Saturday Film Series

Only the lucky ones get into Evil Editor's Shorts on opening night.

Book Chat Reminder

As I recall, we're discussing Man in the Dark Saturday the 18th at 9:00 AM eastern time.

New Beginning 661 (short story)

Waking in strange places with a mouth full of cotton and drummers playing in my head isn’t as unusual for me as it might be for some, so at first I wasn’t alarmed at all. Not having a woman beside me and still having pants on, now those things were a little out of the ordinary. I barely started putting my fuzzy brain to work on figuring out where the hell I was and how I got there when the answer arrived. With a screech of rusted hinges, a door was violently ripped open and bright light assaulted my eyes. Lifting my hand to shield them was just an innocent reflex, but the person who grabbed me by the neck and tossed me on my face seemed to disagree. I lay there with my cheek pressed against cold metal and a knee in the middle of my back threatening to crush the life out of me one kidney at a time and I knew it was time to get just a little bit concerned.

That was also all I knew, at least about anything that had happened since I walked out the door on what may or may not have been the day before. Before this one, that is, this one where hands were groping all over my body in a much rougher fashion than I generally preferred. Those doing so were strangely silent as they abused my person and my dignity. I tried to get a good look at them, figure out who I was dealing with, but the hand holding my head firmly to the ground made it a chore to catch more than a general impression of black armored suits.

A rough hand pulled my head back and forced my jaw open; then stars flashed as unbearable pain ripped through my head, instantly clearing my mind. That's when I remembered phoning the emergency number of Mercenary Endodontist.

Just as well I still had my pants.


Opening: anon......Continuation: anon.

Cartoon 425

Caption: Whirlochre

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Writing Exercise

You're the only student who signed up for Evil Editor's graduate course in creative writing. EE walks in the first day carrying a burlap sack. "You have one hour to write a paper involving this," he says, reaching into the sack and pulling out . . .

Well, you write the scene. Not the paper; the scene in the classroom. Deadline: Sunday, 10 AM eastern. 300 words max.

Face-Lift 653

Guess the Plot

Chicken Shed

1. Burned out after twenty years of white collar work, a yuppie quits his job and moves to a farm in Wales, where he finds peace and takes up a new hobby: torturing and slaughtering people in his . . . Chicken Shed.

2. Jenny and Mike decide to quit the corporate jungle and go completely off-grid in suburban California. Everything seems to be going along smoothly--until the baby chicks they bought to give them eggs turn out to all be roosters. Now no one in the neighborhood dares turn on the light to use the bathroom.

3. Three brothers end up behind enemy lines in France. Beautiful Marie LaFarge tells them the only way they can survive is to hide in her chicken shed until the war ends, but things go from strange to surreal as they slowly lose their minds and grow wings and feathers.

4. As WWIII grinds on and a syndicate of diabolical robots rule the world, five resistance members inhabit a maze of caves in Missouri, code-named Chicken Shed. They create an idyllic tribal culture complete with music, dance, moonshine, and one mad dream for which they will soon risk everything.

5. Uncle Frank's place is cool - wicked cool -- and 8-year-old Winston thinks the noises and lights he sees late at night coming from the chicken shed are the coolest thing of all . . . until one night, he sneaks out and discovers Uncle Frank's latest invention.

6. The chickens in the shed have always been violent and clever. Paula would have gotten rid of them long ago if she didn't need their eggs. But now her two-year-old son has wandered into the shed. Can Paula outwit these monstrous birds to save him?


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor,

CHICKEN SHED is a completed 100,000 word novel about a nameless ex-hedge fund manager who, thanks to the credit-crunch, has found himself at a loose end after working brutally long hours for twenty years amassing tremendous quantities of money in the City of London. [Even us Americans know London's a city.] To pass the time in his now empty life, he changes his identity, [He was already nameless; why does he have to change?] moves to a farm in [Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,] Wales and takes to kidnapping, torturing and finally slaughtering the men who, as teenagers at the school that he attended in the 1970s, tormented and humiliated him. [He does this "to pass the time"? Are his victims in Wales or is he going elsewhere to get them? Did he grow up in Wales? This guy sounds familiar. Except for the slaughtering part. I think.]

