by Declan Finn
And this was the beginning of what the papers would call “The Great Smirk Riot,” the largest “Live Action Role Playing” crossover in convention history.
However, before conventioneers bestowed this title—which they did barely an hour after the fisticuffs were done—Walter Janowitz, on the catwalk above, made a call.
***
Sean Ryan smiled, laughing at a bizarre anecdote from Heavens Above, involving a priest, rosary beads, and a flight of stairs, when Morrie, the Jewish Vampire, rushed inside, Dracula wig and all, exclaiming, “Sean! Sean!”
Ryan whirled, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him off the floor by an inch. “Calm down,” he ordered easily. “What is it?”
“There’s a riot in the zocalo room! With fists and bruises and everything! There isn’t any blood,” he added, a little sad, “but it hasn’t reached the weapons stands yet.”
Ryan sighed, dropped Morrie, and looked out at the audience. Thankfully, Athena Marcowitz was standing in the back. She wore a black T-shirt with white lettering across her prominent chest: “These are not the breasts you're looking for. Move along.”
Ryan looked at her, nodded, and disappeared.
***
As Dennis Boyle and Francis O’Riordan managed their way out of the brawl and into the “up” staircase, Ryan dashed down onto the floor, groaning at the mess. He patiently reached into his holster, pulled out the pike, and flicked his wrist sharply, extending it to its seven-foot length. He was about to dig into the slugfest, targeting a King Kong duking it out with a Godzilla—or was it a Gorn?—when he caught movement on his right. A six-foot pile of books looked like it surged with life, about to explode. It fell down when the core went missing as Maureen McGrail emerged, looking very, very upset, but just as sexy as ever.
An Orange Shirt rushing toward the fight caught sight of her in the black cat suit and stopped to ask, “Emma Peel or Catwoman?”
McGrail flattened her hands into blades, fighting an urge to cripple him, let out a breath, deciding to take it as a compliment. “Peel.”
He nodded his approval and leapt into the fray.
McGrail scanned the crowd, looking for her two fugitives, when she heard a voice say, “And I thought I attracted trouble.”
She smiled. “You call this trouble? More like a comedy routine.”
Ryan laughed. “Not the fight. I mean reorganizing the books.”
The Interpol cop laughed. “True. Any ideas on crowd control?”
He patted his weapon. “Seven feet of them. But it’s only temporary; I called in backup. You want to help keep this from spreading?”
The cop smiled. “Why not? Haven’t been in a brawl since last time I was in Belfast.”
“Would you like some help?”
The two of them turned to find a tall, smiling man with a little gray in his hair.
“Eric Kerikov,” Ryan said, “meet Maureen McGrail, Interpol.”
Eric nodded to her. “We’ve met, briefly.”
“And we’ll take whatever we can get,” Sean Ryan told him.
Ryan went at the crowd, tripping the first combatant from behind. His opponent, wearing a green-and-purple dinosaur suit with his face in the mouth, smiled and said, “Thanks,” and was about to return to the fight when Sean slammed the center of the pike into his face.
Stepping over the dinosaur, Ryan stabbed the pike into the floor between two opponents and spun backwards, tripping first one wizard, and soon another.
McGrail grabbed a wizard’s shoulders and pulled back, throwing him across the floor. Without looking, she stabbed an elbow into the solar plexus of an Agent Smith, rolled over his back, cutting the legs out from under a Neo, and ramming her forehead into the stomach of a Morpheus. She whipped the bowler hat off a Mr. Steed and pulled it over his face so she could steal his umbrella, using the hook on his ankle and the tip to poke into someone’s stomach, which convinced him to yield, right before she flipped the umbrella around and whacked another on the top of his head before throwing the umbrella away and sweeping the legs out from under a Jedi.
Eric smiled, ramming through people, one after another, until he unfortunately swung a roundhouse punch into a set of chain mail. He looked up at one of the medieval knights and grinned sheepishly, ducking out of the way of his mailed fist. He bounded back up, and rammed his skull against the other’s.
