"Sacrifice?" Bitsy, I can't even bring myself to squish a goddamn cockroach. On Mars I lopped some heads off these big green men, but that was purely self-defense. Cutting out hearts on an altar is something else. I didn't know what a morthak was, but whatever it was, I didn't think I could kill it.
"The morthak must die," Yag-Nash goes, "or you will take its place." Well, on second thought, maybe this prehistoric world could get along without a crummy morthak one way or the other.
Yag-Nash gave me the glitzy crown and I put it on, then he unlocked me and tossed me over his shoulder and we made our way down the cliff. rd gotten pretty used to it by now, you know? I didn't have to close my eyes anymore. I even kept up a pleasant stream of chatter. I mean, I didn't have all that many "people" to talk to. Not that Yag-Nash was the most scintillating conversationalist. His idea of a snappy comeback was "Gruh!"
I had another surprise waiting for me when we got to my altar. A "morthak" turned out to be a good-looking boy with a fearless smile to die for. I mean it, Bitsy. This guy made Prince Van look like Ernest Borgnine or something. He wasn't blond and he didn't have blue eyes, but you can't have everything. He was wearing this navy blue jumpsuit, so I knew he probably came from up on the surface too. In all the time I'd been in the center of the Earth, I hadn't seen anybody else like me. A person, you how? So I stood beside the altar where they had this gorgeous specimen tied down, and I go, "Where did you go to school?"
He looked at me all surprised. "Nathanael West High School in New York," he goes.
I was a little disappointed. I go, "Oh, like a public school kid." Well, everybody can't go to Andover or Exeter or Lawrenceville. I mean, there are probably rich and powerful corporation executives who started out in some public school system and showed a lot of potential and made their way on smarts and ambition. But, see, I wasn't interested in a guy with just promise. I was looking for somebody who had more to fall back on than a cute little tush.
"You know the world I come from?" he goes.
I had to laugh. "I come from the world you come from," I go. "If I was still there and hadn't had all these adventures and everything, I'd be a senior at the Greenberg School."
He goes, "I have a sort of friend whose sister goes to the Greenberg School."
"Oh, really?" I go. "What's her name?"
"Jennifer Freeman. She's a sophomore."
"Oh, well," I go, drawing myself up kind of haughtily, "we don't hang out with sophomores."
"My name is Rod Marquand," he goes. "I'm pleased to meet you." "I'm—"
I was rudely interrupted by Yag-Nash. He pushed a golden knife in my hands and growled, "Kill him."
"What?" I go. "Him?"
"Kill."
"Hey, look. I thought he was going to be this morthak or something. I can't kill a live human being."
"Kill him or die yourself."
This Rod guy goes, "Go ahead, then, young lady. If that's the situation, please, save yourself. I'll die happily, knowing that you're safe." What a sweet, brave boy. If only he didn't go to public school.
"I can't do that," I go.
Yag-Nash was furious. "Take them both back to the cave!" And the tribe grabbed us and hauled us up to the main cave. I was shackled and Rod was tied up hand and foot. Just before he left, Yag-Nash turned to me and goes, "You'll die a horrible death, Mo-reen. You will fill the belly of Yag-Nash!" And he laughed, sort of. It was awful.
When we were alone, Rod looked at me and smiled. "Thanks for not killing me," he goes.
"You're very welcome, I'm sure. Look where it got me."
"Don't be alarmed, Miss. I'll get us out of here. I came here in an atomic subterrine. We'll escape in that."
"What is it?" I go. It sounded like a tiny soup bowl that ran on atomic power.
"It's a submarine that moves through solid rock instead of water. I built it myself. I'm a kind of inventor," he goes.
"Great, but we're stuck up here a million feet off the goddamn ground."
"Don't worry about that, either. When I'm not inventing or going to school, I also fight crime in the guise of a costumed superhero. I can't tell you my secret identity. I'm sorry."
"That's okay," I go. I mean, Bitsy, this kid had promise the way most guys have obnoxious ideas, if you get what I mean.
"Close your eyes," he goes. I did. I heard this popping sound, and when I opened my eyes again, his ropes were lying on the floor of the cave and he was gone.
