Archive for the ‘Luc Reid’ Category
The Bison Girl
Thursday, December 31st, 2009
I’d been on a panel discussion about Noh theater, and the bison girl had caught me on my way out and asked if I wanted to have coffee. I should have gotten out of it, but 1) I couldn’t come up with an excuse and 2) I was distracted by her tight-fitting costume. She had a lithe, beautifully-proportioned body. But it disturbed me that the body had a tail and a bison’s head.
My friend Isaac had tried to explain furries to me before I left for the convention. At one point he’d said, “There are furries, and then there are yiffy furries. The regular furries are just having fun.”
“Then what are the yiffy furries doing?” I’d asked.
He’d just laughed at me.
We were sitting. The bison girl sipped iced coffee through a long straw she’d taken from her purse. “Insurance,” she said, answering my last question. “I’m a field adjuster.”
“I should have guessed you’d work in the field,” I said. She laughed: a beautiful laugh, for a bison. And you had to admire her mask, especially around the eyes. Of course, the expression didn’t change–but then, masks aren’t an extension of your face: they’re a replacement for it, a veil, a barrier, a statement, a simplification, a distraction.
My watch beeped. “Oh, I have to get to my next panel,” I said, relieved.
“What are you doing after? Want to get some dinner?”
Just for a moment, I considered it. I thought of the graceful shape under the fur. Then I thought about Isaac laughing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. I waited for her to ask me why. Apparently she didn’t need to.
“Fine,” she said. “That’s funny coming from you–but fine.”
“I just don’t feel very comfortable with … uh, furries.”
“Obviously,” she said. “I just thought, working with masks, you might get what this is about.”
“Artistically? Sure,” I said. “Personally? No clue.”
She stood then and pulled off her mask. Her face glimmered with perspiration, framed by damp tendrils of dark hair. I would have recognized her anywhere: Jessie Rosner, the girl I’d been obsessed with all through high school. I’d never gotten to say more than two words to her, until today.
“You know, just because your face shows,” she said, “doesn’t mean you’re not wearing one.” Then she turned her back on me and left.
The Sovereign District of Noël
Thursday, December 24th, 2009
Marisa knew a high-profile case when she saw one. This one was going to take her career into orbit, and that was worth even a certain amount of public hatred.
An ancient elf showed her in silently, and a moment later Santa entered, trailed by a suave-looking elf with a briefcase.
“Please, sit down,” said the suave elf. “Can I get you a cocoa? Schnitzel, get the lady a cocoa.” The ancient elf bowed and left.
“Let’s make this very, very simple,” said the suave elf. “You’re alleging violations of trademarks, patents, and copyrights in the toys we make and deliver to children around the world. And you’re absolutely right that we violate those laws. When we make a knockoff of a Nintendo Wii or burn a few thousand copies of the latest Harry Potter movie, we’re imitating the original product right down to the shrink wrap. The thing you’re missing is that we here in the Sovereign District of Noël have no obligation whatsoever to honor the laws that you mundanes spend your time fussing over.”
“Damn right,” said Santa.
Marisa had expected this tactic. “By conducting activities within U.S. borders–”
The suave elf laughed. “Oh, please. We don’t recognize your borders. We don’t recognize your nation, your government, your corporations, or the legitimacy of your laws. Your governments are completely powerless to stop Santa or constrain the movement of the Sleigh, and you know it. I think it’s time you gave up this farce and went home.”
Marisa had expected this, too. “You’re forcing my hand,” she said. “I didn’t want to have to resort to this.” She slid a stack of glossy 8×10 photos out of her attaché case and tossed them onto the table. They featured Santa in a variety of situations not usually associated with jolly old saints.
“Santa’s personal life is his own business,” the elf said, unperturbed.
“God, was I drunk that weekend,” said Santa.
“Santa’s a public figure,” said Marisa. “If Angelina Jolie and Tom Cruise have to pay the price for that, why shouldn’t he?”
The elf smiled. “Because Santa is magic.”
Abruptly, Marisa found herself sitting in her own office back in Newark. Ignoring the impossibility of this and her own disorientation, she ran to the safe and opened it. The photo CD and the spare prints of the Santa pictures were gone.
In their place was a lump of coal.