Witpunk Read online

  WITPUNK

  Edited by

  Claude Lalumière

  and

  Marty Halpern

  FOUR WALLS EIGHT WINDOWS

  NEW YORK

  Anthology selection © 2003 Claude Lalumière and Marty Halpern Story credits are listed at the end of the text.

  Published by Four Walls Eight Windows

  39 West 14th Street, room 503 New York, N.Y., 10011

  Visit our website at http://www.4w8w.com

  First printing April 2003.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Witpunk/edited by Claude Lalumière and Marty Halpern

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-56858-256-0

  1. Science fiction, American. 2. Fantasy fiction, American. 3. Science fiction, Canadian.

  4. Fantasy fiction, Canadian. I Halpern, Marty. II. Lalumière, Claude.

  PS648.S3 W58 2003 813'.08760817—dc21

  2002192768

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Typeset by Pracharak Technologies (P) Ltd. Printed in Canada

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  The Teb Hunter

  Coyote Goes Hollywood

  Spicy Detective #3

  Auspicious Eggs

  Timmy and Tommy’s Thanksgiving Secret

  Savage Breasts

  I Love Paree

  Day 1: The Night the Lights Went Out in Dialtone

  Day 2: Bend Over and Say “Aaaah!”

  Day 9: Full Metal Baguette

  Day 30: The Revolution Will Not Be Franchised

  Day 63: It’ll All End in Tears

  Arabesques of Eldritch Weirdness #8

  The Seven-Day Itch

  The Scuttling or, Down by the Sea with Marvin and Pamela

  A Halloween Like Any Other

  The Lights of Armageddon

  Doc Aggressive, Man of Tin #2

  Bagged ’n’ Tagged

  Amanda and the Alien

  Diary from an Empty Studio

  Is That Hard Science, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

  Six Gun Loner of the High Butte #6

  Encounter of Another Kind

  Tales from the Breast

  Science Fiction

  Mother’s Milt

  Deep Space Adventure #32

  The Wild Girls

  Jumping

  Kapuzine and the Wolf: A Hortatory Tale

  Meet the Witpunks

  Acknowledgements

  Credits

  Preface

  This all started in June 2001, when, on an e-forum called fictionmags, someone asked, "When did reading SF/fantasy stop being fun?" Witpunk coeditor-to-be Claude Lalumière took exception to this question and especially to the point of view that it represented; namely, that science fiction was no longer as much fun as it used to be. He promptly posted a list of recent genre novels that were fun in a variety of ways, from over-the-top adventure tales and goofball satires to sardonic pastiches and dark comedies.

  Using that list as a template, fellow fictionmaggers Marty Halpern and Claude Lalumière began to think about assembling an anthology that gathered together classics of hard-hitting sardonic fiction with new stories exemplifying that contemporary fiction – any kind of fiction, be it genre or so-called "mainstream" – was as much fun as it ever was, if not more so. And we (pardon the abrupt switch from third to first person) settled on Witpunk as a suitably facetious name for such an enterprise. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

  Back to the question that started it all. This is an oft-heard complaint: that [fill in the blank] isn't as much fun as it used to be. To which we say: bullshit.

  When people complain like this, what they're really saying is: "When I was younger, I discovered science fiction (or rock music, or sitcoms, or whatever), and it fixed in my mind exactly what SF (rock music, sitcoms, etc.) should be. Any deviation from this model is a debasement of the form, and in my self-involved geekhood I will proclaim any such deviation an abomination, an insult to my right that creators everywhere bow to the tastes I developed in my earlier years!"

  Contrary to their stated claims of wanting things to be fun, such people have become anti-fun police, ready to destroy anything new and exciting, to denigrate anything that doesn't conform to their one-note idea of entertainment. Of course, you Witpunk readers are above such petty sentiments. You all equate fun with being challenged and surprised, while rote reiterations of tired old tropes bore you to death.

  And you seek out fiction that satisfies your need to be entertained with new ideas, merciless irony, transgressive wit, and engaging storytelling.

  In this book we've gathered twenty-six such stories by twentyfour writers, ranging from established veterans to first-time authors. While some of these authors will slap you sardonically silly upside the head with their in-your-face humor, others weave more subtle tales of dark irony. Although most of the writers in Witpunk are active in the SF and fantasy genres, not all of the stories in this book are fantasy or SF. Several, in fact, take place in the here-and-now, but their characters, ideas, and attitude are too daring to be labeled "mundane" or "mainstream."

  But, come to think of it, all of the stories in Witpunk are SF: Sardonic Fiction, that is.

  Claude Lalumière and Marty Halpern, January, 2003

  The Teb Hunter

  Allen M. Steele

  "The trick," Jimmy Ray says, "is not to look 'em in the eye."

  The truck hits a pothole just then, jouncing on its worn-out shocks and causing stuff to skitter across the dashboard: shotgun shells, empty chewing tobacco cans, wadded-up parking tickets ignored since last May. A little plastic bear swings back and forth beneath the mirror; Jimmy Ray reaches up to steady it, then glances back to make sure nothing has come loose in the back of the truck. Satisfied, he takes a swig from the box of Mountain Dew clasped between his thighs.

