From the December 21, 1993 Village Voice

by Julian Dibbell

A Rape in Cyberspace

They say he raped them that night. They say he did it with a cunning little doll, fashioned in their image and imbued with the
power to make them do whatever he desired. They say that by manipulating the doll he forced them to have sex with him,
and with each other, and to do horrible, brutal things to their own bodies. And though I wasnt there that night, I think I can
assure you that what they say is true, because it all happened right in the living room - right there amid the well-stocked
bookcases and the sofas and the fireplace - of a house Ive come to think of as my second home.

Call me Dr. Bombay. Some months ago - lets say about halfway between the first time you heard the words _information
superhighway_ and the first time you wished you never had - I found myself tripping with compulsive regularity down the
well-traveled information lane that leads to LambdaMOO, a very large and very busy rustic chateau built entirely of words.
Nightly, I typed the commands that called those words onto my computer screen, dropping me with what seemed a warm
electric thud inside the mansions darkened coat closet, where I checked my quotidian identity, stepped into the persona and
appearance of a minor character from a long-gone television sitcom, and stepped out into the glaring chatter of the crowded
living room. Sometimes, when the mood struck me, I emerged as a dolphin instead.

I wont say why I chose to masquerade as Samantha Stevenss outlandish cousin, or as the dolphin, or what exactly led me to
my mild but so-far incurable addiction to the semifictional digital otherworlds known around the Internet as multi-user
dimensions, or MUDs. This isnt my story, after all. Its the story of a man named Mr. Bungle, and of the ghostly sexual
violence he committed in the halls of LambdaMOO, and most importantly of the ways his violence and his victims challenged
the 1500 and more residents of that surreal, magic-infested mansion to become, finally, the community so many of them
already believed they were.

That I was myself one of those residents has little direct bearing on the storys events. I mention it only as a warning that my
own perspective is perhaps too steeped in the surreality and magic of the place to serve as an entirely reliable guide. For the
Bungle Affair raises questions that - here on the brink of a future in which human life may find itself as tightly enveloped in
digital environments as it is today in the architectural kind - demand a clear-eyed, sober, and unmystified consideration. It
asks us to shut our ears momentarily to the techno-utopian ecstasies of West Coast cyberhyppies and look without illusion
upon the present possibilities for building, in the on-line spaces of this world, societies more decent and free than those
mapped onto dirt and concrete and capital. It asks us to behold the new bodies awaiting us in virtual space undazzled by
their phantom powers, and to get to the crucial work of sorting out the socially meaningful differences between those bodies
and our physical ones. And most forthrightly it asks us to wrap our late-modern ontologies, epistemologies, sexual ethics, and
common sense around the curious notion of rape by voodoo doll - and to try not to warp them beyond recognition in the
process.

In short, the Bungle Affair dares me to explain it to you without resort to dimestore mysticisms, and I fear I may have
shape-shifted by the digital moonlight one too many times to be quite up to the task. But I will do what I can, and can do no
better I suppose than to lead with the facts. For if nothing else about Mr. Bungles case is unambiguous, the facts at least are
crystal clear.

The facts begin (as they often do) with a time and a place. The time was a Monday night in March, and the place, as Ive
said, was the living room - which, due to the inviting warmth of its decor, is so invariably packed with chitchatters as to be
roughly synonymous among LambdaMOOers with a party. So strong, indeed, is the sense of convivial common ground
invested in the living room that a cruel mind could hardly imagine a better place in which to stage a violation of
LambdaMOOs communal spirit. And there was cruelty enough lurking in the appearance Mr. Bungle presented to the virtual
world at the time - he was a fat, oleaginous, Bisquick-faced clown dressed in a cum- stained harlequin garb and girdled with
a mistletoe-and-hemlock belt whose buckle bore the quaint inscription *KISS ME UNDER THIS, BITCH!* But whether
cruelty motivated his choice of crime scene is not among the established facts of the case. It is a fact only that he did choose
the living room.

The remaining facts tell us a bit more about the inner world of Mr. Bungle, though only perhaps that it couldnt have been a
very comfortable place. They tell us that he commenced his assault entirely unprovoked, at or about 10 p.m. Pacific
Standard Time. That he began by using his voodoo doll to force one of the rooms occupants to sexually service him in a
variety of more or less conventional ways. That this victim was legba, a Haitian trickster spirit of indeterminate gender,
brown-skinned and wearing an expensive pearl gray suit, top hat, and dark glasses. That legba heaped vicious imprecations
on him all the while and that he was soon ejected bodily from the room. That he hid himself away then in his private chambers
somewhere on the mansion grounds and continued the attacks without interruption, since the voodoo doll worked just as well
at a distance as in proximity. That he turned his attentions now to Starsinger, a rather pointedly nondescript female character,
tall, stout, and brown-haired, forcing her into unwanted liaisons with other individuals present in the room, among them legba,
Bakunin (the well-known radical), and Juniper (the squirrel). That his actions grew progressively violent. That he mad legba
eat his/her own pubic hair. That he caused Starsinger to violate herself with a piece of kitchen cutlery. That his distant
laughter echoed evilly in the living room with every successive outrage. That he could not be stopped until at last someone
summoned Zippy, a wise and trusted old-timer who brought with him of near wizardly powers, a gun that didnt kill but
enveloped its targets in a cage impermeable even to a voodoo dolls powers. That Zippy fired this gun at Mr. Bungle,
thwarting the doll at last and silencing the evil, distant laughter.