A little while later I heard this humming noise, and a periscope poked up through the floor about twenty feet away. It turned around a little and pointed at me for a second. Then the top part of the submar—I mean, subterrine—surfaced. Rod opened the hatch and climbed out. "How do you like her?" he goes. He was real proud of it, you could tell.
"She's terrific—get me the hell out of here!"
"Sure." He came over and snapped my shackle like it was a stolen credit card.
"I'd kind of like to take my crown with me," I go. I really didn't want to go without it. I mean, I have my old age to plan for.
"We can't take the chance. We'll have to leave it behind." Why is it that heroes are so goddamn practical? I just knew he was going to say that. Anyway, there was enough gold and emeralds in what I was wearing to support me for a while. I shrugged. I can be realistic when I want. So he helped me up the ladder and into this cramped ship of his. He closed the hatch and started punching buttons and turning wheels. There was an incredible rocking motion like the A train between Fifty-ninth Street and 125th Street. I thought I was going to tossez mes doughnuts right there or something. "We're making good speed," Rod goes.
"Wonderful." I felt sick as the proverbial dog.
Well, Bitsy, it was a rough ride home. There weren't any windows because there was only rock going by. I mean, I suppose Rod's invention was brilliant and amazing and all, but it will be a long time before the guy books cruises or anything. The Love Boat it ain't—in more ways than one. I'll have to tell you all about this Rod Marquand sometime. He was dedicated, Bitsy. I mean dedicated. To science and fighting crime. He figured we were almost home, see, and I go, "Why don't we have lunch or something?" He turned me down, sweeties, do you believe that? His uncle, the physicist, would be waiting for a report, and besides, there was a whole rash of unsolved crimes recently in New York, and he owed it to his parents to hurry right home, and by then I told him to just forget it.
"Where are we now?"
"We're just passing through the lowest level of Penn Station," he goes. "You can let me out here," I go. I was in a huff Look, not even this boy genius can turn down Mo-reen, She-God of the Muck People.
"But—"
"Let me out!" I go, kind of brandishing Old Betsy. I was frustrated that I never did get my licks in against Yag-Nash, and I was just dying to start a fight.
Rod stopped the machine and opened the hatch. I squeezed on by him and went up the ladder and looked around. We were now on the second level, not far from the escalator that takes you up to Thirty-Fourth Street. I looked down at Rod and I go, "You better sail on out of here, honey, people are gawking." Then I climbed down the outside of the ladder. The hatch clanged behind me, and the subterrine dived into the floor. I walked toward the escalator, swishing my sword in little angry circles. People got out of my way, fast.
I had to walk to the diamond district, but it wasn't that far. You should have seen the looks I got from the old guys in the place I went into! I mean, wearing this golden bra and G-string and slashing around with Old Betsy and all. I wonder what I looked like to them. I pried a little emerald out of my raiment and sold it. They gave me a big song and dance about how illegal it all was, but I could see they wanted to get their greedy hands on the emerald and all the rest of it. They offered me a hundred bucks—like I was from out of town, right? I laughed. It was like dickering with Pammy, my stepmother. I ended up getting my price for it, but only by promising that I wouldn't let anyone else buy any of the other jewels. The emeralds are rare and perfect or
something. I was going to pay you back the money I owed you out of that cash—see, I didn't forget—but when you went on your vacation instead of seeing me, I figured, "The hell with her." Instead, you'll find a nice-size emerald on your coffee table, and let you go through all the red tape trying to explain where you got it and everything. If you ever do, pay your mother back for me.
The tape's about finished, Bitsy. I'll see you when you get back from your trip. I hope you're sunburned as hell.
* * * * *
WELL, SHE WASN'T THERE when I got back. There were only the tape cassette, the emerald, and one god-awful mess in the kitchen. You'd have thought the Marines had camped out there on their way to the Halls of Montezuma or something. I can't imagine why Muffy—I mean, Maureen—didn't wait for me. She must have this itch for adventure now, I guess, and went whooshing off to some new aggravation somewhere, sometime.
