If Famous Authors Wrote Fanfic: Philip K. Dickens

At an excellent and geekful Swingers dinner, the words “Philip K. Dickens” were uttered.

I had no choice. I regret nothing:

Philip K Dick Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
TWIST OF MUDFOG – by Philip K. Dick

Oliver lay on the cobblestone as if dead himself. My God, he thought, she looked just like Nancy.

He pulled himself vertical and peered into the crowd. The woman was gone, but now as he looked there were plenty of other women who could pass for her. Surely too much time in the country had stolen his ability to tell one bustle and bonnet from another.

But then at the end of the alley that red-headed woman ducked into a book shop; the acid in Oliver’s throat meant he could no longer be deceived.

He hustled after her, dodging horse droppings and factory reek. The book shop windows were mottled with time, but the door was tin. His kind would not be welcome here.

The door jangled as he opened it, and the clockwork clerk addressed him without looking up, its graceful tin arm tracing numbers on a sheet.

“Leave your gep,” it said.

“I haven’t…” said Oliver.

“Leave it, native, or leave yourself.”

There was little use protesting — Oliver unbuckled his gep, holster and all, and left it on the counter. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a few figures of indeterminate origin standing at the shelves, either absorbed in their books or wound down entirely. He avoided them.

“A woman just came in here,” said Oliver.

“Whether one did or didn’t will be no report of mine,” said the clerk, sitting up only long enough to wind the key in its chest. “Talk is tiring.”

Oliver took a corner and waited, listening to the satiny sounds of the place: the soft rasp of paper, the steady purr of cogs… then at last the unmistakable heel-toe fall of a booted foot.

Oliver’s heart leapt. He followed it down the narrowing aisle, and around the corner she stood: Nancy. She smiled at him, and every piece was just as he remembered: the angle of her teeth, her freckles, the precise curve of her neck.

“Hello, Oliver,” she said, and the voice was correct, too. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

In that intervening moment, as Oliver reached to check the temperature of her skin, he didn’t care what his touch told him. As he fell in her embrace, and her cool supple arms became impossibly strong, he didn’t care what came next. And as he heard the last shuddering crack in his spine, he stopped caring about anything at all.

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mudfog
THE STARLIGHT CHRONICLES by Charles Dickens

Whereas a customary spaceship might be launched once to its destination and once to its home, and despite the abundance of debris encounter none, the fact is that this particular spaceship had been to so many points here and anon that its hull was rendered the pleasing surface texture of edam cheese, and despite this was none the worse for airworthiness. One can be little blamed for thinking of the ship when viewing its captain’s countenance, wise and handsome but similarly pock-marked by the thousand tiny collisions most see fit, by fortune or abstinence, to avoid.

Captain Phineas Galaximaster, these being the names his unsuspecting parents dared upon him to confer, peered through the porthole to examine the endless night. It was a regular but unrewarding habit, for the observations never varied — quantity: infinite; quality: twinkling; positions: various.

It was about this time the fourteen-year-old version of Phineas Galaximaster skulked into view, pondering the most advanced and state-of-the art methods of sharing his misery. Had he pockets in his cosmo-unitard he would have had his hands them; had he headphones to supplement the Infinite SongSpace implant at the base of his skull he would be wearing them. Alas, without these accoutrements he had very little to distinguish himself from his adult version, besides being shorter, thinner, and nurturing the crop of acne scars the Captain would eventually reap.

“Good morning, Phinny,” offered the Captain, stepping aside to share the porthole, as unlikely as it was that his younger self should incline.

“Whatevs,” said Phinny. “Maybe today you’ll steer into another time-space singularity.”

“Goodness, is that any way to talk? You haven’t even met everyone yet.” Captain Galaximaster depressed a button by the porthole, and into it he spoke: “Ensign, would you send Calabria to the viewing gallery?”

“Who’s Calabria?” asked Phinny, feigning indifference in the way that one can only when one greatly desires an answer, and not dissimilar to the way he continued to feign indifference to the Captain’s company after explicitly seeking it out.

“You’ll see,” said the Captain. In no time, a tall woman appeared, defying the artificial gravity with her shock of shiny black hair, and straining in key ways the dimensions of her cosmo-unitard.

“Yes, Captain?” asked Calabria.

“Cal, I’d like you to meet my younger self. Though you already have, of course.”

