One of the potential draws to a site like this is this: it is a work in progress.
First of all, I would like to thank the kind people who have linked me already: [insert list here, after technorati comes thru on the goods].
Now, I would like to take a minute to thank you, the reader. I'm not just being diplomatic, y'understand, or saying this purely out of a feeling that I should or have to. Writers love it when someone comes along and checks out their lines.
Now, I would like to take a minute to respond to a couple comments that were left a long time ago. Why these particular comments? I dunno . . . maybe because I think I can give interesting answers . . .
[here I dig up the comments and wax responsive-like]
See, isn't this fun? You bet it is! [this is really a filler--parts of it anyway--which will filled in later, and not just left as is for ironic purposes, altho that's not a bad idear either . . . hmm . . . ]
When Misumi woke up the next morning, the first thing she did was go to the bathroom and peer into her medicine cabinet. She did it as if flexed for horror . . . but the three gold balls were still there, seemingly unperturbed.
She took then down again--she had done this the previous nite already more than once--and went through the various sensory interfaces again: sniff, listen, examine surface to eyeball, etc. But still, there seemed to be no changes. She assumed they had to be organic, and therefore exhibit stages of life--otherwise . . . ?
She closed the medicine cabinet door and examined her tongue--all three of the lines were completely healed over. She closed her eyes and reassured herself of her waking, sane state. Then, resolve firmed, she brushed her teeth and washed her face and went into the kitchen to make coffee.
While she waited for the coffee to brew, she examined her local weekly newspaper. On a mad impulse, she went to the personals section and began to peruse. Goddamn, was she lonely. Soon--like, in a matter of weeks or days--she knew she would be going so far as to start circling the personal ads which actually seemed worth looking into. Then would come the consideration of joining the personal system so she could respond to the ads. She put the paper back on the other side of the table and laced her fingers together. She supressed the feeling that she was going to panic suddenly and pop out of her skin. She decided that after coffee this morning she would get ready and head down to the Farmer's Market for some produce, an exercise which always seemed to calm her.
And that's exactly what she did.
When she returned she found that her apartment had been changed in many ways.
Misumi basically had three lines in her tongue. She had been talking to her friend Yumiko as she examined them in the mirror and first spied something unusual there.
"Why don't you just go back to eating meat?" Yumiko asked. Yumiko worked in the same travel office Misumi did before she decided to go down to South America and work with the kroslisks. Yumiko didn't have a wild hair on her body, and perhaps this is why Misumi liked her.
"I get all the nutrients I need." Misumi said. What was that? Under the line closest to the tip of her tongue? Something . . . shiny.
"You don't get enough protein." Yumiko declared. "You are weak, right?"
"Don't be absurd," Misumi said. "That is a myth." It was shiny . . . and golden. She put her fingers in her mouth in order to pull her tongue wider. If she could just pull the hole a little, she could see better what was down there.
"You don't miss the taste of steak?" Yumiko asked.
For some reason this made Misumi think of her husband. "I miss Noboru."
Yumiko was silent. Misumi could hear Yumiko's birds chattering gaily in the background.
Misumi pulled on her tongue and her eyes widened: there was something down there, all right--something hard and round and glittery and gold. Misumi pulled so much that it rose up out of it's hole and popped right out. It hit the bathroom mirror and ricocheted down to the sink where Misumi frantically flailed her hands to stop it from going down the drain, dropping the phone as she did so. She caught it just in time.
It looked like a tiny gold pearl. She set it carefully on a ledge in her medicine cabinet before picking the phone back up.
"Misumi?" Yumiko asked.
"Sorry, dropped the phone." Misumi said.
"So hey, you want to go get a drink or something? Maybe meeting some nice new guy would cheer you up."
"Hmm," Misumi said. Looking into the other two lines on her tongue, she could see two more golden glittery things. She popped them out in turn and set them, too, on the ledge.
She had become a vegetarian while working in the jungles of South America: while working with kroslisks, she began to feel intensely queasy about partaking of the flesh.
One nite, she awoke suddenly in her tent to find a kroslisk with it's head stuck between the front flaps of her rainproof enclosure, peering in at her curiously. And then it was gone. But a transmission had occurred--or the seed for was planted, anyway.
Later, when having a carefully planned psychotropic journey with a handsome American who went by the name of Jack, that seed bore fruit: and in her mind panoramas opened which gave her no doubt that the mind contained interdimensional tunnels if only the right key or keys were produced.
Forever after she could no longer eat meat. Perhaps this connection is hard to explain, but psychoactive epiphanies always are. Soon after she discovered that the kroslisks were psychic; she abandoned her South American sojourn within days after this, shaky. She felt that she had opened too many doors too soon. She returned to her native Japan to bathe in the prosaic. Her husband, now reunited with her in their previous conapt--the same conapt she lived in presently alone--was grateful for her return, to be sure. Or at least so he seemed, before he disappeared.
She returned to that empty conapt after the dentist's and took her first B12 sublinguals. She couldn't be having holes in her tongue or her brain; she took them diligently for the next two months, but the holes remained.
And then one day when examining her tongue she noticed that there was something growing in the holes.
"Hmm," said the hygienist, peering in at Misumi's mouth. "Are you a vegetarian, by any chance?"
Misumi nodded.
"Well, it's a really healthy diet, actually," the hygienist went on. "Except, of course, that you need to make sure you get a couple things: protein, and B12. And . . . I don't think you're getting enough B12."
Misumi's forehead looked perplexed.
"Well, you have these lines in your tongue--this means a B12 deficiency. What you need to do after you leave here today is go and buy some B12 sublinguals . . . you put these under your tongue until they dissolve. You see, you B12 deficit is so far along you can't get it any other way. It is important you rectify this, as B12 shortages can lead to significant brain problems . . . and eventually, even death."
Misumi left the dentist's office feeling a little bewildered: she had holes in her tongue.
Misumi took in a deep breath and got out of bed. Put on her slippers. Went to the kitchen to make her coffee. She thought, not for the first time, that what she needed was something like a cat. Her conapt was so . . . without life.
She certainly didn't consider herself to be full of it--life, that is--or, at least, she wasn't exhibiting it in any obvious way right now. The days and then months following her husband's disapperance had been sullen, to say the least. He had been allergic to all beasts.
She showered and dressed and then, feeling very weighty, made her way out to the metro and down to the dentist. She hadn't been to one in a while, and was dreading in particular what new news about her dental mileau they might have: how bad was it? How bad was it going to get?
The office itself, of course, was pleasant enough, and she was just settling in to read a magazine she had seen many times but never bought for herself when a lady appeared from a side door calling her name. This is the lady that would tell her about her tongue.
Misumi woke up, remembered what day it was, and proceeded to feel absolutely dreadful. Actually, she had tossed and turned all nite . . . this was the morning she had to go see him.
The dentist.
Eldon. Eldon was the killer. He got the message for a target in Sienna. He hadn’t been there for a while. When he was younger, by a yard or so, he had gone there once. Was a nasty scene. He left blood everywhere. He wasn’t so sloppy now. Certainly not. Ex-gents never were.
His hover approached the PepsiSector/Sienna checkpoint. 2 guards waved him down and he thought about running it, but decided for the more sadist route--face to face pain, delivered. He was in that sort of mood. Authority did it to him. Especially authority manning gates.
What this gate led to he had mixed feelings about. It sort of awed him, scared him, and fascinated him all at the same time. Scared him not in a physical way, but in way of being inside something so large that you did not understand.
He floated his hover down to a complete stop and the guard came up to his window. He had ID for such occasions--such ID that would make any cop, soldier, rent-a-guard or whatever wave you thru wherever you were, the sooner the better . . . but sometimes he enjoyed pissing the low-rent control addicts off a little bit before either:
a) presenting the card, or
b) breaking some of their fucking digits and then either flying off or then showing the fucking card.
This one had a look on his face Eldon was eager to break, so Eldon smiled a little out of the side of his mouth as the cop sidled up.
“ID.” said the cop.
“That’s neither a question or a statement.” Eldon noted. Masked helmet on. Voice like something sanded then softened.
“Step out of the car, please.” said the cop, hand on gun.
Eldon opened the car door and shot one leg out. Stretched his neck slowly from side to side.
“Now. Get out of the car, now, sir.” the cop said.
Eldon looked at the man a minute before standing up full length.
“What’s a matter?” Eldon said. “Don’t like people talking back to you? Don’t like anybody questioning your authority?”
The cop lunged and Eldon caught his hand, turned it over, and then used the cop’s momentum as he stepped to the side to slam the cop onto the side of his hover, which was titanium-grade steel. The cop thumped hard and had a few of his arm bones cracked simultaneously.
Now 2 more cops were running up getting guns out of holsters. Eldon considered a moment emptying his holsters and blasting ‘em out cowboy style, but then felt more in the mood for a chase--so he got back into the hover, slammed shut the door and was off.
Two police hovers were immediately behind him. He turned on his turbo gear. A radical hum swept throught the nite.
Once warmed he pedaled it and his hover shot straight ahead and up into a nearby cloud, where Eldon did a few spins before shelving the cocky-ass and heading straight to Sienna. Now, as a grown man entering a city that had also changed since they last met, he was interested as to what the exchange would be.
He didn’t care at all about the man he was supposed to kill.
I live in a tight ship.
My ship gives me speed. My ship gives me light, flight. I am no longer just a human; I am a ship. We go together.
I stand, often, in the middle of my ship looking out the front windows, stoned. Stars race by. Auto-pilot is on, simultaneously cleaning my air, water and databanks, etc. My current butler is Emma, an oversized Amazonian woman who stands over me now, hands on hips. She is wearing the Wonder Woman suit I have prescribed for her.
“What you want to eat?”
“Not hungry now,” I say. “Plus, you’re blocking my view. I’m about to go into a trance-like state, Emma, now may not be the best time.”
She nods and disappears. Later, I may ask her to bring up the hologram of the girl of my choice and have her simulate sex with it. Some people don’t like seeing their butlers have sex. Me, I say why stop anyone from emulating the true sacred act of life?