These particulars, as I said, are unambiguous. But they are far from simple, for the simple reason that every set of facts in
virtual reality (or VR, as the locals abbreviate it) is shadowed by a second, complicating set: the *real-life* facts. And while a
certain tension invariably buzzes in the gap between the hard, prosaic RL facts and their more fluid, dreamy VR counterparts,
the dissonance in the Bungle case is striking. No hideous clowns or trickster spirits appear in the RL version of the incident,
no voodoo dolls or wizard guns, indeed no rape at all as any RL court of law has yet defined it. The actors in the drama were
university students for the most part, and they sat rather undramatically before computer screens the entire time, their only
actions a spidery flitting of fingers a cross standard QWERTY keyboards. No bodies touched. Whatever physical interaction
occurred consisted of a mingling of electronic signals sent from sites spread out between New York City and Sydney,
Australia. Those signals met in LambdaMOO, certainly, just as the hideous clown and the living room party did, but what
was LambdaMOO after all? Not an enchanted mansion or anything of the sort - just a middlingly complex database,
maintained for experimental purposes inside a Xerox Corporation research computer in Palo Alto and open to public access
via the Internet.

To be more precise about it, LambdaMOO, was a MUD. Or to be yet more precise, it was a subspecies of MUD known
as a MOO, which is short for *MUD, Object-Oriented.* All of which means that it was a kind of database especially
designed to give users the vivid impression of moving through physical space that in reality exists only as descriptive data filed
away on a hard drive. When users dial into LambdaMOO, for instance, the program immediately presents them with a brief
textual description of one of the rooms of the databases fictional mansion (the coat closet, say). If the user wants to leave this
room, she can enter a command to move in a particular direction and the database will replace the original description with a
new one corresponding to the room located in the direction she chose. When the new description scrolls across the users
screen it lists not only the fixed features of the room but all its contents at that moment - including things (tools, toys,
weapons) and other users (each represented as a *character* over which he or she has sole control).

As far as the database program is concerned, all of these entities - rooms, things, characters - are just different subprograms
that the program allows to interact according to rules very roughly mimicking the laws of the physical world. Characters may
not leave a room in a given direction, for instance, unless the room subprogram contains an *exit* at that compass point. And
if a character *says* or *does* something (as directed by its user-owner), then only the users whose characters are also
located in that room will see the output describing the statement or action. Aside from such basic constraints, however,
LambdaMOOers are allowed a broad freedom to create - they can describe their characters any way they like, they can
make rooms of their own and decorate them to taste, and they can build new objects almost at will. The combinations of all
this busy user activity with the hard physics of this database can certainly induce a lucid illusion of presence - but when all is
said and done the only thing you _really_ see when you visit LambdaMOO is a kind of slow- crawling script, lines of
dialogue and stage direction creeping steadily up your computer screen.

Which is all just to say that, to the extent that Mr. Bungles assault happened in real life at all, it happened as a sort of
Punch-and-Judy show, in which the puppets and the scenery were made of nothing more substantial than digital code and
snipits of creative writing. The puppeteer behind Bungle, as it happened, was a young man logging in to the MOO from a
New York University computer. He could have been Al Gore for all any of the others knew, however, and he could have
written Bungles script that night any way he chose. He could have sent a command to print the message *Mr. Bungle, smiling
a saintly smile, floats angelic near the ceiling of the living room, showering joy and candy kisses down upon the heads of all
below* - and everyone then receiving output from the databases subprogram #17 (a/k/a the *living room*) would have seen
that sentence on their screens.

Instead, he entered sadistic fantasies into the *voodoo doll,* a subprogram that served the not-exactly kosher purpose of
attributing actions to other characters that their users did not actually write. And thus a woman in Haverford, Pennsylvania,
whose account on the MOO attached her to a character she called Starsinger, was given the unasked-for opportunity to
read the words *As if against her will, Starsinger jabs a steak knife up her ass, causing immense joy. You hear Mr. Bungle
laughing evilly in the distance.* And thus a woman in Seattle who had written herself the character of legba, with a view
perhaps to tasting in imagination a deitys freedom from the burdens of the gendered flesh, got to read similarly constructed
sentences in which legba, messenger of the gods, lord of crossroads and communications, suffered a brand of degradation
all-too-customarily reserved for the embodied female.

