E van S

For years I tried to market humor, but editors told me that humor required a special touch, which unfortunately I lacked. I think editing requires a special touch, which unfortunately most editors lack. Only when I got Xanth into print did I begin to prove that the editors really didn't know much about humor either. Critics, being humorless, still hate Xanth, of course. But what, then, was I to do with those earlier rejected efforts? Two I sneaked into Anthonology. I'm sneaking some more into this volume.

Way back in 1963 I was asked to enter a story in a fan contest sponsored by the National Fantasy Fan Federation, or N3F. This was a problem, because I had sold my first story in 1962 so was technically professional. But they wanted me to enter regardless. So I compromised by submitting a serious story I had written in 1958 well before becoming pro,

"Deva," and by writing a joke entry that couldn't possibly win, "E van S." Wouldn't you know it, they turned out to be two of the top entries. But I had given "Deva" to a fan editor long before, who had then disappeared—only to reappear after I had given up and sent the story to the contest. This is the nature of fan editors. So it was disqualified because of the fanzine publication. However, the following year the first and second places in the contest were taken by two of my correspondents and later collaborators, and their stories were duly published in IF MAGAZINE in 1964: "A As in Android" by Frances T. Hall, and "Monster Tracks" by Robert E. Margroff. So the contest did do somebody some good.

I was left with the joke story. I never tried to market it, until decades later another writer, Brad Linaweaver, asked me to contribute to his anthology Off the Wall, for which odd stuff was appropriate. So now, as my brain slowly softens with age, I'm ready to let readers see it. Beware: This one is wacky. I should explain one of the puns, though: I have a play on the pronunciation of Don Quixote, who was a rather special fictional adventurer in Spain. It is pronounced Don Kee Hotay, but from it comes the word "quixotic," pronounced Quick Sotic. Later a TV cartoon series had a similar play on the word, but I believe I was the first.

There are other literary allusions, for those with the inclination and education to fathom them.

Note, incidentally, how little commercial television has changed since 1963. Evidently the same demons are in charge.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Curse this TV!" Mary Tate exclaimed euphemistically. It was midmorning. Her brown hair was in uncomfortable curlers, she'd had nothing more than coffee for breakfast, and her bathrobe refused to stay tied. She sat before the television set, hating it but unable to pull herself away. The programs were dull, the commercials repetitive and prolix; watching the thing was a waste of time. Somehow she had been caught up long ago in the interminable run of soap operas and quiz shows. Now, at a uselessly well-preserved thirty-three, she was a TV addict. Her husband usually managed to sleep through his Saturday sports programs, warm beer in hand; but she found no such relief.

Mary wasn't certain exactly when she became aware of the visitor. No one had rung the doorbell, yet there he was, standing beside her TV, a fat-cheeked, curly-haired youngster bearing an impish grin. "You really should watch your language, miss," he said nonchalantly.

"I'm Mrs. Nicholas Tate, and I'll say what I please in my own house," she said, surprise making her tone fierce. "Who are you and how did you get in?"

"My name is van S. E van S. I'm the little fiend for this sector."

Mary strained her credulity. "A fiend? What do the initials stand for?"

"Evil Spirit, you dope. Say—your husband is Nick Tate? Nick T. Tate? Does he—"

"Get out!" Mary exclaimed. "I was sick of that joke before I ever met the man. The same goes for you. Go home and ask your mother for a spanking."

Van S grinned impudently. "What a handsome temper. But you summoned me here, you know. 'Curse this TV' you said. And since I'm basically a malignant spook, I had to answer.

Did you have any particular curse in mind?"

"That was just an expression. A figure of speech. Leave my TV alone."

"Lady, I don't give two sarcastic hoots in heaven what you thought it was. You asked for a curse, and a curse you will get. Unless you prefer to work it out," he added, eying her bathrobe lasciviously. "I know an old satyr who'd—"

"Why you unspeakably smut-minded brat!" she exclaimed, whipping her robe tight and making a triple knot in the sash.

Van S blushed with pleasure. "Thanky for them kind words, ma'am. But I guess we'll have to stick to the TV. Technically, that's all you cursed. Oh, there's more iniquity in technicality than your world dreams of, Horatio."

There was something about his emphasis on the final word that caused Mary to distrust its spelling. She grabbed the broom. Speechless with an indignation she hadn't enjoyed in years, she rushed van S.

But he was gone. Not through the door. He had simply disappeared. She was left brandishing the broom, stupidly, at nothing.

It hadn't occurred to Mary Tate to be frightened. The whole episode, on reconsideration, had been more exciting than any event in years. She had had to be insulted by the imp's remarks, of course—but those earthy insults had possessed complimentary overtones. She wondered whether he actually was a fiend.

