Source: https://groups.google.com/d/msg/rec.woodworking/9rIDj1VB2DY/-W28pvsdQxEJ Path: archiver1.google.com!news2.google.com!fu-berlin.de!uni-berlin.de!pcp02170107pcs.umrion01.pa.comcast.NET!not-for-mail From: Tom Watson Newsgroups: rec.woodworking Subject: Norm Nowrecki - TheTale To This Point (Including Part Four) Date: Fri, 23 Jan 2004 23:05:26 -0500 Lines: 403 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: pcp02170107pcs.umrion01.pa.comcast.net (68.83.230.183) Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: news.uni-berlin.de 1074917225 22748142 68.83.230.183 ([218319]) Cancel-Lock: sha1:v9Yn/7KH4JjuA/Z5TSrUNH2p6BI= X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 X-NFilter: 1.2.1-b1 Xref: archiver1.google.com rec.woodworking:50278 Norm Nowrecki - Part The First. Norm Nowrecki had been sitting at his desk for six months, waiting for the latest James Krenov book to be published that would give meaning and purpose to his life, when his cell phone peeped out a tinny version of the NYW theme, signaling an incoming call. This came as quite a shock to Norm, as he had not paid his cell phone bill for three months, having spent all his money on a particularly attractive investment in Jatoba, well it wasn't - look, we'll come back to that. Norm peeled the much duct taped Motorola from his belt, banged it reflexively on the desktop and spoke, "Norm Nowrecki, Troll Tracker." The line was full of weird clicks and unintelligible disembodied voices, added to the electronic howling of distant modem handshakes, it seemed as though dozens of crossed lines were feeding into his ancient Motorola. A wheezing sepulcharal presence spoke above the racket, "SMEGMA." The line went dead. Horrified, Norm punched in *69. Nothing, nada, zippo. The unfunded Motorola was mute. Could it be true? Was his old nemesis again up to its vile tricks? SMEGMA (Silly Morons Engaged in Generating Malicious Assaults) was thought to have been disbanded after Norm's last attack on their headquarters, where Norm had captured their leader (Fetus Fudgepacker) and subjected him to his patented Mobius Looped PowerPoint Presentation of Hoadley's, Identifying Wood, with a background track of a MIDI version of TOH bumper music. Norm thought of it as, "The Cure." "Fudgepacker must have escaped" Breathed Norm to the fetid, uncomprehending air of his office. Norm looked at the frosted glass of his office door and read the inscription, "rekcarT llorT - ikcerwoN mroN", which made him chortle as he thought of Firesign Theatre, which made him guffaw as he... "Get a grip. You've got a case." It's probably time to deal with the Jatoba Incident. Norm had two passions, computers and wooddorking. He'd found his calling in the marriage of the two during the great Crossposting Doggie Doo Troll War, in which he had succeeded in neutering the Doggies and in cancel ling all of the accounts that the Trolls had posted from. He'd been well compensated for his efforts by grateful members of the afflicted groups and his lifestyle had blossomed to the point where he could afford a girlfriend, every other Friday night, for about a half an hour. Life was good. Then he'd had that tremendous success in bringing Fetus Fudgepacker to bay, actually to Ebay, where Norm dangled the indescribable carrot that became the ineluctable trap. Norm had offered for auction the unmunged email addresses of those on the group that Fudgepacker considered to be his particular prey. Norm was able to increase his time with his intermittent girlfriend to forty five minutes, based on the resolution of that case. Life was better than good. One night shortly after, while Norm was wandering the docks in an attempt to catch the scent of the forbidden South American Hardwoods, that he knew to be nestled in the shipping containers of certain flag of convenience vessels, he came upon a small man wearing a large coat. "Brazilian Cherry, Honduran Mahogany, Jatoba.", hawked the little man in the large coat. "Did you say, Jatoba?", growled Norm, backing the little man against a dock post. The little man was flapping his coat open and closed, like a fishing bird drying his feathers, like a rooster greeting the dawn, like a...well, he mostly looked like a somewhat hesitant flasher. "What's this about Jatoba?", barked Norm to the little flashing man. "Check it out.", smarmed the little flashing man, as he opened his coat to reveal a collection of wood samples, sewn into his coat lining, that would have held, in a more sober culture, a transient's display of offshore Rolex knockoffs. "Jatoba, in the bole, kiln dried, all FAS." Norm's head was spinning. "How much?" "A dollar two ninety eight a board foot." Norm broke out in a sweat, knowing that he had only enough money to pay for his cell phone and the 56K line that fed his business. He lifted the little flashing man four inches off of the ground and, breathing the remains of his sardine poor boy sandwich into the little flashing man's face, said, "I want all of it." That