O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
were made of flesh and blood and probably enjoyed a good game of
Twister as much as anyone else.
Gareth, to his credit, loathed Twister. He generally abhorred any
unnecessary physical contact, unless it involved his fist and someone
else’s dental work and today he was particularly keen to wind his
watch on somebody’s wisdom teeth.
His carefully orchestrated plan for Armageddon was suffering a
cascade of inexplicable glitches. He had been forced to delegate much
of the work but could not understand how his guidelines, which were
so simple and clear, had gotten so hopelessly screwed up. Many of his
messages had become adulterated, agreed-upon policies had been
completely disregarded and blatant creative liberties were taken.
First came the deal with the Italian suits, which he figured was just
the prophets overriding his judgment, fair enough. They did look
good, after all; a little bland, but serious and intimidating. Then came
the surprise jam on stage with the Stones, which he had to admit
really worked well with the baby-boomers (Zarathustra had been
surprisingly good on the electric lute), though it sacrificed a little of
the ominous aspect that he had wanted them to exude. But this latest
development was too much—a real screw-up in fact. He had
managed to get a plane to New York just in time and rushed down to
the studio to see what he could do.
“How could this be?” he cried.
“We were wondering the same thing,” said Gautama, gazing at
the show, which was already well underway. “I think it is probably a
special effect. Never have I seen a dog sing opera.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about!” Gareth snapped. “What I’m
talking about is how did you end up on
this
show? I specifically had
you guys slotted for the Leno show!”
“What’s the difference?” said Gautama.
“The difference? The difference is that on the Leno show you
would be dressed up and served to the public in a light cream sauce
with a sprig of parsley and a fine wine. Leno would amusingly banter
on about how grand you all were and how it was wonderful that
you’ve come back after such a long time, and that we’ve really missed
you all quite a lot. Afterwards, finding you all very delicious, the
media public would demand seconds.”
“And this Letterman fellow?” Gautama asked.
“Will skewer you, barbecue you, and chain you to a rock so that
twenty million viewers can pick at your collective liver while he
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