Preoccupied, she cleaned the house thoroughly, then washed the bleary dishes. It was an hour before she remembered the TV, that had been chattering to itself all along. Silly notion! How could you curse a—?

She sat on the couch and paid attention to the set for the first time since the interruption. It was functioning normally. For a moment she had feared that the picture would be flawed, or the sound gone. But there was nothing wrong.

So the obvious explanation was true. A fresh kid had barged in, overheard her frustrated swearing and taken the opportunity to poke fun at her. He must have slipped out the door when she turned to grab the broom. Somehow she felt let down.

"We take you now to the great Southwest," the announcer was saying, with just the right shade of artificial enthusiasm. "This is Dos Passos, U.S.A., a thriving slum due south of the 42nd parallel, famed for its 'Big Dollar' casino district. Across the rusty tracks is Precinct 1919, the toughest beat in seven states. Here juvenile delinquency is a way of life. The brats start training early..."

The picture centered on a filthy street. Garbage lay strewn on the cracked sidewalk, and loose bricks and larger rubble littered the pocked road. A mottled eye of spittle glistened in the foreground. A small child meandered into view, dirty and ragged, eyes on the ground.

Pouncing gleefully, he trapped a bright coin peeking out from under a brick and held it up to the light. It was a slug.

Eagerly now, his button-eyes searched out the corner slot machine. It was gloriously vacant. He ran to it, a broken-toothed smile cracking the freckles. He strained on tiptoes, reaching up to the slot—

And doubled over as a sudden fist struck from behind. A battle-scarred bully stood over him, grinning sadistically. Without further ado he kicked the child in the stomach and caught the spinning slug.

But force and determination had no reward. Before the bully could enjoy his spoils, another punk appeared. "Hand it over, slobhead," the newcomer said.

"This ain't your territory, Ben," the bully protested, while the original child squirmed from underfoot and fled. "Get outta here."

Ben pulled a lumpy sock from his pocket and twirled it ominously. The bully put up his fists, but Ben kneed him in the groin and connected with the business end of his blivet.

"Now beat it," he said tiredly, "or I'll rough you up. Thanks for the tin."

Ben was a well-built youth of twelve or thirteen, with brown curly hair and direct eyes. "Are you Ben Anderson, the toughest bully in Dos Passos?" the announcer inquired respectfully.

"What's it to you, blabbermouth?"

"Are you going to jimmy that slot machine?" the announcer persisted.

"Hell, no, stupe," Ben said indignantly, turning to the camera. "Think I'm a cube? Nothing in that machine. We cleaned it out yesterday. I'm putting this slug where it counts: in the cigvender down the street."

"Aren't you a little young to be smoking?"

Ben scowled craftily. "Now I get it," he said, marching down the street and forcing the pickup to bounce over the strewn debris to keep up. "Hell, I don't smoke real butts. If I was to stunt my growth I'd lose my 'Top Tough' status. But I'm safe with my brand: Dromedary Ciggs, the fake cigarette."

"You mean Dromedaries don't stunt your growth, like ordinary butts do?" the announcer inquired with excitement.

"They can't," Ben exclaimed, a trifle too enthusiastically. "Drommy don't use real tobacco.

It's synthetic: tastes like tobac, drags like it—"

"Full-bodied flavor with no unhealthy nicotine or tars—"

Ben smiled expansively, the yellow showing on his teeth. "You said it, shill. So get that sleazy tar out of your system and switch to Dromedary, like real thugs do!" He deposited his slug and extracted a pack, holding it up to fill the screen. "You're safe with Drommy, the fake smoke!"

Mary flopped back limply. It had been too long since she'd actually watched a commercial; she didn't recollect that particular one. And somehow she'd always thought of Dos Passos as a person, rather than a place. She wondered vaguely whether Dromedaries were cancer-resistant too.

"And now we bring you the adventures of Donkey Hotee and his mistress 'Quick' Sote," the announcer said soporifically. "Our story opens as Donkey Hotee carries Miss Sote through caverns measureless to man, but quite susceptible to mensuration by equine intellect..."

The picture closed on a motley burro picking its way through a maze of obvious stage props and bearing on its sagging back an impossibly luscious redhead. Her hair and makeup were just so, and her sarong artfully exposed one miraculously generous breast.

Miss Sote: Where are you taking me, Hotee?

Donkey: Where the sun never shines and you'll shiver in the—

Miss Sote: But I'm not dressed.

Donkey: (with a lascivious wiggle of one ear) Precisely.

Miss Sote: (with threatening mien) I'll throw a tantrum!