*Mostly voodoo dolls are amusing,* wrote legba on the evening after Bungles rampage, posting a public statement to the
widely read in-MOO mailing list called *social-issues, a forum for debate on matters of import to the entire populace. *And
mostly I tend to think that restrictive measures around here cause more trouble than they prevent. But I also think that Mr.
Bungle was being a vicious, vile fuckhead and I . . . want his sorry ass scattered from [num]17 to the Cinder Pile. Im not
calling for policies, trials, or better jails. Im not sure what Im calling for. Virtual castration, if I could manage it. Mostly, [this
type of thing] doesnt happen here. Mostly, perhaps I thought it wouldnt happen to me. Mostly, I trust people to conduct
themselves with some veneer of civility. Mostly, I want his ass.*

Months later, the woman in Seattle would confide to me that as she wrote those words posttraumatic tears were streaming
down her face - a real-life fact that should suffice to prove that the words emotional content was no mere playacting. The
precise tenor of that content, however, its mingling of murderous rage and eyeball-rolling annoyance, was a curious amalgam
that neither the RL nor the VL facts alone can quite account for. Where virtual reality and its conventions would have us
believe that legba and Starsinger were brutally raped in their own living room, here was the victim legba scolding Mr. Bungle
for a breach of *civility.* Where real life, on the other hand, insists the incident was only an episode in a free-form version of
Dungeons and Dragons, confined to the realm of the symbolic and at no point threatening any players life, limb, or material
well-being, here now was the player legba issuing aggrieved ad heartfelt calls for Mr. Bungles dismemberment. Ludicrously
excessive by RLs lights, woefully understated by VRs, the tone of legbas response made sense only in the buzzing, dissonant
gap between them.

Which is to say it made the only kind of sense that _can_ be made of MUDly phenomena. For while the _facts_ attached to
any event born of a MUDs strange, ethereal universe may march in straight, tandem lines separated neatly into the virtual and
the real, its meaning lies always in that gap. You learn this axiom early in your life as a player, and its of no small relevance to
the Bungle case that you usually learn it between the sheets, so to speak. Netsex, tiny-sex, virtual sex - however you name it,
in real-life reality its nothing more than a 900-line encounter stripped even of the vestigial physicality of the voice. And yet as
any but the most inhibited of newbies can tell you, its possibly the headiest experience the very heady world of MUDs has to
offer. Amid flurries of even the most cursorily described caresses, signs, and penetrations, the glands do engage, and often
throbingly as they would in a real-life assignation - sometimes even more so, given the combined power of anonymity and
textual suggestiveness to unshackle deepseated fantasies. And if the virtual setting and the interplayer vibe are right, who
knows? The heart may engage as well, stirring up passions as strong as many that bind lovers who observe the formality of
trysting in the flesh.

To participate, therefore, in this disembodied enactment of lifes most body-centered activity is to risk the realization that
when it comes to sex, perhaps the body in question is not the physical one at all, but its psychic double, the bodylike
self-representation we carry around in our heads. I know, I know, youve read Foucault and your mind is not quite blown by
the notion that sex is never so much an exchange of fluids as it is an exchange of signs. But trust your friend Dr. Bombay, its
one thing to grasp the notion intellectually and quite another to feel it coursing through your veins amid the virtual steam of hot
net-nookie. And its a whole other mind blowing trip altogether to encounter it thus as a college frosh, new to the net and still
in the grip of hormonal hurricanes ad high-school sexual mythologies. The shock can easily reverberate throughout an entire
young worldview. Small wonder, then, that a newbies first taste of MUD sex is often also the first time she or he surrenders
wholly to the slippery terms of MUDish ontology, recognizing in a full-bodied way that what happens inside a MUD-made
world is neither exactly real nor exactly make-believe, but profoundly, compellingly, and emotionally meaningful.

And small wonder indeed that the sexual nature of Mr. Bungles crime provoked such powerful feelings, and not just in legba
(who, be it noted, was in real life a theory-savvy doctoral candidate and a longtime MOOer, but just as baffled and
overwhelmed by the force of her own reaction, she would later attest, as any panting undergrad might have been). Even
players who had never experienced MUD rape (the vast majority of male-presenting characters, but not as large a majority
of the female-presenting as might be hoped) immediately appreciated its gravity and were moved to condemnation of the
perp. legbas missive to *social-issues followed a strongly worded one from Zippy (*Well, well,* it began, *no matter what
else happens on Lambda, I can always be sure that some jerk is going to reinforce my low opinion of humanity*) and was
itself followed by others from Moriah, Raccoon, Crawfish, and evangeline. Starsinger also let her feelings (*pissed*) be
known. And even Jander, the clueless Samaritan who had responded to Bungles cries for help and uncaged him shortly after
the incident, expressed his regret once apprised of Bungles deeds, which he allowed to be *despicable.*

A sense was brewing that something needed to be done - done soon and in something like an organized fashion - about Mr.
Bungle, in particular, and about MUD rape, in general. Regarding the general problem, evangeline, who identified herself of
both virtual rape (*many times over*) and real-life sexual assault, floated a cautious proposal for a MOO-wide powwow on
the subject of virtual sex offenses and what mechanisms might be put in place to deal with their future occurrence. As for the
specific problem, the answer no doubt seemed obvious to many. But it wasnt until the evening of the second day after the
incident that legba, finally and rather solemnly, gave it voice:

