Dr. Identity (11 page)

In the upper tier of the Dumdum Tower, the tallest structure not only in Bliptown but in the entire Amerikan Midwest, were the offices, board rooms, meeting halls, sandwich shops, haberdasheries and whorehouses of the city’s governing powers.

Five minutes ago, the congressman-things slipped on their respective nooses, kicked out the rocking chairs from beneath their feet, and hung themselves from the rafters of The Bronchial Theater. Ninety percent of the attendants were ’gängers. They dangled from the ceiling on interminable lengths of rope. Their thick, blubbery necks ensured that they wouldn’t lose their breath, let alone crack their neckbones.

In the background, a technosubrealist rendition of German composer Edvard Grieg’s creeping, rumbling Peer Gynt Suite No. 1, Fourth Movement, dimly played…and replayed…and replayed…

The congressman-things dangled in a broad circle and surrounded a small driftdisc. The driftdisc itself was surrounded by a red velvet curtain that, like the ropes, stretched twenty or so stories up to the ceiling.

The curtain opened 180 degrees and exposed Euclid Auchboom, ’gänger of Bartholomew Expletive, Speaker of the Theater, distinguished gentleman, and senior senior senior congressman-thing. It stared at the audience with wide white eyes, then tapped the side of its throat, producing a drawn-out metallic squink. The human congressmen-things wrinkled their noses.

“Here here,” announced Euclid Auchboom. “This session of the Theater of the Perturbed will now come to order, the honorable Representative Gr. Euclid Auchboom, Representative of Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive, presiding.”

The blank-faced attendants lifted their right hands and snapped their fingers. They lowered their hands.

Gr. Auchboom nodded its obese head. “First on our agenda today is the matter of Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-thing Expletive’s feelings. Since he took on a hermaphrodite as a mistress, he has been the butt of more than a few vulgar jokes. Not only does he feel badly when his colleagues make fun of him, he finds the act of joke-telling altogether distasteful. In his eyes, beings who tell jokes on a regular basis do so in an attempt to compensate for some flaw in their emotional disposition. They cannot bear the straight-faced drama of life and must attempt to animate it with humor. This is a weakness of character that also makes the revered, noteworthy and highly esteemed congressman-thing in question feel badly. I have been asked to tell you all that this unorthodox behavior will cease immediately. I won’t name names, gentlemen, but the guilty parties know who they are.” The ’gänger stared irritably at the guilty parties, one by one. “Questions?”

Silence except for the dry creak of swinging ropes…

“Fine. The matter is closed. Next on the agenda concerns the matter of my feelings. Specifically, I am referring to a nasty remark made about me by a congressman-thing who…”

As Gr. Auchboom continued, Mr. Horace Q. Whackbottom attempted to sneak into the theater. He deftly pushed open the giant, bronze Florentine doors of The Bronchial Theater’s entrance and crawled in on his knees. He moved literally at a snail’s pace for half a minute, grew impatient and picked up speed. His patience further diminished and he got to his feet and began to tip-toe towards his noose, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he was dashing like an overweight ballerina across a stage.

All of the congressmen-things observed Mr. Whackbottom the moment he entered the doors. They continued to observe him with curious, mildly disgusted expressions as he attempted to be furtive. Even Gr. Auchboom, who was on the brink of tears because it suspected nobody took it seriously or wanted to be its friend, stopped speaking and fixed its gaze on the malefactor. Mr. Whackbottom didn’t notice. His eyes were on the prize now, and he had blocked out the external world. Just a few more steps, he told himself, and I’ll be hanging high and dry…

“Congressman-thing Whackbottom!” Gr. Auchboom shouted.

Freeze-frame…He glanced up at the assembly. Smiled. “Greetings, gentle colleagues. Apologies, apologies.”

Mr. Whackbottom had been wrong about the punishment for this instance of tardiness. It was neither a tongue-lashing nor an Indian burn. Nor was it a mere disembowelment. It was all of these things at once.

At Gr. Auchboom’s command, executioner androids sprung out of trap doors. Naked except for loose-fitting black felt masks with eye holes cut into them, they marched over to Mr. Whackbottom in fasttime and strung him up in his noose. One of the androids commenced hurling obscenities at him. Two others grabbed his forearms and squeezed and twisted them until they bled. The last one ripped off his shirt and gutted the congressman-thing with a discombobulator rod. The snakes and eels of his innards splashed onto the obsidian floor of the theater before he knew they had exited his body.

The Fourth Movement of Grieg’s symphony reached its climax as Mr. Whackbottom screamed and struggled and kicked and screamed harder and louder…

He slumped over dead.