Emma knows about my shamanism. I like to get stoned and dance in the middle of my spaceship and stretch and gesticulate and really try and bring it on: tha’ energy field . . . tha’ ‘womb of wisdom.’
The ship will only disturb me if a significantly unplanned thing occurs on our horizon. This being real space, that doesn’t happen a lot.
Still, we were headed somewhere. Get me: Johnny Raygun, intergalactic drug dealer.
14. NY Stories 3: Frottage--Is that French?
On all the nine screens in front of them then came footage from the New York subway system. Hardaway's eyes widened involuntarily. This wasn't about International Art Machine, this was about him.
"There you are," the man said, pointing.
Indeed, Hardaway watched as he got onto a train. The view switched to the cams inside the car as Hardway stood amidst a packed crowd.
"Always rush hour, mm?" the man asked.
"Stop." Hardaway said, palm up. "How many of these do you have?"
"Enough." the man, said, shutting off the show. The screens went black.
"Thus explaining the transfer from Vice." he concluded.
"What . . . "
"Do we want? Well, you see, that does have to do with International Art
Machine after all, doesn't it? Because when you report back to them, you
will tell them I*A*M is about art only, which is mostly true."
Hardaway looked up. Mostly?
"Ah, of course you're curious. You have some good detective in you. For
what it's worth, I will tell you a few other things, knowing that you
don't want to risk what's left of your cop career and maybe some points
among your social circle as well should we go public with your rush hour
hobbies, yes?"
"Of course," Hardaway mumbled.
"Clearer, please, Detective Hardaway, I need to be sure."
Hardaway looked him in the eye. "We understand each other."
"Very well, then. International Art Machine has an ostensible purpose:
the spread of art throughout the land. All types of art, even those you
would classify as 'art crimes.'" He stopped a minute here to laugh. "But
also, while building a successful international pro-art platform, I*A*M
creator and founder Copernicus Grape intended all along to use some of
those profits to help non-profit humanitarian groups."
"No harm in that." Hardaway said, wondering how long his date would wait
for him.
"Yes. No harm in that. And the official I*A*M policy regarding tactics
is from Copernicus Grape himself: NO VIOLENCE. However, what has occurred in the last few months is this: several groups have splintered. Now there
are several radical activist groups active around the world which previously had
ties to I*A*M who now have no ties to I*A*M, who are going off and doing things we could never officially sanction. And there you are. A successful
international art company with a good egalitarian heart having it's
reputation smeared by some rebellious children."
"When we speak of 'rebellious children' . . . are we talking about
terrorists here?" Hardaway asked.
"Do you mean do they kill innocent bystanders? No. Not to my
knowledge. So far they have done away with some poachers and some
fundamentalist snippers in Africa . . . and maybe a few mobsters . . .
word reaches us here and there."
"Their aim?"
"Oh, there are several, Hardaway. There are the E-men--radical
environmentalists who have formed a private army; there is the Female
Division, which deals in feminine rights all over the world. The list
goes on. And they're all very angry. They are not patient enough to wait
for the righteous spread of art and information to help revolutionize the
world away from ancient models of repression, no, they want it now. Like
Copernicus, I admire their passion but condemn their tactics."
"Why?"
"Why do we condemn their tactics?"
Hardaway nodded.
"Because of course, violence is a cycle an enlightened race wants no part of, that's why. The Greeks knew this, of course, as I'm sure many before their time did as well."
"You're not snowing me?"
"No, Hardaway, I'm not snowing you. I could tell you anything now
knowing you wouldn't tell because we both know that we have the power to
destroy you. Plus, man, I used to be one of New York's finest--many fall
from that height but none usually so low as to join a gang of terrorists.
Not my style. Completely beneath me. Plus, I really do love the art. To
that end, International Art Machine has been nothing but holy."
"Holy? You're talking about art?"
"Indeed I am, man. Indeed I am. Now you better go back out and
fetch your date before she thinks you went out the back way and storms off
in a huff, eh?"
The man escorted him to the door. Just as Hardaway was about to
make his final exit, however, the man had one more question for him:
"Frottage--is that french?"
Hardaway didn't answer.
Three weeks later he gave his first oral report. In his written reports
up to now, he had hung out with the gallery's inner sanctum and had purchased
an all new wardrobe for the job which he charged the department for. In truth, he had spent the entire three weeks after his first visit to the I*A*M gallery laying on his couch, watching tv.
Today he gave his oral report to Kennelly, the Sarge, and one other: a man
named Engelbert. Engelbert wore all white and cowboy boots. Kennelly
introduced him as, "Our man from D.C."
Hardaway looked them all over, and began: "International Art Machine: It's
just about the art."
He put down his papers and waited for their questions.
13. NY Stories 2: Georgie Spells
"I don't know about this, Georgie," she said, hurrying along behind him.
"Well, you're already coming with me, so, nothing to worry about,
right? And please don't call me Georgie."
She babyvoiced: "Aww, Georgie don't like it when I call the little
baby Georgie . . . "
He stopped, faced her, dead serious. "Please. Please don't do
that. Ok?"
"Ok," she said, but she was smiling.
They continued on.
"So where are we going, anyway?" she asked. "An art gallery?
What's the big idea? You've never taken me to an art gallery before . . . "
"Yea, well, this one's different." He said, leading them around a
corner.
"So what do you do there, anyway? Just goggle at the walls? Act
like you know what you're looking at?"
"It's an opening tonite," George Hardaway explained, having just had
it all gone over with him the previous week. "This means there's a new
show-on the walls. New works by an artist or artists. On the opening nite,
the artist or artist is usually there, a crowd is invited, and usually
there's drinks and/or snacks."
"Gee, Georg--, George, I never knew you were such a patron of the
arts."
"Yea, well," he said. "People grow, change, you know."
"Like you grew out of Vice?"
"Yea, exactly like that." He stopped short. There it was, across
the street. The doors of I*A*M, Greenwich Village location.
"How do I look?" she said, patting at her hair. She could sense his
nervousness.
"Oh you look good baby. You look fabulous." He said, but his
forehead was crossed. He patted his jacket down like he was looking for
something.
"What's a matter, Georg-George?" she asked, bending her head
sideways at him, looking worried.
"Nothing," he said, before taking her hand again and leading her to
the intersection. "Let's go."
White walls. Art. drinks. Fashionable people. Mingle.
He stood with her in a corner sipping his drink.
"Well," she said, her voice hushed. "What do we do now?"
"I don't know," he said shrugging his shoulders. He didn't know.
He felt conspicuously out of place. He couldn't do this shit. Act like he
cared? Strike up a conversation? With who? They had already done a few
rounds of the place, giving themselves a minute or so before each piece,
doing the silent evaluation, before slowly moving on. They had seen it all.
Some was ok, some wasn't. Some made her gasp, which he liked. He didn't
know anything about art, but he liked anything which made her gasp, throw
her hand to her chest as if that would stop the newfound fluttering to be
found there, just under the ribcage and up a little.
Who were you supposed to talk to, anyway? These people looked they
knew each other. If he was going to continue in this, at close range like
this, he would have to develop a contact on the inside who could show him
around. Otherwise it was pointless. He was locked out like a bug against a
glass window.
Bzp. Bzp. Sip, swallow.
He looked around like a cautious predator, shoulders hunched. She
was there at least, looking very womanly and soft. She made him feel
better. Were it not for her, he'd be knocking somebody up against a wall.
This he knew.
Then something happened. A guy came in, folder over himself, hand
inside his jacket. Detective Hardaway was probably the only one who saw
what that hand was touching. Hardaway was probably the only one in the
place who had seen it: blood.
The guy made his way hurriedly to the staircase and began to take
the stairs two at a time. Hardaway grabbed her elbow, "Come on," he said.
"What the-" she asked, but let herself be spirited away, her drink
slopping over the edge and onto her shoes. One of her other boyfriends was
a foot fetish guy; he would take care of that later.
They went up the stairs and through 2 more white rooms hung with art
and rimmed with the seekers . . . and then he slipped down a side corridor.
"Stay here," he told her, and he went down it too. Ostensibly, he was
looking for the john. He needed to make a deposit.
Just as he turned the corner he say a door close. It was unmarked,
this door, unlike the other 2 across the way which said Ladies and Gents.
He went up to it, sniffing with his senses. Now he was back in detective
land. He felt much better now. He tried the knob. It was locked. He
paced up and down the corridor a moment before retrieving his pick set from
his jacket, then he looked both ways, leaned over the door again and
inserted the silver tip: voila. He returned the pick to his pocket and
opened the door.
Somebody had been waiting for him; it was dark in there--he heard a
person's close proximity and he hunched down, fists made, but it was too
late, the guy had him pinned. Against the wall.
"Help you?" the man behind him said.
"Uh, was just looking for the bathroom." Hardaway replied. It was
at this moment he had to stop himself from crying "NYPD! Release!" because
he was undercover, see. So he had to put up with this, arm twisted upward
and behind him, painfully.
"Oh yea? You usually pick locks when you gotta go, Officer?"
He released him then.
Hardaway turned around and face his assaulter, ready to throw a rock
into his side--his fist balled up.
He was a little taller than Hardaway, impeccably dressed in a black
suit. Hair cropped short. In his forties, maybe. Wait a minute--
"I know you." Hardaway said.
"Maybe," the man said. "But I don't do that anymore."
"You were a cop?"
"Yes," the man said. "But like I said . . . "
"You do security now?"
"Among other things. Why are you here, Detective?"
"Why are you here, Detective?" Hardaway replied.
"Come with me," the man said, and led Hardaway down a hall lit from
above with small, multi-colored lights, the walls besides hung with small
black and white photos in silver frames.
The man stopped in front of a door and pointed Hardaway in. It
looked like the security console for the bldg: six screens in front of them
showing current video of the place: the patrons milling around. His girl,
Cassandra, still sounding outside the corridor holding two drinks, craning
her head around as if he was about to exit the bathroom at any time.
"This your office?" Hardaway asked. "Good gig." he said, smiling to
himself.
"Sit down," the man replied.
Hardaway turned to face him. "Says who? You? Rent-a-Dick?"
