Bernie Schwarz, senior editor of "Bullseye" books, tore another page from the rejected manuscript on his desk, scrunched it into a ball, leaned back in his chair and lobbed it towards the waste bin. The paper ball struck the rim of the bin and bounced clear to join the two dozen or so other balls of paper littering the floor. He sighed. "Gee, Arnie, my aim is really off today."
By the window overlooking the street below, Arnie Simonsen, Bernie's partner and occasional writer, cast a look down at the tide of paper approaching his feet. "Have you ever considered getting up and putting your trash in the bin?" he asked.
Bernie scrunched another page up and tossed it. It missed by miles. "Naw," he said, "gotta keep them cleaners busy some how. It's what I pay 'em for." Bernie figured that if he kept them busy picking up paper, they wouldn't be stealing his pencils and paperclips. Not that he had many to steal anyway. The writing team usually did that. Bernie was becoming convinced that they'd teamed up to open their own stationary store somewhere.
Arnie shook his head and returned his attention to the street. It was a lazy day, as so many were these days. Inspiration was extremely lacking at the moment, but that didn't matter so much. Arnie and Bernie had discovered a long time ago that the best way to get round inspiration was just take someone elses' idea and re-use it - only change some of the words around. Throw in a lot of sex, violence and swearing, and no one knew different - least of all their readers, who bought their books purely for the aforementioned sex, violence and swearing, and not for the storylines or the writers creativity. At least, their creativity in terms of storyline. More like their creativity in terms of sex, violence and swearing.
Bernie paused briefly from messing up the office floor to speak his mind. "Arnie, you remember that TV series about the big house?"
"Which one?"
"The one about the servants. You know the one I mean. With that guy."
Arnie didn't have the first idea what he was talking about, but then he rarely did. Just so long as he didn't have to write it. "Oh yeah. What about it?"
Bernie leaned forward. "Well, I was thinking... maybe we could wring something out of that. A murder mystery! A double murder mystery!" His eyes lit up. "No, a multiple murder mystery!"
Arnie nodded sagely. "People like murder."
"Yeah. But it's gonna be more than murder. It's gonna be - weird murders!"
Arnie nodded again. "People like weird too." Especially their readers, he didn't add. He blinked. Something new had appeared in the street. "Oh no..." he murmured.
"And if it's weird, it's gotta involve you-know-who... that'll give it a sci-fi angle!"
Arnie held up a hand, still looking out the window with an expression of dread on his face. "Bernie..."
"I'm thinking - monsters! Time travel! Mad scientists!"
"Bernie..."
"Spiced up with a little you-know-what, courtesy of our popular new character..." Bernie winked and held up a book sleeve. It displayed a garish picture of an impressively physiqued and scantily clad young blonde woman locked in the tentacled embrace of a fearsome green octopoid with a mixed expression of bloodthirstiness and lust across its fanged, six-eyed face. It was remarkably untroubled by the ray-gun the blonde woman had stuffed up its nose, a similar expression of bloodthirstiness and lust on her face. The title on the cover read: MAVIS WYLDTHIME AND THE BRAIN LEECHES FROM VENUS.
"Bernie..."
Bernie tossed the cover aside and scrabbled through the pile of papers on his desk. "Yeah, it would work! I'm pretty sure she gave us something similar... yeah, here we are! "The Haunting of Shipley Manor"!" He slapped the synopsis with a meaty hand. "Almost exactly the same! Of course, we gotta build up the weirdness more, and add more murders, and monsters..." he peered at the pages and shook his head, "and we'll have to change this old Doctor guy... let's make him, a James Bond like psychic investigator! Pierce Brosnan meets Bill Murray! Guns, laughs, and sex appeal! A drink problem, maybe! Outta sight!"
Arnie tore himself away from the window and leaned on his desk. "Bernie, shut up - she's here!"
Bernie suddenly looked alarmed. "What?"
Arnie pointed out of the window. "It's her. She's here. No one else in Frisco rides around in a London double-decker bus!"
"Rats!" Bernie hissed, unconsciously crumpling the synopsis. He looked up at Arnie nervously. "You see her?"
"Yep."
"How she look?"
Arnie looked grim. "Steamed."
Bernie nodded. "Lock the door."
