sketch 47 Steven Kings IT
Mr King placed the phone back on the craddle. The click the handset made as it depressed the plastic clip only heard over the humm of his computer because of his proximity to it.
How could their IT support be there in less then a minute? Was his computer problem somehow their fault and they already had someone in the area? If that was the case why didn't they just say so on the phone? Perhaps they were trying to get at him personally?
But then, he would have a record of their phonecall, the communication between them. Assuming they could be trusted to keep it without tampering.
In such thoughts Mr. King kept himself until three solid knocks rippled through his house.
The subtext of the knocks was clear, I'm coming in. You can't really stop me.
Thus it was with some surprize to see that the person waiting on the other side of the door didn't ooze the same level of confidence.
Instead a short, balding man of unguessable age and pale face waited. In his right hand a bag, one of those messenger bags that were growing in popularity, dragged it's shoulder strap across the floor. Without seeing the strap itself move, you would almost have thought the sound it made wasn't a dragging one at all... More of a low growling. In his left hand, hanging loosely where some red cables.
The cables held King's focus far more then the voice did. The voice was whiny, the voice of someone who doesn't do public speaking and wouldn't even be fit for public radio.
The red cables, they bobbed and weaved. The pair of them, as two heads and two tails were clearly seen, bounced off each other regularly. Not in time with the arm movements either... The Two ends bounced and clicked almost ahead of the nervous waving of the arm.
King heard his name repeated two times in a row. With a clearing of the throat coff to cover, King invited the man in.
There was no choice for it but to take him to the computer room. It was deep in the house, back towards the opposite side. Along the way the strange sounds, the dragging, clicking noises filled the empty house.
King, for the first time since monday, wished that his wife was home. He wished that his last couple of books hadn't been so bad that she couldn't stand to be in the same house while he worked on them.
He wasn't able to dwell on those thoughts however, the clicking, dragging and how a flap... The flap was from the largest shoes coming to rest and leave the hard wood floor earlier or later then the rest of the foot.
The pants too were wrong somehow. King was embarassed to find himself wondering where the man kept his junk. The pants didn't suggest anything... the crotch too low... The frabric itself rippled more like skin the cloth... It seemed to almost breathe.
The solid oak door opened to the computer room. His famous desk how held a computer system instead of a typewriter. The digital editing process was one that he was late to adopt, but there was no looking back these days.
The door to the office closed with a solid thud. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room at the same time. King was about to turn around when...