by Declan Finn
Terry: “Yes! How dare the puppies make fun of us, even a little.”
Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits concurred, “Yes. It's not like we don't have a sense of humor, but still…”
Terry: “No dear, don't you remember? We had ours surgically removed some time ago.”
With great consideration, Patty nodded. “Oh yes, quite right dear. So sorry.”
Moshevsky nodded eagerly. “I have retaliated by calling them talentless hacks. My mindless followers call them hillbillies, even the ones from New York City!”
Terry Smith-Smythe-Smites smiled. “Good. If you're well-behaved, we'll make certain that you do nothing but edit the big name authors who do their own editing. Fail, and you'll only get to play with the mid-listers.”
Moshevsky flinched, like a vampire flashed a crucifix. “No! Not that! I'll be good, mathster.”
Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits glowered. “And if you really screw up, we'll hand you over to Agnes O'Day, just like we're doing with Kendall Adler.”
Terry nodded. “Yes, how DARE she say that our books are bad!”
Patty: “Reprehensible!”
As one, they looked to Moshevsky and said “DON'T SCREW IT UP!”
Moshevsky nods. “I have a minion who will state that women were only allowed on their ballot because the Puppies approved it!”
The Smith-Smythe-Smites exchanged a look. Terry asked, “What does that even mean?”
Their minion smiled. “Whatever we say, mathster. No one questions uth.”
Terry looked concerned. “Has anyone mentioned how we've just given a white male like Johnny Prada a $3.4 million advance on books that may not even break $2 million?”
Moshevsky shook his head vehemently. “Of courth not! He'th one of uth! No one talkth of it!”
“Good,” she said, “I would hate it if it looks like we're paying him off for his work on kicking the puppies.”
Patty laughed. “Oh yes. Would hate to make it look like a … kickback.”
The Smith-Smythe-Smites shared a polite fake laugh.
Moshevsky chuckled. “And we have Jerry Friedman chime in every once in a while and scream of Agnes O'Day!”
Terry Smith-Smythe-Smites frowned. “One day, we have to get him to speak in whole sentences again. Speaking of, any word from O'Day?”
Patty Smith-Smythe-Smites checked his emails. “Awww, she's making fun of us. I just got a press release sent out from her composite steel throne on the Geyser of Faithful Tears.”
Terry patted him on the head. “Don't worry. Igor's a better fan than all of those big bad bullies put together, isn't he?”
Moshevsky smiled. “Gunderson has a good idea. We can twitter bomb J.J. Abrams for the racist, sexist, cis-normative Hell-hole that will be Star Wars Episode VII!”
Patty laughed. “Brilliant! … Wait, how many ideas do you steal from the puppies?”
Moshevsky looked off into the distance, whistling innocently.
Terry Smith-Smythe-Smites ignored her husband. “Igor, make sure that nothing can be traced back to us, will you? We'd rather not the great and powerful owner get wind of it. He may get the wrong idea.”
Moshevsky groveled. “But I thought we can say whatever we want, precious.”
Terry arched a brow. “Wrong genre, Igor…”
“Sorry, mathster.”
“Well, we can't say anything, but you can. Because you're special cannon fodder. By the way, how goes the efforts by our supporters to SWAT the Puppies?”
“Well...”
* * * *
Sean Ryan looked at the iPad in amazement at the last whole sentence. Wow. Kovach went there? He wrote it down? I have to ask him how fast he was sued after that. Which one was written? Slander? Libel? Gotta keep up with my legal terms. Lord only knows how many people will come after me now that I'm back in the States. Wonder if I offended enough people last time out.
He looked up from the iPad and frowned at the crowds. The costumes were already out and about, and one reason why Sean hated working conventions—he couldn't exactly put up wanted posters for Barney the dinosaur if it came to that.
Then again, last time, I was nearly skewered by Zorro, so …
Sean sighed. I should be walking the hotels. There is no way this is going to be as easy as last time. He called up the schedule on his iPad. Every Puppy-related event and panel had been marked.