The man pushed him abruptly, hard, and Hardaway fell back into the
chair. Wasn't expecting that.
The man pointed his forefinger to the console.
"Wanna see something?" he asked.
"Does it have to do with International Art Machine?" Hardway asked.
"Why yes, actually." he said. "Yes it does."
12. New York Stories 1: The Hardaway
Detective Hardaway strode up to the freshly painted graff and inspected the marks.
Here, here, and here.
Yep, it was him all right.
But what was that?
I*A*M
The fuck?
He took out his notepad and wrote it down. Another tagger. Buncha fucks. Knuckleheads. Think they got a spraycan it makes 'em an artist. He would throw them all in jail--all of'em. Goddammit. Goddammit was right.
He strode back to his unmarked car and got in, but not before craning his neck around to get a look at the blue blue sky. Beautiful day it was.
He started the car up and drove on. he didn't have a partner--you didn't need one for art crimes, really. Graffitti perverts may be fucked, but they usually weren't dangerous.
He drove around, looking for more fresh graff. Fresh marks, each conveniently autographed by the vandals themselves. Stupid fucks.
He turned the radio to his favorite classic rock station, and soon began singing along with CCR.
He got back to the station and went up to the Art Crimes Sarge: "You ever hear of I*A*M.?"
Sarge gave him a sideways look. Hardaway never saw that look from him before, like suddenly Sarge realized Hardaway was some spelling bee champion or something, big shot.
"Excuse me?" Sarge said.
"New tag I saw today," Hardaway explained. "Never saw it before. Then I see it all over, like a soft explosion."
"Soft explosion, eh? You read Burroughs?"
"Fuck no," said Hardaway. "I see enough a' perverts jacking off onto walls, I don't need to see 'em jacking off into books."
Sarge considered him a moment. "And why did they transfer you over from Vice again?"
"Yea, whatever, my old lady used to take night school. She read it. Whatever--you know the tag or what? You the art crimes man, Sarge. If you don't recognize it, it's new, right?"
Sarge gave him the sideways look again.
"Yes and no." he said. Then: "Come with me."
Sarge took him into Kenelly's office and closed the door. "Take a seat," Sarge said, before taking one himself.
"Sarge," Kenelly said, nodding. "What can I do for you today?"
"You know Hardaway, right? Just transferred over. Getting his art crimes chops."
Kenelly regarded Hardaway, impassive. "Yes, of course, how do you do, Detective Hardaway?"
“Good, sir.” Hardaway said.
Sarge: “You remember that thing we were talking about earlier? That needed to be looked into?”
Kenelly stared for a minute before replying: “I.A.M.?”
Sarge snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Think we got a volunteer to look into the matter.”
Kenelly looked at Hardaway. “You interested in investigating I.A.M.?”
Hardaway looked from Sarge to Kenelly, palms up. “I don’t know what the fuck it is, but sure? I thought it was just a new tag on the wall. Some new graff guy getting chops.”
“I.A.M. is much bigger than that, potentially.” Kenelly said. “The graff you saw might just be a symptom, not a cause. We want you to look into the cause.”
“I thought vandalism was the cause,” Hardaway said. “Art for retards.”
Kenelly looked at Sarge, frowning.
“Perfect man for the job!” Sarge said, smiling.
Kenelly broke a grin then, looking only at Sarge. “Hm, maybe.”
They took him into the media room, sat him down in front of the screen. Turned the light off.
Up on the screen then came three words:
INTERNATIONAL
ART
MACHINE
“Is a company?” Hardaway asked.
“Yes,” Kenelly said. “As a matter of fact, it is a company. Here is the local outpost you will be looking into . . . “
Up on the screen then came a storefront in the Village. Two windows and a door. In front of each window facing the street sat two paintings on easels. You couldn’t see detail from this angle, but they sure were colorful.
“What am I looking at?” Hardaway asked. “International Art Machine runs an art gallery here in town?”
“Yes,” Kenelly said.
“What’s the art crime? Galleries are legit.”
“The gallery is not the crime.”
“They’re hiring taggers to go put out I*A*M everywhere? Like as in guerrilla marketing?”
“No, we think the I*A*M graff is voluntary. An homage, as it were.”
“An homage to an art gallery?”
“No,” Kenelly said. “International Art Machine is more than the gallery. The gallery is also a symptom, as it were.”
“ok,” Hardaway said, swiveling in his chair to face kenelly now. “So what’s the cause, and where’s the crime?”
“Please turn around and watch,” Kenelly instructed. “The slide show ain’t over yet.”
11. Joe from the Gap
“Hi, Honey!” Joe said, cheerily from the doorway, holding up high two glossy shopping bags, each showing their own big GAP logo. “Guess who went shopping today!”
Ursula’s mom called out, “Hey Joe! You’re just in time for dinner!”
Ursula’s hand flew down to her pocket where she felt her car keys thru the fabric, and it reassured her.
Later, after the movie, they sat in Joe’s car overlooking the park.
She turned to him and asked, “OK, Joe. Now, I know we don’t usually talk about shit like this, but . . . what are your plans for life? After college, I mean?”
He smiled. “Aw, Ursula, you want to know where this relationship is going.”
“No!” she said, maybe a little firmly, too quickly. “No, Joe. I want to know, independent of me, what your . . . dreams are.”
He looked forward out the windshield and seemed to think about it.
After a full minute, he looked back at her. “I think . . . I want to help people.”
“How?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe by becoming a doctor?”
“You never told me that, Joe.” she said.
He looked at her for a minute before bursting out into laughter. “Ha ha ha, Ursula! The way you looked at me just now! I ain’t no freakin’ saint! What I want to do? Take over my father’s business and make a shitload of money! What else would I want to do?”
She felt the blood come to her face fast.
Before she knew it, she was grabbing for her things and her hand was on the door and she was out, storming off into the clear starry nite.
“Ursula!” he called.
He got out of the car and started chasing after her. “Ursula?! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
She stopped and turned around to face him.
“Excuse me?”
He came up to her angry.
“I said where the fuck do you think you’re going? That ain’t polite, storming off like that!”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” she said.
“Ursula?”
“URSULA AIN’T HERE RIGHT NOW!” she yelled, before drawing her foot back and landing it straight into his balls.
“Ow! Fuck!” he said, bending over. “What did you do that for?!”
“I just realized something, Joseph P. Mahooney! You’re a fucking jerk! A real asswad! What did I ever see in you? Ok, you’re good-looking, and I got some fucking hormones! Other than that, pal, you ain’t got shit inside! You’re more barren than a fucking . . . than a fucking . . . oh, I don’t know what! But you suck dog-ass Mister! And don’t ever come my way again, ya hear?”
She turned and started off, and he hobbled after her, slowly.
“Ursula! Is this about those lesbians that came into your cafe today? Did you realize you were a dyke, or what?”
She stopped, then turned slowly back to him. She started back at him.
“Hey, Ursula, don’t try anything, ok?” he said, seeing the look on her face. “I don’t want to hurt a girl, ok?”
Her hand came out of her purse fisted around a roll of quarters she always kept in there.
She left him in an unconscous heap and then drove his car back to her house.
Her parents were already asleep as she hurriedly packed and wrote them a letter:
Dear Mom and Dad,
Words can’t express how much I love you guys or how sad I am about writing you this letter, and what I have to do now.
I can’t thank you enough for everything you did for me as a child. I don’t care what the adoption agency says: you two are my real parents, and always will be.
But I have to leave now, and I can’t explain why. I just need to leave this town and make my way in the world. I can’t be a waitress forever.
I’ll call you when I’m safely settled.
I love you so much,
Ursula
And she was gone.
10. Back to Africa
Meanwhile, back at their local HQ, Geneva had squared off with the leader of their team, Bo.
Bo: “He didn’t follow did he?”
She put her hands on her hips. “How dumb do I look?”
He motioned for her to follow him and they went that way down the hallway.
“Let’s patch in to find out who he is.” Bo said, as they turned right into the communications room.
Cal was in there already, seated at the console with his headphones watching the monitors that took in their perimeter.
“First off,” Bo told Cal. “Don’t take your eyes off those monitors. We could be having a visitor very soon.”
“Check.” said Cal. His eyes were glued.
“Now,” Bo said. “While you keep your eyes absolutely on those monitors, I need to make a call.” he picked up a phone off the console and dialed some numbers.
While he waited for the operator to put his call thru, he put his hand on the receiver and said to Geneva: “What did you feel about him?”
“Feel?”
“Gut level.”
She pursed her lips. “Not sure. Either way, he’s dangerous, either for us or against us.”
“How dangerous?”
“Like James Coburn with the knives, but for real.”
“He showed you?”
“Fuck yea he showed me. Nailed three cockroaches on wall several yards away. With knives.”
Cal spoke up: “Fucking knives. He can’t get past our monitors, and even then . . . knives no match against our dogs.”
She took a deep breath. Somehow, she wasn’t any calmer.
“Ok,” she said. “Gut feeling comes out negative. I mean, he wants to find us all right, but not to be a part of the team.”
Bo put his finger up. He got a signal thru. He started to talk into the phone.
Geneva said to Cal: “Other than your eyes being glued to those sets, anything new, Cal?”
“Nah.” he said. “I’m glad to be doing good work here, but I miss New York, tho.”
She sighed. “Me, too, man. Me, too.”
“You stay here any longer, Geneva, you gonna start saying ‘fuck’ a lot less. You gonna go native.”
She laughed.
Bo was saying, “Yes, tall, a cowboy kinda dude. Here,” he gave the phone to Geneva. “You describe him.”
Geneva took the phone and at the same time saw the man she was about to describe show up on one of their monitors. “That’s him right there.” she said. Her voice sounded odd in her ear.
The cowboy was looking up at the monitor and waving, smiling.
Bo said into his headset: “Fuck, all men and women on alert. There’s a highly dangerous man on the premises.”
He turned to Geneva then: “I thought you said you weren’t followed.”
“Bitch me out later, Bo. He’s obviously more highly-skilled than I am. Now let’s go see what he wants or take him out.”
