Disturbometer 7 out of 10.
Another one of the titles on my “most disturbing short story list”
This time the story is from George RR Martin, the guy that wrote Game of Thrones. At this point in my list, most of the stories had come from earlier than the 1960’s. (That is, with the exception of the Vonnegut and of the Ligotti. But for me Ligotti’s prose feels stiff and stilted and the Vonnegut story was sort of dramatic surrealism).
So when I started reading Martin’s story, I was immediately struck by how modern and natural his prose and his characters felt, and to my surprise, it was actually a relief after the stilted and old-fashioned stuffiness of people who wrote stories long ago. (I’d just finished two volumes of Shirley Jackson stories to boot.)
So even though the story starts off with a fairly mundane scenario, I was kind of enjoying myself. Not for long, though. There was a fly in the “we’ve happily moved to a new apartment” ointment. There was a booger in the nose of the story, that just wouldn’t go away, like one of those zits that just get worse when you try to squish them into extinction. It was The Pear-shaped Man.
He was like the dog-crap that you can’t get off your shoe. He was like the bubble-gum you sat on and can’t get off the seat of your pants. He was like an ear-worm of the crappiest song you’d ever heard. He was the floater in the toilet that refused to go down. He was like the fly on Mike Pence’s head. He was like the mosquito that had crept through the mosquito net. He was like that ex who keeps trying to hook up with you again. He was that ink on your fingers that just won’t wash off. He was the spam that keeps coming even after you’ve blocked both the mail and the domain. He was the smell of the garlic that you’d eaten too much of the night before. He was like loud noises in the plumbing when you’re trying to sleep, or the neighbor playing Heavy Metal on full volume at 4 AM in the morning when you have a presentation to give. He was like rats in the roof, like cockroaches under the sink. He was like tinnitus and like indigestion. He was like ants in your sugar, like sleet in the street. He was the loud static on a phone call. He was like a cheese curl that you find in your clean underpants/panties. He was like the persistent smell of vomit after that drunk friend you were so kind to give a lift to, barffed in your car. He was like a scream in the brakes of your car that progresses to a scream in the back of your head. Have you finally got it, dear readers, what The Pear-shaped Man was like?
Only, that’s not all he was. Nooooooo-no-no-no. He was something far worse. But you’d have to read the story to truly know how The Pear-shaped Man is.
All I’ll say further on the matter, is that I felt ill for a while after finishing the story, and that I will never look at cheese curls the same way again; they will always remind me of The Pear-shaped Man. Also, the story did have a Lovecraftian feel to it at the end, but at least those writers from long ago were subtle…