Revoked story: Conventional Errors · 10:17pm Jan 29th, 2017
I just got the PM: this one was taken down by moderator order. (Yes, I just failed autosubmission. So now we know: It Can Be Done.) I was told I could change it by bringing it more into line with MLP and adding a few pony elements, then resubmit -- but in this case, I know I can't do that and stay within the original spirit of the story. So my reply was pretty much just that, plus a note to delete when ready. And so it happened.
However, I do want people to have a chance at reading it, and so I'm placing it here as a blog post.
(Good thing this was a Patreon freebie, or having the story taken down would have been really awkward.)
So here's the one which FIMFic didn't want. And I understand that, honestly: a little too meta, and more about fanfic genre than series. But let it survive here.
Might as well have it be equally cruel for a more private audience.
It was a small, out-of-the-way convention, because of course it was. These sort of things always happened at small, out-of-the-way conventions. Everyone knew that, which was very nearly the whole of why such things always happened there.
In just about any way which might register on a true fandom's Richter scale, this particular convention wasn't all that notable. The guests mostly weren't. The organizers didn't have the money or perks required to lure in anyone who worked on the show, so the best they could do was the representative from the toy company who decided on the box assortment content breakdowns -- and that was a man who'd walked into the hotel completely unaware that he was about to become one of the most hated men in the county. Beyond that, those who'd put the whole thing together had been so desperate as to reach as deep into the sewers as anyone ever could and fish out the single lowest form of life which was willing to form any kind of panel. When it came to that worst possible minimum standard, there was an unending population willing to work for something which vaguely resembled food.
But once you got away from those now green-tinged fanfic writers, moved past the rooms where people were trying to create two hundred theories around two frames of leaked footage, fought your way through the arguments and managed to hold your breath until you were safely clear of the concessions area, you might find the reason why so many people were flooding into this small, out-of-the-way convention.
They came in costumes. They came in full cosplay outfits, some of which had been better-sewn than others. More than a few had decided to make the clothing the full focus of their efforts, yielding perfect recreations which completely failed to show off a figure they didn't actually have, or rather, a figure they didn't have yet. They came in capes and spandex and armor and what was probably supposed to be a hostile environment suit, at least once you translated it from the cardboard. Virtually none of the creations were meant to be accompanied by backpacks full of survivalist gear, but those who felt they were the intelligent ones came with those anyway. The more egotistical simply went for costumes whose very weave seemed to negate any need for such pointless accessories, while those who felt they were practical scoffed and tried to cut towards the front of the admissions line, setting off any number of plots regarding soon-to-be omnipotent revenge.
Perhaps sixty percent of the attendance was made up of such people, and they all had certain other things in common. None of them had registered for a panel, as speaker or attendee. Visiting the gaming area was the act of the weak. They did not associate with the fans, they didn't care about the toy breakdowns because such things would cease to have any true importance in what was seen as the very near and certain future, and the crafts section had already taught them how to get this far. No, every last one of them ignored all the features and appeals of even the weakest of conventions. None of them cared about the chance to talk with people who loved the same things they did. Making new friends wasn't on any of their minds, at least not when it came to the local, actually-available variety. Instead, they waited and shuffled and occasionally fought their way through the admissions lines, picked up and then tossed away the badges which would be their last connection to their former identity. And then every last one of them headed directly for the same place, occasionally knocking the competition into walls, doorways, and the disabling fumes of the concessions area in order to reach the chosen land first.
They had paid an extra twenty dollars for the chance to be first. For one hour, the chance would be available only to them, and the only other negligible, unimportant price was having to leave the convention as soon as that hour was over. They all expected to need something under five minutes, and leaving the convention was regarded as a mere subcategory of the larger step.
The party assigned the dubious status of winner opened his door into tomorrow, and beheld the seller's room.
(He thought of it as the Merchant's Room. There were several reasons behind this. Hope was not the least of them, and stupidity made up most of the rest.)
He felt he knew exactly what he was looking for, and so he instantly found it. And then he found it again, and again, and again...
Some ill-advised time was spent trying to narrow down his options from the doorway, which meant the second-place finisher effectively ran him over.
Once he'd picked himself back up and jammed one of the more essential arm pieces back into place, there remained the question of where he was going to go. Or rather, he knew where he was going to go. The true question was who was going to send him there.
