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Synopsis
A new collection of magic and mayhem from fantasy's funniest, wackiest writers, including Harlan Ellison, Esther Friesner, Neil Gailman, Craig Shaw Gardner, Harry Harrison, Tom Hold and Julia Mandala.
Release date: February 13, 2014
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages: 160
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The Mammoth Book of Seriously Comic Fantasy
Mike Ashley
All of the stories are copyright in the name of the individual authors as follows. Every effort has been made to trace the holders of copyright. In the event of any inadvertent transgression of copyright the editor would like to hear from the author or their representative via the publisher.
“Quest” © 1999 by Susan Anderson. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Top 50 Things I’d Do If I Ever Became an Evil Overlord” © 1996–7 by Peter Anspach. First published on the Internet at www.eviloverlord.com. Edited for publication. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Diamonds – Black and White” © 1932 by Anthony Armstrong. Reprinted from The Prince Who Hiccupped and Other Tales (London: Ernest Benn, 1932). Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Affliction of Baron Humpfelhimmel” by John Kendrick Bangs. Reprinted from Over the Plum-Pudding (New York: Harper’s, 1901). Copyright expired in 1973.
“The Failure of Hope & Wandel” by Ambrose Bierce, first published in Fun, 5 September 1874. Copyright expired in 1964.
“Rules of Engagement” © 1995 by Molly Brown. First published in Substance Magazine, Autumn 1995. Slightly revised for this printing. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How To Be Fantastic” © 1995 by Elizabeth Counihan. First published in Scheherazade #12, August 1995. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Ultimate” © 1986, 1999 by Seamus Cullen. Extensively revised from an episode originally published in The Sultan’s Turret (London: Orbit Books, 1986). This version, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Hills behind Hollywood High” © 1983 by Avram Davidson and Grania Davis. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1983. Reprinted by permission of Grania Davis.
“The Eye of Tandyla” © 1951 by L. Sprague de Camp. First published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1951. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Spectrum Literary Agency.
“The Aliens Who Knew, I Mean, Everything” © 1984 by George Alec Effinger. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, October 1984. Reprinted by permission of Richard Curtis Associates on behalf of the author’s estate.
“The Outpost Undiscovered by Tourists” © 1981 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1982. Reprinted by arrangement with, and permission of, the author and the author’s agent, Richard Curtis Associates, Inc., New York. All rights reserved.
“Malocchio” © 1999 by Eliot Fintushel. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author’s agent, Linn Prentis.
“The Metrognome” © 1990 by Thranx, Inc. First published in The Metrognome and Other Stories (New York: Del Rey Books, 1990). Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, the Virginia Kidd Agency.
“Uncle Henry Passes” © 1999 by Esther Friesner. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Case of the Four and Twenty Blackbirds” © 1984 by Neil Gaiman. First published in Knave. Reprinted in Angels and Visitations (Minneapolis: DreamHaven Books, 1993). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Dealing with Demons” © 1981 by Craig Shaw Gardner. First published in Flashing Swords! #5: Demons and Daggers (New York: Dell Books, 1981). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Triumph of Vice” by W. S. Gilbert, first published in The Savage Club Papers (London: 1867). Copyright expired in 1962.
“Hershey’s Kisses” © 1991 by Ron Goulart. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1992. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Man Who Hated Cadillacs” © 1999 by E. K. Grant. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“History Book” © 1994, 1999 by John Grant. First published in a limited-edition chapbook as History Book – A Thog the Mighty Text (1994) and then, revised, in sections in The Rotting Land (1994) as by Joe Dever and John Grant. Further extensive revisions by the author for this publication.
“Captain Honario Harpplayer, R.N.” © 1963 by Harry Harrison. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March 1963. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Neander-Tale” © 1980 by James P. Hogan. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 1980. Reprinted by permission of the Spectrum Literary Agency on behalf of the author’s estate.
“Escape from the Planet of the Bears” © 1999 by Tom Holt. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Star of the Farmyard” © 1992 by Terry Jones. First published in Fantastic Stories (London: Pavilion Books, 1992). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Case of Jack the Clipper” © 1997 by David Langford. First published in Interzone, December 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Slow Day in Hell” © 1997 by Julia S. Mandate. First published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Summer 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Elijah P. Jopp and the Dragon” by Archibald Marshall, first published in The Royal Magazine, November 1898. Copyright expired in 1985.
“A Hedge against Alchemy” © 1981 by John Morressy. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1981. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Dragon Doctor’s Apprentice” © 1999 by Charles Partington. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Dorian Literary Agency.
“The Shoemaker and the Elvis” © 1997 by Lawrence Schimel. First published in Elf Magic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg (New York: DAW Books, 1997): Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Dances with Elves” © 1995 by Cynthia Ward. First published in Galaxy, March/April 1995. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Birthday Gift” © 1992 by Elisabeth Waters. First published in Sword & Sorceress IX, edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley (New York: DAW Books, 1992): Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How I Got Three Zip Codes” © 1999 by Gene Wolfe. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author’s agent, Virginia Kidd Literary Agency.
James Hogan (1941-2010) was better known for his hard science fiction, especially the Minervan sequence which started with Inherit the Stars (1977). But the following story shows that, when he chooses, he could take the mickey out of scientists – or the rest of humankind for that matter.
“Artificial fire!? Waddya mean ‘artificial fire’? What the hell is artificial fire?” Ug scowled down from beneath heavy close-knit Neanderthal brows at the tangle-haired, bearskin-clad figure squatting in front of him. Og was leaning forward to peer intently into the pile of sticks and twigs that he had built between two stones in the clearing where the trail from the stream widened on its way up towards the rock terrace fronting the caves. He seemed unperturbed by Ug’s pugnacious tone; Ug was standing with his club still slung across his shoulder, which meant that, for once, he was not in a trouble-making mood that day.
“It’s the same as you get when lightning hits a tree,” Og replied cheerfully as he began rubbing two sticks vigorously together in the handful of moss which he had placed underneath the twigs. “Only this way you don’t need the lightning.”
“You’re crazy,” Ug declared bluntly.
“You’ll see. Just stand there a couple of seconds longer and then tell me again that I’m crazy.”
