BoingBoing game/ Craphound fanfic (of sorts)

So BoingBoing.net is a fantastic blog that I follow and they decided to have a game. They asked the people in the community to write their own creative pieces dealing with anything that comes up frequently on the blog. So I wrote a short story that continues Cory Doctorow’s short story “Craphound” that even attempts to take on his style. I’ve been working with it over the last few weeks for the second chapter of my MA project/thesis, and I liked it so much I decided to post it on my own blog as well. I was also impressed that I wrote this story and posted it in the comments within two hours, but that’s probably greatly due to the fact that it was the middle of the night. I recommend reading some of the other pieces that came up in the comments as there are some excellent pieces.
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I was looking around the Secret Boutique on my daily pilgrimage when I saw the Raconteur. I knew it would take convincing Scott that it fit with the Western theme, but that it would be worth the effort. It was a gorgeous piece of machinery that someone would pay good money for.

On my way into the store, I made sure to touch the miniature steamer trunk that The Beaver stood on. Ever since he went up in the window, my superstitions had expanded to include touching him on my way back from expeditions. Scott thinks that it is an action to remember Craphound, and I tell him I think he is getting soft since his retirement.

I think it is too soon to tell that story.

With a hint of dread for the coming conversation, I headed to the back room of the Queen Street boutique with my prize. Scott looked up from the books and I could see an expression of confusion cross his face and mix with concern. Scott trusted my hounding skills, but I could see the Raconteur testing his faith.

“What’s that?” he asked with an edge of forced nonchalance.

“It’s called a Raconteur, makes music by twisting a key.”

“Oh. Is it big with cowboy collectors? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“Well, it’s a niche that’s gaining. It’s called ‘Steampunk.’ People will pay a fortune for it.” I wasn’t entirely sure on this last point, but I made sure not to let on. You can’t give away your bluff in the middle of a hand.

But it ended up that I didn’t need to worry about my speech. Scott accepted me at my word and we set the Raconteur out in a place where it would get enough traffic and gather interest. As it turned out, I picked it up right as the Steampunk wave was rising. I started finding more of this stuff in the rummage sales and thrift stores, and slowly Scott’s boutique began to expand. We moved out from strictly cowboy stuff to include more of my Victorian-esque finds.

The Beaver still stands in the window in his cowboy gear, but he’s accompanied by several Alice in Wonderland tin wind-up toys now. I’m putting up a picture behind him today that must have been painted close to an opium den. I get the slightest twinge that I’m betraying something with each addition, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned being a craphound, it’s that, no matter how hard we try to preserve the life we know, it has a nasty way of changing. It works out best if we accept this and change with it. Only through change can we truly live.