[Adrics] 2002 Awards Show, Part 7/9
BKWillis
on his face. He glares briefly off-stage before starting the next
video.]
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**CARRIE ON CROSSOVERS**
*Post the Fourth*
*In Which the Fifth Prize Is Finally Awarded*
===
POST THE FOURTH: IN WHICH THE FIFTH PRIZE IS FINALLY
AWARDED.
{A small back room. THE GREY STEWARD, slightly battered and
changed into a fresh set of grey leathers, sits on a stool, talking
into a large lenticular object which he bears on his wrist in lieu of a
watch. Within the wrist-lens, a grainy image of CARRIE is visible.}
STEWARD: How could that happen?
CARRIE: By your misusing your Authorial Powers for evil, and
Cousin Nemesis catching you in the act?
STEWARD: Nah. How, though? Our plan was perfect! Everyone
including the bloated plutocracy is subliminally convinced that
they've seen a real subliminal ad, whilst no actual subliminal
instructions are implanted, and the framing subconsciously warns
the seething masses that a low-down capitalist deceit is being
attempted on them! We get to redistribute hoarded wealth
amongst the deserving writers --
CARRIE: -- Not forgetting our administrative fee --
STEWARD: -- By all means forgetting it, since we have done little
to earn it, and I have in any case blown it on Ursula Le Guin's latest
_Last Book of Earthsea_ --
{CARRIE performs a brief happy dance within the lens, then sobers
and returns her attention to the subject}
-- and the evil bosses are condignly punished for their greed, whilst
walking away happily convinced that they got what they paid for!
As indeed, technically, they did. [Wails.] So how did we end up
brainwashing the swarming barflies of virtue into blowing their
hardly-earned bills upon the Management's extortionate 'Dear
Dinner Deals'?
CARRIE: As far as I can tell, all but the most a-technological
characters have picked up the meme that subliminal advertising is
irresistible... so since we've conned them into thinking our advert
*was* subliminal, they're subconsciously compelled to obey it!
We really didn't think this one through, did we?
STEWARD: Carrie, this is not the Union's finest hour.
CARRIE: Still, we probably did them a favour. They'd have only
spent it on booze anyway. You know what proles are!
STEWARD [sternly]: I *am* the quintessential prole! _Ex officio_,
even!
CARRIE: You were sort of my main datapoint. Anyway, chin up!
Moping becomes us not. Our Dream Dinner Partner Scheme will
spread the joys of good cheer and friendship and undying cross-
reality romance to those whose writing most richly deserves it.
What's mere cash, compared to that?
STEWARD: You really don't understand salt-of-the-earth working
class values at all, do you?
CARRIE [smugly]: No. Come on, bo--- comrade: let's get to the
prizes. My Perfect Matchmaker program is infallible, our purpose
is noble, our teamwork impeccable. What better omens could we
ask for the rest of the evening?
THE PROPRIETOR [sticking head through the door. His pockets
bulge grotesquely from all the banknotes with which they are now
stuffed, except for the one occupied by the surfeit of lampreys
singing _There's One Born Every Minute_ in three-part harmony.]
You're on! Nice work, lackeys! Oh, and by the way:
MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
{Exit PROPRIETOR. The SINGING LAMPREYS can be seen
shaking their heads significantly at each other.}
STEWARD: Indeed. The auguries could scarcely be more
promising. In the immortal words of Sinbad the Sailor, *let's roc!*
CARRIE [flickering agitatedly]: Why me? Why?
{Back on a hastily patched-up stage, THE GREY STEWARD has
finally got around to announcing the prizes.}
STEWARD: And the fifth prize in the Best Crossover category
goes to --
CHORUS OF FORTUNATE FINALISTS [muttering]: Not me, not
the nudge-nudge food and naughty nibbles, Almighty Fitb, save
me till first...
STEWARD: -- a dead heat between:
_Breakfast at Ucchan's_, by Imran Inayat
and
_Two Smart by Half_, by K. Michael Wilcox_!
THE MAGICAL MECHANICAL MUSICAL BOX [croons, in sickly
dissonance]: ...MacMoon's there -- could our boy be wider than a
mile...? {It is cut off abruptly. Much applause follows.}
STEWARD: Thanks for a *particularly* good hand there for our
fraternally equal fifth-placed contenders! And now for the bit
you've all been waiting for. Carrie -- set the Dream Datemaker
into motion!
{An elegant silver one-armed bandit is projected onto the stage.
