The Parody Blog

Three parodies here:

• the situation (several writers fit this)
• the characters (just one, of course)
• one of the quotes

Not all are books.

The Rushdie hooked the crippled Mahomet 496 with her main tractor beam, and as Captain Andrey led the boarders through the boarding tube he cried in his great voice, “Follow me who can”.

Entering the command area, they found only dead Musselmen crisped by Rushdie’s boosted EMP. But then the door to the engine room swung open, and the French charged through, fronted by their traditional Human Shield, in this case ten cloned 18-year-old Virgin Galactic Space Attendants, who cried piteously to the Rushdies to spare them.

Jim carefully calibrated his stunner, felled the ladies, and rushed at the enemy with a loud cry of, “At them, lads!” The Musselmen commenced a violent plunging fire using petrol cans, uttering bloodthirsty cries of “Allah Akbar!”, “Vive Le Caliphate!”, “Islamophobia Pigs!”, and “We Know Our Rights!”.

Undaunted the Rushdies advanced with a great cheer, and plied their laser sabres vigorously. Within five minutes all of the enemy were dead or incapacitated and Mahomet 496’s AI crashed.

Cheers, then a great cry of, “She’s struck!”

The Rushdies turned to resuscitating the Human Shields, who, as one, cried, “Hands off, sailor!” Jim, after careful thought, proposed a joke to the Accountant. Shoulders heaving, he gasped, “Those Frenchies forgot to take their virgins!” Cedric smiled, thinly.

Pushing returned with his search party, reported the ship clear, and presented a released prisoner, Space Lieutenant Singh of the Indian Space Force, who had been shot down in his Shiva hemispheric protection vehicle.

“Pray sir, how did you become captive?” asked young Waddington suspiciously. The dusky space aviator drawled, “There were farve of theym. Ah got fawer”.

“I give you joy sir”, said Jim.

This is probably too easy:

Angloa felt a gentle tingling sensation as she sank into the richly defined armchair. The room itself was rather patchy, but through the French window she could see a magnificent oak tree and verdant lawns, in which a croquet lawn was a predominant feature. Piers Singsmyle was out there. He paced back and forth along a well worn track from the veranda to the first croquet hoop. A man in Edwardian costume stood by the hoop, mouth open in consternation.

She could hear Piers’ side of the conversation, and it didn’t sound as though his argument was working. An icy wind blew through the window, confirming this, and as the scene outside started to break up, Piers ran in and grabbed her hands.

‘They’re not going to deal, Miss Merrycan,’ he yelled. ‘This one is being dismantled too! Can you get us back to the Library?’

Any guesses?

…but for now I’m not parodying Alfred Bester. Who do you think this one might be meant to be?

Angelica sat on the metal seat. Outside, Piotr paced back and forth as he negotiated the terms of their release, but it was unlikely that the orbiting forces were their true enemy now. A white flash near the horizon confirmed it, and Piotr came through the door at a run as the light faded through green and yellow to the purple of agonised, squirming space-time.

“They’re gone, Angelica.”

She looked at him, his skeletal figure in black, and the brutal prosthetics that he used for eyes. However terrible his experiences had been in the past, she knew that telling him the truth about what had just happened above the atmosphere would drive him further than he could bear. “I know. They didn’t stand a chance.”

“We have to get off-planet, but if they see us we won’t even make orbit.”

“They will have seen us already. Their instruments will have spotted the transponder from this system’s Oort Cloud.”

“Copacetic. So what now?”

“We hide in the ruins. If we’re lucky, they’ll just nuke us from orbit.”

Phew - that was a tough one. Any guesses?

I didn’t originally intend to keep using the same scene for this blog, but I’ve been a bit blocked over Christmas - so here’s a nice easy one for you, in a setting that will seem somehow… familiar.

Angela sank back gratefully into the armchair, and wrapped herself around a thoughtful muffin. Through the window she could just see Piotr tottering back and forth on the patio, chattering away to his business contacts, and she smiled fondly. A chilly breeze wafted through the open french window, but just as she thought to stand and close it, he finished his conversation and turned to her.

“What ho, Angie, old thing!”

“What ho!”

“What ho!”

“What ho!”

And there the conversation had to rest for a while, as Piotr’s eye fell upon the sideboard and he fell upon the muffins with a glad cry.

A few moments later, sated, he turned to her with a happy g. in his e. “Well, old thing, I do believe the whole thing may well be in the bag!”

“Darling! Are you quite sure?”

“Absolutely! Tubby tells me that your Aunt’s laid out with a cold for days at least, so we’re clear to leave for London tomorrow!”

“Darling!”

“Darling!”

“Darling!”

“Darling!”

And here we must leave our young lovers, to listen in on the conversation in Lord Shiplake’s study, where “Darling” was not among the protagonists’ favourite words.

As before, if you think you know who it’s meant to be, leave a comment! Though if anyone gets this one wrong I think I’ll have to wrap up the blog and go home :-)

Keeping things nice and easy, here’s a second one:

Angel sat back in her chair, watching the Russian pace the dark and somehow monstrous terrace in his hideously antique clothing. Outside, the eldritch wind howled, bringing to her mind the mindless piping of flutes at the universe’s dark heart, where nameless shambling things dance to the unspeakable throbbing of drums. Not in vain had she perused those books kept under lock and key in the hidden cellar of her university, and well did she know that the price of this evening’s transaction could be high indeed.

As the swarthy and sin-pitted man gained the room once more, his skin rugose and squamous, a dark cloud fell across the sky, and the wind gusted sickeningly. In halting words, his voice soft and hollow, he explained that his dealings with those outside had been successful. Hesitantly, Angel asked if it was then true, if she could pass on the book that had haunted her since she found it among her ancestors’ papers, in return for the peace of mind she most treasured.

With a smile that was gentle but somehow mocking, the foreigner replied: “Yes.”

Think you know who it’s meant to be? Leave a comment!

For the first post, a nice easy one:

Angel sat back in her chair. Through her mirrorshades she watched the Russian pace the balcony. As he spoke into his phone, a gust of wind blew through the doors to her - rotting chrome and burnt neon. She shivered.

The sun dimmed as he walked back in, gray static clouds behind. “Is done.” His face was a patchwork of scars, his hair patchy from old radiation damage.

Angel shrugged. “So, good buddy, we can deal?”

“Yes. Weapons will be delivered tomorrow, you give me data now.”

Think you know who it’s meant to be?  Leave a comment!