“You stay here.” Bo told her. “Continue talking to NY to get a match. Cal, you stay here and make sure no one else shows up. Meanwhile, I’m taking two men and meeting this cowboy outside.”
“Be careful.” Geneva said, to his back.
“Tell that to him.” Bo said, and was gone.
9. Last Supper
The dining room she had had most of her meals in since she moved here when she was eight suddenly looked smaller than it ever had.
While she had always suspected her real parents were of Italian origin, or thereabouts, her adopted parents couldn’t have been more white. Of course, she loved them, how could she not? They had raised her and given her a home and love when no one else had. And they hadn’t been her first family, either. Almost twenty families had attempted to give a home to Ursula in her early years . . . but she had been wild, then.
Her mom helped herself to some meat from the plate in front of her and Ursula found herself wondering about the strange eating habits of the women she had met that morning. Apparently they hadn’t just made an impression on her.
“Frankie down at the factory told me you had quite a dustup today down at the cafe.” her father said, raising an eyebrow at her while helping himself to a roll.
“Oh, yea?” Ursula asked. “What did you hear?” She was eager to know how the story had been transmogrified throughout the day.
“Well,” her father said, loosening some food from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “I hear three strange lesbians came in and broke up the joint.”
Ursula stifled a giggle.
It was then a knock came on the door.
Her father scowled.
It was Joe, her bf.
8. I*A*M: Endangered Animals Division
Somewhere in Africa . . .
Geneva was sitting alone at a table enjoying a glass of seltzer water when the cowboy walked in. She watched him peripherally: he was new, that was fact number one.
His cowboy boots thudded loudly over these old wooden floorboards. He went up to the counter and asked for a beer, then turned and surveyed the room. Geneva pretended not to notice him.
She couldn’t help but notice him when, beer in hand, he came over to her table and sat down. She turned her ‘fro his way with an annoyed look on her face.
“Do I know you?”
He just smiled and took a drink of his beer.
“Fucking hot in this place.”
“It’s actually cool in here, or by this place do you mean Africa? And by the way, you didn’t answer my first question.”
“I meant Africa. And no, you don’t know me.”
She studied him for a minute, her hand under the table on the hilt of her knife.
He put the beer down on the table and gave her a look.
“You like animals?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do.” she said, sneering at him. “I love the motherfucking things.”
“So you don’t eat them?” he asked.
“Fuck no.”
“You don’t wear them?” he asked.
“Sometimes, but only second-hand.”
He seemed to think about this for a minute. Then he said: “You ever kill an animal?”
“Fuck no.” she said.
“And by animals, I am of course, also referring to men.” he said.
“What are you,” she said, “the fucking travelin’ inquisition?”
He clasped his fingers together and leaned forward.
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me.” he said, his tone becoming suddenly softer.
Her nostrils flared.
“You see,” he said. “I love animals, too. And I . . . want to see that poachers get their just desserts.”
“Well then maybe you can open up a membership with the Sierra Club,” she said. “I’m sure they’d love to have ya.”
He shook his head. “Well, I don’t want to get involved with their whole . . . bureaucratic methods . . . I want to do something more . . . direct. Like put my hands around a poacher’s throat and squeeze him until his eyes pop out.”
“So what’s stopping you?” she asked.
“Nothing.” he said. “Nothing’s stopping me. What I want, is to be speeded up. I hear there is an organization around these parts which does such things. This is the only organization I want to join.”
“And I can help you . . . how?” she said.
“I don’t now,” he said, spreading his fingers and shrugging, leaning back now and taking another long draw off his brew. “You were the first American I’ve seen.”
“I’ve lived in this town for five years. I’m not sure I know of the organization you mention, but if I did . . . what do you think you could offer them?”
He smiled and finished his beer in one long swallow. “Will you come with me, please?”
He stood up without waiting for her answer and stepped outside.
She looked after him, considering. She stood up, looked to Bwani behind the bar and nodded. He looked concerned.
“Thanks, Bwani,” she said. “See you soon.”
She stepped out into the hot savannah sun.
He was standing under the shadow of the building.
“OK,” she said. “What did you want to show me?”
“You see that shed over there?” he asked, pointed to a small wooden shack across the road.
“Yes.” she said.
“There are currently three roaches transversing it.” he said.
She squinted her eyes at it but could make out no roaches against it’s dark shape. She then heard three quick thumps in succession and saw three metal glints now sticking out of the side of the shack.
He walked leisurely over to the building and waited for her to follow. When she did, she could see three knives stuck into the side of three small cockroaches.
“I love animals,” he said. “But I absolutely detest cockroaches.”
One by one he took the knives out of the wood and wiped them on the grass before putting them back under his clothes.
“I’ll see what I can do.” she said.
7. Ursula Goes Home
Ursula after her shift usually liked to run, but today she was feeling a rather different mood coming on--she couldn’t tell you what it was now, but we can: she was getting wanderlust.
Being just 19, she still lived with her parents. She gave them what she could from her meager waitress earnings, but she put the biggest portion of her earnings into a hatbox on the top shelf in her closet. That, she would later realize, was her travelin’ money. Her flight funds.
The lived in a simple one-story abode on a small cul-de-sac almost never anybody ever ventured into. She parked her used Camry in the driveway and, with great heaviness, got out of the car. For some reason, it was particularly hard to come home tonite; she had wanted to get out on the highway and keep going--a feeling she had had many times when growing up but not so much lately. Lately she had . . . been resigned, if not quite comfortable with her life. Resigned to being a small town girl who marries a small town guy, has babies, etc.
Of course, it was her encounter with the three strange girls which had done it: who were they? How could they be so beautiful, fashionable, and kick-ass all at the same magnificent time? That sort of combination of abilities was rare around here, to say the least. In a place like this, talent left.
She walked up the sidewalk to her house and saw her Mom, as always, in the kitchen preparing supper. Her mom saw her and waved, smiling bright.
Ursula waved back. She bowed her head, smiling to herself, and went in.
The door was never locked.
6. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch
The tall cowboy leaped up onto the porch in one easy machination of his lanky limbs, and stood there, still.
Somebody was already inside--is what the back of his neck told him.
He took out his gun and made his way in slowly. First he pried open the screen door, squeezed thru, then opened the unlocked front door as quietly as he could. He could see a shape sitting in the living room, facing him, so he stopped being quiet and threw the door open and waltzed in, gun held high.
A flicker of a match and the man was lit: Fatboy.
He put the gun back into his holster, reluctantly.
“What do ya want, Fatboy?” the cowboy asked.
“We have a problem emerging.” Fatboy said, through the amplifier attached to his throat. “Nothing to worry about. But something to stamp out now, while it’s still small.”
The cowboy took out a Marlboro and lit up, put it to his lips and took a long suck. He sat down in a chair opposite Fatboy. The room was dark.
“You never like the light on, do you Fatboy?” The cowboy asked.
“No.” Fatboy said, simply, before taking another drag off his Camel.
“Why?” the cowboy asked.
Silence ensued.
Then Fatboy leaned forward into a sliver of light from the hallway. He face was grotesque: a big chunk of flabby flesh crisscrossed with scars. Fatboy sat back.
“How did that happen?” the cowboy asked. Not many could ask Fatboy these types of questions, but the cowboy could. He loathed Fatboy; they were a lot alike, inside.
“I’ll tell you sometime. But I drink this, it’s supposed to help.”
The cowboy could see a thermos being raised to Fatboy’s lips.
“What is it?” he said.
“The blood of Palestinian children.” Fatboy said.
“You kidding?”
“No.”
“What is it you want done?”
5. Dittytown
It made news all over the world: it was here, in Dittytown, MO, that two rednecks picked up the gay hitchhiker and gutted him, leaving his entrails all over the road.
The cover of TIME, the cover of NEWSWEEK, all asked: “Is America Homophobic?”
Meanwhile, back at the labs, the Big Map was amended: Dittytown, MO now had a big S on it. Standing for Small-Minded. A possible--no, now a proven--nexus for American small-mindedness. Something had to be done.
International Art Machine was on the case.
They appeared in the wee hours of the morning: five of them. Faggots, with a capitol F. Cross-dressers, trannies, drag queens. They came in on a big rainbow-colored bus and parked right on Main St. Went into the hotel--two of them--in full-on crossdressing regalia to book themselves a room.
But that wasn’t the big scene. That just got the local tongues wagging: “Did you see what was . . .” “Did you hear what pulled in last night . . .” Etc.
By the time the five drag queens hit the popular town cafe that morning, almost everyone knew about them. But that didn’t prepare them for the spectacle the men provided: Lordy, look at them dresses! Look at that makeup! Look at that jewelry!
The town was still full of press from all over the country and some parts of the world: GAY MURDER FOLLOWUP angles, etc. Naturally, most people on camera acted aghast, and to give them credit: most of them were aghast.
But homophobia in that town--like many towns across the might U.S., was indeed entrenched. At a near subliminal level, implanted since the wee ones were in their wee hours. Boys got trucks, wore blue. Girls got dolls, wore pink, etc. Visions of men kissing were met with nothing less than exagerrated expressions of disgust and revulsions. Of course, with femme girls kissing each other the standard was hypocritical--but if butches were involved, well, see the men kissing response.
Meanwhile, a nondescript blue and battered dusty old van pulled up in front of Town Hall. The side of the truck bore an official insignia: Dept. of Homeland. And a division beneath: Safe Water Division.
A tall and lean man who somewhat resembled the older Henry Fonda disengaged himself from the cab of his vehicle, and slowly stretched his lanky limbs. He stretched his arms, took a prefunctory look around town, and then made his way up the steps of Town Hall.
He signed in to the appropriate authorities; they knew he was coming. They had been informed with some rather official-looking letterhead sent days earlier bearing the same symbol seen on the tall man’s truck.
He was given, literally, the keys to the city--or rather, their water supply.
After an hour of filling out forms, he made his way back to his truck and drove to the same hotel--the only one in town--now housing the five drag queens from I*A*M and a large number of American and some international journalists.
He checked in, showered, ate some breakfast he had had delivered, and then after laying down on his big king-sized bed, fell fast asleep.
