
as we now are nearing the end of our journey. Now we will finally
meet the Everlasting Distributor and see the Nutty One. Now we
will see the room in which ST clubben is created. Now we will
taste the Norwegian Beer.
Silence falls heavily upon us as we stalk the empty streets in
search of number 19. Suddenly I stumble across a sign saying
'17'. This means that the house next to it must be number 19! We
hurry onward to the next house and are a bit put off our cool
when we find a sign saying '21'. A small sign under it explains
that number 19 is across the streets for no apparent reason or
whatsoever. We cross the street in a hurry, nearly being knocked
down by a Wolksvagen Beetle filled with screaming Reli-nuts who
yell about Empty Coke Cans, Arcade Joysticks (with
microswitches), Empty Garbage Cans with Something in Them and
Fileselector Return Strings.
The house across the street is a well-designed wooden structure.
It is neatly painted light-blue with some strange pink diagonal
GEM-fill patterns. We nod at each other. Yes! This MUST be
Ronny's house for sure!
Using one of Stefan's sister's hairpins, we have succeeded in
getting into the house. No one answered to the doorbell chiming,
so I suppose it is allright for us to do so.
In fact, it is no wonder that nobody answered. We were
originally going to Oslo, where we would have to take a train all
the way to Ørsta. Normally, we would not have arrived at Ronny's
humble (yet less humbly pink) residence until late in the
But here we are.
On the couch in the sitting room, which is covered in the
darkness of winter (only vaguely illuminated by the Polar light),
we can clearly see a large sheet. On it is written: "Metallica
perform in our local pub tonight. If you are born on the 14th of
April and your traveling companion is born on November 3rd,
please come and fetch free tickets."
Stefan smiles a bit as he reads it. I get totally overwhelmed
with enthusiasm. "Metallica!" I yell, "HERE, in a local pub!"
Being so enthusiastic, I knock over a China Vase of the
Fortysecond Ming Dynasty. It makes a hideous noise as it crashes
into the wooden floor, killing two cockroaches that were just
happily performing sexual intercourse.
For about a couple of moments, there is utter silence.
Some more couple of moments later, it is brutally obliterated by
someone dashing down the stairs wearing Viking War souvenirs. He
yells Norwegian battle cries, and wields a doublebladed battle
axe way above his head and the two horns prominently present in
For a moment, we stand nailed to the ground.
Then, I recognize the face partly hidden behind the helmet. I
have seen it before. On a business card.
"Ronny!" I cry, tears welling up in my eyes, "my dear man, my
dear Norwegian Distributor of ST NEWS!"
Ronny seems a bit flabbergasted. He hadn't expected us that
early, and we were in fact not to discover that he had still
hidden features of his ancestry hidden deep inside himself.
He went red up to behind his ears.
We plunge into the sofa (killing a few other cockroaches that
were playing strip poker) and drop our bags to the ground
(killing some more - these were dealing in kitchen leftovers).
Gosh. My throat (and fingers) is thick with emotions as I write
this. To finally meet the dearest ST NEWS reader really moved me.
For 0.0042 milliseconds tears filled my eyes but I quickly
regained my cool, put on a broad smile, rubbed my hands and said:
"Where is the booze!".
Ronny looked at me like I just caught fire spontaneously. Then
he spoke for the first time:
Richard and myself where looking at him expectantly as words
seemed to form themselves upon the lips of Ronny.
Richard looked at me.
I looked at Richard.
"YYYYEEEEEEHHHHHHHOOOOOOOWWWWWWW!!", Ronny cried, completely
startling Richard and me and ruining things for a cockroach who
just had talked another cockroach into going out on a date. Then
he dashed up the stairs.
We followed him up and just saw him disappearing into a small
door. We entered the room and beheld Ronny sitting at a small
desk, with a phone receiver in his hands. He was casting a stream
of totally incomprehendable words into it. The only things we
could make out of it were 'Tor bjørn' and 'Frøystein'. When he
finally slammed down the receiver, he turned on his computer and
a few moments later, the words 'ST-Klubben' appeared on the
Then he finally spoke to us.
After that, he immediately rushed out of the room, leaving us
behind, totally bewildered. Then another person entered the room.
In excellent English, he explained to be the father of the
tornado that was currently rampaging the house. He welcomed us to
Norway and told us that Ronny had been preparing himself for two
weeks now and that we really were a bit too early.
A few moments later, Ronny hurtled himself back into the room,
carrying an enormous amount of bottles, crip bags and pizzas. He
dumped all the stuff on his bed and sat down behind his desk.
Then the doorbell rang.
Ronny crashed out of his room again and a few moments later we
heard excited Norwegians coming up the stairs. Another face we
had seen before on a business card stepped into the room.
"Torbjørn!" we both exclaimed and shook his hand warmly.
"We meet at last!"
There we sat. Ronny and Torbjørn on the bed, and Richard and
myself on the two chairs in front of the desk. We had so many
things to say to each other that we didn't know where to begin.
We have just listened to the 10'o clock news. It was in
Norwegian, of course, but we could faintly discern words that
seemed to have something to do with Bro Harlem Brundtland, sex,
death, hijacking, Cronos Warchild, and a plane crashing onto
Bergen. So the newspaper boy wasn't lying after all!
As Ronny put some Malmsteen stuff in his CD player (this guy
knows how to make us feel at home - the only thing we now still
lack is loadsa chicks), the frantic sounds of someone cycling
could be heard through the window that stood slightly ajar.
"Frøystein!" Ronny cried, "he has come at last!"
He dashed downstairs, to discover a small 16 year old punk next
to his smoking mountain bike. His tongue was literally hanging
out of his mouth, dangling before his belly button (or the part
of his jacket behind which probably that part of his anatomy was
He dragged the poor boy inside, and pulled him up the stairs.
Upstairs, we welcomed the guy to the little (little?!) group of
A strange sound arises from outside. It sounds as tough someone
is trying out the 'helicopter' sound effect on a Yamaha DX 7
Or is it indeed a helicopter?
"Rune Hyldmo!" the three Nutty Norwegians cried in unison, "he
has also really come to join us."