Realising that the police never look too hard when a middle aged man disappears – especially if money is occasionally withdrawn from his bank account and there’s a sighting or two of someone who looks a bit like him somewhere in the country –

[Cop: Seen this guy? He's been missing a week.
Man: I saw someone who looked a bit like him in Penbontrhydyfothau a few days ago.
Cop: Okay, guess we can stop looking.]

he is able to ply his gory new trade undisturbed against the backdrop of the beautiful Welsh countryside for several years. [Never underestimate the value of an alluring landscape when you're engaged in slaughtering people.] His victims are captured, and then dispatched, [Gotta admire the British talent for tactful understatement. A crass American author would have said massacred or butchered or mutilated.] with the style, single-minded dedication and lavish supply of surgical equipment only someone with his experience, wealth and mental health issues can muster.

His run of luck is finally disturbed when his latest victim turns out to be a drug dealer actively being investigated by the police. [They really should consider putting your case in the inactive investigations pile once you've been slaughtered.] Although the North Yorkshire force, from under whose nose the man is captured, fail to follow the clues, a sharp eyed and persistent Welsh detective named [Gwarthegydd] Jones picks up the case and [Spoiler alert.] eventually gets his man. In a final plot twist, Jones also uncovers a deeper motive to the gruesome crime he has just solved.

The darkest scenes, as well as the climax, take place in the Chicken Shed of the title - a battery [-operated] chicken farm shed converted from the mass production of low quality meat to bespoke tailoring of high quality pain and suffering. [Remove "and suffering" if you're going for two phrases with similar cadence. A less-unwieldy way would be: from fowl butchery to foul butchery."] [Also, you might change "bespoke" to "custom" if you send this query to the uncivilized world.] Written mostly in the first person present tense, the protagonist gives his thoughts on everything from the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright [A genius that Frank Lloyd Wrrright guy may have been, but I'd like to see him design a better chicken shed than my own.] to be [the] best way to prepare deep fried tarantula. [Drop tarantula into deep fryer. Fry until it stops screaming. Mwynhewch eich bwyd!]

[Other Useful Welsh Phrases:

I don't understand.................. Dw i ddim yn deall
Speak more slowly.................. Siardwch yn arafach
Say that again......................... Dywedwch hynny unwaith eto
Write it down.......................... Wnewch chi ysgrifennu hynna
My hovercraft is full of eels.... Mae fy hofrenfad yn llawn o lyswennod.]

Thank you for considering my query.

Yours faithfully,


Notes

This was an episode of Criminal Minds, except your serial killer isn't a quadriplegic.

This is like Dexter, except your serial killer is the bad guy.

Better title: The Silence of the Hens

Well-written, and you can't go wrong with a creative serial killer. It's a little long. You can afford to lose the first sentence of paragraph 2, tacking the second onto paragraph one. And you can afford to lose "To pass the time in his now empty life," as he is doing this for revenge and for the unrevealed deeper motive, not just to kill time.

Cartoon 424

Caption: Whirlochre

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

New Beginning 660

Dorian probably should be upset, at the fact he was hanging a good twenty feet off the ground, suspended in a large net of chains along with his brother and Raurk, but he felt nothing. Dangling high above the ground with only the creaking bough of an old oak tree to support their weight should cause at least alarm, Dorian thought. Certainly something besides the same numbness he had always felt, well not always. There had been a time when things matter, a time when things affected him. Now everything he did seemed rather pointless. He feebly tried to tug on the chain biting into his ankle because it seemed like what he should do, not because he really thought he could break the chain or even lessen its hold on him. Sighing inwardly he gave up after only a few minutes and looked at his companions to see if they were faring any better than he.

No, they were no closer to freeing themselves--though they were clearly more bothered than Dorian by their predicament, shooting reproachful glances his way and even muttering the occasional "Tut."

