🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part One!]

     The mess was cleaned up as Johan and Mime Man stepped back to their
places, shaking heads in utter disbelief. "Just as there is Authorial Long
Service," they continued, "There's also the long service that readers put
in _waiting_ for some of these gems of literature. To present the Neil
Gaiman 'It's A Monthly, Really!' Memorial Award, here is the man who is
single-handedly responsible for the Golden Grunion awards running months
over schedule and almost appearing in the same year as the _next_ set of
awards... the Author, Frobozz!"
     Frobozz blinked as he was suddenly pushed onto the stage by his Muse
Murphy, who grinned and winked. He sighed and walked to the podium,
accepting an envelope.
     "I'd just like to say, for the record that the Golden Grunions were
delayed for all of this time because..." He stopped, looking at the
accusing eyes of his fellow Authors. He straightened and prepared to accept
his lumps, doing the 'right' thing. "Because of a secret government sting
designed to eliminate all trace of them from the Internet at the insistence
of their UFO allies who have it in for me. And there you have it, not my
fault in the _least_. However, those who are not targeted by aliens from
Pluto include Sabre, for his long awaited _Knights in Blue Spandex_, Sabre
and Rob Furr for the breathlessly anticipated _Set Piece_, the extremely
dead Bill Paul's _Defence Squad_ issue 181 which made us suspect his mortal
state for a while, and Ben Brown's crowning _Quest for Planet Planet_ #20.
The winner is..."
     "The Grunions!"
     "Hush, Murph. And the Readers say 'Get off your duff and write' to:
_Set Piece_! And, accepting for Set Piece ... the two Authors responsible
for it! Eric 'Sabre' Burns, and Rob Furr!"
        The crowd began to applaud as Sabre lurched out of his seat and
staggered towards the stage. Frobozz stepped back, smiling gently, as Sabre
approached the podium, clutching a small piece of paper. Sabre approached
the podium, straightening his bow tie, and waited. "Um," he said, looking
around for Rob, who, coincidentally enough, was not visible. "Well," he
continued, looking uncomfortable. "I ... I ... Rob? Are you out there?"
        There came a stunning, remarkable, lack of response.
        "He said he'd be here," said Sabre.
        "Yup, we got his RSVP and everything." said Frobozz.
        "He said he would come," said Sabre, looking around.
        "He's not here."
        "Who?" said Sabre.
        "Rob. He said he would come, but he hasn't."
        "Oh."
        "Did he say he would come?"
        "Yes... I think he did."
        "What?"
        "Rob. We're waiting for... Rob."
        "He was here. He was here before."
        "Was he?"
        "Yes, don't you remember? We met him on ... on ... on ..."
        "On what?"
        "On ... Tuesday. Don't you remember?"
        "No ..."
        "Certainly you do."
        "Do I?"
        "Yes."
        "I could."
        The two looked at each other, then turned away.
        "What shall we do?" said Sabre.
        "I don't know," said Frobozz.
        They considered their options in silence for a moment.
        "We could hang ourselves," said Sabre.
        "We could... but why?"
        "Because Rob's not here."
        "Rob? Rob's not here?"
        "No, he's not. We're waiting for him."
        "Where could he be?"
        "I don't know."
        "We could hang ourselves."
        "On what?"
        "On the podium."
        "It's not tall enough."
        "It's not?"
        "No."
        "Perhaps if I stood on it, I could hang you,"
        "But then how would you hang yourself?"
        "Oh."
        "Is that him?"
        "Where?"
        "There!"
        "No... no... that's not Rob."
        "Oh."
        They looked at each other.
        "We're doomed." said Sabre.
        "Where is he?"
        Just then, a small, metallic object wandered by, with a note and a
bowler hat. It tipped the bowler hat to the two at the podium, and handed
Sabre the note, after which, as small metallic trashcan-shaped objects with
bowler hats are wont to do, it left the stage.
        "A note?" asked Frobozz.
        "Yes. A note," said Sabre.
        "Who's it from?"
        "It's from Rob."
        "What's he say?"
        "He says he's sorry, he's running a bit late, and that we should
wait for him."
        "I don't feel like waiting for him."
        "Let's go."
        "Yes. Let's go."
        The two do not move.
***
     "Just as readers put in duty, waiting for the slow and lazy Authors to
churn out yet another post for their reading pleasure," continued Mime Man
and Johan, as the slow and lazy Authors began to mine the stage with Jello
Brand Pudding Ordinance, "So they also perform valuable services for the
Authors who entertain them, by sending in feedback..."
     Dozens of snorts of derision rose from the Author's section.
     "...which is always appreciated, even if some people seem to think
that they don't get enough of it. Here's Keith Martin, long time reader and
thus raving lunatic to present the award!"
     Keith walked onto the platform, barely missing an Author-set
stage-mine as he made his way to the podium. "Heyo ladies and germs!" he
announced to a completely unappreciative audience. "You think I wrote my
own material? I'm a Reader, darn it! Anyway, the nominees for Best Reader -
besides me, of course, little joke... that I didn't write... again - are
Matthew Gerber, Jon Lennox and Jessica Ihimaera-Smiler."