Unfortunately, if he counted all of those things that involved a Puppy-Punter or a Puppy, he would be doing nothing but going from panel to panel, and have to tri-locate for several of them.
Thankfully, most of these events are in the Hyatt.
Sean got up and started for the Hyatt, thanking God that he'd be there at least an hour early.
He walked from the Sheraton and made a left at the Hilton, moving up the hill for the Hyatt. He had considered staying in the hotels, enjoying the skywalk and the air conditioning, but each of those skywalks looked like a bottleneck waiting to happen. He considered having them closed for the duration, but that just seemed like all sorts of bad ideas. Considering how many tens of thousands of people were at the convention, limiting ways around would do nothing but cause additional trouble.
He went for the back of the Hyatt, and stopped dead. There was a line of people already wrapped around the block.
Sean walked up to the line, and asked who was there. He was told that there were two Canadians from a mid-60s science fiction show on stage (together for possibly the first time in years).
“And this is the line to see them?”
“Nope. They've been moved to the Marriott Marquis—the line is for watching them on remote large-screen TVs.”
Sean cringed, and pushed past the line.
Sean went for the back stairs of the Hyatt, taking them two at a time, then went into the basement, walking through the carpeted halls, heading for the addition called the “international tower,” which only synced up with the hotel's main floors at two different points—the lobby and the basement.
Sean followed the map, and wandered down, past the giant Jabba the Hutt statue and the gaggle of slave girls in golden bikinis, past several of the rooms for readings, and was about to hang a left for the escalators when he came to a dead stop.
“Oh for God's sake. You gotta be kidding me.”
Two rooms had a large sign over it that read, simply, THE ARSENAL.
Sean peeked in. It was an armament museum. It was almost every gun he'd ever heard of, with swords and explosives and Sean really, really hoped none of it was live.
He sighed, shook his head, and started out … until he saw the exhibit labeled “real nuclear bomb, sans fissionable material.”
Can I slam my head against a wall now?
“If you fire a gun in act three,” came a voice from the side, “show it on the wall in act one.”
Sean glanced over at the speaker—Matthew Kovach. Today, the writer wore a black polo shirt that read “Tox” spelled out in Greek letters, with a flaming skull over the heart. “I really hope act three is really quiet, or else we're all screwed.”
“Story of my life,” Sean answered. “I should be headed out. Aren't you on a Puppy panel next?”
Kovach nodded. “On the way. You?”
“Yup. Follow me.”
As they rode the escalators up, Sean leaned against the rail. “So, I read your post today on the minions of the Puppy Punters?”
Kovach chuckled. “Is that a question, or a statement?”
“A statement, I guess. Though the real question is, well, when did the lawsuit come in?”
“What lawsuit?”
Sean furrowed his brow. “You put down, in print, that Fred Moshevsky was behind the SWATting incidents. You realize that accusing people of a felony like SWATting is grounds for libel, or slander, or what have you. Defamation of character.”
“Libel is written,” Kovach explained. “Slander is spoken. Technically, it's both. But realistically? It's a blog. I'm not making money on it, and even though a few thousand peop
le have read it, it's been clearly read in context as a parody, a joke. No one is thinking I'm actually accusing them of SWATting the big dogs of the Puppies. Or even the average Puppy.”
Sean lifted a brow. “Yes, but still, these guys—the SMURFs?—don't seem to be the sort to forgive and forget. Petty and vindictive feel more like their speed. Suing you for harassment value should be enough, I'd think.”
Kovach shrugged. “True. But if they have money problems, they may not be able to sue me, especially if they can't win. You may not know this, but in the early sixties, it was decided that defamation cases had to show intent to defame. And how do you prove what I intended to do?”
“Point taken.” Sean stepped off the escalator, and waited a beat for Kovach to join him.
The two of them walked past the elevator—it wasn't even an elevator bank, just one elevator—and opened a door that led to a narrow hallway with medium-sized ballrooms on either side.
Sean smirked. “Yes, you're on the right, the Puppy Punters on the left.”
“Subtle.”
