Another Day at the Office

'If you could live the life of a fictional movie personality, who would it be? Why?'

Approx. 2,462 words

Mother kicked her briefcase across the floor, slammed the apartment door and headed for the wet bar. “Gawd!” she bellowed, “I’m tired of this day-to-day grind at the studio and working with that woman! I wouldn’t choose this damn job again if it weren’t for the healthcare, the furnished apartment, job security, and profit sharing. I must have been delirious when my agent waved that contract in front of me.”

“You look pissed, Mother,” her roommate said. Godzilla hardly looked up from an old rerun on the television.

Mother poured half a glass of scotch, downed it in one gulp, and then poured another. “It’s that damned woman! Sigourney Weaver! She just won’t stay dead!” The alien carried her bulky frame across the living room and plopped into a comfortable love-seat which had been built especially to accommodate her unusual body. “What’cha watching, Godzilla?”

“Watching me and Mothra. Thank goodness for residuals, my bank account has been a little anemic lately. Still, I can’t complain, the studio pays for this swell apartment complex, and keeps us around until they decide to make another sequel. It’s not such a bad life, even if it looks like we always get killed at the end of the movie.”

“Yeah, ain’t that the pits?” Mother said. “I’ve been thinking we should get together with the other movie monsters, pool our resources and form our own production company. We could hire our own script-writers, directors and producers, then we could really whup butt on those puny humans! What right do they have hogging all the fame and fortune? Why do they always get the guy or the girl at the end and get to live happily ever after?”

“You really think we could do that, Mother?”

The alien rubbed her bony carapace with a lobster-like claw. “Why not? The movie going public loves action movies, even if they don’t have much plot. Wouldn’t it be great to be a winner at the end, just for once, instead of being blown up in a nuclear detonation or something equally gruesome?”

“I’d like that better than a freight-car full of sushi, Mother, but what if the combined studios think a competitive production company would eat into their profits? We’ve got this swell apartment complex they built and it would be difficult for some of us to find another place to live. I mean, you’ve got the Blob in 7B, and he’d have trouble finding another place suitable for his bowl of Jell-O-type body. Frankenstein is in 5G, and the last time he went outside the villagers attacked him with rakes and pitchforks and started a riot. Then there’s Dracula in the basement… he has to have the windows in his dungeon and crypt blackened to keep out the sun. We’re special people, you know, we can’t just answer an advertisement and rent any old apartment.”

“Are you a monster or a mouse, Godzilla? The monster I know would never let a little thing like a cushy apartment keep him from having a good time or a juicy snack. We’ll probably make a fortune and build a dozen apartment complexes of our own, making an even greater profit and having more of our friends nearby. I got an email from T-Rex down in South America just the other day. He says the climate is wonderful for a tyrannosaurus, but it’s lonely out in the jungle and he misses his old friends. If we had our own group of apartment buildings, we could have a club house just for monsters and parties every night!”

“Say, that would be swell,” Godzilla agreed. “Do you suppose we could have our own fitness center and sauna too? I’ve been putting on a ton here and there lately, because the only exercise I get is chasing those miserable humans down the street and munching a few now and then. Not many vitamins in humans, you know, and they’re loaded with carbs! Do you know how much catsup it takes to make the taste of a human bearable? Gallons and gallons! I should own stock in the Hunt’s company. I sure miss the odd whale or armored vehicle every once in awhile.”

“That was a very unfriendly thing you did three years ago, Godzilla. They eventually would have made a sequel to Moby Dick if you hadn’t eaten the White Whale. I’m sure Gregory Peck would have liked to have another go at him.”

“I know, Mother, I didn’t do it on purpose. I was having a bad dream and walking in my sleep. I think there were just too many Italians in that Japanese tour bus I ate. All that garlic, you know?”

