Pyrotechnic schoolboy prank

Subject: Pyrotechnic schoolboy prank
From: David.Cockburn@somewhere.edu (David Cockburn)
Date: 2 Aug 1994 03:52:19 -0500
Lines: 78

Story starts in a Chemistry lesson, with Teacher demonstrating that when you bubble acetylene gas through some standard lab reagent (can't remember what I'm afraid! - maybe I'll x-post this to the rec.pyrotechnics mob for comment) you get a black precipitate of god-knows-what, which when dried out, forms an exceedingly unstable powder which explodes with a helluva crack at the slightest provocation. Not surprisingly, Rick the class boffin leaves the lesson at the end with a bottle of said reagent and a bag of calcium carbide (+ water = acetylene, y'know) in his school-bag.

So Rick shortly goes into production of this stuff in a big way, and is soon to discover that for optimum effect it can be detonated by packing it v-e-r-y gently around a short length of eureta wire, and hooking this up to a 9-volt battery via a nice long cable (battery heats up eureta wire,
causing detonation). Much mirth is then had by hiding tiny packets of the magic powder along the road and rendering innocent passers-by almost airborne by remote control from behind a nearby wall or wherever.

But this isn't enough to fulfil Rick's creative urges. Final refinement of the technique comes with the realization that by tightly wrapping the powder and wire with cling-film (saran-wrap in 'Merkan-speak?) it can probably be rendered waterproof, and then...

But unfortunately supplies of raw materials are by this stage running pretty low, so there is no opportunity to test the theory before putting it into practice. Rick therefore packs his entire remaining stash around the detonator, and tightly wraps the whole lot in clingfilm.

The stunt was to be staged in the school crapper after lunch one day, when an unsuspecting kiddie could be predicted to arrive promptly to plant a post-prandial pooh with a reasonable degree of certainty. Rick locks himself in a cubicle with his kit, and carefully sets his charge inside the porcelain, well below the water-line. The very thin cable is led up
the side, under the seat and through to the adjacent cubicle. Removal of all the light bulbs in the area ensures that illumination is low enough for the trap to be invisible to a cursory inspection. Rick shuts all the cubicle doors except the booby-trapped one, installs himself on the adjacent crapper, and waits...

The rest of us wait outside, watching from an overlooking balcony. Sure enough, not long to wait before some kid saunters in for a nice relaxing dump. So picture if you will Rick sitting there on the next bog with a wire in each hand, with a half-crazed expression on his face like Anthony
Hopkins in 'Juggernaut', waiting for precisely the optimum moment...

Door shuts... lock clicks home. Belt undone... trousers down... buttock touchdown... bladder voids... sphincter dilation commences... CONTACT!!! Rick touches his wires together. For just a second, nothing happens. Rats - the stuff must have got wet. Then K-A-B-O-O-M!! there's the most almighty explosion... and then: complete, utter, total silence.

Pretty shocked by what's just happened, Rick hops down from his perch and makes rapidly for the exit. What now? We all heard the bang and were all now more than a little worried as to the potential consequences... "Oh shit..." "Well it was *your* idea..." "I *told* you there was too much charge there..." etc etc. In retrospect, God knows why nobody went in to administer first aid or whatever, but no one did: we just hung about ouside nervously biting fingernails. But eventually the youth totters out of the lavvy, and amidst much relief, everyone crowds round to find out what had happened.

Apparently the poor kid had just sat down and 'opened up' when the thing detonated. Subsequent examination of the crimescene revealed what had happened. The porcelain was covered in soot from the rim to the waterline - not that there was the slightest trace of any water left in the bowl. The cubicle walls were soaked to about waist-height, but most notable was the wet line which ran from straight up the door almost top the top - resulting from the piss-stream still emerging from the lad's flapping tool as he went flying into the air upon detonation.

Mercifully and miraculously, it turned out that no damage had been done to the boy or his wedding tackle. He hadn't had a clue what had happened to him - he'd thought there'd been some sort of explosion in the sewers. Afterwards he'd just sat there quaking in terror, unable to move himself, let alone his bowels. In fact the word was that the poor little sod was
constipated for a fortnight afterwards... funny, that.


