I finished reading. The men gathered before me were silent, lost in thought. No one looked at each other. My throat was parched; the glass of water was long since gone.

Finally, one of the Hollywood men spoke up. "So, like, what happened after that?"

"What do you mean, 'What happened?' That's the end."

"How can that be the ending? What kind of an ending is that? What happened to Anna?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe she went home and celebrated with a couple of cheeseburgers."

"And did they ever go find the crash site?" another man spoke up.

"Yeah," a third said. "Does that final scene in the hospital room mean that Anna and Roger are going to get married?"

"Are you asking me," I said slowly, "to write a sequel?"

"Well...yeah," one of them said.

Bingo.

"Mr. President," I said, "I wish for it to go on record that it's rather difficult to penalize me for writing stories, when the very people who are trying to incriminate me have specifically requested that I write more."

"Hey! Now I never said – oh, yeah, I guess I did," the Hollywood man said.

"He's right," the President said. "Besides, I thought it was pretty good."

"Thank you, Mr. President," I nodded. "You just got my vote."

"Hold on," Mr. Hollywood spoke up for the first time. "You're not going anywhere."

"I'm not?" My heart plummeted.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, he is," the President spoke up.

"No, he's not."

"Yes, he is."

My gaze went back and forth between them like I was at a tennis match. "Can I say something about this?" I asked.

"No!" they both said, then returned to their arguing.

"Will not."

"Will too."

"Will not."

"Will too."

Mr. Hollywood sighed. "All right, Mr. President. Have it your way. We can release him, as you wish – and we will utterly destroy your image."

"But I've just thought of something," the President said. "I'm serving my second term right now. I can't run for President again, anyway. So threatening me is kind of pointless, isn't it?"

Mr. Hollywood scowled. One of his cohorts leaned forward and whispered, "I told you he would remember sooner or later."

"Very well," Mr. Hollywood sighed, then pointed a finger at me. "But don't think this is over. You've made an enemy today, Mr. Neman."

"Gosh," I said. "Threatening someone who pays to see your films. Not very good for business, is it?"

I waltzed out of the room, acting a lot cockier than I felt.

They took me to an airfield. A colonel escorted me. As we walked, he said, "The U. S. government deeply apologizes for the nuclear waste that was dumped in your back yard-"

"Huh?" I asked.

An aide behind him leaned forward and whispered, "Wrong apology, sir. That's someone else. This is the fanfic guy."

Without breaking stride, the colonel said, "The U. S. government deeply apologizes for the trouble it has caused you. You will find your windows and doors repaired when you get home, and as compensation, we will give you anything you want."

"All right," I answered, "how about a date with Debrah Farentino?"

The colonel stopped in amazement, then turned to me. "Son, don't press your luck."

"Right," I said. "How about a new computer? Fancy. 486. Pentium Drive. Windows '98. Netscape. Monitor. Color laser jet printer. The works."

"Done."

We reached the plane and climbed aboard. It was one of those big army cargo planes for hauling lots of people around. We took off and headed for Dallas.

Several hours later, the pilot announced, "We've arrived, sir."

"How long until we land?" I asked.

"Land?" the colonel asked me. "We're not landing. We've got a budget and a schedule to keep. We have to get you down the cheap way."

The colonel's aide raised my arms and put them through the straps of some sort of backpack. The colonel easily picked up two huge boxes and said, "Here's the computer equipment you wanted. Take it, and good luck."

I was suddenly aware of the wind whipping into the plane from somewhere. He dumped the boxes into my arms, and I staggered under the weight. "What do you mean, goWHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

The colonel had shoved me out of the plane, and I was falling rapidly towards Dallas, Texas.

I screamed and screamed. Tumbling through the air, I let go of the boxes and yanked the cord. The parachute whipped out, brought me up short, and I watched helplessly as my brand new 486 with Pentium Processor and color laser jet printer smashed to a million pieces in the parking lot below.

I drifted down, still at a frightening speed, and landed in the trash dumpster outside my apartment building. With a huge flumpf, the parachute came down after and covered the whole thing.

I slowly climbed out of the dumpster and pulled the parachute aside. It was 2:00 in the morning; no one had witnessed my spectacular return except the stray cats.

I wadded the parachute up and shoved it into the dumpster, then went back inside my home. The door and windows had been repaired, the carpet had been vacuumed, the dishes had been washed, and there was a new carton of milk in the refrigerator. On the kitchen counter was a note which read, "We apologize for the inconvenience."

I shrugged. All in all, no harm done, except that now I needed a shower.

I took it, then turned on my little wonder computer which sometimes ate my stories, and proceeded to post my latest story to the fanfic list.

 

Only later did I learn what happened back in Washington after I'd left.

"We're not giving up," Mr. Hollywood said. "Come on, Mr. President. We'll help whomever you endorse for the next race win if you give us another chance."

"Oh, all right," the President said. "I'm too tired to argue with you any more."

"Right. Do we have the backing of the United Nations? Can we go international with this if we have to?"

He nodded.

"Excellent! Proceed."

One of the Hollywood men opened the book of fanfic authors, again getting as close to the middle as he possibly could. He closed his eyes and stabbed at the page.

"Nicole Mayer, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia!"

"GO!" the sergeant yelled. Immediately, the troops ran to the helicopters. Satellite tracking systems swung across the Coral Sea to focus on the target. Stealth bombers silently split the night overhead, ready to give support at a moment's notice. Attack helicopters swooped in low, converging on Brisbane...

 

The End?