A wisp of smoke puffed out from the moss and turned into a blossom of flame which quickly leaped up through the twigs and engulfed the pile. Og straightened up with a satisfied grunt while Ug emitted a startled shriek and jumped backwards, at the same time hurriedly unslinging his club.
“Now tell me again that I’m crazy,” Og invited.
Ug’s gasp was a mixture of terror, awe and incredulity.
“Holy sabre-cats, don’t you know that stuff’s dangerous? It can take out a whole block of the forest in the dry season. Get rid of it for chrissakes, willya!”
“It’s okay between those rocks. Anyhow, I don’t want to get rid of it. I was wondering if we could figure out how to use it for something.”
“Like what?” Ug continued to stare nervously at the crackling pile and kept himself at a safe distance. “What could anybody do with it, besides get hurt?”
“I don’t know. All kinds of things . . .” Og frowned and scratched his chin. “For instance, maybe we wouldn’t have to kick people out of the caves and make them trek a half-mile down to where the hot springs are whenever they start to smell bad.”
“How else are they gonna clean up?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . maybe we could use this to make our own hot water right there in the caves and save all the hassle. Think what a difference that would make to the girls. They wouldn’t –”
“WHAT!” Ug cut him off with a shout that echoed back from the rocks above. “You wanna take that stuff inside the caves? You are crazy! Are you trying to get us all killed? Even the mammoths take off like bats outa hell if they catch so much as a whiff of that stuff. Anyhow, how could you make water hot with it? It’d burn through the skins.”
“So you don’t put it in skins. You put it in something else . . . something that won’t burn.”
“Such as what?”
“Hell, I don’t know yet,” Og yelled, at last losing his patience. “It’s a brand new technology. Maybe some kind of stone stuff . . .”
The sounds of running feet and jabbering voices from just around the bend in the trail above interrupted them. A few moments later Ag, the Vice-Chief, rushed into the clearing, closely followed by about twenty of the tribespeople.
“What’s going on down here?” Ag demanded. “We heard shouting . . . ARGH! FIRE! There’s fire in the valley. FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES! FIRE IN THE VALLEY!” The rest took up the cry and plunged back into the undergrowth in all directions. The trees all around reverberated with the sounds of colliding bodies and muffled curses, while Og continued to stare happily at his creation and Ug watched nervously from a few paces back. Then silence descended. After a while bearded faces began popping one by one out of the greenery on all sides. Ag re-emerged from behind a bush and approached warily.
“What’s this?” he enquired, looking from Ug to Og and back again. “There hasn’t been a storm for weeks. Where did that come from?”
“Og made it,” Ug told him.
“ ‘Made it’? What are you talking about – ‘made it’? This some kinda joke or sump’n?”
“He made it,” Ug insisted. “I watched him do it.”
“Why?”
“He’s crazy. He says he wants to take it inside the caves and –”
“INSIDE THE CAVES?” Ag clapped his hand to his brow and rolled a pair of wide-staring eyes towards Og. “Are you outa your mind? What are you trying to do? Haven’t you seen what happens to the animals that get caught when the forest goes up? We’d all get roasted in our beds.”
“Nobody’s saying you have to sleep on top of it,” Og said wearily. “You keep it out of the way someplace. Water pulls up trees when the river floods, but you can still take water inside without having to flood the whole goddamn cave. Well, maybe we can make our own fire and learn to live with it in the same sort of way.”
“What’s the point?” Ag challenged.
“It could be useful to have around,” Og said. “The animals don’t like it. It might stop the bears from trying to muscle into the caves every time the snow comes. Things like that . . . all kinds of things . . .”
Ag sniffed and remained unimpressed.
“All the people would have taken off for the hills too, so it wouldn’t do much good,” he pointed out.
“What about the smoke?” a voice called out from the circle of figures that had started to form around the edge of the clearing.
“What about it?” Og asked.
“You can’t breathe it. How could people live in a cave full of smoke?”
“You fix it so the smoke goes outside and not inside,” Og shouted in exasperation.
“How?”
“For Pete’s sake, I don’t know yet. It’s a new technology. What do you want – all the angles figured out in one day? I’ll think of something.”
“You’d pollute the air,” another voice objected. “If all the tribes in the valley got into it, there’d be smoke everywhere. It’d black out the sun-god. Then he’d be mad and we’d all get zapped.”
“How do you know it isn’t a she?” a female voice piped up from the back, only to be promptly silenced by a gentle tap on the head from the nearest club.
At that moment the circle of onlookers opened up to make way for Yug-the-Strong, Chief of the tribe, and Yeg-the-Soothsayer, who had come down from the caves to investigate the commotion. Yeg had been a great warrior in his youth and was reputed to have once felled an ox single-handed by talking at it non-stop until it collapsed in the mud from nervous exhaustion; hence Yeg’s nickname of “Oxmire”. For the benefit of the two elders Ag repeated what had been said and Ug confirmed it. Yeg’s face darkened as he listened.
“It’s not safe,” he pronounced when Ag had finished. The tone was final.
“So we learn how to make it safe,” Og insisted.
“That’s ridiculous,” Yeg declared flatly. “If it got loose it would wipe out the whole valley. The kids would fall into it. On top of that the fallout would foul up the river. Anyhow, you’d need half the tribe to be carrying wood up all the time, and we need the resources for other things. It’s a dumb idea whatever way you look at it.”
“You’ve got no business screwing around with it,” Yug said, to add his official endorsement.
But Og was persistent and the arguing continued for the next hour. Eventually Yeg had had enough. He climbed onto a rock and raised an arm for silence.
“How this could be made safe and why we should bother anyway is still unclear,” he told them. “Everything about it is unclear. Anyone who still wants to mess around with unclear energy has to be soft in the head.” He turned a steely gaze towards Og. “The penalty for that is banishment from the tribe . . . forever. The law makes no exceptions.” Yug and Ag nodded their mute agreement, while a rising murmur of voices from the tribe signalled assent to the decision.
“Throw the bum out!”
“I don’t want no crazy people collecting free rides outa my taxes.”