“Ain't I, though? It was one way for me to keep track.” As Kovach reached for the door handle, Sean said, “One more thing—Fred Moshevsky, a hunchback with a lisp? Really? Laying it on a little thick, weren't you?”
Kovach shrugged. “It was funny. After Kendall Adler went postal online, and Moshevsky stopped only a few steps short of her, I knew I had to do something on minions, and you don't get more iconic than Igor. I mean—”
Kovach stopped, and Sean heard the door behind him open. He glanced over his shoulder, and started.
There, walking into the hallway, was a bearded, greasy-haired man with a hunchback over his right shoulder. As he limped towards the left side of the hall, Sean caught a glimpse of the name tag: Fred Moshevsky.
Sean blinked. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The hunchback looked up. “Yeth? Can I help you, thir?”
Sean shook his head, speechless. Moshevsky limped into the ballroom.
When the door closed, Sean looked at Kovach. “Even had the lisp. Son of a bitch. Nicely done.”
Kovach looked after the hunchback with a frown. “Apparently, some things I really can't make up.”
“No kidding.”
* * * *
At seven feet tall, Gary Castelo was not a short person. The walking stick he used was built for his particular size—except, it wasn't a walking stick. Technically, the item he carried was a tetsubo, a weapon which resembled nothing so much as a four-foot long, studded baseball bat.
It helped during moments like walking through a crowded skywalk between the Marriott and the Hyatt hotel.
In this particular case, the tetsubo served its purpose. As Gary Castelo walked towards the Hyatt, a man in a Godzilla outfit walked towards the Marriott.
Godzilla, in this case, had a straight razor.
The slash attack was low-key, meant to eviscerate rather than stab. Godzilla simply held the razor up at waist height, and swiped at Castelo, letting the blade drag over the author's body.
However, the slash was intercepted by the tetsubo. As a result, the blade traced along the tetsubo, and slipped with just enough time for the edge to cut into Castelo's side, cutting above and just behind the hip.
Godzilla would have taken another slash at Castelo, but the crowd didn't allow for anything other than forward motion.
So the author and his attacker kept going in two different directions, without anyone else being the wiser.
* * * *
When Sean Ryan saw the tetsubo, he frowned.
Gary Castelo laughed at the security specialist's expression. “What's the matter? Against weaponry?”
“No,” Sean answered. “I'm just jealous that I can't wield it. I'm a little short for that.”
Castelo grinned. “Understood.” He reached for the door to the ballroom. He grimaced. “Huh. Odd. I don't usually get twinges in my back.”
Sean stepped around the giant author, and cursed. “You're bleeding.”
Castelo stopped, and tried to bend around so he could see. “Really? Some idiot must have stuck me with something sticking out of his costume.”
Sean reached for the tetsubo, held it steady, and saw the score on the weapon, and how it lined up neatly with the cut. “No. Someone tried to cut you open. I think with a straight razor.” He pressed a hand to Castelo's back, and opened the door to the ballroom. “Head to the back, behind the table for the panel, there's a washroom. Unless you want images of me stitching you up to be all over the Internet.”
Castelo grimaced. “Right. Because what happens at WyvernCon, stays on YouTube. You sure you can't just slap some duct tape on it?”
“Can I at least take a look at it before I practice medicine without a license?”
* * * *
“Okay, duct tape will probably work,” Sean said as he examined the wound. “It's a glorified scratch. It caught some skin and some flab, maybe some muscle, but nothing interesting.”
“Love handles are good for something,” Castelo joked.
“Have any idea where this could have happened?”
Castelo look at Sean like he had grown three heads. “You're kidding right? Have you seen the crowds out there? There are almost enough people out there to jostle me, and you think I can narrow down where a scratch happened? I even took the skywalk from the Marriott.”
Sean tapped his earwig. “This is Ryan to Overwatch.”
“Go ahead,” Wilhelmina Goldberg answered from her position in the security suite.
“I'm in the Hyatt International Tower. I'm going to need you to backtrack Gary Castelo's trip to here. He arrived a few minutes ago. I need you to look for any place where he could have been attacked with a straight razor.”
“Good God, is he okay?”
