[Adrics] 2002 Awards Show, Part 6/9
BKWillis
then the NorInCo logo.]
ADRIC: Oookay...
[ADRIC switches to the next tape and presses the 'play' button.]
----
**CARRIE ON CROSSOVERS**
*Post the Second*
*A Fistful of Finalists*
===
THE GREY STEWARD: And now for the finalists. Carrie...?
CARRIE: And the list of finalists (ORDER BY AUTHOR_NAME) *is*:
{The magical mechanical musical box bursts forth into full life,
playing with much thump that tune which goes best with -- }
_Clash Fiction: Rock the Casbah_, by Mags L. Halliday --
{CARRIE snaps her virtual fingers, and suddenly the rest of the
stage -- including THE GREY STEWARD -- is obscured by a
magnificently detailed hologram of a peroxide-blond, leather-
jacketed vampire sporting an evil grin and waving at the audience.
SPIKE waves enthusiastically at his representation. It winks at
him and waves back. Repeat ad lib, with progressively more
revolting leers and grimaces.}
RUPERT GILES: Does anyone else here have a sudden nauseating
feeling we're in the presence of True Love?
BUFFY [tightly]: Why me? Why?
GILES: Er, actually I meant --
BUFFY: Mm-*hmm*!
{CARRIE stamps her foot, accompanied by a peal of thunder from
the speakers. HOLO-SPIKE blows a final gracious kiss at the
AUDIENCE, and holds up a large placard bearing the legend: HERE
BE SPOILERS! The holo-field freezes.}
CARRIE: -- and --
{The magical mechanical musical box begins crooning _Moon
River_.}
_Breakfast at Ucchan's_, by Imran Inayat --
{The scene switches to a mile-long queue outside Ucchan's
Okonomiyaki Restaurant, snaking back and forth across the stage
in a dizzying triumph of abused perspective. Many of the
AUDIENCE are represented somewhere within it. Much rhubarb
from the tables as people critique their images, relative prominence,
or apparent omission. A minor Godzilla in the queue waves at his
real-world counterpart in the bar. A tiny old man whose face
gleams with a strange and perverted inner light streaks meteorically
towards CARRIE, as if to the promise of some deeply ill heaven.
She freezes the scene with a thought, leaving the aged holo-pervert
in mid-air with his leading hand outstretched in the general
direction of her hip. Her lovely face goes momentarily blank.}
Voice of THE GREY STEWARD [concerned]: Carrie?
CARRIE [reviving, and speaking rather rapidly]: Urgent security
check, all systems integral, moving *right* along to our next
finalist--
M M MUSICAL BOX [tinnily]: Friendship! Friendship! Just the
perfect friendship! When other friendships have been forgot --
CARRIE: _TDF: Friendly Hopes_, by Douglas Killings!
{The previous holo-scene dissolves, the flying pervert persisting
an eyeblink longer than his surroundings. CARRIE jumps and
flickers, as if suddenly goosed, and she adopts an expression of
frozen embarrassment. In the new scene, a mob of ill-bred drunken
louts, many of them Doctors and companions, are seen besieging
ADRIC at the bar. The doors swing open, and -- }
FRANCOIS THE OGRON [from the real TTR]: Underwear-
disadvantaged light lady is holding replay right there, yes? Had
plenty sufficiency, with extra doggy-bag to take away, working
through such night *first* time round...
{The entire scene, including CARRIE, disappears abruptly. THE
GREY STEWARD is discovered alone on the stage, picking his
nose with philosophical deliberation.}
STEWARD: Ahem. I, too, am merely a scurrilous hologram. Er,
Carrie old thing...?
BEN: 'Ere, Duchess, I reckon she's just cottoned on that she don't
want no rows with her homogram copy of Frenchy there...
POLLY: I think there might be another reason. [Worried]: You don't
suppose that nasty little man has a real double in here, do you?
THE SECOND DOCTOR: Oh my goodness, I'm afraid that's a
distinct possibility!
BEN: Might have been and gone. Some of these coves could nick
your gold filling so sly, you'd never notice till you went to bite on
it.
THE SECOND DOCTOR [brightening]: Ben's quite right, Polly.
There's only one way we can be sure...
POLLY: No! [Stands up and bangs both men's heads together.]