Meanwhile, the drag queens were busy prolonging their scene.
Rednecks clutched their beer mugs ever-tightly. With all this press in town and all the exposure their town was getting from the previous homo-homicide, now wasn’t a good time to show these faggots their pretty knucks. But damn, it was hard.
By four the next morning, however, both the fags and the Dept. of Homeland water man were gone.
And that’s when the fun began.
4. The Invitation
Ursula hurried out to the sidewalk with their food. She went right and found them sitting in their car. They had only left a couple minutes ago and Ursula had rushed into the kitchen to find them something to eat which was already prepared.
The blonde was sitting in the passenger seat and rolled down her window.
“You know, what we did was legal and all--in self-defense, but we’re just not in the mood to talk to cops right now.”
“I think the Sheriff is at a convention right now, so you’re lucky.” Ursula said, handing the bag through the window.
“Thanks, honey.” the redhead said. “What do we owe you?”
Ursula waved her hand. “Oh, it’s on me. The least we can do for you having to put up with those jerks back there.”
The brunette in the back leaned forward. “So seriously, Ursula. Why are you here? You could easily move to New York and be a model or something. I mean that’s on your looks alone--you may have smarts, too.”
“I--” Ursula started.
The redhead scribbled something onto the back of a card and handed it to her.
“She’s got smarts.” the redhead said to the brunette. Then, to Ursula. “You want a job, you can come into New York anytime and I’ll give you a job.”
“Or you can come with us right now.” the brunette said. “You can sit in the back with me.” She patted the empty space next to her and smiled.
Ursula felt herself go warm inside.
“Uh, well. I have family here now . . . and stuff.” She couldn’t believe how lame she sounded. Her cheeks burned red with shame.
“OK, then,” the redhead said. “You have our card.” She pulled back the car then out of the parking lot.
Ursula stood there watching, then thought of a question and ran up to the car.
“Wait a minute!” she said.
The car stopped it’s forward progression and the girls looked at her expectantly.
“What is it . . . that you girls do?” Ursula asked.
The redhead gave her a serious look.
“Well, my darling. What we do? We kick redneck ass and save the world.”
The car then drove off, leaving Ursula now open-mouthed.
3. The Girls
Ursula was facing the kitchen when she heard the door swing open behind her and saw Cyndy look up and her jaw drop.
Ursula turned.
There stood three woman who looked like they had just walked out of Cyndy’s magazine: all of them beautiful, statuesque, and incredibly stylish.
They seemed to appraise the room silently, saw the sign which said SEAT YOURSELF, and then the red-haired in front sauntered over to a table and the two others followed.
Ursula turned back to the counter to grab three menus. Cyndy’s jaw was still dropped.
“Close your mouth, Cyn, you’ll catch flies that way.” Ursula said.
She went over to their table.
“Hello, girls. My name is Ursula and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I start you off with coffee or drinks?”
She handed out the menu while the three girls regarderd her over their sunglasses which they had yet to remove.
The blonde to her right was the first to speak.
“You’re hot.” she said.
Ursula, despite herself, felt a jolt move through as her face reddened.
“Heh,” she said, “Um, are you ready to order?”
The brunette to her left was the next to speak: “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a little turtle-dick of a town like this?”
Ursula opened her mouth as if to reply but no words came out. Then: “Coffee?”
The redhead: “Three coffees and give us a minute, ok?
Ursula was grateful for the excuse to scamper away and she took it quickly.
When behind the counter pouring the counter into three white ceramic mugs Cyndy came over and bent close to her and said in a hushed voice: “You hear what those girls said said to you?”
“Yes.” Ursula said.
“You gonna let them snotty big-town bitches talk to you like that?” she asked.
Ursula looked at her. “They sounded nice to me.” she said, before returning to their table with the coffee. She set it down and the redhead spoke: “You got anything on this menu without dead bodies in it?”
“Oh--are you vegetarians?” Ursula asked.
“Vegan, actually. You got fruit bowls here. Grits . . . is that it for us non-corpse eaters?”
Ursula hadn’t noticed when she was getting the coffee that three men had taken up the table next to the strange women. She almost groaned when she saw who it was: Billy Pardup, Scott Mayfold and Mike Carr. They all worked at the local sawmill and weren’t exactly on the refined side. They all had burst out laughing when the redhead said they were vegans. Now Billy couldn’t help but turn around and say something.
“You don’t eat corpses, huh? Well how can you stand up then, little girl? You need crutches to walk around on or something?”
The redhead turned to Billy with her eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t talking to you, redneck. Now turn around and mind your own business before I shove this fork into your neck.”
Billy wasn’t expecting that; his face looked like he had just come down as a kid on Christmas morning only to find Santa dead at the foot of the fireplace with an arrow through his chest. He looked back at his friends to see if they heard right, and, according to their faces, he had.
Billy turned back to the redhead.
“What did you just say?”
“Go get your hearing aide fixed, asshole. Now back the fuck off. I mean it.”
The redhead then turned to Ursula. “Well, Ursula? Anything besides grits and fruit bowls on that menu for us non-corpse eaters?”
Ursula frantically searched her memory. “Uh, toast?”
Billy by this time had found his legs and was at the redhead’s side.
The redhead looked up at him with eyes hot enough to fry an egg, even tho she wouldn’t be eating the results.
“Where you from, lady?” Billy asked.
Ursula was surprised to find herself suddenly angry: “Hey Billy--sit the fuck down. These girls ain’t botherin’ you.”
Billy looked at her, also surprised. “Ursula?”
“You heard me. You want to make our town look like nothing but rednecks live here? Now back down and leave these poor girls alone.”
The redhead looked at the other two. “Well, what do you know, she’s got beauty and fire.” The other two women looked up at Ursula appraisingly.
Then the redhead looked back up at Billy. “You still here, redneck? I’m gonna count to three and if you’re still standing next to me breathing down bitch-fumes I’m a gonna have to hurt you.”
Billy looked confused, looking back from Ursula to the strange redheaded woman.
“One . . .
“Two . . .”
Billy smacked the redhead on the side of the head.
The redhead jumped back out of her chair and faced Billy. “I was hoping you’d do that.” she said. “Now, it’s self defense.” She then jumped onto her chair and kicked a booted foot up into Billy’s jaw. A solid thwack could be heard throughout the room and Billy went flying backward, crashing into his table and sending cutlery flying.
His two friends stood up and rushed the redhead. The brunette closest to them stood up and kicked the man closest to her in the shin. He fell forward and she brought her knee up into his face while pushing the back of his head down with two hands.
Meanwhile, the redhead slammed the other one in the neck with far side of her hand while stepping to the side of him. He doubled over, choking.
The blonde looked up at Ursula, then.
“Could we get those fruit cups to go?”
[This is a VERY ROUGH first draft to a novel involving a ton of adventure stories centered around International Art Machine. Ursula will be our main character--and, of course, we must start out with her pre-adventure living a dissatisfied life . . . ]
1. Boob-Plop
It was an accident, to be sure: when leaning over to pour the old man some fresh coffee, her right boob plopped out of her blouse.
The old man’s eyes bulged.
Until she noticed his eyes turning into saucers, she wasn’t aware that her boob had left it’s holster; looking down, she now noticed and said, “Ooh, sorry.”
He turned away, blushing, as she returned her kitten to it’s case.
Walking away from his table back to the counter, she felt oddly happy about the accident. She had made an old man happy, and it had been the easiest thing in the world, really.
2. Cafe Blues
The day started out like any other--just another shift schleppin’ plates, cups and glasses back and forth in one state or another from the kitchen to the customers and back.
What Ursula was was not exactly unhappy--but she fidgeted inside like all young people do--some more strenuously than others. Being fidgety inside was especially common in youth who grew up in small towns--some fled. Most stayed. Some never wanted to leave. And some waited out the fidgety-ness until it had largely subsided and in it’s place had popped up jobs, spouses, kids.
Ursula had a boyfriend but no kids yet. She was only 19 and was at least wise enough to know that was too young to have a kid. She wasn’t sure she was so fond of her boyfriend, either. Of course, in a small town like Bennepoor, there weren’t many choices, but of them, her beau--Chad--was probably the best-looking. At least she had that.
She worked at Mama’s--an all-American cafe set inside the building of an old fifties-diner which sat on Main st. Everybody came in there--the Sheriff, the Mayor, local teens after school. It was an informal town hall.
Everybody, of course, knew Ursula. Not only because she was one of the day waitresses at the most popular cafe in Bennepoor, but because she was the Homecoming Queen last year, as well. And also, she was hands down the best-looking girl in town. Everybody always told her she looked Italian; she could only shrug at that, though. Her adopted parents were white bread city.
Framed by wild black hair all the features on her face stood out large: huge
brown eyes, big puffy lips. Her nose was petite, and her cheekbones stood up as if on heels. Her skin looked like freshly cooled porclain. And her body--well . . . if she existed only in the minds of teenage boys all across the county, she would live a rather active social life.
But the small town had always bored her. Sometimes, it even . . . irked her. She hated to admit it because everyone had always been so nice, but she could never see herself living there her entire life. As a child she always fantasized about moving to New York. But her parents could never afford to send her to college and her grades were nowhere close enough to being what she needed for scholarship money.
She was a dreamer, and an inveterate reader. She felt like she was drifting a little dangerously, going nowhere. Sometimes she wanted to take her hand and break her boyfriend’s nose with it. But she would also start to feel guilty--wasn’t she grateful to her adopted parents and town when her own flesh and blood had abandoned her?
It was a Tuesday. She served old man Cafferty some more coffee and walked leisurely back to the counter. Her fellow waitress Cyndy was there leafing through a Mademoiselle. It was slow.
“You think this girl throws up after she eats?” Cyndy asked, showing Ursula the page she was looking at. A thin rail girl stood on the beach mouth outstretched.
“You jealous?” Ursula asked.
“Of throwing up after I eat? Hell no.”
“No, of how skinny she is.” Ursula said.
Cyndy studied the magazine while chewing her gum, a habit which Ursula had always detested. First it was people who snapped their gum, and then it was just gum-chewing, period. It reminded her of the cows she passed on the local roads chewing cud.
