"‘Dear McKenzie,’ the man read out loud to his dog. ‘That last story of yours wasn’t up to your usual standard. Come on, Mac, blonde jokes are out. Get a grip and write something decent for a change.’”

Igor barked.

“The only response I got to that story and it has to be from some asshole who doesn’t have a sense of humor. Christ! What do they want from me? This isn’t supposed to be great literature here.”
McKenzie pushed away from the computer but glanced back as the email dinged. “Oh, great, Wally the Weasel.” With sarcasm dripping from his voice, he added, “I can’t wait to see what he has to say.”

Once again, McKenzie Rigby inflicted another pointless story onto the readers of this list. How long will it take before Mr. Rigby gets the message that his writing, at least in the genre, is, at best, pedestrian and his talent, or lack there of is not welcome on this list or any other.

Hello, McKenzie, it’s Superboy not Superkid, and he works for DC comics, not PC. Get it right if you are going to write fan fiction.

And while I’m at it, get a map. There is no country named Slovarnia.

Also, I’d like to see someone like you try to flog me to death….”

McKenzie hit the delete key, “Anal retentive son of a bitch! The word is parody, but that’s beyond your IQ of negative 20 to grasp.”

The list wouldn’t stand for that, he thought. Any second, he expected to see a bunch of mail in support of his stories–any second now. One ding came after five minutes from–Jeff Hollis. Jeff had always supported him in the past. “Hey, that’s one of my identities,” McKenzie realized as he opened the letter.

“I have to agree with Wally, this time. Big Mac’s stories are getting kind of lame.”

After checking the email address twice, McKenzie opened Netscape to Webmail 5.0 and pulled up the account. He couldn’t get in. This is my account, he thought as he tried the password again. Someone’s going to pay for this, but... If I tell anyone that I’m Jeff Hollis... No, better let that slide. He pulled up a couple of his other identities, still secure, but he changed the passwords to be safe.

“You want a flame war, Weasel boy? You got one. And it’s not funny,” he told the dog. McKenzie could swear the dog had been laughing at him. Igor just yawned and rolled over, but the dog’s ribs were still moving in a manner that reminded Mac of laughter.

“Or better yet, I’ll quit the list. That will show them.” McKenzie reopened his own account, and typed out the letter.

“To all of my friends on the TG-TF mailing list. Since that is the way you feel about my writing, I will honor your wishes and leave this list for good. I could have been posting to some of the big lists like TSA-Talk or Fictionmania, but I appreciated the intimacy of a small, seldom used list like this one. That’s it, amigos. I am out of here.”

“I wouldn’t post that if I were you,” a voice said just behind McKenzie’s left ear.
McKenzie spun around and, of course, no one was there.

“Over here, writer boy,” the voice said again. This time the man spotted a ball of sparkling white light that was maybe two inches long.

“What?” McKenzie stammered out. He squinted at the ball of light until it resolved itself into the figure of a tiny man, dressed in a sparkling white suit. A pair of multi-colored butterfly wings fluttered on the homunculus’ back.

“What in hell are you supposed to be?”

The man bowed. “I’m Fred, the fairy list uncle. You gonna make somethin’ of it, Mac, old boy? See this wand–this one right here?” Fred asked and held out a tiny stick. “This wand can do a lot of damage.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m dreaming.”

“Guess again, writer boy. I’m not a dream, but I can be your worst nightmare if you send that letter to my list.”

“Your list?”

“The TG-TF list. It’s still not a big enough genre to get real list uncles like the others, so I’m it. And I hate it when one of you writer types gets a hair up his over-sized ass about something that someone said and you threaten to leave. Or, in your case, you threaten to leave just to get sympathy because that nasty critic hurt your feelings. Well, boo hoo, Mr. Rigby and stop whining.”

“But he started it,” McKenzie said, with a pout. “I’ve put my heart and soul into those stories and he trashes them.”

That’s what critics do. They have their purpose, as do you writers. Okay, so you’re a competent storyteller for the most part, but no great shakes, you know? If you can’t take a few non-constructive criticisms along the way you had better give it up now.”

“But he’s so incredibly stupid,” McKenzie protested.

“That may be, but it’s not for you to say so. Most of the people that are–discriminating enough to be on this list know old Wally for what he is, and they have a good idea what you are, too. So, if you want to quit my list and go to another one, feel free, but don’t do it publicly. Leave and be done with it, but don’t spend the next five weeks whining about it. Got me?”

“Or what? You’ll turn me into a girl with that wand?”

McKenzie felt his body tingle for a second, before he shrank and shriveled down into a five-year-old girl holding a misshapen dolly with red yarn for hair and no internal skeleton. He looked at himself, then at the doll. “Very funny, Freddie.”

“How about this?”

The child grew, and developed into a teenaged girl, then into a rather well endowed adult. McKenzie hesitated for a moment before touching his right breast. “It’s real,” he said in his own voice. Startled, he looked at his reflection in the windowpane only to see his own ugly face topping the body of a voluptuous bimbo. He screamed.

“Told you the wand could do a lot of damage. Now do you believe me?”

“Please, I’ll do anything you ask, just do something about this.”

Two seconds later, McKenzie changed back into himself. He patted his chest, and sighed. “You could have left me female, you know.”

“Not in the contract, kiddo. I don’t do wishes. Behave yourself, or else. Don’t mess around with my list. Oh, and you really don’t need to be your own fan club. You can have that email address back, but keep all your various pen names to yourself. Don’t make me come back.” Fred said, bowed and vanished.

McKenzie stumbled back to his seat, and sat down glaring at the computer screen. He deleted the letter in progress, then typed out a quick note to the list: “Thanks, Fred. Thanks for waking me up.”

Within a minute, at least a dozen responses came back. All but one of them read to the effect of, “Hey, you met Fred. Cool! What’s he like?”

The last was an admin message asking that the ‘Thanks Fred’ thread to be dropped as off topic.

Typing again, McKenzie wrote a private letter:

Dear Wally, we need to talk. Please respond at your earliest convenience. Thanks.

“There,” McKenzie told Igor as he sent the next chapter off into cyberspace. “That sort of realism always gets them. Think they will believe I really had a change of heart and decided to stay? Hell, if this keeps up I’m going to have to consider the possibility that Janice might actually be right, and that’s something I’d prefer not happen. It would be just one more time when she could gloat about how big sisters are always right.”

Igor growled, barked once and then settled down to chasing his tail. He clearly didn’t share my concerns. “What do you know, you stupid pooch? Let’s see what the readers have to say.”

But as McKenzie sorted through his e-mail, his thoughts kept coming back to Janice’s comments. Taking a break, he trudged over to the refrigerator and took out a stalk of celery to munch on. He hated it when Janice was right, but given all the aches and pains he’d been feeling recently, the celery was a start.