A Self Made Monster Read Online Free

fourth such letter. The previous three had come from Holly’s advisor, her gym teacher, and her freshman dorm director.
    Holly’s advisor, Dr. Blake, learned that Holly was in Alex Resartus’s class.
    “Professor Resartus is semi-known in the literary field,” Dr. Blake told Holly. “I think that if you do well, a letter from him would help your career plans.”
    “What kind of stuff does he write?”
    “I don’t know. Some kind of writing.”
    Her advisor’s ignorance did not concern Holly. A published writer was a published writer.
    Holly finished the article and reluctantly began reading Lady Chatterly’s Lover . She was asleep in ten minutes, the book gently falling and rising on her stomach.

Chapter Five: No More Pulps?

    Alex rarely received personal letters. His mail was typically bills and ads, and he waited until Saturday to unpack his mailbox. He dropped the mail onto the kitchen table. Electric bill. Numerous department store ads. Car insurance renewal form. Several credit card solicitations.
    But underneath a pizzeria ad was a business envelope.
    The envelope’s upper left-hand corner featured the logo of Guns, Blood, and Shovels , and Alex laughed. Guns, Blood, and Shovels was a quarterly pulp of mystery, murder, and horror stories. Guns had published three of Alex’s short stories over the last four years.
    The note inside the envelope was from Tim Skillet, the editor.

    Dear Mr. Resartus:
Our accountant—well, okay, we hire an accountant once a year to evaluate our health!—discovered an error in payment made for a story of yours, “Orville’s Lesson in Love.” Seems we underpaid you by twenty dollars. I’ve sent you a check, along with an extra fifteen. We at Guns hope that the extra money will inspire you to contribute more of your work. “Orville’s Lesson in Love” was a hit with our readers. They’d like a follow up! Hope to hear from you.
    Yours, Tim

    “How kind of you, Mr. Skillet,” Alex murmured, recalling the story. It was about Orville, a rapist. One night, Orville was working in his garage when a woman approached. She lived down the road, she said, and had lost her dog.
    Orville raped her.
    Afterward, he lay on his back smoking a cigarette. “You think that sex and violence are the same,” the woman accused through bloody lips. Orville agreed. He stabbed her a hundred times then buried her in his back yard.
    The next night, someone knocked on his front door. The murdered woman, her ribboned throat glazed with dried blood and moist viscera, stood under his porch light. She pleaded with Orville to let her in. When Orville refused, she threw herself through Orville’s living room picture window.
    She chased him through the house. She screamed repeatedly that Orville equated sex with violence. Finally she cornered Orville in his kitchen. She grabbed a carving knife. He covered his face with his arms, weeping. “I’m sorry! Sex and violence are not the same! They’re different!”
    The woman laughed. Her upper lip was nearly sheared from her mouth, and it dangled over the side of her jaw. “Just so you won’t forget.” She drove the knife into his stomach.
    As Orville died, the woman’s voice deepened into that of a man’s.
    Orville awoke in prison. He had been convicted of murdering a woman while she searched for a lost dog. As Orville lay on his cot, sweat-soaked prison garb clinging to his skin, his cellmate slapped him. Orville’s eyes widened. A six foot five con with watery blue eyes and a decorative nail through his earlobe winked. “Turn over. I’m gonna learn you the difference between rape and love. Just so you won’t forget.”
    “Orville’s Lesson in Love” was published two years ago. The story was simple, yet Alex enjoyed the crude justice that the pulps demanded. And these days, Alex was grateful to see his name in print on more than bills and junk mail.
    Alex wondered if he still had a readership, as the editor claimed. For macabre vignettes,