“Of course,” said Cal.

She offered her hand, but as Phinny had at that moment recognized her from playing shortstop on the Pee Wee Softball team of his original dimension, he was unable to shake that hand, having fainted dead away.

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Dan Brown writes “Angel.” Stephen King writes “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” C. S. Lewis writes “X-Files.” Stephenie Meyer writes “Dune.”

I had so much fun with If Famous Authors Wrote Fanfic that I wanted to see if I could do it again. Answer? YES.

Dan Brown Angel Boreanaz

Angel and Demons by Dan Brown

CHAPTER 1

In the splendid dome of the Taj Mahal, a beautiful young blonde reached out for him.

“Angel! You are as slow as your 240 years would indicate!”

Angel laughed laughingly. He tried to catch up with her, but the tiled room began to tilt. He looked up, and the beautiful woman had been replaced with a ravening Fook-Demon!

Angel Angelus awoke with a start from his troubling nightmare. Before he could gather his mental thoughts, slim but athletic Cordelia walked in with the morning’s folded newspaper.

“Angel,” said Cordelia, tossing her lustrous but professional hair. “We have a problem.”

CHAPTER 2

Lithe Cordy pointed to the long story below the headline, just above the fold. Together the two of them walked through Angel’s spacious living room to the adjoining kitchen, where there was more light, but not too much, because Angel was a vampire.

There was a square picture of another beautiful brunette, but a different one from Cordy, and printed on paper instead of standing next to him. She seemed to be leaving a crime scene.

“Oh, no,” said Angel. “Faith is back.”

CHAPTER 3

Angel and Cordelia jumped carefully into Angel’s black convertible. The effortlessly well-groomed pair drove moderately to the big brick precinct downtown. Beautiful blond Detective Kate Lockley met them on the granite stairs.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, traveling on her long, shapely legs. “Let me spend the next two pages delivering exposition.”

Then everybody argued, Faith stole the Pope, and Angel fought some dudes.

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Stephen King Star Trek

Permanent Night by Stephen King

(Page 1005)

CHUPPA CHUPPA CHUPPA

Troi collapsed, her eyes glassy, her body twisted as a crashed ’58 Fury. Blood burbled noisily from her ribs.

Not like this… it can’t be…

Kirk loomed over her, priming his phaser for another blast.

“I tried to tell you, Dee, I really did.” Kirk wasn’t looking at her anymore, but straight through her, through the holodeck doors, into the winding corridor. “But you just don’t listen… there was only one woman who ever listened…”

Troi could feel the life washing out of her, like a generator surging and powering down. It was too late… too late for her… but by God she could save the rest…

I see the starlings… they’re coming home again…

Kirk stepped right over her, slipped in her blood, SLIPPED RIGHT IN HER ******* BLOOD, recovered and kept going. He was going home, the only place he’d ever belonged, the only place that was his. He was going to the bridge.

“Dirty ship,” he muttered. “So dirty… I have to make you clean again…” He paused in the doorway, phaser lifted, delighting in his new body.

Troi fumbled on the floor, for something, anything.

Tom Gordon… I should have made Tom Gordon…

And found a triangle of glass as if God himself had put it there. She took a ragged breath.

“James,” she whispered. “I know what you’re feeling…”

“STOP!” cried Kirk, whirling on her. “YOU *****! YOU ******* *****! ****** *** ******! *****! GET OUT OF MY MIND!”

He was over her in three steps, phaser aimed. He’d finish it this time… Troi swung her arm like a baseball bat and Kirk was screaming, toppled on her and next to her, his Achilles torn and useless.

“****!” he wailed. “****** *****! ************!”

Troi found new strength, her last strength, and she was on him. She buried the triangle of glass through his chin, and he stopped screaming.

Here, James… the final frontier…

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CS Lewis X-Files

The Jacket, the Coat, and the Overcoat by C.S. Lewis

Dana frowned. “Are you meaning that a man could be dead for three days, and then not dead?”

“That is exactly what I mean,” said Fox. He danced his enormous flashlight around the storage unit, his eyes glittering with anticipation. “How else can you explain the call to his mother? The missing Flarnic? The fact that four people have seen him?”

