Chapter Seven

"electric!"

"A warped but entirely new insight!" Wendy, the market analyst always on the lookout for new things, declared.

Dr. Paola, less concerned with the artistic than with the lucrative aspects of any proposition, was also impressed. Already, in the midst of the generally congratulatory hubbub, he was at work jotting down the points made which struck him as salient, along with some initial suggestions for their implementation.

"Miss Thompson Simpson will handle the pending incorporation immediately!" beamed Mr. Schwirltz. "We are thrilled to welcome Assholes Unanimous to our family of corporate clients!"

" - o - rate - cly - ants - " Sam duly penciled down, mumbling.

Mr. Spracken was splitting with excitement. "Dammit!" he pounded the air, using his most vehement expression of joy. "Dammit dammit dammit! I knew this was a good idea! Dammit to hell!"

Bob sat calmly watching the lovefest. Horace had just finished twenty minutes of inspired, impassioned repulsiveness. No one possessing the strength of will necessary to survive such an onslaught could possibly emerge without a searing desire for some means to ensure that it could never - but never - ever, happen again. Horace had made it mind-numbingly obvious that Assholes Unanimous was the only such hope imaginable. In doing so, Horace had been revealed as a holy man. There was one, only, molecule of shade in the conference room, though; and it cast its shadow on Bob suddenly.

"I cannot associate myself with such willful proletarianism," Mr. Neonioni glaciated. "I recommend an alternate to my post, and withdraw as of this moment."

"Ye Gods, man!" Mr. Spracken erupted. "Since when have you objected to pruning the proles, Tony? This scam will bury you in receipts for the foreseeable future!"

"This is not a scam, father," Bob said icily. "Mr. Neonioni, what Mr. Aeiouaey has just demonstrated is the inevitable future of humanity if such an ameliorating endeavor as Assholes Unanimous is not instituted. He is merely ahead of his time, as all true genius is. What could be more noble, more aristocratic, if you will, than to prevent, by whatever means presents itself, the proliferation of such as he?"

"But `such as he' as our Founder and Chairman?" whined Antonio. "Just look at him!"

Horace was stumbling in an attempt to put his pants on.

"Now, picture your grown children in a world run by Horace Aeiouaeys," Bob warned. "And then, picture your beloved grandchildren being Horace Aeiouaeys! And only and all because you, yourself, now lack the stomach to prevent it happening."

The color drained from Antonio's face. It was clear he was horrified past all control of mental or bodily function. He looked and felt like Lot's wife as she waved bye-bye to Gomorrah.

Horace, finally mastering the intricacies of his zipper, walked up to Bob, and pointed at Antonio. "What's he so salted about? He looks like he's been pilloried."

"He declines to associate with commoners," Mr. Spracken explained, volunteering disgustedly, "Asshole!"

"By definition!" Horace chirped, in concourse of opinion. "If Mr. Neonioni declines his invitation to our crusade, he only volunteers for an honor no less eminent."

"Eh?" Antonio forced his crystallized saline lips to part.

"Yes," Horace went on. "Refusal to enter our rocket to the heavens here spectacularly qualifies you, Mr. Neonioni, to be our first honorary asshole, Numero Uno, which entails automatic induction to the Hall of Fame, one year's membership (worth five dollars) free, and, in your case, mention on the masthead of our newsletter. Congratulations!"

"Eh?"

"No need to thank me. Of course, should you decide to provide the kind of service Mr. Spracken here had originally proposed to you, you could be forced to slave for years before achieving that kind of recognition."

"Please allow me one moment of pause," Antonio whispered brokenly, "to compose my thoughts." He slumped into a chair like a hanged jaywalker cut down a second too late. At first, he buried his face in his hands. For a minute or two he moderately thwacked the table with his forehead. Finally, despondently, as if he had no alternative, he poured himself half a glass of water, leaned back, and dumped it on his crotch. It was not a meaningless gesture, but it was damn near one. At any rate, having made up his mind, his brow now unclouded, he suddenly felt as if the yoke of years of respectability had been lifted from his back, and he was free, free, free. Rising to his feet to display the wet evidence of his release, Antonio Neo Neonioni faced Mr. Spracken with a look of bold resolution.

"I return!" he declared, choking back tears of emancipation. "If Assholes Unanimous can do for everyone what it has just now done for me, there is hope for my grandchildren! God bless you, Mr. Aeiouaey; I shall never wear dry pants again!"

