Unidentified Funny Objects 2 (7 page)

Twice Awarded "Best in Customer Service for the Dark Arts" by Yrrgoth and Associates

From: Vaenala the Unbound

To: Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

Subject: RE: RE: Item Not As Described

Dear Customer Support Golem,

Have I double-checked the listing? In case you failed to notice, I am called Vaenala the Unbound, not Vaenala the Uneducated. The listing was a weeping font of lies from top to bottom, and that didn't change with a second reading.

And yes, I held parley with the blithering clod and got what I might have expected from one who would seek to prey on the Unbound One: pure idiocy. So no, "responsive" is not quite the word I'd use. I've forwarded a copy of our exchange along with this message. You be the judge.

~ Vaenala

From: Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

To: Vaenala the Unbound

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Item Not As Described

Hi Vaenala,

This is Brian from customer support. I just wanted to let you know that I've escalated your case to our resolution center and you should be hearing back from us soon.

Also, it may interest you to know that our server handles all automated replies from us. Bid-o-Mancy strives to comply with the laws and legal restrictions of the realm, and as such does not employ golems of any kind.

Thank you,

Brian

Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

Twice Awarded "Best in Customer Service for the Dark Arts" by Yrrgoth and Associates

From: Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

To: Kobe Thompson

Subject: Support Case #58632 (DO NOT REPLY)

Dear Mr. Thompson,

On Yogsmorn, Seventh Day of the Reaping, you sold item #931179, "LOST BLADE OF CRAGTHOR—GENUINE!!!" at auction. Unfortunately, the buyer has opened a support case regarding this transaction, which has been escalated to our resolution center.

Upon reviewing the transaction in question, as well as the subsequent correspondence between yourself and the buyer, we have ruled in the buyer's favor on this matter. A full refund has been issued from your account and the buyer may be supplied with a return label at your expense.

In addition, the customer service representative assigned to this case has found your auction listing to be in violation of Bid-o-Mancy's terms of service agreement. In accordance with the terms you agreed to upon the creation of your account, all auctions and transactions currently active on your profile will be suspended, your account and username will be banned from our services going forward, and the celestial firehounds of Lythrathyl will be commissioned to devour your earthly flesh. The amount of flesh to be devoured is based upon the severity of the violation as determined by the customer support representative assigned to this case. You will find a rough estimate of that amount in the box below:

[99 %]

If you have any questions regarding the resolution of this case, do not reply to this message. You may use the correspondence form on our customer support page (please supply the case number with any correspondence).

Thank you,

Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

Twice Awarded "Best in Customer Service for the Dark Arts" by Yrrgoth and Associates

From: Kobe Thompson

To: Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

Subject: RE: Support Case #58632 (DO NOT REPLY)

wait what

From: Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

To: Vaenala the Unbound

Subject: Support Case #58632 (DO NOT REPLY)

Dear Ms. The Unbound,

Good news! The customer support representative assigned to this case has ruled in your favor. A full refund, including the purchase price plus shipping has been credited to your account.

In addition, the customer support representative estimates the seller is likely to perish from his or her injuries following standard punitive action. If you have any interest in obtaining the seller's remains for necromantic or alchemical purposes, you will have the exclusive opportunity to purchase them at a discounted rate following mystic appraisal. We hope this will serve as thanks for your patience in this matter, and that you will continue to use Bid-o-Mancy to meet your needs for the dark arts. Your business is importance to us.

Thank you,

Bid-o-Mancy Customer Support

Twice Awarded "Best in Customer Service for the Dark Arts" by Yrrgoth and Associates

Story notes:

As you may have guessed, I wrote this story after having a bad experience on e-bay. After several not-so-helpful exchanges with customer service, I began to imagine all the gruesome ways I'd like to see the seller meet his end. When I realized the laws of this world could not grant the level of justice I desired, I figured I might as well invent one that would.

J.W. Alden has been writing speculative fiction since he’s been old enough to use a pen. He lives in South Florida with a cute girl and a bratty dog, and he's a graduate of the 2013 Odyssey Writing Workshop. You can read more from him at
AuthorAlden.com
.

Jim C. Hines

Stranger shifted in the armchair and forced himself to make eye contact with his therapist: a decapitated head floating in an oversized jar of blue-tinged nutrient fluid. Long gray-blond hair drifted like tentacles. The base of the jar was decorated in a red and yellow floral pattern, reminiscent of the Hawaiian shirts Jarhead wore back in his full-bodied superhero days.

“In all my time on this planet, I’ve never killed anyone,” said Stranger. “I’ve never
wanted
to before.”

Jarhead’s voice emerged, slightly mechanical, from a speaker below his chin. “Given your history with Scaramouche, it’s no surprise she knows how to press your buttons.”

Jarhead was a former speedster, a superhero from the seventies whose career on the east coast had come to an abrupt end when his nemesis strung a high-tensile wire across the road at neck height. Only the hyperquick actions of Jarhead’s sidekick Robogirl had allowed him to survive… if you could call it survival.

“When do I get to talk? I’ve got traumas of my own, you know!”

Stranger did his best to ignore the taunts, which was difficult, considering they came from within his own bowel.

“It’s talking to you again, isn’t it?” asked Jarhead.

“It’s been particularly irate today.”

