Reviews
Intergalactic Refrigerator Repairmen Seldom Carry Cash: And Other Wild Tales by Tom Gerencer
markdgrover's review
4.0
Although Tom Gerencer thanks Douglas Adams for inspiration, this new collection of short stories is not only hilarious but also highly original. Science Fiction is too often oh so serious. Gerencer’s book is hugely entertaining, mind-blowing, and chock full of exquisite wordplay. Highly recommended.
jaredor's review
4.0
So I was reading at my local coffee shop, not a bar, I assure you, when I met hhhRap'tnop!Nap, third subaltern to the principal ethnographic investigator of the Transdimensional Confederation of those opposed to ScryvtChai. "Hi," he smiled and gave a firm, if slimy, handshake, "Do you mind if I borrow your other chair? My name is Bob."
"Go ahead," I waved at it, "Take it."
"Great!" He enthused with a little too much spittle. Then he pulled out the chair and plopped down on it with a plop, an audible plop.
"Um," I said, which is how I start all of my awkward conversations, "I meant you can take it to another table."
"But then how could I talk to you? Is that any good? The book, I mean, not the coffee, which is, we all know, steeped with ground Arabica coffee beans and a dish towel someone accidentally left in the carafe."
I winced. I could sense some bigger questions were rising to the surface of our shared reality, but at least here was the answer as to why I was only on my second cup this late in the morning.
Bob was cradling a steaming cup in his hands and took a long, reflective slurp. "But should it be called serendipity to stumble upon the aphrodisiac of the five-dimensional Tangarian mole rat this way? I mean, sure, it's quite a feat, but personally, I would be more impressed if it were for something that didn't leave larva in your brainpan after vigorous copulation." He stopped and looked at me, "How do you feel about that? Speak clearly, please, I don't want to bother you too much for clarifications." I looked down and saw he was holding a microphone, then I looked up and he was holding in his other, other hands, a Polaroid camera which blasted me with a flash. By the time I stopped seeing stars, Bob was sitting across from me trying to look innocent with just two hands clasped in front of him.
"Okay, cards on the table, I'm not good at subterfuge or subtlety. I'm hhhRap'tnop!Nap, third subaltern to the principal ethnographic investigator of the Transdimensional Confederation of those opposed to ScryvtChai, you can still call me Bob, and I would like to see what you are reading on your Kindle."
"Why?"
"Because you aren't reading short stories."
"Coulda fooled me."
"It is a compilation of site reports from the alternate third subaltern to the principal ethnographic investigator of the Transdimensional Confederation of those opposed to ScryvtChai. His name isn't Tom, by the way."
"Just like yours isn't Bob."
"Exactly." He said and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, all six of them. I closed my eyes, shook my head, then opened them again. The arms were still crossed, both of them.
"But hhhRapthashow...abappashow...blap--"
"Just call me Bob."
"Bob," I said, "These don't read like bureaucratic status reports, they have some wit, some satire, humor, even."
"Really? Can I see?" He held out a hand and I gave him the Kindle.
The ScryvtChai Disciplinary Committee for Recalcitrant Lower Life Forms later said this is where I erred in exercising my illusory free will, but my defense attorney used surveillance footage that clearly showed a pseudopod was pushing my elbow forward at this time. Death penalty, averted.
"Hmmm" he said, swiping rapidly through the stories with a long and unusually mobile index finger. "Yes ... okay ... done." He handed it back. The screen had moist streaks on it.
Bob stood up. "Downloading for offline reading definitely made this a bother, but your cooperation means you can live ... to finish reading the book."
"Huh?"
Bob smiled. "Tom's site reports were written in code so that the ScryvtChai could ascertain how the transdimensional junction is set up on this planet. He thought he was being clever in dropping it into wider circulation as a book of short stories called, "Intergalactic Refrigerator Repairmen Seldom Carry Cash: And Other Wild Tales." He was clever, but I'm cleverer! And have been keeping a few eyes on my colleague. Once he started hitting the podcasting circuit for a virtual promotional tour, I knew I had to dig deeper. Now that I've nullified that last copy of the code, we can deal with Tom."
"But I still have the last copy," I said, waving the Kindle, "And it's mine. And it's more clever."
"Do you? Is it? And are you the grammar boss of me?" Bob was raising his voice, "Consider further, could it just possibly be that, while perusing the stories, I replaced the few coded ones with others that say what we want the ScryvtChai to know? Could it be your were a hairs' breadth from corporeal dissolution?"
At that point, Bob was leaning forward and poking my chest with his long pointy finger. I saw a movement to my left and turned to see a tentacle with a gun pointing at my head, then I felt a jab in my right shoulder and turned to see another of Bob's tentacles pulling a needle out of my triceps.
"You'll be okay," I heard Bob's voice from far away, "You'll remember what we need you to when the ScryvtChai find you." Then I fell backwards into a dark tunnel.
That you are reading this review means that Bob failed, of course. The ScryvtChai neuroxenobiologists said that the larvae of the five-dimensional Tangarian mole rat disrupted the memory pathways that had been freshly installed. They also told me that Bob's attempt to replace Tom's important coded stories failed, artistically, at least, but the ScryvtChai didn't bother to remove them, they just placed thinly veiled warnings before these stories that say, roughly, "No one wanted to publish this, but I like it anyway, so I'm including it."
