“Heck, I only unveiled it this morning at a press conference.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And just what was it about my book, exactly, that captured your attention?”
“I’m a publisher.”
“Well, I’m self-published, which is to say that no one else gets me in print but me and the printer I pay.”
“That could change.”
“Change what – my only successful access to a reading audience or my role as the guy who makes that access accessible?”
“You could change.”
“Good luck. I’m way past sixty and have rolled by more stops in this life than a runaway train on a monopoly board without dice.”
“Then it’s time to get off,” says Plum and then raises his silver serpent-headed cane and pokes it straight into Boss Lard’s throat.
Lard gasps, gurgles and then plops to the floor into a puddle of his own blood.
Plum then gets up and goes over to sit behind Lard’s desk, kicking his fat but not heavy body under that desk. He presses the button on the Intercom and calls the receptionist in to tidy up.
Moments later, while going through Lard’s personal emails, he comes across a message from Welsh Losser, formerly a top executive at Lard’s Blowhard PR agency and now director for Ukraine, Georgia and Outer Mongolia at Penmanship International.
‘Dear Boss,
‘I hope this email finds you well. As you already might have guessed, I’m now comfortably installed in my new executive-level position at Penmanship International. I must say that I occasionally catch myself missing the world of PR, with its scripted messaging, discrete client relations and, most of all, the masterful attempts at massaging public consciousness. For is it not the telltale sign of a true PR professional to be able to shape public opinion? We here at Penmanship International are no less devoted to giving our clients the first-class treatment, to include massaging more than just their consciousness. Am I not right in assuming that the courteous language of professional service industry personnel is a carefully scripted message in its own right? Need I mention our commitment to discretion? As for mastery over the public, let’s just say that we keep them coming back.’
Plum finishes trimming the last toenail on his naked foot, then puts it back on the floor and into a black sock and brown shoe.
‘Therefore, I was more than a little dismayed to learn that in one of your recent, but by no means widely published, media interviews, you referred to catering companies as “wait staff”. May I enquire as to what precisely you meant by this term? For starters, the proud men and women who provide mobile refreshments to a wide variety of social engagements are hardly ones to sit on their heels and wait. On the contrary, they are up and moving on a moment’s notice. Weaving in and out of unpredictable crowds in socially fluid situations while balancing an all too breakable collection of glasses and plates is not for the sluggish and inert, sir.
‘In the very same interview, you even went so far as to use the word “the help” as in the thoroughly disreputable phrase “don’t F@#$ the help”. I won’t waste my time here lecturing you on the pitfalls of profanity, all the more as I have on numerous occasions expressed to you my displeasure with the use of sensational and attention-seeking language in general; however, suffice it to say that “the help” is virtually no less obscene in its intent to offend. Am I to understand that you look down on those who assist you in your everyday affairs? Is the person who quenches your thirst, sates your hunger, cleans off your plate and performs other no less important functions nothing more than a menial laborer, a modern-day slave living on tips?’
Plum, having found a package of cheese and crackers in the top drawer of Lard’s desk, now brushes off the crumbs that have sprinkled onto his suit. Looking at the floor, he thinks that the receptionist will get to the mess he’s created in good time.
‘Taking this line of reasoning to the next logical step, I suppose that it wouldn’t be disingenuous of me here to try and clarify your true assessment of the long years of service that I provided you with as an executive at BlowHard PR, now, would it? Was I too “the help”? I ask this with no little apprehension about your possible response. Could it be that all my dedication, loyalty and hard work were indeed perceived by you as nothing more than salaried employment? Don’t answer, I beg you!
‘I’m not naive, but a man of my years can’t be blamed for expecting more in return for the large slice of life lopped off me in fulfillment of my professional obligations. Yes, I said “man”, not “slave” or “dog”, although maybe you are truly incapable of seeing me as anything more than a mongrel, pooch or stray… someone taken off the street and given a home in return for some security. Put in that light, I cannot even claim the credit due a lone wolf who’s abandoned happy hunting in the woods for a warm spot near the fireplace and regular table scraps. No, the conclusion is far worse, isn’t it? I wasn’t even a guard dog like the noble German Shepherd of films who warns of imminent danger from his post on the porch, or keeps a watchful eye on the little ones without moving so much as a paw.
Plum picks his nose, for several minutes digging his forefinger up into the nostril.
‘No Boss, Mr. Lard, Dear Sir, I guess I really was your lapdog! A house pet, whose teeth and claws no longer present a danger to anyone. On par with a rabbit or hamster, who at worst can crap on the couch or run… not even run away. But run away I did…’
Plum closes the email and goes off to use the toilet and think about writing something himself.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, for the Black Hole Dial, New Horizons Issue No. 74, December 13, 2013