This page last updated 19 February 2003

Con-Foundation

by Richard Schwartz (rex@kf6.so-net.ne.jp)
1980-ish

 

Anachron - (Prefecture of) Once a bustling center of ... but later reverted to ... by ... although ... and many ... often ... (...) ... (lesbian?) ... during ...

Selff Servis strode proudly into the offices of the Supreme Mayoralty of Terminex. Without even waiting to be asked, he brazenly dropped to his knees and impatiently kowtowed his way to the desk of Mayor-for-life Saliva Hardon. Then, as is the right of every citizen of Terminex, he dropped his forehead to the well-worn Petitioners' Carpet and boldly waited to be recognized.

He needn't have waited. Even if Mayor Hardon's extensive and repressive spy network had not informed him of the impending arrival of Servis, he would easily have recognized the planet's premier anchorman and crusading journalist.

In the fifty intervening years since being embarassed by the holograph of Seldom, Saliva Hardon reflected, he had been busy indeed. Seizing dictatorial control of Terminex had been pathetically easy – indeed, he sometimes felt guilty over how little effort it had taken on his part. He immediately set out to put his own stamp on the output of the former Humor Foundation, now renamed the Con-Foundation.

The Joke Book Galactica was no more.

Now, instead, Terminex was the universe's leading producer of novelties. There was not a plastic spiderbird or fake photon-bolt-through-the-head to be purchased anywhere in the galaxy that did not come from the factories of Terminex, with of course an ample kickback for His Excellency Mayor Hardon.

This ill-gotten wealth was put to the best possible use: keeping the Mayor alive. Every medical procedure and advance was employed to ensure that Saliva Hardon lived to see another generation. "Why?" you ask, or would, if you had been paying attention to the story. Surely, the only thing worse than being mayor of Terminex for one lifetime would consist of being mayor longer than that.

The answer was simple: he held a grudge against Veri Seldom, and Hardon wanted to be around the next time that hologram appeared so that everyone could see him even the score. "Revenge is the last resort of the incompetent;" he was fond of saying, "the wise man considers no other option."

There was really no reason for Hardon to reflect on all this, except that Selff Servis was still pressing his head to the carpet, and Hardon was in no hurry to let him up. Finally he tired of filling in the reader on background details, and addressed the prostrate journalist.

"Ah, Servis. My intrepid reporter. What can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Mayor. There's a silly rumor going around that you've betrayed us to the Warlord of Anachron, and I just wanted to give you a chance to deny it."

"But it's absolutely true, my good fellow. I am a traitor. I've sold out the entire planet. If I were you, I'd learn to speak Anachronistic."

Hardon had few real pleasures in his life, what with being Mayor of Terminex and all, but he did enjoy rendering plumbers, barbers, men of the cloth and others who talked for a living speechless, as Servis was now.

"Oh, uh, really?"

"Absolutely, yes. In fact the invasion force is due in about thirty minutes. I'd better go down to the spaceport to welcome them."

"Of course. Uh, Mr. Mayor, if I could have a follow-up ..."

"You want to know why I did it."

"Kind of. Yeah."

Hardon leaned back in his chair. Finally tiring of Servis lying in his subservient pose, he allowed him to sit up so he could massage the Mayor's feet.

"As you know from Chapter One, Veri Seldom devised a thousand-year program to save the galaxy's humor and stem the Pratfall of the Universe. To save the author from typing too much, we refer to this as the Seldom Plan. My goal is to destroy the Seldom Plan."

"Hmm. I don't remember that in your last State of the Planet address."

"If anybody besides me had a brain in his head, he might have noticed by the way I have systematically removed every vestige of Seldom's influence. I've converted the planet's entire economy from jokes to novelties, made it a galaxy-wide industry leader, and then waited for our avaricious neighbors to covet our success. At the same time I cut the funding for all of our planetary defenses, and gave interviews where I said things like 'I sure hope no one attacks us, because we don't stand a chance.' Unfortunately, the populations of other systems appear to be just as thick as these cretins I'm the Mayor of. Finally, in desperation I took out an ad in Soldier of Fortune magnetazine: 'Wanted: conqueror of helpless population,' and it appeared that did the trick. The Warlord of Anachron is on his way."

"I still don't understand why you did it."

"There's no reason you would, Selff, old fellow. You're no smarter than these other imbeciles here. But those who remember Seldom's first holographic appearance in Chapter Two fifty years ago know that I have ample motive for revenge."

"What do you mean?"

"Veri Seldom recorded his hologram message before he died almost one hundred years ago. And yet he knew where I'd be standing, told me my zipper was down, and knew that I would look. A man dead fifty years told me to XYZ!"

"That's not so surprising. Veri Seldom was the greatest comedian of all time. It was at an early age he ..."

Hardon interrupted. "Now don't you quote the Encyclopedia Prophylactica at me. Nobody makes a fool out of me and lives to brag about it, not even if he's dead already. I made up my mind on that day that I would mess up the Seldom Plan to an extent that he could never have predicted. And today is the day I get my ultimate revenge. Now put my shoes on. I have to go greet our conquerors."

Servis sensed that the interview was over (the kind of intuition that only comes from long experience) and tried to squeeze in one last observation.

"You won't be Mayor anymore."

"I know. But that's just icing on the cake."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Even for a man on the verge of ninety, Hardon was in a sour mood as he escorted the Anachronistic Ambassador Thylvethter to the Seldom Vault. The initial surrender had not gone well. Thylvethter had hoped to land without firing a shot, but Mayor Hardon had stood firm, and absolutely insisted that they blow up one or two population centers as an example to the others. At the moment he was giving Thylvethter the red carpet tour, and trying not to make fun of his prefecture-wide speech defect.

"Tho tell me, Thaliva, what'th the name of thith plathe?"

