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Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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Maryland, as Yoda the Jedi Master in
Star Wars,”
said Miles Perry, as if anyone needed to be informed. “Our next entrant is Clifford Morgan, costumed as … oh, dear!” With a stricken look, Miles Perry dropped his note cards and fled behind the curtain.
In the ensuing fascinated silence, the audience could hear a murmur of voices rising from backstage, building to an occasional crescendo of shouting. After several moments of muffled argument, the curtains parted, and a tall, slender youthwith a homespun cloak and snow-white hair appeared at center stage.
The audience gasped and whispered, as the contestant drew his sword and raised it in a salute to Appin Dungannon. “Writer of the Saga!” he cried. “Tratyn Runewind salutes you!”
Appin Dungannon looked as if he had just sat on Excalibur. He glared at the posturing figure on stage with the look of a fire dragon about to belch forth a wave of fire and sulphur: eyes bulging, nostrils flared, and face an apoplectic shade of purple.
With the possible exception of the immortal Rune Warrior, nobody breathed. All eyes turned to Dungannon. After an interval of suspended animation that felt to Marion long enough to do one’s taxes in, the tableau exploded.
Appin Dungannon snatched up the nearest empty folding chair and hurled it at the stage. “You impudent maggot!” he roared, hoisting another chair over his head. “Out of my sight! Out of this CON!”
“Tratyn Runewind” continued to smile as he dodged folding chairs, comforted perhaps by the knowledge that he had now become a legend in the annals of Fandom. Years from now, oddly dressed misfits would hunch over their Cherry Cokes, and between rolls of the eight-sided dice, they would tell the novices how Clifford Morgan had suffered abuse and risked untold real-life hit points from projectile folding chairs, in defense of the integrity of his player character, Tratyn Runewind.
Fortunately, Appin Dungannon eventually ran out of chairs, and in the lull from bombardment, Miles Perry crept back on to the stage and half-dragged Clifford Morgan behind the curtain.
“But I wanted to ask him about his new book!” Morgan protested as he vanished from sight.
Appin Dungannon took his place behind the table as if nothing had happened. “Proceed,” he said, pointing his pencil at the stage.
The Klingon admiral who appeared from behind the curtain was showing considerably more emotion than his race is purported to have. He stood white-faced and rigid before the footlights, as if anticipating a firing squad. When Appin Dungannon flashed him a benign smile and waved him off, the Klingon bolted for the wings, a performance that was, as Mr. Spock would say, “Highly illogical.”
The remaining contestants strutted and fretted their minute upon the stage, barely noticed by anyone, except when Miles Perry, whose note cards were out of order, referred to a Batman impersonator as “a character who manages to be strong and yet beautifully feminine at the same time.” The next contestant, Wonder Woman, hurried onstage, but the giggles and references to Robin and the batpole continued for several minutes.
Finally Miles Perry announced that the contestants had all been seen, and that after a few moments of deliberation, the judge would make his rulings known. Appin Dungannon pulled his cowboy hat over his eyes, and propped his boots up on the table.
“Do you really think he’ll pick the blonde?” hissed Marion.
“I don’t think he’ll pick Tratyn Runewind,” said Jay Omega.
Diefenbaker smiled nervously. “It isn’t important. All the winner gets is an autographed copy ofa Dungannon first edition and a gift certificate from Pizza Hut.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” grumbled Marion.
Jay Omega consulted his program. “It says they’re showing movies in here after this. Want to stay for them?”
“That depends,” said
Star Wars,”
said Miles Perry, as if anyone needed to be informed. “Our next entrant is Clifford Morgan, costumed as … oh, dear!” With a stricken look, Miles Perry dropped his note cards and fled behind the curtain.
In the ensuing fascinated silence, the audience could hear a murmur of voices rising from backstage, building to an occasional crescendo of shouting. After several moments of muffled argument, the curtains parted, and a tall, slender youthwith a homespun cloak and snow-white hair appeared at center stage.
The audience gasped and whispered, as the contestant drew his sword and raised it in a salute to Appin Dungannon. “Writer of the Saga!” he cried. “Tratyn Runewind salutes you!”
Appin Dungannon looked as if he had just sat on Excalibur. He glared at the posturing figure on stage with the look of a fire dragon about to belch forth a wave of fire and sulphur: eyes bulging, nostrils flared, and face an apoplectic shade of purple.
With the possible exception of the immortal Rune Warrior, nobody breathed. All eyes turned to Dungannon. After an interval of suspended animation that felt to Marion long enough to do one’s taxes in, the tableau exploded.
Appin Dungannon snatched up the nearest empty folding chair and hurled it at the stage. “You impudent maggot!” he roared, hoisting another chair over his head. “Out of my sight! Out of this CON!”
“Tratyn Runewind” continued to smile as he dodged folding chairs, comforted perhaps by the knowledge that he had now become a legend in the annals of Fandom. Years from now, oddly dressed misfits would hunch over their Cherry Cokes, and between rolls of the eight-sided dice, they would tell the novices how Clifford Morgan had suffered abuse and risked untold real-life hit points from projectile folding chairs, in defense of the integrity of his player character, Tratyn Runewind.
Fortunately, Appin Dungannon eventually ran out of chairs, and in the lull from bombardment, Miles Perry crept back on to the stage and half-dragged Clifford Morgan behind the curtain.
“But I wanted to ask him about his new book!” Morgan protested as he vanished from sight.
Appin Dungannon took his place behind the table as if nothing had happened. “Proceed,” he said, pointing his pencil at the stage.
The Klingon admiral who appeared from behind the curtain was showing considerably more emotion than his race is purported to have. He stood white-faced and rigid before the footlights, as if anticipating a firing squad. When Appin Dungannon flashed him a benign smile and waved him off, the Klingon bolted for the wings, a performance that was, as Mr. Spock would say, “Highly illogical.”
The remaining contestants strutted and fretted their minute upon the stage, barely noticed by anyone, except when Miles Perry, whose note cards were out of order, referred to a Batman impersonator as “a character who manages to be strong and yet beautifully feminine at the same time.” The next contestant, Wonder Woman, hurried onstage, but the giggles and references to Robin and the batpole continued for several minutes.
Finally Miles Perry announced that the contestants had all been seen, and that after a few moments of deliberation, the judge would make his rulings known. Appin Dungannon pulled his cowboy hat over his eyes, and propped his boots up on the table.
“Do you really think he’ll pick the blonde?” hissed Marion.
“I don’t think he’ll pick Tratyn Runewind,” said Jay Omega.
Diefenbaker smiled nervously. “It isn’t important. All the winner gets is an autographed copy ofa Dungannon first edition and a gift certificate from Pizza Hut.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” grumbled Marion.
Jay Omega consulted his program. “It says they’re showing movies in here after this. Want to stay for them?”
“That depends,” said
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