The Thing on the Bedside Table

The Thing on the Bedside Table
by David Benjamin

“Life! Life, do you hear me?! Give my creation LIFE!!”
— Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, Young Frankenstein (1974)

WASHINGTON D.C. — The beautiful woman with the strangely Oriental eyes, cantilevered cheekbones and subtly protruding lips awoke, as usual, at 4 a.m. and drowsily regarded the thing on the bedside table.

It was pale pink, shriveled, wrinkled and slightly damp. In the dim light, it reminded her of a used condom. She arose from bed and turned, as the door opened. The family’s ancient retainer turned on the light and wheeled a battered air compressor into the the palatial boudoir.

“Good morning, Mungo,” she said.

“Morning, Madame,” said the old man.

For a moment, they stood silently staring at the thing on the bedside table. “I can’t help but think,” said Mungo, “of a discarded snake skin.”

The beautiful woman favored Mungo with her brief, cool, enigmatic smile. “If I’d only known,” she said, “ before the wedding.”

Mungo didn’t reply. He picked up the seemingly insignificant shred of translucent membrane, found a tiny rectum on its surface and attached the air compressor. He flipped a switch. The powerful device suddenly, almost miraculously, filled and expanded the bedside object with hot air, until it stood six feet tall and naked, swollen vastly in its midsection, with soft, tiny fingers, a bald pate and no visible lips.

“Mungo, please,” said the woman, “put on his underpants. I really don’t want to look at… well…”

The old retainer hastily complied.

Although now fully inflated and coursing with oxygen and fluids, it showed yet no sign of animation. Mungo undertook to dress it in a costly, perfectly tailored Italian silk suit, over a white shirt of Egyptian cotton. Meanwhile, the beautiful woman mounted atop the thing a golden mane, fashioned of fine polyester strands. She glued the flamboyant toupée in place and swept it back, lending it the look of a windblown blond duck perched atop a marble bust.

A look of pathos clouded her lovely face as she studied the daily handiwork she shared with Mungo, and only Mungo.

“The tie is too short,” she said. “Re-tie it. And don’t forget to Scotch-tape the short end.”

“Of course, Madame.”

After this correction, Mungo proceeded to apply a thin coat of spray paint on its face, transforming its hue from a fish-belly pallor to the interior of an underripe muskmelon.

“Perfect,” said the beautiful woman. “Lovely.”

“Almost forgot,” said Mungo, finding beside the bed a thin metal shaft. “If I don’t put the steel in his spine, he’ll start flopping around like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.”

Now fully dressed, adorned and erect, it remained inert. The beautiful woman said, “Try some of his favorite words.”

Obediently. Mungo leaned close to its ear and said, “Tremendous! Really tremendous! Believe me! A wall! A WALL!”

This elicited no response. The old family retainer kept plugging. “Wharton! Best school! High IQ. So high you wouldn’t believe! Believe me! Energy! Enthusiasm! Beautiful buildings! Big hands! Big everywhere! Just tremendous! Incredible! Unbelievable! The blacks, the Jews! They love me! Love me! Bigly! Three hundreds and six electoral college votes! Biggest in history! Best in history! Biggest! Best! Fine-tuned machine! Biggestbest! Trust me! I KNOW!”

Its surface trembled but its eyes stayed shut.

“I think, Madame,” said Mungo, “that we’ll need stronger measures today.”

“Very well. Piss him off.”

Mungo nodded, placed his mouth next to its ear, and whispered a single word that sent a violent shudder coursing through its bloated form.

“Hillary!” hissed Mungo.

“Good, it’s working! Keep going.”

Mungo stepped back and calmly intoned a bruising series of inflammatory exclamations. “Obama! Disgraceful. Total disaster. Worst in history! Little Marco! Dishonest media. Crooked Hillary! Illegal leaks! Mexicans! Judges. Real leaks! Fake news! Shut up! Illegal votes! Millions! Disgraceful. Illegal aliens! Disgusting. Muslims! Nuclear holocaust! Nordstrom’s! Unfair!”

With this stimulus, it began to twitch and rock in place. Its lipless mouth began to squirm. A thin strand of drool emerged.

“He’s ready,” said Mungo. “Crank the engine, Madame.”

The beautiful woman sighed. While Mungo placed a live cell phone in its left hand, she lifted her nightgown and positioned her pussy within reach of its right hand.

Wearily, she sighed and told Mungo, “Okay, rev ‘im up.”

Mungo, assuming a tone of abject desperation and palpable fear, said, “Oh, but please, sir. Please don’t. Please, I need this job!”

It stirred. Its eyes flew open. They flickered once and rolled back. But then they focused keenly and malevolently on the cringing face of Mungo.

Simultaneously, its little left thumb began to click frantically on the cell phone, misspelling an insult — in capital letters — to Pope Francis, while its tiny right hand ground away at the beautiful woman’s reluctantly exposed genitals.

After a moment, the woman detached herself from the claw in her crotch, stepped back, rearranged her negligee and said, “Well, God help us, it’s morning in America.”

“You,” it growled, leering at the old man. A reddish tinge glowed beneath its orange surface. Its mouth twisted with malicious pleasure. “YOU?” it roared.

Juicily, it spit out its two favorite, life-giving words like dum-dum bullets into the face of the ancient retainer: “You’re fired! FIRED!”

It went on, of course. Once activated it always went on. “Get out! Out of my sight! You’re disgusting! Horrible! You’re a disgrace! Total disaster!”

Etcetera. It was the normal start to a normal day. While it spouted away, the beautiful woman and the old, discreet butler guided it out toward the world where it raged and fumed incoherently, uttered statements of colossal ignorance and lied gloriously. In bursts of energy provided by an 18-hour supply of hot, compressed air, it alternately insulted and demeaned vast swathes of humanity in swift and dizzying succession, only to turn an instant later and plead pathetically with great masses of total strangers to please, please like me, love me, like me, admire me, worship my wealth, envy me my luscious wife, say good things about my golf swing, adore my every bizarre impulse and trust my every preposterous outburst.

As it crossed the threshold into another day of ineffable tremendousness, it turned toward Mungo, whom it had just fired. It shook the old man’s hand possessively and said, “I’m really a swell guy, by the way. Really. I am. They all love me. All of them. Believe me. Who are you?”