transaction had sealed Norm's fate. He lost his access to his intermittent girlfriend. His Motorola was numbed into silence. He was able to keep up his troll tracking business only by tapping into the phone line of the office next door to his. He'd hit bottom. Norm was a wood junky. The heavy breather who'd pronounced the word, "SMEGMA" into his heretofore dead Motorola, held out the only promise of redemption. He was on the case. In his excitement and in the anticipaaaaation of the hunt, Norm had a double epiphany - it was Fudgepacker - it was always Fudgepacker - the voice on the phone - the little flashing man... "Aaarrrrgggghhhhhh." Norm fired up his trusty 133mhz beige nonamebox, engaged his balky winmodem... The chase was on. (to be continued) Norm Nowrecki - Part The Second. Norm Nowrecki was mortally pissed. Fudgepacker had played him like a two dollar banjo and that jangling metaphor had induced a cognitive and musical dissonance unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He hummed the NYW theme as loud as he could, in an attempt to drown out the Dueling Banjos that had screwed itself in his mind like the worst worm that had ever been let loose. "I have to focus!" SMEGMA (Subsentient Maniacs Encouraging Gibbering Mindless Arguments) had many haunts. Norm's 133 was downloading the postings to alt.usenet.kooks, a known SMEGMA hangout. Fudgepacker was undoubtedly using an alias but Norm knew his style. Fetus Fudgepacker had a very limited vocabulary that was all too well known to Norm and so, he set up filters to trap all postings using the obscene expressions most favored by Fetus. Once the qualified postings were directed into Norm's looneybin, he would parse each one in an attempt to catch Fudgepacker's noxious scent. Norm walked over to one of the many Jatoba piles that crowded his tiny office. This particular one had been arranged into a rough simulacrum of a couch. With a Janka side hardness of 2820 pounds at six percent moisture content, the Jatoba couch was hardly a place to rest one's head, although the natural germicide contained in the wood was a definite plus in an office such as Norms'. "Where is Fudgepacker hiding?" He'd already gone through all the postings on the newsgroups most frequented by trolls; alt.troll, alt.flame, alt.sexuality.confused - no sign of Fetus or SMEGMA. It was no wonder that he was feeling disoriented. He contemplated Nietzsche's quote, which had become a mantra to all troll trackers: "He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." The cheesy winmodem smelled like fried halitosis - the download was complete. Norm was running IP numbers through the Sam Spade tools when his Motorola chirped out the NYW theme. Could this be Fudgepacker calling to taunt him? He banged the Motorola on the Jatoba pile that served as his desk, hard enough to pop the outer layer of duct tape - he held the Motorola to his ear as a voice whispered. "Tage Frid." "Tage Frid" was the password used by his friends. Like the biblical "shibboleth", it could not be properly pronounced by their enemies,the trolls. "Momma's Basement. Midnight." The line went hollow with silence. Momma's Basement was a troll club on the Southside. Norm had been there before when tracking down other trolls. The trolls gathered there and celebrated their iconoclastic individuality by dressing all in the same clothing. Black on black on black. The place looked like a convention of pimply-faced, cross-dressing, Roy Orbison impersonators but the music was by the house band The Defecators, who had made their mark by spot welding their guitars into a B flat cord that was played over and over in accompaniment to the hoarsely shouted lyrics of Wanker's Melody. The place stank of Yoohoo and the remains of half consumed Twinkies. He hated this part of the job. Norm gathered up his troll disguise and headed for the door. (next time - "Momma's Basement".) Norm Nowrecki - Part The Third. The monkey cage at the Zoo smelled like this on some summer nights, when the wind was wrong and the damp was rising. The light was greasy and the carpet squished out a vile protest against his footsteps. Norm Nowrecki had only been inside Momma's Basement for five minutes and already he felt like he had a mouthful of dead flies. The Defecators, the house band, pounded out their relentless one cord backup to the insanely cackled lyrics of Louie Louie, without benefit of melody or modulation. The trolls had disported themselves about the Yoohoo bar in poses intended to show their disinclination to appear as normal human beings. Baggy black pants hung in such a way as to present their pale pimpled flesh, arrayed in a display of derriere décolletage that might have honorably been called 'plumber's cleavage' in people who had jobs. The unremitting blackness of their attire served to set off the grave-mocking palor of their countenances. Nowrecki held a small block of cedar to his face and inhaled deeply to keep from gagging. The carefully studied