They all pull out their shoes, put on some kind of weird
sandals, put on Viking helmets and start dancing in a little
"Hail hail!" they yell, "Hail the coming of the co-conspirator
The man brought by air mail is hanging on a rope now, about ten
feet under the chopper but still well over a hundred feet above
the ground. He was looking kinda pale, and it seemed even as
though the shit was running down his pants.
That made me remember something that happened earlier today. And
it smelled awfully.
"Stefan", I said, "please go and clean your pants!"
He went downstairs, even more red than Ronny did when we
discovered his Vikingual tendencies.
Stefan just came back, and is smelling heavily of "Cacharel pour
L'Homme". Rune is now also actually present in the house, still
shaking slightly and being a bit greenish.
Ronny, who went downstairs a while ago, now came upstairs again
bringing some heavy exquisite Norwegian liquor whose name I
forgot to ask (I would probably have forgotten it anyway).
He takes his helmet and pours the entire contents of the flask
(a 1.5 litre family bottle) into it. He then passes it around.
Everybody takes a very large swig.
It tastes a bit like Ronny's shampoo, but it goes down one's
throat very smoothly and it makes you feel very warm. Even Rune
doesn't appear to be greenish anymore, and now has a healthy red
complexion. Smoke arises from his oral, nasal and earal cavities.
Everybody is virtually flattened on the floor when the helmet
ends up at Stefan and yours truly. Stefan takes a very large
swig. His head goes green, purple, blue, magenta, red, and then a
combination of these. His eyes virtually bulge out of his skull,
and after that the meat on his face turns stale. It virtually
drops off (seen "Poltergeist"). He coughs. Nothing happens. He
farts. He looks very healthy right away. The smells are awful,
and smell like Ronny's shampoo.
I am the last one to take a swig. About 1 litre of the fluid is
still in it. I put the helmet at my mouth, don't breathe for
about two minutes and swallow the rest of its contents. During
this, soap bubbles come out of my nose and ears - smelling like
| +----- A gigantically awful and dispiccable
| collection of Dutch swearing that
| would make Eddie Murphy blush
+----------- This is an oral explosion that would have made the
Hiroshima H-bomb seem like a fart of Pope John Paul
the Second (his Holy Shittiness farts VERY SOFTLY)
My face turns in colours that would have made the entire Amiga
colour palette grow pale, and that would probably also make any
decent female with a taste of colours go puke.
Er...that's exactly what I did. I neatly returned all of the
fluid in the helmet when they weren't looking.
After giving the helmet back to Ronny, I warned him not to drink
from it any more.
He shouldn't put it on his head anymore either.
"Shit and shit", I said.
Frøystein took the helmet from Ronny, pulled down his pants (I
looked at Stefan with a that's-the-way-it-ought-to-be-done-look),
sat down and deposited some excessive brown thick stuff into the
helmet as well. I fear he pied in it as well.
I asked for the helmet again, and vomited some more (well, I've
seen pretty filthy stuff, but Norwegians shitting takes the
Ronny took the helmet and placed it on the floor.
12:00 (noon on our first day in the neighbourhood of the arctic
Ronny's mother just came upstairs to take the filthy glasses
away, and fainted instantly.
Was it the smell of alcohol and excrements mixed with vomit?
She looks up and shakes with her head. She loses consciousness
Was it the sight of two Mutant Dutchies?
She looks up and shakes with her head. She loses consciousness
Was it the sight of her son totally and completely obliterated
by the effects of alcohol?
She looks up and shakes with her head. She loses consciousness
Then, we notice what must have struck her down. The Hatlemark
pet (not the cockroaches, but a large dog) was lying like dead on
the floor. Next to it lay a Viking helmet which was empty but
could be seen to have contained something quite filthy.
A foul smell arose.
Everybody was silent. The Norwegians took off their helmets and
kept it in front of their chests.
About a thousand cockroaches came up the stairs and carried the
A little while later, the sound of about a thousand cockroaches
feasting and lavishing themselves to the bodily delights could be
Oops. They also carried mum Hatlemark down.
She had never afterwards been seen again, but her son still
hopes she might be alive somewhere.
After all this fun, I open my bag and take out my inflatable
hard disk. At that point Ronny opens his window and is quite
startled by an eagle hovering in front of it. Richard is in a
corner on his knees, trying out some of the dogfood. After
ripping the pump off Frøystein's bicycle, I inflate the hard disk
and attach it to Ronny's ST.
!! SHIT !! (NO! NOT AGAIN!)
We forgot the cable!
At that very instant, Richard jumps up and tears an AC outlet
from the wall, grabs a soldering iron and creates an DIYDMAIC.
(Do it Yourself DMA Interface Cable)
Some seconds later, a very familiar desktop with some very
familiar files appears on the screen.
"CODING TIME!!!!" I yell and we all throw us at the poor ST. I
type maniacally on the latest version of the ST NEWS source while
To-r-bjørn watches my every move. Ronny shouts comments and
Frøystein is doing a quatre-mains with me. Richard is writing
down comments on Norwegian dog food on his Z88 (he is not looking
quite pleased); Rune is trying to figure out how to fit into all
ST NEWS IS READY!!!! IT IS REAAADDDDYYYYYY!!!!!!! I yell,
dancing around the room with Ronny, Torbjørn, Richard and Rune.
(We are all wearing Viking helmets and strange sandals). The only
one who is not feasting is Frøystein. He is sitting behind the
ST, rapidly moving the mouse and pressing keys. Suddenly, a
thunderously triumphant cry emerges from his being. He jumps up
and points maniacally at the screen. Sixteen little bombs (one
bomb for each year this famous bug-invocator is old) cluttered
all over the screen indicate that there could be a slight glitch
in the machine code somewhere. We all drop our helmets, kick off
our sandals and sigh deeply, throwing murderous looks at the
After Frøystein has had his go at it and did not evoke any more
digital explosives from the debugged version of ST NEWS, we now
REALLY believe it has been finished. This means that we have no
more coding to do for today (tomorrow he will have a go at ST-
Klubben) so we can go and eat and explore Ørsta a little.
We have arrived at the place where we are about to refill our
bellies. It just happens to be right next to Porky's. The
otherwise so bright pink and purple neon lights are now dully
unlit. There is a little sign on the same board that is normally
used to display pictures of some of the girls that 'perform' in
the place. It says: "Closed due to a massive scandal involving
one of Norway's top politicians". (At least, that is what our
babel Norwegian Ronny told us).
