Archive for June, 2011


Posted: June 5, 2011 by Thom Dicomidis in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

It was night, and the rain lashing down in near-biblical proportions had tempered the police’s vigilance as they watched over the rift which Iain and Iain M. Banks’ impossible collision had opened. So, as a giggle began to peal from… somewhere else… they didn’t notice over the storm. Soon it was a guffaw, and while they had begun to feel uneasy the armed officers didn’t attribute it to anything more than the rift itself. It was only when the laugh became a roar, echoing out around the street, that they moved into action, taking up positions with their weapons ready. The laughter stopped

The moment stretched out into a minute and more, the laughter never abating, the police’s adrenaline fuelled tension creeping ever upwards. Then, suddenly, movement. The police opened fire as a shape blurred out of the rift towards them. It was over in seconds, the figure falling at their feet. It seemed human, its arms were bound behind it’s back. The lead officer gingerly turned the figure over, then stepped back. The face, hidden by some kind of grotesque harlequin mask, started to shake as the laughter resumed. Too late they thought to flee, an explosion tore the figure apart and scattered the police, variously dead and unconscious.

“Ha ha hah ha.” Pale faced and noxiously green of hair, The Joker emerged from the rift. “Welcome back to London town, right boys?” He drew a oversized revolver from the inside of his purple jacket. “Let’s make a scene.”

But China Miéville, ever vigilant for the weird, had been watching the rift from atop a nearby building. He leapt into action and off the roof, his coat casting a misleading shadow. The Joker  turned and fired, impossibly fast, his fixed rictus becoming confusion in the second it took to realise that China Miéville was not his arch-foe. The full impact of this arrived simultaneous with China Miéville’s foot. As he looked down at the unconscious clown prince of crime a voice like two slabs of obsidian being ground together sounded behind him, resonating through his bones.

“Good work soldier.”

China Miéville span in place, fists raised in preparation for whatever fresh hell the rift had spat out.

“Put those down soldier. I’m the goddamned Batman.”

China Miéville dropped his fists down to his sides, too shocked to take much more of this madness.

“Now, what do you know about The Hooded Bastard?”



As he leafed through the first draft pages of his prospective next book China Miéville flicked through the channels on his television idly. Suddenly the room was filled with trite dialogue and pat scenarios. He switched off the film and sat in the dark for a few minutes whilst he decided on the best course of action.

Within a few hours he was on a plane, and a few hours later he was in Los Angeles, looking for the set where they were filming a few days of reshoots for the upcoming cinematic farrago. After a short ride in a rented car, a culturally appropriate Chevrolet, he was at the studio. One effortless climb over the wall and he was on the lot, a quick look around to see where the most bustle and industry was and he headed for one of the buildings. He turned the corner and there they were, Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner, emoting at one another as hard as their little faces allowed for.

As Bill Condon screamed to his first A.D. to call security, for someone or anyone to apprehend the interloper who was ruining his shot, China Miéville approached Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner. They edged away, a little nervous but insulated from real fear by their vast wealth and consequent disconnect from reality. China Miéville grabbed Taylor Lautner by his left ear and Robert Pattinson by his right. Before either could cry out, or turn into wolves or use their sparkly undead speed, China Miéville brought their heads together with a satisfyingly heavy thud. He dropped them down to the fake snow that covered the floor and turned back, walking out through the studio doors as the stunned security guards stood back and watched him go.




Posted: June 2, 2011 by Tomcat in Uncategorized

Angsty hipsters, with words: conceited
The precepts of language: mistreated

But with transcendent verse,
China lifted this curse,

The Bad Teenage Poets: defeated.



Posted: June 1, 2011 by Thom Dicomidis in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

Their eyes locked, unblinking, onto one another, but this was no romantic interlude. If the eyes are the windows to the soul then theirs were lies, no sign of their conflict playing out in their glassy blankness. It had started with a question, innocuous enough Lev Grossman had thought, that met with a coolness as chill as the spring Williamsburg evening. The conviviality of the evening spoilt, the tone and tenor of question and response grew darker and more barbed until the dialogue had slowed to fragments and unanswered questions met with stares and glares.

Soon there was only silence, a tension so heavy that it choked inquiry as the two authors launched psychic sallies at one another; feint and thrust, parry and riposte. As the battle intensified, marked outwardly only by a single bead of sweat inching its way down Lev Grossman’s forehead, the lights in the room began to flicker and flare. Intermittent bursts of stray power, the effluent of immense psychic force excited their various filaments and fluorescents. The singular bead of sweat gained a fellow, then another, the exertion was becoming clear on Lev Grossman’s face as he began to shake. His tremors started softly, then progressed swiftly to violent, before he let out a piercing shriek. He convulsed painfully for a few protracted seconds before, in a mist of crimson and gray, his head exploded.

That’s what happens if you ask China Miéville what he thinks of Could They Beat-Up China Miéville?, apparently…