Posts Tagged ‘China Miéville’


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



When Iain Banks collided with Iain M. Banks, a rip in the universe opened in London and all kinds of evil, disgusting creatures flooded out.  But now the rift has been quiet for several weeks, and has even become somewhat of a tourist attraction – people queue for hours to stare into the trembling, glowing darkness.

Lady Gaga is so impressed with the portal that she has used her not inconsiderable influence and finances to construct a stage around the tear, ready for her London gig.  Now she is onstage, performing in front of thousands of fans as the rip glows in the background; the most ominous but beautiful light display ever used.

China Miéville is not happy that the rip is being trivialized as a special effect at a pop-concert, so he stands watch at the side of the stage, ready, in case the gig should go momentously wrong.

Lady Gaga is gyrating across the stage, wearing what can only be described as a toilet seat, when a cloaked intruder invades the platform; it’s China Miéville’s evil nemesis: The Hooded Bastard! Seemingly recovered from his recent gunshot injury, he sprints towards Gaga, and with unnatural force he pushes her into the rift before dashing away, pursued by security.

The music stops; the fans cease cheering, and silence descends on the arena.  Lady Gaga is gone: swallowed up by the portal.  Moments later, however, she re-emerges to great applause.

But something is not right; another Gaga exits the portal, wearing what can only be described as a book of carpet samples: and then another Gaga emanates, wearing what can only be described as a filing cabinet.  Soon hundreds of Lady Gagas are flooding out of the rift, each dressed in uniquely bizarre apparel.  They begin attacking the fans and a panic erupts: people flee the arena, desperate to escape the rampaging army of demented Gagas.

China Miéville runs onto the stage to drive back this hoard of clones.  One Gaga (wearing what can only be described as several trout) attempts to kick China in the stomach – but a stern punch to her face soon dispatches her.  Another Gaga (wearing what can only be described as a photograph of bees) leaps at China’s head – but he catches her by the ankles and swings her through the air, throwing her back inside the portal.

Lady Gagas now surround China, hundreds and hundreds of them.  He fights them off – a flurry of kicks and punches as he deflects their assaults.  But there are too many of them; this is hopeless!  China Miéville realises what he must do – to destroy the copies, he must defeat the original Lady Gaga. 

He fights his way across the stage, holding off the relentless Gaga assault, when he finally spots her: the Gaga wearing what can only be described as a toilet seat.  Removing his hooked ear-rings, China throws them towards Lady Gaga.  Mid-air the cybernetic worms come to life and then – they make contact! They burrow inside Lady Gaga’s eyes, into her skull and a moment later she drops limp to the floor.  Instantly, the hundreds of Gaga clones evaporate, as if they never were.

China Miéville stands alone on the stage; all is quiet.  The Hooded Bastard is nowhere to be seen.


 As China Miéville made his way through the dusty Cairo market he basked in the bustle and noise. He stopped to watch a snake charmer but he could feel eyes colder than those of the serpents watching him… The Hooded Bastard leapt out from crowd, roaring a battle cry. The crowd between he and China Miéville scattered as he twirled his scimitar menacingly. The steel glittered in the hot sun and a combination of the exertion and his climate-inappropriate clothing made The Hooded Bastard rue the day he settled on his criminal moniker, and sweat a little, of course. China Miéville looked around for something to fend off the attacker only to have a revolver thrust into his hands. It was heavier than he’d expected, and as he turned around to point it he felt sickened. He called out a warning, but as The Hooded Bastard kept approaching he fired a single shot.

The crowd, who had been watching The Hooded Bastard’s scimitar acrobatics, scattered at the sound of the shot.  China Miéville dropped the gun to the dusty street and walked to his fallen foe. He grabbed The Hooded Bastard’s shoulders and shook him peering into the unnatural gloom of the aforementioned hood.

“Ah, ah-ha ha ha… ah-ha.”  The Hooded Bastard laughed falteringly. “You’ll never know who I am… and next time… next time… you won’t see me coming…” He sagged into unconsciousness, his threat seeming senseless and hubristic. China Miéville stood, planning to call for some form of medical help for his inexplicable foe, when The Hooded Bastard’s prone form started to shake. For the first time China Miéville noticed a coil of rope attached to his enemy’s cloak, which was rapidly unfurling as its far end trailed off into the distance. Before he could react The Hooded Bastard was gone, being dragged away by some unseen motive force. China Miéville thought about giving chase, but it was too late.

Apart from that stuff at the end it was a total rip-off of that fight from Raiders of the Lost Ark.




Posted: May 29, 2011 by Tomcat in Uncategorized
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Several weeks have passed since the collision of Iain Banks with Iain M. Banks that opened a tear in the universe.  During this time, hundreds of monstrous creatures have spewed forth from the rip: dragons, ogres, demons, zombies, indescribably deformed horrors; even Gordon Ramsey – all have set-upon the city of London, wreaking havoc and destruction wherever they roam.  Thankfully the police have been able to put-down all of these other-worldly threats, quickly eliminating the menace before any significant damage occurs.

But a new creature has now emerged; a monstrosity beyond description – a glimpse at this beast might reveal tentacles, eyes, tumorous mounds of flesh, horns, claws, scales, fins, wings, hooves, fangs, neoplasmic cysts, tails, tongues and jaws in abundance: no two reports yield the same picture.  Now the giant’s shadow has been spotted in the water of the Thames, and police surround the embankments.

A many-eyed tentacle rises from the river and sweeps along the shore, levelling buildings before sinking back into the water.  Next: hundreds of tongue-like protrusions emerge and wrap themselves around a bridge, pulling the structure down into the depths.

“This is hopeless” says an officer “our weapons are useless against this…this… kraken…. this Cthulhu-” his words are cut short by a banshee howl of inconceivable horror that rises from the depths, and soon more tentacles emerge, biting colossal holes in buildings and dragging screaming officers into the Thames.

“We need the world’s leading expert on monster cephalopods” yells the police chief.

“He’s already here” responds another, and all the cops turn to see the muscular figure of China Miéville, hands on his hips, standing on the embankment, staring down into the waters.

“China, thank God you’re here… we need to-” but before the officer can finish, China has dived into the Thames and vanished beneath the surface.

Now the police look on, impotent, as a titanic struggle ensues.  All they can see are shadows and forms in the murky depths, thrashings and monstrous screams of agony.  Giant tentacles and many-coloured limbs splash and contort against the water.  The creature rolls and struggles – and still China remains submerged.

“What the hell is going on down there?” asks the commanding police officer, but nobody has any answers.

Now, with a deafening screech that shatters windows, the waters are suddenly calmed.  Gentle waves lap the shore, and there is no sign of movement beneath.

The police lean over and look down into the still water…

And then a figure emerges; it’s China Miéville! dragging with him a disgusting yet limp tentacle.  He heaves the entire giant out of the river and drags it back to the site of the rip in the universe, pushing the dead creature back inside, it will never emerge again.