How To Get A Job Through Res Nova Through Non-Violence
If relief were guidoes then I would have been brimming with wax, bronzer, and unresolved issues with my father. I had finally received an email from the ancient and renown magazine Res Nova for an interview; you see, my renown as a humor and sexual deviancy reporter was well established in the back waters of New England. They loved me in New York, but since I made the fateful choice to leave my provincial life of Ivy League lectures and featured New Yorker articles for the dog-eat-dog life as a freelancer in the Big Discharge (that’s what we call metropolitan Delaware back east), I had been drowning in a sea of cheap women, cheap booze, and cheap booze.
The stately prose of the emailed sobered me up (just a turn of phrase, mind you), at least enough to realize that I was in a public library, dressed in my tattered baby blue bathrobe and bright pink “Juicy” pants that prominently displayed my junk (tastefully, mind you), with only 20 minutes to determine where and what the hell HoT was. I struck up a conversation with the dirty homeless man languidly masturbating next to me. He winked and offered to take me there, singing to the tune of “Like A Prayer”. I crossed my legs and gingerly agreed.
After we inhaled some glue (it was Sunday, after all), we lurched to the Annex or Addendum, or Appendix, or—whatever. A total vacuum of sound welcomed us to the dank chamber; the homeless man threw back his trench coat to reveal a pure white suit; his aroma suggested convicted sex offender, but his nametag declared with a heart dotted i that he was in fact David. He took his spot, to the left of the head of the central table, and greeted the other editors with a short bow. He bade me to sit on a pitifully small seat, made from what appeared to be legoes and tiny mouse skulls.
“How fucking eldritch,” I thought.
I gleaned from the tattooed serving midget massaging the head man’s feet that he must be Colin, editor-and-chief, the man who had emailed me. I had apparently interrupted the portion of the meeting where the editors share how their New Years Resolutions had been coming. Colin was the first to speak up from his high dais, decked in rare animal furs and plush red velvet. “I have found him,” his deep resonant voice commanding fear and respect, “the scum that killed my father and destroyed my village.” His massive fist pounded the skull-capped arms of his throne, “I slew his men, drove his women before me, and crushed his throat before stealing the Jewel of AkmemRanc from his crown.” He displayed the palm-sized ruby and grunted with pride.
The following silence permitted me to take a brief inventory of the scene in front of me; I realized that the other editors of Res Nova were cowled in darkness, and that I had most assuredly pissed myself during Collin’s speech. I began to muse if the micturition was due to fear or Quaalude abuse and as to why all editorial meetings take the air of a Satanic Cabal, as though freelancers didn’t have the means to worship His Satanic Majesty (All Hail). My reflections were interrupted by the Editor on the right hand of Colin. As he rose, the surrounding air pulsed with menace. He spoke like a tomb being sealed.
“STAND,” He Intoned. “DECLARE YOURSELF.”
I got up, took a deep breath.
“I am Charles Donnelly, completely respectable journalist,” I lied.
“FROM WHERE DO YOU HAIL.”
“From the blimp-filled skies of Connecticut.” I thought I would play to their notions of the east: that between racing around the world in hot air baloons, we hunt whales and sodomize one another.
Which one of these is true? I’ll lets you guess, but we love it. All night.
“LET THE QUSITION COMMENCE.”
To his right, another Editor rose. Her voice dripped sex, and even from behind her bulky robe, I could see the curves of a real goddamn woman.
“Greetings Charles.”
I summoned everything I knew of romance, sensuality, and the subtle give and take of seduction. I needed her wrapped around my finger like so much belly button lint.
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT,” I screeched.
“Wha-“
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT,” I repeated. Some chicks need to be told twice, right fellas?
“Please quiet down…”
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT.” Three times!?!
Our sexy little game of cat and mouse continued until she finally dissolved into quiet sobbing. I had this dame in the bag. A moment or two of silence followed as the Editors stared at the vanquished woman. Colin cleared his throat and the room emptied. It was just me and him.
“You’re hired.” Of course.
“But first, I need some information.” Of course.
“You will be attached to a lie detector.” Shit.
I was hooked up and ready to lay down some truth. I was pensive however, about the confounding number of electrodes attached to my crotch. They didn’t seem so much attached to the lie detector as a car battery.
“When your obituary is written, what would you like said?” Odd.
“I would like to be remembered as a great writer and a great fatheeerrreerereerfads.” I see, those electrodes DID have a purpose.
“Try again.”
“I would like to be remembered for my fertile loins.” He paused uncomfortably for a moment.
“What is your greatest fear.”
“That the planet will not be suitable for our childreasdjngqa, OH GOD NO.” A second passed before the heavy smell of burnt flesh and burning pubic hair filled the air around us.
“Christ, okay, Nipple Worms. Google it. Trust me.”
“What is your favorite word?” I knew the game now.
“Open Bar.” It was a risk, but if you say it fast it sounds like one word.
“Have you ever stolen from an employer?”
“Haha, if I had a dime for every time I was asked that, I wouldn’t even have to steal office supplies. I’d have all those dimes.”
Pause.
“You’re in. Here is your cowl. Your first Assignment is to write a dumb story about your interview.”
