Jan/Feb Story Comp - BRILLIANT PRIZES! (really)

[Bad City Blue]

Okay you pus filled ballbags, this is a good un

For this writing comp we have no less than THREE prizes, which will go to authors of the three best entries, as voted for by you buggers.

Each winner will receive a pair of tickets to... LAWGIVER MKIII, The UK's bestest con dedicated to Dredd.

These prizes are worth £50, so worth a stab, or a boot in the face.

It takes place in the chav hotbed that is Bristol (near the train station, which is always good) on Saturday 28th May.

Last year's event was bloody good fun, as this articulate write up will attest: http://cool-stuff-you-will-like.blogspot.co.uk/2015_05_01_archive.html

And if you're on Facebook, here's the official page to join and chat: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1417073338554565/

SOOOOOO there you have it, all you need is a topic.

Howzabout this: 2000AD - TALES FROM THE CON

Yep, I want 500 words or less (don't panic if yer a few over) with a story set at a convention, or fan gathering/signing of some sort. It's set in the real world, but that doesn't mean that portals to other worlds aren't everyfragginwhere these days.

Get thinkin', those of you that are able

Comp ends at the end of February.

BCB (who will certainly be attending)

[Bad City Blue]

That's LAWGIVER III (not Lawmaster).

Drokk!

[Andy Lambert]

That is indeed a tasty prize!
Shame I'm not much of a writer... :/

[Buttonman]

I've never entered one of these before so be gentle!

Progs Passim by Buttonman

Gordon thumbed his way through the back Progs box with some indifference. He already had a full run but you never know; he might get lucky and be able to upgrade his Prog 265 to one with the free packet of Bubbilicious still attached.

He still had twenty minutes before his next panel, 'Which Superhero would be most fun on a camping weekend?', but his seat was guaranteed - no one would dare to move the shoulder pads from his Judge Fear costume, that he'd strategically placed on a front row seat an hour earlier.

The Progs were stored in a yellowing Tudor Crisps box and were of the standard he'd come to expect in such situations - spine roll, foxing, water damage - nothing that would supersede anything in his own pristine set.

He flipped through the last few and was ready to move on when something caught his eye. It was a cover he didn't recognise, maybe an foreign edition or a fanzine? No, to all intents and purposes this was a regular Prog, but one he'd never seen before. He pulled it from the box and examined it closely. It had the damp aroma of an aged Prog but the cover was vibrant and strap line intriguing -

'Judge Judy : Dredd's Meat and Veg are Off the Menu!'.

Gordon's heart skipped a beat - could this be a Prog from another reality? Could dimensions have converged in the crisp box, meaning that a Prog from another place in space and time had landed here at the Cleethorpes Comic con?

Gordon gathered himself; his first goal had to be to make the Prog his own and then he could try to unravel its secrets or, at the very least , flog it on eBay. He glanced furtively at the stallholder but he was busy regaling some teenagers with his 'Game of Thrones' theories. Gordon looked into his wallet, he only had £20 to his name and had already committed to buy a  Boba Fett wobble head which he'd promised to pick up at the end of the event. He decided he had to try his luck. He placed the mysterious Prog into a bundle of old Krazy and Jackpot comics and approached the vendor - things would be fine if only that damn beeping would stop...

"I'm afraid your son's coma is too deep for any of our techniques to work Mrs Rogers" said the doctor. " There is some brain activity but there is really nothing..."

"Wait" said Tharg, looking up from his absent minded doodling. Is the twist in your Future Shock pitch really going to be 'it was all a dream?'. Brian shuffled nervously; thinking on the spot really wasn't his thing. Being honest, thinking in general wasn't his strong suit.

"No, er,"  spluttered Brian, "the twist is that Gordon is really in a virtual reality prison..."

At least it was a quick death and the Rigelian Hotshot left surprisingly little residue on the Marriott's thick, patterned carpet.

[Bad City Blue]

Very nice, BM.

504 words though! I know I SAID it was okay, but in your case...

hehehehehe

[Bad City Blue]

Return To the Forbidden Planet

He sighed. A long line of eager young men queued in front of him, snaking past the comic boxes and out into the street. He couldn't believe how many spotty teenagers read 2000AD - it was like a dot to dot convention rather than an opportunity to blag a job with the self styled 'Galaxies Greatest Comic'. It was quite a boast, but it had been proudly shouted since issue one two years ago, and no one had objected or challenged them for the title.

