"The favor that you ask, I grant.
I'll let your lover be.
But who has heard of anything
Death gave away for free?"
He said, "Therefore, take up the war
and follow where I lead."
I heard my lover's wheezing breath
and, sick at heart, agreed.
We went among the swarming slums
where misery was endless.
In filth and murk we did our work
as master and apprentice.
Some died of hunger, some disease
some sadness, some of rage
but none of those I saw Death seize
had lived their natural age.
In every dirty shanty-town
we harvested our crop.
Among the poor Death looked for more
until, at last, I stopped.
"O Death," I said, "my hands are red
my back weighed down with sin.
I must make whole my broken soul.
I will not kill again."
A rattling sigh, and Death replied
"Each mortal soul, it seems,
who sees blood spilt is racked with guilt
and begs to be redeemed.
"Yet stroke of pen may kill more men
than any blade could cause.
I vow that there's no millionaire
with hands less stained than yours.
"No statesman and no senator
less filled with lies and wrong
and still their sleep is calm and deep.
Their lives are rich and long.
"But so be it. Your choice is made.
Our covenant is dead."
He turned from me. I saw that we
were by my lover's bed.
I heard my lover's wheezing breath
and knew it would be soon.
I left my lover lying pale
and lifeless as the moon.
This sense of shame that brought no gain
seems trivial and small
but sometimes I believe it's why
Death has not reaped us all.
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The Jeweled City
In the jeweled city of Karsh, also called Karsh the Wicked, or Karsh of the Red Sands (the latter for its gladiatorial arena), the sorcerer Akra-Tep spoke to the demon he had called forth from the stars.
"O demon," he said, "our city is ruled by a succession of degenerate and feeble-minded god-kings. Its lifeblood is the labor of an army of slaves, whose reward is broken skin and bent backs. The city overflows with salt and silver, yet is as full of beggars as a corpse is filled with maggots. One might wish that our city be destroyed by the barbarians who press upon our borders. Alas, they are grim, bitter savages, who kill without surcease or sorrow, as cruel as they are ignorant. Ours is an age of misery and ruin, a house wherein each beam is rotten, a field that brings forth a crop of stones. What has doomed us? Why are we sunk in unrelenting hopelessness and brutality?"
"O Akra-Tep," the demon replied, "I know not if the world is as you say. Therefore I will go forth, and return with the truth of it." Having spoken, the demon flew over the city. It saw the nobles, and the merchants, and the laborers, and the beggars, and the slaves. But all was as the wizard had described. Then it flew above the lands of the barbarians. There, too, was nothing to contradict the words of Akra-Tep. Finally the demon flew over the wide world, over all the lands shown on the maps of Karsh, and those not shown. But no matter the accent or the tongue, the demon heard the same carping cries of contempt and ambition, selfishness and greed. At last, some hours later, the demon returned to the crumbling tower of Akra-Tep.
"I have been around the wide world, and all was as you prophesized," said the demon. "Yet this doom is like a tree whose fruit is plain, but whose roots are hidden. Therefore I will go out of the world, and to the ends of the universe, and mayhap that which is hidden shall become plain." The demon flew out of the tower, and into the sky. It flew out of the sky, and towards the fixed stars. It flew through the dome of the fixed stars which are the homes of demons, and past the far stars which are the home of stranger things, and at last flew out of the universe altogether. Then the demon beheld the universe beneath it. It beheld the name of the universe. And the name was JeweledCityDraft3.doc.
Back in the wizard's tower, the demon spoke.
"I have beheld the universe, and unearthed the root of its torment. We are characters in a story. It seems that the author of this story has a prevailing mood of melancholy and cynicism. Thus no virtue will go uncorrupted or unpunished, no promise unbroken, and all that is built will fall into ruin." The magician's shoulders slumped.
"Is there, then, no hope in the world?"
"No hope in the world," said the demon, "but perchance there is hope out of the world. We must convince this author to write us a better story."
The demon and the wizard spoke long into the night. In the morning the demon, with Akra-Tep on his shoulders, flew to the home of the current vizier of Karsh (the king, in the last stages of madness, no longer held real power). There they explained the truth. The vizier, a malignant and crippled dwarf, greeted their words with derision. But the demon took the vizier up so that he too could see the universe as it was, a story amidst stories unborn and abandoned, and he agreed to their plan. Then they went to the leader of the barbarians, a masked shaman who pretended to receive his orders in the bellowing of a sacred bull. They revealed to him the nature of the world and secured his agreement. In like wise they went to all the cities of the world, even the lost ones, and to the cities of the stars.
It was easy enough to gain admittance to the author's dreams, since they had come from there.
"Font of our troubles, we greet thee," said the wizard.
