OTHER EU WRITERS FICSWho killed Timothy Zahn?In Russian it was a poem.
Again the whole fandom is scolding me – the feeder of a big family – that my nice little tales don’t match my namesake’s stories. Again everybody screams, what bullshit is my books about Dune, Star Wars, X-Files and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
I won’t even tell, how much tremendous efforts is making up a 300-pages book in a month, given that the characters aren’t mine, and they act in a world I haven’t made up!
Spiteful reader, you are vampire. And neglect my ideas – all the galaxy is a wasteland without this jolly nonsense, that is born by my pen. Obelisks should be erected in my honor, because it’s me who has made up Kyp Durron and parasites-orbalisks!
You scream that I make up garbage and the game isn’t worth the candle? Relax, hysterical boor, understand one simple thing: I am a literary buffoon, who doesn’t climb on a pedestal. Or do you think that I wrote everything seriously?!
It’s high time to understand that I have come to entertain you! A clever serious person would repair your faucet! And I’m not classic, I’m fantasist, I write on a by-order basis!!!
And I work hard… Though, won’t argue, the Dune got cloying for me, but, to my great disappointment, there are no orders about wars in the galaxy far, far away. Instead of me, my rival, writer Zahn, beats about the bush with a novel, wheezing senseless phrases.
Writer Zahn is my personal enemy. Everybody says that I’m stupid, and he’s got great talent while I’m pennyworth libeler. So, swallow curses and write, make your money, dreaming in the darkness to hit Zahn on the head with the Darksaber. It would be so strong blow that my author’s copy breaks in half! Ah, wish I were that brave! No, I will never understand – why does he get all honors? Why, like by one mouth, people is so praising the ungifted? They swallow Zahn’s bullshit, kiss Stackpole under his tail, and I drew the conclusion, that Zahn is the shaytan who put a spell on everyone.
With anguish in my soul I endured Stackpole. And I’ll let myself compare this with art: I painted Daala’s portrait, drew Yavin landscape, but Michael Stackpole copied his mug and pasted into my artwork with Photoshop: on the back of jungle and ancient temples boor’s mug sticks. He recoloured Daala with Paint and renamed her as Ysanne Isard, his publisher got off and gave him his fee. If I were a publisher, Stackpole would cry a river: after three hundred blows he would be left without a fee!!!
But I don’t command others, Lucas gave them right to make up stuff. And continuers scoff at everything I have written.
Lord, why have you sent such trash as Karpyshyn? He entirely distorted everything that I’ve written about Bane, like I was a fool. He kicked me like a dying donkey. (I would be glad if Darth Zannah slaughtered Timothy Zahn.)
If you have had enough of gentlemen – here’s a fantasist, but in a skirt: auntie Traviss. Rumors are in the air that she blurred honor of my ‘daughter’ Daala. I haven’t read auntie Traviss, I cried because of mere spoilers! And I haven’t risked even to open the whole Fate of the Jedi, clearly realizing: I have no point to read it.
Colleagues write botchy and the further the duller. Everything in Star Wars has been decaying since I was fired. I was their best representative with a pen, smashing like a sword! I’m waiting! Bring me back! Invite me! I rocked, I rock, I will rock!
But I’m like in a barren desert of consequences of my work. No, I will never see fame and people’s love!
I write the outline of a second rock opera on my own novel, and curse to Zahn is still smoldering in my soul, like a cigarette. Rhymes won’t flow, holes between lines – oh, how many hopeless days I was thinking about other’s success!
I have never had castanets in my house – clatter sounded in my imagination. And, clattering castanets, I sung:
If I have cursed Zahn –
So my day hasn’t gone in vain.
If I haven’t cursed Zahn –
Maybe I’ve been sleeping all day long.
No, something decent will hardly appear in my mind, I mused at the festival, dedicated to the 20th anniversary of the EU.
Cosplay, actors, action figures, autographs and other garbage – in unruly feast I won’t shake Zahn’s hand. Hardly suppressing a moan, I looked at Stradley and Rostoni, I repeated to myself, that I won’t get a job, and I choked ideas of books I will never write… nevertheless, cherishing the thought of how I choke Tim Zahn.
Fans surrounded Zahn,
“Make a photo with me! Your new, much anticipated novel will be absolute bestseller!”
I met Zahn in the bar, I hid a sachet in my pocket. As soon as Zahn shifts his gaze, I pour poison into his beer. I handed Zahn the glass, he drunk without hesitation. But then another fans surrounded Zahn,
“Subscribe a book, please!”