He'd drawn the short straw and had to spend an afternoon at the new Forbidden Planet shop in London looking at budding artists work. This in itself was bad enough, especially when he knew the rest of the editorial staff were down the boozer, but the icing on the shit sandwich was the insufferable 'Tharg' mask he had to wear. .

He humoured the latest spotty youth with a 'Borag Thungg' greeting so favoured by the fictional alien editor and took a quick shufti at the proffered art. As with the majority of stuff he'd seen it was okay but nothing special. Maybe with some practise and training the lad could make a half decent comic artist, but he was looking for someone who was ready now, not when the bloody comic caught up with it's name.

He offered the kid some half hearted kind words and told him to try again in a year, and braced himself for the next one. At least it was a girl this time, in a nice tartan skirt, and as  she plopped down several clearly inked pages he sat up in wonder,

'Holy shit...' he said under his breath. The pages were excellent, exactly what he'd been looking for. Great figure work and sumptuous backgrounds, with action that just jumped off the page. With the mask hiding his delighted expression, he confirmed that every page was in this exciting new style. Oh, the boss was going to be so happy. All they had to do now was keep hold of these and send them off to one of their better European artists, who would then copy the style to a T at a fraction of the cost a UK artist would expect.

'Um... very good Miss' he said, finally looking up at the girl.
'Miss!' said the spotty lad in the kilt. 'Whit d'ye think ye ken wi' yer 'Miss'? ya cheeky wee bawbag!'
'Oh, sorry mate,' he said. 'All you, um, Earthlets look the same to me. Look, these are pretty good. Let me take them back to the old nerve centre and we'll get back to you very soon.'
'Aye, that'd be braw!' smiled the youth. 'D' ye want ma name and aw that then?'
'Yes, just stick then on this release form and I'll sort everything.'
'Cheers pally,' said the youth, and filled out the form.' See youse soon, aye?'
'Aye, I mean yes' he said, looking at the completed form. 'See you very soon I'm sure Mister... um... Who?'
What sort of a name is Kenny Who? anyway, he thought...

[Eamonn Clarke]

Face Lift

Ting!

The lift doors opened and two Harley Quinns and a female Captain America spilled out giggling while the Judge Fear cosplayer slumped against the back wall.

I pressed the button for the mezzanine where I was meeting Ben for lunch after his photo shoot, and then turned to admire the impressive costume behind me. His cloak was tattered and cobwebbed, the mantrap shoulder pads looked like real metal with blood and gore on the rusted teeth, and a dull red light pulsed behind the eyes of the helmet.

"Blimey, mate, you've put in a lot of work. Might be a bit much though, you're going to give kids nightmares."

He didn't answer but pushed off the wall and stepped towards me. There was a strange jerkiness to his movements and I wondered if he might be disabled in some way.

"Whoh, save the act for the convention. Are you going to say the line?"

He came closer and stretched a gaunt hand towards me. That wasn't a rubber glove, maybe a clever paint job? A damp smell like wet leaves filled my nostrils as the lights started to flicker. He towered over me like a giant insect, a twitching monster from a silent horror film.

"Errr, excuse ..."

The words stuck in my throat as the hand touched my chest and everything went quiet, dead quiet. No machinery noises, no alarms, nothing but the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. I was suddenly cold as all heat left the world. All the noise, all the warmth, and all the hope were gone. I thought of Ben and I was afraid.

"P-p-please" a whisper died on my lips as his other hand jerked towards the visor and ...

Ting!

The doors opened and noise, heat and life flooded in around me. I jostled my way out through a crowd of laughing cosplayers and looked back into the lift but Fear wasn't there.

I staggered towards the balcony to lean on the railing. Sweat dripped from me as I looked down to the convention floor and saw Ben walking towards the stairs. He raised an arm to wave and then turned as he noticed the tall, cloaked figure behind him.

I tried to call out but my throat was still frozen. Fear bent over him as the crowds swarmed between us and when my view cleared they had disappeared.

The police searched but Ben was gone. The cosplay societies didn't know anyone with a Judge Fear suit, and he didn't appear in any of the convention videos or photos.

It's been three months now and nothing. I haven't seen the face of fear but it has seen me. I take anxiety medication but it doesn't work, my counsellor listens but doesn't believe, and I wake most nights sweating and afraid. The police are ready to declare Ben dead and the terrible truth is I hope they are right because the alternative just fills me with dread.

