[Adrics] 2002 Awards Show, Part 3/9
BKWillis
While the Best Comedy Long Fiction Award presentation is going
on, the sound of great commotion can be heard backstage. From
time to time a few curtains are thrown forward, as if a disturbance
were going on behind them. Raised voices can also be heard.
If one listens carefully, one may hear the following conversation:
VOICE #1 (Male)
We're not going....!
VOICE #2 (Male)
You can't make us....!
VOICE #3 (Female)
But you have to! Your fans _demanded_ it! They all think it
was one of your _finest performances ever_!
VOICE #1 (Male)
Uh-uh. This has gone far enough. Look, you guys got your
chuckles out of it the first time, but this...
VOICE #2 (Male)
We're not going to do it, and that's.... uh, Cam, what are you
doing?
There is the sound of a cell phone dialing.
VOICE #3 (Female)
Oh, nothing. Just making a phone call.
There is an ominous pause.
VOICE #3 (Female)
Hello, Helen? Yeah, it's me, Compassion. Say, is that story
we discussed ready for posting? Almost? Well, set it up, and
I'll tell them.
VOICE #2 (Male)
(extremely apprehensive)
Cam, what have you...?
VOICE #3 (Female)
(to the two other voices)
Are you two absolutely certain you refuse to do this?
VOICE #1 (Male)
Ummmm....
VOICE #2 (Male)
Errrrr.....
VOICE #3 (Female)
Because if you are, then I have some concepts I wish you to
contemplate: Ogrons, Ice Warriors, You Two, Slash Fiction. Oh,
I'm told Dalek plungers figure in there somewhere as well, but
I'm not certain how. I'm sure you'll find out, though. Oh,
and Helen says to tell you about the following other concepts
worth contemplating: newsgroup posts, enter buttons, and
fingers poised above the latter.
(sweetly)
Are you two _certain_ that you don't want to do this
presentation?
A pair of very loud gulps can be heard.
VOICE #2 (Male)
Errr.... I suppose...
VOICE #1 (Male)
So long as you put it that way...
VOICE #3 (Female)
Very good choice.
(To cell phone)
Hold your fire, Helen. They're capitulating!
As the Best Comedy Long Fiction Award presentation draws to a
close, the camera centers on the Master of Ceremonies (ADRIC).
ADRIC
And now, to present the award for Best Drama Long Fiction, I
bring you a very special pair of presenters. Please welcome,
from the Kingdom of Wankerkovia....
To stage right the curtain withdraws slightly. Two figures are
simultaneously being pushed vigorously out onto the stage.
ADRIC
...Christiana and Fitztiana!!
On the stage are CHRIS CWEJ and FITZ KREINER, each dressed in
hideously gaudy formal gowns. They are also wearing jewelry,
make up and wigs, but no one can possibly mistake them for being
anything other than a couple of guys in drag.
ADRIC withdraws, gives the two a "Sorry guys, it's not my idea"
shrug, and walks off as the two slowly approach the podium. As
they do so, the crowd erupts in nervous laughter, cat calls, and
even a few marriage proposals from some of the other-than-human
types in the audience.
CHRIS and FITZ try to summon what dignity they have left and
face the audience. Both have that "deer in the headlights" look to
them as they face the camera.
CHRIS
(very nervous)
Uh, we're here to deliver the award for Best Drama Short
Fiction.
FITZ
(looking at index cards)
Errr, um...the writing of short, dramatic pieces of fiction is,
uh...
CHRIS
(taking envelopes from FITZ)
Oh, sod it! Lets just cut to the chase.
(muttering)
The sooner we get this over...
FITZ nods in agreement, and looks down at a card.
FITZ
The nominations for Best Drama Short Fiction are....Imran
Inayat, for 'Badlands: A Badlands Love Story'...
Beside them on the TV screen can be seen a few scenes set in a
vaguely Wild West-esque setting, starring characters that are
strangely both familiar and different...
