Hemingway
Kenneth S. Lynn
Ballantine Books, 1988
A Farewell
Champagne corks popped as Kadinskyland, through the eyepiece of a billion telescopes, exploded with properly cataclysmic force.
"My friends and colleagues- the marketing event of the century!" exalted Dexter, the Campaign Manager. "An estimated one billion eyes just watched a tiny comet, etched with our proud Red Gator logo, wipe out an overstuffed couch potato of a planet! Knocked the sucker into pieces! THAT's the sort of power Red Gator provides!"
Glasses clinked, jubilant boobs bounced, and Dexter basked in the glow of a shining promotion. But suddenly---
"What the hell's that?!" cried young Nimrod.
A thousand throats gasped as one. Upon the podium, beside Dexter, two spectral forms shimmered into being.
"My God!" exclaimed Milo. "It's---- Ernest Hemingway!"
"Yeap," piped one ghost. The other shoved Papa aside and, menacing Dexter away from the podium, tremmeloed into the mic.
"I am the spirit of Elwood Kadinsky!" the specter spoke. "Life was just eradicated from my planet by a comet bearing the symbol of your soft drink company!"
"Great promotional event, wasn't it?" grinned Dexter.
Elwood did not look pleased. "As an astronomer, I understand that you did not direct this comet. Still, I feel that capitalizing upon its tragic effects is in extremely poor taste!"
"Now look here, spookboy-" objected Dexter. "WE find a piece of space property that you don’t even own, and go through the expense of zapping our proud Gator onto its side- and you come from beyond the grave to complain about it?! Now that, my friends, is CHEEK! I don't believe that your wispy wimp ass is in any position to insult us!" Elwood's rounded, transparent shoulders sank.
The wrathful, bearded form of Hemingway stepped forward. "That's why his soul sought ME out!" With thick hands that once absorbed the recoil of weapons powerful enough to drop two-ton elephants, Hemingway gripped the Campaign Manager by his yuppie neck and hefted him effortlessly off the floor.
"We are all bitched from the start," Papa preached. "But when you get the damned hurt, use it- don't cheat with it!" Dexter's dandelion head sailed off with an audible pop. Hemingway's teeth gleamed. "Be as faithful to it as a scientist!"
Carnage ensued.
"But Kennesth S. Lynn insisted that Hemingway’s manly athleticism was just denial that he was actually a nancyboy!" protested the doomed Milo.
"The manuscript Heningway hid in his closet, published posthumously, centered on realization of transsexual fantasies!" concurred Bletchly, fleeing for his life.
Hemingway batted Bletchly's severed head to Elwood in a perfect volleyball serve. The scientist winced and stepped aside. "Ernest, don't you think all this bloodshed is a little excessive?"
"Naw," said Hemingway. "I’ve been bored in Hell. Besides, you should hear what some of those guys down there did!" He whistled, impressed.
"Well, that's the lot of them," said Elwood. Over the hall, a fuming silence descended. Blood mingled, through karma, into champagne.
"The world’s just waved," concluded Elwood's avenged spirit, edging away from a Hemingway whose eyes yet shimmered with a questionable lust, "A Farewell to Armageddons."
Kenneth S. Lynn- who's your Papa? Who's Your Papa? HA! Critical Mick, that's who.
|