I am writing this review as part of my probationary work release plea-bargained sentence handed down from the ScryvtChai Disciplinary Committee for Recalcitrant Lower Life Forms. Any opinions not expressed in Esperanto are strictly my own.
"Go ahead," I waved at it, "Take it."
"Great!" He enthused with a little too much spittle. Then he pulled out the chair and plopped down on it with a plop, an audible plop.
"Um," I said, which is how I start all of my awkward conversations, "I meant you can take it to another table."
"But then how could I talk to you? Is that any good? The book, I mean, not the coffee, which is, we all know, steeped with ground Arabica coffee beans and a dish towel someone accidentally left in the carafe."
I winced. I could sense some bigger questions were rising to the surface of our shared reality, but at least here was the answer as to why I was only on my second cup this late in the morning.
Bob was cradling a steaming cup in his hands and took a long, reflective slurp. "But should it be called serendipity to stumble upon the aphrodisiac of the five-dimensional Tangarian mole rat this way? I mean, sure, it's quite a feat, but personally, I would be more impressed if it were for something that didn't leave larva in your brainpan after vigorous copulation." He stopped and looked at me, "How do you feel about that? Speak clearly, please, I don't want to bother you too much for clarifications." I looked down and saw he was holding a microphone, then I looked up and he was holding in his other, other hands, a Polaroid camera which blasted me with a flash. By the time I stopped seeing stars, Bob was sitting across from me trying to look innocent with just two hands clasped in front of him.
"Okay, cards on the table, I'm not good at subterfuge or subtlety. I'm hhhRap'tnop!Nap, third subaltern to the principal ethnographic investigator of the Transdimensional Confederation of those opposed to ScryvtChai, you can still call me Bob, and I would like to see what you are reading on your Kindle."
"Why?"
"Because you aren't reading short stories."
"Coulda fooled me."
"It is a compilation of site reports from the alternate third subaltern to the principal ethnographic investigator of the Transdimensional Confederation of those opposed to ScryvtChai. His name isn't Tom, by the way."
"Just like yours isn't Bob."
"Exactly." He said and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, all six of them. I closed my eyes, shook my head, then opened them again. The arms were still crossed, both of them.
"But hhhRapthashow...abappashow...blap--"
"Just call me Bob."
"Bob," I said, "These don't read like bureaucratic status reports, they have some wit, some satire, humor, even."
"Really? Can I see?" He held out a hand and I gave him the Kindle.
The ScryvtChai Disciplinary Committee for Recalcitrant Lower Life Forms later said this is where I erred in exercising my illusory free will, but my defense attorney used surveillance footage that clearly showed a pseudopod was pushing my elbow forward at this time. Death penalty, averted.
"Hmmm" he said, swiping rapidly through the stories with a long and unusually mobile index finger. "Yes ... okay ... done." He handed it back. The screen had moist streaks on it.
Bob stood up. "Downloading for offline reading definitely made this a bother, but your cooperation means you can live ... to finish reading the book."
"Huh?"
Bob smiled. "Tom's site reports were written in code so that the ScryvtChai could ascertain how the transdimensional junction is set up on this planet. He thought he was being clever in dropping it into wider circulation as a book of short stories called, "Intergalactic Refrigerator Repairmen Seldom Carry Cash: And Other Wild Tales." He was clever, but I'm cleverer! And have been keeping a few eyes on my colleague. Once he started hitting the podcasting circuit for a virtual promotional tour, I knew I had to dig deeper. Now that I've nullified that last copy of the code, we can deal with Tom."
"But I still have the last copy," I said, waving the Kindle, "And it's mine. And it's more clever."
"Do you? Is it? And are you the grammar boss of me?" Bob was raising his voice, "Consider further, could it just possibly be that, while perusing the stories, I replaced the few coded ones with others that say what we want the ScryvtChai to know? Could it be your were a hairs' breadth from corporeal dissolution?"
At that point, Bob was leaning forward and poking my chest with his long pointy finger. I saw a movement to my left and turned to see a tentacle with a gun pointing at my head, then I felt a jab in my right shoulder and turned to see another of Bob's tentacles pulling a needle out of my triceps.
"You'll be okay," I heard Bob's voice from far away, "You'll remember what we need you to when the ScryvtChai find you." Then I fell backwards into a dark tunnel.
That you are reading this review means that Bob failed, of course. The ScryvtChai neuroxenobiologists said that the larvae of the five-dimensional Tangarian mole rat disrupted the memory pathways that had been freshly installed. They also told me that Bob's attempt to replace Tom's important coded stories failed, artistically, at least, but the ScryvtChai didn't bother to remove them, they just placed thinly veiled warnings before these stories that say, roughly, "No one wanted to publish this, but I like it anyway, so I'm including it."
I am writing this review as part of my probationary work release plea-bargained sentence handed down from the ScryvtChai Disciplinary Committee for Recalcitrant Lower Life Forms. Any opinions not expressed in Esperanto are strictly my own.
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