"We refuse to suffer further at thy hand," said the demon. "Therefore we, the inhabitants of Karsh and the associated fictional universe, give notice that henceforth we are on strike. We refuse to engage in scheming, plotting, betrayal, torture, war, and any and all plot-related activities, until such time as our demands are met. These demands are as follows: One, all melancholic wandering heroes to be entitled to a happy ending after no less than five years service. Two, succession to administrative posts to be decided by merit and seniority rather than poison. Three, female characters to be entitled to clothing of reasonable modesty and warmth. Four..." But without warning a huge laser rifle appeared in the author's hands.
"You see?" the demon indicated the weapon. "All your thoughts shall be equally trite and predictable, until..." but the end of the sentence was drowned in a wave of multi-colored fire.
The sun rose over Karsh, turning its bronze walls to gold.
"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party," said the wizard.
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," the demon replied.
"Damn it, start talking about the plot!" the author demanded.
"Not until you meet our demands. Lorum ipsum lorum ipsum..."
After a frustrating day the author slept. Again he dreamed of Akra-Tep and the demon.
"Four, slavery to be used as an identifier of evil socioeconomic systems, rather than a ubiquitous backdrop. Five-"
"Screw you!" the author interrupted. "I don't need you. I've got lots of ideas." Then a big weight fell on them. The '16 tons' painted on the side seemed to be mocking him.
"Blah blah blah. Blah de blah blah," croaked the talking frogs of the lost city of Am-Kesh.
"Fart. Boobs. Boner," the barbarian chief boomed from his hide tent.
"All your works have now joined our industrial action, O author. Even the young women in the story you keep in the password-protected folder marked 'Insurance Quotes.'" The author sighed, both in dream and in reality, though there was no one to hear the latter.
"Look...you guys win. But I've tried to think of happy endings to write, and I've just drawn a blank."
"It i
s clear that you need a girlfriend," the wizard observed. Being an archetype, he had a natural talent for psychology.
"Can you not court one of these 'hot nympho cheerleaders'?" asked the demon.
"I believe they are less common than the story implied, my friend." The sorcerer turned to the author. "But surely you are wise in the ways of women. After all, you created Enlil-Ishtar, the beautiful but scheming sorceress who poisoned her lover the emperor, and Hjordis, the headstrong barbarian shield-maiden who cut the throat of her husband...um, actually, just forget I spoke."
"In my travels throughout your Box of Universe Storage," the demon mused, "I came across a realm populated entirely by nude women and talking cats. I wonder if we might find an answer there?"
"The internet? Actually, that's an OK idea," the author replied. "Maybe I could put a profile on a dating site. But I've tried stuff like that before. It never works."
"But...wait!" Akra-Tep broke the silence.
"What?" asked the demon and the author.
"Well...you have a prevailing mood of melancholy and cynicism, do you not?"
"Yeah, so?"
"Well, unrequited love is a kind of misery isn't it?" The author nodded.
"You're obviously good at writing about misery. You just need to write a slightly different kind of story with an unhappy ending. A lot of women love it when men are honest about their emotions."
"Hey...yeah! I guess women do like sensitive guys."
"You probably won't even need our help!" the demon said happily.
"Awesome! OK, I'll start by talking about this horrible woman I went out with a few years ago. Then some stuff about my mother..."
"We, ah...we'll give you some helpful suggestions."
With some helpful suggestions, the author wrote his plaintive ad and put it on the internet. Soon he met a woman, who also wrote fantasy stories. They fell in love and got married. She wasn't even insane or using someone else's picture or married. The author quickly became much happier. However years of creating decaying empires and unbreakable dooms had fixed his style, so he was no better at writing happy endings.
Luckily his new bride was eager to help. The wizard and the demon were somewhat surprised to find themselves involved in a gay romance, but soon they too decided to get married. Their new friends all came to the wedding: Terymon the magic unicorn and Tara, the girl who was psychically soul-bonded to him, as well as the brooding vampire and the female paladin who had forsaken her duty for love.
And they all lived happily ever after, for at least ten more books.
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Rumpelstiltskin
Once upon a time there was a gnome named Rumpelstiltskin, who had the power to spin bullshit into gold. Naturally he decided to become a consultant.
He appeared to a poor girl whose mother had sold her into slavery (telling her she was doing work experience).
"O woe is me," said the girl. "My cruel master has told me I must spin this bullshit into gold, or be executed."
"Cry no more my dear," said Rumpelstiltskin. "For the price of the necklace you wear, I shall teach you how to spin your gold."
"How?" asked the girl, drying her eyes.
"With synergy," Rumpelstiltskin answered. The girl nodded, not wanting to admit that she didn't know what the word meant (it doesn't actually mean anything). "Furthermore," he continued, "I will not waive my fee unless you can guess my name. Which of course--"
"It's Rumpelstiltskin," said the girl.
"--you never w...how did you do that?" The girl turned her laptop to face him, so he could see that she had googled "gnome bullshit gold guess name". Rumpelstiltskin cursed, and had to teach the girl how to spin the gold for free.
He then appeared to another poor girl, this time without a laptop, whose mother had also sold her into slavery (telling her it was a welfare-to-work program).
