WAMPOHOLIC

            “I’m gonna punch that blue fuzzdick right in his jiggling eyes!!” Everyone shrinks. For a piece of a second I wonder if their fear was worth getting so worked up over the issue. Then I remember our advertisers.

            Melznick’s pasty-ass face is the first to breach whatever forcefield around me is pushing the rest of these sycophants back. “An- a-absolutely justified. We think that disciplinary action would be prudent-“

“Prudent is what they’ll call the dent I put in his head, after they take note of the pitchfork up his ass.”

“-and we have already sent out inquiries for a replacement, should it come to that.”

“You can’t-“ My snort of frustration turns into a moan. I really shouldn’t be the smartest person in this room. My hands, clenching the lacquered table edge to make sure nobody gets strangled, drift up to massage my temples. I address my lap.

“It’s not as simple as that,” I imagine Melznick’s eyes go wide at the knowledge I’m dropping on his pasty-ass face, “because if we replace the man in the costume, we might as well be replacing Jeffrey Dahmer’s skeleton and saying he’s reformed from eating people. There’s no difference to the audience, and especially not the core motherfucking demographic.”

“I don’t think-“ Nailed it that time, pasty-ass, but I’m still not going to so much as glance your way.

“They can’t tell a grape juicebox from an apple juicebox, yes we’ve done studies on this, so how do you think they’ll grasp this concept?”

“Hilary, you’re blowing this a little bit out of proportion— am I right?”

My head drifts back up, careful not to offer too much. Jackson leans back in his black leather chair like it’s a luxury not afforded for the rest of us. Fingers crossed. Eyes staring just slightly over my head. I wonder where he read that power technique. I may not be the CEO of fucking Funtown Inc., but I’ll be damned if this rat-bastard production exec talks down to me. He continues in spite of the hatred rattling in the cage behind my eyes.

“Maybe this can be a Munsy for a new age! In-your-face, not gonna back down from the powers that be. We can rope in some tweens, treat this as a transition period, and teach kids something about … I dunno, fighting authority or some bullshit.”

I let that hang. Maybe I’m considering it. Maybe I’m focusing on my breathing. Maybe I’m indulging in a sexual fantasy. I give a purposeful cough and meet Jackson’s waiting eyes.

“Oh, are you finished? Sorry, sometimes with diarrhea you never can tell.”

“Get off your high horse, he flipped the bird at a kid-“

“I know you like making obscene gestures at children, Jackson-“

“-a kid who had already ripped the costume seams yanking the tail, there’s a cost there-“

“A biracial kid! Brought in special because we were teaching tolerance! Season 17, Episode 8: Biracial motherfucking Tolerance.”

I thought that would slow down the river of shit Jackson was pouring my way, but the bastard pressed on, god bless him. “Just because he’s biracial means he can’t be a dick?”

I take a sip of coffee from my Munsy brand thermos. Had it for twenty two years now. I’m probably the only person in the world who has ulcers because of this baby blue bundle of love and learning.

Melznick, Jackson, Rutledge, Rogers … Even that runty thing over there, intern boy. They don’t know what I’ve seen. I headed up the entire marketing blast of ’94. Lunchboxes, pogs, yo-yos, cookies and cereals. Before I even knew where I fit in at Funtown, Munsy was always watching, never changing. I take care of him, and he takes care of me. So much money from my baby blue fuzzball. I look at all the pasty-ass faces leering at me from their black leather safety pods, and I almost crack a smile.

“Here’s what you don’t get, Jackson: Munsy is an institution. Munsy is Munsy. And every single kid out there is a dick.”