From “Monkey with Fez Painting” by Archie McPhee Seattle
I fight down a sudden instinctive urge to lash out at the speaker, and pull my face into an expression of calm interest. Then I turn around slowly, making damn sure to keep my arms at my sides, and to avoid any sudden moves.
The man is a couple of feet away. He’s in his fifties, average height, looks like thinning brown hair. He is smiling pleasantly, and if it weren’t for a couple of details, he’d look almost exactly like someone’s favourite uncle. His eyes are all wrong though, filled with wild, dancing glee. It’s not a kindly emotion, not at all. He looks like a predator wearing a particularly innocuous costume.
Whilst the man’s eyes are disturbing, his outfit is just peculiar. From the waist down, he’s all Armani businessman, with sharp trousers, a stylish belt, and a pair of shoes which probably cost more than my house. Then he’s wearing a grass-green wool cardigan sweater, at least two sizes too big, over a white, pink and gray plaid shirt. A huge bunch of keys are clipped to his waist, at least fifty of them, and he’s carrying what looks like a dishcloth in one hand. To top it all off, he’s wearing a bright red Moroccan Fez hat, which clashes horribly with his sweater.
I get the sudden impression of those make-a-picture games where you have cards with slices of tops, middles and bottoms from different people, and the idea is to assemble a random chimera person. His smile stretches into a grin, and for a moment, I could swear his body slips slightly out of alignment with his head and neck.
He’s happy enough to let me stare for a long moment, then he breaks the silence. “You shouldn’t be here, you know.”
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