DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Spaceteer, issue 1, August 1947

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Spaceteer, issue 1, August 1947

Page 10

SPACETEER Page 10

The stranger turned. His eyes were clouded, as if he was seeing beyond the shabby barroom -- seeing into a glorious past. "I shall tell you my story," he moaned. "My name is Forrest J. Tuckollheimowitz. Once I too, like you, my unfortunate friend, was a science fiction fan. I read promags. I wrote letters to the editors. I wrote letters to other fans. I even wrote letters to myself, when correspondence was dull. I was voted number one fan 62 times in a row by the National Fantasy Feud Federation. Twice I was elected outstanding fan of the year by the Beowulf poll. I published a one-hundred-paged mimeographed daily fanzine called DUMFOUNDING SPECTACULAR FANTASTIQUORIMIA, which fortwelve straight years rated ninth on the poll of opinion conducted annually by FANTASY REVIEW. I was president of the Fantasy Amateur Lawsuit -- Pressing Association, the Fanguard Amateur Press Society, the Speculator Amateur Journalism Association, the Woman's Christian Temperance League, and the SB.

His eyes glazed as he continued. "Finally I became a professional. I wrote the only 2,000,000,000 serial Campbell ever printed. Ziff-Davis bought my memoirs for a tidy sum of twelve cents per word -- all nine million single-spaced pages of it. I edited nineteen anthologies of the horror stories, and cracked HARPER'S, THE SATURDAY EVENING POST, and THE HOBO NEWS with science fictional yarns. And then it happened."

"What happened?" snorted McGool breathlessly.

"I was black-balled. Expelled. Ostracized. Vanquished. Kicked the blazes out. Fandom no longer wanted me, after what I dared to do -- so they collected a fund and exiled me to Mars. And here I am."

"But what did you do," gasped McGool, "to make them exile you?"

"I ---" began the other. Abruptly he stopped. The end of a broil-ray pistol was massaging his back. He whirled, to confront a thin, vacant-faced individual, who was holding the gun.

"Who're you?" snapped McGool and the ex-top fan in unison. 

"I am Hangdog Jones," apologized the lanky newcomer, "The author just remembered about me, and since he had me in the title, he had to stick me in here someplace. Kindly shoot me."

After the smoke had cleared away, McGool turned once more to the story-teller. "You were saying...??"

"Humfnff? Oh. Yes. I was kicked out of fandom for an article -- or rather a story -- which I wrote for Lin Carter's fan magazine, SPACETEER. It was entitled, 'The Shooting of Hangdog Jones', and was considered so horrible that they banished me." He sniffed, and withdrew a copy of the fateful fanzine from within his battered coat. "Here. You may read it -- to think they'd kick me out of Earth just for that."

When McGool finished reading the story, he turned slowly to the other. "Frankly," he opined, "I don't blame them."

----finis----

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SPACETEER Page 10 The stranger turned. His eyes were clouded, as if he was seeing beyond the shabby barroom -- seeing into a glorious past. "I shall tell you my story," he moaned. "My name is Forrest J. Tuckollheimowitz. Once I too, like you, my unfortunate friend, was a science fiction fan. I read promags. I wrote letters to the editors. I wrote letters to other fans. I even wrote letters to myself, when correspondence was dull. I was voted number one fan 62 times in a row by the National Fantasy Feud Federation. Twice I was elected outstanding fan of the year by the Beowulf poll. I published a one-hundred-paged mimeographed daily fanzine called DUMFOUNDING SPECTACULAR FANTASTIQUORIMIA, which fortwelve straight years rated ninth on the poll of opinion conducted annually by FANTASY REVIEW. I was president of the Fantasy Amateur Lawsuit -- Pressing Association, the Fanguard Amateur Press Society, the Speculator Amateur Journalism Association, the Woman's Christian Temperance League, and the SB. His eyes glazed as he continued. "Finally I became a professional. I wrote the only 2,000,000,000 serial Campbell ever printed. Ziff-Davis bought my memoirs for a tidy sum of twelve cents per word -- all nine million single-spaced pages of it. I edited nineteen anthologies of the horror stories, and cracked HARPER'S, THE SATURDAY EVENING POST, and THE HOBO NEWS with science fictional yarns. And then it happened." "What happened?" snorted McGool breathlessly. "I was black-balled. Expelled. Ostracized. Vanquished. Kicked the blazes out. Fandom no longer wanted me, after what I dared to do -- so they collected a fund and exiled me to Mars. And here I am." "But what did you do," gasped McGool, "to make them exile you?" "I ---" began the other. Abruptly he stopped. The end of a broil-ray pistol was massaging his back. He whirled, to confront a thin, vacant-faced individual, who was holding the gun. "Who're you?" snapped McGool and the ex-top fan in unison. "I am Hangdog Jones," apologized the lanky newcomer, "The author just remembered about me, and since he had me in the title, he had to stick me in here someplace. Kindly shoot me." After the smoke had cleared away, McGool turned once more to the story-teller. "You were saying...??" "Humfnff? Oh. Yes. I was kicked out of fandom for an article -- or rather a story -- which I wrote for Lin Carter's fan magazine, SPACETEER. It was entitled, 'The Shooting of Hangdog Jones', and was considered so horrible that they banished me." He sniffed, and withdrew a copy of the fateful fanzine from within his battered coat. "Here. You may read it -- to think they'd kick me out of Earth just for that." When McGool finished reading the story, he turned slowly to the other. "Frankly," he opined, "I don't blame them." ----finis----