" - dry - pants - a - gain - "

"Why are wops so emotional?" Mr. Spracken asked, wiping his eyes, as everyone in the room burst into spontaneous applause.

It was a warm, feelgoody kind of moment, and Horace rose to the occasion. Luckily, he sat down before anyone noticed. "We are Unanimous!" he banged his fist on the table, in lieu of banging a gavel on whatever that little round thing is that you bang gavels on. "As Chairman of this Board of Directors I hereby call to order the first meeting of Assholes Unanimous, soon to be Inc. I recognize Mr. Robert T. Spracken IV to gratefully acknowledge his initiative in selecting this Board, and call on him now to hazard recommendations in nomination of corporate officers. Mr. Spracken?"

Mr. Spracken looked amazed. "Chairman Aeiouaey," he said in awe, "after your, er, presentation, I can scarcely credit my own senses that I really heard that epistle of parliamentary eloquence escape your lips. Can it be true that such a paragon of vility can also be capable of such civility?"

"No. I'm really a schizoid ventriloquist posing as my own dummy."

"The man's a god!" sang Antonio.

" - man's - a - god - "

"Let's do it," Horace said. "Manny, how about if you be Secretary, all right? Doc Paola, you strike me as Treasurer material. Robert Senior, you've got a lock on President being the kind of get-things-done dude you are. Bob, you're a born Vice-President. How's that sound?"

"Disappointing, I must admit," admitted Antonio.

"Unconscionable!" complained Wendy.

"Litigable!" warned Linda.

"imaginatively inadequate," intoned j f.

" - in - a - duh - quit - " repeated Sam.

"Put it down to freshman jitters," Horace jibed. "I forgot. Linda, you're Co-Secretary with Manny; plaski, you and Wendy be Co-Vice-Presidents with Bob; Co-Treasurer with Doc Paola would be born-again Tony. Better?"

" - a - gain - toe - knee - bet - ter - "

"I suppose that makes Sam Co-President with me, then?" snorted Spracken IV.

"OK," Horace felt things slipping. "Let's try this. President: Spracken IV. Vice-President: Spracken V. Treasurer: Paola. Secretary: Schwirltz. Minister of Finance: Neonioni."

"`Minister of Finance'!" said Antonio. "Yes, it has a ring!"

"Charge' D'affaires: Thompson Simpson. Minister of Propaganda: Miller. Spin Doctor: plaski. Organ of Internal Information: Windsor. How's that sound?"

"Is `Spin Doctor' subordinate to `Minister of Propaganda'?" asked j f.

"Yes," Raul Paola said, "and how does the Treasurer share duties with a Minister of Finance?"

"`Organ' has a Stalinesque sort of connotation to it, does it not?" noted Sam, repeating, " - does - it - not - "

Horace was getting agitated. This titling thing had not seemed to be a problem worth worrying about before, and now that it was going so shakily he was nervous.

Bob caught Horace's eye and raised his hand. "May I make a suggestion?" he asked.

"Make away," Horace swept his hand imperiously.

"We are in a unique position, given the aim of our project," Bob began, "to establish new precedents in the headings of our departments. It occurs to me that we could use the metaphor of our name to advantage in solving this little crisis."

"What do you mean?" Linda asked.

"Well, try this," Bob ventured. "Horace would be, of course, Gluteus Maximus. Mr. Paola - "

"That's Doctor Paola!"

" - would be Ischio-Rectal Fascia. Wednesday, there, would be Erector Clitoridus - "

"Excuse me?"

"Robert!"

"Mr. Schwirltz would be named Coccyx - "

"I beg your pardon?"

"Robert!"

"You, Father, you could be Erector Penis -

" - tor - pee - "

"Goddammit! Robert, is there no end to the humiliation I must suffer at the hands of your mouth? Shut up ten minutes ago!" roared Spracken IV. "I never heard such goddamned idiotic gibberish in a million years. If I live to be eternal I hope I never hear you blabbering like this again in this life or the last!" He began to grow red. "Do I make myself heard? If I were you I would not tempt me by exposing your Erector Penis again, is that all?"

The board shifted nervously in their seats.

"It was just an idea," Bob mumbled apologetically.

