Dr. Identity (19 page)

“I don’t understand some people,” I said. “What drives some people to do the things they do?”

Dr. ’Blah gave me a dirty look. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not trying to do anything.”

“I don’t agree.”

“You have that right.”

“I know I do.”

I filled my cheeks with air. “Look. We’re in the Schizoverse. In a saloon. There’s pussy everywhere. You have a monstercock between your legs. Unstrap that monstercock and put it to use. If nothing else admire the freakery. Can’t you at least try to have a little fun?”

“I don’t care about pussy or monstercocks or freakery. I’m married. I have a wife-thing.”

Consoling him was useless. “Fine. Be that way. I’m going to get a drink. Do you want anything?”

He glanced helplessly at me. His face was pale and waxen. “Don’t leave me. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I was by myself. I might get lonely.” He reached over the table and gripped the handle of a mirror on my coat sleeve.

“Jesus.” I took an angry puff of my cigar. Half its length seared to ash. I spit the smoke out of my ear holes. “Fine. I’ll just stand here like an asshole and stare at things.”

Another Id’s head exploded.

Dr. ’Blah said, “Please, sit down.” He politely gestured at the empty chair across from him. The tone in his voice had altered. It was more self-assured. It was downright friendly.

I said, “I don’t want to sit down. Mind your own business and hope that a waitress comes by soon. Otherwise I’m spreading myself around this place. I’m not wearing this outfit for nothing.”

Dr. ’Blah’s head hung so low his chin dipped into his martini.

“Take your chin out of your drink.”

A strange out-of-vogue brand of Beegee Muzak flared up. I couldn’t place it. I peered over the heads of the disco dancers at the DJ. He was togged up in a John Travolta skinsuit and inflatable head. The gold chains and medallions hanging over the hairy V of his chest were so heavy that his body seemed like it might collapse from the weight. Yet his hands attacked the turntable with finesse. I mulled over killing him. My musical ear was sharp and stylized. But I wasn’t in the mood to cause a ruckus. I wanted to relax. I wanted Dr. ’Blah to relax. Why was it so difficult for him to take a time out? He had been this way since he first purchased me. He had probably been this way his entire life. Anxiety defined his identity. The luge seemed to be his only comfort. And yet whenever he left the luge he seemed more anxious than ever.

Human. All too human…

A body crashed into the wall above us. It fell onto the tabletop and smashed Dr. ’Blah’s martini.

“It hurts me inside,” squeaked the Id. His facemask was scratched and bruised and torn. Dr. ’Blah seemed to recognize him. He knit his brow. His face lit up.

“Humidor?”

The Id’s legs and arms and head hung limply off of the sides of the table. He lifted his head up. “That’s me. Well, kinda.” He tried to say something else but couldn’t get it out. His head flopped back.

A flock of trenchers blew up and a feminId emerged from their electric ashes. It was the same feminId who had tried to turn the flying monkey into a trumpet. She flexed her pecs. She screamed at us in Schizospeak. She gestured towards the Id.

Dr. ’Blah stroked the Id’s tattered forehead. He glanced at the feminId. Then at me. “Dr. Identity,” he said. “If you please.”

It was a refreshing command. My original had never asked me to kill somebody before. Simulated or otherwise.

I gave the feminId a taunting nod. This offended her and she abducted a passerby. She broke his back on her knee and tossed the body aside. Her expression begged me for an act of oneupmanship.

I cracked my neck.

The feminId raised an eyebrow.

I reached into my coat.

The feminId snapped into a scikungfi fighting stance.

I pulled out a Medusa Mirror.

The feminId grimaced in defeat.

The weapon was an upgrade and didn’t merely turn her to stone when she gazed into it. It turned her inside out and bathed us in the black rain of her entrails…

“You’re welcome,” I said to ’Dr. Blah. He gazed at the passed-out Id with motherly concern. He looked worse than before. At the same time he looked better. A mysterious aura of spirituality outlined his body.

“Do you know who this is?”

I blinked at the Id. “A guy in an outfit?”

“No. Well, yes. But that’s beside the point.”

“Point?”

“It’s Humidor Tang! One of my favorite writers and plaquedemics. I almost recreated myself in his image when I joined the faculty at Corndog University, you know. He teaches White Male Metawriting at the University of Shitforbrains in Cog City. I’ve been preparing to write an essay on his novel
Wichita George & the Case of the Spitshined Wingtips
for over a year now. It’s a splendid piece of postvintage technodetective fiction.”