Upon entering the establishment, we are approached by a joyfully
beautiful girl with the brightest set of blue eyes I have ever
seen. She looks at us with an approving look and leads us to a
special table that is surrounded by four thick steel plates of
which one has a little round door in it with a safety-time lock.
"How long do you expect to eat?" (she says the word 'eat' in the
same way Frøystein would say 'Greenpeace')
Ronny answers her in Norwegian and after that we enter the
"They have experience with computer freaks around here",
explains ToRbjørn as we sit down, looking around us a bit
Shortly after, a small panel opens in one of the other walls and
some tattered menu-cards are thrown in. The panel is immediately
slammed shut again. We pick them up and are greeted by a lot of
Norwegian names for Norwegian dishes.
"You really should try the Årplørøthøm¿", Rune says.
"Or the Ærthørthørium", TORBJORN yells.
"There is a bug in here!", Frøystein cries.
"Take the Fløpperænör!", Ronny exclaims.
"I think I'll have the Mørdørous Gnærhelm", Richard said.
A hushed awe fell over our Norwegian friends as Richard just
After we ordered through an intercom embedded in the wall, some
bottles of coke were shoved through a slot in another wall.
Thirsty as I was, I assisted in attacking them.
The food has arrived! The Norwegians immediately dive upon their
dishes (the ones we mentioned earlier - don't expect us to
requote them!) like eagles dive upon Thunder Gods.
I don't get any food?!
The small door in the wall opens, and in comes a very large man
(who barely fits through the opening). He really is enørmous. So
enørmous that is barely defies description.
He has a badge attached to his chest.
"Mørdørous Gnærhelm," I read aloud. He looks at me with a look
in his eyes that I only saw before when my dad discovered I had
just played with some matches and his chequebook.
"Err...." I mutter, slightly ashamed, "I thought you were the
infamous Kentucky Fried Spermwhale dish."
Somehow, this excuse didn't have the meant effect on the huge
"I'll turn YOU into a Norwegian Fried Spermwhale!" he cried.
Torbjorn jumps in between me and the man with the enormous meat
knife (or was it a chainsaw?).
"He's a foreigner!" the poor saver of my life yells, "he doesn't
"Where is he from?" the man inquired.
ToRRrrbjørn held his hand next to his mouth, as if ashamed of
having to tell the answer. "Holland," he whispers.
The man starts to laugh loudly, and leaves the small cell while
muttering to himself something about "beer", "fucking", "canoes"
and "water". His thunderous laugh disappears only when he
vanishes in the kitchen.
A couple of minutes later, a big portion of French Fries with
Curry Sauce, Mayo and Onions is brought for me, as well as a
complimentary can of Dr. Pepper.
I am happy.
Oh boy, we ran out of food. This is time time of truth. Now we
see why there are steel walls around us for our Norwegian friends
go totally and utterly insane. They start throwing the plates
around, smash the glasses, carve strange Viking runes in the
walls with their knives, pogo out, yell strange cries and do a
whole-lotta more things that I cannot describe right now because
I am too busy ducking the various plates and plates that could
easily decapitate me.
After all the stuff that can be broken has been broken, they sit
down calmly and wait for the click.
Nutty Norwegians: " "
Time : Far out, let's pass.....
Time lock : CLICK!
The door opens and we all try go get out at once. This results
in a cluster of people developing in the doorway. Luckily, I was
the last one to raise from my chair, and I throw myself at the
mass of people stuck in the doorway. A loud plopping noise
followed by some noise as six computerfreaks crash into a table
full of foodstuffs. We flee from the place, with Mørdørous
Gnærhelm chasing us with a quite sharp looking pionard. We loose
him when he crashes into a rather square looking man with a
square face who reacts instantaneously and reduces M. Gnærhelm to
a rather useless piece of flesh and bones.
Panting heavily, we arrive at the local establishment where
Norwegians tend to go when they want to go out. We are stared at
by some female Norwegians which I approach immediately.
"HI!, I'm Stefan from Holland!"
"Føck øff", the girl with the provokingly tight pants says. I
turn around and turn towards Ronny. "Tell them that I am from
Holland and a swell guy to hang out with."
Ronny walks towards the girl and talks to her a bit. I see her
gesturing wildly, after which he comes back to me.
"It's no use, she thinks you look too much like Tom Cruise".
A little baffled, I start towards the bar and order some beer.
The barman offers me a large glass and I finish it in one go.
You're right, it is nothing like the watery stuff we drink back
in the Flatlands. (Frøystein! Control yourself!) It hit me like a
ton of bricks and I really feel like sitting a bit. In fact, I
feel like lying down......uuuuhhhhh....who turned off the light?
Mr. Alcohol himself, Rum-and Vieux Devourer Supreme, Stefan
Posthuma, Master Chief Senior Editor of ST NEWS, just passed out.
He is lying on the ground with his tongue out of his mouth. A
large bump is appearing on his head.
Rune and Ronny lift him up and put him somewhere where he can
lie more comfortable rather than that hard floor.
After a little less than an hour in the club (I am sorry, but I
am afraid I can only remember the last quarter of an hour), we
split again. We have succeeded in convincing our dear friends
that we have had quite an exhausting day, and that we would like
to grab some sleep.
Ronny gave us the keys to his house, where we are now going. The
Norwegians are simply having some more fun at the club.
Even more than when we were there?
We lost the way?!
Where is the club?!
Where is Ronny's house?
Where is Porky's?
Shit and shit!
Richard sits down behind a bush and does something.
After a while he gets back. "What's up?" he asks.
"We are lost," I reply.
"Shit. Shit and shit!" he says.
I go to sit down behind a bush and do something. It's kinda
After some seconds, I return. Richard is standing at the road
and sticks up a thumb.
At that very same instant, a yellow cap with a mouth and eyes
drawn on the hood appears as though by a miracle.
The car looks kinda familiar.
"Just hop in the back!" the cab cries. When we do so, it
immediately starts off, leaving huge clouds of black smoke
smelling like burning rubber.
"We want to go to Bjørkevegen 19," I say.
"Allright!" the cab says.
The cab seems to wander around town for a couple of minutes,
then spots a car and starts driving after it.
"Er....Mr. Cab...", Richard inquires, "..er..." - "You can call
me Benny", the cab interrupts.