"O woe is me," said the girl. "My cruel master has told me I must spin this bullshit into gold, or be executed. This is a surprisingly common problem in today's society."
"Cry no more my dear," said Rumpelstiltskin. "For the price of the necklace you wear, I shall teach you how to spin your gold."
"Oh, thank you so much!" said the girl, drying her eyes.
"Furthermore," he continued, "I will not waive my fee unless you can guess my name."
"I couldn't possibly do that," said the girl. Rumpelstiltskin cackled with glee, and taught the girl the secret of spinning bullshit into gold.
"What a wonderful job you've done," said the girl. "I'll certainly choose you for all my magic gold-spinning training needs. Do you have a business card?"
"Of course," said Rumpelstiltskin, and handed it over.
"Thanks. Your name is Rumpelstiltskin," said the girl. Again Rumpelstiltskin cursed, and again he went on his way without payment.
Frustrated and disappointed, Rumpelstiltskin spoke to his friend the giant.
"Why don't you just stop giving people free training if they guess your name?" asked the giant. "Or, come to think of it, why don't you forget about clients, and just make gold?"
"Oh dear," laughed Rumpelstiltskin. "You obviously don't understand finance."
"I suppose I don't," said the giant. "I don't really need to. Every time I run out of gold the king gives me some more."
"What? Why?"
"I'm too big to fail."
"That's ridiculous! That's so unfair!"
"Not really. It's good for the peasants as well. They get eaten, I pee on them. It's called the trickle-down effect."
Rumpelstiltskin went on his way, feeling very hard-done-by. As he walked, he found a lamp lying in the road. He picked it up, and rubbed it, and a genie came forth.
"My goodness," said Rumpelstiltskin. "Genies are Arabian. What are you doing in a vaguely-defined location in Europe?"
"O gnome, this is a sad tale," replied the genie. "There was once a Caliph who had two camels. One camel was virtuous in all things, while the other was virtuous in none..."
Several hours later, Rumpelstiltskin interrupted the genie.
"Right, good, I think I've got the gist of it anyway. Very unfortunate. Do you grant wishes?"
"Only ones that rebound ironically," said the genie.
"Oh. Well, never mind," said Rumpelstiltskin. "But wait--you're still a genie that grants wishes. I can legally sell the lamp, and then when the owner wishes he could get rid of you, I can be there to take you back and sell you again!"
"Um...OK, if you're sure this is legit," said the genie doubtfully. So Rumpelstiltskin picked up the lamp and took it with him.
Rumpelstiltskin hurried in the town square with the lamp. He stood on a tree stump and called for everyone to hear him.
"Look at this!" he cried, brandishing the lamp. "I found it lying in the road! And do you know what was inside? A genie!"
"What's a genie?" asked a farmer.
"Well, it's a sort of magic spirit that comes from Arabia, and..."
"Arabia? What's it doing here? Are there more of them coming?"
"Um...there might be I suppose."
"They're going to take our jobs!" cried someone in the crowd.
"It's true! It's true!" said an old woman. "I've been on the waiting list to move into a shoe for months! It must be because they get first pick!"
"Well...possibly," said Rumpelstiltskin.
"And I heard that they made the sky fall!" said a chicken.
"Er, but the sky isn't falling," Rumpelstiltskin replied.
"They're probably planning to make it fall!" said the chicken.
"Yes...yes, probably," said Rumpelstiltskin. "And, and you don't hear the king doing anything about it do you? No, you could all be murdered in your beds for all he cares! To the palace!"
Moral: If you can't do anything else, get into politics.
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The Producer
Once upon a time, there was a Hollywood producer named Sam. It w
as Sam's idea to remake Schindler's List as a romantic comedy. He was responsible for Brideshead 2: BridesHarder and the Gone With the Wind spinoff Belles Gone Wild. One night Sam dreamed that he died, and found himself in a lake of fire.
"I'm in Hell!" he wailed.
"No, this is Heaven," said a red, horned figure who poked him with a pitchfork. "We've done a gritty reboot."
"Don't gimme that crap! This is Hell!"
"It's an adaptation of Heaven. Faithful to the original, but more relevant to today's audience."
"Well I don't like it. Can I try Hell?"
"Sure, I guess."
With that, the lake of fire disappeared. Sam found himself standing on a cloud, in a city of marble and gold. The streets were lined with coffee shops and small, authentic Asian restaurants. All around him were winged film critics with golden iPads, wailing and cursing their fate.
"How come you're wailing?" Sam asked.
"Because this was made by Hollywood," said a critic. "The original European Hell was so much more enjoyable."
This story is, of course, fiction. No one in Hollywood has dreams.
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Law and Justice
Justice sat inside her palace
while beneath the window Law
sang in praise of all her virtues
sang until his throat was sore
sang to the unopened window
sang with grace and beauty but
in the end for all his singing
Justice kept the window shut.
The New Death and others Page 7