“Let the Saps down the end of the valley take care of him. They’re all crazy anyway.”
Og lodged a plea with the appeal-court in the form of Ag, who passed it on to Yug.
“Beat it,” was Yug’s verdict.
An hour later Og had drawn his termination pay in the form of two days’ supply of raw steak and dried fish, and was all packed up and ready to go.
“You’ll be sorry,” he called over his shoulder at the sullen group who had gathered to see him on his way down the trail. “It won’t do you any good to come chasing after me and telling me you’ve changed your minds when winter comes. The price to you will have gone out of sight.”
“Asshole!” Ug shouted back. “I told you you’d blow it.”
Over the months that followed, Og travelled the length and breadth of the valley trying to interest the other tribes in his discovery. The Australopithecines were too busy training kangaroos to retrieve boomerangs as a result of not having got their design calculations quite right yet. The tribe of Homo Erectus (famous for their virility) were preoccupied with other matters and didn’t listen seriously, while A. Robustus declared that they had no intention of becoming A. Combustus by being ignited and becoming extinguished at the same time. And so Og found himself at last in the remote far reaches of the valley where dwelt the H. Saps, who were known for their strange ways and whom the other tribes tended to leave to their own devices.
The first Sap that Og found was sitting under a tree staring thoughtfully at a thin slice of wood sawn from the end of a log that was lying nearby.
“What’s that?” Og asked without preamble. The Sap looked up, still wearing a distant expression on his face.
“Haven’t thought of a name for it yet,” he confessed.
“What is it supposed to do?”
“Not sure of that either. I just had a hunch that it could come in useful . . . maybe for throwing at hyenas.” The Sap returned his gaze to the disc of wood and rolled it absently backwards and forwards in the dust a couple of times. Then he pushed it away and looked up at Og once more. “Anyhow, you’re not from this end of the valley. What are you doing on our patch?” Og unslung an armful of sticks from his pack for the umpteenth time and squatted down next to the Sap.
“Man have I got a deal for you,” he said. “You wait till you see this.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon wheeling and dealing and ended up agreeing to joint-management of both patents. The Sap had got a good deal, so it followed that Og must have got a wheel, which was what they therefore decided to call it. The chief of the Saps agreed that Og’s trick with the sticks constituted a reasonable share-transfer price, and Og was duly installed as a full member of the tribe. He was content to spend the remainder of his days among the Saps and never again ventured from their end of the valley.
* * *
The winter turned out to be a long one – over twenty-five thousand years in fact. When it at last ended and the ice-sheets disappeared, only the Saps were left. One day Grog and Throg were exploring far from home near a place where the Neanderthals had once lived, when they came across a large rock standing beside a stream and bearing a row of crudely carved signs.
“What are they?” Grog asked as Throg peered curiously at the signs.
“They’re Neanderthal,” Throg said.
“Must be old. What do they say?”
Throg frowned with concentration as he ran a finger haltingly along the row.
“They’re like the signs you find all over this part of the valley,” he announced at last. “They all say the same thing: OG, COME HOME. NAME YOUR PRICE.”
Grog scratched his head and puzzled over the revelation for a while.
“So what the hell was that supposed to mean?” he mused finally.
“Search me. Must have had something to do with the guys who used to live in the caves behind that terrace up there. Only bears up there now though.” Throg shrugged. “It might have had something to do with beans. They were always counting beans, but they were still lousy traders.”
“Weirdos, huh? It could have meant anything then.”
“Guess so. Anyhow, let’s get moving.”
They hoisted their spears back onto their shoulders and resumed picking their way through the rocks to follow the side of the stream onwards and downwards towards the river that glinted through the distant haze.
Esther Friesner (b. 1951) is undeniably the Queen of Comic Fantasy. She has written some of the best humorous short stories and novels of the last decade, including Here Be Demons (1988), Hooray for Hellywood (1990), Gnome Man’s Land (1991) and Majyk by Accident (1993). She has also edited the comic fantasy anthologies. Alien Pregnant by Elvis (1994), Chicks in Chainmail (1995) and Did You Say Chicks? (1996). The following is a new story, specially written for this anthology.
It is with a heavy heart that I recall the death of my father’s uncle Henry, my great-uncle of the same name, a man who served the town of Sutter, New Mexico, truly and well for many years. It’s bad enough that he died like he did – by having an animal fall on him, though not from any great height – but now Daisy says it’s my job to bring Dad up to speed on the tragic circumstances surrounding Uncle Henry’s demise.
I don’t want to do it.
Partly I don’t want to do it because Dad and Mama are enjoying their first real vacation in years and there is nothing like news of a favourite relative’s expiration to make you realize that life is transitory, that death comes unexpectedly, and that drinking something blue out of a coconut shell with a flamingo-shaped swizzle stick and a lump of pineapple stuck in it won’t stave off the Dark Angel worth shit.
Mostly, though, I don’t want to do it because I don’t know how to do it. There are certain circumstances surrounding Uncle Henry’s passing which Dad’d find incredible if he were to hear them from someone other than me. And even with me telling him, I don’t know how to make him believe it all. It would take a mighty long letter to explain the whole sorry affair, and a phone call is out of the question because it would cost too much. Maybe not at first, but once I tell Dad what happened he’s going to say “No!” and I’ll have to say “Yes, honest!” and then he’s going to say “I don’t believe it!” and I’ll have to swear it’s all true (which it is, though the truth doesn’t convince some folks at all) and that’s where the call’s going to run into serious money.
That’s why I’m writing down what happened, just to get it straight in my mind so I don’t go breaking the bank when I finally do call Dad. I will, you know; I don’t want to, but I will. I’ve got to. Daisy said that if I don’t, she’ll bite my ass.
It all happened this past Election Day, which dawned cold and clear and stuck with it until ten, ten-thirty, which was about when things began happening such as to make the casual observation of weather conditions immaterial. It was after the breakfast rush; I was taking care of business at the coffee shop, tending the counter and the cash register, with Daisy there to help me. Daisy’s not much for conversation, except when she’s telling me what to do or what I’ve already done wrong. Now me, I enjoy a nice friendly chat with just about anyone, so you can imagine how glad I was when the bell over the door tinkled and Mayor Wiley came in.