CHRIS
...B.K. Willis, for 'Bidding Farewell'...
The TV switches to an image of a funeral procession, and a
tribute to a well-missed writer...
FITZ
...Helen Fayle, for 'The Birth of Kastchei the Deathless'...
The TV switches to images of a dragon, a woman, Russian folk
lore, and a very familiar face sans a beard...
CHRIS
...Imran Inayat, for 'The Calliope Files: Allie'...
The TV switches to scenes noting the trials and tribulations of
a writer's muse...
FITZ
...and finally, Ken Young, for 'Tiger by the Tail'.
The TV switches to a scene of a dungeon where a man in a
leather mask is chained to the wall.
CHRIS opens the envelope.
CHRIS
And the winner is... IMRAN INAYAT, for 'The Calliope Files:
Allie'!!!
As Imran reaches the stage for his award, and the statuette is
handed to him, CHRIS and FITZ beat as hasty a retreat as hoop
skirts and high heels will allow...
----
[ADRIC returns to the stage, his expression perfectly straight and
level.]
ADRIC: Thank you, lovely ladies, for that charming presentation...
Excuse me for a moment, would you?
[ADRIC steps back offstage. As soon as he is out of sight, howls
of hysterical laughter peal from behind the wing curtains.]
ADRIC (off-screen): WHAHAHAHAHAHA! Hee hee...
MBAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Oh, my God! WHAAAHAHAHA!!
[ADRIC steps back on-stage again, looking perfectly composed.]
ADRIC: And now, we need to take another brief break to hear a
word from our wonderful and generous sponsors at NorInCo.
While we do that, we have another special musical guest. Few
people have heard of them, and those that have only know them as
a shadowy group of fanatical conspirators who fight an endless
'holy war' across all of Panreality. But when they aren't smiting the
infidels, these chaps like to get a groove on. Direct from their
secret Conclave Hall at the other end of the Quasiverse, we present
the Brethren of Nyssa Chorus and their Gregorian Chant version
of Duran Duran's 'Rio'!
[ADRIC exits stage right, pushing the TV cart, as the curtain rises
to reveal a group of about twenty figures dressed in hooded brown
velvet robes, the cowls pulled forward to conceal their faces. The
group begins chanting the song, in a way that can honestly not be
described in prose. Suffice it to say that the sound will cause
children to have nightmares for months to come and be the
probable cause for spontaneous mutations appearing among the
local fauna.]
[Mercifully, we fade to commercial.]
----
[Commercial]
[SCENE: A high-tech hospital ward. Patients lie on automated
beds, watched over by attentive and soothingly-colored medical
robots. A few human doctors and nurses circulate among them.
A pretty brunette woman in an expensive business suit steps into
shot as a caption appears at the bottom of the screen, reading,
'Perpugilliam Brown III, Public Relations Director, NorInCo, Inc.'.
She smiles in a sunny yet subtly predatory way as she looks into
the camera.]
PERPUGILLIAM: We here at NorInCo consider it our duty to be
involved in every aspect of your life, to try and make your world
into the kind of place we believe you deserve. To that end, one
of our many successful areas of business if the medical field.
[PERPUGILLIAM holds up some small medicine bottles.]
PERPUGILLIAM: That's right. The NorInCo Pharmaceuticals
Division produces over 80% of all drugs used in Alliance hospitals
and clinics. And our Medical Technology Division provides those
medical facilities with every sort of equipment, from diagnostic
droids...
[PERPUGILLIAM taps one of the robots.]
PERPUGILLIAM: ...to Auto-Stabilization Beds...
[PERPUGILLIAM pats the bed beside her, startling the sickly-
looking man lying on it.]
PERPUGILLIAM: ...right down to the IV needles.
