Godzilla Vs.
Rodin: a Fable
by Nathan Cromwell
His roof’s
being lifted off and casually tossed away
startled the man. Setting aside his tools he
regarded the towering monstrosity outside—an
upright lizard with an attenuating dorsal fin.
“Yes?”
“Are you
that famous French sculptor?” it roared over
the sound of helicopters, jets, sirens, and
excitable folks.
“Ye—oui.”
“I was
wondering if you could do a statue of me,
preferably in bronze. Let’s say 1/10 scale?”
“Mm, I
see you emerging from stone, partially,
unfinished. That would better convey both your
primal origin and hideous majesty.”
“You
think so?” Godzilla yelled over the barrage
of mortar shells exploding on the side of his
head. “What kind of stone?”
“For
lovers, I often choose white marble, but for you
some dark boulder, perhaps with iron oxide seams
to represent your zippers.”
“That
sounds the ticket. Obtain a suitable rock and I
can come back for a sitting.”
“We haven’t
talked price.”
“What?”
Godzilla yelled over the din of a cannon
repeatedly firing at his now jouncing left
testicle. “Hold on.” He kicked the
offending ordnance over the Notre Dame. “What
did you say?”
“I said:
I haven’t set how much it’s going to
cost you.”
“I don’t
have money. What I can offer is not killing you.”
Killing me
will only make me stronger; my fame will be
assured and my artwork prices will go through the
roof.”
“Posthumously.”
“Yes, but
as an artist, posterity’s what I care about.”
“You’re
talking blather. Faced the actuality of impending
death, you may reconsider.” Swatting aside
the increasingly desperate army’s volley of
catapulted cows and wooden rabbits, Godzilla
breathed a plume of caustic, flaming vitriol into
the chimney next door. Pierre, engulfed in flames,
ran out screaming.
“What
goes on?” he yelled, throwing a paint roller
to the ground. “I just finished renovating
and listing on the market. Now all my hard work
is down the drain. I can’t flip a burning
building or smoldering ruins. Look, that couple
with the brochure is getting back into their car.”
“Would
you like me to help you extinguish your flames?”
the sculptor offered.
“Who
wants to live in a world where real estate
profits and property values are eviscerated by
man’s atomic folly? Goodbye, world,” he
yelled, raising both middle fingers at the
universe as he strolled towards the canal across
the street to drown himself.
“Anyhow,”
Godzilla continued. “Now that you’ve
seen what I can do, have you changed your mind?”
“Kill me
and you’ll have to settle for some second-rate
chiseler. I’m not worried.”
“Arrgh!”
Godzilla roared.
“Excuse
me,” called a general through a megaphone,
“I’d just like to say: we quit. If you’d
be so kind as to be careful where you step and to
stop spraying doom from your dread mouth, we’d
be awfully grateful.”
“Say, if
you guys would stake me for the cost of this here
artwork I’ve been dickering over, I’ll
be sweet as pie.”
“Done.”
Moral:
When negotiating, don’t
forget to include the victims.
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