Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“It was really ahead of its time,” said Dean. “Branching nonlinear storyline, conversation trees, and a fully-implemented stat/skill system. The graphics weren’t the best, and it was a hassle swapping out all those floppies, but Parallel Worlds: The Void was as good as video games got in 1984.”

“And the Cadillac Cimarron was as good as subcompact cars got in 1983, so what?”

“Well, there was this little thing called the video game crash. You wouldn’t have heard about it, seeing as you were a zygote at the time, but about half the industry went belly-up. Hardly anyone was in the mood for epics, even for home computers, so the game moved barely five thousand copies. It wasn’t until people started passing illegal copies around in the late 80’s that it became famous.”

“And?”

“And it ended as a cliffhanger. You never find out the full story behind where you are or what’s going on. The company folded before they could finish the second installment. You could be sitting on the only copy in existence.”

Holman and Hafmann halls, the twin titans of historic Southern Michigan central campus, had a storied history. Apparently Clyde Holman and Eugene Hafmann had both attended there as undergraduates and taken an immediate loathing to each other. The fact that housing arrangements in those days were determined alphabetically, plus the dichotomy suggested by their surnames, were apparently enough to result in four years of ribbing from friends (in those halcyon days, students were required to live on campus their entire career, as were faculty, restrictions not lifted until 1947).

Fate took both of them to postgraduate work in mathematics, albeit at Ohio State and the University of Michigan, and Holman and Hafmann were both hired by their old alma mater, itself in the middle of a paroxysm of postwar expansion, after earning doctorates. Offices were, once again, assigned alphabetically and the old enemies found themselves in close quarters…for the next thirty years. Their intense rivalry precluded either one ever becoming chair, and neither would retire before the other. When Holman died in his office late in 1977, he willed a large portion of his estate to fund construction of a new building.

Hafmann, not to be outdone, contributed a matching amount plus one dollar, with the stipulation that his be the larger of the two buildings. His death from a stroke two weeks later made that clause unenforceable; in a fit of irony unprecedented before or since, the architect linked the two buildings.

“I wonder if anyone has done any work on using drywall and bass beats to send information,” said Chester. “Forget fiber-optics. I can hear every note just as if I’m in their living room.”

“Our lease is up in August,” said Felicity. “If you can come up with the $500 we need to break it early, great. Because I can’t.”

The thin walls bulged with another round of bass notes, accentuated by roaring voices singing along and clinking glasses.

“Always drinking and singing,” Chester continued. “Like they’re holding some kind of perverted mass. I think I’m going to call it the Tabernacle House the next time I complain. That ought to at least raise a few eyebrows.”

Does your pad lack flair due to streaks of miserable grime? Are new and rich ecosystems of mold, fungus, and mildew ever-spreading in your pad’s most secret places? Has the foul odor of your pad deadened your nose to all life’s olfactory pleasures?

If you answered “yes” or “maybe” or shifted nervously, you need Tai-De-Pad Spray™. Specifically designed for people who lack the natural grooming instinct, Tai-De-Pad Spray™ is an omni-cleansing gel, capable of cleaning any surface to its original luster and adding luster to surfaces that didn’t have it factory installed. Toilets, sinks, carpets, computer hardware, compost, pets, goose down, tile, oxygen, and rock…it doesn’t matter! Tai-De-Pad Spray™ will cleanse them all and leave a sweet almond scent.

Tai-De-Pad Spray™: Tidy your pad with Tai-De-Pad™.*

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Nobody was quite sure how Cutlip Confections got its moniker. Some said that founder Jacob John Dunwiddie had named it after his friend and business associate Jeremy Cutlip. Others maintained that for many years the company’s signature candy was the cutlip, so called either because its cracked edges resembled chapped lips or because they could occasionally be suck’d into sharp shapes that actually could cut one’s lips.

Needless to say, the name was something of a liability, and generations of Cutlip board members lamented the sales lost through such an unappetizing name. But Dunwiddie family members were in control of the firm and notorious for their love of tradition–besides which the name “Dunwiddie Confections” was scarcely more palatable. But with the 1989 death of Jacob John Dunwiddie VI, who left no heirs, the board was finally in a position to effect the change they wanted. The initial suggestions tended to focus on fads–one board member suggested “Neon Confections” just as that craze was peaking–that focus groups rightly saw as ephemeral. So the company, in a bid to turn public relations straw into gold, announced a contest for a new name.

Entries poured in from around the globe, but the ultimate winner was something no one could have expected…and it would have consequences that Jacob John Dunwiddies I-VI could never have foreseen in their wildest nightmares.