The seller's room had much in common with other such areas at conventions all over the world, at least in that it featured merchandise of all kinds. Normally, you would expect that most would be tied to the show which had brought the true fans together, with other pieces were meant for those things which tended to be common secondary interests. But that didn't seem to hold true for this convention. More than a few things seemed to be completely outside the overall theme and in fact, that was the majority of the items. However, just about all of them went with the now rapidly-arriving costumes, which was only right.
That (former) winner continued to survey the field. The sellers (Merchants) were no help to the sorting process, because to look at them for too long was to decide that a nearby senior home had exploded and sent its former inhabitants hurtling face-first through a candle factory. Everyone working a table was, at a minimum, in their eighties, and that waxy look might have been expressed in centuries. Heavily wrinkled features and thick robes obscured little details like gender and, on the closest examination anyone was willing to risk, species. Voices bore no accents of identifiable national origin. Sometimes, when one of them was describing a piece to one of the many people now desperately shoving money at them in an attempt to simply claim the item, a word would slip in which didn't even sound earthly. Sure, it could have been a pure nonsense syllable with a gagging noise behind it, but wasn't that just how something unearthly should wound?
Money was being exchanged for items. In some cases, money was simply thrown down and the buyer would simply scoop up things until the merchant told them to stop, at which point, more money was thrown down. The contents of several local ATMS had been relocated, from machines to pockets, and now from pockets to -- other pockets. Pieces were effectively vanishing and where pieces vanished...
He had to hurry.
One more look around. His desperate gaze found a table. Found something which matched. No one else seemed to have seen it yet, although it wasn't as if anyone here had thought to put together some inferior version of his perfect costume. And he knew he'd truly won.
He dashed forward, elbowed his way through those too busy spending to be bothered with retaliation, reached the crucial table and Merchant, touched it.
It was slightly towards the pastel in hue, when it should not have been. It sparkled under the room's lights in a way which indicated magic or, to a less brilliant mind, glitter paint. It barely had any weight in his hand, possessing only the airy mass of the ethereal, which admittedly had a lot in common with cheap plastic.
He lifted it, held it high, and shouted "EQUESTRIA!"
No one even coughed. It was that kind of room.
He found himself looking at the piece. At the ceiling and its sound-absorbing tile. He was completely certain he wasn't supposed to still be looking at that.
"Are you going to fitzin pay for that?" the elderly Merchant (#6 in a series of forty) cackled.
Oh, right. He'd been so happy to have found his match, he'd forgotten about the proper part of the ritual. "Of course. How much?"
A number was named. It was three digits, with no decimal points involved, and that was only right too. Everyone said so. He began to fumble through his billfold. (Part of him had already decided that he might as well empty the billfold before it happened. Anything left would just be paper.)
"Also," the Merchant said, "that's Oz."
It made him hesitate. "I don't want to go to Oz."
"No," the Merchant corrected him. "When you touch something and shout the name of a country. That's from askrikge Oz."
"So I shouldn't do that," the buyer said, "in case I wind up in Oz. By accident."
Actually, in the Oz books, it would have turned an enchanted object back into the person it had once been. Or, if the guesser had been wrong and out of tries, rendered them into yet another charming curio for the collection. The Merchant imagined that would be a rather effective way of restocking, not to mention a good way of adding to future sales, and so it was almost a pity that it was completely impossible.
"Now why would that ever happen?" Merchant #6 smiled, or at least shifted its face in such a way as to make some of the wrinkles form a curve. "Now would you like that to go? Some people like to spend a little time alone, appreciating such a piece. In privacy. Outside in the sunlight, perhaps."
"No," he decided. "Not just yet. Do you have more of these?"
"There's only one," the Merchant said. "At least in that color. But for the true collector, I do have five others..."
The very temporary convention attendee leaned forward.
"A set of six?" he hissed.
"Of course!" the Merchant chuckled. "I carry everything, in time, if I have the space available. Every living soul here knows that: it's just the reality of my business. There's a power in it, when I put my mind to it. So are you considering the rest?"
"How much for all six?"
Another, much larger number was named. The buyer fumbled faster.
"Interesting costume," the Merchant said.
"Thank you."
"Does it have a... practical use?"
"Several," the buyer decided.
"I don't often see anyone prerince dressed up as Thanos, you know."
"Good," the buyer said with confidence. Ultimate power wasn't for everyone and in fact, when you got right down to it, such things were solely for him. "Here you go. And thank you. Thank you on behalf of -- me. Because I'm going to do it right."
"I'm sure," the Merchant told him, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Now I'm just going to go outside," the buyer declared. "And put these in my gauntlet. In place of the fake ones. The -- other fake ones." This with a wink, which lost something from the heavy purple face paint he'd applied to himself earlier in the morning. "And maybe -- see how they look in the sunlight."