He was looking a mite nervous, seeing as how it was Election Day and all, plus for the first time in twelve years he actually had to head a campaign against an opponent who was geared up to give him a run for the money. (Daisy says I shouldn’t try to be someone I’m not by showing off with fancy figures of speech, but considering as how everyone knows Mayor Wiley has been more than partial to awarding public works contracts to his near-and-dear-and-related-by-marriage, the money is in fact what he’s always made a run for.) Anyway, I offered him a cup of coffee on the house. I figured it was the least I could do, seeing as how I’d voted for the other guy.
Mayor Wiley had promoted my offer into a free cup of coffee plus a free donut (and didn’t Daisy growl at me for that!) when Merch Arnot came riding into town on the monster and all hell broke loose by degrees.
We got the first intimation that things were not as they ought to be when Mrs Pembleton’s little six-year-old boy, Timmy, came running into the coffee shop, yelling about the beast and its rider.
“There, there, Timmy,” Mayor Wiley said, getting his butt down off the stool and putting on that brandied fruitcake voice he uses when he’s trying to impress the voters. “What do you mean, ‘Old man Arnot’s gone crazy’? That’s kind of a given. You know you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” He tried to pat little Timmy on the head, but the kid jumped back and scowled at him.
“Touch me and I’ll slap a child abuse suit on you so fast it’ll make your head spin like a stripper’s tit-tassels,” the kid spat. “You want specific, you go out in the street and see for yourself what he’s brought to town this time! Me, I’m hot-wiring the first car I find and getting my ass the hell to Albuquerque.” And he ran back outside.
Well, it just tears your heart to hear a little child scared desperate enough to try something like that. Albuquerque, by God! Mayor Wiley and I traded a look, then headed after him. I called back over my shoulder for Daisy to cover for me – not that I expected many customers if the situation out in the street was as bad as little Timmy claimed.
Wouldn’t you know, it was worse. It’s no secret that our Main Street’s not the widest stretch of pavement in the greater New Mexico area, but the downtown part’s four lanes across, plus ample free parking. Well, parked amply across all four lanes plus with its rump resting on top of Gavin Ordway’s prized and cherished humvee was the biggest damn Jackalopasaurus Rex I ever did see.
Also the only one, needless to say.
It was about as tall as a two-storey building, but that was measuring all the way up to the tips of its pronghorns. If you only took its height to the shoulder, it wasn’t so much. Merch’d done better in the past. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that Christmas back in ’69 when he dressed up like Santa and had that team of eight antlered armadillos the size of double-decker buses pulling his sleigh in the town parade. It took Dad and Mama a whole week to comfort me and Sis after the poor critters died from that accidental ginseng–garlic–vitamin C overdose he gave them to maintain their size. I still miss Rudolph.
Anyhow, what old Merch’d brought to town this time was no Rudolph. He was riding it like an elephant, straddling its neck and trying to steer it with a skinny little leather strap he’d got wound around the base of its horns. That contrivance didn’t look likely to steer a dachshund, and when Daisy came out of the coffee shop to join the rest of us gawkers she said so.
There was quite a crowd. The first seriously contested election this town’s seen in twelve years will fill the streets. By rights it should’ve been a banner day for us small businessmen. How long does it take a person to vote? If a man’s travelled any appreciable distance to pull that little lever, he’s going to want to do something more to justify the trip, even if it’s just having a ham sandwich at my place. That wasn’t about to happen now, which displeased more than a few of my Better Business Bureau colleagues.
“Leave it to Merch to **** things up for everyone,” said Miss Diderot from the yard goods store. (I’m sorry, I just can’t bring myself to write some stuff down the way it was spoken. Unlike Daisy, I wasn’t raised in a barn.)
Rory Vega from the Gulf station wiped an oil smear off his face with the back of his hand and whistled. “What in the hell is that?”
“Looks like it’s a damn fine reason for you to start ordering humvee parts,” Margaret Lee said, and she laughed. I guess she never did get over it when Gavin Ordway dumped her for that schoolteacher from Santa Fe. So at least one person in the crowd was on the monster’s side.
“What does it look like it is?” Daisy snarled. “Another of Arnot’s freaks!”
“Daisy!” I exclaimed, and gave her a little kick so she’d shut up. Everyone around us got real quiet and looked embarrassed, as if they’d been the ones to say that ugly thing instead of my Daisy. Merch Arnot’s got his little quirks, but he’s a good man, born and raised in Sutter, and there isn’t a single decent human being in this town who’d ever use the f-word where he could maybe hear it.
Fortunately, he was too high up to catch wind of what Daisy’d said, or else he was too involved with more pressing problems to pay any mind to Daisy’s yapping. I want to tell you, he really had done it this time.
Daisy’d asked what that thing looked like. It was not a real question on her part, but when I tell Dad about Uncle Henry, I bet he’ll ask the same thing, so I better pull an answer together right now: To be honest, it looked like all sorts of things, mainly jackrabbit, until you got to the head. The head was where it started getting interesting. That was where the scales began, and the antlers, and the jaws. The jaws were what really held a person’s attention, all filled up with sharp, white teeth, and bright, red tongue, and loud, ferocious roar, and Timmy.
Poor Timmy. No hot-wired getaway car for him, and no Albuquerque either. I guess you have to take the bad with the good. He wasn’t dead yet, but judging from how the monster was tossing him around it was only a matter of time. Merch Arnot was tugging at that sorry little antler-leash, whacking the beast with the slack end and kicking its shoulders with his heels, and in general trying to make it drop the boy.
“Bad girl, Gretchen! Bad girl!” he hollered. “You let go now, you hear?”
That did about as much good as you might imagine. By then, someone had run to fetch Mrs Pembleton from her register at the Bag ’n’ Bye-Bye. Could be they thought that a mother’s screams of anguish would touch the monster’s heart and make it let go of Timmy, maybe even have it set him down gently and lower that gigantic homed head so the boy could pat its nose and lay his soft little cheek against its big old scaly one and say something like, “It’s okay, Gretchen, I love you,” before he gave it a kiss and it sort of snorted tenderly at him and everyone watching went “Awwwww” because each of us is a monster until we find love.
