TRASH Underground Magazine

Back in the Nam there was a hill number 345 that contained almost a division of NVA regular and VC in bunker and with tight layers of infantry defense.

A veteran sergeant named Hugh Mackay came under fire and realized he had stumbled on the shit-wad of enemy activity so he called in B52 and Thunderbolts, C130 gunships, Huey gunships, Cobras attack choppers,
155 artillery and every kind of howitzer and mortar he could muster from the local Brigade HQ. 1000 pound
bombs, .50 cal tracer, 500 pound napalm bombs, 75mm rockets, 25mm machine gun, 105 and 155 arty rounds and 81mm mortar
HE and white phos pounded that hill from all sides for all up three hours.

Patrol 42 from C company of his battalion of Airborne troops was then listed as missing and Old Sgt Mackay realized they had
taken a bearing up the south end of hill 345 earlier that day.

There was much shaking of sorry heads as they surveyed the smouldering, cratered, defoliated, burnt churned and generally
fucked up piece of dirt that had been hill 345, replete with liberal chunks of VC and NVA cooking slowly and sending the delicious
smell of barbequed meat along with the acrid fumes of latent cordite and TNT smoke on the humid breeze that kicked up from the
firestorm. They realized they had killed their own on that sorry hill. “No one could have survived that god-damned bombardment
man!” Young Lewy Jones said to Mackay, wiping the sweat from under his frag-scarred helmet, “Only the devil himself!” Mackay
replied.

That was when they saw an unhappy looking soldier kicking aside charcoaled sticks and bones as he made his way down the
blackened slopes of the hill. “Thanks for letting us know you were gonna bomb shit out of the hill,” He said, as he took hold of Hugh
Mackay and skull-fucked him with the butt of his KA-BAR. All the men of the battalion stood in awe as that solider, a sergeant
walked amongst them again, kicking ass on anyone he thought responsible for the assault.From that day he was known as
Sergeant Satan and all who met him feared and respected him.

Now, working for Trash Magazine, The Sarge shares his stories with you, the avid and terrified reader. Each edition of Trash has
a Bedtime Story with Sergeant Satan...collect them all, frame them if you must, but heed them!

Back in the summer of ´94 two brothers were bored and whilst searching around in the back yard shed came across a trolley. The trolley was also bored, having been never put to much use, except once to carry some old pot plants and used car wheels. Feeling sorry for the trolley, the brothers hatched a bizarre and ambitious scheme...that trolley would be put to productive use! No longer would it languish in the dark solitude of the cobwebbed shed. No, that trolley would bask in the glory of it´s own day of sun! The trolley became the cornerstone of a publishing venture that would take the world by storm! It became the workhorse of TRASH magazine. Every day it laboured to transport the creative genius of its benefactors. In rooms and corridors it carted with love and happiness. It was "the summer of trolley"! Sadly, Trolley met with a painful end in late ´96 when it contracted a rare form of corrosion, and finally, in desperation to

end its pain it begged to be given eternal relief. The brothers, torn between their ethical beliefs and their love of the trolley, eventually broke, and taking it high into the mountains, they hurled it off a cliff as was it´s last wish, into a deep pool, where the only family it had- the used wheels- also had their resting place. The brothers never recovered from the loss of their dear trolley, and although they tried to soldier on, TRASH never made it into ´97. Now, the long years of wandering in painful reminiscence and mourning are finally over, and TRASH again breathes life! In closing, it is perhaps a great irony that, had the trolley been left alone in the shed, it would have had a long, corrosion free life, but one of misery. Instead, it had a short but intensely happy life in the more toxic atmosphere of the working world, and not only that, but it lived and inspired the great TRASH adventure, that the world so badly craved.

Dear Doc.
1 have a weeping sore right on the end of my left big toe and it's making my work extremely difficult. I´ve had it for over a month now and it won't go away, Can you help?
Frederick F.
St. Mary´s.
Removal of the offending toe is quite a straight forward procedure and can easily he carried out at home with either a small hatchet or a meat saw.

Dear Doc,
Late last year I went on a bit of a spending binge with my Visa card and, while I was in Safeway´s trying to find the Bird´s Custard, a strange looking man in an old, green trench coat came up to me, in front of the wet fish counter, and he prodded me in the middle of the back with a blunt instrument of some description, I didn´t get a good look at him or his instrument but, ever since then, I keep getting cheap advertising material with my Visa statement and I was wondering if you might know of some way to stop it happening, Helen B. Surry Hills.
Try drinking prune juice three times a day. That will give you the
shits even more.

Dear Doc.
I lost my legs and my purse in an industrial accident a couple of weeks ago but my local GP keeps telling me that it´s all in my mind and that I should just stop worrying about it and it will son itself out. What should I do?
Margaret L.
Coconut Grove.
Don´t worry about it Margaret, It will sort itself out.

Dear Doc,
I seem to be suffering from this thing I like to call Niceness, whereby I´m extremely polite and nice to everyone I meet - even when they´re complete arseholes to me. It causes embarrassment to my wife too who says I´m a gutless turd, especially when she was bowled over by a mugger last week and I told the guy "not to worry. I know you didn't mean it." I was wondering if you know of any remedy to help me regain my manhood and snap out of this happy streak.
Roland Oscarmeyer Little-Krud TX Hey Roland, I´m publishing your full name and address, gutless prick!