Darthemed posted:

Checking the back cover, Free Enterprise + Elves/Leprechauns was published in 1990, so for all of its faults, at least Harry Potter-chasing isn't one of them. ElfQuest, maybe?

queserasera posted:

The 80s fostered a lot of stupid punny sci-fi.

queserasera posted:

The 80s fostered a lot of stupid punny sci-fi. I can't believe I ever read anything by Spider Robinson and actually enjoyed it.

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

What if an aging, unsuccessful Minnesota author of history books with names like Old von Steuben Had a Farm: The German-American Settlement of the Midwest decided he could write a book every bit as vapid and ridiculous as the books that sold four hundred times more copies than his own? Well, he would write Death Rat, of course, the thrilling tale of a man who battles prejudice, his inner demons, and a cunning six-foot-long rat.
And what if he was told by publishers that, at sixty years of age, though his book was a thrilling read, he just didn't look the part of a virile writer of gripping adventure books featuring cunning six-foot-long rats? Well, he would cook up a scheme so outrageous, it would incur the wrath of Gus Bromstad, the beloved author of the homespun Dogwood Downs series of books. And it would stir up the bizarre religious fervor of King Leo, the libidinous funk superstar whose CD "LoveDeathTomorrowJelly" was one of the biggest sellers of the decade. And it would throw him into a strange symbiotic relationship with the entire town of Holey, Minnesota, population 38.
Such is the fate of one Pontius Feeb, the hapless author of Death Rat. . . and perhaps the fate of all who attempt to write gripping novels featuring cunning six-foot-long rats.

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

Given his advancing age and his current stature in the business community, Pontius Feeb knew that it was unseemly for him to be driving giddily through town at mid-day, whistling and thinking fondly of spit-roasted chicken and buttered fingerling potatoes.

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

Bromstad, the honored guest of PederCo—a local hospitality conglomerate with substantial travel agency, hotel, and restaurant holdings—and its owner, Darlene Pedersen, stood in her moderately luxurious skybox picking through a pile of steaming chicken wings.
"Are there any drummies?" he said to no one in particular.
Of the fifteen or so other people in the room, sitting in the row seats watching the game or hanging about the beverage table, not one seemed to have any idea to whom or about what he was talking. Ms. Pedersen's assistant, a pleasantly bland woman of twenty-eight whose ID badge read JENNIFER, moved efficiently over to Bromstad, placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, and said, "Mr. Bromstad, can I get you something?"
"Drummies? There are usually a couple of 'em floating around in here. Somebody already pick 'em out and got 'em rat-holed somewhere?" he asked accusingly.
"I . . . I'm afraid—" Jennifer stammered.
"Is this hard?" he asked, his hat trembling ever so slightly.
"Oh . . . um," said Jennifer, not wanting to respond honestly.
Ms. Pedersen, with her extensive knowledge of appetizers, tried to clarify matters, voicing gently but firmly from across the suite, "Chicken legs are also known as drumsticks, Jennifer. Mr. Bromstad would like some of those."
"Oh. I'll go talk to catering." Jennifer bustled out of the room on the hunt for the desired chicken parts.

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

Gus Bromstad was in a hurry to use his new FlameMaster convection oven and did not read the label. He glanced at it only briefly before cooking his enchiladas, ignoring everything but the suggested oven temperature. He did not even wait long enough for the oven to preheat, and this gave the naturally occurring bacteria an even more conducive environment in which to grow. It was, in fact, not he who had thawed the Mrs. Condresi's Crab Enchiladas in the refrigerator; it was his buying service. But that was of no help to Gus Bromstad on this particular night.

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

"Um, thank you," he said. "We, my friend Jack Ryback and I, are here to ask a favor of you, the town of Holey. We—" Ponty was thrown suddenly when the appearance of a man in the front row caught his eye: He was wearing jeans, soiled work boots, and an extraordinarily dirty and frayed baseball cap. But it was the slogan on his black T-shirt that most arrested Ponty's attention, and he took the time to read it. It read BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEER HOLDER and featured a cartoon drawing of a google-eyed man, gargantuan tongue hanging from a snaggletoothed mouth, looking lovingly at a stein of foamy beer. Ponty was amazed that this was the outfit he had chosen for a Sunday-morning meeting, and by the time he had finished reading the shirt and being amazed, he had completely taxed the slim reserves of patience the crowd had for him.

