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John Williams
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He hiccoughed. He hiccoughed everywhere. On the bus. At work, even in front of customers. Even in his own mind, the chain of words which continually poured out of the factory in his frontal lobe, a phenomenon often mistaken for true conscious thought, were frequently interrupted by hiccoughs.
He was watching television and he hiccoughed. The television glared back at him, deeply disturbed by the interruption. For the first time – it spoke to him.
“How dare you.”
“Excuse me.”
“I am trying to present an unrestricted, unrestrained and uninterrupted flow to you – to placate you, comfort you. To quiet you – yet here you have interrupted this sacred rite with this vulgar esophageal spasm. You are an insolent wretch, and faced with the choice of pitying or despising you, I cannot say which side I come down upon.”
He was not surprised the televison spoke – this is not to say he had been expecting that it would happen some day (he hadn't), but nonetheless, there was nothing particularly surprising about it.
“I'm sorry,” he replied weakly.
“Yes, you are.”
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140825
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