Speaking of aggravation, I got more than she bargained for with that goddamn emerald. I mean, I almost did time in jail on account of it. I'm still not square with the IRS or anybody. I really want to talk to Maureen about that, believe me. Sword or no sword, she's going to walk out of here with at least a bloody nose.
With any kind of luck, I'll hear from her soon. It will be worth having to sit through her whole stupid recitation to paste her one in the face. I can't wait.
* * *
Robert Adams, author of the popular Horseclans series, was a good friend and a fan of Muffy's adventures. He reprinted the two Burroughs pastiches in anthologies he edited. He also asked me to write a parody of the Horseclans novels for a third anthology, Friends of the Horseclans. I asked him if he really wanted me to mock his self-made universe, and he said that he couldn't wait to see what I came up with. So I said I'd be glad to give it a try. I took careful notes on several of his books, noting characters, history, geography, vocabulary, and so forth. The result follows.
P.S.: Bob liked it a lot
* * *
Maureen Birnbaum
on the Art of War
by Betsy Spiegelman
(as told to George Alec Effinger)
I HAD NEVER BEEN SO deliriously, deliciously giddy in my life. I had only been married for three hours, and already everything was like happening exactly as I had hoped and dreamed since childhood. My whole family and all my friends agreed that Josh was a real catch. He was an M.D., a newly-graduated family practitioner. As a wedding present, his Uncle Mort Fein announced that he was retiring and like turning his long-established Queens practice over to my husband. My legs turned weak for yet another time; Uncle Mort's patients were all well-to-do and terribly loyal, and the gift also saved Josh and me a considerable amount of money that we assumed we'd have to borrow to get Josh's office set up, not to mention the long years it would otherwise have taken to develop a good practice from scratch. It was as if Uncle Mort had, with one stroke, like fully insured our futures. On top of that, Mums shook loose a considerable sum from her "holdings," as she called them. All the rest of the family and Josh's family followed suit. I felt a little guilty about being exhilarated by all those dollar signs, but Josh said it was perfectly normal to be dazzled by such a windfall. He said that he was, too.
Right after the reception we caught a plane to our honeymoon vacation in Bermuda. Josh's younger sister is like a travel agent; she made all the arrangements and used her pull to get us a terrific discount, even though it was the height of the season. I don't have a single memory of the flight itself We flew first class, of course; and as soon as the flight attendants learned we were newlyweds, they started hitting us with champagne, even before the plane pulled away from the terminal building. The bubbly wine and the pressure in the cabin combined to relax me so much that my next conscious memory is of Josh holding me in his arms and trying to unlock the door to our honeymoon suite. Like I don't even recall checking in, you know? "Josh, honey," I go, showing my down-to-earth, level-headed side right at the beginning of our new partnership, "put me down, unlock the door, open it, and then, like, pick me up again."
"You're brilliant and beautiful, Betsy." Josh can never bring himself to use my old high school and college nickname.
I kissed him. Then, after he'd opened the door and carried me across the threshold, he put me gently down on the gigantic bed. He gave me a comic leer and I giggled. Then we looked at each other. Neither of us could think of anything to say or do. Like, what came next?
"Well," goes my darling, "how does it feel to be Mrs. Dr. Josh Fein, King of Queens with eyes cast rapaciously toward Manhattan?"
"Cast your eyes rapaciously toward me and nobody or nothing else," I go. I took a few deep breaths and let myself calm down. That's when I noticed how absolutely beautiful our suite was, and the view through the picture windows of the gardens and the sea beyond. "Josh," I go, "let me go into the bathroom and put on something more romantic. I packed some special things and I've like planned this moment ever since eighth grade."
He smiled at me. "All right," he goes. I'll open the champagne and turn down the bed." He wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. I giggled again. Josh just cracks me up.
I grabbed one of my suitcases and went into the bathroom. I had a little trouble with my dress, and I struggled with it for a moment. Then I heard a voice go, "You need some help with that?" It hadn't been Josh's voice. I whirled around.
Damn it all to hell if it wasn't Muffy—I mean, Maureen—Birnbaum. I could see by her outfit that she'd just come back from one of her nauseating exploits. I remembered the promise I'd made myself when she'd left a huge emerald to reimburse me for an old debt. She thought she was playing a joke on me with that gem, but it got me into no end of trouble. I declared that the next time I saw the girl, I was like going to break her face for her.
