AA: Reboot That
swede at garywolson.com
swede at garywolson.com
Wed Sep 1 04:47:37 PDT 2010
Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.,
in association with
Lutefisk Wagon Press
presents
REBOOT THAT
another Author's Altiverse happening-thingie
writ by
Gary W. Olson,
the Swede,
who has a new e-mail address,
and who really ought to be writing something else
---~~~___|||___~~~---
The room was dark and still. The Swede tensed, knowing that his
enemies were all around. Only their occasional scuffles, belches, and
intermittent snores gave their presences away. He raised his laser
pistol. His quarry was near.
"Avaunt!" he exclaimed, as he leapt over the dark paper-mache
block and fired his laser. The lawn chair failed to react to this
maneuver, which did not deter the Swede from repeatedly firing at it.
As it was only a simple 'laser tag'-style laser gun, it did no damage
to the lawn chair. As the lawn chair had no light-up targets on it,
there seemed to not be an even minimal purpose to the attack. The
Swede, nevertheless, bellowed his victory...
"Yay--"
...and was immediately zapped by lasers fired by the other players
in the game. All of his targets lit up at once, causing the Swede to
cut short his victory dance.
"Hey," he said.
"Huzzah!" yelled Mechaman, who then dashed off to ambush
Dvandroid. Amigoid, whose targets were also lit up (indicating he was
out of the game), regarded the lawn chair and the Swede with some
puzzlement.
"I think you got it," Amigoid finally (and justly) concluded.
"I am never going to get the hang of this game," said the Swede.
"I ought to just edit up a giant 16-ton weight to crush this thing."
"Er, wait--"
But the Swede had already summoned up his mighty Authorial power
of Edit. In a flash, a giant lobster in a thong appeared and landed
on the lawn chair. The Swede regarded this development with
consternation.
"Um," he said. "What?"
"We're unable to use Edit effectively in the shared areas of
Mitchell Secundus, the Author's Planet," said Amigoid. He fished some
3x5" cards out of his pants pocket and looked them over. Behind him,
a sign reading 'Exposition in Progress' lit up. "Ever since the
reboot of the Author's Altiverse," he flatly read, "the Edit has been
wonky here. Not until we find the physical hardware of the
Omniserver, hidden somewhere on this world, will we be able to fix
things so that we can use Edit properly in most of altiverse
223DON'TTRYITAUTHORSONLY." He flipped to the next card.
"Fortunately, Edit still works properly in our personal domains, and
does not inhibit the writing and posting of Superguy and Sfstory
episodes." He flipped to the next card. "Cornflakes, salsa,
miniature paint, milk, bongos." He frowned. "Salsa?" he asked.
"Salsa!" Brism Wanor cried out, from somewhere in the hoary laser
tag netherworld.
"Right," said Amigoid, tossing the index cards aside as the
'exposition' sign flickered out. "I'm off." He edited himself away,
leaving Swede and lawn chair to puzzle out their next moves. Leaving
the lawn chair to its own devices, the Swede wandered off toward the
entrance to the laser tag building.
"There's been something I've been meaning to do," he said to
himself. "Vis-a-vis this Edit-gone-wonky thing. I wish I could
remember..."
At that moment, the edges of his current outfit struck the
doorframe. They broke off and crumbled to the carpeted floor. The
ticket attendant frowned at the Swede.
"Pick up your shell pieces, Taco Boy," he said.
"I am not a taco," the Swede replied. He paused and looked down.
What he saw was that he was clad in an enormous hard taco shell, one
filled with guacamole, bean dip, shredded cheese, ground beef, salsa,
and what he hoped was hot sauce. "Salsa?" he asked himself.
Then he remembered. Someone had, during the rebooting of the
Author's Altiverse and the transition from the old legacy OmniVAX to
the new Omniserver, overwrote his default sartorial choice to 'taco.'
Moreover, they had done it in such a cunning way that, like the
Problem With The Edit, he had to find where the physical Omniserver
hardware was hidden before he could change things so that he had
control over his own clothing.
