The Publisher

    “Thank you for meeting me on a weekend, Mr. Biblowski!” Mac Durden said with a toothy grin, shaking hands with the publisher. Mr. Biblowski was a small, friendly-looking man. He was in his fifties or sixties, with a bald head, a blue dress shirt, and bowtie. His office was decorated with books he’d published, every one of them an author’s first novel. Mr. Biblowski had grown a reputation as a publisher able and willing to help out any new author.

    The publisher nodded his head. “It’s no trouble, Mr. Dur-“

    “Just Mac is fine, sir.” Mac noticed a collection of prescription medicines on Mr. Biblowski’s desk along with a blood pressure monitor, but quickly returned his attention to the publisher.

    “It’s no trouble, Mac. Do you have your manuscript with you?”

    “I do!” Mac pulled his manuscript out of its folder and handed it to Mr. Biblowski. The publisher thumbed through a few pages, nodding his head and “hmm-hmm”ing to himself.

    “Well, it certainly appears professional. That’s always a good start.” He looked back up to Mac. “So, tell me about your story.”

    “Certainly! It’s a tale of young, forbidden love, inspired by Romeo and Juliet.”

    “Fan of the classics, I see.”

    “Of course! They’re classic for a reason! So, anyway, the setting is in modern-day, rural Kansas. Unbeknownst to the local populace, there is a long-running feud between the vampires and werewolves.”

    Mr. Biblowski’s smile tightened.

    “The exotically beautiful vampiress, Desmerizhana, meets and falls for the brutishly handsome werewolf, Gregorian.”

    Mr. Biblowski’s smile strained against his reddening cheeks.

    “Naturally, their clans oppose them, but the primary antagonist is Rexler Zektosi, a centaur who wants both Desmerizhana and Gregorian for his harem.”

    Mr. Biblowski’s eyebrow arched.

    “Desmerizhana is certain that Gregorian is in love with her, but he won’t admit his feelings to her or even to himself. Therefore, she forces him to confront his feelings by waking him up with a blowjob!” Mac smiled. “It’s an excitingly erotic scene.”

    Mr. Biblowski rhythmically drummed his fingertips on the desk.

    “Everything comes to a head when Rexler incites an all-or-nothing battle between the vampires and werewolves. But, just as the battle is about to start, Desmerizhana and Gregorian arrive at the battlefield, and their love convinces their clans to put aside their differences and join one another! Not a single drop of blood is spilled!”

    Mr. Biblowski ground his teeth.

    “The vampires and werewolves slay the treacherous Rexler, and then they celebrate their unification as one family with a tremendous orgy, as foretold by an ancient lycan-vampiric prophet.”

    Mr. Biblowski’s eye twitched.

    “Ultimately, it’s a story about the power of love, the evil of prejudice, and the intrinsic human dignity that unites us all. It- excuse me, but is there something funny, Mr. Biblowski?”

    Mr. Biblowski roared with laughter. Tears ran down his cheeks as he laid his head on his arm, pounding on the desktop with his fist. His bald head was turning very red.

    Mac nervously chuckled. “I’m… I’m afraid I don’t understa-”

    Mac screeched as Mr. Biblowski broke the mahogany desk in two with his bare hands, with splinters, framed photos, and medicines flying through the air.

    “Vampires and werewolves, eh? Raping a man to make him confront his feelings, you say?” Mr. Biblowski had a devilish grin.

    “W-well,” Mac stammered, shrinking in his chair, “it’s n-not a r-rape, you see, b-because he totally w-wants her, he just d-doesn’t-“

    Mr. Biblowski clawed at his own face, cackling maniacally. Mac darted from his chair, nearly tripping over his own feet as he escaped the little office. He ran down the empty hallway to the elevator and desperately pounded the call button.

    “Come on, come on, come on.”

    Mr. Biblowski’s diabolical laughter echoed down the corridor.

    “Somebody help me!”

    “It’s just us here, Mac! Just you and me!” laughed Mr. Biblowski, poking his head out of his office. Mac gasped and ran for the stairwell.

