ONE STIMULATING DAY WITH MONTY
By Jeffrey G. Roberts
Montmorency Funk was a nebbish. There was no denying this. He was a thirty-year old sad sack with a penchant for daydreams, and a voice like a rusty gate echoing through a drainpipe. He was the nerd extraordinaire, the poster child for “geek-dom”. Horn-rimmed glasses and a shirt buttoned to the neck rounded out his persona. Yep -- all 5’4” and 130 pounds of him screamed “damp squib” in Britain, or “no-hoper” in Australia. In High School Monty was the one most likely “not to.” Period. But he made the most of his life -- such as it was. He had a studio apartment, and doted on his pet cat, “Punstaful,” as well as his hobbies, which included collecting swizzle sticks and bus transfers.
He’d always been taunted while growing up, but he took it in his stride. He was what he was. Monty never had many friends, but at least he had Punstaful. You would think this history of taunting and teasing extended into his adult life -- and you would be correct.
Lacking in self-confidence, aside from his general appearance, precluded him from climbing the corporate ladder, for certain. Besides, his fear of ladders and heights (among his many phobias) made that highly unlikely. OK -- impossible. But he managed to eke out a living for himself and his cat by being a “go-fer” at the Wired Coffee Company for the past five years. Their product was the one perk (You’ll excuse the expression) that gave Monty a respite from the ongoing taunts of his fellow workers. And he had a variety of blends to enjoy -- among them “Wired”, their signature blend, “Tight As A Drum”, “Red Eye”, and “Zipped Up.”
Interestingly enough, Wired Coffee Company shared its lab and production facilities with the Mutation Creation Gene Splicing Company. The two companies shared overhead and upkeep to save on expenses. It never presented a problem -- until today.
“Monty, after your coffee break, go out to my car and get the Stansfield account from my front seat. I forgot to bring it in. And make it snappy. I swear, you’re slower than molasses going uphill in January!”
“Yes sir, Mr. Copley. Right away.”
Monty went to school with Jimmy Copley, who no doubt was delighted to be able to continue his campaign of brow-beating Monty Funk as an adult.
He quickly ran to the coffee-break room to get a few moments' peace, and an enjoyable mug of Wired’s finest. He had to hurry in order to return to his boss’s office with the file, before his break time was over. But Monty did not do “hurry” well, amongst other things.
Retrieving the file from Mr. Copley’s Lincoln, he raced back through the giant warehouse, with the file in one hand and his mug of coffee in the other. He had to race up an elevated walkway, lined on either side with giant vats of Mutation Creation’s organic compounds. As I said, Monty and the word “hurry” did not mix well.
He passed one particular vat, more sterile-looking than the others. He should have slowed down and read the placard on the tank, as well, which said: EXPERIMENTAL RECOMBINANT DNA FLUID. CLIENT -- DEPT. OF DEFENSE. SOURCE ORIGIN -- ANTARCTICA -- MARTIAN FOSSIL GENETIC MATERIAL. CAUTION. Unfortunately, Monty did neither, tripped, and fell in; Stansfield file, coffee mug, and all!
He was rescued pretty quickly, as alarms went off all over the place, and he suffered no lasting effects.
“Funk, you were a screw-up and a loser in High School, and you’re a screw-up and a loser here too! You’re fired!”
He expected that. It was nothing new for him.
Hey, look at the bright side, he reasoned to himself. Five years was a record for me! I’ll find something else. I always do.
He drove home in his ’85 VW, suddenly feeling sorry for himself. But he knew he’d get over it. He always did.
“Why do these things always seem to happen to me, Punstaful? Why do I always seem to have this little black cloud over my head? I’m just like everybody else.”
No you’re not, the cat thought. You’re a dork, and farted at Monty.
“Well, at least I still have a nice supply of Wired’s coffee blends. Every cloud has a silver lining, eh boy?”
Despite their high caffeine content, drinking Wired coffee always seemed to calm Monty down. There couldn’t be a better time for some than now. He went to his coffee maker and put in two generous tablespoons of Wired’s finest. He then poured in the water, turned it on, and sat down to wait for it to brew.
“There you go, boy,” he said, with the mug in his hand. “What could be better than this?”
Champagne, the cat thought.
He sat down to relax, and took a sip.
“Strange. This lot isn’t that old. I remember packing it myself. But it tastes very…”
He didn’t have a chance to finish his assessment of his ex-employer’s brew, for his whole body began to vibrate! He could feel his temperature rising, and his heart racing.
“What’s happening to me?” he yelled, then passed out from fright.
When he came to a few minutes later he was shaken, but apparently unhurt. He looked at his cat.
“What the hell was that?”
He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. It was there he received the shock of his life.
“Holy crap!”
Holy crap, indeed. For he was now dressed, inexplicably, in a skin-tight, form-fitting suit, shiny boots, gloves, and a cape! And everything was brown.
“What in heck is this? I look like a cartoon character from Turd Review! How did this happen?” he asked rhetorically. “I look like a Cappuccino. Or a Frapuccino. Or an Al Pacino!”