  "That's why I don't take kids," he continues. "I mean, it's just too much for 'em. My boy's too young for this anyway . . . next season, maybe, after he gets a gun for Christmas . . . but a couple'a years ago, I tried taking my nephew. Now Brock's a good kid, and . . . hang on . . ."

  Jimmy Ray twists the wheel hard to the left, swerving to avoid another pothole. A can of Red Man falls off the dashboard into my lap. "Gimme that, willya?" I hand it to him; he pops the lid off with his thumb, gives the contents a quick sniff, then tucks it in his hunting vest. "Like I was saying, Brock's bagged a couple'a deer with no regrets, but I got him out here and he took one look at 'em, and that was all she wrote. Just wouldn't shoot, no matter what. Fifteen years old, and here he is, bawlin' like a baby." He shakes his head in disgust. "So no kids, and I'd just as soon not let anyone else shoot. No offense, but if you can't look 'em in the eye, it ain't worth the hassle, y'know what I mean?"

  The woods are thick along either side of the dirt road, red maples shedding their leaves, tall pines dropping cones across the forest floor. We slow down to pass over a small bridge; the creek below is fogged with early morning mist, its clear waters rushing across smooth granite boulders. Jimmy Ray slurps the last of his Mountain Dew, then tosses the empty box out the window. "God, what a beautiful morning," he says, glancing up through the sunroof. "Great day to be alive." Then he winks at me. "Less'n you're a teb, of course."

  Another quarter-mile down the road, he pulls over to the side. " 'Kay, here we is." The door rasps on its hinges as Jimmy Ray shoves it open; he grunts softly as he pries his massive belly from behind the w
heel and climbs down from the cab. Another few moments to unrack his rifle from the rear window – a Savage .30-.06 bolt-action equipped with a scope – before sauntering over to the back of the truck. The canopy window sports stickers for the NRA and a country-rock band; he throws open the hatch, then pulls out a couple of bright orange hunting vests and a sixpack of Budweiser.

  "Here. You can carry this." Jimmy Ray hands me the beer. He reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a laminated hunting license on an aluminum chain; briefly removing his dirty cap to reveal the bald spot in the midst of his thick black hair, he pulls the chain around his neck, letting the license dangle across his chest. He removes the chewing tobacco from his pocket and uncaps it, then pulls out a thick wad and shoves it into the left side of his face between the cheek and his teeth. He tosses the can into the back of the truck, slams the hatch shut. "Hokay," he says, his inflection garbled by the chaw in his mouth, "les' go huntin'."

  About fifteen feet into the woods, we come upon a narrow trail, leading east toward a hill a couple miles away. "Got my blind set up that way," he says quietly. "We may come up on one'a them 'fore that, but it won' matter much. This is real easy, once y'know how to do it. All y'need is the right bait."

  We continue down the trail. We're a long way from the nearest house, but Jimmy Ray is confident that we'll find tebs out here. "People git sick of havin' 'em 'round, so they drive out here, set 'em loose in the woods." He turns his head, hocks brown juice into the undergrowth. "They figger they'll get by, forage for berries and roots, that sort of thing. Or maybe they think they'll just up and die once winter kicks in. But they 'dapt to jus' 'bout any place you put 'em, and they breed like crazy."

  Another spit. "So 'fore you know it, they're eatin' up everythin' they can find, which don't leave much for anythin' else out here. An' when they're done with that, they come out of the woods, start raidin' farm crops, goin' through people's garbage . . . whatever they can find. Hungry lil' peckers."

  He shakes his head. "I dunno what people find cute about 'em. You wanna good pet, you go get yourself a dog or a cat. Hell, a fish or a lizard, if that's your thing. But there's something jus' not right 'bout tebs. I mean, if God had meant animals to talk, he would'a . . ." He thinks about this a moment, dredging the depths of his intellect. "I dunno. Given 'em a dictionary or sum'pin."

  Jimmy Ray's not particularly careful about avoiding the dry leaves that have fallen across the trail, even though they crunch loudly beneath the soles of his boots. It's almost as if he wants the tebs to know he's coming. "Talked once to an environmentalist from the state wildlife commission," he says after awhile. "Said that tebs are what you call a weed species . . . somethin' that gits transported into a diff'rent environment and jus' takes over. Like, y'know, kudzu or tiger mussels, or those fish . . . y'know, the snakeheads, the ones that can walk across dry land . . . that got loose up in Maryland some years ago. Tebs are jus' the same way. Only diff'rence is that they were bio . . . bio . . . whatchamacallit, that word . . ."

  "Bioengineered."

  "Thas'it. Bioengineered . . . so now they're smarter than the average bear." He grins at me. "'Member that cartoon show? 'I'm smarter than the average bear.' I sure loved that when . . ."

  Suddenly, he halts, falls silent. I don't know what he's seen or heard, but I stop as well. Jimmy Ray scans the forest surrounding us, peering into the sun-dappled shadows. At first, I don't hear anything. Then, just for a moment, something rustles within the lower limbs of a maple a couple dozen yards away, and I hear a thin, high-pitched voice:

  "Come out and play . . . come out and play . . ."