Donkey: The sponsor wouldn't like it—

Mary got up and went to the set, motivated by sudden suspicion. She changed the channel.

Donkey: ...on now, doll. I hate to have a babe cry all over my horsehair.

It was on all the channels. The TV was cursed!

Morbidly fascinated, Mary watched it for the rest of the day. Donkey Hotee's adventures continued interminably: implausible, ridiculous, and often obnoxious. The frequent commercials were worse; she resolved never to use the product.

—A sergeant, chewing out a private for an unnamed offense: "But Sarge—the latrine was off limits for three days—" "That's no excuse, soldier. If you smoked Dromedaries you wouldn't need no latrine!"

—A medical report: "So your blood has sickle-shaped cells, and your spouse has hammer cells? Consumer, you know what that makes your offspring! But they can redeem their patriotism by smoking Drommies from age three on."

—Again: "Are you listless, run-down, tired of living? Sign with Lucifelzebub, Inc.; they have a warm spot for you. Their waiting room stocks free Dromedary Ciggs."

Mary's husband was late coming home, as usual, and Mary finally ate alone. She turned on the set automatically for the evening programs, but quit immediately when Donkey Hotee reappeared. "Damn that little evil," she muttered, careful not to say it too loudly. No sense getting in deeper.

It continued the following day. Several times she found herself restlessly switching on the set, but giving up when the same odious material showed. It looked as though the curse were permanent. But she refused to give in easily. She set her alarm for three A.M. and rushed sleepily to the set, trying to catch it off guard and perhaps break the curse. A normal test pattern came on. Had she outsmarted it?

E van S materialized a few minutes later, white-eyed and grouchy. "What are you trying to pull, woman?" he demanded.

"I'm breaking your curse," Mary explained, pleased to have caught the demon in an off moment. "See—it's the straight pattern."

"Sure it is," he retorted irritably. "I can't keep the curse on all the time. Can't you let an indecent, law-breaking spirit have some sleep?"

"Oh, that's too bad," she moaned with mock solicitude. "Diddums want a nice rest? If you're a real imp, why do you sleep at all?"

Van S scratched his head. "Never thought about it," he admitted. "When in Rome, and all that, I suppose. I'm on topside duty now."

"Well, you won't get much sleep as long as you keep this curse on. I'll wake you up every hour of the night," Mary said gleefully. "Unless you want to work it off, of course. You'd look good in dishpan hands—"

The fiend blushed with fury. "I'll put an aphrodisiac in your husband's beer!"

"Would you really?" Mary asked with interest.

"Oh, come on now. I've got to keep this curse on. If I reneged, they'd assign me to one of the Nether tours."

"That shouldn't be so bad, for a devil."

Van S stamped his foot with frustration. "You keep using the wrong terms. I'm not a demon or a devil or an imp. I'm a little fiend. I don't belong down Below. As long as I put little curses on the clientele and walk the crooked path, I'm okay. But once I mess up—"

Mary eyed him with calculation and decided to drop the subject. She'd have to find some other way to break the curse. Van S vanished gratefully, and she went back to bed.

Saturday afternoon her husband turned on the set and settled back with his momentarily frigid beverage. Mary watched furtively, but baseball came on, instead of the donkey. Did the curse apply only to herself.

"And now the lead-off batter in the first inning is coming to the saucer," the announcer said. Mary listened from the kitchen, out of sight of Nick. If the curse did apply, there could be repercussions. "And here comes the first pitch of the game, a banana peeler—and it's a triple-play ball, and the side is retired!" the voice exclaimed. "What a play! And now a word from the Everdull Razorstrop Company. If your child is willful and undisciplined—"

Mary had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. The curse was on. How was Hubby taking it? She dared not look.

"Strike! The pins fall, and the score is ten to nothing. The batter is pouring around third base—fourth base—and he's hauled down on the five-yard line. Coming in for the free-throw is 'Skinny' Meatflab, seven foot-five inches, famous for his jawbreaking toehold—

eight, nine, ten—he's out! The pitcher is leading by half a length going into the back-stretch—"

Mary peeked cautiously around the corner. Her husband was sound asleep, warm beer in hand.

The days went by. Mary no longer bothered to sample the programs. She involved herself in fancy knitting, good books and letters to forgotten friends. She wrote up a discussion of one of the better books and sent it to the local newspaper, which naturally printed it, and later, several people called to express their interest. She made new friends by mail and phone, and used her knitware for family gifts. Life became interesting, even exciting.

Dusting off the TV one day, she suddenly remembered what had started her new life. She had been addicted to that set—and now she was free, having a grand time with her newly directed energies. "Why," she said, seeing the truth at last, "that was no curse. It was a blessing."