"The hell it was!" Spracken IV retorted. "It was no more an idea than I am a leftist guerilla. It was so far from being an idea as to by comparison make plausible the notion that Marilyn Monroe was a Nazi spy twenty years too late for the war. Idea! Horace; Horace, here, has an idea! And I don't care if I'm President or Dogcatcher if I can see that idea come to fruition. That's why we're here. So I say: Let's forget this titled foolishness. A title won't be worth a white lie in a whorehouse if this thing folds. I don't mind calling Horace Founder: it was after all his idea and besides, `Founder' doesn't mean a damn thing anyway. But let's the rest of us do what we do best to get the ball rolling. Now," he paused for breath, glaring at all their faces one by one, "what do we need to get started?"

Antonio shrugged. "Capital, what else?"

"Fine. Paola, where do we get it?"

"Well," Dr. Paola slyly peered out at them from beneath his eyebrows, "membership fees would be one source. . . "

"can't get members until we broadcast. can't broadcast without financing," j f sniffed.

"What have you got up your sleeve, Raul?" Spracken IV asked. "You're not called an alternative financier for nothing."

"Would this corporation by any chance be a public service corporation?" Paola queried. "If so, I happen to know of approximately one hundred and seventy government departments, agencies, and offices which are conveniently isolated from one another from which we, as a public service corporation, can secure loans at extremely favorable rates."

"How much can we obtain in this fashion?" Antonio asked.

Paola smiled broadly and folded his hands in front of him.

Antonio understood. "You demon!" he shook his head at Paola. "All right then. I can have those loans repaid, in all probability, within the quarter, on the rate differential alone." He looked back to Spracken IV. "We have front-money!"

"Excellent. Now we go for constituency. Wendy, where do we strike first?"

"Just like Broadway," she grinned. "If we're looking for assholes, we open on a trial basis in Boston and go straight to New York. We may have to drain it dry. If we can handle the volume there, we'll cruise through the rest of the country all at once. The demographics for New York on this one is easy. We'll pull 'em in on every cast. Saturation, day and night. A no-doubter."

"r f, got any ideas, hearing this?"

"humor. tease 'em." r f plaski shot out in his amazingly rapid-fire high concept dialect. "fun people, people people, downstairs people."

"Downstairs people?" Linda wondered.

"yeah, never upstairs. people always hate upstairs people," plaski explained. "let-you-be-yourself people. are there, uh, budget considerations here?"

Paola almost laughed.

"For the sake of argument," Antonio smiled all around, "let us assume them to be not constricting."

"good. two-month strategy. we do this. billboards look like they've been vandalized at first glance. but funny. chartreuse, orange, yellow. bus stop benches. buses. subway." j f lowered his voice. "two weeks, three weeks, four weeks. then bang! video blitzkrieg. wild. funny. chartreuse, orange, yellow, but no pitch yet! what is assholes unanimous? what is it? then, sixth week, fast, fast, 15-, 30-second spots, chartreuse, orange, yellow with toll phone, not toll-free phone number, late, late at night, four nights. then, 24 hours, weekend, three days and nights. eighth and final week, we raise the fees 20%, total saturation. after then, nominal."

Sam broke into a sweat. " - not - toll - free - "

"If you didn't have any ideas, why didn't you just say so?" joked Horace. Everyone, even plaski, laughed.

"Sounds do-able," said Spracken IV. "Manny, any problems so far?"

"Nothing insuperable. It only occurs to me in passing that I don't know what our members will be getting with their memberships."

"An advice hotline," Bob jumped in. "A newsletter informing them of common interests. I thought we could persuade some sensitive consumer-goods manufacturers to offer group discounts on their products - "

"If we build up the kind of lists I think we can," Wendy interrupted, "even the insensitive manufacturers will want in."

"That basically answers my question," said Manny, effectively cutting off Bob, who wasn't finished. "The other thing is that it will take some trained staff to handle the enrollment. I will advertise for an executive general manager, with the Board's permission, to look into that. Any subcontracting of services will require contractual review which we will of course provide. And oh, it seems to me that there may be a start-up lag in disbursements. How soon are we, any of us, authorized to log billable hours?"

"Tony, how soon will we have pocket money?" asked Spracken IV.

"It depends," said Antonio. "Dr. Paola, how soon can your funds be generated and in hand?"

