Rewired_ The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology - James Patrick Kelly [148]
Cricket grinned broadly, then turned to leave. Bash said, “Wait a minute.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you related to —?”
“My great-grandfather. And wouldn’t he have sold my grandfather for a single sheet of proteopape?”
Dagny came then to reclaim Bash. “Let’s go. We’ve got seats in the reserved section, but I want to be on the aisle so I can jump up easily when I win.”
Bash followed Dagny out of the Green Room, which was emptying rapidly. Out on the main floor, fans were now swarming into chairs. The crush at the various bars was intense, and a palpable excitement filled the club.
Dagny managed to secure more drinks, and she and Bash took their seats. Before too long, the lights dimmed and the ceremony began.
First came a few live song-and-dance numbers, each one in the spirit of the Woodies. Music and choreography replicated famous routines, but all the lyrics had been altered. The rumble between the Jets and the Sharks from West Side Story now limned the current scientipolitical feud between the Viridians and the Dansgaard-Oeschgerites. Gene Kelly’s acrobatic leaps from Singin’ in the Rain now parodied the recent scandal involving Lourdes Ciccone and that prominent EU minister, Randy Rutger.
The audience applauded wildly for every act. Bash found himself bemused by this disproportionate reception to what amounted to some juvenile satire. Was this truly representative of the cultural revolution that proteopape had supposedly engendered? If so, he felt ashamed.
Finally the master of ceremonies appeared, wearing a disposable suit cut along the lines of the famous oversized outfit often worn during shows of the last millennium by singer David Byrne, whose octogenarian career had recently received a boost thanks to a sold-out tour with the Bleeding Latahs. Fashioned entirely from proteopape, the MC’S outfit displayed a rapid-fire montage of subliminal images. The flicker rate made Bash’s eyes hurt, and he had to avert them.
“Our first category is ‘Best Transformation of Tragedy to Comedy.’ And the contenders are Faustina Kenny for her Casablanca — ”
A clip rolled on the big proteopape screen, and on smaller screens scattered throughout the Antiquarium. Bogart leaned over to Dooley Wilson as Sam, seated at the piano, and said, “Are those keys made from redactive ivory or wild ivory?” Sam replied, “Neither, Rick—they’re human bone from Chechnya. Can’t you see how they glow! ”
“Engels Copeland for his High Noon—”
A stern Gary Cooper faced an adoring Grace Kelly and said, “Don’t worry, Amy, the family jewels won’t be damaged. My underwear is redactive armadillo hide!”
“Jim Cupp for his The Lord of the Rings—”
Frodo Baggins gazed deeply into Sam Gamgee’s eyes as their boat drifted downriver and said, “Admit it, Sam, you ate the last damn antioxidant super-choc bar.”
“Lura Giffard for her Blue Velvet—”
A dissipated Dennis Hopper, breathing mask clamped to his face, muttered, “Why the hell did I ever volunteer to beta-test this new crowd-control spray?”
“—and finally, Dagny Winsome for her Gone with the Wind. ”
Cradling Vivien Leigh in his arms, Clark Gable said, “But Scarlett, if you go in for gender-reassignment, where will that leave me?” “On the bottom,” she replied.
“And the winner is — Dagny Winsome for Gone with the Wind!”
To a storm of applause, Dagny trotted onstage. Gleefully triumphant, she clutched the offered trophy—a bronze bust of Woody Allen with a blank word-balloon streaming from his lips—and launched into her acceptance speech.
“This was not a lock, folks! I was up against a lot of strong contenders. My thanks to the judges for recognizing that a femplus subtext does not preclude some real yocks. I’d just like to thank the California State Board of the Arts for their continued support, my parents for zygotic foresight, and Alex, my physiotherapist, for those inspirational heated Moon rock treatments. Oh, and let’s shed