{CARRIE reappears, her serenity restored. THE WONDROUS
AND ADORABLE NYSSA'S KNIGHTS-ERRANT REGIMENT
attempt various sad manoeuvres with a periscope, before shaking
their heads at each other. The sound system starts up with Janis
Ian's now legendary _Have Mercy Love_.}
ADRIC AND PSYCHO NYSSA: *SHUT THAT UP!*
CARRIE [doing so without comment]: 'To Die For' series, by
Douglas Killings, BKWillis, et al! Please refer to your cached
copies of the previous hologram, or re-arrange the following into a
well-known sequence or situation: Adric, Nyssa, fruit loop,
weapon, splat. Alas, being a mere configuration of soulless digital
information, I can't empathise with such rarefied sublimities of
romantic passion myself, but I'm sure it's all very fine.
PSYCHO NYSSA: Romantic WHAT?
CARRIE: Romantic in the heroic sense of Sturm und Drang und
existentially tortured psycho killing.
PSYCHO NYSSA [satisified]: Oh, that's all right then.
STEWARD: Which inability alone has debarred me from
contributing to those remarkable chronicles, which...
CARRIE: No, Grey: that would be your idleness.
STEWARD: The inertia proper to the Man of Lead may have
played some small role, but --
AUDIENCE: Get on with it!
M M MUSICAL BOX [Louis Armstrong]: Someone's sneakin'
round the corner... could that someone be Mack the Knife?
VICKI: Ugh, too novelty! I prefer the classic Robbie Williams
version, myself... [Disappears under volley of fwaps from NYSSA,
TEGAN, ANN TALBOT, and other nearby PERSONS WHOSE
MUSICAL TASTE IS NOT OBTAINED INNA BUN FROM GUYS
WHO AFFIRM THEY ARE CUTTING THEIR OWN THROATS BY
GIVING AWAY THEIR GOURMET PRODUCTS FOR SUCH
RECKLESSLY TRIVIAL PRICES.]
{FX: Sounds of rotting and snapping metaphors.}
CARRIE: _Two Smart by Half_, by K. Michael Wilcox!
{The holoscene eclipses the STEWARD once more, to general
enthusiasm. It is a view of an exceedingly scabby workplace
cafeteria. The enthusiasm's duration proves fittingly drabble-
like.}
And our final candidate is --
{The sound system begins to ooze Rod Stewart's _I Am Sailing_.
THE SEVENTH DOCTOR is forced to prevent ACE's panicked
exodus by deft use of the crook of his umbrella.}
_Sailor Who_ series, by BKWillis!
{SUSAN, NYSSA, LEELA, ZOE, and NUMBER ONE (Female)
appear in variously cut but uniformly skimpy sailor fukus. They are
also in the middle of a furious fight with hulking mottled pink
masses of brawn and claw, which wail outre and blasphemous
battle-cries such as 'Make $$$ LEGALLY!!!' and 'Sexy nude
management consultants 3562!' SUSAN whirls upon the
AUDIENCE, and raises her hands dramatically.}
CARRIE: Mind the Fourth Wall -- !
HOLO-SUSAN/SAILOR GALLIFREY: Sparkling Righteousness
Love Blast Strike!
{A beam of starkly inconceivable power, of such magnitude that it
simply *cannot* be described by the puny adverbs and adjectives
of any language speakable by minds not stable on the third level of
stress, bathes the entire AUDIENCE. Its brilliance seems
particularly concentrated around the baskets of complimentary
sausage rolls that remain largely untouched upon every table,
actually singeing several. And then CARRIE dispels the hologram,
leaving everyone confused and blinking.}
CARRIE: That shouldn't have happened...
ROZ FORRESTER: I wonder what she wanted...
THE SEVENTH DOCTOR: I sense some deep Eeeevil at work here...
SHERLOCK HOLMES: No shit, Watson!
THE PROPRIETOR: Aheh heh heh heh...
STEWARD: Well, whatever that was about, I think it probably
behooves us to...
AUDIENCE: Get on with it!
STEWARD: I am but the ready tool of the People's will, and wax
turgid in my hot urgency to enact their desire. Know that relief
is close at hand!
CARRIE: Sssst! Grey! We're not playing Lady Sally McGee's now!
STEWARD: In that case, I suppose I'd better announce the results!
----
[ADRIC stares thoughtfully at the 3V for a moment before
changing tapes again.]
----
**CARRIE ON CROSSOVERS**
*Post the Third*
*A Perversity of Prizes*
===
And before we announce the final placings --
AUDIENCE: Menacing grumblings. Rhubarb with attitude.
STEWARD: -- I think you'll all be thrilled to hear that I have
procured a positive plethora of PRIZES for our fortunate finalists!
