This is the short story I wrote for the Australian Writers' Centre's Furious Fiction competition in November. I have to be honest here and admit it doesn't really work. I like the concept a lot and I transferred the weird superhero angle from another story I was toying around with, in the hope it would fit better.
I think the problem is that the idea is too big for a 500 word story, and I didn't want to admit it, even though I knew it at the time. The idea that we shouldn't quit things is a fallacy, I think. There is value in knowing when to cut your losses. My favourite author is Michael Chabon and when I went to see him speak in Melbourne several years ago he talked about giving up on a sprawling, early novel he had been working on for many years (serving as inspiration, no doubt, for Grady Tripp's behemoth work-in-progress in Chabon's sublime and hilarious Wonder Boys). Not that I'm comparing myself to that level of genius for one second, but if Chabon can recognise the failures in his blood, sweat and tears, then I should certainly be able to trust my instincts and pull the plug on a 500 word short story I know is struggling.
Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike The Malevolent Sciences Conference. While I can't pretend this is the strongest thing I've ever written, there are still ideas and characters in here that I like very much, and it's still better for me to post this story and give it some form of existence, rather than let it remain severed, floating in limbo on my computer forever. So here it is, for better or worse, The Malevolent Sciences Conference.
The rules:
In addition to the 500 word maximum and a three day window to write it, the rules for October were:
LOCATION: Your story must take place at a HOTEL.
OBJECT/PROP: Your story must include a PHOTOGRAPH. (In the story itself – do not send us a photo!)
WORDS: Your story must include the following words:
COLLAR, GLOOMY, POLICE, RHYTHM, SAPPHIRE
THE MALEVOLENT SCIENCES CONFERENCE
I was in town for the MSC, or Malevolent Sciences Conference, to use the full name. To stop the spread of misinformation, let me clarify, this is about what the illicitly wealthy call Dark Research and Development.
The police refer to it as the Supervillain AGM, but I take offense. Villainy is in the eye of the beholder and if we’re gathered to challenge conventions of accepted science, why shouldn’t we challenge morality, also?
Where do you think Dr Vampire would be without Dark R&D? His ‘Truth Fangs’ aren’t magic. They inject a serum into a victim’s bloodstream that eliminates discretion. Or Baron von Gravity’s Reverse-O-Tron? Sure, he took credit for those UN delegates’ internal gravity reversal. As a result, The Baron now owns Tahiti. But it was the laboratories that put the hard work in.
With all the various Doomsday Devices on show, there’s a sense these conventions are a little gloomy. But contrary to popular opinion, put a bunch of megalomaniacs in a room together and they know how to have a good time. Lot of laughs and pranks. Last year I used my invisibility gown to steal The Atomizer’s glasses. He couldn’t see anything and inadvertently rearranged thirty-seven convention volunteers at a subatomic level. It was hilarious. And messy.
The morning of the conference is when my breakfast went missing. I am very much a breakfast person. If I don’t eat first thing, I can’t think straight. I get cranky. Everyone knows it.
Room service knocked, set the tray on a table and I went for a quick shower. When I returned, the tray was gone and my room remained locked from the inside. A classic mystery, you might say, were it not for the fact I knew exactly what happened. Monsieur Téléporte – French-Canadian heist expert and master of international matter transfer – was staying in the room next door. He could steal everything his heart desired, but that didn’t stop him from being one tight bastard. That sonovabitch never paid for a meal in his life. So I marched round there to set him straight.
The hotel concierge interrupted me as I was pounding out a pretty good rhythm on Téléporte’s skull. I had tight hold of his collar too, and he was in and out of consciousness. Paramedics later said he turned blue, but it was really more of a sapphire colour, if you want to be accurate.
The concierge handed me a fan of squared paper.
Polaroids.
The Atomizer, seated in front of my breakfast, peering over the rims of his glasses, shit eating grin telling me I’d made a big mistake. A series of other photos showing he was staying in the room above mine, his rearranged form blending through the ceiling, stealing my breakfast, emptying the mini-bar like some kind of smug poltergeist.
Fortunately Monsieur Téléporte wasn’t too sore about it. I sweetened things up with a loan of my invisibility gown and we shook hands. Next year I’m staying in a motel.
