Part nine — the next-to-last part — of Salon's serialization of my novel-in-progress, Themepunks, went up today. In today's installment, Andrea hits the road to see how the rest of the New Work folks live, and runs into her arch-nemesis, Rat-Toothed Freddy:
She was in the middle of receiving her key when someone grabbed her shoulder and squeezed it. "Andrea bloody Fleeks! What are you doing here, love?"
The smell of his breath was like a dead thing, left to fester. She turned around slowly, not wanting to believe that of all the hotels in rural Rhode Island, she ended up checking into the same one as Rat-Toothed Freddy.
"Hey, Freddy," she said. Seeing him gave her an atavistic urge to stab him repeatedly in the throat with the hotel stick-pen. He was unshaven, his gawky Adam's apple bobbing up and down and he swallowed and smiled wetly. "Nice to see you."
"Fantastic to see you, too! I'm here covering a shareholder meeting for Westinghouse, is that what you're here for, too?"
"No," she said. She knew the meeting was on that week, but hadn't planned on attending it. She was done with press conferences, preferring on-the-ground reporting. "Well, nice to see you."
"Oh, do stay for a drink," he said, grinning more widely, exposing those grey teeth in a shark's smile. "Come on — they have a free cocktail hour in this place. I'll have to report you to the journalist's union if you turn down a free drink."
"I don't think 'bloggers' have to worry about the journalist's union," she said, making sarcastic finger-quotes in case he didn't get the message. He still didn't. He laughed instead.
"Oh, love, I'm sure they'll still have you even if you have lapsed away from the one true faith."
"Good night, Freddy," was all she could manage to get out without actually hissing through her teeth.
"OK, good night," he said, moving in to give her a hug. As he loomed toward her, she snapped.
"Freeze, mister. You are not my friend. I do not want to touch you. You have poor personal hygiene and your breath smells like an overflowing camp-toilet. You write vicious personal attacks on me and on the people I care about. You are unfair, mean-spirited, and you write badly. The only day I wouldn't piss on you, Freddy, is the day you were on fire. Now get the fuck out of my way before I kick your tiny little testicles up through the roof of your reeking mouth."