"Just remember," the Merchant reminded him, "once you leave -- you can't come back. Those are the terms."
"I'm counting on it," the buyer blurted, and raced from the room as best he could.
His exit wound up being stalled somewhat. Five-foot wide shoulder pads didn't work well with three-foot wide doors.
[/hr]
The Merchants sold. And with each sale, some of the buyers would leave, never to return. In fact, there was nothing in the world which would allow them to return at all, certainly not within the realm of the fine print which most hadn't bothered to read, because their additional twenty dollars in admission fee had purchased them the right and duty to exit the seller's room and convention entirely at the end of that early hour, with no reentry, much less refunds, permitted. Those who'd gotten that far with the magnifying glass had simply decided it was a Clue and increased their budget accordingly.
It was amazing, the details on some of the costumes. Looked at from the proper angle, the ability of the Merchants to add just one more touch to each cosplay was wondrous. Or, seen from a different perspective, such as just about any possessed by an individual who wasn't currently buying, it might have been seen as the ability to anticipate. There were certainly trends in the costumes, and one of the most dominant said that in the game of Multiversal Life, the early attendees had a passion for playing as any character who was Ridiculously OP. Several of the purchasers seemed to view conventional definitions of superpower as a beginner's game, and anyone who settled for mortal standards of omnipotence was taking a step down. It meant pretty much nothing being worn had anything to do with the actual convention-creating show, but what else would you expect?
They came as gods. They came as Qs and Saiyans. One old-schooler showed up as a nightclub owner, which he proudly boasted was a decided (and recent) improvement over having to glue horns to his head. Those who either had somewhat more charitable intentions or a more forceful definition of power nervously eyed green rocks and wondered if there was irony intended there, not to mention if they would be able to get clear in time. Loincloths allowed all details but one of the body hosted them to be displayed, chainmail bikinis chafed, and those who'd put helmets on their heads meant to be used as a life support breathing apparatus had genuine trouble breathing through them, which certainly proved their costume as accurate. And they purchased. They spent, in the hundreds and thousands, because it was money they were no longer going to need and, after they left, money they certainly wouldn't be able to explain.
Some of the items glowed when touched. Others produced music. A few did both, and were priced accordingly. One created the momentary sensation of a summer breeze blowing against the soon-to-be-owner's ankles, and of course that future owner had much more important things to do than look down.
For an hour, they gave over everything they could. Some found their piece within seconds, others minutes, and a few just grabbed the very last thing they could find because so many of the rumors said the last piece was the one which worked. Having more than one person know that created something of a fight over the last piece, which was only stopped when one Merchant miraculously located another Last Piece. It was just the sort of miracle you would expect from a Merchant, and certainly one worth paying for.
At the end of that hour, those who hadn't already exited filed out. They left the hotel, because they had to. They found private spots, most of which were already occupied by those who'd found their miracle a little earlier. And then they waited.
They kept waiting and for most, that included all the time they spent standing in the afternoon rain, paint running down their skin.
Those few who found a fraction of the total subtracted from their bank accounts added to their intelligence quotient tried to get back in and were turned away at the door, because there were Terms and they'd already agreed to every last one of them. But the majority simply filed out to their cars, where they found a truly precious gift waiting for them: a waterlogged sheet stuck under a windshield wiper, which provided a welcome guide to any number of upcoming small, out-of-the-way conventions which were going to take place in the near future, all over the country.
After all, it was just a matter of locating the right Merchant.
[/hr]
Merchant #6 looked up from the thick, freshly-acquired bankroll, then scratched at the wrinkles at the base of the neck. Contorted features further twisted into something which could have been a wince, and then the Merchant peeled his skin off.
The young man flung the prosthetic onto the empty table, scratched at the residue of glue which remained on his true skin. (All around him, others were doing the same. Wild wigs were tossed aside, true features emerged, bulky robes were discarded as postures straightened.) He managed to get most of it off, resolved to head into the bathroom for the rest as soon as the well-bribed security personnel gave the true all-clear, and then walked over to where the once-again young and attractive Merchant #1 was pulling her laptop computer out from under the table.
"So how many are you going to plant this time?" he asked.
