The Monstrous Ellipsis
Grabbing the computer monitor with both hands, he slammed his head into the glass, shattering the screen.
Frankenstein’s monster, or Theo as he preferred to be called, shivered as the electricity thrummed through his body.
He tilted back in his chair, picked a fragment from his forehead, examined it, and realized it wasn’t glass, and patted it back into his skin.
That editor, Ms. Monroe Robinson, was daft.
The ellipses.
She’d put an ellipses in his article about how Milton S. Hershey had influenced modern civilization. She’d turned his symbol for trademark into three little dots. And society called him a monster. Well, they’d never met Ms. Robinson.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the plug end of the extension cord connected to his body, and inserted the prongs into the wall outlet. He savored the burst of energy that flooded his body.
Recharged, he stood, stomped to the door, and took a taxi to the offices of Brimstone Publishing. Ms. Monroe was going to get a piece of his mind. Not a large piece of course, he didn’t want what was left of his brain bouncing around inside his skull. But he had enough to share with that editor.
Opening the door, he ducked under the facing, walked to the empty desk, and slammed a hand down on the bell that someone had placed beside the handprinted sign Ring for Service—At Your Own Risk.
Within minutes, a woman sauntered into the room, her hearse-black hair streaked with emerald at each temple.
She had a ring in her nose. And the tattoos… He gasped. Tattoos of stitches on her arm, and the scent of antiseptic wafted from her.
If he’d had a hat, he would have doffed it.
He folded a hand over his midsection. “Would you like to go to dinner with a man who can give you a real jolt?”
She stopped, took the toothpick out of her mouth, and said, “Could ya introduce me to him?”
“Yes. My friends called me Theo.”
“Sure,” she said. “If you’re buying, and they’re frying, I’ll have the chicken.”
Then her gaze dropped to his Christian Louboutin oxfords, moved up to his Brioni suit and stopped just below the ceiling when she viewed his face. “You been in an accident?”
“Several,” he said. “You should see the other guys.”
“If you’re the Theo Roosevelt…” she pointed the toothpick at him. “I have to tell you, I got your email and no one has ever complained so catatonically about my punctuation before.”
“I would have said vociferously, not catatonic. Catatonic means silent.”
“Call it what you will. Those emails were silent, by the way. Not a peep out of them.” She chuckled, her gold tooth shining.
He’d seen all the wonders of the world, but never a Ms. Monroe. The rumble started deep inside him, and she stared.
“What’s that?”
He clasped a hand over his stomach. “I’m purring. I can’t help it. A tiger died at the zoo, and well, I was an experiment designed to fail. And the cat was spare parts.”
“You’re purring?”
“Yes.” He felt the heat in his cheeks and imagined he was turning verdant to his ears. “It happens when I am in the presence of…stunning.”
“You purr often?”
“No. Last time was at least fifty years ago. I try to avoid it. Most ladies find it unsettling.”
“I find it interesting.” She shrugged. “I’ve never made a man purr before.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Say what you will, my punctuation policy stands.”
No matter how many stitches she had on her arms, he would not be able to find happiness with a woman who had such different principles. It would be like a bonding between Hamilton and Jefferson. Between McDonalds and KFC. Between Edison and Tesla. Some things could never be resolved.
He turned on his heel and left, not even stopping as his forehead took out the doorsill.
The clatter of footsteps alerted him that she followed.
She caught up with him, inserting herself in his path. “You’re paying for that wreckage,” she shouted.
“Send the bill to my accountant. He deals in exactness. He understands how important it is to get a decimal point in the right spot.
“That’s not punctuation.”
“It is to the numbers, and the IRS.” He drew himself to his full height. “You try moving those periods around and you’ll be drinking near the wrong kind of bars.”
She didn’t speak.
“Ms. Monroe, punctuation is the lifeblood of sentences.” Theo raised a palm, blinked, and his lashes dropped, but he had a spare pair at home. “It determines the strength of each word.”
“I like to make my own rules. I mean, if Daniel Webster could decide how words are spelled, I can decide how my own are dressed up.” She tossed her head but her hair didn’t move.
“But mine, Ms. Monroe?” His voice cracked. His fingers tingled. “Can I not decide how my own works are decorated? How the emphasis is placed? The flourishes at the end of my sentences should be of my own design.”
“For a man with two Adam’s apples, you’re making a lot of sense.”
He touched his throat. “You noticed?” No one ever, ever had commented on the nodules before.
“Well, they stand out.” She brushed the plaster from his arm before picking up a fleck of hunter green and nestling it into place between his eyes. “If I promise not to change your sentences, will you fix the shambles you made of my office?”
“I’ll repair the door regardless,” he said. “I did bump into it.”
“Maybe we should get to know each other better.”
“I agree.”
She reached to her t-shirt and pulled the neck over so he could see above her heart. And there, among the stitches, rested three little dots, a comma and an exclamation point.
He gasped, and the purrs started from deep within him. It was as if she’d scratched behind his ears and rubbed his tummy. “Oh…my…word…”
Grabbing the computer monitor with both hands, he slammed his head into the glass, shattering the screen.