CARRIE pulls its lever. The dials whirl into motion, and settle on
three dates. Much business with flashing lights and synthetic
string music. In place of a jackpot, a printout emerges, which
CARRIE takes and reads, frowning.}
STEWARD: So, Carrie, what qualities has the Dream Datemaker
determined as ideal for Mr. Inayat's dinner -- ah, coffee-and-snack
-- companion on this auspicious evening?
CARRIE: Being 'female, slight, cute, smart in a ditzy kind of way,
and named Allie'.
STEWARD: And has such a person e-mailed it a positive
response?
CARRIE: They have. Er, Grey, isn't this supposed to be a dream
*crossover* date?
STEWARD: It must have counted Subreality as a foreign
continuity. Oh well, shouldn't take too much energy to perform
*this* summons!
{The STEWARD attempts to push a big blue button on the bandit,
but his fingers simply go through the projection. He retreats in
irritation, and CARRIE does the honours. A wheezing, groaning
sound fills the room, as the very fabric of spacetime rips asunder
in a dedicated PLOT hole, the exact shape and size of the imaged
fruit-machine.
A slender, nay downright skinny, young woman in a thousand-
dollar business suit takes a running skip through the PLOT hole
onto the stage. She appears to have had an up-close and personal
encounter with a car-wash in the very recent past, and is
brandishing a sodden mass of legal papers. A golden flashing
neon sign manifests above the gateway --
TTR Welcomes: ALLY MCBEAL!}
THE McBEAL: Oh you wouldn't believe, don't ask, anyway he was
a very nice man and a complete stranger too! anyway I've got this
pre-datory contract all drawn up so if an agent or representative
of the venue can just sign here and here for insurance reasons, and
I can't believe I'm going to get to date an Inuit, they're so romantic
though I thought they were all into the body fat thing, ewww, is my
hair all right? and can I just get its condition notarised before I get--
{CARRIE is fading helplessly, and the STEWARD has collapsed
onto one knee before this onslaught of unstoppable annoyance.}
WILLOW [standing, eyes going tar-black]: Hekate, Great Mother
of Night, and all ye Powers of Air and Darkness, BANISH
ULTIMATE FORCES OF PURE EVIL!!!
{THE McBEAL vanishes, along with approximately a quarter of the
AUDIENCE and all the complimentary sausage rolls. THE
PROPRIETOR slaps savagely at the sulphurous plumes arising
from his sleeves.}
TARA [diffidently]: I -- I think we're doing the make friends and
influence people thing again, love...
STEWARD [struggling to feet]: Well, *I* appreciated it! I fear we
saw a million-to-one and completely unforeseeable bug exposed
there. Still, it's a statistical certainty that the *rest* of the awards
will run smoothly!
{Several of the remaining PATRONS blench, and prudently take up
positions under convenient tables.}
CARRIE: And if we can find a volunteer to fill... the Entity's place...
I'm sure that no-one need feel hard-done by in the deal! Well, let's
see if we can do better for Mr Wilcox! [Business with machine.
Reads:] And this dream crossover coffee-and-snack companion,
according to Datemaker's best scientific estimate, is: 'Pixyish,
mischievous, thoroughly lovely young female who likes shiny
clinging futuristic costumes and the occasional bit of hanky-
spanky'. [Embarrassed giggles from AUDIENCE.] Er... this really
*is* just straight Who, isn't it?
STEWARD: It is doubtless some alternate continuity. Well -- if the
Special Mystery Guest accepted --
CARRIE: The machine says she did.
STEWARD: Then let it perform the summons!
{CARRIE reluctantly returns control to the Dream Datemaker. The
PLOT hole rips open to discover a young lady of the description
specified, performing an elaborate and rather tasty disco routine.
She would appear not to like shiny clinging futuristic costumes
*that* much, as hers is about as exiguous as can be paraded on
prime time TV. She looks remarkably like a certain well-known
Australian pop diva of our own era, although her long hair is
currently golden rather than ginger.}
SARAH JANE: Now just a minute! Dragging real-world
personalities into your salacious fanfics is *too* tacky! I bet you
didn't even ask her permission, because you certainly wouldn't
have got it!
DISCO DIVA [gives a nymphomaniacal squeal of glee and rushes
through the gate, waving]: Yoo-hoo! Darlings!
CATS HAMBRIDGE [huskily]: Well, hel*lo* little girl!
STEWARD: Wait a minute...
{The flashing neon sign re-appears, now reading:
TTR Welcomes: CALLIE MINET!}
Who the devil...?
MEG OF TERMINUS: Legitimate crossover character, baas-boy.
