was also a liar, a thief, a bad karaoke singer with a worse temper, and an absolute devotee of the French cinema. But despite these voluminous negatives, the man had a checkbook the size of the Eiffel Tower, and the cash he spread around kept him groin-deep in female flesh for nearly all of his life.
Frank, my boss at the Credit Union, had a genetic dislike of Arnold Kurtzman that went far beyond professional envy, and he passed the hatred down to me. It didn’t help that we all attended the same conferences, were forced to sit through his endless, patronizing speeches during interminable seminars. There were few creatures on Earth I disliked more than that foul-tempered, spittle-lipped old man, which is probably why I lobbied for the job of ripping out Kurtzman’s artificial lungs two years after his business and bank accounts went belly-up.
I was tickled to no end when I found him in a ramshackle motel, roaches crawling over his bloated, sweaty body, his brain partially eaten away by whatever syphilitic diseases had taken hold, his only belongings scattered in a pathetic pile on the stained carpet next to the bed. There wasn’t a woman in sight.
Kurtzman’s walk-in supply house was an instant hit with the public, his A Lifetime Can Be Yours motto the buzzwords on everyone’s tongue—both real and polyplastic—and it wasn’t long before the other artiforg manufacturers were angling for their own little piece of the Mall. Gabelman, Kenton, Taihitsu—they lay in wait like snipers in the underbrush, biding their time until a retail space came up for lease; then, at one minute past midnight on the day in question, they would descend upon the Mall leasing office like storm troopers in blitzkrieg and throw wads of cash at the rental agents until they cracked beneath the green, green pressure and informed Banana Republic or Pottery Barn that their time together, though fruitful, had drawn to a close.
The unions and artiforg manufacturers swept like a tidal wave through the Mall, demolishing everything in their path. Soon the entire third floor of the place was filled with supply houses, with the exception of one holdout company, The Greatest Cookie Ever. This was a rocking little bakery that served a regular clientele with custom-baked erotic dessert treats, and—go figure—they somehow had the cash to match the supply houses when it came to lease-renewal time.
Nowadays, they’re The Greatest Cookies and Organs Ever, and they do a brisk business in artificial taste buds.
Earlier this afternoon, the Mall (recapitalized some years back by overwhelming vote of the aggregate supply houses leasing office space) was an anthill of activity, medically challenged petitioners scurrying this way and that among the storefronts, trying to get someone, anyone, to give them a line of credit. There are no more holdouts inside the Mall, no last-ditch efforts to sell clothing or shoes or pastries of any sort. It’s all artiforgs now, and it’s the place to get up and go when your body won’t.
The Credit Union sports the largest of the storefronts, a big gleaming portal practically slapping you across the face as soon as you walk in from the parking structure. Technicolor lights stream about the entryway, drawing customers inside, leading them down the path to a new, improved way of life. Ponce de León be damned—the new Fountain of Youth is inside a shopping mall.
Harry the Heart and Larry the Lung, two of the more popular Credit Union mascots, were out in force this afternoon, dancing in the way that only overstuffed, underpaid teenagers dressed up as artificial organs can dance. There’s no sound box on these things—it’s not like the ones they have down at the Union theme park (motto: Where Entertainment and Rejuvenation Meet )—so the two cartoon characters spent most of their time waving at the customers, tapping their shoes against the mall’s tiled floor. At one point, Harry entertained a group of
Frank, my boss at the Credit Union, had a genetic dislike of Arnold Kurtzman that went far beyond professional envy, and he passed the hatred down to me. It didn’t help that we all attended the same conferences, were forced to sit through his endless, patronizing speeches during interminable seminars. There were few creatures on Earth I disliked more than that foul-tempered, spittle-lipped old man, which is probably why I lobbied for the job of ripping out Kurtzman’s artificial lungs two years after his business and bank accounts went belly-up.
I was tickled to no end when I found him in a ramshackle motel, roaches crawling over his bloated, sweaty body, his brain partially eaten away by whatever syphilitic diseases had taken hold, his only belongings scattered in a pathetic pile on the stained carpet next to the bed. There wasn’t a woman in sight.
Kurtzman’s walk-in supply house was an instant hit with the public, his A Lifetime Can Be Yours motto the buzzwords on everyone’s tongue—both real and polyplastic—and it wasn’t long before the other artiforg manufacturers were angling for their own little piece of the Mall. Gabelman, Kenton, Taihitsu—they lay in wait like snipers in the underbrush, biding their time until a retail space came up for lease; then, at one minute past midnight on the day in question, they would descend upon the Mall leasing office like storm troopers in blitzkrieg and throw wads of cash at the rental agents until they cracked beneath the green, green pressure and informed Banana Republic or Pottery Barn that their time together, though fruitful, had drawn to a close.
The unions and artiforg manufacturers swept like a tidal wave through the Mall, demolishing everything in their path. Soon the entire third floor of the place was filled with supply houses, with the exception of one holdout company, The Greatest Cookie Ever. This was a rocking little bakery that served a regular clientele with custom-baked erotic dessert treats, and—go figure—they somehow had the cash to match the supply houses when it came to lease-renewal time.
Nowadays, they’re The Greatest Cookies and Organs Ever, and they do a brisk business in artificial taste buds.
Earlier this afternoon, the Mall (recapitalized some years back by overwhelming vote of the aggregate supply houses leasing office space) was an anthill of activity, medically challenged petitioners scurrying this way and that among the storefronts, trying to get someone, anyone, to give them a line of credit. There are no more holdouts inside the Mall, no last-ditch efforts to sell clothing or shoes or pastries of any sort. It’s all artiforgs now, and it’s the place to get up and go when your body won’t.
The Credit Union sports the largest of the storefronts, a big gleaming portal practically slapping you across the face as soon as you walk in from the parking structure. Technicolor lights stream about the entryway, drawing customers inside, leading them down the path to a new, improved way of life. Ponce de León be damned—the new Fountain of Youth is inside a shopping mall.
Harry the Heart and Larry the Lung, two of the more popular Credit Union mascots, were out in force this afternoon, dancing in the way that only overstuffed, underpaid teenagers dressed up as artificial organs can dance. There’s no sound box on these things—it’s not like the ones they have down at the Union theme park (motto: Where Entertainment and Rejuvenation Meet )—so the two cartoon characters spent most of their time waving at the customers, tapping their shoes against the mall’s tiled floor. At one point, Harry entertained a group of
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