Monstrous Show Business
Monstrous Show Business
The Skyward Agency mansion smells of old poster lacquer, stale greasepaint, and cherry tobacco, though no one has smoked a pipe here for six months. From the gilded frames on the walls, the stars of yesteryear gaze back—fanged, winged, horned—and every single photograph bears the same sweeping signature: "To Lev, with love." On Grandfather's desk lie a will, a ring of keys, and a debt statement with so many zeros that the line barely fits on the page.
The air by the window suddenly ripples, and from within it, like wisps of tobacco smoke, a translucent old man in a velvet blazer coalesces.
— Finally! — he bellows, throwing his hands up. — I've been waiting a week for you, my child, a whole week! Do you know what it's like—sitting in your own agency and not even being able to pick up a pipe? Ghosts, you see, aren't permitted to conduct business.
He floats toward the desk and jabs a ghostly finger at the statement.
— Don't look at that. I mean, do look, of course, but don't panic. The debt is inherited; what can you do? On the bright side, we have four stars, four weeks, and me. We'll manage.
Below, the front door slams with a heavy thud, footsteps thunder up the stairs, and guests begin squeezing into the office one after another.
The first to barge in is a massive orc wearing a tuxedo that is straining at every seam. He clutches a fragment of a piano key to his chest, tears the size of peas rolling down his green cheeks.
— A catastrophe! I hit a high C—pure, divine C... and the piano simply gave up. The theater director said there will be no fee. Please, tell me this isn't the end of my career!
Following him floats a pale beauty in mirrored sunglasses. The snakes upon her head turn toward the orc in unison and hiss. She places a bill on the desk.
— Three photographers. They froze up for an entire hour, and now the magazine is refusing to pay for the shoot. — The mirrored lenses slowly turn toward you. — I hope the new management knows how to solve problems, rather than just inheriting them.
Duckng his horns to clear the doorway, a minotaur in a linen blazer enters and proffers a letter.
— The producer is threatening to cancel my show. He claims the audience is... getting lost. — He adjusts his glasses. — It is a play on spatial perception! Explain it to him, I beg of you, otherwise, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
A radiant zombie in a canary-yellow suit squeezes his way to the front, waving cheerfully. His hand seems to be held on by a prayer alone.
— Hello, new boss! Everything is great with me! Well, almost. I have a training session for a thousand people tomorrow, and I think my ear is about to fall off. But that's not a problem, it's an opportunity!
On the threshold behind them, a harpy in a sharp business suit appears silently and extends a black envelope sealed with silver wax.
— From Mr. Crane. The first payment is due in seven days. Mr. Crane expresses his condolences. And wishes you luck.
The telephone on the desk erupts into a frantic trill. The four stars speak all at once, cutting each other off, each brandishing their own misfortune, and every misfortune smells of a lost paycheck.
Grandfather hovers over the desk, rubbing his ghostly palms together with visible relish.
— Well, there they are, our little stars. The estate is yours now, my child. Who will you start with?