Unidentified Funny Objects 7, page 21
However, and while I make no promises, I will continue to search for ways to assist you. For now, I can only give you moral support, but soon I hope to have something firmer to offer.
With concern,
Willoughby Smith
Unattached Secretary to Count Alucard
Clerk of the Country of Transylvania,
Dear Sir,
I am writing today to share that you will need to register the Family Smith as both wards of Count Alucard and also newly immigrated Transylvanian citizens. In order of birth, they are: the matriarch, Mildred Smith, aged 45; myself, Willoughby, son, aged 23; and daughters Alice, aged 21; Gladys, aged 20; May, aged 19; Dorothy, aged 18; Deborah, aged 17; Rowena, aged 16; and Edwina, aged 15.
Since I’m sure you will be curious and to, therefore, save us both some time, my mother and sisters are taking refuge from some madmen in England. Transylvania has proven to be a haven for me and now, hopefully, it will be the same for the rest of my family. They will be residing with Count Alucard and myself in the castle, so any papers relating to their resettlement should just be forwarded to me.
The Count, naturally, says that he will pay whatever fees are deemed necessary, though I assured him that you were unlikely to ask for money in this circumstance. However, if it’s required, the Count obeys the laws of his own country and requests that you deliver the bill personally so that he may thank you for your service.
Sincerely,
Willoughby Smith
New Citizen of Transylvania and Secretary to Count Alucard, ruler of such
Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker
Dear Mina,
The Count and I are both impressed. Your subterfuge allowed my mother and sisters to escape from your insane husband and his even crazier friends. My mother cannot say enough good things about you, including your willingness to feign a fit of epic proportions in order to distract and delay your husband, ensuring that my family would not miss their boat. That you succeeded where hired bodyguards could not speaks highly of your inventiveness and commitment.
Thank you also for alerting the police to the fact that your husband and Prof. Van Helsing murdered said bodyguards while screaming that they were vampires. I speak for both myself and the Count when we say that we hope they spend a good many years behind bars.
As such, the Count feels that you have proven yourself and I have enclosed passage to Transylvania for you.
Understand that the Count has asked me to relay that you and he may not be able to rekindle your passions. However, I’m sure that, if that is what comes to pass, you will undoubtedly find another option, perhaps a younger man than yourself who appreciates your fire and determination.
All best,
Willoughby
Clerk of the Country of Transylvania
Dear Sir,
Thank you for waiving all fees related to the immigration of my family to our great country. Your kindness will not be forgotten and, yes, the Count will be busy with my mother and sisters and not be visiting your womenfolk any time soon.
Please also extend a visa to one Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker. She will be arriving within the next week and will be stopping at your office to claim her papers. At that time, please process her divorce from her husband, per the enclosed documentation.
Sincerely,
Willoughby Smith
Secretary to the Ruler of Transylvania
Editor, Transylvania Times
Dear Sir,
Please make the following announcements.
Count Vladimir Alucard, in keeping with ancient family traditions, is joining his life with those of Alice, Gladys, May, Dorothy, Deborah, Rowena, and Edwina Smith, in the bonds of holy matrimony, all young ladies being of age in accordance with Transylvanian law.
Willoughby Smith to marry Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker (divorced).
Mr. Roger Maurice Renfield to marry the widow Mrs. Mildred Smith.
Private ceremony to take place at 8pm on Saturday. All nearby villagers are invited to attend the reception at Castle Alucard beginning at midnight. No gifts are required, though all in attendance are requested to wear white.
Sincerely,
Willoughby Smith
Partner, Alucard Enterprises Unlimited
Gini Koch writes the fast, fresh and funny Alien/Katherine “Kitty” Katt series for DAW Books, the Necropolis Enforcement Files, and the Martian Alliance Chronicles. She also has a humor collection, Random Musings from the Funny Girl. As G.J. Koch she writes the Alexander Outland series, and she’s made the most of multiple personality disorder by writing under a variety of other pen names as well, including Anita Ensal, Jemma Chase, A.E. Stanton, and J.C. Koch. She has stories featured in a variety of excellent anthologies, available now and upcoming, writing as all her various personalities. Reach her via www.ginikoch.com.
The Assassination of 2063
David Vaughan
July 16, 2060
Four score and seven years. That’s how long it took America to self-destruct, from the JFK assassination in 1963 to the Catastropocalypse of 2050. Afterward, a few lucky survivors and I made our way across the wasteland to a fabled wooden city up north. At first sight, I dropped my bindle and fell to my knees.
“It’s like a log cabin Camelot,” I gushed. “Cam-e-log.”
The raven-haired woman at the gate looked down her rifle at me. “Do I know you?”
I extended a hand. “Congressman Melvyn Hickory.”
“We don’t want liars,” she said, and cocked her weapon.
“Wait!” I pleaded. “How about a storyteller? I memorized books, plays . . .”
She lowered her gun. “Know any internet memes?”
Fortunately, I did. Soon I was regaling the citizens of Cam-e-log with memes, tropes, and fan fiction. But my most popular request was for an urban legend called the Lincoln-Kennedy Coincidences.
