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Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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Marion. “What’s playing?”
“I’m not familiar with them. There’s one called
Robot Monster.”
“That’s a man in a gorilla costume and a diving helmet pretending to be an alien. And he keeps contacting the mother ship on a Jacob’s Ladder from a high school science lab,” said Diefenbaker.
“Fifties. Low budget,” added Marion.
“Okay. How about
The Thing?
It says James Arness is in it. I liked him in
Gunsmoke.”
“Well, you won’t recognize him here. He’s plays a giant asparagus who crash-lands in the arctic.”
“Hmm.
Plan Nine From Outer Space …”
“OH, NO!” cried Marion and Dief together.
“Cardboard tombstones!”
“Hubcap flying saucers!”
“Bela Lugosi died while they were making the picture, and they kept the footage he was in, but they finished the movie with a replacement who looked nothing like him.”
Jay Omega looked hopeful. Visions of the computer room danced in his head. “Well,” he said, “I guess we don’t have to see that.”
Marion grinned. “Of course we do! It’s so bad you won’t believe it.”
All entrants of the costume competition except the offending Runewind had lined up across the stage awaiting the judge’s decision. Batman andWonder Woman held hands, while Conan and the Klingon scowled at the audience. Yoda chatted with the Dragonrider.
Appin Dungannon pushed back his Stetson and took his feet off the table, nodding to Miles Perry that he was ready. Perry rushed over to receive the results, but Dungannon waved him away, and ambled toward the stage himself. The audience cheered loudly.
After adjusting the microphone some four inches downward, Dungannon smirked at the audience and motioned for silence. “Can it, you sleaze-puppies!” he said cheerfully. “Nothing you think could possibly make any difference to me. In fact, it would be news to me that you
did
think. Are there any Libertarian assholes out there?”
A few wargamers raised their hands.
“That’s right. Raise your grubby little hands. You should all be belled, like lepers. Where was I? Oh, yeah. To keep from having to say this two hundred more times during this Con while you grovel for my autograph: yes, I am working on the new Tratyn Runewind. In fact, I expect to be finished with it tomorrow, and since I am over deadline as usual, my editor will be coming here to pick it up.”
Several members of the audience began to look alert.
Appin Dungannon sneered. “Stop salivating, vermin! You have all the creativity of a Spellcheck disk! I have told my editor not only to avoid you at all costs, but also to disinfect his overcoat after he leaves, in case some of you brush past him in the halls.”
“I don’t believe this!” whispered Marion. “He’s alienating his fans.”
Diefenbaker shook his head. “He’s always like this. People expect it.”
“Can you tell us about the new novel?” yelled a guy in the fifth row.
“No, pinhead. Your attention span isn’t that long. Besides, I want all of you to save the quarters you receive for casual sexual encounters in the men’s room, and buy the book. And after you have finished reading it, with your lips moving no doubt, I want you to write me a nice long letter saying exactly what you think of the plot, the characters, and every little detail—and use it for toilet paper! Because I don’t want to hear from you morons! None of you can even spell ‘literature,’ much less recognize it!”
“Who won the costume contest?” someone called out.
“See what I mean about your attention spans? Shut up, cretin, I’m vilifying you. When I have finished abusing you, I will announce which of these poor afflicted sociopaths gets a free pizza to encourage his delusions.” Dungannon shaded his brow with his hand and leered across the footlights at his captive audience. “A pizza! You people need pizzas like TWA needs
“I’m not familiar with them. There’s one called
Robot Monster.”
“That’s a man in a gorilla costume and a diving helmet pretending to be an alien. And he keeps contacting the mother ship on a Jacob’s Ladder from a high school science lab,” said Diefenbaker.
“Fifties. Low budget,” added Marion.
“Okay. How about
The Thing?
It says James Arness is in it. I liked him in
Gunsmoke.”
“Well, you won’t recognize him here. He’s plays a giant asparagus who crash-lands in the arctic.”
“Hmm.
Plan Nine From Outer Space …”
“OH, NO!” cried Marion and Dief together.
“Cardboard tombstones!”
“Hubcap flying saucers!”
“Bela Lugosi died while they were making the picture, and they kept the footage he was in, but they finished the movie with a replacement who looked nothing like him.”
Jay Omega looked hopeful. Visions of the computer room danced in his head. “Well,” he said, “I guess we don’t have to see that.”
Marion grinned. “Of course we do! It’s so bad you won’t believe it.”
All entrants of the costume competition except the offending Runewind had lined up across the stage awaiting the judge’s decision. Batman andWonder Woman held hands, while Conan and the Klingon scowled at the audience. Yoda chatted with the Dragonrider.
Appin Dungannon pushed back his Stetson and took his feet off the table, nodding to Miles Perry that he was ready. Perry rushed over to receive the results, but Dungannon waved him away, and ambled toward the stage himself. The audience cheered loudly.
After adjusting the microphone some four inches downward, Dungannon smirked at the audience and motioned for silence. “Can it, you sleaze-puppies!” he said cheerfully. “Nothing you think could possibly make any difference to me. In fact, it would be news to me that you
did
think. Are there any Libertarian assholes out there?”
A few wargamers raised their hands.
“That’s right. Raise your grubby little hands. You should all be belled, like lepers. Where was I? Oh, yeah. To keep from having to say this two hundred more times during this Con while you grovel for my autograph: yes, I am working on the new Tratyn Runewind. In fact, I expect to be finished with it tomorrow, and since I am over deadline as usual, my editor will be coming here to pick it up.”
Several members of the audience began to look alert.
Appin Dungannon sneered. “Stop salivating, vermin! You have all the creativity of a Spellcheck disk! I have told my editor not only to avoid you at all costs, but also to disinfect his overcoat after he leaves, in case some of you brush past him in the halls.”
“I don’t believe this!” whispered Marion. “He’s alienating his fans.”
Diefenbaker shook his head. “He’s always like this. People expect it.”
“Can you tell us about the new novel?” yelled a guy in the fifth row.
“No, pinhead. Your attention span isn’t that long. Besides, I want all of you to save the quarters you receive for casual sexual encounters in the men’s room, and buy the book. And after you have finished reading it, with your lips moving no doubt, I want you to write me a nice long letter saying exactly what you think of the plot, the characters, and every little detail—and use it for toilet paper! Because I don’t want to hear from you morons! None of you can even spell ‘literature,’ much less recognize it!”
“Who won the costume contest?” someone called out.
“See what I mean about your attention spans? Shut up, cretin, I’m vilifying you. When I have finished abusing you, I will announce which of these poor afflicted sociopaths gets a free pizza to encourage his delusions.” Dungannon shaded his brow with his hand and leered across the footlights at his captive audience. “A pizza! You people need pizzas like TWA needs
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