Before Arnie could do anything, the door was flung open, sending the paper strewn on the floor flying around the room like a blizzard. Bernie squawked and both men flinched at the terrible voice that thundered from the doorway.
"Mr Schwarz! Mr Simonsen! What in the name of the Great Prophet Methusilar do you think you are doing with my stories?"
Bernie flicked a ball of paper from his desk and tried to look pleased to see the young woman standing before them. She was tall and blonde and not too dissimilar from the woman on the front cover Bernie had been holding earlier. She looked very, very angry, and both men knew why. "Mavis - I mean Iris!"
"Miss Wildthyme, to you, you scribbler!" she yelled. She held up a paperback she was clutching in her right hand and waved it at them furiously. "What is the meaning of this claptrap? When I gave you permission to immortalise my adventures, I didn't give you permission to allow free reign to your immature fantasies!"
At that she flung the book through the air at them. Both men ducked, but the book thumped harmlessly onto the desktop. Bernie picked it up gingerly, as if it were about to explode at any moment. Arnie looked over his shoulder at the cover, and read the title out.
" 'Mavis Wildthyme and the Pleasure Pits of Pantalost'." Arnie looked up at the woman and smiled hopefully. "Great title!"
"Great book!" enthused Bernie.
"Pits indeed, Mr Schwarz!" cried Iris. "It's arrant nonsense, from beginning to end! Firstly," and she began to tick the faults off on her fingers, "the planet's name is 'Pentazost', not 'Pantalost'. This renaming might be entirely appropriate to you, given the amount of pants that are lost during the course of your..." and she shuddered, "story, but I can assure you in actuality no pants were lost, removed, torn-off, stolen, eaten or run up flag poles, as you say they are in the story. Least of all mine!"
"C'mon," said Bernie, shifting uneasily in his seat. "Everyone removes their pants once in a while."
"I change mine every week," added Arnie helpfully. Bernie gave him a worried look, and moved his chair away from him slightly.
"Not with the regularity or enthusiasm you suggest in the book! Then there is the small matter of these Pleasure Pits..."
Bernie flicked rapidly through the book. "Yeah! 'Vile dens of vice and depravity.' Nice turn of phrase, Arn!"
Arnie beamed. "Thanks, boss!"
"Such places might exist within the depths of your grubby imagination, Mr Simonsen, but they do not exist on Pentazost. There is a single bar, which retails only pleasant fruit cordials more known for their beneficial effect on the digestion than on their mildly inebriating qualities. And the establishment is certainly not frequented by courtesans, drug-dealers, strippers, vice cops, or tabloid journalists."
"Artistic license," suggested Bernie.
Iris ignored him. "Then there is the matter of the Empress Sallustria..." Iris shook her head gravely. "The Empress Sallustria is a 163 year old dowager whose reputation for clean living and piety would make Cliff Richard look like Mick Jagger. She is not, and I wish to stress this most firmly, a nubile teenage nymphomaniac with a penchant for stiletto heels, laughing gas and thumb-screws! And as for some of the language she uses..." Iris looked pained. "Gentlemen, please!"
"It's earthy, as befits the character!" insisted Arnie nervously.
"That language wouldn't befit a career petty officer in the Royal Navy!" shouted Iris. She narrowed her eyes. "Now, as for your descriptions of me..."
"Ah," said Bernie. "Well."
"No, Mr Schwarz. Not well at all! My style of costume may be a little, unusual, but even I would think twice about a purple latex body stocking! Have either of you ever worn a latex body stocking?"
The two men exchanged a glance, each hoping sincerely the other hadn't while trying to keep the gruesome image from their minds.
"If you have, you'll know how dashed uncomfortable it is, especially on a planet as temperate as Pentazost!"
"You don't wear it very long," remarked Arnie, and quailed beneath the look Iris gave him.
"That's another thing. I was originally under the impression you were publishing harmless space adventures for the older childrens' market, a la your excellent 'Professor X' books. The principle reason, I might add, why I agreed to allow you to publish accounts of some of my adventures. However, upon reading this, I am beginning to wonder quite what sort of readership you do have."
"Well, er, you see, this range is sort of different..." began Bernie.
"Yeah! We're branching out into new areas of readership!" continued Arnie.