He could expect no less, of course. While they had all agreed this Ikea treehouse would be perfect for the twins, it was Dorian who had said, "Don't worry, it looks easy to put together."


Opening: Brandy Snyder.....Continuation: Anon.

Book Trailer

The book trailer Evil Editor produced as an auction item in the Brenda Novak auction was for an e-novelette by Helen Pilz, which became available today from The Wild Rose Press. The advertised item was an "amusing book trailer," but upon noting that the book itself was not amusing, I offered to try a serious trailer. After gathering images that were applicable to the story I decided it was better without adding a voice over, and the author agreed. Possibly because she's heard my voice. The first version was over two minutes, but I thought it might drag, and removed a few images to make a shorter version. Helen likes both versions, so I told her I'd solicit the minions' opinions. (I note it's the shorter version she currently has on her website.) Should you feel inclined to order the work, it's available here.

Short version (1:44)




Long version (2:11)

Cartoon 423

Caption: Anon.

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Face-Lift 651

Guess the Plot

The Lesser Species

1. Cows have had enough. It's time to knock humans to the bottom of the food chain.

2. Aliens land on earth and refuse to communicate with humans. Strange gases start coming out of their ships, killing any human who comes near them. One scientist realizes the chemicals in the gas are pesticides, and the aliens are carrying tanks full of the stuff to rid the Earth of . . . the lesser species.

3. A man is abducted from Earth by the Galactic Council and put into a zoo with other lesser species. He escapes and rigs the next election so that he becomes Galactic President. But once in power he realizes he'd just as soon have a plate of nachos.

4. Dogs vs. Cats. The final war that will end the debate once and for all.

5. Christof flexed his legs. It was time for the revolution. His army's carapaces gleamed. He was proud of them. So began his war against the lesser species. One day the Earth would again belong to Christof, king of the cockroaches.

6. Biologist Harold Carter is obsessed with the reproduction of the monotremes. He's spent decades in Australia, studying. Meanwhile his wife and children grow increasingly distant. Will he return to soul-crushing suburbia, or stay in Australia with his beloved platypi?



Original Version

While there’s no doubt we humans are happy to wallow in our own importance, what would happen if we were sent into the galaxy where everyone else regards us as The Lesser Species? [We're already regarded as the lesser species by cats. And, of course, sharks.]

Mistaken for Earth’s leaders, Lucy and Peter are abducted by the Galactic Council as part of an outreach project for lesser species. When they end up at a natural zoo, an unhinged journalist orchestrates their escape and leads the reluctant pair on a quest for excitement. [If the Council wants a couple Earthlings in their zoo, why would they care whether they get Earth's leaders? They ought to go for Penn and Teller or Yo-yo Ma and Tina Turner. Much more entertaining for zoo visitors. Wait, professional wrestlers!] This includes seriously annoying a man who owns a religion, [The best example you can come up with of their quest for excitement is they annoy a guy?] and convincing a group of rebellious programmers to rig the next election. On a parallel quest to find Peter, his fiancée Wendy and her friend Mark spend most of their time in a spaceport security line, with a short stint as the pets of reality show stars. All four meet up at the Council where, despite a horrid press photo and inane campaign speeches, Peter is elected Galactic President.

The Lesser Species accompanies these four travelers as they try—and fail—to make sense of their place in the galaxy. Lucy sets out to raise the bar for the human race, but only manages to raise the bar on her weirdness scale. Mark applies scientific reasoning to all problems, and still loses all of his luggage and one of his shoes. Wendy discovers that big breasts and a winning smile really are tickets into anywhere. [Especially if you ever want to be published.] Peter never learns to duck when the galaxy tosses something unexpected at him. But at the heartwarming conclusion, they realize that relationship drama, hot showers, and nachos are what make life as a Lesser Species not so bad.

A science fiction satire of 73,000 words, The Lesser Species would be appreciated by those who (like me) regret that Douglas Adams can’t add a sixth book to his Hitchhiker Trilogy.

