In a surprisingly fresh white décor, somewhere in a room of the Airport Hilton hotel, the smell of paint and newness still clung to the air. Not a dent marred the freshly smeared floor. All the lamps were working again.

  After the last debacle, they had almost refused to rent it out to the Ballads anymore— not even in thought.

  Still, they were easily convinced. If South Park could host fascistic ginger meetings here, then the Ballads could have one more absurdist piece. We had to promise not to wreck it this time.

  So here we are. Another big table had been planted in the middle of the room, five people sitting around it, arguing fiercely.

  ***

  “This has to stop.”

  A woman with blond hair banged her fist on the table.

  “He is using my characters, my magic system. How are we gonna Sueus maximus his ass?”

  The man next to her, big enough to fill the next three seats, nodded gravely.

  “Right, Jo, right. It’s impossible to work like that. I think he’s the reason I never finished my book.”

  His beard bobbed while he doodled kill kill kill in his notepad.

  “The man, third of his name, grand in his ways, is the chronicler of our labours—labours wrought through many moons, moons washed anew beneath the starry sky.”

  Another man across the table stumbled slowly over every word.

  “Tell them, Tolkien.”

  A slick man in sunglasses raised his coffee mug with theatrical precision.

  “We’ll make a spectacle out of him. Let him win in Part One, blow up his house in Part Two, and finish with grand explosions and cinematic music.”

  He scribbled furiously, then looked up.

  “The music should be released as an Extended Edition soundtrack.”

  His eyes widened.

  “…How do you feel about mystery boxes?”

  At the head of the table, a man adjusted his glasses and straightened his tie. He cleared his throat.

  “Well. If we recall Campbell v. Acuff-Rose Music, Inc., 1994… parody is protected under fair use. Which means, frankly, there isn’t much you can do.”

  “But he’s using Dobby. My Dobby!”

  Rowling shot to her feet, coffee trembling across the table.

  “He put a sock up his arse, for God’s sake!”

  Martin laughed.

  “we should call you Jobby… you know, as you seem to have a stick… no, wait—DobJo. No, scratch that.”

  Tolkien smirked, tapping his pen.

  “Well, not to object, but… isn’t your Dobby just Gollum and Rumpelstiltskin nudged together?”

  “How dare you… wait.”

  She mulled it over, then sat back down.

  “Yes, and house rivalries—so original,” Martin spat toward Jo.

  “Oh, Voldemort is coming, he’s cold as winter… how do you even come up with that?”

  Rowling swiveled her coffee spoon, whispering under her breath.

  “Cruci… you… or something.”

  Abrams leaned toward Martin.

  “Yes, and you and your cliffhangers are so unique—so cheap—even I don’t do those anymore.”

  Martin looked shocked. The word kill in his notepad now had little arrows pointing at Abrams.

  “Killing off your main protagonist—do you know what that does to merchandise?” Abrams pressed.

  “It all flows from my hand,” Tolkien intoned, his grin slow and solemn.

  “Fear not—I forgive thee, for all things begin in me.”

  “Well, it seems to me you just read One Thousand and One Nights while eating shrooms,” said the man with glasses—Trey Parker, veteran of parody law. (John Oliver cancelled).

  He adjusted his tie.

  “And a quest to save the land? Unheard of… if you’ve never read anything.”

  Tolkien looked at him, surprised. A hand slid into his pocket, closing around a plain gold band.

  “It is mine,” he whispered. “Forged before your lootboxes, before your cliffhangers, before your sock-gnomes. All begins… and ends… with me.”

  Rowling rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare us the Silmarillion, John Ronald.”

  Her spoon clinked against her mug. “Expelli… explodi… espresso?” She muttered harder, and the coffee began to steam unnaturally.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Martin grinned. “Perfect. Kill them all in chapter three.” He drew a thick arrow from the word KILL straight into Tolkien’s name. Then, thoughtfully, another arrow to Rowling. And another one to Abrams for good measure.

  Abrams gasped. “You can’t kill me! Who’ll direct Part Two? Who’ll handle the explosions?” His pen scribbled frantically across the page. “Fine—we blow up his mountain home. Or her school. Or maybe… his sock drawer.”

  At the head of the table, Parker sighed, straightened his tie again, and raised his voice just enough to cut through.

  “Parody law. It’s untouchable. Campbell v. Acuff-Rose, 1994. Case closed.”

  No one listened.

  ***

  A knock rattled the door. It creaked open—first a hand, then a cautious head poking through.

  “No, we don’t need any more coffee, tea, or condiments,” Martin grumbled. “Unless you’ve got cookies. They’re all out.”

  “Like magic” Rowling muttered, looking at the heap of wrappers in front of Martin.