There was a crack of thunder and a biting smell of hot sulfur. A forbidding gentleman in judge's robes appeared in Nick's easy chair. Before him was E van S, a heavy silver collar clamped around his neck, and a chain dangling from it. Van S looked miserable.

"Now you've done it," he accused her tearfully "It's Hades for me now, for sure."

Mary was baffled. "What on Earth—?"

"Hell, madam, Hell," the seated individual corrected sternly. "I am the Archfiend Inquisitor.

You have made a serious complaint, for which I am about to sentence this slackard to an eon of incredible torment. Shall we get on with it?"

"But all I said was—" Mary halted. "Oops—blessings are against the rules, aren't they!" The Inquisitor looked at her sourly.

"This infernal court will come to order," the Archfiend intoned. "How does the offendant plead?"

"But neither of you looks like a demon!" Mary said, perplexed.

The Archfiend fixed her with a dour stare. "Madam, your nomenclature is careless. We are fiends. Naturally we assume our human shape when on the surface. When in Rome...

HOW DOES THE OFFENDANT PLEAD?"

Van S hid behind the TV. "Guilty, your excressence, sir."

"But he tried to curse—" Mary put in hopefully, feeling sorry for him.

"Madam," the Inquisitor said, pink horns appearing for just a moment in the chill of temper,

"one more outburst and I shall hold you in respect for this court. Do you know what that means?"

Mary was afraid to inquire. It was a reasonable assumption that respect for an infernal court could only be a step toward damnation.

"The offendant will now take the witless stand." Van S cowered forward. "Do you swear to prevaricate, perjure yourself and tell nothing but lies except when the truth would wreak the greatest havoc, so hinder you Satan?"

"Never," van S said.

"The witless is unduly sworn." Suddenly Mary caught on. An infernal trial was the direct opposite to a normal one. If E van S were found innocent, he would be shipped to the lower regions for a fate better than death—or should it be worse than life? And yet he was innocent, er, guilty. He had put a curse on the TV. If they sent him down, some other fiend might be assigned to the case, and she might not be so well off. Van S had to be exonerated.

"Just a minute," Mary said firmly. The Archfiend opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "I'm the one who made the complaint. Without my testimony you have no case. I withdraw the charge."

The Archfiend glowered. "That would be fair," he said. "Of course, we can't allow it."

This was a setback. She still hadn't geared herself to the niceties (or perhaps nasties) of the situation. "All right. I'm pre-empting the witness, er, witless stand. I hereby declare that everything I say during this mistrial is false. Accordingly, I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me. Are you satisfied, your honor?"

The Inquisitor grimaced at the appellation. "This is highly irregular," he said. "Normal people aren't allowed to participate in—"

"Precisely. I'm breaking the rules, aren't I?"

Hoist by his own petard, he capitulated. "Proceed, madam."

Mary rubbed her hands together in her best Machiavellian style. "I now call to the stand the offendant, E van S-quire." That unworthy came forward again. "Did you put a curse on my TV set?" she demanded.

"No ma'am," he said piously.

"And did you do this in answer to my statement 'Curse this TV!'?"

"No ma'am."

"And isn't it true that the only thing you were supposed to curse was the TV, and that any incidental benefit incurred is none of your concern?"

Realization lighted the fiend's features. "That's a lie!" he said happily.

Mary returned to the Inquisitor. "So you see, your honor"—she used the term deliberately now, since he obviously disliked it—"the fact that I was blessed has nothing to do with the offendant. He was supposed to curse the TV, and he did indeed curse it. He acted in a perfectly fiendish manner."

The Archfiend was sorely troubled. Then he brightened "It remains to be ascertained," he pronounced, "whether the set was cursed."

This time Mary was prepared. "Exhibit A for the offense," she said. "Turn on my set and see for yourself—your honor."

It came on, stifling his dolorous reply. "...treatment, the psychiatrist gradually became identified with the patient's father. The profession fostered this 'Father Image,' holding to the convention that it was beneficial therapy. However, certain masculine juveniles expressed violent parental rejection, that rendered this identity ineffective. It became necessary to develop superior association patterns. The most promising innovation was the 'Sweetheart' image, in which an attractive female doctor—"

"This would appear to be normally dull programming," the Archfiend said impatiently.

"Certainly not much of a curse."

"Give it a chance," Mary said. "It sneaks up on you."

"...creating something of a problem for the Planned Parenthood association," the TV

continued. "However, some elementary advice to the more enterprising practitioners ameliorated this complication, and a number of patients showed sufficient improvement to enable them to patronize normal establishments.