As a computer engineer, I spend most of my time writing about real science, but over the past five years, I’ve added fiction to my repertoire. One of my science fiction stories won a Southwest Writer’s Award.

I’d be pleased to send you my completed manuscript. Thank you for your time.


Notes

The tone is right for the type of book. This could get results, but I'm not thrilled by some of the details. For instance, the third paragraph is listy, which is okay, as the plot is finished, but the items in the list aren't especially funny or interesting. Except the breasts, of course. If you could make Lucy's more specific and Mark's less boring it would help. I don't consider it ironic that a guy who applies scientific reasoning to all problems loses luggage and a shoe. Typical absent-minded professor.

The previous paragraph doesn't need the horrid press photo or the waiting in a security line:

On a parallel quest to find Peter, his fiancée Wendy and her friend Mark become celebrities as the pets of galactic reality show stars. All four eventually meet up at the Council where, despite a series of inane campaign speeches, Peter is elected Galactic President.

If you also dump annoying the guy, or replace it with something that is exciting I'd be more excited myself. (Possibly just telling us what they do to annoy him would be enough, if it's funny.)

Cartoon 422

Caption: Whirlochre

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

New Beginning 659

The heavy wooden doors, engraved with the image of a dragon, swung slowly open on their iron hinges, revealing a lone figure, a man. Immediately the two guards that had been leaning against the door fell to the ground. Dead.

The intruder cleaned and sheathed the twin short swords he carried, one on either side. He was fairly tall, with straight black hair, crystalline blue eyes, and golden-brown skin that rippled over muscle and sinew. His attire was dark and austere. His only accessories were the two short swords, and a rather large one slung across his back and concealed in black cloth. The most curious thing about him was the rough sack he was carrying.

“They just don’t make doorkeepers like they used to,” the man said wryly. He sauntered into the torch-lit, yet perpetually gloomy and shadow-haunted throne room, wherein sat on a black wrought-iron chair the very person he had come to see. “Greetings, Gripgrim, Lord of Thardus,” he called out in a deep, resonant voice. He over-bowed, more in mockery than respect.

“Welcome, surly warrior,” said Gripgrim, “to The League of Cliché Spouting, Stock Fantasy Characters.”

A scrawny thief sharpened a dagger in the corner and said, “Join us . . . or die.”

“Stay your hand, thief.” said a bearded dwarf. “You can catch more flies with honey than--”

“Silence!” cried an elf as he shot a venomous stare in the dwarf’s direction. “Does your foolishness know no bounds?!”

“Enough! Time is of the essence,” declared Randolph the wizard as he placed a magic amulet on his staff. “Let’s lock and load.”


Opening: Brett Wade.....Continuation: Matthew

Synopsis 16

This synopsis goes with the Face-Lift that appeared July 3. If you haven't read that yet, and you like to play Guess the Plot, scroll down now, as you are about to encounter spoilers.





Hang The Thief - Synopsis
Genre: Fantasy
Author: _______________

A misguided and outcast scholar unwittingly is used by a demon to open gates that bring great evil into the world. The deities as a result awaken and give their faithful the power to save lives. [How long have the deities been asleep? It would be annoying to discover that the reason your prayers have gone unanswered is because the gods have been hibernating for three millennia.] Monsters enter through the gates and natural disasters also occur which kill hundreds. The gates also allow magic to enter the world which gives mankind the power to cause great good and great evil, including the ability to create and use the undead. [Is that an example of great good or great evil? Because if I could use the undead to read slush, that would be good.]

On the day the gates open, Ehlana is seventeen years and adrift in her world without hope or purpose in life and she joins a thieves’ guild for the easy money. Six years later, Ehlana sees two people enter the sewers. [Are you just hitting the highlights of the book?

Scene 1. Chaos reigns as monsters are released into the world.
Scene 2. Six years later two people enter the sewers . . .