"Er...Mr. C...eh..Benny, it seems like I've heard of this
driving style before."
"You mean," answered the cap, "that I drive after someone else
who looks as though he knows where he/she is going when I don't
know the way myself?"
"I found it kinda nice after I read the latest Douglas Adams
book," Benny explained, "but I never charge anything extra on the
I glance at the thing. I surely hope what he says it true.
We are there! We have arrived at Ronny's place! And Benny only
charged us 20 NOKs!
Stefan rings the doorbell, but nobody seems to react.
Yet light can be seen on the first floor, in what we remember to
be Ronny's room. Singing can be heard, and music (is it Mad Max?)
as well as frantic smashing of glasses into each other. At times,
we can see shapes of persons wearing Viking Helmets behind the
"Let's attract their attention and throw some snow balls against
the window," Stefan suggests.
He bends down and takes some snow, forming it into a soft ball.
He throws it against the window.
There is a soft thud against the window - barely audible.
No reaction whatsoever.
Almost, I was bound to say 'shit and shit', but I restrain
myself (it is difficult to do that). I decide to say 'fuck and
fuck', but when I look at Stefan and the looks he gives a dog
that is just passing by, I realise that that would probably not
be the most sensible thing to do either.
He takes some more snow, and this time he puts a small stone in
He throws it.
The sound of crashing glass seems to indicate that he will have
success gaining the people's attention.
"Very subtle," I say.
Stefan becomes a bit red.
We walk back to the door as the Norwegians hang out of the room,
cursing, and then come down the stairs. They are still wearing
their Viking helmets, and the sounds on the stairs indicate that
they are also still wearing those ridiculous sandals.
Ronny opens the door.
"Nice, guys! Now we will have a very chilly night...."
All the Norwegians, Richard and myself now lie on the floor of
Ronny's VERY COLD room. It is very hard to get to sleep, but the
Norwegians are already snoring happily.
I am here typing on the Z88, when something strange happens.
Richard gets up and......wait a minute.
(The rest of this entry is, again, recorded with the faithful
assistance of an Audio Walkman - Dolby B, stereo, the works).
Stefan: (whispering) "Richard seems to be sleepwalking. His eyes
are closed, and he doesn't have his glasses on. At times, he
seems to stumble across some of the Norwegians."
Unidentified Norwegian: "RRooozzzz.....hhmmbll...hmmbbll..roozz"
Stefan: (Still whispering) "That was a small cupboard."
Stefan: "Er....er... Richard..."
Stefan: "Er...Richard! That's the broken window!"
Sounds of someone getting up very fast, as if someone else's
life depends on it.
Tap tap tap tap.
Tap tap tap tap.
A loud sound of crashing can be heard.
All Norwegians: "Frøtterpøthæl!! Whø wakes øs øp?"
Stefan: "Richard just fell out of the window."
All Norwegians: "Øh."
Stefan: "What do you say?!"
All Norwegians: "Øh."
All Norwegians & Stefan: Utter silence.
Faint sounds of a body lying on the street, muttering, can be
heard in the background.
All Norwegians: (Suddenly realising something and getting up
very quickly, almost tearing apart their sleeping bags) "WHAT!?!"
Stefan: "Richard fell out of the window!"
Sounds can be heard of all people walking to the window.
All Norwegians: "Øh øh." (they must have seen "Rainman", I
Stefan: "Very subtle, Richard."
Richard: "Mumble mumble mumble."
(End of high quality stereo audio recording type-out)
Richard lies on the street, slightly obliterated so it seems.
The reasonably thick layer of snow, however, seems to have helped
him a bit in surviving.
When Richard gets up, we see a hole in the ground.
Someone crawls out of the hole. It cannot clearly be seen who it
is, but when he gets up he immediately starts yelling at the poor
boy. When he's ready, Richard replies:
"Sorry sir," Richard mumbles when he's finished talking, "I
haven't got my babel fish with me at the moment. Can you perhaps
"Yøø møtant pøtatøsøcker! Damned maxi-mega assdicker!
Quadrøplebrested titfly! I am Gro Harlem Brundtland, and my
pøwers are høge! I will seize you, and get you to jail for
Richard interrupts him, asking what all those rubber things are
in his back pocket.
Mr. Brundtland now seems to recognize Richard, in spite of the
general abused impression the poor boy must initially have left
on the prime minister.
"Mumble mumble" Gro Harlem mumbles, and continues his way.
"Good job, Ritchie," Frøystein says.
There are some things that I cannot stand:
- People ripping of my "VDU"
- People abusing or insulting girls I like, or closing a shop
door in their face
- People speaking bad of ST NEWS
- People banging their heads to my Pioneer Audio Equipment,
aiming to destroy it
For I have a disease that is quite extraordinary: Snowfever.
This does not mean that, when I see a bit of snow somewhere, I
will start playing and throwing snow balls at people of old age;
on the contrary: I get red spots all over my body, I start to
sneeze violently and uncontrollably, and my nose closes up.
"Come in," Ronny gestures.
"Allright, I will come im," I say.
A couple of seconds later, most of the snow is taken off of me
and I sit next to a cosy heart fire that is lighted in the
sitting room. The red spots disappear quite fast, but the
sneezing and the closed nose remain.
"Does someome have a .... HHHHAAAATTSSSSCCHHHIIEEEE ....
hamdkerchief for me?" I ask.
Rune digs deep in his pocket and puts the entire contents on the
table. Apart from a Helicopter Ticket to Ørsta, some small
change, a wallet, a picture of his girlfriend, some unused
prophylactics, another picture of another girlsfriend, a pass to
Porky's and the stock market exchange figures of tomorrow, it
also reveals a hanky.
I gladly take the piece of cloth.
"Thamk .... ha...ha...ha....hhaaaaa..TTTTSSSSSCCCCCCHHHHHHOUUUU
you." I say.
I blow my nose.
I come by from what seemed to me to be the foreplay of the
ultimate Armageddon. I look around myself, caressing my ears from
the violence they just had to suffer, and see chairs tumbled,
panting Norwegians lying on the floor, my inflatible harddisk
collapsed, the cosy fire gone out, the TV screen broken.