I blame Spielberg for making people expect this kind of **** to happen. Naturally it never does, at least not in Sutter, except for the part about the anguished mother’s screams. Mrs Pembleton held up her end of that real good. Too good. The n
“Quest” © 1999 by Susan Anderson. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Top 50 Things I’d Do If I Ever Became an Evil Overlord” © 1996–7 by Peter Anspach. First published on the Internet at www.eviloverlord.com. Edited for publication. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Diamonds – Black and White” © 1932 by Anthony Armstrong. Reprinted from The Prince Who Hiccupped and Other Tales (London: Ernest Benn, 1932). Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Affliction of Baron Humpfelhimmel” by John Kendrick Bangs. Reprinted from Over the Plum-Pudding (New York: Harper’s, 1901). Copyright expired in 1973.
“The Failure of Hope & Wandel” by Ambrose Bierce, first published in Fun, 5 September 1874. Copyright expired in 1964.
“Rules of Engagement” © 1995 by Molly Brown. First published in Substance Magazine, Autumn 1995. Slightly revised for this printing. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How To Be Fantastic” © 1995 by Elizabeth Counihan. First published in Scheherazade #12, August 1995. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Ultimate” © 1986, 1999 by Seamus Cullen. Extensively revised from an episode originally published in The Sultan’s Turret (London: Orbit Books, 1986). This version, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Hills behind Hollywood High” © 1983 by Avram Davidson and Grania Davis. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1983. Reprinted by permission of Grania Davis.
“The Eye of Tandyla” © 1951 by L. Sprague de Camp. First published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1951. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Spectrum Literary Agency.
“The Aliens Who Knew, I Mean, Everything” © 1984 by George Alec Effinger. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, October 1984. Reprinted by permission of Richard Curtis Associates on behalf of the author’s estate.
“The Outpost Undiscovered by Tourists” © 1981 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1982. Reprinted by arrangement with, and permission of, the author and the author’s agent, Richard Curtis Associates, Inc., New York. All rights reserved.
“Malocchio” © 1999 by Eliot Fintushel. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author’s agent, Linn Prentis.
“The Metrognome” © 1990 by Thranx, Inc. First published in The Metrognome and Other Stories (New York: Del Rey Books, 1990). Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, the Virginia Kidd Agency.
“Uncle Henry Passes” © 1999 by Esther Friesner. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Case of the Four and Twenty Blackbirds” © 1984 by Neil Gaiman. First published in Knave. Reprinted in Angels and Visitations (Minneapolis: DreamHaven Books, 1993). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Dealing with Demons” © 1981 by Craig Shaw Gardner. First published in Flashing Swords! #5: Demons and Daggers (New York: Dell Books, 1981). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Triumph of Vice” by W. S. Gilbert, first published in The Savage Club Papers (London: 1867). Copyright expired in 1962.
“Hershey’s Kisses” © 1991 by Ron Goulart. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1992. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Man Who Hated Cadillacs” © 1999 by E. K. Grant. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“History Book” © 1994, 1999 by John Grant. First published in a limited-edition chapbook as History Book – A Thog the Mighty Text (1994) and then, revised, in sections in The Rotting Land (1994) as by Joe Dever and John Grant. Further extensive revisions by the author for this publication.
“Captain Honario Harpplayer, R.N.” © 1963 by Harry Harrison. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March 1963. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Neander-Tale” © 1980 by James P. Hogan. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 1980. Reprinted by permission of the Spectrum Literary Agency on behalf of the author’s estate.
“Escape from the Planet of the Bears” © 1999 by Tom Holt. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Star of the Farmyard” © 1992 by Terry Jones. First published in Fantastic Stories (London: Pavilion Books, 1992). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Case of Jack the Clipper” © 1997 by David Langford. First published in Interzone, December 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Slow Day in Hell” © 1997 by Julia S. Mandate. First published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Summer 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Elijah P. Jopp and the Dragon” by Archibald Marshall, first published in The Royal Magazine, November 1898. Copyright expired in 1985.
“A Hedge against Alchemy” © 1981 by John Morressy. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1981. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Dragon Doctor’s Apprentice” © 1999 by Charles Partington. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Dorian Literary Agency.
“The Shoemaker and the Elvis” © 1997 by Lawrence Schimel. First published in Elf Magic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg (New York: DAW Books, 1997): Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Dances with Elves” © 1995 by Cynthia Ward. First published in Galaxy, March/April 1995. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Birthday Gift” © 1992 by Elisabeth Waters. First published in Sword & Sorceress IX, edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley (New York: DAW Books, 1992): Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How I Got Three Zip Codes” © 1999 by Gene Wolfe. Original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author’s agent, Virginia Kidd Literary Agency.
James Hogan (1941-2010) was better known for his hard science fiction, especially the Minervan sequence which started with Inherit the Stars (1977). But the following story shows that, when he chooses, he could take the mickey out of scientists – or the rest of humankind for that matter.
“Artificial fire!? Waddya mean ‘artificial fire’? What the hell is artificial fire?” Ug scowled down from beneath heavy close-knit Neanderthal brows at the tangle-haired, bearskin-clad figure squatting in front of him. Og was leaning forward to peer intently into the pile of sticks and twigs that he had built between two stones in the clearing where the trail from the stream widened on its way up towards the rock terrace fronting the caves. He seemed unperturbed by Ug’s pugnacious tone; Ug was standing with his club still slung across his shoulder, which meant that, for once, he was not in a trouble-making mood that day.
“It’s the same as you get when lightning hits a tree,” Og replied cheerfully as he began rubbing two sticks vigorously together in the handful of moss which he had placed underneath the twigs. “Only this way you don’t need the lightning.”
“You’re crazy,” Ug declared bluntly.
“You’ll see. Just stand there a couple of seconds longer and then tell me again that I’m crazy.”
A wisp of smoke puffed out from the moss and turned into a blossom of flame which quickly leaped up through the twigs and engulfed the pile. Og straightened up with a satisfied grunt while Ug emitted a startled shriek and jumped backwards, at the same time hurriedly unslinging his club.
