Boddekker's Demons [Paperback]

Boddekker's not just a faceless copywriter anymore, grinding out ads for VR simulators and mood/attitude orienters.  Now he's the "five-hundred-pound gorilla" of the Pembroke Hall agency, lumbering toward fame, fortune, and a fabled house in Princeton with shapely Honniker In Accounting.  All thanks to Ferman's Devils, the four New York City street thugs whose record-breaking (and bone-breaking) commercial has won them billions of fans and made gangster chic the latest rage.

Yet Boddekker's new proteges are on the fast track to hell.  First they assault a famous talk show host.  Then they murder a former child celebrity in cold blood.  And the more outrageous their actions, the more popular they become.  So when another murder occurs, this time just too close to home, Boddekker knows he must find a way to take the Devils down.  He made them and he can break them...if they don't break him first.

Praise for Joe Clifford Faust's Ferman's Devils:

"One of the funniest SF satires of recent years."--Locus

When I heard the voice behind me, I knew I'd made another stupid mistake.  It had been a while since I'd made a blunder, but now that it had happened, I saw how major it was going to be.

This one was going to be fatal.

It hadn't been long since I'd stepped out of a Pay-Per-View art-house theater in Soho, arm-in-arm with Honniker In Accounting.  We'd decided to "go to the movies," like Levine did, and went to see an old classic that tried to span the whole of human history from Homo erectus to Homo superior.  I didn't find it particularly moving or inspiring, but perhaps that was the shock I felt on watching the opening scenes.  The listless gorillas starving in a land of plenty bore an overwhelming resemblance to the apes in Robenstine's failed script for NanoKleen--right down to the eclipse over the box of product and the business with them using bones to beat their oppressors--the washing machines in Robenstine's case.  It had been bad enough when I thought that Robenstine had pilfered Hotchkiss's time-honored prop of cavemen.  Now, seeing that it had been stolen outright from this allegedly classic film, well. . . . That made it all the worse.

Or perhaps Robenstine's spot was the reason why I was put off by the rest of the film.  Not only was it unsettling, it was long.  Not knowing its true length, that was one of my mistakes, too.  By the time Honniker In Accounting and I walked out of the theater, the sun was setting, and there wasn't a bikeshaw in sight.

Finally, I made the mistake of listening to Honniker In Accounting's sweet words.  I agreed to take a leisurely walk home instead of trying to at least ride the subway.

So there we were, walking and talking, her giving me an account of how McFeeley from Accounting had fended off a particularly nasty product liability suit.

"So there they were," she was saying, "the parents of this kid, and they're saying that he threw himself out the window because of the subliminal message on the latest Marching Morons record."

"But the only subliminals on that were for adolescent-strength Lover's Mist," I said.

"Their contention was that their son was depressed because he couldn't get a date.  Therefore, he had no use for Lover's Mist."

"Wait a minute," I said.  "That wasn't the subliminal.  The Morons wrote a song that talked about that."  I tried to remember the words.  "It went something like 'He was a loser and he was overweight/Nobody liked him and he couldn't get a date--'"

"That's the one!" Honniker In Accounting started to sing.  "'So he jumped in his truck and drove to Idaho / Put a gun in his mouth and gave his brains a blow.'"

Then came a voice from behind.  It sang.

"'Now he's deader than a nit, yeah yeah.  Deader than a knob on a door.'"

We spun at the sound.

The kid couldn't have been much older than twelve.  He must have been an early graduate of a Tuff Boys squad who had opted for gang membership.  He had fiery red hair that was greased and combed straight up, and cut so flat you could have landed a zep on it.  From neck to toe he was covered in battered blue denims, and on his feet were a pair of Speeedieees, the latest advertising success from McMahon, Tate, and Stevens.  The only other thing I noticed was that he had a bad cold--his nose kept running, and he snorted and drew his sleeve across his face as he tried to look mean.

I blew a sigh of relief and almost laughed.  "Popular song," I said.  I took Honniker In Accounting's hand and turned back on our course.

And stopped.

There were seven of them in all, counting the kid who had acted as a diversion.  They were all carbon copies of one another, right down to the blue denim wrapping and the red aircraft carrier haircuts.  The bigger members of the gang had a crimson numeral one stitched onto the front and back of their jackets.  I could only hope that a street barbecue wasn't a prerequisite to get one as it was with the Devils.

