Deliriously Happy (8 page)

Little do people realize that under the mask, beneath the armor, lie the beating hearts, the transmogrified flesh and isotopic blood of a creature who was once very much human, just like them. If they were to take a moment to peer through that translucent skull and into that superevolved brain they would find more than dark schemes and deadly schemata and vast enemies lists; they would discover, deep inside, tucked behind some new torture notions, the tiny, sad boy with the freakishly large head who only wanted to be good but was turned bad.

This is the story I wish to tell. The story of the Dr. Cranius I know.
My
story.

I will begin with my origin story, not the ridiculous tale told in comic books and by Nancy Grace without regard to libel laws but the true telling of my humble, tragic beginnings: my miraculous birth to a poor, single dry-cleaner who lost her pelvis as a result of the delivery and was therefore ruined for other men, dooming me to be raised without a proper male role model. Very little is written about my sainted mother other than that I eventually killed her; nothing is known of the love that shone through her revulsion, or her heroic struggles to pay for all the appliances her precocious toddler dismantled, or the punitively expensive custom protective headgear. This is the woman I want people to know. Perhaps then they will understand why she had to die.

The hard child is mother to the man, the poet wrote, and I was a very hard child. Hardened, by the playground taunts of Big Head, Giant Head, Huge Head, Humungous Head, and, eventually, Colossal Head. Hardened, by an educational system unable to distinguish genius from madness, and forced to ride the little yellow bus with the drool patrol. Hardened, every day at school, a diamond in a coal mine, my brilliance blinding eyes unaccustomed to the light, destroying principals unwilling to cede power to their superior.

I dropped out.

It was never my intention to turn evil. At first, I was simply trying to survive—hawking my scientific papers on the streets of Urbana, performing calculus tricks down by the boardwalk, busking π to the centillionth on the subway. I often went hungry.

And so there was a certain situational or perhaps cosmic irony in the fact that it was my determination to use my prodigious gifts for the greater good that led to my current profession. Frustrated by the many cretins and tomfools I encountered in my daily life, I devoted myself to elevating the public to a level worthy of discourse. The result was Dr. Cranius's Brain Liquid, a mental-energy drink that combined the best of ancient oriental botanicals with a secret boost of radiographically induced evolution. I brought the product to PepsiCo in late 1993, and they rejected it after merely tasting it. Of course, less than eighteen months later these fiends announced Josta, a pale imitation of my drink without any of its mutagenic qualities.

Even then, I resisted the lure of villainy. Rather than contaminate this interloper with retarding agents, which would have been very easily done, I redoubled my efforts to beat them to market, which resulted in the drink lab accident that made me the Dr. Cranius I am today: stronger, smarter, albeit a little insane, and, yes, evil.

The middle section of the book will concentrate on what it is like to be the reigning supervillian of Urbana, going behind the headlines and news bulletins to reveal my day-to-day struggles. I can't go out to a restaurant without a legion of half-assed heroes crashing my table before the salad even arrives. I run through minions faster than I can replace them. I can't get a cab, going uptown or downtown.

I will also lay out my plans for global domination, and I think readers will be surprised how reasonable and pleasant a Dr. Cranius reign would be. I believe this section will guarantee me a spot on the all-important Jon Stewart show, or failing that,
The Colbert Report
.

On the advice of my agent, I will also not stint on “the dirt.” While I cannot reveal the details here, I have information about Red Hawk and his young ward, Chick, that is certain to make the tabloids. As for myself, it is eternally true that a certain kind of woman is attracted to a bad man, and I have had more than my share. I will provide a list of names, and why they had to die. I also have a very funny story about Jen Aniston.

Bidding starts at
one billion dollars
.

Magic Wart Wand

A personal laser that removes unsightly blemishes from people sitting across from you on the train or bus without them knowing it.

The Sniffer

An electronic device that can identify unpleasant smells as well as the person emitting them.

Man Up!

Sonic pulse generator that causes onlookers to see you as more handsome and better groomed than you really are by inducing a series of microstrokes in your date, job interviewer, etc.

Personal Space Saver

A handheld microwave gun that reduces the Body Mass Index of the obese person spilling over the armrest of your theater or airline seat by liquefying adipose tissue into a yellowish oil which is then excreted through the nearest available orifice.

Germoshield

A 360-degree irradiator that destroys all bacteria and viruses, along with the organisms carrying them, within an eighteen-foot circle of cleanliness.

A scientist has set off an international furor by suggesting that it might soon be feasible to transplant ovaries from aborted fetuses into infertile women who do not make viable eggs of their own. Dr. Roger Gosden, a researcher at Edinburgh University, said … he already has accomplished this in mice.