[PERPUGILLIAM plucks the intravenous needle out of the arm of
the man next to her. Alarms on the bed instantly begin going off as
the patient goes into spasms. Doctors, nurses, and droids all
swarm desperately about the man as PERPUGILLIAM, unfazed
by the chaos, simply holds up the needle, showing the NorInCo
tag on it.]
PERPUGILLIAM: We at NorInCo extend ourselves this way, not
just to make money, but to see to it that we can be an influence on
your life. The next time you need medical treatment, think about us.
[Beside PERPUGILLIAM, doctors are frantically performing CPR on
the man in the bed.]
PERPUGILLIAM: Remember: we're NorInCo, and your life is in our
hands.
[Fade out to NorInCo hammer-and-chain logo.]
[End commercial]
----
[As the curtain closes on the Brethren of Nyssa Chorus, ADRIC
walks back on-stage, pushing the TV cart. He takes his place at the podium,
pulling a pair of corks out of his ears.]
ADRIC: Well, wasn't that a wonderful interlude?
[The camera pans over the audience. Several people are comatose,
some are clutching their ears and screaming, while the Muses
present are busily composing a formal letter of complaint to
Terpsichore.]
ADRIC: Now, our next presenter is someone I can't say I'm all that
fond of. He's... well, he's just... [sighs] You'll see.
Presenting the Adric Award for Best Drama Long Fiction, I give
you... Coyote, the Lady's Champion.
[ADRIC trudges off-stage, a sour look on his face.]
----
[The curtains fly dramatically apart as a chill wind howls through
the auditorium, sending debris flying. There is a crash of lightning
just outside and the sounds of manic pipe-organ music echo
through the building. As the music reaches a hysterical crescendo,
COYOTE steps out of the shadows and stalks over to the podium.
He looks exactly like Adric in the face, except that his hair is
extremely long in the back, where it is gathered into a narrow, thigh-
length ponytail. He is wearing jeans and a battered old denim
jacket with various pins and medals covering the front. A coyote's
tail dangles from a beltloop at his back. As he steps behind the
lectern, he scowls menacingly at the audience. Suddenly, he snaps
his fingers and the wind and noise cut instantly off. At that
moment, his scowl changes to a big, insane-looking grin.]
COYOTE: Hey, Parrotheads! Was that an entrance, or what?
Andrew Lloyd Potsy Webber couldn't have done better. Heh heh.
For those who don't know me, I'm Coyote, and I have a reputation
for being chaos and evil incarnate, which is both unjust and an
impediment to meeting groovy chicks. I'm not chaotic and evil,
I'm just disorganized and a bit moody. And sometimes I carve
people into handy bite-sized chunks when they tick me off. Or
when they don't. Oh, and I work for the Devil, but only because
the benefits and dental plan are good.
Anyways, moving in the circles that I do, I've had a lot of exposure
to the more serious side of things, and that's why they asked me to
present the Coyote Award for Best Drama Long Fiction.
ADRIC: (from off-stage) That's 'Adric' Award!
[COYOTE pulls a circular-saw blade out of his jacket and flings it at
ADRIC.]
COYOTE: Shut up! That's not my name! Never say that name
again!
[The saw blade whirls back to COYOTE's hand. He toys with it
while he talks.]
COYOTE: So, as I was saying when Dead Boy interrupted me, I'm
here to present the Best Drama Long Fiction Award. But first...
This will never do.
[COYOTE flicks a finger at the television set, which promptly
implodes into a jagged pile of debris. He takes the edge of his saw
blade and makes a small cut on his hand. He concentrates for a
moment, muttering what sounds like mathematical equations, then
flicks some droplets of blood into the air. The droplets instantly
expand and form up into the outline of a red mirror frame with a
swirling sanguinary mist inside.]
COYOTE: Much better. Now, the Nominees for Best Drama
Long Fiction are...
[As he names each Nominee, the appropriate scene swirls to red-
tinged visiblity in the blood mirror.]
COYOTE: 'Bride Quest', by Clive May...
