Selection from The Vaults of Fug: Mr. Wilson
Illuminati Ganga Agents 6 and 21 have put out a new book — The Vaults of Fug (affiliate link) — which is structured like one of those old pulp magazines / horror comics in which there is an overarching story — think Cain and Abel in The House of Mystery for another modern updating of the trope
As the introduction to the volume has it:
This book is modeled on the old fashioned pulp magazines of a bygone time that perhaps never really existed except in the diseased mind of the author. As such it is vulgar, wrong, badly written, evil, malicious, filled with portrayals that rankle, that malign all peoples that come within its purview, that insult religions, governments, businesses, many forms of gender and social levels equally.
Which I guess is fairly accurate, it falls to me to pick out a story from this book that shows the portrayals of wickedness within to best effect.
For my money the most unlikable character in the whole book is the odious Mr. Wilson, a man who is very much a victim but possessed of a weakness that destroys not just himself but his wife, the best that can be said about her end is that at least she is going somewhere without him.
So without Further Adieu, following is the story in its entirety
MR. WILSON
Mr. Wilson went to the zoo a lot, it allowed him to woolgather and forget life’s small ills. As a dedicated zoo visitor he even kept up somewhat on problems of zoo management, on new programs in zoological science, on the minutia of the zoo’s existence as a zoo.
He was not surprised then, when one day, as he wandered by the arboretum, that a number of zoo attendants caught him with a butterfly net and tranquilizer darts, denuded him upon a wrought iron bench as his dope swollen tongue tried to mouth a protest, re-clothed him in a pair of silk pajamas, and then. . .why, then Mr. Wilson fell asleep as these attendants carried him off to the monkey house and threw him in the last cage in a row of exactly similar cages (except that this one was marked: Homo Sap., Common Human, “Mr. Wilson”.)
Not to say that Mr. Wilson expected such disagreeable things to happen to him, for if he had he would certainly never have followed his zoo-going routine that morning; rather, he’d often thought such an exhibit very much needed — although with someone else its feature — it seemed anthropocentric to condemn every species but man to confinement in zoos. . .now that the matter was rectified Mr. Wilson naturally felt gratified that those in authority were of his opinion and chagrined that they saw him only as another subject. Why! He was their best customer, after all. . .
Right when he woke up, and saw his environment; the green plastic and metal bus stop, the small white and brown office table with actual project management reports and supply request forms for him to fill out with a leaky fountain pen, Mr. Wilson began to complain “Excuse me” he said “but I do not like this at all.”
There was no result. . .he looked to his right, at the next cage over with its one lone gorilla lackadaisically picking at its feet; Mr. Wilson coughed politely “Excuse me, but I said I’m very unhappy with all this.”
The gorilla shambled over to the far corner of his cell, and curled into a large black furred ball. Mr. Wilson could see he would get nowhere at this snail’s pace and resolved to keep his peace until a more propitious time.
Two hours went by, Mr. Wilson knew this because it was his habit to count silently all day the numbers of seconds as they passed, thinking always “one-mississippi, two-mississippi, three. . .” and so forth, until he reached 3600 mississippies: the number of mississippies in one hour. Two hours, or, as Mr. Wilson liked to say “That’s 7200 Mississippies” went by.
He had waited these two hours through, when a woman and her son came to view him. They stood looking at Mr. Wilson; she in her purple two piece outfit and faux leopard skin stole, the boy in his boy scout uniform; Mr. Wilson looked at them, in his gold and black spotted silk pajamas, he spoke “Excuse me, but I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all.”
“How like a man” snarled the woman, thrusting her thick lower lips down in disapproval.
“He looks just like daddy” said the boy, laughing distastefully.
They then moved on to the cage where the morose gorilla was doing something faintly unhygienic.
“How like a man.”
“He looks just like Uncle Roy.”
Mr. Wilson decided they paying public would be no help, for what possible reason could any of them wish to decrease the number of exhibits and thus also decrease the value that their purchase of a zoo ticket entitled them to.
