How we think it’d play out…
Emerging into our plane from a haunted mirror, as is his wont, Neil Gaiman turned to observe his reflection. Corkscrew curls, boyish features, just the right amount of soulfulness in his brown eyes. He winked. He’d still got it.
“Gaiman! Turn around!”
Gaiman span around, finding that today he must have decided to assume physical form in a school library, of all places. And the voice belonged to a pleasant-looking, middle-aged lady whose name appeared on every other book on the shelves. It was, of course, Malorie Blackman.
“This library’s not big enough for the both of us, Gaiman!” she snarled, hurling an Usborne Puzzle Adventure book with surprising speed. Gaiman caught it in mid-air. “Why don’t you stick to your own turf?”
Putting a shelf of Horrible Histories between himself and his assailant as improvised cover, Gaiman prepared for a fight. “My work spans generations, Malorie. Even time itself. Perhaps you could consider expanding your oeuvre?”
“Never!” shrieked Blackman, eyes flashing. “Long ago I cornered the juvenile/young adult racket, but lately I’ve seen you sneaking in on my patch – Coraline? The Graveyard Book? The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish – that even sounds like something I’d write!” She hurled a defaced science textbook that had somehow got mixed in with the Captain Underpants series, to devastating effect.
Struggling to retaliate without putting his luscious curls out of place, Gaiman fell backwards over a trolley of unreplaced books. Seizing her moment, Blackman screamed: “Whizziwig! Attack!”
The nightmarish star of the somewhat-popular 90s children’s TV show descended from the ceiling, eyes roving for his foppish quarry. However, this granted Gaiman just enough time to arise, dust himself off, and calmly shriek: “Tori Amos! Attack!”
Appearing from behind a reference shelf, piano and all, the kooky songstress prepared to do battle with what can only be described as a floating testicle. In spite of her small stature, Tori proved more than a match for her alien foe, which soon retreated behind the Horrid Henrys to lick its wounds.
“You’ve beaten me this time, Gaiman,” growled Blackman. “But Tori Amos’ power will wane in time, and when it does… I’ll be waiting.”
“Will it?” laughed Gaiman. “Will it, though?” And with that, he strode back through the mirror to the dimension he called home.
PREDICTED WINNER: NEIL GAIMAN
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