Emperor of Gondwanaland

by Paul Di Filippo

  Through the opened iris of the saucer-shaped ship ringed with multicolored lights he was guided, finally to rest upon an examination slab, the focus of scores of mysterious instruments. Attenuated, nakedly gray-skinned, big-eyed forms emerged from the depths of the ship to cluster excitedly around their captive.

  Now the various probes were inserted and samples taken. The E.T.’s huddled together, examining holographic displays and twittering musically. Returning to their patient, they proceeded to make the Changes.

  After a time, when O.J. had been sealed up again, he was levitated off the slab, out the port, and back to his bed, all while it was still dark.

  In the morning he awoke normally and stretched vigorously. “Damn, that was a solid night’s sleep! But those dreams! Crop circles, man! Never dreamed of any crop circles before! Hell, I even think there was something in there about cattie mutilation!”

  The Limo Driver Always Rings Twice

  Paula Barbieri, widowed owner of a little juke joint halfway between LA and Vegas known as the Playboy Lounge, sauntered into the kitchen where her hired hand, a young, naive lad known as O.J. Simpson, was busy sweeping the floor. It was June, the desert was brutally hot, and Barbieri’s thin cotton dress was pasted to the wicked curves of her sweaty body like the shirt on a drowned man’s chest. She fanned herself with a sheaf of fifty-dollar bills, licked her lips, and purred, “What’s a girl to do with herself when there’s no customers in sight for miles, it’s so damn hot all you can do is lie naked in bed, and the only person with her is a handsome stud?”

  O J. stopped lashing the floor with the corn bristles and regarded his employer grimly. “Miss Barbieri, I wish you’d tone down your language and lewd ways a trifle. I can’t be responsible for my actions much longer, if you keep on torturing me this way.”

  Flinging the wad of cash aside, Barbieri hurled herself at the boy.

  With her arms draped around his neck, grinding her nubile form against him, she raved like a madwoman. “Don’t be responsible! Take me! What do I have to do to break down your honest and moral nature? Oh, damn the day I ever fell in love with an ethical man!”

  O.J. unpeeled the temptress from him. “Ma’am, you know I didn’t have no ulterior motive in taking this job. It was the only one I could find, times being so tough and all. And I need it! I’m trying to support an ex-wife back home—”

  Barbieri jumped away from her prey like a tiger in reverse, vehemently spitting out, “So! That’s it! You’re still in love with her! Admit it!”

  O.J. glanced shyly at the floor, blushed, and dug the tip of one shoe into the boards. “Well, maybe a little …”

  “But if she were out of the picture,” Barbieri continued, musing out loud, “then I’d have you for myself!”

  O.J. came alert. “Nothing better happen to that sweet little girl, or I swear—”

  “Do you know, honey,” cooed the viperish Barbieri, “the penalty for rape in this state? All I have to do is lodge a complaint, and your ass is grass!”

  O.J. fell to his knees, wailing, “Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into?”

  Barbieri grabbed her hapless victim’s head by his hair and pulled his face against her throbbing loins. “There, there, baby, let Mama handle everything—”

  The Puppetmasters

  Wandering in its aimless canine way, sniffing the familiar pavements, the Akita named Kato strayed under the low-hanging branches of a tree, little realizing what deadly creature lurked patiently above.

  In those branches hung a deadly parasite not of this world. A protoplasmic tendriled mass the size of a football, it was equipped with a cunning intelligence dedicated to the conquest of this new globe.

  Now it dropped down with a squishy plop onto the furry back of the dog. Kato yelped and bolted, but it was too late. Tendrils burrowed into its spinal cord, and thence to its brain.

  Now the dog was under complete alien control!

  Tapping the animal’s memories, the Puppetmaster guided it home.

  Standing in the secluded walkway were two figures.

  Not good, thought the Puppetmaster. The humans would never let their dog access the television, computer, or phone! And the young Puppetmaster was not yet mature enough to handle a human host.

  No, there was only one solution.

  “Hey, Nicole, shouldn’t your dog be inside?” said one of the humans.

  “Why, how did he ever get loose? Here, Kato! Come to Mama!”