"The dirty mac brigade," remarked Iris sourly.
"No, no, not at all!" insisted Bernie. "How do we describe them, Arn? 'Adventures Too Steep And'... something?"
"Steep, as in the prices you charge," she growled. "Ten dollars for a paperback? Outrageous!"
Bernie cleared his throat. "Look, since we lost the Professor X contract, we've been a bit, well, stuck..."
"Professor X was our meal ticket," explained Arnie.
"Without it, we're ruined!" said Bernie.
"I know," said Iris patiently. "Which is why I agreed to help you - being such a huge fan of the Professor. But I was mistakenly under the impression you'd continue to produce the same brand of wholesome science fiction exploits for which he was famous for so long!"
"Yeah, but..." frowned Bernie, looking at Arnie for help. Arnie blinked, and said:
"But there are things we can do with your character that we couldn't do with his!"
"Oh, I noticed!" snapped Iris. "Page 157, for instance. Gentlemen, really! The dexterity, not to say the energy, or indeed the inclination, to attempt such a thing would be beyond even the supplest gymnast, let alone me!" She put her hands on her hips. "Truthfully, do I look like I'm capable of such a thing?"
Bernie had flicked to the page in question, and he and Arnie were reading through the scene again. They both looked up at her thoughtfully.
"Well..." Bernie began.
Iris raised a finger. "Don't answer!" She folded her arms and glowered at them. "Gentlemen, you leave me no alternative but to revoke my contract, and withdraw my support of your organisation."
Bernie stood up quickly. "Oh no, wait a minute... we had an agreement!"
"That has become void. Read the small print on my contract. You broke several of the agreements regarding the portrayal of my character as early as page two of the introduction!" Iris turned to the door. Bernie rushed over, hands held high imploringly.
"Please don't do this - we'll be ruined!"
"You should have thought of that before!" sniffed Iris, sweeping him aside.
"Tell her about the t-shirts!" blurted Arnie desperately.
Iris paused, hand poised over the door handle. "T-shirts?"
A hopeful smile came over Bernie's face. "Yeah! Arn, toss me the sample we got from the supplier."
Arnie rummaged in a box by Bernie's desk and threw him an item of black cloth. Bernie caught it and straightened it out, displaying it to Iris. Emblazoned across the front of it was a woman's smiling face - her face, and the words "Mavis Wildthyme, Queen of the Universe" picked out in glittery letters across the top of it.
Iris studied it for a long moment. "A t-shirt? Of me?"
Bernie nodded frantically. "Yes."
Arnie joined in. "And that's not all. Our suppliers think there's a hot demand for this sort of cra- I mean, collectible merchandise."
Iris turned from the door slowly. "You mean... badges? Board games? Mugs?"
Bernie nodded. "Yep." The people who bought the stuff certainly were.
"Yeah. You're becoming a cult, Miss Wildthyme," smiled Arnie.
"Bigger maybe than the Professor," said Bernie.
"Bigger?" said Iris dubiously.
"There's even talk of adapting them to tape... TV, even," said Arnie.
"They say Jane Fonda is interested. Might come out of retirement to do it!"
"Really..." said Iris, slowly.
"Really!" said Bernie, looking at Arnie for confirmation. He nodded like a goon as well.
Iris slowly advanced towards them, driving them back to the desk, a stern expression on her face. "If you seriously think I'm going to be swayed by having my face splashed across a range of tacky merchandise..."
Bernie gulped. "Yes?"
She suddenly broke into a dazzling smile. "You're absolutely right!"
"We are?" whispered Arnie, amazed. Bernie looked incredulous too.
"Oh yes!" cried Iris, dropping into Bernie's chair and swinging round and round in it. "I don't do this lark for the heck of it... and a girl's got to have a little something put aside for a rainy day... huh?" Iris looked at them questioningly.
"Thirty-five percent!" said Arnie.
"Fifty!" cut in Bernie hurriedly.
Iris smiled. "Make it sixty-five, and you've a deal."
"Done!" both men chorused.
Iris laughed, then stopped and leaned forward, looking serious again. "One thing."
"What's that?" asked Bernie eagerly.
She grimaced. "No more purple latex. It always pinched the hell out of me!"
More from Iris in: Red Nose Relief
