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Shootout at the Cyberbuss Corral
2000-05-16 23:01:54


Bad People
 
Heh heh heh. Say what you want about me, Dixie Buttmunch, but OS/2 is dead, dead, dead like Jackie G. and no amount of Evan-baiting is going to bring it back.
-- Mr. Bad

 

Reverend CyberSatan of the Cyberbuss KREW gives Pigdog Journal the SCOOP on the haps at Saturday's Cyberbuss Costume Ball. Beaujolais! Bad cops and badder guests sparred with countering and feinting and parrying and all that rot! It was the best failed event of the season.

[The Cyberbuss Costume Ball has been a staple of the San Francisco freak underground for the last 4 years. The Cyberbuss is weird enough, but when you collect all the Cybers and all the OTHER big weirdos in beat alley at some corner in Hunter's Point, well, whoo-ee! All hell can break loose.

This year's party was a strange and mysterious event. Reverend CyberSatan, longtime scenester and Friend of Pigdog in As-of-Yet Unrevealed Ways has given us this report of the event. It's an INSIDE SCOOP! Enjoy, reader! -- Mr. Bad]


More cops than I'd ever seen in my life. That's about how I'd describe the 4th Annual Cyberbuss Costume Ball.

Things looked really bad at about 4:00 p.m. on the day of the event. Mr. Sympson and I were atop Headless Point Studios and I was about to throw myself off the roof on a guide wire that ran across the property and down to the ground. As I was about to take flight, a couple of cops pulled up in a prowler and started talking to the Cyberians on the ground. I waited and waited and waited for them to clear the hell out, but they didn't. Since this was taking so much time, I went down to see what the trouble was.

Well, it seems that the Cybers lacked 1) a health permit, 2) a safety permit, and 3) a fire permit. I was wondering just exactly what we needed in terms of a health and safety permit, seeing as how we were right next door to the Hunter's Point Naval Weapons Station. The razor-wire fence of the former destructo base has signs reading: "WARNING: MULTIPLE BIOLOGICAL AND ENVIRONMENTAL HAZARDS. DO NOT ENTER." Health permit? Uh-huh.

Well, the bluish bacon said that the party was now closed (before it had even started) and that we could talk to the Lieutenant if we so desired. A couple of minutes after they left, we did exactly that. It's fair to say that the Lieutenant was immune to the female charms of our Rina the Queena and Justin Credible. The party was still off and they threatened to shut us down if we so much as put on a record and Hustled. Thus became what would become the Alamo of SF underground culture.

I arrived later on that night to get the door up and humming. Dressed in a Nazi uniform, Hitler mustache, and Mickey Mouse ears, I was ready to greet the incoming freaks. It turned out that the first people I greeted were members of the SF Fire Department, who managed to crack a grin at my "Adolf Disney" persona while they scanned our environs for fire hazards and shut-down violations.

A tour of the property and adjacent set-up revealed that we had no fire problems worthy of closing us down, or even citing us. In fact, the fire jumpers were so chilled out that they went and had their faces painted by the girls in the fashion booth.

The next set of guests that arrived were obvious fetishists: they came in blue suits with badges and guns. One of them even claimed to be a Lieutenant. He and his troopers blew in with so much overpowering macho testosterone that several gay guests of ours swooned and fainted, thereby creating the night's first medical emergency. While the medics worked feverishly to restore our fallen revelers, the almighty Fuzz reamed CyberSam a new asshole for attempting to throw a party without the permission of the almighty Man. Against all Constitutional values and reasonable standards, the Lieutenant told us that we couldn't even have a private party for a couple hundred of our friends. With that, they stormed out and left three cops at our door as garlic loaves to the incoming hoards of soon-to-be-arriving undead guests.

For the next couple of hours, Adolf warded off car after car after car of guests, explaining that the cops were just looking for a reason to cuff and sodomize us. However, during all this confusion, a mysterious portal opened up just our of range of Blue Boy eyes and many revelers took advantage of it. Several hours later, a police inspection revealed over two hundred guests where there had only been a handful.

Naturally, this kind of thing has to be cracked in half by police authority before the whole damn thing causes Western Civilization to melt at the seams. Back into the breach came the Lieutenant and his men, calling on some ten or twelve cruisers for support. They dove into the party with all the anticipation of steroid-chompers about to see cute chicks with naked tits. After all, what's more difficult and dangerous: breaking up a gathering like this one or enforcing a truce in a neighborhood gang war where guns have killed two and terrorized scores over the last two weeks?

About an hour after they went down, I heard nothing and no one was leaving. I began to wonder if the crowd hadn't simply swallowed, stripped and fellated them to the point of submission. A quick check revealed that they were still there, trying desperately to find the light switch for the overheads (they were unable to find the switch for the sound system).

Back up at the top of the hill, I decided that I'd had enough of turning away all my friends all night long. I'd also had enough of the cops to last the rest of the week, if not the rest of this month. The Lieutenant, calling to me like I was his cabin boy, asked me where CyberSam was. I replied, "I don't care. I'm going to see my girlfriend across town. The place is all yours." Keeping my word, I left shortly after.

Not long after my departure, the cops decided that they'd had enough, too. The hauled Sam out and gave him a verbal chewing, which he gave back to them. The Johnnies then left, giving the impression that they would not return. Sam then did what any reasonable undergrounder would do: he went back down, turned the music back on and told people they were free to hang out and have a great time.

Around dawn, a bunch of us went back out to the party. The cops were nowhere to be found, but the hot tub was. A few of us who had endured the whole fiasco jumped in and mused about how great this was and how the cops were off somewhere else not having nearly as much fun.

The morning played out wonderfully, and culminated with Scott Jenerik giving one of his awesome, flame-blowing performances on a beach behind Headless Point. A devoted crowd of die-hards stood captivated and triumphant. Just like the Alamo, we'd been overrun, but the fort still stood and this time Davey Crockett lived.

Over.  End of Story.  Go home now.

sadist@pigdog.org


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