ONE MILLION FOUR HUNDRED NINETY TWO THOUSAND
SIX HUNDRED THIRTY THREE MARLON BRANDOS
BY VANCE AANDAHL
She liked the Brando type. The
more there was of it, the better!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Chester McRae. Good old Chet, best man in Accounting. Six feet tall,brown hair, brown eyes. Full of vim and vigor, that was good old Chet.
"God!" he screamed. "They're strangling me, the skunks!" He rose frombed, his face dripping with sweat and his hands trembling like afrightened child's. "They're killing me!" He ran to the bathroom andvomited. His wife was standing by the door when he finished, but hewalked past her as if she didn't exist.
"Why, Chester! What's the matter with you?" she asked, trailing himinto the bedroom. "I've never heard you talk like that before!" For amoment she stood watching him in numb silence. "For goodness' sake,Chester, why are you getting dressed at three o'clock in the morning?"
"None of your business," he mumbled, setting a firm upper lip andgazing at her with lizard-cold Marlon Brando eyes. He picked up histie, laughed at it with careless ease and threw it across the room."See you around, baby," he hissed, zipping up his trousers and walkingpast her.
"Chester McRae! Where are you going at this time of night? You've gotto go to work tomorrow! Don't you love me any more? Chester...."
But her words echoed emptily through Chester McRae's pleasant littlesuburban home. Chester was no longer present.
Bartholomew Oliver. Good old Barth, best man on a duck hunt sincethe guy who invented shotguns. Five foot ten, weak chin, gambler'smustache. Good man with small-town girls, too.
"Hey, Thelma," he said. "You know what I think?"
"Go to sleep."
"I think it'd be funnier than hell if I left you flat."
"What kind of wisecrack is that? And what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm getting dressed...."
"It's three o'clock in the morning."
"So? I don't give a damn."
"You'll come back. Drunken louse."
He laughed softly and smiled at her in the darkness with ice-whiteMarlon Brando teeth. Then he was gone.
Oswald Williams. Good old Ozzie, best man in the whole philosophydepartment. Five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, milky eyes.Wrote an outstanding paper on the inherent fallacies of logicalpositivism.
"Louise," he whispered, "I feel uneasy. Very uneasy."
His wife lifted her fatty head and gazed happily down at Oswald. "Go tosleep," she said.
"If you'll excuse me, I think that I shall take a walk."
"But, Oswald, it's three o'clock in the morning!"
"Don't be irrational," he whispered. "If I want to take a walk, I shalltake a walk."
"Well! I don't think you ought to, or you might catch a cold."
He rose and dressed, donning a tee-shirt and tweed trousers. Withsnake-swift Marlon Brando hands, he tossed his plaid scarf in her face.
"Excuse me, Louise," he whispered, "but I gotta make it...."
Then, laughing softly, he strode from the room.
At three o'clock in the morning, even a large city is quiet and darkand almost dead. At times, the city twitches in its sleep; occasionallyit rolls over or mutters to itself. But only rarely is its slumbershattered by a scream....
"Johnny! Hey, Johnny!" cries Chester Mc