Explainy things
Wherein I post the extended background and plot notes for my entry into ds_flashfiction's bad!fic challenge. Because I can't seem to do anything the simple way and I may actually end up writing this, unless people stone me out of the fandom(s) for being wrong, wrong, wrong on the internet.
For reasons of ‘gee, I think that’s a really cool crossover idea,’ Fraser, Ray K and Dief have staked out a warehouse (of OEDs and theasauri) in anticipation of a break on a drug smuggling case.
Fraser is ecstatic. Dief thinks that Webster’s are the superior linguistic reference. Ray is going to commit goddamned Mountie-cide with a leather-bound ‘Complete and Unabridged’.
Unfortunately, instead of a fence of any kind, they find an alarming quantity of TNT. Which explodes. Luckily for them, at the exact moment of the explosion, the Grammasite Liberation Front breaches the transport kennels of a flock of Tessaracts and releases them into the fiction/non-fiction boundary land of Reference, Style and Convention, where they promptly infest the dictionary shelves in the Great Library. This creates an open Prose Portal that sucks in anyone currently reading the ‘Tes’ pages of the OED.
Thankfully for this premise, being battered around the head by ballistic pages is the same as reading them (and, indeed, many people finish a foray into a weighty dictionary with much the same feeling), so our three heroes are transported into the Bookworld.
The U. A. of W. Cat is very unimpressed. Emperor Zhark and Miss. Tiggywinkle are despatched to take the three to the JurisFiction headquarters.
Fraser is enchanted. Dief is appalled at the lack of smell, and only slightly mollified by no longer being deaf (and also able to hit Ray up directly for junk food) because, well, written world. Ray (probably in large part to do with the preceding parenthetical aside) is convinced that the drugs were impregnated into the paper of the dictionaries that were vapourised, that he inhaled said substance and is now tripping hardcore. Or dead, and this is hell.
It’s decided that the 3 should be sent home but, before anything can be organised, Fraser and Ray end up deciphering some evidence to do with an ongoing case. Bellman Bradshaw (recently re-elected) is delighted and immediately deputises them to Thursday, who is in charge of the investigation. She is not impressed, but agrees to have them help her with the ongoing inquiry into the murder of known Bookworld philanthropist and business-person Cock Robin.
Their search leads them to the WoLP, specifically to the floor reserved for the construction of erotica and racy novel genre books. Thursday issues dire warnings about the overwhelming emotional impact of E+RN (second only to poetry in terms of genre immersion-conversion syndrome) and instructs the boys to stay on the street at all times unless with her of one of the other JF agents. She then has to leave them in order to extract Falstaff, who has managed to get himself trapped in an infinite regression of innuendo with a vanity press knock-off named King Leer.
Ray hears a gunshot (in actuality a mislabelled ‘suddenly, a shot rang out’ plot device-should have been ‘unexpectedly, the doorbell rang’) from one of the workshops and runs in. Fraser doesn’t notice until Dief tells him, whereupon he follows, only to find that-prompt time!
Ray has been overwhelmed by the raw story and has found himself drawn into the plot. The ITRD operator is remarking mournfully that highly described generics are all well and good, but they play havoc with the ITRDs, and they require a greater narrative volume than the rest of the plot.
Fraser is horrified to see Ray fairly well smothered by scantily-clad harem girls in what appears to be a badly-realised Bedouin tent and, what’s worse, apparently enjoying himself rather a lot.
Fraser tries to fight back by reciting the driest Inuit stories that he can make up. The director has a paddy about ‘Poles Point North’ being constructed three doors down, over in the Vanity Press back-alleys. Unfortunately, the story potential infects Fraser, and he finds himself becoming increasingly pwp-ish in his recitals.
Things are about to get hot and heavy when Thursday arrives and ‘saves’ the day.
There is much embarrassment, and mocking by Dief.
The murder is eventually solved (after wacky hijinks and visitations from the dead). Fraser and Ray are uncomfortable, argue, then eventually have a heart to heart just in time to be sent back to Chicago where, on the downside, Ray can no longer understand Dief (for the purposes of ganging up on Fraser). But on the upside, there’s no such thing as narrative imperative (especially not the kind that sounds like bow-chica-wow-wow).
Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin,
Who saw him die?
I, said Fly, with my little eye, I saw him die,
Who caught his blood?
I, said Fish, with my little dish, I caught his blood,
Who’ll sew his shroud?
I, said Beetle, with my thread and needle, I’ll sew his shroud,
Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said Owl, with my pick and shovel, I’ll dig his grave,
Who’ll be the parson?
I, said Raven, with my little book, I’ll be parson,
Who’ll be the clerk?
I, said Lark, if it’s not dark, I’ll be the clerk,
Who’ll carry the link?
I, said Linnet, I’ll fetch it in a minute, I’ll carry the link,
Who’ll be the chief mourner?
I, said Dove, for my lost love, I’ll be chief mourner,
Who’ll carry the coffin?
I, said Kite, if not through the night, I’ll carry the coffin,
Who’ll bear the pall?
We, said the Wrens, both Cock and Hen, we’ll bear the pall,
Who’ll sing psalm?
I, said Thrush, sitting on a bush, I’ll sing psalm,
Who’ll toll the bell?
I, said Bull, because I can pull, I’ll toll the bell,
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.
European Robin- Erithacus rubecula, Family Turdidae or Muscicapidae (depending on source), Order Passeriformes.
Murder of Cock Robin- First degree passericide or erithacide.
The robin is associated in legend with both Jesus (stained by his blood while bringing him water on the cross), Thor and the guiding of souls from purgatory.
Swindon Town football club are nicknamed 'Robins' and Swindon's Speedway team is called The Robins.
Cock Robin=well off businessperson, in charge of a veritable empire, has connections all over BookWorld (thanks to prevalence in literature and mythology). Married to Dove, business partners with Sparrow (company: Muscicorp). Philanthropist, particularly in the avain communtiy, but rumours of links to the underworld and to Big Martin. Unproven allegations of illegal text sieving and fencing of stolen verbs on the WoLP black market. Shot in the back while at office late one night. Sparrow immediately confesses, but is discovered (by F+K) to be nothing but a stool pigeon. Investigation proceeds through characters of rhyme, involves meeting with much of the OralTrad brigade (perhaps visiting Humpty and co. in the under-construction Nursery Crime books?) Killer actually is Dove? Work more on this.
For reasons of ‘gee, I think that’s a really cool crossover idea,’ Fraser, Ray K and Dief have staked out a warehouse (of OEDs and theasauri) in anticipation of a break on a drug smuggling case.
Fraser is ecstatic. Dief thinks that Webster’s are the superior linguistic reference. Ray is going to commit goddamned Mountie-cide with a leather-bound ‘Complete and Unabridged’.
Unfortunately, instead of a fence of any kind, they find an alarming quantity of TNT. Which explodes. Luckily for them, at the exact moment of the explosion, the Grammasite Liberation Front breaches the transport kennels of a flock of Tessaracts and releases them into the fiction/non-fiction boundary land of Reference, Style and Convention, where they promptly infest the dictionary shelves in the Great Library. This creates an open Prose Portal that sucks in anyone currently reading the ‘Tes’ pages of the OED.
Thankfully for this premise, being battered around the head by ballistic pages is the same as reading them (and, indeed, many people finish a foray into a weighty dictionary with much the same feeling), so our three heroes are transported into the Bookworld.
The U. A. of W. Cat is very unimpressed. Emperor Zhark and Miss. Tiggywinkle are despatched to take the three to the JurisFiction headquarters.
Fraser is enchanted. Dief is appalled at the lack of smell, and only slightly mollified by no longer being deaf (and also able to hit Ray up directly for junk food) because, well, written world. Ray (probably in large part to do with the preceding parenthetical aside) is convinced that the drugs were impregnated into the paper of the dictionaries that were vapourised, that he inhaled said substance and is now tripping hardcore. Or dead, and this is hell.
It’s decided that the 3 should be sent home but, before anything can be organised, Fraser and Ray end up deciphering some evidence to do with an ongoing case. Bellman Bradshaw (recently re-elected) is delighted and immediately deputises them to Thursday, who is in charge of the investigation. She is not impressed, but agrees to have them help her with the ongoing inquiry into the murder of known Bookworld philanthropist and business-person Cock Robin.