“Splendid? What kind of word is that?”

Dr. ’Blah looked fiercely at me. “It’s a word. Anyway, I’ve done enough research on the novel to write an entire book of criticism on it. I might be able to write an entire series of critical works on it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Fuck you Identity! If it wasn’t for you I could be writing about Tang right now, right this second!”

An Id in a cumbersome praying mantis suit crawled across the wall. He pardoned himself as he squeezed passed me. “Nobody’s stopping you,” I said to Dr. ’Blah. “Who’s stopping you? You say you’ve been researching for over a year. Have you written one goddamn word yet? It’s not my fault. I spend most of my time hanging in a fucking closet. What do you do?”

That quieted him. But I immediately felt guilty. Dr. ’Blah was such an easy target.

The fire in his eyes died out and he returned his attention to the Humidor Tang impersonator. “Please get me something to eat, Dr. Identity. I would appreciate that.” He began to poke and flick the Tang in the cheek. “Wake up, sir,” he whispered. “Wake up. Wake up.”

On my way to the bar a trencher asked for my autograph. Its obese fedora hung down over the top half of its face and I could only perceive a shiteating Cheshire grin. The Id claimed to be a Voss Winkenweirder impersonator autograph collector and asked if I would sign my real name. I obliged. When it saw the name it tilted back its hat and ogled me. Its eyes were florescent eggs. Its face was a replica of movie star Voltaire Swingtime. The original Swingtime had once been lovers with the original Voss Winkenweirder. Was the ’gänger’s original the original Swingtime? Perhaps I should ask it for an autograph…

“Is that
your
real name or an impersonation of a real name?” the Swingtime asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Goodbye.” I started to walk away.

It grabbed me by the elbow. “Are you sure you don’t know? I’d like to know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I grabbed the ’gänger’s face. I dug my thumb and index finger into its eye sockets. One powerful yank and the front half of its skull tore free. The oily machinery of its brains spilled out of its head. Then its trenchcoat fell to the floor in a lonely pile. Its fedora ascended into the fiery neon rafters of the saloon on broad wings of fabric…

I returned to the table ten minutes later with a basket of deep fried orphan hearts. The Tang sat across from Dr. ’Blah. Their conversation was overenthusiastic.

I didn’t like it.

“I’m back.”

“Now we can start the party,” Dr. ’Blah sniggered. The Tang mimicked him.

“Here.” I tossed the basket on the table. “Eat your hearts out.”

They snubbed my pun. And the food. “Did you know the real Humidor Tang is a graduate of Giddyap State University?” tweeted Dr. ’Blah. “That’s my alma mater! Tom Foolery here was just bringing me up to speed. Despite all of my research, it seems there’s a great deal I don’t know about Dr. Tang.”

“Tom Foolery?”

The Id nodded. “Yup. That’s me. I want to take this opportunity to thank you for saving my pseudolife back there. That was a close one.”

“That was a close one,” I repeated.

“Yup. Anyway, thanks.” He stuck out his hand. I observed the hand and cocked my head. He kept the hand out. I kept observing it. I wondered how long he would leave it there.

Dr. ’Blah said, “Tang once spent two days out-city in a rain forest. Two days! He wanted to see if he could do it. Granted, he was well-protected by a militia of graduate students and teaching assistants who he had hypnotized, armed and ordered to protect him, but still, he made it. Rumor is he killed a Big Foot by ridiculing it to death. He also taught a Frankenstein monster how to play golf and read metaphysical poetry. That’s the kind of plaquedemic I want to be. You should know, Dr. Identity, I’m going back. Back to plaquedemia. No matter what it takes. Once I square things with the Law, I’m changing my name again. I’m even getting plastic surgery this time. Soon I’ll be a real Humidor Tang. And a real plaquedemic.”

“A fine idea,” I said politely. “Don’t you think that’s a fine idea?” I fixated on the Tang. Finally he let his hand drop onto the table. Behind me a Wayne Newton impressionist hit a high note.

“Whatever makes one happy,” he replied. The Tang beamed at me. There was a suspicious flicker in his eyes.

It didn’t take long to process and identify the flicker.

