Bimbos of the Death Sun Read Online Free
Author: Sharyn McCrumb
Tags: Fiction, General, Satire
talking to the crazed being in front of him.
The fanzine, a grainy photocopy of a computer-generated document, featured on its title page a still from
The Day the Earth Stood Still
. In front of the Washington Monument, Michael Rennie as Klaatu stood with his robot, Gort, but the photo had been altered so that Gort had the face of Ronald Reagan. The caption, serving as the fanzine title, was: “Now That’s APA-LLING!”
Omega turned to a page at random. The words “Person to Person” were hand-lettered at the top in magic marker, and the rest of the page consisted of two columns of short messages, addressed to a name or a set of initials. Still trying to make sense of the page, he read a few:
“John and Pat: Hope you’re no longer croggled by all the mundanes in ’Frisco. Remember, the Force is with you.”
“Chip Livingstone: Thanks for your letter; great as always, but writing letters is such a hassle. Why can’t you call? If bread is a problem, call me at work, and I’ll call you back on the WATS-line. It would be easier to settle things without having to rely on the Post Offal.”
“M.P.: Don’t forget that in the British election of 1859, Italy was one of the few issues that solidly united the British Left. The Workers liked Garibaldi as a popular leader with an army; the Liberals liked bigger trading partners and the principles of nationality; and the Whig Lords approved of the climate. I know Browning wrote: ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s here!’ but he was in Italyat the time—and a good thing, too, since most Aprils in Britain are solid fog and rain. No wonder they conquered India!”
“Never mind that,” said Bernard, peering over Jay’s shoulder. “Read my parody. Chip Livingstone says it’s brilliant.”
Jay Omega blinked. “Who’s Chip Livingstone?”
Bernard Buchanan looked shocked.
“You’ve never heard of Chip Livingstone?
Why he’s a super-fan! He’s a major contributor to a dozen fanzines, and he’s ranked third in the wargamers’ poll, and I’ve heard that he is a
personal friend
of Robert Silverberg!”
“Jay Omega is an author,” said Diefenbaker gently. “You can’t expect him to know fan politics.”
“What is this stuff?” asked Jay Omega, still staring at the page of non sequiturs.
“APA’s are soap boxes for people who can’t get anyone to publish them,” murmured Diefenbaker. “These are messages to individual subscribers.”
Jay Omega blinked. “Then why don’t they just write personal letters to each other?”
“Would you like to keep that copy?” Bernard persisted. “I was saving it for Walter Diefenbaker, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Perhaps he’ll turn up later,” Dief assured him, grasping Jay Omega firmly by the elbow. “We have to dash.”
When they had put several clumps of warriors and slave girls between them and Bernard Buchanan, Jay Omega looked again at the grubby print-out. “I still don’t understand what this is.”
“Think of it as a chain letter for disturbed children,” said Diefenbaker soothingly. “I doubt ifyou’ll find Bernard’s parody very entertaining, so you can either lose that copy or be prepared to dodge him for the rest of the weekend. Unless, of course, you fancy telling him the truth about his work.”
Jay Omega slid the papers into an R2-D2 trash can.
“Wise move,” nodded Diefenbaker approvingly. “Let’s hide out in the art gallery until he latches on to someone else.”
“Did he want advice about his writing?” asked Jay, still trying to make sense of it.
“Not advice, really. Praise. And then he’d have wanted the name of your agent, and your editor’s phone number, and a letter of recommendation to both.”
Diefenbaker led the way out of the hotel’s lobby, a marble-floored rotunda dotted with red plush couches and potted palms, and into a corridor which connected a cluster
The fanzine, a grainy photocopy of a computer-generated document, featured on its title page a still from
The Day the Earth Stood Still
. In front of the Washington Monument, Michael Rennie as Klaatu stood with his robot, Gort, but the photo had been altered so that Gort had the face of Ronald Reagan. The caption, serving as the fanzine title, was: “Now That’s APA-LLING!”
Omega turned to a page at random. The words “Person to Person” were hand-lettered at the top in magic marker, and the rest of the page consisted of two columns of short messages, addressed to a name or a set of initials. Still trying to make sense of the page, he read a few:
“John and Pat: Hope you’re no longer croggled by all the mundanes in ’Frisco. Remember, the Force is with you.”
“Chip Livingstone: Thanks for your letter; great as always, but writing letters is such a hassle. Why can’t you call? If bread is a problem, call me at work, and I’ll call you back on the WATS-line. It would be easier to settle things without having to rely on the Post Offal.”
“M.P.: Don’t forget that in the British election of 1859, Italy was one of the few issues that solidly united the British Left. The Workers liked Garibaldi as a popular leader with an army; the Liberals liked bigger trading partners and the principles of nationality; and the Whig Lords approved of the climate. I know Browning wrote: ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s here!’ but he was in Italyat the time—and a good thing, too, since most Aprils in Britain are solid fog and rain. No wonder they conquered India!”
“Never mind that,” said Bernard, peering over Jay’s shoulder. “Read my parody. Chip Livingstone says it’s brilliant.”
Jay Omega blinked. “Who’s Chip Livingstone?”
Bernard Buchanan looked shocked.
“You’ve never heard of Chip Livingstone?
Why he’s a super-fan! He’s a major contributor to a dozen fanzines, and he’s ranked third in the wargamers’ poll, and I’ve heard that he is a
personal friend
of Robert Silverberg!”
“Jay Omega is an author,” said Diefenbaker gently. “You can’t expect him to know fan politics.”
“What is this stuff?” asked Jay Omega, still staring at the page of non sequiturs.
“APA’s are soap boxes for people who can’t get anyone to publish them,” murmured Diefenbaker. “These are messages to individual subscribers.”
Jay Omega blinked. “Then why don’t they just write personal letters to each other?”
“Would you like to keep that copy?” Bernard persisted. “I was saving it for Walter Diefenbaker, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Perhaps he’ll turn up later,” Dief assured him, grasping Jay Omega firmly by the elbow. “We have to dash.”
When they had put several clumps of warriors and slave girls between them and Bernard Buchanan, Jay Omega looked again at the grubby print-out. “I still don’t understand what this is.”
“Think of it as a chain letter for disturbed children,” said Diefenbaker soothingly. “I doubt ifyou’ll find Bernard’s parody very entertaining, so you can either lose that copy or be prepared to dodge him for the rest of the weekend. Unless, of course, you fancy telling him the truth about his work.”
Jay Omega slid the papers into an R2-D2 trash can.
“Wise move,” nodded Diefenbaker approvingly. “Let’s hide out in the art gallery until he latches on to someone else.”
“Did he want advice about his writing?” asked Jay, still trying to make sense of it.
“Not advice, really. Praise. And then he’d have wanted the name of your agent, and your editor’s phone number, and a letter of recommendation to both.”
Diefenbaker led the way out of the hotel’s lobby, a marble-floored rotunda dotted with red plush couches and potted palms, and into a corridor which connected a cluster
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