Are the monsters still around? What's been happening for six years? Not specific events if there aren't any important ones, but what's the world like? Are people and monsters coexisting? Are monsters killing people right and left?] She is spurred to action when she discovers that one of them is a notorious assassin. She follows the assassin into the sewer and learns that an evil cult is worshipping there. She takes this information to the watch and a high priestess. [Hi, I'm with the local thieves' guild, and I'd like to report a worshiping violation.] With their help she infiltrates the cult, learns of their plot to kill a court official and helps the watch seize the coven. Not all of the cult members are arrested and her life is now in danger. [If the authorities needed someone to go undercover, why would they choose Ehlana? Why not one of their own or at least someone who's never been a member of a criminal organization? And why does Ehlana care if some court official gets killed?]

Ehlana leaves the city for her protection and goes to the Bashkir region where she becomes the clans’ bard and learns their ancient language and that of the gypsies. Three years later [The book keeps starting over. Is there a connection that holds all the parts together besides the fact that Ehlana is in all of them?] the world stands on the brink of war partially due to the catastrophes caused by the gates. Ehlana has dreams and is advised to go to a temple to discover their meaning. She and her guide are joined by a barbarian priestess who believes Ehlana is a child in prophesy. [She's at least 26 years old by now.]

Ehlana learns through visions that the gates need to be closed [It's been over nine years since the gates were opened, bringing death and destruction and monsters upon the land, and no one has thought of closing them yet?] and in order to find out how they must go to the Anaran Academy and Library. There Ehlana using her abilities to read ancient texts and decipher riddles hidden in songs, learns how to close the gates. Although she hates magic and those that use it, she is not convinced they should be closed, because the gods’ gifts would cease as well. [Gates open = Monsters + natural disaters + evil magic (includes undead) + good magic. It's three to one.] She chooses to forsake her destiny but changes her mind when an undead army annihilates the Bashkir region. [Okay, okay, I'll close the lousy gates. Jeez, you'd think nine years of monsters and zombies was the apocalypse or something.]

Ehlana along with friends travel to place the gates were opened and she performs the ritual necessary to close the gates but is killed by the demon’s death knight before she succeeds. The gates are only partially closed. [That's it? The end? She's killed? After failing? That's like Gollum grabbing the ring from Frodo and shoving him into the fires of Mount Doom. Like Westley, Inigo and Fezzik getting killed and Buttercup marrying Humperdinck. Like Babe losing the sheep herding contest and Farmer Hogget selling him to Oscar Meyer.]


Notes

The opening of the gates begins the chaos. The closing of the gates will end the chaos. In between, we want to know about the chaos. Closing the gates doesn't seem so important if all you tell us about the nine years they've been open is that Ehlora spent six years as a bard and then helped prevent one guy from being assassinated. And someone almost went to war with someone. Is the zombie attack on Bashkir the only thing that's happened that's bad enough to spur Ehlana to action? Is studying in the library the only thing Ehlora does to try saving the world?

I see it as a problem that your main character accomplishes absolutely nothing. She has to succeed. If she fails, you may as well scrap this book and write one about the character who comes along later and gets the gates closed. That's the character we want to read about, not the one who accomplishes nothing.

What do the monsters look like? The Incredible Hulk? Dinosaurs? Calling them monsters makes it sound like a kids book. What are they?

Cartoon 421

Caption: Mother (Re)produces

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Writing Exercise Results . . .

. . . are in the posts below. The task was to write a scene in which Evil Editor makes his case to the College of Cardinals for being the next pope.

Pope Interview 11

A rose—who cares what kind of rose; a rose is a rose is a rose and that’s pretty uplifting, just like toothpaste squirted on a sultry mirror and smeared there like Crisco on a car window like this guy I heard on Car Talk just the other day who said he pranked somebody’s car by stuffing a ton of teabags in the window—yeah, a rose by any other name—yes, name, that’s what I’m getting to because you’re all so fixated on names when a rose by any other name would smell—no, I do not smell, that’s probably the guy next to you, the one with the hat on steroids—would smell as sweet and I know I’m quoting Shakespeare, not the Bible, but sometimes you can’t think of any appropriate verses—what’s that about the Books of the Law and stoning—no need for that, I can assure you; as I was saying, my name is hardly indicative of the sort of person I am , just like albino blackbirds use bad hairspray, so being called evil doesn’t mean I crush dreams any more than being called cardinal means you’re red—no, not redneck, red—no, not Communist and don’t worry, I’m not either—and have wings—yes, I know you’re mad about me editing that book, but I donated all—Annanias and Saphira?—ok, some—ok, thought about donating some of the money to charity, so surely you can let bygones be bygones and give me a chance, because we’ve all got some seedy things in the past, like names, and you know if you give me a chance I’ll change my name to something decent like Innocent.

