Clash of the Geeks (5 page)

No, the Scalzi was more or less free of existential angst about his personal form. He was more concerned with the hows and whys of this Mordor-like landscape, which investigation had proved was not actually Mordor, due to its telltale lack of hobbits.

Something was hunting him through the dark and ash. He heard flapping in the night, of wings that made him cringe and cower, wings belonging to some creature beyond the bounds of nature—neither dragon nor manticore, but some other foul beast, with breath like rotting meat and claws that resounded off the mountainsides like swords clanging on anvils. It was not the sort of feline he could tame with his usual methods of adhesive and pork products.

He had an enemy, riding the aberrant beast. A fighter. A powerful one.

While he skulked between the shadows that stretched between basalt monoliths, the Scalzi kept his gaze on the sky. Once, he looked up in time to see the sun silhouetting his airborne opponent. The man wore raiment in red and white, emblazoned with the symbol of a mocking face. He rode straight-backed, one fist wrapped around the golden chain of an amulet, the other around the haft of a spear. His mouth contorted into a furious roar—and though the sound was swallowed by the bubbling lava and the thunderous clap of the pegasus kitten’s wings—still, chills clutched at the Scalzi’s bowels.

•••

Heroes wear identities as talismans.

Wil contemplated his analyst’s words as he and his mount circled the volcano.

Identity warped and stretched and bent and bled. Who was he? What was a hero?

He cast a jaundiced eye downward, critically regarding his heroic pose. The amulet, the spear—not bad as quest items went—but he balked at the clown’s disturbing, knitted grin.

Then again, was the sweater any more ridiculous than the garment he’d cast off? That spandex uniform which would have made a decent pair of pajamas?

Recently, his mother had been trapped inside an ever-shrinking bubble that isolated her from her friends, one by one, until she was alone in a miniature universe just big enough for her.

This sort of thing was always happening. It didn’t seem to be the product of a coherent cosmos.

But what did? Certainly not the universe his alternate persona inhabited, in which vast conspiracies of “geeks” congregated in “newsgroups” on an enormous “world wide web” to call for his death. 

Their vehemence was demoralizing on the one hand, but inspiring on the other. In order for his mother to become the center of the universe, she’d needed to eliminate all rivals until she was the only one left. Without even trying, Wil was already the center of many universes—petty ones, yes, but universes just the same. His detractors paid their hatred like adherents at an altar.

Perhaps it was their dark incantations which had summoned all this into being. One final confrontation: Wil against evil. Evil against Wil.

How the unicorn pegasus kitten was involved, Wil couldn’t venture to guess. Perhaps it was they only way an internet incantation could summon an avatar of goodness—part mythology, part LOLcat.

•••

The Scalzi knew when he woke that this would be his last day on this hellish terrain. The strange volcanic world rumbled and shook with renewed vigor, building toward whatever explosive end it had planned.

The final battle was upon them.

Still, the Scalzi sought to force the confrontation on his terms. He skulked between basalt outcroppings until he reached the volcano’s base, and then hiked up its slippery face, hoping to mitigate his opponent’s aerial advantage.

As he scrambled upward, the Scalzi froze, hearing the kitten’s approaching call. The creature swooped—a foot away—claws scraping rock.

The Scalzi swung his axe, scratching the animal’s foreleg. 

First blood.

The Scalzi leapt back, heart pounding. He brandished his bloodied axe. “Have at—if you can!”

The rider growled.

“Why are you fighting me?” the Scalzi pressed. His curiosity was limited, but he understood his physical vulnerability; if he talked long enough, the kitten might tire itself out.

“Focus on more important matters,” parried the rider, “such as your imminent death.”

“Are you confusing me with a different bald man?” Scalzi riposted. “I’m not the one who killed your father. Listen! I live in Ohio! Do you think they’d let me into the Royal Shakespeare Company?”

“Mangy fleabag! You’re not worthy to compare your pate to his! Be silent, cur.”

“Make it so,” taunted the Scalzi, tugging the waist of his breastplate.

The kitten swiped. The Scalzi rolled away. Flashing claws clutched at nothing.

“You shouldn’t let yourself get so angry,” said the Scalzi. “What do you know about fighting? You’re just some stupid kid.”

