Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Say it.” Falco was facing Schultz now, advancing slowly and deliberately. The gun was still in his hand, less the two slugs he’d put into Lombardi, or whoever. Lowered, but with Falco’s finger still wrapped around the trigger.

“How…how can you expect me to perform right now?” Schultz cried.

“This is why I hired you,” Falco said. “That other stuff? Warmups. Most of you comics from the app don’t make it this far.”

Schultz looked at Lombardo, or whoever, who was on the ground. Given the neat entry wound, right between the eyes like a bindi, there was literally no doubt that he was dead as hell. “You hired me to watch you kill people?”

“Hell no,” Falco said. “My buddies do that for free. Look, kid. I’m a good soldato, eh? I do what my capo tells me to do, and sometimes, that means whacking people who ain’t so bad all things considered. Like Lombardi here. Nice guy. Went to church every Sunday. Has a baby girl. Shoulda thought of that before dealing behind the don’s back, but whatever. Point is, I need some cheering up.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Schultz moaned.

“Oh yes you did,” Falco said. “I read the EULA. You are here to provide wisecracks on contract, and you’re on the clock. You’ve seen too much, too, so if you don’t make with the funny when and where I want, it’s kablammo for you, capice?”

“On the clock or on the Glock,” Schultz said, miserably.

Falco chuckled. “Ha! See? It ain’t so hard. Now do me a better one. Get me laughing. Or join Lombardi here in sleeping with the snitches.”

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Luncherion and Dinnerius thought that their plan had succeeded, and they had finally managed to finish what they had begun. After the death of young Brunchey, they were confident that they had finally slain their great enemy, Breakfast, the first and most sinister meal of the day.

But as the sun rose the following morning, they heard–to their horror–the sound of sizzling bacon and smelled–to their astonishment–the smell of strong coffee. They hadn’t stopped Breakfast from coming; it came. And somehow or other, it came just the same.

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People never listened to Jared, despite his 25 years of experience and his name on the sign of his own exotic plant nursery.

“Just remember not to let more than 13 buds grow, or the singing reeds will start to form a consciousness. I remember there were some folks that didn’t listen to me, went on a year’s vacation, and when they came back the singing reeds were 150 buds strong. Poor people were psionically forced to tend to the plants day and night until the county called me in, I had to spend three days in the dirt wearing a psychic nullifier to get them all dug up.”

“I’m not allowed to sell Misters unless they’re potted. In out pots, we give them a specially nutrient-poor soil so that they can still release their rainbow mist but it won’t be toxic. If you replant them, that rainbow will contain paralyzing neurotoxins and you might starve to death in your own backyard.”

“You need to put that Fiberweb Rooter in a tungesten carbide pot, or its roots will break anything you put it in to get to the slightest drop of water. I mean it, even though they can’t survive without watering they will punch through the foundation of your house to get at the aquifer beneath if you let them.”

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6:33 PM – Rooftop of the New Yorker Imperial Club

Cradling the bird in his hands, Gus looked up. “Look. I know I really good pigeon surgeon.”

“Who does surgery on birds, much less pigeons?” Annabella said. “Look at poor Pidge. He gave it his all but there’s no way he’ll make it.”

“Trust me on this.”

9:11 PM – Room 3327 of the New Yorker Hotel

At Gus’s knock, the door had been answered by a well-groomed old man after about twenty minutes of bumps, crashes, and muttering in a language Annabelle didn’t understand. Gus hadn’t even said anything, he’d merely held Pidge up to the peephole.

“Bring the bird in,” the man said. He was gaunt, with a mustache, and must have been about seventy-five at the youngest. “Lay him on the table, under the lamp.”

Gus did so. “Thank you, Mr. Tes-”

“NO NAMES. I do it for the birds.” The old man retrieved a small kit from another room and opened it, revealing an array of what looked like tools for electrical engineering. “These tools are not designed for such work, but they will do so long as I have steady hands, hmm?”

“Can you save him?” Annabelle said. “Can you save our Pidge?”

“Yes, provided I am not interrupted in my work. Please bear in mind that I am only doing this because my favorite bird is in danger.”

“The whole world is in danger if this plot comes to fruition,” said Gus. “We need this pigeon to stop it.

“I could tell you a thing or two about endangering the world, but only at the risk of breaking my concentration for this pidgery,” the man laughed. “There. A few pellets taken out, some sutures, and your bird will live. Allow two to three weeks for full flight recovery.”

“That won’t do,” Annabelle said. “We need him to fly urgently.”

“Well, then, step into the room here and let’s see what we can do for him.”

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“That new secretary is really cute.”

Dirk looked over at the front desk, where Mallory, a purebred 2-year-old koala bear in a blouse, was writing out an interoffice memo longhand.

“You know, I think you’re right,” he said.

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“There is only one way across, and with the shielding destroyed, it will expose whoever takes it to a dose of radiation that will almost certainly be lethal,” said LEA.

Mina smiled wanly. “Almost certainly, you say? Give me the chance of survival, then.”

“You would be subjected to the full force of ionizing radiation from the solar event that the station was commissioned to study. Your suit would provide negligible protection, and it is 99.99% certain that you will be exposed to a lethal dose of 1000 rads or more.”

“Death by sunshine exposure,” Mina said. “And the .01%?”

“That only exists because my programming does not permit rounding to 100%,” said LEA.

“Immediate effects of acute radiation syndrome will include nausea and vomiting, following which there will be a temporary lull in symptoms lasting 24-36 hours. Your condition will rapidly deteriorate thereafter, and you will be subject to radiation-induced traumas including, but not limited to, severe diarrhea, erythema, blistering, intestinal paralysis, gangrene, and eventually a total disintegration of bodily functions. Estimated survival time is 120-168 hours, with no useful consciousness after hour 96.”