It was at that moment then that they came in.
The couple sat in the booth at the Cha-Cha’s Restaurant in LA. It was a red booth that curved around. Behind the booth was a window that looked out over the parking lot and behind that, a busy road.
The man and the woman were both dressed in the latest styles in hair and clothing. Both of them were presently speaking into their cell phones.
Her: “Oh yea? Oh Bitsy . . . ha! You’re so funny, you know that, girl?”
Him: “Hm. Well do you think she’s right for the part? Hm. Maybe we should give her another go.”
When the waitress comes to take their order they each in turn put their hand over the receiver and tell her what they want. They are very specific and each order comes with a lot of details about what to add and what to leave off. They then go back to their cell phones.
Him: “Hm. So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow, then?”
Her: “Oh, my, he’s just looking so buff these days.”
Behind them, through the window, the parking slot directly on the other side of their booth through the wall is presently empty. Beyond that we see a red sedan veer off the road and into the parking lot, going fast.
Her: “So when was your appointment at the spa, then? Did we synchronize that or no?”
Him: “I thought he was good in Six Greasy Pieces but other than that . . . no.”
The car is coming straight for the parking slot behind them and showing no signs of slowing down.
Her: “Oh, I love Vita. She turns my shoulders and back into butter every time--”
The car reaches the parking slot and doesn’t stop.
Him: “I don’t know about that guy. I hear he’s losing his hair.”
The car smashes into the side of the restaurant and through the wall. The man and woman are thrown violently from their booth. They both lie on the floor with broken glass and pieces of the wall and booth all over them.
The man in the red sedan tumbles out of his side of the car to the ground. He groans. He raises his cell phone to his ear. “What’s that, Larry? Oh no, I wasn’t talking to you. That figure sounds fine. No, no, I just got into a little accident here. Say, can you use your girlfriend’s cell phone and call us an ambulance over here? I’m at the Cha-Cha’s in LA.”
Her: “Bitsy? Do you still have the number to that plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills? Oh no? Oh dear, no, that won’t do, then. Well, can you recommend anyone else then? Oh, I’m not asking for me. No, a friend of mine. She’s a bit on the hideous side, darling, if you know what I mean.”
She looks down at her legs. Her bones are sticking out in several places.
The man next to her is attempting to hold down a spurting artery with his free hand.
Him: “Ooh, yea. We may have to reshedule that. Do you have my appointment book open? Sure, I’ll hold.”
ACT THREE
Lisa is still screaming.
LISA
You?
BOY
A hovercar which runs on fuel cells. Auto
and oil industries won't sell them here in
America or allow them to be sold or even allow
the news media to talk about them. We built it
offa instructions we downloaded from the internet.
Get in!
BOY
And away we go!
Int. Rod and Todd's bedroom.
Both are in bed with Ned sitting next to them reading a bedtime story. We see the hovercar exit their window view and the two boys turn to Ned, who also watched it go by.
NED
Probably something from the military, son.
They're always testing new gear!
TODD
Is there a military base around here, Dad?
Int. Ned's
Back at Ned's, Ned closes his book.
Int. Sleazy Motel, room 6.
Quimby stands in front of a king-sized bed, shirtless.
Int. Patty and Thelma's.
We see a door and hear a flush. The door opens and there stands Patty, sucking on a freshly lit one. She blows out the smoke slowly, enjoying it.
The hovercraft is flying. We're in the cockpit with all the lit up dials.
Int. Cockpit
Int. Moe's.
Homer, Barney, Carl and Lennie are sitting at the bar. Moe is behind the bar. He is standing in front of something with a tablecloth on it which he whips off in a flourish, revealing a large ceramic donut with a tap on the end.
BARNEY
What is it, Moe?
HOMER
Pffft. Big deal. I've seen donuts way bigger
than that at Lard Country.
MOE
This ain't no donut, Homer. This is beer.
Donut beer.
MOE
We're listening.
EMIL
(in hushed, conspiratorial voice)
I work for Lard Country. I over-ordered the
prime rib for tomorrow so there's a ton just
sitting there inside the gates if you want to
go and pick it up. If any of the guards come,
just tell 'em Ed sent ya.
MOE
Are you Ed?
EMIL
Yes.
HOMER
Whoo-hoo!
Ext. Lard Country
The car carrying the men drives up to the gates with the hovercraft following at a distance behind, keeping out of sight. The place looks locked and dark.
Int. Cockpit.
The assembled crew watch as Homer gets mauled.
The hovercraft flies over the fence and heads to the Big Building.
Ext. Back at the gates.
MOE
And we can't exactly go over there, either.
Not with the dobermans there.
LENNY
Well, we can watch.
MOE
Yea, we can do that. Anyone bring any snacks?
Int. Big Building
It is dark. We see them inside-barely.
GIANT
(puts forefinger to mouth)
Shhhhhh.
BOY
What . . . are you?
GIANT
Expecting a factory farm, were you? You
remind me of myself, when I was younger.
VOICE
Ten dollars on the kid!
. . . for ten long years, my efforts came to no
avail. Until one nite, I took a friend’s dose of
psychedelics in frustration . . .
. . . but where would I get so much substance?
When I ran the local sewer system through the
Meatalizer, it didn’t work--something wasn’t
right. So I, myself had to provide the waste--only
it wasn’t enough. Thus, I combined my previous
love of supersizing organisms with my lifelong
desire to feed the world, added in my Meatalizer
and latest discovery, and voila!
LISA
But . . . but . . . but . . . that’s disgusting!
GIANT
But think about it, little girl, would you
rather all those animals be killed?
GIANT
The good news is, I have been able to tweak
the Meatalizer enough to now access your local
sewer system for substance--thereby relieving,
ahem, your overburdened sewer system, and
allowing me, Lard Countryís main engine, to
move on to the next Lard Country, opening next
week in another state! Since your town isn’t
vegan, the result won’t taste as good, but with
enough sauce added on . . .
So animal lovers--can you keep a secret?
Int. Simpsons Dining Room - Nite
The whole family is assembled. Marge is dishing out the pot roast.
HOMER
I knew the city would come through! If they
didn’t pander to us fat people, this city would be
empty!
MARGE
And Lard Country now provides all of Springfield's
meat--so everything worked out!
BART
More pot roast please, ma’am! Don’t know
what you’re missing, Lis! This barbecued
animal corpse tonite is extra-delish!
LISA
Heh.
THE END.
[DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND, here's the second act (the third to follow tomorrow morning). Thanks to everyone who has linked this! I will thank them all by name later, but now--on with the show:]
Simpsons Dining Room - Nite
Homer pats his stomach.
MARGE
Homer, when are you planning to go back to work?
HOMER
What do you mean?
MARGE
Lenny and Carl called today. They say you haven't
been to work in two weeks. Ever since the opening of
Lard Country.
HOMER
Mm, Lard Country . . .
His head starts to loll back, then he snaps to. Marge's hand is on the mackeral container.
HOMER
But Marge, it's like Heaven over there . . . so much food,
so little time! Plus I get to spend time with the boy.
We see Bart, who now looks curiously bloated.
LISA
You two are disgusting! How can you devote so much
time to eating when there's so many people dying of
hunger in the world!
HOMER
Lisa, those hungry people are only on TV. You can't
believe everything you see on TV--especially the
unsettling things.
Shot of a trailer park with the sign: "LARD COUNTRY ESTATES."
Cletus is sitting on the porch to a trailer now, massaging his enlargened belly.
MA
I liked you better when you could see where
you were sitting, that's two babies in a row, Cletus!
CLETUS
(gets up looks at chair)
Sorry about that, ma! We'll make another.
KENT BROCKMAN
But that's not all Lard Country has done: in order to
compete, local food stores have started to slash prices!
APU
Yes, all food items here at the Kwiki-Mart now are fifty
percent off.
The scientist Frink standing in front of the white board with marker:
Kent facing the camera holding his mic.
Int. Springfield Waste Facility
Two men stand in front of a vat.
Int. Springfield Country Club
Rich people are having tea, wrapped in dead animal furs, etc., when the floor burst open and a steady stream of brown muck shoots out. A big lady holding tea cup with pinkie curled looks aghast.
Ext. Springfield downtown
A car is going down the street when another brown stream lifts off a manhole cover and turns the car on it's side.
Int. Kwiki-Mart
Homer is at the counter and both him and Apu have their head turned to the melee outside: brown explosions, people running by screaming. They turn to look at each other.
Homer's mouth and pockets are bulging.
Int. new house.
A fresh-face couple face the realtor.
The man puts his arm around the woman.
He jumps up and kicks his heels together. At that point the brown explosion shoots through the floor.
The couple runs out. Gil is left, getting soaked in the stream.
He kicks the floor, gets promptly knocked over by another stream
which shoots up where his foot hit the wood.
Int. Town Hall.
Mayor is making the placating movement with his hands.
The crowd is still loud, murmuring, panicky.
Immediate silence.
COMIC BOOK GUY
(stands up)
Excuse me, but you're making that sound like a
bad thing. Noticeably the word 'epidemic' when
combined with the word 'fat.'
QUIMBY
Well, it is a bad thing.
COMIC BOOK GUY
Excuse me while I present to you Exhibit A: Lorna.
Lorna is my girlfriend.
We see Lorna: twice the size of Comic Book Man. She is quietly crying into a tissue.
He sits.
Mole man is stuck into the side of a wall, with only his head sticking out.
QUIMBY
Unsuspecting puppies and babies are being sat on.
Something needs to be done!
VOICE
Now, hold on there, pardner!
The audience looks to see who has spoken--it's J.T. standing at the doors to the town hall, in the back.
J.T.
No! I just wanted to announce free cheeseburgers!
Right outside this door here!
Crowd cheers. Start for the door.
Crowd pauses, looks betwixt.
Quimby lets her take the podium. J.T. watches, too and the crowd files back to their seats.
LISA
You cannot continue to drown all of your problems
through gluttonous eating!
SIDESHOW MEL
Why not?!