High above the fray, on the catwalk, Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin peered down upon the fray and smiled. Yes, this man with the pike was a true Ranger.
For some reason, this feels familiar.
The blond laughed, backed up, and charged forward, stepping up onto the metal handrail and pushing off, throwing himself into the air, and into the middle of the crowd some fifteen feet away, collapsing the core of the fray like a wounded balloon in the Thanksgiving parade.
He rose to his feet upon the bodies of a few armor-plated stormtroopers, then kicked out into the rest of the raucous, spinning with roundhouse kicks and punches, swirling in one, constant motion. Luckily for most of them, they were wearing Styrofoam; otherwise, he would have crippled half of them.
He fought his way forward until he came face-to-face with Sean Ryan himself.
Ryan blinked and looked at the latest oddball. He wasn’t attacking, so that was good. “Thanks for the help.”
“You are Mira’s Ranger?”
Ryan smiled. “You could say that…I think.”
He grabbed his biceps, and lowered himself to one knee. “I am honored to fight beside you.” He stood, turned, and launched himself back into the fray.
At that point, reinforcements arrived, and everyone dropped at the sound of prolonged gunfire, going on for at least a minute, giving Ryan time to stand away from the crowd, pulled the plastic SHP shell off of the Firestar handgun, and level it at the crowd. When people began to look up, he said, “No, this is not a prop. I want everyone here, now, to quietly stand up, go to their separate corners, and when you’re all ready to play nice like good little children, you can all help the book vendor over here organize his stock. Got that?”
After a minute, everyone rose, sore and annoyed, and drifted apart; Sean put his weapon away and gave a thumbs-up to Mitchell Scholl on the catwalk. The special effects man cleaned up his squibs and walked away.
Sean Ryan turned, looking down the barrel of a gun. He looked up into the blue eyes of Detective McGauren of the New York City Police Department. The blonde looked annoyed.
“What the hell was that?” she asked.
“Special effects to put down a riot. Feel free to stay and supervise the cleanup. I’m sure my assistants will help.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to protect a client, and she’s going to be on the move right about now.”
***
Ryan ran at a breakneck pace out of the sports center, across the great lawn, through the physics building, around Harrington Hall, past the arts building, the University Center, the library, the math center, around Psychology A, Psychology B, and a hundred yards into the Javits Center, down the hall, and into Javits 103, where someone was showing a Farout marathon. He turned and ran the other way, hoping to find a staff member.
“Hi, I lost my actress” he said to the first Orange Shirt he saw. “I’m looking for Mira Nikolic.”
“Oh, she’s back in the Student Union. The schedule was printed skewed, so the room numbers are below where they’re supposed to be, and—”
Ryan was already out of the Javits Center; he hung a left around Psychology B, ran past Psychology A, the math center, the arts, the University Center, and through the library to get to the Student Union, running up three flights to get to the supposed panel on what made G5 great. He arrived only to see a sign telling him “the actors you are looking for are not here, move along…to Physics 301”.
Finally, Ryan flew down the stairs, out the door, past the library, the sports center and the great lawn, to charge into the physics building and up three more flights of stairs, only to find
out the hour-long panel was already over, and gee, didn’t you know they were all going to head back to the hotel at nine because of the banquet tonight and where did he go, he really didn’t have to rush away like that, it was very rude.
Finally, once more, he leapt over entire flights of stairs to get outside to beat the rush to get to the shuttle to get to the hotel in time to protect Mira from something that might happen and this is the terrorist who got shot with the bullet that came from the gun that Sean owned…
Too many parody websites.
The bodyguard flipped over the construction between him and the shuttle, which was only starting to arrive, taking on very few passengers, and wouldn’t you know it they arrived just late enough for Sean to catch up with Mira, and wait, that isn’t Mira, where the F—ing hell did everyone go?
Ryan leapt in front of the shuttle just before it was about to pull away from the curb, and stayed there until it stopped.
The doors opened and he leapt inside. “Did any other shuttles come?”
“About two minutes ago, why?”