Raul gazed suggestively at Linda. "My dear, wasn't it at least sixty days ago that Assholes Unanimous was incorporated?"

"Why, of course not! It isn't even - "

"Miss Thompson Simpson," said Mr. Schwirltz condescendingly, "think back. Wasn't it, oh gee, ten or so weeks ago now?"

Linda was obviously uncomfortable. "I. . . I think it was," she finally mumbled.

"That's what I thought," said Dr. Paola. "My memory is surprisingly accurate when it comes to that sort of thing. A small investment in research, a small investment in rubber stamps, a small investment in friendly persuasion, and our loans will arrive within a month. If, say, for the sake of argument, we were incorporating now, and I had no strings to pull, we expect to wait a minimum, minimum, of six to eight months. But, as it happens, luck is with us!"

" - is - with - us - "

"A month," Mr. Spracken said. "Is there anyone here whose firm cannot carry us for a month?"

"A month is no problem," Wendy replied, "but I think I speak for all of us when I say that there seem to be risks inherent in Dr. Paola's methods of soliciting loans which could easily cause delays. As sure-fire as our prospects are here, I would rest easier in my labors if there was some initial cushion."

"Believe me, Wendy," Spracken IV said, "I appreciate your concern and your candidness. But there is virtually no cause for that concern. Raul has served me often and well. I place implicit trust in his abilities."

"Thank you, sir," Dr. Paola nodded to him.

"Perhaps, Mr. Spracken, in deference to the lady's concerns," Antonio said chivalrously, "you could place in the treasury something more, ah, substantial than implicit trust in his abilities. Simply as a token of good faith, of course."

"Damn glad to! Not enough of a problem to bother saying `No Problem' about!" Spracken IV almost shouted. "Raul, you have two months! I won't bother asking you not to let me down, because I know damn well you won't. It's understood, then: invoice in 30 days?"

Heads nodded all around.

"I'm not trying to agitate; please don't get me wrong," pleaded Wendy. "But our accountants insist on a strict policy of liquid cash flow, and it seems to work well."

"No need to explain that to me," Mr. Spracken grunted.

"Then one more thing," Wendy delicately slid one more foot out onto the ice, "these invoices - payable on demand?"

Spracken IV considered. "But negotiable," he finally groused.

"But negotiable. Fair enough. Thank you." Wendy relaxed.

"Now that that's settled, one other thing puzzles me," Mr. Schwirltz said. "Robert mentioned a hotline and a newsletter. Has anyone here experience in these sort of things, or shall I instruct my manager to assume the responsibilities?"

"I have some acquaintances in the field of medicine I was thinking I could recruit to consult with the staff of the hotline," Bob said, as Mr. Spracken winced. "Your manager would be a great aid in helping me with the hardware, though."

Mr. Schwirltz nodded and checked with Sam to make sure he got that.

" - hard - ware - tho - "

"I thought I might take a shot at editing the newsletter," Horace volunteered. "I am something by way of being a writer."

"Not that I doubt you," Mr. Schwirltz obviously lied, "but have you ever edited, well, anything?"

"You're a writer, Horace?" Bob exclaimed. "Really! I didn't know that."

"Mr. Spracken," Linda addressed the elder, "do you believe our Founder should have to actually get down and - "

"So what do you write?" Bob prodded. "Magazine articles?"

"What Linda means is," Schwirltz explained, "should someone like the Founder of - "

"Well, no," Horace aw-shucked in answer to Bob, "actually, I write a modest little kind of pulp novel."

"A novelist, eh?" Spracken IV became interested in the conversation. "I read a little myself. What have you done?"

" - what - have - you - done - "

"I should think," interjected Dr. Paola, "that it would be something of a step down for a novelist to edit a newsletter."

"If you had read my novels," Horace addressed Dr. Paola, "you wouldn't think that."

"Such modesty from an asshole! The Asshole! The man's a god!" Antonio gushed.

"Maybe I've read something you've written," said Spracken IV.

"I rather doubt it," replied Horace. "My most successful creation is, well, rather embarassing. I'd rather not go into it."

"Hmph!" hmph'ed Spracken IV. "I begin to wonder whether a writer who's ashamed of his own work is qualified to edit this newsletter!"

"Don't get me wrong," Horace said hastily. "What I write is dead perfect for this newsletter. My works are, trust me, highly regarded in asshole circles. Movies have been made of my books; successful movies which routinely sold out to audiences entirely below IQ 80."

