The Sad Saga of Byron

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So, what follows is a satire of Byron and his collection of "friends." If you happen to know Byron and/or would like to contribute some chapters to the story, please send your text along. If your submission is good, I'll gladly include it in the Byron tale. Knowing Byron, there's a good possibility that nothing is too far-fetched, with the possible exception of getting a life.

It all started about seven years ago. Byron was visiting his Uncle David in Rehoboth, and he accidentally bumped into his relative's computer. Byron had never seen a computer before, and he fell totally captivated by the array of images and effects dancing on the screen. Byron dared not tell David about his discovery; instead, he snuck back in secrecy to explore his newfound hobby -- with a bit longer duration each visit. He wasn't able to accomplish much at first, but eventually Byron discovered how to make "wallpaper" of his name using a endless-loop Goto statement in GWBasic. Byron watched in fascination as the dot-matrix printhead swept back and forth, etching his name indelibly across the paper. Seeing his name in print made Byron feel terrifically important.

Naturally, Uncle David began getting very suspicious; after all, he rarely used his computer to write letters, yet his supply of fanfold paper was mysteriously vanishing. One day he "staged" an exit from his house, but actually remained in the yard to observe Byron's behavior. Like clockwork, the instant Uncle David left the house, Byron entered through the back door, made his way to the work station and assumed the behavior of a wanna-be hacker. For a while Uncle David surveyed Byron's activity through a living room window, then quietly he opened the door and crept up behind Byron (he needn't have been quiet; after all, Byron was TOTALLY absorbed in the Virtual Reality created by his new "friend," the computer).

Suddenly, silently, Uncle David touched his cold hand to Byron's neck. Byron's mind suddenly snapped back to reality, and fear overcame him to the point that he began wetting his pants. Finally, Byron looked to his side. Ordinarily he would be relieved to see that it was Uncle David instead of an unknown intruder; however, Byron now needed to explain what he was doing uninvited in Uncle David's house. Although his uncle was more curious than anything else, Byron trembled, his teeth chattering, wondering how he would explain.

Uncle David moved closer, to gently assert control of the situation. He wasn't really angry at Byron; just frustrated by his nephew's dishonesty. Byron, however, was undergoing severe mental anguish. He shook with fear such that the major events of his life passed before his eyes. The magnanimous power elicited by these visions caused Byron to come up with a devious and creative solution. Byron looked aside at Uncle David. Directly at eye level was his uncle's belt, which Byron hastily began unbuckling.

Uncle David was shocked, but given the many years since his most recent sexual encounter, he was temporarily powerless to halt Byron's advances. As the afternoon crept on and on, shreds of clothing flew off their bodies and aimlessly into the air. Eventually the pair began to wriggle and writhe as one (in wild fits of passion) on the linoleum floor as though a huge lump of pale, slimy garden slugs.

Their concatenation spun forth into a wild, raging inferno of sensual frenzy and excitement; that is, until Byron was overcome and commenced to vomiting. Gallons and gallons of spew sprayed and began to coat the once-fashionable staggered linoleum tile. Needless to say, this was one colossal way to "ruin the mood."

"I'm sorry; I'm SO sorry!" whimpered Byron. Uncle David's face was one of disappointment, disillusionment and confusion, but he said "It's okay, kid." Byron watched pitifully as Uncle David mopped up the mess.

They talked at length later, at which point Byron revealed the intense feeling of power he got from creating text files on the computer. Byron sobbed SO pitifully, and his entire, massive, heaving body trembled with disappointment. Uncle David feared that Byron might never leave for home, so finally he agreed to buy his nephew a computer. Byron was so overjoyed he jumped up and down with glee, and of course the weight strain almost destroyed the floor's support structure.

The next day, Uncle David went to work and sent Byron to the store to buy a modest computer and inexpensive printer. Paradoxically, David supplied Byron with a credit card, accompanied by a note authorizing charges. Although Uncle David had no reason to believe Byron would take advantage of the situation, the youth left the store with an IBM 486/66 multimedia console, two HST modems, a color laser printer, a CD ROM drive and an armful of software packages. It seems that a motivated salesperson enlightened Byron to the world of computerized bulletin boards. It took nothing more than for the sales clerk to use the word "Sysop," and Byron simply knew he HAD to -=*be*=- one! The term sounded so technical, and so wicked cool. With a title in front of his name, Byron could feel SO incredibly important!