Richard is sitting on the couch, seemingly pretty pleased with
himself. A bug smile ornaments his face, and his snowfeverish
eyes virtually closed. In his hands he hold a dripping piece of
quadrangular cloth. Its color has changed from the navy-blue of
old to a kind of brownish green.
Some glasses and bottles can be heard breaking in the cocktail
bar. Assorted liquids now emerge from the little cupboard there,
and drip onto the ground.
Cockroaches come from all over the place, wearing tins and stuff
to retrieve the delicious liqour. They generally have a ball, as
well as hiccups, and get frightfully drunk.
Slowly, the others come by. They all caress their ears with
painfull looks in their eyes.
I look outside, and spasms of creativity flollop inside me (in a
very floopy way).
"Poetry! Poetry!" I yell. These yells are followed by a poem
that is really hard to behold:
The polar light knifes the harddisk
I fist the character through the penguin
The man walks a diamond there and also water
Drops on my knee and those of the penguins
Pope the fuck and fly to try
Lucy is also there with stones
And the sound I see is easy to feel
And it she they barely coastline
This beautiful poem was, as you could have guessed, inspired by
the polar light that is now beautiful to behold. I lie down and
cry. Then I laugh. I do some more poetry (which I shan't quote).
I wail. I smile. I sneeze.
What the hell did I drink this evening?
I just came back from the loo. This time, I was almost in time
to flee from Richard's 'creativity'.
Whenever the likely event occurs, I usually dash for the loo so
that all the stuff I throw up will at least land in a place where
it can be flushed.
I find myself hoping each time I do it that I will be able not
to hear anything Richard spills forth, but it's always in vain.
This poem was of such Vogonese proportions that the whole floor
in the hall, the wallpaper and the kitchen door are covered with
Ronny's mummy comes down after hearing me do all this. She
She opens a door (the handle is covered by something filthy).
She takes out some housewife applications and starts cleaning
the hallway, the wallpaper and the kitchen floor.
Wow, what a mum. But I suppose Norwegian women are used to doing
that with all those lunatics around (or with a son like Ronny
with friends like TorRrbjørn, Frøystein and Rune around).
I feel considerably relieved. I got rid of all that cropped up
creativity, and it suerly feels nice.
It's a hard life, you know, being a poet! Sometimes, when
eating, or when programming, or when ... AAAAATTTCCCHHAAAA ...
sneezing, and sometimes even when f.cking, you just have to
create a poem. It's a feeling in the guts, and especially when
you're so enormously gifted like me, you cannot withstand it.
The only thing you can do is do it. Get on with it. Be poetic.
Be creative. Honour everybody present with the incredible fact
that they are the first to hear another world class poem (just
like the one I just created - this one's one of the most sensible
I ever wrote!!).
It's hard to be modest when you're talented, you know.
Quit the bullshit, Richard, or I'll have to puke again!
(The following is the third - and last - part that is recorded by
the Aiwa walkman. The Aiwa walkman would be lethally damaged
during recording, so the latter half is made with help of the
Norwegian Safety Service. These people had been bugging the house
because they had received an anonymous tip that the people behind
the Bergen plane crash - killing 5,283 people and wounding 13,072
- would be residing there)
Richard: Do you therewith suggest that my poetic capacity is
Stefan: Hm....I think you're using a nice understatement there.
Richard: Understatement, eh?
Stefan: You could say that.
Richard's fist: Zoooopp!
Stefan: (Ducking his head) Ha! Ha!
Frøystein: Why do people always pick on me? Because of my age?
Rune: (Chuckling a bit) Probably.
Frøystein's fist: Zooooooppp!
Rune: Aaarrggh! That's my eye!
Frøystein: I know. I have had basic Biology, too, you know!
Ronny: No one knocks my friend down, friend.
Ronny's foot: Swwwoossshhh!
Rune's testes: Clock! Bock! Dong! Ding!
Torbjørn: Hmmm. A fight. Sounds nice. (He folds away his glasses
and puts them on the TV)
Rune: (Talking in a high falsetto voice): I'll get you, bastard!
Rune's fist: Swwopp!
Ronny: (Ducks) Hør Hør!
Richard: Aaahh! That's ME, you bleedin' idiot!
Richard's fist: Slap!
Stefan: Let's kick some ass!
Stefan's foot: Swop! Flop! Zop!
Asses of everybody present in the room: Smash!
Owners of all asses present in the room: Aaahhh! Shit!
Just about everybody: Aahh! Kill! Get this! Aarrghh! Just wait,
Doorbell: Allright. I won't bother any more.
Slartibartfast: (After having helped himself in) Eh guys, you
know where the fjords are?
Just about everybody still seems to be engaged in fighting. Six
young men lie around on the ground, biting in various parts of
other people's bodies, slapping, kicking, yelling and howling.
Slartibartfast: Does anyone know where the fjords are? I forgot
to autograph them, you know. Douglas didn't know any better.
Nobody heeds the old man with his long white beard and his face
worn with dignified wrinkles. He turns around and leaves the
Bugs Bunny: What's up, doc?
Everybody: Wrong story, pal! Buzz off, bunny!
Bugs Bunny: Sorry.
Again, everybody engages in fighting. Various sounds that are
probably made by the furniture or parts thereof indicate that
some of things in the house have been damaged or possibly even
desintegrated. Some of them sounds like they're being used to
change odds in the battle.
The Aiwa walkman doesn't survive this stage of the slaughter.
From here on, NSS tapes are quoted.
Frøystein: Hey, asshole!
Everybody else: Talking to me, dickhead?
Frøystein: (Standing in front of the television) Yeah!
Everybody else's fists and feet: Slaap! Wham! Ram!
Frøystein is momentarily totally incapable of making any sounds.
His body is hurtled through the air and ends up on the
ToRbjørn's glasses: Crack. Splatter. Rinkeldekinkel.
ToRbjørn: Gee no! My glasses! I am an invalid without my
Ronny: Oh no, dear friend, you're an invalid NOW as well. Just
Ronny's head: Whhiizzzz!
Torrbjørn's stomach: OUCH! HELLFIRE!
Man passing by in the street: (Muttering) Hellfire?
Doorbell: Don't expect me to start ringing, dude. The rabble
inthere will probably will not listen anyway. And if they do,
they'll probably decapitate me.