“You have a radio? I need you to call that shuttle! Ask them if they have Mira Nikolic. They do? Get out of that seat, I’ll drive!”
After Sean Ryan broke half the traffic laws, he leapt out, thanked the driver, and whirled toward the shuttle dock, waiting for Mira to arrive.
Two minutes later, there was Mira, coming out of the shuttle, with Athena. He calmly stepped up to Mira, hugged her off her feet and placed her on the ground.
“Long story,” was all he had to say.
***
Ryan and Mira went into the hotel’s Grand Ballroom, Goran already present, baby in tow. He looked amazingly spiffy for someone who had only been plastered six hours ago; Sean restrained himself from saying as much.
“Having a good time?” Goran asked him.
“Sure, barrel of laughs,” Ryan answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morrie, the vampire, walking alongside a 6’2” blond Valkyrie; given the fact that Morrie was 5’4”, any attempt he made putting his arm around her waist really resulted in his hand on her butt, his head only coming up to her breasts. Sean had the image of a Valkyrie riding a Shetland pony, and dismissed that nightmare image immediately; what had Morrie told him about the wig? “A great way to get shiksas.”
So, if Morrie is here, does that make this the dance of the vampires?
There was, also, someone who had come to the front door, saying, “Science Fiction? I thought SF stood for Special Forces.”
He looked at the banquet tables, and noted something slightly stupid about them; unlike real banquets, where there were carafes of water and/or miscellaneous drinks already at the tables, awaiting the arrival of each guest, the pitchers were served only when the table was filled, and after the bread was put on the tables.
Can you tell we’re late? Sean thought.
Sean led Mira and Goran directly toward the table as far away from the kitchen as he could get. The waiters still ignored them, primarily because they hadn’t been properly seated, and would continue to ignore them until they began to fill in the tables around them—Ryan wouldn’t let them seat anyone else at their table, claiming that “We have guests coming with us”.
Fine with me, fellas. I don’t have to eat. I live in LA. I can live on rabbit food.
The master of ceremonies was a nonworking science fiction actor who had done so many charities and telethons, he was starting to sound like Jerry Lewis on Labor Day before said man retired. He was brought into the convention because they need a name. Like Harper Lee, he had written one book, but at least Lee had the style to quit at the top of her game. He was essentially to SF what the Goodyear blimp was to the Superbowl: hung around and did nothing but get his photo taken. He was bright, cheerful, perky, and as the night drew on, he became only more so, increasingly sweet to the point of tooth erosion and diabetes, encouraging people to dance if they weren’t already, and if there was one, just one more tooth in his smile, Sean was going to kill him in the most imaginative way…
The first problem of the evening arose sometime between the appetizer and the entrée. Ryan noticed it after only the fourth person left for the bathroom, mainly because he had extensively watched the crew on his father’s sets, including the continuity people; otherwise, it would have taken longer to see the pattern. He noted that all of the people leaving were of small or slender build, and had been served nearest the door to the kitchen, who, he had earlier observed, were being served first.
With the paranoia of a life long New Yorker, he thought, Item one, the food is toxic. Either food poisoning, or simple poisoning—scratch that, if it were poison, they’d be dropping like flies, not running to the bathroom.
His eyes flew from table to table, comparing items on each. Mira was a little slip of a thing compared to the first people fleeing to the restrooms. Is it the same appetizer effecting them? Doesn't seem to be. Doesn’t seem to be effecting certain skinny people, but all of them. Some of the meatier women are starting to wilt, and so are some of the larger men, so it was something they’ve all eaten, but something we haven’t touched yet at this table. Served at every table so far—guaranteed the same—is bread, salads, pitchers of water, wine…wait a moment.
Because Ryan’s little gestures thoroughly annoyed the waiters, the only beverages at his table was water and a carafe of diet Coke he had to threaten the waiters to bring. Since he didn’t drink on the job, he hadn’t thought to browbeat the waiters into bringing any alcohol.
Ryan rose from the table, slowly, trying not to alarm the other two sitting. “I’ve got to make a little stop. Try not to eat anything until I get back, okay? I’d like to check something, and, well, better safe than…not.”