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

"Gerry has an earth home," Ponty informed the others.
"Yeah, me and Bilbo," Gerry laughed.
"Now, Gerry, is Bilbo your wife?" King Leo asked good-naturedly.
Gerry checked to see if he was kidding and, discovering he wasn't, said, "No. No, Bilbo's a hobbit, from the Tolkien books."

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:

Much like Mr. Spock playing a difficult tridimensional chess match against an intellectually lively opponent[...]

Darthemed posted:

House Louse posted:

Why does this leprechaun have a book for a penis?

Darthemed posted:

It's not really a terrible book, but one that I am embarrassed to have purchased.

quote:

Mike Nelson's Death Rat! posted:
Gus Bromstad was in a hurry to use his new FlameMaster convection oven and did not read the label. He glanced at it only briefly before cooking his enchiladas, ignoring everything but the suggested oven temperature. He did not even wait long enough for the oven to preheat, and this gave the naturally occurring bacteria an even more conducive environment in which to grow. It was, in fact, not he who had thawed the Mrs. Condresi's Crab Enchiladas in the refrigerator; it was his buying service. But that was of no help to Gus Bromstad on this particular night.

Darthemed posted:

Honorable mention goes to The Book of Words, Volume I: The Baker's Boy, by J.V. Jones.



Back-side synopsis:

Sounds like an OK fantasy novel, though kind of bland. But it's probably the shortest time I've spent reading a book that I actually started, thanks to the first scene, which is of a man (presumably the evil sorcerer) raping the drugged queen in her sleep.

Last paragraph of page five and the first of page six, halfway through the prologue. It has a 3.5/5 average on Amazon, and the front has "THE #1 NATIONAL FANTASY BESTSELLER!" right at the top, so maybe it gets better, but that was a pretty effective roadblock for me.

Prenton posted:

I likes how the solution to the intriguing technical mystery of Airframe was DON'T TRUST THE CHINESE

Jonathan Yeah! posted:

Rising Sun was the blah blah blah Japanese corporations taking over America, wasn't it? Still better than Airframe.

ALL-PRO SEXMAN posted:

Yikes. Mike Nelson is a very funny man, but he's funny in a way that just doesn't lend itself to fiction writing.

Mycroft Holmes posted:

Don't kinkshame.

The Crystal Eye posted:

"Oh!" Velia said, cradling them happily in her arms. "I have some chuffie roots that Tantha found this morning, and there are still a few greens. If I use the last of the pefrike for seasoning, and boil these until they can be mashed, I can—"

The Crystal Eye posted:

"Rumors are beginning to circulate that the Imperial Mother's eggs are weak, making her unable to produce an imperial heir."
Outraged, Israi could only stare at him as her hands gripped the carved arms of her chair. Her rill flared out, stiff and dark blue, while she gasped for an answer to such a ridiculous charge.
"It is only a rumor, majesty," Temondahl said smoothly. "But rumors can sometimes do harm. This one should not be allowed to grow into general belief."
"Our eggs are strong and healthy," Israi declared, unable to get past the insult. "Always we have produced many."
"A solid, consistent number," Temondahl said.
It was flattery, but it was not agreement. Israi eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"
"Surely the Imperial Mother realizes that while she produces excellent eggs each year during Festival, modern numbers cannot compare with those of earlier days when double or three times as many eggs were laid by—"
"History!" she said contemptuously with a sweep of her hand. "We are not interested in the past."