     Jon had a moment to wonder why he was rising in the air before the
assembled Readers hoisted him up and tossed him bodily onto the stage,
knocking Keith for a loop. Stunned, Keith blinked and opened the envelope
as he stood.
     "I'll be... the winner _is_ Jon Lennox."
     "Knew it," said the assembled Readers, returning to their seats.
        A figure burst from the audience near Admiral Morgan's table,
rushing the stage and bowling over Keith once again. "Joooooooooooon!"
        "Erk." The note-cards containing Jon's speech went flying across
the stage as the elfin woman in paisley battle armor tackled the
increasingly bedraggled reader. "Noo...not Trea...."  He waved forlornly at
the large armored figure by the side of the stage. "Get her off me,
please...."
        A STOP Trooper came on stage, picked up the Dread Baroness, and
carried her to just off-stage, easily ignoring her continuing struggles to
approach Jon, who was busily trying to dust himself off *again* and pick up
his notecards.
        He stepped up to the microphone, and sorted through his cards
desperately. "Ahem...er...well, the first thing I would like to make
PERFECTLY clear is that I am not the 000SUPERGUY Jon Lennox. I am the
000REALLIFE Jon Lennox. We are two different people! Is that completely
clear!"
        An insistently whiny voice cried "Jooooooooon!" from off-stage.
        "*sigh*. Anyway...let's see here..." Jon picked up a note-card.
"Often, during my tumultuous and mysterious youth, I longed for...." Jon
stopped. "No, that's the wrong note-card. This is what I get for having my
office so close to Bill Paul's. Could someone fill for a few minutes?"
        Jon rapidly reordered note cards while the ADVANCE Experimental
Orchestra performed something which every tenured full professor of music
in the world would have agreed was brilliant.
        "Oooog...aiiieee...owwww..." groaned the audience.
        Jon re-approached the microphone, and waited for the audience to
regain its composure. "Sorry about that, folks. I think I'm ready now." Jon
pulled out his first note-card, and began reading.
        "First off," Jon began, "I'd just like to thank everyone who voted
for me for this award, which, I must admit, comes as almost no surprise,
given the number of comments about it I've gotten over the past year.
Though if Matt Gerber had gotten reviews out more regularly, I would have
had some competition!"
        In the audience, Matt had the courtesy to hide under the table.
        "If I had to sum up what it was, fundamentally, that lead to my
becoming Best Reader, I would have to say that the two words which best
describe it would have to be 'work avoidance.' There is nothing like
staring at a stack of seventy Artificial Intelligence homeworks which need
to be graded to make you decide that reading Superguy would really be a
*much* more pleasant thing to be doing."
        Jon grinned hopefully at the audience, which responded with
scattered chuckles. "Erm...yes. Anyway. So I'm glad the Statistics and the
Archives and the Chatserver have been so appreciated. So, thank you
everyone, and especially thank you to all the Authors who have given me so
much wonderful material to read. You're wonderful! Keep it up!"
        Jon stepped away from the microphone, and was heading back off the
stage when Trea managed to slip away from the Tornado-suited trooper by the
side of the stage, grab him, and rush back towards the audience. "Yaaaaay!"
she cried, shoving him under her table.
        "Um...hi there," Jon-000SUPERGUY said to his new guest.
        "Hi. Does she ever give up?" his counterpart replied.
        "If you yell at her she'll go away and cry, but you have to wait
until Morgan's gone off somewhere."
        "Ah. Okay then."
        The reader and the character shrugged, and together lifted up the
edge of the tablecloth to continue watching the ceremony.
     "Without Readers," continued the Mimetic Duo, "Whether they hide under
the table or not, there wouldn't be much point in Authors Authing. Between
these two solitudes come plot lines, and tonight we celebrate the very best
of them in the 'Best Plotline' Grunion. Here to present this prestigious
award is the Author Thelma, Queen of the Bobs!"
     The Author stepped up to the stage and accepted the envelope with a
flourish, first checking it for traps, exploding silly putty and naughty
noise makers. Satisfied that she was not about to be pranked, she looked up
at the audience.
     "The contenders for the Best Plotline of 1995 award are: _Hard Times_,
_Radian and Shadebeam_'s "Lay Me Low" and _Blow The House Down_. And the
winner is..."
     Thelma ripped open the envelope, to be squirted in the face with a
stream of ink. Sighing, the spattered Author reached into the envelope and
pulled out a paper.
     "And so, the Golden Grunion Award for Best Plotline or Miniseries goes
to... The Swede and Pickle, for _Blow the House Down_!"
     Amid the applause, Pickle and the Swede stood up and bowed to the
audience. They strode over to the stairs, climbing them side by side, and
walked over to the podium. "Thank you," Pickle said happily. "Thank you
very much."
     "Thanks!" shouted the Swede. "We really appreciate it!"
     The applause slowly died down, and the Swede leaned in to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it's a great honor to be recognized for a series we
put a lot of work into. We're proud of it, and we're still prouder that you
appreciated it enough to present us with this award.