"It's called the Seldom Vault. It's a monument to Veri Seldom, the man who founded this planet some one hundred years ago."

"Veri Theldom, eh? What a thage he mutht have been to have thtarted thuch a profitable enterprithe."

Hardon did a slow burn. "Yes. A sage indeed."

Thylvethter got a nostalgic look on his face. "Thay, that remindth me. When I wath jutht a thmall boy my parentth told me a thtory about a man called Veri Theldom. How doeth it thtart? ... 'Theldom devithed a thouthand-year program to thave the galakthy'th humor and thtem the Pratfall of the Univerthe.' He sang this to a tune most of us would recognize today as "The A-B-Thee Thong." * "I underthtand he ith conthidered a thaviour here on Terminekth."

Hardon forced a smile. "That's him, all right. Our hero. That's why we built him this vault."

Thylvethter moved over to the now inert holograph machine and wiped his finger through fifty years of accumulated dust. "What'th thith for, Thaliva? Thome thort of muthic bokth?"

Before Hardon could answer, the "Out of Order" sign which had been hanging off the front of the holograph machine was briskly pulled back in, and a little light somewhere in the bowels of the apparatus lit up a small sign reading "One coin one play."

Hardon' heart started beating faster. "Was that perfect timing?" he thought. "Now everyone will get the chance to see how far off the mark Seldom is."

"No, Ambassador. It's a device that plays back ancient messages from Seldom himself. He recorded them a century ago, and yet he perfectly predicts present events. You can see for yourself."

Hardon moved toward the Joke Box, his hands shaking with anticipation. He had been preparing for this moment every day for the last fifty years, and yet he felt as giddy as a schoolboy on his first date. All he had to do was activate the machine, answer the riddle (that would be no challenge. Any brainteaser Seldom could come up with would be child's play) and then he would finally get his long-awaited revenge.

He plucked a vintage Seldom half-credit (the Half-Ass, as it was known) from the money belt he had carried with him every day for decades. He dropped it gingerly into the slot – in his excitement he didn't trust himself to flip it through the air, as was his inclination. Sure enough, the machine rumbled its way back into service, as the readout posed the question: "What three letters do you say to Mayor Hardon?"

Saliva couldn't decide whether to blush or turn pale, and so he briefly alternated, waves of color passing across his face like a barber pole. The brid did it again! The one humiliation that he could never live down! They had been laughing about it behind his back for fifty years! Even when his secret police rounded up all first-time offenders and had them shot, it didn't help, because then he found out that his secret police were laughing behind his back, too! It got to the point that he no longer left the house wearing any article of clothing with a zipper, and instead wore kilts, togas and leotards.

The Mayor clenched his teeth and tapped the answer "X-Y-Z" onto the keypad. "We'll see who gets the last laugh," he muttered. "Just wait until Seldom starts talking."

As before, the apparatus selected a disc, gave it a spin, and above it appeared the ghostly image of Veri Seldom, every bit as wizened and decrepit as before, still confined to his amber eyes, his wheelchair still sparkling clear. He spoke.

"Well, I see at least one familiar face. Mr. Mayor-for-Life, glad you could join us again. At this point I calculate that you're three years older than me, so I should probably treat you with more respect.

"And I see quite a few unwelcome guests. Let me greet them in their native speech defect: Thalutathionth and tholithitudeth to Hith Ekthellenthy the Ambathador and thtaff!"

"This isn't happening," thought Hardon. "This can't be happening."

"I know the Mayor expected to have a little surprise for me today. He had thought that all the changes he's made over the last half-century would destroy my careful plans. But what he's only now realizing is that I had taken his ridiculous plans for revenge into account. In fact, I had counted on it!"

Hardon wanted to look away, but couldn't. He gritted his teeth and thought, "I should have told them to blow up this vault instead of that hospital."

Seldom continued to gloat. "So you fired all the people compiling the Joke Book? I told you myself fifty years ago that it was a waste of time. So you turned Terminex into the mail-order novelty store for the Universe? That all is according to my Plan!"

Just then one of the up-and-coming bureaucrats in Hardon's administration, ambitious but who had somehow managed to avoid the latest purge, stepped forward. "O Great Seldom, what can I do to rid our planet of these invaders?" Seldom turned and regarded him with a bored expression.

"It doesn't really matter. You'll be dead in thirty seconds."

The young turk blanched, then continued stepping toward the hologram. "No. No!" He ran forward now, climbing onto the seats in the front row. "No! You're lying!" With all his momentum he launched himself at the holographic image – and was promptly electrocuted.

"Ah, that's better." Seldom continued. "And now, to our lisping interlopers. You think you'll be able to commandeer the machinery that manufactures our novelties, do you? You may be interested to know that the factories are all voice-activated. Mr. Mayor, would you be kind enough to tell our guests the code word for starting up the machines?"

Hardon yelled back at him, "That was my trump card, you barmer!!"

Seldom beamed triumpantly. "That's right. 'Silly Sally shilly-shallies." There's not an Anachronism alive who can pronounce that. The machines are useless to you. You may leave now."

The Ambathador – excuse me, Ambassador – stormed past Hardon on his way out. "Thuffering thuccotath, Thaliva! Thith ith inthufferable!" Hardon numbly watched him leave, until Seldom's slowly fading image drew his attention back.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye, Mr. Mayor. Not even you have enough hatred to survive until my next appearance. Thanks for all your help. I couldn't have done it without you. Oh, and I didn't want to say this in front of the others, but your shoelace is untied."

Hardon didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared back at the stoic straight face of Veri Seldom, who finally nodded in begrudged admiration just before the image faded entirely.

"You're learning, kid. Keep up the good work."

* Also known as "Twinkle Twinkle Little Thtar."