Fan Mail: Difference between revisions
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<h3>by Bruinhilda</h3> | <h2></h2> | ||
</center> | <h3>by Bruinhilda</h3><br> | ||
< | <h4>Rated: Unrated</h4></center><br> | ||
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<p>Gordon Bennett sat in his office, pawing through sacks of fan | <hr><br><br> | ||
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<poem style="border: 2px solid #d6d2c5; background-color: #f9f4e6; padding: 1em; font-family:verdana;"><p style="text-align: justify;">Gordon Bennett sat in his office, pawing through sacks of fan mail. Normally, most messages were electronic, and could be called up on a computer terminal. However, the respose to the "Ranger Danger" series was huge. Much more than anyone expected.</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> The computer server had overloaded two weeks ago. The computer couldn't accept any more messages, but the fans had refused to let this stop them. They simply used older mailing techniques, resulting in sacks of data chips, letter disks, and actual paper mail, some of it *handwritten*. Bennett hadn't seen handwriting since he left grade school, and paper mail had gone out of style over 50 years ago. He had never expected to see a traditional letter, much less several hundred of them. Of couse, it could be worse. One smartass, apparently miffed at having to do this the old-fashioned way, had sent in a baked clay tablet. </p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;">He was busy trying to decipher a letter with handwriting that seemed to be in shaky Japanese, and failed to hear the knock on his door. His secretary poked her head in.</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Mr. Bennett? Sir?"</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Hmmm...?" He glanced up, and blinked confusedly. "Oh, Carol. Yes, what is it?"</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;">Carol walked in, shutting the door behind her.</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Um, you've got some more fan mail out here. What should I do with it?"</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Just put it on the table with the rest of it."</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> She cast a critical eye over the pile. "I don't think it will fit."</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Well then, just dump the excess on the floor! It can't be *that* much."</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Sir, are you *sure*?"</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Oh, for God's sake Carol, just bring it in!" He was getting annoyed.</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> She shrugged. "Whatever you say, sir." She turned and opened the door. "Okay boys, you can bring it in!"</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;">Fifteen burly men marched in, carrying overflowing crates that dropped disks and other letters with every bump. Two of the movers towed an anti-grav lift, with even more crates. As Bennett sat staring in open-mouthed shock, they stacked the crates wherever they could find space, and exited with snickers. </p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;">"I think I'll take an early lunch, boss. See you." Carol followed the movers out, leaving a stammering Bennett in the overflowing office.</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> "Wha, wha, what?" It took him a few minutes to regain his voice. "What the hell is all this?!" He stumbled over to the crates. Every single one was stamped "Property of BETA Mountain". He whacked his leg on one left near his desk. Looking down, he noticed that under "contents listed", someone had typed "Hate Mail". Shaking his head, he staggered over to the largest pile, which was stacked near the door.</p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;">The contents on these read "Fan Mail, reply to: [email protected]" </p> | |||
<p style="text-align: justify;">Faced with all this, he did the only sensible thing he could do. He fainted, knocking over the table, which buried him under a drift of envelopes....</p></poem> | |||
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Latest revision as of 10:04, 23 August 2020
Fan Mail
by Bruinhilda
Rated: Unrated
Gordon Bennett sat in his office, pawing through sacks of fan mail. Normally, most messages were electronic, and could be called up on a computer terminal. However, the respose to the "Ranger Danger" series was huge. Much more than anyone expected.
The computer server had overloaded two weeks ago. The computer couldn't accept any more messages, but the fans had refused to let this stop them. They simply used older mailing techniques, resulting in sacks of data chips, letter disks, and actual paper mail, some of it *handwritten*. Bennett hadn't seen handwriting since he left grade school, and paper mail had gone out of style over 50 years ago. He had never expected to see a traditional letter, much less several hundred of them. Of couse, it could be worse. One smartass, apparently miffed at having to do this the old-fashioned way, had sent in a baked clay tablet.
He was busy trying to decipher a letter with handwriting that seemed to be in shaky Japanese, and failed to hear the knock on his door. His secretary poked her head in.
"Mr. Bennett? Sir?"
"Hmmm...?" He glanced up, and blinked confusedly. "Oh, Carol. Yes, what is it?"
Carol walked in, shutting the door behind her.
"Um, you've got some more fan mail out here. What should I do with it?"
"Just put it on the table with the rest of it."
She cast a critical eye over the pile. "I don't think it will fit."
"Well then, just dump the excess on the floor! It can't be *that* much."
"Sir, are you *sure*?"
"Oh, for God's sake Carol, just bring it in!" He was getting annoyed.
She shrugged. "Whatever you say, sir." She turned and opened the door. "Okay boys, you can bring it in!"
Fifteen burly men marched in, carrying overflowing crates that dropped disks and other letters with every bump. Two of the movers towed an anti-grav lift, with even more crates. As Bennett sat staring in open-mouthed shock, they stacked the crates wherever they could find space, and exited with snickers.
"I think I'll take an early lunch, boss. See you." Carol followed the movers out, leaving a stammering Bennett in the overflowing office.
"Wha, wha, what?" It took him a few minutes to regain his voice. "What the hell is all this?!" He stumbled over to the crates. Every single one was stamped "Property of BETA Mountain". He whacked his leg on one left near his desk. Looking down, he noticed that under "contents listed", someone had typed "Hate Mail". Shaking his head, he staggered over to the largest pile, which was stacked near the door.
The contents on these read "Fan Mail, reply to: [email protected]"
Faced with all this, he did the only sensible thing he could do. He fainted, knocking over the table, which buried him under a drift of envelopes....