In the Deadlands by David Gerrold

for his other slipper and glared at her. “I don’t need a machine to tell me how to screw!”
    She returned his stare. “Then why the hell does our score keep dropping? We’ve never gone this low before.”
    â€œMaybe, if you’d brush your teeth—”
    â€œMaybe, if you’d admit that—”
    â€œAaaa,” he said, cutting her off, and bent down to look under the bed.
    She softened her tone, leaned toward him, “John…? Will you talk to the man at least? Will you?” He didn’t answer; she went shrill again. “I’m talking to you! Are you going to talk to the man?”
    John found his other slipper and straightened up. “No, dammit! I’m not going to talk to the man—and I’m not going to talk to you either, unless you start talking about something else. Besides, we can’t afford it. Now, are you going to fix me breakfast?”
    She heaved herself out of the bed, pausing only to stub out her cigarette. “I’ll get you your breakfast—but we can too afford it.” She snatched her robe from where it hung on the door and stamped from the room.
    John glared after her, too angry to think of an answer. “Aaaa,” he said, and began looking for his underwear.
    Act Two
    When he got back from lunch, there was a man waiting in his reception room, a neat-looking man with a moustache and slicked-back hair. He rose. “Mr. Russell…?”
    John paused, “Yes…?”
    â€œI believe you wished to see me…?”
    â€œDo I? Who’re you?”
    With a significant look at the receptionist, “Ah, may I come in?”
    John half-shrugged, stepped aside to let the man enter. He could always ask him to leave. Once inside, he said, “Now then, Mr. uh…?”
    â€œWolfe,” said the man, as he sat down. He produced a gold-foil business card, “Lawrence Wolfe, of InterBem.”
    â€œUh—” said John, still standing. “I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding.” He started to hand the card back. “I never—”
    Wolfe smiled genially at him. “You must have, or I wouldn’t be here.” He rummaged through his briefcase, found a form. “Oh, here it is. Your wife was the one who called us.” He looked up. “You knew about it, of course?”
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œWell, no matter. I have all the information already. All I need is your signature.”
    â€œNow look, Mr. Wolfe. You’re the one who’s made a mistake. I don’t need—”
    â€œMr. Russell,” the man said calmly. “If you didn’t need our services, your wife would not have called our office. Now, please sit down—you’re making me nervous.”
    John stepped around behind his desk, but did not sit.
    Wolfe looked at him patiently. ‘You’ll be more comfortable.”
    John sat.
    Wolfe said gently, “I understand your reluctance to accept the possibility that you might need a monitor-guidance system. It’s not a very pleasant thing to realize that your capabilities are down—but by the same token, you can’t begin to correct a fault until you admit that it exists. It is precisely that type of person, Mr. Russell—your type of person—who needs our services the most.”
    â€œNow, look,” said John. “I haven’t got time for a sales pitch. If you’ve got any literature, leave it and I’ll look at it later. Right now—”
    Wolfe cut him off, “Are you enjoying your sex life?”
    â€œWhat?” The suddenness of the question startled him.
    â€œI said, are you enjoying your sex life? And don’t tell me you are, because I’ve got the figures right here in front of me. The only time thirty-four percent is something to brag about is when your median is thirty.”
    John glowered, but he didn’t say anything.
    Wolfe continued,