*I am requesting that Mr. Bungle be toaded for raping Starsinger and I. I have never done this before and have thought
about it for days. He hurt us both.*

That was all. Three simple sentences posted to *social. Reading them, an outsider might never guess that they were an
application for a death warrant. Even an outsider familiar with other MUDs might not guess it, since in many of them
*toading* still refers to a command that, true to MUDdings origins in the world of sword-and-sorcery role-playing games,
simply turns a player into a toad, wiping the players description and attributes and replacing them with those of the slimy
amphibian. Bad luck for sure, but not quite as bad as what happens when the same command is invoked in the MOOish
strains of MUD: not only are the description and attributes of the toaded player erased, but the account itself goes too. The
annihilation of the character, thus, is total.

And nothing less than total annihilation, it seemed, would do to settle LambdaMOOs accounts with Mr. Bungle. Within
minutes of the posting of legbas appeal SamlAm, the Australian Deleuzean, who had witnessed much of the attack from the
back room of his suburban Sydney home, seconded the motion with a brief message crisply entitled *Toad the fukr.*
SamlAms posting was seconded almost as quickly by that of Bakunin, co-victim of Mr. Bungle and well-known radical, who
in real life happened also to be married to the real-life legba. And over the course of the next 24 hours as many as 50 players
made it known, on *social and in a variety of other forms and forums, that they would be pleased to see Mr. Bungle erased
from the face of the MOO. With dissent so far confined to a dozen or so antitoading hardliners, the numbers suggested that
the citizenry was indeed moving towards a resolve to have Bungles virtual head.

There was one small but stubborn obstacle in the way of this resolve, however, and that was a curious state of social affairs
known in some quarters of the MOO as the New Direction. It was all very fine, you see, for the LambdaMOO rabble to get
it in their heads to liquidate one of their peers. but when the time came to actually do the deed it would require the services of
a nobler class of character. It would require a wizard, Master-programmers of the MOO, spelunkers of the databases
deepest code-structures and custodians of its day-to-day administrative trivia, wizards are also the only players empowered
to issue the toad command, a feature maintained on nearly all MUDs as a quick-and-dirty means of social control. But the
wizards of LambdaMOO, after years of adjudicating all manner of interplayer disputes with little to show for it but their own
weariness and the smoldering resentment of the general populace had decided theyd had enough of the social sphere. And
so, four months before the Bungle incident, the archwizard Haakon (known in RL as Pavel Curtis, Xerox researcher and
LambdaMOOs principal architect) formalized this decision in a document called *LambdaMOO Takes a New Direction,*
which was placed in the living room for all to see. 1n it. Haakon announced that the wizards from that day forth were pure
technicians. From then on, they would make no decisions affecting the social life of the MOO but only implement whatever
decisions the community as a whole directed them to. From then on, it was decreed, LambdaMOO would just have to grow
up and solve its problems on its own.

Faced with the task of inventing its own self-governance from scratch, the LambdaMOO population had so far done what
any other loose, amorphous agglomeration of individuals would have done: theyd let it slide. But now the task took on new
urgency. Since getting the wizards to toad Mr. Bungle (or to toad the likes of him in the future) required a convincing case
that the cry for his head came from the community at large, then the community itself would have to be defined; and if the
community was to be convincingly defined, then some form of social organization, no matter how rudimentary, would have to
be settled on. And thus, as if against its will, the question of what to do about Mr. Bungle began to shape itself into a sort of
referendum on the political future of the MOO. Arguments stood on Lambda-MOO crazy-quilty political map.
Parliamentarian legalist types argued that unfortunately Bungle could not legitimately be toaded at all, since there were no
explicit MOO rules against rape, or against just about anything else and the sooner such rules were established, they added,
and maybe even a full-blown judiciary system complete with elected officials and prisons to enforce those rules, the better.
Others, with a royalist streak in them, seemed to feel that Bungles as-yet- unpunished outrage only proved this New
Direction silliness had gone on long enough, and that it was high time the wizardocracy returned to the position of swift and
decisive leadership their player class was born to.

And then there were what Ill call the technolibertarians. For them, MUD rapists were of course assholes, but the presence of
assholes on the system was a technical inevitability, like noise on a phone line, and best dealt with not through repressive
social disciplinary mechanisms but through the timely deployment of defensive software tools. Some asshole blasting violent,
graphic language at you? Dont whine to the authorities about it - hit the @gag command and the assholes statements will be
blocked from your screen (and only yours). Its simple, its effective, and it censors no one.