--_*Rachel*_

Pope Interview 10

Evil knelt and bowed his head, his only head, his made-my-mind-up, sure-as-eggs-is-eggs-even-ostrich-(though-never-for-breakfast-jeez-they’re-way-too-big) head — as much a part of him as any other of his anatomical features (or combinations thereof) (for he was neither a cyborg nor an amputee) — a head grown from spermy ovummy brain-seed to bushiest muttonchop dame-suck cactus as if tended by some knowledgeable shepherd of renown, like maybe with a neuroscience degree or advanced medical training (at very least) and the special equipment equivalent of a quad bike they use nowadays for rounding up sheep instead of a sheepdog; slung between his shoulders like his longbowesque spine was a trebuchet poised to hurl it backwards into the vestry, here, in this vast, echoing, arched, and possibly 15th Century Venetian chamber — aieeeeee, such riches! — its humbled pate proffered before the cardinals, each clad in kite-like regalia of silk and bauble, conjoined olympic rings of them chanting and exuding incense while he — mute as a child from whom the proverbial candy has been stolen or maybe just forced into its mouth, cruelly, by ruffians — sweating, nervously, viewed, like a coiled snake (though only technically as he knew it wouldn’t do to bite or poison a servant of The Lord) the emerging flush of smoke he sensed in his dark and stormy heart was the aura of God — oh, omniscient author! — rising in plumes to suffuse the cardinals with power to grant him his wish, amongst the angels to soar, in raiment satin, lurid and divine — and yet, said omniscient author, cunningly, calculatedly ran down the last few words, gobbling them up before Evil’s startled eyes, counting loudly two hundred and seventy six, before permitting the pleading editor the briefest of opportunies to speak, tongue warbling like the dry grey grub of a budgie’s maw...

‘I—’

--Whirlochre

Pope Interview 9

The air was filled with the sound of bells, and sunshine poured down over St. Peter's Square (for it is in Vatican City that we set our scene) like golden syrup from a tin bought on special offer from Tesco's at 99p each.

Inside the Sistine Chapel, Evil Editor paced up and down before the College of Cardinals like a very portly caged ocelot with muttonchops.

"Consider," he declaimed, "how all human experience comes before me, albeit over-written and badly punctuated. Consider how I understand suffering; how I stand before you Christ-like, crucified upon a pile of submissions. Consider how authors present themselves to me daily, and that I understand their need for mercy and forgiveness. All right, I don't actually show them any, but I understand their need. No one comprehends the spiritual needs of humanity, their dreams and aspirations, as deeply as I do; how can you refuse me? Especially," he added, "as, given all the sex scandals and so on, the only other candidate is Rosie O'Donnell."

The Dean of the College of Cardinals rose to his feet. EE braced himself.

"Your appeal is moving," said the Dean. "But there is one matter that still concerns us ..."

There was a piece of paper in his hand. EE felt a nameless dread clutch at his heart. He recognized the form letter above his own scrawled signature.

He looked around. All about the Chapel, the Cardinals were standing, and each one held a rejection letter in his hand. Their faces were grave and implacable.

"We are sorry," the Dean intoned, "but we feel you do not meet our requirements at this time."

EE's shoulders slumped. "God bless Pope Rosie," he muttered.

--Steve

Pope Interview 8

Walking into a room filled with squawking geezers, Evil Editor, his voice booming like God's the first time he caught Adam polishing the bishop, yelled, "HEY, KNOCK IT OFF," adding, "Holy Christ, I haven't seen this much red since the time I edited Stallone's autobiography."