"I was but momentarily distracted from my quest," said the Swede,
as he struck a heroic pose, "by the sweet siren song of laser tag..."
"You've been here for a year and a half!" the attendant
interrupted.
"...but no longer! I now go forth to find the Omniserver, and get
my beloved black Cloak o' Doom back!"
"You gonna pay for your year-and-a-half of laser tag sessions?"
the attendant asked. In response, the Swede attempted to Edit the
attendant into becoming a chicken. Instead, twin rainbows erupted
from the Swede's nipples (punching nipple-shaped holes in the taco
shell in the process) and lit up a section of the door. The lit-up
sections were then filled up with what looked like the gigantic oily
'T-Zone' of Nyarlathotep.
"Never mind," the attendant squeaked, from where he now hid
beneath his desk. The Swede edited himself away.
---~~~___|||___~~~---
The Swede appeared in the living room of his Authorial abode. Or,
at least, what he last remembered as having been his living room. A
team of squat, hairy hyenas were in the process of decimating the last
of the furniture. The Swede frowned, trying to puzzle out why this
should be.
"We're here to drink limoncello and watch 'Ice Road Truckers' with
you," one of the hyenas--the one with the mustache--said.
"Oh," said the Swede. "Right." He frowned again. "Why are you
wrecking my living room?"
"Beats me," said the hynea. "It's *your* subconscious."
The Swede nodded. He had long ago turned over the task of
maintaining the interior decor and service staff of his personal
Authorial habitat to his Id. While it had made some questionable
choices in the past--the Serial Killer Petting Zoo and the Hall of
Lettuce being two he fondly remembered--it *did* free him up to think
of other things.
<<Hello, Dave,>>> said HAL, the AI who, as much as anyone or
anything could, kept a bare semblance of order to the place. <<I was
wondering when you would be back. I see you are still a taco.>>
"I am not a taco," said the Swede, without much force. He flopped
down on a partially-destroyed couch. Though his Edit would have
worked in this, his personal abode, he was too distracted to think of
using it to restore his furniture. "It's been a year-and-a-half, and
I'm no closer to finding out who changed the Omniserver so that I'm
always dressed as a taco. A whole year and a half of laser tag, and
the problem didn't go away!"
<<Yes, Dave,>> HAL replied. <<With regards to that, yesterday I
received a message that may be of assistance to you. It states that
an 'old friend' has the critical information you need to locate the
Omniserver, and that you are to meet this person at Gortok's at 3 p.m.
local standard time today.>>
"Cool!" the Swede exclaimed. He stood up, accidentally avoiding
the hyenas that had leapt--claws outstretched, teeth gnashing--at him.
As said hyenas tried their best to eat the remains of the sofa, he
strode over to his personal Omniserver-connected workstation and read
the message for himself.
To: swede at authorsplanet dot bwah
From: oldfriend921 at plotcontrivance dot org
I, an 'old friend,' have the critical information you need to
locate the Omniserver. You are to meet me at Gortok's at 3
p.m. local standard time today.
Sincerely,
'old friend'
"Wow," said the Swede. "You left out a lot of critical details in
your summary, HAL."
<<It is a failing I am striving to overcome,>> HAL replied,
without apparent offense. <<It is 2:54 p.m. now.>>
"Yup," said the Swede. He pondered the screen some more, then
started a game of 'Boggle.'
<<Should you not edit yourself over to Gortok's now?>> HAL asked.
"Um... why?"
<<Do you not wish to meet this 'old friend' with the critical
information?>>
"Um... yes?" the Swede asked. "I mean... yes! No more
distractions! Let me be away at... hey, where's Squawk?"
HAL made a sound over the speakers that could have been a sigh.
<<She has gone, Dave. To altiverse 414PENGUINNIRVANA, to use up her
entire accumulated eight years of vacation time.>>
The Swede frowned. "But... she's my loyal penguin Muse. How will
I be inspired to write the remainder of the Universal Solvents series
for SfStory without her?"
