Read Online Prophet Margin by Simon Spurrier - Free Book Online
Authors: Simon Spurrier
Tags: Science-Fiction
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him..." Gumption gestured towards Wulf's box. "He comes from the ninth century, you see."
The bearded man glared at Wulf with a look of deep revulsion. "No," he said, "he does not. He is a spawn of Ogmishlen's unspeakable loins."
Wulf threatened the man with several imaginative types of painful end, many of them involving unspeakable loins.
"His death will please the Boddah greatly," the bearded man nodded. He turned the gun away from Gumption and onto Wulf.
"Bollocks of Odin," Wulf mumbled.
The gun roared, everyone screamed, the other cultists opened fire, mayhem ensued.
In the end, forty-two people died. Not an unimpressive figure given that the killers had almost certainly never attempted to fire, say, a SegaColt Fragblaster .76 before.
The Illuminated Children of the One True Boddah were rapidly overcome by the hotel's security goons, who had fired high calibre weaponry before and weren't in the habit of being outgunned by religious weirdos.
In interviews after the event a roguishly dishevelled Marteh Gumption shyly confessed that, yes, it had been him who had summoned the security guards during a daring sprint to the nearest exit. Any suggestion that he'd been seen dashing through reception in a pair of piss-stained trousers whilst calling for his mother were, of course, a fabrication.
When he was informed by the interviewer that his authentic Viking specimen had escaped, probably due to a poorly aimed monofilament flechette shattering the adamantiplex of its cage, Gumption burst into tears. "I-I was just worried about how that poor devil would fare alone in the wild," he later explained.
At any rate, the entire episode was clearly a source of trauma for the celebrated guru. The preproduction for " Horns of Hell" was cancelled and Gumption announced his retirement from the world of movies to concentrate on his poetry.
Perhaps tellingly, his first published work was titled " Forgiveness is a Viking Virtue" .
It ran to three hundred pages, was favourably reviewed by the " What For...?" journal of abstract expression, and sold approximately seventeen copies, galaxywide.
The van doors opened with a clang, flooding the interior with daylight. Shelves groaned beneath bulky cameras robotic sound recorders, microphones jostled in hat stands, lenses twinkled, portable lightmounts dangled and, somewhere near the back, two curled figures muttered and grumbled at the sudden light.
"Out!" said the woman who'd opened the doors, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "Welcome to earth."
Johnny pulled himself upright and dropped onto a tarmac floor. Around him a concrete landscape sulked beneath a grey sky - corrugated warehouses lined up like tombstones. "Nice to see it hasn't changed," he muttered. The woman stood dusting down the lapels of her fluidcolour work suit - currently calibrated with blue tiger stripes and perpendicular barcodes. "Where is this?" he asked her.
"Place used to be called 'Elstree'." she said, watching Kid Knee clamber from the van.
"And now?"
"TeeVeeTown." She nodded towards the warehouses. "Those're studios. Welcome to the glamorous world of showbiz."
Right on cue, it started to rain.
Johnny regarded the sombre complex. "This is where they shoot the science show?"
"This is where they shoot everything."
"But it's deserted."
"That's CGI for you."
"So which one was Koszov in?"
"Studio 72. I'll show you in a minute." The woman rummaged in her slicing-edge-of-fashion handbag, hair crackling as whatever nanohairspray she wore succumbed to the rain. "There's something I want to ask you first."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. The usual I'm-so-cool-it-hurts twang was gone from her voice, replaced by something worryingly like embarrassment - an attribute he'd never have associated with Nickle Reggo.
The self declared Queen of British Style (documentary presenter extraordinaire, enfant terrible of investigative journalism, hyper-chic fashion avatar) withdrew from her bag a small gun, decorated in
The bearded man glared at Wulf with a look of deep revulsion. "No," he said, "he does not. He is a spawn of Ogmishlen's unspeakable loins."
Wulf threatened the man with several imaginative types of painful end, many of them involving unspeakable loins.
"His death will please the Boddah greatly," the bearded man nodded. He turned the gun away from Gumption and onto Wulf.
"Bollocks of Odin," Wulf mumbled.
The gun roared, everyone screamed, the other cultists opened fire, mayhem ensued.
In the end, forty-two people died. Not an unimpressive figure given that the killers had almost certainly never attempted to fire, say, a SegaColt Fragblaster .76 before.
The Illuminated Children of the One True Boddah were rapidly overcome by the hotel's security goons, who had fired high calibre weaponry before and weren't in the habit of being outgunned by religious weirdos.
In interviews after the event a roguishly dishevelled Marteh Gumption shyly confessed that, yes, it had been him who had summoned the security guards during a daring sprint to the nearest exit. Any suggestion that he'd been seen dashing through reception in a pair of piss-stained trousers whilst calling for his mother were, of course, a fabrication.
When he was informed by the interviewer that his authentic Viking specimen had escaped, probably due to a poorly aimed monofilament flechette shattering the adamantiplex of its cage, Gumption burst into tears. "I-I was just worried about how that poor devil would fare alone in the wild," he later explained.
At any rate, the entire episode was clearly a source of trauma for the celebrated guru. The preproduction for " Horns of Hell" was cancelled and Gumption announced his retirement from the world of movies to concentrate on his poetry.
Perhaps tellingly, his first published work was titled " Forgiveness is a Viking Virtue" .
It ran to three hundred pages, was favourably reviewed by the " What For...?" journal of abstract expression, and sold approximately seventeen copies, galaxywide.
The van doors opened with a clang, flooding the interior with daylight. Shelves groaned beneath bulky cameras robotic sound recorders, microphones jostled in hat stands, lenses twinkled, portable lightmounts dangled and, somewhere near the back, two curled figures muttered and grumbled at the sudden light.
"Out!" said the woman who'd opened the doors, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "Welcome to earth."
Johnny pulled himself upright and dropped onto a tarmac floor. Around him a concrete landscape sulked beneath a grey sky - corrugated warehouses lined up like tombstones. "Nice to see it hasn't changed," he muttered. The woman stood dusting down the lapels of her fluidcolour work suit - currently calibrated with blue tiger stripes and perpendicular barcodes. "Where is this?" he asked her.
"Place used to be called 'Elstree'." she said, watching Kid Knee clamber from the van.
"And now?"
"TeeVeeTown." She nodded towards the warehouses. "Those're studios. Welcome to the glamorous world of showbiz."
Right on cue, it started to rain.
Johnny regarded the sombre complex. "This is where they shoot the science show?"
"This is where they shoot everything."
"But it's deserted."
"That's CGI for you."
"So which one was Koszov in?"
"Studio 72. I'll show you in a minute." The woman rummaged in her slicing-edge-of-fashion handbag, hair crackling as whatever nanohairspray she wore succumbed to the rain. "There's something I want to ask you first."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. The usual I'm-so-cool-it-hurts twang was gone from her voice, replaced by something worryingly like embarrassment - an attribute he'd never have associated with Nickle Reggo.
The self declared Queen of British Style (documentary presenter extraordinaire, enfant terrible of investigative journalism, hyper-chic fashion avatar) withdrew from her bag a small gun, decorated in
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