[Holds up extremely well-thumbed paperback.] Heroine of _Kitten
and Megan Get Lucky, Lucky, Lucky_, by Felice Pontjambon and
Gem Ende. Still only Cr 13.99 from Blue Frills Publishing! Hurry
while stocks last!
{CALLIE bobs flirtatiously in CAT's and MEG's general direction.}
THE EIGHTH DOCTOR: But that's outrageous! Haven't you any
idea of the terrible forces you're meddling with here?
THE SEVENTH DOCTOR: If fictional stories attributed to fanfic
characters count for crossover... anything could invade our reality!
*Anything*, do you understand?
THE SIXTH DOCTOR: Or... everything...
THE FIFTH DOCTOR: If we tolerate this, characters from _Romana
Rubber Bondage_ will be next!
THE FOURTH DOCTOR and CHORUS OF FORTUNATE
FINALISTS: Your point being?
THE GREY STEWARD: Ms Minet, I think the consensus of this
meeting has just swung decisively in your favour.
CARRIE: So please run along and join your date now, because this
stage isn't big enough for both of us.
CALLIE [giggling]: Je ne sais pas pourquoi!
CARRIE: A lot of our guests hail from regions of anime-side where
there is onry one riquid vocabre. Need I say more?
{CALLIE hastens down to the FORTUNATE FINALISTS' table, by
way of a dazzling combat-disco kata. Applause, drooling, and
harrumphing critique of Young People These Days.}
CARRIE [materialising virtual coffee-cups before her, K MICHAEL
WILCOX, IMRAN INAYAT, and IMRAN's Muse ALLIE]: My
work there is done.
THE GREY STEWARD: And now it's time for our bloated
bourgeois benefactor to come through with his... let me see...
'unlimited supply of nudge-nudge finger food and naughty
nibbles' for our lucky prizewinners and their dates?
THE PROPRIETOR [gnashing teeth]: That would have been the
sausage rolls.
THE GREY STEWARD: Never mind. I'm sure they'll settle for
prawn crackers, somosas, bhajis, latkes, pirozhki, blinis and caviar,
sushi, and kebabed Savoury Serpent of Serendip!
THE PROPRIETOR: I can do you a surfeit of lampreys.
THE GREY STEWARD [interested]: In hippocras?
{Attempted exodus of SINGING LAMPREYS from PROPRIETOR's
pocket. Actual exodus of numerous members of AUDIENCE to
cloakrooms.}
Perhaps the association with idle luxury and hereditary despotism
*is* a bit strong for the truly class-conscious worker to stomach.
The rest, though, at least!
JAMIE: Aye, mon, it's the least they can expect from this sheer
magnanimous liberality your man was telling us of!
AUDIENCE: What? Who? When?
ZOE: Sssst! Silly! We didn't hear that!
THE PROPRIETOR [hastily]: Adric, ask Charlotte to rustle up some
of those sheerly magnanimous nibbles the Steward mentions. The
management's well-known liberality can be satisfied with nothing
less. Aheh. Speaking of football, what did everyone think about
the...
{Exit AUDIENCE'S BREATH in gales of hysterical laughter. When
everyone has returned or been carried back to their places, and all
the blown-over furniture restored to its rightful position, THE
GREY STEWARD speaks again.}
STEWARD: Well, that should be our teething troubles well and
truly out of the way. And now, the winner of our fabulous Fourth
Prize is...
KING OF THE ROCKET MEN: Heckzahopping -- not another darn-
blasted cliffhanger!
----
[ADRIC switches tapes again, quite clearly scowling and grumbling
under his breath.]
----
**CARRIE ON CROSSOVERS**
*Post the Fifth*
*In Which, Rather Confusingly, the Fourth Prize Is Awarded*
===
THE GREY STEWARD: ...the winner of our fabulous Fourth Prize
is...
KING OF THE ROCKET MEN: Heckzahopping -- not another darn-
blasted cliffhanger!
STEWARD: No -- it's:
THE MAGICAL MECHANICAL MUSICAL BOX [Monty Python]:
Duh DUH duh da-da-da DUH da da, da DUH da DUH de -- SPLAT!
STEWARD: _TDF: Friendly Hopes_, by Douglas Killings! Carrie --
roll out the romantic requisites!
{Business with Dream Datemaker. Agitated protests heard from
FORTUNATE FINALISTS' table.}
CARRIE: This one's a bit different, bo--- Comrade. [Reads]
'Impeccable dinner partner for happily married man. Must be
respectably and officially attached, to partner who is known to be
devoted but not by way of jumping to unpleasant green-eyed
conclusions. Also: graceful, pretty, witty, and with militant
distaste for bullies. Did we mention being impeccable dinner
partner for happily married man? That we did. Just checking.'