Frankenstein’s monster, or Theo as he preferred to be called, shivered as the electricity thrummed through his body.
He tilted back in his chair, picked a fragment from his forehead, examined it, and realized it wasn’t glass, and patted it back into his skin.
That editor, Ms. Monroe Robinson, was daft.
The ellipses.
She’d put an ellipses in his article about how Milton S. Hershey had influenced modern civilization. She’d turned his symbol for trademark into three little dots. And society called him a monster. Well, they’d never met Ms. Robinson.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the plug end of the extension cord connected to his body, and inserted the prongs into the wall outlet. He savored the burst of energy that flooded his body.
Recharged, he stood, stomped to the door, and took a taxi to the offices of Brimstone Publishing. Ms. Monroe was going to get a piece of his mind. Not a large piece of course, he didn’t want what was left of his brain bouncing around inside his skull. But he had enough to share with that editor.
Opening the door, he ducked under the facing, walked to the empty desk, and slammed a hand down on the bell that someone had placed beside the handprinted sign Ring for Service—At Your Own Risk.
Within minutes, a woman sauntered into the room, her hearse-black hair streaked with emerald at each temple.
She had a ring in her nose. And the tattoos… He gasped. Tattoos of stitches on her arm, and the scent of antiseptic wafted from her.
If he’d had a hat, he would have doffed it.
He folded a hand over his midsection. “Would you like to go to dinner with a man who can give you a real jolt?”
She stopped, took the toothpick out of her mouth, and said, “Could ya introduce me to him?”
“Yes. My friends called me Theo.”
“Sure,” she said. “If you’re buying, and they’re frying, I’ll have the chicken.”
Then her gaze dropped to his Christian Louboutin oxfords, moved up to his Brioni suit and stopped just below the ceiling when she viewed his face. “You been in an accident?”
“Several,” he said. “You should see the other guys.”
“If you’re the Theo Roosevelt…” she pointed the toothpick at him. “I have to tell you, I got your email and no one has ever complained so catatonically about my punctuation before.”
“I would have said vociferously, not catatonic. Catatonic means silent.”
“Call it what you will. Those emails were silent, by the way. Not a peep out of them.” She chuckled, her gold tooth shining.
He’d seen all the wonders of the world, but never a Ms. Monroe. The rumble started deep inside him, and she stared.
“What’s that?”
He clasped a hand over his stomach. “I’m purring. I can’t help it. A tiger died at the zoo, and well, I was an experiment designed to fail. And the cat was spare parts.”
“You’re purring?”
“Yes.” He felt the heat in his cheeks and imagined he was turning verdant to his ears. “It happens when I am in the presence of…stunning.”
“You purr often?”
“No. Last time was at least fifty years ago. I try to avoid it. Most ladies find it unsettling.”
“I find it interesting.” She shrugged. “I’ve never made a man purr before.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Say what you will, my punctuation policy stands.”
No matter how many stitches she had on her arms, he would not be able to find happiness with a woman who had such different principles. It would be like a bonding between Hamilton and Jefferson. Between McDonalds and KFC. Between Edison and Tesla. Some things could never be resolved.
He turned on his heel and left, not even stopping as his forehead took out the doorsill.
The clatter of footsteps alerted him that she followed.
She caught up with him, inserting herself in his path. “You’re paying for that wreckage,” she shouted.
“Send the bill to my accountant. He deals in exactness. He understands how important it is to get a decimal point in the right spot.
“That’s not punctuation.”
“It is to the numbers, and the IRS.” He drew himself to his full height. “You try moving those periods around and you’ll be drinking near the wrong kind of bars.”
She didn’t speak.
“Ms. Monroe, punctuation is the lifeblood of sentences.” Theo raised a palm, blinked, and his lashes dropped, but he had a spare pair at home. “It determines the strength of each word.”
“I like to make my own rules. I mean, if Daniel Webster could decide how words are spelled, I can decide how my own are dressed up.” She tossed her head but her hair didn’t move.
“But mine, Ms. Monroe?” His voice cracked. His fingers tingled. “Can I not decide how my own works are decorated? How the emphasis is placed? The flourishes at the end of my sentences should be of my own design.”
“For a man with two Adam’s apples, you’re making a lot of sense.”
He touched his throat. “You noticed?” No one ever, ever had commented on the nodules before.
“Well, they stand out.” She brushed the plaster from his arm before picking up a fleck of hunter green and nestling it into place between his eyes. “If I promise not to change your sentences, will you fix the shambles you made of my office?”
“I’ll repair the door regardless,” he said. “I did bump into it.”
“Maybe we should get to know each other better.”
“I agree.”
She reached to her t-shirt and pulled the neck over so he could see above her heart. And there, among the stitches, rested three little dots, a comma and an exclamation point.
He gasped, and the purrs started from deep within him. It was as if she’d scratched behind his ears and rubbed his tummy. “Oh…my…word…”