Trap doors engulfed the executioners where they stood. Two more trap doors spit out two more androids wearing florescent orange jumpsuits and carrying an array of janitorial equipment. They cleaned up the mess, disposed of Mr. Whackbottom’s body, and likewise disappeared.

“Fine, fine,” muttered Gr. Auchboom. “Note to self. Put an ad in the local tabloids for a new congressman-thing. Ad shall read: CONGRESSMAN-THING WANTED. NO EXPERIENCE NEEDED. COMPETITIVE SALARY. DOUBLE-CHIN REQUIRED, TRIPLE CHIN PREFERABLE. COMMUNICATION SKILLS PREFERABLE, BUT NOT REQUIRED. NO JOKE-TELLERS.” The ’gänger dealt an admonitory glare to certain members of the audience. “15-25 HOURS PER WEEK. RESPONSIBILITES INCLUDE A TOLERABLE SENSE OF FASHION AND BEING ON TIME FOR CONGRESSIONAL MEETINGS. APPLICANTS SHOULD SUBMIT A WORD OF INTEREST NO LATER THAN IMMEDIATELY. End ad.” It took a deep, pensive breath. “All right then. Where was I? Ah yes. My feelings. You see, I am a delicate and sensitive flower…”

Gr. Auchboom explained just what kind of delicate and sensitive flower for twenty minutes before moving on to the next item, a concern for the lack of decent kitchenware on sale in Bliptown’s ADWs. The android opened the floor for a formal discussion. There were a number of responses and calls to order. It was decided that three new brand names would be introduced into the market. Next were discussions on issues that included the poor selection of other household commodities, questionable trends in various subcommunal fashion statements, the overt introduction of two new professional sports (Tickleball and Beebopalulaball) into the city’s socioeconomic curriculum by next year, and the covert introduction of two new belief systems (Sindieswitchism and Dentistology) into the city’s religioeconomic curriculum by next month.

Then came the laws.

“I don’t like Section 1,233 of Statute 46 of Law 20,035,” blurted Congressman-thing Superspecificity when Gr. Auchboom opened up the floor. “I can’t explain why, exactly. Lately I’ve just had a bad feeling about it. I had a dream about it the other night. I can’t remember what happened in the dream, but it wasn’t good. I move that we strike Section 1,233 of Statute 46 of Law 20,035 from the map.”

Congressman-thing Midevolution’s ’gänger perked up and its long feet began to wag. “I agree,” it squawked. “I further Congressman-thing Superspecificity’s proposal by suggesting that we pretend said section never existed in the first place.”

Gr. Auchboom waited patiently for other interested congressman-things to chime in. Nobody did. It called for a vote. “Those in favor of Congressman-thing Superspecificity’s proposal, say, ‘Bring It On.’”

“Bring it on,” droned a handful of congressmen-things.

“Those opposed, say, ‘Horseshit.’”

“Horseshit,” droned an equal number of congressmen-things in the same tone. The silent majority either didn’t care, didn’t like Congressmen-things Superspecificity and Midevolution, or were daydreaming.

“It’s a tie!” Gr. Auchboom said excitedly. But why was it excited? It didn’t even know what Section 1,233 of Statute 46 of Law 20,035 stipulated. And it disliked ties. Ties temporarily clogged the flow of congressional progress. If anything, the android should have been downtrodden. Perhaps there was a glitch in its negatronic brain, one that was beginning to pathologize its system-response mechanism. Perhaps it would soon be responding to everything put to it in precisely the
opposite
way in which everything put to it was supposed to be responded to. Perhaps it was already irrevocably schized. The thought worried Gr. Auchboom. For a moment, it experienced a profound sense of dread. But it quickly found its wits and, in a controlled voice, said, “Pardon me. The proposal shall therefore be deferred to a later, as-of-yet indeterminable date when
Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive
is both present and sees fit to address it. Moving on, if you please.”

For the next two hours, numerous laws and would-be laws were discussed in a similar fashion. Most of the discussions ended in ties with indefinitely deferred outcomes. Occasionally a vote resulted in a clear majority, at least in Gr. Auchboom’s eyes, and a law was liquidated, revised, or conjured into existence.

The last thing under discussion concerned the holocausts being committed in Bliptown by the city’s foremost mass murderers.

Gr. Auchboom hesitated to bring the matter up. The ’gänger cleared its throat uncomfortably. It fidgeted with its tie. “Lastly, I have been asked by Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive, I repeat, by Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive, to ask this committee its opinion on a rather controversial subject. Before I mention what this rather controversial subject is, I want to assure you all that I am under orders here. I have no desire to discuss it. I would prefer to not even think about it. I would prefer, in fact, to be alone right now, minding my own business and perhaps eating thinly cut slices of a ripe pear. I just want to make this perfectly clear before I proceed any further. Have I made this perfectly clear?”