“Now tell me again that I’m crazy,” Og invited.
Ug’s gasp was a mixture of terror, awe and incredulity.
“Holy sabre-cats, don’t you know that stuff’s dangerous? It can take out a whole block of the forest in the dry season. Get rid of it for chrissakes, willya!”
“It’s okay between those rocks. Anyhow, I don’t want to get rid of it. I was wondering if we could figure out how to use it for something.”
“Like what?” Ug continued to stare nervously at the crackling pile and kept himself at a safe distance. “What could anybody do with it, besides get hurt?”
“I don’t know. All kinds of things . . .” Og frowned and scratched his chin. “For instance, maybe we wouldn’t have to kick people out of the caves and make them trek a half-mile down to where the hot springs are whenever they start to smell bad.”
“How else are they gonna clean up?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . maybe we could use this to make our own hot water right there in the caves and save all the hassle. Think what a difference that would make to the girls. They wouldn’t –”
“WHAT!” Ug cut him off with a shout that echoed back from the rocks above. “You wanna take that stuff inside the caves? You are crazy! Are you trying to get us all killed? Even the mammoths take off like bats outa hell if they catch so much as a whiff of that stuff. Anyhow, how could you make water hot with it? It’d burn through the skins.”
“So you don’t put it in skins. You put it in something else . . . something that won’t burn.”
“Such as what?”
“Hell, I don’t know yet,” Og yelled, at last losing his patience. “It’s a brand new technology. Maybe some kind of stone stuff . . .”
The sounds of running feet and jabbering voices from just around the bend in the trail above interrupted them. A few moments later Ag, the Vice-Chief, rushed into the clearing, closely followed by about twenty of the tribespeople.
“What’s going on down here?” Ag demanded. “We heard shouting . . . ARGH! FIRE! There’s fire in the valley. FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES! FIRE IN THE VALLEY!” The rest took up the cry and plunged back into the undergrowth in all directions. The trees all around reverberated with the sounds of colliding bodies and muffled curses, while Og continued to stare happily at his creation and Ug watched nervously from a few paces back. Then silence descended. After a while bearded faces began popping one by one out of the greenery on all sides. Ag re-emerged from behind a bush and approached warily.
“What’s this?” he enquired, looking from Ug to Og and back again. “There hasn’t been a storm for weeks. Where did that come from?”
“Og made it,” Ug told him.
“ ‘Made it’? What are you talking about – ‘made it’? This some kinda joke or sump’n?”
“He made it,” Ug insisted. “I watched him do it.”
“Why?”
“He’s crazy. He says he wants to take it inside the caves and –”
“INSIDE THE CAVES?” Ag clapped his hand to his brow and rolled a pair of wide-staring eyes towards Og. “Are you outa your mind? What are you trying to do? Haven’t you seen what happens to the animals that get caught when the forest goes up? We’d all get roasted in our beds.”
“Nobody’s saying you have to sleep on top of it,” Og said wearily. “You keep it out of the way someplace. Water pulls up trees when the river floods, but you can still take water inside without having to flood the whole goddamn cave. Well, maybe we can make our own fire and learn to live with it in the same sort of way.”
“What’s the point?” Ag challenged.
“It could be useful to have around,” Og said. “The animals don’t like it. It might stop the bears from trying to muscle into the caves every time the snow comes. Things like that . . . all kinds of things . . .”
Ag sniffed and remained unimpressed.
“All the people would have taken off for the hills too, so it wouldn’t do much good,” he pointed out.
“What about the smoke?” a voice called out from the circle of figures that had started to form around the edge of the clearing.
“What about it?” Og asked.
“You can’t breathe it. How could people live in a cave full of smoke?”
“You fix it so the smoke goes outside and not inside,” Og shouted in exasperation.
“How?”
“For Pete’s sake, I don’t know yet. It’s a new technology. What do you want – all the angles figured out in one day? I’ll think of something.”
“You’d pollute the air,” another voice objected. “If all the tribes in the valley got into it, there’d be smoke everywhere. It’d black out the sun-god. Then he’d be mad and we’d all get zapped.”
“How do you know it isn’t a she?” a female voice piped up from the back, only to be promptly silenced by a gentle tap on the head from the nearest club.
At that moment the circle of onlookers opened up to make way for Yug-the-Strong, Chief of the tribe, and Yeg-the-Soothsayer, who had come down from the caves to investigate the commotion. Yeg had been a great warrior in his youth and was reputed to have once felled an ox single-handed by talking at it non-stop until it collapsed in the mud from nervous exhaustion; hence Yeg’s nickname of “Oxmire”. For the benefit of the two elders Ag repeated what had been said and Ug confirmed it. Yeg’s face darkened as he listened.
“It’s not safe,” he pronounced when Ag had finished. The tone was final.
“So we learn how to make it safe,” Og insisted.
“That’s ridiculous,” Yeg declared flatly. “If it got loose it would wipe out the whole valley. The kids would fall into it. On top of that the fallout would foul up the river. Anyhow, you’d need half the tribe to be carrying wood up all the time, and we need the resources for other things. It’s a dumb idea whatever way you look at it.”
“You’ve got no business screwing around with it,” Yug said, to add his official endorsement.
But Og was persistent and the arguing continued for the next hour. Eventually Yeg had had enough. He climbed onto a rock and raised an arm for silence.
“How this could be made safe and why we should bother anyway is still unclear,” he told them. “Everything about it is unclear. Anyone who still wants to mess around with unclear energy has to be soft in the head.” He turned a steely gaze towards Og. “The penalty for that is banishment from the tribe . . . forever. The law makes no exceptions.” Yug and Ag nodded their mute agreement, while a rising murmur of voices from the tribe signalled assent to the decision.
“Throw the bum out!”
“I don’t want no crazy people collecting free rides outa my taxes.”
“Let the Saps down the end of the valley take care of him. They’re all crazy anyway.”
Og lodged a plea with the appeal-court in the form of Ag, who passed it on to Yug.
“Beat it,” was Yug’s verdict.
An hour later Og had drawn his termination pay in the form of two days’ supply of raw steak and dried fish, and was all packed up and ready to go.
