Fast Fiction 07.11.06
SHIFT!
606 words by Stanley Lieber
"They make up some lie and then they get mad at you when you see through it. Because in their mind they think they've crafted the perfect deception, which should appeal to your (perceived) faults."
"That's pretty fucking ridiculous. Clearly they are to blame for their own inability to con you."
"Yeah."
"By the way, do you want to come in early today?"
"I'm already here, sir."
Plinth looked up from his leaf and saw that Thomas was indeed standing there, in the doorway to his office.
"Oh. So I'm not talking to you on the phone."
"No, sir."
"You sound like you're on the phone."
"I'm not, sir."
"You're sure."
"Yes, sir."
"Nano-toxins. That eat sperm. Selective genocide."
"History is spamming weird."
"Yeah, I read about it the other day. Something they unleashed during World War IV. Hell of a way to get your pipes cleaned."
"Barbaric. And yet... Hmm. Piques the curiosity."
"I'll say. I wonder if it hurts."
"See if you can finish up these inks before Chricton comes back from lunch."
"Will do."
Thomas moved his fingers inside the box. Ink lines started to fill in over the blue wireframe on his screen. For some reason, Plinth Mold still preferred 2-D mock-ups for his action figures. Thomas found the whole get-up awkward, but for a paycheck he was willing to oblige.
"I know this is not what we set out to do with ourselves," Thomas said to himself, as he continued to trace the lines on his screen.
"We've allowed a number of years to go by."
Just as Thomas was getting into the rhythm of berating himself, Chricton returned, bursting through the door with two bags full of groceries.
"That was quick."
"Yes. I ran into Eva in the corridor. Relieved her of these. Here, let's snack while we work."
"How thoughtful of you."
"Yeah, I don't think she was going to do anything important with all this stuff anyway."
Plinth was flossing with a piece of o-ring from one of the prototype figures.
"Boss, that's gross."
"Hey, all this junk is mine anyway. Keep your eyes on your own paper."
"You know, I've often wondered how to solve the problem of The Troll."
"What the fuck is a Troll, boss?"
"I'm glad you asked. A Troll is merely someone who enters into a discussion with the intent to disrupt the situation; usually by misrepresenting his own or others' actual positions in favor of inflammatory rhetoric, or by the constant injection of non sequitors."
"I see. This has to do with one of your theological speculations, doesn't it? Doesn't sound like a very friendly habit, anyway."
"No, the Troll isn't a very friendly sort at all. In fact, the practice of Trolling is usually undertaken maliciously. Why, the history of the Green is positively peppered with examples of individuals who --"
"But boss, why would someone want to do something like that?"
"That, Thomas, is the problem of the Troll."
Chricton looked up from his workbench. "I think we should make a figure of this... this Troll character." He swiveled his screen around to display his design: a small creature with an obnoxious outgrowth of whispy hair, mounted atop a pencil as if it were some kind of ornamental eraser.
Plinth was visibly amused. He depressed a switch inside his coat sleeve.
"A capital idea, Chricton! Our only obstacle will be securing a license on the concept from the Green Consortium."
All of the men chuckled hesitantly before shifting the discussion to other matters.
The Green Consortium never issued licenses.
Not to the likes of Plinth Mold.
Image after Nina Bovasso and nicepimmelkarl
creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.2.5