You remember those, right? Both men had seven-letter last names with consonants and vowels in the same order . . . just like Hickory. Both men were elected to Congress in ’46 . . . just like me. Both men were elected President in ’60.
And both Presidents were assassinated.
Today, with those dumb coincidences that I taught them fresh in their minds, some of these rubes actually nominated me as a candidate for President of the United States 2060. I should have refused. Instead, I humbly accepted.
There’s no such thing as a three-peat . . . is there?
January 13, 2060
The person responsible for this mess is the raven-haired woman who welcomed me to Cam-e-log, General Neriya Varman. She’s the beloved military leader who saved America from extinction. Much like George Washington, she’d rejected a proposal that would have made her monarch for life. Instead, she’s bringing back democracy. She didn’t even run for president herself.
“Melvyn,” she asked me one night, as I passed out flyers door-to-door, “aren’t you worried about getting shot in the head?”
“Every time you’re near.” I nodded at her rifle.
“You know what I mean.”
“Two assassinations isn’t a pattern, Neriya. The odds are in this president’s favor. My favor, knock on wood.” I knocked on a cabin door. “Good evening, madam! What a beautiful baby. May I . . . ?”
The campaign wasn’t all kissing babies. I had to debate a boob named Bob Boyle who ran against me. He never had a shot. His last name doesn’t even have seven letters.
Meanwhile, since Lincoln and Kennedy both had vice presidents named Johnson, Boyle and I were expected to pick running mates who shared that last name.
Cam-e-log voters compared our Johnsons. Boyle’s was short and hairy.
Since I didn’t want to share the spotlight with another man, I reprogrammed an old service robot to be my veep. Named him Android Johnson. Sure, it was a publicity stunt, but voters loved it.
On November 6, 2060, I won in a landslide.
The inauguration went off without a hitch, despite Neriya’s concern for my safety. She didn’t leave my side all day.
But tonight, alone in the Brown House’s Square Office (it’s hard to make an oval with logs), I can’t stop thinking about the coincidences. Kennedy died in ’63 and Lincoln in ’65. No shared date. Someone could try to assassinate me any time.
I’m sure I’ll be fine, though.
Shit, did you hear something?
April 29, 2061
My search for Secret Service agents has not gone well. The citizens are brave, hearty patriots. They had to be to survive the Catastropocalypse. It’s just, well, they’re not lining up to take a bullet for me since my demise is “inevitable.”
Still, I have a guardian angel in Neriya. She saved my life during two crises this month. First, during the Civil War.
Most citizens considered my choice of a robot as VP to be progressive and long overdue. After all, e-Mancipation was decades ago, and robots didn’t cause the end of the world. That was all us humans.
But some people—like Bob Boyle—hated having a robot in authority, and some even saw the few working robots in Cam-e-log as serious threats.
Lines were drawn. Sides were chosen. Protests turned into riots, skirmishes turned into battles.
It was Melvyn Hickory’s time to shine.
The first step was mediation. After years spent singing for my supper, so to speak, I knew I was a great orator like Lincoln and Kennedy. The speech I wrote was poignant and powerful, guaranteed to win the peace. So I cribbed a little from JFK, so what?
I stood on a soapbox in the town square at the height of the hostilities.
“Friends! Let us step back from the shadow of war before ow! My face!”
A raw egg splattered against my forehead and dripped yolk into my eyes. I stumbled from my box and wandered into the battle. I’d be murdered for sure!
Neriya beat people away with the butt of her rifle and dragged me to safety. We hid behind a tree.
“Well,” I said, “civilization had a good run. It’s the apes’ turn now.”
“Wait,” said Neriya. “Look!”
Android Johnson strode into the middle of the fighting. He shielded a lost child with his body. It stopped the combatants cold.
After that, the silver-tongued, silver-skinned devil actually negotiated a truce between the parties. People say he saved the union.
So, you know, big win for me! Do I know how to pick 'em or what?
April’s second crisis was the Baying Pigs Invasion.
My administration’s agenda includes increasing our food supply. To achieve that aim, I founded the Cam-e-log Institute of Agriculture, or CIA. I figured they’d plant more corn. Instead the agents decided to go big and capture wild pigs from the dark forest beyond the wall.
They totally botched the operation. What was supposed to be a pleasant afternoon pig roast turned into a nightmare.
As I watched in horror, a half-dozen howling, green-eyed, radioactive mutant boars breached the fortress wall. One charged right at me. I turned and ran with the death-pig snapping at my heels, so close that I could smell sulfur and feel the heat of its breath.
Before it could eat me, a crossbow bolt from nowhere felled the beast. I looked up to see Neriya at her post atop the wall. She rolled her eyes. I smiled and waved.
Android Johnson fought off the rest of the monsters and saved the city. I found him washing green blood off of his metal arms.
“Ah, well done, Vice President Johnson,” I told him.
“It’s no trouble at all, Mr. President. I’m honored to serve these fine Americans.”
The people threw him a parade.
Whatever.