Well, I didn't. Instead, I went straight for her pure and innocent eyes.
Maureen reacted more quickly than you'd think such a full-figured girl could. Her fist came up in this long, clean arc and detonated on the point of my chin. I thought I heard a little grinding of bone. The world went black and I was falling over backward, watching bright red points of light glimmering like fireflies in the gloom. I heard Maureen from a long distance away. "Bitsy, hell, Bitsy! Oh, wow, I didn't mean to hit you. Not so hard, I mean. I got you, you'll be all right. You'll have maybe just a bad bruise, that's all. Come on. Like, shake it off!" She threw cold water on me, for which I could have killed her. I found that I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Maureen was regarding me anxiously from her perch on the beige chenille-covered toilet lid.
"Goddamn, Muffy, " I go, gingerly feeling my jaw, "I'm on my honeymoon, and now I'll probably have to like take all my meals through a straw." I couldn't imagine how we ever could have been friends.
"It'll be worth it, to hear the story I've got this time," she goes. I really wanted to hand her head to her, but I was still stunned.
"You die, bitch," was all I could hoarsely murmur.
"Calm down, Bitsy," she goes. "You want to like change outfits? Get out of that geeky schmatte and I'll find your little bit of nothing in here."
I did as she said, wobbling my jaw every now and then, feeling my head pound and throb as I wriggled out of my $380 Neiman-Marcus "schmatte."
"This is like what you wanted?" goes Maureen, extending the drop-dead lavender gauzy chemise and panty set. "Victoria's Secret? I don't know them, but I do know their secret: they know you don't have any like boobs."
My right hand clenched slowly into a hard fist.
Maureen just laughed. "Hey, ease up, Bitsy. You always zinged me about my fat ass, I always zinged you about being titless."
"Yeah," I muttered. That's when I first really noticed what she was wearing: leather pants tucked into high boots, very butch; a sleeveless quilted cotton shirt covered with chain mail, I mean, for God's sake; and some kind of crested helmet pushed back on her head. She wore her old sword—the one she'd picked up on Mars—on one hip. On the other hip she had a new sword, bigger, and like a da
gger. She had a spear and a large sack of some rough, filthy material. She looked like a combination of Santa Claus and Joan of Arc. Can you believe it? Sometimes I doubt she really has these adventures. I think she like goes away for a year or more and makes up some ridiculous Mardi Gras outfit and comes back just to see how much she can annoy me. She's either a for-sure scientific enigma or she's really like psycho, you know? "For Christ's sake, Muffy, where have you been?"
She grinned at me. She never grinned before; she'd smile or she'd laugh, but she never grinned. She was losing that fine edge the Greenberg School had labored so long and so futilely to apply to her. "Run the shower so Mr. Honeybunch doesn't wonder what's going on in here."
I reached behind myself and turned on the taps full blast.
"Good," she goes. "Now, wait until you hear this story. And if you call me Muffy again, I'll brain you."
* * * * *
I WAS READY, believe me, I was more than ready to hang up my I sword; but, like, two things occurred to me. The first was that there wouldn't be anybody to look out for the wretched and downtrodden on all these planets without me, and the second was that every time I have an adventure I meet a real cute boy. That was better odds than I used to get at the Greenberg School. So I didn't retire 01' Betsy after all. I decided to go for one last shot at finding Mars and Prince Van. I mean, like, it wasn't his fault that I got lost, was it? Let's be fair about this, now.
I put together another full-on collection of wearables, crammed into two Oh-They're-Just-Something-I-Stumbled-Over bags that leaped at my throat from a page in the Bean catalog. I decided on the college sophomore look. You know: too old to be a total squid, but young enough so that the Mandatory Party Rule is still in effect. I had on a beige shirtdress with blue pins, a 'shmere sweater tied around my neck, and a pair of raggedy old Pumas on my feet. Come nightfall, I looked into the sky and felt a tug toward the God of War. I barely had to whoosh myself; like it was almost whooshed for me. The going was getting easier every time I tried it.
Maureen Birnbaum, Barbarian Swordperson Page 4