the glass as he walked into his massive office and sighed. It didn’t
hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous.
Among the notes on his desk was a slip from his vice president,
Johanness Barth. It was scribbled furiously in thick black marker and
read,
Dammit Gareth, what the frig are we going to do
about that twerp Futterman? If we don’t figure out
a plan of action soon, we’re in deep crud!
— J.B.
It killed Schlechtmann the way a big, gruff rhinoceros of a man like
Barth could be so emphatic all the time and still manage to avoid
using proper swear words. Barth felt that cursing showed poor
manners, and despite the fact that he was second-in-command at a
place like VTV (“All Violence, All the Time”), he insisted that he was
nevertheless composed of the staunchest moral fiber. His philosophy
was that it was not important
what
you did, for all people were equal
parts good and bad. What mattered was
how
you did it. It wasn’t
reason that set us apart from the animals, he insisted. It was style.
That a man so huge and frightening could give a damn about
style or philosophy for that matter seemed odd at first, but Barth was
nothing if not ethical. Violence, in his opinion, was the highest
realization of style because it was the only thing that never went
out
of style. Except for a few insipid love stories here and there, all
human culture had been one big obsession with violence, aggression
and death. Its religion, its philosophy, its history and its literature all
reflected this. VTV was only a mirror of that culture, maybe the truest
mirror of all, minus the opiated whitewash. Life had been preserved
by war, defined by death and exalted by suffering. What could be
more sublime than violence? Surely not peace and love. Peace and
love were only fleeting analgesics. They always received far less of our
attention.
Five seconds after Gareth buzzed Johanness’ office, the hulk
crashed into the room. He was far more fleet of foot than his size
suggested.
“Blast it, Gareth, we’re frigged,” he spat, taking the cigar out of
his mouth. Schlechtmann thought it looked like one of those scrawny
ladies’ cigarettes in his mammoth paw.
H O L Y S H I T !
12
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