Sounds friendlier than “better safe than dead.”
Ryan flowed through the tables, past the waiters and into the kitchen, looking very out of place in his Ranger garb. “Everyone, stop what you’re doing!”
After it was obvious that no one paid attention, he grimaced and kicked a rack of pans off the wall. Motion ceased.
“Listen up! We’ve got a slight problem, and if you want to keep your kitchen license, you’ll cease and desist all activity, now!”
Confident of being obeyed, he strode to the nearest garbage can and upended it onto the floor. After spreading out the contents with a foot, he grimaced and said, “Bring me another one; we’ll isolate the spillage here so you can continue soon enough.”
One particularly large chef with an equally-large knife gave him a nasty look; Ryan leveled him with an electric glare strong enough to light up Paris. “I once took down a Sumo wrestler who thought he was an extra in The Man With the Golden Gun, so you’re not a problem for me, just an annoyance, are we clear, sir?”
“Sir”; nice touch. You’ve never even seen a Sumo outside of The Man With the Golden Gun; do you even know how many of these stories you make up?
No, but it’s not as though I don’t expect it.
At the third trashcan, Ryan beamed. Three bottles of disulfiram, but its brand name was Antabuse, a drug used on alcoholics to “dissuade” them from drinking; a little antabuse before the binge, and the last bottle had the patient insert still attached
Ryan grimaced as he speed-read the PPI, skipping the organic molecule’s structure and going straight to adverse reactions
Disulfiram with small amounts of alcohol resulted in flushing, throbbing in head and neck, headaches, respiratory problems, nausea, vomiting, sweating, thirst, chest pain, palpitations, hyperventilation, tachycardia, hypotension, syncope, marked uneasiness, weakness, vertigo, blurred vision, and confusion; and those were the mild reactions. The severe reactions were respiratory depression, cardiovascular collapse, arrhythmias, myocardial infarction, acute congestive heart failure, unconsciousness, convulsions, and death.
The intensity of the reaction varied with each individual, generally proportionate to the amount of drug and alcohol ingested; it was possible the slighter individu
als were effected sooner because their body mass absorbed it least…or they made up the higher percentage of lushes in the room… Or, at least, that’s what it said on the bottle.
God, this stuff is nasty…Now is this a practical joke or a simple “up yours” from your friendly neighborhood assassin? “Where was this last garbage can located?”
They pointed to an empty cutting board covered with sliced lettuce leaves. The salads were spiked with this stuff, then mixed with the wine; why not just slip it in the wine? If this were assassins, they'd show off with a binary poison, if not…who knows?
“Brilliant, fellas,” he grumbled. “Do you know how this could’ve gotten in here? Anyone!” he snapped.
The waiter looked terrified as Ryan glared around the kitchen. “Who knows?” the head chef retorted. “We had a marvelous meal prepared this evening, and then that…that…creature! Eielson! He came in here and he shouted ‘immigrazione’! Half of our cooks ran away!”
“Son of a…” I’m going to nail him myself!
Ryan tossed a bottle at a waiter before running back out into the ballroom. He dashed up to the podium, pushing aside “Mr. Perky” and taking the microphone.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and other, a brief announcement. My name is Sean Ryan. If you’ve had problems with the sharp objects on your costumes, you probably recognize my name; but if you don’t, I am head of convention security. Before you panic, I want to say there’s nothing seriously wrong, but there has been a little practical joke: someone decided to lace the salads with a substance known as antabuse, a nasty little drug that doesn’t react well to alcohol. So if you start feeling a little ill soon, don’t worry. I’ve been reassured that it’s not in any way harmful, outside of a little physical illness that will pass in time. If any of you are especially heavy drinkers and the effects have not yet worn off after the first hour, please contact the house Physician's Assistant. As for the rest of you, until this little matter has been cleared up, I’d advise staying away from alcohol.” Groans from the audience, to which he added, “…Or the salad, your choice. Thank you, I hope you can all enjoy your night.”