Byron Forbes entered his little two bedroom apartment around 9:30am. He quickly shut and triple locked the door behind him, leaving the world and its multitude of morons outside where they belonged. To him that’s exactly where they all needed to be. Out past his front stoop. Set outside like a cat or dog left out for the night. Or some trash to be put out for pick up.
Byron seldom ventured out of his home. Why should he?
He had seen enough of went on out there growing up and in his early adulthood. And he did not like what he saw. It was always the same. Competitve cretins fighting over everything. Money, social status, the opposite sex. They were merely cavemen and women with better tailors. Millions of years of evolution and humankind were still a bunch of primates Clamoring over preening rights. The strong, or in today’s world….priviliged got to live twhat most would consider the good life. They were allowed to dwell in polished surroundings. Living in mansions and estates like modern day royalty. While the vast majority of people worked themselves into an early grave on the vague hope their children might do better. Not that he had any sympathy for them. What was worse? The slime that rose to the top or the dregs that sank to the bottom. It was all distasteful.
He ran into plenty of this in college. He recalled losing much needed teachng assistance job to a chesty brunette who was not half as qualified as himself. But then what did ability, grades and merit matter compared to a pair massive heaving bossoms to an enthralled middle aged professor? Another time Byron failed to recieve a grant he deserved. The student that beat him out happened the son of noted writer. Did it matter the son failed to inherit his fathers talent? Did it matter the literary presentation the boy gave was obviously done for him by his father? Byron, who at the time, was an excellent but not totally perfected writing talent had little chance against such odds. Just of college he lost a warehouse job needed to pay bills while he worked on his writing to a relative of the companies manager. Most recently a story he sent in was rejected by a magazine editor. A few month later, that same editor published a knock off of the tale under his own name. Such was the way of the world. Kill or be killed. Jungle law. You dealt with it. You adapted or you perished. Most merely took what life granted, or refused them.
He was not about to partake. He was no microorganizism performing on a slide for whatever mad being created this insane system. Once he recieved his PHD, he sat down and began to write. And write. And write. Until, after recieving a drawer full of rejection slips, he was published. And his increasingly disgusted opinions on dealings of the humaniod world, as he loved to put it, his writing conveyed struck a nerve. Many found it fresh, brutally honest social commentary. As one critic who seemed to possess some grasp said: “Forbes tells it like it is. Not like we want it to be.”
Of course most assumed it was mere social satire, not honest speak. Naturally a few lowbrow want to be tastemakers tried making a name for themselves by tearing down his work. These clods called it to dark and an unfair endictment of modern day life. But for the most part they were ignored and Byron’s writing career took off. A series of essays were devoured by the literary world. A collection of short stories, previously rejected were recirculated and made the Times best sellers list. One was adapted into the plot of a popular television show and won him a peabody award. Another was adapted into a feature length film that recieved an oscar nomination. It lost to what Byron thought a dreary English film about a girl coming of age. Which served to further his confirm his negative opinion on humaniod tastes. Once more beaten by a chesty young brunette.
This particular morning his housekeeper, whom he actually had some respect for, had the day off. Leaving him forced to step out among the masses. As usual he was dressed in stylish business attire. He did so even if he did not go out. He liked to look his best. Freshly clean shaven and neat in appearence, always. His not for anyone else’s sake, but for his own. He was an evolved being. And rather handsome. With a smooth boyish face in the Johnny Depp mold. This day he chose dark suit, freshly back from a cleaning and pressing. Matching shoes, well polished. A dark flowing trenchcoat. It all pefectly matched his dark eyes and perfectly groomed black hair, presently cut to business length. The overall effect was stunning. It seemed to create a sort of ebony aura about him. And he filled the apparel out nicely with his slender but solidly muscled frame.
It was autumn in his native western, New York and predictably chilling. The lined trenchcoat was a must. But left unbuttoned. Allowing the lower edges to flow about him like a gothic cape, or duster. Outside natures wonders were in bloom. The leaves were turning making the streets were alive with their multi-colored splendor. Even Byron was impressed. But he no time to linger. The mornings first stop was to the corner store to grab some french vanilla latte in a 36 ounce cup. It was one of few current humaniod inventions that was worth a damn. Not like computers and other insipid contrivences modern humaniods had developed in the pursuit of laziness. Books had all the knowlegde and insight needed. Still, humaniods needed more. Some monsterous, invisible system for storeage they dubbed internet. And why? So some clod could, what was the term, “hack” into your system steal your ideas and secerts. The hell with that. one idea stolen from him by they disgrace of an editor was enough. Byron had learned his lesson. His apartment was filled with books. They were reliable and had geniune feel to them. And he either wrote freehand or on an old 50s style typewriter. It was good enough for his old man, so it was good enough for him.
After coffee it was a stroll to the copy and fax store. The place was mile from his house. A healthy walk, but it was better than driving. Cars were just another invention of humaniods that was a testiment to laziness. At the fax place he would send out his current story to London buyer whom he had a current deal with.. A rather bland fashion magazine run by a college friend, Madison Daniels. An attractive young woman. Surprisingly witty and clever as humaniods as went. Outgoing. Motivated. But one that embraced society, with all its many problems. Silly. But then again, unlike Byron, she had it all handed to her. He supposed that made a difference in prespective. She was an employer and she paid well. He could give her the benfit of the doubt.
He had a fax machine at home, but never touched it. His housekeeper had in her contract she sent out his stories. He was not going to touch that infernal thing. But alas, with a dealine at hand and she off, Bryon was forced to do this himself. Not if he could help it. He had visions of getting someone at the fax store to do it for him.
As it turned out, at the fax store painfully pretty girl in her early 20s, with cosmetically perfect features recognized him. Most in Western, New York did. He was a favorite son dispite his reclusiveness. Understandable. He brought notariety to an area sadly in need of some. Starstruck the fax girl was virutally was fawning all over him. That was his pigeon. He knew how to be charming when it suited him. A little cunning. A little innocent flirtation, she would be his.
Sure enough, in mere moments she with sparkling eyes and a mischievous grin did as he bode. The story was sent out and the confirmation slip of it being recieved came forth. The story was not complete. But he had the early chapters done and they were due today, Madison’s rag today. Byron was ever prompt with his dealines. Editors were the only ones he went of his way to please. They were paying the bills.
Finally after endless bits of praise and having the fax girls phone number thrust upon him, his story was sent and acceptance confirmed. Then it was back home, to his sancutary from this mad world that existed around him.