  Kato began to trot. When he was within range, letting loose a savage growl, he leaped!

  At their throats!

  The Wiles of Lance Manchu

  Tied to a chair in the dim, dank basement of a sushi factory in the heart of Los Angeles’s mysterious and impenetrable-to-Occidentals Japtown, the valiant O.J. Simpson could only squirm helplessly. Beside him in a precisely identical fix—save for the added fillip of having been beaten unconscious—slumped his sidekick, Nayland Kaelin.

  “Drat!” exclaimed O.J. “If only those thugs hadn’t taken my pocket jackknife away, there might be some hope. But as things stand—”

  From behind O .J. came a voice rich in Oriental menace to complete his thoughts.

  “But as things stand, Honorably Despised O.J.-san, you and your precious friend have reached the end of the line!”

  From the crepuscular shadows now stepped that most dreaded archvillain, bane of the world’s law-enforcement systems, perpetrator of innumerable arcane crimes and plots, a figure to strike terror into the hearts of the superstitious—Lance Manchu!

  “Lance Manchu!” ejaculated O.J. “I knew it had to be you behind this kidnapping! No one else could have been so devilishly clever! Imagine luring the two of us to that hamburger joint with the anonymous tip that offered the promise of breaking up a drug-smuggling ring! What fiendish scheme have you in mind now?”

  Rubbing together his long-nailed yellow hands, Lance Manchu smiled like a cream-fed feline, contorting his pitiful facial hair along repugnant leer-lines.

  “Oh, not much, my good sir. Simply the end of your career as a thorn in my side. After I’m done with you, you’ll perhaps wish I had killed you outright!”

  “You demon! What unnatural doings are afoot?”

  “Oh, nothing too complicated or bizarre, my old enemy! I have simply sent some highly reliable assassins to visit your wife. And with them they carry your jackknife! With your fingerprints upon it! Some of her blood will find its way back to your vehicle and domicile. A certain detective on the force is also in my pay. With all these factors, I think you’ll be lucky to avoid the electric chair and merely spend the rest of your life behind bars!”

  O .J. rocked furiously back and forth in his chair, his enormous muscles straining to no avail against his bonds. Curiously, his first words were not a plea of mercy for his beloved Nicole. “Gosh darn you, Lance Manchu! You won’t succeed! No jury would believe such a circumstantial case in the face of my reputation and character!”

  Lance Manchu seemed unfazed by O.J.’s assertion. “Perhaps not. But you’ll certainly spend months and millions defending yourself. At the end, you’ll be a broken shadow of your old self. And I—I shall be unstoppable!”

  The insidious slant-eyed underworld mastermind turned to leave. “By the time you and Kaelin succeed in freeing yourselves, you’ll be a wanted man!”

  With a flourish of his black robes and a peal of chilling laughter, Lance Manchu disappeared through a secret door that closed behind him.

  Subsequent to the departure of the evil archcriminal O.J. seemed to relax, as if dropping a pose. “We’ll see who laughs last, Lance baby!” the redoubtable O.J. exclaimed to the stone wall. “Oh, and thanks for saving me the trouble of wasting the old ball-and-chain!” Then, with a smile, our hero settled back to await his freedom.

  For years, the gifted SF writer Carter Scholz was rumored to be working on a novel to be titled, simply, Science Fiction. I envisioned this unborn masterpiece as a kind of Miss Lonelyhearts of the genre, aki
n to some of Barry Malzberg’s riffs on the sad and lonely life of the SF writer. When Carter finally told me that the project was dead, I knew the title, in all its stark allusiveness, was too good to let die. When asked by Claude Lalumiere and Marty Halpern for a contribution to Witpunk, their anthology of black-humored, satirical SF, I realized I had found the perfect home for my diminutive take on Carter’s abandoned masterpiece. How I decided to attach the style and tone of one of my favorite mainstream writers, J. P. Donleavy, to this tale is less clear in memory. But I think the combination of subject matter and angle of attack work well.