"Who the hell are you?!" the fat one said. Actually, they were all fat, as you'd expect of guys who hit the buffet at Mama Rosa's Lasagna Conclave every day.

"I'm here about the opening," EE replied.

"The janitorial position? Check with human resources."

"No, no, I heard you were looking for someone to run this joint.

"I'm not sure I follow--"

"Pope, you idiot. I'm applying for the job."

"I see. We generally choose the pope from amongst--"

"Yeah, yeah, from amongst yourselves. How's that been workin' out? Look, you need fresh blood. Someone whose attitudes aren't as outdated as those of a radical fundamentalist Muslim cleric who's just been transported back to the Cenozoic era."

"What makes you--"

"The position's become an embarrassment. Why do you think whoever gets it uses an alias?"

"And you could do better?"

"Is the pope Catholic?"

--Evil Editor

Pope Interview 7

Tear-laden cumulonimbus clouds scudded like Korean missiles over Vatican City as the Dean of the College of Cardinals, his red robes billowing like a blood-stained Jolly Roger, returned from the Papal balcony with tear-soaked hanky and red-rimmed eyes that only moments before glanced up to the ever-vigilant statues of the Baptist, the Redeemer and the Evangelist who stood upright like teenage willies and watched over the Church's minions filling Saint Peter's Square where the Dean had announced the dreaded news of the demise of Il Papa -- an event both anticipated and feared and yet, as the assembled believers knew, an event as natural as the sun and stars, the moon and sky and as heavenly as the dandelions of the field.

EE's voice broke the silence in the Papal salon. "So Ratso Rizzo finally kicked the bucket. Sorry about that Deano." A dozen pair of eyes rolled heavenward as silent prayers and dagger-like looks turned his way. "Now don't get all theologically pissy and judgmental. I have all the qualifications you need and want. First, I have the patience of a saint from reading all the slush that minions toss over the transom like Guido's three-day old lasagna with ricotta." The Dean interrupted his orutundity.

"Perseverance does not make you primus inter pares. Hardly. The consistory must vote."

"Be not afraid Dude. You and the Cardinalate have supreme power sede vacante. Consider this your opportunity. Y'all are like ringleaders at a multi-continent circus where the clown acts are all playing at once in extremis. I have the power to bring order to raucous chaos by turning your extensively boring writings into gems like those of Lohan's insightfulness, like Gingrich's audacious Contract or those youthfully-tweeterific radicalisms by Iranian revolutionaries. It's time to be baptized into new technology."

--Dave F.

Pope Interview 6

It was a Dark Ages and stormy night, while the Romans, complacently in their soft chairs like a baby at her mother's britches, made of soft cotton, which was like silk but not quite that soft, unaware of the looming invasion of the Goths and Visigoths that would put the empire into a fall like a bird felled by a larger, scarier Gothic or Visigoth bird of prey, worried only about their own little piece of the empire, that St. Augustine of Hippo first considered the notion of unmerited grace, but also worried about the perversion of his words in the future by the evil one, Malus Redactor.

The Dean of Cardinals was no less concerned of this worry, 17 centuries later on the fourth of July, staring in the face of the corporal instantiation of Malus Redactor himself, Evil Editor, who had claimed that the sede vacante was non-operative in view of the corpus delicti rule: the Pope's plane had fallen into an active volcano, so anyone could be Pope.

"Perhaps we should have a corpus delicti rule, but we don't," said the Cardinal. "The church fathers did not anticipate airplanes falling into volcanoes."

"I have an ancient document outlining the papal corpus delicti rule in detail," said Evil Editor. He took out of his briefcase a very old document, so old that it had pin-feed edges to guide it through the ancient dot matrix printer that Evil Editor still used.

"I'm not greatly persuaded by your document," said the Cardinal.

"How about these, then," said Evil Editor, showing the Cardinal his size 15 army boots, the best butt-kicking shoes on the planet.