“He was basically scratched, but only because of his walking stick with an attitude problem.”
“His tetsubo?”
“Yeah, that. He came over the skywalk from the Marriott.”
“I'll take a look. But keep in mind, the skywalks have a fairly large blind spot in the middle where the walls and ceilings are basically glass. If somebody was smart, that's where they would have done it.”
“Give it a try anyway. If these people were smart, I'd probably be dead already.” He double-tapped his earwig. “This is Ryan to everyone on comms—the skywalks seem to be a problem area. We're going to need to start monitoring them. I want Boyle on the path from the Hilton, Galadren on the route to the Hyatt. Be on the lookout for a nut with a razor. We've already had one assault on Gary Castelo, so be warned.”
“Confirmed, dunedain Ryan,” Galadren answered.
“Aye, lad,” Boyle confirmed.
“Ryan out.”
Castelo scoffed, amused. “You know, there's a little bit of the barn door here.”
Sean shrugged as he slapped some duct tape on Castelo. “Yes, but we have a better learning curve than the bad guys. Which is another good reason we're still breathing.” He looked at his handiwork and smiled. “You'll live. Also, you seem very … unsurprised. Are you accustomed to being slashed at random at a con?”
Castelo gave him a sad smile. “Have you seen the title of this panel?”
“Something about fandom?”
“Is Fandom as we know it dead?” He waved Sean along. “Come inside, I'll show you.”
* * * *
Matthew Kovach stood at the middle of the table, looking around the moderate-sized ballroom that was already standing room only. The six-foot blond nodded slowly, doing a headcount. “Not bad for ten in the morning on Day One of the con. I can only guess that we'd need a larger room if this were noon on Saturday.” He cleared his throat and projected even more. “If you folks in the back of the room can't hear me, let me know, I'll speak louder.” He waved at the mics on the table to either side of him. “Yes, we have microphones, but I would hate to cause feedback on your YouTube uploads.”
He waited for the few chuckles to
settle, and continued. “I am your panel moderator, Matthew Kovach, a relative nobody in the fantasy world, but I've been considered relatively neutral on the subject of Fandom, because I'm new here. I am the author of The Pius Trilogy, a chronicle of the War of the Vatican from last year. I'm probably better known for the Death of an Alois Boy novels, starting with Summer Death Camp, and I have recently published a vampire novel called Honor At Stake, because vampires shouldn't sparkle, damn it.
“The topic of this panel is on the death of fandom. Has it died? Should it die? Or is there a way to save it? If this is not the panel you came to see, try again.
“If the rest of our panelists would introduce themselves?”
At the end of the table, Jesse James sat, elbow on the table, his short-cropped brown hair looking like he had rolled out of bed. He was dressed in a dark blue polo shirt for the Royal Manticoran Navy, and a tan utili-kilt.
Gary Castelo nudged him, and Jesse James was suddenly wide awake. “My name is Jesse James, and I write books in which I destroy the majority of the people on the planet over and over. Because, well, have you met people? My most recent planetary catastrophes include a zombie-like plague, because someone needs to highlight how stupid The Walking Dead really is. Previous ends of the planet include alien invasion but with cannibalistic Mongol hordes.”
James handed the mic over.
“I'm Gary Castelo. I don't kill the entire human race, mostly the government. My books have been considered gun porn, and have earned me the label of the Intergalactic Lord of Rage, because guns are EVVVVIIIILLLLLL. Or so I'm told. I own a gun store and train with the local cops, so you can guess my opinion. Also, if you believe the website Folder 666, I am also an Evil White Mormon – while I do live in Utah, I'm from Portugal, so insert your own conclusions here.”
He passed the mic to “Rachel Hartley, the Vile and Glamorous Fairy Princess,” she said in her Boris-and-Natasha accent. Rachel Hartley was very sturdily built. She wasn't exactly fat, but very curvy, and the kind of curvy that couldn't be dressed at the standard clothing store that only sold sizes 1 to 3. She was fairly pale for someone Portuguese, but had rich, sable hair, and deep dark eyes. Her face was a rounded heart-shape, with a dimpled chin.