The rider roared. The kitten took up his cry.

The Scalzi knew he was on to something. “Just some stupid kid,” he repeated. “Is that why you’re after me? To get revenge on the science fiction writers who made you?”

“No more, Scalzi!” shouted the writer. “Raise your axe and fight!”

This time, the kitten’s blow landed. The Scalzi staggered. Blood flowed from his punctured shoulder.

Wil was right. The time for talk was over.

•••

Claws raked metal; metal struck rock; teeth scraped armor. At last, the Scalzi delivered a deep blow to the kitten’s flank, forcing Wil to send the creature away to recover.

Now on foot, the two wove around each other, dart and feint evenly matched. The Scalzi favored his kitten-punctured shoulder. The wound was already red and swollen with infection.

Wil’s mind whirred. He knew many ways to extricate himself from climactic battles—but they all relied on technobabble.

“I
will
vanquish you,” Wil hissed, bolstering himself.

“Big talk for a little boy,” countered the Scalzi.

Their duel had driven them to the lip of the volcano. Behind them, the molten mouth gaped, its churning viscera casting a weird crimson glow.

The Scalzi positioned himself downslope, driving the younger man onto an outcropping that projected over the maw. “Face it, Wil. You can’t beat me. My kind made you what you are. Writers choose your words and sculpt your scenes. We decide when you win and when you lose.”

Wil swallowed anxiously. “Not this time.”

The Scalzi sneered. “How’re you gonna stop it?”

Wil scanned the rocks at his feet, searching for anything that would give him an advantage. “Identity is fraught,” he ventured. “Writers think they’re above it all, but they aren’t. Their subconsciouses betray them. Their identities blend and change. The writer becomes both himself and the character.”

“You’re not my Gary Stu.”

“I’m every geek’s Gary Stu.” Chunks of basalt steamed at his feet. Wil scooped up a red-hot handful, bracing against the pain. “But that’s not why I’ll win.”

“No?”

“I’ll win because I’m not a stupid kid anymore.”

Wil hurled the scalding rocks into the orc’s face. The Scalzi howled. Blinded and enraged, he charged, axe swinging wildly as he blundered onto the outcropping. Wil took a deep breath, marshaled his courage, and
leapt
. 

Down, down he fell, scrambling for purchase on the mountainside. Above, the orc continued to roar, struggling to clear his eyes. Wil struck out with the haft of his spear, prying loose a bolder perched near the outcropping’s narrow neck.

Stone clanged on stone. Already weakened by the morning’s tremors, the basalt creaked. With a deafening crack, the outcropping broke free.

The Scalzi screamed as he plummeted toward the lava. His axe slipped from his hand, vanishing into the molten tumult below. Wil pitched his spear after it, watching the polearm tumble end over end.

“I grew up,” Wil whispered, expression stoic as he watched his enemy disappear.

The Scalzorc/Clown Wheaton/Kittytrice Auditions
A One Act Play
Stephen Toulouse

CHARACTERS 

HORN.PSD:
An up and coming young Photoshop element.

FACE.PSD:
An established element who is widely recognized as being the most talented element of his generation. Unfortunately he is well aware of it.

SWEATER.PSD:
A former brilliant element, who’s nearing the end of his career and has been criticized of late for not taking his craft seriously anymore. 

CROTCH.PSD:
A handsome and chiseled element, about whom not much is known. 

LAVA.PSD:
Considered by many to be the finest character actor element of his generation, with a long and storied career. His professionalism and talent are only reinforced by his comfort at being typecast. 

MOUSE CURSOR:
In charge of representing the interests of MR. ZUGALE. 

MR. ZUGALE [OFF STAGE]:
The mysterious orchestrator of the events.

[CURTAIN] 

[Our setting is an open file folder on a computer desktop. Moderately furnished, if a bit drab, it is clearly a waiting room of some type. A small table with refreshments sits off to the side, and there are five chairs spaced throughout. FACE.PSD and SWEATER.PSD are absentmindedly flipping through magazines, LAVA.PSD and CROTCH.PSD are chatting quietly. 