David Cockburn (who *always* checks before sitting down)

Hospital

From: st.ool@diku.dk
Subject: hospital
Summary: mommy, I've started throwing up the sedatives.
Keywords: long, boring to some
Date: Thu, 5 Dec 91 12:04:01 GMT
Lines: 122

I've always been very fond of hospitals. Not only have I seen most of my family die there in nice, sterile surroundings, deprived of any pride or human similarity they may have had, but the sheer joy of all the sorrow and despair makes my own life a seem little bit lighter. Where other people can do with the odd I'm-a-cripple-but-very-happy-and-believe-in-God stories that mainstream media is cluttered with, I myself find it hard to get that lovely oh-god-thats-horrible-thrill just by reading about it, so once in a while I put the rescue 911 tapes back in the shelf, zip my pants and go for some genuine excitement.

In the beginning it was enough for me to peek through half open doors, seeing the screaming people fight the syringes, gastroscopes and whatever else the medical staff cured them with. I distinctly remember an old man sitting up in his bed, sorrounded by whitecoats hoarsly yelling out 'No, get lost, you're not taking my (spit) vocal chords (hrk) no get away from me, noo' whilst spitting and coughing up blood. After this precious outburst he looked down, blood running from his open mouth, and started to sob. They let him cry for about 3 min. (inwardly smirking, I'm sure) before they started on the second part of the routine, saying 'Ah, we got a little excited there, didn't we' 'Oh, it's all right, let it all out' and 'I think you should apologise to the
nurses, you know they're just doing their job to help you.'.

'Yes' the geriatric sobbed 'I'm sorry'.

'You want to be well again, don't you' the nice doctor went on. A barely audible 'yes' escaped the mans mouth along with some more brownish blood 'There just doesn't seem to be any hope..'

'Now now!' a nurse interupted him 'A little sting and the next thing you'll know, you'll have a nice new throat mike lying beside your bed, instead of that nasty tumor'.

'Noooo' the man from marlboro country began, but was tenderly given some morfin, after which he fell back, and concentrated on soiling the pillow with his blood.

That night my apartment resounded with cheers and horrays, as I played out the scene with tomatosauce in my mouth and flour in my hair, wanking till my balls ached so much I couldn't do much other than lean back giggeling, oblivious to anything but my joy.

But mere peeking couldn't satisfy me in the long run, and I felt that I somehow had to take part in the action to get a longer lasting sense of well being.

I started by stealing the sick peoples clothes, preferably the elderlys, as they had less control of their bowels and urination. Normally, would put on a white coat, enter the room and look sternly over the rim of my glasses. The geriatric would then normally respond with a 'Is anything the matter, doctor?', sometimes almost incomprehensive as their voices shivered violently, and several of them stuttered during this dreadful question.

'It's cancer..' I'd say, and wait for the sobs and flatus expulsion that normally followed this statement. If they could, and some could, control their bowels I'd follow it up with a 'WE'VE GOT TO OPERATE!', this dead sure to make them piss in their pants, and scream out in agony. Next step was then to scold them for being childish, removing their clothes and bring them back home where I would put them on my naked body and let the piss and caca caress my body.

But the sight of their shivering naked bodies, was sometimes just too much and I had to fall to my knees, and lick them vigourisly in the crotch or round their rectal opening. I was good at this, and did it to a lot. One of the geriatrics even recognised me on the street one day, and told me how happy she was that I had scared her by telling her about the extraordinarily painful pancreas operation that soon would transform her life into an inferno of dread and unbeliveable pain. Apparently the real doctors message about her not having cancer but only a harmless infection, had lifted her from the deepest level of sadness to a heaven of bliss, in which she was alive and could do all the things she'd ever wanted to do. She even asked me to come to her home and lick her genitals once more, but I thanked no, telling her that I was a one-dog man now, and wouldn't cheat on Pumpkin. Fate would it that I met her 2 years later.