"Another advance is Marriage Insurance, that covers all expenses incurred in defending oneself against paternity suits. This eliminates the financial liability of licentiousness.

Alimony protection or ready cash for blackmail payoffs are extra. But if you're not getting divorced at the moment, and can't afford romantic releases through enlightened psychotherapy, or if your doctor is simply unattractive, sublimate your cravings with a rich, delicious Dromedary Cigg. Who needs an image at all, when Drommy's fine flavor—"

"Surely this is conventional television?" the Inquisitor said irritably. "I don't recall the brand, but I've seen similar ads."

"But people never watch the commercials anyway," Mary put in quickly. But she was beginning to wonder herself. She remembered thousands of commercials whose taste was just as dubious: the mucous specials coming just at suppertime, the raw sex purporting to advertise new cars... Had commercials ever operated without benefit of a curse? "The programs are what count. I'm sure there's a terrible one coming up." She shot a warning look at E van S. "Donkey Hotee, for example."

"Don Quixote?" the Archfiend repeated, troubled. "I thought this was the twentieth century—"

"It was," Mary replied succinctly, "before the curse."

"...and now we return to the further adventures of Donkey Hotee: ass him no questions, he'll tell you no tails," the announcer enthused. "As our scene opens, Hotee and his mistress 'Quick' Sote are entering the city of Curio, in the nation of Conster, on the continent of Inn."

Donkey: Ah, just dip your muzzle in that fresh sea breeze from Discrepan.

Miss Sote: Do you mean to say we are on the shore of Discrepan Sea?

Donkey: Be thankful it isn't the Lepro Sea. Terrible cities on its shores. Atro's the worst, but Pugna and Fero aren't far behind. One of them pirated the good ship Citizen when I booked passage at—Tena, I think it was. I thought I'd never get away from there. Old King Mar had a real decalco mania. Wanted to put his brand on my hide. With glue. Know how they make glue?

Miss Sote: What's that smoky building ahead?

Donkey: That one? That's the satis factory. Business is really booming these days, as you can see by the opti mist coming from the chimney.

Miss Sote: But what's a 'satis'?

Donkey: If you don't know a good thing when you see it—speaking of seeing, you'd look better if you got some support for that exposed udder. It makes you look too inti mate.

You'd really light up one of the Candella company's garments.

Miss Sote: A Candella bra? I don't know...

"I don't know," the Inquisitor said. "Are you sure you cursed this set, van S?"

"May the Evil One Himself be redeemed and sent to his salvation if what I have told you is not the rankest falsehood," van S swore fervently. "I do the worst I can, but I never had literary aspirations."

Miss Sote's dulcet tones interjected a comment. "Eating all this fruit has tired me. I think I'll go lie down on an apri cot."

"I know blessed well you were a writer when you lived," the Archfiend stormed at van S.

"That's why you were damned in the first place. I'm not interested in your biogra fee. For two cents I'd—"

"Make it one magnifi cent," Mary put in helpfully.

"Keep your abomina bull remarks out of the china shoppe!" the Archfiend ranted. "Bless it to Heaven, now you've got me doing it!"

"Steal any more food," Donkey Hotee warned, "and you'll end up in Obee City."

"I will not!" the Inquisitor screamed. "I'll steal all the food I want—TURN THAT ACCURSED

THING OFF!"

"There!" Mary pounced on the word. "You admitted it. You called it cursed."

The Inquisitor gaped. "Madam, that was a mere figure of—"

"Makes no difference. That's how this whole thing got started. Remember? Just because a person speaks imp etuously—"

"What thoughtful good did I ever do to deserve this?" the Archfiend gritted. "What unsuspected virtue is buried in my conscience? What an angelic picklement! Have your way, madam; he is guilty. E van S is guilty, guilty, guilty! Now—"

"Put it in writing," Mary cackled. "I have a sig nature—"

The Inquisitor puffed hot smoke from his ears. "...not with a Wimp, but a Banger..." He vanished.

Mary deftly caught the scroll that fluttered to the floor in the fiend's stead and rolled it carefully. "I don't trust that bird. I'd better hold this document in S crow—van S crow."

"I don't know how to curse you enough," he said thankfully.

"A malediction upon you, you little creep," Mary said warmly. "And don't you forget it. Is that true—er, false about your writing?"

"It was a big fib," he said proudly. "Do you think that once in a while you might turn on the set and—"

"I'll invite all my husband's friends over on Saturday afternoon," she promised. "It will make them furious!"

"Damn you to Hell," van S whispered joyfully as he faded out of sight.

"Damn you," Mary replied, stars in her eyes.