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The Boxer Rebellion
by Moira Allen
It was late. Outside, the neon lights of the Fantasy Motel blinked
fitfully, bathing the room alternately in garish crimson and depressing
shadow. Darin surveyed the small group; at least they had settled down
and stopped jockeying for the best chairs. No need to explain why they
had gathered there. As usual, the main list had exiled them once they had
begun planning the next great anthology.
HIS next anthology. His brilliant idea, his brainchild. The one that
would elevate them all from these seedy surroundings...
Seedy in more ways than one. While Rob and the Bobs were munching tuna
sandwiches -- as writers, they could afford little else, and didn't care
how many dolphins had to die to make their dinner -- Kevin couldn't afford
even that. The humor writer was hunched over a packet of sunflower seeds;
in the dim light, Darin fancied that he looked like a giant rodent,
whiskers twitching as he littered the floor with shells.
Darin cleared his throat. "Shall we get started? It's time we finalize
our plans for The Complete Guide to Writing About White Boxer Shorts. Do
you all remember your assignments?"
Assorted grumbles rose from around the room. Darin pressed on. "Rob,
you've got the chapter on the Boxer Rebellion. Bob -- no, not you, Bob,
the other Bob -- you've got..."
"Yeah, yeah, Brighton Bill, Jack Dempsey, Jess Willard... Famous white
boxers. I'm on it."
"And Kevin, you're doing the Social History of Boxing Day..."
Kevin grunted something incomprehensible, spraying sunflower seeds across
the floor.
"And Bob -- no, not you, the OTHER Bob..."
"Yeah, I know. 'White boxer puppies: mutants or the next big thing?'
Forget it, Darin; we've all been briefed. What we really want to know is
-- what are we doing it FOR? I mean, c'mon, nobody's seen a penny from
your last fifteen anthologies. How do we even know this one's gonna
sell?"
A throat cleared softly in the back of the room, and everyone turned to
see Tee, who had assumed the Boxer kata -- poised on one foot, one hand
outstretched as if holding a book, the other waving a pen.
Darin smiled. "Tee is in charge of marketing, as you know. Tee, do you
have a plan?"
"Do I have a plan!" Tee gave the pen an exaggerated flourish! "Why, as
soon as this book comes off the press, I'll be holding booksignings in
every menswear department, locker room and Big and Tall store on the
eastern seaboard. I'll give boxing demonstrations at Barnes and Noble --
no one there knows how to pack a carton! I'll give seminars on the
history of elastic at white sales! I'll..."
A rap at the door interrupted Tee's spiel. Darin opened the door -- and
frowned.
"Moira! I wasn't expecting to see YOU here!"
A brilliant smile lit the famous writer's face. "Why, Darin, I heard that
you were planning another anthology, and I just had to come. I know I
haven't always been supportive of your plans in the past -- but I'd
really, really like to contribute a chapter! Don't you have something --
just the least, little chapter -- you could assign to me?"
Darin gave her a cold look. "Moira, I wouldn't give you a chapter in this
anthology if you danced for us wearing nothing but a red hat!"
Moira looked perplexed, then smiled again. "But I'm not eligible for the
red hat society just yet... I'm only 45!"
There was a collective sigh of relief from the assembly as the unwelcome
vision of the naked gyrations of a 50-year-old editor whose primary form
of exercise for the past five years had been mouse-pushing was replaced by
a more pleasant image of a vivacious 45-year-old whose limbs were as lean
and supple as her prose...
"I said NO!" Darin exclaimed. "There's nothing for you here; begone, you
SOW!"
The Bobs gasped, and even Kevin looked up from his sunflower seeds.
Darin turned. "It's true! She's one of THEM -- the Sisterhood of Oded
Worshippers! The SOWS! She's not here to contribute; she's just here to
spy out our secrets!"
"YOUR secrets!" Suddenly the writer's face wasn't quite as attractive.
"That's just the problem, Darin. They aren't your secrets. They don't
belong to you -- and they certainly don't belong in a book that Tee is
planning on promoting in every discount menswear emporium in the country!
I'm warning you -- if you don't put a stop to this, we will!"
Darin smiled. "Why don't you go back to the List where you belong? The
Motel is no place for you!"
Moira sighed. "I'm sorry, Darin. I really didn't want to have to do
this." Reaching into her purse, she pulled forth a data wand. Darin took
a step back as the wand began to glow. Chanting softly, Moira waved the
wand in a complicated pattern.
"omm... viggommm... orlandommm.... ODED!"
A blinding flash of light forced him to fling up his paws before his
eyes. The Fantasy Motel sign sputtered and went out. By the time he
could see again, Moira had vanished. Darin slammed the door shut and
leaned against it, his whiskers trembling.
His... whiskers? Darin stared down at the stubby, furry paws that jutted
from his fat, furry body. Then he looked around the room.
"Holy Oded, what has she done to us?"
The room was filled with giant rodents. Despite his horror, Darin
breathed a sigh of relief; at least they hadn't been transformed into
rats, or vorpal bunnies. But what WERE they? Hamsters? Guinea pigs?
Chinchillas on steroids?
His sensitive ears picked up a crinkle of cellophane. Kevin, noticing the
sudden, focused attention of the Bobs, was trying to ease the packet of
sunflower seeds behind his back, only to find that his arms weren't long
enough. Tuna sandwiches fell to the floor, forgotten, as the Bobs rose as
one and advanced on the hapless author. Darin could see Tee's nose
twitching from the shadows as he, too, began to home in on the seeds.
"Stop!" It was imperative that he regain control, and quickly. "I know
this looks bad, but we can fix this! All we have to do is jump off the
cliff!"
Rob paused in his pursuit of the sunflower seeds and swiveled a pair of
beady eyes in Darin's direction. "Jump off the cliff? Don't you think
that's rather a drastic solution?"
"No, no, no! I filled the ravine with white-out -- I knew we'd need a lot
of it for the anthology. If we jump into it, it will erase this bad
spell!"
Whiskers quivered around the room as the writers-turned-rodents considered
the idea. Then, en masse, they rushed for the door, nearly trampling
Darin in the process. Picking himself up from the floor, he raced after
them, able to think of nothing but his sudden, urgent need to throw
himself off the cliff and into the sea of white-out that awaited.
It wasn't until he had done exactly that -- until he was hurtling downward
with the night wind in his whiskers and the smell of white-out rising from
below -- that he realized that this, too, was simply part of the
Sisterhood's diabolical plan.
They hadn't been turned into chinchillas. They'd been turned into
lemmings!
© Copyright 2004 Moira Allen
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