  “What? No. I am Andrzej Sapkowski. Sorry I’m late.”

  The man stepped in and wedged himself between Parker and Tolkien.

  “So this is the meeting of writers wronged by R.J.J. Moll—” Rowling spat the name like it tasted sour. “Which is just his real name with an extra J slammed into it. We should righteousus flammingus him sooner rather than later.”

  Abrams slid lower in his chair, trying to look invisible.

  “I am a writer,” Andrzej snapped, insulted. “I wrote The Witcher series.”

  He paused for effect, waiting for recognition. Blank faces stared back.

  “You know—Geralt of Rivia? The Ballads are Reralt of Givia?” no reaction. “a cheap knock off?”

  “Wasn’t The Witcher a video game?” Martin asked, turning to Abrams and Rowling.

  “Well yes,” Abrams nodded thoughtfully, “I remember. No lootboxes. Terrible decision.”

  “Are you from CD Projekt Red?” Rowling squinted.

  “No! They were books before the games.” Andrzej’s patience frayed visibly. His jaw twitched.

  “I believe he was just like Clegane.” Martin smirked. He scribbled an new arrow in his notebook, now drawing a falling chandelier.

  “Exactly like Snape you mean.” Rowling added.

  “It was published in 1984, so you are all admitting you copied me?” Andrzej was looking around the room, Tolkien laughed the rest was very silent.

  Parker nodded.

  “And no one was parodying,” He added with a smile.

  ***

  Out of nowhere, Martin pulled a crossbow and shot Abrams clean through the chest.

  The others stared at him in shock.

  “That’s how you keep it fresh,” Martin said, nodding contently.

  “That didn’t make any sense!” Rowling screamed. She swirled her coffee spoon again.

  “Removo Heado!”

  With a single flourish, Martin’s head toppled neatly onto the table beside his notepad. His hand twitched once, drawing one last arrow toward his own name.

  “There is time to bid thee farewell,” Tolkien announced gravely. He slid a ring onto his finger—vanishing instantly.

  The chandelier immediately crashed down, crunching an invisible old man on his way out.

  Andrzej scratched his head. “Can you even use a spoon as a magic wand? I think not.”

  “Well,” Rowling sniffed, “I never said it couldn’t be.”

  “I believe it had to be a type of wood with a center?” Andrzej ventured cautiously.

  “How dare you think you know my books better than I do!” Rowling snapped, before slowly vanishing into the Shame Dimension.

  ***

  The flames from the fallen chandelier licked at the fresh paint. Almost immediately, hotel staff rushed in with fire extinguishers.

  “Not today,” the manager barked, blasting the blaze into a hiss of foam. He nodded once, then surveyed the mayhem around the table. Surprisingly, it was mild compared to last time.

  “You’re all okay on buffet items?” he asked politely. “Any coffee, tea, condiments?”

  Andrzej was so startled he couldn’t find words.

  “Thank you for choosing Hilton Airport Hotel for your meeting,” the manager added, already reaching for the door again.

  With a thunderous kick, Reralt burst in, Syril perched on his shoulders and a sword flailing in his hand.

  “Who said cheap knock-off?” Reralt bellowed, while Syril laughed gleefully.

  Parker didn’t even look up. He calmly pointed at Sapkowski.

  “Soupcatcher, we meet again.” Reralt grinned.

  Sapkowski sighed deeply as he was flung across the room.

  “Not even a silver sword,” he muttered.

  After a few minutes of Reraltian violence, the room was left pretty much ready for the next refurbishment.

  Reralt nodded contentedly, then broke the last chair still standing.

  “Satire wins again,” Parker grinned.

  “What?” Reralt asked, unsure if this man needed to explore his talent for flying.

  Parker extended his hand. Reralt looked at Syril.

  Syril nodded solemnly. “Fly, fly.”

  Parker was launched across the room, through the window. A wet schplat and a car alarm left nothing to the imagination.

  Reralt looked satisfied.

  “Screw you guys. I’m going home.”

  Then added smugly,

  “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  ***

  (on the tune of whatever fits)

  Yesterday was all we had, and tomorrow sings the same,

  Like a rolling stone we wander, yet it echoes with one name.

  Imagine all the people, humming lines they’ve heard before,

  Stairways built to heaven, but they lead to the same door.

  Every breath we’re taking feels like déjà vu in rhyme,

  Purple rains keep falling through the soundtrack of our time.

  We’re trapped inside the chorus where the jukebox never ends,

  Dancing in the moonlight with recycled tunes and friends.

  No satisfaction’s coming, for the record spins once more,

  Hotel rooms of California never open up their door.

  We’re just another brick here, in a wall of borrowed sound,

  Original’s the treasure, but it’s nowhere to be found.