>"Sarah? Hang on old girl?"
>
>When he caught up to her, Sarah was standing on the pinnacle
>of a tumbled pile of over grown blocks and metal. Up there,
>against the star clotted heavens, there gathered to her an aspect
>of ethereal tragedy. "Sarah?" Harry called softly, unaccountably
>touched by the emotion stirred by the sight of the lonely figure
>against the arc of stars. His voice was muted by a sense of
>trespassing on something with which he did not feel entirely
>comfortable.
COYOTE: 'Death and Toliman', by Jeri Massi...
>He sighed. The sky outside the repaired lab window had grown
>dim. The stars were just beginning to appear above the haze and
>glow of London at twilight. They had spent several hours getting
>acquainted with the lore of the constellations. One very nice
>thing about Sarah Jane, he thought, was that when she was on
>the trail of information, she stuck to it tenaciously. She was
>every bit a journalist, albeit a very young one. But now she also
>seemed much more herself: eagerly cross checking books and
>making comments every now and then or very bad puns.
COYOTE: (muttering) Hmm... that little Sarah-sweetie was up there
twice. She's cute. I wonder if she likes guys with ponytails and the
power to manipulate reality? Oh, well. (normal voice) Next is
'Derelict', by Ken Young and BKWillis...
>Ronald barked a dry gallows-laugh. "Magnus and Varne, that's
>my problem. The cleanup crew was supposed to dump their
>bodies and possessions into space before moving the
>_Comedian_. But did they get the chance? That's my problem,
>Marcus."
>
>"Sir, if I may..." Marcus chewed his lip, then went on, "You
>seem a bit, well, obsessed by them."
>
>"Obsessed? With good reason, Marcus. I saw them in action
>back when I was piloting for them. I've seen what they can do.
>I've also seen what they do to those who betray or attack them.
>And I'd be a lot less worried if I knew they'd been heaved out an
>airlock..."
COYOTE: 'In Thy Image', by Paul Gadzikowski...
>"What you're saying then is," said the EMH, "in order to
>persuade Starfleet not to remove me from my post, we need
>someone who is familiar with, and to, 'ordinary' Starfleet - as
>distinguished from Voyager - but who nevertheless shares
>Voyager's experience."
>
>Without even a pause for comic timing, the TARDIS
>materialized two feet away.
>
>"The minds reels with sarcastic comments about mounted
>soldiery," the EMH greeted the Doctor he exited the timeship.
COYOTE: 'Regenesis', by Helen Fayle...
>'If they're what I think they are, they shouldn't be here.' She was
>whispering. 'Didn't you recognise them?'
>
>He shook his head. 'Should I?'
>
>'That's an embryo Dalek in there,' she told him. 'I'd know those
>evil little psychopaths anywhere, even without their sink
>plungers.' When he gave her another blank look, she sighed.
>'Look, they usually get around inside special machines. They
>look sort of like five-foot tall pepperpots with a sink plunger and
>an egg whisk on the front.'
>
>'There's a distinct lack of a relevant cultural reference in that
>description.'
COYOTE: [looks at image, muttering] Is that that same chick?
Weird. (normal voice) And 'To Die For: Friendly Hopes', by
Douglas Killings...
>A pariah, he thought bizarrely. He was a pariah. An undesirable.
>An outcast from polite society. No, what was that term Anji had
>used, to describe a similar group of people? Untouchable, that
>was it. He was an untouchable. The bottom rung of the local
>caste system.
>
>"Hey Dead Boy! Another pint!"
>
>"I have a name." he muttered, but the patron acted as if he hadn't
>heard him.
COYOTE: [mock-shivers at image] Oooh! Dead Boy went to the
library and checked out a spine! Not! Anyways, the winner of the
Coyote Award for Best Drama Long Fiction is...