--WouldBe

Pope Interview 5

It was a dark and stormy Papacy, filled with the kind of interminable plagiarisms one would associate with a rotten little dog that should have been neutered long ago with a blunt instrument and no sort of anesthetic whatsoever; however, although castration does involve the genitals it does not involve the genitals in the sort of thing this Pope was involved in.

"A choirboy?"

"Yes," said the Cardinal, "but we've handled that kind of scandal before. We need a new Pope because everybody found out the last one was a zombie."

"Didn't they catch on when he started mumbling "grrrowllfff," and "must eat brain."

The Cardinal shrugged. "We told them he was speaking in Latin. But you see our difficulty. We need a new Pope."

The Cardinal filled Evil Editor's glass with more wine.

“And,” said Evil Editor, smacking his lips as he warmed to the prospect of power more than to the rather indifferent wine, “you are the top Cardinal, the cardinal Cardinal, as it were.”

“The word Cardinal when used for clergy does not mean chief, it means hinge. Our original task was to be sent to places where the Pope didn't have clergy, or at least clergy he could trust.”

“You're going to be de-cardinaled if you don't watch out. Expect to go on a lot more trips if I'm elected Pope.”

“I will inform the college. Right now we need significant reform, we need someone at the top who is ruthless enough...I'm sorry, would you like another one?”

“No,” said Evil, “this nun is fine.”

“Yes, well, let's just say that the College of Cardinals is not slow on the uptake and we know never to send a zombie to do a werewolf's job.”

--D Jason Cooper

Pope Interview 4

“Hey, I wouldn't be the worst Pope ever,” Evil stated, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that he probably would be, since his lack of conscience would allow him to tell all the whining masses - who thought that by going to church every Sunday they were somehow better than everyone else and had front row seats to heaven, even though they picked their noses when they were alone in their cars, and cheated on their income tax returns just like nonbelievers – that the whole ‘heaven’ thing was just a sham thought up by a bunch of guys who wanted to tell everyone else how to act.

Cardinal Vesturi frowned. “You seem an unlikely candidate. You've publicly denounced the Almighty, and you aren't even Catholic.”

Nonplussed, Evil waived the Cardinal’s concerns away like an anemic gay man. “We'll spin it. It'll be just like that John Denver movie where he explains that the best person to lead sinners to God is the one who has overcome the most sinning. No, wait. That wasn't it - it was Steve Martin in that movie where he’s an evangelist who’s just out to make money. Well, anyway, everyone believed him.”

The head Cardinals conferred, speaking in heated, whispers.

“Why would anyone believe you?” Cardinal Vesturi asked, at last.

Evil shot him a million dollar smile. “Because I'd be the Pope! Look, half the Catholics in the world already think that God speaks directly through the Pope, and I can do this ventriloquist thing with my voice – it’s really convincing. I'd have them eating out of my hands like a herd of sheep. Like shooting fish in a bathtub. Waddaya say?”

--Mark Mosher

Pope Interview 3

“My ass is as itchy as dry skin gets after a shower with lye soap and sandpaper and that skin scrub my wife uses,” said Evil Editor to the Cardinal Cardinal in answer to the question “how are you today and why should you be pope,” so, without pause for thought, Evil editor continued: “You see, I have hemorrhoids and I have this pillow I normally plop my ass on but my wife and her sister borrow it and I said you know where that’s been right? To which she replied, “Your ass.” My wife is my primary reason putting in an application. Everyone is always coming up to me and saying, 'You have the patience to be the Pope.' So here I am. As you can see I’ve spent a lifetime crushing author hopes, which isn’t far from what the Pope does--you know: can’t be gay, women should be barefoot and pregnant, that kind of shit. I’ll be great. I only have one problem. No contraception. Do you have any children?”

"No,” said the Cardinal Cardinal. “I’m celibate."

“You dirty son of a bitch,” Evil Slapped him on the back. “The first thing I’m gonna do as Pope is make sure you get laid. I know a real fine hooker, name's Candy . . . "

“You’re hired.”

--Susan Smith