Man that was just passing but that now wants to come in:
(Muttering to himself) Seems like there's a fight going on.
Another shoe (that still has a body attached to it): Swoooopps!
Owner of the shoe: Korik! What's a guy like you doing in a place
Man: Yeah....seems that there is a fight going on. May I join?
Owner of the shoe: Go right ahead!
Stefan: 'Ey! Korik! Best friend! Close the door, will ya?
Korik: Spiritual Father! Hail!
Stefan: I think we can use a hand here, Korik!
Rune: You can have MY hand!!
Stefan: Yes? That's nice.
Rune's fist: Ssslllaaaaammmm!!
Stefan's teeth: Plop plop tick plop.
Ground: Hey, what's that white stuff?
Everybody (including Korik): Kill! Raah! Aaah! Bite! Eat! Ouch!
Roadrunner: Meep meep.
Everybody: ? Those cartoons do seem to make a habit of turning
up in the wrong places recently!
Everybody commences fighting again, as earlier described.
A loud cracking sound. The door seems to be flown out of its
hinges, and is definitely no longer usable as a door.
Everybody (in chorus): Cronos!
Richard: (Whispering to Stefan) Oops. Cronos. Now the shit hits
Cronos: Am I mistaken or is there a fight going on here?
Richard'n'Stefan: Nonono. Why would we fight? Why? We? Ha ha!
You make me laugh.
Stefan pushes ToRRRRRRRRRRRRRRbjørn's leg out of his mouth; Rune
lets go of a very tight grip on Frøystein's throat; Richard drops
a large blunt object (probably a table leg) that he was wielding
next to Ronny's head.
They all look perfectly innocent. This would have been the ideal
occasion for halos to appear above the boys' heads. Their clothes
are torn, some shoes lie in corners, blood drips from their
Cronos: Been drinking too much alcohol again? It's always the
same with you kids.
After having said that, heavy thumping sounds can be heard of
Cronos chastizing the boys. When he has done that, he leaves the
six crying kids behind and walks out of the house.
Everybody looks menacingly at Richard, caressing their bums.
Richard: I am sorry guys; I think I must have accidentally built
some of my father's characteristics in him.
(End of all audio records of this gathering)
Oof. That was quite close. If Cronos would have mingled in the
battle, I don't think any of us would have survived the
onslaught. But our bums still ache terribly from the power of his
hands. And he didn't even pull down our pants. The imprint of my
wallet will probably forever be in my ass muscles. I'd rather be
chastized with a double-bladed battle-axe than another treat with
Maybe I shouldn't have created such a violent and powerful man?
Maybe I should have made a wimpy pussy like Korik?
You think Korik Starchaser is a wimpy pussy? Just wait....
(You know we ran out of audio tape, but the NSS secretly created
visual proof of the massacre as well. Though they uses a billio-
tele-lens, filming all the way from a Television Sattelite, which
causes the image to divert sometimes, it is possible to restore
some of what must have happened. Don't ask me HOW they did it,
but those NSS guys did. This is the (top secret) logbook they
made of it. Is is copyrighted by the NSS, an independent division
of the one and only CIA)
A small explanation of the format the NSS guys use:
Suspect #1: Ronny
Suspect #2: Stefan
Suspect #3: Frøystein
Suspect #4: Rune
Suspect #5: Richard
Suspect #6: Tobjørn (they misspelled it, see?)
Suspects #7-#632 (also mentioned somewhere in the report) are
all cockroaches, except for #34 (which is Cronos), #21 (which is
Korik) and #17 (which is Mrs. Hatlemark). Some of them are likely
to occur in the next part as well. The hour format is without any
0117 Suspect #2 smacks suspect #5 on the nose. Suspect #5 does
the same to suspect #2.
0118 All present suspects with a number lower than seven are
engaged in combat. Various limbs of various people are used to
smack various limbs of various other people (sorry, boss; I can't
make anything more of this either. Just fire me if you can find
an observer who does a better job than this and who isn't called
0119 Suspects #90 and #138 get killed when suspect #6 ends up on
top of them. Suspect #6 tries to fetch the remainder of his
glasses and tries to put the thing back in shape. Suspect #5
grabs it from his hands and shoves it up the right nasal cavity
of suspect #4.
0120 Suspects #1 and #3 smash their heads into each other's. They
momentarily retreat to another room to lick their wounds and
smash their heads into each other's a bit more. Suspect #17 comes
into the room, notices that there are no glasses to clean and
that there is no vomit to sweep, and retreats back into the
0121-0124 Atmospherical disturbances disable us to see what is
going on. We receive short impressions of Mr. Brundtland leaving
Porky's, a Russian spy satellite photographing Mr. Bush' speech
in the White House, and various Norwegian people doing two things
that they tend to do often at this hour: Sleeping and having
sexual intercourse (with their wives, their pets, their children,
themselves, and any combination of these).
0125 Suspect #1 kicks suspect #5 out of a window that was already
broken. Suspect #5 doesn't get any lethal injuries, since his
fall is broken by the snow. Close-ups let us see that the suspect
(#5) gets red spots all over his body.
0126 Suspect #5 enters the house again. After kicking suspect #2
in the balls, he wanders around in search for a hanky. He
0126.5-0130 Connection totally terminated. No vision. The camera
0131 Connection restored. Suspects #1-#4 and #6 are trying to
prevent suspect #5 from using a quadrangular piece of cloth he
must have retrieved somewhere. They fail in their quest.
Superior's note: Agents on patrol have been found. All have been
killed because the TV satellite dropped out of the sky. Several
other satellites also dropped down (including a Russian Spy
satellite, which causes quite a stir in the U.S. since it landed
on top of the Statue of Liberty). The Norwegian Seismic Institute
had measured an earthquake of 6 on Richter's scale, with its epic
centre in Ørsta, Norway. Further investigations pending.
We have all recovered from the major catastrophe that happened
when Richard blew his nose. We are all frightfully exhausted, and
tomorrow ST-KLUBBEN has to be finished. That should require some
more decent work to be done, for which it is necessary for all of
us to get some decent night's sleep.
So we go and find our sleeping bags again (some people crawl in
one sleeping bag, since some were damaged in the battle that
took place at around midnight - give or take an hour).
Good idea (I am glad to find that Stefan still seems to be able
to get some of them sometimes).