LISA
Because it's not healthy for you! Because it's not
healthy for the environment! And because it's not
healthy for the animals!
MOE
What are you, some kind of communist!?
LISA
No, I'm a buddhist and a vegetarian who would prefer
that my fellow citizens not kill themselves with food!
I would also prefer that you harm less animals with your diet!
Have you ever wondered where JT gets so much meat
for his park? Is it a factory farm? How are the animals
treated? What is Springfield's growing obesity doing to
our city finances? These are all questions that must be asked!
J.T.
This just in! I got cheeseburgers out here AND donuts!
Apu enters.
APU
Ah, no, sorry, Lisa. I came back for Dhalia's
hat, oh here it is. Good luck with your angst!
He rushes off. Paul McCartney pokes his head in.
PAUL McCARTNEY
(looking around)
This isn't Carnegie Hall!
Lisa sighs again. Cue Violent Femmes, "I Hope You Got Fat." She starts walking, walks outside past a carnivorous feast in progress. Slomos of food to mouths, food dribbling down the side of faces, stomachs popping out of shirts, etc. She walks past restaurants, pro-junk food billboards, more fat people. Song stops. She reaches home.
LISA
(glumly)
I'm not hungry. Thanks, Mom, but I think I'm just
going to bed early tonight. Good night.
Lisa is in bed. It is night. She looks at the wall at her picture of the Dalai Lama, then at Richard Gere, then at her Grandma, then at the little boy from Brazil whom she had sent money to in a previous episode, then a pig, a cow, a chicken . . . she turns to her left toward the window and there is a new face, framed by the moon with wavy blonde hair.
[For fun, here is the first act to my spec Simpsons script LARD COUNTRY. The second act I'll put on on Wednesday, and the third and final act on Friday. Like the rest of the content so far here on gimmicky.org, this is a rough first draft.]
INT. Simpsons master bedroom - Nite
Homer tosses and turns in bed. Drool starts to ooze from the sides of his mouth. He says, "Mmmmm," and we pop into his head.
Homer is walking along a road atop a hill going "La-la-la-la" when suddenly a cloud in front of him balls itself into a doughboy shape and points to him, "Hello, Homer!"
DOUGHBOY
I am here to give you good news. Soon, very soon, your town will be gifted with the most beautiful present.
HOMER
Donuts?
DOUGHBOY
Greater!
HOMER
Greater than donuts? Lotsa donuts?
DOUGHBOY
Lotsa lotsa donuts!!
Homer starts drooling and faints to the ground.
Marge is shaking him.
The drool has nearly reached the bed. Outside, in the hallway, Maggie floats by, manically doing the doggie paddle.
Kitchen - morning
Homer sits at the table while Marge busies herself at the counter. There is still wetness dripping down cabinets, pooling on surfaces.
HOMER
I don't know . . . donuts? Mm, donuts . . .
His head lolls back and he starts to do it again when she slaps him across the face with a mackeral.
MARGE
It came with this month's Good Housekeeping.
She puts it back into a container mounted on the wall.
Enter Lisa.
MARGE
It's bedroom dew, dear. It's that time of year.
BART
We haven't seen Dad drool like that since they opened up the Baking Grease Discount Store.
HOMER
Mm, baking grease . . .
His head lolls back again. Bap! goes the mackeral.
Closeup of Good Housekeeping cover: "How To Control Your Man in 5 Easy Steps! Now with Added Mackeral!"
Sidewalk - Day
Bart is walking down the street when Milhouse catches up to him.
BART
Nah, I got a funny feeling something more interesting is going to happen.
MILHOUSE
Like what?
BART
I don't know. But I'm guessing stampede.
And this point the ground rumbles and a horde of people rush by. Camera pans up to the branches of a tree and there hang Bart and Milhouse.
We follow the hordes and they cross over a hill and there, bequeathed by a ray of super-sunshine: the gates with a sign over them reading, LARD COUNTRY.
A man in a beige suit and cowboy hat with a big belly standing in front of the gates takes up the microphone:
One citizen turns to the other.
A roar goes up.
The crowd cheers.
J.T.
What is it? What is it? I'll tell you what it is: an amusement park for those who like to eat! Enjoy!!!
MOE
(to himself)
Ah great, an amusement park for fat people, there goes my business.
J.T. stands aside and the gates open and the cheering crowd goes in.
One person stands in front of a mirror which makes him fatter, he turns and admires himself, then goes to a vendor standing nearby selling hot dogs: "2 please!"
On the ferris wheel, the cars stop at a vendor on a crane.
In front of a ride is the sign (with wooden scale): “You must be this wide to ride.” In the sea of lard, people swim around with snorkels, get chased by giant donuts. And everywhere, people eat. An incredible, giant orgy of gastric consumption.
A man stops at a building advertising the film: "Why Fat People are Smarter!" He goes in. Comes back out, goes to hot dog vendor: "2, please!"
Homer's workplace - day.
Homer is sleeping at work with his feet up. He snaps to. Sniffs the air.
He follows his nose to the cafeteria. As he's looking around, he eats all the donuts there.
He leaves building. Follows nose, arms outstretched like a mummy. Comes to the top of a hill and sees a long distance down there to the town, runs back to his car. Drives car with his head sticking out.
Int. Simpsons basement.
Marge in on her hands and knees scrubbing the remnants of the drool from the floor, wringing her sponge into her bucket. Her eyes rest on: a drain in the middle of the concrete floor, where, as she looks, a stream of drool escapes to.
Int. Sewer Underground.
A mutant is at a podium.
He bangs gavel. There is a roar and they all look up as a shower descends. They all open their dry mouths hungrily.
Homer is driving, comes up to Lard Country. His eyes widen.
He jumps out of the car as it's still moving, not having time to park, and runs to the gates. We hear the crash of his car and a cat's ywroar. He runs up to the ticket counter.
He has his ticket ripped, gets his map, and runs up to the large standing map, jogging in place.
He runs over, under the Atkins Ride sign and onto a conveyor belt. There on the conveyor belt running adjacent at stomach level, plates are set down with bacon, steak, cheese, pork rinds, etc. He gobbles them all up and gets off the conveyor belt at ride's end, pats his stomach:
INT. Homer's Office - Day
Burns is walking by Homer's office and stops. No Homer.
SMITHERS
I don't know, sir. But maybe if I ran you a nice hot bath and massaged your back you would feel a lot better about his absence.
BURNS
(after a pause)
No thanks.
Ext. Lard Country
The loudspeakers on poles quiver.
Homer shrieks. Starts eating faster. Above him is the banner: WWII Simulation: Eat Your Way to Victory!
Homer is one of several eating a breaded replica of an SS tank.
Bite, bite, bite.
Ext. Lard Country Exits
A line forms.
A couple engineers hurry out, each takes one end of the metal posts through which you exit and push down the bar and pulls. The metal posts are expanded. The people can now exit. The engineers hurry off.
Comic Book Guy exits the theatre with the marquee: “Why Fat People are Smarter!”
He puts a monocle on.
I heard them talking above me and kept my eyes shut.
"What's he got?"
"I dunno, dunno if he got anything."
"You know him?"
"Seen him around."
"Think he got something?"
"Well, he probably got something. I mean, most of us got something."
"Not me, man. I ain't got nothing."
"I know you don't, loser. But this guy, he looks like he ain't been on the street long."
"How can you tell?"
"Dumbass, anyone can tell if they didn't start their day off with a 40 and can think straight."
"You mean me, right? It was only half a 40, man. And that's rare. Rare that I had it still from last nite after I passed out. Usually it spills or someone takes it."
"Or someone pees in it."
"What?!"
"Nothing, hey man, we gonna roll this guy or what?"
"Depends, well, what's he got?"
"Well neither of us are gonna know until we put our fucking hand down his pants, are we?"
"But what if he wakes up?"
"Well, you wallop him, don't you?"
"Why me? Why I gotta wallop him?"
"Because you had the 40, didn't you! Beer makes you strong, dumbass!"
At this point I thought it best to open my eyes: "Hey guys."
They both looked at me, startled.
"I got nothing." I said. "If I did, I'd gladly share it with you."
"Well, you must got something," said the one closest to me, with long dark hair. His friend stood a little ways off, chubby, open-mouthed and staring.
I sat up. "I ain't got nothing." I said, looking at him level. "And on top o' that, you two are in no condition to roll me, guys." I stood up. "In fact, if you try it, I'll pound your motherfucking asses into bone."
The chubby guy: "How can you do that? Into bone, I mean? Flesh don't turn into bone, no matter how hard you pound it."
The long-haired guy looks at him. "He's just saying, dumbass. He's just trying to act tough. Maybe he even is tough, hell I don't know."
He looked me up and down, appraising.
"You don't wanna know," I said. "And you know what, I don't want to make you know. We're all out here together, why not make an alliance?"
I stuck my hand out. "I'm Warren."
The one closest to me looked at my hand warily. "This ain't a trick, is it?"
"No," I said. "Not a trick."
"I mean, if I take your hand and all, you're not gonna pull me in and knee me in the balls, right?"
"Uh, no," I said. "I wasn't planning anything like that. I'd rather make friends than enemies. Because I'm smart. That's what smart people do."
He looked down at his hands. "You probably don't want to touch these hands, man. They haven't been washed in a while. And last couple times I used the Porta-potty, they was out of toilet paper."
"Ah, oh." I said, lowering mine. "Well, thanks for letting me know. What's your name then?"
"Roy," he said, "And this here's Apeman."
Apeman jumped up and down and went whoo-whoo.
Roy: "No, man that's a monkey. You're an Apeman, not a monkey. An Apeman growls, in a really deep voice."
Apeman came forward extending his hand. "I'll shake your hand, Warren," he said.
Roy put his hand out and pushed Apeman's arm down. He looked at me.
"You don't want to do that," he said. "He doesn't use tp even when it's available."
"Thanks," I said. "Well, nice to meet you both anyway."
There was a pause.
"Say uh," I said. "You guys know any place around here where a guy like us can get some work?"
"Work?" said Apeman. "Guys like us don't work, that's why we're guys like us." He threw his head back and let out a huge guffaw.