[COYOTE rummages around in his jacket for the envelope, but
doesn't find it. He pulls out a jester's cap, a banana peel, a catcher's
mitt, a deck of cards, a harmonica, several knives, a set of chess
pieces, some pelts, an abacus, a music box, and a rubber chicken,
but no envelope.]
COYOTE: Oopsie. I forgot the envelope. Hee-hee! Now I guess
we'll never know. Too bad, so sad, but dem's de breaks, little
homies...
[The room darkens and a fearful, oppressive aura falls across the
audience. COYOTE looks slightly panicked as an inverted
pentagram forms on the floor at his feet. Black lightning bolts
surge into his body, causing him to collapse to his knees, gasping
in pain. At that moment, a woman's voice speaks, a syrupy hiss
that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.]
VOICE: Complete the task set thee, My servant, or feel the full
weight of My displeasure. The Lords of Hell would know the
victor of this contest.
[COYOTE scrambles to his feet as the pentagram disappears and
the darkness withdraws, hastily yanking the envelope from his
back pocket and tearing it open with shaking fingers.]
COYOTE: Yes, my Lady! Right away! And the Best Drama Long
Fiction of the 2002 Awards is... 'To Die For: Friendly Hopes', by
Douglas Killings! Get your butt up here and get yourself another
lovely paperweight, Killings. Me, I've got places to go, things to
do, joy to spread, people to murder.
[COYOTE jumps into the blood mirror, which disappears along
with him, leaving his pile of junk next to the Adric Award on the
lectern.]
----
Igenlode
> [SCENE: INT, THE ADRICS AWARDS STAGE]
>
> While the Best Comedy Long Fiction Award presentation is going
> on
[snip]
> CHRIS
> And the winner is... IMRAN INAYAT, for 'The Calliope Files:
> Allie'!!!
> As Imran reaches the stage for his award, and the statuette is handed
> to him, CHRIS and FITZ beat as hasty a retreat as hoop skirts and high
> heels will allow...
>
Later on, when they are back at the table, a grey-eyed chap in shabby
shirt and breeches taps Allie on the shoulder. She looks up, beginning
to smile - then frowns.
'Do I /know/ you?'
His mouth crooks into a slight grin. 'Well, no... as a matter of
fact we've never actually met. On the other hand one might say I was
there at your sister's birth...'
Imran puts a protective - and possessive - arm around his Muse's
shoulders and directs a hard stare at the newcomer.
'Do /I/ know you?'
The grin broadens, showing a lopsided tooth. 'Yes... and no. Not in
/this/ avatar. Though -'
'What do you want?' Imran says, more sharply than he had intended. The
other man is being deliberately evasive, and Allie can normally
recognise crossovers in the Round.
Fair eyebrows rise, amused. 'Oh, I just wanted to compliment you both
- and wish you a very fruitful partnership.' He extends a hand, which
Imran finds himself shaking automatically. 'I don't use a Muse myself,
you know. I've always worked by a... different technique. I've found
watching you and Gordon to be a fascinating experience.'
He takes Allie's hand and touches it lightly to his lips before turning
to leave; though if he had hoped to discomfit her, he fails. The Muse
retrieves her hand with perfect self-possession and shoots Imran an
amused glance. And something in that particular twisted brand of humour
rings a bell.
'Wait -' Imran frowns slightly. 'But weren't you -?'
'Indeed. And at your service.' Igenlode perfoms a sweeping bow, and
prepares to disappear into the crowd in the swirl of a Lurker's
Cloak. After a second, only the ghost of a grin remains.
'Author's privilege, old chap. I've always believed in making the most
of it. If you can be whoever you want - why limit yourself?' The light
fitting sways slightly, as if someone has just used it to swing over
the heads of the crowd, and a few words float back, receding into the
distance. 'Oh, and by the way - my congratulations!'
Allie blinks. '/Someone's/ been watching too many swashbuckler
movies...'
--
Igen...@nym.alias.net
Lurker Extraordinaire
* My name is Legion; for we are many *