“You always did have the best bedside manner, LEA,” said Mina. “And there’s no other way to get to the relay?”

“Not at this time.”

Mina took a deep breath, gulping down the cool, cold recycled air with a spasm that sounded like a sob. “All right,” she said weakly. Then, again: “All right.” She tried to keep her voice from quavering, to project an air of confidence, as if LEA was capable of judging her, the only living human being left in the power station.

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When they first came, they took the forest’s bark, and the old trees that had fallen. But the stubborn forest persisted.

In time, they took the trees themselves, one at a time, toppling them and hauling them off. But the stubborn forest persisted.

Then came great metal claws, and teeth that tore and shredded harder and faster than any before while belching poison. But the stubborn forest persisted.

Soon there were few trees left, and they were cordoned off to one side, too small to be useful, while new forests grew nearby–forests of squares, of oily surfaces, of dancing and captive flames. But the stubborn forest persisted.

Then the new forests grew silent. The dancing and captive flames went out. The new square forests, flimsy, collapsed upon themselves. Empty, dead, and abandoned for those few places that remained as refuge. But the stubborn forest persisted.

It is quiet now, and the boundaries of the forest are expanding. The world is different now, and some of the trees can no longer survive. But the stubborn forest persisted.

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CARL: This is Carl Drake, play-by-play commentator for NBS Broadcasting, coming to you delayed via the NBS Sports Podcast. The NBS Sports Podcast: what new talent outgrows and where old talent comes to die.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. This is Tom Hicks, color commentator for NBS Broadcasting, and in addition to the absurdities of putting two of its most experienced sportscasters in a low-bitrate format with no actual sports to commentate, we’re here to talk to you about Northern Mississippi University football’s coach, Mark Skywalker, who was let go this week in a shocking turn of events.

CARL: Only shocking if you hadn’t been paying attention, Tom. The NMI Confederates are 4-8 this season, their third losing season in a row, and they just lost a heartbreaker to Eastern Mississippi by a single point in overtime after leading the Bird-Dogs for three quarters.

TOM: That’s right, Carl, rumors of Coach Skywalker’s demise were rampant for years, but let’s not forget that he came to the NMI Confeds while they were under NCAA sanctions for paying players under the table and he was hobbled by both those sanctions and the ignominious end of his predecessor, who was caught up in a prostitution ring sting operation in Las Vegas.

CARL: Well, whether you think that Coach Skywalker deserved another chance or not, you can’t argue that the way he was fired was not the best.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. Normally one expects a formal meeting or joint press release, but in this case, by all accounts, the decision was written in eyeliner on a dryer sheet and Skywalker only found out when NBS Sports reached out to him for comment.

CARL: I don’t think we can repeat his reaction on the air, even if this is just a podcast.

TOM: That’s right, Carl, and even if we could I don’t think we could match his heady mix of disappointed stoicism and florid sailor talk.

CARL: Add to that the indignity of being fired literally as the first act of the Confeds’ new athletic director, himself less than two weeks in the position, and appointed by the controversial new NMI president who is himself on the job less than two months.

TOM: That’s right, Carl, and with both hires accused of corruption and cronyism, it’s anyone’s guess who will wind up as the new head of oblate spheroids at NMI–a position so prestigious and well-paid that even the salary is considered to be a Mississippi state secret. My thought is that they’ll try to lure Gunderson away from the Bird-Dogs at Eastern Mississippi.

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Our car idles on the side of the road as the cruiser’s lights flash. The officer saunters up, gestures for us to lower the window.

“Do y’all know why I pulled you over?” he drawls, his eyes inscrutable behind mirrored shades.

“Uh, no, officer, I don’t.”

A badge flashes, held safe in a leather wallet. “Kentucky Fashion Police,” he says. “Ordinarily we don’t pull people over, but after seeing what y’all were doing, well…we had to make an exception. Please step out of the vehicle.”

“Are you really allowed to arrest people for bad fashion choices?”

The officer sucks at something in his teeth. “Boy,” he says, “this here’s Kentucky. We let a lot slide by, but not this. You best thank your lucky stars you weren’t wearing that in California. CFP’d have you in the chair for it.”

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CARL: This is Carl Drake, substitute newscaster for NBS Broadcasting, coming at you live from the NBS Channel 62 Newsroom with a Weather alert. We go now live to Tom, substitute stormchaser for NBS 62, at the scene of today’s big storm.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. This is Tom Hicks, your substitute stormchaser, and as you can see behind me, an F2 tornado has touched down near central Cricketford, and we are urging everyone to take shelter immediately.

CARL: That F2 is having a hell of an opener, Tom. But I’m guessing you don’t think it has a shot at the big time?

TOM: That’s right, Carl. Based on its stats, I’d say that this storm has probably peaked too early, and it will probably never make the Fujitsu Scale Hall of Fame. It’s worth noting now, and for the record, that I am not nor have I ever been a meteorologist.

CARL: Well, we are all learning new things about ourselves and practicing unusual skills in this era of media consolidation and layoffs, aren’t we? Also, it looks like the tornado behind you just hit the Zhoosh Barn on 6th.

TOM: That’s right, Carl, there is an explosion of sequins visible from here. The Zhoosh Barn has lived up to its moniker and glammed up this bush-league tornado like a reality show. And now it’s hitting the Sweet Spot.

CARL: I take it you mean the Sweet Spot bakery on 7th rather than the sweet spot it needs to make F3?

TOM: That’s right, Carl, there are pastries flying everywhere now amid the sequins.

CARL: That is one tasty storm. And let me just remind you, in case you missed it earlier: this is a full-on Tornado Warning for Cricketford County, and everyone is urged to take shelter immediately unless they are covering the storm for a major news outlet against which they have no professional recourse.

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