James Patrick Kelly - Monsters, e-books, e-książki, ksiązki, , .-y
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Monstersby James Patrick Kelly� 1992 by Davis Publications, Inc. First Published inIsaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, June, 1992.When Henry looked in his dad's old mirror, he couldn'tsee the monster. He touched his reflection. Nothing. Noshock, no secret thrill, not even a tingle. Usually hisnipples tightened or the insides of his knees would getcrinkly and if he were in a certain mood he'd crawl backunder the covers and think very hard about women inblack strapless bras. But this morning -- zero. Hestared at a fattish naked white man with thinning hairand yellow teeth. A face as interesting as lint. Hewished for a long purple tongue or a disfiguring scarthat forked down his cheek, except he didn't want anypain. Not for himself, anyway. Henry hated looking sovanilla. There was nothing terrifying about him exceptthe bad thoughts, which he told no one, not even God.But this morning the monster was cagy. It wanted to getloose and he was tired of holding it back. Something wasgoing to happen. He decided not to shave.The gray dacron shirt and shiny blue polyester pantshanging on the line over the bathtub had dripped dryovernight. His nylon underwear was dry too, but theorlon socks were still damp so he draped them over thetowel bar. Henry wore synthetics because they wouldn'tshrink or wrinkle and he could wash them in the sink.Some days, after wallowing in other people's mung, heboiled his clothes. He liked his showers hot too; hestood in the rusty old clawfooted tub for almost halfand hour until his skin bloomed like a rose. The waterbeat all the thoughts out of his head; nothing wormy hadever happened in the tub. He opened his mouth, let itfill with hot water and spat at the wall.He owned just five shirts: gray, white, beige, blue andblue-striped; and three pairs of pants: blue, gray andblack. As he tried to decide what to wear to work, hehad a bad thought. Not a thought exactly -- he flashedan image of himself bending toward a TV minicam, handslocked behind him as he was pushed into a police car.Blue or blue-striped would show up best on the SixO'Clock News.He petted the shirts. Maybe he was already crazy, but itseemed to him that if he 3:01 PM on 5/19/96wore bluetoday, it might set off the chain reaction of choicesthe creature was always trying to start. He pulled thewhite shirt from its hanger.Henry ate only two kinds of breakfast cereal, Cheeriosand Rice Chex. Over the years he had tried to simplifyhis life; routines were a defense against bad thoughts.That's why he always watched the Weather Channel when heate Cheerios. He liked the satellite pictures of stormssweeping across the country because he thought that waswhat weather must look like to God. He didn't understandhow people could think weather was boring; obviouslythey hadn't seen it get loose.After breakfast he tried to slip past the shrine and outthe front door, but he couldn't. The monster wasstirring even though he had chosen the white shirt. Hedug the key out of his pocket, opened the shrine andturned on the light. He was in the apartment's onlycloset, seven feet by four. Henry bolted the door behindhim.The walls were shaggy with pictures he'd ripped out ofmagazines but he didn't look at them. Not yet. Hepressed the play button on the boom box and the RollingStones bongoed into "Sympathy for the Devil." He kneltat the oak chest which served as the altar. Inside was aplastic box. Inside the box, cradled in pink velvet, wasthe Beretta.He had bought the 92SB because of its honest lines. Alittle bulky in the grip, the salesman had said, butonly because inside was a fifteen shot double-columnmagazine. It was cool as a snake to the touch,thirty-five hard ounces of steel, anodized aluminum andblack plastic. He wrapped his right hand around the gripand felt the gentle bite of the serrations on the frontand rear of the frame. He stood, supported his righthand with his left, extended his arms and howled alongwith Jagger. "Ow!"Schwartzenegger trembled in his sights; even cyborgsfeared the thing lurking inside Henry West. "Now!" Thepistol had a thrilling heft; it was more real than hewas. "Wham!" he cried, then let his arms drop. Mansongave him a shaggy grimace of approval. Madonna shook hertits. The monster was stretching; its claw slid up histhroat.He spun then and ruined Robert Englund, wham, DavidDuke, wham, and Mike Tyson, wham, wham, wham. Metallicagave him sweaty glares. Imelda Marcos simpered. Henrylet a black rain of bad thoughts drench him. He'd givein and let it loose on the Market Street bus or in theFirst Savings where that twisty young teller neverlooked at him when she cashed his paycheck. He'd blazeinto Rudy's Lunch Bucket like that guy in Texas and keepslapping magazines into the Beretta until he had themass murder record. Only not when Stefan was behind thecounter. Stefan always gave him an extra pickle. Or elsehe'd just suck on the gun himself, take a huge bloodygulp of death. He sagged against Jim Jones, laughing sohe wouldn't scream."Why me, God?" he said, rubbing the barrel along thestubble on his chin. "Let me pass on this, okay?" But Hewasn't listening. Just because He could be everywhere,didn't mean He'd want to be. He wouldn't stoop to thisplace, not while Henry was celebrating slaughter.When the music ended, he fit the pistol back into itsvelvet cradle. He felt split into two different Henrys,both of them moist and expended. Part of him suspectedthis was nothing more than a bughouse riff, like oldJagger prancing across some stage playing Lucifer. TheBeretta wasn't even loaded; he'd hidden the ammo underthe sink behind the paper towels. But if this werenothing but pretend, why did it give him more pleasurethan a mushroom pizza and a jug of Carlo Rossi PinkChablis and a new stroke flick? It may have started as agame, but it felt real now. Under the influence of thegun, he was solid as a brick. The rest of his life wassmog.He locked the shrine behind him and went back to themirror, the only thing he'd kept when he closed dad'shouse. The creature leered at him. He stuck out histhumb and smudged his reflected eye. The hair on theback of his neck prickled. He thought then he knew whatwas going to happen. It wanted to touch someone else andhe was going to let it.The new bus driver was a plush moon-faced woman. Shedidn't even bother to look at him as he slid a dollaronto her outstretched hand, brushing fingertips quicklyacross the ridges of her skin. He was nobody to her,another zero. The monster's...
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