The Wrath of the Con: Part Three (eBook, ePUB)
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When Gadget and his friends arrive at Fantazmagoricon, they have no idea what is in store. Like mad scientist superheroines and even more mad supervillains. Aliens, time travel, alternate realities, virtual realities, vampires, werewolves. shapeshifters, Elder Gods, sentient programs, deadly fantasies, and dreams within dreams within dreams. It's all there, like many worlds collided, just like those angel-headed, cosplaying cyberpunks dancing downstairs, all burning for that heavenly connection to that starry dynamo of the Machinery of the night. To quote the Hacker's Manifesto: "Damn kids, th...
When Gadget and his friends arrive at Fantazmagoricon, they have no idea what is in store. Like mad scientist superheroines and even more mad supervillains. Aliens, time travel, alternate realities, virtual realities, vampires, werewolves. shapeshifters, Elder Gods, sentient programs, deadly fantasies, and dreams within dreams within dreams. It's all there, like many worlds collided, just like those angel-headed, cosplaying cyberpunks dancing downstairs, all burning for that heavenly connection to that starry dynamo of the Machinery of the night. To quote the Hacker's Manifesto: "Damn kids, they're all alike."
But so what? Right? Fasten your seatbelt, Buttercup, 'cause Florin is goin' bye-bye . . . to the outer limits and the twilight zones of strange, new worlds where no one has ever been before. (Either that, or they have been there, and now the Mirrorshades have them safely locked up on Altair 4. Don't worry; it's for their and others' realities' safety. Er, that is, I mean, uh . . . they're on a farm. A happy little farm somewhere. Promise.)
Say goodbye to the primal mainstream as Ensign Mariner Beckett sets the TARDIS's spare Spore Drive (damn, that's hard to say) to stardate 86753.09 beneath Sunnydale, California, and bounces a graviton particle beam off the main deflector dish. Doesn't really matter 'cause, umm . . . So anyway, if you're a Trekker, a Browncoat, a Jedi, a Whovian, a 'Scaper, a Whedonite, a Marvel buff, a DC fanatic, a Leaper, a Lovecraftian, a Shifter, a Furry, a SubGenius (or Pope), a reality-hacking Magickian, a video-game wizard, or a code-hacking badass, we bid you welcome to the Monkey House. Even if you're a more Casual traveler of these and other worlds, may the fnords be with you as you enter these dragon-haunted dungeons; might you live long and prosper as you have fun storming the castle; and may you scream, "Never say die, never surrender!" with all the other nerf-herding truffle-shufflers of tomorrow. . . as you run, screaming, your hair on fire, into the mad, mad multiverse of infinite improbability we've curated herein.
Please bring your towel
because I've got a bad feeling about this; never tell me the odds, dammit!
(This is Part Three of a Three-part Series.)
But so what? Right? Fasten your seatbelt, Buttercup, 'cause Florin is goin' bye-bye . . . to the outer limits and the twilight zones of strange, new worlds where no one has ever been before. (Either that, or they have been there, and now the Mirrorshades have them safely locked up on Altair 4. Don't worry; it's for their and others' realities' safety. Er, that is, I mean, uh . . . they're on a farm. A happy little farm somewhere. Promise.)
Say goodbye to the primal mainstream as Ensign Mariner Beckett sets the TARDIS's spare Spore Drive (damn, that's hard to say) to stardate 86753.09 beneath Sunnydale, California, and bounces a graviton particle beam off the main deflector dish. Doesn't really matter 'cause, umm . . . So anyway, if you're a Trekker, a Browncoat, a Jedi, a Whovian, a 'Scaper, a Whedonite, a Marvel buff, a DC fanatic, a Leaper, a Lovecraftian, a Shifter, a Furry, a SubGenius (or Pope), a reality-hacking Magickian, a video-game wizard, or a code-hacking badass, we bid you welcome to the Monkey House. Even if you're a more Casual traveler of these and other worlds, may the fnords be with you as you enter these dragon-haunted dungeons; might you live long and prosper as you have fun storming the castle; and may you scream, "Never say die, never surrender!" with all the other nerf-herding truffle-shufflers of tomorrow. . . as you run, screaming, your hair on fire, into the mad, mad multiverse of infinite improbability we've curated herein.
Please bring your towel
because I've got a bad feeling about this; never tell me the odds, dammit!
(This is Part Three of a Three-part Series.)
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