But the Bungle case was rather hard on such arguments. For one thing, the extremely public nature of the living room meant
that gagging would spare the victims only from witnessing their own violation, but not from having others witness it. You might
want to argue that what those victims didnt directly experience couldnt hurt them, but consider how that wisdom would
sound to a woman whod been, say fondled by strangers while passed out drunk and you have a rough idea how it might go
over with a crowd of hard-core MOOers. Consider, for another thing, that many of the biologically female participants in the
Bungle debate had been around long enough to grow lethally weary of the gag-and-get-over-it school of virtual rape
counseling, with its fine line between empowering victims and holding them responsible for their own suffering, and it
shrugging indifference to the window of pain between the moment the rape-text starts flowing and the moment a gag shuts it
off. From the outset it was clear that the technolibertarians were going to have to tiptoe through this issue with care, and for
the most part they did.

Yet no position was trickier to maintain than that of the MOOs resident anarchists. Like the technolibbers, the anarchists
didnt care much for punishments or policies or power elites. Like them, they hoped the MOO could be a place where people
interacted fulfillingly without the need for such things. But their high hopes were complicated, in general, by a somewhat less
thoroughgoing faith in technology (*Even if you cant tear down the masters house with the masters tools* - read a slogan
written into one anarchist players self-description - *it is a damned good place to start*). And at present they were
additionally complicated by the fact that the most vocal anarchists in the discussion were none other than legba, Bakunin, and
SamIAm, who wanted to see Mr. Bungle toaded as badly as anyone did.

Needless to say, a pro-death penalty platform is not an especially comfortable one for an anarchist to sit on, so these
particular anarchists were now at great pains to sever the conceptual ties between toading and capital punishment. Toading,
they insisted (almost convincingly), was much more closely analogous to banishment; it was a kind of turning of the communal
back on the offending party, a collective action that, if carried out properly, was entirely consistent with anarchist models of
community. And carrying it out properly meant first and foremost building a consensus around it - a messy process for which
there were no easy technocratic substitutes. It was going to take plenty of good old-fashioned, jawbone-intensive grassroots
organizing.

So that when the time came, at 7 p.m. PST on the evening of the third day after the occurrence in the living room, to gather in
evangelines room for her proposed realtime open conclave, Bakunin and legba were among the first to arrive. But this was
hardly to be an anarchist-dominated affair, for the room was crowding rapidly with representatives of all the MOOs political
stripes, and even a few wizards. Hagbard showed up, and Autumn and Quastro, Puff, Joe Feedback, L-dopa and Bloaf,
HerkieCosmo, Silver Rocket, Karl Porcupine, Matchstick - the names piled up and the discussion gathered momentum
under their weight. Arguments multiplied and mingled, players talked past and through each other, the textual clutter of
utterances and gestures filled up the screen like thick cigar smoke. Peaking in number at around 30, this was one of the
largest crowds that ever gathered in a single LambdaMOO chamber and while evangeline had given her place a description
that made it *infinite in expanse and fluid in form,* it now seemed anything but roomy. You could almost feel the
claustrophobic air of the place, dank and overheated by virtual bodies, pressing against your skin.

I know you could because I too was there, making my lone and insignificant appearance in this story. Completely ignorant of
any of the goings-on that had led to the meeting, I wandered in purely to see what the crowd was about, and though I
observed the proceedings for a good while, I confess I found it hard to grasp what was going on. I was still the rankest of
newbies then, my MOO legs still too unsteady to make the leaps of faith, logic, and empathy required to meet the spectacle
on its own terms. I was fascinated by the concept of virtual rape, but I couldnt quite take it seriously.

In this, though, I was in a small and mostly silent minority, for the discussion that raged around me was of an almost
unrelieved earnestness, bent it seemed on examining every last aspect and implication of Mr. Bungles crime. There were the
central questions, of course: thumbs up or down on Bungles virtual existence? And if down, how then to insure that his
toading was not just some isolated Iynching but a first step toward shaping LambdaMOO into a legitimate community?
Surrounding these, however, a tangle of weighty side issues proliferated. What, some wondered, was the real-life legal status
of the offense? Could Bungles university administrators punish him for sexual harassment? Could he be prosecuted under
California state laws against obscene phone calls? Little enthusiasm was shown for pursuing either of these lines of action,
which testifies both to the uniqueness of the crime and to the nimbleness with which the discussants were negotiating its
idiosyncrasies. Many were the casual references to Bungles deed as simply *rape,* but these in no way implied that the
players had lost sight of all distinctions between the virtual and physical versions, or that they believed Bungle should be dealt
with in the same way a real-life criminal would. He had committed a MOO crime, and his punishment, if any, would be
meted out via the MOO.