Their founder smiled. "I thought... three. It wasn't a very big con, not for attendance." It had certainly been one for sales, but in this new era, selling out their freshly-painted junk was just about mandatory, and the costs for rigging some of it with touch-responsive LEDs and music chips just increased their ultimate profits. (He had true admiration for #37: who else would have thought of placing a warm air blower under their table?) "But it's big enough that they wouldn't all know each other, and I can always say at least one person came from out of state. I saw three Aphraels, so I think I'll start with one of those. They were here..." a fox grin. "...and then they weren't."
"Oh, right. I saw one of those..." He winced. "Some people should not try to dress up as a six-year-old girl."
"Well, the costume's cheap," #1 pointed out. "Leaves more money for us."
"So rumors of three vanishings posted on the Internet. Sounds good." He glanced back at where many of his fellows were reaching under their tables, bringing out the merchandise intended for the true attendees. "As long as we can keep this up..."
"My terms are holding. We're golden," the former law student assured him. "Buy me dinner?"
"Buy it yourself," he grinned. "I saw how much you got for that lamp stand piece you were passing off as a lightsaber."
She merrily laughed, and he headed back to his own table, intending to use the wait until the all-clear to do his own setting up for the next shift, giving her the time she needed to arrange future floods of profit. Because her whole Displaced system of rumors concerning vanishings and Merchants, spread through half-dark websites which were made deliberately hard to find?
Best. Scam. Ever.
*shrug*
So it goes.
I probably could have presented an argument for keeping it up, or added a punchline about Luna collecting 15% of the proceeds to see if that let it qualify. But in this case, I chose to let the ship go down as originally built.
It's bottom-of-the-seaworthy.
Thanks for sharing it here at least!
Rough that it got taken down, but I'm glad you preserved it here at least.
I love it! And it's definitely funnier that the Merchant's don't have any actual magic powers. Displaced is paying off some student loans.
On the plus side this means I've regained the fact I've never liked an *officially published on the site* Displaced story and can go back to wishing them all removed.
Hehe, that's a funny story.
Understandable; they have to draw the line somewhere when it comes to metareference. Still, thanks for sharing it and for preserving it after the fact.
I'm amused that this gets pulled down, but half-literate beastiality is in the feature box.
Someone needs to make this into a sketch at a con, one day.
somehow this made me think of an old book by Spider Robinson, i think it's called "Lifehouse": someone poses as a time traveler to con money from people who are organizing a convention...
ironically, he later gets into trouble from REAL time-travelers!
To be fair, this really does have nothing to do with the show, and I think it is all the better for being mundane.
Still, I was amused.
Let's be fair: it was a good story that didn't mention anything from MLP once. You could post it on fanfiction under Marvel comics.
It's a fair cop, guv, as they say.
I did at least manage to read it earlier, so there was that.
But, I guess we have all learned something today.
Or something...
Yeah, there's really no arguing with the logic for taking it off this site. Even if it was funny.
There's other sites where you could probably upload it in peace, but your regular readerbase probably wouldn't see them so it doesn't help much.
I understand the reason for the take down, but story is better for having less pones in it.
Thank you for sharing it anyway.
Maybe try uploading it to some other fan fiction sites and see which ones accept it?
Sort of a litmus test of meta-acceptance.
...are there still any He-Man focused fan fiction sites around?
Yeah, that was fun but exceedingly meta; I'm not surprised they wanted to take it down, and I'm glad you're taking it in stride.
Fun fact: This actually was up for a while last night. I read it. So someone had to actually READ IT, ALL THE WAY THROUGH, and realize "Oh Luna, Estee, not again..." and take it down
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Oh, come on. The readers of this site have standards. I'm sure they would demand fully-literate bestiality in the Feature Box. Let me just turn on Mature for a second and --
...
-- I can't judge full literacy level without reading the actual story and as the subject is not within my interests, I've decided not to do that. However, I will say that the description needs some editing.
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I'll admit to judging it by the description myself. Having 'mature' turned on here has been exquisitely bad for my faith in the essential decency of humanity, which was never what I would call robust.
I think there might be room for the Canterlot Deportation Agency to meet a Displaced person. I'll bet said Displaced person is most upset when his cardboard armour doesn't stand up to the weakest of fields as he might have hoped...
For the true pinnacle of irony, imagine this: There really are Merchants, and the Displacement effect really does work. But it only works if you are not doing it on purpose, if you buy the whatever because you genuinely want it, with no intention of transporting yourself to Equestria.
Just like with the Triptych iteration of the Crusaders, these people are throwing away their lives in search of something that their very method of striving renders perpetually beyond their grasp.
This was a blast to read. Thanks for sharing, Estee
I approve.