“If you take a more adventuresome and experimentalist approach … you have a chance to see if it does more harm than good,” said Dr. John Fletcher, an ethicist at the University of Virginia.

—
New York Times

Much of what I know about human anatomy I owe to Brenda King, and, before her, to Leonardo da Vinci. It was Brenda who, in the eighth grade, allowed me to run my finger along the entire length of her appendectomy scar, and it was da Vinci whose sixteenthcentury dissections of corpses at the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova in Florence laid the groundwork for modern science's triumphant experimental subject: the Visible Man.

The Visible Man, with its transparent “skin,” durable handpainted organs, and raw-pink plastic guts, taught me more about physiology than four years at any stupid medical school would have. Many were the happy hours I hunkered down in my bedroom laboratory, rapturously disassembling my Visible Men and putting them back together again, remaking them into startling new bioconfigurations: the four-armed dual-cardiac Visible Man with double pumping action; the all-liver-and-kidneys Visible Man, theoretically capable of drinking his weight every forty minutes; the gutless Visible Man with secret storage compartment for steelies, clearies, and cat's-eyes. Who knows what I might have accomplished if Pete Maguire's brother hadn't gotten a whole mess of M-80s on a trip to Indiana that summer?

Just as my parents and teachers were shocked and frightened by my notebook sketches, so too were da Vinci's contemporaries disturbed by his dismantling of dead Florentines. He was called a ghoul by citizens without the foresight to see the rewards that his anatomical studies would reap—not just Visible Man but the Operation and Twister board games, and let's not forget Visible Woman. As a freelance experimentalist, I must persevere, then, despite rejection from the medical establishment and the lack of federal funding; I must publish my work, wherever I can, in hopes of generating badly needed funds for some fresh tools.

EXPERIMENT 107: Grafting the hands of a capuchin monkey onto a Labrador retriever, I created a dog that can not only throw a tennis ball sixty yards while playing fetch with itself, but also scratch the back of its master, a task that many dogs long to do but, sadly, cannot. (Originally published in
Puppy Master
, April 2007.)

EXPERIMENT 113B: Using a gene-splicing technique found online somewhere, I incorporated genetic material from a Dow Scrubbing Bubble into a purr-free feline zygote, producing a Siamese cat with a less neurotic disposition and claws that extrude rug-and-furniture shampoo. (
Industrial Pet
, Winter 2008.)

EXPERIMENT 235F: By sewing live white mice directly onto the heads of male American bald eagles, I hoped to cosmetically augment their thinning pates and thus increase the breeding success of this species. Unfortunately, the subjects were brutally attacked by their mates—out of jealousy, I hypothesize. (
Annals of Mice
, March 2010.)

EXPERIMENT 482: Just last Friday, I xenotransplanted 150 hummingbird hearts into a sixty-eight-year-old man suffering from congestive heart failure. I theorized that if the man's body rejected one or even several of the hearts there would still be dozens left to do the job. However, the operation proved more complicated than anticipated, taking nearly an hour and necessitating a drugstore mobilization for more thread. As the last stitch was put in place, the man jumped off the kitchen table, ran one hundred meters in 8.64 seconds, and expired. Based on these results, I have decided to use artichoke hearts next time. (
Bird Fancy
, under review.)

I am currently seeking volunteers for two experiments: 486—“Transgrafting Eyebrows to Outer Ear in Human Subject”; and 487—“Box Turtles Surgically Installed in Human Large Intestine.” In the former case, the goal is to create natural, renewable earmuffs; in the latter, the hope is it will make a nice home for the turtles.

How you all doing tonight? It's great to be here at the Loco Lobo, assuming this is Tuesday. You know, it just so happens, I'm a little loco. Kinda crazy, zany guy. You're looking at one kooky dude. Wacky, nutty, unbalanced, disturbed, incompetent to stand trial: I've been called all those things.

Anyone here from Chicago? I'm from Chicago. You, sir: you're from Chicago? You're not me, are you?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
.

I have a lot of weird thoughts. You ever wonder why, for example, seven times eight is fifty-six? What
genius
decided that one? I don't remember voting. Or where socks go when they disappear from dryers? Is it the Pentagon? I think you know it is.

Anybody else here watch TV? Me, I watch a lot of TV. A lot of TV. Because, you know, when you're not watching it, it can watch you. So I watch TV pretty much all the time. Have you seen this
Gilligan's Island
? Seven stranded castaways on a desert-island paradise? What is
up
with
that
? All I know is if I was Gilligan and it was my island, I'd sure as shit be fucking that Ginger. Am I right? And Mary Ann. And the rest. I'd be lying naked in my hammock with those two gals and Mrs. Howell and the Professor, and drinking sweet, sweet coconut juice out of the Skipper's skull. Am I right?