Mother glanced at the clock on the wall above the television. “I’m gonna make a phone call or six, Godzilla, then its beddy-bye-bye for me. I have an early call in the morning and another miserable day at the office but, with luck, we can get to business tomorrow afternoon.” She drained her drink in a single swallow and set the tumbler on the coffee table. “G’night, buddy! No midnight snacks now or you’ll simply put on extra weight. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

* * *

Mother would have been whistling to herself when she arrived home the next afternoon, if the writer who created her hadn’t put an extensible mouth within her jaws. Every time she tried to whistle she ended up cutting her tongue on those needle sharp teeth!

Godzilla had opened the door to the guests she had asked to join them, and a round dozen of them were crowded into the living room. Frankenstein, the Wolfman, Jabba the Hutt, Creature from the Black Lagoon, Freddy Kruger, Jason, the psycho computer from the Forbin Project and his grandson HAL from A Space Odyssey were all there. Bruce, from Jaws, was relaxing in a recliner while puffing on a cigar. His appearance was incongruous, but not impossible, since he was a mechanical monster created by studio techs. Darth Vader stood apart, near the window, somberly glowering at everyone; he had a very high opinion of himself and thought it was beneath him to associate with run of the mill monsters when he had once been second in command of the Empire.

T-Rex caused a major panic in the village of Cruz de la Sangre, frightening away several hundred villagers as he sought out a telephone connection for his laptop so he would be able to attend the conference using Netmeeting software. His comical expression watched them from the LED display set on a coffee table.

Mother glanced around and nodded to all of them. “Good of you all to attend on such short notice. Has anyone seen Kong?”

“Kong called this morning while you were at the studio, Mother. The Predator and the Terminator were boozing it up a little too much last night, complaining they are both out of a job until Schwarzenegger gets out of politics and back into movies. Kong is pouring gallons of black coffee into them and trying to keep them from wrecking the complex, but he doesn’t think they’ll be able to make this meeting. The Count sent his regrets also… daylight, you know?”

“Ahh,” Mother began, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Frankenstein grunted as he lumbered to the door. Opening it, the movie monsters held their collective breath as three men and a woman brazenly walked into the apartment.

“Jimmy, how wonderful of you to favor us with your company,” Mother said. “Friends, this is James Russel, the premier theatrical agent in Hollywood. I’ve asked him to bring Mel and Anita Cohen, two of Hollywood’s most celebrated screen writers, and Tom Burgess, publicity man without equal, to collaborate with us on our little venture. Jim, Mel, Anita, Tom, say hello to all my friends, I’m sure you won’t need introduction.”

The humans glanced around, a little sheepishly it seemed, then found seats so they would be more comfortable as the group continued with the business at hand.

“Mother has given me the basics of your project,” Jimmy said, “and I think it’s about time you monsters got the credit you deserve. Mel and Anita have told me they have several script ideas, just waiting for the right producer, and slants on plots that will guarantee you several sequels. Tom, of course, will handle the advertising and pre-release publicity, on a scale that hasn’t been seen since Bowflex introduced their exercise campaign.”

“Sheesh! You make me loathe him already, Mr. Russel,” Godzilla said. “Those damn commercials seem to be on every five minutes when I’m watching the Sci-Fi channel!”

“You might hate them,” Jimmy said, “but sales of the Bowflex X-treme have set new records for the fitness industry. The American public has become addicted to fitness, mostly because of the trim, athletic figures they see in a hundred or more commercials every day.” Godzilla was not impressed, he merely grumbled.

“I can sell anything,” Tom bragged. “All we need is to get movie-goers to identify and sympathize with your side. Mel and Anita assure me writing a drama which casts you in a heroic role will get you the same audience appeal as that little dork in ET, or Lassie, or even Nemo in that fish-flick.”

“You make me want to puke,” Jaws said. “Fish are good with tartar sauce; they are not good as best buddies. If the public wants to love us, where is the fear and terror?”

The Hollywood people and the monsters conversed for the next few hours, each trying to make their point in a not-so-subtle game of ‘one-upmanship’ on the others. They hadn’t noticed how late the hour had become until there came another knock at the door.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon wrapped his huge webbed-hand around the door knob and jerked open the door. Count Dracula flapped his wings at shoulder level next to the Mummy standing there.