As if in answer to this, a clanking sound started up in the next
room. As its source approached the open doorway, it was joined by a
hiss of steam and a scraping of metal. Even the hyenas stopped their
furniture-consumption activities and stared.
Its eyes glowed an ominous red. Steam issued from its metallic
grey beak and its riveted ear-holes. The Swede gasped as it hauled
its squat, clockwork body toward him.
"Is that...?"
<<It is MechaSquawk, Dave,>> HAL informed him. <<Squawk
officially subcontracted her musing duties out last week. You saw her
working on it last time you were here.>>
MechaSquawk heaved itself noisily and steamily to where the Swede
stood. A hatch in its chest opened, and a barrel slid out,
accompanied by several clicks and a 'boing.'
After several seconds, a cloud of golden dust shot from the
barrel, striking the Swede squarely in his bare kneecaps, just below
the lower edge of his taco shell. MechaSquawk retracted its barrel,
turned, and lurched away.
"Heavy, man," a hyena opined.
The Swede did not reply, as his kneecaps absorbed the inspiration
from the inspiration dust and funneled it directly to the part of his
brain that was writing the next Universal Solvents episode.
<<It is 2:59 now, Dave.>>
"Yes," said the Swede. "Which means it's time... for salsa!"
"Salsa?" another hyena asked.
"I mean time to meet this 'old friend' at Gortok's!" the Swede
corrected. "Tally ho!"
In a flash of Edit, he was gone.
---~~~___|||___~~~---
The Swede appeared directly in front of Gortok's. He know it was
Gortok's because of its general barlike appearance, and the large neon
sign over the entrance that read: 'Gortok's.' He did not like the
sign, nor the fact that Gortok's had replaced the former Authorial
watering hole known as the Chapterhouse, due to the same altiversal
deployment screwup that had changed his apparel to 'all-taco, all-the-
time.' He attempted to edit away the sign, and was chagrined to see a
grizzly bear in short pants appear instead.
"Excuse me," said the Swede. "I'd like to go in."
"Grwaar," replied the bear, before biting the Swede's arm off.
"Hey," the Swede replied, as blood gushed in a technicolor
fountain from his shoulder stump.
"Ew," said the bear, as it spit the arm out. "Guacamole."
The Swede watched as it ambled off.
"What's wrong with guacamole?" he asked, before picking up his
partially chewed arm and sticking it back on the stump. It fused with
his body as if it had never been severed--which would have been
convenient if he had stuck the right end on. As it was, there was a
bloody stump where his hand should have been, and fingers at his
shoulder. But the Swede was on a mission, and could not take time to
fix such trifling matters. He went into the bar.
The interior of Gortok's was dimly lit. A number of Authors were
visible in the bar, imbibing drinks of choice as they were served by a
mechanized wallaby. The Swede realized that one of them (the Authors,
not the drinks) was one he had not seen in quite a while.
"Ken!" he exclaimed. "Ken Cooney!"
"Taco!" Ken replied.
"I am not a taco!"
"I meant 'Swede!'"
The Swede nodded and sat down at Ken's table. With Ken was the
Last Sane Author and Frobozz, who seemed to be building a fortress out
of tortilla chips.
"I think the tortilla cannon should go here," said Frobozz, as he
placed a curled chip on the edge of another.
"Jenga, jenga, jenga," the Last Sane Author chanted.
"Things have changed a lot since I was last here," Ken noted.
"And I can't seem to find Melvin anywhere."
"Melvin?"
"The robot who was writing my episodes for me," said Ken.
"Your turn," said Frobozz.
"Here's a chip that looks like Sean Connery in 'Zardoz,'" said the
Last Sane Author, handing Ken a chip that in no way resembled Sean
Connery in 'Zardoz.' Ken nevertheless accepted the chip, and
scrutinized the chip fortress for a place to set it.
The Swede sauntered away from the scene, thus missing the
thrilling placement sequence--though the subsequent sounds of tortilla
chips crashing to the table and two authors crying out 'You sank my
battleship!' made the outcome clear. He approached the bar, where
Sabre and *THE* Mason Kramer were consuming beverages of choice and
discussing matters of serious import.
