"But how can you?" I protested. "You said the readers wouldn't believe in you, so you don't exist for them."
"Science-fiction is growing," the monbeast said. "Everyday more people are getting to realize that there is more to the world than those things they see around them. They believe what they read in love stories and detective stories. Science-fiction is next."
"Suppose I don't want to create more BEMs?" I said. "Suppose I take up saxophone playing or something and leave science-fiction alone."
"You can't stop writing it now, any more than a true fan can stop reading it. The bug has bitten you." He smiled a piano keyboard of teeth and continued, "Besides, I could be obliged to—er—inspire you just a bit. But you just work along with me, and we'll both do fine."
So we did.
The monbeast isn't such a bad fellow after all, once you get to know him. Neither are the other BEMs hanging around my house. Oh, yes, there are others, lots of them. Hanging from the rafters. Under chairs. In coffee cups. Everywhere. It's an occupational hazard, you know.
Chances are, though, you wouldn't be able to see them—unless you're a real gone science-fiction fan, and even then maybe not. But someday you will.
Someday you'll be sitting in your favorite chair reading your favorite science-fiction magazine, and you'll look up....
Maybe it'll be sitting on the desk beside you, running one of four hands through a nest of snakes on its scaly head. Maybe it'll be only an inch tall and perched on the piano watching you. Maybe at first it'll be just a warm, dank breath on the back of your neck.