On the other hand, little patience was shown toward any attempts to downplay the seriousness of what Mr. Bungle had
done. When the affable HerkieCosmo proposed, more in the way of a hypothesis than an assertion, that *perhaps its better
to release. . . violent tendencies in a virtual environment rather than in real life,* he was tut-tutted so swiftly and relentlessly
that he withdrew the hypothesis altogether, apologizing humbly as he did so. Not that the assembly was averse to putting
matters into a more philosophical perspective. *Where does the body end and the mind begin?* young Quastro asked, amid
recurring attempts to fine-tune the differences between real and virtual violence. *Is not the mind a part of the body?* *In
MOO, the body Is the mind,* offered HerkieCosmo gamely, and not at all implausibly, demonstrating the ease with which
very knotty metaphysical conundrums come undone in VR. The not-do-aptly named Obvious seemed to agree, arriving after
deep consideration of the nature of Bungles crime at the hardly novel yet now somehow newly resonant conjecture *all
reality might consist of ideas, who knows.*

On these and other matters the anarchists, the libertarians, the legalists, the wizardists - and the wizards - all had their
thoughtful say. But as the evening wore on and the talk grew more heated and more heady, it seemed increasingly clear that
the vigorous intelligence being brought to bear on this swarm of issues wasnt going to result in anything remotely like
resolution. The perspectives were just too varied, the meme-scape just too slippery. Again and again, arguments that looked
at first to be heading in a decisive direction ended up chasing their own tails; and slowly, depressingly, a dusty haze of
irrelevance gathered over the proceedings.

It was almost a relief, therefore, when midway through the evening Mr. Bungle himself, the living, breathing cause of all this
talk, teleported into the room. Not that it was much of a surprise. Oddly enough, in the three days since his release from
Zippys cage, Bungle had returned more than once to wander the public spaces of LambdaMOO, walking willingly into one
of the fiercest storms of ill will and invective ever to rain down on a player. Hed been taking it all with a curious and mostly
silent passivity, and when challenged face to virtual face by both legba and the genderless elder statescharacter PatGently to
defend himself on *social, hed demurred, mumbling something about Christ and expiation. He was equally quiet now, and his
reception was still uniformly cool. Iegba fixed an arctic stare on him - *no hate, no anger, no interest at all. Just . . .
watching.* Others were more actively unfriendly. *Asshole,* spat Karl Porcupine, *creep.* But the harshest of the MOOs
hostility toward him had already been vented, and the attention he drew now was motivated more, it seemed, by the
opportunity to probe the rapists mind, to find out what made it tick and if possible how to get it to tick differently. In short,
they wanted to know why hed done it. So they asked him.

And Mr. Bungle thought about it. And as eddies of discussion and debate continued to swirl around him, he thought about it
some more. And then he said this:

*I engaged in a bit of a psychological device that is called thought-polarization, the fact that this is not RL simply added to
heighten the affect of the device. It was purely a sequence of events with no consequence on my RL existence.* They might
have known. Stilted though its diction was, the gist of the answer was simple, and something many in the room had probably
already surmised: Mr. Bungle was a psycho. Not, perhaps, in real life - but then in real life its possible for reasonable people
to assume, as Bungle clearly did, that what transpires between word costumed characters within the boundaries of a
make-believe world is, if not mere play, then at most some kind of emotional laboratory experiment. Inside the MOO,
however, such thinking marked a person as one of two basically subcompetent types. The first was the newbie, in which case
the confusion was understandable, since there were few MOOers who had not, upon their first visits as anonymous *guest*
characters, mistaken the place for a vast playpen in which they might act out their wildest fantasies without fear of censure.
Only with time and the acquisition of a fixed character do players tend to make the critical passage from anonymity to
pseudonymity, developing the concern for their characters reputation that marks the attainment of virtual adulthood. But while
Mr. Bungle hadnt been around as long as most MOOers, hed been around long enough to leave his newbie status behind,
and his delusional statement therefore placed him among the second type: the sociopath.

And as there is but small percentage in arguing with a head case, the rooms attention gradually abandoned Mr. Bungle and
returned to the discussions that had previously occupied it. But if the debate had been edging toward ineffectuality before,
Bundles anticlimactic appearance had evidently robbed it of any forward motion whatsoever. Whats more, from his lonely
corner of the room Mr. Bungle kept issuing periodic expressions of a prickly sort of remorse, interlaced with sarcasm and
belligerence, and though it was hard to tell if he wasnt still just conducting his experiments, some people thought his regret
genuine enough that maybe he didnt deserve to be toaded after all. Logically, of course, discussion of the principal issues at
hand didnt require a unanimous belief that Bungle was an unredeemable bastard, but now that cracks were showing in the
unanimity, the last of the meetings fervor seemed to be draining out through them.

People started drifting away. Mr. Bungle left first, then others followed - one by one, in twos and threes, hugging friends and
waving goodnight. By 9:45 only a handful remained, and the great debate had wound down into casual conversation, the
melancholy remains of another fruitless good idea. The arguments had been well-honed, certainly, and perhaps might prove
useful in some as-yet-unclear long run. But at this point what seemed clear was that evangelines meeting had died, at last, and
without any practical results to mark its passing.

It was also at this point, most likely, that JoeFeedback reached his decision. JoeFeedback was a wizard, a taciturn sort of
fellow whod sat brooding on the sidelines all evening. He hadnt said a lot, but what he had said indicated that he took the
crime committed against legba and Starsinger very seriously, and that he felt no particular compassion toward the character
who had committed it. But on the other hand, he made it equally plain that he took the elimination of a fellow player just as
seriously, and moreover that he had no desire to return to the days of wizardly fiat. It must have been difficult, therefore, to
reconcile the conflicting impulses churning within him at that moment. In fact, it was probably impossible, for as much as he
would have liked to make himself an instrument of LambdaMOOs collective will, he surely realized that under the present
order of things he must in the final analysis either act alone or not act at all.