     "But really, I must insist that Bill alone accept this award. My role
was incidental-"
     "Nonsense!" Pickle blurted. "Don't listen to him, folks. It was all
Gary, the whole time. I came up with ideas, but it was his words that
really made the whole thing come together."
     "Not at all. It was directly tied to your series-"
     "But the concept was born from your excellent work on _Songs of
Darkness_ a year earlier. Without that seed-"
     Gary shrugged. "Well, granted, it was my work that enabled you to
shape something out of your series like that, but your execution-"
     "Wait," Pickle said, frowning. "'Enabled me to shape something out of
my series?' I think maybe you're overestimating. I mean, without my
contribution to _Songs of Darkness_, your series would have followed a far
less interesting path."
     The Swede gaped. "*Would* it, now? How do you figure, Mr.
I-haven't-posted-in-six months-"
     "Hey hey hey! That is irrelevant! Back when we were writing that story-"
     "You mean when *I* was writing and *you* were riding my coattails-"
     "Why...why, you..." Pickle goggled for a moment, then reached out and
snatched Gary's beer. In a fraction of a second, he had quaffed it down.
"Take *that*!"
     "ARGH!" Reaching into his Cloak O' Doom, the Swede produced a large
cream pie and prepared to smash it into Pickle's face. But the moment
before he could strike, a voice wafted up from the audience.
     "Hey," demanded Rob Furr.  "Which of you was responsible for the
Ramrod/Radian romance?"
     The two Authors stared at the audience. It wasn't entirely clear that
the question had been asked in a friendly manner.
     "Er," they said in unison, pointing at each other, "he did it."
     "There's only one way to be sure," a voice snarled near Rob.
"Keel-haul 'em both!"
     "Aye!" bellowed Rob. Leaping to a table in a spectacular navel
costume, ruffled shirt open halfway down his rippling chest, he drew his
cutlass and gestured toward a dessert cart. "Man the vessel, men! All hands
to th' weapons!"
     "ARRRRRR!" roared the other Authors -- an astonishing number of them,
really -- charging toward the dessert cart and piling onto it, arming
themselves with all manner of pies, cakes, and puddings. The Artiste and
the Large Manly Man ran up the sail as Cap'n Rob strutted back and forth on
the top shelf of the cart, telescope tucked under his arm.
     "Man th' wheel, Mr. Brown!" he commanded.
     "Aye-aye, sir," replied Ben with a snappy salute, making his way to
the back of the cart. Slowly, the sails billowed as they caught the wind
from the ceiling fans, and the cart began to roll forward, tacking toward
the stage.
     "Hell(tm)," bellowed Pickle. "What do we do now?"
     "There!" the Swede shouted, pointing at another dessert cart. "Can ye
sail her?"
     "Damn straight I can!" Pickle replied. "Come on, me hearties, all
hands on deck!"
     The combined major characters of both Pickle's and the Swede's series
leapt from their tables and sprinted for the cart as the two authors swung
on a chandelier across the orchestra pit to commandeer the vessel.
     "Stop 'em, lads!" roared Rob. "Starboard desserts... fire!"
     A volley of sweets sailed across the auditorium and pelted the Authors
and their characters as they attempt to get their sail up and their cart in
motion. They cursed and flailed, but soon had the canvas out and bulging as
the ceiling fans began to propel them down the aisle toward the front row.
     "Surrender, ye curs," Cap'n Rob roared from his ship, telescope to his
left eye. "Ye're outgunned an' outnumbered! Ye can't win!"
     "Never!" bellowed Pickle.
     The Swede turned to Ramrod. "Gunner! Fire a warning shot into their bow!"
     "Mmm?" Ramrod asked, looking up from the nape of Radian's neck, which
he had been inspecting closely.
     "I said, fire a warning shot into their bow!"
     "Oh," muttered the anti-hero. "Right." Scooping up a blob of Jell-O,
Ramrod hurled it across the narrowing gap between the two great vessels,
catching Shadowy Writer in the left ear.
     "You'll regret that!" SW roared, shaking his fist.
     "Turn back, ye lubbers," Pickle hissed. "Ye can't take us. We'll sink
ye for sure!"
     "Gunners," ordered Rob calmly. "Ready for broadside."
     "All hands," the Swede barked. "Prepare to fire."
     Pickle hauled on the ropes as Ninja Taxicab Driver pulled the tiller
hard over. The dessert cart suddenly turned directly toward its foe,
catching most of the third broadside on its keel.
     "Return fire!" bellowed the Swede. A barrage of pies sailed across the
gap, splattering the crew lightly as they impacted against the cart, but
doing no real damage.
     "Prepare for boarding!" commanded Cap'n Rob, his cutlass at the ready.
     "Steady, boys," Pickle grimaced.
     With a shuddering crash, the two dessert carts sideswiped each other
and locked. Roaring Authors poured over the side onto Pickle and the
Swede's cart, unbalancing it completely and causing both carts, Authors,
Characters, desserts and all, to topple into the orchestra pit.
     There was a long silence.
     "Frob, can we break to change our clothes?" asked Robotech_Master quietly.
     "Yeah. Sure. Think lemon meringue will come out of this suit?"
***
[Continued In Part Three!]