The Crystal Eye posted:

Elrabin slapped his arms against his sides. He felt spent, like he'd talked too much. "Enough speech-making," he said finally.
Harthril nodded. "We going to camp in river tonight?" he asked. "Or we going to get inside city?"
"I'll take choice number two," Elrabin replied.
"How?"
"I'd kind of hoped the Rejects would help us get in," Elrabin said. "But these cubs have ruined that idea."
Nashmarl made a low, pained sound in his throat that Elrabin ignored.
"It is hard to gain Reject trust," Harthril said. "I know no one in Vir."
Elrabin tapped the side of his narrow muzzle and let mischief twinkle in his eyes. "So we go to another plan."
"Which is?"
"We're going to get in the same way the Skeks and the dust runners do. Through the sewers."
"The sewers!" Nashmarl said with repugnance. "Not the—"
"Oh, yes," Elrabin told him. The expression puckering Nashmarl's face cheered him greatly. "Come on. Let's start looking for a hole."

The Crystal Eye posted:

She turned to the chancellor, who handed her a holo-cube.
Activating it, Israi held up the image of Sargas III before the cams, displaying it as a barren, lifeless rock. "This is the homeworld of the Aaroun race," Israi said. "We saved the Aarouns from death centuries ago, and they owe us a great debt. Yet now we are accused of deceit and evil oppression, for we will not let them return to a world which cannot support life. How many of you have stopped a chune from hurting herself and been accused of oppression when she threw a tantrum?"
Chuckles ran through the audience.
Ampris looked at them sharply, realizing Israi was a master at manipulating them.

Inspector Gesicht posted:

Athyra by Steven Brust. There has to be a law against writing a book this boring. Normally it freshens up a series when you write an instalment from a different perspective, but not here. We go from inside the head of a witty assassin to being stuck with in the shoes of a boring farmboy. He has no arc, no personality, and he ends up brain-damaged at the end, which is scarcely a change. The book is 200 pages but there's not enough plot to fill it. It even threatens to be vaguely interesting by having a previously dead-guy from another book show up to be the antagonist, but this has no bearing on the story whatsoever. And the climax takes place in the dark, sparing the author of having to write anything that could be mistaken for excitement.

Phule's Paradise posted:

Chocolate Harry, the company's massive, pear-shaped supply sergeant, turned his head with regal slowness to survey the Legionnaire who had addressed him through his pop-bottle-thick glasses. One of the few blacks in the company, Harry would be an imposing figure even if he didn't favor a fierce bristly beard to offset his close-cropped hair, or wear his uniform tunic with the sleeves ripped off to display his thick arms, but as it was, the cold stare he leveled was enough to dampen the enthusiasm of his questioner even before he spoke.

Phule's Paradise posted:

Lex shrugged. "So he's rich. So what?"
"Rich doesn't start to cover it," Tiffany insisted. "That, gentlemen, is Willard Phule, the fourth richest man in the universe under forty-five who isn't gay or married and monogamous."

Phule's Paradise posted:

"I gots nowhere to go," Harry said, flashing his teeth. "Is my hawg okay out front there?"
For the first time the bartender showed surprise, raising his eyebrows.
"You got a hover cycle up here?" he said. "I thought I heard one right about the time you came in, but I figured it was my imagination. That or wishful thinking."
"You sound like you used to ride yourself."
"Sure did." The man grinned. "Didn't you notice the bugs in my teeth?"
Harry threw back his head and gave an appreciative guffaw, slapping his thigh with one hand. It was a very old joke, probably predating hover cycles themselves: How do you tell a happy cyclist? By the bugs in his teeth!

Heath posted:

Those books sounded a little amusing until I got to the excerpts and it became clear where "Chocolate" Harry got his name.

Darthemed posted:

Mythology 101, by Jody Lynn Nye.

muscles like this? posted:

Also even in 92 it wasn't okay to say "the blacks."