So JoeFeedback acted alone.

He told the lingering few players in the room that he had to go, and then he went. It was a minute or two before 10. He did it
quietly and he did it privately, but all anyone had to do to know hed done it was to type the @who command, which was
normally what you typed if you wanted to know a present location and the time he last logged in. But if you had run a @who
on Mr. Bungle not too long after JoeFeedback left evangelines room, the database would have told you something different.

*Mr. Bungle,* it would have said, *is not the name of any player.*

The date, as it happened, was April Fools Day, and it would still be April Fools Day for another two hours. But this was no
joke: Mr. Bungle was truly dead and truly gone.

They say LambdaMOO has never been the same since Mr. Bungles toading. They say as well that nothings really changed.
And though it skirts the fuzziest of dream-logics to say that both these statements are true, the MOO is just the sort of fuzzy,
dreamlike place in which such contradictions thrive.

Certainly whatever civil society now informs LambdaMOO owes its existence to the Bungle affair. The archwizard Haakon
made sure of that. Away on business for the duration of the episode, Haakon returned to find its wreckage strewn across the
tiny universe hed set in motion. The death of a player, the trauma of several others, and the angst-ridden conscience of his
colleague JoeFeedback presented themselves to his concerned and astonished attention, and he resolved to see if he couldnt
learn some lesson from it all. For the better part of a day he brooded over the record of events and arguments left in *social,
then he sat pondering the chaotically evolving shape of his creation, and at the days end he descended once again into the
social arena of the MOO with another history-altering proclamation.

It was probably his last, for what he now decreed was the final, missing piece of the New Direction. In a few days, Haakon
announced, he would build into the database a system of petitions and ballots whereby anyone could put to popular vote any
social scheme requiring wizardly powers for its implementation, with the results of the vote to be binding on the wizards. At
last and for good, the awkward gap between the will of the players and the efficacy of the technicians would be closed. And
though some anarchists grumbled about the irony of Haakons dictatorially imposing suffrage on an unconsulted populace, in
general the citizens of LambdaMOO seemed to find it hard to fault a system more purely democratic than any that could ever
exist in real life. Eight months and 11 ballot measures later, widespread participation in the new regime has produced a small
arsenal of mechanisms for dealing with the types of violence that called the system into being. MOO residents now have
access to a @boot command, for instance, with which to summarily eject berserker *guest* characters. And players can
bring suit against one another through an ad hoc arbitration system in which mutually agreed-upon judges have at their
disposition the full range of wizardly punishments - up to and including capital.

Yet the continued dependence on death as the ultimate keeper of the peace suggests that this new MOO order may not be
built on the most solid of foundations. For if life on LambdaMOO began to acquire more coherence in the wake of the
toading, death retained all the fuzziness of pre-Bungle days. This truth was rather dramatically borne out, not too many days
after Bungle departed, by the arrival of a strange new character named Dr. Jest. There was a forceful eccentricity to the
newcomers manner, but the oddest thing about his style was his striking yet unnameable familiarity. And when he developed
the annoying habit of stuffing fellow players into a jar containing a tiny simulacrum of a certain deceased rapist, the source of
this familiarity became obvious.

Mr. Bungle had returned from the grave.

In itself, Bungles reincarnation as Dr. Jest was a remarkable turn of events, but perhaps even more remarkable was the utter
lack of amazement with which the LambdaMOO public took note of it. To be sure, many residents were appalled by the
brazenness of Bungles return. In fact, one of the first petitions circulated under the new voting system was a request for Dr.
Jests toading that almost immediately gathered 52 signatures (but has failed so far to reach ballot status). Yet few were
unaware of the ease with which the toad proscription could be circumvented - all the toadee had to do (all the ur-Bungle at
NYU presumably had done) was to go to the minor hassle of acquiring a new Internet account, and LambdaMOOs
character registration program would then simply treat the known felon as an entirely new and innocent person. Nor was this
ease generally understood to represent a failure of toadings social disciplinary function. On the contrary, it only underlined the
truism (repeated many times throughout the debate over Mr. Bungles fate) that his punishment, ultimately, had been no more
or less symbolic than his crime.

What _was_ surprising, however, was that Mr. Bungle/Dr. Jest seemed to have taken the symbolism to heart. Dark themes
still obsessed him - but he no longer radiated the aggressively antisocial vibes he had before. He was a lot less unpleasant to
look at (the outrageously seedy clown description had been replaced by that of a mildly creepy but actually rather natty
young man, with *blue eyes . . . suggestive of conspiracy, untamed eroticism and perhaps a sense of understanding of the
future*), and aside from the occasional jar- stuffing incident, he was also a lot less dangerous to be around. It was obvious
hed undergone some sort of personal transformation in the days since Id first glimpsed him back in evangelines crowded
room - nothing radical maybe, but powerful nonetheless, and resonant enough with my own experience, I felt, that it might be
more than professionally interesting to talk with him, and perhaps compare notes.

