Hot night, summer in the city, back o’ my trigger finger gettin’ itchy… In these enlightened (not!) days of milk and honey on our city streets, there is something to be said about people who embrace the conCept of heavy personal armament – usually, this is something like:

What is the compulsion that drives gun freaks? What is the driving desire that enslaves these people to potential instruments of death?

Well, I’ll tell you. No matter how moral, how strong in your belief that life is sacred and unnecessary property damage is bad for you, it’s hard to hang on to these high ideals when you’re holding several pounds of bucking bronco submachine-gun spitting 9mm lead at wooden targets that look like they’re being put through a shredder.

There’s something about the stench of cordite, the hot flare of the brass fountaining out of the ejection port that reduces most people to a psychotic frenzy. My guess is that it’s like a more destructive form of primal scream therapy.

A good example of this is Sanka thingy – can’t remember his last name, the Asian chappy who present Def II’s “Rough Guide” series with Magenta (luv those sunglassed) DeVine. On a trip to the USA, he visited a gun range and, after saying how sad it all was, wasted a slew of targets with gusto and a grin that Charles Manson used on Sundays. Go figure.

The typical weaponeer is perhaps best described with this formula: 2 parts Train Spotter, 1 part Moralist, 3 parts Honourable Samurai and 5 parts Gung-Ho Nihilist – the Train Spotter part is the bit of them that can quote muzzle velocity, rounds-per-second, bullet grain weight and all that.

My collection of guns is limited – some are real, some not, I won’t tell you which…break into my house one night and find out for yourself. Recently, I purchased a Heckler and Koch MP5K submachine-gun. It’s a nifty little thing, just small enough for me to hide under my jacket, with a banana clip that holds thirty rounds of 9mm ammunition. It’s sitting next to me as I type this, a product of that German stormtrooper engineering. It weights just over 6 1/2 pounds and it has a cyclic rate of fire of 800 rounds per minute, just over 13 bullets per second. You’ll see this weapon in the hands of terrorists in ‘Die Hard 2’, and under the expert control of the T-1000 in ‘Terminator 2’. Black plastic, ABS probably, all smooth and precision maintained…

Are you scared yet?

When The Fall Of Civilization comes (survivalist talk here), the gun owner will be ready, able to waste slews of the hordes until the ammo dries up or the Commies/Dinks/Muhfuggers/insert cultural minority here have been pushed out of East Cheam. This is the coda of the weaponeer, the justification for ongoing escalation of urban warfare (“I built this cruise missile to stop them kids from playin’ ZZ Top…”). Are we too far down to stop it? Answer yourself, by looking towards Los Angeles, Bangkok and Yugoslavia…

But, meanwhile, the little voices still talk. The neighbour with the loud stereo, the kid with the dog that pisses on your flowers, that git who sneered at you when you were at school. And it’s so eay, so simple, to turn out the lights and track them walking past your window, sunlight glinting off the scope. All you gotta do is pull the trigger.

Given the chance, I’d carry a gun at all times – I’ve been mugged at knifepoint and it’s left the scars on me – but I wouldn’t want anyone else to have one. That’s how it ends.

Given the chance, I’d line up my fears and shoot ’em till I passed out from orgasming, but for now I walk the streets, safe in the knowledge that guns don’t kill people, people with guns kill people.

Of course, back on the firing range, once you put on the amber glasses, and place the ear defenders on your head, your stream of consciousness becomes a blare of hot lead and brass, like putting a Paul Verhoeven film on fast-forward. All the thunder, the smell of napalm in the morning, the blood, the thrashing, and the almost sexual release as the target evaporates under a hail of fire, bullets with more acronymic names than a US defense contractor, the fire, the screaming, the brass fountain…

Then again, perhaps it’s just me.

Keep that powder dry.

Jim Swallow

Let’s start with a rather sad post-script to TC12’s column, which probably underlines how long has gone by since last issue:

Dick Klemensen, Des Moines: “Thanks for the new issue of TC. But one of the oddities of life, shortly after I got it with my letter about being married to Espie…the fucking marriage broke up! Combination of a lot of things. The pressure from the Immigration service, the age difference, her total immaturity (turning a younger woman from another culture loose in a country as rich as the USA is like turning a child loose in a candy store…Just remember – tight Oriental pussy cuts off the blood supply to your brain and you don’t think straight. But it is OHHHH so nice…!”

