"...James Cushing makes a poor host. He's a humorless man with no charisma. At least the audience has the monsters to carry the day..."–Critic Kyle Cook on American Myths and Monsters.

"Show fuckn sucks."–YouTube user DonovinMc69

"It's a new show but it looks a lot like all the others. Not too bad. Excited to meet them."–From the journal of Maverick Casey

James Cushing didn't believe in monsters. For two-and-a-half seasons, he's hosted the former-hit television series, American Myths and Monsters. Mr. Cushing stood on a small sound stage, amid fake greenery and hot lights. The fog machines around him hissed, pushing wave after wave of crawling atmosphere along the floor.

His stomach felt tight. Cushing had long ago sworn off the craft services table, but felt the call of the deli and cheese tray an hour before. He cleared his throat, held his hands in front of himself, and did his best Rod Serling.

"Every year, hundreds of people go missing in the backwoods of America," Cushing said. He forced his voice to a lower register. "How many have fallen victim to the terrifying Wildman of Nobility, Texas? Good evening. I'm James Cushing, and this, is American Myths and Monsters."

The director had him do it again.

Then the director had him do it again and again and again.

James played along, knowing full well the aging bastard would use the first take. A former indie darling who made waves in the late eighties, director John Alvarez now played Kubrickian mind games with his talent, allowing them the privilege of sharing his ignominious fall.

However, Kubrick delivered masterpieces. Cushing's director delivered a show that filled the time slot between OKC Noodlin' and OCD at Large. The former detailed the lives of people who fished with their bare hands and somehow never suffered a single snakebite, and the latter was an unflinching look at the morbidly obese with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

In an ode to another one of his idols, John insisted on wearing suits to the set. He dressed better than the production manager or even the producer, both absentee parents for the dysfunctional program.

Lately, John Alvarez started dropping the formalities one at a time. The tie vanished, followed by the wing tips, the belt, and jacket. Today, Mr. Alvarez was in sweats.

James would judge, but where was he in his career? James Cushing: basic cable shlock-fest host.

There were worse gigs, James reminded himself. He watched from the sidelines as a newly SAG-minted actress ran screaming from a man in a poorly constructed ape suit. There are worse gigs.

The sound mixer's bell rang. The actress hurried offstage and the ape removed his mask, stinking from the wilting effects of the lights.

"Great job, guys!" Cushing said, clapping his hands together. He pointed to the Josh, the man in the monkey suit.

"You! You. I really felt the primal rage," Cushing said, shaking his fist in earnest.

Josh said nothing. He flipped Cushing off and joined the actress to pick over the scraps on the craft service table.

I know you, Cushing thought. Like a younger Cushing, Josh had goals. Like a younger Cushing, Josh apparently sought to attain those goals by taking down his predecessor. For Cushing, this was the first host of American Myths and Monsters, Richmond Edison. For Josh, it was Cushing himself.

James watched Josh saunter to a bored Alvarez, whispering into his ear while the fallen director nodded.

"I hope I was more subtle than that." Cushing sighed.

The crew yawned and prepared for the next shot, while the director tried to wipe a coffee ring stain from the shooting script.

Another Bigfoot. The show ran out of good monsters the previous season. Every week, Cushing chronicled another ape-like creature in another rural, backwater town.

Cushing could have hosted one of those over-glorified talent shows, on actual network TV. Instead, he thought while watching the effects team gussy up the ape-man, I work here.

Tomorrow, Cushing would head with the team into Texas. There, they would once again try to find an interesting angle to take on yet another Bigfoot story.

"Come on, James, you like traveling. Enjoy the fresh air," one of the producers had said after revealing Cushing would meet another kook who calls himself a "cryptozoologist."

The fresh air? James laughed. Fresh air? In Texas, where the fresh air climbs to the three digits in the shade? At least he won't be looking at another dead mange-afflicted coyote someone decided was a Chupacabra.

There are worse gigs, an entire universe of them. In speaking with one of their guests, an expert in the unknown, James had been schooled on the Many Worlds Theory. A real theory, by a real scientist named Hugh Everett, which had since been seized upon by all manner of poor writers and New Age spiritualists.

As he understood it, every decision creates a myriad of alternate universes, in which each decision is lived out.

While there may be a universe containing a very wealthy and very accolade-laden James Cushing, there could also be one where he is swapping head for crack.

There are always worse gigs.