“Hey, we don’t want to be left out,” the Count squeaked.

Mother overheard her guests at the door and asked, “Who’s we?”

“Well, everybody,” the Mummy said. “The Gremlins, Pumpkinhead, the alien invaders from Independence Day; there must be four or five hundred of us down at the activities building. Why don’t you fellows move this discussion down there so we can take part also?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Jim Russel said. “The more investors we can get into this project, the more clout we will have against the major studios.”

“You really think so?” the Wolfman asked as he stroked his furry chin.

“No question about it,” Jaws put in. “Would a couple of you mind carrying me down to the meeting on this sofa? I don’t perambulate well out of water.”

Frankenstein agreed to carry one end of the sofa while the Creature, with his awesome strength, volunteered to carry the other.

“Thanks, fella’s,” Jaws said.

The two computer villains had never really been in attendance, they were much too large for the two-bedroom apartment. Instead, they had remote sensors mounted on wheeled trolley’s which had once been used to serve cocktails or desserts. Mother and the Mummy led the group of conspirators into the hallway and they all filed to the elevators, entering in groups, or singly, according to their size. The Count said he had spent enough time in confined spaces and chose to flap his way down the stairwell and across the courtyard to the activities building.

The infamous vampire flapped his wings and hovered about thirty yards from the building, his blind eyes focused by sonar on a group of a dozen people picketing in front of the building when Mother and the rest of the monsters halted behind him.

“What’s this?” the alien asked. Her attention was focused on the few humans at the top of the steps to the building. They didn’t appear frightening, most wore glasses and carried colored pencils and spiral notebooks, although a few were waving computer keyboards over their head.

“It looks like our plan has failed before we could get started,” the Cohen script writers said. “We can’t get into the building and can’t organize as a group with the other monsters.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the Mummy said. “Why I’ve beaten more than ten thousand warriors at the same time, “and these pests don’t have any cavalry, no infantry, no swords, spears or arrows! Who’s afraid of these harmless dorks?”

“You’ve never done battle with people like these,” Mel Cohen said.

“They’re more powerful than anything created by the magicians of special effects, and more terrible than anything dreamed of by writers,” Anita Cohen said.

“They’re horrible,” Tom Burgess agreed. “We’re doomed!” His face looked glum.

“They’re insignificant!” Darth Vader shouted. “I can have the Death Star here in an hour to blast them out of existence if you don’t mind vaporizing the rest of Hollywood, and perhaps most of southern California.”

“No you can’t,” Mel Cohen said. “They’re unbeatable!”

Mother asked, “What makes them so fearful, Mr. Cohen? We have some of the most powerful villains who ever appeared on the silver screen and you think we’re no match for a dozen men and women wearing glasses? Get out of my way; come on, fellas, let’s kick ass!”

The monsters started forward as a group, first taking apprehensive steps, and then breaking into a run. As they began to climb the steps in front of the activities building and swarm over the tiny humans, they began to disappear, one by one. There was no flash of light, no blood on the concrete, no mass of gooey gore and bloody pulp. At one moment in time, Darth Vader, Godzilla, Freddy, Jason, and the rest approached the humans; then suddenly they were not there! Vanished! Poofed! Gone into thin air!

“Well, there goes a sweet deal blown to hell,” Jim Russel said.

“They shouldn’t have tried to fight them,” Tom said.

“You can’t confront them with demands and win,” Mel Cohen said. “But you can usually work around them, sweet talk them, and strike a compromise. They were foolish, and now they’re gone.” His face was clouded with sorrow and he began to weep.

“But I’m not gone!” Jaws shouted from where his sofa had been dropped. “I’m still here! Now, tell me what happened? How could a small group of weaklings wipe out the strongest and most fearful creatures in the known universe?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jaws. I didn’t know you were still here,” Anita Cohen said. “They never had a chance of success. No one in Hollywood, no one in New York, no one in the entire Universe can fight an editor and win. I thought you knew that.”