SITCOM
He lit the candles, bolted the doors, then opened the windows wide. Leaning within the frame of one, he smoked two cigarettes. Sighing, he lost himself to the din of the traffic, to the wind in the trees. He ate a little necessity, then collapsed on the bed, well pleased with himself after all.
Over the previous working month he had loved and saved, or murdered away, the saddest people he knew. He had beaten the laziest, and strung up with ropes the most blatant on Telecom poles. He had urged on those with potential - they had listened and improved - and halted the most ridiculous in their tracks. He had coaxed and chopped, caressed and edited, until at last he had bent the characters of every person he had ever known to suit his purpose.
Spurred on by these successes, he would tomorrow, before lunch, bend the characters of all the people left in the world he did not know. Ultimately, he would turn the face of the world to a new side. Perhaps, to its better side.
Before embarkation upon the task, during those years he still recalled, he had lived above all as an advertising man, pushing this and that into the lives of all the men and women he ever met, and millions more besides. In this, he had been effective too. He had methodically collected worldly goods, and been happy enough in his own eyes. He had enjoyed people generally (his key to success) and jealously adored half a dozen people in particular. He had been, in some minor way, a drug-abuser, a fact which had upset only others. Neither his brain nor his health were faulty, and all his organs were yet his own. His reflexes were quick and his handshake as firm as ever. His hobbies had been badminton instead of relationships, and cutting out faces for his secret scrapbook.
The next morning he found himself seated in his old office. The air was bright, his colleagues in rare high spirits. It was the last day of term, they joked. He swivelled on his old chair and gazed, for one last time, through the narrow window onto the street far below. Down there, the endless throng awaited all his judgements. He would neither stop, nor fail. Of this much he was certain, his heart now lighter than ever.
Absently he jabbed at a button on his old intercom, the only item remaining on his old desk.
"Miss Rune?"
"Yes, Mr Woods?"
"This last script is unbearably dull."
"Yes, Mr Woods."
"How long is it?"
"I have no idea, Mr Woods."
"Of course you don't. Are there any other characters?"
"I couldn't say, Mr Woods."
"Of course you couldn't. Tell me, do you remember Talking Heads?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr Woods?"
"Forget it. Intolerable tripe. Fellow in a big suit changed his own face by concentrating daily on a new one. Went on for years. Old hat, you see.."
"I don't, Mr Woods."
"Of course you don't, Miss Rune. Listen. Cancel everything. Immediately."
"Right away Mr Woods."