  "Oh, yeah," Jimmy Ray murmurs. "I gotcher playtime right here." He absently caresses his rifle as if he's stroking a lover, then glances back at me and grins. "C'mon. They know we're here. No sense in keepin' 'em waitin'."

  A few hundred yards later, the trail ends in a small clearing, a meadow bordered on all sides by woods. The morning sun touches the dew upon the autumn wildflowers, making the scene look like a picture from a children's storybook. And in the middle of the clearing, just where it should be, is a small wooden table with four tiny chairs placed around it. Kindergarten lawn furniture, the kind you'd find at Toys "R" Us, except that the paint is beginning to peel and there are old bloodstains soaked into the boards.

  "Hauled this stuff out here two seasons ago," Jimmy Ray says, pushing aside the high grass as we walk toward it. "Move it around, of course, and clean it off now and then, but it works like a damn." He smiles. "Learned it from Field and Stream, but this part is my idea. Wanna gimme that beer?"

  I hand him the six-pack; he rips the tops off the cartons and carefully places them on the table. "Book says you should use honey," he explains, his voice a near-whisper, "but that's expensive. Bud works just as well, maybe even better. They can smell the sugar, and the alcohol makes 'em slow. But that's my little secret, so don't tell anyone, y'hear?"

  The bait in place, we retreat to a small shack he's put up on the edge of the clearing. No larger than an outhouse, the blind has a narrow slit for a window. The only decoration is a mildewed girlie poster stapled to the inside wall. Jimmy Ray loads his rifle, inserting four rounds in the magazine and chambering a fifth, then lines up five more rounds on a small shelf beneath the window. "Won't take long," he says quietly, propping the rifle stock against the windowsill and focusing the scope upon the table. "First one saw us, so now he's tellin' his friends. They'll be here right soon."

  We wait silently for nearly an hour; Jimmy Ray turns his head now and then to spit into a corner of the blind, but otherwise he keeps his eye on the table. The shed is getting warm, and I'm beginning to doze off when Jimmy Ray taps my arm and nods toward the window.

  At first, I don't see anything. Then the tall grass on the other side of the clearing moves, as if something is passing through it. There's a soft click as Jimmy Ray disengages the safety, but otherwise he's perfectly still, waiting patiently for his prey to emerge.

  A few moments later, a small figure crawls into a chair, then hops on the table. The teb is full-grown, nearly three feet tall, its pelt black and soft as velvet. Its large brown eyes cautiously glance back and forth, then it waddles on its short hind legs across the table until it reaches the nearest beer. Leaning over, the teb picks up the carton, sniffs with its short muzzle. Then its mouth breaks into a smile.

  "Honey!" it yelps. "Oh boy, honey!"

  Jimmy Ray steals a moment to wink at me. Honey is what tebs call anything they like; either they can't tell the difference, or more likely their primitive vocal chords are incapable of enunciating more than a few simple words which they barely understand, much the way a myna bird can ask for a cracker without knowing exactly what it is.

  Now more tebs are coming out of the high grass: a pack of living teddy bears, the result of radical reconfiguration of the DNA of Ursus americanus, the American black bear. Never growing larger than cubs and bred for docility, they're as harmless as house cats, as friendly as beagles. The perfect companion for a child, except when people buy them for all the wrong reasons. And now the woods are full of them.

  "Honey! Oh, boy, honey!" Now the tebs are clambering onto the chairs, grabbing the beer cartons between the soft paws of their forelegs and draining them into their mouths. A perfect little teddy bear picnic. They're happy as can be, right up until the moment when Jimmy Ray squeezes the trigger.

  The first bullet strikes the largest teb in the chest, a clean shot that kills it even before it knows it's dead. The teb sitting in the next chair hasn't had time to react before the back of its head is blown off; the first two gunshots are echoing off the trees when the other tebs begin throwing themselves off the table, squeaking in terror. Jimmy Ray's third and forth shots go wild, but his fifth shot manages to wing a small teb who was a little too slow. It screams as it topples from its chair; by now the rest of the pack are fleeing for the woods, leaving behind the dead and wounded.

  "Damn!" Jimmy Ray quickly jams four more rounds int
o the rifle, then fires into the high grass where the tebs are running. "Quick lil' bastards, ain't they?"

  He spits out his chaw, then he reloads again before slamming open the shed door and stalking across the clearing to the table. He ignores the two dead tebs, walks over to the one he wounded. It's trying to crawl away, a thick red smear against the side of its chest. Seeing Jimmy Ray, it falls over on its back, raises its paws as if begging for mercy.

  "I . . . I . . . I wuv you so much!" Something it might have once said to a six-year-old girl, before her father decided that keeping it was too much of a hassle and abandoned it out here.

  "Yeah, I wuv you too, Pooh." And then Jimmy Ray points the rifle muzzle between its eyes and finishes the job.

  We spend another half-hour stalking the surviving members of the pack, but the other tebs have vanished, and before long Jimmy Ray notices vultures beginning to circle the clearing. He returns to the picnic table and checks out his kills. Two males and a female; even though he's disappointed that he couldn't have bagged any more, at least he's still within the season limit.