"ha! it sounds like he's talking about - ha ha! - willie smith! ha ha ha!" mr. plaski chortled.

" - Smith - ha - ha - ha - "

"Ye Gods! Man, watch upon whose toes you tread!" Mr. Spracken shot out of his chair in a lunge at plaski.

"Actually, I was," Horace admitted quietly.

"Anyone who disparages Willie Smith disparages myself, and I'm disposed to knock out any teeth which allow such disparagement to pass through them!" Mr. Spracken threatened plaski apoplectically.

"Actually, I wrote the Willie Smith books."

"I'll have you know I am presently rereading the entire series of Willie Smith epics at this very, er, week; and I must resent any insinuation that I waste my valuable time!" Mr. Spracken seemed about to mount the table to gain access to plaski.

"Father, did you hear Horace?"

"Eh?"

"Did you hear Horace?"

"What? Ah, Aeiouaey, did you say something?"

"I said I wrote the Willie Smith novels."

"What?" Mr. Spracken gurgled emotionally. "WHAT!" As imperfect as his delivery was, the effect was nevertheless definitely Gorblimey.

"I wrote Willie Smith."

"What! Dim but Deadly?"

"That's me."

"Bill Smith Walks?"

"Mine."

"Bill Smith, P. I.?"

"Not to mention The Bill Smith Inquiry Hearings."

"You wrote Hooters Hefting Heaters?"

"And Land of the Slugs and Left of Right and Ten Days 'til Morning."

"Aha! Aha! I've got you!" Mr. Spracken screamed hysterically, pausing only long enough to slurp in a little loose drool. "There is no Willie Smith book called Ten Days In Mourning! Imposter!"

"'til Morning." Horace corrected him, raising his voice. "I ought to know, because I wrote the farce, as well as all those other farces."

This was too much.

"Farce?" Spracken thundered.

"Farce."

"Farce?"

"Farce."

" - farce - farce - farce - farce - "

"Blasphemy!" The mercury shot to the top and threatened to burst the bulb. "Let me at him! Robert, let go of me! This is impossible! Willie Smith was created by a towering colossus by the name of - "

"Robin Hoodlum," Horace said the name with him in unison. "Mr. Spracken, with all due respect, did it never occur to you that `Robin Hoodlum' was a nom-de-plume? an also-known-as? a masquerade, charade, or ambuscade? an alias, a bald trumpery, a prevarication and a brazen fakery? In fine: Not his real name? Did you never marvel at the cruelty of a Mr. and Mrs. Hoodlum who would cripple their progeny by naming him so? Please, sir, lay that spongy mind open to the air and absorb it when I tell you that I, Horace Aeiouaey, am Robin Hoodlum."

"I. . . I can't believe it," Spracken IV said, wavering at last.

"Well, consider this," Horace attempted to reconcile him. "In about exactly three months Ten Days 'til Morning will come out, in which Willie Smith is duped by Joe's sister, who is an FBI agent posing as a bookie, into - "

"Stop!" cried Spracken IV. "Stop! Stop! Don't tell me! I should have known!" He fell to his knees, sobbing, and put his head against clasped hands in attitude of prayer, as the others gaped at him in astonishment.

"I should have known! I should have known!"

Bob gently laid his hand on his father's shoulder. "What should you have known, father?"

Spracken IV leaned on the table, struggling to his feet. Silently, he walked around to the other end of the long slab, where Horace rose to his feet to meet him, not knowing what to expect. With tears in his eyes, he clasped Horace to him in a crushing embrace, backed away a step, grasped Horace's hand and pressed it for all he was worth.

"I should have known," he sobbed, "that there could not be two such Beings on the face of this planet with the kind of inspired bean it takes to conceive of Willie Smith, or Assholes Unanimous. Mr. Aeiouaey, you stand alone." He turned to face the group, eyes streaming. "Fellow disciples and members of the Board, we stand here today bathed in the first light to dawn since Leonardo. Show your obeisance in your own ways; for myself, I'm overcome!" He looked back at Horace, grimacing only imperceptibly, lower lip aquiver.

"Dammit!" he cried in ecstasy. "Dammit! Dammit to hell!"

Back | Next: The Anti-Misogynism Committee of the Mandibular Research Foundation strikes again.