“You’ll be sorry,” he called over his shoulder at the sullen group who had gathered to see him on his way down the trail. “It won’t do you any good to come chasing after me and telling me you’ve changed your minds when winter comes. The price to you will have gone out of sight.”
“Asshole!” Ug shouted back. “I told you you’d blow it.”
Over the months that followed, Og travelled the length and breadth of the valley trying to interest the other tribes in his discovery. The Australopithecines were too busy training kangaroos to retrieve boomerangs as a result of not having got their design calculations quite right yet. The tribe of Homo Erectus (famous for their virility) were preoccupied with other matters and didn’t listen seriously, while A. Robustus declared that they had no intention of becoming A. Combustus by being ignited and becoming extinguished at the same time. And so Og found himself at last in the remote far reaches of the valley where dwelt the H. Saps, who were known for their strange ways and whom the other tribes tended to leave to their own devices.
The first Sap that Og found was sitting under a tree staring thoughtfully at a thin slice of wood sawn from the end of a log that was lying nearby.
“What’s that?” Og asked without preamble. The Sap looked up, still wearing a distant expression on his face.
“Haven’t thought of a name for it yet,” he confessed.
“What is it supposed to do?”
“Not sure of that either. I just had a hunch that it could come in useful . . . maybe for throwing at hyenas.” The Sap returned his gaze to the disc of wood and rolled it absently backwards and forwards in the dust a couple of times. Then he pushed it away and looked up at Og once more. “Anyhow, you’re not from this end of the valley. What are you doing on our patch?” Og unslung an armful of sticks from his pack for the umpteenth time and squatted down next to the Sap.
“Man have I got a deal for you,” he said. “You wait till you see this.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon wheeling and dealing and ended up agreeing to joint-management of both patents. The Sap had got a good deal, so it followed that Og must have got a wheel, which was what they therefore decided to call it. The chief of the Saps agreed that Og’s trick with the sticks constituted a reasonable share-transfer price, and Og was duly installed as a full member of the tribe. He was content to spend the remainder of his days among the Saps and never again ventured from their end of the valley.
* * *
The winter turned out to be a long one – over twenty-five thousand years in fact. When it at last ended and the ice-sheets disappeared, only the Saps were left. One day Grog and Throg were exploring far from home near a place where the Neanderthals had once lived, when they came across a large rock standing beside a stream and bearing a row of crudely carved signs.
“What are they?” Grog asked as Throg peered curiously at the signs.
“They’re Neanderthal,” Throg said.
“Must be old. What do they say?”
Throg frowned with concentration as he ran a finger haltingly along the row.
“They’re like the signs you find all over this part of the valley,” he announced at last. “They all say the same thing: OG, COME HOME. NAME YOUR PRICE.”
Grog scratched his head and puzzled over the revelation for a while.
“So what the hell was that supposed to mean?” he mused finally.
“Search me. Must have had something to do with the guys who used to live in the caves behind that terrace up there. Only bears up there now though.” Throg shrugged. “It might have had something to do with beans. They were always counting beans, but they were still lousy traders.”
“Weirdos, huh? It could have meant anything then.”
“Guess so. Anyhow, let’s get moving.”
They hoisted their spears back onto their shoulders and resumed picking their way through the rocks to follow the side of the stream onwards and downwards towards the river that glinted through the distant haze.
Esther Friesner (b. 1951) is undeniably the Queen of Comic Fantasy. She has written some of the best humorous short stories and novels of the last decade, including Here Be Demons (1988), Hooray for Hellywood (1990), Gnome Man’s Land (1991) and Majyk by Accident (1993). She has also edited the comic fantasy anthologies. Alien Pregnant by Elvis (1994), Chicks in Chainmail (1995) and Did You Say Chicks? (1996). The following is a new story, specially written for this anthology.
It is with a heavy heart that I recall the death of my father’s uncle Henry, my great-uncle of the same name, a man who served the town of Sutter, New Mexico, truly and well for many years. It’s bad enough that he died like he did – by having an animal fall on him, though not from any great height – but now Daisy says it’s my job to bring Dad up to speed on the tragic circumstances surrounding Uncle Henry’s demise.
I don’t want to do it.
Partly I don’t want to do it because Dad and Mama are enjoying their first real vacation in years and there is nothing like news of a favourite relative’s expiration to make you realize that life is transitory, that death comes unexpectedly, and that drinking something blue out of a coconut shell with a flamingo-shaped swizzle stick and a lump of pineapple stuck in it won’t stave off the Dark Angel worth shit.
Mostly, though, I don’t want to do it because I don’t know how to do it. There are certain circumstances surrounding Uncle Henry’s passing which Dad’d find incredible if he were to hear them from someone other than me. And even with me telling him, I don’t know how to make him believe it all. It would take a mighty long letter to explain the whole sorry affair, and a phone call is out of the question because it would cost too much. Maybe not at first, but once I tell Dad what happened he’s going to say “No!” and I’ll have to say “Yes, honest!” and then he’s going to say “I don’t believe it!” and I’ll have to swear it’s all true (which it is, though the truth doesn’t convince some folks at all) and that’s where the call’s going to run into serious money.
That’s why I’m writing down what happened, just to get it straight in my mind so I don’t go breaking the bank when I finally do call Dad. I will, you know; I don’t want to, but I will. I’ve got to. Daisy said that if I don’t, she’ll bite my ass.
It all happened this past Election Day, which dawned cold and clear and stuck with it until ten, ten-thirty, which was about when things began happening such as to make the casual observation of weather conditions immaterial. It was after the breakfast rush; I was taking care of business at the coffee shop, tending the counter and the cash register, with Daisy there to help me. Daisy’s not much for conversation, except when she’s telling me what to do or what I’ve already done wrong. Now me, I enjoy a nice friendly chat with just about anyone, so you can imagine how glad I was when the bell over the door tinkled and Mayor Wiley came in.