Heath posted:

That wasn't the one I was referring to.

quote:

“Poor Kimiko,” Ruth heard someone say. “Their family was so wealthy and now they’ve taken everything from her.”
“The rich had it the hardest.”
Many agreed with deploring nods.
“Sister…” Corporal Fukasaku began.
But, before he could continue, Kimiko demanded in rage, “Why didn’t the Emperor save him? Why couldn’t he have rescued us just a day earlier?”
“I am very sorry for your loss. Please keep in mind that it wasn’t the Emperor who killed your friend, but the Americans. I assure you, the Emperor has taken revenge a hundredfold for what has happened to all of you here.”
“I don’t care about revenge. He’s dead. HE’S DEAD!” she yelled. “If the Emperor was so almighty, why couldn’t he have sent you a day earlier?”
“Calm yourself. I know you’re upset, but speaking against the Emperor is forbidden.”
“gently caress the Emperor. gently caress you. gently caress all Americans.”
“I will only ask you once, and that’s because I know you’re not in a proper mental state. Do not speak against the Emperor or–”
“Or what? He’ll take his revenge? I poo poo on him and the whol–”
Corporal Fukasaku raised his Nambu Type 18 semi-automatic pistol, pointed at her head, and fired. Her head exploded, brain and blood spraying the ground. She fell over, arms interlaced with her dead boyfriend.

quote:

The American flag was taken down at Los Angeles City Hall. The Japanese rising sun took its place, enveloping the red, white, and blue in a crimson blaze that melded everything into a hot red ball. It was the 4th of July. The firecrackers that had been prepared to commemorate the holiday were being used to celebrate the fall of Los Angeles. Sparks lit up the air in a graffiti of loss. Paintings of fierce light splattered the sky like blood, only brighter, scintillating in desperation, boding ominously for a dim future. Groups of Americans planned rebellion and dissent. They believed the real fighting would commence after the faux surrender. The Japanese knew better. They were ready for resistance.

quote:

There was never a day Beniko Ishimura didn’t think about death. If mortality were a cocktail, it would be bitter, punctuated by hints of lime, imbuing oblivion in short draughts. Ben’s own cocktail was too sweet for his tastes because his date for the evening, Tiffany Kaneko, liked her drinks fruity. She was a striking redhead with freckles that mottled her cheeks. Her green eyes and thin lips could spark incendiaries – the way they’d done the first time their eyes locked. She wore a pink qipao because she appreciated traditional Chinese dresses and the way they emphasized the contrast of her Irish ancestry with her Asian periphery. Even though Ben’s father had been part Chinese and his mother Japanese, he looked full-blooded Japanese. He tried to match the prevailing fashions of the day and aligned his image with the latest trends projected from Tokyo. Like most of the officers in the room, his long hair was slicked back with oil. He wore the brown suit of a military officer, insignia ranking him as a captain in the Imperial Army. Vermilion lapels collided against his chubby cheeks, and, from the bulge in his belly that he refused to acknowledge, it was clear he was fighting both his cravings and gravity. He sucked on an ice cube in his cocktail, relishing the cold that numbed his tongue.

quote:

After he’d exited the performance hall, he took out his portical in its square form and flipped open the flaps to turn it into its familiar triangular shape. Porticals had originally been devised as “portable calculators.” In the decades since the War, they had grown to encompass a phone with visual display, an electronic interface to search information on the kikkai (the digital space where all information was stored), and more. The triangular glass monitor interfaced with the processor, which he navigated via tactile contact. The silver borders accented the sleek design.

quote:

The train went above ground. Huge skyscrapers towered in the distance. Mechas – robotic soldiers that were as tall as the skyscrapers – vigilantly guarded the skies against enemies outside and within. His portical was synced with the California Nippon News and a report from Governor Ogasawara gave the annual report on the state of the union. “Crime rates are the lowest in the western hemisphere and pollution is virtually nonexistent,” she stated. This intercut with footage from New Berlin and Hitlerica with their smoggy cities, as their cars still used gasoline, unlike the purely electric vehicles of the USJ. “Our EKS industry,” (Electric Kikkai System), “is booming and, despite attempts by German Minister Goebbels to make New Berlin the portical entertainment capital of the world, Los Angeles still holds the distinction with over a thousand unique depots,” Governor Ogasawara vaunted.

quote:

Akiko took out her silver gun. “There’s an old American religion that said if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off. If your tongue, cut that out too.”
“I really don’t know anything.”
“This gun will rewrite the history of your blood. If I shoot you with this, in a minute you won’t be recognizable. In four, you will suffer untold agony. In seven minutes, you will die the worst death known in the Empire. I will only ask you once again. Where is Claire’s father?”
“I really don’t know!”
Akiko took the gun and fired into her neck. It took thirty seconds before Jenna started screaming.
“W-what’s happening?”
“Where is General Mutsuraga?” Akiko asked.
“I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know! Please-please d-don’t-don’t.”
Jenna vomited and the whole contour of her back transformed, muscles pressing against her flesh, causing it to bulge. Her breaths were feral, desperate, and lonely. Viruses were raiding her entire immune system, pillaging, sacking, and devouring. Nature never hesitated. The smell of her blood and poo poo filled the air. She’d released her bowels and her shrill cry continued. Ben turned his head away, but could hear her retching and struggling against her seat. He looked to Akiko. She noticed his gaze. He went to the back of the trailer and hit the door.
“Let me out,” he ordered. “Let me out!”
A guard complied. He rushed out and gasped. He’d seen executions, knew about torture methods from San Diego. But the way Jenna’s biochemistry mutated and the smell that followed was more repulsive than anything he’d been prepared for. It was never a good thing to betray yourself emotionally in that way. But he couldn’t help himself.

quote:

They entered a hallway with a convex ceiling, white walls, shallow reflecting pool, and statues of grotesque animals. It resembled a temple with its axial alignments and lilies floating serenely in the water. She was about to comment on the architecture when she noticed something strange. The statues looked real and one of the nude women blinked. It took a few seconds to realize that all the statues were actual people, bound by metallic strips, some with bars perforating their body, wires intertwined with veins and muscles. An emaciated male had a metallic nail sticking out at every junction point in his bones, a tattoo of a black line linking them in a constellation of affliction. A woman’s skin was split up like patchworks, part metal, part flesh, hundreds of squares breaking up her body into a checkerboard. Another was bent backwards, the spine arcing in an impossible three hundred and sixty degree curl, the face held immobile by a larynx substitute and thousands of needles. They were sculptures celebrating the prosthetics of human profligacy. There was an altar at the other end and several columns that led to a corridor. Next to the altar was a tall giraffe with the face of a human and a dog with the body of a man. A woman had the wings and legs of a flamingo. They were hybrid people and the worst part was that, even though their bodies were immobile, their eyes were restlessly skipping.

quote:

She couldn’t resist the guard putting her hand down into the ant pit. She felt the ants throng her hand. They ate ravenously, thousands piling on top. The smell of her skin was making them greedy. The pain flared and she felt sweat break out over her body. She kept on thinking about her mother washing her hands every evening. She felt ashamed to admit she couldn’t remember a single song on the violin. The pinches were getting more aggressive as the ants cleaved at her fingers.
[...]
They took out her right hand. It was a skeleton stripped of meat from the elbow down. Akiko’s breath tightened. Her chest felt compressed. She started hyperventilating. A man had a short axe ready and placed her arm against the ground.
“W-w-what are you d-d-doing?” Akiko demanded in stutters. “W-w-what are y-y-y-you doing? S-s-stop! S-stop!”
They did not stop.

quote:

She headed for the lavatory, a private one with only an Eastern-styled toilet in the ground. The lock on the stall door was too hard for her to manipulate so she gave up and squatted above the toilet.
Twenty minutes later, she opened the door and called to Ben.
“You OK in there?” Ben asked.
“I’m fine,” she replied. “ I need some assistance.”
“What’s up?”
She looked at the tip of her prosthetic hand, covered in poo poo, toilet paper ripped to shreds. She was embarrassed, but defiant as well.
Ben saw the struggle in her face and asked, “Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
Ben did not flinch or make any overt reaction. He assisted her as best as he could.
They both washed at the sink.
“One of my commanding officers told me the best way to make a prisoner go crazy was leave them in a dark room and not clean up their poo poo,” Akiko explained. “We called it ‘excrement torture.’ I did it to a woman obsessed with cleanliness. Stuck her in a room for a month. Never let her shower or clean up her piss or poo poo.”
“What happened to her?” Ben asked, as he rinsed with soap.
“When we let her out, she wasn’t human anymore. I thought she was weak. But I know now I couldn’t have handled even a day of that.”