I was as usual creeping round the corridors of the titcancer department on the lookout for a glimpse of female flesh. Nothing is more pure, more sincere than a fat, heavily madeup bitch crying as if whipped, clutching one of her fat tits, whimpering 'NOOOooo, I don't want to...Isn't there any other way?'.

There never is.

Today had provided me with the sight of an overweight 50 something cleaning lady, who wouldn't stop sobbing and screaming about her tits. For Gods sake! Was she going to use them for cleaning? No! What the fuck was she complaining about then? She could maybe even squeeze some funny cleaning fluids out the tit while she still had it. And I have never heard of any cleaning companies that sack people because they've lost a tit or two. But such people always have to exaggerate. Anyway, the doctor had just escorted the gasping bitch to his office and was now busy trying to call up her daughter, apparently the only one they could think of when it came to finding a person who'd pick her up in this state. 'Good', I thought, 'That will show this daughter what's in store for her' and slid into the operating theatre. Then, just as I was busily licking the acrylic plate on which her cauliflower like thingy had rested, my old flame entered only wearing ninja turtle slippers.

'Oh doctor, my doctor' She exclaimed 'Cannot thou tell me who hast put these stones in my left breast'. She raised her arms toward the cieling as if expecting applause. She was most surely completely senile and couldn't recognize me. How she had found the right department was a mystery to me, but well, these old bitches sort of start to home when they have been hospitalized a certain number of times. She turned, then bent over and spread her buttocks as far as she could, giving me a clear view of her still functional sphincter.

'Look. I'm constipated' she said looking at me from between her varicosed legs.

On the brink of sticking my finger up her naughty hole, I remembered the reason for her visit and told her to stand up, which she did with a cheeky smile on her face.

She was a real mammography pearl, around 70 and with large bumpy breasts. 'Please place your left breast on this acrylic plate' I ordered her, and she did so. A beauty. It looked mostly like a big yellow testicle, only a bit more hairy. I started to lower the other acrylic plate that would soon hold the breast oh so tight and ready for the best X ray tumor shot ever taken. But then just as her breast was beginning to look like a big red lumpy thing, the apparatus decided to get stuck.

'AAAHR, your squeezing my tit!' She yelled in pain.

'Look!' I told her taking off my glasses 'It's necessary that your breast is as flat as possible when I take the picture, otherwise the tumor will look blurred and veritalum coelum et assum, crux in gorgustico!'.

'Yes, doctor' she sobbed, obviously impressed and awed by my proffesionalism. 'Uhhg' she whimpered when I managed to get the plate an inch further. 'Well, mrs. Anderson' I remarked slightly annoyed 'As all of you who survived the war knows: It has to do baddy to do goody!'.

Hearing this her face lit up and she said 'Yes, that's right! I wish some of them beatniks would understand that and get a life'. I nodded to her in acknowledgement, and tried to get the plate further down, but to no avail. 'Aw stuck' I muttered. 'Let's take the picture now' she begged. 'In just a minute mrs. Anderson' I said and put one of my feet on the uppermost plate. As I trod down on it, she let out a horribly prolonged scream, and a milky stream shot out her festering nipple and soiled my trousers just below the zipper.

'Now look what you have done!' I yelled 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, CUNT?'. 'Wraaaeeeeee' she started and tried to get away from me, but her tit was stuck, and there was no escape. I grabbed her around the neck and staring balefully at her I whispered 'Now people will think that I've been wanking'. I tried to brush it off, but only succeeded in smearing it out further. 'That's a big milky spot on my honour' I told her.

'But doctor' she began 'I never meant to...'.

'BITCH!' 'YOU BITCH YOU BITCH YOU BITCH!' I bellowed, hammering her in the face 'YOU FUCKING STUPID DIRTY CUNT! LOUSY BITCH STOOL SHIT FUCK CUNT KRRRRHRRRAAAGH'. Foam flying from my mouth, I leaned back and then smashed my forehead down on her nose. A last scream left her. Her legs collapsed under her, and I left her hanging unconciously in her tit, blood trickling out the nipple.

Would she ever feel the same shame as I?

-Steven