  Science Fiction

  Pissing warily but with immense somatic relief in one of the ill-maintained and rather frightening rest rooms at Penn Station. And Corso Fairfield blissfully directs his golden urine into the commodious porcelain basin. Distilled from several cups of tedious Amtrak coffee. While trying not to eyeball the spectacle around him. Motivated not by anti-homosexual anxiety. Certainly not a prejudice found in Corso’s liberal soul. But rather a discretionary maneuver directed at the homeless men. Who throng the room, with its scatter of smudged, wet paper towels across the tiled floor. Washing their feet in the sink. And other even less savory parts.

  Corso finishes his own noisy voiding. And replackets his penis. Certainly nothing special, and in no wise superior to the members of the surrounding indigents. But indisputably all his own. Yet regrettably not likely to be shared with any female. Since his wife, Jenny, left him. Eloping with his exceptional car mechanic. Jack Spanner. A double loss. And hard to quantify the ratio of injury between bedroom and garage.

  But his lonely penis is now safe. Behind the sturdy zipper of his best pants. Donned this morning back home, several hundred miles northward. With a white shirt and camphor-smelling wool jacket suitable for meeting editors. And agents. And his bosom pal Malachi Stiltjack. That rich bastard. And also an ensemble entitling one to enter fine restaurants. For expense-account meals. Moreover and finally, pride-enhancing when encountering with unfeigned glee any of one’s public. Adoring public. Who should chance to recognize one from dustjacket photos. However unlikely. Granted his small and undemonstrative readership. Which, one must forever believe, is always just on the verge of growing exponentially.

  The problem of washing one’s hands. When bums barricade the sinks. Corso hesitates, shifting his soft modern satchel from hand to socially unsanctioned postmicturating hand. When one of the mendicants departs. Leaving the taps running. So that one does not even have to touch them. Saving one from contact with numerous New York-mutated germs too vile to mention.

  At the sink. Satchel secured between pincering knees. Pumping some opalescent soap the shade of cheap rose wine into a palm. Lathering up. While one’s elflock-bearded, multishirted neighbor to the right is balanced on one bare foot. The other unshod appendage embasined. Caked absolutely black with street grime. Causing Corso to flinch inwardly. But his initial reaction is mild. Compared to the emotions that flood him as the foot comes clean. For the foot is not human. By any stretch of even Corso’s trained imagination.

  Putrid water runnels down the trap. Depriving the scrubbed foot, like a fish stick denuded of crust, of its concealing coating. Revealing something that looks like an ostrich’s appendage. Hard yellow-ringed bony digits. Terminating in claws. That could disembowel one with a kick. And a spur above the ankle. Also potentially lethal.

  Falling back from the sink. Dripping soapy water on one’s best pants. Knock-knee’d as one strives valiantly to prevent the satchel from dropping to the contaminated floor. And now the bum with the avian foot taking umbrage. At such evident revulsion. So ungentlemanly expressed.

  “Hey, dude, what’s your problem?”

  Corso seeking suitable words for a polite response. But unable to link any placatory syllables together in his confusion. So as finally to mutter bluntly only, “Your foot.”

  The bum regarding his elevated foot, sunk still below Corso’s new line of sight in the fount. So recently laved of its dirt disguise. To reveal the underlying otherness. “Okay, so it ain’t pretty. But Jesus, you’d think I was some kinda alien, way you jumped.”

  Which of course is the exact dilemma. Only it is no longer. A dilemma.

  For the homeless stranger has removed his foot from its bath. And now the instrument of Corso’s disconcertment is revealed to be fully anthropomorphic. Scabbed, cracked, and horny-nailed, yes. But otherwise unremarkable.

  Corso recovers. As well as possible. “I am exceedingly sorry. Please accept this donation toward the future care and refreshment of your foot.”

  Corso tenders a five-dollar bill. Retrieved from pants pocket. The retrieval having somewhat dried at least one hand. In a manner most unbecoming to his best pants. Which now exhibit a damp stain. Much too close to the groin.

  “Gee thanks pal.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  Paper towels from the dispenser complete Corso’s ablutions. Although some slight stickiness of soap remains. Not wholly rinsed in the confusion. He turns to depart. Cannot resist one last backward glance. And sees the bum re-donning a tattered sock. Which piece of clothing features a hole strategically placed. To allow a spur to protrude.