For I too was undergoing a transformation in the aftermath of that night in evangelines, and Im still not entirely sure what to
make of it. As I pursued my runaway fascination with the discussion I had heard there, as I pored over the *social debate
and got to know legba and some of the other victims and witnesses, I could feel my newbie consciousness failing away from
me. Where before Id found it hard to take virtual rape seriously, I now was finding it difficult to remember how I could ever
_not_ have taken it seriously. I was proud to have arrived at this perspective - it felt like an exotic sort of achievement, and it
definitely made my ongoing experience of the MOO a richer one.

But it was also having some unsettling effects on the way I looked at the rest of the world. Sometimes, for instance, it was
hard for me to understand why RL society classifies RL rape alongside crimes against person or property. Since rape can
occur without any physical pain or damage, I found myself reasoning, then it must be classed as a crime against the mind -
more intimately and deeply hurtful, to be sure, than cross burnings, wolf whistles, and virtual rape, but undeniably located on
the same conceptual continuum. I did not, however, conclude as a result that rapists were protected in any fashion by the
First Amendment. Quite the opposite, in fact: the more seriously I took the notion of virtual rape, the less seriously I was able
to take the notion of freedom of speech, with its tidy division of the world into the symbolic and the real.

Let me assure you, though, that I am not presenting these thoughts as arguments. I offer them, rather, as a picture of the sort
of mind-set that deep immersion in a virtual world has inspired in me. I offer them also therefore, as a kind of prophecy. For
whatever else these thoughts tell me, I have come to believe that they announce the final stages of our decades-long passage
into the Information Age, a paradigm shift that the classic liberal firewall between word and deed (itself a product of an
earlier paradigm shift commonly known as the Enlightenment) is not likely to survive intact After all anyone the least bit
familiar with the workings of the new eras definitive technology, the computer, knows that it operates on a principle
impracticably difficult to distinguish from the pre-Enlightenment principle of the magic word: the commands you type into a
computer are a kind of speech that doesnt so much communicate as _make things happen_, directly and ineluctably, the
same way pulling a trigger does. They are incantations, in other words, and anyone at all attuned to the technosocial
megatrends of the moment - from the growing dependence of economies on the global flow of intensely fetishized words and
numbers to the burgeoning ability of bioengineers to speak the spells written in the four-letter text of DNA - knows that the
logic of the incantation is rapidly permeating the fabric of our lives.

And its precisely this logic that provides the real magic in a place like LambdaMOO - not the fictive trappings of voodoo and
shapeshifting and wizardry, but the conflation of speech and act that s inevitable in any computer-mediated world, be it
Lambda or the increasingly wired world at large. This is dangerous magic, to be sure, a potential threat - if misconstrued or
misapplied - to our always precarious freedoms of expression, and as someone who lives by his words I do not take the
threat lightly. And yet, on the other hand, I can no longer convince myself that our wishful insulation of language from the
realm of action has ever been anything but a valuable kludge, a philosophically damaged stopgap against oppression that
would just have to do till something truer and more elegant came along.

Am I wrong to think this truer, more elegant thing can be found on LambdaMOO? Perhaps, but I continue to seek it there,
sensing its presence just beneath the surface of every interaction. I have even thought, as I said, that discussing with Dr. Jest
our shared experience of the workings of the MOO might help me in my search. But when that notion first occurred to me, I
still felt somewhat intimidated by his lingering criminal aura, and I hemmed and hawed a good long time before finally
resolving to drop him MOO-mail requesting an interview. By then it was too late. For reasons known only to himself, Dr.
Jest had stopped logging in. Maybe hed grown bored with the MOO. Maybe the loneliness of ostracism had gotten to him.
Maybe a psycho whim had carried him far away or maybe hed quietly acquired a third character and started life over with a
cleaner slate.

Wherever hed gone, though, he left behind the room he d created for himself - a treehouse *tastefully decorated* with rare
book shelves, an operating table, and a lifesize William S. Burroughs doll - and he left it unlocked. So I took to checking in
there occasionally, and I still do from time to time. I head out of my own cozy nook (inside a TV set inside the little red hotel
inside the Monopoly board inside the dining room of LambdaMOO), and I teleport on over to the treehouse, where the
room description always tells me Dr. Jest is present but asleep, in the conventional depiction for disconnected characters The
not quite- emptiness of the abandoned room invariably instills in me an uncomfortable mix of melancholy and the creeps, and
I stick around only on the off chance that Dr. Jest will wake up, say hello, and share his understanding of the future with me.

He wont, of course, but this is no great loss. Increasingly, the complex magic of the MOO interests me more as a way to live
the present than to understand the future. And its usually not long before I leave Dr. Jests lonely treehouse and head back to
the mansion, to see some friends. .