Résumé With Monsters by William Browning Spencer
Authors: William Browning Spencer
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Horror, American Fiction, 20th Century, Life on other planets, Erotic Fiction, Men, Fiction / Horror, Horror - General
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employer that will overlook this record of discontented drifting, I hope you will give him the loyalty he deserves. That's loyalty spelled L-O-Y-A-L-T-Y."
Philip stopped and tossed the pamphlet on the desk, resting his case. There was more, in the same vein, but surely the portion he had read was sufficient.
"Well?" Ralph said. "Are you suggesting that loyalty is spelled differently? Are you suggesting that it is an outmoded virtue, and that these pamphlets are old-fashioned or corny?"
"No, of course not," Philip said, wondering just what sort of mental aberration was responsible for this interview. "I am just not convinced that these pamphlets are really that positive. They seem to be weighted toward—"
"Phil, it's a hard world we live in. It's getting harder all the time. I guess there are some hard truths in these little pamphlets"—here Ralph picked the tract up and waved it between his thumb and index finger— "but we can't just stick our heads in the sand. No sir, we have to come to grips with the issues. I offer an honest wage for an honest hour, and I don't think it is too much to ask for a little goddam respect and loyalty because it is my goddam money that is paying the goddam salaries and there is not a goddam day goes by that I don't worry about letting everyone down. You see me in this office late at night. You think I am sitting in here reading goddam Penthouse magazine or snorting cocaine? I am in here working my ass off so that we don't go under. I'm doing it for all of you. Why hell, if anything, this pamphlet isn't strong enough. It doesn't talk about the kind of loyalty we employers have. It's a kind of loyalty that burns your guts out, I can tell you that. My doctor says I've got an ulcer that could win prizes."
Ralph ran a hand over his face, as though testing to see if his features were still intact and not irreparably distorted by emotion. He sighed. His shoulders sagged.
"I'm glad we had this talk," he said. "I think it has helped clear the air." Philip realized he was dismissed.
Philip returned to his computer terminal.
In all caps, on the screen, someone had typed, I'M NOT WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR
Philip turned and saw Monica, her ragged smile full of salacious intent. Philip cleared the screen.
He left work early, punching out without saying goodbye to Monica. It was raining hard and the highway was crisscrossed with small, treacherous rivers. Philip took an early exit—to avoid an accident, he thought. When he found himself on the street where Amelia was rooming with her sister, he realized his subconscious had plans of its own.
The lights were on in her house, so he pulled up to the curb and got out. He'd just say hi. Maybe she'd offer him a cup of coffee. It was a little after nine, not late really, and maybe he could talk to her about MicroMeg. They never talked about it, and—really—they had to.
It wasn't Philip's novel that had torn them apart. It was MicroMeg—and what had happened there.
Philip darted out of his car and into the earnest rain. He made the porch and was pushing the doorbell when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the driveway contained a second car, something silver, low to the ground and polished.
A broken gutter uttered a thin stream of water that licked the back of Philip's neck.
A reservation, a doubt, flared like an arsonist's match. Then the door opened, and Philip blinked at a broad, muscled chest.
"Yeah?" The man was wearing red briefs and nothing else.
A woman, dark-haired and wearing a blue negligee, clung to the man's right arm. Philip knew Amelia's sister from his days of watching the house. She looked at Philip and said, "Who's this?" She turned and licked the man's bicep.
The man said, "You got me."
"Rita? Who's there?" Amelia pushed past the two of them.
"Philip," she said.
"Hi," Philip said.
Amelia was wearing a yellow bathrobe. The
Philip stopped and tossed the pamphlet on the desk, resting his case. There was more, in the same vein, but surely the portion he had read was sufficient.
"Well?" Ralph said. "Are you suggesting that loyalty is spelled differently? Are you suggesting that it is an outmoded virtue, and that these pamphlets are old-fashioned or corny?"
"No, of course not," Philip said, wondering just what sort of mental aberration was responsible for this interview. "I am just not convinced that these pamphlets are really that positive. They seem to be weighted toward—"
"Phil, it's a hard world we live in. It's getting harder all the time. I guess there are some hard truths in these little pamphlets"—here Ralph picked the tract up and waved it between his thumb and index finger— "but we can't just stick our heads in the sand. No sir, we have to come to grips with the issues. I offer an honest wage for an honest hour, and I don't think it is too much to ask for a little goddam respect and loyalty because it is my goddam money that is paying the goddam salaries and there is not a goddam day goes by that I don't worry about letting everyone down. You see me in this office late at night. You think I am sitting in here reading goddam Penthouse magazine or snorting cocaine? I am in here working my ass off so that we don't go under. I'm doing it for all of you. Why hell, if anything, this pamphlet isn't strong enough. It doesn't talk about the kind of loyalty we employers have. It's a kind of loyalty that burns your guts out, I can tell you that. My doctor says I've got an ulcer that could win prizes."
Ralph ran a hand over his face, as though testing to see if his features were still intact and not irreparably distorted by emotion. He sighed. His shoulders sagged.
"I'm glad we had this talk," he said. "I think it has helped clear the air." Philip realized he was dismissed.
Philip returned to his computer terminal.
In all caps, on the screen, someone had typed, I'M NOT WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR
Philip turned and saw Monica, her ragged smile full of salacious intent. Philip cleared the screen.
He left work early, punching out without saying goodbye to Monica. It was raining hard and the highway was crisscrossed with small, treacherous rivers. Philip took an early exit—to avoid an accident, he thought. When he found himself on the street where Amelia was rooming with her sister, he realized his subconscious had plans of its own.
The lights were on in her house, so he pulled up to the curb and got out. He'd just say hi. Maybe she'd offer him a cup of coffee. It was a little after nine, not late really, and maybe he could talk to her about MicroMeg. They never talked about it, and—really—they had to.
It wasn't Philip's novel that had torn them apart. It was MicroMeg—and what had happened there.
Philip darted out of his car and into the earnest rain. He made the porch and was pushing the doorbell when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the driveway contained a second car, something silver, low to the ground and polished.
A broken gutter uttered a thin stream of water that licked the back of Philip's neck.
A reservation, a doubt, flared like an arsonist's match. Then the door opened, and Philip blinked at a broad, muscled chest.
"Yeah?" The man was wearing red briefs and nothing else.
A woman, dark-haired and wearing a blue negligee, clung to the man's right arm. Philip knew Amelia's sister from his days of watching the house. She looked at Philip and said, "Who's this?" She turned and licked the man's bicep.
The man said, "You got me."
"Rita? Who's there?" Amelia pushed past the two of them.
"Philip," she said.
"Hi," Philip said.
Amelia was wearing a yellow bathrobe. The
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