[Wild cheers from FORTUNATE FINALISTS, THE PROPRIETOR,
and THE BAR STAFF.] Following my scientific proofs and
dialectical demonstrations that the worker is worthy of their hire,
our esteemed Proprietor [PROPRIETOR bows to AUDIENCE] has
offered to sponsor a suitable set of rewards, all carefully chosen to
reflect proletarian priorities valorising genuine social and personal
wealth over bourgeois rentier status tokens! A big hand, please,
for this cross-class gesture of goodwill from the bloated
plutocracy!
{Half-hearted applause and much amazed staring at the
PROPRIETOR, who smirks and essays an expression of beatific
benevolence. The AUDIENCE hastily seek less disturbing objects
of contemplation.}
THE FENDAHL, COUNT SCAROTH, and THE DALEK
NATURIST CLUB: Oy! Mush! Who you looking at?
TEGAN [whispering in NYSSA's ear]: Carefully chosen to be
*what*?
A COCKATIEL on her shoulder: Cheep! Cheep!
STEWARD: Also, Carrie and I have contributed a little something
to the party. Since this is a crossover festival, our Action
Committee decided that each winning author ought to receive a
sumptuous meal at the bloated plutocracy's expense [nods to
PROPRIETOR], for themselves and for a very special surprise
guest. So Carrie, what's especially special about our special
surprise guests?
CARRIE: I'm glad you asked me that, Bob. I'm running a special
surprise subprogram to match, by extrapolation from newsgroup
postings, each author with the specific crossover character with
whom they can expect the most enjoyably friendly and/or romantic
evening meal -- all at the best extra-continuity tavern in the
business!
STEWARD: Matching algorithm designed by yours truly --
CARRIE: -- based on the program used by the famously successful
Matemine Introduction Services --
STEWARD: -- which I have of course never had any call for myself,
but have heard is very good, and I actually quite fancied that
thermally-advantaged young Anglo-Avian from Hemel
Hempstead--
ANJI: Excuse me, I think that was a typo???
SAM: No, that was PC-speak for -- [Double-take, followed by
astonished frown.] Now, wait a sexist-slammin' minute, there...!
CARRIE -- and re-engineering it using that state-of-the-art rapid
application development tool known as WordPad Global Search
and Replace. Also, I've lent our Datemaker some of my spare AI
modules, to process amounts and subtleties of data such as
Matemine could only dream of. Speaking of which, I'm calling in a
few favours from my days in the City of Dreams to arrange instant
PLOT holes, automatically bringing your dream dates to you
within three throbs of an enthralled heart! [Brief, embarrassing
silence falls. SIMON WESTPORT, a Poet, jumps out the window.
SARAH JANE begins banging her head on a table.] No?
STEWARD: I think not. But speaking of things close to everyone's
heart, Carrie, with what sumptuous meals shall we regale our
winners, equally valid triumph-challenged co-contenders, and their
Perfect Crossover Matches?
CARRIE: I'm slightly glad you asked me that, Bill. The fifth prize
is an unlimited supply of nudge-nudge finger food and naughty
nibbles for the author and their Perfect Match, plus a bottomless
pot of virtual coffee courtesy of...? "Little. Old. Me?" I think I
need the bit bucket again.
STEWARD: Courage, Carrie! In dealing with the ghoul-hyenas of
the capitalist coprolith [friendly nod to PROPRIETOR], ofttimes we
must offend against the biddings of our wild free gorges for the
sake of the Greater Good.
THE SEVENTH DOCTOR [sinisterly]: Too trrrrrrrrrrrue...
ZAQQUM, THE DESOLATION BEYOND TIME: Been there, done
that, burnt the T-shirt.
CARRIE: For the fourth prize, the lucky winner and their Perfect
Match get to share a very special meal from the new Pink Menu!
This is 'as cute as a kitten in a basket', apparently.
WOLSEY: Myaaargh!
{Several customers regard the baskets of complimentary sausage
rolls with new and dubious eyes. Rising rhubarb.}
PROPRIETOR [loudly]: Although it is not, in fact, a kitten in a
basket.
CARRIE: For the fabulous third prize, the LW&TPM *each* get a
meal from the *ordinary* menu! How good is that?!
AUDIENCE: Francois's honourable sister Charlotte is a chef of
unprecedentedly excellent excellence, and we cannot praise her
culinary genius too highly!
FRANCOIS [gruffly]: Chorally creepy-crawly crowd is please to be
sparing family blushes!
CARRIE: For the superlative second prize, the LW&TPM each get
an all-you-can-eat deal -- and from the ordinary menu, too! Surely,
thus is true love bred!
THE SIXTH DOCTOR: Mel: look upon true computer genius, and
despair!
THE FIRST DOCTOR: True genius, h'mmm, young Sex Proctor?
