Rewired_ The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology - James Patrick Kelly [147]
“Bash, I want you to meet some special friends. Holland Flanders — ”
Bash shook the hand of a well-muscled fellow wearing a wife-beater and cargo shorts, whose bare arms seemed to be slowly exuding miniscule flakes of golden glitter.
“Cricket Licklider—”
The petite woman wore a suit of vaguely Japanese-looking crocodile-skin armor, and blinked reptilian eyes. Contacts or redactions, Bash could not discern.
“Roger Mexicorn—”
This wraithlike, long-haired lad sported banana-yellow skin, and reminded Bash of a certain doomed albino from the literature of the fantastic.
“Lester Schill—”
Bash thought this besuited, bearded guy the most normal, until he clasped Schill’s palm and received a distinct erotic tingle from some kind of bioelectrical implant.
“—and Indicia Diddums.”
Indicia’s broad face cracked in a smile that revealed a set of fangs that any barracuda would have envied.
“These are some of the Hubster Dubsters, Bash. My fellow auteurs. They’re all up for one or more Woodies tonight.”
Bash tried to make sensible conversation under the slightly oppressive circumstances. “So, I have to confess I had never heard of your special kind of, um, art before Dagny brought me up to speed. You guys, ah, mess with old films….”
Schill frowned. “Crudely put, but accurate enough. Only the dialogue, however.”
Diddums chimed in, her speech somewhat distorted by her unnatural teeth. “Thash right. We practish a purer art than thosh lazy chumps who simply fuck with the images. They have their own awards anyway. The Zeligs.”
Bash was confused. “Wait a minute. Your awards are named after Woody Allen, correct? Because he altered the soundtrack of that Japanese film over half a century ago—”
“What’s Up, Tiger Lily?” supplied Dagny, as if coaching a favored but deficient student.
“But didn’t Allen also make Zelig?”
“Certainly,” said Mexicorn in a languid tone. “But just as the magnificent Tiger Lily preceded the feeble Zelig, so did our ceremony anticipate that of our degenerate rivals. We distinguish, of course, between the Good Woody and the Bad Woody.”
“We’re writers, you see,” interjected Flanders, gesturing in a way that left a trail of body glitter through the air. “The word is primary with us.”
Licklider doffed her angular helmet and scratched the blonde fuzz revealed. “And the artistic challenge arises in fitting our words to the established images, creating a startlingly different film in the process. Any idiot can paste King Kong into Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. But it takes real skill to formulate a new script that hews to the actions of the original film and the mouth movements and gestures of the actors, yet still completely detourns it.”
Dagny said, “Well put, Cricket. There’s our credo in a nutshell, Bash. Startling novelty born from the boringly familiar. But you’ll soon see for yourself. Here, grab a glass of champagne. It’s just the cheap stuff made from potatoes, but you’d never know from the taste.”
Bash took the drink. Truthfully, it wasn’t bad. Dagny left to talk to others backstage, leaving Bash alone.
Cricket Licklider approached Bash. He shifted his stance nervously and drained his glass. A bad mistake, as the potato champagne went straight to his brain.
“So,” said the woman, “you’re the brainiac who invented proteopape.”
“Well, sure,” said Bash. “That is, I did, but it didn’t seem to require too many brains. After all, others had been messing with e-paper for a while, even if they weren’t getting anywhere fast. It’s not like I conceptualized the whole thing from scratch. The rest was just solid, if inspired, engineering.”
“So why didn’t anyone else get there first? No, you deserve all the luster, fizz.” Cricket pinned Bash with her alligator eyes. “Tell me, you get much hot tail along with the royalties?”
“Uh, I, that is—”
“Well, believe me, you could walk off tonight with a double armful of proteopape