  Corso shakes his head. He should have expected some visitation of this nature. For this is not the first time reality has played the deceitful trull with him.

  And when he’s asked again

  what his problem is

  he will lay all blame

  squarely yet perhaps unfairly

  on his profession

  of science fiction.

  Twenty years now. Two decades of writing science fiction. And before that, naturally. Two prior decades. Of reading it. Subsisting in youth on an exclusive diet. Of pulp adventures. Sophisticated extrapolations. Space operas, dystopias, and technological fantasies. Millions of words that shaped his worldview. Ineluctably. Like so many hands molding raw clay into an awkward shape. And baked him. In a kiln fueled with paraliterature. So that ever afterwards no other kind of fiction would make any real impress. On the pottery of his mind.

  Then came the adolescent dream. Forgotten circumstances of its birth. Lost in the mists of his SF-besotted youth. But quickly becoming an omnipresent urge. To write what he loved. Despite no one’s inviting him to do so. In fact, barring the gates. With shotguns cradled across the chests of the genre guardians. The hard years of apprenticeship. Hundreds of thousands of words. Laboriously composed. Read and rejected. By hardhearted editors. Who emitted the mustard gas of their dreadful intelligence. To paraphrase Ginsberg. And proving Corso Fairfield could quote. From someone other than Asimov, Bradbury, or Clarke. The ABC’s of the genre. Superseded by newer names, surely. Yet still talismanic to ignorant outsiders.

  Improvement by micro-degrees. Understanding himself better. And what made a story. Tools honed. Finally his first sale. Ecstasy soon replaced by despair. At the realization of how hard this path was going to be. Yet not relenting. Further sales. To better markets. Then a book contract. For a novel titled Cosmocopia. Which allowed him to leave the day job. Managing an independent bookstore-cum-Bavarian beer garden. Named with dire whimsy. Chapter and Wurst.

  And Jenny so supportive throughout. Married straight out of college. Ever faithful. Rejoicing in his eventual success. Even attending various conventions. Unlike most SF spouses. Who would all rather undergo tracheotomies with spoons. Than meet the odd-shaped and weirdly intelligent readers whose necessary and even lovable support underpinned the books. Not to mention encountering disgruntled and jaded peers. Deep in their cups. Looking up from below the liquor with the hapless expressions of drowning victims.

  And a future that seemed to stretch ahead fairly brightly, albeit labor-intensively. Until Corso’s recent blockage. Due to massive failure of suspension of authorial disbelief. In one’s own conceptions. And vision. And even chosen medium. And the advance for the overdue project already long spent. On septic-tank replacement, a trip to Bermuda, and a new transmiss
ion. Putting some of Corso’s unearned future royalties for The Black-Hole Gun directly into the pockets of the treacherous Jack Spanner. Who had been eagerly present to rescue Jenny when she jumped the Federation Starship Corso Fairfield. When it was beset by the mind-parasites of Dementia VII.

  The first hallucination occurred at the supermarket. A watermelon developed a face. A jolly face, but nonetheless unnerving. And began talking to Corso. Who failed to heed the import of the melon’s speech. So fixated was he on the way that parallel rows of black seeds formed the teeth in the pulpy mouth. Doubtless the melon had had much to say. Words that might have given Corso some guidance. During future outbreaks.

  Needless to say, Corso did not share this vision with Jenny. But subsequent manifestations proved less easy to conceal. Since Jenny was present. Staring in shock. As Corso attempted to open a door that wasn’t there. In the sidewalk. In front of the local multiplex theater. On a busy Saturday night. And other peculiar delusions at other times as well. Until she reached her breaking point. And fled.

  Corso felt curiously unfearful of these eruptions. Of surrealism. And dire whimsy. Granted, they were momentarily shocking at times. When he was taken by surprise. His mind elsewhere. As with the bird-foot man. But once engaged with each new derangement, for however long it persisted, Corso felt a decided sense of liberation. From duties and expectation. From his own persona. From consensus reality.

  And what more

  after all