Article 1 of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo:
>From: goldfarb@ocf.berkeley.edu (David Goldfarb)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo,alt.cyberpunk
Subject: Open for business, chummer.
Date: 14 Nov 90 11:28:08 GMT

Pink and blue neon lighthazing smoky air. Matte black tabletops are easy
to clean off -- they don't show the residue from spilled drinks. Or spilled
blood. This is where the street samurai hang out. The sign over the door
reads "Chatsubo's."
	
Focus: a dark-hair teen-age silver-shade razorboy wannabe. He's sipping a
drink -- hasn't got the guts or else the money for something stronger.
He's muttering to himself. "OK, so the lit'ry ramblin' types don't get
along with som'a the technerds. S'cool, chummer. We just pack our marbles
and go play on another set of inodes. Seeya 'round, guys. *This* place
is now officially open for biz." He leans back and waits for the customers.

David Goldfarb    goldfarb@ocf.berkeley.edu   (Insert standard disclaimer)
"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."

Article 4 of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo:
>From: cdr@hobbes.amd.com (Carl Rigney)
Newsgroups: alt.callahans,alt.config,alt.cyberpunk,alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo open for business
Date: 15 Nov 90 00:49:34 GMT

A tall thin man dressed in a neon blue jumpsuit walks in, almost
leaving a visibly glowing trail in the air behind him.  His voice has
the rasp of a record player that's run out of record but still has
something to say, "Two dozen people wrote to say the proposal to create
alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo was a good idea, and the vast majority said that
was the name for it.  No one opposed the creation of the group.  David
Goldfarb has already sent out a newgroup control message for the group
and announced it, so it's a done deal.  No more virtual reality in
alt.cyberpunk, no more chrome-bleeding shadows in alt.callahans.  They
have a new home now."  He snaps his fingers and a hologram appears in
the air:

In article <1990Nov14.112808.22002@agate.berkeley.edu> goldfarb@ocf.berkeley.edu (David Goldfarb) writes:
>Pink and blue neon lighthazing smoky air. Matte black tabletops are easy
>to clean off -- they don't show the residue from spilled drinks. Or spilled
>blood. This is where the street samurai hang out. The sign over the door
>reads "Chatsubo's."
>	
>Focus: a dark-hair teen-age silver-shade razorboy wannabe. He's sipping a
>drink -- hasn't got the guts or else the money for something stronger.
>He's muttering to himself. "OK, so the lit'ry ramblin' types don't get
>along with som'a the technerds. S'cool, chummer. We just pack our marbles
>and go play on another set of inodes. Seeya 'round, guys. *This* place
>is now officially open for biz." He leans back and waits for the customers.
>
>David Goldfarb    goldfarb@ocf.berkeley.edu   (Insert standard disclaimer)

The blue man snaps his fingers again, and the image dies, shrinking to a small
dot.  He turns and leaves, the dot drifting along behind him.

--
Carl Rigney
cdr@amd.com

"The television above the bar was the color of sky above a dead port."