Repent Arlan, Said the Dark Venger Man

Fanfiction
Title:	Repent Arlan, Said the Dark Venger Man
Author(s):	Terence J. Koumaris
Date(s):	November 1983
Length:
Genre:
Fandom:	science fiction, Star Wars, Star Trek: TOS
External Links:
Click here for related articles on Fanlore.

Repent Arlan, Said the Dark Venger Man is a 1983 meta fic by Terence J. Koumaris.

The title is a riff on Ellison's story, "'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman."

It was printed in Grip #16 where it has two illos by Michael B. Smith. The editor of "Grip" notes that it is "a dire warning for a certain outspoken critic of Media Fandom."

The topic is Harlan Ellison and his combative relationship with fans and media fandom.

The story is RPF, though the names of the characters are slightly tweaked.

The Characters

Arlan Edison = Harlan Ellison

AstroCon = unknown if this was a totally fictional con or a nod to a specific con

Rosen = the con chair of AstroCon

Star Voyages = Star Trek: The Original Series

Space Wars = Star Wars

Danvers = a hotel security officer

Frank = Arlan's agent

Dark Venger = Darth Vader

From "Grip"

• 

  from issue #16

• 

  from issue #16, Michael B. Smith

Summary

When Arlan Edison attends a con as a guest speaker, he aggressively insults the audience regarding their admiration of "Space Wars" and "Star Voyages."

The audience is incensed, and Arlan is whisked away by security to the safety of his hotel room.

The con chair berates him and Arlan is unrepentant.

Arlan's agent berates him, and Arlan is unrepentant.

Arlan is haunted by the sound of odd breathing in his hotel room, and calls security, who find nothing.

Arlan is visited by Dark Venger Man, who issues him a warning.

At the end of the story, Arlan is being carted off to what one assumes is a mental institution.

Some Excerpts

Arlan was a study in incipient aggression. His short, thin a middle-aged body was all angles and jutting joints. From behind oversized black frames he peered down his aquiline nose at the alien assemblage, his lips drawn tight in a scowl, his sharp chin thrust forward in challenge to his listeners. A sea of eyes, faceplates, antennae and other bizarre sensory organs returned his gaze. Black-armored figures breathed resonantly inside onyx and chrome helmets. Large hairy beasts shifted in chairs not constructed to accommodate the variations in life-form that inhabited the hall.

Behind Arlan a luminous starfield was projected onto a stage-tilling screen that dwarfed the podium at which he so restlessly stood. Above the screen a banner of mylar welcomed them all in glittering letters to the Second Annual AstroCon.

Arlan cleared his throat into the microphone. The alien murmurings ceased.

"As you must all know, I have been asked to address you tonight on the current state of science fiction in the arts. Your choice or costumes tor what has become the mandatory 'Best-Dressed Alien' at these affairs parallels the present condition of science fiction, particularly in the films and on television. There is a smattering of intelligence and ingenuity among you, but by and large, you show a lack of originality in aping the characters from the most popular trash to come out of tinsel town and appear on the tube."

Angry rumblings erupted from the crowd. Arlan paused to adjust his glasses and run his fingers through salt-and-pepper hair. He continued: "I'm referring, of course. to the two major icons at science fiction fandom: Space Wars and Star Voyages. Space Wars is nothing more than low space opera masquerading as science fiction. Its pseudo-scientific hardware is pure fantasy. None of that crap could possibly work. As to the fiction, literary hacks have been turning out that same tired plot line with slight variations for the past fifty years."

The angry murmurs rose to a crescendo. Arlan grasped the lectern tightly and bellowed into the mike: "I haven't finished yet: Star Voyages? that ridiculous TV phenomenon all you fools keep in syndication by watching, is another boil on the unhealthy buttocks of science fiction today!"

Loud choruses of boos rang through the hall. Many began to rise from their seats with fists, claws, and tentacles waving in protest.

Undaunted, Arlan plunged on, straining to be heard over the din: "That show is a testament to the cowardice of a group of neurotic West-Coast liberals who didn't have the guts to openly express their opinions about the turmoil of the Sixties. Instead, they crammed their ideas about contemporary problems and their solutions down your throats as the conflicts of the Twenty-third Century. Science fiction -- my ass!"

... Arlan was immediately set upon by an apoplectic promoter, whose fleshy face was red with rage. As he approached, the gold medallion on his chest bounced in unison with the abundant flesh exposed by his open shirt. He halted abruptly before Arlan and pointed a sausage-like finger at the author.

"You'll pay for this, Hedison! I want your advance back, and you've got to make good for any damage done in the riot you've just started."

Arlan regarded the man with obvious contempt. "Rosen, you mind pimp, you paid me to express my opinions about science fiction, not to tell a pathetic bunch of morons what they wanted to hear. So you can blow it out your ear! And I'll expect the rest of my fee, too. If you have any complaints, take them up with my agent. Now, if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd have these gentlemen escort me to my room. I'd hate to have to press charges against one of my adoring fans for assault."

"If you keep this up, Arlan, your career is going to wind up in the trash right a along with those letters. Why do you insist on antagonizing your readership?"

"Those cretins at the convention?"

"Maybe they're cretins. But half of them buy your books, and I can show you the statistics to prove it. Why the Hell do you think I booked you at this convention, anyway?"

[...]

"Look, Frank, I have no complaints about you, especially not as an agent. We've done well together. But I can't endorse or glorify the mindless crap that most of those clowns feed on!"

Far from mollified, Frank took the offensive again. "Let me tell you something about that mindless crap that offends your great intelligence. Before Space Wars and Star Voyages , I couldn't give your stories away. They've created the market you're growing fat on."

"Well, will you listen to this! I had no idea, when we signed our contract, that I was getting a superego along with an agent. That was a real bargain...or was it?"

"Just let me finish, Arlan. God knows I've listened to enough of your rantings. Maybe it's necessary for you to denigrate anything that hasn't been conceived in that great brain of yours. But I'll tell you something: Space Wars and Star Voyages have captured the imaginations of the people who buy science fiction in this country. To you the plots may be hackneyed, but to the fans the people and things of Space Wars and Star Voyages are real, far more real and exciting than their own dreary lives. And if you insist on continuing to berate and insult your paying audience for finding some pleasure that you had no hand in, then I think you'd better find another agent."

As the white-uniformed attendants rolled him towards the door, Arlan saw Danvers and Frank standing there watching him.

"Tell him, you two," Arlan pleaded. "You know... about the sounds, about the breathing. He was there: He was! Dark Venger... he tried to kill me!"

Danvers turned away, but Frank looked down at his friend and smiled. "Don't worry, Arlan. You'll be getting a nice long rest, and I'll come to visit often. I promise. And I'll bring you some good books..."

Arlan's eyes rolled wildly around. With his reputation... who would ever believe him?

Fan Comments

"Repent, Arlan"..delightful! I wish the Dark Lord WOULD come after 'Arlan'! A very satisfying piece.