Horatio.
"Charles came through the operation."
"Did he recover well?"
I shall not look upon his like again.
A shake of the head, a nod, several very queer looks in his direction. One teller walked over to another. Their voices assaulted his already overloaded auditory senses. They looked at William and whispered behind their hands to each other.
"Have you transferred that money for Miss. Hastings to the Yarmouth branch?"
Another nod, another shake. People kept talking. He wanted to shout, he wanted it all to stop. One voice inside, or did it come from outside, his mind, screamed.
"Please everyone, stop shouting."
Silence descended.
By the time his turn came to stand before a teller, he had begun sweating. He hated the bank. He hated the way the teller flared her nostrils as she said, "Good afternoon."
William fiddled with the bank pen.
"The loans officer asked me to come in to sign some papers."
"Name?" The teller's mouth elongated. Her incisors grew.
His answer came out in a stammer. "William Stark. And I'd like to check my safety deposit box."
"Certainly, Mr. Stark. I believe your loan for computer equipment has been approved. If you'd like to wait, I'll see if he's free." She snarled at him, showed him her claws. Though it bothered William, it was nothing compared to what he knew kept visiting his apartment. He could deal with the teller.
William tapped his finger against the grey countertop. He wished she'd hurry. But she took her time as she smiled at customers. For one incredible moment, she transformed into a sloth and climbed over the counters with agonizing slowness, but he shook his head free of the image and she meandered on as she did before, a human woman with no seeming drive.
No one seemed to mind that she had transformed into a wild creature. She made small talk to other employees who sat at desks scribbling as if their jobs gave them such satisfaction that they could barely look away long enough to notice humanity entering the building.
Eventually he was ushered into a squat office nearly overtaken by white computer equipment. The loans officer, a small man with round glasses and whose name tag was pinned perfectly level across his lapel, bade him sit. William actually believed for one second that the gentleman would hiss at him. He tried to ignore the menacing look on his face.
"This is just the last formality, Mr. Stark. You mentioned that your business requires another server."
William nodded although he was petty sure the loans manager knew the money wasn't for equipment. He'd spent every last dime on his Hannah subscription even with the porn sales. He was digging into the dregs of his wallet to fund the only thing that kept him breathing. He'd buy a server and provide the receipt to this yuppie sure enough, but then he'd return the damn thing and get the money back, pay his credit card bill with it, and then he'd worry about next month after he got to see Hannah again face to face. Maybe he wouldn't need a subscription then.
The loan officer continued. "We'll need the serial number as soon as you purchase it."
William nodded again. He pressed his palm against his leg to keep it still. "You said on the phone that you needed me to sign for the money."
Instead of answering, the yuppie pulled forth a ream of forms. William lifted a chained pen from its holster on the desk and with a flourish, put his signature to a top sheet and a dozen carbon copies. Then it was over. Thankfully over. More quickly than he was ushered in, he was ushered out. He could almost hear the room groan in satisfaction. It flustered him so badly, he didn't think he could even bear checking his deposit box. He wanted out of the building. He wanted off the street and behind a passive machine.
But it was another half-hour walk home. It was way too long. The more he thought about his email as he strode through the revolving doors, the more certain he grew that a piece of mail waited in his electronic box. He
"Charles came through the operation."
"Did he recover well?"
I shall not look upon his like again.
A shake of the head, a nod, several very queer looks in his direction. One teller walked over to another. Their voices assaulted his already overloaded auditory senses. They looked at William and whispered behind their hands to each other.
"Have you transferred that money for Miss. Hastings to the Yarmouth branch?"
Another nod, another shake. People kept talking. He wanted to shout, he wanted it all to stop. One voice inside, or did it come from outside, his mind, screamed.
"Please everyone, stop shouting."
Silence descended.
By the time his turn came to stand before a teller, he had begun sweating. He hated the bank. He hated the way the teller flared her nostrils as she said, "Good afternoon."
William fiddled with the bank pen.
"The loans officer asked me to come in to sign some papers."
"Name?" The teller's mouth elongated. Her incisors grew.
His answer came out in a stammer. "William Stark. And I'd like to check my safety deposit box."
"Certainly, Mr. Stark. I believe your loan for computer equipment has been approved. If you'd like to wait, I'll see if he's free." She snarled at him, showed him her claws. Though it bothered William, it was nothing compared to what he knew kept visiting his apartment. He could deal with the teller.
William tapped his finger against the grey countertop. He wished she'd hurry. But she took her time as she smiled at customers. For one incredible moment, she transformed into a sloth and climbed over the counters with agonizing slowness, but he shook his head free of the image and she meandered on as she did before, a human woman with no seeming drive.
No one seemed to mind that she had transformed into a wild creature. She made small talk to other employees who sat at desks scribbling as if their jobs gave them such satisfaction that they could barely look away long enough to notice humanity entering the building.
Eventually he was ushered into a squat office nearly overtaken by white computer equipment. The loans officer, a small man with round glasses and whose name tag was pinned perfectly level across his lapel, bade him sit. William actually believed for one second that the gentleman would hiss at him. He tried to ignore the menacing look on his face.
"This is just the last formality, Mr. Stark. You mentioned that your business requires another server."
William nodded although he was petty sure the loans manager knew the money wasn't for equipment. He'd spent every last dime on his Hannah subscription even with the porn sales. He was digging into the dregs of his wallet to fund the only thing that kept him breathing. He'd buy a server and provide the receipt to this yuppie sure enough, but then he'd return the damn thing and get the money back, pay his credit card bill with it, and then he'd worry about next month after he got to see Hannah again face to face. Maybe he wouldn't need a subscription then.
The loan officer continued. "We'll need the serial number as soon as you purchase it."
William nodded again. He pressed his palm against his leg to keep it still. "You said on the phone that you needed me to sign for the money."
Instead of answering, the yuppie pulled forth a ream of forms. William lifted a chained pen from its holster on the desk and with a flourish, put his signature to a top sheet and a dozen carbon copies. Then it was over. Thankfully over. More quickly than he was ushered in, he was ushered out. He could almost hear the room groan in satisfaction. It flustered him so badly, he didn't think he could even bear checking his deposit box. He wanted out of the building. He wanted off the street and behind a passive machine.
But it was another half-hour walk home. It was way too long. The more he thought about his email as he strode through the revolving doors, the more certain he grew that a piece of mail waited in his electronic box. He
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