STEWARD: As I thought -- our failsafes really cut in where it
counts! In that case, let the chaste and urbane dinner
conversation *roll*!
{CARRIE lets the Datemaker roll. It opens a gate upon a tapestry-
lined but otherwise rather bleak stone chamber. No-one is visible
within. The golden neon sign changes again:
TTR Welcomes: PRINCESS LEIA!
Confusion, consternation, and scattered catcalls at the
conspicuous absence of said heroine.}
CARRIE: Wait!
{A pretty young girl in a simple mediaeval gown steps from an
adjoining room into the chamber, and marches through the gate.
She looks about ten years old. By her precocious poise and
expression of serene superiority, she may well be a princess. By
hair colour and general physiognomy, she looks most unlikely to
grow up to be Carrie Fisher. She does, however, have a couple of
sticky pastries glued to the sides of her head.}
PRINCESS LEIA: I'm so sorry I'm late. The side pieces keep falling
off. [One does so. She winces.] Did you *really* want me to wear
them?
CARRIE: No, dear, that will be quite all right. I think the
messenger got a bit carried away. [Fwaps the Datemaker with a
rolled-up website.]
THE PROPRIETOR: Minor begone! Minor begone! Our license
trembles upon a thread!
NYSSA, ADRIC, SUSAN, ETC: Yeah, right.
STEWARD: A soft drink for the young lady and a princely bribe to
any passing Forces of Repression ought to sort out that problem.
Your Well-Meaning Feudal Obsolescence, might I inquire...? [He is
not sure where to begin.]
LEIA [indicating PROPRIETOR]: He's a very rude man. My
husband would have him suspended by his tonsils over a bed of
red-hot polecats by now. Though of course that would rebound
on my husband in lots of funny ways later, because he's a very
good idiot.
CARRIE [clouding up]: Your *husband*?
STEWARD: In a purely legal and diplomatic sense, if he's who I
think, though those aren't words I'd normally associate with that
fellow. 'Purely', least of all... You're Princess Leia of *Hungary*,
aren't you? Child-bride of Prince Edmund, called Edgar, Edward,
Edna, Thingy, and The Black Adder?
LEIA [blushing]: Yes. Am I famous like Ye Spiced Porke & Hamme
Girls?
STEWARD: In a much more savoury way, comradeling. Would
you care for a free meal from our Pink Menu, in the company of the
most gentle and gallant Grand Master of the Defenders D'Alzaire?
LEIA: Well... what's the Pink Menu?
ADRIC [reading]: Processed Meat Product cut into romantic hearts.
Processed Meat Product cut into lucky stars. Processed Meat
Product cut into luxury diamonds --
LEIA: I want that one! I want that one! It sounds just like
Kilmansegg Sporkum's Lucre Lozenges! My favourite!
PROPRIETOR [as many eyes turn upon him with a dawning horror]:
Sporkum is an economical, wholesome, and traditional alternative
to the Meat Whose Name Is Unspoken. By consuming it, we all
help drive its accursed upstart rival from the face of this planet, and
vindicate the sacrifices of the uncounted heroes who perished that
the Spamite hordes might never again threaten the liberty, the
leisure, and the sacred bandwidth we all hold so dear! [Wipes
away a tear. General patriotic cheers and foot-stamping.]
STEWARD: The actual difference between sporkum and spam,
being?
PROPRIETOR: Four letters and a distribution network.
AUDIENCE: Fair enough!
{IAN and BARBARA guide PRINCESS LEIA to the FORTUNATE
FINALISTS' table, where a reasonable degree of decorum is hastily
assumed, plainly to LEIA's bemusement. It is almost as if she is
accustomed to some court that makes TTR look like a church
coffee-morning.
Suddenly, a tremendous report is heard from the parking lot.}
PSYCHO NYSSA: Jeepers Keepers! An elephant gun! I wonder
who's come to play?
{The various armed factions in the bar take up defensive positions.
The various non-militant factions in the bar take up even more
defensive positions, several of them foetal. SAM produces a
placard which, this being Usenet, is compelled to read GNU
CONTROL NOW! The doors swing open.}
PITH-HELMETED HUNTER [dragging oozing and mangled
Spamite corpse through doors]: I am the distribution network.
{Pandemonium breaks out. No-one notices.}
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