I was pushed aside… To take away from fans and to burn disgrace of literature – Zahn’s codswallop! Shame that I’m not able to do this! And now dumbhead Zahn fans will bring flowers to his grave…
Cops came to my house, they said – Zahn demised, I was taken to remand prison. Autopsy showed that rat poison was in his beer. Barman witnessed that it was me who took two beer, stood a drink to Zahn, hugged him and joked.
No, I’m not guilty! I need a lawyer, now! And the accusation is just ridiculous! Look, I’m respectable man, I have a wife, children and grandchildren. Why would I smear my hands if I can “kill” arch enemy Zahn on the pages of a novel?! I listen to you and don’t believe: if I’m Salieri in your opinion, so you compare Zahn with Mozart?! This inkster, striving for hard cash?! Someone, who handed him the poison, saved the world from the crock of shit! Yes, I poured him the poison! I killed, and let me be executed!
Noisy crowd of fans stands in front of the court house, holding posters: “DEATH TO K.J. ANDERSON!”
From the cage I eye the court room.
“Yes, I poured him the poison at this damned festival!.. I’m not a dog to be put to sleep with deathly injection. I want to go to hell on the electric chair…”
“No, your honor, this liar deceives you, he’s not guilty. But if he is executed, TV and newspapers will make him the most famous among everyone who created the EU. More famous than Salvatore! He will built his fame on misery, death and blood, but he’s lying. Judge, he’s sworn false, and he hadn’t killed Zahn!”
“Well, the court gave an ear to you. Witness Stackpole, you are a fantasist. Alas, but it’s hard to believe in everything you’ve told. The accused already confessed…”
“No, Kevin is a putative poisoner. Gorgeous festival was in full swing, suddenly my friend got ill, vomiting and diarrhea began – I took him to hospital. He died in the back of my car, hoarsely whispering goodbye, and blotted all my car with his excretions. But I don’t blame my friend, because guilty is the poisoner, who must pay me enormous amends for new chairs and moral damage.”
“So, claim in return, his relatives will pay you”.
“Or let him work off for term of life in prison”.
“My friend, who went to meet his maker, tasted sushi, and I connected the loss of my friend with that he had eaten fugu fish. Judge, I reiterate, that the poisoner must be the cook!”
I sit in the investigation cell. I see, Lomroso was right. Black guys on bunks next to me jar on my nerves, cuss out, I seldom see my barrister, eat prison wash, scratch my dirty skin. Brains boil in the heat. Night, everything’s dark, nothing seen – only heat. In the nightmare dead Zahn haunts me.
“Oh, icky blotter, you unskilledly wrote your daubery. Now a grave-worm gnaws your lifeless body. I sit among hard core inmates, getting into a frenzy in heat and dirt, and wait for my death sentence. I regret only that I cannot withdraw the pressrun of your clumsy dull books (hell, why they caused such boom?).
“Oh, get away from my eyes, Daala’s father, brainless, like olgoi-khorkhoi, burden of my tired soul, Daria Dontsova’s brother! You wrote books about Batman and Superman – so voluminous that it took some doing to tear them! Bungler of literature, you don’t abhor anything, you never choose topics for your scrap paper. Who is ungifted, you or me, people have fairly decided. Forget your dreams about death sentence, you’re in the hands of justice. I wish you don’t follow me to the other world. I wish you wither in a wet cell for many long years! I wish you never hold a piece of paper in your hands, I wish you never dabble another barmy book! I wish people forget that you have idled your life away, that you fed them with unedible literary dish!”
“Tim, you have raised from grave to mock my works? The world consists of imbeciles who are unable to tell good book from trash. I’m the millionth case!”
A nigger woke up on his bunk,
“What you parp, egghead?”
My capital punishment is live on TV, cameras on the walls, poison is injected into my pierced vein. I lay, tied to the bunk, I’ll firmly face my death. I come to you, my enemy!
I was an atheist, my idea was clear: I’ll die, I’ll be buried – and everything just goes black, in deftness and eternal dark I pictured my death.
Suddenly I woke up and saw Charon. My soul crosses the Stygian ferry. Beyond the death threshold I see: on a huge pan deuces fry Tim Zahn. Many unknown faces – thieves, boors and murderers?
Screamed the deuce, who was burning Zahn,
“You’re in the hell for pulp-writers!”
And I understood: I’m in trouble! After death I burn on the same pan with Zahn!!!