HORN.PSD drops into the folder on the side opposite the refreshments. He takes in the room, clearly recognizing it is filled with some well-known talent]

HORN.PSD:
Oh. My. God. Mr. Sweater.psd! Mr. Face.psd! It is such an honor to even be auditioning for a project with you. 

SWEATER.PSD:
[grunts] Thanks kid. Liked your work on that Last Unicorn remake poster. 

FACE.PSD:
[waves dismissively] 

HORN.PSD:
Thanks, that’s why my agent thought this was a great pickup gig. But I’m excited about the part. I mean, a horned flying kitten? I’ve been really working hard creating the horn and the history and back-story around it. 

SWEATER.PSD:
[bored] Sure kid. 

HORN.PSD:
[Crestfallen, but spots the refreshments table]: Snacks! 

FACE.PSD:
[snorts] It’s all
CGA
. Big squares of yellow and cyan. Fucking cyan. You can always tell a cheap outfit when the refreshments are cyan. 

[HORN.PSD shrugs and goes to the table. FACE.PSD notices CROTCH.PSD and walks over to him]

FACE.PSD:
[sensing competition] These auditions are crazy aren’t they? 

CROTCH.PSD:
[nervously] Well truth be told this is my first normal one. What part are you going for? 

FACE.PSD:
[boldly] The face of clown sweater guy. 

CROTCH.PSD:
[shocked] Really? Won’t they just go with a stock image for him? 

FACE.PSD:
[relieved that obviously CROTCH.PSD is not competition, but also slightly offended] Oh I’m pretty sure I can make them rethink that choice. 

CROTCH.PSD:
 But it would be his actual face. How will you compete with— 

FACE.PSD
[Interrupts indignantly]: Do you have any idea who you are talking to? All those wrinkle-free faces of older actresses on movie posters, you think that was stock? DO YOU? What have you done compared to that? 

CROTCH.PSD:
Actually I’ve done mostly uh…exotic…uh adult sort of…

FACE.PSD:
[maliciously amused, loudly] You’re in porn? 

[HORN.PSD snaps his fingers and turns from the refreshments] 

HORN.PSD:
[to CROTCH.PSD] I thought you looked familiar! 

[HORN.PSD immediately looks chagrined as ALL stop what they are doing and look at him]

SWEATER.PSD:
What are you trying out for here? 

CROTCH.PSD:
Well, the orc crotch actually. It’s still where my skills lie, but this will be a chance for me to break into legitimate image work. 

FACE.PSD:
And you don’t think your storied career stimulating 13 year olds will hamper you here? 

CROTCH.PSD:
Well no actually, most of the stuff I did was really weird Japanese stuff. Not a lot of people saw it. Real niche stuff, you know, hentai and beast monsters and schoolgirls. 

[ALL look at HORN.PSD again… Not knowing what to do, HORN.PSD stares back blankly]

HORN.PSD:
So, Mr. Sweater.psd you’re obviously going for the part of the clown sweater. What do you think it’s motivations are for being so…

[HORN.PSD realizes he’s trying to talk shop with a hero of his and locks up for a second]

HORN.PSD:
…Sweatery. 

SWEATER.PSD:
[annoyed] Kid you want some advice? You’re taking the part too seriously. I think you’re a little green for the horn part. You should get some more experience under your belt. This thing’s going to get a lot of eyes, it’s for an important charity. 

[HORN.PSD is shocked that he just got dissed by a hero of his, then angry. ALL besides HORN.PSD and SWEATER.PSD suddenly pretend to be deeply engaged in not being a part of the argument]

HORN.PSD:
[angry in a way only a young successful person whose talent has just been questioned can be] Oh I need more experience? I’m not taking it seriously? What about you? I used to look up to you. Now all you do is lens flare to emote anger. It’s your go-to trick. All your characters are the same now! 

SWEATER.PSD:
[angry in a way that only an older successful person whose talent has just been questioned can be] That’s not true! 

HORN.PSD:
It is true, it’s like you’re not even challenged anymore! 

SWEATER.PSD:
Be quiet! 

HORN.PSD:
Look at me, I’m an angry wall texture! 

[HORN.PSD applies lens flare] 

SWEATER.PSD:
Stop it.