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Wudgy Tales, October-November 1943

Page 4

THE END OF FANDOM
By X.X. Yonk

A bunch fo the fans who whooping it up in Minneapolis' leading dive, Delaney's, one night, during the World S-F Convention of 1946. Many famous faces were to be seen lined up at the bar. Tucker faced the middle of the spacious room, leaning on the bar with out-thrust elbows. Next in line was Walkt Liebscher, who was picking Manson Brackney's pocket. Brackney had just slipped Aclerman a Mickey, and was gleefully examining the contents of his pockets. Fortier and Dickson were shaking hands over their beers, and Joe pretended not to notice Gordy drop a whitish powder in his Kornblith was skillfully applying a match to Walt's shoe under the table. Sam Russell was standing on one leg in the corner of the room reading "Jurgen" aloud to himself. Neil DeJack entered with a whoop, a blonde on each arm. Several fans scrambled for the extra, Liebscher winning out by virtue of two knife thrusts, and a right hook. Milt Rothman was laughing uproariously at something Al Ashley had whispered to him, and Ollie Saari and Doug Blakely were anxiously suggesting that the joke be repeated for their benefit.
Suddenly, the entire place was hushed. You could have heard Robinson drop. A tense silence pervaded the once-noisy room. The door opened, and in walked a dazzling red-head.
"It's Hot Tamale Molly," Chorused the Minneapals.
"Who's she?" queried Fran Laney, his mouth open.
"Hot Tamale Molly," came the noncomittal reply. Tucker nudged Brackney, who was nursing a black eye.
The fans were transfixed with awe as they gazed upon her. Her radiance outshone the lights in the room. The visiting fans eyed the MFS boys with displeasure and then with open hostility as Molly winked hello to each of them individually. 
"She's for me," yelped Widner, staggering to his feet.
"I saw her first," cried some little fan, pushing Widner aside. He started forward to take her arm, but DeJack stepped in his path with a low growl of hatred. Speer and Perdue were flipping a coin, while unnoticed by them Kornbluth was applying a match to each of their shoes. 
"Lay off, chums," piped Milty, "I got dough." He produced an incredibly fat wallet and began to count innumerable greenbacks. Molly perked. Several fans' eyes gleamed wickedly.
"Come, come, boys" said Milly, adding a burlycue performer's slow undulation for effect, "let's not argue."
"Oh-h-h-h-h-h," breathed Fortier.
"Ah-h-h-h-h-h," added Dickson.
"Wow!" yelled Frank Robinson.
"Splrfsk!" suggested Forry, picking himself up from the floor.
"We'll have a rough-house match," commanded Molly regally. "The winner takes me as a prize," and she bestowed an incredible smile on Milty, whose nerveless fingers dropped the bulging wallet. John Gergen emerged from under a chair and retrieved it.
"Yahoo," shrieked Bronson, bashing Fortier over the head with a chair. "Hah," snorted Speer, tripping him, and straightening up just in time to receive a well-directed kick from Lienscher. Lowdnes grabbed Robinson from behind, and threw him behind the bar. Daugherty leaped into the air, clutching his foot and screaming maledictions at Kornbluth, just in time to miss being struck by a flying beer bottle. Perdue was hiding behind a pillar and bashing people over the head as the surging mass of struggling fans wavered back and forth. A cop bellowed into the room, but folded up like an empty potato sack as Ollie Saari hit him in the middle with his head. Someone clutched the cop's '38 and began blasting away indiscriminately, Fans went down. The bartenders and the manager of Delaney's were defending the establishment with gusto, laying many of the brawlers low with accurately thrown bottles. For an hour the battle raged. Then there was silence. Someone moaned. There was a crash, and then once again complete silence.
"Here I am," sighed Milty weakly, waving his wallet triumphantly from behind the bar. Gergen lay in a heap alongside him, a determined expression still on his elfin features, but Milt was done for, and he sank back to the floor.
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THE END OF FANDOM By X.X. Yonk A bunch fo the fans who whooping it up in Minneapolis' leading dive, Delaney's, one night, during the World S-F Convention of 1946. Many famous faces were to be seen lined up at the bar. Tucker faced the middle of the spacious room, leaning on the bar with out-thrust elbows. Next in line was Walkt Liebscher, who was picking Manson Brackney's pocket. Brackney had just slipped Aclerman a Mickey, and was gleefully examining the contents of his pockets. Fortier and Dickson were shaking hands over their beers, and Joe pretended not to notice Gordy drop a whitish powder in his Kornblith was skillfully applying a match to Walt's shoe under the table. Sam Russell was standing on one leg in the corner of the room reading "Jurgen" aloud to himself. Neil DeJack entered with a whoop, a blonde on each arm. Several fans scrambled for the extra, Liebscher winning out by virtue of two knife thrusts, and a right hook. Milt Rothman was laughing uproariously at something Al Ashley had whispered to him, and Ollie Saari and Doug Blakely were anxiously suggesting that the joke be repeated for their benefit. Suddenly, the entire place was hushed. You could have heard Robinson drop. A tense silence pervaded the once-noisy room. The door opened, and in walked a dazzling red-head. "It's Hot Tamale Molly," Chorused the Minneapals. "Who's she?" queried Fran Laney, his mouth open. "Hot Tamale Molly," came the noncomittal reply. Tucker nudged Brackney, who was nursing a black eye. The fans were transfixed with awe as they gazed upon her. Her radiance outshone the lights in the room. The visiting fans eyed the MFS boys with displeasure and then with open hostility as Molly winked hello to each of them individually. "She's for me," yelped Widner, staggering to his feet. "I saw her first," cried some little fan, pushing Widner aside. He started forward to take her arm, but DeJack stepped in his path with a low growl of hatred. Speer and Perdue were flipping a coin, while unnoticed by them Kornbluth was applying a match to each of their shoes. "Lay off, chums," piped Milty, "I got dough." He produced an incredibly fat wallet and began to count innumerable greenbacks. Molly perked. Several fans' eyes gleamed wickedly. "Come, come, boys" said Milly, adding a burlycue performer's slow undulation for effect, "let's not argue." "Oh-h-h-h-h-h," breathed Fortier. "Ah-h-h-h-h-h," added Dickson. "Wow!" yelled Frank Robinson. "Splrfsk!" suggested Forry, picking himself up from the floor. "We'll have a rough-house match," commanded Molly regally. "The winner takes me as a prize," and she bestowed an incredible smile on Milty, whose nerveless fingers dropped the bulging wallet. John Gergen emerged from under a chair and retrieved it. "Yahoo," shrieked Bronson, bashing Fortier over the head with a chair. "Hah," snorted Speer, tripping him, and straightening up just in time to receive a well-directed kick from Lienscher. Lowdnes grabbed Robinson from behind, and threw him behind the bar. Daugherty leaped into the air, clutching his foot and screaming maledictions at Kornbluth, just in time to miss being struck by a flying beer bottle. Perdue was hiding behind a pillar and bashing people over the head as the surging mass of struggling fans wavered back and forth. A cop bellowed into the room, but folded up like an empty potato sack as Ollie Saari hit him in the middle with his head. Someone clutched the cop's '38 and began blasting away indiscriminately, Fans went down. The bartenders and the manager of Delaney's were defending the establishment with gusto, laying many of the brawlers low with accurately thrown bottles. For an hour the battle raged. Then there was silence. Someone moaned. There was a crash, and then once again complete silence. "Here I am," sighed Milty weakly, waving his wallet triumphantly from behind the bar. Gergen lay in a heap alongside him, a determined expression still on his elfin features, but Milt was done for, and he sank back to the floor. (Next page)...