“Four people claim to have seen him,” said Scully. “There was a time zone difference that probably accounts for the voicemail. And I hate to tell you, but sometimes Flarnics are stolen…”

“Here!” Fox stooped to lift a shoebox from under the couch. “His wife didn’t mention a shoebox!”

“Shall I turn on a light? There are lots.”

“No, don’t bother,” said Fox. He lifted the lid with both hands, as if it were a flat, paperboard kitten. “I think this is what we’ve been looking for.”

Dana leaned over Fox, her soft hair brushing his cheek in a completely non-erotic way. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes going wide with astonishment, as eyes commonly do.

“It’s a Tisblort,” said Fox. “From the Gilrads of Morblunk.”

“That’s it,” said Dana. “You convinced me.”

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Stephenie Meyer Dune

Big Pile of Sand by Stephenie Meyer

After asking my permission, Usul took me by the hand and led me up to the top of the hill. When I looked behind me with my deep brown eyes, I could see four rapturously beautiful young men were fainting from the anguish of not getting to date me.

At the top, Usul was again taking my soft, pale hands in his also soft, pale ones. He gazed into me. My four-chambered heart pounded in my meagerly endowed chest. His face was like the handsomest parts of fifty handsome faces combined. What would he say? I wondered if he and the Fremen had been talking about me. What I smelled like, and whether I was as water-disciplined as the other girls.

“I love you,” he informed me. His hairline was as straight and low as a limbo stick. My heart was beating so hard I thought a sandworm would eat us both right there.

I didn’t know what to say. Of course I loved him, too, but how could I tell him? How could we be together? I kept my eyes on the sand. Maybe if I just held really still he would get bored and walk away.

“Chani, I love you,” he said again, for the second time. I tried to open my mouth to speak but tripped and fell for no reason. Usul picked me up, and I could feel his big blue eyes looking at my eyes, and also I could see them.

“But I can’t ever make out with you,” said Usul.

“Oh, thank God,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sex is the little death,” said Usul. “Sex is the mind-killer.”

“But shallow, looks-obsessed lusting — that’s okay, right?”

“Right.”

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Queen of the Elves by Anne Rice

Arwen wound her arm about the velvet drapes, cooling her cheek against the marble. When Aragorn returned she sensed his presence at once — the scent of his hair, black and stringy as Spanish moss, sweet and warm as pine or the apples from her father’s orchard or a healthy patch of Centipede grass. She turned to him and noticed the silver tray he carried, aching under the weight of its load, which was substantial and also heavy.

“I brought you wine, my queen,” he said, resting the tray on her dresser.

“Thank you, my love,” said Arwen. “The weather, how it torments me.”

“The flesh of the Noldor was not meant for such days.” Aragorn poured the wine — new, and red — into a sparkling chalice for his love. She drew close to him and took it, aware now as keenly as their first meeting of his earthy horseman musk and earthy horseman flesh and earthy horseman dirt under his fingernails. She drank greedily, and her face once pale with ill-being flooded pink from it. A bead of wine trailed to her chin, unheeded.

“You are thirsty,” said Aragorn.

“Sewing standards is thirsty work,” said Arwen. “Was six stars not enough for the sons of Numenor? By Eru Il├║vatar, there were only three Silmarils.”

“You’ve got a little on your chin.”

“I care not.”

“Let me get that for you.”

Then Aragorn spanked her with the back of a silver mirror for the next 150 pages, because that’s erotic.


Kowloon Four: A Notebook to Remember by Nicholas Sparks

“Keep up, Padawan! You’re off your steps!” shouted Obi Wan as he thrust his light saber just under my arm. I knew he knew I was not at my best. He lunged at me impatiently, and I parried his jab away, skittering backwards. “You must learn to control your anger,” he said. “And if there’s something distracting you, you know I need you to tell me!”

I peered at my master through eyes clouded with tears. Suddenly I threw my arms about him. Hopefully he would understand, although hopefully is an adverb.

“Obi Wan,” I said, through a throat clouded with phlegm. “I have cancer.”

Obi Wan pressed his fingers to his temples and prayed for the strength I know he knows I know he will need. “Anakin, my Padawan,” he said tenderly. “I must tell you something as well. I have Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh, Obi Wan,” I said, grasping at my hair with my strong young hands. “I should tell you all of it: I have cancer of the Alzheimer’s.”

“And I have Alzheimer’s cancer.”