The tallest one of the group started to sing.  "'Deader than a nit, yeah yeah.  And he ain't gonna live no more!'"

I pulled Honniker In Accounting behind me and backed up against the brick facade of a closed restaurant.  "Let me handle this."

"Looks like you already handled it," said the tall one.

"You handled the clothes, too," chimed another.

Had I not been trying to show a brave face, I would have winced.  I was already ruing the day I had written that line.  No matter.  I had to think of a way to get out of this situation--and at all costs I had to avoid promising a part in a commercial to another street gang.

"So," I said, once again trying the old bravado trick, "what can I do for you boys?"

The tall one took a wide swing at my face that I easily ducked.  I knew he'd let that happen on purpose.  "We ain't boys.  We're the Big Red Ones.  And seeing as how you're infringing on our franchised territory, we figure that you gotta give us some kind of tribute."

"Tribute?"  I looked them all over.  "Like what? 'I confess that you've all got the biggest, reddest ones I've ever seen'?"

There were a few titters from the smaller members of the group, but the leader didn't take kindly to the remark.  "No!" he shouted.  "I'm talking money.  Real money."

Why was it that I always managed to bring out the worst in street vermin?

"But since you made fun of our sacred name, your money's no good to us, see? So maybe that bit of leg you're with will get personally acquainted with our big red ones."

I shook my head.  "Sorry.  You know I can't let you do that."

"Well then you'll taste this!"  He started to swing at me again.  It was only a little faster than before, which made me wonder what kind of stuff this group was made of.  Perhaps if I could best their leader in single combat--

I ducked back from the swing, feeling the breeze it left in its wake.  As the tall one traveled forward on momentum, I leaned forward and jammed my elbow into the back of his neck.  He went down hard and sprawled across the sidewalk.

"He got Red!"

"Get him!"

They started for me.  The little one who had diverted us was the first to me.  I grabbed him by the wrists and twisted him around, using him as a human shield.  He twisted and kicked, and I shoved him out of the way as a fist connected with the side of my head and sent me staggering.  Two came to finish me off and the others began to grab at Honniker In Accounting.

"Boddekker!" she cried.

It was amazing.  They all . . . froze.

"Boddekker?" whispered one.

"The Boddekker?" another asked in a timid voice.

Honniker In Accounting caught what was happening before I did.  She said, "We're from Pembroke, Hall, Pangborn, Levine, and Harris."

The tall one propped himself up on his elbows and wiped blood from his scraped chin.  "Boddekker!  Oh, this is ranking great!"  He looked at Honniker In Accounting.  "Pardon my language."

And then it went up, filling the air like a soft mantra:

"Boddekker."

"Boddekker."

"Boddekker."

"Boddekker."

"Boddekker."

"I'm like, really, really sorry, Mr. Boddekker."  This was Red as he shifted to his knees.  He wiped his bloody lips with the sleeve of his jacket.  "If we'd known it was you, we would've given you safe passage.  Hey, any of the Soho gangs would do the same thing.  For you and your lady? Anything, man.  Just ask it."

I reached down and took Red's hand, helping him to his feet.  "Why?"

"Because you're the man," he said.  "You made a promise to the Devils and you did right by them.  You made them what they are today.  And for that--man! You got the respect of ninety-five percent of the franchised gangs on the island.  Maybe seventy percent citywide."

"'The Bad Boys of Advertising Sign Real-Life Bad Boys,'" said one of the mid-sized Reds, quoting the headline from my interview.

"Pardon me for saying this," I said.  "But you don't look like the type who read the downloads of Ad Age."

"No," said mid-size.  "Not Ad Age.  Gangland Weekly. They reprinted it a couple of weeks ago." He gestured at the others.  "And I read it to them."

Honniker In Accounting and I nodded uneasily.  "All right.  That makes sense."

"Do you think you could sign us?" asked the twelve-year-old.

"I'm sorry.  I don't have a slate or a stylus--"

"He doesn't mean an autograph," said the reader.  "He's wanting to know if you can get us into a commercial like you did the Devils."

My face paled.  I don't know if Honniker In Accounting noticed, and I certainly hoped that the Big Red Ones didn't.  There was no way I'd ev...