[Dan Banks]

Long time listener, first time caller. Enjoy!

What happens when..?

As we approached the convention centre, Timmy closed the gap between us. He'd been running ahead of me acting out his favourite scenes, shooting at me with his fingers from behind bins and bollards, and just generally chatting non-stop about 2000AD since I picked him up an hour earlier. I could tell he was excited. As we got closer, he'd grown a little more nervous. The excited kind of nervous though. Understandable really, he is only 9 and this was to be his first ever comic convention.

I'd been babysitting him for years now and we'd grown quite close. I'm sure he thought of me as a sort of big brother and that was cool with me. I always got a real kick out of hearing his reactions to the latest Prog which I'd drop round every Saturday morning before heading to work. For his birthday, I'd got us two tickets to the local comic convention and he hadn't shut up about it since.

We stopped on the steps just outside the convention centre, the summer sun glaring off the glass entrance. We'd arrived a bit late so the convention should have been well under way. I did a quick check of his equipment (home-made Strontium Dog badge and Happy Stick), told him he looked as dangerous as "Der Cucumber" and ruffled his hair up a bit. That seemed to settle him down so, bounty hunter ID proudly displayed, we entered.

Hell.

We entered hell.

One step through the door and we were swept up by a throng of cosplayers performing a demented conga. They were chanting a strange mantra that I couldn't quite work out. Stuck between Dredd and Mean Machine, I managed to pick Timmy up before he was sucked back into the maelstrom of costumes. It was so deep and dense that I couldn't see the end of it no matter which way I looked. Timmy was terrified and I wasn't doing much better.

Over our heads, pieces of metal were being passed around, some large, some small, constantly moving up and down the line. I couldn't tell if we were at the start or the end but we were heading somewhere and there was no escape.

The crowd in front of us started to disperse and reform as a huddle around our destination, what was once the 2000AD table. It had collapsed under the weight of mutilated droid carcasses, piled high and still growing thanks to the murderous conga. At the top of the mound, an idol to Tharg was displayed, pierced cruelly with bits of circuit-board.

Only one part of the display was left standing, an easel displaying a large poster. The huge announcement that 2000AD had saved for this convention. They'd finally answered the age old question and the focus group had not been impressed. I read the poster out loud, in disbelief.

All New All Different 2000AD Prog 1.
On sale 5th October 2016

As I sobbed, I heard Timmy exclaim, "Cool".

[Bad City Blue]

Welcome to the throng!

I enjoyed your story and hope you join in a future comp. There's always Graphic Novel prizes.

[Dan Banks]

Cheers! Actually participating for once was part of my new years resolution. With a bit of luck I'll be a regular!

[Goosegash]

A bit of silliness I came up with during some downtime at work.

The Long Con

He had endured tortures beyond imagining, lived through pain that might've killed a normal man, but nothing in all his years on the toughest streets on Earth had prepared him for this.

He stared ahead of him at the column of human detritus snaking it's way across the convention hall, stretching ahead for what seemed an impossible distance.

A sweaty, trembling hand extended across the table toward him. It contained what appeared to Dredd to be a crude painted representation of himself, grimacing as he stood over the body of a prone perp, a ludicrously exaggerated approximation of a lawgiver MK2 thrusting towards the viewer. Grimacing, they always had him grimacing. Did they think he had no other emotions at all?

"Mister D-Dredd, sir, Could...do you think you c-could...s-sign this t-to..."

Before the hapless boy could finish his faltering sentence, Dredd had ripped the artwork from his hand, scrawled "Best Wishes Judge Dredd" and thrust it back into it's owner's clammy fingers.

"No personalisations. Move along, citizen."

"Th-thank-you, sir. You don't know how h-happy this makes-"

"Yeah, yeah. Get going, creep. I ain't got all day."

He did have all day, that was the worst part.

* * *

"Attention, loyal acolytes of the somewhat less-than-socially-acceptable arts! Dirty Frank is here, ready and eager to receive your adoration, and even, dare he say it, your love! Indeed, Dirty Frank is positively tumescent with excitement even while realising he probably shouldn't have mentioned that part out loud!"