THE NEXT DAY. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 29th 1989.
Light drizzles through the curtains. I feel simply awful. Not
only because I feel sleepy and ginormously hungry, but also
because memories of dreams involving armageddon, fights,
massacres and onslaught haunt me.
I look around me.
A curse rolls over my lips that makes everyone go "HHHggnnnn"
when I find out that these are no dream memories; they are
memories of truth. Around me, torn sleeping bags are lying, as
well as some battered Norwegians, blood, and lots of glass. A
very cold wind enters through the broken window.
The time that we generally use to eat fried eggs and/or Corn
Flakes (and which the Norwegians appear to use only to watch
Monty Python movies) is there!
Food! Food! Breakfast! Aaaaahh!!!
My head feels as though Cronos is dancing on it, and Korik and
the whole lot of Norwegians as well.
A curse that makes everyone go "HHHgggnnn!!" rolls off my lips
as I look upon the chaos surrounding me. It looks as though Sodom
and Napalm Death have performed here together.
Aaahhhh! I get an inspirational spasm!! Aaarrgghhh! It hurts to
be an artists! I have to write! Quick! I need paper!
(The following is what our 'inspired' man wrote down on a long
piece of toilet paper)
A SODOM'N'NAPALM DEATH CONCERT
It was a fresh afternoon when I took the train to
Amsterdam. Could anyone in the train, nor any of the cows in
the fields through which the train rushed, realise what I
was going to do? Er... I was kinda wearing stuff that would
make people think things that were probably not so far off
anyway: A dogleash around my throat, a blood-stained
Metallica T-shirt, bullets around my waist and hair dyed
At about 8 PM I arrived at Amsterdam Central, and within
half an hour I was at the Hall where these two loud bands
I didn't have to wait long. At 9 PM the bands surfaced on
the stage. Napalm Death looked pretty scum-like, and Sodom
(The Sodomic Trinity) was looking like they could eat the
English guys raw.
The fans didn't have to wait long. Napalm Death started off
with five of their most wellknown numbers. They had played
them before the Sodomists even knew how to grab their first
Lee Dorrian (that's Napalm Death's oralist) laughed with a
satiric laugh. Tom Angel Ripper (Sodom's oralist annex bass-
player) struck a powerful bass chord that Shane Embury (ND's
bass-ripper) found good enough to override with his guitar.
A tornado of noise was beginning to start when the two
drummers (Chris Witchhunter and the fastest drummer in the
world, Mick Harris) started mingling themselves in it.
Sounded like stuff for a popular duet soon to be released.
The noise was truly deafening. The guitarists were beating
their guitars to bits on each other's heads and so were the
bass-players. Lee jumped into the neck of Tom and tried to
shove his mike down his throat.
The crowd went wild! This was the newest fashion in
trash'n'heavy'n'speedy-metal! Everybody started headbanging
and stagediving and generally had a ball.
After 10 minutes of music onslaught, the band and the fans
left the hall. Wow! It had been worth every cent of the
nickle the entrance costed. Everybody was exhausted.
I went home, and once again looked at the other people in
And the cows.
Do you know I have been having these spasms regularly lately?
We were just about to dive into the gastronomic delights of an
excellent breakfast prepared by the never-tiring Mrs. Hatlemark
when a large Golden Eagle flew into the busted front door and
pinched the bread away.
Shi....No. I won't say it.
So today is the day on which the Christmas'n'New Year's issue of
ST Klubben will be finished. It surely is an honour to be able to
be present here, as this historic (or should I say: Histerical)
occasion. I pray to whatever god happens to fly around here
(wielding a hammer) to make us find dozens of nasty little BUGS
Ronny is now inflating HIS non-inflatable harddisk, Frøystein
and Rune are gathering disks from the floor that should contain
some additional valuable source material and Nutty Articles.
Richard and ToRRRRRRRRRRRRRRbjørn are discussing something about
glasses and the nuisance they are, as well as Norwegian dog food.
Torrrrrrrrrbjørn is still trying to get his glasses off the
floor, after having put it there to put its hundreds of fragments
together using superglue.
Never spill the whole jar over the object to be glued when it's
lying on a surface it shouldn't be glued to, pal!
It's really surprising to see how these madmen finish a disk
magazine. Basically, it's four pairs of hands on the same
keyboard with a smart ST-Splitter program installed. For a
second, one of them is drawing in Degas. Another moment, one of
them is programming in assembler. While assembling the program to
disk, another one switches tasks and starts loading his GfA Basic
source files. The fourth one is spellchecking the documents (so
that civilized human beings will SURELY not be able to read it).
But it appears to be ready now. Stefan and myself have been busy
raiding the house for 40%+ liqour, but only have been able to
find some Very Light Beer (the stuff with which Norwegians' heads
are said to be filled under the 2cm of brain tissue).
I was honoured: I was allowed to have a go at crashing ST
Klubben just now. I am afraid I have to relate to you the fact
that I did not succeed in crashing it.
At one moment, three bombs appeared on the screen. I sat back,
beaming with joy, a smile of sadistic smiles wrinkled on my face.
The bombs were there for about three seconds, in which I had my
short but enormous triumph.
After those three seconds, the bombs slowly desintegrated and
formed words. I read aloud: "Had you, Richard!"
I hate it when people do that, and especially when they all
start wrinkling the most sadistic of smiles upon their triumphant
little shitty faces.
It seems that ST KLUBBEN is now at last finished. The program
runs smoothly, and so do all the extra effects, the border
torturing demo screens and the music that beats hell out of Mad
Max. Just in time, as in fact we have booked our plane to go back
to Holland at 20:37 at Ørsta International Airport.
So we even have some time left to do some demo coding, talking,
drinking, use up all the Coke (yes, the powdery stuff) we brought
with us, and fight a bit.
We leave at exactly 8 PM, on our way to Ørsta International
Airport. We hear some Metallica music coming from the pub down
the street, but don't heed it.
The Airport isn't quite as 'international' as we expected. There
is, as a matter of fact, just ONE small tattered plane that is
probably pre-World War II (and it has probably been shot down in
that war as well).
Is there even enough space for two computer freaks plus luggage?
The pilot tells us not to use the Z88 while flying.
"Planes øften crash when you øse thøse things," he says.