Another 4,328 mississippies went by, It was feeding time, two attendants in crisp white uniforms rolled a dirty aluminum cart down the hall, passing hunks of meat and slopbuckets of gristly gruel through the regulation food compartments.
When they reached his cage, Mr. Wilson stood up (although slightly hunched over) almost at the front of the cage and said “I am very unhappy with this situation, I am ever so unhappy!”
“Ehhn!?” said one attendant, a tall thin man with large glazed eyes. Then he went to open Mr. Wilson’s cage, while the second attendant, who was shorter than the first by just a tuft of rat’s hair and with a complexion like a dusty red rose, uncoiled the olive green fireman’s hose from its wheel upon the wall (there was one of these in front of every cell for just such an emergency).
“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Wilson, as the less tall, the less angular attendant pointed the coppery mouth of the hose at him and a steady column of water began to gush forth.
Now all that could be seen of Mr. Wilson behind the white froth was a pair of gold and black spotted arms and a pair of gold and black spotted legs struggling asymmetrically, like the extremities of a marionette inexpertly operated.
After 110 mississippies, as Mr. Wilson was beginning to drown, the less extended attendant switched the hose off.
Mr. Wilson collapsed in the puddle that had pooled beneath him, his jaw hung slack so that it seemed he’d salivated excessively in sleep.
The tall attendant now began to beat Mr. Wilson with a rubber truncheon; thump, thump, thump went the truncheon. The man had obviously been trained be metronome. . .what a methodical talent — thump, thump, thump — a more brutal man might have been tempted to intersperse conversation with his work. Gradually the beat was changing, a backbeat being added. . .thumpa, thumpa thumpa thump ran the truncheon from Mr. Wilson’s left collar bone to his buttocks — complex fills were being executed on his lower spine and genitalia. To these cascade of rhythm he bounced slightly off the concrete, sounding like a big base drum stuffed with cotton.
Once Mr. Wilson had considered becoming an aficionado of Jazz, as a consequence he owned several Gene Krupa albums, now he wished he’d taken time to sharpen his critical skills so he might better judge if the attendant were as accomplished in technique as the amateur ear would surmise.
Thumpa thump thump Da Thump for 418 mississippies the truncheon thumpathumped. Then it stopped. . .the attendants exited the cage, the less elevated one wound the fire hose about its wheel while the taller shoveled food into Mr. Wilson’s compartment.
They left, the lights along the stone hallway clicked audibly dark one by one until all was darkness there. Mr. Wilson slept. . .for 10 hrs. and 12 minutes he slept, exactly 36,720 mississippies, luckily Mr. Wilson had internalized his clock count for so many years that he never missed a mississippi even in dead sleep.
When Mr. Wilson awoke his wife was there, viewing him, with a sorrowful look upon her face. He got up and in his most dignified manner attempted to smooth the wrinkles from his pajamas.
“Oh Stanley” she sighed.
“Now dear, haven’t I asked you not to call me Stanley outside the privacy of our home; as always I must insist you refer to me as Mr. Wilson and only as Mr. Wilson, although I do not like to stand on ceremony overmuch, it is all we have to separate us from the beasts.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilson. I brought you some chocolate toffees and some cigarettes.”
“Well then, woman, don’t dawdle — toss them here.”
She did, first the bag of toffees sailed in a graceful arc, end over end, light glinting from off the plastic, and then the pack of cigarettes — Winstons to be exact — he liked Winstons mainly for the alliterative effect of hearing people say “Mr. Wilson smokes Winstons” although nobody had ever said anything like that in his hearing.
A reserved cough announced the presence of the Director for Zoo Operations and his bodyguard of white-suited attendants. Mr. Wilson was very happy, to think that he would actually now meet the Director for Zoo Operations — a famous man — an incredibly nice man, his smiling face could be seen on each zoo brochure and topping every article on zoo operations in the newspapers, the pictures were invariably black and white and the man posed in a three quarters view showing the right ear and left eye.