quote:

Akiko’s eyes went to a particularly lethal-looking cannon that was pitch black, a long corpulent barrel with grooves like fangs. “What’s that?”
“German prototype I scored a few years back from some arms dealers visiting from Rome.”
“What’s it do?”
“They called it the death ray. It uses crystals to power energy beams that are more deadly than bullets. Only problem is, it’s heavy and impractical as a gun arm. The recoil sucks even with the muzzle brakes. Hard to aim and balance.”
Akiko noted that it was made of alloy steel and had a revolving barrel that switched bullets with lasers. “Can I try?” she asked.
“I’ve tried to move this since I got it. It’ll screw up your shoulder and back. You should try this Type 22 light machine gun. They’re not too heavy, fire Arisaka cartridges, and–”
Akiko’s eyes were on the death ray. “Indulge me,” she said.
Orochan helped Akiko remove her prosthetic.
“Your scar is still fresh,” Orochan said, noticing the cuts and the wound. “You need more time.”
“I don’t have time.”
“This won’t hold long.”
“I don’t need long,” Akiko insisted. “Just a few days.”
Orochan had to use both arms to lift the death ray, screw in the rivets, connect the electric nerves, and calibrate the trigger. “This a five-axis swivel on the sock?” Akiko grunted in assent. “I’m using an amplified osseointegration process with this titanium bolt. This’ll sting, but it’ll attach the part to your bone with this abutment. These patches will accelerate the osseointegration, but if you’re not careful, it’ll rip out your bone.”
The integration felt like a hammer on her joints, a stabbing motion that jolted her entire body. Akiko clenched her teeth. The wires looked like cracks in a drought-ridden desert. Globules of fat and flesh surrounded the junction point. She felt as though she were being penetrated by a thousand needles, her skin imploding.

Mr Toes posted:

33-odd pages and nobody's talked about Dreamsbane of Tamalor, the creation of 'wildly creative' individual Bradley James Simpson (and his vanity publisher). I was once part of a newsgroup that he e-mail bombed with the preview and I was so fascinated with its...unique style that I ended up buying it to see where it went (it goes nowhere). Honestly, I've had more entertainment value just by getting other people to read it and observing their reactions, which normally revolve around them throwing it across the room.
However, don't just listen to me - check out these great reviews!

"Excellent fantsy (sic) world with compelling plot and vivid characters."

"This is a wonderful look at the creative powers of the mind. Bradley J Simpson has created characters and a world you will not soon forget. Looking forward to his next book and I highly recommend you stop and read this engaging tale."

You can find the preview on Google Books, and my lord you have to check it out. Just flicking through it randomly, we have the following:

""How do I know that ye have the rose?" Longblade quietly whispers secretively."

"Wolf, I come from another dimension."

Quickly Linda kisses Wolf gingerly on the cheek and hurries off to her own room. Wolf stands there lingering for a long period of time just staring off into nothing as he blushes softly.

"This last mountain trail will surely be my last."

Powerful Two-Hander posted:

These quotes are like something from Half Life: Full Life Consequences

'today is a good day to do what has to be done' whispered Wolf secretively and did a backflip longingly into nothing

Darkhold posted:

JV Jones definitely isn't for everyone but she is a pretty good author. But if you're going to read her you have to brace yourself for long long descriptions of unpleasant stuff. Gritty doesn't begin to describe how she'll go into weird detail about veins and bladders and sometimes that's just explaining to you how they're making dinner.

Tiggum posted:

This isn't 100% on topic but it is related, and it was too good not to share:

When Dickens met Dostoevsky by Eric Naiman.

divabot posted:

Oh, that J. G. Eccarius I mentioned upthread? Yeah, I found the publisher excerpts from his books. The Last Days of Christ The Vampire, We Should Have Killed the King. No, no, don't thank me. Also, there's more than one anarchist vampire novel, making it probably a genre now.