He was looking a mite nervous, seeing as how it was Election Day and all, plus for the first time in twelve years he actually had to head a campaign against an opponent who was geared up to give him a run for the money. (Daisy says I shouldn’t try to be someone I’m not by showing off with fancy figures of speech, but considering as how everyone knows Mayor Wiley has been more than partial to awarding public works contracts to his near-and-dear-and-related-by-marriage, the money is in fact what he’s always made a run for.) Anyway, I offered him a cup of coffee on the house. I figured it was the least I could do, seeing as how I’d voted for the other guy.
Mayor Wiley had promoted my offer into a free cup of coffee plus a free donut (and didn’t Daisy growl at me for that!) when Merch Arnot came riding into town on the monster and all hell broke loose by degrees.
We got the first intimation that things were not as they ought to be when Mrs Pembleton’s little six-year-old boy, Timmy, came running into the coffee shop, yelling about the beast and its rider.
“There, there, Timmy,” Mayor Wiley said, getting his butt down off the stool and putting on that brandied fruitcake voice he uses when he’s trying to impress the voters. “What do you mean, ‘Old man Arnot’s gone crazy’? That’s kind of a given. You know you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” He tried to pat little Timmy on the head, but the kid jumped back and scowled at him.
“Touch me and I’ll slap a child abuse suit on you so fast it’ll make your head spin like a stripper’s tit-tassels,” the kid spat. “You want specific, you go out in the street and see for yourself what he’s brought to town this time! Me, I’m hot-wiring the first car I find and getting my ass the hell to Albuquerque.” And he ran back outside.
Well, it just tears your heart to hear a little child scared desperate enough to try something like that. Albuquerque, by God! Mayor Wiley and I traded a look, then headed after him. I called back over my shoulder for Daisy to cover for me – not that I expected many customers if the situation out in the street was as bad as little Timmy claimed.
Wouldn’t you know, it was worse. It’s no secret that our Main Street’s not the widest stretch of pavement in the greater New Mexico area, but the downtown part’s four lanes across, plus ample free parking. Well, parked amply across all four lanes plus with its rump resting on top of Gavin Ordway’s prized and cherished humvee was the biggest damn Jackalopasaurus Rex I ever did see.
Also the only one, needless to say.
It was about as tall as a two-storey building, but that was measuring all the way up to the tips of its pronghorns. If you only took its height to the shoulder, it wasn’t so much. Merch’d done better in the past. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that Christmas back in ’69 when he dressed up like Santa and had that team of eight antlered armadillos the size of double-decker buses pulling his sleigh in the town parade. It took Dad and Mama a whole week to comfort me and Sis after the poor critters died from that accidental ginseng–garlic–vitamin C overdose he gave them to maintain their size. I still miss Rudolph.
Anyhow, what old Merch’d brought to town this time was no Rudolph. He was riding it like an elephant, straddling its neck and trying to steer it with a skinny little leather strap he’d got wound around the base of its horns. That contrivance didn’t look likely to steer a dachshund, and when Daisy came out of the coffee shop to join the rest of us gawkers she said so.
There was quite a crowd. The first seriously contested election this town’s seen in twelve years will fill the streets. By rights it should’ve been a banner day for us small businessmen. How long does it take a person to vote? If a man’s travelled any appreciable distance to pull that little lever, he’s going to want to do something more to justify the trip, even if it’s just having a ham sandwich at my place. That wasn’t about to happen now, which displeased more than a few of my Better Business Bureau colleagues.
“Leave it to Merch to **** things up for everyone,” said Miss Diderot from the yard goods store. (I’m sorry, I just can’t bring myself to write some stuff down the way it was spoken. Unlike Daisy, I wasn’t raised in a barn.)
Rory Vega from the Gulf station wiped an oil smear off his face with the back of his hand and whistled. “What in the hell is that?”
“Looks like it’s a damn fine reason for you to start ordering humvee parts,” Margaret Lee said, and she laughed. I guess she never did get over it when Gavin Ordway dumped her for that schoolteacher from Santa Fe. So at least one person in the crowd was on the monster’s side.
“What does it look like it is?” Daisy snarled. “Another of Arnot’s freaks!”
“Daisy!” I exclaimed, and gave her a little kick so she’d shut up. Everyone around us got real quiet and looked embarrassed, as if they’d been the ones to say that ugly thing instead of my Daisy. Merch Arnot’s got his little quirks, but he’s a good man, born and raised in Sutter, and there isn’t a single decent human being in this town who’d ever use the f-word where he could maybe hear it.
Fortunately, he was too high up to catch wind of what Daisy’d said, or else he was too involved with more pressing problems to pay any mind to Daisy’s yapping. I want to tell you, he really had done it this time.
Daisy’d asked what that thing looked like. It was not a real question on her part, but when I tell Dad about Uncle Henry, I bet he’ll ask the same thing, so I better pull an answer together right now: To be honest, it looked like all sorts of things, mainly jackrabbit, until you got to the head. The head was where it started getting interesting. That was where the scales began, and the antlers, and the jaws. The jaws were what really held a person’s attention, all filled up with sharp, white teeth, and bright, red tongue, and loud, ferocious roar, and Timmy.
Poor Timmy. No hot-wired getaway car for him, and no Albuquerque either. I guess you have to take the bad with the good. He wasn’t dead yet, but judging from how the monster was tossing him around it was only a matter of time. Merch Arnot was tugging at that sorry little antler-leash, whacking the beast with the slack end and kicking its shoulders with his heels, and in general trying to make it drop the boy.
“Bad girl, Gretchen! Bad girl!” he hollered. “You let go now, you hear?”
That did about as much good as you might imagine. By then, someone had run to fetch Mrs Pembleton from her register at the Bag ’n’ Bye-Bye. Could be they thought that a mother’s screams of anguish would touch the monster’s heart and make it let go of Timmy, maybe even have it set him down gently and lower that gigantic homed head so the boy could pat its nose and lay his soft little cheek against its big old scaly one and say something like, “It’s okay, Gretchen, I love you,” before he gave it a kiss and it sort of snorted tenderly at him and everyone watching went “Awwwww” because each of us is a monster until we find love.
I blame Spielberg for making people expect this kind of **** to happen. Naturally it never does, at least not in Sutter, except for the part about the anguished mother’s screams. Mrs Pembleton held up her end of that real good. Too good. The n
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