This was how he stood at the moment, Mr. Wilson could now see in life that same right ear and left eye he had heretofore only worshiped in image: and the slightly parted lips of the director’s reassuring smile.
The Director’s skin was itself gray with a hint of sepia, he had whitish gray hair, black-rimmed glasses, a white shirt, black tie, black suit. . .
“I know I have the delight of speaking to Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Darla Wilson.” Said the Director for Zoo Operations “Now, Darla, we both know that feeding the. . .[a brief struggle as the Director avoids the term “animals]. . .exhibits is strictly prohibited. Any violation of this, & other rules, may lead to negative consequences.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded.
“Let it be noted that the subject signaled her understanding of the foregoing with an `nod´. Proceed.”
Five of the tallest attendants Mr. Wilson had ever seen detached themselves from the bodyguard of the Director for Zoo Operations and two of these helped Mrs. Wilson stand smartly against the clammy wall that faced Mr. Wilson’s cell. Then, standing as would a proper firing squad they unloaded their tranquilizer guns into Mrs. Wilson. . .Pa-ching, Pa-ching, Pa-ching went each dart; all in all there were twenty-five Pa-chings before the attendants were forced to stop and reload.
When this elite arm of the Director for Zoo Operations’ bodyguard was finished, two much less imposing attendants detached themselves from the group to kneel by the carcass of Mrs. Wilson; first they pulled loose (in some cases yanking or twisting) the darts that made her seem some frumpy old pincushion, these they sealed in white canvas bags, marked by a red X, that hung at their sides; next they wrapped Mrs. Wilson herself in a long white bag they conjured from somewhere within their tight jackets, flinging it out like a magician’s infinite hankerchief, and then these two less awe-inspiring attendants hefted he up and carried her out.
“I do not like this at all” announced Mr. Wilson “Could I please be released?”
The Director sighed the most patient sigh in the world, then he took off his glasses and polished them with a white monogrammed hankerchief while smiling beatifically at Mr. Wilson’s befuddled face. “In theory I am amenable to your release of course, as I am amenable to the release of an ocelot, a hippopotamus, or bandicoot, but in practice we see the difficulties of such an anarchistic undertaking. We cannot have all our Tasmanian Devils, our Ostriches, our purple bottomed Mandrill Apes, nor, sad to say, our Mr. Wilsons just running about loose — those are the dreams of children & madmen.”
“By the way, my condolences on your wife.”
Although downhearted by this turn of events, Mr. Wilson acknowledged the Director for Zoo Operations’ empathy (to think that such a great man should commiserate with him) and begged him to come again at his convenience.
“Of course, Mr. Wilson, at my earliest possible convenience. Though I must be careful not to show any overt affinity for particular exhibits.” Then he winked at Mr. Wilson as he left, followed by his bodyguards.
Mr. Wilson was both happy and sad; happy because it was altogether evident that the Director for Zoo Operations did prefer him over other exhibits, and sad because now he had no one, absolutely no one, who would bring him chocolate toffees and cigarettes.
Now Mr. Wilson, as you may have gathered, was a very practical man and quite capable of discerning when argument or resistance were useless — which they were in this case. As a consequence of this laudable perspicacity Mr. Wilson soon lapsed into a routine much like that of the morose gorilla; at certain mississippies he slept, at others he ate, for exactly 18,000 mississippies a day he would fill out forms with the leaky fountain pen (a rather short work day, but Mr. Wilson, as we have already seen, was prone to mischievousness.)
One day, exactly 692,479 mississippies after his capture and removal from the wilds, as Mr. Wilson was going through the form filling out portion of his daily routine he chanced to glance up and see an elderly bald man viewing him. It was Mr. Wither, his Boss.
“Goofing off again, ehh Wilson?” barked Mr. Wither, furiously shoveling peanuts from the red and white bag he held into his mouth where they crunched and clattered between his vigorous jaws.
“Oh, oh n-n-n-n-yes, sir, I suppose I am, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me Wilson, this is disgraceful behavior.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have disgraced the company. Why, this is far worse than when you wrote up that despicable cowardly limerick in reference to me and passed copies of it made on company paper throughout the office. A most shameful episode.”