Miraculously, Byron still had enough leftover energy to call the phone company, arranging to have two additional lines installed (in Uncle David's name, of course). In a matter of just three days, Neanderthal BBS was born. No- one could have predicted Byron to be so cunning, and in fact it was really just a matter of chance that the Mastercard and telephone company bills would not arrive for another 35 days.

Byron really thought he had "everything figured out," but of course he had somehow forgotten (strange though this was) how intrinsically paranoid he was. He called back the telephone company, asking that both lines be non-listed, and of course now he needed to disguise his 'real' name from the hordes of teeny- bopper teenage friends who would surely call.

You see, Byron didn't want just any kind of BBS, Byron wanted to build the very first, technologically superior, cosmopolitan and exclusive *sex* BBS *ever* to be introduced in Bristol County! Even without any population or demographic statistics whatsoever, Byron just *KNEW* with all his heart that his wondrous dream business could be made to work. Not only would he be a hero, but he would also become MEGA-RICH in no time at all!!

All the while Byron's phenomenal dream continued to unfold, he decided on the screen name Tack, taken from the "man" he so admired, Tack Saxophone. To most adults Tack was a mundane excuse for a gay role model (particularly since he couldn't find his way out of a closet with its door open), but since Byron's cognitive awareness was strictly limited, he found Tack to be among the handsomest, most eloquent beasts ever to walk Planet Earth.

Byron was so excited about his new venture, he unwittingly gave Uncle David the number to the -=*phenomenal*=-, indescribable new Neanderthal BBS. Uncle David programmed his modem and dialed in, and of course was the very first on the caller log. He filled out a New User application and left EMail for Tack, The Mystery Sysop. To Uncle David, however, it seemed quite paradoxical that anyone would invest this kind of money in a BBS designed to support the few callers of tiny Bristol County. He mused about the strange person funding this venture, and as you might expect, he would continue to wonder for several upcoming weeks.

Byron headed home to observe his wondrous new creation; unfortunately, Byron's idea of marketing and promotion was to place a message in the "Other BBSs" section of one competing, local, minuscule one- line bulletin board. Around 10:00 that evening, The Adverb logged in, one of five who would actually become regular callers in Neanderthal BBS's (understandably) limited lifespan.

Finally seeing his first chance opportunity at getting a life, Byron called The Adverb into chat mode. Byron immediately recognized The Adverb's writing style, given that The Adverb had been a champion for How_Gay rights in the local area. Even though Byron continued his unrealistic fear of being "found out," he confided many of his deepest, darkest secrets to The Adverb. Although Byron had no clue what The Adverb looked or sounded like, Byron was developing an "electronic Love" with his newfound, yet deliberately distant community acquaintance.

As the Summer nights went on and on, Byron used the most sensuous, captivating language to lure The Adverb. Unfortunately, The Adverb couldn't view the sneer on Byron's face, and had every reason to believe that Byron was being honest and honorable in his pursuit. The Adverb had been alone for many years, so any attention was welcome; ironically, Byron was just being a "tease."

One night, Byron elected to lead The Adverb on, talking about wild, seductive, erotic experiences the likes of walking in the cool rain while pressing each other's warm bodies together. The Adverb was in the midst of lascivious bliss halfway through the call, but as usual, Byron ended the conversation by saying the customary "some day, I promise, I'll allow you to meet me."

The Adverb was becoming more and more disheartened day by day. He wanted to believe Byron, so tentatively he did, but at the same time the (obvious) doubt lead him further and further into "suspicion mode." The Adverb wanted so badly to believe in people once again, yet "that question" continued to unfold in his mind.

