Untitled

Anthology selection © 2003 Claude Lalumière and Marty Halpern Story credits are listed at the end of the text.

Published by Four Walls Eight Windows

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First printing April 2003.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Witpunk/edited by Claude Lalumière and Marty Halpern
p. cm.
ISBN 1-56858-256-0

1. Science fiction, American. 2. Fantasy fiction, American. 3. Science fiction, Canadian.

4. Fantasy fiction, Canadian. I Halpern, Marty. II. Lalumière, Claude.

PS648.S3 W58 2003 813'.08760817—dc21

2002192768

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This all started in June 2001, when, on an e-forum called
fictionmags
, someone asked, "When did reading SF/fantasy stop being fun?" W
itpunk
coeditor-to-be Claude Lalumière took exception to this question and especially to the point of view that it represented; namely, that science fiction was no longer as much fun as it used to be. He promptly posted a list of recent genre novels that were fun in a variety of ways, from over-the-top adventure tales and goofball satires to sardonic pastiches and dark comedies.

  Using that list as a template, fellow fictionmaggers Marty Halpern and Claude Lalumière began to think about assembling an anthology that gathered together classics of hard-hitting sardonic fiction with new stories exemplifying that contemporary fiction – any kind of fiction, be it genre or so-called "mainstream" – was as much fun as it ever was, if not more so. And we (pardon the abrupt switch from third to first person) settled on
Witpunk
as a suitably facetious name for such an enterprise. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

  Back to the question that started it all. This is an oft-heard complaint: that [fill in the blank] isn't as much fun as it used to be. To which we say: bullshit.

  When people complain like this, what they're really saying is: "When I was younger, I discovered science fiction (or rock music, or sitcoms, or whatever), and it fixed in my mind exactly what SF (rock music, sitcoms, etc.) should be. Any deviation from this model is a debasement of the form, and in my self-involved geekhood I will proclaim any such deviation an abomination, an insult to my right that creators everywhere bow to the tastes I developed in my earlier years!"

  Contrary to their stated claims of wanting things to be fun, such people have become anti-fun police, ready to destroy anything new and exciting, to denigrate anything that doesn't conform to their one-note idea of entertainment. Of course, you W
itpunk
readers are above such petty sentiments. You all equate fun with being challenged and surprised, while rote reiterations of tired old tropes bore you to death.

  And you seek out fiction that satisfies your need to be entertained with new ideas, merciless irony, transgressive wit, and engaging storytelling.

  In this book we've gathered twenty-six such stories by twentyfour writers, ranging from established veterans to first-time authors. While some of these authors will slap you sardonically silly upside the head with their in-your-face humor, others weave more subtle tales of dark irony. Although most of the writers in
Witpunk
are active in the SF and fantasy genres, not all of the stories in this book are fantasy or SF. Several, in fact, take place in the here-and-now, but their characters, ideas, and attitude are too daring to be labeled "mundane" or "mainstream."

  But, come to think of it, all of the stories in W
itpunk
are SF: Sardonic Fiction, that is.

"The trick," Jimmy Ray says, "is not to look 'em in the eye."

  The truck hits a pothole just then, jouncing on its worn-out shocks and causing stuff to skitter across the dashboard: shotgun shells, empty chewing tobacco cans, wadded-up parking tickets ignored since last May. A little plastic bear swings back and forth beneath the mirror; Jimmy Ray reaches up to steady it, then glances back to make sure nothing has come loose in the back of the truck. Satisfied, he takes a swig from the box of Mountain Dew clasped between his thighs.

  "That's why I don't take kids," he continues. "I mean, it's just too much for 'em. My boy's too young for this anyway . . . next season, maybe, after he gets a gun for Christmas . . . but a couple'a years ago, I tried taking my nephew. Now Brock's a good kid, and . . . hang on . . ."

  Jimmy Ray twists the wheel hard to the left, swerving to avoid another pothole. A can of Red Man falls off the dashboard into my lap. "Gimme that, willya?" I hand it to him; he pops the lid off with his thumb, gives the contents a quick sniff, then tucks it in his hunting vest. "Like I was saying, Brock's bagged a couple'a deer with no regrets, but I got him out here and he took one look at 'em, and that was all she wrote. Just wouldn't shoot, no matter what. Fifteen years old, and here he is, bawlin' like a baby." He shakes his head in disgust. "So no kids, and I'd just as soon not let anyone else shoot. No offense, but if you can't look 'em in the eye, it ain't worth the hassle, y'know what I mean?"