Stephen King - The Plant

EDITORIAL RECOMMENDATION: We've got to publish this. It's the best and most commercial unpublished novel it has ever been my pleasure to read. If ever there was a book that could put a publisher on the map, this is the one.

John Kenton

Time has almost come. Stars and planets almost right, praise Demeter. GOOD, as my own time is short. The traitor bitch Barfield disposed of, spell worked and plane went down. No problem there, praise Abbalah, but in the end she double-crossed me just the same. Thieving bitch took my Talisman (it was an Owl's Beak actually). I have looked everywhere but my Beak is gone. I bet she had it in her pocket when the plane went down. Burned! Nothing but ASHES!! With my Protection gone, my Time is short. Never mind, am tired of being Carlos anyway. Time for next stage but first will rid myself of Poop-Shit Kenton. I'll teach you what rejection REALLY MEANS, you Judas! Let plant take care of rest of them when the Innocent Blood comes.

I have been all around the neighborhood where Kenton works. All office buildings except for small market across the street. Crazy old Bum outside. Woman with a Guitar. Plays almost as bad as Poop-Shit Kenton edits books. Ha! Thought of using her, Innocent Blood, but also Crazy, so no good. “You can't work wood if the wood won't work” as Mr. Keen used to tell me. Wise Man in his way.

A few other “regulars” on the street it looks like. One fellow selling watches and etc. at a folding table. No problem but weekend would be best. I'll find a way to get inside, best would be to follow someone who's “pulling a little overtime.” I'll sneak upstairs to their offices and just “lie low” as they say until Monday morning. Plan to cut Poop-Shit Kenton's throat myself with Sakred Sacrifice Knife. Take his heart if poss. When his blood flows down my hands I can die happy, praise Abbalah, praise Demeter. Only no death! Only move on to next level of existence.

COME DEMETER!

COME GREEN!

Must beware of one thing. I am still having dreams of “The General.” Who is “The General.” Why does he think about suppositories. Why does he think of Designated Juice. What is Designated Juice. Perhaps a holy drink like gooseberry bane or nutmeg milk. I don't know. Sense danger. Meantime have found a cheap hotel about 3 blocks from Z. H. Cannot hang around any longer. 1. Might attract wrong attention. 2. Can no longer stand Guitar-playing Woman Bum. Someone ought to wrap her guitar around her neck. Boy she plays like Shit. Maybe it's John Kenton in disguise! Haaaa haaaaa haaaa.

Weekend almost here. Trials & tribs almost over. Kenton you will pay for rejecting my book and then sikking the Police on me you Crap-Head.

Who is “The General.” Who can he be.

Never mind. Weekend almost here.

COME GREEN!

April 3 1981 I haven't kept a journal since I was an eleven-year-old girl with mosquito-bumps for breasts and a love-life that consisted of moaning over Paul Newman and Robert Redford with my friends Elaine and Phyllis, but here goes. I'm going to skip writing about the plant, as I'm sure John and Roger will have covered that pretty completely (having read a few of John's memos, probably TOO completely). A lot of what I DO have to say, at least in this entry, is of a personal nature, not to say of a sexual nature. I am no longer that little girl, you see! I thought long and hard about whether I should write this down, and finally I decided “why not!” It will probably never be seen by anyone but me anyway, and even if it is, so what? Am I supposed to be ashamed of my sexuality in general, or my attraction to the killingly handsome Riddley Walker in particular? I think neither. I am a modern woman, hear me roar, and see no reason to be ashamed of a. my intellect b. my workplace ambitions (which go a lot higher than the shithole known as Zenith House, believe-you-me) or c. my sexuality. I'm not afraid of my sexuality, you see—not to talk about it, and certainly not to let it out for the more-than-occasional walk in the park. I said as much to Herb Porter when he confronted me yesterday. Just thinking about it makes me mad (it also makes me laugh, I'm relieved to say). As if he had the RIGHT to confront me. Me Tarzan, you Jane, this chastity belt.

Herb came into my office around quarter of ten without so much as a by-your-leave, closed the door, and just stood there glowering at me.

“Come on in, Herb,” said I, “and why don't you close the door so we can talk in private.”

Not so much as a hint of a smile. He just went on glowering. I think I was supposed to be terrified. Certainly Herb Porter is big enough to terrify; he must stand six-one and weigh two hundred and fifty, and given his high color (he was as red as the side of a fire truck yesterday morning, and I'm not exaggerating one little bit), I worry about his blood pressure and his heart. He also talks big, but I was around when the hate-mail started coming in from General Hecksler, and those letters made Herb small in a hurry. The way he looked on Wednesday, actually, when John suggested that, all evidence to the contrary, General Hecksler STILL might not be dead.

“You've been screwing Riddley,” Herb said. This was probably supposed to come out sounding like the accusation of an Old Testament prophet, but it emerged in an unimpressive dry squawk. He was still standing just inside the door, his hands opening and closing. With his green leisure suit and red face, he looked like an advertisement for Christmas in hell. “You've been screwing the goddamned JANITOR!”

Last week that might have put me off my stride, but things around here have changed since last week. I think the New Order will take some getting used to. What I'm talking about is TELEPATHY, my dear little journal. Of course. ESP. Absolutely. MIND READING. No doubt about it. In other words, I knew what was on Herb's mind from the moment he stepped through my door, and that pretty well did away with the shock value.

“Why don't you say the rest of it?” I asked.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Going into that patented Herb Porter bluster of his.

“Yeah, you do,” I said. “That I'm fucking the janitor bothers you a lot less than the fact I'm fucking the BLACK janitor. The HANDSOME black janitor.”

From the first fuck. I had him on the run. I should be ashamed to tell you how much I enjoyed it, but I'm not.

“The fact is, Herbert,” said I, “he's hung like a stallion. Such equipment is not the sole property of black men, racist canards to the contrary, but few men, white or black, know how to use what God and genetics have given them. Riddley does. And he's livened up many a dull day in this dump, believe me.”

“You can't... I won't... he isn't... “ Then he just spluttered. But, thanks, to the aforementioned New Order at good old Zenith House, there are no more ellipses around here. For better or worse, every thought is finished. What I could not hear with my ears I could hear in my mind.

You can't... DO THIS!

I won't... ALLOW IT!

He isn't... OUR KIND OF PERSON!

As if Herb Porter, the Ranting Republican, was MY type of person. (He is, of course, in some important ways: a. he's an editor b. he loves books c. he is sharing the bizarre experience of Life With Ivy.)

“Herb,” I said.

“What if you catch a disease?” expostulated Herb. “What if he talks about you to his friends, when they're sitting on their stoops and drinking their GIQs?”

“Herb,” I said.