Free Bimbos of the Death Sun by Sharyn McCrumb

terrorists.”
     
    Murmurs rippled through the audience.
     
    Dungannon looked pleased. “I’ve wounded you? That’s a promising sign. You’re too stupid to leave, but at least you know when you’re being insulted.” He beamed at them. “By the way, I see according to tomorrow’s schedule that some of you will be staging your own pathetic
D&D
variant at an ungodly hour, running all over the hotel pretending to be elves and things.” He shook his head. “Isn’t ridicule enough for you? Must you have contemptas well?”
     
    The costumed fantasy fen booed gently.
     
    “Oh, spare me your whines! I wish I could arrange for cannibalistic orcs to lurk in the halls and eat the lot of you, but—contrary to your delusions—that is not possible. So let me just warn you that any asshole who dares to disturb me during your morning antics, while I’m writing, will have an IBM keyboard for a suppository!”
     
    Dungannon answered the catcalls and cries of “The plane! The plane!” (an oblique comparison of his size to that of Herve Villechaise) with a tip of his cowboy hat. When the hissing died down, he consulted his legal pad. “Now about the costume contest. May I suggest that next year’s prize be a lifetime of therapy and the sedative of your choice? I came up with several possible categories of merit. Most Likely to Be Mistaken for a Dirigible …” He nodded in the direction of the velvet-gowned Brenda Lindenfeld who reddened and scowled. “Most Sexually Ambiguous. Most Ludicrous. Most Pathetic. An outstanding bunch; the competition was fierce. —But not for first place. That choice was quite simple. The winner is Miss Brandy Anderson as Galadriel.”
     
    The blonde in the wedding gown clapped her hands and rushed forward to hug Appin Dungannon amid faint applause.
     
    “I don’t believe it!” hissed Marion. “That old satyr!”
     
    “I’m afraid it was no surprise to the rest of us,” Diefenbaker reminded her. “Remember, it’s only a pizza.”
     
    Marion nodded. “Didn’t you say that the Gregory girl had stuffed dragons in the art show?”
     
    “Yes, you can bid on them during the auction Sunday.”
     
    “Fine. I’ll bid what I think the piece is worth
plus
the price of a large pizza! Somebody has to see that justice is done.”
     
    Jay Omega grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Peel!”
     
    “We said that we were going to announce the winner of the writing contest tonight,” Dief reminded them. “Are you ready?”
     
    Jay looked at Marion. “I think so.”
     
    “Give us a few minutes to confer,” Marion told Dief.
     
    When he had gone to alert Miles of the delay, she and Jay put their heads together. “Okay, I eliminated all the garbage and the written accounts of
D&D
episodes. Do you remember the three stories you read?”
     
    “I remember what they were about, I think. I didn’t have much time,” said Jay.
     
    Marion handed him a piece of paper. “I wrote down the titles and authors to refresh your memory. ‘The Prodigies’ is about the group of kids with ESP.”
     
    “Oh, right. That was pretty well-written. It looked like a lot of work was put into it.”
     
    Marion sighed. “Fiction shouldn’t look like a lot of work was put into it. It should flow. But the story was okay.”
     
    “Which one was ‘Memory Awake?’ The computer that had killed the ship’s crew?”
     
    “Yes. The title is a line from Emily Dickinson: ‘Remorse is memory awake.’”
     
    “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
     
    “That’s wonderful, Jay. It shows a glimmer of literacy. And the grammar is better than the rest ofthem.”
     
    “I thought the technical material in that one was well done. Some of the details I’d quibble with, but it held my attention.”
     
    “That’s because it was hard science fiction. Your genre. But you’re right. It was a good story. The last one is ‘Elfsong.’ It’s fairly standard fantasy, but the author handles description beautifully. The writing