“Oh, master!”


Harry Potter and the Elevated Blood Sugar by David Sedaris

As soon as I hefted Fred and George’s first official batch of Weasley Wheezes candy in my hands and got a sense of it — I mean a real sense of it — I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Harry…” Ron could tell the wheels were turning, and his ruddy face went ruddier as he tried to compose exactly the right words to keep me from asking what we both knew I was going to ask. Ron was always one step forward mentally and two steps back verbally. I had to imagine that one day I was going to ask him what he wanted for lunch, and he was going to turn three shades of purple trying to express that he could go for a sandwich.

Anyway, it was too late:

“Do you suppose an engorgement charm…” I asked, unspooling the words as if the quivering bait at the end might slip away, “…could be applied… topically?”

Ron averted his eyes, but not before I could see the naked curiosity in them. There were names for boys who experimented in school, even a magic school, but as long as we conducted them separately and reconvened only afterward to compare our scientific findings, what could be the harm?

“If Hermione finds out,” started Ron, but the deal was all but made. He was a mark following a used car salesman into his office out of politeness, and instinct, and polite instinct. He took half the bag of Engorgement Charm candy, and I took the other. We separated.

Within twenty minutes each of us discovered why this experiment had not been tried before. Or, if it had been tried, why no one had brought it up.

We converged in the library later — much later — still scientists, but bruised, frightened, somewhat wiser scientists.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Ron?”

“Next time you have an idea,” he said, turning a shade of violet that was rather pretty. “Could you stuff it?”

“Shh, there’s Hermione.”

Hermione joined us with a flounce, jarring our bench and eliciting a strangled groan from Ron.

“What’s wrong with you two?” she asked. “You look like you had to fight a basilisk. Again. Oh, look, there’s Angelina Johnson.” She turned to wave at the brick house of a Griffindor chaser as she went by behind us.

For the first time in Hogwarts history, neither Ron nor I turned to look after her.


The Vampire Manifesto by Ayn Rand

Buffy turned to him in stark disbelief.

“You can’t be serious,” she said, like a child just informed that her family was moving to the Midwest and could not, no not even if she was very good, take their cat. “You’re the most powerful vampire that ever lived. The sire of all sires. You cannot… you simply must not go on strike! Why would you leave when Sunnydale needs you most?”

Angel crossed the room before her and leaned against the desk. The room was dark and silent as he withdrew from its pack a black cigarette with a foil gold band. He lit it deftly with a match, not flinching at the sulphur or the flame as it set in relief the gaunt angles of his face. The room filled with the smell of cloves.

He spread his palms, not with condescension, and not without pity, but with the mien of a periodontist whose patient’s surgery could have been avoided through regular flossing.

“Who is Anya Harris?” he said, a plume of smoke encircling his sculpted cheekbones.

Buffy coursed across the room on her shapely showgirl legs and struck Angel’s face.

“You’re nothing but a playboy!” she cried. “I thought you could change, but you’re no different from the man you were 250 years ago. I was an irrational fool to believe otherwise.”

Angel gripped the edge of the desk behind him. After a moment, he resumed his cigarette, her handprint burning as brightly as the embers.

Buffy drew back in horror and shame. “I see it is true,” she said. “Vampirism is the root of all evil.”

“You’ve always been a friend to me,” he said, not unkindly, and not sarcastically, but like a man who is telling a woman she’s always been a friend to him. “I hope soon you`ll understand that what I`m doing is the best. For you. For Sunnydale. But most importantly for me. For you see, a man cannot know his nature until he has known the evil in it.

“If a man says vampirism is evil, it is because it has exposed the evil in himself, and doubly so since that man, borrowing from the vampire, has obtained his evil dishonorably. But if a man knows vampirism and does not know evil, then this evil you assert with such righteous recklessness is not evil at all, and the vampire is no looter — his labors are honest, neither begged, seized, nor inherited, and worthy of their aim and their effects.

“Thus the endeavor of the vampire is the most moral of all men or demons, since it is industry for industry’s own sake. Like produces like, and moral produces moral, and nowhere more than the siring of vampires is this evident — where vampires make wealth, and wealth makes wealth by the fruit of our virtue.”

With this, Angel roused Buffy from where she had collapsed in slumber on the floor, and showed her to the door.

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