The Detestician

There's not much that gets by Henry Riels III, but even he doesn't know what to say the day the Detestician arrives at his doorstep.

"I'm not here to hawk any goods, so I don't need a license," she begins without preamble, and he mentally breaks off the call he was about to put in to the local beat bot, intrigued in spite of himself. "I'm fully human, so I don't require your permission to speak, and I only want thirty minutes of your time to explain myself. If after that time you don't wish to hear any more, you are completely free to boot me out and forget that I existed."

Henry Riels III chews on the idea. He really should get back to that batch of learning programs coming due at the end of the month. But there's novelty to be had in the woman's offer.

"Come on in," he offers, and she doesn't wait for a second invitation.

He notes the house inspection's report: no wires, no weapons, some dirt, no drugs, some ... unidentified particles? The computer can't quite decide on that last one, lending credence to his own observation of her intrigue.

Those learning programs will have to wait.

"Can I get you anything? Tea?" he asks, but she's not in the mood.

"I've only got twenty nine minutes left to talk, I don't want to waste your time."

He nods, gestures to the living room furniture.

"Do you sit?" she asks.

"I'll stand, I've been at a hard sit all day."

She takes a seat. Odd. Shouldn't she want an equal position? Her neck cranes up like a bird, and he tries not to look down at her as she makes her pitch.

"My name is Mindy." Her words continue to roll crisply offer her tongue, like an old-fashioned dollar bill fresh from the machine. "I'm a Detestician: I specialize in the delicate business of helping you to hate your life."

"But—" he starts to protest.

"Why would you want to hate your life? That's the first question to answer." She doesn't give him room to finish. He doesn't mind looking down at her anymore, as her lower perch on the chair isn't daunted by the height. "Simple. You already hate your life. Don't worry: statistically, most people do. You're part of the grand scheme of the world and have made a good living, but you are not happy. Perhaps you would not qualify that as hatred. Some people actually do, and they do not need my services. If you'd not tried to stop me just now, I'd have left."

Henry wishes he could swallow back that brief guttural reaction.

She notices.

"That's part of the ambivalence of your existence: regrets. We all have them. The facts are fluid, and if I quoted the exact stats you'd probably discount them or find some loophole to challenge them. I won't bother with you because you already know I'm right. You have regrets."

He nods, in spite of himself.

"You regret that action, just now." She doesn't smile, that would have raised his goat too much. Nonetheless, she is encouraging him, he knows it. There's a subtle energy about her. Innocently subversive.

"Now, the next question: what can you do about those regrets? Unfortunately, sir, the answer is: nothing. We can't do a thing to change the past. Even time travel doesn't work. You wouldn't believe it if I explained the government's research in the matter, so I won't bother quoting the report. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it: we make mistakes, and live to regret them, with nary a way out."

"There's family," he feels obliged to point out.

"You don't have a family," Mindy the Detestician indelicately reminds him. "If you did, you wouldn't have brought it up, you'd have shown me a picture. You wish you did. That's another regret. Same with love. Same with excitement. Career fulfillment. Everything. I've seen all the reactions. People who have it don't mention it. It's self-evident."

"But—"

"You've interrupted me twice now, and that's cutting into my time." Mindy stands abruptly and stares him straight in the eye. "Do you wish to keep living the way you do?"

No, of course he doesn't wish to continue.

She looks a few inches taller than she did at the start of this interview.

"Then you need to find something new. Unfortunately, there truly is nothing new under the sun. So, something old. But you've thought of that and it's either impossible or boring, or both. You're not chomping at the bit, you're at a nice canter. Do you like that, sir? Don't you hate it?"

"Yes." He doesn't even hesitate.

She smiles, finally. Or is it that the smile finally reaches her mouth?

"Then the answer is to find the one energizing thing left, something that will grow to consume your empty husk of a life with only a minimum amount of effort. That elixir is hatred. But hating someone else, out of the blue, can be difficult if you're not in practice. Therefore we suggest you begin with yourself. Once you hate your life, you'll be able to hate everyone else with ease. There are currently ten billion living souls. That's an inexhaustible supply of fuel for your hatred."