"Of course, with such intricate machinery like yours," Richard
The pilot gives him a devastating look.
It is 20:37 when the plane leaves Norwegian soil. For about five
minutes, we can still discern four waving dots in the white snow
of the Ørsta hills. Then, we flight through a cloud and they are
taken out of our sight by a lot of fluffy stuff.
Except for a dogfight with a frustrated pilot (a large square
man with a large square face, who obviously didn't know WE were
in the plane) just before leaving Norway Airspace, we have safely
reached Dutch airspace.
Which is sheer luck, because the plane is making awful noises,
the pilot turns out to have learned to fly using "Flight Path" on
the Commodore 64 and the thing is awfully slow.
Anyway, I can already smell Holland again: Cheese, windmills,
wooden shoes, cocaine and.....Plantiac!
We just landed on Den Bosch International Airport (which is just
as International as the one in Ørsta, and which might be mistaken
for an ordinary street - or is it an ordinary street where we
are now landing?).
In about half an hour, we will arrive at Stefan's place to work
out this article into something that can be used in ST NEWS (lots
of reformatting and porting over from the Z88).
So this is it.
Note: Actually, the Norwegians also wrote quite a lot of stuff
to add to this stunning real-time article ( the fifth already,
after "TEX in Holland", "The Computer Orgy at Den Bosch", "Visit
to TEX" and the rather large "ST NEWS England Quest").
Unfortunately, these Norwegians went out of their minds to such a
mindastounding degree that they only typed their texts in some
kind of strange dialect with a lot of 'ø's in it.
We had to delete all their entries, in spite of the fact that
they might have been fun to read (just as much fun as reading
"ST-Klubben"). Pity. The article is now about half a gigabyte
less in size.
Thanks must have to go to Ton from Data Skip Gouda for the Z88
(may it forever rule!), and to our Norwegian Friends for allowing
us to torture them. Hail thee!
This vintage stuff is quite rare, you know that? Even Stefan
doesn't have it any more, and I was only lucky to get it back
during the true ST NEWS Norway Quest 1989-1990.
Anyway. So far the reading bit of this Hidden Article.
As usual, we intend to connect it with a competition. Indeed.
The price is a life-time subscription to the ST NEWS Underground
issues; something very rare indeed!
Please note: 'Life' does not refer to YOUR life, but to ST NEWS'
There will be a couple of questions you have to answer, though.
You will only be able to answer them if you're a pretty devoted
ST NEWS reader (you must at least have done the Final
Compendium!). All you have to do is write the numbers of the
questions on a postcard and write the proper answers next to
them. The first lucky (?) chap (?) pulled from the mailbag (?)
will be the happy (?) winner (?).
Of course, you do not really have to use a postcard to let us
know the answers. Use your imagination - or use a letter in which
you also flatter us, accompanied by close up picture of your
anatomy (this latter is only desired if you're female, of
OK. Let's go ahead with the questions. Most of them are of a
rather tricky kind, so be warned in a rather extreme fashion!!
1) What is Spaz?
A: A kind of disease which is recognisable by uncontrolled
B: One of the programmers of The Lost Boys.
C: Someone who really hates Yngwie Malmsteen.
D: A Greek dish.
2) What is Multifizzic Omega?
A: A place where you can relax very well.
B: The graphics artist of TEX.
C: A disease contracted by sitting on a filthy toilet seat.
D: Somewhere where beings live whose shit is quite smelly.
3) What is Thalion?
A: A famous English software company.
B: Epithet applied by Hurin in a J.R.R. Tolkien book.
C: A synonym for a male's private parts.
D: A brand of beer that really knocks you off your socks.
4) What is sex?
A: Something about which one can never possibly know enough.
B: Depends on who's asking.
C: The abbreviation of something of which the abbreviation would
D: The name of the Queen of Multifizzic Omega.
5) What is water?
A: When in a fjord, something that is green.
B: When below zero degrees Celcius, something that it stiff.
C: Something wet.
D: All of the above.
6) What is a hard-on?
A: Something that is long and slender, standing straight up in
the ground and which is just high enough to enable you to
damage your gonads when trying to walk over it without
B: A second hand condom that has been lying about too long.
C: Those ice creams that you have to push up and to which your
tongue will inevitably freeze solid.
D: An excited piece of male gender.
7) What is water?
A: When in a fjord, something that is blue.
B: When above zero degrees Celcius, something that it stiff.
C: Hey! We had that before!
D: All of the above.
8) What is a pimple?
A: A person that exploits trollops.
B: A very sour piece of candy.
C: That which may result from eating to much candy.
D: The boss of the Catholic Church.
9) What is Korik Starchaser?
A: Stefan's spiritual child.
B: A song by the Beach Boys.
C: The brand name of a company producing air fans.
D: The ex-guitarist of Megadeth.
10) How many hidden articles are featured in this issue of ST
A: Only one. Don't think you can mislead me by using 'articles'!
D: Forty-two (....).
11) What is the fourth part of Douglas Adams' "Hitchhiker"
A: Don't be silly. How can there be a fourth book in a trilogy?!
B: So long and thanks for all the dolphins!
C: Life, the Universe, and the 42-Crew.
D: None of the above.
12) What is a Z88?
A: A rare version of the Spectrum ZX81, upgraded to 88 Kb RAM.
B: A nautical term involving the proximity of the equator.
C: Something that weighs about 1 kilo and that, among other
things, has liquid crystals in it.
D: The last character of the Googlogulpexian alphabet followed by
13) What is Coke?
A: Something white and bubbly.
B: Something brown and powdery.
C: Something purple and gaseous.
D: Something that tastes a lot better than A-C would.
14) Who is Suspect #16?
A: Mrs. Hatlemark.
B: Martin Galway.
C: Leisure Suit Larry.
D: A cockroach.
15) What is Tynesoft?
A: A software company in Newcastle upon Tyne.
C: The company responsible for the launch of Cronos Warchild,
triggered by "Fire & Forget".
D: None of the above.
16) What is the name of "Robocop II"?
A: Alex Murphy
D: Oliver North
17) What is the name of the new Queensryche album?
C: Total Recall
D: Dash 3
18) What is the name of the mother in the "Live Undead" article?
Those were the questions. Good luck answering them for, as I
mentioned before, the majority of them are really tricky!
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.