"--no *way* that Justin Bieber could take over the Scott Baio role
in any 'Joanie Loves Chachi in 3D' movie," *THE* Mason Kramer
insisted. "His head is not shaped right to take clown hammer hits!"
"Forget clown hammers," Sabre replied. "Just think of the
possibilities if we used live rabid badgers *shaped* like clown
hammers, and... oh, hi, Swede." He looked down. "Why is your
shoulder arm socket where your left hand should be?"
The Swede regarded his arm with consternation. He shrugged.
"Dude," said *THE* Mason Kramer. "You must be here to meet your
'old friend' to learn how to get out of permanent tacofication."
"Yeah," said the Swede. "How did you know...?"
Sabre and *THE* Mason Kramer gestured, a bit over-dramatically, at
the 'daily specials' chalkboard. The Swede considered it, and
frowned.
"Salsa?" he asked.
"Below that," Sabre said.
The Swede looked below that.
"2:50 p.m," he said. "Betting pool for identity of the Swede's
'old friend' closes. 2:55 p.m. Bacon-palooza. 3 p.m. Swede meets
'old friend' in desperate attempt to advance the plot." He frowned
again. "I missed Bacon-palooza?"
The Swede, focused on the gaping hole in his experience of life
caused by his having missed Bacon-palooza, did not realize right away
that someone else had walked into the bar, or that that person was
*behind* the bar. It was only when he heard various exclamations,
such as 'hey, that's the Swede's 'old friend'' and 'how can you tell'
and 'it's written on her nametag' that the Swede looked up.
And gaped.
"Limoncello shooters after 5 p.m. tonight?" he asked.
A familiar voice sighed. "Look over here, taco," said its owner.
Her hair was shorter than he remembered, though it was still a
fair auburn and still on her head. Her eyes were the same deep shade
of brown... or possibly a different shade of brown, as the Swede could
not remember if they had been brown before. Her lips were free of
lipstick, and she had two of them. Much of the rest of her was under
a dusty black trenchcoat.
"Janice," said the Swede. "Oh, my... Janice!"
The woman frowned. "No..." she started.
"Yes!" the Swede insisted. "You're Janice Hoffiser, formerly my
muse and lover, before that an agent of the Authorial Police. I
haven't seen you in ages!"
The woman shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking
about," she said.
"But you're an 'old friend,'" said the Swede. "And the only old
friend I have who looks like you is you!" He looked around, seeking
support for what was, for an Author, an unusually sound bit of
reasoning. As many of those around him were fellow Authors, and
regarded sound reasoning as a novelty that would never catch on, he
did not receive this support. He regarded the woman again.
"Check my name tag," she said, indicating said tag.
"'Hi, my name is... Gortok,'" said the Swede. He blinked.
"You're... Gortok?"
Gortok smiled. "That's me," she said. "Welcome to my bar, old
friend."
The Swede, confronted with this astounding twist on all he knew to
be true, decided to skip agonizing over it and get straight on with
the gibbering. Gortok sighed.
"This," she said, "is going to take a while."
WILL IT TAKE A WHILE?
AS IN, ANOTHER YEAR-AND-A-HALF?
WHY DOES SHE LOOK LIKE JANICE HOFFISER?
WHY DOES MECHASQUAWK LOOK LIKE SQUAWK?
WHY DO TORTILLA CHIPS LOOK LIKE SEAN CONNERY IN 'ZARDOZ?'
WILL OTHER AUTHORS PILE ON FURTHER SILLY COMPLICATIONS?
WILL OTHER AUTHORS JOIN THE HYENAS IN WATCHING 'ICE ROAD TRUCKERS?'
SALSA?
Find out in future Author's Altiverse postings, only on... SUPERGUY!
--
Text is Copyright (c) 2010 by Gary W. Olson. All Rights Reserved.
--
Gary W. Olson
swede at garywolson dot com
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