Further proof of how things Oriental can give one grief, comes from the co-editor of “Invasion of the Sad Man-Eating Mushrooms”:

Darren Jones, Upminster Bridge: “Speaking of illegal doings, I went up London a couple of weeks ago to interview Kim Newman. Unfortunately I got completely pissed very quickly and remember nothing of the interview. Anyway, afterwards, me and this other guy went looking for Cannon and Co. as I was after seeing what anime they had…We found Newport Road [Ed: Cannon and Co is in Newport Place] and it turned out to be a magazine shop of a dubious nature. He sent us around the corner to the proper address. Now, we were both pretty drunk and I looked at the address which was quite definitely right. The door was open and led straight up a flight of stairs, and a sign on the stairs read ‘Attractive Males Required’.

We had a quick vote, decided it was indeed the right place, and promptly charged up a few flights of stairs to find this clinically white door with a bell on it. I rang it…Well, the door opens and out comes this gorgeous woman, nothing on except a white body stocking which left nothing to the imagination. I could hear Jason gagging behind me and felt my own brain somersaulting in it’s juices. “Do you boys come here often?”, she purrs. “Erm, no – do you sell Japanese animation?” I ask. Trying to fix a stare to her eyes (totally impossible I can tell you, it was fixed firmly to the strand of string disappearing between her legs). “Oh, I think you’ve got the wrong address”, she says and slowly closes the door…The moral of the story is, don’t get pissed you can’t read street names.”

There’s also an interesting bit about losing a watch, which I’d better not print. It’s gone to the Zine Editors Blackmail File, before ‘Miller, Ken’, and after the following demonstration of how ‘zinedom corrupts, but pro-zinedom corrupts absolutely…

Steve Green, The Dark Side: “Knowing your respect for Ms.Beart, thought the enclosed might prove helpful.”

“The enclosed” is a picture of the blessed Emmanuelle not wearing many clothes, which is fair enough – however, the paper hankie he carefully attached clearly establishes something about someone!

Brian Bower, Preston: “The Customary Practice article: with it and the references to Liverpool TSO and in the comics review, can one assume that you have had recent dealings with The Thought Police? [Ed: luckily, not so far, but they probably still think I live at 247 Underhill Road!] I don’t know who was responsible for Three Pin Plugs – always good, this time excellent…This one was made more interesting than some articles I’ve read (in other fanzines, of course!). [Ed: Per, remind me to cut this bit out before Lino sees it] Enjoyed your Grievous Bodily Harm piece, apart from the completely unnecessary, completely unfounded, completely untrue reference to the very lovely, very talented Ms.Rothrock!”

Oh dear. There I was, about to congratulate Brian on his good taste and he blows it… I think we’ve now agreed to differ on that topic!

David Oya, Banbury: “Time to resub to Trash City, hence the enclosed cheque for œ3 for the next four issues. Sorry that I’ve taken the Passive Consumer stance so far, but other than stand agog in amazement at the Galaxy of Wonderment That is TC, there’s very little I feel I can do. Be assured though, that I’m thoroughly enjoying the 3D surround-sound subscribership experience…Loved the UFOs Conspiracy Corner…no doubt, to be filmed as a mini-series starring Christopher Casenove as John F.Kennedy and Emma Samms as the cunning, scheming Alien Sex Goddess Leather Lesbian Bondage-Fetish Evil Empress of the Universe. Or perhaps not”

Mike Landers, Colne: “I’m currently having a discussion with David Hines over the bimbo on the cover, I think it’s Ellen Barkin with Jamie Lee Curtis’ face, he thinks it’s Kim Basinger… The Conspiracy Corner piece was all the more impressive when MTV interviewed a bloke who supported much of Cooper’s claims just one day after receiving TC… Cooper’s rantings have just enough coherence to believe some of it, obviously not all but a lot of it does make sense”

Exactly my opinion, I’m always more worried if things sound just plausible enough to be possible. The next letter hits the mark about right…

Lee Clark, Saltash: “Just thought I’d write to tell you that after about 6 months of thinking about it, I’ve just had the back cover of ‘Trash City’ 9 tattooed, full size, on my arm. It hurt like fuck but it was worth it”

And on that thought, goodbye – I’m off to have a copy of TC10 put through my nose!

This issue is, as you may have noticed, late, even by our standards. I suppose you want an explanation. Well, I’ve been kinda busy; been out of the house for the past eleven evenings to one thing or another, from evening classes to Ministry concerts to films to gratuitous socializing. But this is merely the pleasant tip of an iceberg of time-eating activities of variable pleasantness, such as moving house (please note the new address on the opposite page), going on holiday, and trying to get the new abode into a semi-habitable state, though the last-named has stalled somewhat recently, the first flush of home ownership enthusiasm having worn off.

As I write this, Per is visiting Cronenbergland, in Toronto, and Steve is probably in Lewisham (nothing is ever certain with regard to Lewisham); I can confidently state he’s not here. So it’s just me and a large packet of choccie cookies (Shu-gah britz!), together with track 98 of the Nine Inch Nails CD at appropriately Industrial volume. All things considered, life could be a whole lot worse.