Mr. Wither referred to the rather well known limerick:
“Whither goeth Mr. Wither?
Not to where he’ll shiver,
For to the Devil they’ll deliver
The shriveled soul of Mr. Wither.”
coined by another employee of his company, Mr. Simon Preaks.
“Oh, sir, that was all the fault of Preaks in cost-based accounting.”
“Preaks, ehhh? Well, maybe, but I like Preaks, Wilson, manly fellow, and I don’t like you; therefore, you lie!”
“N-n-n-n-y-y-y-y-n-n-n”
“Oh shut up, Wilson.”
“Yes, sir.”
Some 320 mississippies passed while Mr. Wither eyed Mr. Wilson sharply, and Mr. Wilson eyed his raggedy slippers in an utmost state of weakness. Finally, Mr. Wilson had an idea — oh, if only it might be made to work — in a pathetic voice he asked “Oh, sir, I am ever so hungry, might you please toss me just a few of those peanuts?”
“Hah, likely occurrence that is, Wilson, my falling for such a low trick.”
“Sorry, sir, very sorry. . .”
“Sorry indeed, Wilson. . .Wilson!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re fired Wilson. . .now get back to work.” And with that Mr. Wither turned his heel and strode stiff-backed out, while Mr. Wilson returned to his table and leaky fountain pen.
“Yes, sir.”
For a brief time, as he was newly acquired by the zoo, Mr. Wilson enjoyed some fame among the clientele; but his notoriety tapered off and he was left disconsolately eyeing crowds neglecting his cage for those further down the hall. No matter the celerity with which he filled forms (in triplicate), no matter the grand flourishes he used in signing his name, flourishes that spurted ink from the incontinent nub of his pen much like life’s blood from an anemic. Mr. Wilson was a fad whom fashion had shuffled past.
Often the attendants forgot to replenish his forms, and he would cannibalize ones already completed, filling them out again and again until the paper was thoroughly blackened from saturation by the ink he used.
It was exactly 315,360,000 mississippies from the date and time of his first visit that the Director for Zoo Operations came to see Mr. Wilson again. Only ten years, Mr. Wilson was quite touched by the show of consideration this important man gave him.
These years, although full of minor disappointments for Mr. Wilson, had been good to the Director — his entourage of attendants had swelled immeasurably, so that wherever he went a train of creamy white cloth hummed and throbbed behind.
The Director for Zoo Operations stared kindly at Mr. Wilson, then cleared his voice and spoke
“Mr. Wilson, Mr. Stanley Wilson, it is my happy duty to inform you that due to some irregularities in finance & a reapportionment of funds to more productive exhibits — your position at this zoo, in this cage specifically, is now terminated.”
At which the least enhanced attendant of any Mr. Wilson had ever seen emerged from the vast crowd of attendants that backed up the Director for Zoo Operations and swung open the door to Mr. Wilson’s cage, and left it open!
Mr. Wilson stepped gingerly forth “B-but sir, I am quite content with the work I do for this zoo I. . .”
“Nonsense, Mr. Wilson, if you were you might have made some attempt to draw more impressive crowds; do something faintly unhygienic every now & then, hmm? But you didn’t & we really can’t afford to support you here any longer.”
“Can I at least finish out my rest of the day here?”
“Sorry, but the zoo is for paying customers only, now do not make a nuisance of yourself Mr. Wilson.”
There was something in the Director for Zoo Operations’ voice that convinced Mr. Wilson to do as he was told, so he left quickly.
Through the streets that surround the zoo Mr. Wilson walked, in his gold and black silk pajamas, way into the night and everyone he passed he addressed with a plaintive cry “I do not like this very much, oh I do not like this at all!”
And there you have the story about one of the most awful people I’ve ever heard described who came to a completely fitting and horrifying ending, goodby Wilson, now get back to work!
This review and selection from The Vaults of Fug was made by IG Agent 13.