androgyny of the troll's costumes did nothing to hide the fact that this was a troll bar devoid of female inhabitants, as was always the case with troll bars. A sickening sweetness overwhelmed the cedar as a voice whispered wetly into Norm's ear. "Tage Frid." The password! Norm dared not turn around but knew there was a friend over his shoulder. "Tage Frid." Norm breathed back in a dead fly exhalation. It was 'PineyWood' from the Wreck. No doubt about that, as the redolent reminder of sanded Jummywood seeped through his troll disguise to such a degree that it drowned out even the strident sweetness of the Yoohoo. Norm hoped that the trolls would take it to be a cheap body oil used in an attempt to disguise the usual trollish lack of attention to personal hygiene. "Fudgepacker's in the back room." Mouthed Pineywood, just above the din of The Defecators. "How do we get in?" Norm replied and turned to look at Piney. He was shocked beyond measure at Piney's appearance. Norm Nowrecki felt his gorge rise. (Next Part - The Back Room.) Norm Nowrecki - Part The Fourth. SMEGMA (Supercilious Mendicants Encountered in Gaming Mall Abattoirs) had the whole place wired. More to the point, they had Pineywood wired. His color, usually that of a pale air-dried cherry, had gone to the flat gray-green of a steamed poplar. Norm began to take a light breath, in preparation to ask after Pineywood's health, when Piney exploded with: "He's back there! He's back there and he's made me sniff contact adhesive until I told! I couldn't help it! Really! This was far too many exclamation points for Norm and he backed jerkingly away. That was when Fudgepacker oozed into the room. "I'm sure you've noticed the new troll attacks on the Wreck, Nowrecki." Fudgepacker spoke this in an oleagenous voice, at precisely one quarter octave lower than Michael Jackson's, in an attempt to appear human. He was about four foot nine inches in height and nearly so much in breadth - his hair hung in nauseatingly gelatinous curls to the bottom-most level of his triple chins. His porcine eyes peered out in dark gluttony through the bagged fat of their surrounds. The inevitable and redundant black tee shirt showed the whitish-cracked-salt-stained evidence of long unwashing which peeled in scales from the armpits. "I'm sure you've seen how we have driven off your best contributors, how we have turned JOAT into T and how we have excoriated your best loved member - Bay Area Dave." Nowrecki sat on his smile, glad to know that Fudgepacker's intelligence was less than what he'd feared. The other trolls had formed behind him and were moving to back Norm into one of the corners of the fetid clubhouse. It was an angry scene. The troll mob went from a dull mutter to a mindless shriek and pressed Norm back into the wall. That is when the Motorola went off. No one was more surprised than Fudgepacker, who thought that he only had that number. Seeing their fright, Nowrecki held the battered device up high and a squeaking voice emanated from it, saying, "Tage Frid." "Tage Frid." The trolls cowered - their will weakened before the sacred words. "KlownHammer" said the squeaking voice. Now it was Nowrecki's turn to be stunned. The squeaker said again, "KlownHammer". The trolls had gathered themselves again and made to rush at Norm. There was a frenzy of motion. There was a glutinous cacophony of sound. Norm was knocked to the floor and, as his clothes were disarrayed, a light showed forth from their folds. It was pure as a laser and as the laser had enscribed it and it read, "Mea Mordeo". Norm grabbed the handle and held it high in the room full of trolls. "Mea mordeo", shouted Norm, as he held the KlownHammer high. "Mea Mordeo" you shrieking sibilant speaking formica-loving suckwads." The KlownHammer swung in vast arcs, bringing dismay and decimation to the advancing trolls, their cries giving harsh sound to Munch's painting. Its light, as the light from a thousand suns, burned into the darkloving eyes of the trolls. They were driven back. They were disheartened. Some of them died. Some of them swore to get jobs. The killing was wide and it was awesome. This was not a slaughter of blood but one composed of meaning and the giving of order. The order of the KlownHammer. It was the order that drove off the trolls. What then is a KlownHammer? It is an instrument for instruction. It is an article of use in the making of sense. It is something that must be used in a coherent fashion, to the betterment of those it serves. Sometimes it is used in the killing of trolls. Sometimes it is used to nudge the miscreants. Nowrecki stood - warmed by his exercise, his hand warmed by the burning handle of the KlownHammer. He wondered at the retreat of the trolls. But he was not fooled - he knew that they would be back. Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker (ret) Real Email is: tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet Website: http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1