Well, Miss Carrie, I have a question for you. If the second prize is
indeed superlative -- [Dramatic pause] -- then the first prize can
by definition be no better, is that not so? And how can you call it a
first prize, if it's no better than the second? Can you explain that,
h'mmmm? How precisely do you propose to improve upon a
superlative?
CARRIE. With two superlatives. The first prize is --
THE SIXTH DOCTOR [rapturously]: *Twice* as much as you can
eat?
CARRIE: -- the all-you-can-eat main-meal-deal for the author and
*two* Perfect Matches! Truly here must be the summit of organic
happiness!
CHORUS OF ANIME CHARACTERS: The hell you say!
THE BRADLEYARD [slavering]: O wide-open prospect of Heaven
before me! Hot girl-girl action *and* unlimited cold mashed
potato! Truly this is a sign of My Destiny!
LYDIA G. GORDON: You aren't a nominated author, boss. That
would be your deadly rival's prospect.
THE BRADLEYARD: Oh, poo.
{THE PROPRIETOR tenses up, and makes a curious squeezing
motion with his closed hand. CARRIE's smile becomes rather fixed.
THE GREY STEWARD's gunmetal-coloured contact-lenses sparkle
oddly. A hologrammatic banner flashes for fifty milliseconds in the
air above the stage. It reads: WHAT FOLLOWS IS A
SUBLIMINAL ADVERTISEMENT.}
STEWARD [tapdancing in his lead-heeled boots like Gene Kelly]:
There's a difference at TTR you'll en-*joyyyyyyyyyyy*...
JAMIE: Och, yon prating grey Sassenach ponce is nae sich a sorry
dancer!
ZOE: Shhh, silly! We don't know we're seeing this!
JAMIE: Then he's the muckle greet clodhopping loon wi' which
we're mair familiar!
CARRIE: Hungry? Calorie-challenged? On the point of collapse
from the excitement of this presentation? Oh, yes you are! Don't
let famine ruin your evening! Treat yourself shamelessly to the
delights of our Pink and Regular Menus, celebrating the successes
of your friends and gloating over the humiliation of your foes! All
at a mere 140% of regular price for THIS NIGHT ONLY! But save
the complimentary sausage rolls for an hour of true need, since you
are not the kind of sad tightwad who cares for free nosh, nor do
you know where the Proprietor found them. Still, it's very generous
of him, isn't it? Doesn't it make you want to vie with him in sheer
magnanimous liberality? Of course it does! Remember --
STEWARD [tapdancing in air like Fred Astaire]: If food be the
muzak of love, scoff up, fortissimo!
CARRIE: Er, Grey, how are you doing that?
STEWARD: What, isn't this part of the hologram?
{CARRIE shakes her head. THE GREY STEWARD crashes down
through the stage like a cannonball. CARRIE's image briefly
freezes, then comes back to life accompanied by a burst of canned
laughter from the magical mechanical musical box. Another
subliminal banner flickers over the scene: WHAT YOU HAVE
JUST SEEN WAS A SUBLIMINAL ADVERTISEMENT. YOU
WILL TREAT IT WITH APPROPRIATE RESPECT. YOU WILL
HAVE NO CONSCIOUS MEMORY OF IT.}
COMPASSION: Not bad signalling, for a bunch of amateurs!
THE EIGHTH DOCTOR: What what what what? You must have
picked up some strange and subtle signs of Eeeevil that are beyond
my perceptions or Fitz's! This could be just the clue we need to go
scurrying about space and time like blue-arsed flies for two
hundred action-packed pages, before resolving the whole mess by
puppyish enthusiasm, black magic, and exceptionally lucky chance!
COMPASSION: Whatever.
THE EIGHTH DOCTOR: Or we could always shop for shoes
instead.
CARRIE: There will now be a brief intermission before the awarding
of the actual prizes, as my Author and Senior Comrade has just
spontaneously fallen through the stage.
AUDIENCE: Fair enough!
{There is a general rush for the bar, so single-minded in its
intensity that FRANCOIS and his glove-puppet shift manager MR.
MOGGIE are compelled to use quite emphatic reason in order to
reach the stage and pull the fallen STEWARD out. Only JAMIE,
LEELA, KATARINA, and a few other pre-tech culture characters
appear immune from the general hysteria -- save, of course, for
those finalist author-avatars who rest secure in the anticipation of
free meals with their Ideal Crossover Dinner Partners. THE
PROPRIETOR's face is transfigured with lust: dollar-signs ching
busily in his eyes, and troops of dancing fairies singing _We're in
the Money_ cavort with bacchic abandon across his bonce.
CARRIE's expression is one of dawning, incredulous horror.}
----