He feels he ought to protest such a sentiment, yet her reactions to his attempts thus far discourage him from even bothering. The "but" sticks in his throat, and he tastes bile as he swallows it.

"You're already close to hating your life now. You've resisted out of a delusion that soldiering on will rouse you. Hatred is actually a very strong deterrent against despair: hatred gives purpose, and has even been shown to have medicinal properties. Properly controlled, hatred can jumpstart your career and provide you with the energy you need to take control back over your life."

Then she kisses him.

He pulls back in shock, pushing her away.

"That was a sample." She takes out a towelette and wipes her lips. "A charged event. You will regret it: either because it happened at all, or because you wanted it and didn't take advantage. Either way, it's a regret that, if allowed, will fester and gnaw away at your peace. Instead, you need to channel that feeling and fan it to an appropriate emotional intensity. Hate me for the regret, then hate yourself for hating me. It's the easiest way to go. Then when we've worked through that phase, we'll teach you how to constructively hate everyone else. It really is the safest, most assured way of improving our society."

She doesn't speak with a speck of irony. But he can hear laughter.

"My time is half up. Are you convinced, or do you want more?"

"I want to speak to your superior." He decides to challenge the philosophy at its most fundamental level: bureaucracy. "He shouldn't let people come in and assume levels of personal attachment."

"There is no superior." She grins, and it's wickeder than her smile. "The kiss is only one form of Detestationism, a counter religion of my own invention. I'm prepared to make myself completely available to whatever impetuous you require to fuel your hatred. Believe me, it only takes a spark."

"Where did you come up with this idea?"

"I'm only amazed no one else has." She crosses to his workstation, and again, it appears she's grown: surely she couldn't have reached that top shelf a minute ago? "It really is a sensibly honest way to live." Tugging, she throws the entire contents of the shelf on the floor. He gasps, angry at himself for not seeing it coming, angry at her for taunting him anew. "Work, yes, that's your pressure point, not attraction. Very well, we can handle that."

"If there's no superior, who's 'we?'"

"You and I. Private counseling."

"I don't want that."

"Are you sure? You find the offer appealing, or you wouldn't have let me continue this long, and you need a change."

He considers the floor, the mess, and the challenge. It's been one of the most interesting conversations he's ever experienced. Still, all good things ....

"You still want convincing?"

Before he can respond she picks up a chair, breaks off a leg, and points its jagged end at his chest. "Give me half a moment and I'll wound you in a way meant to ensure maximum pain. It's the quickest, most effective method of learning hatred, if a bit more difficult to control afterwards."

He gapes like a fish, searching for words.

She arches an eyebrow, sinfully confident.

That's when he realizes she is growing. Before she entered his door she'd never have managed such a feat. Now she's rising, feeding on him, near to the ceiling, scratching the paint.

Henry Riels III isn't one to let such a thing stand. So he fights back with the only weapon he can muster. He sizes her up, ridiculous posturing and all, takes a deep breath, and lets out a belly aching laugh. He guffaws tears, snatching lungfuls of air to continue his assault, eyes too weak to notice see whether his attack is working. At last he exhausts his supply of mirth, panting with the exertion.

Mindy looks up at him, chair forgotten, height appropriately back in line. "Are you quite done?" she asks with professional unconcern.

"Are you?" He returns the favor.

"Yes. My time's almost up anyway." She walks to the door and stops, turning back with a look of abject pity. "I will have you know, sir, that far from being the best medicine, laughter is the surest method of driving away hatred. You may have just increased your life's threshold of despair permanently."

He shrugs. "I suppose that's the best any of us can hope for. Best of luck to you."

With that parting salvo he commands the door to shut behind her, and decides to take a nap. It's an exhausting job, keeping the doldrums at bay, and they get more inventive every year. But he wouldn't trade his life for any mere hate-filled existence around.