A general rustle spread throughout congress.

Gr. Auchboom giggled nervously. “That’s fine then. The subject I refer to is the recent string of holocausts that have been taking place within the perimeters of Bliptown’s cityscape this morning. Specifically, the subject I refer to is that of a wayward plaquedemic and his psychotic ’gänger. As you know…”

It wasn’t able to continue. The congressmen-things glanced at one another in horror and began to shout uncontrollably. Gr. Auchboom resisted the urge to break down and cry. It tried to appeal to its colleagues’ good senses, but its voice was lost in the commotion, even when it maxed out its surroundsound volume control. The android quickly realized it would have to wait for congress to tire out. Standing tall and silent with chins upraised, it chewed on the inside of its cheeks and waited…

A minute and a half later, the Theater of the Perturbed was a spectacle of panting and wheezing as the congressmen-things, dangling there like winded cows, fought to catch their breaths. Those who had the means slipped their nooses onto a spare chin. A few almost cut themselves free of their nooses, but they refrained: to do so during a congressional session was heresy punishable by “soul removal,” which entailed having one’s heart skillfully ripped out by a Shaolin monk.

“Now that I have your attention again,” Gr. Auchboom said, “I hope we can discuss this issue like gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen?” carped Congressman-thing Yodelayheehoo, as if he had never heard the term before. “Isn’t it illegal to even
speak
of such an issue? That’s the Pigs’ business! That’s the Papanazis’ business! That’s the vigilantes’ and the bounty hunters’ business! That’s everybody’s business but ours!”

Gr. Auchboom’s face puckered in consternation. “Grow up, Congressman-thing Yodelayheehoo.”

“You grow up!” the man bleated, pointing his finger at the simulacrum-in-charge.

Other congressmen-things and ’gängers interjected. “I’m afraid to talk about the Dystopian Duo!” one of them exclaimed.

“Me too!” exclaimed another. “Punishment may result!”

Another exclaimed, “I don’t like to be punished!”

Another exclaimed, “Punishment hurts me!”

Another exclaimed, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!”

Another exclaimed, “This is illegal!”

Gr. Auchboom exclaimed, “It’s not illegal if Expletive says it’s not illegal!”

That quieted everybody down. Such an eminent congressman-thing’s name wasn’t often uttered without all of his titles, not to mention his first name. Gr. Auchboom motioned at the theater door. “If you gentlemen don’t settle down, I’ll be forced to seek out my superior. Is that what you want? He’s busy right now, very busy indeed, but I’ll interrupt him if I have to. I’ll do it! Do you want me to do it?”

A man muttered. A ’gänger shook its head. A man and a ’gänger hung their heads and kicked out at the air like pouting little boys…

Gr. Auchboom nodded affirmatively, feeling extremely confident and powerful at the moment. It wondered how long the feeling would last. “Good! Now then. I want to reassure you that it pains me to address this subject as much as it pains you. But these two aberrations murdered a movie star in cold blood. I’ve only been asked to address the matter because of this sad fact. We can’t just have private citizens running around killing movie stars. The social fabric would come undone. Killing plaquedemics, civilians, girl scouts, even Pigs is one thing. But a movie star? That’s crossing the line, I’m afraid. Even though ’gängers do most of the acting for movie stars these days, their work is only validated by the public’s knowledge of the existence of their original human figurations. In the absence of these figurations, ’gängers cease to have worth. That goes for ’gängers of all socioeconomic classes. There is no ’gänger more important than that which surrogates a celebrity. Thus Voss Winkenweirder’s Victor Bleep, if it even recovers from the short circuit it experienced upon hearing of its original’s death, will quickly be out of a job. Imagine what the Disunited Cities of Amerika would become if this kind of hoo-hah happened twice in one week! Things are bad enough right now. That’s why an increasing number of celebrities are disappearing underground until the plaquedemic forest fire is put out. This is a trend that will no doubt continue. If these holocausts don’t come to an end, two days from now the surface of the world could be entirely devoid of celebrities. That includes #1 Papanazi Hit Listers down to the most insignificant talk show hosts. The infrastructure of society is not in a position to support such a lack. Without celebrities, I suspect people’s heads will begin to spontaneously combust on a mass scale. You know it’s true, gentlemen. You understand the gravity of this situation, gentlemen. Now I ask you: what is Bliptown’s Theater of the Perturbed prepared to do?”