Roy laughed, too. "Yea, right," he said, eyes crinkling at the sides. He turned back to me. "Well, nice to meet ya, Warren, but we gotta be on our way now."
They walked away. As they went, I could hear Roy say to the other, "We shoulda walloped him while he was asleep."
Up then came the rosy fingers of dawn.
"OK."
"OK, what?"
"OK, you wanted to see me."
"Oh, yea?"
"You got five minutes."
"Lunkhead, I'm not the one roped to the chair. How do you think I only got five minutes? You got raygun eyes that are gonna burn through that rope?"
"How can I help you?"
"Tha's better. Hm, let's see . . . but first, you need anything? Glass of water? Beer?"
"No, thank you."
"OK, let's see now . . . how can you help me . . . let's start with this: what is the name of your publication?"
"The Spew."
"Right. Inspired by?"
"Henry Chinaski."
"Right. OK, now please follow me here . . . who was on the cover of your most recent issue of the Spew?"
"Dave Eggers."
"What? What was that? Come again?"
"Dave Eggers."
"Dave who? Oh, you mean that guy? The guy that lost his parents, wrote a book about what a genius he was and became America's pseudo-literary darling number one--you mean that guy?"
"He's also, uh, the editor of a mighty fine . . . "
"Shut up! Did I ask you a question?"
"No, but--"
"So then shut up! You let me handle the questions, smart guy!"
" . . . "
"OK, then, where were we--oh yea--so your publication is inspired by Henry Chinaski and in the last issue of your publication--The Spew--you dedicate your cover to Dave Eggers, is that right?"
"Yes, that is correct."
"Now, let me ask you this, and this is the five fucking million dollar question here: Would Henry Chinaski drink with Dave fucking Eggers?"
"Uh, what do you mean?"
"I mean, if they was in a bar, and Chinaski was at the bar, and Eggers came in, and Chinaski knew who Eggers was, do you think that Chinaski would say, 'Hey, my man Eggers! How about a brewski?'"
"Uh, well, maybe . . . "
"Bullshit! And you know it! Why? Because Eggers is garden variety horseshit!"
"Well . . . "
"Look, I'm sorry his parents died--but that don't make him no literary genius!"
"Ah,"
"If Eggers walked into a bar where Chinaski was drinking, Chinaski would stomp him into the ground! Can Eggers use words ok? Yes, he can, I'm not denying that. But what does he write about? SNOOZETOWN! Middle class bourgeois bullshit!"
"Hm,"
"OK, look, you obviously disagree. You think Eggers is worth the hype, but tell me this: you cannot justify the worship of Eggers in a rag designed to prop Chinaski!"
"Well, the magazine has evolved, what can I say?"
"You call that evolution? From Chinaski to Eggers--that's how you evolve? So if there was some planet somewhere and there was a whole race of Chinaskis, and you come back to that planet a thousand years later and now there's a whole race of Eggers running around, you're telling me you'd be happy with that? Hey, it's just evolution--is that right?"
"Well, taste evolves. When you're young you may like Chinaski. When you've seen more of the world, you may--"
"Stop. What is that?"
"What?"
"What is that that you're wearing?"
"Clothes."
"Are those . . . those are Dockers, aren't they?"
"Well, yes . . . "
"And that shirt, let me look into your collar, here . . . Old Navy!? You gotta be fucking' kidding me??!!!"
"OK, so you hate Eggers and Old Navy and Dockers--is there anything else?"
"Oh, there's quite a few more things, yes."
"For instance?"
"Now, wait, now hold on a minute . . . before I get the other thing out, I wanna talk about this a little more, because I don't think we've come to a . . . a . . . an understanding here."
"I understand. Whatever you want me to understand, I will. I'm being fully cooperative here."
"No, I don't think you are. I guess I better get that other thing out after all."
"What . . . what is that?"
"This? You don't know what this is?"
"Ah . . . "
"OK, editor, who was on the cover of Spew number two?"
"Ah . . . Hunter S. Thompson."
"Dr. Gonzo, you are correct. . . . you still don't know what this is?"
"Ah . . . "
"Hm, maybe I better pause a minute. Because this is some serious stuff here. Tell me please, who do you have slated to be on the next issue of Spew?"
"Dave Eggers' girlfriend."
"Oh boy. OK, open up."
THE FIRST THING I SAW WAS A SNOUT. After eight years of sleeping, I was groggy. The snout pinched up a little, and I could see the face behind.
Human. Round. Like the moon round. It had makeup on and was beaming.
“Hello!” she cried.
I tried to formulate some kind of face but found my reactions petrified. Perhaps the nerves were still chilled. Was on back looking up at her. Could not feel body. Seemed to be in some type of yellowed-ivory hospital room.
“You probably can’t talk right now, but that’s ok.” she said cheerily. “My name is Emma and I will be your re-integration counselor. Let me ask you this, can you blink?”
I tried my left eye and found that I could. Slowly her face became clearer. Reminded me of Tammy Faye, way back when, but larger.
“Good!” she said. “Do you remember being frozen, Jack?”
I hesitated. Memories still on ice.
She nodded meaningfully and moved out of my range of vision. “I am preparing a shot for you, Jack,” she said. “It will help your awakening process. Now, I know this may be a difficult time for you, but the worst is over and Jack, I have to tell you that you sure are a lucky man! Not everyone who was frozen survived, you know.” She tsked.
Suddenly a warmth spread through my body which I previously hadn’t even known was there. Tingles started to pass through like a lightning storm. Now all I needed was a cup of coffee. She came back to sit next to me and I could tell that not only her face was huge. Well, I was alive anyway. So what if I had envisioned being woken in the not-too-distant future by a beautiful naked girl feeding me grapes on the grass by a waterfall? I could find the girl, grass, and grapes later.
“Does that feel better, Jack?” Emma said.
I blinked. Perhaps soon I would be able to nod.
“I called for the Doctor when I saw you coming to. He should be here any minute. Are you looking forward to breakfast, Jack?”
I hesitated on the blink. Not so concerned with that.
Soon the Doctor came in and he was large, too. Not chubby, not overweight, not even fat--but obese. He matched the nurse. He was friendly and chit-chatted and gave me another shot and soon they inclined my seat a little so I could survey the room. There was a bed across from me and it was a king-sized. They rolled in a tray heaped with pastries.
“Now, doesn’t that look good, Jack?” Emma asked. The Doctor had already left. The door to the hallway was open and once in a while another obesity maneuvered past.
I finally regained my tongue and spoke: “Hello, Emma, thank you for being so kind.”
She beamed happily.
“I can’t wait to go running,” I said.
“Running where?” she asked.
“You know,” I smiled. “Jogging. Used to go every day before the freeze. Miss it. Must be a little out of shape by now.”
“Oh, you look fabulous to me!” she said. “As healthy as a fresh-baked pizza pie!”
I was scrunching my forehead together at that when we were interrupted by a nurse (Emma-sized) rolling a wheelchair into the room.
I gaped. The wheelchair was as wide as a VW bug, and it was only then that I noticed the door to the hallway was a double, as the wheelchair had sailed thru easily. The man in the chair must have been four feet across. He looked at me and smiled.
“Hello there, new roomie,” he said, then shrugged, hands upward, “Bunions.”
Emma rolled the dessert tray closer. “What would you like to start on?” she said.
I considered. Donuts, cake, pie, sweet croissants, pudding, danish.
“Do you have any fruit?” I asked.
She laughed. Meanwhile, across the room my new roomie’s wheelchair was being transformed into a forklift as it raised him up and over onto the bed.
Emma turned to the other nurse and shrugged, “He’s just been unthawed,” she explained.
It was then out of the corner of my eye that I noticed a mirror to my right. I turned and looked, and squelched a scream.
I was fat, too.
2.
But how did this happen?
I couldn’t believe it. I looked and felt like the base of a Sequoia.
The Doctor considered me. I was in his office before being shown out the door, where I planned on walking and not stopping until I was down to at least under two hundred pounds. However, the hunger had begun to gnaw, and this I was not accustomed to. Hunger at this level felt like a black hole in the guts.
“The freezers kept you at an optimum level of mass.” the Doctor explained, his smile fixed and polite.
“You call this optimum?!” I shrieked. “Look at me! I look like John Candy! Not that there’s anything wrong with John Candy except for the fact that he’s deceased. When I was frozen I had a six pack! I was tight! Finely-sculpted and a model of health down to the most minimal cell! Now I have to waddle to walk!”
My reserve had, of course, given out. With nurses and other patients in my room I had tried to maintain a level of calm, for propriety’s sake. Now, with just me and him in his office behind a closed door before I waddled out of there into the big world all on my own, my emotions had gotten the better of me.
“You mean you’re not tiny.” the Doctor said. “There is nothing wrong with being large. In fact, don’t think of it as being large. Think of it as being healthy. Optimum-healthy, in fact.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“What you don’t understand, Jack,” he said. “Is everything that happened while you were . . . asleep. Things changed. A lot of things changed. Larger people were sick of being put down all the time. The Fat People’s Civil Rights movements had just begun while you were away. More and more Americans got large. Soon, the tiny, as they are now called, became the minority. We developed drugs to help the new majority with some of the disadvantages to their new size. Etc. The large became the majority, Jack. I am the majority. You, too, now, are the majority. Being as big as we are now, Jack, why--we’re the new sex symbols.”
I could only gape. When I recovered the ability to move my mouth, I said, with force, pointing, “Look here, Doctor, I am not going to stay obese. I am going to go out there,” pointing outside “and lose this goddamn weight.
“I will walk to Antarctica if I have to. I will eat nothing but lettuce and speedballs if I have to. But I am losing this goddamn weight. And I will find a beautiful woman who also isn’t the size of a minor asteroid, and we will have beautiful, beautiful sex, and when we are having this beautiful, beautiful sex, you will not hear the sound of flab slapping!”
He looked at me, of course, like I was crazy.
Since I didn't have anything to follow that up with, I got up and storm-waddled out the door.
3.
When I got outside I was most gratified with feeling the sun on my face.
Everything else was pretty much t