The Eye of Argon is a goddamned mess
For those youngsters who don’t know, the Eye of Argon is a legendary badfic relic from 1970, written by Jim Theis. It is, quite possibly, one of the worst things ever written.
It was originally published in a fanzine, the precursor of Fictionpress and A03.
However bad you are as a writer, you’ve only to read Eye of Argon and realize ‘oh huh maybe I suck, but I don’t suck this hard.’
So in the tradition of our nerd fore-bearers, let’s make fun of it. The original text I will put in italics. My comments will be regular text. All spelling errors from the original text are preserved.
The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth. The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense from overhead, half way through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives. Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts in blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome cargoes of their struggling overseers.
Oh man. Oh boy oh man oh boy.
Oh, Eye of Argon. First paragraph and there’s so much to unpack already.
The last time I saw prose this purple I was reading Lord of the Rings Legolas romances written by 14 year old girls.
Also, here we see why, sometimes, you should put the damn thesaurus down.
Chapter 2!!
Arriving after dusk in Gorzom,grignr descended down a dismal alley, reining his horse before a beaten tavern. The redhaired giant strode into the dimly lit hostelry reeking of foul odors, and cheap wine. The air was heavy with chocking fumes spewing from smolderingtorches encased within theden’s earthen packed walls. Tables were clustered with groups of drunken thieves, and cutthroats, tossing dice, or making love to willing prostitutes.
Yep sounds like Chicago.
Chapter 3!!
Consciousness returned to Grignr in stygmatic pools as his mind gradually cleared of the cobwebs cluttering its inner recesses, yet the stygian cloud of charcoal ebony remained. An incompatible shield of blackness, enhanced by the bleak abscense of sound.
He then vomited, because nausea is one of the lingering effects of a concussion severe enough to cause loss of consciousness.
Chapter 3.5!
Yes, really! Legitimately this is how Jim Theis chose to number his chapters! I shit you not!
A tightly rung elliptical circle or torches cast their wavering shafts prancing morbidly over the smooth surface of a rectangular, ridged alter. Expertly chisled forms of grotesque gargoyles graced the oblique rim protruberating the length of the grim orifice of death, staring forever ahead into nothingness in complete ignorance of the bloody rites enacted in their prescence. Brown flaking stains decorated the golden surface of the ridge surrounding the alter, which banked to a small slit at the lower right hand corner of the altar. The slit stood above a crudely pounded pail which had several silver meshed chalices hanging at its sides. Dangling at the rimof golden mallet, the handle of which was engraved with images of twisted faces and groved at its far end with slots designed for a snug hand grip. The head of the mallet was slightly larger than a clenched fist and shaped into a smooth oval mass.
God damn cultists these days. Clean your damn sacrificial alter after a sacrifice, you lazy bastards. Letting it get all caked in dried nasty blood is disrespectful. Fuck’s sake.
Chapter 4!
All knowledge of measuring time had escaped Grignr. When a person is deprived of the sun, moon, and stars, he looses all conception of time as he had previously understood it. It seemed as if years had passed if time were being measured by terms of misery and mental anguish, yet he estimated that his stay had only been a few days in length. He has slept three times and had been fed five times since his awakening in the crypt. However, when the actions of the body are restricted its needs are also affected. The need for nourishmnet and slumber are directly proportional to the functions the body has performed, meaning that when free and active Grignr may become hungry every six hours and witness the desire for sleep every fifteen hours, whereas in his present condition he may encounter the need for food every ten hours, and the want for rest every twenty hours. All methods he had before depended upon were extinct in the dismal pit. Hence, he may have been imprisoned for ten minutes or ten years, he did not know, resulting in a disheartened emotion deep within his being.
I’m going to refer to naptime as “Witnessing the desire for sleep” from now on.
Chapter 5!
“Up to the altar and be done with it wench;” ordered a fidgeting shaman as he gave the female a grim stare accompanied by the wrinkling of his lips to a mirthful grin of delight.
Yes please hop up on the alter so that we can sacrifice you please and thank you.
The girl burst into a slow steady whimper, stooping shakily to her knees and cringing woefully from the priest with both arms wound snake-like around the bulging jade jade shin rising before her scantily attired figure. Her face was redly inflamed from the salty flow of tears spouting from her glassy dilated eyeballs.
Jim stop jerking off to your mental picture of this terrified girl cowering in nothing but golden chains and type with both hands. You perv.
STOP. I CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE!!
SEEN AND IGNORED.
Chapter 6!
“Take hold of this rope,” said the first soldier, “and climb out from your pit, slut. Your presence is requested in another far deeper hell hole.”
Grignr slipped his right hand to his thigh, concealing a small opaque object beneath the folds of the g-string wrapped about his waist. Brine wells swelled in Grignr’s cold, jade squinting eyes, which grown accustomed to the gloom of the stygian pools of ebony engulfing him, were bedazzled and blinded by flickerering radiance cast forth by the second soldiers’s resin torch.
Guys guys guys Grignr is WEARING A G STRING
HE’S NOT A BARBARIAN HE’S JUST A VERY LOST MALE STRIPPER
As to “What is the difference between this and Conan the Barbarian” the answer is “Robert E. Howard was better at spelling.”
Chapter 7
WE’RE GETTING TO THE END!
With wobbling knees and swimming head, the priest that had lapsed into an epileptic siezure rose unsteadily to his feet. While enacting his choking fit in writhing agony, the shaman was overlooked by Grignr. The barbarian had mistaken the siezure for the death throes of the acolyte, allowing the priest to avoid his stinging blade. The sight that met the priests inflamed eyes nearly served to sprawl him upon the floor once more. The sacrificial sat it grim, blood splattered silence all around him, broken only by the occasional yelps and howles of his maimed and butchered fellows. Above his head rose the hideous idol, its empty socket holding the shaman’s ifurbished infuriated gaze.
Of course Grignr can’t tell the difference between a seizure disorder and death. He probably thinks wound care is “rinse in the nearest sewer”.
Of what I have seen without clicking upon the “keep reading”, it sounds not unlike two rocks methodically hitting against each other.