One evening The Adverb simply had put up with enough, so he utilized his multi-BBS Sysop privileges to find out Byron's true identity. Having ascertained the address from Byron's user file, The Adverb bicycled past Byron's house. Sure enough, the white SMU-mobile that Byron had described was parked in front. The Adverb cycled around the block several times before finally concluding that nobody in this house *ever* went outdoors unless it was absolutely necessary. The Adverb went home, but not before taking careful note of the neighborhood's details.

For a while The Adverb was basically cool about knowing Byron's true identity, but eventually started "leaking" knowledge about such things as the color of Byron's house etc. On each occasion Byron would react with consummate fury, wondering how The Adverb could possibly "know" this information. The Adverb would usually explain away the incident as coincidence. This worked for a while, given that Byron was quite gullible, but eventually Byron became convinced that The Adverb was in fact a warlock who needed to be purged through use of a seance.

Meanwhile, Byron couldn't stop his obsession with teasing The Adverb. With each call, he would attempt to tantalize The Adverb with intense fantasies that, paradoxically, became more and more bizarre as time went on. On each occasion Byron would terminate the call just as The Adverb would be practically overcome with need.

Slowly Byron's delight with being a tease turned to paranoia; as a remedy, Byron moved to his grandmother's house and began ignoring the BBS. About this time Uncle David found out about the $3700 in delinquent charges to his credit card and the phone company (representing almost half of Uncle David's annual income!).

Although Byron had taken painstaking steps to assure that he wouldn't be unearthed, Uncle David found him anyway. Naturally Uncle David first inquired about Byron's misuse of the credit card (not to mention the breach of trust), to which Byron quickly replied that if his uncle pressed the issue, Byron would merely accuse Uncle David of sexual molestation.

Byron's plan worked, but it had the unfortunate disadvantage that he could never return home to *Mommy* and the teeny-bopper friends he so adored. In particular, Byron was most disheartened over the loss of his pseudo-Lover, Tom Dapewter. Byron drifted into a cold sweat *every* time he dreamed of the night his friend had allowed him to play with his toenail cuticles. Byron had considered the emission of toenail cuticles to be an expression of determined love; consequently, he cried himself to sleep every night in Grandma's spare room, ever sorry that he had sacrificed his friend's toenails for extortion of a mere $3700.

While staying over in Grandma's highly fashionable seaport mansion, Byron made acquaintance with his newfound mentor: Mr. Eels. Mr. Eels had the dubious distinction of being the only "male" (and I use this term loosely!) on the planet to look exactly like Carol Channing would if she had a beard. Mr. Eels fancied himself an accomplished author of childrens' allegories and movie reviews; unfortunately, Mr. Eels couldn't distinguish pronoun shift from misplaced modifiers. When Mr. Eels would receive a rejection from a publisher (who couldn't even get past the title page due to the grammatical sloppiness contained), he would blame the entire world; after all, only Mr. Eels knew what *real* literature was. In Mr. Eels' opinion, Shakespeare, Whitman and even Emily Dickinson could go straight to blazes -- Mr. Eels was the only one on the planet who knew The Right Way To Write.

Byron discovered that Mr. Eels knew The Adverb, so he haphazardly decided to use this acquaintance to *crush* The Adverb (even though Byron had the persuasive powers of a box of baking soda). One night, following a meeting of the local How_Gay coalition, Byron gathered half a dozen of the members around a table at the local Tiddlywinks Saloon, and began telling wild stories of The Adverb's tyrannical stalking behavior (in spite of the fact that Byron had set up the situation completely of his own doing). Soon the participants all elected to ostracize The Adverb, but of course none ever weighed the possibility that The Adverb might not find any of them worthy of associating with (which of course they weren't, and aren't).

To make matters worse, this newly-founded Affiliation of Adverb Haters plotted to have the abominable Kannath Sampsonite proposition The Adverb. This had the utmost negative effect, of which The Adverb would not recover for considerable time; you see, the notion of seeing Kannath Sampsonite unclothed was a scourge worse than ten terminal, incurable diseases all at the same time.

That's as far as I got with the story, considering that I'm busy with school work. If you have ideas for the story, send 'em along!