“You’re about to die,” I told the Tang. “We’re all about to die.” The Newton hit another high note. I roundhoused him in fasttime.

Dr. ’Blah tried to stand up. I stabbed him in the head with the handle of a mirror. Blood burbled from his mouth as he cursed me. He bit his tongue off. The tongue landed on the table and bounced into the Tang’s lap. Dr. ’Blah liquefied…

I leered at the Tang. “Your turn, Papanazi.”

He sighed. “Que será. It doesn’t matter anyway. I got what I wanted.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

The Papanazi pulled out a vintage ray gun. I slapped it out of his hand. “I don’t like guns. But I can appreciate a plethora of antique styles. Did you know that gun of yours was a replica of one that belonged to Starbuck in the original
Battlestar Galactica
television series? That actor who played Starbuck, Dirk Benedict, also appeared in the TV show
The A-Team
as a character named Face. The show was a quixotic piece of surrealism. Not only was it set in a non-science fictional universe, gunfights broke out all the time and nobody ever got killed. Can you believe it?”

He shook his head.

I ripped his head off.

As the head disintegrated I quickly thrust my hand into the neck hole and shortfused the photoreceptors inside. The Papanazi would have no pictures of us to take home to Big Brother when he reemerged into the real world. We would be seeing him again.

Pandemonium had broken out in the saloon. I gazed into the Medusa Mirror…

Dr. ’Blah yelled at me as my body rebuilt itself around the airy scaffolding of my Ego.

I removed the dildo from my cortical shunt and whacked him with it.

I told him how the Tang was a Papanazi. I told him he was stupid for not realizing it. I told him he was stupid for several other reasons. At last I told him he ought to shape up. “No more joyrides in the Schizoverse, got it?”

“You’re the one that wanted to go! You’re the one that was bored!”

“Whatever the case, that’s that. You better get it together. Otherwise I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.”

Dr. ’Blah slouched. His chin began to quiver.

“Plaquedemia,” he whispered…

17

DREAM OF THE BROWN LADY – 1ST PERSON ('BLAH)

I had difficulty waking up as a child. When I fell into a deep enough sleep, I could remain indefinitely unconscious. Every morning my mother-thing had to drag me out of bed by the heels, pick me up by the shoulders, shake me like a rag doll, and scream in my face in order for me to regain consciousness. Once she resolved not to wake me to see how long I would stay asleep. She told me she wasn’t going to wake me before I went to bed. “I think you might be a superhero,” she said, glancing hesitantly across the room at the ’gänger of the man she was dating at the time. The ’gänger looked at me and sucked in its cheeks.

One night I awakened at 3:14 a.m.—unprovoked. I was five years old.

I slept on the bottom of a bunk bed. On top was my collection of action figures, stuffed animals and malformed papier-mâché dinosaurs, the latter of which I made in art class. I didn’t like sleeping with them, but their proximity made me feel safe.

The bunk bed lay in a nook that extended into one corner of my bedcube. I had to enter the bed from a drop-drawer in its rear. About a half foot of space separated its edges from the walls. It was a claustrophobic’s nightmare, but I liked tight spots. My favorite pastime was to have my mother-thing lock me in her trombone case and carry me around the house, pretending to be on her way to a concert. Accordingly I pretended to be her trombone.

I blinked at the chainmail undercarriage of the top bunk, then turned on my side and blinked at the wall.

My mother-thing had digigraffitied the whole room. Digigraffiti was one of her many illicit hobbies. For a while she made a living doing it, defacing the exterior of Bliptown as a freelance advertiser and Littleoldladyville-sponsored
artiste
. After a few run-ins with the Law, however, she gave it up, restricting herself to the interior of our cubapt.

My bedcube was a panorama of ultraviolence, an animated gorescape that my mother-thing continually updated, adding new characters and methods of slaughter. Fairy tale beasts, witches, giants, elves, dragons, princesses, mermen and Rumplestiltskins attacked, maimed, dismembered and ate each other in an apocalypse of zombified wrath and ruin. My mother-thing believed she was carrying out three positive objectives by creating such a spectacle. In order of importance, these were: 1) satisfying her nagging, overdramatized
artiste
’s desire to express her identity through the production of art; 2) entertaining (and in so doing educating) me; 3) preparing me for the absurdist, ultraviolent way of life that lay in wait for me in the real world.