"Ladies! Dirty Frank is fully aware you may become overwhelmed with inexplicable feelings of lust, a desire for marriage and the urge to produce lots of small, pink squishy offspring! This is perfectly understandable and you should feel no shame at your dirty, dirty thoughts, but for the sake of public decency he would ask you to contain yourselves and reminds you Dirty Frank has vowed to forsake all temptations of the flesh no matter how you may beg and plead!"

"Have your meeting with Dirty Frank immortalised for all time in photographic splendour! For no extra charge, Dirty Frank will utilise two of his digits to make it appear that you have some kind of comical antennae emerging from atop your own head! Such hilarity will ensue! Oh ho ho, ha ha ha ha ha! Dear me!"

"Can someone watch Dirty Frank's stuff while he goes for a wee? He has been doing this for seven hours without a break. Ah, actually, never mind. It would appear nature has taken it's course."

* * *

They were everywhere. Anywhere Dredd went, they found him. An endless parade of unwarranted, t-shirt clad adoration. Some of them tried to hug him. Now he understood why they'd been so insistent he not bring a weapon.

Overall, Dredd found it hard to decide whether the experience of his first con had been worse than the time he got his face burnt off, or the time he'd had both his eyes gouged out.

But by Grud, that green bastard was going to pay for putting him up to this.

[Bad City Blue]

very funny

[The Legendary Shark]

  Con.


"The comic con!" I enjoined the taxi driver.
He ruminated, activated the meter, and suggested, "I can introduce you to Ken Dodd for two hundred pounds."
"No, no," I admonished.
"Rufus Hound, fifty quid?"
"No," I warned.
"Jim Davidson for a tenner?"
I punched him in the back of the head and ran off.


***


Four hours later, winded from the chase, I ultimately lost the murderous taxi driver vigilantes and located the location of my objective – The Glasgow Comic Convention. It was replete with throngs of wannabes. I was not phased by this paltry "competition" as I agnised full well how well my own value easily well surpassed theirs.


Pushing aloofly through the throng, I espied one of the targets on my list.
"Mr Miles," I ejaculated, elbowing expertly to the fore of the queue.
He glowered up from the tome he was validating. "What?" he bit out irritably.
"Mr Pete Miles," I pronounced, "writer of The BBC Warriors, Nerys the Wall-Hook and Sausage." I presented him with a carefully labelled envelope from my valise. "For you," I explained generously.
He took the envelope cautiously and enquired suspiciously, "What's this?"
"Samples," I explained, "so that you may divine my obvious literary talent."
He hid the envelope under his desk cavalierly, making the action appear unimportant, which I cannot blame him for – for why draw attention to such value? "I'll read it later," he promised. "Now push off."
I bowed gallantly and moved off purposefully, searching ardently for my next objective.


"Mr Ragnar," I cried, attracting the other's attention.
He paused in the frankly simplistic lecture he was giving to an audience of hopeless literary aspirants. "What?" he demanded absently.
I thrust the second of my hand-calligraphed envelopes into his trembling manus and expounded, "A cornucopia of germinal concepts for inclusion in your Dreaded Judge and Sphagnum Frog serials."
"I see," he enounced, obviously in awe of the priceless matter. "My address is within, for payment purposes, of course," I smiled. "And now I leave you to your struggling students." I bowed grandly and departed the small hall to admiring applause.


My last goal fortuitously hove into view.
"Mr Smythe," I oozed winningly, "Mr Pat Smythe, editor of the Tooth House I.D. and The Dreaded Judge Magazine?"
He shook his head and turned away, cowed by my obvious talent, but I magnanimously ignored his intimidated mien. I tucked the last of my precious envelopes into his keeping.
"What's this?" he enquired.
"Ideas!" I expostulated. "Stories of imagination, wit and singular uniqueness for inclusion in your Feature Shocks and Time Blisters serials!"
His face darkened with the axiomatic responsibility he felt to be in possession of such treasure.
"Have you even read the comic?" he investigated.
"Of course not!" I guffawed. "Do I look like a child to you?"


***


At this juncture, person or persons unknown, jealous of my demonstrable genius, punched me in the back of the head. When I awoke, I was lying on the pavement outside the Convention Hall. A taxi pulled up and, some time later, an ambulance.

[Bad City Blue]

++++ BONUS PRIZE ALERT++++

That awfully nice Molcher droid at Rebellion's secret bunker will be picking his personal fave at the end of the comp and awarding a lovely 2000AD Graphic Novel.

[Dan Banks]

We're being spoilt rotten!