    The stairwell door was jammed. Whimpering, he rushed inside a small bathroom and bolted the door shut. His hands trembling and sweat running down his brow, he searched the cupboard beneath the sink. Inside he found an assortment of toilet paper, soap refills, and a case of plumbing tools. He took hold of a pipe wrench, the heaviest tool available.

    The door handle rattled, and Mr. Biblowski laughed on the other side. Mac’s eyes grew wide as the door shook in its frame. Something heavy was banging against it. He cried as Mr. Biblowski’s head broke a hole in the door, blood and sweat streaking his red face.

    “Ah, there you are!” he said with a sickening grin. “I’ve read ‘em all, Mac! Read ‘em all! Male pregnancy. Dr. Mengele love stories. Sexualized cannibalism! What makes you special, huh, Mac? What makes you special!?”

    Mac swung the pipe wrench. A dull thud sounded as he struck Mr. Biblowski over the head, leaving a bloody wound on his scalp. The publisher only laughed harder.

    “Now, that’s the spirit, Mac!” He pulled his head back out of the hole just as Mac swung a second time. Mr. Biblowski shot his arm through the hole and caught Mac’s wrist in a vicelike grip.

    “Please!” Mac begged as Mr. Biblowski pulled Mac’s wrench and hand through the hole and held it to his chest.

    “All the stories. All the tales.” He bent Mac’s pointer finger back at the middle knuckle with a loud crack. Mac screamed.

    “Stop! No!” He screamed again as a second finger knuckle broke.

    “I’ve read them all, Mac. Read them all.” He pushed Mac’s hand back through the hole, helping him hold onto the wrench. The publisher smiled in glee as Mac dropped the wrench, staring at his broken fingers in horror.

    “Where to, Mac? Where do you go now?”

    Mac was trying not to hyperventilate. Tears streamed down his face as he moved to the bathroom window. They were on the tenth floor of this old office building, but he had no other options.

    Cold rain blew in his face as he opened the window. His heart nearly stopped as he looked down at the empty street so very far below.

    “Five! Don’t take the dive!” Mr. Biblowski taunted as he tried the door handle again. “Four! Better run some more!”

    Mac stepped onto the windowsill, barely containing his panic. He pleaded with himself not to look down. There was a ridge alongside the building just big enough for a foot, but it was sloped and wet.

    “Three! Beware of me!”

    Mac took the first step, holding onto the window frame with his arm and grasping at the gaps between bricks with his uninjured hand.

    “Two!” The door was broken down. “I’ve come through!” He stomped loudly into the bathroom, giggling to himself.

    Mac slipped. His face hit the rough bricks as he barely caught the windowsill. He desperately clung to it with his arm.

    “One.” The publisher looked down on him. “No more fun.”

    Mac whimpered as he looked down to the street and buck up to Mr. Biblowski. The publisher’s skin was unnaturally red. His face grew more somber. The mania disappeared from his eyes, and a sort of sad smile came to his lips. He reached down. He grabbed Mac’s forearm. He pulled him back into the bathroom.

    Mr. Biblowski sat on the tile floor, watching Mac bawl.

    “Why?” Mac asked. “Why?”

    “I’ve… read things you people wouldn’t believe,” Mr. Biblowski said softly, his expression pensive. “A girl mourning the losses of 9/11 by pleasuring herself with quicksand. I read about a mare sprouting a penis, then joining two humans in their lovemaking.”

    Mac stopped crying as he listened, awestruck by the publisher’s words.

    “All these… stories,” Mr. Biblowski continued, “will be forever in my mind, like an itch that won’t… go… away…” He leaned against the cupboard. His voice grew quieter.

    “Time… to die…”His head lolled to the side. His eyes closed. His breathing stopped. He died with a relieved smile.

    Mac lay in stunned silence. For five minutes he stared at the publisher’s unmoving body.

    “You could have just said, ‘No,’ Mr. Biblowski.”