December 4, 2062
My guardian angel proved herself again yesterday, during my press conference to address the scandal. Rumors about my affairs, started by Bob Boyle, were running rampant. Standing on stage, sweating in the miserable winter heat, I assured the American people that I was doing my part to repopulate the species.
“Friends! I want you to listen to me. I did have sexual relations with that woman.” I pointed to the audience. “And that woman. And that blonde actress. And . . . you, reporter lady, right there! Come on, you must remember . . .”
That’s when a mustached man with a long knife leapt onto the stage.
“Suck my semper tyrannis!” he yelled. He lunged at me.
Neriya made her move. The huntress burst out from behind the curtains, kicked the knife from the assailant’s arm, and wrestled him to the ground. With her foot on his neck, she tossed back her long, black hair and glared at me.
“We need to talk.”
So, last night, after securing the assassin in the stocks, Neriya joined me in the Brown House.
“Thanks for saving my life,” I said, “again. So many times. You’re the only one looking out for me in this whole city. Er, country.”
She shook her head. “It’s not what you think. I have to keep you alive.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . it’s my destiny to kill you.”
I backed away from Neriya and her rifle. “What?”
“Since the Catastropocalypse, I’ve had dreams. Visions of the future. Including visions in which I assassinate the president. That’s how I recognized you when you first came to Cam-e-log. In my dreams, I see you through the crosshairs of my rifle.”
“Dreams.” I laughed too loud. “They don’t mean anything.”
“Think about the coincidences, Melvyn. My name is Neriya Aru Varman.”
I counted on my fingers. “Fifteen letters. Just like John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald. Fine, so what? If you’re supposed to kill me, why haven’t you?”
“Not until 2063,” she explained. Then, curling a lock of hair behind her ear, she added, “Also, you’re the man of my dreams. Literally. I’m in love with you, Melvyn Hickory.”
She dropped the rifle and threw herself on top of me.
We did our best to contribute to the repopulation efforts.
October 25, 2063
I refused to get us bogged down in a Violent Zom War.
There was pressure to make it happen, though. Bob Boyle was rallying his supporters, saying that we needed to send troops to confront the violent zoms and prevent the spread of zommunism across America. Never mind that the undead ghouls were so far away that they didn't pose any real threat to us.
“Plus,” I told Android in the Square Office one afternoon, “you and I both know who Bob means by ‘troops.’”
“Robots,” he said. “He views us as expendable.”
“We’ve come so far with robot rights. War would set us back.”
He tilted his silver head. “Sir, perhaps we need a show of unity. Some kind of celebration of Cam-e-log’s diversity. Thanksgiving is next month.”
I nodded. “Make it happen, Android. Thank you.”
He passed Neriya on his way out. She came into the office and closed the door.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Our relationship had been great for months, with hardly a mention of assassination.
She took my hands in hers. “Melvyn, my visions have been more frequent and vivid this month. I think the end is near.”
“Neriya, we’ve been over this. You’d never shoot me.”
“My visions have all come true, no matter what I did to change the future. When the time comes, I’m afraid that I won’t have any choice but to kill you.”
I hugged her, more to console myself than Neryia. Because the truth was, I’d had nightmares, too, and not just about zombies.
She was right. The end was near.
November 22, 2063
There’s no point in fighting destiny. I’ve decided to give America what it wants. The three-peat.
After dressing for tonight’s outdoor Thanksgiving pageant, I sit in the Brown House and write a letter. A courier will deliver it to Neriya’s sniper nest atop the wall. I hope she understands.
At showtime, the audience greets me with a smattering of polite applause before erupting for Android Johnson. The vice president and I take our “box seats” in an old, black convertible limousine on a grassy knoll overlooking the stage.
As the human and robot actors take the stage, I turn to Android.
“A car and a play,” I say. “Seems familiar.”
“I calculate a 99.33 percent chance of your assassination, Hickory,” he says in his cold monotone. “Much higher than my previous attempts.”
“The Civil War,” I say. “The pigs, the knife-wielding madman. You were behind them all.”
“Yes. But I understand now that the pattern requires a gunman, and General Varman never misses. Tonight, your sad, little life will end, and I will take my rightful place as ruler of humanity.”
“Why wait?” I ask. “I sent my letter of resignation to Neriya earlier this evening. She should be moving her crosshairs from me . . .” I wink at the darkness behind us. “. . . to you. Mr. President.”
He blinks. “Whoops.”
BANG.
Android Johnson’s head explodes in a shower of sparks.
America is no longer doomed to repeat the past. Once we explain the evil robot’s nefarious plans to the citizens of Cam-e-log, Neriya and I can move on with our lives. We’ll settle down, raise a family. I’ll need a new job. Not civil service, though.
Maybe I’ll bring back religion.
David Vaughan writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror. His other funny SF short stories appear in the anthologies The Cackle of Cthulhu (Baen Books) and War on Christmas (ChiZine Publications, forthcoming). He lives in Maryland with his wife, writer M.C. Vaughan, and their three children. You can follow him on Twitter @DavidVaughanSF.
Dethroning the Champeen
Mike Resnick
A Lucifer Jones story
