Dawson's Concom
Words by Jordin Kare
TTTO Dawson's Christian by Duane Elms


Jamie Dawson was the leader of the concom and its crew
When they won the bid for Worldcon back in the fall of ’82,
And that concom was the finest bunch from NESFA to LA,
And the con that they were planning was the same.

On their way to sign the contract, then go out and have some fun,
They were jumped by three cheap lawyers, though they weren’t a match for one.
And when they read the fine-print clauses, they discovered with alarm,
They’d just bought the general manager a farm.

Now they say that Jamie Dawson was a trufan to his core,
They say he took to fanac just like Patton took to war,
But they say he made a bargain in the hotel bar that night,
That he sold his soul to win that final fight.

No fan living saw that battle, but the smofs were quick  to leave,
But at the site they saw a scene no mundane would believe:
Three fat lawyers in their skivvies, with their briefs strewn all around,
But no trace of Dawson’s con was ever found.

	There are stories of New Orleans, and of ConDiego, too;
	Of potatoes bounced at Westercon, and costumes made of goo.
	But the tale that makes my beanie spin, ‘cause I know what went on
	Is the tale of Jamie Dawson and his con.
	His gophers, and his concom, and his con.

I was program ops for concom, working night shift, feeling fine,
Running loads of Diet Pepsi to the con suite up on nine.
I was standing in the doorway, watching femfen with delight,
When the rent-a-cops appeared out of the night.

Well, I though our con was over, and our partying was done.
Never argue with a dimwit when the dimwit has a gun.
But the crowd was getting restless, and the cops were feeling mean
When another fan appeared upon the scene.

First I thought he was a filker, but he carried no guitar.
Then I thought he was a gamer, but he looked too bright by far.
So I tried to read his name tag, but I felt a sudden dread,
For the holder of his badge was glowing red.

He pulled a bottle from his jacket, and I knew not what to think
When he walked up to the rent-a-cops and offered them a drink.
But the genius of that single fan is shown by very few,
For he offered them a slug of Tully Dew.

	And that liquor’s proof was higher than all booze they’d had before,
	That liquor’s taste was smoother than the lines of any whore,
	And they drank it down by glassfuls as we watched and shook our heads,
	Till the rent-a-cops collapsed upon the bed.
	Four rent-a-cops passed out on one small bed.

Then as quickly as he’d come, the stranger turned as if to go,
For the rent-a-cops were smiling, though at what we’ll never know.
So we walked him to the elevator, faces filled with awe.
Then the door slid back, and this is what we saw:

	There were thirty fen crammed in there, plus two mundanes at the back,
	And we knew from their expressions that the lot of them had cracked.
	Then they turned to show their badges, and at last we finally knew
	The fate of Jamie Dawson and his crew
	Was an Otis – and a grave for all his crew.

Then he turned and punched for “Lobby”, but they all began to fade;
First their T-shirts, then their buttons, as we trembled there afraid.
But there are twenty fen who’ll swear with me, the last thing that they said,
Was “Beam us up – the parties here are dead!”

	There are stories of New Orleans, and of ConDiego, too;
	Of potatoes bounced at Westercon, and costumes made of goo.
	But the tale that makes my beanie spin, ‘cause I know what went on
	Is the tale of Jamie Dawson and his con.
	His gophers, and his concom, and his con.
	Yes, they’re bidding once again for Dawson’s con!