Their search leads them to the WoLP, specifically to the floor reserved for the construction of erotica and racy novel genre books. Thursday issues dire warnings about the overwhelming emotional impact of E+RN (second only to poetry in terms of genre immersion-conversion syndrome) and instructs the boys to stay on the street at all times unless with her of one of the other JF agents. She then has to leave them in order to extract Falstaff, who has managed to get himself trapped in an infinite regression of innuendo with a vanity press knock-off named King Leer.
Ray hears a gunshot (in actuality a mislabelled ‘suddenly, a shot rang out’ plot device-should have been ‘unexpectedly, the doorbell rang’) from one of the workshops and runs in. Fraser doesn’t notice until Dief tells him, whereupon he follows, only to find that-prompt time!
Ray has been overwhelmed by the raw story and has found himself drawn into the plot. The ITRD operator is remarking mournfully that highly described generics are all well and good, but they play havoc with the ITRDs, and they require a greater narrative volume than the rest of the plot.
Fraser is horrified to see Ray fairly well smothered by scantily-clad harem girls in what appears to be a badly-realised Bedouin tent and, what’s worse, apparently enjoying himself rather a lot.
Fraser tries to fight back by reciting the driest Inuit stories that he can make up. The director has a paddy about ‘Poles Point North’ being constructed three doors down, over in the Vanity Press back-alleys. Unfortunately, the story potential infects Fraser, and he finds himself becoming increasingly pwp-ish in his recitals.
Things are about to get hot and heavy when Thursday arrives and ‘saves’ the day.
There is much embarrassment, and mocking by Dief.
The murder is eventually solved (after wacky hijinks and visitations from the dead). Fraser and Ray are uncomfortable, argue, then eventually have a heart to heart just in time to be sent back to Chicago where, on the downside, Ray can no longer understand Dief (for the purposes of ganging up on Fraser). But on the upside, there’s no such thing as narrative imperative (especially not the kind that sounds like bow-chica-wow-wow).
Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin,
Who saw him die?
I, said Fly, with my little eye, I saw him die,
Who caught his blood?
I, said Fish, with my little dish, I caught his blood,
Who’ll sew his shroud?
I, said Beetle, with my thread and needle, I’ll sew his shroud,
Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said Owl, with my pick and shovel, I’ll dig his grave,
Who’ll be the parson?
I, said Raven, with my little book, I’ll be parson,
Who’ll be the clerk?
I, said Lark, if it’s not dark, I’ll be the clerk,
Who’ll carry the link?
I, said Linnet, I’ll fetch it in a minute, I’ll carry the link,
Who’ll be the chief mourner?
I, said Dove, for my lost love, I’ll be chief mourner,
Who’ll carry the coffin?
I, said Kite, if not through the night, I’ll carry the coffin,
Who’ll bear the pall?
We, said the Wrens, both Cock and Hen, we’ll bear the pall,
Who’ll sing psalm?
I, said Thrush, sitting on a bush, I’ll sing psalm,
Who’ll toll the bell?
I, said Bull, because I can pull, I’ll toll the bell,
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.
European Robin- Erithacus rubecula, Family Turdidae or Muscicapidae (depending on source), Order Passeriformes.
Murder of Cock Robin- First degree passericide or erithacide.
The robin is associated in legend with both Jesus (stained by his blood while bringing him water on the cross), Thor and the guiding of souls from purgatory.
Swindon Town football club are nicknamed 'Robins' and Swindon's Speedway team is called The Robins.
Cock Robin=well off businessperson, in charge of a veritable empire, has connections all over BookWorld (thanks to prevalence in literature and mythology). Married to Dove, business partners with Sparrow (company: Muscicorp). Philanthropist, particularly in the avain communtiy, but rumours of links to the underworld and to Big Martin. Unproven allegations of illegal text sieving and fencing of stolen verbs on the WoLP black market. Shot in the back while at office late one night. Sparrow immediately confesses, but is discovered (by F+K) to be nothing but a stool pigeon. Investigation proceeds through characters of rhyme, involves meeting with much of the OralTrad brigade (perhaps visiting Humpty and co. in the under-construction Nursery Crime books?) Killer actually is Dove? Work more on this.