Monday, October 05, 2009

Novella month, day 5

At a loss, today I turned things a little odd. I think from now on, if I don't know what to write, I'll just make something random happen.

.......................

I sat and stared at the wall and tapped on my pad and longed to make a television spot that visualized the Turkish Radio Department’s commercials. I tested my hand at sketching a chainsaw.

David Funch came tapping on my door. Funch is a pig-headed lecher. I like him.

“Hey-hey, it’s the Funcher!” Funch cried. He likes to ask women in the office if they want to “Munch the Funch.” He started out in the admissions department and worked his way up. He claims to have euthanized over 50 sick old people. Their skin hung off their bodies like wet rags, he said.

“Funch,” I said. “I’m in a dilly of a pickle.” Funch hates it when people say things like “dilly of a pickle,” so I say things like that all the time to him.

“You sound like an old lady,” he replied. “I should put you down where you stand.”

“I’m sitting,” I replied dryly.

He said nothing and straightened his bow tie.

“Lou wants me to make a new commercial,” I told him.

“Jesus,” he said, sitting down. “Are the number bad?”

“You know they’re not. His mother hates the commercial.”

“Oy. What I wouldn’t do to his mother.”

“Do you mean kill her or screw her?”

Funch shrugged.

“He wants something informative, but kind of feel-good.” I paused and watched Funch push his cuticles back. “How would you make people feel good about what we do?”

“Don’t know. Hot chicks in latex, probably. Crawling all over this old man who only has a month to live. And he looks real happy until he gets run over by a train. Cut in half, you know.” Funch shakes his head. “A damn shame.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Human sub consciousness operates without sense, as if in a dream state. They’ll understand it without even knowing they understand it, see?”

Funch stood and divided himself into three parts and hovered in the middle of the room, arguing with himself in simultaneity. At length, the parts converged. “There,” he sighed.


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