Spacesuits and Sixguns Magazine
A Voidgunner Publication
Volume 1, No. 2: Spring 2007http://www.spacesuitsandsixguns.com/
Left With Wristcramps
Webmaster Note: My God! Someone actually did groove to February's so-called review of GUD magazine. In answer to a very special one-time-only request, Critical Mick turns his idiot attention to a webzine- that is, a magazine available for all to read on the Internet, completely free. The following short-short story rushes briefly through each selection in that mag, blasting criticisms like so many rifle shells or nmap commands All of the good lines were lifted in tribute from the stories that pepper Spacesuits and Sixguns Magazine, Volume 1, No. 2.
"I'm sorry. Time's up." The uniformed Voidgunner barred Wristcramps's path. He dazzled Wristcramps's eyes with the reflected blast of the departing starship's engines, and did so with the mirror-edged blades of his speargun. The cruel bastard.
"You're joking!" Wristcramps protested. What kind of world was this? The death penalty, for failing to submit an assigned 1200-word review in time for the 12:04 launch?
"Ah, you caught me out," the goliath Voidgunner admitted his untruth. "I ain't sorry at all."
He yanked the trigger.
#
As much as Wristcramps hated time travel stories, the deranged guardian of this publication-obsessed planet had left him no option but to enter one. He whacked the egg-timer alarm clock- a new and original device that he had learned about when reading Rachel Swirsky's contribution to Spacesuits and Sixguns Magazine. In the instant it takes to hit a snooze button, time rolled back ten minutes.
11:54, Wristcramps thought, the darkened ruins a mile from the spaceport suddenly looming around him. Ten Minutes. Even if he were Steriogram that wasn't near enough time to cover the ground in the district known as Volume 2 No 1, rescue the love of his sad literary life, jot the goddamned review and earn an exit pass on that last scheduled rocket.
But if he danced the skewer-through-the-eyesocket jig, what would become of Atomic Clodagh? Wristcramps kicked at a can of Tom Clancy Lite rolling along the street in the gutter wind. She would never make it back to Sinister Pete and Phantom 1052. Millions relied on their pirate broadcasts. Poor, captive Atomic Clodagh was more than just his love alone.
Wristcramps ran.
#
Instinct led his feet as fast as the famed scorcher, Macromantics. He spotted Atomic Clodagh sitting on the altar of a derelict cathedral, her guard distracted with the task of trying to get stems to spring from the high steel scaffolding. Too late the militianista hurled her copy of Postmodern Gardening with Liz Clarke, the hefty illustrated monthly whooshing past swift Wristcramps's many-ringed ear. In that instant the literary cyberpunk liberated his love, and vaulting through the vestry they tasted the freedom of an alien night.
Between desperate breaths, Wristcramps panted the explanation. Occasional breaks in the ruined skyscrapers showed pre-launch lithium billowing from the spaceport on the edge of town.
"11:56," Clodagh noted.
Eight minutes.
"Come on! Terabit quick!" He urged. Feet pounded dust from cracked pavement. Wristcramps wished, as he typed upon his palm symbiant a few comments on Larry Tritten's The Westlake Comancheros, that the wireless connection with the voidsubmissions desk was terabit-per-second quick: Stylish post-apocalyptic western where life is savage: an anarchic ruin without hope, white-hat cowboys or cavalry. A sharp dog-leg awaits at the end, for those who can follow the rough twisting trail of language.
"11:58," Clodagh reported. By the light of fourteen moons they raced boldly across the bridge.
#
At 11:59 they ducked past a bionic babe whose network cable hair dangled dangerously close to the pouting robot she consoled. Wristcramps's fingers flew across the buttons of his palmtop, rambling out a socketful of blather about how author Scott Nicholson was literally giving his eyeteeth for fame. Too soon after, Clodagh coolly announced: four minutes to get to the rocket.
But in the shortcut alley wedged in between a hair salon and a Subway sandwich shop, our heroic lovers of life attracted a pack of zombies. Freaking charms of this planet, Wristcramps swore. Zombie jaws snapped close behind- young, strong corpses with the speed and stamina to run down a deer.
"12:01," Clodagh announced.
That Voidgunner with his giant speargun. Big fazzing deal, Wristcramps swore as they double-footed across plasphalt and leapt from the clawing grasp of tireless, moaning cannibals. The bastard wouldn't get the chance to flash his badge this time around.
Badge… wait a picosecond-
Badgers! That's how Lucy Snyder had escaped the undead in what had come to be known as The Great Vüdü Linux Teen Zombie Massacree.
Shit, badgers! How'd that work again? Wristcramps roundhoused a zombie through the front window of a vanity publishing house, shielding Atomic Clodagh from flying glass. He had just been talking to Snyder about badgers and zombies a few months back, when she leapt out of that Escape Pod.
Snyder rocks! Sinister Pete would dig her like a bowl of Singapore noodles.
Running, punching Perl scripts furiously into his Linux palmtop, Wristcramps raced through the front door of the nearest badgerbadgerbadger.com. Two precious minutes later, he gently lowered Atomic Clodagh from the restroom air vent of the employee bog. The spaceport towered just ahead and they were zombie-free.
#
"Sorry-" The leaping warrior giant blocked their path.
"12:04!" was all Clodagh could cry at the sight of the Voidgunner.
"Deadline time, Wristcramps!" Hateful messages, like postcards from Hell. "And the review you've uploaded to the voidserver neglected to mention the editorial or special feature on how the cover illustration was created."
Deja Judo! Wristcramps had run and fought, writhed and wrote, only to stand here in defeat a second time. He hadn't the strength to try again. The engines of the last rocket warmed from pitch black to pink-ringed-white: the color of a Ham Sandwich. Bummer. This time, at least, he would die clutching tightly to his true love.
I suppose we both figured the odds were straight up that we wouldn't make it. There wasn't any reason to suppose it would be any easier than trying to hit a housefly with a horseshoe.
"We have a stiff penalty 'round these parts." The Voidgunner slam-danced a merry jig. "I get to put you permanently out-of-print. Now, hand over the atomic hottie so we can get on with the executing."
"12:04," Clodagh reassured. Not 12:05. It's not too late yet.
There was only one sure way to keep Atomic Clodagh safe from the Voidgunner's weapon. Wristcramps sighed. "Treat her well, you dire revelator. And- please!- this, too. Catch!"
With a deft and massive fist, the Voigunner snatched the thrown treasure from the air- fingers crushing the snooze button and vanishing him ten minutes into the past.
"Come on!" Wristcramps and Clodagh raced aboard the Bell-X1 seconds before the engines wailed FLAME.
#
Wristcramps requested 1982 Cristal Blanc de Blancs to celebrate, but all the stewardess had was Director Cola or Diet Editor. He asked Atomic Clodagh which poison she preferred.
"12:12," was all the rescued broadcast star could sigh. Out the porthole, the silver sun burst over the voidplanet's edge in a pure morning. That relief overshadowed all other refreshments! Wristcramps waved the stewardess away and cradled Atomic Clodagh close.
"What fun! But, crikey! Some people take the old fiction thing way too seriously. I'm glad other mad pulpies are in it just for The Thrills." Wristcramps took it for agreement that the famous beauty offered no protest nor addition, and made no sign of moving away. "All that's left now is to rendevouz with Sinister Pete and get you broadcasting again. This ship should reach Phantasm next Thursday. Until then, I can get a record player and a generator. Let's spin kickin' tunes."
Under the blanket, Wristcramps felt Atomic Clodaugh slip into his front pocket.
"Atomic Clodagh! You are my friend, aren't you?"
Secret message here.
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