The blue-gray skin of Jarhead’s forehead crinkled in thought as his eyelids lowered, curtaining his colorless eyes. “A tumor with anger issues. You know, this would be easier if it would come out and talk to me directly.”

“Tell that hairy bowling ball that if I could uproot myself and move around, I wouldn’t still be living halfway up your alien ass!”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Stranger said.

“It was worth a shot.” Jarhead’s bubbling sigh filled the room. “Start at the beginning. You said you learned of Scaramouche’s escape at your press conference…”

STRANGER HAD LAIN AWAKE all night in his apartment, trying to find the right words for his announcement the next morning. And then someone—he didn’t know who or how—had broken the news online around 3:00 a.m.

The result was a crowd four times the size he had expected, pressing around the pavilion by the river in Lake City Central Park. Cameras and microphones tracked his descent like weapons, and the questions erupted before he finished climbing the makeshift stage.

One man managed to make his voice heard above the rest. “Your tumor currently has more than a dozen Twitter accounts. The most popular has sixty-thousand followers. Can you confirm whether any of these are official accounts?”

“What’s a Twitter?”

Stranger adjusted the polarization of his helmet’s faceplate to better block the afternoon sun. One of the experimental meds in his latest round of chemotherapy had induced extreme photosensitivity. Only two years earlier, he had gone toe-to-toe with a villain wielding a fusion-powered plasma blaster. Now, even five minutes in the sunlight was enough to make his skin blister and peel. “My most recent scan showed seven tumors. The largest and primary is located in the lower portion of my bowel. I assure you that none of them are on Twitter.”

“Don’t ignore me, dude! I want a Twitter! Where can I get one?”

Another reporter spoke up, and Stranger stifled a groan. Thomas T. Thorton had always hated him, producing story after story that warned against the dangers of letting a superpowered alien walk among good, decent human beings. “Do they talk to you?”

“Don’t let him make you nervous. It helps if you imagine every microphone is actually an enormous dildo.”

“The primary tumor does, yes,” said Stranger. “What it doesn’t do is shut up.”

“In other words,” Thorton continued, “you’re officially talking out of your—”

Stranger’s silent command caused the microphone—dammit, now he was visualizing dildos—to twist out of Thorton’s grip. As the microphone tumbled to the grass, it spoke in a tinny voice only Stranger could hear. “Sorry about that, sir. He’s just digging for snappy one-liners. He’s worried your cancer will make you more sympathetic to his audience, and his ratings will drop.”

By the time Thorton recovered, Kelly Kane from the
Lake City Sentinel
had stood to ask, “What treatment options are you exploring?”

The sensors in his mask allowed Stranger to see the heat in her neck and cheeks, though she kept her expression professional. For ten years she had been a friend. She wanted to be more, and perhaps they could have been, if Stranger had found human females the slightest bit attractive. Only two breasts? And on the chest, of all places?

He had explained his powers to Kelly in their first interview, how he could whisper to objects in his native tongue and persuade them to obey his wishes. That was the night she gave him his superhero name, after an old Robert Heinlein novel. Heinlein’s stranger in a strange land didn’t have super-strength or invulnerability, but the name worked well enough.

“After consulting with Doctor Y, I’ve chosen to discontinue treatment.”

His words stunned the crowd into silence.

“That’s right, baby!”
the tumor crowed.
“Get me a cape and mask. Me and my minions are invincible!”

He wanted to pull Kelly aside, to apologize for… he wasn’t sure what, exactly. For having cancer? Why should he feel guilty about that?

“Ha! I may be a lowly butt tumor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t mess with your mind.”

Eventually, Kelly whispered, “How long?”

“Tell her it’s not the length that matters, it’s how—”

“According to Professor Edison, six months, one week, and three days.” Trust the man who could peek through time to eliminate any ambiguity about your prognosis.

“How could this happen?” asked another reporter. She sounded affronted, as if Stranger’s disease caused her great personal offense. “You’re supposed to be invulnerable.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the times I’ve been shot by death rays, gamma beams, laser weapons, and worse. Not to mention disarming nuclear weapons, flying toxic waste into the sun, and spending ten years on this planet eating food whose compatibility with my biology is iffy on the best of days. Seriously, what do you people put into those microwave burritos?”

“Will your tumor take questions?” asked Thorton.

“Ooh! Tell him I’ll give him an exclusive, but only if I get approval on any photos. Maybe he could use the colonoscopy shot from three weeks ago? Or do you think I looked too puffy in that shot?”

The radio built into Stranger’s helmet saved him from having to answer. “I’m sorry, I have to go. It seems that Scaramouche has escaped from Edgewood Asylum. Again.”

Thank the gods. He spoke to the air around him. Wind filled his cape, giving it a dramatic flutter. The air became his elevator, cradling his body and lifting him up and away.

He missed his old skintight costume, feeling the warmth of this world’s sun on his body, the air rushing past as he flew—

“Quit your bitching. I live where the sun never shines, remember? And the only time I feel the wind is when you break it.”

“EDGEWOOD ASYLUM IS THE dumbest institution on the planet.” Bubbles dribbled up from the corners of Jarhead’s mouth, something that only happened when he was truly pissed. “Crazed supervillains turn cockroaches into giant mechanized war machines or travel back in time to kill the inventor of bacon, and what do we do? Lock them all up in the same place to compare notes!”