Mind you it could be better. My paranoia tells me that eleven nights out will inevitably be followed by eleven nights in, pining for the fjords, waiting for the phone to ring [gosh, this automatic cliche generator is fun, isn’t it?], or some such pseudo-cyclical tosh. But it is worrying that I tried to phone someone just now, in order to try and arrange something for later this week, only to get no reply… My paranoia is now saying, once again, there is this really good, massive party to which everyone in the universe, bar me, has been invited!

Ah well, you’re never alone with a psychosis. My complex and I will head off for a quick beer later, take in a film, and probably sleep in tomorrow morning. But can I get the damn thing to do all my work for me as well?

TC was available from Psychotronik Videos, Mega-City Comics, and Forbidden Planet (all in London), the Sheffield Space Centre, Videodrom Berlin, plus by mail order from Dark Carnival, Z-Video (Trick or Treat’s new name!) and Daystar Books – who did have some seriously back issues when I bumped into them (presume it was them!) at a film fair; I even glimpsed a TC7…

At this point, a swift plug for the TC calendars; six pages of endearingly A3-sized Oriental smut, [subscribers may remember last issue’s insert – same babe, six different costumes!] covering the period from March 93 to April 94 – this strange concept of yeardom is another product of our tardiness! Three quid each plus 50p p&p (for any number) to the usual address. Strictly limited to er, however many Kanji could sneak out of the printshop; about fifty or so.

Thanks this issue to: Adam and the Seishun crew, Steve, Steve and Steve(!), Kanji, John, Paul, Claire, Stefan, Oddone + Max (without these two, the Moana Pozzi/Cicciolina piece would have been a bit short), James, Jeff, Darren + John, Andy, Ewart, Peter, Pandora Powell at Partridge and Storey, Kim Sweet at the ICA, Helen, Lino + Tony, Mr. X, Josh and the other Steve.

“Death is not a punishment. Death is my friend. The only real dishonour is compromise and self betrayal. Death is my independence.”

Trash City 13

Winter 1992

A	Editorial I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.	Three Pin Plugs “Shocking, amateurish and totally unjustifiable”. But whose ‘zine is it? Editors quake in their shoes…	H
B	High weirdness by mail Don’t worry about it my dear, It’s quite normal for a girl your age.	Incredibly Bad Film Show In which we meet Zorro, scorpions and The Sound of Music	I
C	Love my guns “Break into my house one night and find out for yourself…”	Alone Together Announcement 1: The last section was only there to fill up some blank space	J
D	Born to be Bad (Taste) Thirty times the volume of fake blood was spilled in the making of ‘Brain Dead’ than was used in ‘Re-Animator’	Mad, bad and dangerous to know Announcement 2: We will now return to the courtship rituals of the parrot	K
E	Film Blitz Absolutely no mention whatsoever of that gothic/vampire thing in which Ms Ryder models time-travelling underwear	Moana and Ilona Announcement 3: Ignore the previous announcement, which was silly. Møøse bites can be very nasty, yøu knøw	L
F	Anime Action Mayhem, destruction and cat-bimbos at a store near you. Remember kids don’t try joyriding in tanks at home	Jeff Koons “I’m not involved in pornography, I’m interested in love, the spiritual”	M
G	Know your enemy The next installing enthrallment in our ‘how to’ (not get arrested) series	Comix This could be Steve’s comics piece. It could be anything. It could be blank. Who knows?	N

Editor Jim McLennan. He’s the man who is so paranoid that he refuses to leave me alone in the room with the this file. Wonder why? He’s even resorted to delivering my post (from before Xmas!!) as a feeble excuse to stick around. The idea that he thinks people would fall for such an obvious ploy is insulting to all the true paranoids around here. Back to reality for a second..

Welcome to the thirteenth issue of this Quarterly ‘zine, published but three times twice a year. This is actually the Summer ’92 issue, which is why we’ve stopped putting the date on the cover… It’s birth in John London’s hands at Copyprint was accompanied by assorted shepherds and three wise men.

All praise the subscription price which remains at 75p/issue, $2 (or £2 if you prefer) Europe, $3 Elsewhere, £395 for Martin Bangemann. Hallelujah my brothers! The TC Old Testament (Books I to XII) have been burned by religious extremists. A plate will be going round shortly for your contributions, however large and expensive. Securicor preferred. All offerings, holy relics and Jimmy Swaggart’s tissue collection should be sent to the following address:
34 Perran Road, Tulse Hill, LONDON SW2 3DL